The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,117
accepted that reminder with a nod. Turning away to give Amaia her privacy, he said, “Don’t you think we should go get her?”
“Yes,” said Dupree. “We should. But give her another minute.”
They chose a fairly large house two streets farther west, announced their presence loudly, and shined the searchlight beam into the windows before concluding the place was empty. Then they forced a second-floor window open and crawled inside. Straightening up, they experienced the odd sensation of being able to stand erect and take steps across a firm surface after the long hours in the Zodiac. The staircase to the lower floor was flooded right up to the top. The second floor had three bedrooms in good shape and a bathroom where toilet overflow had left a foul and stinking mess. Johnson closed the bathroom door while Bill and Bull surveyed the rooms and checked a low, windowless attic crammed with junk.
The air inside was hot and heavy and humid and reeked of slime. Even so, they were grateful they could stretch out, take off their protective equipment, and settle down. In tacit accord, they avoided the beds. Taking shelter under an unknown stranger’s roof was one thing, but sleeping in unmade beds with outlines left in the bedclothes by the former inhabitants was another. Instead, the team gathered cushions and pillows, placed them along the wall, and sat together on the floor of the room they’d first entered.
The darkness outside was absolute, a black void with not a star in sight. Now that the helicopters had returned to base, the only sounds were their breathing and the creaks of swelling wood and timbers absorbing the foul water. They’d eaten nothing but granola bars since their hasty breakfast at the fire station. They parceled out the night’s rations and ate. Their spirits were lifted for the first time that day; they even smiled a bit in the eerie light of their electric lamps.
Johnson spoke to Amaia. “I was trying to think all day long why your hometown sounded so familiar, and I finally remembered. Early in my career, I was assigned to a unit that tracked fanatical religious sects; that was before I got into behavioral analysis. The literature frequently referred to the Pyrenees, especially the border region where Spain meets France. Lots of stories about witchcraft, rites, and covens of witches. Zugarramurdi and those other places must be fairly close to your town. You’re from Elizondo, right?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I am. And they’re not far away.”
“Come to think of it, wasn’t Elizondo one of the places the Inquisition went looking for the devil?”
Amaia said nothing.
Johnson’s eyes sparkled. He was into the subject. “Yes, that was Elizondo,” he said, pleased he’d remembered the story. “And the attorney for the Inquisition had your name, Salazar.” His revelation made the others look up. “Alonso de Salazar Frías!”
“The Inquisition were like the guys at the Salem witch trials, weren’t they?” Charbou asked. “You related to them, Salazar? Maybe he was an ancestor?”
“I doubt it,” she said grimly. “My family name comes from a river near where I was born.”
“But did you ever look into it?” Johnson insisted, rubbing a palm across his bushy mustache. “I think it’d be really interesting. I know a researcher who’s good at genealogical research; she can track a family name back hundreds of years.”
Dupree, who’d been watching Amaia closely during this exchange, intervened. “Johnson, seems to me Salazar’s not interested.”
“But why not?” Bull asked. He was surprised. “If it were me, I’d sure want to know all about it.”
Johnson didn’t give up. “If your family has always lived in that region, it seems likely that sometime or other they could have attended the Inquisition’s trials. As witnesses, maybe; maybe even as defendants. I’m remembering now that when Salazar the investigator was sent to look for the devil, he received thousands of denunciations. Must’ve affected the entire population in one way or another.”
“How many people live in your town now?” Charbou asked.
“About three thousand.”
“There you go!” Johnson exclaimed. “Every single soul probably either denounced someone or was accused by his neighbors!”
“Exactly!” she replied bitterly.
Dupree addressed Amaia. “I have the impression that bothers you. Why?”
Amaia didn’t answer.
Johnson tried to be helpful. “Assistant Inspector, that happened hundreds of years ago. If it’d been in the United States, by now the town would have six haunted hotels, three walking tours to the witches’ houses, and a dozen souvenir shops.”
“I see two possible explanations for that,” Amaia replied. “Either Americans don’t believe