The Watcher in the Pine Page 11

  Finally, after five minutes that felt like twenty, Tejada remembered Ortíz’s insistence that the maquis frequently shot merely to get the attention of the guardias, without actually trying to kill. Feeling somewhat like a mouse that a well-fed house cat has forgotten in the pursuit of some other amusement, the lieutenant cautiously pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his clothing as best he could. He retrieved the milk tin, and started back to Potes as quickly as possible, feeling considerably less like singing.

  Elena was already awake and dressed when he reached home, and she greeted him with a smile. “Oh, Carlos. Milk again? You’re sweet.”

  “I’m afraid some of it got spilled,” he said, apologetic. “I . . . fell. That’s why I’m all muddy.”

  “You poor thing!” She kissed him, instantly sympathetic. “Careful,” she added a bit breathlessly, as he gave her a hug.

  “You’ll crush the baby.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Tejada drew back and gave her stomach a proprietary pat. “Give the kid a drink.”

  They breakfasted quickly. Tejada had reluctantly decided to go on a foot patrol through the town on his own, if Torres was still not mobile, and Elena did not want to be late for her appointment with Father Bernardo. He walked her as far as the parish house, where he met Father Bernardo and exchanged a few courtesies, then he headed on to the post alone.

  Corporal Battista met him at the door with the news that Torres was still in bed. Tejada thanked him, told him to take Guardia Ortíz and begin a patrol toward Tama, and then went to see the sick guardia. Torres was huddled in quilts. An empty mug and several dirty handkerchiefs were strewn around his bed. He groaned slightly as the door opened. “Good morning, Torres.” Tejada surveyed his subordinate with distaste.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.” Torres sketched a salute with one hand, and then drew it under the quilt again. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “Yes, sir.” Torres obligingly struggled to a sitting position, his back propped against the wall. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his face was flushed dark red, but he shivered uncontrollably. “I think I’ll be fine by this afternoon, Lieutenant,” Torres added optimistically, drawing his knees to his chest and leaning on them for support. “I just have a bit of a headache.”

  The words banished Tejada’s faint hope that the guardia was malingering. Torn between annoyance at the scheduling problems caused by Torres’s unexpected illness and real pity for his discomfort, Tejada said simply, “I’m going out on patrol this afternoon. Do you think you’ll be well enough to do desk duty then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Get some sleep.”

  Tejada left, reflecting that, with his voice in its current state, Torres would be useless answering the telephone, but that it was unlikely anyone would call anyway. He settled into his office, did some nonessential paperwork to satisfy his conscience, and then moved almost stealthily toward the filing cabinets. There was no need for caution. He was the only able-bodied man at the post, and he had a perfect right to look at the files in any case. Still, he pulled open the drawer labeled PERSONNEL with a furtive feeling.

  His own record was in an accordion file at the back of the drawer. He flipped through it hastily, until he found the slim manila folder labeled FERNÁNDEZ RÍOS DE TEJADA, ELENA (WIFE). He opened the folder and looked down at a poor carbon copy of the standard information form, undoubtedly forwarded by the Guardia in Salamanca. There was a small rectangle in the upper right-hand corner of the form, with Elena’s identity number printed below it, where the original had a copy of Elena’s photo. Tejada hastily skimmed his wife’s personal data, marveling how little information was conveyed by so much detail.

  DOB: 12 March 1913 Place of Birth: Salamanca (Salamanca) Hair: Black Eyes: Black Height: 155 cm Weight: 52 kilos

  The physical description was foolish, Tejada thought. The file could have been describing any tall, slender young woman. It made no mention of the way her hair tangled into curls when she fell asleep with it unbraided, or the way her eyes could become lightless, depthless pools, like water in a deep well, when she was thoughtful or troubled.

  Married: Carlos Tejada Alonso y León (Lt. Ga Civil file #854-948-213) 28 July 1940

  Father: Guillermo Fernández Ochoa (see file #293-394-098 Salamanca)

  Mother: María Pilar Ríos de Fernández

  Siblings: Hipólito Fernández Ríos (exiled)

  Children: None

  There was no mention of the baby, Tejada thought, and then reflected comfortably that he would probably be the one to update the file to include his offspring. He continued reading:

  Education: Graduated Madrid Complutense 1934, degree in education

  Colegio Santa Rosa (Salamanca) 1930, baccalaureate

  Occupation: None (1939–present) Primary School Teacher (Madrid) 1934–1939

  Tejada frowned, and began to pay more attention, knowing that the date and place of Elena’s former occupation would have attracted Márquez’s attention, and fairly sure that the information he was looking for would come in the next few lines. He was not disappointed. Membership in the Women’s Auxiliary of the Falange and the National Movement’s Association of Teachers was conspicuously absent from the lines marked “affiliations.” In their place was the curt but damning notation: Syndicate of Primary Schoolteachers (PSOE) 1934–1939 Membership #2493. A handwritten asterisk followed the typed entry, leading to a note at the bottom of the page in nearly illegible script: Records seized 17/4/39 show E. Fernández recruited by J. Herrera (arrested 16/4/39, currently doing penance in Ronda (Málaga)).

  Tejada sat back, relieved. Of course Elena had belonged to a teachers’ union in Madrid. Given the aggressively socialist climate of the capital during and before the war, she would have had no choice. Herrera was simply the man who had recruited her. There was no reason to think that there had been any personal connection. Tejada shook his head at his own stupidity, and then uncomfortably remembered Márquez saying, “I assumed your wife had told you about her connection with him.” Elena liked talking about teaching. She had frequently told him stories of her days as a teacher before the war. But she had never mentioned Herrera. That was odd. Probably she never spoke about him because they were barely more than casual acquaintances, Tejada told himself. She probably lost touch with him before the war ever started. Although he was a little relieved by this logical explanation, he put his file back in the filing cabinet with a vague feeling of unease. He worked steadily and conscientiously through the pile of papers on his desk to avoid thinking any more about his wife or the mysterious Herrera.

  Shortly before noon a call came through from Colonel Súarez in Santander. “Just a heads-up, Lieutenant,” the colonel said, once he had identified himself. “The Policía Armada is sending a force of fifty men to the Liébana, to combat banditry. They’ll be under their own command, and you’re not responsible for them. But you’re expected to cooperate fully with them if they ask.”

  “We’re expected to cooperate with them?” Tejada said pointedly.

  Colonel Súarez made an exasperated noise. “I’m sorry, Tejada. I know you asked for reinforcements. But frankly, the Liébana’s a trouble spot, and our record there’s not so great. No one’s going to gain glory from this campaign. So let the Policía Armada get the blame. And the casualty lists. We don’t need more Caleros.”

  “We don’t need more missing shipments of dynamite, either,” Tejada retorted. “And that was the Policía Armada’s responsibilty.”

  The colonel laughed. “That’s why you’re there, Lieutenant. To sort out details like that. I have every confidence in you.”

  “I’m sure fifty of the Policía Armada are going to be helpful,” said the lieutenant sourly.

  “Look, Tejada,” Súarez lowered his voice. “This comes from Madrid. So just make sure if there are any screwups it’s not the Guardia who makes them, understood?”

  “Yes,
Colonel.” Tejada ended the conversation and took a certain satisfaction in banging the phone down.

  Ortíz and Battista returned from their patrol without incident. Tejada ate lunch with his men and announced his intention of doing the afternoon patrol himself. He added that Torres had agreed to do desk duty. The guardias were finishing their meal, and Battista had just said that he thought Torres should stay in bed for the rest of the day and volunteered to stay in the office for the afternoon when the sound of galloping hooves outside drew their attention. “Someone’s in a hurry,” Ortíz commented. Tejada opened his mouth to reply, and then the door of the post slammed, and they heard running footsteps in the hallway. The three men exchanged glances, and silently stood. Tejada’s pistol was ready before he was on his feet, and he approvingly noted that the other men followed his example.

  “Corporal Battista! Lieutenant!” The guardias relaxed as they recognized Carvallo’s breathless voice.

  “In here.” Tejada lowered his weapon, but did not put it away. “What’s happened?” he asked, as Carvallo entered, gasping for breath.

  “Sergeant Márquez, sir.” Carvallo saluted, gulping a few breaths to steady himself. “He’s been hurt. And he says we should start a patrol toward Espinama, and do a house-to-house to try to find Montalbán’s accomplices.”

  “Hurt how? How badly?” demanded Battista.

  “Accomplices?” Tejada asked at the same time.

  “We ran into Montalbán. There was a shoot-out. He’s dead. Neither of us were hit but the sergeant was riding ahead of me and he took a bad fall when the shooting started. I think his arm’s broken.” Carvallo managed to answer both questions with admirable speed.

  “Where is he now?” Tejada demanded.

  As if in answer to his question there was a faint shout. “Carvallo!”

  Tejada headed for the main entrance to the post, his men at his heels. Sergeant Márquez was sitting on his light bay. The left side of his cloak had been awkwardly looped under to make a crude sling. The odd drape did nothing to disguise the fact that the cloak was smeared with mud and grit, and had been torn in several places. His right hand clutched the pommel of his saddle. The left side of his face was badly scraped, and his lips were white. “Sir.” He attempted to salute at the sight of Tejada, and then swayed in the saddle and clutched the pommel again. “Sorry to bother you. Spot me while I dismount, Carvallo. I don’t want to make this worse by falling again.”

  “Here.” Tejada stepped forward, arms outstretched. “Why did Carvallo leave you?”

  “He didn’t until we reached the outskirts of town.” Safely on the ground, Márquez heaved a sigh of relief. “Then I sent him ahead to alert you. I didn’t feel up to anything more than a walk.”

  “I heard you ran into Montalbán,” Tejada said, ushering the sergeant into the building. “Carvallo,” he added over his shoulder, “get on the phone to Unquera and tell them we need a doctor. Then get the sergeant a drink.” Carvallo headed for the office, and Tejada turned his attention back to Sergeant Márquez. “You said we need a house-to-house search?”

  “Yes.” Once again, Tejada was struck by how much better Márquez reacted to a crisis than to the minor irritations of routine policing. The man was obviously in pain, but he was calm, lucid, and almost eerily focused on his work. “But not for Montalbán. He’s half in the Río Deva with a hole in his chest. I think he was traveling with friends, though. And if we hurry we may be able to pick up a few. Take the truck as far as you can toward Espinama, and then head for Treviño and Cosgaya, along the track to Fuente Dé.”

  Tejada frowned. “I don’t know that area at all.” He turned to Battista. “Have you been there, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.” Battista nodded. “All of us have done that patrol route before. But—” He stopped.

  Tejada raised his eyebrows. “But?”

  “But with Torres sick and Sergeant Márquez wounded we don’t have much manpower.”

  Carvallo returned, carrying a cup and bottle. “The doctor’s on his way, Lieutenant. Would you like a drink, Sergeant Márquez?”

  “Thanks.” Márquez held out his good hand. “Don’t waste time fussing over me. Battista’s right that we don’t have enough men. Our only chance is to move fast.”

  Tejada hesitated for a moment, remembering the morning’s phone call. “We could ask for help from the Policía Armada. Do you think they’d lend us men?”

  The other guardias exchanged glances. Then Battista said, “I’d rather just worry about the bandits, sir.”

  “Understood.” Tejada stood. “Tell Torres what’s happened if he’s awake, Sergeant. Then rest until the doctor arrives. And tell him to stay until we get back, in case there are others wounded. Oh, and if you can send a message to Rosas, let him know that we may be bringing in prisoners and he should have cells available, just in case.”

  The guardias were ready quickly, although not as quickly as Tejada would have liked. The two horses had to be unsaddled and stabled, and the lieutenant wasted a few precious minutes looking for a detailed map of the country they were going through, knowing that he was the only one of the guardias who would need it, but unwilling to set off without this basic preparation. Finally, however, the four men piled into the Guardia’s single vehicle, and roared down the half-built road to Espinama.

  They covered the first ten kilometers within ten minutes. “Pull off here, Lieutenant,” Battista advised. “We want to head up that path to the left.”

  Tejada slammed on the brakes and looked dubiously at the track the corporal was pointing toward. “I don’t think the truck will handle it.”

  “No, it won’t.” Battista was laconic. “We’ll have to leave it.”

  “Come on then.” Tejada pulled off the road and yanked the keys out of the ignition as the guardias climbed out. “Speed counts. Battista!”

  “Sir?”

  Tejada was already moving up the path at a fair pace. “You know the terrain and you know the men we’re looking for. I don’t. So you’re in charge. If you have to give orders, give them. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Battista caught up with the lieutenant. “You’d better stay back then. Carvallo, stick with the lieutenant. Ortíz, come with me.”

  They did not speak for a few minutes after that. The path they traveled was wet and rocky, streaked with water running down to the Deva. Piles of broken rock along the side of the road signaled Devastated Regions’ plans for a highway, but at the moment the path was little better than a drainage ditch. The road climbed through open country, broken only by a few bushes. Tejada wished that they were less exposed. He strained to hear behind the birdsong, the murmur of the distant river, and the sighing wind, listening for the sound of a man, or men. All the guardias carried their rifles across their chests, ready for use.

  If Montalbán was with other bandits, Tejada thought, then they already know that the guardias who killed him got away. They’ll be expecting us. But not so soon, I hope. He was eager to reach the first village. They were too good a target along the unfinished highway. Of course, the bandits might well be holed up in one of the houses. But they would announce their position with the first shot they fired. And they’re local, Tejada thought. They’re probably in the houses of family. So they won’t want to hit civilians in the crossfire. Whereas out here we’re practically the only thing they can hit.

  The path had sloped steeply upward at first, but now it leveled out and curved around the side of the mountain. Corporal Battista stopped short as they came around one curve and signaled the others to be still as well. Tejada saw that they were approaching a dry, steeply sloping field and a stone farmhouse and barn. “That’s the Robles place,” the corporal said in a low voice. “You and Carvallo had better loop around and cover the far side of the barn, sir. I’ll talk to Pepe. He knows me.”

  “Should we go through the barn?” Tejada asked quietly.

  “Let Carvallo do it. He’s been here before,” Battista advised.

>   “Right. Let’s go.”

  The guardias fanned out. As Tejada came around the far side of the barn, he saw that there was a dark jagged hole in the stones under the roof on one side, obviously a hayloft. A ladder was leaning negligently against the side of the building, providing easy access to the hole. The lieutenant tapped Carvallo’s arm and pointed upward. “Any others?” he mouthed silently. Carvallo shook his head, and the two guardias moved toward the ladder, hugging the wall to make themselves more difficult targets.

  Carvallo made a face as he reached the ladder. Then, with a faintly rueful glance at the lieutenant, he began to climb. Tejada waited below, tense. He could faintly hear voices from the house: Corporal Battista, sounding sharp and official; a woman’s voice, expostulating. Carvallo reached the top of the ladder and disappeared into the hayloft. There was no sound from within. The distant voices became more distinct, and Tejada heard footsteps. Then he was able to make out Corporal Battista saying, “You know the rules, Angela; we have to check the barn, too.”

  “We’ve never had anything to do with bandits!” That was the woman’s voice. Tejada heard the barn door creak open.

  “Just making sure it stays that way.” Battista’s voice was calm.

  There was noise and movement in the barn for a few minutes, and then Battista said loudly, “All clear, Carvallo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Go around the back, and then meet us back at the road.” An instant later Carvallo reappeared and Tejada heard the retreating corporal say, “Sorry for the inconvenience, Angela. Say hello to Pepe and tell him to keep out of trouble.”