The Butterfly Effect
Page 21
About ten o'clock the next morning Marcos was chewing gum in front of lobby 53 when the same face from the previous day, that of Dr. Jaime Vergara, came out through the door. Tena took the opportunity to enter and climb back to the second floor. He stopped in front of Door C and pulled his revolver from the sheath that hung from the inside of his jacket. He removed the lock softly and held his breath. Never before had he wielded a weapon against someone of flesh and blood, and for that reason his limbs trembled. He spent a few minutes relaxing, letting the sweat of his hands dry around the hilt of the gun. To feel comfortable with it.
Was he sure of what he was about to do? What if the girl was innocent? In that case, he could get into a good judicial mess.
He felt a stomach cramp.
"Damn it, my career in the police corps is at stake," he mumbled under his breath. “I hate you, Barreneche!”
He braced himself, took a deep breath and slammed the door with all his strength.
“Police! Open the door immediately!” He called out.
Alyssa heard a dry thud on the other side of the house, followed by raw, unrelated voices that were being spat from a man from a distance.
She put herself on the alert.
She walked with great caution to the hall, where she heard the masculine voice again, this time much sharper, pronounced from the other side of the front door.
"Open the door, I will not say it again!"
It's not Jaime.
“Police!”
Dammit.
Trying not to creak the floor with her movements, she turned the peephole and looked through it. She saw a young man, perhaps too young to be a policeman. His hands held a revolver, and his body expression was so rigid that Alyssa could imagine his facial skin covered with a cold sweat. She wondered which of them would be more scared.
She analyzed the situation in a matter of milliseconds. She had no choice.
Knock.
She bit her lower lip hard, entrusted her lot to some God who wanted to hear it, and she thrust the door open.
Immediately she was confronted with a small dark barrel that seemed to her the threshold void of death. It was the first time she had been aimed at the face with the barrel of a gun. After the shock, an imperative snorting:
"You are detained! Stand against the wall and cross your hands behind your back, miss!”
Do not be intimidated, Alyssa, this is your moment, she said to herself in a self-motivating way.
She decided to disobey and, as only she knew how to act, went on the defense with everything she had:
"I did not kill Mike Lennard," she muttered, her voice broken and old. She raised her hands with her palms open and swallowed hard.
"Are you not Alyssa Grifero?" The policeman asked, without removing the barrel from her head. In fact, the first drops of sweat began to fall from his forehead.
"I am Alyssa Grifero, and I did not murder Mike Lennard.” She raised her voice, which had changed until it sounded almost ceremonial. She looked behind the policeman toward the landing of the building, making sure that Jaime still didn’t appear. Given the circumstances, she concluded that it was for the best.
"Miss, please," the policeman insisted as he stepped forward, "don’t make it harder. We know about your return trip to Oxford on the day of the crime. You’re going to accompany me to the police station, the easy way or the hard way.”
Alyssa would have bet good money that that man had never shot a weapon against a human being in his life.
Against all logic, she took a step forward until her forehead was in contact with the tip of the revolver. It was freezing.
"I am Alyssa Grifero, and yes, on November the 9th I traveled to Oxford. I was at Mike Lennard's house and I saw a bullet in his skull, about the same height as the way you're pointing at me now.”
The policeman's hands, and therefore the weapon, began to tremble against her head. Alyssa detected the doubt in his eyes.
You're about to get it, baby, She thought.
"You're lying," he said, his index finger still tense against the trigger.
"You know better than that," said Alyssa, who could feel the adrenaline running through her veins. At that moment she felt like a superhero. “And if you stop me now or shoot me, there will be more deaths.” She paused to savor the moment. “And it would be your fault,” she whispered.
"Then, according to you, who killed Lennard?" The agent asked. Under the tremor in his voice, anyone would have said that what he branded was actually a water gun.
"I'll tell you if you'll escort me to Oxford right now, before it's too late."
"To go with you to Oxford? Are you crazy...”
The young policeman gripped her shoulder and pushed her against the wall. With a quick movement, he put the gun on his hilt and gripped her wrists behind her back.
"You think I'm stupid?" He grunted, his mouth pressed to the back of her neck. From the fury in his voice, he seemed to want to say something like this girl is not going to bullshit me, a cop.
Alyssa, the fact that a man forced her and the handcuffs brought back memories that caused a great chill. Despite this, she struggled not to lose control, because deep down she knew that the verbal battle was winning.
"Listen to me, please," she said, with astonishing serenity, "if you take me to England and you grant me protection, I will take you to the person who murdered Mike Lennard. Together we will stop him, and you will be a hero. You will come out on the news.”
Alyssa noticed that the pressure exerted by the policeman's hands was reduced.
Don Perfecto will let me go.
"And if it turns out that I lied and in the end I was the one who really shot that gun at his head, then you stop me. You have nothing to lose, in both scenarios you remain like the policeman who captured the criminal of the century in the crime of Oxford.”
She could imagine the man's brain shifting at top gear behind her neck. She couldn’t help but draw a slight, inappropriate smile.
Suddenly, the agent released her hands and ordered her to turn to him, so that he could see her face. He pointed again with his revolver, this time to her right leg.
"I hope it's not a trick, because I assure you, you're not going to escape in any way," he said tightly, as if he had just realized he was the victim of a stupid scam. “We're going to the airport right now. You will pass the security check under my protection, but I will not lose sight of you for a second. If you need to go to the restroom, you'll be handcuffed in less than a minute. Is that clear?”
Alyssa smiled, just as a teenager smiles to her parents who have given permission to go to the end-of-course party.
"Very clear, officer!” She exclaimed. “You're going to be the fucking hero of the country, I guarantee you.”
The policeman grimaced.
“Come on, let's go. You have five minutes to collect what you consider essential. Then I'll handcuff you.”
Then Alyssa thought of Jaime, and then of Oli, under the circumstances the two names would inevitably be in the background in the next few hours. She had to say goodbye to him, tell him everything. Apologize.
She went to the bathroom, always under the strict supervision of Don Perfecto, and locked herself in it. Of the five minutes granted, she dedicated only one to fill a bag with soap and underwear, and the other four to secretly write a note that she signed, kissed, and deposited on the dining room table. Then she gave her hands to the policeman and let him handcuff her. They left the apartment two minutes before Jaime returned. They left no trace other than the note on the table.
Chapter 16
"Look at that guy with the bruised arm. Who?”
“Forget it! Don’t greet him! The less you get closer to him, the better it’ll be for you.”
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, he’s wounded by being stubborn and as a bad patient.”
"Have you treated him?"
“A while ago. Just before you started this conversation.”
"Better not want to know."
"At least tell me his name."
"His name is Félix. And he’s very dangerous.”
"Well, the ambulance is coming for him.”
Sunday 12 and Monday 13 November 2006
It was just after four in the afternoon when Alfred Horner got up from his chair at the police station. He had spent the whole day reading reports on the events that had taken place during the last weeks in that fishing village in northern Spain called Ámber. He put on his sunglasses (even though the day was gray), and as he turned around St. Aldate's to walk to his car, he at first glimpsed a black Volkswagen parked about ten yards away, next to the stone wall which was the front facade of Church of Christ. He passed by its side without slowing his pace or looking away, and found that, indeed, it was the same license plate. The vehicle was unoccupied.
It was the third time he’d seen it in the last two days. He couldn’t tell for how long the car had been around him, but for the fact that it caught his attention had been the result of chance. The first time he noticed it was the afternoon of the day before, a few minutes before he and Carroll watched the recording of the Ahmets in the video conference room. Then, as he looked out of the window without looking at anything concrete, he saw it parked by the police station. The Volkswagen would not have been etched into Horner's mind if it hadn’t been for the license plate LA08 081. Lover of sports in general and of the NBA in particular, for the police that code led him immediately to the city of Los Angeles (LA), where Kobe Bryant, number 8 of the Lakers, had achieved the historic mark of 81 points in a match. It had happened last January, and Alfred had not missed such a feat. That would have been simply a funny curiosity if it was not because the next morning, that is, that morning, he saw the same car next to his house in Kidlington while having coffee and a slice of bread with jam for breakfast alone. On that occasion, the Volkswagen was parked on a street that led to the entrance of the cafeteria and less than fifty meters from his floor. He wondered if he was not becoming paranoid, but when he left the police station about four o'clock in the afternoon with his sunglasses on, the vehicle with a curious license plate crossed his path again. Too much chance.
On none of the three occasions did he see any occupants inside the car, but that was an issue he intended to resolve immediately. Still walking, and once he had left the Volkswagen behind; he dialed the car registration office on his mobile phone, identified himself as a policeman, and asked about the owner of the Volkswagen. According to the registration, the vehicle belonged to a rental company. After a sulking click, he hung up and immediately telephoned the car rental company. The rental car had been rented for a whole week by a thirty-one-year-old Henry Millward, address in Camden, London. He continued to pull some strings and discovered that Henry Millward had a bachelor's degree in computer science from the University of Oxford, although he now ran his own bar in the British capital. Millward had an absurd résumé. In spite of finishing the race with an honors degree, soon after finishing his studies he dedicated himself to living life large. He traveled across Europe working, almost always as a bartender in clubs of dubious reputation. Milan, Copenhagen, Cascais, Seville, Ámber... (Horner stopped blinking when the last location was revealed). Another piece of the puzzle? He went on investigating. In 2004, Henry Millward was arrested for hacking the website of the Tax Agency, and in 2005 he almost went to prison for public disorderly conduct. He was quite a character.
Horner moistened his lips with his own saliva. He came to the basic conclusion that he was being subjected to some kind of surveillance. But why? Then he realized how easy it had come to him. The simple thing was to think that Millward was a terrible spy, which gave him something. Then he recalled that, if it was not due to the coincidence of enrollment, he would not have noticed LA08 081.
Was Henry Millward the man who had come into his apartment the other night, tearing the room apart and causing him some superficial wounds? The same one who had left that lapidary message on the side of his car? The thought turned to an icy sensation that gave him goose bumps, and gave way to a much more general question: Was Henry Millward then who shot Mike Lennard?
Horner did not see the black Volkswagen again all day. A much more real threat, however, was waiting for him at his Kidlington home.
Immediately after Horner left the police station, Thomas Carroll, camouflaged at a table behind the window at the sidewalk cafe opposite the Volkswagen, pulled out his SLR camera and fired a series of photographs at his discretion. He photographed a man who got up from the Christ of Church bus stop and followed the same route as Alfred until he got into his car.
The subject was brown, with thin hair that came to his shoulders. From the distance it was difficult to pinpoint his age, but Thomas sensed that he was someone in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans, leather jacket with raised lapels, and sunglasses. It was the vivid image of a regular at a bar.
The stranger had stared at Alfred's Alfa Romeo as if he were memorizing something (for example, the license plate?), until he started and turned the first corner. Then the guy turned around casually and walked to the Volkswagen.
Thomas lowered the SLR and sighed. That morning Alfred had explained the strange coincidence of the black vehicle. He had asked him to go around the police station in search of a Volkswagen with registration LA08 081 and, if he found it, to hide and take some photos. Thomas had wondered if his companion was going crazy, but now that he was checking the existence of the vehicle and the man who was watching his steps, he realized that Alfred was in real danger.
When he looked back at the subject, he realized that he was looking at him. During the moment the two pairs of eyes were staring from both sides of the glass, Carroll didn’t know how to act. It was the subject who, understanding by the photo camera that he was being watched, moved first. His expression tightened into an ugly grimace, and then he ran off to his car, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine. Carroll, who had left his refreshment paid, loaded the DSLR around his neck and came out after him. By the time he left the cafe and started across the street, the Volkswagen was already on the move.
Dammit!
He got into his patrol car and sped up. At the end of the street he saw the guy turn right onto High Street. An avenue with many lanes to get lost easily and vanish, thought Thomas. Before reaching the Carfax tower to take High Street, Carroll had time to activate the alarm and call Horner by the hands free car phone.
"I've got your guy in range!" He said, as soon as his companion accepted the call. “He’s up in the Covered Market and he’s heading east in his car.”
"You got that bastard?" Horner, who also spoke from the hands free car, phone sounded worried.
"I could have photographed him, but he caught me and ran. I'm in full chase.”
“Agreed. Keep the distance so that he thinks you’ve lost sight of him and he’ll relax. I'm going to head in your direction.”
"There's a lot of traffic. Fuck, Alfred, what on earth have you gotten yourself into? This guy is bad.”
For a few seconds there was only the siren of Thomas' patrol car.
"The subject is moving fast about two hundred meters ahead of me," Carroll announced.
"Thomas, listen to me," said Horner, "the man's name is Henry Millward. I have not been able to find out what he wants from me, but his past is scary. If you tell me your exact position, I’ll join the hunt.”
"Leave it Fred, go home."
Carroll made an illegal overtaking on High Street and honked at a couple of teenage pedestrians trying to cross the avenue with the red light.
"I'm on my way, Tom.” Horner's male voice sounded metallic through the speaker.
At that moment, a truck left irresponsibly from a warehouse and Carroll had to brake suddenly and to make a jerking movement with the steering wheel so as not to finish stamped against the truck’s bodywork. When he caught his breath and headed back down the street, he
glimpsed how the Volkswagen turned left past Queen's College, probably on Longwall Street.
“Fuck!” He exclaimed, as if he needed to shout to get rid of the truck's fright.
"Tom? You're good?” Horner heard himself say.
"Yes, I'm fine... but I'm losing him," he said. “Alfred, listen carefully: we have his name, his license plate and your photographs. I'm going to get this bastard, if it’s not now it will be tomorrow, and when I do I'll check what he wants from you. You go home.”
The patrol car raised a cloud of dust as it skidded around on Longwall Street. Thomas scanned the end of the street, but the black car had disappeared. He drove until the street changed its name, and then stopped. He turned off the alarm.
“Shit.”