She was already asleep when the lieutenant brought up the last of their bags a few minutes later. He spread the blanket a little more completely over the bed and inspected Elena before turning out the lamp on the night table. Her face, always thin, seemed more sharply drawn in the dim light. Only the curve of her stomach was generous. He sat beside her and touched her belly lightly. Neither she nor the baby stirred. Very gently, he pulled the pins out of her hair, and uncoiled the long braid onto her pillow. She shifted, murmured his name, and then sank back into deeper sleep. The lamplight glittered off the single diamond set in a tiny gold cross that nestled in the hollow of her throat.
Tejada looked at the forgotten ornament, and smiled in spite of his own exhaustion. He had given her the necklace when she had first confirmed her pregnancy, and she was seldom without it, although she wore no other jewelry. He stroked her hair for a moment, and then forced himself to his feet one more time. His pistol became unbearably heavy as soon as he unbuckled the holster, and it was once more a weight separate from his clothing. He stooped, ignoring his aching back, and slid first his rifle and then the pistol under the bed. He undressed, shivering, and then slid into bed, profoundly grateful that Elena was already warming the icy sheets. At least we’re here, he thought, as his head touched the pillow and he snaked an arm around his wife. And after a trip like this, what else can go wrong? Then he was asleep.
Chapter 2
Elena woke up reluctantly. She needed to pee but was unhappy about the idea of leaving the warmth of the quilts. The steady breathing beside her told her that her husband was still asleep, but light was leaking in between the slats of the wooden shutters in one corner. It must be only a few minutes before reveille anyway, she thought, and then she recalled that the barracks in Salamanca did not have shutters like these, and she remembered where she was.
The knowledge that she would have to go downstairs to reach the bathroom did not make her more eager to get out of bed, but her body was insistent. She sat up carefully, doing her best to avoid waking Tejada. She was only partially successful. He flinched at the rush of cold air when she pushed back the covers. “’s cold,” he mumbled.
“Shh-shh.” Elena hastily stood up and drew the blankets back up to his chin, hissing slightly as the cold of the floor tiles leaked through her socks. She would have appreciated slippers and a bathrobe, but since these useful items were buried in her trunk she reluctantly squeezed her feet back into her shoes and tiptoed toward the chair where she had flung her coat, hoping that it would provide some protection against the chill in the air. Her coat was still slightly damp. She slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, hoping that she would find a stove in her explorations. The room outside the bedroom narrowed at the far end into another passage, this one leading to a small room with a woodstove, a sink, and several cooking implements. Elena sighed and headed for the hallway. The door closed softly, without squeaking hinges, and she smiled, glad that Carlos at least would be able to enjoy an uninterrupted sleep.
She was in a darkened corridor, with another door identical to the one she had just left opening off it and a staircase that she vaguely remembered from the night before at the far end. The door was set directly across the hallway and probably led to another apartment, similar to theirs. She crept toward the stairs, hoping fervently that the guardia’s quarters had running water. The steps were stone slabs, worn smooth with age and hemmed on either side by walls without a banister, and she felt her way down them carefully. A square of light on the wall at the landing just above the bar and the subdued murmur of voices below encouraged her. She had almost reached the landing when one of the voices was raised in sudden annoyance. “Idiotic thing to do!”
“. . .didn’t have much choice.” This voice was a deeper grumble. “We can’t afford trouble with the Guardia.”
Elena froze where she stood, flushing slightly, and wondering if the speaker knew that a Guardia officer was asleep upstairs. “But to have them spend the night here? Of all places?” The first man spoke again, as if in answer to Elena’s question.
“It’s only one, and for one night.” The deeper voice was soothing.
“I don’t know what Anselmo will say.” The tone was dubious now, waiting to be convinced.
“Which brings us back to the main point: Where is he?” The deeper voice subsided into an unintelligible mumble.
Mentally cursing the frailties of pregnancy that made it impossible to go back upstairs and lie down again, Elena coughed loudly and marched down the steps, hoping that her silhouette on the stairway wall would announce her presence if her footsteps did not.
She was unable to judge the success of her strategy, but no one seemed too startled by her appearance. It was full daylight in the room below. The chairs were still reversed on top of the tables, but a trio of men were hunched over the bar, and the gray-haired woman from the preceding evening was behind it. It was the woman who noticed Elena. “Good morning, Señora. I hope you slept well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Elena hesitated, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m . . . er . . . sorry to disturb you.” She marched in the direction she remembered from the previous night, running the gauntlet of the men’s silent stares. Semihostile scrutiny had become a constant since her marriage, and by now it was more an annoyance than a threat. And the men at the bar wore neither arms nor uniforms. She did not bother to try to listen to their conversation again. She was sure that they would be absolutely silent until they knew she was gone.
Tejada was up and nearly fully dressed when she returned. “There you are.” He smiled. “I was worried.”
“Toilet,” Elena explained succinctly.
He looked up and stopped buttoning his coat. “Are you all right? Were you nauseous?”
“I haven’t been nauseous in weeks.”
He nodded, still looking anxious. “You’re sure? Did you sleep well?”
“Like a stone. And you?”
“Fine. And the baby?” Tejada stooped, and fished under the bed for his rifle.
“Fine, as far as I can tell.”
“Good. No, no, sit back. I’ll get that.” The lieutenant twisted, still kneeling, and began to retie his wife’s shoe.
Elena swallowed a smile. “I’m not sick, you know. Or made of porcelain.”
“You shouldn’t strain yourself. Do you want breakfast?”
He was still occupied with Elena’s shoelaces and thus did not see her mischievous face as she said soberly, “Wild strawberries would be nice.”
He stood and headed for the door with a sinking heart. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Elena’s laughter stopped him. “Carlos! It’s March! And it’s snowing! I was joking!”
“Ingrate,” the lieutenant said, looking slightly sheepish.
Elena relented. “Sorry. Coffee?”
“God, I hope so.” Tejada held the door for her. “They should have it at the post, at worst. But let’s see if we can find our host.”
The barroom was empty except for the gray-haired woman when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Elena wondered briefly where the men had disappeared to. Perhaps it was later in the day than she had thought. Perhaps they had decided to avoid the impending presence of a guardia. Elena suppressed a sigh. Not so long ago, she would have avoided the Guardia also. But it was going to be difficult, being so isolated in a town where she had no friends or family.
Tejada, as usual, did not notice the effect of his presence. He nodded at the woman. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” She was courteous, if not friendly. “Can I help you?”
Tejada glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before eleven. “Where’s the telephone? I’d like to call the post.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have one.”
The lieutenant blinked. “Oh. Well, then, we’d like some coffee. And if my wife could stay here while I walk over to the post, I’d be grateful.”
“Of course, Lieutenant.” She brough
t them coffee silently and stood by the entrance to the hallway, watching them as they drank. Elena was sorry for the scrutiny. She would have liked to communicate to Carlos the conversation she had overheard. But she had a shrewd suspicion the woman had taken part in the conversation, and to admit to eavesdropping would not be a good way to begin an acquaintance.
Tejada finished drinking quickly and stood up. “I’m going over to the post. I don’t know what the mix-up was last night, but I want it sorted out as soon as possible. You’ll be all right here?”
“Of course.”
The lieutenant looked at his wife sharply. There was the faintest hint of constraint in her tone. He saw her eyes flicker to the woman who had brought them coffee. He leaned over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and breathed. “We should talk later in private?”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, pitched for only his ears. “I’m all right for now though.”
He gave her a smile that he hoped did not look anxious, and then put on his cloak and hat. Their hostess saw him to the door. “The footbridge is just up that way, Lieutenant. And you can’t miss the post.”
“Thank you.” Tejada set off in the direction she had indicated. The snow was lighter now, barely more than a few flakes, but the wind was still bitterly cold. The street—or rather track— was completely empty, although a few cart tracks in the snow suggested that traffic had passed in the last few hours.
When he reached the bridge, Tejada understood the carter’s reluctance to cross it with a vehicle. It was a rickety-looking structure that hardly looked wide enough for a man on horseback. The buildings surrounding it were thatched and Tejada guessed that the fire their driver had mentioned the night before had not reached this corner of the town. The bridge creaked under Tejada’s weight as he hurried across. It was impossible to tell what was paved and what was not beneath the unplowed snow, but a few buildings were planted at a respectful distance from a businesslike medieval tower in the center of a vaguely rectangular space that Tejada guessed to be a plaza on the other side of the river. A bare flagpole stuck up in front of one of them. Tejada headed toward it, remembering the carter’s directions the previous evening, and was rewarded by the sight of the familiar crest of the Guardia over the door. He rapped on the front door, wondering with half his mind if the lack of guards in front of the post was due to understaffing or to laziness, and noting absently with the other half that the man who had taken them to Potes appeared to have given accurate information. The man had mentioned that the fonda was run by an Anselmo, though he had thus far not appeared. Tejada wondered briefly if Anselmo would present himself when they settled their bill. Maybe he lets his wife handle the business, Tejada thought. And then, as a particularly malicious blast of wind nearly blew his hat off, Maybe he hibernates in the winter, lucky bastard.
The door to the post opened a crack, and Tejada was confronted by a man in his midtwenties, holding a leveled rifle. “What do you want?”
Tejada saluted, mentally noting that it would be desirable to make the Guardia’s challenges a little more formal. “Lieutenant Tejada. I’m here to relieve your current commander.”
“Sir!” The door swung back, and the guardia saluted, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, sir. We weren’t expecting . . . that is, Ortíz and Carvallo went to the station this morning, sir, to pick you up. But if you’re here . . .” The young man turned away to shut the door as he spoke, perhaps relieved to have an excuse not to finish the sentence.
Tejada was inspecting his surroundings with interest. He was in a small cold hallway, lit by a single lantern. The lack of windows was more than compensated for by the poor insulation. Most of the hall was taken up by a square staircase on his right. On his left was a small table, a patently ineffectual stove, and a chair that he guessed the guardia at the door had been occupying. Beyond the stairs, a closed door signaled an entrance to the rest of the building. The guardia bolted the outer door behind the lieutenant, and then hurried to the door at the back of the hallway, opened it, and called, “The new lieutenant’s here! Go tell Sergeant Márquez!” He turned back to Tejada. “My partner, sir,” he explained. “Corporal Battista.”
Tejada nodded. “And you are . . . ?”
“José Torres, sir.”
The lieutenant took off his cloak, in spite of the chill in the hall. “And how many men are there at the post, Torres?” he demanded.
“Five in all, sir. Well, six, now that you’ve come.”
Tejada frowned for a moment. “And they are the guardias you mentioned earlier, Ortíz and Carvallo, was it? And yourself and your partner, and the sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Sergeant Márquez has been the ranking officer?” Tejada asked, wondering why he had vaguely assumed that the post, however small, was commanded by someone of his own rank. It was common for rural outposts to be under the command of a sergeant, after all.
Guardia Torres looked embarrassed. The opening door saved him the necessity of answering. A burly man in his mid-forties emerged. He wore a sergeant’s uniform and was followed by another, slightly younger man, whom Tejada guessed to be Corporal Battista. “Sir.” The sergeant saluted. “Márquez. At your orders.” Tejada nodded without speaking, and the sergeant added in a slightly aggrieved voice, “We thought you were at Unquera.”
“I was, last night.” Tejada forced himself to keep his voice mild. “The cable must have mistaken the time I arrived.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Márquez did not sound overly apologetic. “We had an emergency last night.”
Tejada breathed through his nostrils as he understood that someone had casually decided to leave him to wait in a train station all night in a snowstorm without word. “What sort of emergency?” he asked, sounding somewhat grim.
“A manhunt.” Sergeant Márquez sounded disgusted. “Which came to nothing, of course. And then I had to send Ortíz and Carvallo to pick you up, which also seems to have been unnecessary.”
The lieutenant kept his face blank. Sergeant Márquez was more than ten years his senior and had doubtless fallen into the habit of command. And nothing Márquez had said was actually insubordinate. It was unlikely that he intended to be disrespectful. Tejada had always relied on good relationships with his subordinates. He did not want to start off on the wrong foot with Márquez. Still, there was a slight edge to the lieutenant’s voice as he said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. When no one arrived last night I thought we’d better hitch a ride.”
There was a short silence. “You hitched a ride, sir?” Corporal Battista said, sounding slightly disbelieving.
Tejada turned. “Yes. With a local farmer on his way home. Why not?”
Battista shifted uncomfortably. “No reason, sir.” He cleared his throat and added more strongly, “After all, it’s not as if a pair of uniformed officers can’t travel the country safely.”
Battista’s last words suddenly recalled Torres’s greeting. He’s frightened, Tejada thought. Now that it occurred to him, the sergeant’s sullenness had the quality of fear as well. The lieutenant could think of nothing the guardia should find scary, but the signs were unmistakable. Instinctively, he searched for possible perils. “Our driver didn’t want to cross the bridge just across the square with a cart,” he said experimentally. “He said it was only fit for pedestrians. Is that true?”
“More or less, sir,” Sergeant Márquez agreed. “A mounted man can cross it. And maybe a light motorcycle, although that would be chancy. We usually use the proper bridge, about a kilometer west of here. Devastated Regions is working on another one, but when they’ll get it done . . .”
Tejada nodded, resigned. The Department of Devastated Regions had more than enough work to do, and although Potes was clearly in need of its help, the reconstruction of the town could easily take years. “I’ll need to take a truck back to Anselmo’s fonda,” he said. “I understand Torres and Battista are normally partners, Sergeant, but I don’t want to take them both from the
post. Which one do you think should come with me?”
“We don’t have a truck, sir.” Sergeant Márquez looked slightly embarrassed. “Ortíz and Carvallo took it.”
Tejada blinked. “How do you do patrols?”
“Horseback, sir. Or on foot.”
Tejada breathed through his nostrils again. “Fine. When they return, I’ll go and collect our luggage.”
“Surely you and your partner can carry your kits, sir? It isn’t far, after all.” Márquez’s voice was faintly mocking.
Tejada’s nostrils flared again. His voice was tight as he replied. “I can carry my kit. But we have several suitcases. And my wife is not fit to carry them.”
For an instant, Tejada had the satisfaction of seeing Márquez look startled instead of smug. “Your wife?” the sergeant repeated. “You brought your wife with you, Lieutenant?” His voice held the same disbelief as Battista’s, and also a faint suggestion of reluctant respect.
Tejada, always sensitive about his marriage, missed the respect. “Yes,” he snapped, out of patience. “Is there a problem?”
“No. No, sir. Of course not. We could requisition a cart if you like.” Márquez was looking at the new commander as if he had suddenly grown two heads but he sounded less self-satisfied. He turned to the corporal. “Doesn’t old Aponte have a cart and horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Battista nodded. “Should I go over now and get it?”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 2