“Are you all right, sir?” Lucas asked.
“Of course not, Lucas. I don’t like it when they get away from me. Especially when I get so close!”
“I know.”
Lucas stared down at his ale. Armada felt badly. He hadn’t meant to bring up the subject of Lucas’ own parents. But it was unavoidable.
“I’m sorry for Madalena Rodriguez. I’m sorry for Amparo Rodriguez. And I’m sorry…”
“You don’t have to say it, sir.”
“I’m sorry to you, Lucas. I always will be.”
“Can we not talk about it, sir? If you don’t mind.”
“It might help, Lucas,” Armada said.
“I know. It’s just…it’s a bit loud in here.”
“Yes, I understand,” Armada said. He was happy to have a reason not to bring it up again. Lucas wasn’t the only one who would have to reckon with what had happened. Armada found he was also putting it off. And now he would have to someday make his peace with his failure here in Salobreña as well. Armada wondered just how much failure he could deal with before it would finally break him.
“I suppose we should get ready to go back to Granada tomorrow,” Armada said.
“Yes, sir.”
There was shouting and laughter erupting from the bar as Bresson told a joke and slapped a man on the back.
“You sure it wouldn’t help to stay one more day, sir?”
“I very much doubt it, Lucas. Enrique is good at hiding. He’d done it his whole life. We won’t find him until he wants to be found. I can only hope his moral conscience gets the better of him.”
“If he has one, sir,” Lucas said.
“Indeed,” Armada said. “I hate to admit it, but Bresson might be right. There may be nothing left but to join the festivities. The man certainly knows how to cast away the stresses of life.”
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood, sir. I think I’ll just go back to the room and turn in early.”
The doors to the tavern suddenly burst open.
“There’s a fire! Down on the beach!” a man shouted, the very same man who was tasked with watching over the wagon in case Enrique returned. The very same man who undoubtedly had fallen asleep during his duties.
Somehow, Armada knew exactly where the fire was. He was the first one out the door, followed by Lucas and Bresson just a few steps behind. At once, the whole of the tavern came out to see what all the fuss was about.
Armada took a few steps beyond the doors of the tavern and could just see over the rooftops a shining, brilliant orange light erupting from the beach. It lit up the dark, moonless sky, casting a strange light on El Peñon a short distance away.
Armada began to run. Down the road, through the plaza, and down the hill toward the delta, hearing the thundering roar of the feet of the men behind him. Not caring that he couldn’t see the road very well, he ran past Jose’s field, past his cortijo, past the fallow field, and straight to the beach. Then he ran past El Peñon, feeling his lungs burn and starve for air, feeling his heart race faster than it had in years. He felt his feet send shockwaves of pain through his knees and his hips, felt his arms swing wildly through the air, anything that would propel him to go faster.
And upon arriving at the serene little cove, his eyes cast upon the sight that he had been expecting. Enrique Talavera’s wagon, erupting into flames. He had arrived just in time to see the last of the canvas top burn so bright that it hurt his eyes, sending a shower of glowing embers into the sky to catch the wind and blow down the beach. The wagon was now a bonfire as it gobbled up the wooden frame, burning the contents inside in a flash of white and orange light. The flames spread to the surrounding weeds, burning so hot Armada couldn’t get much closer than a few steps and could only watch helplessly with his hand over his forehead to stave off the worst of the intense heat that radiated in every direction. Not even the cool ocean breeze was a help.
Armada choked on the thick plumes of black smoke as he got as close as he could to the wagon, trying to see inside.
Around him, men had begun carrying buckets of ocean water from the sea and heaping it on to the flames. The flames hissed and spat angrily as they poured more and more seawater over them.
The blaze was soon tamed, but the damage had been done. The wagon had burned hot and quickly, leaving little more behind than blackened ashes in the vague outline of what had once been Enrique’s wagon.
“Sir,” Lucas said as he approached from behind. He was carrying a bit of burned wood that still had a flame on the end of it. He offered it to Armada to use as light, as the fires had dimmed now making it difficult to see in the darkness.
The crowd that had worked so hard to put out the fire now crowded around as Armada approached, his burning plank of wood now the only light except for the faint silver from the stars above their heads, which shone so brightly on this clear night that one could make out the cloudy bands of the Milky Way.
Peering into the ashen remains, Armada made out the outline of a body. The smell of burned flesh hit his nose and he covered it to keep from being ill. There were gasps behind him as he showered the light over the body that had been inside.
Much of the flesh on the left side had burned away, leaving large chunks of the charred skeleton to poke out from underneath. Little remained of the clothes or the outer skin, but there was one undamaged bit of the face, on the left, where the victim had tried to turn his head away from the flames, which offered little protection.
From what flesh was left, it was clear who the victim had been.
“Enrique…” Lucas whispered behind him.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It seems our search has come to an end.”
“You think it was an accident, sir?” Lucas asked.
Armada let his gaze fall over Enrique’s body and stopped at his head, where a large red hole had been punctured into the back of his skull. It was obvious Enrique had been knocked unconscious with something before his wagon was set alight.
“It appears not, Lucas. It seems someone had taken it upon themselves to bring an end to Salobreña’s troubles on their own.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Two days later, Armada sat down on an outcropping at the very end of El Peñon, where it stuck out into the sea like the bow of a ship. From here, when Armada looked due south, for an instant he felt as though there was nothing but him and the sea and the sky. All of the land, the towns and villages, all signs of mankind and his deeds, all of it could be blocked from his view, a reminder that the world was large and that man’s undertakings did not encompass the whole of it. In fact, the longer Armada stared at the distant horizon, the more he got a sense of its vastness and insignificance. Here, where he could see nothing but sea and sky, where he could hear nothing but waves and the squawking of birds nesting in the caves below, where he could smell nothing but seaweed and saltiness, he felt at one with nature. This calmed Armada, and nearly brought him some sense of peace. This place, this connection, had been here all the time. All the while that he’d been chasing a killer, this vastness had existed—patient and waiting—and offering a sense of eternalness that helped to quell his nagging doubts.
But Armada’s mind wouldn’t let things go for long. Soon, the doubts and fears crept their way back in and Armada’s peace was shattered. There was no remedy and Armada felt obliged to turn around and take in the view behind him.
What Armada saw was a landscape that had been scarred by man’s hand. The rock that the town of Salobreña had been built upon was as natural and innocuous as the rock upon which Armada now stood. But on top had been built a castle, an intimidating structure meant to frighten off pirate ships that approached from the sea, hungry for slaves and pillage. The soaring walls, the ramparts, the cannons all pointed out this way. This, which had once been a landscape so serene and peaceful, had been remade into something frightful and violent. For wherever castles stood, wars and sieges soon followed, as well as death. Why was it, Armada wondered, that man seemed
so intent on bringing death to wherever he came?
There’s some organ in man that seems to need death. As the heart needs blood, as the lungs need breath.
A passage from Calderón’s Life’s a Dream, and one that seemed particularly apt. It seemed Calderón was as frustrated by his fellow man as was Armada at this moment.
These thoughts led him to think about Enrique Talavera’s fiery death. He had spent the better part of the last two days at the site of the charred remains of Enrique’s wagon. Not much had survived the blaze. Despite this, Armada couldn’t help but pick through what was left. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but something within him wouldn’t let him stop looking. There was unfinished business here, questions unanswered. It felt desperate to Armada. He knew that. But nothing else could be done.
His efforts, however, had come to nothing. He had gone over every bit of debris left behind, but hadn’t found anything that could help him understand what had happened. Or why. Sleep was a distant dream now, and he was driving himself mad.
Armada turned toward the horizon, trying to return to the moment of peace he’d stumbled upon. But his mind was too worked up now, going over and over the case, remembering everything he could about Enrique, trying to see what he’d missed.
“Sir?”
Armada was startled by Lucas’ voice from behind.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“Yes, Lucas. Fine,” Armada said without turning around.
“Bresson wanted me to find you. He said he’s ready to go when you are.”
Armada was quiet. Lucas made his way over to the little outcropping with him and sat down, staring out at the horizon.
“He wanted me to tell you it was urgent, sir.”
“Yes, I suspect he did. Although it probably has more to do with wanting to get back and collect his wages. The man has little patience for anything except drink.”
Lucas dragged his toe through the dust, working up courage.
“Do you not want to go home, sir? Everybody in town thinks you’re a hero. You found the killer. They feel safe again.”
“They shouldn’t,” Armada said, standing up and walking just to the edge of the outcropping. It was a precipitous drop to the waves below. “For there is still a killer amongst them.”
“Is there?” Lucas asked. “But I thought it was Enrique that killed Amparo. And tried to kill Madalena. We found physical proof.”
“Does it not bother you, Lucas, that we don’t know why he wanted them dead?”
“Does it matter, sir? We proved who the killer was.”
“Of course it matters!” Armada shouted. “It is the most important aspect of this case! Enrique Talavera had no motivation I can see to kill our two victims. None at all. So, I have to ask—why? Why do it? It is no easy task to murder someone, especially in the manner Enrique did. He looked Amparo right in the face and plunged the knife into his chest. That could not have been easy.”
Armada stared at the horizon again, but it did little to calm him.
“Enrique wasn’t involved in the digging of the canals. He wasn’t there that night. And there is no reason to believe he was even aware of what they’d found that night. Why would Jose tell him? These killings had little to do with Cristina Lopez. And as far as I can tell he had no contact at all with Pablo Ortega, nor any connection to him or his past crimes. So why? Why murder two people like that?”
“We may never know, sir.”
Lucas’ answer cut straight to the heart of what Armada feared most. That he would never know. That Enrique’s motivations were random, and would never make any sense to anyone. Armada wasn’t sure he could live in a world like that. At least with his time in the army, there was some effort made to justify the horrors they enacted upon the people they ended up destroying.
But in cases like this, there was no explanation. And that bothered Armada.
“I can’t leave it at that,” Armada said. “I can’t live in a world where this sort of thing just happens, where I’m not able to spot someone who is capable…”
Armada took a deep breath.
“There is a motivation, Lucas. There is. I can feel it. We just have to find it.”
“Sir, we need to head back to Granada.”
“You are free to do as you wish, Lucas. Especially if it is to do the sensible thing and follow your orders. I, however, still have unfinished business. I refuse to leave this place until this case is resolved to my satisfaction.”
“Sir, are you sure you’re not just…”
But Armada wouldn’t hear anymore. He brushed past Lucas and followed the footpath back down the eastern slope of El Peñon, which quickly took him to the beach, where he began following the road that would lead him into town.
As he began striding up the incline, Armada became aware of another set of footsteps alongside of him. Armada turned to see Lucas.
“I just feel like being a bit immature again, sir.”
Armada smiled.
Soon he and Lucas were back in their room at the inn. He grabbed one of the bags Lucas had packed and pulled out the blue and grey dress inside, as well as the dirty blond wig. Armada didn’t have a good explanation of why he’d kept them. They were evidence, technically, and there was a sense that the case had not yet been resolved. He couldn’t bring himself to give them away. Not yet. Not until it was over. Now he was glad he’d held on to them.
Throwing the dress on the table, Armada considered it.
“What is it, sir?”
“Motivation, as always. In this case, why did Enrique have this dress? Where did it come from? It obviously wasn’t made for him. So who was it made for? And by whom? I imagine if it was stolen, someone would have complained quite loudly. And yet, no one has, which suggests to me it was given to Enrique.”
“He could have bought it, sir.”
“Perhaps, but that would have been quite conspicuous. Everyone in town would have been talking about how the strange man who lives outside of town without a wife was buying a dress. And this would have ruined its use as a disguise.”
Lucas took a closer look at the dress, running his fingers over the stitching. “This dress is expensive, sir. Dyes like these aren’t something peasant women can afford. And the stitching is done by a well-experienced seamstress. Not an amateur just sewing clothes for herself.”
“So this dress was sold?” Armada asked.
“Obviously by someone who does it for a living, sir.”
“Excellent!” Armada said. “Then take this dress to the lavadero, Lucas. Ask the women there if they’ve ever seen anyone in town wearing it. Something tells me a dress of this quality will have stood out in their memory if they have.”
“Yes, sir. What will you do?”
Armada stared at the dress and the wig, tapping the table with his finger.
“Start from the beginning.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Armada entered the main room of the cortijo under the watchful eye of Esmerelda.
“She is still weak. Go easy on her. And when I tell you to go, you go,” Esmerelda had commanded him.
Armada had assured Esmerelda he would not push Madalena too far and was allowed to go inside, where he found her against the back wall, running her hand over a wooden box. It was a small coffin, cobbled together by Jose over the past day, to give Madalena something in which to bury the bones of her mother. They were now safely stored inside, where they would soon be buried.
“Señora Rodriguez…” Armada said, not wanting to startle Madalena.
Madalena turned and looked at him and Armada was surprised at the change in her appearance. She was skinnier, and still looked quite gaunt. One of her arms was wrapped up tight against her body in bandages, and blood was still appearing through them on the back of her shoulder blade where the killer had struck.
“Constable,” Madalena said and gave him a weak smile. She began to cough and Armada helped her into a chair, where she finally managed to get
it under control. Armada quickly poured her a glass of water, giving Madalena all the time she needed to drink.
“You should go easy, I’ve been told,” Armada said, glancing toward where Esmerelda was watching them closely. She was distracted by her children in the back, who were running about with sticks and causing a bit of chaos. “You’re still recovering.”
“I’m fine,” Madalena said with a hint of her previous determination. “I’m just happy to have my mother back. It’s been so long. Thank you again, Armada. For giving my family back to me.”
Armada said nothing. He didn’t feel he deserved the praise and thus had no idea how to respond.
“I only wish I could bury her now,” Madalena said.
“Why can’t you?”
“That pastor, that’s why. Ortega’s conspiracies have infected him as much as anyone else. He thinks my mother might have been morisco and says he can’t bury her in the church cemetery. He wants to bury her down on the beach so her soul doesn’t infect this whole…”
Madalena slammed her fist on the coffin. She then seemed to wobble and Armada tried to make sure she wouldn’t fall. But Madalena waved him off. She wanted to stand on her own two feet.
“My mother deserves to be buried here. She was an Old Christian, same as everyone else. She was born here. She died here. Salobreña was her home until that Ortega took it away from her.”
“Tell me what happened,” Armada said. “The night your mother died. How much do you remember?”
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