Watcher in the Pine (15 page)

It was a mistake. Elena’s face fell as he spoke. “I saw them. But they didn’t talk to me.”

“It’s always hard to make small talk at a funeral,” Tejada said comfortingly. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to see them tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Elena agreed softly, although the thought of facing Marta and Quico Álvarez after seeing the graves of the Guardia Civil’s victims was not totally appealing. She allowed her husband to change the subject, hoping that he would forget about his absurd plans to have her making social calls by the following day.

Unfortunately, Sunday afternoon was beautiful, clear, and sunny, with a hint of spring in the air, and Tejada renewed his efforts to be solicitous. “Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked after lunch. “You should get some fresh air.”

“To where?” Elena shrugged one shoulder, hoping that he would take her apathy for exhaustion.

“How about to Tama? To visit your friends there?” Tejada suggested, pleased that he could suggest a route that did not offer excessive climbing or transverse the path where she had found Anselmo Montalbán’s body.

“I don’t really want to go so far alone.”

Tejada smiled at her. “I do have the afternoon off, Elena.”

“I can’t take
you
to the Álvarezes.”

“Why not?” he demanded, stung by her tone. She gave him a look that clearly said that such a stupid question did not deserve an answer. He was annoyed. “Damn it, Elena, you have to get over this nonsense about the Guardia being some sort of plague. We are
not
lepers, we are
not
an occupying army, and—”

“Aren’t you?” she interrupted.

“No! And if we are it’s because of people with
your
attitude,” Tejada retorted, too irritated to be logical. “I’ve been a guardia for almost ten years now, and I promise you I’ve socialized with my neighbors off duty everywhere.” He heard the anger in his own voice and spoke more quietly, trying to sound reasonable. “It makes you look silly, you know, this going off on your own always. As if you were ashamed of your own husband.”

“I’m not ashamed of you.” Elena smiled at him a little ruefully. “But the Álvarezes were friends of Anselmo Montalbán.”

Tejada frowned. A small part of his mind longed to know why Elena was incapable of making friends with the mayor’s wife, or the head of the Women’s Auxiliary, or any number of people who would have proven his point that the guardias were perfectly socially acceptable.
Because she wouldn’t be Elena then
, he thought.
Because she always picks the hardest route
. Aloud, he said slowly, “I’m sorry about that. But Montalbán was killed almost accidentally. Márquez returned fire practically as his horse bolted. It’s hard to hit anything you aim at under those circumstances. And Montalbán was wanted. Márquez was within his rights.”

“Anselmo couldn’t have fired at Márquez,” Elena protested. “He didn’t have a weapon.” She swallowed. “Father Bernardo and I would have seen it.”

“According to Márquez and Carvallo, there were several men down by the river,” Tejada said gently. “Márquez fell, and Carvallo stopped to help him. By the time Márquez told him to go after the others, they were gone. And they probably took Montalbán’s weapon. They always have a use for guns.”

Elena still looked unhappy. “You can’t ask Marta and Quico Álvarez to believe that.”

Tejada sighed. “The man was a terrorist. He probably killed Lieutenant Calero.”

“He had good reason to!”

“There are no good reasons for shooting an officer of the Guardia Civil.”

Elena’s expression was stormy, but all she said was, “So it’s a closed case for you, then? The word of two guardias against a dead man’s, and his family and friends are just supposed to bury him and be grateful?”

Although this actually was more or less Tejada’s opinion, he did his best to be diplomatic. “I’m not claiming that Montalbán’s death was the best possible outcome. I’m just saying that you can’t blame an officer who’s attacked while on duty by a known criminal.”

Elena’s face was still drawn, but her tone was sad rather than angry as she said, “A shame they didn’t just hide in the bushes until the patrol went past. There’s heavy cover there, and I’m sure Márquez and Carvallo wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t attracted attention somehow.”

One part of Tejada’s mind indignantly protested that if Montalbán and his confederates had not attracted attention, his recovery of the missing dynamite and the subsequent triumphs would never have taken place. But he was glad that Elena seemed to be calming down, and he had to admit that her point was well taken.
They couldn’t have known who the guardias on patrol would be
, he thought.
But Elena’s right; if they
were
looking for specific men, all they had to do was stay hidden and no one would have known they were there
. “I wonder if they had any special reason to ambush Márquez and Carvallo?” he said aloud.

Elena blinked, and her haze of depression lifted slightly as she saw that Carlos was actually listening to her. “Maybe one of them turned someone in during the war, like Calero did,” she offered, a little afraid that her husband would be annoyed by the reference.

Tejada heard her hesitance and smiled at her, recognizing that she was trying to make peace. “It seems far-fetched,” he said. “But you’re right; it’s odd they should have taken a risk for no reason. I’ll check the files tomorrow.”

He was rewarded by a real smile. “Thank you. I guess we could go for a walk now. But I’d still rather not visit the Álvarezes.”

“Then we won’t.” Tejada stood, relieved that Elena seemed to be more relaxed.
Maybe she still needs to talk more about Montalbán to help her get over finding him
, he thought as they headed outside.
If I find anything in the files tomorrow I can tell her. It will make her feel better if she thinks that Montalbán and his friends had some kind of “just cause.”

Chapter 12

T
ejada was not able to check the files the next day. Monday morning was market day in Potes, and all the guardias except Sergeant Márquez were out on patrol. The absence of a proper plaza meant that the market spilled into the little winding streets away from the river, and the open space between San Vicente and the Torre del Infantado was roped off to create makeshift pens for the herds of cows driven down from the hills. The town was crowded with people and animals, and the guardias’ presence was a necessity. Tejada was unsure how he felt about markets. Patrolling them was stressful, and the concentration of people always meant that there was an opportunity for conspiracy or rabble-rousing. On the other hand, Potes was a rather sadly dull little town when it emptied out, and the market lent it a certain liveliness.

He returned to the post around one o’clock, as the herds were beginning to leave the town, and found Sergeant Márquez waiting for him at the door. “I was on the point of going to look for you.” The sergeant greeted him in a low voice. “There’s someone waiting to see you.”

“He couldn’t talk to you?” Tejada asked, following the sergeant into the building.

“He wouldn’t.” Márquez made a face and then lowered his voice even farther. “He says it’s something to do with the bandits.”

“Where is he?”

“I put him in the office. But he’s nervous as a cat.”

“Informers usually are.” Tejada lengthened his stride with the happy conviction that one victory was about to lead to another. People liked being on the winning side.
If he can tell us something about who stole the dynamite in the first place
, he thought,
we’ll be getting somewhere
.

When Tejada opened the door to his office the man standing by Sergeant Márquez’s desk started. He was short and rosy-cheeked, with wispy hair the color of corn silk. He blinked near-sightedly at the lieutenant, and turned his cap in his hands. It was worn gray felt, and like his clothing, suggested a shepherd or farm laborer.

“How do you do?” Tejada hung up his cloak and spoke in a carefully neutral voice. “I’m the commander of the post here. I understand you wanted to speak to me.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the little man gulped. “I know where they are. The maquis. I mean the bandits. I mean, I know where they’ll be, tomorrow night. You could capture them.”

“Go on.” Tejada sat down without taking his eyes from the man’s face.

“Up past Argüébanes.” The man spoke jerkily. “You take the bridge over the Mancorbo, and head into the chestnut grove. There’s an old shepherd’s hut there that no one goes to anymore. They’ll be meeting there tomorrow evening.”

Tejada mentally located Argüébanes. It was only a few kilometers northwest of Potes, and mostly interesting for a very pretty ruined church. He had the vague feeling that he knew something else about Argüébanes but had no time to track down the memory. “How do you know this?” he asked.

The lieutenant’s guest shifted from foot to foot. “I was taking the flock down to the Mancorbo for water, and I saw them yesterday,” he explained. “They were getting water. I’m not one of them,” he added hastily. Márquez, standing behind the man, met the lieutenant’s eyes with a look of pure amusement, and for a moment Tejada found himself in perfect sympathy with his colleague.

“And they invited you to a meeting?” Tejada was politely incredulous.

“N-no, sir! It’s just—well, they saw I’d seen them, and Rafa and I went to school together and you can’t very well pretend you don’t recognize someone you’ve known all your life. So he said hello and I said hello and then he asked me if I was going to Potes on Monday and if I’d bring him back a carton of cigarettes and some stationery and a few other things if I was. And I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t want any trouble, and he said—” The man gulped. “He said not to worry about it, that he could make it worth my while, and that if I brought the stuff up to Marcial’s old cabin on Tuesday night we’d have a real party, because all the old crowd was going to be there.”

Tejada took a pen from the container on the desk and began to doodle thoughtfully. “They’ll be expecting you Tuesday?” he said.

“Y-yes, sir. I-I came to town today to buy the things he sent me for and then I came to see you but I have to go quickly or they’ll be wondering why I’m back late.”

“You’ll have to go to this party then, so they don’t get suspicious,” Tejada said. “Make sure you wait until they’re all inside, and then make some sort of excuse to get out.”

Tejada’s informer coughed anxiously. “H-how will you know it’s me outside, sir, instead of one of the others, before you move in?”

The lieutenant considered. “Take off your cap and wave it around your face as if you were beating off mosquitoes,” he said.

“Like this?” The little man flapped his free arm and hit himself in the face several times with his cap with the enthusiasm of a penitent.

“Fine. We’ll see you tomorrow night, Señor—?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.

“Santiago Roldán. Domingo Santiago Roldán.” The man filled in the pause quickly, as if he was eager to give his name.

“Señor Santiago.” Tejada opened his desk drawer and looked regretfully at the unopened pack of cigarettes lying on top of various pads and pens. “Here.” He tossed the pack onto his desk. “If you want to give that to your friends I’ll reclaim it tomorrow evening. Or you can keep it for yourself. Consider it a thank-you present.”

Santiago’s hands were shaking as he took the cigarettes.

“Thank you, sir. Also, I—I wondered—”

“Yes?” Tejada had been trying to figure out why Santiago had turned traitor, and he was genuinely interested in what the man was going to ask for as a reward.

“M-my brother’s in the Tabacalera.” The man’s fair skin colored painfully as he named one of Santander’s more notorious prisons. “A thirty-five-year sentence. I thought maybe a good word from the Guardia—”

“Also Santiago Roldán?”

“Yes, sir. José María.”

“José María Santiago Roldán.” Tejada leaned forward to make a note on the pad. “It’ll depend on what he’s in for. And how this operation goes. But I’ll see what we can do. I assume you’d be willing to do more jobs like this in the future, provided all goes well?”

Domingo Santiago looked haunted. “I-I guess.”

“Good.” Tejada stood and held out his hand. “It’s a bargain.”

The informer’s handshake was limp, and his eyes watered slightly at Tejada’s firm grasp, although the lieutenant’s grip was hardly tight enough to be painful. He left furtively, as he had come. Tejada was already flipping through the filing cabinet when Márquez returned from seeing off their guest. “Do you know anything about Santiago?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No. He’s probably never been in trouble before.”

“Do you believe his story?”

“It’s plausible.” Márquez was neutral.

“It sounded good to me,” Tejada admitted. “We’ll have to organize a stakeout. You’re out of it, with that wrist. Do you think we can take Torres?”

“If you can trust him not to sneeze at the wrong moment,”

Márquez said dryly.

Tejada snorted. “We’ll risk it. If this place is near the stream we shouldn’t have to worry too much about silence. I wish we had more men. Do you think we could call for reinforcements from Panes or Unquera?”

Márquez nodded. “I’ll phone them this afternoon, sir. But I don’t know how many they’d be able to send.”

“The problem is that it makes it too obvious we’re going to move if they arrive in a bunch,” Tejada said slowly. “Of course, there’s always the Invincible Armada.”

Márquez laughed and reached for the telephone. “Good one, sir. I’ll call Unquera first.”

The rest of the day and much of the following one were spent in preparations for the raid. Tejada warned his wife Tuesday morning that he might have to work late. “Why?” she demanded.

“It’s paperwork about the dynamite,” Tejada lied. “The colonel wants it by the twentieth and—” He saw her face and stopped. “I’m sorry, Elena. It’s not that. But . . . I can’t tell you about it yet. Do you mind?”

“Yes,” Elena said. “But I mind more if you lie to me.”

Tejada dropped his eyes. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said quietly. He left, wondering if he had avoided telling her about the raid because he did not want her to worry about his possible danger or because he was afraid of her disapproval.
I’ll tell her everything tomorrow morning
, he promised himself.

Two pairs of guardias from Unquera and one pair from Panes arrived on Tuesday afternoon. Tejada went over the operation with them, and showed them maps of the area, although the success of the raid would depend on the actual knowledge of the terrain by the Potes guardias. They ate an early dinner together at the post, and then set off for Argüébanes. They parked in front of the church and started through the town on foot. Tejada hoped that their presence would not be remarked on by the residents of Argüébanes since he strongly suspected that they were in sympathy with the bandits. A fat wedge of moon lit their way making the flashlight Battista was carrying unnecessary. The corporal switched it off, glad to avoid advertising their presence.

The climb up into the hills above the village took about half an hour. The path through the forest was lit by muffled moonlight, which dappled the leaves of the trees. It was after eleven when the faintly sweet smell of the night breeze in the chestnuts gave way to the sharper scent of wood smoke, and the sound of singing floated through the chilly air. The trees thinned and gave way to meadow, and patches of yellow light spilled out of the windows of an ancient adobe structure.

Battista, Ortíz, and the guardias from Unquera circled through the woods to take up positions behind the cabin. Tejada took the remaining guardias and crept out into the open meadow, carefully avoiding the puddles of light. He dropped to his stomach in the high grass, and inched forward on his elbows. The guardias fanned out and followed his example. When they had arranged themselves in a semicircle, they lay still, weapons cocked.

“Shit,” the guardia next to him exclaimed softly.

“What’s the matter?” Tejada murmured, without turning his head.

“Sheep shit, sir.” The guardia sounded embarrassed. “I’m lying in it.”

Tejada smiled, but gestured the man to silence. Talking was an unnecessary risk. They settled down to wait. The ground was damp, and the breeze was cold, although it was a relatively mild evening. Tejada reminded himself grimly that he had been in more uncomfortable places. Still, he resented the snatches of song and laughter that reached the guardias in their hiding places, along with the scent of roasting meat. He wondered if Domingo Santiago was inside enjoying the meal and the warmth. And
my
cigarettes, he thought. Oh, well, let them have one last fling. They won’t be so cheerful in a few hours.

It was after eleven when the door in front of Tejada opened. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the light. He turned back to wave, and someone inside called a good-natured farewell. Tejada strained his eyes, trying to recognize Domingo Santiago. The door closed behind the lone figure. The man took a few unsteady steps and then shook his head, as if trying to clear it. He stood still for a moment, and then half-turned back in the direction he had come. Tejada tensed. The man had not given the signal Domingo had agreed on, and he was behaving oddly.
If he’s seen us
, the lieutenant thought,
we’ll have to attack right away. And Santiago’s still in there. Damn
.

He was about to give the signal when the figure in the moonlight resolutely turned his back to the house, raised one hand to his head, and took off his cap. He flapped it slowly back and forth, as if fanning away mosquitoes, a ridiculous gesture in the cold darkness. The man seemed to grow tired of fanning himself. He pressed the cap against his face for a moment, as if holding back a scream. Then, almost too quickly for Tejada to follow the motion in the dim light, he tapped his chest and shoulders in rapid succession and hurried down the path without looking back, almost at a run.

The grass beside Tejada rustled. “Wait!” he hissed. “Give them five minutes, so they don’t identify us with Santiago’s leaving.”

Someone in the cabin began to sing, a light tenor loud with wine, but not unpleasant. “You are tall and slender, like your dark-eyed mother.” Other voices chimed in and the words became clearer. “I’ve spent all night thinking of you, my darling.” It was an old folk song that Tejada remembered as a lullaby from his childhood. He had sung it once, teasingly, to Elena, because he thought that the words were apt.
When the music stops
, he thought,
we move in
.