“Really? How unfortunate. Now, give me the film.”
She sat in the bubble chair, one hand on the strap of her purse, and looked at Emilio, waiting for him to intervene. To say something. Anything.
“Do what he asks,” Emilio muttered at last.
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I’ll wring your neck,” the man said simply.
She realized that Rubén had been correct about Emilio all along. He was nothing but a rich kid who was out for himself and himself alone. He wouldn’t raise a finger to protect anyone, least of all Maite.
“Did he send you to find the film? That first time we met, when you were trying to get into Leonora’s apartment?” she asked, staring at Emilio.
Emilio lit another cigarette and avoided her gaze. “No. He got in touch with me later.”
“But the people at Asterisk are your friends. Leonora is your girlfriend.”
“I’m becoming impatient,” the man said.
She touched her mouth, thinking of Rubén. He was probably dead. And then she didn’t know what got into her, what needless idiotic impulse flashed through her brain, but she tried to run. It was useless. The man was old, but he wasn’t decrepit, and he caught her in a swift few steps and slammed her against a wall, the back of her head hitting one of the black-and-white photographs.
Rather than surrender the prize, she tried to scratch him, but he slammed her back, harder. She heard the crunch of glass and winced. Her hands trembled.
The man snatched the purse from her and opened it, taking out the canisters. He began pulling the film out of them, exposing it to the light.
Nothing. Rubén was probably dead over nothing.
She slid against the wall, clumsily trying to step away, toward a door.
“Don’t move,” the man said, as he continued unspooling the film. “I still have business with you.”
Her head ached. He’d hit her hard, and she didn’t want to be hit again, so she stood stock still until he was done and he looked at her, tossing the useless negatives on the floor. In a second he had erased the truth. A second was all it took.
“Where’s my niece?” the man asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You fraternize with terrorists. You keep Leonora’s precious photos. I’m pretty sure you know more than you’re saying.”
“I didn’t mean to. I stole the film by accident. I didn’t realize—”
He punched her in the stomach. She was left breathless, bending over, and then he grabbed her again, sinking his fingers into her hair, and pulled her head up. He slapped her face so hard she knew he’d leave bruises.
“Come on, there’s no need for that,” Emilio said.
“Pull up a chair and look at the wall,” the man ordered.
“What?”
While still holding on to Maite with one hand, the man took a gun out and pointed it at Emilio. “I said pull up a chair and look at the wall.”
Maite couldn’t move away, she couldn’t turn her head, not with him gripping her hair, but she heard the scraping of a chair against the floor as Emilio obeyed. The man released her and took a step back. His gun was pointed in Emilio’s direction, but his eyes were on her.
“My niece. I need you to tell me where she is.”
“You’re going to kill her,” Maite mumbled.
“I will kill you if you don’t talk.”
“I told you. I don’t know! I really don’t know!”
The man hit her on the head with the gun, and it hurt so badly. The other blows had hurt, but not like this. She was going to weep. Blood trickled down her forehead, staining her lips.
“I haven’t done anything,” she swore, but the gun came down again, making her scream.
She thought that she’d been wrong. That Leonora was not the maiden who would be offered as a sacrifice. It was her, it was Maite, who must have her heart carved out. From the very first page, the very first line, the very moment this began.
He pressed a hand against her mouth, as if to muffle her scream, and she responded, fueled simply by furious instinct, her teeth sinking into his fingers. He made a yelping sound, like a dog, before brutally punching her. She tumbled to the floor, clutching her stomach, tasting blood. She didn’t know if it belonged to her or to him.
“Stop that,” a man said.
Maite swallowed the blood and stared at the two strangers who had walked into the house.
29
THEY PARKED THE car outside the little white house. Even in the dark he recognized the other car parked right ahead of them, by the house’s gate. He would have known it anywhere: El Mago’s vehicle. For a minute he stood there dumbly, in the rain, until the Russian coughed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think my boss is here,” Elvis said.
“Nice. A reunion. You’ve got the keys to this place?”
“No, but I can pick the lock,” he said, and he plumbed the pocket of his jeans for the two little strips of metal. It wasn’t a difficult lock.
They walked into the house, followed the sound of voices. He heard screaming, and they picked up the pace, reaching a large room with a very long table and many pictures on the walls.
El Mago was beating the woman. Elvis had never harmed a woman in his life. That was for scum. For lowlifes. And Elvis was a thug, sure, but he wasn’t scum. It surprised him to see El Mago doing such a thing. He’d never imagined he could. So he spoke quickly, without thinking twice, using a tone of voice he had never dared to employ with El Mago until that day.
El Mago was his boss, after all. El Mago was their leader. El Mago was everything that Elvis ever wanted to be. El Mago was the King.
“Stop that,” he said roughly.
A man was sitting in a chair staring at the wall. He winced when they walked in, but he didn’t say anything, and when Elvis spoke he lowered his head and pressed his palms against his eyes.
“You’ve made it. Who is that with you?” El Mago asked.
The woman’s eyes were huge, and there was blood on her lips. Those were the eyes of Bluebeard’s wife when she opens the door and finds the chamber filled with corpses.
“It’s the Russian asshole,” Elvis said, looking away from the woman and at El Mago. El Mago’s eyes were calm. He’d done this, or something similar, something worse, many times before. Elvis thought El Mago was a gentleman, a cut above others, but he really was another little shit.