فصل بیست و هفتم

27

Broken

Dr. Ferreira knew what Vidal needed him for the minute Garces knocked at his door. For a moment he was tempted to pretend he hadn’t heard the knock. What had brought him to this outpost of hell? Ferreira wondered while following Garces into the rain: fate or his own decisions? It had rained all night, and the day promised to continue under a weeping sky.

Appropriate.

Vidal was standing in front of the barn, washing his hands in a bowl of water. Ferreira was not surprised to see the blood on his fingers. Yes, it would be exactly what he had expected. Another broken man.

“Good day, Doctor.” Vidal was once again all virile pose. It was at times hard to not laugh at it, but Vidal was far too frightening a man to consider such a slip.

“Sorry to wake you so early,” he said, rolling down his sleeves. “But I think we need your help.” His shirt was clean. Vidal always made sure of that. Appearance is vastly important for those who rarely take off their masks, and Ferreira had never seen Vidal without his. What had he looked like as a child? Had his gaze been already as emotionless as now? Had he ever called someone his friend? The mask wouldn’t tell.

While following Garces through the rain, Ferreira had tried to prepare himself by imagining what they’d done to the prisoner. His imagination had failed him. He almost didn’t recognize the boy who had tried to read the newspaper in the cave in the woods.

Ferreira could barely keep his hands from shaking as he opened his bag. He felt so much rage, sadness, and helpless disgust as he pulled out bandages and disinfectant to clean the wounds Vidal’s tools had inflicted. The boy was sitting on the floor, his back against the beam they’d tied him to, cradling his hand, if one could still call it a hand. Blood was running from his mouth, and one of his eyes was so swollen Ferreira wasn’t sure it was still there.

Tarta . . . yes, that was the nickname the others had called him. He moaned when Ferreira gently took his arm to have a look at the shattered hand. The fingers were crushed, all of them. One was just a bloody stump.

“My god, what have you done to him?” The words just wouldn’t stay in his mouth, although Ferreira knew it was unwise to comment like this. But what he saw made even wisdom nothing but a folly, a useless distraction from the cruelty of men.

“What we have done to him? Not much.” There was a clear hint of pride in Vidal’s voice. “But things are getting better.” Vidal had walked over to Ferreira’s bag and pulled out a vial just like the ones he’d found up by the rebel campfire. Ferreira didn’t notice. All he saw was the swollen face of the boy, the one open eye clouded with fear and pain, watching him.

“I like having you handy, Doctor,” Vidal said behind him. “It has its advantages.” Ferreira was too busy to hear the hint of mockery. Four of Tarta’s ribs were broken, probably kicked in. He heard Vidal order Garces to come back to the house with him.

Good! Leave! Ferreira thought, when they left him alone with the broken boy. Before I call you what you are. If I find a name for it.

“I talked,” Tarta murmured. “Not much. B-b-but I talked.”

The boy’s visible eye asked for forgiveness. It tore Ferreira’s heart into shreds like a piece of worn cloth. So much darkness. Too much of it.

“I’m sorry, son,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

The lips covered in blood tried once again to form words. The torture hadn’t made it easier for them, but finally the letters came together.

“Kill me!” the boy begged. “Kill me now. Please.”

Too much.