FROM BEHIND THE WHEEL, ANGEL SAID, "YOU SEE, ESPANA IS not a morning country."
I nodded at him as we bounced around another bright but unpopulated corner in Gijon, a picturesque city that reminded me of New Orleans. My passenger seat was black leatherette with no headrest, an after-market chrome stickshift rising from a rubber nipple on the floor. The speedometer optimistically suggested that Angel's SEAT 600 was capable of hitting 120 kilometers per hour, or about seventy-two mph. I decided the plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard couldn't hurt.
The flight that was supposed to leave Kennedy at eight-thirty P.M. didn't actually take off until ten-thirty. I cadged a nap during the six and a half hours in the air, but with an additional time difference of six hours, it was 11:00 A.M. Spain time before the plane landed in Madrid. At customs, the officer in a tan shirt and black epaulets checked only my passport, not the small duffel bag.
In Madrid, a cab took me to the Estacién del norte, a magnificent marble building with an orange tile roof and an elaborate, platformed interior. Unfortunately, the next train to Gijon wasn't until ten P.M. My own body clock was so screwed up that I was more hungry than sleepy. For lunch, I had a menu de dia that turned out to be four courses, wine included. The weather was pleasant, and my joints were still sore from the marathon, so to loosen up I walked around Madrid for a few hours. Grand public buildings and banks, ornate gold work bordering the doors and windows, blackened statues on the parapets. Food stores with hams and legs of lamb hanging in the windows, large whole fish staring blankly from beds of cracked ice. Men and women with lottery tickets attached by clothespins to strings around their necks, crying out extended syllables like 1930s newsboys hawking an extra edition. The entrance line for the Prado Museum, a clever entrepreneur plying the captive parents by block-printing the names of sons or daughters in the matador-of-the-day space on bullfighting posters.
I slept a little during the train ride north to Gijon. A taxi strike was in progress when we arrived at six A.M. I wasted another couple of hours before Angel, a scholarly looking guy of thirty, befriended me. I'd had the foresight to cash two hundred dollars into pesetas before I'd boarded the plane in New York, and we agreed on a fair price for driving me where I wanted to go. Now, in the car, I found I had to focus on what Angel was saying to follow him at all.
"You see, the Alcalde, how you say it, the major of the city?"
"Mayor."
"Si, si, the mayor. He want to make the taxis to forty more, but the drivers, they say no. They have the huelga, the strike, si?"
"Right."
"Like from the beisbol?"
"Same word, different meaning."
"Si, si." Angel swerved around a piece of lumber in the road.
"You will stay in Gijon when we get back?"
"I'm not sure."
"You should stay in our city. Gijon is a better city from Madrid. No much expensive, good food, less persons. No crimes, you don't lock the doors in the night. Most days, we have the rain, but for you, the sunshine."
We left Gijon behind and began winding through the countryside.
Full morning light lifted the dew from green hills, occasional glimpses of the ocean to our right. Except for the curvature of the earth, I could have seen the south of England.
We'd been paralleling the coast for a few miles when Angel pointed. "The corrida of Candas you ask me for."
A line of stone cabanas overlooked a jettied beach. Some small fishing boats were grounded on the sand, mooring lines swaying up to the cabanas. Part of the jetty curved around, creating an enclosure that might be dry at low tide.
I said, "Slow down a little, please."
Angel did. A ritzy outdoor café was opening on the town side of the bullring, white tables and chairs under red umbrellas.
"A man of great sculpture live here before they kill him. He was name Anton. There is a museo just for him. You have the time for it?"
"Maybe later." The cliff was rugged, dotted with gulls hovering and landing. The promontory rose about a hundred feet from jagged rocks poking through the surf. I didn't see what I was looking for.
"Can we drive around a bit?"
"Around the town?"
"Yes."
"Si. Candas is a nice town, you see."
We drove through narrow streets, cobblestoned walkways covered against the climate by the overhang of buildings. Little cottages of beige stucco under orange roofs, flower boxes and pots in the windows. A carefully restored theater commanded the main drag.
"Can we drive up, Angel?"
"Up? Si, up."
We ascended and rounded a curve, and there it was. I let him go past, keeping track of where it was as we continued on.
After a few blocks I said, "I'd like to walk for a while. Choose a bar to sit in, drinks on me."
"I can walk you, tell you some things."
"I'd rather try it on my own. Can I leave the duffel bag here in the car?"
Angel shrugged and parked under a sign that said Cerveza.
I approached the house, catching just the perspective in the photo on Ray Cuervo's bookshelf at the veal plant. Peeking through blinds, I couldn't see anyone. I tried the front door. Unlocked.
I entered the house of the late Dr. Enrique Cuervo Duran. A lot of dark beams contrasted with rough plaster on ceilings and some walls. Beneath my feet the reddish tile on the floor was set in black grout, the staircase Ray Cuervo had described stretching upward in front of me. I stood still long enough to be sure no one was moving in the house. Beyond the staircase I came into a room with a view of both the ocean and the bullring below, some gulls hanging and wheeling in the air currents above the cliff.
On the lawn, Inés Roja lounged in one of two chairs, perhaps twenty feet from the edge of the drop-off. A small wicker table sat between her and the empty chair. On the table stood a dark green wine bottle and a single, clear glass, like an iced tea tumbler. Roja's hands were folded in her lap, chin tilted into the sun, eyes closed. I walked outside, the breeze freshening as I reached her. Resplendent in a long-sleeved dress over sandals, she turned her head slowly to me. The black hair was slicked back, held in place by dainty silver combs. As her eyes opened, a lazy smile crossed her face.
"Not surprised, Inés?"
"I was expecting you." She motioned at the other chair. "You will have some cider?"
"No thanks."
"A pity. It is new sidra, just opened. It will be very sweet."
"No."
When I stayed standing, Roja got to her feet, picking up the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other. She held the bottle high over her head and the tumbler at waist level.
Pouring three inches of cloudy yellow liquid in an exaggerated arc into the tumbler, Roja said, "To carbonate the sidra." She held the glass up to the sunlight and spoke to it. "The professor is dead, then?"
I waited a beat. "Yes."
A dreamy smile this time. "And you have come to kill me."
"No, Inés."
"Then to… arrest me."
I didn't say anything to that.
Roja shook her head. After drinking the cider down, she poured another few ounces. Back in her chair, Roja set the bottle on the table and sipped from the glass. "Sit, John."
I couldn't see any weapons. Angling the empty chair away from the cliff, I sank into it. "You seem awfully at home here for a refugee from Cuba."
Roja closed her eyes. "If you have come this far, that tragic tale no longer persuades you."
"It doesn't. Still, the Marielito story was clever: nobody would inquire too much about a Cuba you never knew. Of course, your father didn't die on a boat at sea."
A small grimace.
"Your father committed suicide, here in Candas. Just after his cover-up came to light."
"Does it amuse you to hurt me, John?"
Roja's tone was flat, emotionless.
I short-formed Steven O'Brien's clippings in Providence. "Your father was Luis Loredo Mendez, basically the local prosecutor. His old friend Dr. Enrique was dying. The doctor had saved the life of the prosecutor's young wife, Monica Roja Berrocal, in childbirth. Your mother, Inés, having you. Your father looked the other way when Maisy Andrus helped the doctor along. When everything came out, your father was disgraced."
Tears began to gather next to the nose under each lid.
"He killed himself, you and your mother leaving Spain for New York. Eventually, you found out that Andrus was still rich and famous, while you and your mother – "
"Lived in a rathole, John." Same flat tone, no trace of rancor. "A vile, crumbling tenement in the Bronx. I spent years thinking about Maisy Andrus, about what she had done to my family. While my mother died slowly, cleaning for other people of means like the good professor."
I lowered my voice. "So you got the job as her secretary in Boston."
"Yes."
"How?"
Roja finished her glass and poured some more, minus the exaggerated arc. "It was easy. Growing up in New York, I read the newspapers, articles about the great Maisy Andrus. Giant of the law, champion of those without hope. But I never forgot what she did to us. Last year, the week my mother died, I saw such an article. It was… intolerable. I took the train to Boston. I went to the law school, to see Andrus. To think out a proper way to kill her.
"But the great professor was interviewing for a new secretary that day. She came from her office, hardly glancing at me. 'Are you my next interview?' she said. Realizing she did not recognize me, I said yes. In her office, Andrus said, 'What is your name?' I replied in the American fashion, 'Inés L. Roja.' I was thinking to add 'The L is for Loredo,' my father's surname, when she said, 'I have property in Spain. If you speak Spanish, it would be a great help to me.' If Andrus had not done that, I don't know how I would have dealt with her."
"But she did."
"So poor with the memory of names, so ignorant of our language and culture. She did not recognize even my mother's surname."
"And that gave you the idea."
"Yes. " The dreamy smile again. "Manolo had never met me here, and her stepson Ramon never visited the law school or her home in Boston. I decided it would be better to stay close to her for a time. To make her die slowly, like those she had hurt."
"The reason you volunteered for the AIDS clinic."
A shiver. "It was horrible. But I learned. I learned that the AIDS was a fitting death for the good professor. However, it was uncertain and could take years in the coming. That was too long."
"So you went to the veterinary clinic instead."
"I read first. I researched and studied until I found what I wanted. Then I went to the clinic. A doctor there was beginning a new project. He needed help. It took me only a short time to gain his confidence."
"And then it wasn't so hard to get what you needed."
"I knew the incubation period could vary, so I had to be careful."
Roja took more cider. "But when she comes back from her rich lady vacation in the Caribbean, she has a little problem from a mosquito bite. It is nothing, but it is enough."
Andrus had said that it was like someone's spit on her neck. "So that's how you administered the rabies."
The voice of a teacher, explaining the instructions to a test. "I scrape the skin. I watch the little points of blood come up. I have the saliva specimen on a gauze pad, and I spread it on her. Later she tells me how much her neck itches. I know from then that I have done it, that I now can just wait and enjoy it."
There was something very wrong. Roja was too calm, feeding it to me too freely. "The notes, Inés. Why the notes?"
"To bring on her worry. To ruin her peace of mind even before I have the chance to give her the rabies. Do you see? To make her think about dying, like my father, my mother. And me."
"The notes were risky."
"Yes, but I researched them as well. I read the files of hate letters she received. I made certain that my notes sounded as though a man had sent them."
"Why did you come to me?"
Roja frowned. "The notes in the mail were not working on Andrus, John. Not even the one I put in the mailbox of the house. I got Alec concerned about them, but he could not cause the great professor to worry either. Even when I went to the police, the idiot Neely I know will never think of me. No, even then she is not upset enough."
"So you bring me in, to make it seem like something she should be worrying about."
"Yes."
"That was taking a bigger risk, wasn't it?"
The dreamy smile was making me chilly. "You flatter yourself, John, It was some risk. But I needed you for another reason also."
I said, "Manolo."
A gentle tipping of the head. "Manolo fired the shots at us. Outside the house, to make the good professor more scared, but also to keep everyone thinking it is a man behind the notes. A rifle is a man's weapon."
I didn't bother to debate her. "How did you get Manolo to do that?"
Roja poured more cider. "I explained to him that a bad man was trying to scare the great professor with the notes, that she had to take the threat more seriously. That he had to help me persuade her."
"So Manolo shoots to miss."
"But to hit the mailbox, to lead you to the new note in it."
"Why didn't you send any notes to San Diego?"
A shrug. "The one at the school had no effect on Andrus when she came back from Sint Maarten. Also, I found the notes were not… satisfying unless I was near her, to see her reaction to them as they arrive."
"And last Wednesday night, at the house?"
"Simple. I tell Manolo, 'The professor is in danger, go get your rifle!' Then, downstairs, I unlock the door for you. When Manolo comes back from his room, I sign to him about you. I tell him, 'Cuddy. Cuddy is the bad one.' "
I said, " 'He is going to shoot the professor.' "
Now a wicked smile. "I tell him the same thing I can yell at you when I hear your voice downstairs."
"You hit Manolo's arm, threw off his aim."
"I can't let him kill you." A condescending glance. "I thought you were a professional, that you would shoot him with ease. Then you stumble on the stairs, and I realize that he will kill you. That is not sure enough."
"Not sure enough of Manolo being out of the picture."
"Exactly."
"And you couldn't let him live because – "
"Because he would discover that I killed the woman he took an oath to the old doctor to protect. Manolo would not rest until he found me." The wicked smile again. "That is the other reason I needed you, John. I did not want to die the way Manolo would avenge Andrus's murder."
I kept my voice as neutral as possible. "After that, in the hospital, why did you tell me you thought somebody else was helping Manolo'?"
"Because I thought you would see it anyway. Also, I cannot dare being there as she suffers the seizures, so I wanted to be sure you are bothering her with questions. Questions that she would have no patience for as the disease grew within her."
"Why come back here, Inés?"
"To live in this house as my home! Andrus destroyed my family, took my father from my mother and me. We left in shame for what she did. Now the great professor repays her debt."
The pupils danced in Roja's head. "The irony, John, do you see the… exquisite irony? Andrus could not live here, not even for a day, because she killed her husband. I will live here, for the rest of my life, because I have killed her."
"Inés, the Spanish authorities aren't going to allow that."
"You know them so well?"
"I know the police in Boston. And the prosecutors. They'll pursue you through the government here."
"Extradition?" She slurred the word.
I said, "Yes."
"Do you really believe I will let that happen, John?"
"You confessed to me. No compulsion, no threats. The scientific evidence from the autopsy will establish Andrus was killed by rabies."
"Only three persons ever lived once the rabies fit comes. I know, I did my research well." Roja blinked, shifting clumsily in her chair.
"Andrus always… spouted her message, John, that it is right to die. Now she has become her message. It was right for her to die."
"Inés, I'm going to the police here. They'll hold you for the authorities in the States. The law will catch up to you."
"The law?" Roja laughed, that merry sound from the St. Patrick's Day party. "John, John. The great professor had such faith in the law. So much faith. Well, I do not. When my father was disgraced and Andrus went unpunished, I lost my… taste for the law."
Melodramatically, Roja swung her gaze around us. I looked quickly, but saw only a gull, landing at the edge of the cliff.
"This is where I should have spent my life, John. I may have lost my taste for the law, but I have found revenge to be quite sweet."
She lifted the tumbler, a little unsteadily. "Like new sidra on the tongue."
I was about to tell her she'd had enough when the glass slipped from her hand and thumped onto the grass. Roja's eyes rolled up into her head as she slid down and out of her chair, hitting the ground before I could catch her. The impact knocked loose one of her silver combs.
On my knees, I cradled Roja's head in my right palm. "What did you take?"
Her lips barely moved. "It is too late."
"Inés, what did you put in the cider?"
The eyes came back, but unfocused. "I did all my research well. See, I even cheat the hangman."
"Inés – "
"Tell me, John. Do you really believe in the law?"
The wind whipped a hank of hair across her face. I brushed it away from her mouth. "Like you once said, Inés, I'd rather put my faith in people."
The merry laugh spooked the gull. Its shadow passed over us as Inés Loredo Roja went slack against my hand