“That’s the kind of girl who disappears during a hurricane, gets swept away by the floodwaters, or goes missing in a forest during a storm. The sort whose name gets added to the list of disaster victims, and no one’s surprised. And nobody takes a closer look. Why bother? After all, those girls would have wound up running away from their hard lives and disappearing anyhow.
“He’s a monster, and he’s making sure he doesn’t get caught. He’s perfectly capable of masquerading as an upstanding citizen to his dying day. He’s not looking for notoriety, because he already has his place. He’s a demon hunting down vulnerable souls. Not only does the bastard abduct them, he carries them off like hunting trophies to this miserable shack. And that’s only the start of their suffering.
“Do you have any idea how many names are going to appear on the official list when they eventually draw up the death toll for Katrina? Dozens? Probably hundreds? Think of it: this is the perfect time to make someone disappear. That’s how he built his empire. That’s how he keeps feeding his evil desires. He’s a vampire lurking in the darkness.”
She paused and met Dupree’s steady gaze. She knew she’d recapped every point of his lecture on victimological profiling and Sherrington’s pioneering work. She summed it all up. “His satisfaction and pleasure are the same as those of the devil: they come from the fact that we don’t believe he exists.”
While listening to Amaia, the traiteur had visited the corpses one by one. He stepped up very close to Amaia, bent forward, and took one of her hands. Behind him Amaia saw Dupree’s silent figure in the doorway. For some reason, she suddenly felt terribly ashamed.
Amaia recoiled and almost snatched away her hand, as if she had a premonition that the contact provided the traiteur access to an intimate, half-forgotten secret she desperately needed to hide. But the man held her hand firmly and retained it in a steely grip astonishing for someone so slim. He covered her hand with both of his, as if wrapping it in a broad, heavy blanket.
Truth burst from her with torrential force. “There was a day that a raging storm saved my life.”
65
IPAR
Elizondo
The girl burned with fever, trapped in a delirious dream in the shelter of the enormous beech. Her devoted dog stayed at her side and licked away the tears that squeezed beneath her lids.
Amaia was inhaling flour. The finely ground powder with its primal mineral tang infiltrated her windpipe, blocked her sinuses, and made her struggle for air. She knew she shouldn’t inhale, but when she desperately tried to breathe, the flour that covered her body also filled her throat, soaked up saliva, and became a sticky paste that made her gag. “I don’t want to die! I’m only a little girl!” Every syllable of that stifled cry drew more of the choking, sticky mass into her lungs. Her very cries for help were killing her. A thunderclap left her half deaf. Her consciousness faded. She was sure the end had come, but then moist, warm hands pushed the flour from her face. She blinked in confusion.
“Today’s the day, little vixen,” Rosario leered at her. “Ama’s going to eat you up tonight.”
Amaia screamed in terror, and the shriek that tore her throat interrupted the nightmare. She shuddered awake in the dark of the forest. She couldn’t see a thing. She thought she must be dead. Deathly cold and delirious with infection, she heard only her own hoarse screams. Her anguished voice was that of a stranger.
Ipar’s frantic barking brought her back. Reality intruded. She realized she was lost in the forest and that she was going to die. She was going to be eaten alive.
Scrabbling against the rough bark of the great beech, she made it to her feet. She blindly clutched Ipar’s furry neck before taking her first step.
“Let’s go, Ipar,” she commanded him in that unrecognizable voice.
The dog resisted. He tensed and refused to advance.
Amaia sank to her knees, embraced him, and pleaded. “Please, Ipar, please come on. Let’s go. Please!”
Holding fast to his collar, she stumbled forward. This time Ipar didn’t resist. He stayed close to his mistress’s side but looked back several times, as if trying to signal to the lord of the forest he had no other choice.
Amaia couldn’t see a thing. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, to see if it made any difference when she opened them again. Ipar guided her steps and managed to keep her from running into the trees. She felt their benevolent, looming presence as she stepped past, but she found herself constantly stumbling over roots, rocks, and the uneven ground. She lost her footing, and Ipar leaped in front of her to cushion her fall and keep her from sprawling headlong. She cried out at the sudden pain in her knees and thighs. She sobbed in anguish and fright. She was unable to get to her feet immediately, and when at last she did, every step was agony, as if sharp pieces of gravel were embedded in her kneecaps. She thought a few times that she could hear the river, but the roar of rain through the treetops overwhelmed it. She had no choice but to struggle onward.
As she advanced, the trees thinned out and the temperature dropped. The sparser cover of the treetops left her feeling abandoned, an orphan, as she emerged from their protective shelter. She staggered out of the forest and was confused by a forceful, prolonged whistle. But had she actually heard it?
Ipar froze in place. Several seconds went by, but the whistle didn’t come again. Amaia told herself it must have been caused by the wind. Lightning split the heavens and lit the night. Though half blinded by the intense glare, she saw a trail running across the steep mountain slope and descending toward a hollow.
And something else.
Amaia screamed. Something stood close before her. Ipar bounded forward, barking wildly. Left alone, dazzled by the lightning, she was terrified by the image of the looming dark figure stamped into her mind. She was sure it wasn’t benevolent. She’d always known she was condemned to death, and this confirmed the truth of that premonition. Shaking with fever and trepidation, she called her dog. Fear turned to total panic because he wasn’t there. Ipar kept snarling and barking on the trail ahead of her. Seconds became an eternity. Suddenly he stopped and rejoined her. She crouched down and held him tight. He’d driven away the creature, whatever it was.
“Don’t leave me, Ipar, don’t ever leave me!” she begged, weeping, grabbing his collar with both hands.
Before trying to advance, she strained her ears, seeking to detect any presence ahead of them, but the roar of the rainstorm covered every other sound. Ipar growled again a couple of times, but Ignacio had taught Amaia to differentiate between warning growls and Ipar’s fierce canine expression of satisfaction at warding off danger.
The trail became steeper, narrower, and more overgrown. She had to hunch over and scramble for handholds to keep from falling. A vast void yawned before her. She was grateful for her mountain boots, for descending would have been impossible with any other footwear. Still gripping Ipar’s collar, she was forced to huddle so low she was almost squatting on the trail. Her knees ached, and the bloody scrapes across them cracked every time she bent her legs. In this fashion, they made their way down the trail. Exhausted, Amaia stopped to rest. She looked out across the open space and saw a light.
A house, in the depths of the forest. A house with lit windows. The girl’s feverish mind understood this meant people, maybe a phone she could use to call her aunt, a fireplace glowing with warmth. She kept her eyes on it, afraid to blink, afraid the vision would vanish. Ipar perked up, encouraged by the prospect of rescue.