He made a quick inventory of all his belongings. Although much had been badly damaged, the only thing missing was his laptop. He guessed that Ibaibarriaga and his mates had taken it, perhaps in thebelief that it might contain some clue. Even if they managed to crack his password, all they would find was a brief outline of his next book, just a few thousand words.
They’re going to be disappointed.
Both physical and mental exhaustion were catching up with him. He felt dulled, his senses confused and overwhelmed, every single muscle fiber screaming for rest.
He closed the door as best he could, jamming a chair against it. But there were still plenty of gaps through which the wind defiantly whistled.
The windows were beyond repair, but by closing the shutters, the space was at least more or less watertight, if gloomy. There was no electricity, of course. The propane lamp lay broken in a corner, and he had to make do with a few candles and the flashlight. His comfortable den had been reduced to a ruined hovel.
He turned the mattress over and collapsed onto the bed, defeated, a bottle of water in one hand, a piece of dry salami that had somehow escaped the rampage in the other.
It was a mixed bag. He had recovered the hammer that Luis Docampo had used to kill Víctor Pampín, freeing himself of that threat, and the money was safe and sound, but those were the only positive items on the balance sheet.
On the debit side, he had managed to earn himself the hatred of just about every single inhabitant of the island, and open warfare was about to break out. And to cap it all, he was as far as ever from identifying who the mysteriousTangarañowas and why he had gone from mutilating rabbits to decapitating human beings.
It was far from ideal. But all of this faded into the background when he remembered the expression of pain and disappointment on Antía Freire’s face. He knew it was absurd, but that was what upset him the most. The woman had become the closest thing he had to a friend on this tiny patch of land. A friend with whom he had shared confidences. Someone to whom he had opened his heart and to whomhe had entrusted a secret that had been eating away at his soul for years. And just when that promising friendship was starting to take shape, he had managed to ruin it with a stupid misunderstanding.
Roberto groaned with frustration as he turned over, and he felt the lumpy springs sticking into his back. He felt at the mercy of events, utterly unsure of his next move.
The smartest option, surely, was to lie low while the storm battered Ons. Go and look for a place where nobody would find him, let the islanders sort out their differences, just stay alive. And then, once contact with the mainland was restored, get the hell out of there and not look back.
He suspected it wouldn’t be so simple, though, and every fiber of his journalistic soul rebelled against the idea of hiding in a hole while events unfolded outside.
First, in any case, he had to rest. The painkillers had almost completely worn off, his shoulder hurt like hell, and he felt incapable of taking a single step. At the same time, he suspected that, paradoxically, the ransacked cottage was the last place anybody would look for him. Or at least, that was what he wanted to believe, because the truth was, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He felt sleep washing over him in an unstoppable wave. He didn’t try to fight it.
When he woke up, the room was completely dark, a draft of wind presumably having blown out the candles. He felt around until his hands found the flashlight, but even though he pressed the button several times, it didn’t give off so much as a glimmer of light. Cursing, he realized that he’d forgotten to turn it off before he fell asleep, and the batteries must be dead.
That meant that he must have been asleep for hours. He got up and groped his way toward the window. He bumped into what was left of the coffee table, grimacing as he knocked his shin against it.
When he opened the shutters, it was pitch black outside. He checked his watch: half past midnight. Then he remembered thelighter in his pocket. He used it to find the candles and lit them again, one by one.
He quickly took stock. He felt much better, more clearheaded, after resting. He searched among the clothes on the floor and picked out some clean garments to replace his torn, wet things from the day before. He had no way of replacing his parka, which was still soaking wet and would have appalled the sales staff of the elegant boutique where he’d bought it, but it would have to do.
Right. And now what?
His options were limited, although the first thing on his list, unquestionably, was to dispose of the hammer for once and for all. He approached the sink and opened the faucet, intending to wash it thoroughly and remove any hint of blood or fingerprints. But he suddenly stopped.
Don’t even think of it!
He’d seen enough episodes ofCSIto know that, even if he washed the hammer, traces of blood would be left in the drain. If things got complicated and the forensics department searched the cottage—something they would no doubt do, given all that had happened—they’d find those traces, and then he really would be incriminated.
He closed the faucet and leaned on the sink. The best option would be to throw the hammer into the sea, somewhere that nobody would ever be able to find it. But for that he’d have to wait until dawn. Going anywhere near the cliffs in the middle of the night with a storm raging was a surefire way to get himself killed.
But it would be foolhardy to keep it in his possession in the meantime. It would be hours before it was light, and if he’d learned anything, it was that things could change very quickly on this hellhole of an island. Every time he tried to get ahead of events, something unexpected happened.
With that in mind, he went outside and looked around. On one side, a low stone wall separated the cottage from the neighboring property, an abandoned lot completely overgrown with weeds. It was perfect.
He jumped the wall and pushed his way through the vegetation, trying to leave as little trace as possible. After he had gone a dozen yards, he bent down and started to excavate a hole with his bare hands, going deep enough to ensure that no curious passing animal would dig it up.
With the hammer in the ground, as he was clearing away any trace of his activities, it was then that he heard the first shots.
Three quick-fire reports were followed by a moment of silence and then another three shots. He looked up, alarmed, before retracing his steps back to the cottage.
He couldn’t see a thing, and the noise of the rain and the wind drowned out any other sound, but he was absolutely certain. He’d heard too many gunshots in the course of his career to confuse them with anything else.
The war between the Freires and the Docampos had begun.
