“We have to go, they’re striking the tent. Come on, you have to help.”
“We’re leaving?” She sat up in bed. “What time is it?”
“Four in the morning. Come on, get a move on.”
She looked into his bloodshot eyes and saw his pallor. The familiar face with its twisted mouth and pointed chin could hardly get words out.
“You’re drunk.” She fell back onto the sheets.
“Of course I’m drunk.” He leaned over and yanked her arm. “But that’s got nothing to do with it. We have to go; we’re in big trouble.”
“What happened?”
“Get up and I’ll tell you.”
L pulled on her clothes and followed him outside. Sure enough, everyone was awake, running here and there, collecting their things. The rigging crew had cleared the inside of the tent and was taking it down as fast as they could. The rest of the circus people were loading things into trucks. L joined them and worked alongside her friend Isabela, the fortune-teller, who was just four or five years older.
Isabela’s head was wrapped in a green turban decorated with an enormous fake ruby. She looked at L. “I told your uncle we never should have come to this town. The cards warned me something terrible was going to happen.”
“But what happened?”
Between them, they carried a bench to the truck. They put it down next to Hercules, who was heaving things into the van with one hand to two acrobats organizing things inside.
“You haven’t heard?”
L shrugged. “No.”
“Damián and Doris killed a woman in town.”
“What?”
“They’re burying the body in the woods. We have to get away before somebody misses her.”
“But why? What happened?”
“They met this really gorgeous woman in a bar and were making fools of themselves over her, but she wasn’t having it. Everyone was trashed, drinking beer after beer and whiskey after whiskey. When she left, Damián went after her and dragged her off. Doris helped him. They took her to his trailer, threatened her with knives, and raped her. When they got tired of that, Doris made her stand in front of the target board.” Isabela stopped and shook her head. “There she is, sobbing and begging them to let her go home, and Damián starts throwing his knives.”
“That’s horrible!” L couldn’t believe her ears. “Damián’s an asshole, but I never thought he was capable of such a thing. And that isn’t like Doris at all.”
“Apparently, Doris is the one who killed her,” Isabela told her. They hefted a sack with blocks and tackle. “You know how Damián is with those knives. He never misses no matter how drunk he is. But Doris doesn’t have a clue, and tonight, all full of herself and full of booze, she wanted to show off.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true!” They dropped the sack next to Hercules. Isabela’s face was somber. “I heard that the first knife hit the board sideways, so instead of sticking in, it fell. They tied the woman up so she couldn’t move, and with her next throw, Doris put the knife right through her throat. Deep into the wood. She hung there, dead as a doornail.”
“They’ll have to be punished.”
“Nobody’s going to be punished!” Her uncle had come up behind them. “Are you two out of your minds? We’re a family here, all equals, and we all pitch in when anyone gets in trouble. The Scottish Circus leaves no one behind.”
L’s eyes blazed. “That’s bullshit!”
Her uncle slapped her face. “If that’s what you think, you’re no true Scot.”
“No true Scot would rape and kill!” L screamed. “We can’t tolerate it. They’ll have to pay for this.”
“I’ll tell you what can’t be tolerated: abandoning one of our own. We all make mistakes, and we have to help one another through hard times.”
L thought of the time they’d abandoned her and how she’d almost starved to death. But deep down, she knew that was different.
“But what about justice? If they’re not punished, how can we be sure they won’t just do it again?”
“We ourselves will decide the appropriate punishment. But we’ll never turn them over to be judged by the laws of a corrupt society.”
“If we don’t turn them over, we’ll all pay for what happened,” Isabela declared.
“They’ll take whatever punishment the assembly decides, and that’s all there is to it.” Her uncle stalked off.
They stood there speechless. Isabela grabbed L’s arm. She turned and saw Damián and Doris stumbling out of the forest, their faces and clothes smeared with dirt. He was carrying a shovel, and she had a necklace and pendant around her neck.
The sight made L’s whole body seize up. She felt a raging desire to weep, to vomit, to beat them to death with the shovel.
The pendant was in the shape of a peace symbol.
24
The cloudy, chilly afternoon didn’t keep the crowds out of the bustling Murcia streets. The many shops displayed fashionable clothes and luxury home goods. Cafés and restaurants vaunted traditional or new-age menus. The town had the confidence of a much bigger city.
Elías walked down Calle Luis Fontes Pagán, hoping his upcoming interview would unlock the mystery of the missing cross. He stopped when he reached the two-story house and took a deep breath. He had no idea if anyone was home. He’d acted on impulse without calling ahead or notifying his uncle.
He pressed the buzzer and waited. No response. The house loomed over him as if abandoned. He sighed in frustration and gave it another try. A long time passed; still nothing.
As if of its own accord, his finger returned to the buzzer and stayed there. After a moment, the door flew open. The woman who materialized in the doorway looked exhausted. Her skin was marred with age spots, and her thin hair was cut short.
“What do you want?” Her voice was low and resentful.
Rudeness wasn’t a capital sin. Not even for a nun. After all, real nuns weren’t like the friendly, smiling ones in the movies.
And she had a right to be annoyed. He felt stupid and clumsy. He finally released the button and hid his hand in his pocket. He felt a hot flush of embarrassment.
“Excuse me for insisting. I need to speak to the bishop.”
“You’re mistaken. The Most Excellent Reverend Bishop does not live here.” The woman started to close the door, but Elías blocked it with his foot.
“I meant His Excellency the Bishop Emeritus.”
“He doesn’t receive visitors.”
“I’m the nephew of the current bishop, and I’m here on his behalf.” Another lie. He mentally marked it down for his next confession. Telling a falsehood to a nun wasn’t the same as lying to a gangster.
The woman hesitated.
“Please tell him I have a very important subject to discuss. It involves a robbery.”
“He doesn’t receive visitors,” she repeated mechanically.
“I know. I know he’s a very elderly gentleman and in poor health, but I’m sure he’ll want to receive me. Tell him it’s in reference to something that happened in 1934. And that I represent the bishop.”
The woman said nothing. She looked down at Elías’s foot. He withdrew it. She closed the door and he heard her steps retreat down the hall. Elías turned up the collar of his trench coat against the night’s gathering chill. Streetlights flicked on as he paced, trying to keep warm. He resolved to grant her the courtesy of ten minutes’ grace period. After that, he’d raise a racket with the buzzer again. He was tired and nervous, and he didn’t intend to leave Murcia until he’d talked to the bishop. The door opened nine and a half minutes later.
“Come in.”
Elías stepped in and waited patiently as the elderly woman locked the door behind him. She led him through a spacious reception area with wooden beams high overhead. The place smelled of mildew, tinged with accents of rat poison, medicine, decay, and death. They went down a very narrow passage where, despite the high ceiling, he
had the sensation of being shut up in a coffin. Once upon a time, the walls had been white, but time had stained them to a dirty beige. Next was a steep staircase ill-suited for a residence inhabited by the aged. Every wall in the place was hung with crosses, portraits of the Virgin, and depictions of scenes from the Bible. The images were from different eras, artists, and styles, none of much artistic merit. Even to a believer like Elías, they suggested blind obsession. The vast labyrinth of the house appeared deserted.
At the top of the stairs, a hall led to a grim little room. An old man was stationed in a rocking chair in front of a window that seemed to overlook an interior courtyard. He was reading, apparently indifferent to the penetrating chill. The unlit gloom obscured the title of the book in his hands.
“Good evening,” Elías greeted him. “I was hoping to speak to His Excellency the Bishop.”
“If you’re seeking the retired bishop, I am he.” The man lowered the book to his lap.
Elías’s research had indicated that the bishop must be more than a hundred years old, but this man looked at least twenty years younger. The old man gestured for him to take a seat in a green armchair with a crocheted antimacassar and sleeves over the armrests. The gatekeeper left the room without a word. Another elderly woman carried in a tray with coffee and pastries. Her expression was sympathetic, unlike that of the nun who had met him at the door.
“Good evening,” she said with a musical voice and a smile.
“Good evening,” Elías responded. He had the impression he’d traveled back in time.
“They’re my nieces,” the bishop explained. “Would you care for some coffee?” His voice was deliberate, somewhat affected, and excessively courteous.
“Yes, please,” Elías said gratefully, but immediately regretted it. The woman’s hands trembled as she poured from the Italian coffeepot. She held out a perilously clattering cup, first to her uncle and then to Elías.
“If you please. I’m listening.” The bishop’s voice was mild, but his attitude was distant, verging on defensive.
Elías took a long sip of coffee and tried to organize his thoughts. He’d have to improvise.
“As I explained to the lady who received me, I’m working with the bishop’s staff.”
“She said you are the nephew of the current bishop.”
“Yes, that’s true. I’m investigating the theft of the Cross of Caravaca. I thought perhaps you might have something to contribute.”
The kindly niece had made herself comfortable in a chair that matched Elías’s. She was peering through Coke-bottle glasses and knitting something that looked like a doll’s dress. The only other furnishings in the room were an ancient television on a cart, some bookcases, and shelves crowded with various tiny figures of the Baby Jesus, each one dressed in an embroidered or hand-knit garment. One was clothed as a sailor, another wore short pants and a striped shirt, one had corduroy trousers, and another was in a christening outfit; there was a monk’s habit, a tuxedo, and even a military uniform. Dozens of them of different sizes and from different eras.
“Does the collection please you?” the bishop inquired.
“Yes. It’s remarkable.”
“My nieces inherited it decades ago from my sister. This one decided to continue it, respecting the legacy, and she has applied herself patiently.” The woman didn’t look up. “But now there’s no one to whom she can bequeath it. Isn’t that so, Maravillas?” He had to raise his voice to get her to look up. “I said you don’t have anyone to inherit this collection of yours.”
“Well, it could go to the nuns, the Claras. They’d like it.” The woman went back to her work.
“She means the order in Caravaca. I hear they have one of the most impressive collections of figures of the Baby Jesus in all of Spain. They’ll preserve our family legacy.”
Elías had heard of certain orders where the nuns compensated for frustrated maternal desires by fixating on these dolls. He supposed it helped strengthen their faith and kept them from going crazy.
“Getting back to the subject that brought me here,” Elías continued, “I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions about the theft of the Lignum Crucis.”
“Aha, as expected.” The old man’s tone became even more suave. “As you may imagine, I know very little about it, for those events occurred when I was just a boy, living with my parents in an obscure little village in Valencia.”
“But later you were bishop of Cartagena.”
“As I still am, young man. I just found myself obliged to retire. Seems your uncle had something to do with it.” Here he gave Elías a knowing look. “But in truth, I now am happy to have time for reading and contemplation. I am available to anyone seeking guidance, but it seems no one’s interested in the advice of an old man. By the way, I don’t recall your name.”
“I don’t think I gave it. Excuse my oversight. I’m Elías. I’m a detective and an art appraiser.”
“Ah, Elías. And how might you be able to confirm your identity?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you, since you look at least twenty years younger than I was expecting.”
The old man laughed, rocking gently and flashing a splendid set of teeth. “Very kind of you, young man.”
“Can we return to the matter that brought me here?”
“I had the impression we’d already finished. I told you I know nothing about it. For a detective, you don’t pay very close attention, do you?”
Touché, Elías thought.
“Excuse me for insisting, but a good detective doesn’t give up so easily.”
“My boy, I’m very sorry to tell you we have nothing more to discuss.” He picked up a bell from a little table by his rocker and shook it. He was obviously annoyed.
“I disagree. I have something I think will interest you.”
Elías held out his phone with the photo he’d snapped before leaving the bishop’s file room.
The gatekeeper came in with a fierce frown. “You must not upset His Excellency the Bishop. He is extremely old—”
The bishop studied the image and raised a hand. “Wait,” he commanded. “I’ll call you in a moment.”
She gave Elías an angry look and left again. This time, she left the door propped open.
The bishop gestured at the photo. “This proves nothing.”
“It establishes that your predecessor gave instructions for the return of the cross to the City of Caravaca very shortly before he died. Then, when you took charge, his order was filed away and never carried out.”
“I was not aware of any such directive. There are always some things left pending when there’s a change of command. Files are misplaced. You know that’s nothing out of the ordinary.” The old man looked away, reflecting. “I suppose it’s possible someone might have hidden it from me to keep the directive from being carried out.”
“Do you know what I think? If that was the case, that person would simply have destroyed it. But suppose a new bishop took up his duties and countermanded the directive, over the objections of the diocesan administrator. Maybe that administrator would have hidden the original order in hopes that someday someone would find it and see to the restitution of the cross.”
“That’s a load of nonsense.”
“Be careful what you say. My uncle knows all about this,” Elías lied. “And he’s waiting to hear your version of events before he decides what to do.”
“Why, then,” the man said slowly as he handed back the phone, “didn’t your uncle come in person?”
Elías heard the implied threat. “I’m surprised you ask. He’s devoting himself to preparations for the pope’s visit, as is his duty. And I have his complete and utter confidence.”
“I see. And in return, I say that you are an extremely insolent young man. A perfect example of today’s society: brash young people who have no respect for their elders. Young whelps who can’t possibly appreciate what they’ve inherited. My generation was different.”
Elías kept quiet, opting to let the man get this rant off his chest.
“Look at her,” the old man said with a nod toward his niece. “She has devoted herself to her inheritance from my sister. Why is that? Because she knows it’s her duty. The memory of my sister lives on in that work, and if she gave it up, she’d be consigning my sister to oblivion. Each one of us has a lifetime of experience and leaves a legacy, but what use is it if no one stands ready to receive it? Do you know what you’ve inherited? No, you haven’t a clue. Young men these days think about nothing but having a good time, getting drunk, and fornicating with the first shameless harlot that comes along.”
“I beg your pardon; I’m a devout Christian.”
“No, you are not.” The bishop suddenly abandoned all pretense of respect and formality, addressing him now with the tu form as if he were a dog or a child. He leaned toward Elías, his eyes burning with emotion. “I see right through you. Would you have the will to renounce Satan, as Jesus did in the desert? I think not. You don’t have the strength of character required to be a Catholic.”
Elías pulled back in alarm, thinking of his lust for Alicia Silva, of how he’d kept investigating the theft of the painting despite his uncle’s objection, of Midas’s warning: Face of an angel, heart of a devil. What if this old man was right? What if Elías’s will was weak and he’d never dared to admit it to himself?
“Only those fortified in spirit can be true Catholics, those who follow the true path despite the mockery and scorn of others, those who persevere in the face of criticism and temptation. Jesus walked on the waters just as a true Catholic walks over the contempt of his fellow men. I am proudly Catholic. I embrace that responsibility, and I intend to pass along that inheritance.”
Elías sat wordless for a moment, feeling properly castigated. He’d been challenged to examine his own faith, and suddenly he was no longer so sure of himself.
Then he remembered why he’d come. The self-righteous sermon was a load of nonsense. “Oh, so you consider yourself a perfect Catholic. Your life is righteous and beyond reproach. You’re the shining example, are you?”
The Dark Circus Page 14