Nogueira’s phone rang as soon as he pulled out of the lot. The lieutenant passed it to Manuel. Manuel turned on the speaker so both could hear.
It was Ophelia. “Nogueira, I just heard it on the police radio—shots have been heard at As Grileiras. Several units have been dispatched. An armed assailant went into the manor. There are reports of several victims.”
Nogueira glanced at Manuel. “Where do we go? To As Grileiras or to the clinic?”
“To the clinic.” Manuel remembered the polished revolver butt in Vicente’s raincoat so clearly that he felt like he could reach out and touch it.
He pulled out his phone and found Herminia’s number. It rang and finally lapsed when no one answered. He tried again. Just as he thought it was about to go to voice mail, he heard her distraught voice.
“It was Vicente. He turned up here pale as a ghost, and he wanted to see the old marquess; we asked her, and she agreed. I don’t know what he said, Manuel, but we heard shots.”
“Is he still in the house?”
“He’s upstairs with them. There’s not a sound, Manuel. We heard a lot of shots and I think they’re all dead.”
“Herminia, lock yourselves in the kitchen until the police get there.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded submissively.
The suspicions growing over the last few hours had become a certainty: Santiago’s collapse, Vicente’s desperation, the Raven’s wings sheltering Catarina.
“Herminia, what were Santiago and his mother arguing about yesterday? It was after Catarina told everyone she was pregnant, wasn’t it?”
Her weeping became a wail. “Oh, my God!”
“Tell me, Herminia. You know, don’t you?”
“It hadn’t crossed my mind until Santiago reminded me of it a few months ago.”
Manuel listened. It was all beginning to make sense.
THE JOYFUL SACRAMENT
The light from the fluorescent tube lamp over the headboard fell across Santiago’s head, leaving deep dark shadows where his eyes and mouth should have been visible. He was strapped in a sitting position, quiet and alert, and Lucas had the impression he was smiling. The priest paused, listening to the patient’s heavy breathing as he opened the case containing the liturgical articles used for confession. He unfolded the stole, kissed it and put it around his neck, then uttered a quiet prayer requesting God’s help and the strength to carry out the sacrament.
Lucas went to the bedside. Standing next to Santiago he crossed himself and began the ritual. A lightning flash reflected from the ceiling and cast the stark pattern of the barred window across the floor of the room. Despite the elegance of the appointments at the Santa Quiteria Clinic, they were nevertheless in its locked psychiatric ward.
Santiago responded as required. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”
“Born without sin.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” His voice was calm but determined. “Lucas, I’m going to kill myself.”
Lucas demurred. “Santiago, don’t say that. Tell me what’s causing your anguish. I’m sure I can help you.”
“No one can help me now.” He spoke with absolute serenity.
“God can help you,” Lucas replied, seeking to call Santiago back to this life.
“Then God will help me die.”
Lucas stood silent.
“Do you remember when we were boys, Lucas?”
The priest nodded.
“Something terrible happened to álvaro and me at the seminary.” He stopped. A few seconds passed. Lucas realized Santiago was weeping.
The tears trickled slowly from his eyes and fell onto the sheet folded across his lap. Santiago seemed not to notice.
It seemed to him an eternity had passed since he entered the room. Lucas felt exhausted and overcome by a sorrow so profound he knew it would own him forever. He closed the door behind him and went forward blindly, letting his feet carry him to the group of chairs by the coffee machine. The hall, deserted earlier, seemed now vibrant with the energy of those who’d been there during the day. The trash basket was overflowing with little paper cups, and nearby he saw the distinctive splatters of coffee stains on the floor and wall. Yearning for the comfort of the womb, Lucas settled into the chair closest to the machine, leaned against it, felt its warmth and quiet hum. He rested his elbows on his knees, put his head in his hands, and tried to pray, aware that if any support at all was forthcoming, it had to come from God, for no one in this world could help. Santiago’s words continued to echo in his mind like a handball bounced off the front of a building; they bounded back and forth, drove him frantic with their mad trajectories, with the perfect angles of their rebounds and the maniacal rhythm of the game. Ticktock, ticktock . . . Not a single impact was random. Each and every trajectory was predetermined, a suffering accepted in quest of greater conquest.
He could almost hear the smack of leather against stone. Ticktock, ticktock . . .
He opened his eyes and looked up to find Catarina before him. She loomed over him with a smirk on her face.
He tried to say something but couldn’t. The only sound he produced was an exhausted exhalation of defeat.
“I tried to warn you.”
He nodded.
“I told you he was out of his mind. But you refused to listen.”
He nodded again.
“I just checked on him. He’s sleeping like a baby.” She smiled and took the chair next to him. “I assume you’ve lifted a great weight from his soul.”
The soft chime of an elevator door opening was followed by hurried footsteps and the sound of a heavy wind. They heard the crash of a glass door flung back against a wall, and the current of air from the elevator shaft rose to a howl. Lucas and Catarina leaped to their feet in alarm. From one end of the corridor, Nogueira and Manuel ran toward them; at the other end the immense glass door before the fire escape hung wide open. By some miracle the double-paned glass was still in place, but it was cracked and splintered from top to bottom as if struck by a lightning bolt. The strong pull of air from the elevator shaft sucked rain into the hall so fiercely that by the time they reached Santiago’s room, they were soaking wet. The same deathly white light fell from the fluorescent lamp across the bed; along its sides the padded belts that had been restraining Santiago hung loose and empty.
Manuel and Nogueira raced to the fire escape and tried to guess where in that black night he could have gone. Lucas hesitated in Santiago’s room, almost lost his footing on the wet sill, and had to grab the doorframe to keep his balance. The belts dangling from the bed looked like limp, lifeless arms and hands. Lucas sensed Catarina at his side and turned to glare at her. He was scandalized. “You undid them!”
His voice was nearly inaudible in the howling wind.
Catarina raised two fingers and placed them across his lips, in a gesture of defiance that between any other man and a woman would have been extremely sensual. They seared his flesh, but not with lust. She stepped so close that Lucas caught her perfume of freshly watered gardenias.
“He was very tired, he needed to sleep, and he couldn’t turn over because he was belted down. I didn’t think it would do any harm to loosen them a bit,” she whispered into his ear. “I thought he’d be at peace after confessing. You said he’d be joyful. And you said you’d keep his secrets.”