“Yes, my work!” he shouted, excited. “A collection of different people, all distinct from one another, a variety of interiors exposed to the light, shining in their constellation of delicate differences. I’ve already got Elvira, an old woman who—without realizing it—gave me the thread of this magnum opus with herTangarañoand her dead man’s kiss.”
Just then, Roberto remembered the plate of grilled fish, already cold, that he had seen on the woman’s table, in her hovel. Searching for clues to the murder in the chest full of offerings, he had not realized he had one right in front of his eyes. Varatorta, the lighthouse keeper. Varatorta, the friendly cook. Who knew how many plates of food he had taken to the old woman while she recounted her old tales. He had forged his macabre plan while the woman ate in front of him.
“I’ve already got one of the Docampos,” the man continued. “It was exciting, but I wasn’t very pleased with the results. It ... lacks sparkle. I’m sure you understand.”
Roberto didn’t answer. He was concentrating on loosening the ropes a little more.
“Now I have an urge to work with my companions at the lighthouse,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I know they seem brutish and unrefined, but I’m convinced I can get excellent results, particularly with Ibaibarriaga. It would be quite a challenge to open up that great big body of his; I’m sure of that.”
“They don’t know who you really are ...”
“They’ve never asked.” He shrugged. “But if they were observant, they’d have realized, as you did so perceptively in the library. I always do the cooking. I’m the one who repairs anything if it breaks. Always an artist’s hands, obviously. Always me. Me, me, me.”
“You dismantled the lighthouse radio transmitter.” He remembered the way the pieces had been laid out, almost obsessively, on the table. “You cut off our communications.”
“Of course it was me,” the man laughed. “I’ll put it back together later; that won’t be a problem. As soon as I’ve dealt with Ibaibarriaga and Pazos, obviously.”
“You won’t be able to. They’re stronger than you, and now they’ve been alerted—and they’re looking for the money.”
“Trust me.” Varatorta smiled. “I’m one of them. But before that, I have to do something else, something very special.”
Roberto looked at him, holding his breath. He didn’t want to know what he meant, but he had already guessed.
“I need a Freire for my work of art. One of the Freire women, rather. I think Antía Freire’s head would make the perfect contrast with the Docampo in that jar.” He pointed at the shelf. “Feminine delicacy and masculine strength. Intelligence and its absence. Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Stay away from her!” grunted Roberto, writhing on the table.
“Come now, let’s not get sentimental.” Varatorta waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fond of her, but you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. It’s just what has to happen.”
“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you myself.” The threat sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “I promise you.”
“You see? That’s exactly why you have to wait for me here, in my lair, enjoying my hospitality, while I take care of things. Anyway, you’re forgetting something very important.”
“What?”
“I need you to complete my work.” He leaned over, until his lips were brushing Roberto’s left ear, in an almost erotic gesture. “Because when I finish with them, it will be your turn, my friend. The culmination of my picture. The interior of an artist, of a creator, by moonlight. It will be a marvelous moment.”
Roberto turned pale. He struggled furiously on the table, which rocked with his movements as he unleashed a string of curses and insults.
“See you in a few hours, my friend.” Varatorta donned his oilskin. “I’ll be back in a while. In the meantime, make yourself at home!”
With a smile, the lighthouse keeper turned and disappeared into the far end of the cave. Roberto was all alone, his brain vibrating like a tuning fork, his spirits at rock bottom.
There was a monster loose on the island, on the hunt.
And the only person who knew the truth and could stop him was held prisoner in this cave.
35
So Near, and Yet So Far
He lay on the table, trying to put his thoughts in order. He had the final piece of the puzzle, yet there was nothing he could do to prevent what was imminent.
Nobody had the slightest inkling as to what was about to hit them. Everyone trusted Varatorta, taken in by his peaceable bearing and polite manners. With Storm Armand as cover, the lighthouse keeper felt at liberty to carry out whatever insane plans had been germinating inside his head, without worrying about the consequences. He had entered a spiral from which there was no exit. And he didn’t care. His only concern was to complete his grisly artwork.
Roberto had to escape, come what may. On the cassette player, Rocío Jurado had given way to Juan Gabriel, whose silky voice and mellifluous Mexican accent urged the listener to hug him tight, tighter than ever. Bound like a parcel, Roberto couldn’t help noting the bitter irony.
He counted to three and puffed up his chest once again to loosen the ropes. The stabbing pain in his lungs was so intense that he cried out in agony. Dejected, he realized that his efforts had made almost no difference. At this rate, he’d never manage it. He’d have to find another way to free himself of his bonds.
