Roberto felt his energy flooding back. Little by little, using the lever, he managed to get the tombstone off, until the deep hole below was revealed. He clambered down inside.
Time, the damp climate, and insects had combined to do away with the coffin, as well as the flesh of the woman buried there. A little over six feet down, all that remained were a few yellowish bones mixed together with scraps of half-rotted cloth, bits of wood that crumbled at his touch, and a few rusty nails. At the top, the skull of the grave’s occupant stared up at him from empty sockets, with a laugh frozen for all eternity.
“I’m so sorry, Erundina,” he whispered, feeling like some grave robber in Victorian London. “It’s an emergency. I hope you understand.”
Clambering out again, he dragged the duffel bags over and dropped them inside. With clenched jaw, he heaved the tombstone back into position. The old mortar had cracked, making it far more maneuverable.
Standing up, he cast a critical eye over his work. He pulled a couple of strips of moss from the wall and laid them along the edges of the grave, in the spots where he’d jammed the lever underneath. To finish, he scattered a few sticks over the top, until the grave looked just as untended as before.
Of course, it wouldn’t pass a thorough inspection, but he doubted anyone was going to be checking the condition of the graves anytime soon.
His plan was coming along. Now he was the only one who knew where the money was. If the islanders wanted to get their hands on it, they would have to accept his conditions and help him avert the massacre that was about to be unleashed. That was the ace up his sleeve, his advantage over both families.
The only problem now was that he was utterly worn out. Every single muscle in his body ached. He had spent half the day running up and down the island, in a state of constant worry, and his body was warning him that he’d reached his limit. A gurgling in his stomach reminded him that it was almost ten o’clock at night, and nothing solid had passed his lips for hours. He had vomited up his lunch at the foot of the decapitated corpse.
Before anything else, he needed five minutes’ rest. The whiskey he’d drunk with old Ramón Docampo felt prickly in the pit of his stomach, and his limbs were starting to go numb.
He spotted a small lean-to at the back of the church. It had a rickety wooden door with rusty hinges. Without a second thought, Roberto went over and, mustering the last of his strength, kicked open the door. The latch came off with a pop, revealing a dark, dusty interior.
It was full of garden tools and coils of moth-eaten rope. In one corner, covered with mouse droppings, a pile of old esparto grass sacks had been gathering dust for decades. Roberto dropped down on them with a groan of satisfaction. His eyes were heavy as lead, and he could no longer think clearly.
“Just five minutes,” he promised himself. “Just five.”
He rested his head on the sacks and, before he knew it, was fast asleep as the storm continued to rage outside.
24
“Visitors First”
When he woke up, he struggled to remember where he was. He glanced at his watch and cursed: It was already past midday, although the light filtering in along the edges of the door was only very faint. He had slept far longer than he’d planned to and had lost precious time.
He still felt weak from hunger, but at least his mind was clear again. He couldn’t say the same of his body, which resented the night spent on a hard floor. He got up from the sacks, aching all over. When he’d been in his twenties, he’d slept in far worse places—from a sniper’s dugout to a rickety truck—but that was long ago.
You’re too old for this, Lobeira. When are you going to wise up?
He took a few paces to stretch his muscles and stepped outside. The storm was still raging, but the heavy rain of the previous night had turned to drizzle. Black clouds scudded across the sky.
Checking Erundina’s tomb by the light of day, he was pleased enough. It had turned out much better than he had imagined.
But he needed to hurry. He had no idea what the rest of Ons had been up to during the night, although he imagined that the Docampos would have been busy readying an attack while also keeping vigil over Ricardo’s decapitated body.
He made a mental note of the urgent tasks ahead. He had reached the conclusion that the only way to prevent the massacre that threatened Ons was to create a stalemate. And the only way he could do that was by notifying the authorities.
The cell tower had been destroyed, and there was no way of making a call from the island, but there was another way of informing the mainland about what was happening. At the lighthouse, Ibaibarriaga had shown him a radio. The transmitter could be used to contact the authorities.
He didn’t trust Ibaibarriaga as far as he could throw him, but he thought he could use the man’s ambitions to get him to cooperate. Now that Roberto had sequestered the money, he could offer the keeper a juicy sum in exchange for use of the transmitter.
His plan would mean sharing the money between the families and the lighthouse keepers, but with the authorities notified, at least it would be an end to all the violence. And what was more, the perfect scapegoat for Pampín’s death had materialized, so both he and Diego would be free of suspicion. The mysterious killer of Ricardo Docampo would take the rap for all the victims. Let the Guardia Civil go crazy combing the island for the damn psychopath, whether he was theTangarañoor not; Roberto hoped he himself would be a long way away by then.
It was a risky plan, no doubt, and it all depended on Ibaibarriaga’s cooperation, but he was sure the man’s greed would win out. And if Roberto managed to prevent open warfare from breaking out, his newly acquired wealth was more likely to go unobserved.
Satisfied, he left the graveyard, carefully covering his footprints and checking that he hadn’t left any trace of his presence. Ignoring the stabs of pain that accompanied his every step, he headed for the road that led to the lighthouse.
He felt weak, and his clothes were heavy with water, making the ascent slow and torturous. Luckily, he was now more familiar with the topography of Ons, and he had no difficulty in getting his bearings.The paved track was an infallible guide to the colossus that dominated the island.
When he reached the gate, it was closed. A doorbell was fixed to one of the cement posts. Roberto pushed the button and waited patiently as he observed the lighthouse beacon.
The security camera buzzed and swiveled toward him. He imagined the lighthouse keeper at the other end, observing his unexpected visitor, barely forty-eight hours after their previous encounter. The gate clicked open, and he went through. Here at the highest point on the island, the wind was blowing so strongly that he had to hunch over to make progress.
