Engrasi put both hands to her mouth, horrified. The very word “resuscitation” gave her a fright like none she’d ever experienced. If Amaia had been resuscitated, that meant she had died. Her baby girl had died—it didn’t matter if it was for only a few minutes or even seconds. Her girl had died, and she, Engrasi, who knew the great danger looming over the child, had failed to protect her. Ignacio and Joxepi were right. She had to take Amaia some place far away, somewhere the valley couldn’t reach her.
The doctor was still talking; Engrasi forced herself to pay attention. “She’s young and strong. We hope there won’t be any aftereffects, but I should warn you that sometimes these victims have seizures, even many days later. They may faint. And it’s even more common for them to suffer amnesia. Most individuals struck by lightning don’t remember anything of what happened to them before the accident.”
“And that strange mark on her chest . . . ,” Juan asked, obviously uneasy.
“It’s a burn mark. She was extremely lucky, because it’s the only one. The air around a bolt of lightning becomes instantly hot and can vaporize water. That’s why much of her clothing was torn from her body and she was completely dry to the touch. The electrical discharge of the lightning ran across Amaia’s skin, drawing out the red blood cells from the subdermal capillaries and leaving that strange mark. It’s called a fractal lightning scar, or a Lichtenberg figure. It will fade over time.”
“Can we go inside?” Engrasi asked, glancing in frustration at the observation window that separated them from the ICU.
“Yes. But one at a time.”
She looked at her brother. “You go first.”
When Amaia awoke in the hospital, she saw her father by her bedside. His face was pale, and his hair, soaked by the rain, was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were red and raw from weeping. When he saw her lids flutter, he leaned forward, his face anguished but hopeful. She was so flooded with tenderness when she saw his expression that she almost couldn’t breathe.
“There was a tree, Aita, a special one. And then I got lost . . .”
“Don’t say anything, maitia. Just rest.”
Amaia’s clear blue eyes glistened with gathering tears. “There was somebody in the forest. Ipar kept him away from us . . .”
A cold chill ran up Juan’s back as he imagined the dangers to which his daughter had been exposed. “It’s all over, bihotza. You’re safe now, and you’ll be better soon.”
“I was cold, so cold, and then I saw the house . . .”
“You went to a house?” Juan asked, surprised.
“There was this man . . . so handsome . . . and people with him . . .”
Juan turned to the side, his heart squeezed by the dark foreboding that had haunted him throughout the day.
“They were . . . bad. I was going to go inside because I was so cold, but Ipar wouldn’t let me.” She opened her eyes wide, suddenly remembering something. “Where’s Ipar, Aita?”
Juan tilted his head. Shit! He didn’t want to tell his daughter the truth. “Maitia, Ipar loved you very much. He was a good dog, and he protected you right up to the end.”
Amaia gasped, “No!” She broke down, sobbing with a depth of grief and pain Juan had never seen before. His daughter, so given to silent tears, broke into sobs and wails so loud that the nurses came running.
“What did you do to her?” one of them challenged Juan, pushing him away from the bed.
“Nothing, I swear!” he replied, greatly offended. “It’s just that her dog . . . died.”
“And you couldn’t have chosen a better time to tell her? Right now, she has to be protected, man!”
She’d snarled “man” as an insult, but what really angered him was hearing the woman remind him, her father, that his daughter had to be protected.
The other nurse intervened in a calmer voice. “I think your time is up now.”
“Let me say goodbye, at least,” he entreated them.
The nurse nodded, and Juan stepped forward to Amaia’s bedside.
His daughter kept on weeping, but now her screams had turned to whimpers as a torrent of tears flowed from her eyes.
“Maitia . . . ,” he whispered, “I have to go now.”
Amaia looked at him. There was no sign of reproach in her eyes. She held out her arm, silently appealing for a hug. She loved him, as she always had. Surely, she was going to say so . . .
Juan leaned over his daughter, filled with love and distress, and listened to her.
“Aita, Ama was there. She was with that man. They were waiting for me, and they wanted to . . .”
Juan straightened up, pushing his daughter’s arm away. His eyes wide open, his heart pounding, he put his mouth to her ear. “Amaia, don’t tell anybody. If you love me, do that for me. Don’t tell.”
The immensity of her love and affection for him squeezed her heart until it ached. But the words to declare her adoration withered and became a painful memory wrapped around her vocal cords. Unable to speak, she nodded, and her silence shrouded the deep, dark secret she would keep for him—the reason she would never love him again.
Juan felt his daughter’s face brush against his as she nodded.
When he straightened up, Amaia had stopped crying. She stared directly into his eyes. Juan realized he was seeing the serious, determined face that the adult Amaia would have. He looked away, filled with shame, and went toward the door.
“Agur, maitia.”
Three seconds passed before Amaia responded. And when she did, Juan already knew it was a final farewell.
“Agur, Aita.”
Engrasi had been watching through the ICU window, and though she couldn’t hear anything, she hadn’t missed a single gesture. Juan came out to stand beside her, downcast, his cheeks covered with tears. Engrasi didn’t look at him. “Was she crying over Ipar?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell her . . . ?”
“No, of course not!” he flared up. “And don’t you ever breathe a word either!”
Engrasi turned a withering glare upon him. He lowered his head again.
“What kind of person would I have to be to tell that child that someone ripped open her dog’s belly and nailed him up on a tree at the edge of the forest?” she said.
Juan didn’t answer. He was in tears again. Engrasi turned away, disgusted.
“I’m taking Amaia away from Elizondo. Immediately.”
“You’re right,” he answered.
“Maybe you didn’t understand me. Once she’s released. Amaia’s not going to set foot in Elizondo again.”
Juan just nodded. “Take her far away. I don’t think Pamplona is far enough. Take her, I’ll give you the money. But don’t ever tell me where she is, because I’m weak, Engrasi, and if I knew . . .”
70
THE VIOLIN THAT BELONGED TO “MIC”
The swamp
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Johnson brought Bull and Charbou to the boat.
Dupree didn’t wait for them to ask why. “We’ve got him. The Composer is Martin Lenx, and Martin Lenx has been using the alias Robert Davis. He’s an adjustor for the American Insurance Association, specializing in evaluating disaster damage. He got the job six months after killing his family in Madison. He’s been using insurance application files to get information: the family names, the number of family members, others residing with them, firearms in the home, ages, accidents—everything. He lives in Texas with his second family. Eight months ago, his wife let him know they were expecting another child, their third. He was at their vacation home in Galveston, next door to the Andrews family.”