“No one else in there, chief,” he said. “I didn’t see the money, but it could be anywhere.”
Osvaldo took a deep breath and massaged his temples pensively. Time was not on his side. The sun would soon be up, and the storm was almost over. He turned to Helena and Tristán, who were once again in each other’s arms.
“Come on, enough fooling around,” he said, placing himself between them. “Okay, someone is going to tell me exactly where our money is, right now, or these lovebirds are going to get it. And the rest of you will be next. We’ll take you out one by one until there’s nothing but a pile of corpses left on this mangy island. Do I make myself clear?”
“We don’t know where the money is!” wailed Rosalía Freire.
“And neither do we!” cried Ramón Docampo. “I swear!”
“Why is it that I just don’t believe you?” Osvaldo shook his head. “Don’t you see how easy this all could be? Right, who’s first?”
Swinging the Beretta slowly back and forth between Helena and Tristán, he sang softly, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe ...”
The gun ended on Helena, and she gasped in terror. Osvaldo shrugged and pulled the trigger.
39
The Confession
There was a collective, horrified scream, and Helena cowered—but only a loud click came from the gun. The girl opened her eyes wide, as if she were unsure whether she was still alive.
The Colombian opened his left hand to reveal a gleaming 9-mm bullet in his palm.
“Empty chamber that time, just for fun!” Then, sliding back the rack on top of the Beretta, he pointed it at her again while gently stroking her hair. “Shh, don’t cry.” And then, to the families, “This time I’m not playing. Come on.”
“No!” came a voice. “Stop!”
Osvaldo turned and saw a skinny boy in the center of the group who had tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I know where the money is,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but please stop.”
“No!” shouted Antía, yanking on the boy’s arm, but he pulled away.
“That money made me hurt someone. I don’t want it to happen again.” He looked at Antía tearily. “That money is bad. Bad, bad, bad! Let this man take it away, and everything can be okay again.”
“Oh, little one.” Antía’s voice quavered. “I wish it were that simple ...”
“At least this guy’s got some sense,” Osvaldo said. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Diego,” came the answer, between hiccups. “Diego Freire. Don’t hurt them. Please.”
“You have my word.” Osvaldo opened his palms innocently. “Tell me, Diego, how come you know where the money is?”
“Roberto hid it.” The boy’s nose was running, and the snot mingled with his tears. “He thought he was on his own, but I followed him. I like following him. I’m always saving him. He says I’m a superhero.”
Osvaldo arched an eyebrow. “Well? Where is it, then?”
“In the old graveyard. Quite near.”
“All right, Diego Freire.” Osvaldo tucked the pistol into his belt. “Lead the way; we’ll follow. Everyone.”
“Everyone, chief?” asked Python.
“Yes, everyone,” he hissed, leaning over to whisper in his subordinate’s ear. “We can’t leave them behind—we’d have to set a guard. There aren’t enough of us to divide forces.”
Python nodded, then gestured to Carlito and Joel, who took up position on either flank of the intermingled Freires and Docampos, while he took up the rear. Osvaldo set off in front with Diego at his side.
A little light was entering the sky as the group moved slowly along the road toward the old church. Seen from afar, the singular procession had the look of some kind of popular pilgrimage, but that was rather undercut by the participation of the grim, gun-toting Colombians and the islanders’ distraught expressions.
