“You said that To?ino had ‘business’ at the estate. That’s the word you used. You said, ‘You don’t kill the cow while it’s still giving milk.’ Tell me what kinds of business he had there.”
Richie’s expression was very serious, and for a moment Manuel didn’t think he was going to answer. But the boy shrugged, sighed deeply, and said, “I guess that now To?ino is dead, it doesn’t matter anymore, right? It’s not going to hurt him any, and I don’t give a damn if it gets those bastards into trouble. To?ino had a gold mine up there on the estate, first with Fran, and then he’d been seeing Santiago for a good while. That was a different kind of business. He always said Santiago was in love with him, and, well, I’m not going to say that To?ino was indifferent. He didn’t mind being loved. Santiago’s a good-looking guy and has lots of dough. Sometimes To?ino would deal him some drugs. Cocaine, mostly. Why are you asking about him?” Richie’s eyes were suddenly feverish. “You think he had something to do with what happened to To?ino?”
“We know he didn’t. We’re sure of it.”
The boy’s features relaxed. He slowly shook his head. His eyes again lost their focus and he stared into space. Nogueira gestured impatiently. He suspected that the boy’s confused state was due to something in addition to just unhappiness.
“Richie, listen closely,” Manuel said firmly, regaining the boy’s attention. “There was one more thing. You said To?ino knew his clients, especially the women, and you mentioned a ‘classy’ one. I thought you were referring to Elisa, Fran’s fiancée, but I now know with absolute certainty she’s been clean for years. I want you to tell me who else on the estate was buying drugs.”
“Elisa? Yeah, I know who she is. Nah, not her. She’d have a fit if she saw us anywhere near her boyfriend. You know what they usually say: it’s like tobacco; those who condemn it most are the ones who used to be slaves to the habit. But considering how things turned out, it’s pretty obvious Fran went back to it.”
“So who else, then?”
“The other one, the gorgeous one, stuck-up, I don’t know her name. Her parents were aristocrats, too, marquises or something. They have an estate on the road to Lugo.”
“Catarina?” asked Nogueira from close behind him.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
Manuel looked past Richie’s shoulder at Nogueira. “That doesn’t seem possible. She’s been trying to get pregnant for years. She doesn’t even drink coffee.”
“Oh right!” exclaimed Richie. “You think she’s not a druggie? She likes the real strong stuff. Look, I don’t know if she stopped using lately, but I tell you I saw her with my own eyes. One time I went to the estate with To?ino. He knew a back road, and she was waiting for us close to the church. We gave her the junk, she paid us, and we beat it out of there.”
“What did she buy?”
“Heroin.”
Nogueira pushed himself out of his chair and looked at Manuel, alarmed by the seriousness of what it looked like they were about to confirm. He stepped close to Richie. “Listen to me real close. Think carefully about what you’re about to say.”
The boy’s expression and nod showed he understood the gravity of the situation.
“Do you remember when that was?”
“Sure. It was maybe two . . . no, three years ago, and I even remember the date: September 15. My mother and grandmother are both named Dolores, and their saint’s day is on the 15th. To?ino came to my house so I could drive him to the estate. He didn’t have a car yet, and my mother made him come in and have a piece of cake. It was the 15th of September. If I ever forget that date, my mom’ll kill me.”
ECHO
Lucas rode up in the elevator with a nurse who looked down with a disgusted expression at the puddle spreading across the linoleum flooring from the tip of his umbrella. “Sorry,” he apologized. “With this storm I couldn’t help getting drenched.”
He breathed in the humidity exuded by his dripping raincoat into the confined space of the elevator. He had the odd sensation that at any moment it might rain even in there. The nurse said nothing.
The doors opened before a nursing station where another woman was seated. She greeted them curtly and pointed to the office door.
The nurse rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.
The center of the room was occupied by a conference table with twelve chairs. Three physicians—one male and two female—were sitting at one end. Catarina was at the side, her back to the vast window. On that rainy night the thousands of drops trickling down the outside surface had transformed it into a mirror, glistening like silver and reflecting everything within.
One of the women rose to greet him. “Good evening. You must be Father Lucas. I’m Dr. Méndez; we spoke on the phone. These are my colleagues Dr. López and Dr. Nievas, and you already know Catarina.”
Catarina came to greet him with a quick kiss on either cheek. She was pale, seemed worried, and was clutching a small bottle of mineral water. It was unmarked, for she had picked the label into tiny pieces that lay scattered on the table.
The physician continued as soon as Lucas was seated. “Catarina tells us you know what’s happened in the last few hours. Santiago took an overdose of the sleeping pills he regularly uses. Luckily we got to him in time, and the dose he absorbed wasn’t fatal. He’s been asking to speak to you since the moment he regained consciousness.”
“Lucas, I don’t agree with this,” Catarina said. “You were the last person he phoned before he overdosed. I’m sure you know as well as I do what that means. I’m afraid of what might happen. I’m scared this might be his way of saying goodbye.”
Lucas nodded to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, but one of the woman physicians responded. “We understand your worry, Catarina, but my colleagues and I agree that this meeting could have a positive effect. Knowing he’s a devout Catholic, we believe he might find it easier to speak to his spiritual adviser than with us. We’ve kept him under close observation all day. And we all agree: Santiago is unhappy and determined—that’s not untypical of would-be suicides—but his mind is clear.”
“How can you say he’s not deranged?” Catarina protested. “For the love of God, he tried to commit suicide, and this wasn’t the first time!”
“It’s very common to think that those who decide to commit suicide are out of their minds, but that’s not necessarily the case. Or at least not most of the time. No one is entirely certain what causes depression.” The physician paused. “Right now he’s despondent, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of getting past it. He did so once before, remember. It’s been documented that in many cases of depression, each successive episode is worse than the previous one. What interests us most right now is drawing him out of his isolation so he can speak of what’s causing him such pain. We haven’t been able to help him at all, and we believe that the fact he’s willing to speak with his confessor is a hopeful sign.”