Watcher in the Pine (3 page)

“A manhunt.” Sergeant Márquez sounded disgusted. “Which came to nothing, of course. And then I had to send Ortíz and Carvallo to pick you up, which also seems to have been unnecessary.”

The lieutenant kept his face blank. Sergeant Márquez was more than ten years his senior and had doubtless fallen into the habit of command. And nothing Márquez had said was actually insubordinate. It was unlikely that he intended to be disrespectful. Tejada had always relied on good relationships with his subordinates. He did not want to start off on the wrong foot with Márquez. Still, there was a slight edge to the lieutenant’s voice as he said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. When no one arrived last night I thought we’d better hitch a ride.”

There was a short silence. “You hitched a ride, sir?” Corporal Battista said, sounding slightly disbelieving.

Tejada turned. “Yes. With a local farmer on his way home. Why not?”

Battista shifted uncomfortably. “No reason, sir.” He cleared his throat and added more strongly, “After all, it’s not as if a pair of uniformed officers can’t travel the country safely.”

Battista’s last words suddenly recalled Torres’s greeting.
He’s frightened
, Tejada thought. Now that it occurred to him, the sergeant’s sullenness had the quality of fear as well. The lieutenant could think of nothing the guardia should find scary, but the signs were unmistakable. Instinctively, he searched for possible perils. “Our driver didn’t want to cross the bridge just across the square with a cart,” he said experimentally. “He said it was only fit for pedestrians. Is that true?”

“More or less, sir,” Sergeant Márquez agreed. “A mounted man can cross it. And maybe a light motorcycle, although that would be chancy. We usually use the proper bridge, about a kilometer west of here. Devastated Regions is working on another one, but when they’ll get it done . . .”

Tejada nodded, resigned. The Department of Devastated Regions had more than enough work to do, and although Potes was clearly in need of its help, the reconstruction of the town could easily take years. “I’ll need to take a truck back to Anselmo’s
fonda
,” he said. “I understand Torres and Battista are normally partners, Sergeant, but I don’t want to take them both from the post. Which one do you think should come with me?”

“We don’t have a truck, sir.” Sergeant Márquez looked slightly embarrassed. “Ortíz and Carvallo took it.”

Tejada blinked. “How do you do patrols?”

“Horseback, sir. Or on foot.”

Tejada breathed through his nostrils again. “Fine. When they return, I’ll go and collect our luggage.”

“Surely you and your partner can carry your kits, sir? It isn’t far, after all.” Márquez’s voice was faintly mocking.

Tejada’s nostrils flared again. His voice was tight as he replied. “I can carry my kit. But we have several suitcases. And my wife is not fit to carry them.”

For an instant, Tejada had the satisfaction of seeing Márquez look startled instead of smug. “Your wife?” the sergeant repeated. “You brought your wife with you, Lieutenant?” His voice held the same disbelief as Battista’s, and also a faint suggestion of reluctant respect.

Tejada, always sensitive about his marriage, missed the respect. “Yes,” he snapped, out of patience. “Is there a problem?”

“No. No, sir. Of course not. We could requisition a cart if you like.” Márquez was looking at the new commander as if he had suddenly grown two heads but he sounded less self-satisfied. He turned to the corporal. “Doesn’t old Aponte have a cart and horse?”

“Yes, sir,” Battista nodded. “Should I go over now and get it?”

“There’s no need.” Tejada spoke before the sergeant could reply. “I assume that Ortíz and Carvallo will be back by this afternoon. And while I’m already here I’d rather take a tour of the post, Márquez.”

Faced with a direct order, the sergeant nodded. “At your orders, Lieutenant.”

“But, sir!” To Tejada’s surprise, Battista objected. “If your lady’s alone at Anselmo’s—”

“I’m sure Señora de Tejada will be fine,” the sergeant interrupted, glaring at his subordinate. Turning to the lieutenant, he added, “No doubt she’ll find very congenial company there, sir.”

Tejada would have sworn that there was malice behind the friendly words. He was just conscious enough of his own discomfort whenever any of his colleagues referred to Elena to discount it. Márquez was not an instantly likable man, Tejada reflected, as the sergeant led him through the far door and down a corridor, explaining the layout of the post as they walked. Yet there was no reason to suppose that the sergeant had any active reason for being hostile, much less that he had any ulterior motive in speaking of Elena. “And this is our office,” Márquez finished, throwing open the door to a cluttered room, where a wood stove emanated welcome warmth.

Tejada ran his eyes over the pair of desks, shoved up against each other to form a large table. There was a covered typewriter in the corner by the stove. “Who generally works here?” he asked, noting that both of the desks had locks on the drawers.

“We do, sir,” Márquez explained patiently. “This desk is mine, and the far one is yours.”

“Mine?” Tejada echoed, noting the welter of papers and the cup of inky pens and chewed pencils on the desk that the sergeant had indicated. “It looks like someone’s been using it. Whom did it belong to?”

“Your predecessor, of course.” Márquez looked puzzled. “It’s the lieutenant’s desk.”

Tejada frowned. “I understood from Guardia Torres that you were the ranking officer in Potes.”

“Only in the interim, sir.” Márquez’s tone was too deferential to be believed.

“And why didn’t Lieutenant—?” Tejada paused expectantly. When the sergeant said nothing, he sighed and added, “What was my predecessor’s name?”

“Calero, sir.”

“Why didn’t Lieutenant Calero remain here until I arrived, Sergeant?”

Tejada knew, watching Márquez’s face, that he had finally asked the question the sergeant had been waiting for. Márquez’s sympathetic tone was grotesquely at odds with his malicious smile as he said, “You mean they didn’t tell you, sir? Lieutenant Calero was murdered by Red guerrillas, nearly six months ago.”

Chapter 3

A
bad winter we’re having, no?” Elena spoke the words out of sheer desperation. She had been sitting in the barroom of Anselmo’s
fonda
for the last hour, accompanied only by the gray-haired innkeeper’s wife. It was, Elena supposed, only natural that the locals did not frequent the restaurant in the middle of the morning, when, presumably, they had work to do. But, Elena, accustomed to the constant noises of the city, was unnerved by the total silence, and her hostess had not been communicative.

“Yes, Señora. But we’ve had worse.”

There was a pause. Then Elena said awkwardly, “How do the children get to school in this weather?”

“The school was burned during the war. It hasn’t been rebuilt yet.” Seeing Elena’s expression, the woman relented and added, “Father Bernardo teaches the kids their catechism, and to read and write a bit at the church. But mostly folks that can afford it send their kids away to boarding school in the city, anyway.”

“The city?” Elena echoed, imagining sending a defenseless child away, alone, for the sake of schooling and unconsciously putting a protective hand over her stomach.

“Santander.” The woman noticed the gesture, and smiled. “You won’t have to worry about that for a few years yet though, Señora.”

Elena smiled back, then put her foot in her mouth. “Do you have children?”

“Grown.” The hostess’s face became shuttered.

Although it was obvious she did not want to say anything more, Elena was unwilling to let silence descend again. “It’s nice there’s someone to take over the business,” she suggested, for lack of anything better to say.

“My sons were taken four years ago.” The woman’s voice was strained.

“I’m sorry.” Elena reflected on the multiple meanings of “taken” and felt slightly sick.

The silence stretched and became uncomfortable. Elena stared at the frosted windows, wishing that she had the courage to rub a pane with her palm, so that she could see out of it. A shadow passed behind the glass and came to rest, with a creaking noise that was distinct from the wind. A moment later the door banged open, and Tejada entered. “You’re all right?” He crossed the room toward her, holding out his hands.

“Yes.” Elena smiled, pleased to see him, and then blinked as he gripped her hands, almost hard enough to hurt.

“Good.” He sounded relieved. “Just wait here for another minute, and I’ll get the bags.”

His shoulders were tense. Elena watched him disappear up the stairs, moving with the deceptive speed that made distances seem shorter than they really were. He returned, carrying suitcases, and addressed himself to the woman behind the bar. “Our bill, Señora?”

She blinked, obviously disconcerted, but recovered herself enough to scribble something on a pad and hold it out to the lieutenant. He nodded and reached for his wallet. “Here. And . . . you’re Bárbara Nuñez de Montalbán?”

“Yes, sir.” She sounded frightened. Elena frowned, wondering how he had acquired the information she had been too shy to ask for in the intervening hours.

“Tell your husband to stop by the post this afternoon,” the lieutenant ordered. “We have a couple of questions. Just a formality, really.”

Bárbara de Montalbán had been a little nervous before. Now she was terrified. “Yes, sir,” she managed. “I-I’ll tell him as soon as I see him.”

“Thank you.” Tejada turned to his wife. “Come on.” Then, seeing that she was glaring at him, “Come
on
, Elena. It isn’t far. Slow and steady, remember.”

Elena bit her lip, suppressing a series of questions. “Slow and steady” was a code phrase. She thanked the woman and received only a vague wave in reply.

Then she made her way outside, buttoning her coat and blinking in the brighter natural light. A few snowflakes brushed her hair. She turned her head, looking for a truck or even a cart like the one that had brought them to Potes, and saw only a sturdy bay horse, wearing a dark red blanket and stamping in the cold. Tejada was already pulling the blanket off the horse and looping rope through their suitcases to fasten them to the saddle in a makeshift pack. Elena watched him, startled by his competence. He straightened, caught a glimpse of her face, and gave her a lopsided smile. “I grew up on a farm,” he reminded her, taking the reins, and leading the pack animal out of the half-ruined arcade that sheltered the sidewalk from the worst of the wind and toward the footbridge.

She nodded, and followed him. “This is a funny time to get in touch with nature, though.”

“We don’t have a truck available.” His voice was sober. “And I wanted to get you out of there as quickly as possible. You don’t mind a short walk?”

“Of course not,” Elena said automatically. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she added, “Why did you want to get me out of there? And why did you frighten that woman . . . Señora Nuñez? And, now that I think of it, why isn’t there transport available?”

“Because the truck was sent to pick us up at Unquera this morning and is probably fighting its way back through snowdrifts.” Tejada answered the last question first. “Because Sergeant Márquez didn’t send it last night because he was using the entire post for a manhunt. And because Anselmo Montalbán may well be involved in . . . the crime Sergeant Márquez was interested in.”

“What crime would this be?”

“Devastated Regions is doing a lot of work here,” Tejada explained, eyes fixed on the tracks in the snow. “To fix”—he waved an expressive hand at the roofless and flame-blackened buildings around them—“all this. There’s a plan to rebuild the plaza and restore the bell tower. And they’re building a hospital and post office, and laying pipes for a municipal water system, and we’re hoping to have a new post soon, which we could really use.”

“I heard the town doesn’t even have a school,” Elena commented, momentarily sidetracked.

“I didn’t hear anything about a school, but it’s something to think about,” Tejada answered, glad that she was distracted. “I’m afraid the guardias’ temporary quarters are a little rustic, but look at it this way: We’ll be able to design our dream home.”

“What does this have to do with a crime?” Elena demanded, suspicious.

Tejada sighed. “A couple of the workers escaped yesterday,” he explained grudgingly.

“Escaped?” They had reached the bridge, and Elena’s voice sounded unnaturally loud over the running water.

The lieutenant gestured toward a rectangular wooden structure, obviously new, that squatted on the far side of the river above a snow-covered cemetery. “You see that big building with the barbed-wire fence?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on it to avoid his wife’s gaze.

“The one that looks temporary?”

“Yes. It
is
temporary. It’s the barracks for Devastated Regions’ workers. Most of the construction in Potes is being done by men doing penance.”

Elena did not answer immediately, and the lieutenant found himself regretting the use of the standard euphemism “penance.” He wondered if he should have simply said “by Red prisoners” or “by the losers.” He liked the phrase “doing penance.” Liked the idea that some kind of redemption was involved. He usually tried to avoid the knowledge that his wife’s brother would probably have been one of those serving the mandatory seven years and a day for fighting in the Red army, had he not fled to Mexico at the end of the war. “The two men who escaped were both from Valencia.” Tejada spoke again, to drown out his wife’s silence. “They’re probably headed home.”

“And you think that Anselmo Montalbán may have helped them?” Elena asked, remembering the conversation she had overheard in the bar that morning.

“It’s possible.” Tejada shrugged, evasive. He absently patted the horse’s shoulder and added, “Easy, boy. Soon have you back in your stable, all cozy.”

Elena had been a city dweller all her life, and did not particularly care for horses. But, as far as she could tell, this one was plodding along absolutely quietly, and required no reassurance. And her husband’s tone of voice was odd. “You
don’t
think Anselmo helped them?” she asked, secretly hoping that he had simply decided to let the escaped prisoners make for home.

Tejada sighed. “There’s really no point in your getting mixed up in Guardia business.”

Elena snorted, in an unusually good imitation of a horse. “Carlos.”

“You shouldn’t worry. Not in your condition.”

“
Carlos!
”

“Montalbán may be part of a network that’s responsible for a good deal more than this escape,” Tejada explained. “We’d like to catch the two who got away yesterday because they may be able to tell us something about the people who helped them. Up here in the mountains there are. . . ,” he hesitated, in deference to his wife’s political convictions. “Well, they call themselves maquis.”

“Guerrillas,” Elena breathed.

“Terrorists,” her husband corrected firmly.

“You’re not going to—” Elena stopped, wondering whether she should tell him what she had overheard.

“I’m going to make sure they can’t harm anyone else.” Tejada’s voice was even, but his grip on the leading reins tightened suddenly, making the horse toss his head and snort in annoyance.

Elena took a deep breath, remembering her mother’s words just before her wedding: “You can’t stay on both sides, Elenita. And if you marry him, you’ll become one of Them.” She shivered a little, and walked more quickly. “What do you mean harm anyone
else
?”

“They murdered a man named Calero this past October.” Her husband spoke gently.

He knows how much I hate this
, Elena thought, grateful for the gentleness. They had reached the square across the river by now, and the cheerless post was directly in front of it. “Are you sure it wasn’t personal?” she asked pleadingly. “Had this Calero made enemies?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Come on, the stables are this way, and I want to put Bruno away before he catches a chill.”

“How do you
know
?” Elena persisted, following him. “Why do you think maquis killed him?”

Tejada sighed. She was sure to find out the truth from one of the guardias if he did not tell her. “He was the lieutenant of the post here,” he said quietly. “He was ambushed on a mountain patrol, and shot to death.”

Elena’s gasp was a ghostly puff in the air.
Good
, said a vicious internal voice.
He probably had it coming
. And then her husband’s arm was around her shoulders and he was saying, “Come on, love, you shouldn’t be out in the cold,” and she pictured the arm that enfolded her flung out, lifeless, in a snowbank, and the damp woolen cloak around her shoulders falling open, bloodstained, around Carlos’s motionless body.

Tejada could feel his wife shivering, and strongly suspected that more than just the cold was affecting her. “Our quarters are on the second floor,” he said as he ushered her into the stables, deliberately searching for something to take her mind off Lieutenant Calero’s murder. “Sergeant Márquez says they aren’t prepared really, because no one thought that you would be coming with me. But they’re quite large, and it looks like they have lovely views of the mountains.”

“As long as they’re heated,” Elena said, allowing herself to be distracted.

The lieutenant coughed apologetically. “Well, there’s a fireplace in the living room.” He unhooked their luggage, and led the ever-patient Bruno into his stall.

Elena gulped. “Oh. How . . . quaint.”

He indicated the door that led from the stables into the main portion of the post, and from there up the stairs to their apartment, doing his best to be cheerful. Elena was eager to match his good humor, and agreed a little overenthusiastically that the entrance from the stables would be really convenient in bad weather or at night. She opened the door to the apartment and found herself in a room so long and narrow that it almost felt like a corridor. Three doors stood open along the opposite wall, and at the far end a fireplace sat beside another door. Elena moved toward one of the open doors. Beyond it was a large rectangular room, bare except for two cots, and distinctly chilly. As Tejada had promised, the mountains rose dramatically outside the window. But the prison for Devastated Regions workers sat squarely in the foreground of the view. Elena turned away from the barbed-wire-trimmed panorama. “What do we do about furniture?” she asked, trying to block out the sight of the prison.