There was no need.
“Either you will tell me what is going on or I will explode,” the German officer said, her eyes still closed. Smiling and drowsy, she listened to Amaia’s account, then congratulated her and gave her an affectionate hug. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” Amaia replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
“Natürlich!” her friend said, rolling her eyes. “And now, my little Amaia of the valley, tell your friend Gertie the truth.”
Amaia shut her eyes and chewed her lower lip. “Scared, Gertha. I’m scared. This is the real thing, friend, not an exercise. If I make a mistake, people could die. I can’t get that out of my mind. It’s all very fine to discuss theories in an office, but yesterday, when I saw the horrible wound in that child’s head . . . They think I’m out of my depth, and what if they’re right?”
Gertha took Amaia’s hands in her own. “Listen to me, Amaia. We do not know one another very long, but I see things in you. What makes you strong, what makes you fragile, the questions you always ask yourself—I hope someday you will find the answers to them. You are good, Amaia Salazar, you are strong. But more than that: you are an outstanding police officer. You have the instincts of a born detective. Dupree isn’t stupid. He saw it too.”
“Yes, but if—”
“No ifs! Go to New Orleans, do a good job. Do not be afraid, and stick to your guns. That is what Dupree wants. He said this yesterday, correct? And don’t forget that yes, they are FBI agents, but you are not a cadet. You were the youngest assistant inspector ever in your force. You tracked down a collector, for God’s sake! And you did it all by yourself. You hold your head high, Amaia of the valley, and do your job!”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Amaia checked the time. She still had twenty minutes. She opened the door and found a woman in uniform standing in the hall.
“Assistant Inspector Salazar? You have a telephone call from Spain.”
She felt a chill. Only one person could be calling, and it could only mean bad news.
Amaia couldn’t hide her concern. Gertha frowned, detecting it. Amaia gave her an unconvincing smile and then followed the officer to a room with half a dozen phone booths. She went to the one the woman indicated and picked up the phone.
“Aunt Engrasi, are you all right?”
The calm, beloved voice came to her through the line. “I’m fine, dear, and I didn’t want to alarm you. How are you? And how’s everything going?”
“I’m fine, Auntie, it’s going really well. But what is it? Why are you calling?”
She heard a tense silence at the other end of the line. Amaia could almost see her aunt Engrasi in the big armchair next to the little telephone table. Her hair would be up in a Parisian bun, and the window would be open to let the breezes from the River Baztán in to cool her house.
“Amaia, it’s about your father. He’s very ill. On Sunday he had another attack, and he’s been in the hospital for the past three days. I didn’t call before this because I didn’t want to worry you, but his condition has gotten much worse in the last few hours.”
No, no! Anything but that!
“Auntie . . .”
“The cardiologist says he won’t hold out much longer. I am so very sorry, Amaia.”
She remembered staring up at her father from the hospital bed all those years ago and making that terrible pledge to him.
She didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the little shelf below the telephone, which clearly served as a writing surface. It was marked with dozens, maybe hundreds of scribbles from different pens. In the middle of the chaos, someone had sketched a heart, going over the lines so many times that it stood out from the tangle of random marks and designs that surrounded it. She traced the heart with one finger.
“Amaia. When you were twelve, I swore I’d always tell you the truth. I wish I could lie to you now, but I’m keeping my promise.” Engrasi’s firm voice broke a little. “Amaia, your father is dying. If you want to say goodbye, you have to come back now.”
9
APEX
Elizondo
Amaia thought it was strange that Aunt Engrasi had sent her to bed so early. She was allowed to watch television after dinner—not too much TV, because Engrasi liked to read in the evening, and when Amaia’s bedtime came, she usually went to bed as well. So Amaia pretended to be sleeping when she heard the creak of the floorboard outside her room. The door opened just enough to throw a narrow band of white light across the dark wooden floor of her bedroom. That’s when someone rang the doorbell and Aunt Engrasi went to see who it was.
Amaia tiptoed across her room, carefully stepped over the squeaky spot in the hall, and went to the top of the stairs. Engrasi’s friends often came in the afternoon to visit and play cards, but no one had ever come to their home at this late hour. Engrasi opened the front door.
Amaia’s heart leaped with joy when she recognized her father’s voice. She was about to fling herself down the stairs and hug him, but his words stopped her cold.
“Your phone call really scared me. I came as soon as I could.”
“There are problems, Juan.” Her aunt’s voice was earnest. “It’s Amaia.”
The child held her breath, though those words stung her. Problems with her? She didn’t understand. She did her best to be a good girl, despite the constant harassment from other children. She waited until her father and aunt had gone into the living room and then she crept down the stairs. She sat in a dark corner and listened, her index finger tracing the fanciful design of the grain in the banister railing. It resembled a heart.
Her father’s voice was emphatic. “If you want to talk about sending her to school in Pamplona, I’ll refuse again. It’s hard enough for me that the girl can’t live at home. You know how much we have to do at the bakery, and if she transfers to Pamplona, I’ll never get to see her. As long as she’s here, at least I see her on her way to and from school.”
Amaia was about to turn twelve, and she was a superb student. They’d already had her skip two grades, and she would finish middle school that coming June. She didn’t want to go to the local high school. Her classmates already thought it bizarre for her to be finishing eighth grade when other kids her age were only in sixth. One of her teachers had told her about a boarding school in Pamplona, a place where kids even younger than her were doing advanced work. She wouldn’t stand out there. Amaia had come back home, pleased and hopeful, carrying a brochure for the school. The idea had disconcerted her aunt a bit at first, but, as always, Engrasi took her side, knowing how cruel the other pupils could be to her. Juan knew it too. He was extremely proud of his daughter, but he wouldn’t hear of Amaia going to school away from their town.
“School has nothing to do with it.” Engrasi’s voice was tense. She was worried. “I’m concerned about something a good deal more delicate.”
Juan waited, stubbornly wrapped in deep silence.
“A couple of weeks ago, I was helping Amaia comb out the tangles in her hair. I didn’t mean to, but I hurt her when I touched her scar.”
Her father held his breath. Crouching on the stairs, Amaia put up her right hand and probed the rough edges of the healed gash under her hair.