The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  “And that was?”

  She stood up and faced L. “They had no earlobes.”

  L’s hand reached for her own lobeless ear. She got up and went to Flora.

  “Who were they? Where did they come from? Why were they shunned?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll bring you books with the answers to all your questions.”

  “No, don’t go—you can’t leave me like this!”

  “You must be patient.” Flora went to the door, opened it, and looked back. “I’ll tell you just one more thing, dear Eleuteria. You’re an Agote.”

  21

  Elías drove back to his garage in Cartagena. The tracking device was right where he’d left it. He reattached it in case they came by to check. The real challenge of the night would be getting back to his apartment. He walked furtively through deserted, foggy streets and climbed back to the rooftops. It was still dark, and he wanted more than anything to return to the warmth of his bed. He could still get in a couple of hours of sleep.

  But in his apartment, the living room lights were on.

  “Where have you been?” Caridad demanded. “How long have you been going out at night without telling me?”

  “I was working.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Caridad sat next to the large coffee table and the jigsaw puzzle where Van Gogh’s sunflowers were beginning to take shape. The pieces were sorted by color and shade, and she’d made phenomenal progress.

  “I’m trying to solve an important case for the bishop’s office.”

  “You’re lying to me. You’ve never had to go out at this time of night for your uncle’s cases.”

  Caridad was on her feet now, arms crossed defiantly over a white V-neck T-shirt. Elías suddenly realized how contrived her appearance was. His wife would look completely ordinary if she weren’t so careful to wear perfectly tailored clothes in the most flattering colors. Behind the expensive jewelry intended to make her look sophisticated, her face was childish—vapid, even. She was thoroughly charmless.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Yesterday, your mother called because she was worried about you. She said you’ve been neglecting your uncle’s investigation.” She stopped to catch her breath. “You think I’m stupid or something? I want an explanation, and it had better be good.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “I have two very different cases. My uncle wants me to work on the Cross of Caravaca and forget about the painting that was stolen from me in Madrid. But I can’t. So, I have to investigate it on my own time.”

  “And why is this painting so important to you? You don’t even like modern art!”

  The Olympic goddess rose before him. He tried to banish her from his thoughts. “It’s personal. What happened was my fault. I let them rob me and make a fool of me. Like a complete amateur.”

  “If your uncle doesn’t care, you shouldn’t either. And I know you insured it, Elías, so don’t give me this crap.”

  “Caridad, what’s wrong?”

  “Why did Sandra leave you?”

  Her question hit him like a bombshell.

  “You two were a perfect pair. Everyone was jealous,” she ranted. “And then, she just walked out.”

  “I don’t feel like discussing it right now.”

  “Did you cheat on her?”

  “What? Where did you get that idiotic idea?”

  Of course he’d never been unfaithful. The thought would never have occurred to him. He’d been in love. He didn’t know why she’d left him, but he knew one thing perfectly well: he’d been true to her to the end.

  “Sandra’s back in Cartagena.”

  He was surprised that his wife knew. The two women hadn’t been acquainted. The only time Caridad had seen Sandra was in a photo that Elías had reluctantly shown her early in their relationship, when she’d insisted he tell her everything about his past. His beloved mother must have taken it upon herself to inform his wife of Sandra’s return.

  “And so what?”

  “Shit, Elías!” She violently overturned the board with the puzzle, and its tiny pieces rained yellow and blue across the sofa and parquet floor.

  Elías was stunned. He’d never heard crude language from his wife. They stood frozen before one another until she burst into tears. He warily approached her and folded her in his arms.

  She submitted to his embrace but then pulled free and glared at him. “You’d better not be cheating on me.”

  “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

  He felt his gut wrench as he said it. Perhaps God was punishing him. He was lying to her and to himself. He was growing more and more estranged from Caridad and becoming obsessed with another woman.

  And Sandra had nothing to do with it.

  22

  Elías spent the morning working in his office. At one o’clock, he got in his car and took the road to Murcia. He left the GPS device in place. Let them think they had him.

  He pulled into the cathedral parking lot and went to his uncle’s office.

  “Good morning, Excellency.”

  The bishop didn’t look up from the papers on his desk.

  Stark white walls and burgundy curtains gave the room an ascetic look. The only decorations were a crucifix and a photo of the pope. His uncle finished reading and pointed to the chair across from him.

  The bishop didn’t look too happy. His face was gaunt and he kept fidgeting with his pen.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Elías had always been the apple of his uncle’s eye. Whenever the man came back from a trip, he brought Elías the most wonderful presents, expensive video games and remote-controlled trucks. His sister had looked on longingly, unimpressed by the princess storybook in her hands. Uncle always said he had no idea what to buy for a girl. Feeling guilty, Elías had shared his toys with Delia.

  Today, his uncle seemed to be in no mood to make allowances, even for his favorite nephew.

  “I need to look into the office records.”

  “First you needed to go through the locked files in the archive, and now you’re asking for my office’s own records. Time to tell me what you’re doing with all this.”

  “I’ve made some progress on the theft of the cross.”

  “Is that really what interests you?” The bishop stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m tired.” He lowered his eyes. “I’d rather you consulted other sources.”

  “I know who took the cross,” Elías said.

  His uncle looked up sharply. “Who?”

  “The senior deacon of the fellowship. With the complicity of the chaplain and the approval of the Church.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I found a receipt in the bishop’s personal files proving that the deacon returned the relic to the bishop for restitution to Caravaca at an opportune time.”

  “So what are you looking for in the office records?”

  “The reason it was never returned.”

  His uncle had been assailed by accusations from the day he became bishop. Resentful adversaries, including fierce critics within the Church, insisted there was something shady about his sudden ascension. The rumor was that, while assigned to Cartagena, he’d gradually insinuated himself with the prior bishop. He’d tried to persuade his superior that, because of his age and infirmity, Vatican-liaison duties should be entrusted to a younger man. That bishop, elderly but no fool, decided to reassign the ambitious man to Ojós, the smallest town in the diocese. But the very day the bishop telephoned Elías’s uncle about this reassignment, the pope died of a heart attack.

  The ensuing conclave elected a Spanish pope, only the fifth in history. Papal coronation was apparently accompanied by divine inspiration, for as soon as the new pope put on the Ring of the Fisherman, he dismissed Cartagena’s bishop and appointed Elías’s uncle to take his place. The decision baffled everyone. Some claimed the new pope and the new bishop were old friends and
had conspired together. Later there was talk suggesting the previous pope hadn’t died of natural causes.

  The dismissed bishop’s supporters were still active, watching for the slightest misstep so they could try to put the usurper’s head on the chopping block. The demands of the papal visit had put his uncle in a particularly vulnerable position. He couldn’t afford to neglect even the tiniest detail.

  “Very well. You can look through the files, but you must be extremely discreet. Alfredo will make the arrangements.”

  “Thank you.” Elías rose and went to the door.

  “I always used to be able to count on you.”

  Elías stopped short. He turned slowly to face this unexpected reproach. “Why do you say that? I’ve made progress. I’m very close to solving the case.”

  “I’m not referring to the cross.”

  They looked at each other. Several seconds passed.

  “Then what are you referring to?”

  “To the fact that you evidently find it impossible to obey orders.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But of course he did. What wasn’t clear was how his uncle could possibly know about the other investigation.

  “The decision is yours, Elías. Yours alone. You can live up to my expectations, or you can betray my trust.” His uncle turned back to his papers. The conversation was over.

  Elías went to wait for Alfredo. He was ashamed he’d disobeyed his uncle by continuing to investigate. He knew he should just forget the painting and the Olympic goddess . . . but the very thought of her convinced him he couldn’t.

  Alfredo arrived, all smiles. He beckoned to Elías. They went through a succession of rooms and corridors without encountering anyone and at last stopped in front of an anonymous door. It was as ancient as everything else in the building. Alfredo unlocked it and flipped a switch that activated fluorescent lamps along the shelves that lined the walls. They flooded the room with greenish light. Two tables and two chairs stood in the center. The few windows had no curtains and were blocked by closed exterior shutters.

  Elías wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the cramped, grubby space. Alfredo carefully secured the door and took a seat in one of the chairs.

  “Are you staying?” Elías asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then give me a hand. I need you to look for any document from 1946 or after that seems to be related to the cross.”

  “Ask and it shall be given to you.”

  “Matthew, chapter 7, verses 7 and 8.” Elías knew the passage all too well and didn’t want to hear it again.

  “Let’s get started.” Alfredo smiled.

  He explained the filing system, and they got to work. Most of the documents were irrelevant. The repository was a hodgepodge of routine administrative details.

  After a few minutes of sorting, the vicar spoke without looking up. “What’s your theory about the case?”

  “It’s very simple: the thief who took the Lignum Crucis was from the Church itself.”

  “Really?” This time Alfredo raised his eyes and gave Elías an inquisitive look. “Why?”

  “To protect it from any attacks on the cathedral, I suppose.”

  “Nonsense! If that were the case, then the cross would have been returned as soon as peace was restored after the Civil War.”

  “Exactly. We’re trying to find out why it wasn’t.”

  The vicar looked doubtful but said nothing more. Elías’s uncle had trained him well: he obeyed without questioning.

  Elías had always done the same.

  Until now.

  A couple hours went by, and Alfredo began showing signs of restlessness. “I’m going to have to leave.”

  “Go ahead,” Elías replied. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I can’t. I’m not allowed to leave you alone here.”

  “Then we can both leave. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “His Excellency insisted that this matter be resolved today. If that’s impossible, it simply means God does not wish us to find whatever you’re looking for.”

  “If you say so.” Amused by Alfredo’s dilemma, Elías closed the volume he’d been reviewing and gave him an inquiring look.

  “Fine. Stay here. I have an appointment with your wife. We have an important issue to resolve for the association. I suppose you already know she got exactly what she wanted.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard.” Elías grinned. “She tends to do that, though.”

  “Yes, and the two of you are just alike. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If someone finds you here, just tell them you’re filing. Something to do with donated icons.” He hesitated. “But it would be better, actually, if no one found you.”

  Alfredo closed the door behind him. Elías felt a little uneasy. He remembered how, when he was little, his mother would punish him by locking him in the bathroom in the dark. He’d never expected to experience the stirrings of a similar panic in the episcopal offices.

  At that moment, his cell phone rang. He looked down and saw the call was from the bug in Midas’s office. They’d probably just opened the bar.

  He took it and heard someone shuffling papers, a computer being turned on, probably a laptop, the clatter of a keyboard. The call ended.

  He went back to his methodical review of the ledgers, expecting another call. It wasn’t long in coming. He heard a cell phone ring in the office and a voice answering it. Midas. The bar owner heartily greeted someone named Juan Francisco, and they agreed to have dinner the next day. Midas hung up and went back to his computer.

  Then Elías heard someone come into Midas’s office. The voices were clearly audible through the static on the line.

  “The bouncer’s keys turned up.” Elías recognized that deep voice, rough with whiskey and tobacco. “Someone found them in the street and gave them to the cops.”

  “Did you change the locks?” Midas asked.

  “No. Since we got the keys back—”

  “I told you to change the alarm code and all the locks! Did I stutter?”

  “No.”

  A silence ensued. Elías imagined the boss’s threatening glare.

  “Any news about the slut?”

  “Nothing. We’re still looking, but there’s no trace of her yet. We’re tracking the detective, but there’s no sign that they’ve gotten together.”

  “And the painting?”

  “Nothing there either. We think she has it and is probably using it somehow to get the guy to investigate.”

  “That snoop is dangerous and, worse, we can’t touch him. I’ll have to make a call to try to get him out of our hair. I don’t understand what that bitch is up to with him, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why hire a detective to look for her goddamn uncle? She already knows what happened to him.”

  “She’s probably trying to expose us. Must want evidence so she can turn us in to the cops.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple. The bitch is smart. Why else would she hire the one detective who works for the bishop?” He waited as if expecting an answer. None came. “I’m sure there’s more to it. She has a plan, and she’s trying to screw us. We have to find her quick. Don’t lose track of the snoop.”

  The employee walked out and the call ended.

  Elías couldn’t believe his luck. Now he knew Midas didn’t have the painting, and that Alicia had been bullshitting about the kidnapping. Chances were that her uncle had been dead for years. What’s more, Midas had practically confessed to the murder! Was Alicia using Elías to find evidence she could take to the police? Or did she have a more devious plan, as Midas believed?

  Face of an angel, heart of a devil. If she gets her claws into you, you’re done for.

  He had to get in touch with Alicia. His goal was still to recover the painting, and this new information led him to believe she still had it. If there was no kidnapping, there was no ransom payment either.

  He rerouted futur
e calls from the hidden microphone to his voice mail. That way, everything would be recorded, and he could listen to the recordings at his leisure.

  He returned the folder to the bookcase and pulled out the next one on the shelf. He’d gotten as far as 1978. He’d looked through thick bundles of bills, accounting statements, internal memoranda, and even newspaper clippings. Ordinary stuff: press accounts of episcopal appointments and celebrations of festive holiday masses.

  He came to a document that seemed out of place. The typed page was dated January 1955, not 1978 like the rest.

  In it, the bishop of Cartagena instructed his secretary to initiate the procedures to return the Lignum Crucis to the Very Noble and Loyal City of Caravaca.

  Elías sat for a while in thought. He had an odd sensation, sitting there in that room crammed with administrative records, lit by the cold flicker of fluorescent tubes and rife with the mildewed odor of decades of yellowing documents.

  Both investigations had suddenly come to life.

  Bishop Don Miguel de los Santos Díaz Gómara had signed the order. This was the same bishop to whom the deacon had delivered the cross in 1946. Díaz Gómara had quietly taken possession and, in 1955, had finally decided to return it. The mystery was why that instruction had never been carried out.

  Perhaps the date could give him a clue.

  He went back to the 1955 folder. Paging quickly through the documents, he found the answer almost at once.

  He closed the folder and returned it to the shelf.

  He couldn’t hang around waiting for Alfredo. He had too much to do.

  He left the church offices, aware he was being tailed. He punched in Alicia Silva’s number as he walked down the street. Once again, he heard the recording about the number being disconnected. He sent her a text message.

  Elías here, the private detective. Need to talk. Urgent.

  23

  “Wake up, L. We have to go.”

  “Huh? What?” L fought her way out of a nightmare about a suffering race of people who begged their way from town to town and were met with scorn and laughter from every side. Despite her confusion, she was glad her uncle was shaking her awake. “What’s wrong?”