‘Inspector, this is Luis, Marilena’s boyfriend. Please come and get the letter.’
James had stepped out of the car. She walked over and stood looking up at him.
‘James, it’s within walking distance, I need to pick up a document here in Elizondo. I can walk there,’ she added, as if to prove that she wouldn’t be long.
He leaned forward to kiss her, and without saying a word entered the house.
17
Winter had returned with a vengeance after a lull of a few hours. She regretted not picking up her scarf and gloves on her way out as she felt the cold north wind blow through the empty streets of Elizondo. Turning up the collar of her coat, she clasped it about her neck and set off at a brisk pace towards Elena Ochoa’s house. She rang the doorbell and waited, shivering in the wind. The boyfriend opened the door, but refrained from asking her in.
‘She’s exhausted,’ he explained. ‘She took a sleeping pill, and it’s knocked her out.’
‘I understand,’ said Amaia. ‘This is a terrible blow …’
He handed her a long white envelope, which she could see was unopened. Her name was written on the front. She slipped it into her pocket, noticing the look of relief on the young man’s face as he watched it disappear.
‘I’ll keep you informed.’
‘If that letter is what we think it is, please don’t bother – she’s suffered enough.’
Amaia followed the bend in the river, drawn by the orange lights in the square, which gave a false impression of warmth on that cold, dark night. She walked past the Lamia fountain, which only gushed water when it rained, and carried on walking until she came to the town hall, where she paused to run the fingers of one hand over the smooth surface of the botil harri. Her other hand was still clutching the envelope in her pocket; it gave off an unpleasant heat, as though contained within were the last flicker of the author’s life.
The wind swept through the square in great gusts, making it impossible for her to stop and read the letter. She headed down Calle Jaime Urrutia, hesitating beneath each streetlamp looking for a sheltered spot. She didn’t want to read it at home. Finding nowhere, she crossed the bridge, where the wind’s roar vied with the noise of the weir. Reaching Hostal Trinkete, she turned right and made her way towards the only place where she knew she would enjoy complete solitude. She felt in her pocket for the silky cord her father had fastened to the key all those years ago. When she inserted it in the lock, the key turned halfway but would go no further. She tried again, even though she realised Ros had changed the lock on the bakery door. Surprised and pleased at her sister’s initiative, she slipped the now useless key back in her pocket, her fingers brushing the envelope as she did so. It seemed to be calling to her, like a living creature. Walking into the wind, she set off at a brisk pace towards her aunt’s house, but instead of going in, she climbed into her car and switched on the overhead light.
I told you they would find out, and they did. I’ve always been careful, but I was right: there’s no protection from them. Somehow they’ve put it inside me, I can feel it tearing at my guts. Like a fool, I thought it was heartburn, but as the hours go by I realise what’s happening, it is devouring me, killing me, so I may as well tell you.
It’s a rundown old farmhouse, with brown walls and a dark roof. I haven’t been there for years, but they used to keep the shutters closed. You’ll find it on the road to Orabidea, in the middle of a huge meadow, the only one of its kind in the area. There are no trees, nothing grows there, and you can only see it from the bend in the road.
It’s a black house, I don’t mean the colour, but what’s inside. I won’t bother warning you not to go poking around there, because if you are who you claim to be, if you survived the fate they had in store for you, they’ll find you anyway.
May God protect you,
Elena Ochoa
The incongruous ring of her phone in the enclosed space of the car made her jump. She dropped Elena Ochoa’s letter, which fell between the pedals. Nervous and confused, she answered the call, leaning forward to try to reach the piece of paper.
She could sense the weariness in Inspector Iriarte’s voice at the end of what for him had been an arduous day. Amaia glanced at her watch, as she realised that she’d completely forgotten about Iriarte. It was gone eleven.
‘They’ve just finished doing Elena Ochoa’s post-mortem. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, Inspector.’ Amaia heard him take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. ‘San Martín has recorded the cause of death as suicide by ingestion of sharp objects – talk about an understatement! But what else could he put? In all his years as a professional, he’d never seen the like either,’ he said, giving a nervous laugh.
She felt the beginnings of a migraine and she started to shiver, vaguely aware that these physical sensations were related to Elena’s letter, and to Inspector Iriarte’s seeming inability to explain himself.
‘Take me through it, Inspector,’ she ordered.
‘You saw the amount of walnut shavings she spewed up. Well, there were traces in the stomach too, but the intestines were full—’
‘I understand.’
‘No, you don’t, Inspector. When I say “full”, I mean literally filled to bursting, like an over-stuffed sausage. In some places, the shavings had perforated the intestinal wall, even reaching the surrounding organs.’
The migraine had suddenly taken hold; her head felt like a steel helmet being hammered from outside.
Iriarte took a deep breath and went on:
‘Seven metres of small intestine and another metre and a half of large intestine, crammed with walnut shavings until they were twice the normal size. The doctor couldn’t believe that the gut wall hadn’t exploded. And do you know what the strangest thing was? He couldn’t find a single piece of nut, only the shells.’
‘What else did San Martín say? Could she have been force-fed?’
Iriarte sighed.
‘Not while she was still alive. The intestine is highly sensitive; the pain would probably have killed her. I have photographs. San Martín is busy preparing the autopsy report. I expect we’ll have it by tomorrow morning. I’m going home now, though I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,’ he added.
Convinced she wouldn’t either, Amaia took a couple of sedatives. Then she slipped into bed alongside James and Ibai, letting the rhythmical breathing of her loved ones bring her the peace she so desperately needed. She spent the next few hours trying to read, gazing every now and then at the dark recess of the window, at the shutters open a crack so that from her side of the bed she could glimpse the first light of dawn.
Amaia wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep, although she knew she had been sleeping when the intruder came in. She didn’t hear her enter, she couldn’t hear her footsteps or her breathing. She could smell her: the scent of her skin, her hair, her breath was engraved on Amaia’s memory. A scent that rang alarm bells; the scent of her enemy, her executioner. She felt a desperate panic, even as she cursed herself for having let down her guard, for having allowed her to come this close, for if Amaia could smell her, then she was too close.
The little girl inside her prayed to the god of all victims to take pity on them, alternating her prayer with the command that must never be disobeyed: don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes. She let out a scream of rage not of fear, a scream that came from the woman not the little girl: You can’t hurt me, you can’t hurt me now. Then she opened her eyes. Rosario was stooping over her bed, inches from her face, so close she was a blur; her eyes, nose and mouth blotting out the room, the cold still clinging to her garments, making Amaia shiver.
Rosario’s grinning mouth became a slit in her face, her feverish eyes studying Amaia, amused at her fear. Amaia tried to scream, but the warm air she pushed out of her lungs with all her might died in her mouth. She realised with horror that she couldn’t move. Her limbs felt le
aden, immobilised under their own weight on the soft mattress. Seeing her prey paralysed, Rosario’s smile widened, hardening as she drew closer, until her hair brushed Amaia’s face. Closing her eyes, Amaia screamed as loud as she could and this time she managed to expel the air trapped inside her. Although the scream that rang out in her dream failed to emerge from the woman asleep on the bed, she managed to whisper the word ‘no’. That was enough to wake her up.
Drenched in sweat, Amaia sat up in bed, snatching at the scarf draped over the lampshade to dim the light. She looked first at James and Ibai to make sure they were sleeping, then at the top of the wardrobe, where her gun still lay, as it did every night. She knew the instant she woke up that no one else was in the room, and yet she couldn’t shake off the vivid sensations she’d experienced in her dream: her pulse was racing, her limbs felt heavy, her body ached from her attempts to free herself. And Rosario’s smell …
She waited for her breathing to return to normal, before scrambling out of bed. Then she retrieved her gun, gathered some clean clothes and went to take a shower, hoping to wash the hateful imprint of that smell from her skin.
18
She began her search for the black house at dawn. Breakfast consisted of a cup of coffee, which she drank standing up, leaning against the kitchen table, gazing out of the window, where the Baztán sky showed no signs of a fresh dawn.
She drove along the main road from Elizondo to Oronoz-Mugaire, turning off at Orabidea. It was one of the most remote areas of the valley, a place where time seemed to have stood still, preserving intact the fields, farmhouses, all the natural charm and power of a place that was as harsh as it was beautiful. Several kilometres separated the farms, some of which were still without electricity. In the spring of last year, James had convinced her to visit Infernuko Errota, or Hell’s Mill, one of the most magical, unique spots in Baztán. Fifteen kilometres further along that same road, a track led from Etxebertzeko Borda to the eponymous mill, hidden amid the vegetation. It was only accessible on foot, or on the back of a donkey, which is how those who made their way to the mill under cover of night must have travelled. Hell’s Mill, built during the Carlist Wars, was vital to the survival of the soldiers who fled to the hills during the conflicts. It was a modern structure erected on top of three tree trunks that spanned the river. The inhabitants of Baztán would go there, mules loaded with sacks of grain, which they milled under cover of darkness to provide flour for their families. Navigating the rustic beauty of that slippery path in the thick Baztán night, guiding their animals along that perilous trail by the river, must have felt like a veritable descent into hell. Hence the name. The people of Baztán always found a way to do what needed to be done.
The only other place she knew along that road was the shooting range on the outskirts of Bagordi. She switched off the satnav, which kept recalculating her position every few seconds as the signal dropped out. She drove up the hill, stopping now and again to study the ordnance survey map, open on the passenger seat. Elena’s vague directions hadn’t specified whether the house was on a plateau or in a valley, only that it was surrounded by a vast meadow, the only one of its kind in the area. She decided to check all the farmhouses, even those that didn’t fit the description, including the tiny shepherd’s huts, which in recent years had been converted into dwellings but still didn’t feature on the map. She waved at a few farmers who came out to meet her down the end of impassable tracks, pretending she was lost or had left the main road by accident, ignoring their wry smiles, and the persistent bark of sheepdogs frantically chasing the wheels of her car.
At about ten in the morning, she stopped to stretch her legs, crossing off on the map all the places she had ruled out. She had brought some coffee in an old thermos flask of Engrasi’s, which she remembered from when she was a child. She cupped the lid, which served as a drinking vessel, taking small sips as she leaned against the car boot admiring the landscape. She shuddered as the hot, sweet brew brought back the memory of her dream. Night terrors, or a clear warning which she should ignore at her peril? What would Agent Dupree have said about it? Was it information that the brain processed differently, and which came to her in dreams, or was she simply having a nightmare, reliving the naked fear she’d experienced as a child? Instinctively, she took out her phone, despite knowing full well that she and Dupree only ever spoke late at night. She glanced at the screen, saw that there was no signal, and put the phone back in her pocket, reflecting that she’d received no calls all morning.
‘Nature is our protector,’ she whispered, admiring the splendour of the trees soaring on either side of the road, forming a natural barrier against the light. Suddenly aware of the sheer power of the forest, Amaia reflected that, rather than cutting through the trees, the road was like a channel through which the energy of the hills flowed like an invisible river.
She didn’t need to speak to Dupree to know what he would have said. She was a police officer, a trained detective; she knew that when an alarm went off, you didn’t cover your ears. Recently she had started to understand that the rational and the irrational, modern policing methods and the old traditions, detailed analysis and simple intuition were part of the same world, and that a combination of both approaches to reality was essential for the investigator. Her sister could arrange all the funeral masses she wanted; Amaia knew, although she couldn’t prove it, that her mother’s soul lived on in her body, and that the threat hanging over her since she was child was as real as ever. Berasategui’s message had confirmed that. She felt it in her guts, her skin, her heart and her mind, which continued to transmit those terrifying messages to her in her sleep.
She remembered how the impression of the dream had stayed with her for several minutes. The ache in her limbs when she awoke was real, as was the anxiety of having lain there unable to move; even Rosario’s scent on her skin, which she’d had to scrub off with soap and hot water. She took another sip of coffee, retching as the bitterness evoked her mother’s smell. She tossed the remainder into the bushes, wondering, as she recalled Sarasola’s account of the Inguma, whether nightmares could actually kill you. Whether the demons that inhabit them were powerful enough to break through the fragile barrier between the two worlds and hunt down their quarry. What would have happened if she hadn’t woken up? Her sensations during those nightmares were so vivid they felt real; like the Hmong, she was conscious of being asleep, of the moment when her mother appeared, and when she opened her eyes she could see her, smell her, she even felt her hair brushing her face. How much more could she perceive? Would she have felt Rosario’s touch? Her dry lips, her moist tongue licking her face, eager for her blood? Would she have felt her mother’s mouth closing over her lips to steal her breath? Could the Rosario of her nightmares have sucked the life out of her, like the legendary Inguma?
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a movement to her left, amid the dense undergrowth. Glancing up at the stillness of the treetops, she decided it couldn’t have been the wind, yet straining her eyes she could make nothing out beneath the dark canopy of the trees. As she opened the boot to put away the thermos flask, she saw it again. Whatever it was, it was tall enough to rustle branches at chest level. Closing the boot again, she walked towards the edge of the forest. She stopped dead as she glimpsed an elongated shadow concealed behind the trunk of a large beech tree. Presumably, this was what had rustled the tiny shoots doomed to perish in the shade of the towering tree.
She remained perfectly still, aware of the trembling that started in her legs then spread to her entire body. Her hand instinctively reached for the gun at her waist, even as she reminded herself not to draw it. The watcher remained hidden behind the tree. Hoping to lure it out, she stepped backwards, lowering her head and staring at the ground.
The effect was instantaneous. She felt the watcher’s eyes alight on her: a cruel, fierce, soulless gaze that pierced her like a shot through the heart. Startled by the hostile presence, she stepped backwards and nearly fe
ll over. She collected herself, scanning the undergrowth in time to see her watcher slip out of sight. She thrust her hand inside her Puffa jacket and ran her fingers over the reassuring bulk of her Glock, then immediately reproached herself. She took a deep breath, reminding herself to stay calm. She needed to see it again, she had yearned for its presence so intensely it made her heart ache; and, sensing its closeness yet knowing it was so far away felt deeply frustrating, because she couldn’t express her need, or even recapture the feeling of security it gave her, which she so craved. She walked to within touching distance of the trees along the roadside. Suddenly, she became aware of a stillness enveloping the forest. The chirps and flutters, even the whisper of the trees fell silent, as if Nature herself were waiting with bated breath. Taking another step forward, she saw the shadow slowly begin to emerge from its hiding place. She felt a mounting terror, as she heard the high-pitched whistle of the guardian of the forest ring out behind her, on the other side of the road: the basajaun, the protector whose presence she had longed for, was alerting her to danger. As Amaia drew her gun, the shadow she had mistaken for her guardian slipped away into the darkness.
She ran back to her car and started the engine, the loose gravel at the side of the road spraying up as she drove away at high speed. As soon as she reached the next farmsteads, she stopped the car. Her hands were still trembling. ‘It was a wild boar. Yes, a wild boar, and the whistling in the forest was simply a shepherd calling his dog.’ She adjusted the rear-view mirror to look at herself; the eyes of the woman staring back at her didn’t look at all convinced by those explanations.
Offering to the Storm Page 11