He felt a desperate urge to know what was happening, but he couldn’t think of any safe way of obtaining information. Running down to the village under the cover of darkness was an easy way to earn himself a bullet to the head.
Even so, he went and climbed a nearby rise. From there, perhaps he would have some kind of sightline over the village. He scrambled up a tree and peered out into the darkness but in vain. Without any electricity, the lights that should have illuminated the main street had been extinguished, and only the automatic beacon on the breakwater, along with the intermittent moon, shed some faint light on the corner by the dock. That part of the island appeared completely deserted.
He remained where he was for a while, watching and waiting. There had been no more gunshots, but that meant nothing. As far as he knew, they might be knifing each other to death less than a mile from where he was. He was consumed by impotence and curiosity.
Just then, he saw flashlights, not far from his position, approaching along the track that ran down the middle of the island.
He cursed his recklessness. Concentrating on events in the village, he had forgotten to watch his own back, and now somebody had cutoff his retreat. He descended from the tree and scrambled downhill, trying to make as little noise as possible. The lights had almost reached the cottage. They were looking for him; there was no doubt about it.
Who is it? What are they after?
He had no way to answer the first question unless he approached them, but the second was soon resolved when a member of the party opened fire on the windows of the cottage.
There came the harsh report of a double-barreled shotgun. Roberto clenched his teeth as the spray of shot hit the wall and shattered what few pieces of glass remained in the windows.
Instinctively, he crouched down. Someone issued an order that was lost in the noise of the storm, and the lights arced around the cottage, casting a net that nobody could cross without being caught.
It came to him that if he hadn’t climbed the rise, he would have been cornered inside the cottage. For once, luck had been in his favor.
“That way!” shouted another voice, clearer this time.
They were moving closer to where he was.
He couldn’t stay there. Taking a risk, he lifted his head and scanned his immediate vicinity.
The only path that would take him out of these newcomers’ reach was one that led toward the isolated, virtually uninhabited northern tip of the island. There was nothing there other than a couple of wave-battered beaches ... and Elvira Couto’s hovel. Maybe, he thought, another visit to her wasn’t such a bad idea.
And you’re hardly spoiled for options.
Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he set off toward the dirt track. Every now and then, he sent pebbles flying beneath his feet, and he gritted his teeth, convinced that he could be heard for miles around. But the storm was his ally now. Its fury provided him with the perfect cover, and the only way he would be detected was if someone ran straight into him.
Having left his pursuers behind, he stopped in the middle of the track to regain his breath. He had walked this route before, but thathad been in broad daylight and without anyone on his tail. He’d left his phone in the cottage, along with the flashlight, and had no means of lighting his way—not that he would have dared use them, for fear of revealing his position. His only option was to make his way in the dark, stumbling every few yards or getting caught in the vegetation, which made for miserably slow progress.
Fortunately, his eyes had adjusted. He could just about make out the track, a faint white thread through the darkness. Every now and then he looked up and cast a wistful glance toward the coastline of the mainland, a few miles away, beyond the roaring waves.
The yellow streetlamps and white light of the houses in Bueu were like a constellation of stars from another galaxy. He made out the headlights of an occasional car traveling along the coastal highway, and once he even spotted the flashing blue lights of a police patrol vehicle, oblivious to the drama that was playing out here, just across the water.
There was something atrocious about being cut off like this. An island was a piece of land with water on all sides. That was the dictionary definition. But what the dictionary didn’t tell you was that an island could also be a death trap. People, civilization, safety ... they were all so close, just an hour by boat. But at the same time, so far that they might as well have been on another planet. He could see the mainland, but it made no difference. He was on his own.
He walked in the rain for almost an hour, until the sound of the surf told him that Melide Beach was nearby. The strip of white sand was far narrower than the last time, and he was careful to steer clear of the huge waves that broke furiously on the shore. From here, it was not far to Elvira’s hovel.
With a final push, he made his way up the steep slope to the old woman’s home. There once more was the misspelled sign on its crooked, lichen-covered post.
The place was exactly as he remembered. The dream catchers and wind charms hanging from the eaves played a tinkling, discordant symphony. Roberto took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
“Elvira! Open up!” he shouted into the night. “It’s me, Roberto Lobeira! Please, open up!”
He waited patiently in the rain but not a sound came from inside. He called a couple more times but to no avail.
Maybe she’s a deep sleeper. Or perhaps she’s hard of hearing. She’s very old, after all.
He tried the handle, and it turned easily. The door swung open on its hinges to reveal an interior lit by weak yellow candlelight, and characterized by a peculiar smell. Roberto crossed the threshold, feeling like a thief.
“Elvira?” he called out. “Are you there? It’s Roberto Lobeira. I’m coming in.”
Once again, there was silence. Roberto stepped inside and repressed a gasp of horror.
Elvira Couto’s diminutive body was suspended about a foot from the floor, as if she were levitating. One of her slippers had fallen off, revealing a small, dirty foot ... Two huge copper nails had been hammered into her chest, pinning her to the wall like some giant butterfly. Her clothes were covered in blood, and her deformed, arthritic hands hung limply by her sides. But that wasn’t all.
