Amaia became aware that the discomfort that had afflicted her had now spread along her spine. The sharp pains were worsening and she urgently needed to pee—sure signs of a urinary tract infection. She pressed her lips tight and fought against the malaise. “But if you don’t help her, she won’t be able to help us. We need to ask her questions; the lives of two little girls may depend on what she can tell us.”
“I don’t think she’ll say any more than she already has.”
“She hasn’t said a damn thing,” Charbou declared.
The traiteur smiled. “Maybe not in your language, but I guarantee you that the one who was in there,” pointing at Médora’s supine figure, “did speak.”
53
STELLA TUCKER
Tampa, Florida
Agent Stella Tucker examined herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Cropping her hair had been the right choice. She never had to worry about it being out of place now. Her skin was properly hydrated, although the tension and violent effort of the preceding hours had left their traces, especially in the hollow circles beneath her eyes. She tried out a smile and was pleased with the result. Her suit was in good shape, although she’d have changed her blouse if she’d had the chance. But it was too late to go back to the hotel. She couldn’t make a senator wait.
Director Wilson’s phone call from Quantico had taken up valuable time, but she’d enjoyed hearing him praise her work, even though Tucker knew Wilson and Verdon thought she was a bad apple. No reason to worry about that right now. With Dupree out of contact somewhere in New Orleans and his team in disarray, Stella Tucker wouldn’t have to work for him again. Given her success running her own team, nobody would deny her that.
A couple of sharp pings announced the arrival of the text message from Emerson she’d been expecting. The senator had just arrived from Washington and was entering the building. His secretary had called an hour earlier. The senator had taken the first available flight and wanted to see her in the VIP room of the hospital where Brad Nelson was being treated. She’d made sure a police officer was posted outside the ICU.
Things couldn’t have turned out better in the Nelson case. Twenty minutes earlier, the physicians had informed her that Nelson had regained consciousness. The FBI couldn’t interrogate him yet because he was intubated, but the doctors were confident he would recover. It was practically a miracle that the SWAT officer’s bullet hadn’t killed Nelson, though it had smashed his vertebra, meaning he would probably never walk again. Tucker knew that a dead Nelson would have been an extraordinary achievement, but bringing a serial killer to justice in court would also generate a remarkable amount of publicity favorable to her.
She offered her right hand to her reflection and rehearsed a respectful nod. Not servile, not at all; professional, rather. Neither impressed nor indifferent. Tucker was the FBI agent in charge of the operation that had saved the lives of the family of a United States senator, but that was her duty. She needed to strike a tone between hero and seasoned pro, appropriate for graciously accepting the well-earned gratitude she was expecting from the senator.
54
FERMENTING
Elizondo
It was a gesture he found comforting, so internalized that he resorted to it instinctively even in his sleep. This time it failed. He reached out for her furtive warmth and opened his eyes. Rosario was gone.
She wasn’t in the house. He knew that the instant he awoke. Even so, he went through the rooms one by one, barefoot, the chill creeping up from his feet. He returned to their room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the hollow on her side where she should have been. He bent over the bedside table, pulled open the drawer, and pushed aside the pile of carefully paired socks inside. He took a large yellow envelope from beneath them and put it down next to him on the bed. With a trembling finger, he traced the letters in blue ink someone had used to inscribe his daughter’s name. He sighed, deeply upset by Rosario’s disappearance.
His wife had stopped visiting the girls’ room at night as soon as Amaia went to live with her aunt Engrasi. And she hadn’t left the house at night for the past twelve years, not since she was last pregnant.
Sleepless years they’d been for him, as he watched to make sure she was still beside him in bed. He remembered the first time he’d awakened and realized she was gone. He recalled his initial astonishment at finding she wasn’t there, his alarm at the prospect of a sudden illness or fainting spell, the worry about a possible miscarriage. After that, checking the house, mastering his panic, and throwing an overcoat over his pajamas to go to the bakery, only to confirm she wasn’t there either. Then sitting in the living room, waiting, speculating, tormented by worry and suspicion, staring at the telephone and deciding he’d wait another fifteen minutes before calling the police. Finally, hearing her key in the lock and hurrying upstairs to feign sleep and pretend to wake just as she returned to bed, her body still chilled by the cold of the streets outside.
Then gathering his courage and asking in a tremulous voice, “Where were you? Is everything all right?”
She replied, in a reassuring voice, “Don’t worry, I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep and I went downstairs for a glass of milk.”
Juan couldn’t go back to sleep after that.
Rosario continued to leave the house in the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morning at least one night out of ten. She always returned before the sun rose, chilled but serene, to slip into bed and pretend she’d never left.
He’d thought a thousand times of confronting her, racking his brain for a way to bring up the subject. Each night that she left the house, he sat in the darkness waiting for her in the living room, imagining how the conversation might go when she came in and he caught her sneaking back before dawn. She’d be obliged to explain, in that case, and tell him where she’d been and with whom. She’d have to tell him why his pregnant wife had left his side in the middle of the night.
Then came the moment he heard her key in the door. After that, the gentle brushing sound as the bottom of the front door moved across the weather stripping they’d installed to hold in the heat. She gripped the handle to keep it from clicking when she closed the door. Her steps were quiet and cautious as she came upstairs, avoiding the treads that creaked.
Her caution and care not to be discovered were what made him return to bed just before she entered their room. He told himself that her silence was concern, her concealment was composure, and her care to avoid discovery was proof of shame and repentance. That first night had set the pattern, because once she was back in bed, he heard her breathing settle into a regular rhythm and sensed her body relax when she finally went to sleep—that’s when he sat up to look at her. His only feeling was gratitude she was with him, gratitude she’d returned. And every time she left the house at night, right up until the day she gave birth, he promised himself he’d reproach her and question her, but that very first night had been decisive, even though he wasn’t yet aware of it. He would never say anything.
After all, what was there to say? What demand could he make? For when he saw her sleeping beside him, he still asked himself how such an amazing woman had chosen a miserable man like him. He still couldn’t believe it. Engrasi called him an ostrich hiding his head in the sand so as not to see the problems. But Juan felt more like a duck, an ugly duck in love with a swan. He felt invincible next to her, but he didn’t forget for a minute that he was a simple man with no culture and little refinement who was allowed to be the consort of a queen. How could he possibly seek to control her? Or oblige her to do anything at all?