The Watcher in the Pine Read online

  Elena shrugged his arm away. “They live twenty minutes’ walk from here. They’re probably here for the market every week.”

  “All right then,” Tejada sighed. “Suppose that Calero was in love with this Laura. Even supposing he knew the Montalbán kid was too, he might still have genuinely believed Montalbán was a Red. What was he supposed to do? Keep silent for the girl’s sake and risk his own career? Give Young Montalbán a chance to take to the hills and pick him off like a sitting duck?”

  Elena looked at him, skeptical. “And threatening the girl’s brother?” she demanded. “That was a coincidence?”

  Tejada opened his mouth to say that no guardia could let his personal feelings interfere with his job, considered the hideous possibility of his Red brother-in-law returning from Mexico, forcing him to do just that, and shut it again. “You’ve just given Anselmo Montalbán a lovely motive for murder,” he pointed out, hoping to change the subject.

  “I know.” Elena sounded unhappy. “I thought of that, too. But surely you can’t blame him.”

  Tejada considered. “I can understand why he did it,” he said honestly. “If he did do it. But I don’t think he was justified, if that’s what you mean. And if we catch him and it turns out he killed Calero, I’ll still turn him over for trial.”

  Elena made a despairing noise. “And keep living here, all the while?”

  “Let’s blow up that bridge when we come to it, shall we?” Tejada grimaced, his mind once more running on saboteurs. “At the moment, we don’t even know why Calero was killed. It could have been because he found something out about the missing dynamite, and the Reds didn’t want him to have a chance to pass it on.”

  Elena nodded, and finished another row. “That’s true. And I suppose you’re right, but . . .”

  “But?”

  Elena folded her knitting and smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I really hate it that you’re a guardia.”

  The lieutenant brushed her cheek. “Only sometimes?”

  “Well, all the time actually,” she admitted.

  Tejada stood up and held out his hands to her, wrists crossed. “Sometimes I wish you were a different person, too,” he said, thinking of Sergeant Márquez’s unfinished comment. “But we’re stuck with each other. Come on.” She grasped his hands and he pulled her to her feet. “Time for the baby to be in bed.”

  Elena had a hard time falling asleep. The weight of the baby made her back ache, and her sleeping husband’s encircling arm was smotheringly heavy. Carlos is a decent man, she thought, shaping the words of an imaginary dialogue with Marta Santos, and carefully inching her way out from under his arm. Really, he is. It’s just that he only talks to the guardias, so he doesn’t know your side of the story. But if you talked to him . . . well, maybe that wouldn’t work, but we have to try. He has to try. I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone in Potes about anything that wasn’t strictly related to Guardia business. Of course, no one wants to talk to him, but if he wasn’t being pigheaded he would make the effort. And I think he’d listen to people here. I’m pretty sure. I wish he’d try. She did not remember the end of the dialogue, but when she woke up sunlight and cold air were streaming through the windows, and Carlos was bending over her fully dressed, saying, “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I have a surprise for you.”

  Elena sat up and rubbed sleep out of her eyes. “Give me a minute to get up and dressed.”

  “Of course. It will wait for breakfast.” He was looking so pleased with himself that Elena hurried more than she would have otherwise.

  She discovered that two mugs were already sitting on the table, along with a loaf of bread, and turned to her husband, smiling. “You got breakfast? Thank you.”

  “Not just breakfast,” Tejada said, enjoying watching her face. “I meant to do this yesterday, but then I overslept. Look!” He produced a tin from behind his back with a flourish.

  Elena took the tin and inspected it, bewildered. “Milk?”

  “We’re in dairy country.” Tejada looked smug. “I talked to one of the farmers at the fair on Monday. Of course, technically, he shouldn’t be selling anything above the ration price, but it’s only a liter a day, and since we’re neighbors—”

  “A liter a day?” Elena interrupted, stupefied. “What on earth for?”

  “For you.” The lieutenant looked wounded. “To drink,” he amplified, since she was still staring at him openmouthed.

  “You can’t have gotten involved in the black market for this!”

  “It’s not really the black market.” Tejada shifted, uncomfortable. “I told you, it’s practically extra. And it’s good for you. For the baby, I mean.”

  “But I don’t like milk,” Elena protested.

  Tejada, who had been disappointed by her reaction, suddenly remembered his wife’s lamentable upbringing. “This is fresh milk,” he said encouragingly. “It’s not like what you get in the city. Trust me. Just try it.”

  Elena sat down, gingerly poured the foamy white liquid into a mug, and raised it dubiously, with an expression of distaste. Then she sipped. It was as cool as the morning air, and tasted almost as thick as honey. She waited, her mouth braced for the faint sour aftertaste that she remembered from the milk of her childhood. The taste did not change. She drank again, more deeply.

  “If you’re not going to finish that, I’ll drink it,” Tejada said.

  Elena glared at him. “You’re not having a baby,” she pointed out.

  He grinned. “I told you you’d like it.”

  Elena did not bother replying. She drank and was content. Carlos had spoken to someone. It was a start. Tejada watched her in silence for a few minutes, pleased that his gift had worked as planned. “What are you doing today?” he asked finally.

  “I thought I’d try to find Father Bernardo, and talk to him about Simón Álvarez.”

  “You think the kid is bright enough for a scholarship?” Tejada asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think it’s a shame there’s no school in Potes. There are enough children. Señora Santos said she felt the same way. I wanted to talk to him about it. Maybe if he sent a letter to Devastated Regions . . .”

  Tejada laughed and stood up. “For God’s sake don’t confuse them,” he advised. “Rosas has enough on his plate right now with that fairy-tale plaza.”

  “You want the baby to go to school?”

  “You want the baby to have a permanent place to live?”

  Elena frowned. “You think I shouldn’t then?”

  “No.” Tejada was putting on his cloak. “I think it’s a good idea. But why not ask the good father if the diocese has any plans for a school before you go pestering the civil authorities.” He kissed Elena on the cheek and hurried out before she could begin one of their endless debates about secular education.

  Márquez greeted him at the post with the news that the post at Santander had called to say that intelligence reports about recent guerrilla activity were on their way, that the Devastated Regions engineer was expected back within the hour, and that Guardia Torres had the flu and was unable to go out on a two-day patrol. Tejada sighed. “Great. Put Ortíz with Battista. One of us will have to go with Carvallo.” He hesitated. “I’d rather stick close to the phone in case something comes up. Would you mind patrol duty?”

  “Of course not. If I hurry I should be able to interview the prisoners Rosas has put in charge of work crews before I leave. Then if you talk to what’s-his-name—the engineer—we’ll have covered everyone, and—” The sergeant stopped suddenly. “I mean, at your orders, Lieutenant.”

  Tejada smiled at him. “Relax, Márquez. You weren’t out of line. It’s a good idea. Go talk to the prisoners and I’ll interview Señor—” he glanced at the folder—“Señor Ladislao Oquendo as soon as he returns.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted and disappeared.

  Tejada walked over to the Torre del Infantado and announced that he intended to wait for the chief engineer. He was in
luck. Ladislao Oquendo arrived within fifteen minutes. Their interview was brief and to the point. Yes, the engineer had keys to all the offices in the tower and also to the storage areas of the barracks. Yes, he carried them on his person at all times. No, he lent them to no one. If one of the skilled prisoners needed materials, he went with the man to the storeroom and unlocked the door for him. Yes, he was aware of the possibility of theft and had been very annoyed by the disappearance of the dynamite. Oquendo was careful not to criticize Señor Rosas directly, but his tone of voice was eloquent as he said, “I have always believed in an organized construction site.” Tejada, listening to the precise and almost obsessional answers, mentally absolved the engineer of carelessness. The lieutenant wondered, with a flicker of amusement, how the pragmatic engineer got along with the ideologue Martin. Of course, it was possible that the precise Ladislao was also precisely stealing from his organization. Tejada turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “How long have you worked for Devastated Regions, Señor Oquendo?”

  “Since the winter of 1938, shortly after it was founded.”

  “And before that?”

  “I worked for a private firm in Bilbao until the war broke out. Then I slipped across the Red lines to Vitoria in August of 1936.”

  “Quick work,” Tejada commented.

  Oquendo’s face showed distaste. “I had some . . . family experience with the Reds.”

  Tejada glanced at the beginning of his notes, where he had written the engineer’s full name: Ladislao Oquendo Pavlov. “Your mother was a White Russian?” he suggested.

  “That is correct, Lieutenant.” Oquendo pursed his lips and then added, “My father is a Spaniard. And I was born in this country. I consider myself thoroughly Spanish.”

  “There’s no need to be defensive,” Tejada said mildly. “You’ve devoted your career to rebuilding our country.”

  The engineer smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I find that many people automatically associate Russia with the Reds.

  And since my given name is somewhat conspicuous—”

  “Understood,” Tejada said, mentally crossing Ladislao Oquendo off his list of suspects for the theft of dynamite. “It must be doubly irritating to be suspected of being a Red, and to have suffered at their hands.”

  He ended the interview and returned to the post to find Sergeant Márquez just on the verge of starting off on patrol with Guardia Carvallo. “The reports on the interviews are on your desk sir,” Márquez said as he saddled one of the Guardia’s mounts. “I was in a hurry, so they’re not formal, but if there’s anything you don’t understand, jot it down, and I’ll answer it as soon as I get back. And the intelligence reports from Santander came today, too.”

  “Good.” Tejada nodded, satisfied. “Anything interesting come up in your interviews with the prisoners?”

  “They all deny everything, of course,” Márquez snorted. “What did you expect?”

  Tejada laughed. “Well, it’s what I expected, but I was hoping for something a little more useful.”

  Guardia Carvallo led his horse out into the plaza and swung himself into the saddle. Márquez checked to be sure that the packs on his mount were secure, and then prepared to follow. “See you in two days, sir.”

  Tejada nodded, and then, against his better judgment, said quickly, “Márquez?”

  “Sir?” The sergeant half-turned.

  “What did you think would be awkward?” Tejada asked, wishing that he had raised the subject in a more casual and graceful way.

  Márquez looked blank. “Awkward?” he repeated.

  “You said yesterday, ‘It could be awkward if—’” Tejada prompted. Then, seeing that the sergeant still looked puzzled, “We were discussing Madrid.”

  The sergeant thought for a moment and then he laughed. “Oh, I was only going to say that it would be a bit awkward if Devastated Regions transferred Herrera here,” he said cheerfully. “But I don’t think we need to worry about that. I think he’s in a crew in Valencia somewhere.”

  Tejada, who had been half-worried that Márquez had discovered something utterly damning in Elena’s file, was relieved but also puzzled. “Who’s Herrera?” he asked.

  Márquez had already mounted. He raised his eyebrows and looked down at his commander. “You didn’t know about him?” he asked. “I assumed your wife had told you about her connection with him during the war. But, as I say, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about now.” He waited a moment for Tejada to reply and then said, “Tell Torres I hope he feels better so that I don’t have to freeze my tail off for another two days. And have fun with the reports from Santander, sir. Come on, Carvallo.”

  The two guardias spurred their horses and started out of town. Tejada watched them with a certain sympathy for Márquez’s light bay. He felt rather as if the sergeant had just kicked him in the stomach as well.

  Chapter 8

  Like much of Potes, the church of San Vicente was in poor repair. But unlike much of the town, the church had a stone roof, so it had been undamaged by fire. The oldest part of the church dated from the fourteenth century, and had been built without wide and smashable windows, so its exterior had been largely spared by the war. Everything breakable or burnable had been broken or burned at the outbreak of the war, however, so the inside was a dark, cavernous space.

  There were no signs outside the building to state the hours of mass and confession, much less where the priest was to be found. Elena pushed open the heavy door a little hesitantly. She had never seen the church in the middle of the week before. It was unlit, except for a few guttering candles, and, coming from the bright daylight outside, her eyes took a few moments to adjust. The smell was an odd mixture of old fires and new incense. She took a few steps forward, her shoes echoing in the dark silence. “Hello? Is anyone there?” No one answered, and she turned to leave.

  Her hand was already on the door when she heard a clunk in the darkness behind her. She froze, heart pounding with irrational terror for a moment, and then a reassuringly normal voice said, “Sorry, I was in the sacristy. Were you looking for me?”

  Elena spun around and saw that the voice was attached to a shadowy figure who appeared to be holding an electric flashlight. The figure moved toward her, and she made out the swish of a priest’s cassock. “Father Bernardo?”

  “That’s right.” The priest reached her and held out his right hand, the flashlight in his left. “Do you wish to confess, daughter?”

  “N-no, thank you.” Elena shook his hand. “I wanted to speak to you about an issue I was told you were interested in.”

  “Then we had better go over to the parish house,” said Father Bernardo, opening the door and holding it for her. “It’s warmer, and better lit.”

  Elena inspected the priest as they emerged into the sunlight. He was a fair, thin man, a few years shy of forty. He peered with frank curiosity at his guest through wire-rimmed glasses. “Forgive me. I believe you must be the new lieutenant’s wife but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  Elena introduced herself. “And I’m Bernardo Peña,” the priest said, bending his neck in a way that suggested a full bow. “A pleasure.”

  He led her along the riverbank to a long, low-lying building with smoke coming from the chimney. “I work here in the winters,” he explained, unlocking the door and ushering her across the hall. “Most of the parish knows to search for me here if I’m not in the church. But I should put a sign up for newcomers. Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

  Elena sat down in the armchair he was indicating, and inspected her surroundings. She was in a square, low-ceilinged room, with a woodstove against one wall. The room was furnished as a study, with a desk near the stove and a semicircle of chairs arranged around a rug on which stood a reading table. Lead-paned windows looked out on the river, and there were bookcases with glass doors opposite the fireplace. Elena fought the urge to get up and inspect the books. She had always believed that a pers
on’s library was a sure index to character. As far as she could tell from her seat, the books were mostly full series: encyclopedias, and Alianza’s Castilian Classics and World Classics. The complete works of Augustine and Aquinas.

  Father Bernardo took the seat behind the desk and opened a drawer. “If you’ll just wait a moment.” He drew out a diary, made an extended note, and then closed it and put it away again. “I’m at your disposal, Señora.”

  Elena had been considering the best way to broach the subject. “I understand that you have been teaching the local children, in the absence of a regular school in Potes,” she said, and waited for his response.

  He nodded. “Yes. Of course, most of the children here are shepherds’ or farmers’ sons. They don’t have the time or the need for real schooling. But I do my best to teach them to read and write and the simple arithmetic they need for business. These days even a shepherd needs to know how to sign his name. And when the boys go away to do their military service they can write home. It’s wonderful what a comfort that is to them and to their families. And then of course there’s . . . ,” he paused, looking a little embarrassed. “There are several advantages, I believe,” he finished. “But I shouldn’t bore you with this, Señora.”

  “Oh, no,” Elena spoke eagerly. “No, I think you’re absolutely right. It would be wonderful to have a school in Potes.”

  Father Bernardo sighed. “I have taken the matter up with my superiors,” he confided. “But we’re not a wealthy parish, and many people don’t see the need. Of course, if we were to have a larger force of guardias stationed here, and they brought children, it would be a different story.” He looked hopefully at Elena. “The government might take an interest then, you see.”

  “My husband told me that I shouldn’t pester the government to take on the church’s responsibility.” Elena laughed, and the priest laughed with her, guessing the end of her sentence before she finished it.