Johnson spoke to Amaia. “I was trying to think all day long why your hometown sounded so familiar, and I finally remembered. Early in my career, I was assigned to a unit that tracked fanatical religious sects; that was before I got into behavioral analysis. The literature frequently referred to the Pyrenees, especially the border region where Spain meets France. Lots of stories about witchcraft, rites, and covens of witches. Zugarramurdi and those other places must be fairly close to your town. You’re from Elizondo, right?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I am. And they’re not far away.”
“Come to think of it, wasn’t Elizondo one of the places the Inquisition went looking for the devil?”
Amaia said nothing.
Johnson’s eyes sparkled. He was into the subject. “Yes, that was Elizondo,” he said, pleased he’d remembered the story. “And the attorney for the Inquisition had your name, Salazar.” His revelation made the others look up. “Alonso de Salazar Frías!”
“The Inquisition were like the guys at the Salem witch trials, weren’t they?” Charbou asked. “You related to them, Salazar? Maybe he was an ancestor?”
“I doubt it,” she said grimly. “My family name comes from a river near where I was born.”
“But did you ever look into it?” Johnson insisted, rubbing a palm across his bushy mustache. “I think it’d be really interesting. I know a researcher who’s good at genealogical research; she can track a family name back hundreds of years.”
Dupree, who’d been watching Amaia closely during this exchange, intervened. “Johnson, seems to me Salazar’s not interested.”
“But why not?” Bull asked. He was surprised. “If it were me, I’d sure want to know all about it.”
Johnson didn’t give up. “If your family has always lived in that region, it seems likely that sometime or other they could have attended the Inquisition’s trials. As witnesses, maybe; maybe even as defendants. I’m remembering now that when Salazar the investigator was sent to look for the devil, he received thousands of denunciations. Must’ve affected the entire population in one way or another.”
“How many people live in your town now?” Charbou asked.
“About three thousand.”
“There you go!” Johnson exclaimed. “Every single soul probably either denounced someone or was accused by his neighbors!”
“Exactly!” she replied bitterly.
Dupree addressed Amaia. “I have the impression that bothers you. Why?”
Amaia didn’t answer.
Johnson tried to be helpful. “Assistant Inspector, that happened hundreds of years ago. If it’d been in the United States, by now the town would have six haunted hotels, three walking tours to the witches’ houses, and a dozen souvenir shops.”
“I see two possible explanations for that,” Amaia replied. “Either Americans don’t believe a word of your haunted history, or you have a healthier approach to the magic that exists in the world.”
Dupree refused to let her off the hook. “You’re saying the way of life in Baztán isn’t healthy?”
Bull was intrigued. “What’s Baztán?”
Amaia exhaled loudly. “Baztán is the valley where my town is located. As far as I’m concerned, the world would be better off without that kind of fake spirituality. Cult beliefs may seem amusing, even ridiculous, but they embrace primitive superstitions. They promote social stigma, exclusion, and suffering.”
Bull was loving this. “You trying to say they still believe in witches back in Baztán?”
Johnson answered. “The real question is: Are there still witches in Baztán today?”
Once they’d eaten, they became aware of the immense physical and emotional cost of their long day. Bull volunteered to man the radio for first watch. The rest gathered pillows and cushions and chose rooms where they could curl up.
Amaia settled close to the open window, the only access to the outside. She appreciated the movement of air into the room, however sluggish. She detested the darkness. She adjusted her flashlight to point to the floor, where it projected a light that was insufficient to illuminate the room but just enough to keep the night creatures away.
She glanced at the window and realized she hadn’t thought of the gauekoak since her childhood. Gauekoak were the dark ones, the spirits of the night. Those homeless wanderers sought out a dark corner of your soul where they could hide forever. She recalled seeing an old woman crawl beneath her bed, as frightened as a child, in an effort to escape the gauekoak.
The Composer floated into her mind. She was convinced that at exactly that moment, he, too, was staring into the darkness somewhere in the city. The difference between them was plain: he was already in thrall to the night. Darkness dwelt within him. He carried the gauekoak in his core, because he’d become one with them. She shuddered, surprised by the force of memory and by the realization that her background gave her insight into the Composer.
“Gaueko,” she whispered to fend off the darkness. That ancient, menacing Euskara word for the lord of darkness, spoken so far from Baztán, brought to mind so many other words and phrases. Some were obscure and insidious; others were as beloved and as warm and welcoming as a hug.
“Are you feeling better now?” Dupree’s voice brought her back to the present. He’d just entered the room.
She let out a strangled sigh. “I’m sorry, I was totally out of line. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Never mind. It’s just that the water out there is full of bacteria. If you have any open wounds, make sure they’re clean and disinfected. Otherwise you’re likely to get gangrene.”
She tried to smile but her grimace was that of a woeful clown. “I wasn’t referring to the water.”
Dupree nodded. He wasn’t referring to the water either. The problem was that he didn’t know how to approach Amaia. She was an enigma, one of the most complicated people he’d ever met. He decided to forget subtleties and take a direct approach.
“My parents died during Hurricane Betsy. Father was a doctor and Mother was his nurse. They’d been called to help a woman in labor, and they were trapped on Grand Isle when the storm hit. People found them a week later, dead inside their car.”
“I’m sorry,” Amaia told him, watching his face. “Katrina must be awakening terrible memories.”
“I was very young, just a little kid. The only memories I have of them are from photographs. Nana, my father’s cousin, brought me up.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
Dupree looked away. “I have a sister. How about you?” The speed of that response was revealing. He didn’t want to talk about his family.
“Two sisters, both older. But we’re not close. Like you, my aunt brought me up.”
Dupree regarded her but didn’t ask more. Two older sisters she wasn’t close to, she’d gone to schools in the United States since she was twelve, and she’d chosen not to go back to see her dying father.
“I saw you praying for that man. You did a good thing.”
She stared at him for several seconds as if she hadn’t understood his remark or was weighing its implications. She stared for another ten seconds at the floorboards faintly illuminated by her flashlight. When she did speak, her voice almost startled them both.