Watcher in the Pine (20 page)

“The English have a new prime minister, don’t they?” Elena said in a small voice. “I mean, since the end of the war. I-I’ve heard he’s very interventionist.”

Tejada stared at her with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You’ve just changed this from a phone call to Santander to a phone call to Madrid,” he said quietly, slinging the sack over one shoulder. “Can you loop the rope around to make a pack? I want to have my hands free.”

“If you put that one back in the bag you’d have a hand free,” Elena pointed out, gesturing to the Thompson he was still holding.

“I want it
out
,” Tejada said. “That’s why I want both hands free. Come on. I don’t like having you here. If we run into any trouble, get down, and when the coast’s clear get away as quickly as possible.”

“It’s the left-hand path,” Elena said, shaken. “I went a little ways along it when you said to get out of the way.”

“Fine.” Tejada was in no mood to argue.

They walked quickly and quietly. Elena relaxed when they reached the road to the monastery and turned down it toward Potes, but Tejada remained tense until the flag in front of the post waved cheerfully in front of them. “Go home,” he said in Elena’s ear. “Don’t mention this to anyone. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“Be careful.” Elena smiled faintly. “I’m sorry we didn’t just take the road up to Santo Toribio.”

“Next Saturday, I promise,” Tejada said automatically and headed for the post.

Chapter 15

T
ejada spent Monday morning writing a long report to his superiors about the discovery of the cache of arms on Monte Viorna. Serendipity played a much smaller role in the report than strict honesty demanded, but the lieutenant felt that results were more important than motivation, as far as his commanders were concerned. He then spent a long time rehashing the possible sources for the bandits’ arms with Márquez and Battista. Neither of them had any good ideas, although Battista cursed sharply at the idea of the maquis being supplied by English Intelligence, and Márquez said that the way things were going it might help to have Reds in the family soon. Tejada chose to ignore the significant glance in his direction that accompanied the sergeant’s comment. “Let Madrid worry about that,” he said. “Let’s suppose they’re paying for weapons. Where are they getting the money? Are there any local landowners who support them? Do any of them have family in the Americas who could be sending back money?”

Neither of his subordinates provided any new information, and by the time Battista said, “But you never know, sir. Reds turn up in the oddest places,” Tejada could only grit his teeth and hope devoutly that the remark had been a chance one, spoken without ulterior motive, and that Elena was doing something completely innocent and uncontroversial.

Elena’s day was taken up by a visit from Federico and Simón Álvarez, who had brought over the first installment of furniture. The carpenter had done a good job with the bookshelves, and they fit perfectly in the places Elena had measured for them.

Elena thanked both father and son with warmth, and mentioned that she planned to spend the rest of the day unpacking cartons onto the shelves. The carpenter expressed concern at the bending this would involve, and on impulse Elena asked Simón to stay and help. Quico Álvarez gave his permission, and Simón energetically stocked the bookshelves he had helped to build. Elena offered the boy lunch, and he spent a happy two hours munching absently, his elbows propped on the table and his nose buried in an old Sherlock Holmes volume that the lieutenant had received as a gift from his brother, who sometimes showed unexpected glimmerings of a sense of humor.

Elena found Simón congenial company, although most of his conversation was limited to exclamations about the book. After answering a few questions about forensic science to the best of her ability, and pleading ignorance to a good many more, Elena gently raised the topic of Simón’s schooling. He eagerly and somewhat wistfully expressed a desire to study for the baccalaureate examinations, and added that he would like to study engineering. Or possibly medicine. Or mathematics. Elena mentally recorded the conversation to be repeated to Father Bernardo at the earliest opportunity, and invited Simón to borrow whatever books he wished. Simón went home with a volume of Hernán Cortés’s letters under one arm and Elena’s promise that he could come and use the library again whenever he wished.

Tejada was both relieved and amused when he heard the story of his wife’s day. He was even willing to forgive the presence of a number of crumbs inside the spine of his collected Sherlock Holmes. He accepted Elena’s determination to visit Dolores Severino the following day as a further tribute to her maternal instincts, and made no objections.

Elena set out for the prison the following morning in a good mood. Dolores greeted the lieutenant’s wife almost warmly. The girl looked far better than she had during Elena’s first visit. Her hair was combed, her face was washed, and her clothes, though wrinkled, were reasonably clean. She stood to greet her guest and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming again, Señora. Do you have news from my brothers?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elena apologized. “I know Concha took the boys to San Vicente, but I haven’t heard any news since.”

“That’s all right.” Dolores smiled ruefully. “It’s just that there’s nothing else to think about here. I never thought I’d
miss
doing housework but, well, it’s boring.” She hesitated. “Is there any chance of anything happening soon?”

Elena, who had discussed the visit with her husband the night before, decided that there was nothing to be lost by honesty. “You’ll probably go to Santander at the end of the week,” she said. “But I don’t know exactly when.”

“It will be a change.” Dolores spoke bravely but she looked forlorn. “I’ve never been so far from home before.”

Elena was silent, embarrassed. She had asked the lieutenant, with some urgency, whether Dolores was likely to be interrogated in Santander. “Probably not,” Tejada had said. “I don’t think she knows anything. But now that we’ve found those weapons, we can’t take any chances. It might be worth something if she could even give us names.” Now, facing Dolores’s terrible uncertainty, Elena found the ambiguous words cold comfort. She murmured something reassuring, and tried to change the subject.

The two women chatted for a few minutes. Then Dolores said, “I don’t suppose you know how Pedro is doing?”

Elena looked at her hands. “No,” she said quietly, and waited for Dolores to take the hint, as she had in previous conversations.

But Dolores’s preoccupation was too strong to let the subject rest. “I suppose when we go to Santander we’ll be separated?”

“Yes.”

“H-he hasn’t been well, you know.” Dolores stammered a little, but her voice was admirably level. “I’ve heard him, in the night sometimes. I hope he’s all better before we go to Santander.”

Elena said nothing, but Dolores suddenly leaned toward her and said in a rush, “You’ve been so kind to come and visit me, Señora. And to take messages to Concha and everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you. And poor Pedro has-n’t had anyone. Do you suppose you could go see him? Just to tell me how he’s doing? And to give him my . . . my best wishes?” Unconsciously, Dolores reached out and clasped the older woman’s hand.

Elena sighed, knowing that the kindest thing to do would be to squeeze the girl’s hand in silent sympathy. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” she said quietly. “But I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” The words were a whisper.

The rest of the visit was awkward. Dolores clearly wanted Elena to leave immediately, and Elena was dreading the visit’s end. After a few stilted minutes, she rose and walked to the door of the cell. “I’ll come back when I can,” she said.

Guardia Torres was on duty again. He nodded to her as he let her out of Dolores’s cell. Elena took a deep breath, knowing that Dolores could clearly hear what went on in the corridor. “Do you suppose I could see your other prisoner as well?”

She was expecting a flat denial, or at best more questions. So she was surprised when Torres said easily, “Of course, Señora. This way.”

Her surprise became flat astonishment when Torres opened the door at the other end of the hall with the words, “Hello, Pedro. Good news. I’ve managed to swing a visitor for you.”

“Not another priest, I hope.” The voice was light and mocking.

“Don’t worry,” Torres laughed, exuding genial good humor, and Elena wondered a little if she had stepped into some alternate reality. “I wouldn’t push that crap on you on a weekday.” The guardia turned to Elena. “Here you are, Señora. Try to cheer the poor man up a little.” Then the cell door swung shut, and Elena was alone with Dolores’s Pedro.

His cell was the twin of the one in which Dolores was imprisoned, but where the girl’s room was scrupulously clean, its starkness softened by the hairbrush and clothes Elena had brought, this cell stank faintly of blood and urine. The prisoner was stretched full length on his cot, with the blanket that Dolores always folded neatly across the foot of her bed wrapped around his shoulders. He was wearing shorts, and a bandage rusty with dried blood was wound around one knee and thigh. He shrugged off the blanket as he saw Elena, and flung it awkwardly over his bare legs. “Forgive me, Señora. If I’d had more notice that you were coming I would have made myself decent. I’m afraid standing to greet you is out of the question.”

Elena was too unnerved to do more than stare for a moment. The man was unshaven, hollow-cheeked, and badly in need of a haircut. His shirt was torn, and he had a cut above his right eye and a bruise across his left cheekbone that looked like the result of a determined and experienced backhand. His nose had been recently broken. But his voice was cheerful and faintly amused; a voice that defied pity, equally ready to laugh at himself or at others. It was really his voice, and his calm, appraising look, that made Elena understand Dolores’s ill-concealed infatuation. Both voice and look would have been caressing, under other circumstances. Since Elena was only tangentially aware of these things, her conscious thought was that he had probably been quite handsome before his encounter with the Guardia. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, straining to match his tone. “I’m here on behalf of Dolores Severino, Señor—?” She paused as she realized that Dolores had only called him Pedro.

“Surely she told you my name?” He was amused. “Señora—?”

“Fernández,” Elena said. And then, in the interest of honesty, “Fernández de Tejada. She didn’t tell me your surnames. And it seems rude to call you Pedro.”

“I could only be flattered to have a beautiful woman use my first name.” He spoke the exaggerated compliment with a touch of malice, and she knew that he had recognized Tejada’s name. “And I think we ought to honor little Dolores’s discretion, don’t you?”

“She didn’t tell me because I didn’t ask,” Elena said, irritated by his mockery. “I’m not a spy, even though I am the lieutenant’s wife.” She stressed the word
wife
a little more than necessary, and then flushed because she had emphasized it.

“You mean to say
no one
has asked Dolores about me?” Pedro was still smiling, but his voice was suspiciously intense.

“No,” Elena said firmly. “And I doubt she’d say anything about you, even under torture.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” Pedro’s voice was politely interested, but his body was rigid with tension. “That she will be tortured if I don’t provide the necessary information?”

“No,” Elena snapped, glad that he had stopped pretending gallantry. “She asked me to see how you were doing, and tell her, and she said to send you her best wishes. You’re both being taken to Santander later this week, and she wants to have news of you before you’re separated. If you have an ounce of humanity, you’ll send her your love.”

Pedro raised his eyebrows. “I will?”

Elena snorted. “You’d have to be blind not to see that she’s in love with you!”

There was a pause, and when Pedro spoke his voice was serious. “Dolores is a good, sweet, capable girl. Pretty, too. I respected her father greatly. But I’m not in love with her.”

“I said that
she
was in love with
you!
” Elena retorted. “And that she would be happy to hear the message, no matter how casual.”

“Especially since it’s unlikely she’ll ever see me alive again?” Pedro smiled crookedly, a real smile this time. “I suppose you’re right. Give her my love if that will make her happy. But really, Señora, I’m twice her age. You make me feel like Don Giovanni.”

Elena smiled wickedly, suddenly glad of an opportunity to return his mocking humor.
“Don Giovanni?
How unpatriotic to pick an Italian opera when there are Spanish plays available!”

Pedro laughed. “But
Don Giovanni
epitomizes your Spain! A German and Italian collaboration on Spanish themes!”

Elena laughed also, amazed by his courage. “Whereas Spain should be epitomized by
La vida es sueño?
Russian in costume but Spanish in essentials?”

“Exactly.” Pedro nodded appreciatively. There was a slight pause and then he said, “Forgive me, Señora, but you’re not exactly what I would have expected of Lieutenant Tejada.”

“A lot of people say that,” Elena said dryly. “Especially his colleagues.”

“I’ll bet!” He grinned. “Why are you really here, chatting with a man who tried to stab your husband?”

Elena blinked. Tejada had given few details of the raid on the cabin. “You tried to stab my husband?”

“Only after I ran out of ammunition.”

Elena swallowed, remembering the wounded Guardia Riera.
Carlos would never have seen the baby
, she thought. And then, confused,
But the maquis are fighting for freedom. For what I believed in, during the war, at least
. “I’m here in Potes because I love my husband,” she said slowly. “And I’m here talking to you because I don’t believe in everything he does.”

“That is somewhat difficult to comprehend,” he admitted.