The Watcher in the Pine Read online

  The guardias met back at the road, and began rapidly heading for the next house in Treviño. “That was practically a courtesy call,” Tejada remarked.

  Battista smiled. “Pepe Robles is an old fox. We’ve never caught him at anything, but that’s just because he’s too sharp. We’ll have to move fast now or he’ll have the whole town alerted ahead of us.”

  The rest of the searches in Cosgaya were without incident. Whether this was because the Robles family had in fact succeeded in sending warning or because the bandits were not in the town was unclear. The searches were exhausting and discouraging. As they headed back toward the truck, Tejada sighed. “Have we ever caught anyone this way?”

  “Once in a while you can panic someone into opening fire,”

  Battista explained. “And then we’ve got them dead to rights.”

  Tejada restrained the urge to say that painting a bull’s-eye on his forehead seemed like an expensive way to track bandits. “How much further do we have to go?”

  “Las Ilces is only a few kilometers,” Battista reassured him. “And Espinama’s just beyond that. We can take the truck a little ways, but it would be better to leave it at Las Ilces, because we really should make a loop through the forest, and that road’s not passable.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” the lieutenant said, resigned.

  Las Ilces, Espinama, and Pido were equally discouraging. The farmhouses began to blur together for Tejada. They all seemed to have the same angry, fearful inhabitants; the same furniture; the same dark, musty barns. Even the hysterically barking guard dogs that met them seemed to blend into a single barking dog. By the time they left Pido and headed along the heavily forested track Corporal Battista had picked out, the sun was nearing the top of the mountain in front of them.

  Tejada squinted into the sun and then glanced at his watch. “How long is this loop?” he demanded.

  “A few hours’ walk, Lieutenant.” Battista sounded tired, too.

  “Will we be done by dark?”

  “Yes, sir. If we hurry. We’re at the farthest point now.”

  “Let’s move it then.” Tejada unconsciously increased his speed, and the men with him began to walk faster, too. No one wanted to be in the mountains after dark.

  The path was buried in sweet brown pine needles now, and sprinkled with dead leaves that crunched loudly underfoot. Tejada wished that there were more pines and fewer deciduous trees. He was acutely aware of the noise they made, but he knew it was futile to be more furtive. Their uniforms showed up clearly against the dark wood and the occasional patches of snow that glimmered between the trees. When we get back, Tejada thought, I have to ask Márquez about exactly what happened with Anselmo. And we’ll have to go get his body as well. He considered asking Carvallo for details as they walked, but the path climbed steeply through a series of switchbacks, and he did not want to waste the breath. Besides, he thought, talking makes noise, and we’re trying not to attact attention. It occurred to him that his predecessor had died on a mountain patrol like this one. He wondered whether Calero’s last moments had been like this, slightly sweaty from exercise in spite of the cold, with the scent of pine needles and the sound of wind in the trees creating a falsely idyllic scene.

  They reached a crest, and the path began to go downhill. The noise of running water got louder, and Tejada realized that they were walking beside another of the innumerable streams that fed the Deva. He was next to Battista. The two guardias had fallen a few steps behind. Suddenly, the lieutenant stopped. Up ahead, where the trees thinned out, there was a small cabin by the side of the river. He tapped Battista, pointed toward the cabin, and raised his eyebrows. The corporal nodded.

  The routine was so familiar by now that it required no thought. Tejada and Carvallo cut through the trees, heading for the back of the building. It was far easier here, where they could remain under cover. Tejada noted absently that Carvallo moved quickly and quietly in the woods, even when he was off the path, and approved. He did not know it, but Carvallo was silently thinking the same thing about him. Battista and Ortíz marched on along the road, toward the entrance to the lone building. The inevitable dog barked at them.

  Battista called a greeting. Tejada and Carvallo waited, unable to hear anything over the animal’s frenzied yapping. The barking went on, longer than it should have. The owners of the house were not calling off their dog. Then they heard Battista yell a curse, sounding considerably less calm and sure of himself. Then sudden silence.

  Carvallo turned a frightened face toward Tejada, and the lieutenant remembered that the young man had already seen Márquez injured and another man killed in the course of the day. “Don’t break cover yet,” he murmured.

  Carvallo looked dubious, but his fears were allayed a moment later as Battista’s voice rang out again, clearly uninjured. “Open up!”

  There was a series of thuds, and then silence again. Tejada and Carvallo waited a few minutes, and then Ortíz came around the side of the house at a run. “Lieutenant!”

  Tejada was already on his way to meet the guardia, Carvallo at his heels. “What have we got?”

  “It’s a barn, sir, not a proper house,” Ortíz explained as they reached the front of the building. “And it’s deserted. Someone must have sent word up from Cosgaya we were coming.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be deserted?” Tejada asked as they reached the door. “They left a dog to guard it.”

  He stepped inside and found a bare-walled single room, piled high with hay. Corporal Battista stepped forward, grinning. “They certainly left a dog! Thank God I clubbed the poor brute.”

  “He was that vicious?” Tejada asked.

  “No.” Battista laughed. “I meant thank God I didn’t pull a weapon anywhere around here.” He gestured toward a fallen bale. “I knocked this one over checking for someone behind the pile. Take a look.”

  Tejada’s eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light that leaked in between the cracks in the boards. He squinted and saw that what he had taken for a smaller bale of hay was in fact a metal crate, stamped with the words DANGER. FLAMMABLE. Battista was still grinning. “I think we’ve found our missing dynamite, sir.”

  Chapter 10

  The Monastery of Santo Toribio was only a few kilometers’ walk, but much of the road was steeply uphill. Elena was reluctantly grateful for Father Bernardo’s gentle assumption that she was too weak to do any real walking, although it had irritated her earlier. He was quite willing to go as slowly as she wished, and to stop whenever she asked for a rest.

  Elena found the priest an easy companion in other ways as well. He clearly knew and loved the route, and he was eager to signal points of exceptional beauty or historical interest. Perhaps because of his experiences with the Liébana’s children, he was a skilled lecturer. Doubtless the Señora already knew that Santo Toribio was the home of the lignum crucis, one of the fragments of the True Cross, and thus a renowned pilgrimage site, but did she know that the monastery also sat near pre-Romanesque ruins? Yes, indeed, pre-Romanesque, probably tenth century, and well preserved. According to the tradition, Toribio himself had used the spot as a hermitage, for prayer and meditation. That was why it was called the Cueva Santa. Although it had earned its name again when the monks had hidden the lignum crucis there to protect it from Napoleon’s invading troops.

  Elena listened to her guide quite contentedly. When they reached the monastery itself, she admired its mixture of Gothic and Romanesque architecture and agreed politely that the cloister was charming and that it was a shame that there was no money to properly restore the convent. The conversation then returned to the problems of schooling in Potes. Elena met various colleagues of Father Bernardo, who all agreed that it was the church’s responsibility to found a proper primary school, and expressed satisfaction at Elena’s interest. It annoyed her somewhat to be treated as a prospective parent rather than as a fellow professional, but she swallowed her discomfort and tried to focus the discussion on the pract
ical difficulties of finding space, materials, and a qualified teacher.

  She had lunch at the monastery and then agreed to Father Bernardo’s suggestion that she might like to look at some of the interesting ruins around the building. There were old hermitages and chapels, sadly damaged by time, but still quite beautiful. San Miguel was an easy walk, and if she was feeling strong they might even be able to make it up to Santa Catalina, which held a very interesting set of bells.

  “What about the Cueva Santa?” Elena asked hopefully, intrigued by the idea of pre-Romanesque ruins.

  Father Bernardo coughed. “The Cueva Santa is quite close also,” he admitted. “Perhaps forty minutes’ walk. But it’s up the mountain, and the trail is rather difficult. You might find it easier at some other time.”

  “Some other time then.” Elena submitted with good grace. “But I would love to see San Miguel and Santa Catalina.”

  The walk was pleasant, although the path was muddy with melting snow in the afternoon sunshine. San Miguel sat at the same level as Santo Toribio, but the ruins of Santa Catalina were perhaps one hundred meters above the monastery, on the edge of a flat, table-like ridge that jutted out from Monte Viorna. The land around the ruins was open and provided a majestic view, not only of Santo Toribio, but of the valley below, all the way to the unmistakable silhouette of the Torre del Infantado in Potes. The trees, lulled by the brief break in the weather, had put forth a few hesitant new leaves, and from above the valley looked as if it were coated with green fuzz, interrupted by the brilliantly white chestnut blooms. The work crews moved along the highway to Espinama like ants. Looking down, it was easy to feel at the top of the world, but a glance upward showed peaks rearing far above on the opposite side of the valley, and Elena was confronted with the bulk of Monte Viorna when she turned away from the valley. She was uninterested in the bells of Santa Catalina, but she had to admit that the location was impressive.

  The path was reasonably wide, but it ran along the edge of the cliff, bounded by a wooden fence that enclosed a field cleared for grazing. The priest insisted that Elena walk on the inside, next to the fence. “If we were to continue along here in the other direction, we’d reach the path to the Cueva Santa,” Father Bernardo explained, as they picked their way back along the ridge.

  “Toward where the house is, you mean?” Elena asked, pointing to the right, where a stone building with a tiled roof sat on the edge of the forest, looking out over the sheep-dotted field they were passing.

  “No, straight ahead. It goes up into the woods, and then practically ends. The last bit is barely marked. There’s probably still some snow on it at this time of year.”

  “I’d love to see it in the summer then,” Elena commented.

  Father Bernardo nodded. “Perhaps the lieutenant could come then as well.”

  Perhaps in a few summers we’ll be able to come with the baby, Elena thought. Except it won’t be a baby anymore then. “I’m sure he’d be interested,” she said aloud.

  They stopped briefly at the monastery when they returned, to thank their hosts, and then began their trek down into the valley. Elena had enjoyed the excursion, but her feet hurt, the baby was kicking vigorously, and she was looking forward to getting home and taking a nap. Perhaps after that she would write a letter home, and tell her parents about Father Bernardo, and Santo Toribio, and the school. And then Carlos would come home. It had been a good day. Life in Potes was definitely getting easier.

  They reached the valley highway and crossed it, to walk along above the river, chatting desultorily. “Is Lieutenant Tejada a fisherman?” Father Bernardo asked as they passed under a clump of trees clinging precariously to the steep riverbank. “The Deva is a good place to catch salmon. Although the best runs are in the gorge, further down, of course.”

  “I don’t think so,” Elena said, concealing a smile as she remembered her husband’s answer to a similar question on their honeymoon. No, darling, I hunt and fish for a living. I prefer to do other things in my leisure time.

  “I like to fish,” the priest admitted, turning his head a little away from her, perhaps in embarrassment or perhaps merely to inspect the river better. “It teaches you patience, and you learn to observe. You look at a ripple on the surface. Is it a fish? Is it a current? White water becomes—” He stopped suddenly and hastily raised his eyes from the Deva and fixed them on Elena. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t let me run on like this about my favorite hobby. It’s terribly boring really. I shouldn’t have brought you this way, the damp is bad for you.” He took Elena’s arm, his eyes still fixed on her face, and his voice loud and fast. “Let’s go back to the highway. It’s drier and more direct—”

  Father Bernardo tugged at Elena’s arm, but it was like trying to move a statue. She had already followed his gaze down to the briars that trailed in the water and seen the torso grotesquely protruding from them, head and forearms dangling in the rapid stream. Her eyes widened, going round with horror, and the priest wondered if she was about to faint. Then he saw the telltale flicker of her throat muscles and quickly stepped to one side as she clumsily leaned over and retched.

  Elena emptied the contents of her stomach. Then she spat the taste from her mouth, wiped her watering eyes, and began looking for a way down to the stream. “You said you fish for salmon here? What’s the nearest path to the water?”

  Father Bernardo stared. “There’s one just a little ways back. But why—” He hurried after her as she began retracing their steps. “Señora! You can’t think . . . He’s dead, Señora. There’s nothing you—”

  “Isn’t your business with the dead, Father?” Elena spoke grimly.

  “I . . .” Father Bernardo blinked. “Yes. I give you my word I’ll make sure that poor unfortunate is taken out of there, and buried like a Christian. But there’s no need for you to get involved. I’ll take you home and then I can get men and come back.”

  Elena had reached the path down to the river. It was steep and fairly muddy, and her thighs were already tired of going downhill. The last thing the baby needs is for me to fall, she thought. She grabbed hold of a tree branch to steady herself, and placed her feet sideways, cautiously. “The Guardia are short-staffed, Father. All able-bodied men are on patrol this afternoon. And the townspeople will still be at work. It could be hours before you get a party together to come back here. We can at least pull him out of the river.”

  Father Bernardo followed her reluctantly. “It’s not fitting for you—”

  “He’s someone’s husband probably,” Elena interrupted, her voice harsh. “Maybe someone’s father. Do you want him to be totally unrecognizable to his family?”

  “I’m sorry you had to see this, Señora.” Father Bernardo sighed, and capitulated as they reached the water’s edge.

  There was perhaps a meter of semidry ground between the water and the sharp cliff they had just descended, most of it covered in prickly bushes. Elena fought her way through the bushes, noting as she did so that they seemed to be undisturbed. She wondered how the dead man had reached the water’s edge. Perhaps he had taken a different route. Or perhaps the man had been standing above, and had been knocked off the road and into the water. The fall would have stunned him, and if he had landed face-first in the water, he might have drowned without being able to save himself. But that was impossible. If he had fallen from above, his whole body would have been visible from the road. He was lying under the bushes, partly concealed by them. So he must have either crawled under them, or been put under them by someone.

  It did not occur to Elena that the man might have died of natural causes. Or rather, years of war and fear had made her consider death by shooting, shelling, or bombing as seminatural causes. She reached the corpse, and forced herself to look down at him. His hair was gray and long, and he was wearing a sheepskin coat. There was a fist-sized hole in his back. She averted her gaze from the wound and said to Father Bernardo, “Do you think if we each take a shoulder we can pull him out?”

&
nbsp; He nodded and silently stepped over the dead man. “On three? One, two, three.”

  Pulling the corpse was more difficult than Elena had expected, and her back ached sharply, but they succeeded in removing him from the water. Father Bernardo knelt, and heaved the body onto its back. “Holy Mother of God,” he murmured.

  “What is it?” Elena glanced down at the white, swollen face, and then quickly looked at the priest again.

  “Anselmo Montalbán.” Father Bernardo swallowed. “I heard he’d taken to the hills but . . .” He tugged at the corpse’s arms. They bent reluctantly, and the priest crossed them over the hole in Anselmo’s chest. Then he glanced up at Elena. “Excuse me.” He lightly touched the dead man’s forehead, and Elena instinctively turned away as the priest began to give the body last rites.

  “Let me take you home.” Father Bernardo rose and put an arm around her shoulders. “This has been a horrible experience for you. And . . . I have to tell Montalbán’s wife anyway.”

  Elena allowed the priest to guide her back to the highway without replying. She walked back toward Potes wearily, aware of her aching feet and back, and frightened of the reception they would receive from Bárbara de Montalbán. We should stop at the post, she thought, although the last thing she felt like doing was confronting her husband’s colleagues in his absence. Someone has to tell the guardias. Unless they already know. She wondered with sudden fear if Carlos had killed Montalbán, and if she would have the courage to ask him. He’ll tell me, she thought. He won’t lie to me. But he’s been looking for Montalbán. He wouldn’t kill him when he has questions to ask him. Unless he’d already gotten the answers he wanted. No. He wouldn’t kill him out of hand. I don’t think.

  It was nearly seven when they arrived, and a number of Elena’s neighbors were drifting into the fonda for evening drinks and snacks. Bárbara Nuñez de Montalbán was behind the counter. The men at the bar nodded respectfully to Elena, and several of them greeted her companion. Father Bernardo acknowledged the greetings, but made his way deliberately to the bar. Bárbara Nuñez greeted him courteously. “What can I do for you, Father?”