He limped over to the gasoline drum that powered the beacon, and disconnected it. The light went out, and the cave was plunged into gloom, illuminated only by the two propane lamps hanging on the wall. Roberto shook the drum and heard liquid sloshing about inside it. It was still half full, and it must still contain at least thirty gallons of fuel.
He tipped it over, and his sinuses were inundated with the smell of the gasoline that came gurgling out. The fuel spread across the stone floor, trickling under the furniture and the shelves, soaking every last corner.
He grabbed one of the propane lamps and hurled it to the ground. The glass shattered, and the fuel caught. The heat drove him back as the ball of fire spread throughout the cave, burning everything inside it. Taking one last look before he made his exit, he saw the flames engulf the glass jars that contained the heads of Varatorta’s victims.
He left the hellish scene behind, relieved by his act of atonement. The monster was still on the loose, but his work had been reduced to smoke and ashes.
The opening was little more than a narrow crack that he could only enter on his stomach, but he crawled along the passage until he reached a homemade wooden ladder that ascended up into the darkness above. Gingerly, he placed his foot on the first rung.
It seemed solid.
He began to climb laboriously up, using only his uninjured leg. In the meantime, the smoke from the flames below was searching for an exit and enveloped him like a shroud. Soon, he was coughing andhis eyes were watering. If he lost his footing and fell, he’d end up being devoured by the fire that he himself had started.
Burning Varatorta’s lair had seemed like a great idea just a few minutes ago, an act of divine justice. Now he wasn’t so sure. Luckily, as he ascended, with the current of fresh air blowing downward, the sound of the waves breaking against the shore grew stronger. He was very close.
Finally, his head emerged into the cold night air that ruffled his hair. Roberto gasped, seeking oxygen, as his fingers grasped the edge of the shaft. He breathed deeply, once, twice, three times. He’d never have imagined that a mouthful of air could both hurt so much and taste so sweet. He wiped his eyes on his sleeves, and blinked a couple of times. And then he frowned.
He sensed something was wrong. He turned his head, trying to orient himself.
Then he let out an impotent groan.
Storm Armand was still blowing, but the rain had stopped and the wind had dropped slightly. The clouds had disappeared, and above his head, the sky was full of stars, twinkling icily. The full moon shed its white light on the whole scene, and Roberto could see almost as well as if it had been day. Just across the water, a few hundred yards away, rose a huge black bulk, at the base of which he could make out a foamy line of waves beating against the shoreline.
There was nothing that size anywhere near Ons ... apart from the island itself.
Roberto realized there was only one place from which such a view was possible: Onza, the islet just off the main island, a chunk of wild and deserted rock that was completely uninhabitable ... and of course, cut off.
Varatorta had established his refuge on the only place where he could be sure he would never have unexpected visitors.
And Roberto had no way of escaping.
36
Roberto Lobeira’s Big Problem
The low hum of an outboard motor carried to Roberto on the wind. It could only mean one thing.
Varatorta was crossing to Ons, heading for one of the beaches at the south end of the island. The storm had abated somewhat, but the sea remained wild. You had to be either very stupid or very skillful to sail in such conditions.
Varatorta, Roberto suspected, had both qualities in spades.
Lifting himself out of the shaft with a final push, Roberto lay flat on his back, trying to catch his breath. Among the patches of cloud above, he caught the twinkling of an airplane at low altitude. He watched it traversing the sky, hypnotized, still unable to believe his good fortune.
He was alive, unbelievably enough. In the span of a few hours, he had been chased, shot at, had fallen from a very high cliff, and had survived an encounter with a serial killer. If he were a cat, that would be almost half his lives gone.
As far as he was concerned, his guardian angel would be well within its rights to ask for a raise. Or a promotion to archangel, for that matter. The only thing he couldn’t give it was a vacation, because this was all far from over.
Roberto, with a salty taste in his mouth, saw that this dance with death had at least one more song to go. He had to gamble his life blindly, and just cross his fingers for his color to come up again on the roulette wheel.
Get moving. You have to keep moving.
The pain shooting up from his knee mingled with that of his broken ribs, his dislocated right shoulder, and the dozens of cuts and bruises all over his body. He should be in the ER, being tended to by doctors, and not lying on some desolate rocky crag.
But you play the hand you’re dealt.
If he stayed lying down too long, he knew he’d never be able to get up. He forced himself to his feet, wincing, gritting his teeth, and started moving down to the shore.
What would normally have taken him five minutes took several times that, every excruciating step bringing tears to his eyes. At last, he felt sand underfoot—the unreal white sand of Onza’s only beach, a narrow strip no more than thirty feet long. He could see Varatorta’s footprints and the track left by the boat when it was dragged down to the water, but apart from that, there were only seaweed, the odd bit of plastic, and driftwood.
