Maya's Notebook: A Novel (47 page)

“Who’s there?” I called out.

I heard two more steps and made out a blurred human silhouette in the fog.

“Hold the dog, Maya, it’s me . . .”

It was Officer Arana. I recognized him at once, in spite of the fog and his strange attire, for he seemed disguised as an American tourist, in plaid pants and a baseball cap, a camera hanging in front of his chest. I felt overcome by great weariness, an icy calm: so this is how my year of flight and hiding, a year of uncertainty, was going to end.

“Good evening, Officer. I’ve been expecting you.”

“How’s that?” he said, approaching.

Why should I explain what I’d deduced from my Nini’s messages, and what he knew all too well; why should I tell him I’d been visualizing each inexorable step that he would be taking in my direction, calculating how long it would take him to reach me, awaiting this moment with anguish? When he visited my family in Berkeley, he discovered our Chilean roots. Then he must have checked the date I left the rehab clinic in San Francisco. With his connections it would have been very easy for him to find out that my passport had been renewed and then look through the passenger lists for those days of the two airlines that fly to Chile.

“This is a very long country, Officer. How did you end up in Chiloé?”

”Experience. You’re looking very well. The last time I saw you in Las Vegas, you were a beggar called Laura Barron.”

His tone was friendly and informal, as if the circumstances in which we found ourselves were normal. He told me in a few words that after his dinner with my Nini and
my dad he waited outside, and just as he’d expected, saw them leave five minutes later. He easily got into the house, had a quick look around, found the envelope of photos Daniel Goodrich had brought, and confirmed his suspicion that they had me hidden somewhere. He noticed one of the photos in particular.

“A house being pulled by oxen,” I interrupted.

“That’s the one. You were running ahead of the oxen. I found the flag on the roof of the house on Google, and then typed in ‘house transport by oxen in Chile,’ and up popped Chiloé. There were several photos and three videos of a
tiradura
on YouTube. It’s incredible how much a computer can simplify an investigation. I got in touch with the people who’d filmed the scenes, and that’s how I found a certain Frances Goodrich, in Seattle. I sent her a message saying I was going to Chiloé and would be grateful for any information. We chatted for a while, and she told me that it wasn’t her but her brother Daniel who’d been in Chiloé, and she gave me his e-mail address and phone number. Daniel didn’t reply to any of my messages, but I found his page, and there was the name of this island, where he’d spent more than a week at the end of May.”

“But there was no reference to me, Officer. I’ve seen that page too.”

“No, but he was with you in one of those photos in your family’s house in Berkeley.”

Until that moment I was reassuring myself with the absurd idea that Arana couldn’t touch me in Chiloé without an arrest warrant from Interpol or the Chilean police, but the description of the long journey he’d spent tracking me down brought me back to reality. If he’d gone to so much
trouble to find my refuge, he undoubtedly had the power to arrest me. How much did this man know?

I backed away instinctively, but he grabbed me almost gently by one arm and reiterated what he’d assured my family, that he only wanted to help me and that I should trust him. His mission concluded when he found the money and the plates, he said. The clandestine press had been dismantled; Adam Trevor was in prison and had given them all the necessary information on the counterfeit dollar trade. He had come to Chiloé on his own account, out of professional pride; he intended to close the case personally. The FBI didn’t know about me yet, but he warned me that the mafia linked to Adam Trevor had just as much interest in getting their hands on me, as did the U.S. government.

“You realize that if I was able to find you, those criminals could too,” he said.

“Nobody can connect me to that,” I challenged him, but my tone of voice betrayed my fear.

“Of course they can. Why do you think that pair of gorillas, Joe Martin and Chino, kidnapped you in Las Vegas? And by the way, I’d like to know how you got away from them, not just once, but twice.”

“They weren’t that smart, Officer.”

Having grown up under the wings of the Club of Criminals, with a paranoid grandma and an Irishman who lent me his detective novels and taught me Sherlock Holmes’s deductive method, had to come in handy at some point. How did Officer Arana know that Joe Martin and Chino had been after me when Brandon Leeman was killed? Or that they kidnapped me the same day that he caught me shoplifting a video game? The only explanation was that the
first time he was the one who’d ordered them to kill Leeman and me, when he discovered he’d been bribed with counterfeit bills, and the second time it was him who called them to tell them where to find me and how to get the location of the rest of the money out of me. That day in Las Vegas, when Officer Arana took me to a Mexican diner and gave me ten dollars, he was out of uniform, and he wasn’t wearing it when he went to visit my family or at this very moment on the hill. The reason was not that he was collaborating undercover with the FBI, as he’d said, but that he’d been fired from the police department for corruption. He was one of the men who’d accepted bribes and done deals with Brandon Leeman; he’d come halfway across the world for the loot, not out of a sense of duty, and much less to help me. I suppose from the expression on my face, Arana realized he’d said too much. Before I could run away down the hill, he seized me in an iron grip.

“You don’t think I’d go away from here empty-handed, do you?” he said. “You’re going to give me what I came looking for, one way or another, but I’d rather not have to hurt you. We can make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” I asked, terrified.

“You can have your life and freedom. I’ll get to close the case, your name won’t appear in the report, and no one will be after you anymore. I’ll even give you twenty percent of the money. See how generous I can be.”

“Brandon Leeman put two bags of money in a storage lockup in Beatty, Officer. I took them out and burned the contents in the Mojave Desert, because I was afraid I’d be accused of being an accomplice. I swear it’s the truth!”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? The money! And the
plates!”

“I threw them into San Francisco Bay.”

“I don’t believe you! Fucking slut! I’m going to kill you!” he shouted, shaking me.

“I don’t have your fucking money or your fucking plates!”

Fahkeen growled again, but Arana kicked him away viciously. He was a muscular man, trained in martial arts and used to violent situations, but I’m no fainthearted damsel in distress, and I stood up to him, blind with desperation. I knew there was no way Arana was going to let me get away alive. I’ve played soccer since I was a little girl, and I have strong legs. I aimed a kick as hard as I could at his testicles, but he guessed my intention just in time to dodge, and it landed on his leg. If I hadn’t been wearing sandals, maybe I could have broken his leg; instead the impact crushed my toes, and the pain shot up to my brain like a white explosion. Arana took advantage to knock the wind out of me with a punch to the gut; then he was on top of me, and I don’t remember anything else. Maybe he punched me in the face—I have a broken nose, and I’ll have to get some teeth replaced.

I saw my Popo’s hazy
face against a translucent white background, layers and layers of gauze floating on the breeze, a bride’s veil, the tail of a comet. I’m dead, I thought happily, and abandoned myself to the pleasure of ascending into the void with my grandpa, incorporeal, de
tached. Juanito Corrales and Pedro Pelanchugay assure me there was no sign of any black gentleman in a hat around there; they say I woke up for an instant, just when they were trying to lift me, but then I fainted again.

I came around from the anesthesia in the Castro hospital, with Manuel on one side, Blanca on the other, and carabinero Laurencio Cárcamo at the foot of the bed. “When you’re able, little lady, no sooner, you can answer a few little questions for me, okay?” was his cordial greeting. I wasn’t able until two days later; apparently the concussion knocked me right out.

The carabineros’ investigation determined that a tourist, who didn’t speak Spanish, arrived on the island after Doña Lucinda’s funeral, went to the Tavern of the Dead, where everyone had congregated, and showed a photo of me to the first person he met at the door, Juanito Corrales. The boy pointed to the steep, narrow path leading up to the cave, and the man set off in that direction. Juanito Corrales went to look for his friend Pedro Pelanchugay, and together they decided to follow the man, out of curiosity. They heard Fahkeen barking at the top of the hill; that led them to the place where I was with the foreigner, and they arrived in time to witness the accident, though due to the distance and the fog, they weren’t sure about what they saw. That explained why they contradicted each other about the details. As far as they saw, the stranger and I were leaning over the edge of the cliff, looking at the cave. He stumbled, I tried to catch him. We lost our balance and disappeared. From above, the dense fog prevented them from seeing where we’d fallen, and since we didn’t answer their calls, the two boys climbed down, holding on to rocks and pro
jecting roots. They’d done it before, and the earth was more or less dry, which makes the descent easier; it gets very slippery when it’s wet. They approached carefully, for fear of the sea lions, but they found that most of them had dived into the water, including the big male that normally guards his harem from a rock.

Juanito explained that they found me lying on the narrow strip of sand between the mouth of the cave and the sea. The stranger had landed on the rocks, and half his body was in the water. Pedro wasn’t sure he’d seen the man’s body; he was frightened by seeing me covered in blood and couldn’t think, he said. He tried to pick me up, but Juanito remembered Liliana Treviño’s first aid course, decided it would be better not to move me, and sent Pedro to get help, while he stayed with me, holding me, worrying that the tide would reach us. It didn’t occur to them to help the man. They were pretty sure he was dead; nobody would survive a fall from that height onto the rocks.

Pedro climbed the cliff like a monkey and ran to the carabineros’ post, which was empty, and from there he went to raise the alarm at the tavern. In a few minutes the rescue was organized: several men headed up the hill and someone found the carabineros, who arrived in the jeep and took charge of the situation. They didn’t try to hoist me up with ropes, as some who’d had too much to drink were suggesting, because I was bleeding profusely. Someone handed over their shirt to wrap up my split head, and others improvised a stretcher. A lifeboat was on its way, but it took a while, since it had to go halfway around the island. They started to look for the other victim a couple of hours later, when the excitement of getting me moved had died
down, but by then it was already dark, and they had to wait till the next day.

The report written by the carabineros is a masterpiece of omission:

Not a word about the foreigner looking for me with a photograph of me in his hand. Nor did they mention that never has a tourist shown up on our little island on his own account, where there are few attractions, aside from the
curanto
; they always arrive in groups, brought by the ecotourism agencies. However, no one has questioned the carabineros’ report; maybe they don’t want any trouble on the island. Some say the salmon ate the drowned man, and maybe the sea will spit his clean bones up onto the beach one of these days. Others swear that he was taken away in the
Caleuche
, the ghost ship, in which case we won’t even find his baseball cap.

The
carabineros
interrogated the boys in the presence of Liliana Treviño and Aurelio Ñancupel, who stepped up to prevent them from being intimidated. A dozen islanders gathered on the patio, waiting for the results, led by Edu
vigis Corrales, who has emerged from the emotional hole she sank into after Azucena’s abortion. She’s taken off her mourning black and has turned combative. The kids couldn’t add anything to what they’d already declared. Carabinero Laurencio Cárcamo came to the hospital to ask me questions about how we’d fallen, but he omitted to mention the photograph, a detail that would have complicated matters. His interrogation took place two days after the events, and by then Manuel Arias had instructed me that the only answer I should give was: I was confused by the blow to my head, and didn’t remember what happened. But I didn’t have to lie; the carabinero didn’t even ask me if I knew the alleged tourist. He was interested in the details of the terrain and the fall, because of the security barrier he’s been requesting for five years now. “This servant of the nation had warned his superiors of the dangerousness of said cliff, but that’s how things are, you see, young lady, an innocent foreigner has to die before they pay any attention to a person.”