“That’s what we think,” Ophelia responded.
“Then why was he sobbing into the boy’s undershirt in the church days before that? Don’t you think that suggests he’s guilty? And that he already knew?”
“He was crying because he’d lost his lover,” Manuel said. “To?ino’s aunt said a friend was calling every day to ask for him. We know that wasn’t Richie; I suspect that’ll be easy to verify, because I’m sure it was Santiago. He was weeping because he thought To?ino was stonewalling him in revenge. Santiago beat the crap out of him but didn’t kill him. Santiago didn’t know To?ino was dead until yesterday. That’s why he kept calling the aunt to ask about him. Santiago urged the aunt to make the missing persons report. He even took the risk of asking the trooper to call him if anything turned up. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d known the boy was dead. And yesterday the trooper called and said To?ino had committed suicide. That was the same night he’d been beaten up. Santiago blamed himself. It was more than he could stand.”
Nogueira remained silent as he put the pieces together. “Let’s recap. Santiago leaves álvaro after arguing with him when they were supposed to turn over the money. The trooper calls him that night to say that álvaro is dead and a white vehicle might have been involved, so he assumes that means To?ino. But To?ino has no idea. He even goes to Burger King to get food for both of them, thinking they’ll meet to discuss it. Santiago turns up in a rage and gets carried away, bashes the boy’s face in, because he thinks the kid just killed his brother. He beats him till he gets tired or To?ino manages to convince him he had nothing to do with it. And he’s alive when Santiago leaves him. Fuck! I think it all fits. That explains the bloodstained wipes in the car. To?ino was alive, and he was tending to his injuries before he was killed.”
“There’s more,” Ophelia added. “They just called to tell me. To?ino had his cell phone with him. The battery was flat; it was wet and contaminated by fluids from decomposition, but we got it to work. There are lots of unanswered calls. Three from his buddy Richie, fifteen from his aunt, and more than two hundred from Santiago. Including voice mails that were as desperate and pitiful as any you could imagine. Santiago’s calls completely exhausted the battery. They’re going to interrogate him first thing tomorrow.”
A MISSION
Elisa stood in the bathroom door, watching her son. Seated cross-legged on the bed, he was absorbed in television cartoons. They’d gone back to their room after saying goodnight to Manuel, but from then on Samuel had been acting strangely. The previous day the boy had kicked off his sneakers and bounced on the bed like crazy; this evening he was silent and unresponsive. As soon as they’d entered the room he’d asked her where the phone was. When she told him it was in her pocket as usual, he said, “Not that one. The phone that’s here.” She hadn’t even noticed there was a fixed phone in the room. It stood on a bedside table. The oddest thing was that Samuel made her check to see that it was working. Wondering at this, she lifted the receiver and confirmed there was a dial tone; she even put it to the boy’s little ear so he could hear it too. She thought perhaps he was missing the familiar surroundings of the manor house. She knelt before him. “Do you want to call someone? Do you miss Herminia? Should we call the house on the estate?”
Samuel looked at her with a grave expression. He lifted his right hand and ran it through his mother’s hair, gently separating the strands. There was a twist to his mouth Elisa had never seen before. His expression was patient and reassuring, as if their roles had become reversed and she was the little girl. He was keeping something from her he wasn’t going to explain. “I have to wait for Uncle to phone me.”
“He told you he was going to call?” She tried to reason with him. “It’s very late. Maybe he meant tomorrow.”
Again the boy ran his hand through her hair with infinite care. “It’s a mission, Mama.”
“A mission?” She entered into the game. “What kind of mission?”
“Something I have to do for Uncle. And I can’t go to sleep until he calls.”
Confused by this, she’d smiled indulgently, trying to assume her role as mother again and understand her son’s actions. First there’d been the gardenias he’d put into Manuel’s pockets, and now came this weirdness . . .
“But just a little while longer. It’s very late, and you need your sleep.”
Samuel shook his head with a determination new to him, patient and grown-up, as if to say, You don’t understand anything. He took off his sneakers and settled on the bed to watch television. Elisa retreated to the bathroom door. She busied herself pretending to take off her makeup and brush her teeth, but in fact she’d posted herself there to observe him and monitor this new and entirely unfamiliar behavior.
She saw him laugh at SpongeBob as he always did. He gradually settled back against the pillows, and she thought maybe he would forget his notion that his uncle would call. Maybe he would at last give in to the sleep heavy in his eyes. He yawned several times. She saw him close his little eyes. The day had been intense and full of emotion; away from the estate and meeting his cousins, he hadn’t stopped for an instant; he had to be exhausted. She watched him with a loving smile and carefully moved toward him as she mentally counted backward from ten. That was her little ritual: if she got to zero without the boy opening his eyes, that meant he was deep in sleep. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three . . . Samuel opened his eyes and sat up as if he’d just heard a call inaudible to her. She stepped back in confusion, and her gaze followed his to the telephone. Samuel nodded as if remembering something, or as if someone had reminded him of his mission. He sat up straight and pushed away the pillows, resisting their temptation, once again focusing his attention on the cartoons bathing the room in their colorful light.
OUTCRY
The Vulcan was just as deserted as La Rosa roadhouse. They spotted Richie as soon as they stepped inside. He was drinking alone, facing the bar and ignoring the few clients swaying on the dance floor.
Nogueira clapped his heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder. It looked as if all the boy’s bones would give way beneath that weight like a collapsing house of cards.
He grunted, turned, and dully acknowledged them. His face was gaunt and emotionless. Manuel felt sorry for him. The boy was mourning. Nogueira must have seen it, for instead of hassling him as he had before, he patted the kid’s shoulder, more gently this time, and motioned to the waiter for a round of drinks.
They took a couple of long swallows of beer before anyone spoke.
“Listen, Richie,” Manuel said, “there’s something I need you to explain about what you told us the other night.”
The boy drained his beer and stared into space. Manuel knew where the kid was; not too long before, Manuel himself had been staring into the same abyss.
“You two were looking for To?ino,” the kid said. “You were worried about him, and if it weren’t for you, he’d still be out there. On the mountainside.”
Manuel agreed and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Will it help you get the bastard that did that to him?” Richie hadn’t moved. His eyes were still unfocused and far away.
“I don’t know. I’d like to say it would, but I just don’t know.”
Richie turned and met his eyes. He seemed to have made his decision. “What do you want to know?”