Turned to Stone Page 14

  At that moment a door squeaked and a man with a red handkerchief tied over his head appeared among them.

  “Just what we needed,” Jaime mumbled. “Who’s this? Captain Blood?”

  The new arrival whispered something to one of the pirates, and the figure immediately drew back. Then he nodded at the other two, who stood at attention and then disappeared into the smoke. The man stood in front of the two prisoners and glanced from one to the other.

  “Vicente Amatriaín and Jaime Azcárate,” he said in a mocking tone. The words were in Spanish, but his accent was Italian. “This really is my lucky day.”

  Jaime stayed silent. He could think of a thousand things to say, but none of them would improve their situation. He thought he’d let the stranger explain himself, but then he realized the man was not going to explain a thing. Instead, he took a couple of steps away and then spun back around, pointing an automatic pistol at them.

  “We’ll be finished in a few minutes’ time, but I can’t leave the ship without finishing the job my sister left half-done.”

  As if in slow motion, Jaime saw the man’s finger leave the barrel and curve down over the trigger.

  It was true what people said; in the end, a person’s life really does flash before his eyes.

  His birth on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Alexandria.

  His training as an art historian at the Complutense University of Madrid, where he met Paloma. His travels to Egypt and his return. His time as a scriptwriter for a TV mystery series.

  His reunion with Laura Rodríguez. His appointment at Arcadia and all the adventures he’d had since.

  After all that, this miserable freighter was about to become his tomb. Jaime gave a wry smile. He had come into the world on a ship and he was about leave it on another, in virtually the same waters.

  He closed his eyes and prepared himself for the shot, which came two seconds later. He felt no pain, just a current of air to his right. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Amatriaín had launched himself at their captor and run his throat through with some kind of grappling hook.

  The pirate, his eyes bulging in horror, was bent double and blood gushed from his mouth. His expression betrayed a hatred that was even greater than his pain. “Porco albino . . .” He crashed to the ground like a felled tree. Jaime let out all the air he’d been holding and looked at Amatriaín, who still held the hook, dripping with blood.

  “What just happened?”

  “I found this by the port gunwale and figured it wouldn’t hurt to hide a weapon nearby.” Amatriaín was panting. He didn’t take his eyes off the body. “It’s one of the grapnels these bastards used to board us.”

  “That looks serious.”

  “ ‘Serious’? He’s dead.”

  “Not him, you!”

  Amatriaín touched his shoulder and discovered that he was indeed wounded. The pirate had shot Amatriaín as he attacked.

  “Hold still.” Jaime took the handkerchief off the dead man and used it as a tourniquet on Amatriaín. He pulled the knot tight and examined the result, unconvinced. “That’s the best I can do for now.”

  “Thanks,” Amatriaín said through clenched teeth.

  “You stay here and keep still. I’ll go down and help the others, and I’ll bring back a first-aid kit. Does it hurt pretty bad?”

  “Azcárate, we have to get out of here. He said that the ship—”

  “Tell me later.”

  Amatriaín clamped his hand around Jaime’s arm. It was the second time he’d try to stop him that night. Jaime turned and stared at him in fury. Amatriaín’s eyes were barely visible through the smoke. “What are you doing? They’re going to suffocate if we don’t get them out of there!”

  “They’re dead already! And we will be too in a minute. The ship’s going down, you heard that bastard.”

  “And you believed him? That’s the biggest load of—”

  A violent explosion cut Jaime off midsentence and he fell back as the Artemis’s bow was momentarily lifted above the water. After a few seconds, a huge wave crashed over the ship and swept away everything that wasn’t chained in place, including the two men. Water poured into the hatches and portholes as an immense orange flame emerged from the starboard side of the freighter, like a great steel dragon spitting fire.

  The Artemis had been mortally wounded.

  The inside of the hold was an inferno. Flames licked through the thin bulkheads and set fire to Sonia Durán’s jacket. She tore it off and ran to the other side of the hold with the others. Discovering that the container had been looted was a blow, and finding themselves surrounded by a blue mist had been a nightmare. But that was nothing compared to the sheer terror they felt when they realized the ship was on fire.

  Seconds after Jaime and Amatriaín had left the hold, Kraniotis went out to see what was happening and was immediately struck on the head by some mysterious object.

  Sonia Durán screamed, Lucas Andrade froze, and the rest looked on in bewilderment. All were thinking the same absurd thing.

  The curse of Medusa.

  Though none thought they believed in such superstitions, they still were momentarily immobilized by fear driven by circumstances they could not understand. Finally they ran toward the door, but it closed before they could escape. They screamed and banged against it, but their efforts were useless.

  Kraniotis quickly recovered from the blow to his head and tried to smash open the door with a heavy marble bust that the thieves had left behind. He had nearly succeeded when a massive explosion shook the ship under them. In an instant they felt the ground tipping, and they fell and rolled to the back wall of the hold.

  Kraniotis scratched his way up from the floor and tried again to get the door open. The place was starting to feel like an oven, but he persisted. It was only when he saw great puffs of black smoke emerging from the bulkhead that he grew truly afraid.

  Sonia Durán cried out in horror as the realization that they had to escape or be burned to death set in. Kraniotis removed his shirt and tore off the sleeves. He threw one to Sonia and put the other over his mouth and nose.

  “Cover your nose and mouth. Don’t breathe in the smoke.”

  The others followed suit. Kraniotis saw that the flames were now getting through the bulkhead’s boards and he advanced toward them, clutching the marble bust. Slowly but urgently, he struck the wood, and eventually created a soccer ball–sized hole. A great black cloud flooded through the opening and filled the entire hold. Ignoring it, he pulled at the loose ends of the boards, which split with a crunching sound. Finally he managed to make a hole in the bulkhead big enough for a person to pass through. “Come on, get out! Fast!” Kraniotis screamed. The two women, Lucas Andrade, and the three other researchers escaped through the hole.

  Because he was the last to go through, he was the last to see the horror that awaited at the end of their improvised passageway. Through the flames he saw the engine room burning and then the fire setting the fuel tank alight. The second explosion came as a surprise, immobilizing them in the face of the fire show. Suddenly a ball of flames engulfed the engine room with a heat that could be felt across the entire ship.

  The men and women instantly burned to death. They barely had time to feel pain or to understand what had happened. In an instant, their bodies were turned to charred flesh and their lives were swallowed up by the hungry vortex of fire.

  20

  The current of seawater and spray dragged Jaime Azcárate the length of the deck, as if he were riding the flume at a water park. He was afraid he’d be smashed against the stern, which drew ever closer. On his violent journey he’d crashed into several crates; others came free from their securing lines and he barely avoided being crushed by them. In desperation, he stretched out his hand, searching for something to grab hold of. A chain attached to a container scraped the ski
n off his palm, but it stopped him and kept him from being smashed to a pulp. Wave after wave crashed down, pounding him mercilessly. The pressure on his chest was great, and he felt the agony of someone drowning. He scarcely had time to suck in a little air before each new wave engulfed him.

  Between waves he looked around for Amatriaín, but he had disappeared from sight. All that seemed to remain was the imposing column of smoke caused by the fire, which mixed with the blue mist, creating an effect like two pots of paint thrown on a canvas.

  For a full minute Jaime clung to the chain, trying to time his breathing with the waves. When they began to subside he attempted to stand, but his knees failed him and he fell back down with a splash. Eventually he managed to clamber onto his knees, still clasping the chain. Bruised and battered, his lungs sore, he spit out water, checked to make sure nothing was broken, and resumed his search for Amatriaín.

  He eventually spied him huddled against the starboard gunwale. Other than the wound to his shoulder, he appeared unscathed.

  Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Can you get to me?”

  Amatriaín raised his hand and let it fall. The signal meant nothing to Jaime, so he decided he’d have to be the one to make his way to the gunwale. When he finally reached it he grabbed hold of it and crawled along it to where the EHU officer was lying. “Are you all right?”

  Amatriaín spat out water and gave him a blank look, nodding.

  In one swift movement, Jaime snatched the pistol from his holster.

  “What are you doing?” said Amatriaín, alarmed.

  “Wait here. Don’t let go of the gunwale.”

  Jaime ignored Amatriaín’s protests and practically flew to the hatch, from which a foul-smelling black smoke now emanated. He felt sheer horror at the thought that his colleagues might have perished, but he could not let fear paralyze him. Breathing in air and courage, he leapt into the flaming hole and dragged himself down the passageway to the hold door.

  This time he aimed straight at the lock and fired three times. His eyes were watering from the salt and smoke. Fear turned to surprise when he entered and saw that the hold was empty. At first he was confused, but he felt a surge of hope when he made out a hole in one of the walls and understood that his colleagues may have escaped. It was time for him and Amatriaín to do the same.

  At the end of the passageway the flames were advancing from the engine room, reducing to ashes everything in their path. If he didn’t want to end his days there, he had to get out now.

  Jaime felt the smoke in his mouth and nose. He felt lost and no longer had any idea where to find the ladder to the deck. His head spun and he fell to his knees. The bony hand of death pressed tighter and tighter on his lungs.

  Then he made out something beside him: a blackened form alongside several others of various sizes. He realized with horror that he was looking at the charred remains of his colleagues. Professor San Román, Andrade, Sonia . . . they were all dead.

  The sight paralyzed him. He knew then that it was too late. He had tempted fate and had lost. He teetered on the verge of unconsciousness and his eyes filled with tears, his throat dry. He knew asphyxiation was preferable to burning to death, so he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the stinking, deadly smoke.

  21

  Madrid

  In an unknown location, hidden in the shadows, the gorgon Medusa displayed her defiant, demonic smile. There was nothing else in the mysterious room. Just her, standing proudly in the middle of her murky kingdom.

  In all her existence only once had she been defeated. Perseus, son of Zeus and Danaë, had caused her to fall into her own trap. After tricking her with a bronze shield that allowed him to see her reflection without being turned into stone, Perseus cut off her head. In the wake of her humiliating defeat, the monster had sworn never to let anyone else get the better of her.

  A door opened, causing Medusa to take on a tinge of yellow in the light, and a dark shape slipped into the gorgon’s dominion.

  Paloma Blasco heard the beating of her heart and an inner voice telling her to escape while she still could. But something was calling her onward, a force so seductive it was impossible to refuse. She advanced slowly until she was upon the creature and able to rest her hand on the swirl of serpents that crowned her head. Paloma had always imagined the snakes in motion, as if performing a hideous dance, but she found only cold and lifeless stone. If the Medusa’s face had once shown emotion, that expression had since completely disappeared.

  Despite her disenchantment, Paloma felt compelled to confirm whether or not the legend was real.

  She felt around the monster’s head with both hands, seeking some kind of opening mechanism. After several attempts she was certain that the solid bust was nothing more than a lump of marble.

  With this realization, her world came crashing down. She felt that she had failed: not just in relation to the Medusa but in all she’d done with her life. She had missed her chance to get married, to have a family. Her work, her friends, her whole life was a mess. Unable to control herself, she sat at the foot of the statue, put her head between her legs, and sobbed. She had never before felt so sad and defeated.

  Suddenly, the wall in front of her lit up with a weak reddish glow that seemed to originate somewhere above her head. A blue smoke came from out of nowhere and began to envelop her. Paloma dried her tears and looked up. Through the smoke she saw a pair of stern-looking but inanimate stone eyes.

  Then the eyes filled with life and looked at her, reddish flashes issuing from the marble pupils. The hideous creature bent her neck and let out a howl.

  Paloma screamed and threw herself toward the door, but it slammed shut, trapping her. She looked back. Medusa was advancing through the smoke, arms outstretched, with a fierce expression on her face.

  “Help!” Paloma shouted to no one. She broke her fingernails scratching at the door. This could not be happening! Her face a mask of horror, Paloma watched as the vile woman devoured her from the feet up and screamed until there were no screams left.

  Terror, pain, agony . . . and then the end.

  It was all over.

  Sweat.

  The sheets were soaking, as was her body.

  Paloma sat up in her bed and rested her back against the headboard, trying to slow her breathing.

  As she had countless times before, she wondered if she was going crazy. This was not the first time she’d had such a nightmare, not even the first time this week. It had been happening every other night. When she wasn’t dreaming about the sculpture, she dreamed about Jaime. She couldn’t understand how he and the Medusa had reappeared in her life at practically the same time. Sometimes they even came to her in the same dream. And Amanda, her son, and Oscar Preston had been the next people to get embroiled in the whole business. Paloma had tried to reason with her friend and convince her to turn the matter over to the police, but Amanda was terrified by the idea that Hugo’s captors could harm him. In the end Paloma had admitted that she was working on some research that was still unfinished. That research had to be what Oscar Preston wanted. She promised Amanda that together they would find a solution, but at no point did she promise that she would hand over her work.

  This was all her fault. It was all because of her ambition. She’d never had much contact with Hugo, but he was her best friend’s son, and if something happened to him she would never forgive herself. She hated herself for even thinking she might withhold her work. How could she even consider such a thing?

  She wondered whether she should seek medical help, or just try to forget about pursuing her dreams. No. It was too late. Just a little bit longer, and it would all be over.

  She rolled over, not feeling much conviction at that assessment, and tried to go back to sleep.

  22

  Piraeus

  When the cloud of smoke dissipated, Jaime expected to
see the face of the devil himself. Instead he found himself gazing at the soot-blackened features of a man who was looking at him with concern. The face didn’t seem familiar, but Jaime’s brain wasn’t in any condition to recognize people. “No, Paloma,” he muttered, battling back toward consciousness. “I promise I won’t do it again . . .”

  “Who’s Paloma?” The stranger spoke in English.

  Jaime turned his head and saw that he was lying beside a container on the main deck of the Artemis. The ship was stationary and had heeled over to starboard. A strange red haze kept him from seeing clearly, and when he tried to wave it away he realized there was blood in his eyes. As he sat up, pain seared his temples and the face before him split into three.

  “Take it easy, buddy. You’ve had a good crack to the head.”

  The voice was deep and calm. Jaime had heard it before, but the man in front of him didn’t look much like the friendly, red-bearded inspector who owned it. The beard, like the hair, was nearly gone, leaving only a charred, straw-like mass where it had been. “Kraniotis . . .” Jaime said. “What happened to the others?”

  “There was nothing I could do for them.” He gave Jaime a devastated look.

  Jaime pushed himself up with his elbows and wiped the blood from his forehead. He didn’t have to be an expert on freighters to know that the boat, now tilting several degrees to starboard, was quickly sinking. “What happened?” he asked.

  “The engine room blew. I saw them die . . .”

  Memories of the charred bodies came back to Jaime. “How am I still alive?” he managed to ask.