“And all of this, inevitably, leads us to Pablo Ortega himself,” Armada said. He looked down at the paper almost with disgust, as if Ortega’s name was getting caught in the back of his throat. “His motivation was the easiest one to work out, obviously. If Amparo Rodriguez was indeed blackmailing him, then killing the man was the only way for Ortega to be sure his secret remained safe.”
“But the others, sir…” Lucas said. “Why not kill Jose and Miguel as well? They knew his secret too.”
“Perhaps killing Amparo was a message to the other two,” Armada said. “Or, perhaps Ortega needed Miguel alive in order to take the blame for it. He could have easily coerced Jose into signing a false witness statement, using the threat of a lawsuit of course, but…”
Armada seemed to be tiring. His eyes were drooping and he had shifted his weight on to one leg, as if he were about to keel over.
“You should sit down, sir,” Lucas said.
Armada rubbed his forehead in frustration, then shuffled over to the couch, now giving little regard to the papers that had been so important just moments before. He now shoved them out of his way with his feet, and plopped down on the edge of the bed.
Lucas took his sherry glass and refilled it with the fino from one of the barrels. It was the driest, lightest sherry. And the one that had the least effect on Armada’s senses.
“I’ve been going around these same circles, over and over,” Armada said, in a heavy, exhausted voice. “If Pablo Ortega had it in him to kill Amparo to keep his secret, he wouldn’t have stopped there. Killers of that sort never stop. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself.”
“Maybe that means he is innocent, sir.”
Lucas handed Armada the glass, and he gulped down the sherry.
“Yes, yes, perhaps. Perhaps! It’s all speculation. I need more time to untangle it further. But without Cristina Lopez’ bones, I have no proof of any of this. Eusebio is a good man, Lucas. And a good majordomo at the Brotherhood. He wants justice as much as anyone. But I know him, and he needs proof. Proof that only those bones can provide.”
“Sir, why don’t we just tell Eusebio? I’m sure he would let us come back and—”
“I know my friend, Lucas. I’m afraid his mind is quite made up. What he will most likely do is pass our information on to Bresson, who is very open to bribery and may help Pablo Ortega to cover it all back up again, and hang Miguel just to close the case.”
“But sir, I think Eusebio is better than that.”
“I can’t take that risk!” Armada said. “There is nothing we can do. Now consider the matter closed.”
Lucas didn’t take Armada’s gruff tone personally. This always happened when Armada had pushed himself too far, his mind exhausted, and unable to control his temper any longer.
Lucas watched as Armada struggled to keep his eyes open. He gently pushed him down on the sofa and covered him with a blanket. Soon, Armada was softly snoring and Lucas gathered the papers from the floor and put them on the writing desk.
One piece of paper, however, caught his attention. It read, “Amparo body moved.” A clue in the case that Lucas had provided. And it was circled several times, denoting its importance.
Lucas glanced over at the sleeping old man. Was it possible that Armada was being fair after all? Lucas wasn’t sure, but he was careful to place the paper back with the others, where it belonged.
Chapter Thirty-One
Miguel gazed up at the silver moonlight pouring in through the window, and followed it as it spilled into the room. Despite the quiet and the stillness, his mind was still racing. For he felt, somehow, that he had graduated. The decision to be here had been entirely his own. No one had bullied him or talked him into it. No one had fooled him. And, certainly, he’d never known anyone who had ever faced a situation like this before.
Deciding to be here tonight, sitting in the shadows, waiting for an unsuspecting person to come home would usually all seem so shady, and something Miguel had never considered doing before. He wasn’t the sort of man to break into other people’s homes and skulk about in the dark. He wasn’t evil, was he? And yet here he was tonight. How would he have described this situation to his parents? What would their reaction have been?
For once, he couldn’t picture it. As far as Miguel knew, his parents had never had such an experience. They’d never come into contact with a killer before. Even if they were here now, they wouldn’t be able to help him. They would probably just tell him to run and get as far away from the danger as he could so they wouldn’t have to worry about him.
But what if Miguel was one of the only people who could stop the killer? After all, that was the reason why he was here. To stop anyone else from being killed like Amparo had been.
So why did it all feel so wrong? Why did he and Jose have to pick the lock and sneak around in the dark so the neighbours wouldn’t see them? And why were they now here, sitting on the floor against the back wall, hiding in the shadows like criminals, waiting to frighten someone in their own home, to threaten them, and possibly—Miguel couldn’t finish the thought. It was too much. Visions of Amparo bleeding onto the cane consumed his thoughts. But tonight, Miguel knew the moment he’d seen Jose holding the harquebus that this could be a possibility. Jose hadn’t tried to hide that. The sight of the gun had made it feel more real, and Miguel couldn’t help but question yet again his decision to help. He had laboured over it since that first afternoon in the tavern when Jose had been released. It had never sat well with him, but neither did running back home, which was the only other option.
This was one of the first decisions he’d ever made in his life where it wasn’t clear which way he should go. It was so confusing and overwhelming that it made his head throb. This was one of those adult decisions his father had warned him that he would have to make someday and it filled him with dread. He preferred when life was simpler, when decisions were easy; when there was clearly a right way and a wrong way.
Jose’s body suddenly went rigid. “Listen,” he whispered.
They heard footsteps coming up the path, then the sound of the door unlocking, the very lock Jose had taken so much time to pick when he and Miguel had first arrived.
The door swung open and Madalena strode in, walking right past Miguel and Jose, nearly stepping on Miguel’s toes. She then lit a candle, filling the room with an orange, flickering light.
The sound of Jose and Miguel scrambling to their feet got her attention and she whipped around.
“What is this? Jose?” Madalena said.
Jose lowered the gun barrel at Madalena. “Confess.”
“Confess to what?”
“Admit what you did to Amparo and I won’t shoot,” Jose said as he moved closer to her.
Madalena didn’t seem terribly worried about the gun. Instead, she looked at Miguel and seemed more shocked at his presence than Jose’s.
“Miguel? Are you in on this? I thought you were a nicer person than this.”
Miguel’s heart nearly stopped. The guilt made him want to cry and beg her forgiveness.
“Don’t let her confuse you, Miguel,” Jose said over his shoulder. “Amparo warned me about her. He told me she’s a trickster who likes to play with your mind. Now confess!”
“You think I killed Amparo?” Madalena said with a slight smile.
“I know you did.”
“And how is that?”
“Miguel saw you,” Jose said.
Madalena looked at Miguel again. “You saw me? How? I wasn’t there!”
Miguel heard a commotion outside the house that sounded like footsteps in the street. Now that he was standing, he could see out the window that a handful of neighbours were trying to peer in without getting too close.
“Stop lying!” Jose said, not bothering to quiet his voice. “Miguel saw a woman with long, dirty blond hair, wearing a blue and grey dress. He saw her running away from Amparo’s body when he got there.”
“And you think that was me?�
� Madalena asked incredulously.
“Who else would it be? You wanted Amparo dead for a long time. Now admit it!” Jose said.
“I’m not admitting to anything I didn’t do. I didn’t kill Amparo, and I wasn’t there that day. I don’t know who you think you saw, Miguel, but it wasn’t me.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Maddy. I really don’t,” Jose said. “But I’m prepared to unless I get the truth!”
“You have this wrong, Jose. You have this all wrong,” Madalena said.
Jose shook the harquebus at Madalena, and for one horrifying moment Miguel thought he might actually shoot her. Miguel had to fight the urge to run out of this house, out of this town, and all the way back home. The only thing that kept him from doing so was Madalena. She didn’t seem frightened in the least. Her calm demeanour kept the tension in the room from becoming unbearable.
“Miguel,” Madalena said, keeping a keen eye on Jose. “Tell me, did you see my face?”
“Your face?”
“You saw the hair, and the dress. But did you see my face?” Madalena asked.
“Stop trying to confuse him!” Jose yelled.
“I just want to know if Miguel actually saw me.”
“Of course, he saw you,” Jose said.
“Then let him answer,” Madalena said. “Miguel?”
Madalena and Jose both looked over at Miguel, whose heart was racing. He knew what Jose wanted him to say. He wanted Miguel to say yes, he saw her, there was no doubt. Then Jose would enact the next part of his plan, which would be to drag Madalena from the house to admit what she’d done in front of the small crowd that was collecting outside, before marching her to the constable and turning her in. One word, and their whole plan would go exactly as they’d said it would, and Jose could go back to his family.
But Jose had taught Miguel a valuable lesson. Being a man meant making hard decisions. And now it was Miguel’s turn to be a man. To tell the truth and take the consequences, no matter what.
“No,” Miguel said.
The disappointment in Jose’s eyes was the first thing he noticed.
“So, it could have been anyone, really,” Madalena said.
“It was you!” Jose shouted. “Now get outside and admit to everyone what you did!”
“Why? It just as easily could have been you, Jose,” Madalena said. She was leaning against the table, arms folded, paying little heed to the harquebus barrel in her face.
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. You could have had a wig made, and a dress like that is easy to get. Then when Miguel told people what he’d seen, there was no way anyone would suspect you, would they? And you had more reason than me to want Amparo dead.”
“Stop talking, you witch!” Jose screamed at Madalena.
His outburst failed to faze her. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? Go ahead.”
Surprisingly, Jose dropped his weapon. Miguel felt a rush of relief, but knew once this whole thing was over, there was a good chance Jose would point it at him.
“No, not tonight,” Jose said. He worked to calm himself, his next words coming with a more soothing tone. “I’m going to give you a chance to do the right thing. I’ll give you until tomorrow night. If by then you haven’t admitted what you’ve done and haven’t turned yourself in to the Brotherhood, then I’ll come back and do it for you. And if you resist me, then I’ll shoot you. And maybe they’ll hang me for it, or send me away to prison, but at least I’ll have stopped you from hurting anyone else.”
“Stop pretending to be so noble, Jose. Nobody is believing it,” Madalena said before spitting at Jose.
Jose wiped the spittle from his cheek and kept calm. He lowered his weapon and walked out the door. Miguel followed closely behind, not wanting to be left alone in the room with this woman, who didn’t take her eyes off of him even for a second. It was like running away from a hungry lion, one waiting to pounce at any moment.
They passed the crowd outside and Jose ignored them, walking up the road that would take them out of La Loma and back into town. From there, he and Miguel would take the road leading through the plaza and down on to the delta, and ultimately to Jose’s cortijo, where Miguel was intending to stay the night.
Now he wasn’t so sure. He was walking several steps behind Jose, who was saying nothing and marching along quite briskly.
“I’m sorry,’ Miguel said with a pleading voice.
It was then that Jose stopped walking. They were alone now, just a short distance from the main plaza. There were no windows overlooking this part of the road. No one walking past. No witnesses at all. If Jose wanted to kill Miguel, it would be very easy to do so.
“I can stay somewhere else tonight,” Miguel said, desperately hoping that was what Jose wanted to hear.
Jose kept his back to him for a long time, thinking. Then he began walking down the road again.
“Come on,” Jose said, signalling Miguel to follow. He did.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Death everywhere. Grass huts, all ablaze. The smell of burning flesh. The heat, intolerable. Inside, there was screaming. Several families huddled together. Women, children, old men. All taking refuge in the largest of the huts and hoping for mercy. None would be useful for enslaving, which was their only hope for survival.
Armada waited as his arrow was lit. The end, dipped in tar so it would continue burning as it arced through the air. Soon the orange flames were leaping off the tip, as it clawed at the air, looking for more fuel to burn.
In front of him, the largest hut in the village. Built of grass and reeds collected from the local area, all lashed together with a crude rope under the shaded canopy of the forest. It would burn quickly. Those inside had little chance.
“Go on, soldier,” Armada’s commander urged him.
Armada set the arrow into the bow and pulled back the string, bringing the flaming point closer to his face.
He had been fortunate to be given this task. Many soldiers in his company would have killed for it. A chance for glory. A chance for medals and honours. A story to tell for the rest of his life.
Then, he hesitated. He could hear the wails of despair inside. The natives knew what was coming. After weeks of raids, they were finally realising they had woken the beast of Spanish pride. What they had done could not go unpunished. They were here to tame the wilderness from such savage beasts as these.
But the cries inside were not those of savage beasts.
They were human.
And now, Armada had doubts for the first time since he’d arrived here, on the other side of the world from everything he’d known. Armada had sacrificed it all for this one moment of glory that all men yearned for from the time they were young.
“Follow your order, soldier,” his commander said.
He could hear nothing else but the people inside. He could feel their fear, their confusion as to why this was all happening. Perhaps they were angry at their pagan gods? Or regretful? Most were simply frightened. He could see it all so clearly. Why could no one else?
He heard the sound of dragging metal. Armada’s commander was drawing his dagger slowly, to make his point.
“Go on, soldier,” said the commander.
It was an order. Armada had no choice. He was helpless to resist such authority.
And he let go of the arrow.
Armada’s eyes shot open and he sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air and covered in sweat.
A memory. Just a memory. One of many that plagued his sleep. This one had been especially vivid, the worst in a long time. He looked over toward Lucas’ bed to see him already awake and looking at him, trying to hide his concern.
Armada swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. A glance out the window told him it would soon be sunrise. There was no need to leave this early. Armada just wanted to be out of this room, out of this town, and away from the shame it brought out in him.
“Well, since we’re both up
, let’s get ready, shall we?” Armada said.
After Lucas loaded their wagon with provisions, and Armada settled the bill with the innkeeper, the two set off through the plaza along the road that would take them back down to the delta. People gawked at them as they passed, just as they did when Armada and Lucas had arrived.
Yet behind the gawking was scorn. There was pity. They were leaving in shame and the entire town seemed to know it. Every constable took this risk whenever he arrived in a strange place to investigate a new case. Armada and Lucas’ ears rang with taunts of “a buenas horas, mangas verdes” from every corner.
Failure was part of the job, but this was different. Armada had gotten so close. And he had every reason to believe the real killer was still in town. No one had fled. This was just a matter of petty politics, against which he had little defence. And it burned Armada up as they reached the edge of the delta and took one last look at Salobreña.
It was majestic this early in the morning, with the blazing orange sun lighting up the whole of the western side, and the backdrop of the green and brown hills surrounding it. The glowing orange town stood almost in defiance of the serene landscape around it. This hill that didn’t quite fit, with a town and a castle that shouldn’t be there, spoiling the otherwise perfect flatness of the delta itself. As Armada stared back at it, it seemed to glow hotter and hotter until it was almost too bright to look at. And after he closed his eyes, it continued to glow, lines of blue and red and purple, behind his eyelids, and now he knew— in his memory. One more vivid memory to keep him up at night to add to the list.
Once the town slipped from view behind the summit of the foothills, time seemed to slow to nearly a crawl. Neither Armada nor Lucas could speak, and instead listened to the sound of the wooden wagon wheel as it bumped along the pebble-strewn road, occasionally shaking back and forth as it navigated yet another pothole. The mule brayed in protest occasionally, but was happy to not be hurried, for the trip would be difficult enough. Granada was far up in the Alpujarras mountains, and from the beach it would be two days of pulling the wagon uphill along eroding goat tracks and through soft sand and mud.
A Murder Most Spanish Page 20