Turned to Stone Read online

  Preston walked down the stairs that led to the toilets and locked himself inside. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he asked it whether it was sure about this thing he was about to do. There was no answer. His reflection appeared no clearer about the whole thing than he was. He took several deep breaths, splashed water on his face, and practiced looking confident in the mirror before tucking his shirt into his pants and heading back out into the restaurant.

  Back at their table he found a dish piled high with the most disgusting matter he had ever seen. The plate gave off a strong smoky stench that caused his nose to wrinkle involuntarily. “What is that?”

  “Chopitos.” His companion grinned.

  “Cho . . . pitos?”

  “Chopitos. They’re like baby squid. A bitch to catch, but so good.”

  Preston looked on in disgust as the man licked his lips under his comical mustache. The maniacal driving had been an early clue, and here was more evidence he was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. With some apprehension, he turned his gaze to the mountain of tiny creatures heaped on the plate. It looked like a mound of fried spiders. His eyes and his mouth worked in tandem, expressing his revulsion.

  “Come on, Preston. For fuck’s sake, it’s time you learned to eat like a Spaniard.”

  “That’s what the Spanish eat? I’ve been here over ten years and I’ve never seen anyone eat it.”

  “That’s because you don’t mix with the right people. You spend all day by yourself, dreaming about the ridiculous customs of North Dakota or South Carolina, your hotdogs and your hamburgers with burnt bacon.” He took a swig of his beer and speared one of the little creatures on the plate using a toothpick. Oscar watched in astonishment as he put it in his mouth and chewed with passion.

  “Mmm . . . delicious. You gonna eat? It’ll go cold!”

  Feeling intimidated, Preston picked up his own toothpick and skewered one of the critters, which somehow heightened its resemblance to a scaled-down version of the monster from Alien. After inspecting it, smelling it, and brushing it against his lips, he finally put it in his mouth and ground it between his teeth, careful not to let it touch his tongue.

  “Good shit, eh?”

  “Mmmff!”

  “Excellent, now let’s get down to business.” Preston’s companion paused to allow the waiter to serve a plate of grilled pig’s ear. “We know you hope to become a director at the Prado Museum.”

  “Deputy director of research and conservation,” Preston corrected him, looking curiously at the new dish. As with the previous item, these cartilaginous lumps looked unfamiliar to him, but—though equal in repugnance to the chopitos—it took some time to register that they came from an animal.

  “Whatever. Director, deputy director . . . It makes no difference. It would be an incredible job, wouldn’t it? We understand that Señorita Blasco is your biggest rival for the post.”

  “You already said that on the phone.” Preston could feel his anxiety rising, partly because of the mysterious situation and partly because of the miniature octopuses staring back with blind eyes from the plate. “Incidentally, you haven’t told me who you work for.”

  “Believe me, you’re better off not knowing. I’ll be your only contact. You can call me Clark.”

  “ ‘Clark’? You’re name’s Clark and you’re telling me to learn to eat like the Spanish?”

  “It’s a fake name. I was born in Spain, but my family’s from—Hold on, why the fuck should I tell you my life story?” Clark glanced from side to side but no one was paying them any attention. The fact that his hand had moved to the bulge in his raincoat did not escape Preston’s notice. “Here’s the deal: we’re offering to get Paloma Blasco out of the way for you, without violence and forever.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “ ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand.’ Of course you don’t understand. That’s why I’m explaining it to you.”

  Clark dug around between his teeth with a toothpick for a minute and then smoothed out his mustache with one finger. “The thing is, Paloma has secretly been conducting a study that could bring her fame and glory within a matter of days.”

  Preston’s eyes lit up. He felt half-curious, half-alarmed. “A study? What on?”

  “That’s where you come in. We want you to find out.”

  “Wait a minute. If you don’t know what it is and you say it’s a secret, how do you even know she’s doing this research?”

  “Señorita Blasco doesn’t live underground, Preston. My boss has been watching her. We know everything about her: what she does in and out of the museum; what she eats, what she drinks; who she fucks . . .” Clark allowed himself a wink at Preston over this. “We also know that she’s in possession of a document that could help convince an important client that our merchandise is genuine. We want you to get this document for us.”

  “Me? Impossible. Paloma won’t let me get anywhere near her; she hates my guts. She even accused me of sneaking into her apartment the other day.”

  “We’ve already thought of that. Please don’t underestimate us, Preston.” Clark looked and sounded agitated, but he quickly lowered his voice. “We have a plan that can get you access to Señorita Blasco’s research without you having to come into contact with Señorita Blasco herself.”

  “How?”

  “We thought we might blackmail her. We’ve been keeping an eye on her for several months and haven’t dug up a single shady affair. She doesn’t put out, if you know what I mean.” Another wink and a smile. “Earlier I told you we know everything about her. And it’s true. She drinks, she eats . . . but as for the other thing—nothing. Zero. She’s like a fucking cloistered nun. But she does have a friend—”

  “Amanda Escámez.” Preston nodded. “She works in the Technical Research Office.”

  “Well, it appears that Señora Escámez is divorced and has a son. Do you see where this is going? Is my Spanish good enough for you?”

  “I don’t know anything about Amanda.”

  “Well, you’re in luck then, because we do. She’s a lonely and bitter woman whose husband ran off with someone else and left her with only her job and her little boy. We can’t take her job away, so we’ve decided to go after the one thing she loves most in the world.”

  Preston stared at him in horror. “Her son?”

  “Tell Amanda to get Paloma’s research from her or she’ll never see her child again.”

  “But that’s insane. I’m not a kidnapper! I refuse to take part in something like this.”

  “That’s the best part. You won’t have to kidnap anyone. You won’t even have to lie. In two days Amanda will take her little boy to school like she does every day, but he won’t come back home. You’ll call her and explain what happened: a handsome stranger with blue eyes and a passion for fine dining forced you into getting the document. No, don’t even say that. If she has any brains she’ll know what’s best for her. She’ll speak to Paloma, get the document, and give it to you; you’ll give it to us, and we’ll give her back her son. And don’t give me any shit, Preston. We know your background. It won’t be the first time you’ve stooped this low.”

  “I’ve never done anything remotely like this. Why don’t you blackmail her yourselves? Why do you need me?”

  “This makes it easier to throw the cops off the scent.”

  “But the suspect for the kidnapping will be me!”

  “Keep your voice down, will you? Without proof they won’t be able to charge you. In the hypothetical case that the police come after you, you’ll honestly claim you were blackmailed. Give a false description of the blackmailer, and that’s that. The perfect plan: you’ll be safe and so will we.”

  “But I still don’t understand why—”

  “Come on, man. You’ll have to do something to earn your reward. Suppose Paloma has found something
important, something that stirs up the entire art world. Your dream job will become hers, and that’s just be the beginning. But what if, on the other hand, you reveal the discovery to the world? Here’s the deal: you get the research; we make sure Paloma disappears and the research is credited to you. Now look me in the eyes and tell me you think it’s a good idea. Do you think it’s a good idea, Preston?”

  Clark asked the question slowly, nodding his head at the same time: a crude yet effective attempt to coerce his victim. It was starting to work. The picture Clark had painted for Preston was so tempting . . . But he knew from experience that no one did favors for nothing. “Hang on. I still don’t get it. If I do all this, I get the study and the job. But what do you get?”

  Clark impaled another mini octopus and inspected it against the light before gulping it down like a whale swallowing a herring. He gave Preston a mocking look. “Us? Oh, don’t you worry about that. We’ll take the big prize. And you, my friend, won’t ask a single question.”

  Then he raised his hand and called the waiter over, ready to order another round.

  PART II

  NIGHT OF THE ARTEMIS

  14

  “Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgh!”

  Jaime Azcárate’s ferocious howl echoed off the bathroom walls as the water spraying from the shower abruptly dropped to near freezing. This had been happening a lot lately, and whenever he asked the landlady about it, she put him off with an excuse. “The boiler’s acting up,” was all she’d say. Jaime had since grown accustomed to what he called “express showers,” which saved him money by using less water and had the added advantage of wasting less time. But this morning he’d been distracted, and the torrent of cold water surprised him as he was mulling over everything he’d been obsessing about since the previous weekend.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Paloma’s reaction to him bringing up the Medusa. She had always been a little temperamental, but he didn’t see why the subject should have affected her so much. When Jaime told her they’d come close to killing him because of the piece they’d published on Bolgi, she’d stood up and practically shot out of the restaurant, as if she already knew someone had broken into her home. Why? He had no answer to that, or to the question of why that damnable Petrarca Gallery in Rome, which had once been home to the Medusa bust, was refusing to answer his calls.

  Nobody was helping him, everyone was ignoring him, and it was starting to depress him. He was grateful to at least have Roberto and his shooting lessons, though he was starting to worry that he might have a panic attack while his finger was on the trigger.

  As Jaime was putting on his bathrobe, he realized that the toilet was blocked and full of brown water. He suspected a link between the shower and this new phenomenon. This was confirmed when he turned the shower on again and a mud-colored geyser spouted from the basin. The scientific theory behind communicating vessels came to mind as he tried to solve the problem using a rubber plunger, but the problem persisted. Jaime decided he needed something lively to help him face the messy challenge with some semblance of joy, so he went out into the living area of his attic studio and headed for the stereo. Within a few seconds Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” was blasting from the speakers. He wasn’t going to let a little plumbing issue ruin his morning now that he’d finally started to feel a bit better.

  Except for a slight ache in his temples and the occasional cough, he was almost back to full health. His cold had relented in the face of an onslaught of orange juice and herbal remedies, and he could even breathe again without feeling like he was drowning. His lip had also healed well, and he no longer looked like a third-rate boxer.

  All that was left was the emptiness, and the unanswered questions.

  He was still waging battle with the plunger when he heard the doorbell ring. Could it be the plumber? he wondered in a rush of optimism. Putting his eye to the front door peephole, he saw a warped image of a tall, blond man. Suddenly he was filled with a terrible desire to climb back in bed and stay there for the rest of the day. Instead, he mustered his strength and opened the door.

  “Good morning.” The visitor ran his fingers through the hair on his temples. “I hope I haven’t woken you.”

  “Whatever you may think of me, I don’t tend to sleep with wet hair. Come in and make yourself at home. Do you feel like unblocking a toilet?”

  Vicente Amatriaín quite unnecessarily wiped his spotless shoes on the doormat and, looking a bit taken aback, followed Jaime to the bathroom. “I was wondering when you’d show up again,” Jaime said as he took up the plunger. “Laura said you’re not the type to give up.”

  “I told you we’d be in touch.” Amatriaín looked at the toilet and then the shower, which was filled with standing water. “Do you have a problem with your pipes?”

  “What would make you think that?”

  “I think I owe you an apology for getting you into this mess.”

  “So now it’s your fault my bathroom’s flooding?”

  “I’m talking about the other day. I’m sorry to have caused trouble for you.”

  “Don’t worry. I rarely say no to anything. Any day now I’ll wake up married with three kids.”

  Amatriaín gave him a polite smile. He glanced at the bathtub again and, observing Jaime’s fruitless efforts with the plunger, said, “This has all the earmarks of a blocked siphon trap.”

  “Does the EHU give you plumbing training? What’s this about a symphonic trap?”

  “Siphon, not symphonic.” Amatriaín took off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. “I have to admit, I’m a fan of your work. I’ve read many of your magazine stories and I think we could achieve great things together. Do you have a flat-head screwdriver?”

  Jaime left the bathroom and returned in an instant with an Ikea toolbox. He watched in amazement as Amatriaín laid a folded-up towel by a circular metal cover in the floor beside the toilet, then knelt on it. “Pass me the screwdriver. This is the cover for the siphon trap. I bet it’s full of muck.”

  “Would you believe it, this is the first time I’ve noticed that.” Jaime looked on as the EHU officer deftly unscrewed the cover to reveal a stinking hole full of dirty water. “I appreciate your comment about my work,” Jaime said as Amatriaín worked. “Most people I know think what I write is sensationalist trash.”

  “I don’t think that. And even if I did, it’d be trash that has thousands of devotees. I don’t suppose you have a rubber glove? I don’t want to ruin my leather ones.”

  “Would a plastic bag do?”

  Amatriaín nodded.

  Jaime brought a small plastic bag from the kitchen. Amatriaín removed one of his leather gloves and slipped the bag on like a mitten, briefly revealing a scarred, yellowing hand covered in marks like those on his face.

  “Well, well. Look what we have here.” Amatriaín pulled his plastic-wrapped fingers from the trap. He was holding a mass of hair and filth at least the width of his hand.

  Jaime looked impressed.

  “I guess I really am losing hair. It must be the stress.”

  “It’s a mystery how so much stuff ends up in there.” Amatriaín opened the toilet seat lid and threw the foul wad of matter into the bowl. “Right, it should work now.” He returned the plastic bag to Jaime and put his leather glove back on before screwing the cover back in place. “It’s true that you specialize in rather unorthodox areas of art history. But stories like yours have always had broad appeal. And if you write, it’s because you want people to read what you have to say, isn’t that true?”

  “Actually, I write so I can afford to pay for this little palace. And while I’m grateful to you for fixing my bathroom, I doubt that’s why you came here. So tell me: Why did you come?”

  “To speak to you about some work.” Amatriaín stood and removed his gloves again, taking care this time to turn his back to Jaime. He washed his hands in the sink, fr
om which the water now drained freely, and put his jacket back on. “Your expert knowledge of unusual topics is exactly what’s needed for this Medusa business.”

  “I’ve already written everything I know about the sculpture. And anyway, I don’t understand how a sensationalist story about a Medusa that causes death, hallucinations, and plague epidemics could possibly help the EHU.”

  “It might not help the EHU, but it’d be huge for the magazine. And, therefore, for you.”

  “I appreciate your interest,” Jaime said. “But I don’t need to play along with you to do that.”

  “Azcárate, you need to understand that—”

  “No. You need to understand that I don’t need any of this, so don’t come here with your underhanded tactics. You can talk straight with me or go and find yourself another idiot. Can I get you a coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  In the kitchen, Jaime unfolded the table and started the coffee maker.

  “The fact is,” Amatriaín continued, “you seem uncomfortable with this business, but I’m anxious to have you on board. I’ve followed your career closely, and, as I’ve said, I’m very impressed.”

  “Thank you. But all I want is to find out who tried to kill me in El Burgo de Osma, and why.”

  “If the aim is noble, any motive is good,” said Amatriaín.

  “Who said that?”

  “Me, actually. I just thought of it.”

  “Congratulations. And yes, finding out why someone wanted to freeze me like a codfish seems a pretty noble aim. Do you want sugar? Sweetener?”

  Jaime put two coffees on the table and set out the sugar bowl. Amatriaín helped himself to a spoonful.