Watcher in the Pine (28 page)

Antonio shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, Lieutenant. Just gossip. You know how it is. It’s hard to remember who you first hear something from.”

“We do find a lot of people have fatally flawed memories,” the lieutenant agreed. He smiled. “Sometimes their amnesia is fatal, too.”

The shepherd nodded, completely unmoved. “Yes, sir. So I’ve heard.”

“And this is what you intend to put in your report?” Márquez demanded, disgusted. “That a lot of subversive gossip and a series of coincidences that have only resulted in the Guardia’s benefit led you to make outrageous accusations of kidnapping?”

For a moment, Tejada was taken aback. Then he laughed. “Oh, I don’t think Colonel Súarez would believe a word of this,” he said cheerfully. “Or, even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to prove it. I might be able to get you transferred on the grounds that I couldn’t work with you, but it would take time, and I wouldn’t sleep too well at night while the paperwork was going through.”

“Then what do you intend to do?” Márquez was unnerved by the lieutenant’s laughter, and his voice was a little uncertain. “Ferreira here is a witness—”

Tejada laughed again. “Well, no, actually, he isn’t,” he said. “But Corporal Battista is. Since you mention it, though, it may interest you to know, Ferreira, that not only did I
not
order the house-to-house last night, it was done against my explicit orders. Furthermore, Sergeant Márquez drew a weapon on me, and I was locked into one of the cells like a criminal. If it hadn’t been for Battista’s incompetence, I’m quite sure you would be escorting your prisoners back to the post in triumph by now.”

Guardia Ferreira looked uncertain. Tejada smiled kindly. “Sergeant Márquez was guilty of gross insubordination,” he explained. “I think you might want to take charge of him now, Guardia.”

Ferreira gulped. “Umm . . . sir . . .” He gestured toward Antonio.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, Ferreira. I just didn’t want you making any sudden moves until you understood the situation.” He took the gun from Antonio, and pointed it downward. Ferreira moved forward and took his place at Sergeant Márquez’s elbow.

The sergeant raised his head. “I stand by what I did,” he said stiffly. “You were clearly unfit, sir. And with all due respect, your behavior now leads me to think that you are deranged.”

Tejada had to admire the sergeant’s nerve. “That’s an interesting defense,” he said. “But I think Battista was a little unhappy about such open insubordination. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so careless. I don’t think I’ll have trouble persuading him to testify that it was originally your idea, in exchange for my overlooking his participation.”

The last shot hit home. Márquez’s shoulders sagged, and he said nothing. Tejada turned to Antonio. “I’m afraid I have to go back with them,” he said. “Would you please tell my wife what’s happened, and tell her that I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

It was a long walk back to the post, and Tejada was shaky with exhaustion by the time they arrived. Ferreira showed no signs of doing anything other than obeying the lieutenant, but Tejada was taking no chances, and he insisted on having the guardia lead the horses while he led Sergeant Márquez. His anxiety and sleeplessness were catching up with him, and if it had not been downhill all the way he doubted that he would have been able to make the walk back. Márquez said nothing, and Ferreira tactfully studied the ground, so he was spared the further effort of talking.

The first of the patrols had already returned when they arrived, and the post was open. Tejada dismissed Ferreira with the suggestion that he catch up on some sleep, and then quietly locked the sergeant in the empty cell between Dolores and Pedro, and pocketed the key. Then he went to his office, sank into his desk chair with intense relief, and sent for Corporal Battista. “No attacks on the post last night, Battista?” he said, when the corporal arrived.

“N-no, sir,” Battista gulped. “The ammunition’s fine. D-did you find Señora de Tejada, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes.”

“Er . . . Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

“I . . . I didn’t know you had a plan, sir. That is . . . I . . . I knew you wouldn’t give in to terrorism but . . . well, Sergeant Márquez seemed so sure, and . . .”

“Sergeant Márquez is under arrest for insubordination,” Tejada said gently. “He’ll be court-martialed, and I intend to press for the full penalty. But I understand it must have been a difficult position for you. After all, Márquez was your superior officer for longer than I was. Naturally, you obeyed your immediate superior.”

Battista looked unsure whether to be relieved or alarmed. “Y–yes, Lieutenant.”

“I think if you explained the whole situation to Colonel Súarez in your own words, he’d understand and agree to leniency,” the lieutenant said. “A signed statement, maybe? Explaining the sergeant’s actions exactly, and your own position with regard to them?”

The corporal nodded, definitely relieved now. “Yes, sir.”

Tejada jerked his head toward the typewriter. “The carbon paper’s in the box on the right,” he said. “Date it and show it to me when you’re done.”

He stayed in the office to supervise Battista, and delegated one of the guardias to tell the returning patrols that the search had been successful and that normal duties should be resumed. It was early afternoon by the time all the patrols returned, and Tejada thankfully ate a huge meal along with his men. He felt much better after eating, but he was hardly able to keep his eyes open. He read and approved Battista’s confession, and then left the post, hoping the fresh air would clear his head.

He walked through the afternoon sunshine to the Devastated Regions barracks, hailed the policía on guard, and asked to speak to the commander of the Policía Armada’s force. The commander, Sergeant Villamán, met him with every appearance of surly hostility. “I need your men to guard a prisoner until he’s taken to Santander tomorrow,” Tejada said without preamble.

“That’s usually the Guardia’s province,” Villamán said. “We don’t like to interfere.”

Tejada grimaced. “Look, this man is one of my own officers. He was insubordinate. I have a largely new force, and I don’t trust them to guard him.”

Villamán’s rocky face broke into a grin of malicious amusement. “That’s terrible, Lieutenant. Of course we can take him for as long as you want.”

“Thanks.” Tejada left, annoyed at holding the Guardia up to ridicule by the Policía Armada, but satisfied that the Policía would do their best to humiliate a member of the rival corps. He took Márquez to the Devastated Regions barracks, left him under the care of the guards there, and went home to take a well-deserved nap.

He woke up a few hours before sunset with a strong desire to shave, bathe, and go back to sleep. He settled for a quick shave and a change of shirts, and went back to the post, where all of the guardias were by now assembled. He called them together and announced that Sergeant Márquez was under arrest for insubordination, and had been relieved of his duties, and that all of his normal authority would temporarily be transferred to Corporal Battista. Battista, glowing with relief, strained every nerve to prove his loyalty to the lieutenant.

Tejada made sure that someone would be awake for night guard duty at the post, and that everything appeared to be running smoothly. Then he rode up to Antonio’s shelter to see how Elena was doing. The shepherd greeted him at the edge of the pasture with an outstretched tricorn. “You lost this last night, Lieutenant,” he said as Tejada dismounted.

“So I did.” Tejada took the battered hat and brushed it with his hand. Then he put it on. “Thanks. Is Elena all right?”

“Yes, sir. She’s nursing the little one. My wife went home a few hours ago.”

“You’ve been very good to her,” the lieutenant said, a little awkwardly.

Antonio shrugged. “We couldn’t do less, really.”

“If there’s any way we can repay you . . .”

The shepherd laughed. “Well, now, sir, you’re a guardia. It never hurts to have a guardia for a friend.”

Tejada snorted, but made no reply. It was going to be difficult to clear the Guardia of the complications Márquez’s corruption had created. He reached the shepherd’s shelter and entered. Elena was leaning against one wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, cradling the baby at one breast. She glanced up as he entered, smiled at him, and returned her attention to the infant. Tejada squatted beside her without saying anything.

Carlos Antonio nursed and then slept with the ferocious concentration that newborns devote to their few accomplishments. His parents watched him in silence. “He looks happy,” Tejada said finally, with some envy.

Elena nodded. “Milagros says it’s too early, but I think he recognizes me now,” she said.

“That’s good.”

The two of them sat peaceably for a few more minutes. Elena slumped against his shoulder, and he put one arm around her and the baby. Then she said quietly, “Antonio told me what happened with Márquez. What are you going to do with him?”

“Court-martial for insubordination. And tell the colonel off the record what I suspect about the smuggling, to make sure he gets the maximum penalty.”

“How about murder?” Elena’s head was a heavy weight against his shoulder. Her voice sounded sleepy.

Tejada sighed. “I can’t charge him with Montalbán’s murder, even if he was dealing with the maquis. You know that.”

“I meant Calero,” Elena mumbled. “I was thinking about it earlier.” She yawned. “Suppose the maquis were blackmailing Márquez because they knew he’d murdered a superior officer. He might”—she yawned again—“have killed Anselmo because Anselmo was the only person who knew he was involved in Calero’s death. And Anselmo had a good motive for killing Calero, too. So it helped to have him on the run and then dead.”

“Why on earth would
Márquez
kill Calero?” Tejada demanded, stunned.

“Pretty much the same reason Anselmo would. Good baby,” she added absently, as Carlos Antonio blew a bubble.

“What?” Tejada was certain that strain and exhaustion had derailed someone’s sanity. He was reasonably sure that his wife was the delirious one, but he would not have staked large sums of money on it.

Elena sighed. “The teacher’s sister. Laura Román. Anselmo’s son Jesulín and Lieutenant Calero had fought over her, so Calero arrested Jesulín as a Red. But when I went to Anselmo’s funeral, I saw the grave of Laura’s brother as well. Their name was Román
Márquez
.”

“You think they’re related?” Tejada was shaken.

“I don’t know. It’s a common name. But Father Bernardo said the Románs weren’t from around here.” Her voice was barely above a murmur, and her eyes were at half-mast.

Tejada shook his head. “I don’t like the man,” he said softly. “But I don’t think he’d kill a member of the Guardia for personal— family—reasons.”

“That’s because you’re naive.” Elena peacefully closed her eyes. Tejada considered answering, and then decided that she needed to sleep.

The baby was resting in her lap and was in no real danger, but Tejada gently eased the bundle of blankets out of her arms. After a little experimenting that made Carlos Antonio grumble perilously in his sleep, the lieutenant discovered that he could hold the baby along one arm, with its head propped in his elbow. He looked down at the sleeping face of this alien creature no longer than his forearm who shared his name and his blood.
And she says
I’m
naive
! he thought. “Son,” he whispered, testing the word the way he might have slipped into a newly tailored jacket, amazed and slightly disbelieving at how well it fit. “Your mother is a good, brave, intelligent woman. But she’s a born troublemaker.”

Chapter 23

T
ejada called Colonel Súarez the next morning and announced that he needed to bring a prisoner to Santander. “We’ve been through this.” The colonel sounded annoyed. “Hold them until after Easter.”

“I’m not holding an insubordinate officer for that long,” Tejada said flatly. “I want to start proceedings for a court-martial as soon as possible.”

“A court-martial!” Súarez was shaken. “Are you sure that’s necessary, Lieutenant?”

“Positive.”

The colonel sighed noisily. “All right. What for? Cowardice under fire?”

“No, sir. Mutiny. I’d prefer to discuss the details in person, but we may be talking about a capital offense.”

“Jesus, Tejada! I know this is your first command, but I sent you reinforcements on the understanding that you’d be able to handle them.”

“This wasn’t one of the reinforcements, sir,” Tejada said grimly. “I’d really rather not talk about it over the telephone.”

“All right, you can bring them all in tomorrow.”

“Today, sir.”

Súarez groaned. “Fine, I’ll expect you this afternoon. But there had better be a
really
good reason.”

Tejada agreed and ended the call without justifying himself further. Then he went to see Señor Rosas, and borrowed one of Devastated Regions’ trucks for the afternoon. He set off for Santander with Guardia Ortíz, a pair of the new guardias, and the Guardia’s three prisoners: Márquez, Vargas, and Dolores Severino. No one shot at the truck as they passed through the Liébana and into the gorge that led north to the coast.

No one talked much. The prisoners swayed as Guardia Ortíz navigated the curves of the gorge, and Pedro Vargas, made clumsy by his wound and unable to right himself in handcuffs, landed nearly in Dolores’s lap. He murmured an apology, and then leaned over and whispered something to her. Dolores flushed, coughed, and then said hesitantly, “Is Señora Fernández well, Lieutenant? I’d hoped to say good-bye to her. And thank her.”

“She had her baby yesterday,” Tejada explained. “But she’s fine.” He caught Vargas’s eye and added sardonically, “I’ll tell her you both sent your regards.”

Dolores looked embarrassed. “Thank you,” she said. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence for a few more minutes. Then Vargas began to whistle under his breath. Tejada turned to inspect him. The maquis’ face, hard to read under any circumstances, was made completely incomprehensible by bruises. After a moment, Tejada recognized the “Toreador Song” from
Carmen
.
Arrogant bastard
! the lieutenant thought, remembering his last conversation with Vargas. “She’s recovering well,” he said, still looking at the maquis. “And she’s in
no danger
.”

Márquez snorted. Vargas said nothing, but he stopped whistling. They reached the coast without speaking further. Dolores broke the tense silence again as they approached San Vicente de la Barquera. “I expect Concha and the babies are here already,” she said wistfully.

The window to the driver’s cab was open, and Guardia Ortíz heard her. He spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “Yes, I overheard someone in Fermín’s yesterday saying they were fine.”

“How long do you think they’ll have to stay there?” Dolores asked.

“I think they can go home whenever they like, right, Lieutenant?”

Dolores flushed. “No. I meant how long do you think . . . I’ll be away for?”

Tejada shrugged. “You’ll be all right unless the tribunal finds you involved in anything besides that night in Argüébanes. You shouldn’t get more than a few months as long as Guardia Riera recovers all right.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Dolores asked, white-faced.

“Don’t worry. He should be fine. But even if the wound gets infected—” The lieutenant looked at Vargas. “Any act of banditry that results in someone’s death is automatically a capital offense. But I assume you’ll have a witness to testify that you weren’t using any weapons, Señorita Severino?”

The maquis nodded, and Dolores turned her head toward him with a little cry. “The lieutenant’s right,” Vargas said. “You shouldn’t worry. I’m sure Riera will be fine.”

The girl nodded and hunched her shoulders, withdrawing into some private nightmare. Vargas closed his eyes and either slept or pretended to sleep. No one said anything else until they rolled into Santander. Tejada deposited Vargas and Dolores at the Tabacalera, and left the pair of new guardias to deal with the formalities of registering them with the prison authorities. “I’ll make sure your sister knows where you are and what happens to you,” he said to Dolores as he climbed back into the truck. She thanked him, barely audibly.

Ortíz and Tejada drove with Sergeant Márquez to the provincial headquarters of the Guardia in Santander. The presence of a guardia in handcuffs created a mild sensation and they were shown into Colonel Súarez’s office rather quickly. The colonel greeted them looking unhappy. “You have formal charges?” he asked when Tejada had introduced Ortíz and explained their errand.

Tejada held out the folder with Battista’s statement and his own account of Márquez’s actions. Súarez opened it and scanned the first page quickly. Then he closed the folder, walked to the door, and opened it. “Guardia,” he said, beckoning to his secretary.

“Colonel?”

“See that this gentleman is escorted to a private cell,” Súarez said, indicating Márquez. “And then pull the file on”—he glanced down at the folder in his hand again—“Alfonso Márquez Delgado. Guardia Ortíz will help you.”

“Yes, Colonel.” The secretary saluted.

When the door had closed behind the prisoner and his guards, Colonel Súarez sat down behind his desk. “All right, Tejada,” he said quietly. “This is a nice report. You’ve got a witness, and even a good lawyer couldn’t poke a hole in it. Now tell me why it happened.”

“I have no proof about Sergeant Márquez’s motives, Colonel,” Tejada said.

“Speculate, Lieutenant. And make this good.”

Tejada hesitated. Súarez had not been overly friendly so far, and Tejada feared his suspicions about the sergeant were so farfetched that they would give credence to Márquez’s claim that he was deranged. “Sergeant Márquez is several years my senior, sir,” he said slowly, sticking to the facts and trying to decide how much he should tell the colonel. “And he was the interim commander. He’s . . . never been easy to work with. It’s occurred to me several times that he might resent the authority of someone younger.”

He was saved from continuing by a knock at the door. A moment later the colonel’s secretary entered, holding a folder. “This is the Márquez file, Colonel,” he said.

“Thank you.” Súarez took the file and opened it. When the door had closed, he said, “You were saying Márquez was resentful of the authority of a younger man?”

“Yes, sir.”

Súarez read silently for a moment. “That’s possible,” he said. “But Lieutenant Calero was the same age as Márquez. And it seems that he had difficulties with the good sergeant, too. Why do you think that might be?”

Tejada thought of his last conversation with his wife.
Am I naive
? he wondered.
Oh, shit
. “What sort of difficulties did Calero report?” he asked, tense.

“Doesn’t say. Just that the fifth of October Calero requested that Márquez be transferred due to incompatibility.”

Calero died October eighth
, Tejada thought.
Suppose Márquez had confronted him first. Threatened him
? “You did nothing about this report?” Tejada asked.

The colonel raised his eyebrows at Tejada’s tone. “It was filed posthumously,” he pointed out. “And Márquez was the most senior officer at the post. What should we have done?”

Tejada took a deep breath. “I’d like to look at an inactive file, sir,” he said quietly. “For one Benigno Román Márquez. Teacher. Executed in ’38.”

“Román Márquez?” Suárez was surprised. “The sergeant was a relative?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Tejada admitted. “But I have a theory. If I could just check the files I could confirm it.”

The colonel frowned. Then he picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. “Check the archives for 1938 for any proceedings relating to Benigno Román Márquez. If you lay your hands on a file I want to see it. Right away.” He hung up the phone. “All right, Lieutenant. Even if they are related, so what? Probably half my force have family members who are Reds. That doesn’t make them all guilty of insubordination.”

“No, Colonel.” Tejada’s agreement was heartfelt. “But Román had a sister and there are rumors in the valley that Calero was,” he hesitated, “pestering her. If Márquez found out that Calero was responsible for the death of one of his cousins, for example, and was bothering another, he might have confronted Calero. And if the confrontation turned violent—”

“You think he killed Lieutenant Calero and then blamed bandits?” Suárez demanded.

“I don’t have any proof,” Tejada said honestly. “But if he did, it would explain a good deal about the thefts from Devastated Regions, and about his current insubordination.” Slowly, Tejada sketched his suspicions of how Anselmo had discovered Márquez’s involvement in Calero’s death, and had blackmailed him into helping the maquis steal materials from Devastated Regions to trade for arms. He explained how Anselmo Montalbán’s death had been convenient for the sergeant and why he thought Márquez had suggested holding Elena hostage. “That was why he was so desperate to have us do a house-to-house right away,” he finished. “He wanted the maquis to see that he’d done his best, but that the Guardia couldn’t be bargained with. He didn’t want them to get the arms. He’s not a traitor, sir.”

“According to you, he’s a murderer, a thief, and a kidnapper,” Súarez pointed out. “And also an idiot, for letting the maquis get a handle on him for blackmail.”

“Well, yes, Colonel. But not a Red.” Tejada was scrupulously fair.

There was a tap at the door. It opened in response to the colonel’s command and the secretary deposited two files on the desk. “Here they are, sir. There’s the regular file and one devoted to trial proceedings.”

“Thanks, dismissed.” Suárez picked up one file as the door closed again and gestured to Tejada to look at the other.

The lieutenant opened it and found himself looking at the proceedings against Benigno Román Márquez, accused of subversion and treason. With a sinking heart, he saw that the primary witness against the teacher had been Lieutenant Juan Calero of the Guardia Civil.

“Oh, dear,” the colonel sighed. Tejada looked up and saw that Suárez had both the Márquez and Román folders open and was comparing them. “Looks like you were right, Lieutenant. Benigno Román was the only son of Desiderio Román and Graciela Márquez Delgado, both deceased. He was born in Teruel. And our Sergeant Márquez Delgado was born just south of Teruel, and his eldest sister is listed as Graciela.”

“Nephew and niece,” Tejada said quietly. “Do you suppose they knew him, growing up?”

The colonel shook his head. “No. Graciela was ten years older than her brother, and she moved to Zaragoza with her husband when Benigno was only four. Márquez joined the Guardia five years later, and he never served in the same area as the Románs until ’38, when he was transferred to Potes.”

“And he arrived to discover his nephew had been shot for treason,” Tejada said.

“It still doesn’t prove anything,” Suárez pointed out.

“Probably only Márquez himself could confirm everything,” Tejada argued.

The colonel nodded. “And possibly Laura Román. Do we know what’s happened to her, by the way?”

Tejada shook his head. “She’s not in the valley, and no one talks about her. Which may mean she’s with the maquis. Or dead. Or just that she entered a brothel after she left.”

“Hard to believe Sergeant Márquez would commit murder for her and her brother and then let her support herself like that,” the colonel commented.

“She might not have known he was involved. Or she might not have wanted to be indebted to him,” Tejada said thoughtfully. “She can’t have very kind feelings toward the Guardia.”

“I suppose not.” The colonel made an annoyed noise. “You do know how this is going to look if it goes to trial, Tejada? One officer who abused his position to get some girl into bed, and another who murdered his commander and then helped smuggle arms to the Reds.” He lowered his voice. “There’ve been rumors that the Generalissimo wants to disband the Guardia altogether and fold us into the Policía Armada. Have one national police force, under his own command. Do you have any idea what kind of ammunition a scandal like this could provide?”