The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  Elías looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear. He took a couple of devices from his pack, rose, and crossed the street to the black car. He pretended to drop his wallet, and as he stooped to pick it up, he applied a tiny GPS tracker to the underside of the fender. Then he went to the convent door, slipped on earphones, and switched on a directional microphone. He pointed it at the entrance and scanned for voices. At first, the microphone captured only garbled murmurs, but little by little, Elías made out bits of conversation. He mentally cursed the two-foot-thick stone walls Ana de San Alberto had erected in 1576.

  “I repeat, and let me make this absolutely clear: you are wasting your time,” insisted a woman Elías guessed must be the prioress. “There is no need for further discussion. Be so kind as to leave these premises.”

  One of Midas’s men refused. “His Excellency the Bishop—”

  “His Excellency the Bishop has received my reply firsthand, communicated to him via . . .” The signal dropped out. Elías shifted the microphone. “. . . the door out of respect for him, because we thought His Excellency would come in person. But we have no idea who you gentlemen are. Now leave this place at once!”

  Elías snatched off the headphones and scrambled back to his hiding place. He watched, but no one came out. From across the street, he again aimed the microphone at the convent. His earphones resounded with a smashing blow and a chorus of screams. Then he heard another blow followed by the creaking of a wooden door and sudden silence. Elías crossed stealthily to the door and again placed the microphone against it. Nothing. Minutes passed before he heard more voices.

  “That’s all of it.” It wasn’t the voice of the prioress, but some other nun, and she sounded terrified.

  Was it the doorkeeper? Probably. Every closed convent had a sister whose duties included receiving mail and deliveries. Everything was transferred via a revolving tray in the grille dividing the reception area from the sequestered parts of the building. The doorkeeper must have answered the door and notified the prioress.

  Elías hoped both women were out of harm’s way on the far side of the gate. But he found it disturbing that the prioress’s commanding voice was no longer audible.

  “. . . is this?” asked one of the henchmen. The signal dropped out again.

  “. . . reliquary . . .” The nun’s voice was a trickle of sound.

  “. . . shit, and it’s empty . . . hair?”

  “. . . we have.”

  Perhaps they were talking about the reliquary stolen along with the cross, a true work of art that this brainless oaf was calling a piece of shit.

  Elías heard several more blows, and the nun’s screams shot through his earphones.

  Cloistered nuns were no strangers to self-mortification. Some resorted to it every morning, stretching themselves out on the freezing stone floor of the refectory. Most slept on mattresses of stretched cord, some on bare boards. All the sisters here denied the body and its necessities, slept little, consumed tasteless food, obeyed the rule of silence, and worked at mind-numbing tasks. But they’d never had to face true evil. The intensity of the screams revealed that prayer and meditation hadn’t prepared them for such an ordeal.

  Elías burned to go inside, but the thugs were armed. What hope could he have in a direct confrontation? He hammered furiously on the door, then fled down the street and dived around the nearest corner. He heard the convent door open and slam shut. He took out his phone and punched in the emergency number. He told the operator that he’d heard screams from inside the convent, hissed, “Hurry!” then hung up.

  Almost immediately he heard the visitors emerge from the convent, rapid steps, car doors, something being stowed in a trunk. The engine started, and the vehicle rolled slowly through the pedestrian zone. One of the figures was on the phone. Elías fired up his microphone.

  “We have the reliquary, but not the cross. Yeah, a hundred percent sure. That old crone was wetting her panties, she was so scared.” A long pause. “You’ll take care of that? Okay. Yeah, we can go deliver the package first. Okay, Boss, perfect.”

  The automobile accelerated and turned a corner in the distance. Elías went to the convent door and managed to make out groaning and unintelligible whispers. He had to get away immediately. The police would be here any second.

  He jogged back to Gran Vía, retrieved his hat and trench coat, and got into his car. He opened the app connected to the tracker he’d placed on the thugs’ car. They were on the road to Murcia.

  The Church was determined to recover its relic at any price. And the nuns had been custodians of the reliquary, but not the Cross of Caravaca. So where was it? Clearly, the thugs had asked the same question. Midas had told them he’d take care of it and that they should go deliver a package. Was he calling Elías’s uncle? Were the thugs taking the reliquary to Murcia?

  Speculating was useless. He turned the key in the ignition and started after them. He needed to find out for himself.

  29

  Elías stepped on the gas. There was very little traffic on the highway, just the occasional car flashing past in the opposite direction. He stayed a cautious half mile behind the thugs’ car.

  Feeling tense, he turned on the radio. Willie Nelson was singing his hit, “On the Road Again.” An appropriate song for the day. It was after ten now. He’d always wondered why the day began and died in such profound darkness. Perhaps it was a metaphor for life itself.

  The car ahead of him took the exit for Cartagena. Odd. He’d assumed they were on their way to deliver the reliquary to his uncle. He faced a choice: keep on to Murcia to see what Midas was doing, or follow the thugs and their package to Cartagena. Which option was better? He was coming up fast on the exit. Suddenly, his phone rang. He turned the wheel on pure instinct at the last possible moment and silenced the radio, cutting Willie off midsong.

  “Hello, dearest,” he answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way home.” Not exactly, but he was headed toward Cartagena. Hopefully, the men would make their delivery quickly, and he could still make it to bed.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear you’re okay.” He heard irony in his wife’s voice. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be home soon. You can go to bed.”

  Caridad hung up without saying good-bye.

  Great. His wife probably thought he was out with another woman. Even worse, he wasn’t.

  This investigation was beginning to take a toll on him, physically and emotionally. Not only was his marriage becoming increasingly strained, but so was his relationship with his uncle. He could scarcely believe the godly man might be mixed up with Midas. Was he really so two-faced? A man with a double life?

  Perhaps it wasn’t entirely farfetched. Elías recalled how, near the end of his college years, an investigator friend had enlisted him to help with a case of suspected infidelity.

  Everything had seemed normal at first. The suspect worked at a prestigious law firm. He visited banks and routinely stopped by the jail, the supermarket, the lottery office, and some bar or other before going home. At the bars, he always had a drink, solo, and talked on his phone.

  Nothing unusual came to their attention the first week. But the next Monday, the man got in his car and left town. He drove three hours to Granada and went to a nightclub known to double as a brothel. Elías took photos of him on the way in and on the way out. It seemed their client was right: her husband was cheating on her with prostitutes. But then he drove to another club. And another. Then another and yet another. Either the guy was some sort of sex addict or something strange was going on. Elías followed him into the next joint.

  He watched the employees greet the man deferentially, with a touch of fear. The guy went behind the bar and exchanged heated words with one of the bartenders. Elías ordered a drink from another. A girl came up and suggested he buy her a drink. He did, to keep from arousing suspicion. While chatting with her, he saw his mark disappear
through a door with the bartender and a guy who looked like a bouncer. The man came out a few moments later and left the bar.

  Elías took his time finishing his drink. He didn’t need to tail the man anymore. It was plain as day: the guy wasn’t having an affair, he was managing whorehouses. An honest-to-God double life, a respected attorney who ran a chain of brothels.

  No doubt there were plenty of people who lived double lives for years before something unexpected upset the applecart. For that guy, his wife was his undoing.

  Now, it looked like Elías might be his uncle’s nemesis.

  In his reverie, he’d let the car with Midas’s men get more than a mile ahead of him. He sped up and was surprised to see them turn not toward the city, but the other way, toward La Unión.

  Another dilemma: Was he a detective or a dutiful husband? Was he going to find out what the package was and who it was for, or was he going home to placate Caridad? He turned toward home and mentally cursed her.

  Cartagena was quiet by this time of night. He parked in his garage and walked home, looking down at his phone. The tracker showed that the thugs’ car had turned off the main road and was winding around La Unión. Strange. There was nothing out there except abandoned mines.

  He recalled the deed he’d seen in Midas’s office, and suddenly, everything fell into place. It was obvious, yet hair-raising at the same time. He had a grim idea of what the package contained. He stopped at his front door and reached for the keys.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, you!”

  Elías turned. Before he knew what was happening, a baseball bat smashed the phone from his hand. He didn’t even see the next swing. A sharp pain in his belly doubled him over. A fist in the face sent him flying, and a torrent of vicious kicks rained over him. He was nearly unconscious when someone prodded him with the baseball bat and rolled him over onto his back. He saw two figures in ski masks. They were laughing.

  “Keep your nose out of grown-ups’ business, buddy boy. This is your last warning. Next time, we break both legs. Twice.”

  The man drew back his foot and kicked Elías in the balls. Elías couldn’t make a sound. He felt himself dying. The pain rose in a wave through his gut and burst through his mouth. He was already losing consciousness as he turned his head to one side to keep from choking on his own vomit.

  30

  “Prepare yourself for confession.”

  She stood so he could undo her zipper.

  “Father, I wanted to ask you a question.” She shrugged out of the dress. It slid to the floor and revealed a body of generous curves enhanced by perfectly matching undergarments.

  “Okay, but I don’t have much time.”

  “Well, I’m a little embarrassed to ask you.” She unhooked her garters and slowly rolled down her stockings.

  “Come on, now, I’m waiting.”

  She turned toward him. “I’d like to meet the pope.”

  “The pope? You want to meet the pope?”

  “Yes. I know that I’m only a sinner, but there’s nothing in the world I desire more than to put myself on the path to God.”

  “But that’s why we’re here. Or perhaps you don’t appreciate my assistance?”

  She gazed at him with doe-like eyes and realized how far gone he was in his fantasy. He was imagining the two of them lived here, cooped up in this sordid hotel room. He seemed more out of touch than ever before.

  “No, Father, you know very well that’s not what I mean. It’s just that seeing the pope would be like seeing God. If I could see him in person, that would anchor my faith for all eternity. I’m sure I could redeem myself faster.”

  “It’s out of the question.”

  “If there was only some way . . .” She placed her head against his portly abdomen and rubbed her face gently against it like a purring kitten. “You could tell people I’m a cleaning woman. If I knew where he was staying, I could just go and take a peek. That’s all I ask. It would be so very meaningful to me.”

  “I don’t know; it’s very difficult.” He reflected for a moment. “If he agrees to stay in the bishop’s mansion, then maybe. But I can’t promise anything. And frankly, this sort of request from you makes me uneasy.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Come on, then, take off your clothes. I want to hear your confession.”

  The bulge in his crotch was evidence of that. She took off her panties and went to her knees on the carpet as he settled into the chair, holding a glass in one hand and his cock in the other.

  “Ave María Purísima.”

  “Conceived without sin. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  “May the Lord give you the grace to make a good, humble, sincere, and worthy confession.” His hand began moving up and down. “Tell me, daughter, what was your most indecent act this past week?”

  “Father, a pervert came to visit me.”

  “Go ahead, free your spirit from its heavy burden.”

  “This time, he didn’t want to have sex with me. All he wanted was my company.”

  “This is not a sin. Why—?” He released his cock and gave her a look. She remained silent, her head down, showing her submission. “Are you toying with me?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Very well.” He spoke as if thinking aloud. “Even if he refuses to stay in the bishop’s mansion, he might at some point come to examine the collection.”

  She knew he meant the art collection. She’d heard all about it.

  He looked into her eyes. “I think perhaps we could pull it off by making you a cleaning woman.”

  “Oh, Father, really? It would mean so much to me!”

  “In any case, there’s no guarantee he’ll even visit the gallery. We have another important matter to deal with first. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. I already told you I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t heard your confession yet. A man looking for companionship is entirely unremarkable, and in no case would that constitute a sin.”

  She heard the suppressed anger and caught a whiff of his sharp body odor.

  “Let me reveal my client’s true intentions.”

  “Very well. Go on.”

  “As I told you, the man said he simply wanted my company, so we went for a stroll.”

  “A stroll?” His voice rose.

  “He took me to a club, Father, a private club. He paid the membership fee, of course, and then I found out what he really wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “It was a swingers’ club.”

  He relaxed. “Oh, dear. Such perversion, my daughter.”

  “Yes, it was, Father. He wanted to offer me up so he could screw other men’s wives.”

  His hand went back to his cock. “Continue, daughter. I don’t know if there’s penitence sufficient to atone for such wickedness.”

  31

  Elías awoke into a world of pain. A light lavender scent told him even before he opened his eyes that he was in his own bed. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. Had they attacked his wife too?

  “Caridad!” he called weakly. “Caridad!”

  She was there instantly, sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore hardly any makeup, just a touch of pink to enhance her thin lips. The rings below her eyes, no longer masked by foundation, were deep and dark.

  “What is it?”

  Vague memories came to mind. Walking from the parking garage to the front of their building and getting attacked. He couldn’t recall climbing the stairs, but he must have managed it somehow. Caridad couldn’t have carried him.

  “Are you all right?” Elías asked.

  “Me? You’re the one who got mugged! What happened? We have to go to the police.” Caridad spoke in bursts as if the words had been pent up too long. “The doctor said to go to the hospital, but you refused.”

  Elías remembered none of this.

  “I’m going to call an ambulance. Your mother was here this morning screaming her head off. And she was right. There could be internal bleeding or worse.
”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten in the morning.”

  “If I haven’t died yet, I’m not going to.”

  Caridad jumped to her feet, furious. “Fine. You want to die? Go ahead and die all alone. What do you need me for?”

  Elías caught her hand before she could storm off. “Water. Please.”

  She considered it. “All right, but you have to tell me what happened.”

  She went away looking pleased with the deal she’d made with her husband. His head dropped back onto the soft pillow. Sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds. He looked around at the expensive Italian furniture they’d special ordered. A spider lamp, the oak clothes rack for him, and the makeup table covered in perfume bottles for her. It all suddenly seemed naïve and completely tasteless. He’d had this feeling before, but he couldn’t put his finger on when.

  “Here’s your water.” She seated herself expectantly at his side.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He drained the glass and handed it back. “I don’t know who they were. Maybe they wanted to rob me. Or maybe they mistook me for someone else.”

  “Elías! What are you mixed up in?” She stood up again in a fit of pique. “I was sure you were having an affair, but when you came in all bloody last night, I didn’t know what to think. Maybe some husband had a good time beating you up. If so, I say hurray for him. Or else you’re risking your neck for some awful investigation. Our lives have been wonderful up to now, quiet and peaceful. Why do you always have to complicate everything?”

  “I’m not cheating on you, Caridad.” Elías took her hand. “And I’m not looking for trouble either. I swear I don’t know who they were. I already told you that. They probably just wanted money, or maybe they were sick teenagers looking for kicks.”

  Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

  “Did they say anything?”

  The words exploded into his mind: This is your last warning. Next time, we’ll break both legs. Twice.