The inspector imagined the old couple walking in the night, in the darkness, ahead of somebody holding them at gunpoint. They must have stumbled over the rocks, fallen, and hurt themselves, but they had to get back up and keep moving, maybe even with the help of a few kicks from their executioner. And, of course, they hadn’t rebelled, had not cried out, had not begged for mercy, but remained silent, frozen in the awareness that they were about to die. An interminable agony, a real Via Crucis, those last thirty yards.
Was this ruthless execution the line that Balduccio Sinagra had said must not be crossed? The cruel, cold- blooded murder of two trembling, defenseless old people? No, come on. That couldn’t have been the limit; this double homicide wasn’t what Balduccio Sinagra was bailing out of. He and his ilk had done far worse, goat-tying and torturing old and young alike. They’d even strangled, then dissolved in acid, a ten-year-old boy, guilty only of being born in the wrong family. Therefore what he was looking at was still within their limits. The horror, invisible for now, lay another shade beyond. He felt slightly dizzy for a moment, and leaned on Mimi’s arm.
“You all right, Salvo?”
“It’s this mask, it’s sort of oppressive.”
No, the weight on his chest, the shortness of breath, the aftertaste of infinite sadness, the feeling of oppression, in short, was not caused by the mask. He bent forward to have a better look at the corpses. And that was when he noticed something that finally bowled him over.
Under the mud one could see the shapes of the woman’s right arm and the man’s left arm. The two arms were extended and touching each other. He leaned even further forward to look more closely, all the while clinging to Mimi’s arm. And he saw the victims’ hands: the fingers of the woman’s right hand were interlaced with those of the man’s left hand. They had died holding hands. In the night, in their terror, with only the darker darkness of death before them, they had sought each other out, found each other, comforted each other as they had surely done so many other times over the course of their lives. The grief, the pity, assailed the inspector, two sudden blows to the chest. He staggered, and Mimi was quick to support him.
“Get out of here, you’re not leveling with me,” said Augello.
Montalbano turned his back and left. He looked around. He couldn’t remember who, but somebody from the Church had once said that Hell does indeed exist, though we don’t know where it is. Why didn’t he try visiting these parts? Maybe he’d get an idea as to its possible location.
Mimi rejoined him, looking him over carefully.
“How do you feel, Salvo?”
“Fine, fine. Where’s Gallo and Galluzzo?”
“I sent them off to lend the firemen a hand. They didn’t have anything to do around here anyway. And you too, why don’t you go? I’ll stay behind.”
“Did you inform the prosecutor? And the crime lab?”
“Everybody. They’ll get here sooner or later. Go.”
Montalbano didn’t budge. He just stood there, staring at the ground.
“I made a mistake,” he said.
“What?” said Augello, puzzled. “A mistake?”
“Yes. I took this business of the old couple too lightly, from the start.”
“Salvo,” Mimi reacted, “didn’t you just see them? The poor wretches were murdered Sunday night, on their way home from the excursion. What could we possibly have done? We didn’t even know they existed!”
“I’m talking about afterward, after the son came and told us they’d disappeared.”
“But we did everything we could!”
“That’s true. But I, for my part, did it without conviction. Mimi, I can’t stand it here anymore. I’m going home. I’ll see you back at the office around five.”
“All right,” said Mimi.
He kept watching the inspector, concerned, until he saw him disappear behind a bend.
Back home in Marinella he didn’t even open the refrigerator to see what was inside. He didn’t feel like eating; his stomach was in knots. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The ash, aside from turning his hair and mustache gray, had highlighted his wrinkles, turning them a pale, sickly white. He washed only his face, stripped down naked, letting his suit and underwear fall to the floor, put on his bathing suit, and ran down to the beach.
Kneeling down in the sand, he dug a wide hole with his hands, stopping only when the water began to well up from the bottom. He grabbed a handful of seaweed still green and threw it into the hole. Then he lay facedown and stuck his head inside. He inhaled deeply, once, twice, thrice, and with each new breath of air, the smell of the brine and algae cleansed his lungs of the ash that had entered them. Then he stood up and dived into the sea. With a few vigorous strokes he propelled himself far from shore. Filling his mouth with seawater, he gargled a long time, rinsing palate and throat. After this, he let himself float for half an hour, not thinking of anything.
He drifted like a branch, a leaf.
Returning to headquarters, he phoned Dr. Pasquano, who answered in his customary fashion.
“I was expecting your ball-busting call. Actually, I was wondering if something had happened to you, since I hadn’t heard from you yet. I was worried, you know! What do you want? I plan to work on the two corpses tomorrow.”
“In the meantime, Doctor, you need only answer me with a simple yes or no. As far as you can tell, were they killed late Sunday night?”
