The sound was a little louder to his right, and so he decided to head in that direction. That meant staying on the track for a little longer, but he felt it was worth the risk if it meant faster progress. The Docampos might have the advantage of speed, but he would be able to see them long before they saw him.
He broke into a run. The sky had cleared slightly, just enough for a few faint shafts of moonlight to illuminate his way. Just enough to see where he was placing his feet.
After a while, he slowed down—his lungs were about to burst. He squatted down, his hands on his knees, and rested for a moment, his heart pounding.
The island was a runner’s nightmare, the constant ups and downs of the terrain aggravated by the treacherous surfaces of the tracks and paths.
A little farther ahead, the track divided, with one branch leading down to the coast. With some effort, he got going again until he came to the fork. A sign pointed toward the west, with the wordsDevil’s Holeburned into the wood.
Very fitting,said a voice in his head.
The name was familiar. He remembered Rosalía Freire’s mention of it: a huge shaft, more than forty yards deep, that connected to the sea. He had been warned of its dangers.
But here he was, walking toward it in the middle of the night as the sound of the waves grew ever more deafening. The irony of the situation would have made him smile in any other circumstances.
The path was narrower and traced a gentle curve down toward the cliff edge. He could smell the sea, the waves atomizing as they crashed against the rocks, sending tiny particles of salt water floating into the air. In the distance was the sinuous and constantly shifting line of the waves breaking at the base of the cliffs. He had reached the coast.
A faint click, almost inaudible, brought him to a halt, and his heart pounded. He peered into the darkness and then uttered a curse.
Oh shit!
This was bad.
He’d just discovered how they had managed to locate him so quickly at Elvira Couto’s place.
And, worse still, he knew that his pursuers would be here any minute.
He was cornered.
31
The Devil’s Hole
Roberto crouched down next to the path, without taking his eyes off the black plastic device that was strapped to the trunk of a small, twisted pine tree. There was a motion detector at the front, and above that a black screen. Underneath were the words “Boly Guard,” and on one side a sticker that read “Property of the Atlantic Islands National Land and Marine Park Service.”
An infrared trail camera to detect animal movements.
“I should have damn well realized,” he groaned. “We’re in a national park!”
There must be dozens of the things all over the island to monitor the local fauna. The park rangers would use them to keep track of the island’s wildlife.
The Docampos must have forced the door to the rangers’ hut and availed themselves of the system. Every time he’d passed one of the cameras, a photo would have been taken, which would then have been transmitted almost instantaneously to the central control. He might just as well have been letting off flares as he went around the island.
He gave the camera the finger before ripping it off and tossing it into the bushes. He was furious with himself for having been so careless. But above all, he was scared.
The Docampos knew where he was, and there was only one way out. If he retraced his steps, he was sure to run into them, and all around there was nothing but low vegetation barely as high as his knees, and lichen-covered rocks. There was nowhere to hide.
As if fate had read his mind, just then he heard the SUV’s engine and spotted the shifting beams of its headlights as the vehicle jolted down the track.
You need to gain some time. Think, Roberto, think!
His only hope was to reach the shore and pick his way carefully down the rocky cliff, trusting that they wouldn’t follow him on such a reckless route. But if they caught him on the way down, he’d be as dead as if he’d thrown himself over the edge. Trapped between the roaring sea and their shotguns, he’d make perfect target practice for the Docampos.
The only question was how to win himself more time. There was nothing around that he could use.
Desperate, he searched his pockets, but the only thing there was the rusty Walther P38. Just then, his fingers came into contact with the little hank of fishing line that Elvira Couto had given him as an amulet. It had been lying there ever since, with no apparent use.
The idea appeared in his mind, from nowhere.
