Watcher in the Pine (4 page)

The lieutenant took a deep breath. “I understand there is a good carpenter in Tama. Or we could order it from Santander.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

It was Tejada’s turn to gulp. “Most men don’t bring their wives,” he explained, flushing. “It’s considered an . . . unpleasant posting. No one expected you to come. These are the only beds available, but I was planning to drag in a few chairs this afternoon. It’s only temporary.” He sought for something encouraging to say. “The fire’s only been going for a few minutes. I’m sure that the whole apartment will be very cozy in a couple of hours.”

Elena was far less sanguine, but focused on other possible sources of warmth. “Where’s the kitchen?”

Her husband coughed. “There isn’t actually a proper kitchen. Sergeant Márquez explained that the guardias usually all eat together, but we could maybe set one up in one of the other rooms. They’re all the same as this one.”

Elena nodded slowly. “And the bathroom is?”

Tejada had dreaded this question. “Actually, there are just latrines attached to the men’s quarters. The sergeant thinks maybe we could partition one off for you. . . .” He trailed off, worried by her expression.

Elena sank onto one of the bare cots. It was lumpy, and smelled unpleasantly musty. “You did say Devastated Regions was working on another post?”

“Yes.”

“When will it be done?”

Tejada was afraid to meet his wife’s eyes. “It’s scheduled for the spring of 1945,” he said.

Elena began to laugh, a little hysterically. “And we get to design our dream home!” she gasped, when she could speak again. “Why not build a school onto it! It should be done around the time the baby starts kindergarten!”

Tejada, who had feared that she would be angry, sat on the other cot and began to laugh also. “And I thought things couldn’t get worse last night!”

“Come on. I’ll help you bring in some chairs.” Elena pulled herself together.

“You most certainly will not.” Tejada gave her a quick hug. “You’re in no condition to be dragging furniture around. Why don’t you try to unpack a little?”

“Into what?”

The lieutenant sighed. “I think there are a few hangers in the closets. I’ll be right back.”

Elena did not argue with her husband. But as the door closed behind him she sighed and looked around the cold bare room again.
Oh, dear
, she thought.
I hope this wasn’t a mistake
.

Chapter 4

T
wo days after the Tejadas’ arrival in Potes the temperature shot up nearly twenty degrees, causing a massive thaw that transformed everything from snow to mud. Then, after two days of sunny blue skies and perfect spring weather, the thermometer plunged below freezing again, coating the streets with slick and treacherous ice patches. Tejada felt that the unexpected slippery spots were an apt metaphor for his experience of his new command.

The first unpleasant surprise was the sole vehicle at the disposal of the Guardia. When Guardias Ortíz and Carvallo returned from Unquera, Tejada was disconcerted to notice that the ancient truck had several suspiciously round dents in the doors and hood, and a small hole in the front headlight. “Those look like bullet holes,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Guardia Ortíz agreed. “Corporal Battista and Torres had a little problem with the maquis a few months ago.”

Tejada frowned. “Define ‘little problem.’”

“Well, Don Virgilio—that’s the mayor of Trillayo—called them over there to make a complaint about poachers, and they came back after dark.” Ortíz’s tone made it clear that any guardia fool enough to do such a thing deserved what happened to him.

“They were ambushed?”

“I wouldn’t say it was really a formal ambush.” Ortíz spoke judiciously. “More that some of the maquis happened to be in the neighborhood, so they took a few shots at the truck. The corporal had the sense to just step on the gas, and of course Torres returned fire as best he could in the dark. There’s a report on file somewhere, if you’d like to look at it.”

“Does this happen often?” Tejada asked, starting to understand why his subordinates had been startled by his decision to trust his safety and his wife’s to a stranger on the road.

“Oh, no, sir.” Guardia Ortíz spoke quickly. “If we have to take the truck mostly I drive. I grew up over in Cillorigo, you see, so people know me around here, and the maquis know there’d be a lot of ill feeling if they hit me.”

Tejada let the subject drop, although he was less than pleased with Ortíz’s logic. His annoyance increased into outright discomfort when Carvallo and Ortíz returned several hours late from a routine patrol the next day, with the news that they had been fired at from the woods. “We took cover, of course, and did our best to shoot back,” Ortíz said. “But I don’t think they were really aiming to hit us. Just trying to scare us a little.” Tejada was irritated by Guardia Ortíz’s calm assumption that being fired at while on patrol was normal, but it was preferable to the ill-concealed fear of Guardias Torres and Carvallo. The lieutenant had never seen such a miserably demoralized post.

Under the circumstances, it was not unexpected that Anselmo Montalbán did not report to the Guardia Civil when ordered. His wife, questioned the next day by Guardias Ortíz and Carvallo, insisted that she did not know where he was to be found. The morning of the thaw, Tejada gave orders for her arrest and hit another slippery spot.

“How, sir?” Sergeant Márquez asked.

Tejada stared. “What do you mean, how? Go over to the
fonda
and tell her she’s under arrest.”

“And then what?”

“Bring her back to the post and lock her up until we get some news of Montalbán!”

“Where would we put her, sir?”

For a moment Tejada was dumbfounded. Then he said slowly, “You’re telling me that we have
no
cells available?”

The sergeant coughed. “They’re only temporary quarters,” he reminded Tejada. “They weren’t built with a full prison attached.”

“But you must have had prisoners in the past!” Tejada protested.

“Yes, sir. But we’ve never had married officers, sir. We were using you and your wife’s quarters for cells.”

The reason for his apartment’s inadequate heating and somewhat bizarre floor plan suddenly became clear to the lieutenant. He struggled with a desire to laugh, wondering at the same time if he could safely tell Elena. He was unsure whether she would share his amusement or be disgusted. “Are you telling me we have
no facilities at all
for holding anyone?” he demanded, returning to the problem at hand.

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

Tejada considered for a moment. “What do you suggest we do then, Sergeant?”

“It’s not my place to say, sir.” Márquez was wooden.

The lieutenant struggled with unreasonable annoyance. His sergeant in Salamanca had combined intelligence and goodwill. When Tejada had asked for his opinion in similar cases, he had given honest and well-considered answers. Although Tejada had known that he was exceptionally lucky to have Sergeant Hernández, he could not help feeling that Márquez was an exceptionally unfortunate substitute. He would have sworn that the sergeant’s unhelpfulness was deliberate.

The lieutenant considered forcing his subordinate to express an opinion, and then gave up the idea as futile. “Bring her in for questioning,” he ordered, “and don’t tell her that we have no place to put her. If we don’t get anything out of her, let her go with a warning, and then tell Ortíz to go and keep an eye on the
fonda
.”

“By himself, sir?” Sergeant Márquez had apparently forgotten that it was not his place to have opinions.

“Yes, by himself,” Tejada snapped. “And ‘keep an eye on it’ does
not
mean go and stand in front of it prominently. It means look discreetly from a distance, and don’t make it obvious that you’re looking. Send Carvallo in a few hours to take over from Ortíz. They can spell each other until tomorrow. If they don’t pick anything up, pull in Bárbara Nuñez again.”

“The pair system of the Guardia—” Márquez began.

“Is famous and venerable,” Tejada interrupted. “Which is exactly why I do
not
want it used now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Márquez saluted and went to give the guardias their orders. Tejada was left with the feeling that they would not be well executed.

He spent the next hour composing two letters, one to the local director of Devastated Regions and one to the mayor, respectfully asking about the possibility of providing a prison for the town as soon as possible. When he was ready to make copies, he discovered that there was no carbon paper in the office. Disgusted, he sent for Guardia Torres. “Is Anselmo Montalbán’s wife here?” he demanded.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Good. I want to talk to her.” Tejada stood up and held out the pad he had been writing on. “Type these,” he ordered. “Two copies of each. When you’re finished, leave one copy of each on my desk and bring the others to me to sign. Then deliver them.”

Guardia Torres looked uncomfortable. “Type them, sir?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about the two copies, but I can’t find carbon paper.” Tejada saw that the young man looked nervous and added reassuringly, “You can drag my chair over to the typewriter, if you like.”

This kindness gave Torres the courage to stammer, “I-I can’t type, sir.”

Tejada was annoyed, but not amazed. “You’ll have to hunt and peck then. Get as far as you can and if you haven’t finished when I come back I’ll finish them.”

He was gone before the guardia had a chance to explain that he had never actually used a typewriter, was uncertain how to insert such niceties as capital letters, and was frankly terrified by carriage returns. Torres was a bold and enterprising young man, and managed to figure out the complexities of the battered Corona before the lieutenant’s return, but he was barely past the salutation of the first letter when Tejada relieved him of his task.

The attempt to question Anselmo Montalbán’s wife had been unsuccessful and had consumed the lieutenant’s lunch hour, as well as running into the afternoon. Tejada took a certain satisfaction in banging the typewriter keys to ease his frustration. It was nearly six when he finished. He sent for Guardia Torres once more and told him to deliver the letters and inform the recipients that he would call on them the following day to discuss their contents. Made cautious by previous experience, he checked that Guardia Torres did in fact know where the mayor and the director of Devastated Regions were to be found.

Then he considered what to do next. Ortíz was watching the Montalbáns’
fonda
, probably uselessly. Carvallo was officially off duty until he relieved Ortíz of the Montalbán surveillance. Márquez and Battista were on patrol and would not be back until nightfall. The lieutenant had spent the last six hours in windowless rooms, and he felt that he deserved a break. He shut the office door a shade more firmly than necessary and marched out into the spring thaw. The Quiviesa, swollen with melting snow, burbled loudly. The peaks of Peña Vieja and Peña Sagra guarding Potes to the east and west loomed, snow-covered, in the still-warm afternoon light. If one overlooked the general charred rooflessness of the town, it was a pleasant evening.
Elena should get some fresh air
, the lieutenant thought.
And I’ve worked enough for one day
.

He hurried up the stairs to their apartment, smiling a little ruefully at the knowledge that his day would have been more productive had he escorted Bárbara Nuñez up them earlier instead of releasing her, and wondering again how to tell Elena that they were lodged in the Guardia’s prison.

She was seated at the tiny square table he had dragged into the space they called the “living room,” writing a letter, when he entered. “Care to go for a stroll?” he asked cheerfully.

She started and then looked up at him gravely. “Do I have a choice?”

He dropped into the chair beside her, concerned by her tone. “We don’t have to if you’re tired. But I think it’s warmer outside than in at the moment. And I was just thinking of walking along by the river a bit. Why? Are you feeling all right?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” She shook her head, impatient.

Temperamental, Tejada reminded himself. It’s natural for her to be temperamental in her condition. He decided an apology for any outstanding sins might be in order. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away for lunch. Something came up.”

“Bárbara Nuñez.”

The lieutenant winced. “It was just a routine interrogation, Elena.”

“I know. I overheard.”

“You overheard?” Tejada repeated, disconcerted and less than pleased.

“The living room’s right above where you questioned her.” Elena spoke dully. “I wasn’t trying to listen.”

Nicely designed for a prison
, Tejada thought.
Oh, damn
. “We didn’t hurt her,” he said aloud. “Márquez turned over a table, but he was just being theatrical.”

“You frightened her, though.” Elena wrapped her arms around her stomach and hunched one shoulder, turning her head away from him.

“Well, I hope so!”

“She’s lost her sons, and now her husband’s disappeared and she has nothing and you’re persecuting her.”

Tejada, who had gathered that one of the Montalbán sons had been executed for Communist sympathies four years previously, while the other was currently in a Devastated Regions work crew in Málaga, focused on the second half of his wife’s statement. “It’s likely she knows where her husband is,” he said. “And it’s likely her husband’s a murderer. Or at the very least involved with people who are.”

“She doesn’t know where her husband is!”

“That’s possible,” Tejada agreed, watching carefully for signs of hysteria. “But we don’t
know
that.”

“
I
know it,” Elena retorted. “The morning that we spent at the
fonda
there were three men there talking when I came downstairs and one of them said something like ‘Anselmo won’t like it’ and the other said, ‘Which brings us back to the main point: Where
is
he?’ and she was there, and I think they were worried about him disappearing. So she
doesn’t
know where he is.”

Tejada blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was going to,” Elena sighed. “But then you were talking about maquis and I thought . . . I was afraid . . .”

“Elena.” Her husband put an arm around her. “Have I ever. . .

ever
hurt anyone because of anything you’ve told me?”