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[Venereal vegetations of the urogenital tract and their urological complications. Apropos of 257 cases].
A retrospective study was conducted during 8 years to determine the epidemiological features of condyloma and its complications in patients attending urology consultations in Lomé teaching hospital. During this period, 257 cases (218 males, 38 females) of condyloma were diagnosed. The condyloma represented the fifth cause of consultation in urology, after genito-urinary infection (n = 1214), prostatic dysuria (n = 1095), vesicovaginal fistula (n = 849), lower tractus urinary lithiasis (n = 500). The average age of the patients was 28 years (range: 14-57). In 51 cases the condyloma were associated with others sexually transmitted diseases: 25 cases of gonococcal infection, 11 cases of chancroid, 9 cases of vaginal candidiasis, and 6 cases of genital trichomoniasis. We noted 41 cases of urological complications: 19 cases of urinary infection, 13 cases of retention of urine, 7 cases of urinary forked jet, and 2 cases of urethrorrhagia. The results of this study shows that, the condyloma is commun sexually transmitted disease seen in urology clinic. Its classically benign course in patients males, were predominant, in this sex, by the urinary infection and urological mechanical accidents. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Endosperm-specific activity of a storage protein gene promoter in transgenic wheat seed.
The characterization of the promoter of a wheat (Triticum aestivum) cv. Cheyenne high molecular weight glutenin subunit (HMW subunit) gene, Glu-1D-1 is reported. The nucleotide sequence of the promoter from position -1191 to -650 with respect to the transcription start site was determined, to add to that already determined. Analysis of this region of the promoter revealed the presence of an additional copy of part of the primary enhancer sequence and sequences related to regulatory elements present in other wheat seed protein genes. A chimaeric gene was constructed comprising the 5' flanking region of the Glu-1D-1 gene from position -1191 to +58, the coding region of the UID:A (Gus) gene, and the nopaline synthase (Nos) gene terminator. This chimaeric gene was introduced into wheat (Triticum durum cv. Ofanto) by particle bombardment of inflorescence explants. Two independent transgenic lines were produced, and both showed expression of the Gus gene specifically in the endosperm during mid-development (first detected 10-12 d after anthesis). Histochemical analysis of homozygous T(2) seed confirmed this pattern of expression, and showed that expression was initiated first in the central lobes of the starchy endosperm, and then spread throughout the endosperm tissue, while no expression was detected in the aleurone layer. Native HMW subunit protein was detectable by Western analysis 12-14 d after anthesis, consistent with concurrent onset of activity of the native and introduced HMW subunit gene promoters. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
561 So.2d 1284 (1990)
Thomas W. HICKS, Appellant,
v.
STATE of Florida, Appellee.
No. 89-03070.
District Court of Appeal of Florida, Second District.
May 23, 1990.
Rehearing Denied June 14, 1990.
Robert E. Turffs of Kanetsky, Moore & DeBoer, P.A., Venice, for appellant.
Robert A. Butterworth, Atty. Gen., Tallahassee, and Joseph R. Bryant, Asst. Atty. Gen., Tampa, for appellee.
PER CURIAM.
Thomas Hicks appeals his conviction for use of a child in a sexual performance. § 827.071(2), Fla. Stat. (1989). The sole issue is whether a defendant's ignorance of the victim's age constitutes a viable defense. For the same public policy reasons that were set forth in our recent decision State v. Sorakrai, 543 So.2d 294 (Fla. 2d DCA 1989), dealing with a violation of section 800.04(2) (lewd assault upon a child), we hold that it does not.
Affirmed.
RYDER, A.C.J., and DANAHY and FRANK, JJ., concur.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | FreeLaw |
Danny Knicely
Danny Knicely (born 1975 in Rockingham County, Virginia), is an American country and bluegrass musician. In addition to singing, he plays guitar, fiddle, and mandolin. His album releases include: The Evenin' News, Chop, Shred & Split, Waltz for Aimee, The Melody Lingers, Roots and Branches, and Murders, Drownings and Lost Loves (2006) — which he recorded with Will Lee.
He is musical director for the Mountain Music Project, a nonprofit supporting traditional musicians around the world, and played a major role in the film“The Mountain Music Project” which documents a journey Tara Linhardt and he took through the Himalayas of Nepal and the mountains of Virginia exploring the connections between these two mountain cultures (and their music).
Early
Knicely's grandfather, A. O. Knicely – known as "A.O.K." – played old-time guitar, mandolin, and fiddle as leader of the Knicely Family Band from the 1930s on. His father, Glen Shelton Knicely (d. December 17, 2018), who was born August 11, 1940 in Augusta County, Virginia, played bass and banjo in A.O.K.’s band – and led his own country and bluegrass band, Dominion Express. Knicely's mother created Heartland, a country and gospel band, and the Massanutten Mountain Cloggers.
Knicely got his first instrument, a ukelele, when he was seven years old. His father tried tuned it as a mandolin and broke half the strings. When he was eight a cousin gave him a cassette taped from old Django Reinhardt 78s played on a windup Victrola, igniting a lifelong musical eclecticism.
He played upright and electric bass in his middle school band, turning professional at 14 when he joined his mother's band as a bassist providing baritone vocal harmony.
When Spike Stroop, a Virginia bluegrass fiddler, heard Danny he used him as rhythm guitarist for fiddle contests and festivals. It was at the Galax Old Fiddler's Convention that Will Lee, son of Ricky Lee who played lead guitar with the Stanley Brothers, first jammed with the 15-year-old phenom. Will lived for a while with the rest of his family on Ralph Stanley’s farm on Smith Ridge in Virginia. Lee started bringing his guitarist, the flatpicking virtuoso Larry Keel, over on weekends to jam with his new find. This combo grew into Magraw Gap, a "high energy threesome playing wild, creative bluegrass arrangements that folded in licks from jazz, blues, rock ‘n’ roll, and even reggae." John Flower would join later. Group members called their style "spacegrass".
Music career
Magraw Gap
Magraw Gap – a bluegrass band including Knicely, Will Lee, John Flower, and Larry Keel – took first place at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in 1995. The group inspired the formation of Walker's Run in Lexington, Virginia, an act Knicely has performed with often.
Other groups
Other groups Knicely has performed with include: Danny Knicely with Wyatt Rice & Mark Schatz, The Melody Lingers On, The Mountain Music Project, Furnace Mountain, The Meaning of Buckdance, Ouros, Bluegrass & Beyond, and Purgatory Mountain. He also performed with John Flower in David Via and Corn Tornado and with Will Lee in Walker's Run.
As session musician, producer, and arranger Knicely has recorded with such other act as Nate Leath, James Leva, Keller Williams, Tim O'Brien, Sarah Jarosz, Bruce Molsky, Tony Trischka, The Woodshedders, Rooster Ruley, Gary Ruley, and Chance McCoy of Old Crow Medicine Show.
Knicely, Will Lee, and John Flower – all original members of Magraw Gap – recorded The Evening News as a trio in 2017. The release features "originals, old favorites, a cappella numbers, hot instrumentals, and tight harmony singing."
Venues
Knicely has performed at a number of music festivals, including: MerleFest, Telluride Bluegrass Festival, Rockygrass, Smilefest, Delfest, FloydFest, and the Grass Roots Festival. Prominent stages where he's performed include: the Kennedy Center, Lincoln Center, Strathmore Hall, The Prism Coffeehouse, Jefferson Theater (Charlottesville), The Birchmere, House of Blues (Los Angeles), The Fillmore Auditorium (San Francisco), Nissan Pavilion, Station Inn, Country Music Hall of Fame, and Opryland Theater.
Mountain Music Project
Knicely serves as musical director for the Mountain Music Project, a nonprofit organization supporting traditional musicians around the world. The feature-length film"The Mountain Music Project" documents a journey Tara Linhardt and he – both Loudoun County-based performers of bluegrass and old-time Appalachian music based (musically) in Taylorstown who have worked together for two decades – took through the Himalayas of Nepal and the mountains of Virginia as they explore the connections between these two mountain cultures.
The idea for The Mountain Music Project originated with Linhardt in college when she spent a study year in Nepal. In 2002, she and Knicely traveled back to Nepal, where she was able to reconnect with some people she knew from years ago. In Kathmandu – after meeting Buddhiman Gandharba, a member of the Gandharba musician caste – Knicely noticed during an impromptu jam session the "striking similarities" between some of the Nepalese songs and those of Appalachia. As Linhardt recalls:
Knicely and Linhardt teamed with producer Jacob Penchansky in 2006 and began filming the documentary and recording related music. They traveled through Virginia to record songs and stories of traditional Appalachian musicians. The film juxtaposes clips of the Gandharba and Appalachian people "making music and talking about their lives and traditions," highlighting their "parallel traditions".
The film won best independent documentary at the Carolina Film and Video Festival, best film at the International Folk Music Film Festival in Nepal, and the Sierra Nevada Award at the Mountain Film Festival.
Style and sound
As when he was with Magraw Gap, Knicely is known for playing high-energy "wild, creative bluegrass arrangements" that integrate "licks from jazz, blues, rock ‘n’ roll, and even reggae." He offers "cutting tenor" vocals on arrangements.
Distinctions and awards
Magraw Gap – including Knicely, Will Lee, John Flower, and Larry Keel – took first place at the 1995 Telluride Bluegrass Festival.
He participated in performances dubbed "Africa Meets Appalachia", blending his musical styles with those of Cheick Hamala, a master of a traditional Malian instrument known as "ngoni".
Knicely collaborated with musicians in a dozen countries across several continents including U.S. State Department tours in Morocco, Tunisia, and Russia.
His documentary film "The Mountain Music Project" has won best independent documentary at the Carolina Film and Video Festival, best film at the International Folk Music Film Festival in Nepal, and the Sierra Nevada Award at the Mountain Film Festival.
Discography
Murders, Drownings and Lost Loves (2006)
Roots and Branches (2007)
The Melody Lingers (2010)
Waltz for Aimee (2014)
The Evenin' News (2017)
Chop, Shred & Split (2015)
Instruments
Knicely plays a vintage Martin D-18 guitar, which he showcased at a September 7, 2014 CD release concert. He prefers a Peluso P-84 microphone.
See also
Old time fiddle
Old-time music
References
External links
The Mountain Music Project
Category:1955 births
Category:American bluegrass musicians
Category:American country guitarists
Category:American male guitarists
Category:American country singer-songwriters
Category:American fiddlers
Category:American folk musicians
Category:Living people
Category:Bluegrass musicians from Virginia
Category:Country musicians from Virginia
Category:Singers from Virginia
Category:American bluegrass mandolinists
Category:Guitarists from Virginia
Category:Mapleshade Records albums
Category:20th-century American guitarists
Category:People from Rockingham County, Virginia
Category:21st-century violinists
Category:20th-century American male musicians
Category:21st-century American male musicians | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Wikipedia (en) |
The Source in the Sludge
Episode Summary
Hi! I'm a fakey fake skull. I look nothing like
a female or someone of Middle Eastern ancestry.
"I failed my comps because I clearly do not
understand standard anatomical position..."
Comments
Forensic
Is it just me, or are the fake skeletons getting even more ridiculously fake? I mean, this is a decently rated show. I'm guessing it makes a bunch of money. Good fake skulls are, like, a few hundred dollars. Full skeletons are maybe $2,000. Just buy a dozen, for Pete's sake. These prop skulls are horrible. I screencapped it this week to demonstrate.
Cranial sutures can tell you age-at-death, but only after they're fused because the technique is based on obliteration of the suture lines as you get older. So cranial suture obliteration would not tell you someone was in her late 20s. However, Brennan could have meant that the sphenooccipital synchondrosis (aka the basilar suture) was not closed or had just recently closed, which would put someone's age-at-death in the mid to late 20s.
Estimation of ancestry was dumb. If I found someone with both Caucasian and Asian features in metro D.C., I'd think: 1) I guess this person could be of mixed ancestry, like a huge number of Americans; and then 2) well, this ancestry stuff is bullshit.
If the medial collateral ligament was violently ripped, causing damage to the bone, that would be an avulsion fracture (like on the mandible). But Brennan insisted there were no fractures to the skeleton.
Brennan comments that she found striations from ligatures on the left styloid, but doesn't say of what (she meant, I assume, the 5th metatarsal, since she was talking about the ankle).
I also screencapped the main scene where the skeleton was laid out at the Jeffersonian. Not bad, but they never put the radius and ulna in the right place. Maybe if I complain for enough seasons, they'll fix it? Eventually?
Plot
Daisy failed her oral exams. Bwahahahaha. Daisy is the worst. But wait, why isn't Brennan on Daisy's committee? Also, Brennan's other interns are supposed to be, like, the most brilliant people in the world. Why does she put up with Daisy?
New Feature! I'm calling it: " Bones Writers Can't Check a Map ." Angela's screen showed that the Nazims were living in Greene, Virginia, with a fake zip code. Greene is a county (the county north of where I grew up) but not a city. (It is, incidentally, the seat of Stanardsville. Which does not have an extra D. Oh, Virginia city names.)
I'm calling it: " ." Angela's screen showed that the Nazims were living in Greene, Virginia, with a fake zip code. Greene is a county (the county north of where I grew up) but not a city. (It is, incidentally, the seat of Stanardsville. Which does not have an extra D. Oh, Virginia city names.) Dialogue
"Orals are an antiquated, useless tradition meant to make professors feel superior." - Brennan.
Ratings
Forensic Mystery - C. This was resolved within a few minutes. Not terribly exciting a mystery.
Forensic Solution - D. I know the writers string out the discoveries, but this week was pretty absurd. Brennan and Daisy find no fractures. Then a few striations. Then two different avulsion fractures. And sharp trauma. Also, the ancestry estimation was ridiculous. As was the age-at-death from the cranial sutures. And the sex from the terrible fake skull features. Yeah, this episode just irritated me.
Drama - C-. Did we think that Freddie Prinze really did it? No. But I may be biased about the amount of drama in this show since I've been binge-watching Scandal while getting the baby to sleep. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
The Merkel cell--a member of the APUD cell system. Fluorescence and electron microscopic contribution to the neurotransmitter function of the Merkel cell granules.
Merkel cells of sinus hair follicles of nude mice were investigated by fluorescence and electron microscopy following pretreatment with amine precursors (L-Dopa, L-5-Hydroxytryptophan) and monoaminoxidase-inhibitors (Marsilid, Harmaline). Neither in control animals nor in pretreated animals any evidence for an involvement of Merkel cells in monoamine metabolism could be found. Therefore, the hypothesis that Merkel cells might share the most constant cytochemical characteristics of the cells of the APUD series, i.e., to take up amine precursors, should definitely be left. Following Harmaline treatment, however, Merkel cells were found fluorescent; cytophotometric analysis of the fluorescence emission spectra of formaldehyde-treated tissue ascertained that this fluorescence was due merely to a specific Harmaline fluorescence. The significance of Harmaline uptake in Merkel cells, most probably in the Merkel cell granules, is discussed. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Since October 2013 more than 57,000 children from the “Northern Triangle” region of Central America have survived an arduous and risky trek to the United States. The countries of El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras make up the northern triangle. The estimated 1000 mile journey exposes these children to oppressive heat, extremely poor traveling accommodations and the risk of being criminally victimized including sexual assault.
How we treat these children and their families when they arrive in the United States is a direct reflection of how our society values children. If laws need to be changed so be it. If an executive order is needed so be it. This is a humanitarian crisis calling for expedited legislation. Welcoming, taking care of and educating the children making this incredible journey will benefit the United States many times over. They will respond to our nation’s acts of love and their responses will most likely be positive in many different ways. Their responses will make our nation stronger.
In contrast, the children of Gaza who are experiencing the horrors of armed conflict are at risk for becoming emotionally hardened and as they age many will most likely seek revenge on their perceived enemies. Revenge, and all that comes with it such as bitterness and hate, will be directed at those they perceive as the cause of their horrible wartime experiences. Vengeful, hateful responses foster weakness for those nations and trouble for many years to come.
Maryland is one of the states leading the way when it comes to showing love of children and family through its efforts to provide foster care for unaccompanied minors. As of July 28, more than 2200 children have found homes in Maryland, many with relatives. The fact that Maryland is doing the work needed to connect these children with relatives or placing them in foster care is exemplary and reflects our values. As many as 2000 more children are expected to be served by our state in the near future.
Our governor and his administration are leading the way identifying people and organizations willing to assist immigrant children arriving in our state. Such assistance includes finding attorneys willing to work pro bono with children and their families regarding immigration proceedings. Whether the legal status of these children is immigrant or refugee they need to be treated as valuable human beings in need of the love a nation such as ours is capable of showing.
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Dr. O'Meara has a Bachelor's degree in Sociology, a Master of Arts in Counseling Psychology and a Doctorate in Health Psychology. Dr. O'Meara's interests lie in sharing appropriately cited health related and social issues information to improve the quality of life and social awareness of readers. Dr. O'Meara has a background in providing counseling for those coping with difficult social issues. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
(J Am Heart Assoc. 2018;7:e006797 DOI: [10.1161/JAHA.117.006797](10.1161/JAHA.117.006797).)
Clinical PerspectiveWhat Is New?Nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation and baseline brachial artery diameter were independent variables of flow‐mediated vasodilation in the brachial artery regardless of the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation.The influence of hyperemic shear stress on flow‐mediated vasodilation seems to be dependent on the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation.In participants with normal endothelium‐independent vasodilation, hyperemic shear stress was an independent variable of flow‐mediated vasodilation of the brachial artery, whereas there was no significant association between hyperemic shear stress and flow‐mediated vasodilation in participants with impaired endothelium‐independent vasodilation.What Are the Clinical Implications?We should pay attention to endothelium‐independent vasodilation assessed by nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation for appropriate interpretation of vasodilatory response of the brachial artery to reactive hyperemia.
Introduction {#jah32820-sec-0008}
============
Endothelial dysfunction is an initial step in the pathogenesis of atherosclerosis and plays an important role in the development and progression of this condition.[1](#jah32820-bib-0001){ref-type="ref"}, [2](#jah32820-bib-0002){ref-type="ref"} Moreover, endothelial dysfunction has been shown to be an independent predictor of cardiovascular events.[3](#jah32820-bib-0003){ref-type="ref"} Therefore, assessment of endothelial function is clinically useful for risk stratification in patients with cardiovascular risk factors.
Flow‐mediated vasodilation (FMD) of the brachial artery has become a widely used technique for assessing endothelial function in humans. This technique measures diameter change of the brachial artery occurring in response to the release of nitric oxide (NO) and other vasoactive substances from the endothelium in response to shear stress during reactive hyperemia.[4](#jah32820-bib-0004){ref-type="ref"} FMD of the brachial artery indirectly assesses the functional ability of the endothelium to release vasodilating agents, including NO, in response to reactive hyperemia and therefore has been used as an index of endothelial function.[5](#jah32820-bib-0005){ref-type="ref"} FMD of the brachial artery has been shown to be impaired in patients with cardiovascular risk factors or cardiovascular disease (CVD).[5](#jah32820-bib-0005){ref-type="ref"}
Vasodilatory response of the brachial artery is affected not only by functional status of the endothelium but also by other functional and structural variables of the brachial artery. The mechanism underlying the vasodilatory response of brachial artery to reactive hyperemia is thought to be stimulation of the endothelium by reactive hyperemia‐induced shear stress, leading to the activation of endothelial NO synthase and consequent generation of NO, which diffuses into adjacent vascular smooth muscle cells and interacts with soluble guanylyl cyclase, resulting in relaxation of vascular smooth muscle cells and consequent dilation of the brachial artery. Therefore, in addition to the functional status of the endothelium, hyperemic shear stress (HSS) and endothelium‐independent vasodilation are also involved in vasodilatory response of the brachial artery. Because FMD is calculated as a relative percentage change in the baseline brachial artery diameter (BAD) during reactive hyperemia, baseline BAD is also regarded as an important determinant of FMD.[6](#jah32820-bib-0006){ref-type="ref"} Previous studies have shown that not only FMD but also HSS; nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation (NID), an index of endothelium‐independent vasodilation; and baseline BAD are affected in patients with cardiovascular risk factors or CVD.[7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"}, [10](#jah32820-bib-0010){ref-type="ref"} Therefore, clarifying the interrelationships among FMD, HSS, NID, baseline BAD, and cardiovascular risk factors is important for appropriate interpretation of the vasodilatory response of the brachial artery to reactive hyperemia. Although the associations of FMD with HSS, NID, baseline BAD, and cardiovascular risk factors have been investigated, the relationships among these brachial artery variables and cardiovascular risk factors were not examined simultaneously in any previous studies.[6](#jah32820-bib-0006){ref-type="ref"}, [7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"}
We measured FMD, HSS, NID, and baseline BAD to further determine the interrelationships among these brachial artery variables and cardiovascular risk factors in a large well‐characterized population.
Methods {#jah32820-sec-0009}
=======
The data, analytic methods, and study materials will not be made available to other researchers for purposes of reproducing the results or replicating the procedure.
Participants {#jah32820-sec-0010}
============
Between July 2007 and February 2016, a total of 2037 participants were recruited for measurement of vascular function from participants who underwent health‐screening examinations or who visited the outpatient clinic at Hiroshima University Hospital. Of the 2037 participants, 1286 underwent measurement of both FMD and NID of the brachial artery. Participants who had received nitrate treatment (n=61) and participants with missing information on Framingham risk score (n=79) and peak blood flow velocity during reactive hyperemia owing to unclear images of the brachial artery after cuff deflation (n=113) were excluded. Finally, 1033 participants (633 men and 400 women; mean age: 58.6±17.0 years) were enrolled in this study. Hypertension was defined as treatment with oral antihypertensive agents or systolic blood pressure ≥140 mm Hg and/or diastolic blood pressure ≥90 mm Hg. Diabetes mellitus was defined according to the American Diabetes Association recommendation or a previous diagnosis of diabetes mellitus.[11](#jah32820-bib-0011){ref-type="ref"} Dyslipidemia was defined according to the third report of the National Cholesterol Education Program.[12](#jah32820-bib-0012){ref-type="ref"} Coronary artery disease included angina pectoris with a history of percutaneous coronary intervention and prior myocardial infarction. Cerebrovascular disease included ischemic stroke, hemorrhagic stroke, and transient ischemic attack. Peripheral artery disease was defined as current intermittent claudication with an ankle‐brachial index \<0.9 or a history of previous intervention, including angioplasty and bypass grafting. Framingham risk score was calculated by points of risk factors: age, total cholesterol level (or low‐density lipoprotein cholesterol level), high‐density lipoprotein cholesterol level, blood pressure level, diabetes mellitus, and smoking status.[13](#jah32820-bib-0013){ref-type="ref"} A 10‐year risk of fatal CVD was also estimated using SCORE (Systemic Coronary Risk Evaluation Project) charts by age, systolic blood pressure, total cholesterol, and smoking status.[14](#jah32820-bib-0014){ref-type="ref"} The ethics committees of our institutions approved the study protocol. Written informed consent for participation in the study was obtained from all participants.
Study Protocol {#jah32820-sec-0011}
--------------
We measured vascular responses to reactive hyperemia and sublingually administered nitroglycerine in the brachial artery. The participants fasted the previous night for at least 12 hours. The participants were kept in the supine position in a quiet, dark, air‐conditioned room (constant temperature of 22°C--25°C) throughout the study. A 23‐gauge polyethylene catheter was inserted into the left deep antecubital vein to obtain blood samples. Thirty minutes after maintaining the supine position, baseline BAD and blood flow velocity were measured. Then FMD and hyperemic blood flow velocity during hyperemia were measured. After completion, we next measured NID with confirmation that the BAD had recovered to the baseline value. The observers were blind to the form of examination.
Measurement of BAD, FMD, Blood Flow Velocity, and NID {#jah32820-sec-0012}
-----------------------------------------------------
Vascular response to reactive hyperemia in the brachial artery was used for assessment of endothelium‐dependent FMD. A high‐resolution linear artery transducer was coupled to computer‐assisted analysis software (UNEXEF18G; UNEX Co) that used an automated edge‐detection system for measurement of BAD. A blood pressure cuff was placed around the forearm. The brachial artery was scanned longitudinally 5 to 10 cm above the elbow. When the clearest B‐mode image of the anterior and posterior intimal interfaces between the lumen and vessel wall was obtained, the transducer was held at the same point throughout the scan by a special probe holder to ensure consistency of the image. Depth and gain were set to optimize the images of the arterial lumen wall interface. When the tracking gate was placed on the intima, the artery diameter was automatically tracked, and the waveform of diameter changes over the cardiac cycle was displayed in real time using the FMD mode of the tracking system. This allowed the ultrasound images to be optimized at the start of the scan and the transducer position to be adjusted immediately for optimal tracking performance throughout the scan. The baseline longitudinal images of the artery were acquired for 10 seconds, and then the blood pressure cuff was inflated to 50 mm Hg above systolic pressure for 5 minutes. Longitudinal images of the artery were recorded continuously until 3 minutes after cuff deflation. Changes in BAD were immediately expressed as percentage change relative to the vessel diameter before cuff inflation. FMD was automatically calculated as the percentage change in peak vessel diameter from the baseline value: (peak diameter−baseline diameter)/baseline diameter. Blood flow velocity was automatically measured at baseline and after cuff deflation for 3 minutes. Blood flow velocity was calculated as time‐averaged flow velocity per cardiac cycle based on cross‐sectional average flow velocity sampled at ≥500 Hz. Blood flow velocity (shown as V) was converted to shear stress according to the following equation: shear stress (dyne/cm^2^)=8×μ×V (cm/s)/BAD (cm). In the equation, μ was blood viscosity assumed to be 0.035 dyne×s/cm^2^. Hyperemic flow velocity was automatically determined as the peak flow velocity obtained after cuff deflation. The hyperemic flow ratio was calculated as the percentage increase in hyperemic flow velocity compared with baseline flow velocity.
The response to nitroglycerine was used for assessment of endothelium‐independent vasodilation. NID was measured as described previously.[9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"} Briefly, after acquiring baseline rest images for 30 seconds, a sublingual tablet (75 μg nitroglycerine) was given, and images of the artery were recorded continuously until dilation reached a plateau after administration of nitroglycerine. Participants in whom the sublingually administered nitroglycerine tablet was not dissolved during the measurement were excluded from this study. NID was automatically calculated as a percentage change in peak vessel diameter from the baseline value: (peak diameter−baseline diameter)/baseline diameter.
Statistical Analyses {#jah32820-sec-0013}
--------------------
Results are presented as mean±SD. All reported probability values were 2‐sided, and a probability value of \<0.05 was considered statistically significant. Categorical variables were compared by means of the χ^2^ test. Univariate linear regression analyses were performed to assess the relationships among the variables. Multivariate regression analyses using forward stepwise selection were performed to identify independent variables associated with FMD, HSS, NID, and baseline BAD from the following covariates with *P*\<0.05 for inclusion: body mass index, systolic blood pressure, heart rate, total cholesterol, triglycerides, high‐density lipoprotein cholesterol, low‐density lipoprotein cholesterol, glucose, diabetes mellitus, current smoking, antihypertensive drug treatment, statin treatment, CVD, and other brachial variables, with age and sex forced into the model. Because age has been shown to be strongly associated with brachial variables and to be related to other cardiovascular risk factors,[6](#jah32820-bib-0006){ref-type="ref"}, [7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"}, [15](#jah32820-bib-0015){ref-type="ref"} we had planned to test the statistical interactions between age and other variables. However, we found no evidence of a qualitative interaction between age and other variables analytically and graphically. Therefore, no interaction terms were included in the final regression models. There were significant linear relationships between brachial variables and all covariates remaining in the final regression models. Because reference values of FMD, HSS, NID, and baseline BAD have not been fully determined, we did not perform categorical analyses. We examined variance inflation factors for the assessment of multicollinearity. In all multivariate regression analyses, values of the variance inflation factors of all variables were small (\<2), indicating that there were no interactions between variables. Adjusted *r* ^2^ is a measure of the proportion of variation in a dependent variable explained by potential covariates, providing an estimate of the strength of the relationship between the linear model and covariates. The data were processed using the software package Stata version 9 (StataCorp).
Results {#jah32820-sec-0014}
=======
Baseline Clinical Characteristics {#jah32820-sec-0015}
---------------------------------
The baseline clinical characteristics of the participants are summarized in Table [1](#jah32820-tbl-0001){ref-type="table-wrap"}. Of the 1033 participants, 633 (61.3%) were men, 723 (70.1%) had hypertension, 565 (54.7%) had dyslipidemia, 317 (30.7%) had diabetes mellitus, 214 (20.7%) were current smokers, and 237 (23.2%) had CVD. Mean values were 3.9±2.8% for FMD, 12.2±5.7% for NID, 4.10±0.65 mm for baseline BAD, 6.4±3.8 dyne/cm^2^ for baseline shear stress, and 24.0±15.4 dyne/cm^2^ for HSS.
######
Clinical Characteristics of the Participants (N=1033)
Variables Results
---------------------------------------- ------------
Age, y 58.6±17.0
Men, n (%) 633 (61.3)
Body mass index, kg/m^2^ 23.4±3.9
Systolic blood pressure, mm Hg 131.9±18.9
Diastolic blood pressure, mm Hg 78.1±12.5
Heart rate, beats/min 69.9±12.1
Total cholesterol, mg/dL 191.4±36.8
Triglycerides, mg/dL 139.3±95.5
HDL cholesterol, mg/dL 59.2±16.7
LDL cholesterol, mg/dL 111.6±32.6
Glucose, mg/dL 113.6±40.1
Hypertension, n (%) 723 (70.1)
Dyslipidemia, n (%) 565 (54.7)
Diabetes mellitus, n (%) 317 (30.7)
Current smokers, n (%) 214 (20.7)
Antihypertensive drug treatment, n (%) 598 (58.4)
CVD, n (%) 237 (23.2)
Coronary heart disease, n (%) 126 (12.3)
Cerebrovascular disease, n (%) 67 (6.5)
Peripheral artery disease, n (%) 95 (9.4)
Framingham risk score, % 10.5±8.8
SCORE risk, % 2.2±2.3
Flow‐mediated vasodilation, % 3.9±2.8
NID, % 12.2±5.7
Baseline BAD, mm 4.10±0.65
Baseline
Flow velocity, cm/s 9.3±5.6
Shear stress, dyne/cm^2^ 6.4±3.8
Hyperemia
Flow velocity, cm/s 34.8±22.3
Shear stress, dyne/cm^2^ 24.0±15.4
Hyperemic flow ratio 4.0±2.0
BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; CVD, cardiovascular disease; HDL, high‐density lipoprotein; LDL, low‐density lipoprotein; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation; SCORE, Systemic Coronary Risk Evaluation Project.
Relationships Among FMD, HSS, NID, Baseline BAD, and Cardiovascular Risk Factors {#jah32820-sec-0016}
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Relationships between brachial artery variables and cardiovascular risk factors are presented in Table [2](#jah32820-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}. Framingham risk score was negatively correlated with FMD (β=−0.708, *r*=−0.23, *P*\<0.001), HSS (β=−0.041, *r*=−0.07, *P*=0.020), and NID (β=−0.275, *r*=−0.18, *P*\<0.001) and was positively correlated with baseline BAD (β=3.094, *r*=0.23, *P*\<0.001). SCORE risk at 10 years was negatively correlated with FMD (β=−0.189, *r*=−0.23, *P*\<0.001) and NID (β=−0.072, *r*=−0.18, *P*\<0.001) and was positively correlated with baseline BAD (β=0.733, *r*=0.20, *P*\<0.001), although there was no significant correlation between SCORE risk and HSS (β=−0.001, *r*=−0.01, *P*=0.772). These findings suggest that FMD, HSS, and NID decrease and baseline BAD increases in relation to cumulative cardiovascular risk factors.
######
Univariate Analysis of the Relationships Between Brachial Artery Variables and Risk Factors
Variables FMD HSS NID Baseline BAD
--------------------------------- -------- -------- --------- -------------- ------- --------- -------- ------- --------- -------- ------- ---------
Age, y −2.171 −0.36 \<0.001 −0.139 −0.13 \<0.001 −0.935 −0.32 \<0.001 3.181 0.12 \<0.001
Body mass index, kg/m^2^ −0.094 −0.07 0.028 −0.048 −0.19 \<0.001 −0.048 −0.07 0.024 1.693 0.28 \<0.001
Systolic blood pressure, mm Hg −0.794 −0.12 \<0.001 −0.052 −0.04 0.174 −0.479 −0.15 \<0.001 2.868 0.10 0.002
Diastolic blood pressure, mm Hg −0.448 −0.10 0.001 −0.055 −0.07 0.030 −0.024 −0.01 0.721 3.174 0.16 \<0.001
beats/min 0.018 −0.004 0.891 −0.040 −0.05 0.102 −0.092 −0.04 0.164 −0.533 −0.03 0.362
Total cholesterol, mg/dL −0.916 −0.07 0.027 −0.229 −0.10 0.003 −0.107 −0.02 0.603 −1.853 −0.03 0.311
Triglycerides, mg/dL −2.962 −0.09 0.005 −0.322 −0.05 0.100 0.534 0.03 0.304 11.160 0.08 0.016
HDL cholesterol, mg/dL 0.077 0.01 0.673 0.047 0.04 0.161 −0.022 −0.01 0.809 −4.516 −0.18 \<0.001
LDL cholesterol, mg/dL −0.634 −0.06 0.075 −0.179 −0.08 0.007 −0.220 −0.04 0.213 0.976 0.02 0.535
Glucose, mg/dL −2.411 −0.17 \<0.001 −0.059 −0.02 0.483 −0.299 −0.04 0.193 0.851 0.01 0.676
Framingham risk score, % −0.708 −0.23 \<0.001 −0.041 −0.07 0.020 −0.275 −0.18 \<0.001 3.094 0.23 \<0.001
SCORE risk, % −0.189 −0.23 \<0.001 −0.001 −0.01 0.772 −0.072 −0.18 \<0.001 0.733 0.20 \<0.001
BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; FMD, flow‐mediated vasodilation; HDL, high‐density lipoprotein; HSS, hyperemic shear stress; LDL, low‐density lipoprotein; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation; SCORE, Systemic Coronary Risk Evaluation Project.
Relationships Among FMD, HSS, NID, and Baseline BAD {#jah32820-sec-0017}
---------------------------------------------------
HSS (β=0.519, *r*=0.10, *P*=0.002) and NID (β=0.759, *r*=0.38, *P*\<0.001) were positively correlated with FMD, and baseline BAD (β=−0.090, *r*=−0.40, *P*\<0.001) was negatively correlated with FMD, indicating that FMD decreases in relation to decrease in HSS and NID and in relation to increase in baseline BAD (Table [3](#jah32820-tbl-0003){ref-type="table-wrap"}). Baseline BAD was also negatively correlated with HSS (β=−2.992, *r*=−0.13, *P*\<0.001) and NID (β=−3.295, *r*=−0.40, *P*\<0.001; Table [3](#jah32820-tbl-0003){ref-type="table-wrap"}). Baseline BAD was an independent variable of HSS (β=−0.114, *P*=0.002) and NID (β=−0.490, *P*\<0.001) in multivariate analyses (Tables [4](#jah32820-tbl-0004){ref-type="table-wrap"} and [5](#jah32820-tbl-0005){ref-type="table-wrap"}), indicating that NID and HSS decrease in relation to increase in baseline BAD. In multiple linear regression analysis of the relationships between FMD and variables, when no consideration was given to brachial artery variables, age, sex, triglycerides, glucose, antihypertensive drug treatment, and statin treatment were independent variables of FMD (Table [6](#jah32820-tbl-0006){ref-type="table-wrap"}). When HSS was entered into the model, HSS was not associated with FMD (β=0.041, *P*=0.170) without an increase in adjusted *r* ^2^ of the model (Table [6](#jah32820-tbl-0006){ref-type="table-wrap"}). When NID was considered as an additional covariate, NID was an independent variable of FMD (β=0.286, *P*\<0.001) with an increase in adjusted *r* ^2^ from 0.18 to 0.25 (Table [6](#jah32820-tbl-0006){ref-type="table-wrap"}). Moreover, when baseline BAD was additionally entered into the model, baseline BAD was also an independent variable of FMD (β=−0.305, *P*\<0.001) with a further increase in adjusted *r* ^2^ from 0.25 to 0.31, and NID remained significant (β=0.170, *P*\<0.001; Table [6](#jah32820-tbl-0006){ref-type="table-wrap"}).
######
Univariate Analysis of the Relationships Among FMD, HSS, NID, and BAD
Variables HSS NID Baseline BAD
-------------- -------- ---------------------------------------------- -------------- ---------------------------------------------- -------- ----------------------------------------------
FMD 0.519 0.10[a](#jah32820-note-0004){ref-type="fn"} 0.759 0.38[b](#jah32820-note-0005){ref-type="fn"} −0.090 −0.40[b](#jah32820-note-0005){ref-type="fn"}
Baseline BAD −2.992 −0.13[b](#jah32820-note-0005){ref-type="fn"} −3.295 −0.40[b](#jah32820-note-0005){ref-type="fn"} ··· ···
BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; FMD, flow‐mediated vasodilation; HSS, hyperemic shear stress; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation.
*P*\<0.01.
*P*\<0.001.
######
Multiple Linear Regression Analysis of the Relationships Among HSS and Variables
Variables HSS
-------------------------- -------- ------ ------- ---------
Age, y −0.087 1.10 0.029 0.072
Men −0.123 1.36 0.567 \<0.001
Body mass index, kg/m^2^ −0.163 1.11 0.127 \<0.001
Total cholesterol, mg/dL −0.064 1.05 0.013 0.044
Baseline BAD, mm −0.114 1.37 0.859 0.002
The adjusted *r* ^2^ was 0.06. BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; HSS, hyperemic shear stress; VIF, variance inflation factor.
######
Multiple Linear Regression Analysis of the Relationships Among NID and Variables
Variables NID
--------------------------------- -------- ------ ------- ---------
Age, y −0.123 1.35 0.010 \<0.001
Men 0.274 1.35 0.179 \<0.001
Body mass index, kg/m^2^ 0.078 1.22 0.042 0.007
Systolic blood pressure, mm Hg −0.097 1.08 0.008 \<0.001
Antihypertensive drug treatment −0.128 1.26 0.172 \<0.001
CVD −0.086 1.10 0.187 0.002
Baseline BAD, mm −0.490 1.38 0.276 \<0.001
The adjusted *r* ^2^ was 0.31. BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; CVD, cardiovascular disease; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation; VIF, variance inflation factor.
######
Multiple Linear Regression Analysis of the Relationships Among FMD and Variables
Variables Model 1 Model 2 Model 3 Model 4
--------------------------------- --------- --------- --------- --------- -------- ------ ------- --------- -------- ------ ------- --------- -------- ------ ------- ---------
Age, y −0.376 1.41 0.006 \<0.001 −0.372 1.42 0.006 \<0.001 −0.290 1.51 0.006 \<0.001 −0.260 1.53 0.006 \<0.001
Men 0.069 1.06 0.090 0.025 0.071 1.06 0.090 0.021 0.084 1.06 0.086 0.004 0.060 1.42 0.096 0.066
Triglycerides, mg/dL −0.109 1.06 0.001 \<0.001 −0.107 1.06 0.001 \<0.001 −0.110 1.06 0.001 \<0.001 −0.094 1.07 0.001 \<0.001
Glucose, mg/dL −0.075 1.10 0.002 0.016 −0.076 1.10 0.002 0.015 −0.083 1.10 0.002 0.005 −0.089 1.10 0.002 0.002
Antihypertensive drug treatment −0.120 1.17 0.187 \<0.001 −0.117 1.18 0.094 \<0.001 −0.077 1.20 0.090 0.011 −0.068 1.20 0.087 0.024
Statin treatment −0.106 1.23 0.201 0.001 −0.106 1.23 0.201 0.001 −0.010 1.23 0.193 0.013 −0.078 1.23 0.185 0.010
HSS, dyne/cm^2^ ··· ··· ··· ··· 0.041 1.03 0.006 0.170 0.029 1.03 0.005 0.317 −0.004 1.05 0.006 0.895
NID, % ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· 0.286 1.15 0.015 \<0.001 0.170 1.38 0.016 \<0.001
Baseline BAD, mm ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· ··· −0.305 1.59 0.154 \<0.001
The adjusted *r* ^2^ was 0.18 for model 1, 0.18 for model 2, 0.25 for model 3, and 0.31 for model 4. BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; FMD, flow‐mediated vasodilation; HSS, hyperemic shear stress; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation; VIF, variance inflation factor.
To further define the interrelationships among brachial artery variables, participants were divided into 2 groups based on the median NID: those with normal NID (≥11.9%) and those with impaired NID (\<11.9%). In participants with normal NID, FMD was positively correlated with HSS (*r*=0.13, *P*=0.004; [Figure](#jah32820-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"} A) and NID (*r*=0.22, *P*\<0.001) and negatively correlated with baseline BAD (*r*=−0.30, *P*\<0.001), all of which were independent variables of FMD in multivariate analysis (β=0.080, *P*=0.048 for HSS; β=0.125, *P*=0.003 for NID; β=−0.328, *P*\<0.001 for BAD; Table [7](#jah32820-tbl-0007){ref-type="table-wrap"}). In contrast, in participants with impaired NID, FMD was positively correlated with NID (*r*=0.22, *P*\<0.001) and negatively correlated with baseline BAD (*r*=−0.38, *P*\<0.001), but there was no significant relationship between FMD and HSS (*r*=0.0005, *P*=0.991) ([Figure](#jah32820-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"} B). NID (β=0.084, *P*=0.044) and baseline BAD (β=−0.348, *P*\<0.001) were independent variables of FMD in multivariate analysis in participants with impaired NID (Table [7](#jah32820-tbl-0007){ref-type="table-wrap"}).
{#jah32820-fig-0001}
######
Multiple Linear Regression Analysis of the Relationships Among FMD and Variables Based on the Median of NID
Variables Normal NID Impaired NID
--------------------------------- ------------ -------------- ------- --------- -------- ------ ------- ---------
Age, y −0.277 1.17 0.007 \<0.001 −0.229 1.33 0.007 \<0.001
Men −0.081 1.54 0.305 0.096 −0.048 1.34 0.219 0.293
Body mass index, kg/m^2^ 0.129 1.29 0.033 0.004 ··· ··· ··· ···
Triglycerides, mg/dL −0.141 1.17 0.001 0.001 ··· ··· ··· ···
Glucose, mg/dL −0.132 1.16 0.003 0.002 ··· ··· ··· ···
Antihypertensive drug treatment ··· ··· ··· ··· −0.134 1.10 0.106 0.001
Statin treatment ··· ··· ··· ··· −0.156 1.21 0.214 \<0.001
HSS, dyne/cm^2^ 0.080 1.07 0.007 0.048 ··· ··· ··· ···
NID, % 0.125 1.14 0.031 0.003 0.084 1.14 0.034 0.044
Baseline BAD, mm −0.328 1.73 0.271 \<0.001 −0.348 1.36 0.164 \<0.001
The adjusted *r* ^2^ of the model for participants with normal NID was 0.27. The adjusted *r* ^2^ of the model for participants with impaired NID was 0.23. BAD indicates brachial artery diameter; FMD, flow‐mediated vasodilation; HSS, hyperemic shear stress; NID, nitroglycerine‐induced vasodilation; VIF, variance inflation factor.
Discussion {#jah32820-sec-0018}
==========
In this study, we demonstrated that FMD, HSS, and NID decreased and that baseline BAD increased in relation to increase in cardiovascular risk. Lower HSS, smaller NID, and larger baseline BAD were related to smaller FMD. Regardless of impairment of NID, NID and baseline BAD were independent predictors of FMD. In contrast, HSS was associated with FMD in participants with normal NID but not in those with impaired NID. To our knowledge, this report is the first showing the interrelationships among FMD, HSS, NID, baseline BAD, and cardiovascular risk factors simultaneously and showing the difference in the association of HSS and FMD depending on the status of NID.
Although the relationships between brachial artery variables and cardiovascular risk factors have been investigated in a few studies with large numbers of participants, NID was not measured, and the interrelationships among FMD, HSS, NID, baseline BAD, and cardiovascular risk factors were not examined simultaneously in any previous studies.[7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"} In this study, measurement of NID was performed in a large number of participants, and this allowed us to investigate the interrelationships between brachial artery variables and cardiovascular risk factors simultaneously. As for the associations of cardiovascular risk factors with brachial artery variables, previous studies demonstrated that HSS and NID decrease and that BAD increases in relation to an increase in cardiovascular risk.[7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"}, [16](#jah32820-bib-0016){ref-type="ref"} Decreased reactive hyperemic flow velocity and HSS might reflect microvascular dysfunction because reactive hyperemia is strongly dependent on maximal forearm resistance and has been shown to be, at least in part, an NO‐dependent process.[17](#jah32820-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [18](#jah32820-bib-0018){ref-type="ref"} Although, to our knowledge, no clinical investigation has shown that administration of an antioxidant such as vitamin C improves vasodilatory response to nitroglycerine, the involvement of oxidative stress in impaired vascular response to nitroglycerine has been indicated in in vitro and in vivo studies. Impairment of NID might reflect vascular smooth muscle cell dysfunction, including inhibited activity of soluble guanylyl cyclase and consequent activation of cGMP‐dependent kinase by oxidative stress, and vascular structural alterations, including increased connective tissue matrix in thickened intima--media layers and consequent limitation of relaxation as a result of atherosclerosis.[19](#jah32820-bib-0019){ref-type="ref"}, [20](#jah32820-bib-0020){ref-type="ref"} An increase in oxidative stress may also be associated with attenuated biotransformation of nitroglycerine in patients with cardiovascular risk. Sydow et al demonstrated that oxidative stress attenuated biotransformation of nitroglycerine by inhibition of mitochondrial aldehyde dehydrogenase activity involved in the process of nitroglycerine biotransformation, raising the possibility that attenuation of nitroglycerine biotransformation by oxidative stress may contribute to the impairment of NID in patients with cardiovascular risk.[21](#jah32820-bib-0021){ref-type="ref"} A previous study showed that the brachial artery tends to be larger in patients with cardiovascular risk factors and CVD.[22](#jah32820-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} Enlargement of the brachial artery may occur in response to increasing blood flow to maintain shear stress in an appropriate range, which is important for maintenance of the properly functioning endothelium, as a consequence of adaptive remodeling in patients with cardiovascular risk factors and CVD, including obesity, hypertension, dyslipidemia, coronary artery disease, and peripheral artery disease; in contrast, older age is associated with a larger brachial artery regardless of lower shear stress in the brachial artery, suggesting maladaptive remodeling.[22](#jah32820-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} Consistent with these previous observations, our results showed that HSS and NID decreased and that baseline BAD increased in relation to an increase in Framingham risk score, a risk calculator and an index of cumulative cardiovascular risk commonly used for assessing the probability of heart attack or death from heart disease within 10 years; this finding indicates that higher cardiovascular risk is associated with lower HSS, smaller NID, and larger baseline BAD.
As for the interrelationships among the brachial artery variables, consistent with results of previous studies, HSS and NID were positively correlated with FMD and baseline BAD was negatively correlated with FMD in this study.[6](#jah32820-bib-0006){ref-type="ref"}, [7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"} Because HSS is a stimulus for vasodilatory response, lower HSS is likely to be associated with a smaller vasodilatory response, resulting in attenuation of FMD. Because FMD caused by reactive hyperemia occurs as a result of vascular smooth muscle relaxation, impaired NID, as an index of endothelium‐independent vasodilation reflecting, at least in part, the ability of vascular smooth muscle to relax in response to exogenous NO, may result in impaired vasodilatory response to reactive hyperemia regardless of the status of endothelial function. Because FMD is calculated as a relative percentage change in baseline BAD during reactive hyperemia, larger baseline BAD is associated with smaller FMD. In addition, in the present study, baseline BAD was negatively correlated with HSS and NID and was an independent predictor of both HSS and NID. HSS seems to be lower in larger brachial arteries because of the dependence of postischemic systolic flow on radius squared.[23](#jah32820-bib-0023){ref-type="ref"} NID, which is calculated as a relative percentage change in baseline BAD in response to administered nitroglycerine, is smaller in a larger baseline brachial artery.[9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"} Our results suggest that larger baseline BAD is associated with smaller FMD not only directly but also indirectly through lowered HSS and smaller NID.
In the present study, NID and baseline BAD were independent variables of FMD, but HSS was not in all participants. Mitchell et al reported that HSS was an independent predictor of FMD in a large community‐based cohort in the Framingham Heart Study.[7](#jah32820-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"} Philpott et al also reported that HSS was an independent predictor of FMD in a relatively young and healthy population in the FATE (Firefighters and Their Endothelium) study.[8](#jah32820-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"} Although we have no direct explanation for the discrepancy between the results of those previous studies and the results of the present study, the difference in the relationship between FMD and HSS might be related to the difference in the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation owing to participant selection. We previously reported that NID of the brachial artery was impaired in patients with multiple cardiovascular risk factors or established CVD.[9](#jah32820-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"} In these patients with advanced atherosclerosis, no matter how high HSS is, vasodilatory response of the brachial artery might be impaired owing to the impaired endothelium‐independent vasodilation involved directly in the vasodilatory response to reactive hyperemia. Participants in the present study had higher prevalence of hypertension, diabetes mellitus, and established CVD and included a larger percentage of current smokers than those in the previous studies. Consequently, impaired endothelium‐independent vasodilation might have made the relationship between FMD and HSS weak in the present study, whereas there was a significant association between FMD and HSS in the previous studies, in which the participants were recruited from a general population or were young healthy adults in whom endothelium‐independent vasodilation was assumed to be normally maintained. Indeed, when participants were divided into 2 groups based on median NID in the present study, there was a significant positive association between FMD and HSS in participants with normal NID, whereas there was no significant association between FMD and HSS in those with impaired NID, indicating that the interrelation between FMD and HSS is altered depending on the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation. NID and baseline BAD were independent predictors of FMD regardless of the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation.
In conclusion, higher cardiovascular risk is associated with lower HSS, smaller NID, and larger baseline BAD, all of which are related to smaller FMD of the brachial artery. Cardiovascular risk factors are not only directly but also indirectly associated with impairment of FMD through lower HSS, smaller NID, and larger BAD. NID and baseline BAD were independent variables of FMD regardless of the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation. In contrast, the influence of HSS on FMD seems to be dependent on the status of endothelium‐independent vasodilation. In participants with normal endothelium‐independent vasodilation, HSS was an independent variable of FMD, whereas there was no significant association between HSS and FMD in participants with impaired NID. We should pay attention to endothelium‐independent vasodilation assessed by NID for appropriate interpretation of vasodilatory response of the brachial artery to reactive hyperemia.
Sources of Funding {#jah32820-sec-0020}
==================
This work was supported by a Grant‐in‐Aid for Scientific Research from the Ministry of Education, Science and Culture of Japan (18590815 and 21590898 to Higashi).
Disclosures {#jah32820-sec-0021}
===========
None.
We thank Megumi Wakisaka, Miki Kumiji, Ki‐ichiro Kawano, and Satoko Michiyama for their excellent secretarial assistance.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
Guy Picciotto
Guy Charles Picciotto (; born September 17, 1965) is an American singer, songwriter, guitarist, musician, and producer from Washington, DC.
He is most widely known for his role as guitarist and vocalist in Fugazi and Rites of Spring.
Career
Rites of Spring and early projects
Picciotto's musical career began in 1984, with the group Rites of Spring. A part of the D.C. post-hardcore scene, Rites of Spring increased the frenetic violence and visceral passion of hardcore while simultaneously experimenting with its compositional rules. Picciotto, as the band's lyricist, as well as singer and guitarist, also shifted hardcore into intensely personal realms and, in doing so, is generally credited with creating emo.
Picciotto's early musical resume also includes the bands One Last Wish (1986), Happy Go Licky (1987–1988), Brief Weeds (EPs released circa 1991–1992), and The Black Light Panthers (ongoing sporadic project since 1982), the last two bands both being projects with Brendan Canty. He also created a record label called Peterbilt Records, which released limited-quantity vinyl record albums for the bands Rain, Happy Go Licky, and Deadline, then years later was involved in releasing the album 1986 by One Last Wish, along with Dischord Records.
Fugazi
Though not in the original lineup of Fugazi, Picciotto joined very early in the group's career, singing with them by their second show and appearing on all the band's studio recordings.
From the Margin Walker EP on, he also took up 2nd guitar duties, playing characteristically trebly Rickenbacker guitars. After seven albums (13 Songs, Repeater, Steady Diet of Nothing, In on the Kill Taker, Red Medicine, End Hits, The Argument), and several tours, Fugazi went on "indefinite hiatus" in 2003.
Side projects and production work
Picciotto has collaborated and performed with Mats Gustafsson, Vic Chesnutt, and members of the Ex among others. He has also produced numerous albums including the Gossip's breakthrough record Standing in the Way of Control as well as Blonde Redhead's Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons (2000), Misery Is a Butterfly (2004), The Blood Brothers final album, Young Machetes, and Downtown Boys' Cost of Living (2017).
Picciotto has produced four albums by the duo Xylouris White: Goats (2014), Black Peak (2016), Mother (2018) and The Sisypheans (2019)
Picciotto played on the Vic Chesnutt albums North Star Deserter (2007) and At the Cut (2009), and accompanied him on a 2009 Fall/Winter North American Tour. He co-produced the films Chain and Museum Hours with Jem Cohen (who made the Fugazi film Instrument).
In 2012 Picciotto was interviewed on stage at the Pop Montreal festival by Howard Bilerman about his experiences in the music industry.
Equipment
Guitars
Rickenbacker 330 – Picciotto's main guitars are a sunburst Rickenbacker 330 and 2 identical black Rickenbacker 330's all equipped with RIC HB1 humbuckers. He has also occasionally been seen playing a natural-finish 330. The characteristically trebly Rickenbackers allowed Picciotto to make use of sonic space not taken by MacKaye's chunkier, rhythmic guitar playing in Fugazi.
Rickenbacker 370 – Picciotto's main guitar when he fronted Rites of Spring, One Last Wish and in the first few years with Fugazi was a Mapleglo Rickenbacker 370. It eventually ended up in a state too fragile for live use, but he still used it in the studio right up to The Argument.
Gibson Les Paul Jr. – During Picciotto's time with Rites of Spring and during the early days of Fugazi (photos show until at least as late as 1993) he could also be seen playing a white, Gibson Les Paul Doublecut Jr with a single P90 pickup. In an NPR interview done in 2011, Picciotto is quoted as having had a Gibson SG Jr. stolen in NYC. The NPR article may be incorrect about it being an SG and it was likely the same Les Paul JR guitar.
Amplification
Park 100 Watt heads
Marshall JCM 800 2203 heads
Red or Black Marshall JCM 800 4x12 cabinets fitted with 75-watt celestion speakers
Fender Twin reverb (studio)
Personal life
Picciotto holds a BA degree in English from Georgetown University and is a graduate of the Washington, D.C. private school, the Georgetown Day School.
Picciotto married musician Kathi Wilcox from the band Bikini Kill and the Frumpies; as of October 2016 the two were living in Brooklyn with their ten-year-old daughter.
Discography
Rites of Spring
Rites of Spring (1985)
All Through a Life (1987)
End on End (complete discography) (1991)
One Last Wish
1986 (1999)
Happy Go Licky
12" (1988)
Will Play (1997)
Black Light Panthers
Peterbilt 12" 82-97 (1997)
Brief Weeds
A Very Generous Portrait 7" (1990)
Songs of Innocence and Experience 7" (1992)
Fugazi
13 Songs (September 1989)
Repeater (March 1990)
Steady Diet of Nothing (August 1991)
In on the Kill Taker (May 1993)
Red Medicine (June 1995)
End Hits (April 1998)
Instrument Soundtrack (1999)
The Argument (October 2001)
References
External links
Interview from 2001 at Welcome to Flavor Country
January 1998 interview with Picciotto in Diskant
Nude as the News interview with Guy Picciotto (October 2001)
Pitchfork interview with Picciotto
Picciotto interview on the Morphizm site
Exclaim.ca September 2007 interview with Guy Picciotto
Picciotto's 1999 Fugazi Guitar Rig. GuitarGeek.com
Category:1965 births
Category:American male singers
Category:American punk rock guitarists
Category:American people of Italian descent
Category:American punk rock singers
Category:Post-hardcore musicians
Category:Georgetown University alumni
Category:Living people
Category:American indie rock musicians
Category:American male guitarists
Category:Fugazi members
Category:20th-century American guitarists
Category:Rites of Spring members
Category:One Last Wish members
Category:20th-century male musicians
Category:Georgetown Day School alumni | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Wikipedia (en) |
addtoreset[equation]{}[section]{}
\
[We show that a class of type IIA vacua recently found within the 4 effective approach corresponds to compactification on $\ads_4 \times \S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$. The results obtained using the effective method completely match the general ten-dimensional analysis for the existence of 1 warped compactifications on $\ads_4 \times \M_6$. In particular, we verify that the internal metric is nearly-Kähler and that for specific values of the parameters the Bianchi identity of the RR 2-form is fulfilled without sources. For another range of parameters, including the massless case, the Bianchi identity is satisfied when D6-branes are introduced. Solving the tadpole cancellation conditions in 4 we are able to find examples of appropriate sets of branes. In the second part of this paper we describe how an example with internal space $\C\P^3$ but with non nearly-Kähler metric fits into the general analysis of flux vacua. ]{}
Introduction {#intro}
============
Four-dimensional 1 supersymmetric vacua of type II supergravity with fluxes can be analyzed directly in 10 or by means of an effective potential formalism in 4. In this work we point out that a class of type IIA vacua, with geometric fluxes switched on, that were found using the latter method [@cfi] corresponds to compactification on $\ads_4 \times \S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$. The results obtained using the effective formalism are in complete accord with the general conditions for the existence of $\ads_4 \times \M_6$ vacua [@lt; @gmpt1; @gmpt2]. This is a particular example of the equivalence between the higher and lower dimensional approaches considered lately in greater generality [@km1; @Cassani].
In the $\ads_4 \times\S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ compactification, that we study in depth, we show that the internal metric is nearly-Kähler. In [@bc] it was first proven that when $\M_6$ is nearly-Kähler there are consistent vacua of massive IIA supergravity with 1 supersymmetry in $\ads_4$. As also remarked in [@bc], besides $\S^3 \times \S^3$, there are other six-dimensional compact spaces that admit a nearly-Kähler metric, namely $\S^6$, $\C\P^3$ and $SU(3)/U(1)^2$ [@ssbook]. However, these spaces are not group manifolds and cannot be treated in a simple effective approach based on adding geometric fluxes to a toroidal compactification. It would be interesting to formulate all nearly-Kähler compactifications within the effective four-dimensional approach. A first step in this direction is the Kaluza-Klein reduction on nearly-Kähler spaces [@Kashani]. The case of $SU(3)/U(1)^2$ has been considered in [@hp].
A property of nearly-Kähler compactifications is that for special values of the fluxes the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form can be satisfied without adding sources [@bc; @lt]. For other ranges of parameters it is necessary to add O6-planes, D6-branes, or both, wrapping 3-cycles in the internal space. In any case, including D6-branes is required to generate charged chiral multiplets. In the $\S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ compactification we will present examples of supersymmetric D6-branes that can be included to fulfill the Bianchi identity or equivalently to cancel tadpoles. This problem was first addressed in [@adhl] where it was argued that a certain setup of D6-branes could cancel the tadpoles. We find similar results at the time we go further in proving tadpole cancellation because we supply the explicit background fluxes.
The second part of this paper is devoted to describing how other 1, $\ads_4$ vacua of massless IIA supergravity, discovered long time ago [@np; @vst; @stv; @pp], fit into the modern analysis of flux vacua. In these compactifications the internal space can be $\C\P^3$ or $SU(3)/U(1)^2$, but the metric is not nearly-Kähler. We will focus on the $\C\P^3$ example, but the analysis can be easily extended to $SU(3)/U(1)^2$. We give explicit expressions for the metric and the fluxes and then find the Killing spinor that allows to derive the fundamental forms that define the $SU(3)$ structure.
The organization of this paper is as follows. In section 2 we summarize the conditions for the existence of 1 $\ads_4$ vacua derived from the 10 theory. We also discuss the issue of solving the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form with or without sources. In section 3 we study compactification on $\ads_4 \times \S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ by describing the internal space in terms of a set of structure constants, the so-called geometric fluxes, known to give 1 vacua from the analysis of the 4 effective potential. We then explain how the Bianchi identity for $F_2$ can be satisfied in general by adding sources and present as well a concrete configuration of D6-branes in the massless case. There is an important interplay with the results in the 4 effective formalism that are collected in appendix A. Section 4 deals with the compactification on $\ads_4 \times \C\P^3$ that provides an example where the internal space is not nearly-Kähler. In appendix B we show that the proposed metric and background fluxes in $\C\P^3$ do satisfy the equations of motion and preserve 1 supersymmetry in 4.
Review of supersymmetric conditions in 10 {#d10}
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We are interested in 1 compactifications of type IIA supergravity with fluxes turned on and warped product geometry ds\^2 = e\^[2A(y)]{} ds\_4\^2 + ds\_6\^2 , \[geo\] where $ds_4^2$ and $ds_6^2$ are respectively the line elements of $\ads_4$ and the internal compact space. The general conditions that these vacua must fulfill were derived in [@lt] using Romans massive action [@romans] and also in [@gmpt1; @gmpt2] starting with the democratic formulation of IIA supergravity [@demo]. In this note we use the results and notation of [@gmpt2] that are more suited to compare with the effective potential approach.
By assumption, the internal manifold has strictly $SU(3)$ structure, i.e. it admits only one nowhere vanishing invariant spinor which in turn allows to write a fundamental 2-form $J$ and a holomorphic 3-form $\Omega$ satisfying the relations J=0 ; \^\* = -3 J J J . \[su3\] In the most general supersymmetric solution of the equations of motion, the warp factor and the dilaton are constants related by $\phi=3A$. Moreover, the characteristic forms $J$ and $\Omega$ must meet the conditions dJ= 2m e\^[-A]{} ; d=-3 m e\^[-A]{} J\^2 -i\_2 J , \[derj\] where $\cw_2$ is a real primitive 2-form. Here $\widehat \Omega = -i e^{i(\a+\b)} \Omega$, with $\a, \b$, phases that enter in the normalization of the 10 supersymmetry parameters (see [@gmpt2] for more details). The equations of motion also require $(\a - \beta)$ to be a constant.
Besides the constant $\tilde m$, the solutions depend on the IIA mass parameter $m$. These two real quantities are combined into the complex constant = e\^[-i(-)]{} (m + im) . \[mudef\] The parameter $\mu$ enters in the covariant derivative of the 4 gravitino and it turns out to be related to the cosmological constant through $\Lambda = -3 |\mu|^2$. This $\Lambda$ is defined with respect to the unwarped ${\rm AdS}_4$ metric.
In the solution the field strengths are determined to be[^1]
[lclcl]{} H = 2 m e\^[-A]{} & ; & F\_0 = - 5 m e\^[-4A]{} & ; & F\_2 = -e\^[-3A]{} \*d - 3m e\^[-4A]{} J\
F\_4 = -32 m e\^[-4A]{} J\^2 & ; & F\_6 = 12 m e\^[-4A]{} J\^3 & .
\[fluxsol\] The relation to the NSNS and RR forms is given by H = dB + ; F\_p = d C\_[p-1]{} - H C\_[p-3]{} + ( e\^B) |\_[p]{} . . \[hfdef\] The barred quantities are background fluxes and $\ov{F} = \ov{F_0} + \ov{F_2} + \ov{F_4} + \ov{F_6}$ is a formal sum.
Clearly, (\[derj\]) implies $J \wedge dJ=0$ and $d(\re \widehat{\Omega})=0$. This means that the internal space is always a half-flat manifold. If the torsion class $\cw_2$ vanishes the internal space is nearly-Kähler and the RR 2-form simplifies to F\_2 = - 3 e\^[-4A]{} J . \[f2nk\] This implies in particular that $dF_2 \not=0$ in nearly-Kähler compactifications.
The Bianchi identities for $H$ and $F_4$ are automatically satisfied. On the other hand, for the RR 2-form the generic results imply $dF_2-F_0H \not=0$. The situation is not hopeless because there might be further contributions due to D6-branes or O6-planes wrapping 3-cycles in the internal space. Actually, the Bianchi identity (BI) for $F_2$ is equivalent to tadpole cancellation conditions for the RR $C_7$ form that couples to such sources.
Following the prescription of [@gmpt2] we assume that the sources are smeared instead of localized. This means that in the BI D6-branes and O6-planes can be represented by additional 3-forms in the internal space. This is actually the only consistent possibility for the $\ads_4$ vacua in which the warp factor must be constant. Upon including smeared sources the BI becomes dF\_2 - F\_0 H + A\_3 = 0 , \[tadf2\] where $A_3$ is the Poincaré dual to internal 3-cycles wrapped by D6-branes or O6-planes. By virtue of (\[hfdef\]), this identity can be written purely in terms of background fluxes as $d\ov{F}_2 - F_0 \ov{H} + A_3 = 0$.
A property of the 1 $\ads_4$ vacua is that $H \propto dJ$. Thus, the form $A_3$ is necessarily exact. In consequence, to saturate the Bianchi identity of the RR 2-form, or equivalently to cancel $C_7$ tadpoles, the sources need not wrap non-trivial 3-cycles. This point has been known for some time [@adhl; @Cascales] and further elaborated recently [@km2]. Due to the special properties of $\ads_4$ such D6-branes can still be stable.
When $F_0 \not=0$ there could be a solution of (\[tadf2\]) without sources even if $dF_2 \not=0$. Indeed, when the internal space is nearly-Kähler from the above results it follows that dF\_2 - F\_0 H = e\^[-5A]{}(15m\^2 - m\^2) . \[tadf3\] Therefore, it is possible to avoid sources, i.e. $A_3=0$, provided that $\tilde m^2 = 15 m^2$. This interesting fact was first obtained in [@bc] and later in [@lt]. On the other hand, if $\tilde m^2 \not= 15 m^2$, sources must be added to fulfill the Bianchi identity. For instance, if $\tilde m^2 > 15 m^2$ a solution can be achieved by adding only D6-branes. This follows because supersymmetric 3-cycles are calibrated by $\re \Omega$ and in this case $\int_{\M_6}\re \Omega \wedge A_3 > 0$. Here we are taking $\widehat \Omega = -i \Omega$ according to results in appendix A.
It is also feasible to satisfy the Bianchi identity without sources and $F_0=0$ simply when $dF_2 =0$. Clearly, in this situation the internal space cannot be nearly-Kähler. Instead, the torsion class $\cw_2$ must be non-zero. Examples of this type were actually found several years ago [@np; @vst; @stv; @pp]. In section \[ccp3\] we discuss in detail the case of compactification on $\C\P^3$.
Flux compactification on $\bm{{\rm AdS}_4 \times \S^3 \times \S^3}$ {#cs3s3}
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We are interested in 1 type IIA vacua in presence of geometric fluxes $\omega^P_{MN}$ together with NSNS and RR fluxes. Such solutions can be viewed as compactifications in which the internal space has a basis of globally defined 1-forms satisfying d\^P = -\^P\_[MN]{} \^M \^N , \[gflux\] where the $\omega^P_{MN}$ are the structure constants of some Lie group $G$. If the Killing form $\K_{MN}=\omega^P_{MR} \omega^R_{NP}$ is non-degenerate, $G$ is semisimple and furthermore it is compact if $\K_{MN}$ is negative definite. If $G$ is not semisimple, but it has a discrete compact sub-group $\Gamma$, the internal space can be compactified by taking the quotient $G/\Gamma$. This is the case of the nil and solvmanifolds studied in [@gmpt2]. In this note we rather study the situation where $G$ is compact and the internal space is the $G$ group manifold. In particular, we want to show that in a class of supersymmetric $\ads_4 \times \M_6$ vacua found in [@cfi] the structure constants are actually those of $SU(2) \times SU(2)$ and the internal space is $\S^3 \times \S^3$ realized as $SU(2) \times SU(2)\times SU(2)/ SU(2)_{\rm diag}$.
The number of independent geometric fluxes $\omega^P_{MN}$ can be reduced by imposing additional conditions on the internal space. We will enforce a $\Z_2\times \Z_2$ symmetry whose generators act as \_2 & : & (\^1, \^2, \^3, \^4, \^5, \^6) (-\^1, -\^2, \^3, -\^4, -\^5, \^6)\
\_2 & : & (\^1, \^2, \^3, \^4, \^5, \^6) (\^1,-\^2, -\^3, \^4, -\^5, -\^6) . \[z2z2\] Furthermore, keeping in mind the eventual need for orientifold planes to cancel tadpoles, the geometric fluxes are required to be invariant under an orientifold involution $\sigma$ which is also a $\Z_2$ symmetry given by : \^i \^i ; \^[i+3]{} -\^[i+3]{} , i=1,2,3 . \[oaction\] In the end only twelve geometric fluxes survive and they are further constrained by the Bianchi identities following from (\[gflux\]). In the $\ads_4$ solutions found in [@cfi] there are only four independent parameters $a$ and $b_i$ which appear in the structure equations
[lcl]{} d\^1 = -a \^[56]{} - b\_1 \^[23]{} & ; & d\^4 = - b\_2\^[53]{} - b\_3 \^[26]{}\
d\^2 = -a \^[64]{} - b\_2 \^[31]{} & ; & d\^5 = - b\_1\^[34]{} - b\_3 \^[61]{}\
d\^3 = -a \^[45]{} - b\_3 \^[12]{} & ; & d\^6 = - b\_1\^[42]{} - b\_2 \^[15]{} . \[abis\]
The notation $\eta^{12}=\eta^1 \wedge \eta^2$, etc. is understood.
For future purposes we record the 2, 3 and 4-forms invariant under the $\Z_2\times \Z_2$ symmetry. These are
[lclclcl]{} \_1 = - \^[14]{} & ; & \_0 =\^[123]{} & ; & \_0 =\^[456]{} & ; & \_1 = \^[2536]{}\
\_2 = - \^[25]{} & ; & \_1 =\^[156]{} & ; & \_1 =\^[423]{} & ; & \_2 = \^[1436]{}\
\_3 = - \^[36]{} & ; & \_2 =\^[426]{} & ; & \_2 =\^[153]{} & ; & \_3 = \^[1425]{}\
& & \_3 =\^[453]{} & ; & \_3 =\^[126]{} & . & \[allforms\]
Notice that $\a_I$ and $\tilde \omega_i$ are even whereas $\b_I$ and $\omega_i$ are odd under the orientifold involution. The normalization is \_[\_6]{} \_i \_j = \_[\_6]{} \_i \_j = \_6 \_[ij]{} , \[ccdef\] where $\cv_6$ is a constant to be computed later on. When the geometric fluxes $a$ and $b_i$ are zero, the internal space can be compactified into a flat six-dimensional torus. Moreover, the $\Z_2\times \Z_2$ symmetry that is assumed implies that this torus is a product of three $\T_i^2$. Each 2-torus has a basis of 1-forms $(\eta^i, \eta^{i+1})$, a Kähler modulus (area) $t_i$ and a complex structure parameter $\tau_i$ that must be real for consistency with the orientifold involution. With this picture in mind we take the metric on $\M_6$, with $a, b_i \not=0$, to still be given by ds\_6\^2= \_[i=1]{}\^3 (\^i)\^2 + t\_i \_i (\^[i+3]{})\^2 . \[metricm6\] By construction, $t_i > 0$ and $\tau_i > 0$. Clearly, $\sqrt{g_6}= t_1 t_2 t_3$. Integrating gives the volume ${\rm Vol}(\M_6)= \cv_6 \, t_1 t_2 t_3$, where $\cv_6$ is the normalization constant defined above.
The hermitian almost complex structure corresponding to the metric is J= - t\_1 \^[14]{} - t\_2 \^[25]{} - t\_3 \^[36]{} = t\_i \_i . \[jm6\] The associated holomorphic (3,0) form can be written as = (\^1 - i\_1 \^4) (\^2 - i\_2 \^5) (\^3 - i\_3 \^6) . \[om6\] These $J$ and $\Omega$ satisfy (\[su3\]) so that they provide an $SU(3)$ structure on the internal space $\M_6$. Notice also that under the orientifold involution, $J \to - J$ and $\Omega \to \Omega^*$.
From (\[abis\]) we find that $dJ$ and $d\Omega$ are not zero but $J \wedge dJ$ and $d(\im \Omega)$ do vanish. Thus, the $\M_6$ defined by (\[abis\]) is a half-flat manifold. Additional properties must be fulfilled for $\M_6$ to serve as internal space in an 1 supersymmetric $\ads_4$ vacua of type IIA. Moreover, it is necessary to turn on particular NSNS and RR background fluxes. Now, from the discussion in [@cfi] we know that a solution is obtained with a precise set of fluxes invariant under the $\Gamma=\Z_2^3$ group of symmetries (\[z2z2\]) and (\[oaction\]). Furthermore, in this solution the variables $t_i$ and $\tau_i$ that enter in the metric satisfy specific relations. In the following our strategy is to use these results to continue analyzing the properties of the $\M_6$ at hand.
In the appendix we review the conditions of [@cfi] to obtain $\ads_4 \times \M_6$ supersymmetric minima. The fluxes allow a configuration with $t_1=t_2=t_3=t$, where $t$ is completely fixed. A crucial property is that the structure constants $a$ and $b_i$ must all have the same sign. Also, the second equation in (\[realsu\]) together with the explicit form of the moduli, c.f. (\[defrsu\]), gives the very useful relations b\_i \_j \_k = 3a \_i\^2 = , i = j = k . \[crux\] We then find dJ = 32 (\_1 ) ; d = \_1 J J ; \_1 = \[djdo\] In general the exterior derivatives of $J$ and $\Omega$ can be expressed in terms of torsion classes (see e.g. [@grana]). In our case, from (\[djdo\]) we easily see that the only non-zero class is $\cw_1$. This is precisely the condition for the internal space to be nearly-Kähler.
It is a simple exercise to compute the Killing form for the structure constants given in (\[abis\]). We find = -4 [diag]{}(b\_2b\_3, b\_1b\_3, b\_1 b\_2, a b\_1, a b\_2, ab\_3) . \[killf\] Now, recall that to obtain $\ads_4 \times \M_6$ supersymmetric minima the geometric fluxes $a$ and $b_i$ must all have the same sign. Therefore, $\K$ is non-degenerate and negative-definite. We might guess that the semisimple compact algebra being six-dimensional is that of $SU(2)\times SU(2)$. Indeed, after performing the change of basis
[lcl]{} \^1 = \^1 + \^4 & ; & \^1 = \^1 - \^4\
\^2 = \^2 + \^5 & ; & \^2 = \^2 - \^5\
\^3 = \^3 + \^6 & ; & \^3 = \^3 - \^6 , \[xibasis\]
the structure equations become d\^i = -12 \_[ijk]{} \^i \^j ; d \^i = -12 \_[ijk]{} \^i \^j . \[newstr\] This confirms that the underlying algebra is that of $SU(2)\times SU(2)$.
We can take the $\xi^i$ and $\hat \xi^i$ to be two sets of $SU(2)$ left invariant 1-forms. Concretely, \^1 & = & d+ d\
\^2 &= & -d+ d \[xihsu2\]\
\^3& = & d+ d , and similarly for the $\xi^i$. The range of angles is $0 \leq \hat \theta \leq \pi$, $0 \leq \hat \phi \leq 2\pi$ and $0 \leq \hat \psi \leq 4\pi$.
Our claim that the internal space is $\S^3 \times \S^3$ is supported by the explicit form of the metric in the new basis. Substituting (\[xibasis\]) into (\[metricm6\]) readily gives ds\_6\^2 = . \[s3s3metric\] This is an Einstein metric that belongs to a family of homogeneous metrics on $\S^3 \times \S^3$ [@gpp]. The isometry group is $SU(2)^3$ [@amv; @aw]. There are two $SU(2)$’s from the left actions that leave $\xi^i$ and $\hat \xi^i$ separately invariant, and a further $SU(2)$ from a simultaneous right action by the same element on $\xi^i$ and $\hat \xi^i$. >From the metric and the explicit realization of the $SU(2)$ 1-forms the volume of $\S^3 \times \S^3$ can be evaluated to be (§\^3 §\^3) = \_6 t\^3 , \[vols3s3\] where $\cv_6$ is precisely the normalization constant introduced in (\[ccdef\]).
In the new basis the fundamental forms $J$ and $\Omega$ are given by J & = & (\^1 \^1 + \^2 \^2 + \^3 \^3) \[joebasis\]\
& = & - (\^1 + e\^[2i/3]{} \^1) (\^2 + e\^[2i/3]{} \^2) (\^3 + e\^[2i/3]{} \^3) . Similar expressions have appeared in the literature some time ago [@adhl] and more recently [@km2].
At this point we must remember that our actual model is constrained by some specific symmetries. Indeed, the geometric fluxes (\[abis\]), as well as the NSNS and RR backgrounds (\[fluxbg\]), have been chosen to be invariant under the group $\Gamma=\Z_2^3$ of transformations given by the geometric $\Z_2 \times \Z_2$ (\[z2z2\]) and the orientifold involution $\sigma$ (\[oaction\]). The action of $\sigma$ amounts to exchange of the spheres, $\xi^i \leftrightarrow \hat \xi^i$, which is clearly a symmetry of the metric. On the other hand, the geometric $\Z_2 \times \Z_2$ corresponds to \_2 & : & (\^1, \^2, \^3, \^1, \^2, \^3) (-\^1, -\^2, \^3, -\^1, -\^2, \^3)\
\_2 & : & (\^1, \^2, \^3, \^1, \^2, \^3) (\^1, -\^2, -\^3, \^1, -\^2, -\^3) \[z2z2xi\] which also leaves the metric invariant. The effect of these latter symmetries is to restrict the range of the angles that define the 1-forms, c.f. (\[xihsu2\]). The first and second $\Z_2$’s imply respectively $\hat \theta \equiv - \hat \theta$, and $\hat \psi \equiv - \hat \psi$ simultaneously with $\hat \phi \equiv - \hat \phi$, and analogous for the unhatted angles. In the end we truly have internal space $\S^3 \times \S^3/\Gamma$, with volume given by $\cv_6 t^3/8$. We will write (§\^3 §\^3/) = t\^3 , \[vols3s3G\] where $\cc=\cv_6/8=4\pi^4/(ab_1b_2b_3)^{3/2}$.
The nearly-Kähler metric on $\S^3 \times \S^3$ is also invariant under the order three transformation : \^i - \^i ; \^i \^i - \^i . \[betadef\] This $\beta$-symmetry proves useful when studying properties of 3-cycles on $\S^3 \times \S^3$ [@adhl].
D6-branes on $\bm{\S^3 \times \S^3}$ and Bianchi identity for $\bm{F_2}$
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When $dF_2 \not=0$, the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form can still be fulfilled by adding appropriate sources. The task is to find the 3-form $A_3$ that satisfies (\[tadf2\]) and is the Poincaré dual of the 3-cycles wrapped by the sources.
In general, $A_3$ is some combination of the 3-forms of the internal space so that it is important to characterize these forms, specially knowing that $A_3$ must be exact. For $\S^3 \times \S^3$ the third Betti number is equal to two and the third cohomology is rather simple. The two representative closed 3-forms are easier to describe in the $(\xi^i, \hat \xi^i)$ basis. In fact, they are basically the volume forms of each $\S^3$, namely h= ; h= - . \[hhhdef\] The normalization has been chosen so that h h = = \^[123456]{} . \[hnorm\] From the six remaining 3-forms that can be constructed there are three exact combinations given by $d(\xi^i \wedge \hat \xi^i)$. The corresponding forms in terms of the $\eta^M$ basis are found using the map (\[xibasis\]). In particular, it follows that a \^[456]{} = b\_1 \^[423]{} = b\_2 \^[153]{} = b\_3 \^[126]{} = ()\^[1/4]{} (h + h) , \[exf\] where each equality is modulo exact forms.
Let us now study the homology. Our discussion resembles that in [@aw] and [@adhl]. In $\S^3 \times \S^3$ we can identify three special 3-cycles as explained below.
The locus $\hat \xi^i =0$. By definition this is the first 3-sphere $\S_1^3$. From the metric (\[s3s3metric\]), ds\_6\^2 |\_[\^i=0]{} = ds\_3\^2(§\_1\^3) = (\^i)\^2 . \[s1metric\] >From the $\Omega$ form we find that $\im \Omega \big|_{\hat \xi^i=0}=0$, and moreover |\_[\^i=0]{}= - \^[123]{}= -[dvol]{}(§\_1\^3) . \[reos1\] This shows that the charge of a brane wrapping $\S_1^3$ is $-1$, it would be an anti D6-brane in our conventions. For a D6-brane the 3-sphere must be wrapped in reverse orientation. We will define the corresponding 3-cycle to be $D_1 = (-\S_1^3)$.
The locus $\xi^i =0$. By definition this is the second sphere $\S_2^3$. We now find that |\_[\^i=0]{}= -[dvol]{}(§\_2\^3) . \[reos2vol\] Thus, a brane wrapping $\S_2^3$ has charge $-1$ and it is an anti D6-brane in our conventions. Since $\im \Omega \big|_{\xi^i=0}=0$, we surmise that the supersymmetric D6-brane must wrap the 3-cycle $D_2 = (-\S_2^3)$.
The locus $\xi^i= \hat \xi^i$. By definition this is the diagonal 3-sphere $\S_D^3$. It is easy to check that $\im \Omega \big|_{\xi^i=\hat \xi^i}=0$. Besides, from the metric (\[s3s3metric\]) and the $\Omega$ form we deduce |\_[\^i=\^i]{}= [dvol]{}(§\_D\^3) . \[reosdvol\] Due to some extra factors now there is a plus sign in front so that the charge of a brane wrapping the diagonal 3-sphere is a D6-brane with charge $+1$. We will denote $D_0 = \S_D^3$.
The three 3-cycles discussed above, $D_0$, $D_1$ and $D_2$, cannot be independent since the third Betti number of $\S^3 \times \S^3$ is two. In fact there is a linear relation among these cycles that will become clear when we discuss the corresponding dual 3-forms.
In general, given a 3-form $X$ integrated over one of the 3-cycles $D_i$, the Poincaré dual form $Y_i$ to $D_i$ in $\M_6=\S^3 \times \S^3$ is such that \_[D\_i]{} X=\_[\_6]{} X Y\_i . \[poincaredef\] For example, for $D_1=(-\S_1^3)$ we find Y\_1 = - , \[duald1\] where $\hat h$ is defined in (\[hhhdef\]). To demonstrate this we can choose X= [dvol]{}(D\_1)=- \^[123]{}=- \^[123]{} , \[xf1\] so that $\int _{D_1} X= V_3$. On the other hand we can also compute \_[\_6]{} X (-) = V\_3 . \[checkduald1\] In a similar fashion we obtain the dual to $D_2=(-\S_2^3)$ to be Y\_2 = - , \[duald2\] where $h$ is defined in (\[hhhdef\]).
We can now compute the intersection number of the 3-cycles $D_1$ and $D_2$ by means of the representative dual 3-forms. This is D\_2D\_1 =\_[D\_1]{} Y\_2 = \_[\_6]{}Y\_2 Y\_1 = \_[\_6]{} h =1 . \[int12\] This agrees with the analysis of [@aw].
We still need to find the dual 3-form of the diagonal 3-sphere $D_0$. In this case it is convenient to use the $\eta^M$ basis. We notice that $\xi^i = \hat \xi^i$ amounts to going to the locus $\eta^4=\eta^5=\eta^6=0$. Either by changing variables or by evaluating directly in (\[om6\]), we obtain (D\_0)= \^[123]{} . \[dvoldeta\] It then follows that the dual 3-form is given by Y\_0 = \^[456]{} , \[duald0\] where we have used that $\tau_1\tau_2\tau_3=(27/ab_1b_2b_3)^{1/4}$ as implied by (\[crux\]).
As mentioned before, there must be a linear relation among the three supersymmetric 3-cycles that have been identified. The claim is that $$D_0+D_1+D_2= 0 \ ,
\label{linD}$$ in homology. This can be simply understood in terms of the dual 3-forms. In fact, from (\[exf\]) we have $Y_0= \frac{h+\hat h}{\cv_6}$, up to exact forms. Therefore, in cohomology, $Y_0+Y_1+Y_2= 0$, modulo exact forms. This confirms the validity of (\[linD\]).
The remaining intersection numbers are also easily calculated. We find for instance $D_0\cdot D_2 = \int_{\M_6}Y_0 \wedge Y_2 =1$. In general, D\_i D\_j = \_[\_6]{}Y\_i Y\_j = \_[j,i-1]{} -\_[j,i+1]{} , \[intij\] where the indices are defined modulo 3. These are the intersection numbers found in [@aw]. In particular they satisfy, $D_i\cdot ( D_0+D_1+D_2)=0$, consistent with (\[linD\]).
We will now carry the discussion in the quotient space $\S^3\times \S^3/\Gamma$ with $\Gamma=\Z_2^3$. To the 3-cycles, $D_i$ in the covering space we associate $D_i^\prime$ with corresponding dual forms $Y_i^\prime$ in the quotient. Closely following [@aw], let us assume that the lifting to the covering space $\M_6=\S^3\times \S^3$ is given by the map (Y\_0\^,Y\_1\^, Y\_2\^) && (Y\_0, 8 Y\_1, 8 Y\_2)\
(D\_0\^, D\_1\^,D\_2\^) && (D\_0, 8 D\_1, 8 D\_2) . \[lifti\] With this Ansatz we then obtain for instance, D\_2\^D\_1\^& = & \_ [\_6]{} Y\_2\^Y\_1\^ = \_ [\_6]{} 8Y\_2 8 Y\_1 = 18 \_ [\_6]{} 8Y\_2 8Y\_1 =8\
D\_0\^D\_2\^& = & \_ [\_6]{} Y\_0\^Y\_2\^= \_ [\_6]{} Y\_0 8Y\_2 = 18 \_ [\_6]{} Y\_0 8Y\_2 =1 , \[intsq\] where we have defined $\cs_6=\M_6/\Gamma=\S^3\times \S^3/ \Gamma$ to streamline expressions. As expected, this is consistent with the normalization \_ [\_6]{} \^ [123456]{}= = \[MGvolume\] where ${\cc}t^3$ is the volume of $\cs_6$. We will see that these intersection numbers also arise in our model 1 in 4 discussed in appendix A.
According to [@aw], the 3-cycle $D_0^\prime$ corresponds to $D_0^\prime= S_D^3/{\Gamma}$. Namely, $D_0=S_D^3$ is an 8-fold cover of $D_0^\prime$. Since cycles are not independent, this indicates that wrapping $N$ D6-branes around each of the cycles $D_i^\prime$ with $i=1,2$, requires wrapping $D_0^\prime$ $8N$ times. In other words, 8D\_0\^+D\_1\^+D\_2\^= 0 , \[linDp\] which is true by virtue of the map (\[lifti\]) and the relation (\[linD\]).
With all the information collected so far we can already establish a connection to our model 1 explained in appendix A. In this model, with mass parameter $F_0=0$, we found that tadpoles could be cancelled by a setup of supersymmetric D6-branes wrapping particular factorizable 3-cycles in the $\eta^M$ basis. The concrete configuration is summarized in table \[adsm0\] where the 3-cycles are explicitly given. It consists of a stack of $8N_B$ D6-branes wrapping a cycle $\Pi_A$, $N_B$ D6-branes wrapping a cycle $\Pi_B$, plus $N_B$ D6-branes wrapping the mirror cycle $\widetilde{\Pi}_B$. In the model, the geometric flux parameters satisfy $a=b_i=2N_B/c$, where $c$ is related to the RR 2-form background. Interestingly enough, it is possible to represent these factorizable cycles in terms of the supersymmetric 3-cycles in $\S^3\times \S^3/\Gamma$. In fact, the following identifications can be made \_A= (1,0)\^3 D\_0\^; \_B = (-1,1)\^3 D\_2\^; \_B=(-1,-1)\^3 D\_1 \^\[idenmod1\] Evidence for these matchings comes from the equivalence of the loci described in both the $\eta^M$ and the $(\xi^i,\hat \xi^i)$ basis, and from agreement of the intersection numbers. For instance, $\Pi_A \cdot \Pi_B =1 = \D_0^\prime \cdot \D_2^\prime$ and $\Pi_B \cdot \widetilde{\Pi}_B = 8 = \D_2^\prime \cdot \D_1^\prime$. Besides, below we will check that the corresponding dual 3-forms do coincide.
Based on the above results from the analysis of supersymmetric 3-cycles in $\S^3\times \S^3/\Gamma$ we conclude that a setup of D6-branes wrapping the cycles $D_0^\prime$, $D_1^\prime$ and $D_2^\prime$, will lead to tadpole cancellation. Otherwise stated, the corresponding dual 3-forms must add up to the precise 3-form $A_3$ needed to saturate the Bianchi identity. To substantiate this claim we will examine the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form in more detail. The starting point is equation (\[c7tadpole\]). For sources wrapping space-time the RR 7-form can be written as $C_7={\rm dvol}_4 \wedge X$, where $X$ is some 3-form in the internal space which we take to be $\cs_6=\S^3\times \S^3/\Gamma$. Then, (\[c7tadpole\]) leads to \_[\_6]{} X (d\_2 - F\_0 ) + \_a N\_a Q\_a \_[\_a]{} X = 0 . \[c7tadpolevol\] The factor of $\sqrt\cc$ is necessary because we are writing $d\ov{F}_2$ and $\ov{H}$ in a basis of forms with normalization (\[MGvolume\]) or analogous in terms of the $(\xi^i, \hat \xi^i)$ 1-forms.
To continue, recall that $\int_{\Pi_a} \hspace{-2mm} X = \int_{\cs_6} \hspace{-1mm} X \wedge Y_a^\prime$, where the 3-form $Y_a^\prime$ is the Poincaré dual of the 3-cycle $\Pi_a$. Thus, from the above integral we arrive at the BI d\_2 - F\_0 + \_a N\_a Q\_a Y\_a\^= 0 . \[biovo\] In terms of the notation in section \[d10\] we have A\_3 = \_a N\_a Q\_a A\_3\^a , \[a3a\] where $A_3^a=\sqrt{\cc}\, Y_a^\prime$ is the contribution of each individual source. Recall that $N_a$ is the number of D6-branes or O6-planes wrapping the 3-cycle $\Pi_a$ and $Q_a$ is the corresponding charge.
In the following we focus on the massless case $F_0=0$ as in model 1 of appendix A. As argued in section \[d10\], when $m=0$, necessarily sources of positive charge must be included to satisfy the BI. In this case, in our $\S^3\times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ compactification, from previous results we know that $d\ov{F}_2$ is given by d\_2 = - dJ = - \_1 . \[bgf2\] In the $\eta^M$ basis this yields the rather simple expansion d\_2 = -c(3a\^[456]{}- b\_1 \^[423]{}-b\_2 \^[153]{}- b\_3 \^[126]{}) . \[bianchimzero\] Our results for tadpole cancellation in model 1 in appendix A suggest a solution to the BI, $d\ov{F}_2 + A_3=0$. Concretely we propose that in this situation $A_3$ can be written as A\_3 = N\_B(8 A\_3\^A + A\_3\^B + A\_3\^B) , \[a3sum\] because $N_A=8N_B$ and $Q_A=Q_B=1$. Indeed, it is straightforward to check that the BI is satisfied with A\_3\^A & = & \^[456]{} ,\
A\_3\^B & = & -(\^[456]{} + \^[423]{} + \^[153]{} + \^[126]{} + \^[123]{} + \^[156]{} + \^[426]{} + \^[453]{} ) , \[a3m0\]\
A\_3\^B & = & -(\^[456]{} + \^[423]{} + \^[153]{} + \^[126]{} - \^[123]{} - \^[156]{} - \^[426]{} - \^[453]{} ) , as long as $a=b_i=2N_B/c$, which precisely guarantees tadpole cancellation.
To close our argument we compare the dual 3-forms $Y_a^\prime$ with those found before for the supersymmetric 3-cycles in $\S^3\times \S^3/\Z_2^3$. We find Y\_A\^& = & 1 A\_3\^A = \^[456]{} = Y\_0 = Y\_0\^\
Y\_B\^& = & 1 A\_3\^B = 8 (-)= 8 Y\_2= Y\_2\^\[alleluja\]\
\_B\^& = & 1 \_3\^B = 8 ( -)= 8 Y\_1= Y\_1\^ . Therefore, the cycles wrapped by D6-branes correspond to the “quotient spheres” $D_0^\prime$, $D_1^\prime$ and $D_2^\prime$, as already anticipated in (\[idenmod1\]).
As we might suspect, a more generic solution to the BI can be obtained as we now explain. Again in the massless case, the problem is to solve d\_2 + \_a N\_a Q\_a Y\_a\^= 0 . \[biovo2\] In general we can attempt a solution with 3 stacks of D6-branes wrapping the supersymmetric quotient 3-spheres so that A\_3 = \_a N\_a Q\_a Y\_a\^= (N\_0 Y\_0\^+ N\_1 Y\_1\^+ N\_2 Y\_2\^) , \[a3generic\] setting the charges to 1. Now, as suggested by (\[linDp\]), we choose $N_0=8N$, $N_1=N_2=N$. Then, A\_3 = 8 N( Y\_0+ Y\_1+ Y\_2) = (3a\^[456]{}- b\_1 \^[423]{}-b\_2 \^[153]{}- b\_3 \^[126]{}) , \[a3generic2\] where we used the lifting (\[lifti\]) and the expansions of the dual forms in the $\eta^M$ basis. Comparing with (\[bianchimzero\]) we see that the BI is satisfied provided that $$c= \frac {2 N}{(ab_1b_2b_3)^{\frac14}} \ .
\label{cgeneric}$$ In the 4 formulation developed in section A.1, this generic solution can be associated to a particular configuration of supersymmetric D6-branes similar to model 1. The setup consists of $N_B$ D6-branes wrapping $\Pi_B=(-1,k) \otimes (-1,\ell) \otimes (-1,m)$, where $(k,\ell,m)$ are positive integers, $N_B$ D6-branes along the mirror 3-cycle $\widetilde{\Pi}_B$, plus $N_A=8N_B$ D6-branes wrapping $\Pi_A=(1,0)^3$. It is not difficult to check that tadpoles are cancelled, and $\Pi_B$ is supersymmetric, as long as $ac=2N_B$, $b_1c=2N_B \ell m$, $b_2c=2N_B k m$ and $b_3c=2N_B k \ell$. Combining these parameters we reproduce (\[cgeneric\]) with $N=N_B \sqrt{k\ell m}$.
To finish this section we would like to comment on the massless spectrum originating from the configuration of D6-branes. The interpretation is that in $\S^3\times \S^3/\Gamma$ a setup of $N_B$ D6-branes wrapping each of the cycles $D_1^\prime$ and $D_2^\prime$, as well as $N_A=8N_B$ D6-branes wrapping $D_0^\prime$, allows to satisfy the BI. These D6-branes produce an anomaly-free spectrum with gauge group $U(N_A) \times U(N_B) \times U(N_B)$ and massless matter content (,,[**1**]{}) + (,[**1**]{},) + 8([**1**]{},,) , \[specinters\] consistent with the intersection numbers of the 3-cycles. Notice that the spectrum is chiral and, therefore it cannot be continuously deformed away. This signals the stability of the D6-brane configuration.
The above spectrum is the same as in model 1 in appendix A. We are assuming that the curvature of the 3-spheres wrapped by the D6-branes is large. In fact, the radius is controlled by the size modulus $t$ whose vev can turn out large, for instance by adjusting the RR flux $e_0$ [@cfi]. On the other hand, the fact that the D6-branes wrap 3-spheres can have interesting consequences. For instance, since the first Betti number of $\S^3$ is zero, open string massless scalar moduli are not expected. In the lines of [@cg] these, adjoint, scalars would become massive through $\mu $ terms in the effective superpotential[^2]. This could be an appealing feature from a phenomenological perspective.
So far we have concentrated here in massless type IIA without orientifold planes. Extensions to more general cases can in principle be worked out and could lead to attractive models from the phenomenological point of view.
Flux compactification on $\bm{{\rm AdS}_4 \times \C\P^3}$ {#ccp3}
=========================================================
Compactification of massless type IIA supergravity on ${\rm AdS}_4 \times \C\P^3$ have been studied in detail in [@np; @vst; @stv]. The idea was to look for solutions similar to the Freund-Rubin compactification of eleven-dimensional supergravity. Thus, a non-trivial background for the RR 4-form, $F_4 \propto {\rm dvol}_4$ is turned on. By Hodge duality this is equivalent to $F_6 \propto {\rm dvol}_6$. The solutions are unwarped and have constant dilaton. There is no $H$ flux. The RR 2-form flux can be chosen to be $F_2 \propto J$, where $J$ is the fundamental form of $\C\P^3$. When the internal metric is given by the Fubini-Study metric the equations of motion are satisfied. Furthermore the Bianchi identity for $F_2$ is automatic because $dJ=0$. It can be shown that an extended 6 supersymmetry is preserved.
Applying the general results reviewed in section \[d10\] we can see that for $m=0$ there is a solution with 1 supersymmetry when the metric in $\C\P^3$ is chosen to be nearly-Kähler. However, in this case the Bianchi identity for $F_2 \propto J$ is not satisfied because $dJ \not=0$. Presumably the tadpoles could be cancelled by adding D6-branes. The third homology of $\C\P^3$ is trivial but there could exist supersymmetric 3-cycles.
Yet another 1 solution with $m=0$ can be found by choosing the metric on $\C\P^3$ and the RR 2-form flux to descend from the metric of the squashed seven-sphere which gives an 1 solution of 11 supergravity [@dnp]. In this case the $\C\P^3$ metric is not Einstein and therefore not nearly-Kähler. According to the general analysis it must be that the metric is such that the two torsion classes $\cw_1$ and $\cw_2$ are different from zero. In fact setting $\widehat\Omega=-i\Omega$ in (\[derj\]) tells us that dJ= 32 \_1 ; d= \_1 J\^2 + \_2 J , \[nonnk\] where $\cw_1=\frac43 \tilde m e^{-A}$ and $\cw_2$ is a real primitive 2-form. Substituting in (\[fluxsol\]) then gives F\_2= -14 \_1 J + \^\*(\_2 J) , \[f2nnk\] where we have put the warp factor to zero. In principle it is then feasible to attain $dF_2=0$ even if $dJ\not=0$. Below we try to check these claims.
The generic metric on $\C\P^3$ can be constructed as a bundle with base $\S^4$ and fiber $\S^2$. Denoting by $(\theta, \varphi)$ the coordinates of the $\S^2$ this means that ds\_6\^2 = ds\_4\^2 + \^2 (d- \^1 + \^2)\^2 + \^2 \^2 (d- (\^1 + \^2) + \^3)\^2 , \[cp3metric\]\
where $d\tilde s_4^2$ is the line element of $\S^4$ and $\ca^A$ is the self-dual $SU(2)$ instanton potential on $\S^4$. More explicitly, ds\_4\^2 = d\^2 + 14 \^2 \^A \^A ; \^A = \^2 2 \^A . \[s4mi\] The $\Sigma^A$, $A=1,2,3$, are left-invariant $SU(2)$ 1-forms for which we use coordinates \^1 & = & d+ d ,\
\^2 & = & - d+ d , \[s3forms\]\
\^3 & = & d+ d , Notice that $d\Sigma^A = -\oh \epsilon_{ABC} \Sigma^B \wedge \Sigma^C$.
In the following we will employ a flat Sechsbein defined as e\^1 & = & d; e\^j = \^[j-1]{} , j=2,3,4 ,\
e\^5 & = & (d- \^1 + \^2) , \[bein6\]\
e\^6 & = & (d- (\^1 + \^2) + \^3) . In the flat basis the Ricci tensor of the $\C\P^3$ metric is diagonal with components R\_[ab]{}=(3-\^2) \_[ab]{} ; R\_[ij]{}=(\^2 + 1[\^2]{}) \_[ij]{} , \[riccicp3\] where $a,b=1, \cdots, 4$, and $i,j=5,6$.
Taking $\lambda^2=1$ gives the standard Einstein metric that is Kähler. A second Einstein metric that is nearly-Kähler is obtained setting $\lambda^2=\frac12$. In both cases the Einstein equation of motion of type IIA supergravity can be solved with $F_2 \propto J$. Another solution can be found choosing $\lambda^2=\frac15$ and turning on an appropriate RR 2-form flux. Concretely, $F_2$ must be F\_2 = -(e\^[12]{} + e\^[34]{}) - (e\^[13]{} + e\^[42]{}) - (e\^[14]{} + e\^[23]{}) - 1 e\^[56]{} . \[f2cp3\] It can be checked that $dF_2=0$ and $\nabla_m F^{mn}=0$. Moreover, we will see that $F_2$ is of the expected form (\[f2nnk\]), with $\cw_2 \not=0$. In appendix B we will check that all equations of motion are satisfied and that 1 supersymmetry is preserved.
As already stressed in [@np; @vst; @stv], the new $\C\P^3$ compactification of massless IIA supergravity is directly related to compactification of 11 supergravity on the squashed seven-sphere [@dnp]. Indeed, the metric on the squashed $\S^7$ can be written as[^3] ds\_7\^2 = (d- A)\^2 + ds\_6\^2 , \[ss7\] where $ds_6^2$ is the above metric on $\C\P^3$ and the gauge potential $A$ is such that $dA$ gives precisely the RR 2-form background displayed in (\[f2cp3\]). When $\lambda^2=\frac15$ this seven-dimensional metric is Einstein and admits only one Killing spinor.
The fundamental forms $J$ and $\Omega$ can be obtained from the Killing spinor in six dimensions. Details are presented in appendix B. The main results are J & = & -(e\^[12]{} + e\^[34]{}) - (e\^[13]{} + e\^[42]{}) - (e\^[14]{} + e\^[23]{}) + e\^[56]{} ,\
& = & (e\^[126]{} + e\^[346]{}) + (e\^[136]{} + e\^[426]{}) + (e\^[125]{} + e\^[345]{})\
& & - (e\^[135]{} + e\^[425]{}) - (e\^[146]{} + e\^[236]{}) , \[jocp3\]\
& = & -(e\^[125]{} + e\^[345]{}) - (e\^[135]{} + e\^[425]{}) + (e\^[126]{} + e\^[346]{})\
& & - (e\^[136]{} + e\^[426]{}) + (e\^[145]{} + e\^[235]{}) . These forms satisfy (\[su3\]).
The torsion classes are found after computing the exterior derivatives that turn out to be exactly of the form (\[nonnk\]) with \_1 = ; \_2 J = J\^2 - 6e\^[1234]{} . \[w1w2cp3\] Both $\cw_1$ and $\cw_2$ are real. In fact, $d\im \Omega=0$. We can check that $\cw_2 \wedge J \wedge J = 0$ so that $\cw_2$ is primitive. It also follows that \^\*(\_2 J) = 2J - 6e\^[56]{} . \[dualw2\] With all this information it is a simple exercise to verify that the RR 2-form $F_2$ given in (\[f2cp3\]) can indeed be written as (\[f2nnk\]) when $\lambda^2=\frac15$.
Final remarks {#conclu}
=============
The original motivation behind this paper was to identify the internal space implicit in a class of 1 type IIA $\ads_4$ vacua obtained using the effective 4 formalism. As we have explained, this internal space turns out to be $\S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ with a nearly-Kähler metric. This property, together with the structure of background fluxes, is in complete agreement with the general results derived from supersymmetry conditions and equations of motion in 10.
Unlike the Minkowski case, $\ads_4$ 1 type IIA compactifications have the peculiarity that the equations of motion can be solved in the absence of orientifold planes of negative tension. In the 4 approach this can be simply understood from the tadpole cancellation equations that include fluxes and sources [@cfi]. In 10, as reviewed in section 2, this follows from the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form [@gmpt2]. In the $\S^3 \times \S^3/\Z_2^3$ compactification we have found explicit solutions of the tadpole cancellation conditions and used them to construct configurations of D6-branes that allow to solve the Bianchi identity in 10.
A second motivation of our work was to find a concrete example of 1 type IIA compactification to $\ads_4$ in which the internal space is not nearly-Kähler. This possibility is allowed by the general analysis of flux vacua, it corresponds to the case in which both torsion classes $\cw_1$ and $\cw_2$ are different from zero. Previous attempts to construct examples of this sort failed because the Bianchi identity for the RR 2-form could not be fulfilled [@lt]. Our contribution has been to observe that some solutions of massless type IIA supergravity discovered long time ago [@np; @vst; @stv; @pp] do fit within the general framework of $\ads_4$ flux vacua while the internal manifold does not have a nearly-Kähler metric. We considered compactification on $\C\P^3$ and showed that both torsion classes $\cw_1$ and $\cw_2$ are different from zero. Moreover, the background of the RR 2-form has the correct expression in terms of the torsion classes. Another example with both $\cw_1$ and $\cw_2$ non zero, already studied in [@hp], which has as internal space the coset $SU(3)/U(1)^2$, can be treated along the same lines as in section \[ccp3\].
In this note we have exemplified the validity and applicability of the effective 4 approach to uncover properties of 10 flux vacua. It is clearly desirable to extend the effective formalism to compactifications with more generic internal manifolds. In the future we hope to join efforts in pursuing further research on this interesting subject.
[**Acknowledgments**]{}
We thank B. Acharya, M. Graña, L. Ibáñez and J. Maldacena for useful comments. We are specially grateful to P. Cámara and S. Theisen for clarifying explanations and sharing their notes, and to Y. Oz for bringing [@np] to our attention. A.F. acknowledges the hospitality of the Max-Planck-Institut für Gravitationsphysik while preparing this paper. This work has been partially supported by the European Commission under the RTN European Program MRTN-CT-2004-503369, the Comunidad de Madrid through Proyecto HEPHACOS S-0505/ESP-0346, and the AECI (Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional). G.A. acknowledges the hospitality of the International Centre for Theoretical Physics where part of this work was done. The work of G.A. is partially supported by ANPCyT grant PICT 11064 and CONICET PIP 5231.
Appendix A: Effective approach in 4 {#appA .unnumbered}
===================================
This appendix serves several purposes. First we give a concise account of the effective action for 4, 1 type IIA toroidal orientifolds [@gl; @dkpz; @vz]. We then describe to some extent the specific model that turns out to be related to compactification on $\ads_4 \times \S^3 \times \S^3$. We will also show that the results are in complete agreement with those derived from supersymmetry conditions and equations of motion in 10. Finally, we discuss tadpole cancellation equations and provide configurations of supersymmetric D6-branes that solve these equations.
In the 4 effective formalism the analysis of vacua is based on the superpotential generated by RR, NSNS and geometric fluxes. In type IIA orientifolds the flux induced superpotential can be written as W = \_[\_6]{} e\^[J\_c]{} + \_c ( + dJ\_c) . \[fullw\] The complexified forms defined as J\_c = B + iJ ; \_c= C\_3 + i(e\^[-]{} ) , \[cforms\] are expanded in the basis of invariant 2 and 3-forms, with coefficients given by the moduli fields. In the model we are considering these fields are the axiodilaton $S$, together with three complex structure $U_i$ and three Kähler moduli $T_i$. The relevant expansions are J\_c = iT\_i \_i ; \_c= iS \_0 - iU\_i \_i . \[cformexps\] As we saw in section \[cs3s3\], $J=t_i \omega_i$. The NSNS 2-form can also be expanded in terms of the $\omega_i$ as $B=-v_i \omega_i$. The $v_i$ are the Kähler axions and indeed the Kähler moduli are $T_i=t_i+i v_i$. For the axiodilaton and complex structure moduli we can substitute (\[om6\]) to obtain S s = e\^[-]{} ; U\_i u\_i = s \_j \_k , j = k . \[defrsu\] The corresponding axions arise from the RR 3-form given by $C_3 = -\im S \a_0 + \im U_i \a_i$.
To compute the superpotential we need expansions for the background fluxes. We follow the approach of [@cfi] where the fluxes are chosen to comply with the $\Z_2 \times \Z_2$ symmetry (\[z2z2\]). Thus, just as $J_c$ and $\Omega_c$, the fluxes are to be expanded in the basis of invariant forms displayed in (\[allforms\]). Furthermore, since we are assuming that the moduli are those of toroidal IIA orientifolds, the fluxes are required to conform to the orientifold involution (\[oaction\]). This means that $\ov{F}_0$ and $\ov{F}_4$ are even, whereas $\ov{H}$, $\ov{F}_2$ and $\ov{F}_6$ are odd under the orientifold involution [@gl]. The upshot is that background fluxes have the following expansions
[lclcl]{} = h\_0 \_0 + h\_i \_i & ; & \_0 = - M & ; & \_2 = q\_i \_i\
\_4 = e\_i \_i & ; & \_6 = e\_0 \_0 \_0 & .
\[fluxbg\] The exterior derivative of these fluxes and the Kähler form $J$ are found using (\[abis\]) that define the internal space.
The scalar potential of the moduli has the standard 1 expression V= e\^K { \_[=S,T\_i, U\_i]{} (+ \^\*)\^2 |D\_W|\^2 - 3|W|\^2 } , \[spot\] where we already assumed the classical Kähler potential $K = - \sum_{\Phi=S,T_i, U_i} \, \log(\Phi + \Phi^*)$, and $D_\Phi W = \partial_\Phi W + W \partial_\Phi K$. Supersymmetric AdS minima are determined by the condition $D_\Phi W=0$.
To obtain the model analyzed in [@cfi] one chooses RR fluxes $q_i=-c$ and $e_i=e$ so that a configuration with $T_i=T$ is allowed. The resulting superpotential is simply[^4] =e\_0 + 3ieT + 3c T\^2 + iM T\^3 + (ih\_0 - 3a T)S - \_[k=0]{}\^3 (ih\_k + b\_kT) U\_k . \[supT\]
This superpotential admits supersymmetric AdS minima provided that the fluxes satisfy the constraint 3h\_k a + h\_0 b\_k = 0 ; k=1,2,3 . \[homega\] In this case the real parts of the axiodilaton and complex structure moduli are completely determined in terms of the Kähler modulus according to as = 2t(c-Mv) ; 3 as = b\_k u\_k ; k=1,2,3 . \[realsu\] Recall that $s=\re S$, $u_k=\re U_k$, $t=\re T$ and $v=\im T$ and that the real part of the moduli are positive definite. Thus, (\[realsu\]) requires that the geometric fluxes $a$ and $b_k$ be of the same sign. For the $S$ and $U_i$ axions only one linear combination is fixed, this is 3a S +b\_k U\_k = 3e + (3h\_0 - 7a v) - v(3h\_0 - 8a v) . \[axionfix\] To have the minimum with $T_i=T$ it must also be that $b_1 \im U_1 = b_2 \im U_2 = b_3 \im U_3$.
The vacuum expectation value for the Kähler modulus depends on whether the mass parameter $M$ vanishes or not. When $M=0$ it is found that v=v\_0= ; 9c t\^2 = e\_0 - - . \[valmzero\] In this case (\[realsu\]) implies that necessarily there is a flux of the RR 2-form, i.e. $c \not= 0$, and furthermore that $ac > 0$ and $c b_k > 0$. Background fluxes $\ov{H}$ and $\ov{F}_4$ can be absent but then the Freund-Rubin flux $\ov{F}_6 \sim e_0$ must be turned on.
When $M \not= 0$ the Kähler axion satisfies the cubic equation 160(v-v\_0)\^3 + 294(v\_0-)(v-v\_0)\^2 + 135(v\_0-)\^2(v-v\_0) + v\_0\^2(v\_0-) + (e\_0 a - e h\_0) = 0 . \[cubiceq\] The real part of the Kähler modulus is now determined from t\^2= 15 (v-)(v-v\_0) . \[valtm\] The solution for $v$ must be real and such that $t^2 > 0$.
Let us now check that the above results agree with the general analysis in 10. To begin observe that we have $d \im \Omega=0$ compared to $d \re \widehat \Omega=0$. We find that in order to match the 4 and 10 results we need to make the choice = - i; + =0 [mod]{} 2 . \[wophase\] The full exterior derivatives of $J$ and $\Omega$ are given in (\[djdo\]).
The next step is to express the field strengths in terms of the background fluxes and the moduli. In the case at hand, with $q_i=-c$, $e_i=e$, $T_i=T$, it is possible to write most forms in terms of $J$ and $\Omega$. For example, $B=-v J/t$, $\ov{F}_4=e J^2/2t^2$, and so on. After substituting in (\[hfdef\]) we find H & = & (h\_0 - 3 av) ,\
F\_2 & = & J , \[hfd4\]\
F\_4 & = & ,\
F\_6 & = & . All these expressions greatly simplify upon using (\[axionfix\]) and (\[cubiceq\]). In the end we obtain dJ & = & e\^ ; d= e\^ J\^2 ; H = 25 M e\^ , \[fd4\]\
F\_0 & = & -M ; F\_2 = J ; F\_4 = - J\^2 ; F\_6 = J\^3 . These agree with (\[derj\]) and (\[fluxsol\]) provided that =3A ; m = 5 e\^[4A]{} ; m = e\^[4A]{} . \[checkft\] The relation between the dilaton and the warp factor is precisely the same found in the ten-dimensional analysis.
It is also interesting to compute the cosmological constant which follows from the value $V_0$ of the scalar potential at the minimum. For the AdS minimum, $V_0 = -3 e^K |W_0|^2$. To determine $W_0$ we can substitute the vevs of the moduli in (\[supT\]). A more general approach is to use the original form of the superpotential (\[fullw\]). Using previous results to evaluate the integrand at the minimum we arrive at e\^[J\_c]{} + \_c ( + dJ\_c) |\_0 = 3 (m +i m) e\^[-4A]{} J\^3 . \[intcero\] This shows that the superpotential at the minimum is proportional to the complex constant $\mu$. More precisely, $|W_0|^2=16 t^6 e^{-8A} |\mu|^2{\cc}^2$. For the classical Kähler potential, $e^K = (2^7 t^3 s u_1 u_2 u_3\,{\cc})^{-1}$, which can be rewritten as $e^K=e^{4\phi}/128 t^9 {\cc}^3$. Therefore, V\_0 = - ||\^2 = . \[ccd4\] where $\Lambda=-3 |\mu|^2$ is the cosmological constant and $M_P^2 = 8 e^{2A-2\phi} {\cc}t^3$. The moduli above are evaluated at the minimum and we are taking $\a^\prime=1$.
A.1 {#tadin4 .unnumbered}
-----
The fluxes induce tadpoles for the RR 7-form $C_7$ that can also couple to D6-branes and O6-planes. In general these objects span space-time and wrap a 3-cycle in $\M_6$. The RR 7-form can then be written as $C_7={\rm dvol}_4 \wedge X$, where $X$ is some 3-form in the internal space, which can be expanded in a convenient basis. We denote by $\Pi_a$ the 3-cycle wrapped by a stack of $N_a$ $\D6_a$-branes or $\O6_a$-planes. The coupling of $C_7$ in the action has contributions from fluxes and from the sources, namely \_[\_4 \_6]{} C\_7 (d\_2 - F\_0 ) + \_a N\_a Q\_a \_[\_4 \_a]{} C\_7 , \[c7tadpole\] where $Q_a=1$ for D6-branes and $Q_a=-4$ for O6-planes. Here we are considering the internal space to be $\cs_6=\S^3\times \S^3/\Z_2^3$. The factor $\sqrt{\cc}$ must be included for consistency with the normalization of the 1-form basis (see \[MGvolume\]).
As usual in the 4 effective formulation, it appears useful to consider factorizable 3-chains \_a=(n\_a\^1, m\_a\^1)(n\_a\^2, m\_a\^2) (n\_a\^3, m\_a\^3) , \[facpi\] where $n_a^i$ $(m_a^i)$ are the wrapping numbers along the $\eta^i$ $(\eta^{i+3})$. In particular, there is a basis of 3-chains $\Pi_{ijk}$ spanning the $\{i,j,k\}$ directions. For instance, $\Pi_{123}=(1,0)\otimes(1,0) \otimes(1,0)$, etc.. To each $\Pi_{ijk}$ we have a corresponding “dual” 3-form $\eta^{ijk}$ such that $$\int_{ \Pi_{i^{\prime}j^{\prime}k^{\prime}}}\eta^{ijk}= \frac{1}{\sqrt{\cc}}\, \delta_{i,i^{\prime}}
\, \delta_{j,j^{\prime}}\, \delta_{k,k^{\prime}} \ .
\label{intetaijk}$$ Integrating over the 3-chain $\Pi_a$ then gives, $\int_{ \Pi_a}\eta^{123}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{\cc}} \, n_a^1 n_a^2 n_a^3$, $\int_{ \Pi_a}\eta^{156}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{\cc}} \, n_a^1 m_a^2 m_a^3$, and so on.
It is worth noticing that the basis manifolds $\Pi_{ijk}$ are not necessarily closed cycles and, therefore, neither is $\Pi_a$, for generic wrappings. As an example, consider the exact form $d (\xi^1 \wedge {\hat \xi}^1) = 2 \sqrt{ab_1b_2b_3}
(a \eta^{456}+ b_1\eta^{423}-b_2 \eta^{153}-b_3 \eta^{126})$, then, $ \int_ {\Pi_{456}}d (\xi^1 \wedge \xi^1)=\frac{2}{\sqrt{\cc}} \,\sqrt{ab_1b_2b_3}$, indicating that the manifold $\Pi_{456}$ has a boundary (see [@marche] for a related discussion). We rely on tadpole cancellation and supersymmetry to restrict to the adequate wrappings for D6-branes. When the orientifold action (\[oaction\]) is implemented there are eight O6-planes along $\otimes_i(1,0)$ and image D6-branes wrapping $\otimes_i (n_a^i, -m_a^i)$ must be included.
To preserve the same supersymmetries as the background the D6-branes must wrap cycles $\Pi_a$ such that $$\theta_a^1+\theta_a^2+\theta_a^3=0\quad{\rm mod}\quad 2 \pi \ ,
\label{susyd6}$$ where the angles are measured in accordance with \^j\_a = . \[tans\] Recall that the $\tau_i$ are the complex structure moduli that enter in the metric as shown in (\[metricm6\]). In the vacuum we are considering they satisfy (\[crux\]).
>From the supersymmetric constraint (\[susyd6\]) it follows that $$\tau_1\tau_2\tau_3 m_a^1 m_a^2 m _a^3-\tau_1 m_a^1 n_a^2 n_a^3- \tau_2 n_a^1
m_a^2 n_a^3 - \tau_3 n_a^1n_a^2 m_a^3 = 0 \ .
\label{tg}$$ This condition amounts to $\im \Omega \big |_{\Pi_a} =0$. In fact, the supersymmetric cycles are calibrated by $\re \Omega$ and the condition on the angles is equivalent to $\re \Omega \big |_{\Pi_a} = {\rm dvol}(\Pi_a)$. Besides, the factorizable cycles satisfy $J \big |_{\Pi_a} =0$.
Substituting the fluxes and the data for the sources in (\[c7tadpole\]) we obtain the tadpole cancellation equations. The conditions receiving flux contributions are \_a N\_a Q\_a n\_a\^1 n\_a\^2 n\_a\^3 +(M h\_0 -3a c) & = & 0 ,\
\_a N\_a Q\_a n\_a\^1 m\_a\^2 m\_a\^3 + (M h\_1 + b\_1 c) & = & 0 , \[tadb\]\
\_a N\_a Q\_a m\_a\^1 n\_a\^2 m\_a\^3 + (M h\_2 + b\_2 c) & = & 0 ,\
\_a N\_a Q\_a m\_a\^1 m\_a\^2 n\_a\^3 + (M h\_3 + b\_3 c) & = & 0 . The sum in $a$ includes $\O6_a$-planes, when orientifold actions are performed, as well as and their orientifold images if necessary. Finally, there are fluxless conditions \_a N\_a Q\_a m\_a\^1 m\_a\^2 m\_a\^3 & = & 0 ,\
\_a N\_a Q\_a m\_a\^1 n\_a\^2 n\_a\^3 & = & 0 , \[tadfless\]\
\_a N\_a Q\_a n\_a\^1 m\_a\^2 n\_a\^3 & = & 0 ,\
\_a N\_a Q\_a n\_a\^1 n\_a\^2 m\_a\^3 & = & 0 . When the orientifold action (\[oaction\]) is implemented these last four constraints are automatically satisfied once images are included.
When $M \not=0$ the tadpole equations admit a solution without branes or O-planes. This happens because $h_k=-h_0 b_k /3a$ and then all flux tadpoles can cancel simultaneously when $Mh_0 = 3ac$ [@cfi]. Now, the relations (\[checkft\]) and (\[valtm\]) imply that this condition is equivalent to $\tilde m^2 = 15 m^2$. As explained in section \[d10\] this is precisely the case when the internal space is nearly-Kähler and no sources are necessary to satisfy the Bianchi identity for $F_2$. In 10 we have further seen that when $\tilde m^2 > 15 m^2$ the Bianchi identity can be satisfied by adding sources of positive charge. In the 4 approach it is indeed evident that whenever $Mh_0 < 3ac$ the tadpoles can be cancelled by adding only $\D6$-branes.
$N_a$ $(n_a^1,m_a^1)$ $(n_a^2,m_a^2)$ $(n_a^3,m_a^3)$
------- ----------------- ----------------- -----------------
$N_A$ $(1,0)$ $(1,0)$ $(1,0 )$
$N_B$ $(-1,1)$ $ (-1,1)$ $(-1,1)$
$N_B$ $(-1,-1)$ $ (-1,-1)$ $(-1,-1)$
: Wrapping numbers for D6-branes in model 1[]{data-label="adsm0"}
To present examples of tadpole cancellation with only D6-branes we will consider the case $M=0$ in the $\S^3 \times \S^3$ compactification that we have been analyzing. A first model consists of the factorizable D6-branes shown in table \[adsm0\]. The third stack is the mirror image, $\tilde m_B^i= -m_B^i$, of the second and it is included to saturate the fluxless tadpole equations. We also take $N_A=8 N_B$. The first stack has $\theta_A^i=0$, hence it is supersymmetric independently of the values of the complex structure parameters. On the other hand, substituting the wrapping numbers in (\[tadb\]) gives the relations $2N_B=ac=b_1c=b_2c=b_3c$, needed for tadpole cancellation. Next, using that $\tau_i = b_i \sqrt{3 a/b_1 b_2 b_3}$, we find $\tau_1=\tau_2=\tau_3=\sqrt3$. We can then check that the second and third stack are also supersymmetric. In fact, computing $\tan \theta_B^i$ for the second shows that $\theta_B^i=2\pi/3$. Assuming that the $\Pi_a$ cycles have large volume, in this model 1 the resulting gauge group is $U(N_A) \times U(N_B) \times U(N_B)$. According to the intersections between cycles, the matter content consists of chiral multiplets transforming as (,,[**1**]{}) + (,[**1**]{},) + 8([**1**]{},,) . \[specuno\] The multiplicity 8 of the last representation arises from the intersection number between the cycle B and its mirror. Since $N_A=8N_B$ this chiral spectrum is free of gauge anomalies.
$N_a$ $(n_a^1,m_a^1)$ $(n_a^2,m_a^2)$ $(n_a^3,m_a^3)$
------- ----------------- ----------------- -----------------
$N_0$ $(1,0)$ $(1,0)$ $(1,0 )$
$N_1$ $(1,0)$ $ (0,-1)$ $(0,1)$
$N_2$ $(0,1)$ $ (1,0)$ $(0,-1)$
$N_3$ $(0,1)$ $ (0,-1)$ $(1,0)$
: Wrapping numbers for D6-branes in model 2[]{data-label="oadsm0"}
There are other D6-brane configurations capable of canceling tadpoles. Some are equivalent to the setup in model 1 but others belong to a different class. For instance, in table \[oadsm0\] we display a model 2 with four stacks of branes that are all supersymmetric independently of the complex structure moduli. To cancel tadpoles the numbers of branes in each stack must be related to the fluxes by $N_0=3ac$ and $N_i = b_ic$. In this model the resulting spectrum is non-chiral.
Appendix B: Supersymmetric vacua of massless type IIA supergravity in 10 {#appB .unnumbered}
========================================================================
In this appendix we tersely summarize some basic aspects of compactification of massless IIA supergravity on ${\rm AdS}_4 \times \M_6$. We will review the case when the internal space is $\C\P^3$ and appropriate fluxes are turned on so that there is a vacuum with 1 supersymmetry in 4 [@np; @vst; @stv]. Our main goal is to explicitly find the six dimensional Killing spinor in order to determine the fundamental forms $J$ and $\Omega$ that define the $SU(3)$ structure. We will follow and refer to the discussion of [@np] where the equations of motion and the supersymmetry transformations are spelled out in full detail.
We consider a class of vacua with background metric of the product form (\[geo\]) but to simplify the warp factor $A$ is fixed to zero. The dilaton $\phi$ is assumed to be constant whereas the NS 2-form and its field strength are taken to vanish. On the contrary, there are non-trivial RR fluxes. For the 4-form one makes the Freund-Rubin Ansatz F\_ = 3 f \_ ; \_[0123]{}= , \[marc\] while other components are zero. For the RR 2-form there is a flux $F_{mn}$ through $\M_6$ to be specified shortly. Under these conditions the equations of motion reduce to R\_ & = & -12 e\^[/2]{} f\^2 g\_ ,\
R\_[mn]{} & = & 6 e\^[/2]{} f\^2 g\_[m n]{} + e\^[3/2]{} F\_[mp]{} F\_n\^[ p]{} , \[eommz\]\
e\^F\_[mn]{} F\^[mn]{} & = & 24 f\^2 ; \_m F\^[mn]{}=0 . The Einstein equation in 4 shows that space-time can indeed be taken to be ${\rm AdS}_4$ with cosmological constant $\Lambda= -12 e^{\phi/2} f^2 $.
To characterize the internal space we still need to specify the flux $F_2$. We will see that it is consistent to take $\M_6$ to be $\C\P^3$ with metric given in (\[cp3metric\]), while $F_2$ can be set equal to the 2-form (\[f2cp3\]). This RR 2-form satisfies the equation of motion and the properties F\_[mn]{} F\^[mn]{} = 2(2\^2 + 1[\^2]{}) ; F\_[ac]{} F\_b\^[ c]{}= \^2 \_[ab]{} ; F\_[ik]{} F\_j\^[ k]{}= 1[\^2]{} \_[ij]{} , \[f2props\] where $a,b,c=1, \cdots, 4$, and $i,j,k=5,6$, are flat indices.
Once the flux $F_2$ is given, the dilaton equation of motion implies that the vevs $e^\phi$, $f$ and the metric parameter $\lambda$ are related by e\^(2\^2 + 1[\^2]{}) = 12 f\^2 . \[flambda\] Substituting in the 6 Einstein equation we then find that in the flat basis the Ricci tensor is diagonal with components R\_[ab]{}=e\^[3/2]{} (3\^2+1[\^2]{}) \_[ab]{} ; R\_[ij]{}= e\^[3/2]{} (\^2 + 1[\^2]{}) \_[ij]{} . \[riccid6\] The Ricci tensor of the generic $\C\P^3$ metric has precisely this structure. Comparing with (\[riccicp3\]) we see that the dilaton vev has to be $e^\phi=1$. Moreover, the parameter $\lambda$ must be such that 5 \^2 - 6 + 1[\^2]{} = 0 . \[lequ\] There is a solution with $\lambda^2=1$ for which the metric is Einstein. We are more interested in the solution with $\lambda^2=1/5$. In this case, from (\[flambda\]) it transpires that the Freund-Rubin parameter is fixed to be $f^2=9/20$.
We now discuss the requirements for residual supersymmetry in 4. We will employ exactly the same conventions of [@np] for the 10 Dirac matrices. In 6 we basically adopt the matrices used in [@dnp] in 7. With flat indices these are \_1 & = & i \_0 ; \_2 = \_1 ; \_3 = \_2 ; \_4 = \_3\
\_5 & = & i\_5 \_1 ; \_6 = i\_5 \_2 ; \_0 = \_ 1 \_6 = i\_5 \_3 , \[gammad6\] where $\sigma_i$ are the Pauli matrices. The 4-dimensional matrices are \_0 =
(
[cc]{} 0 & 1\
1 & 0
)
; \_a =
(
[cc]{} 0 & \_a\
-\_a & 0
)
, \[gammad4\] and $\gamma_5= - i \gamma_0 \gamma_1 \gamma_2 \gamma_3$. We will also need the charge conjugation matrix in 6 which in our conventions is given by $C=\Gamma_2 \Gamma_ 4\Gamma_6$.
To study the conditions for the vacuum to preserve supersymmetry we first write the 10-dimensional parameter as $\epsilon \otimes \eta$, where $\epsilon$ and $\eta$ are respectively spinors in four and six dimensions. We then substitute the vevs of all fields in the supersymmetry transformations of the fermionic fields which in 10, IIA supergravity are the gravitino and the dilatino. We refer the reader to reference [@np] for the explicit equations of these transformations. From the dilatino variation we obtain (S + 2f)= 0 , \[etaev\] where the matrix $S$ depends on the RR 2-form flux as S = F\_[mn]{} \^[mn]{} \_0 . \[sdef\] For the $F_2$ background in (\[f2cp3\]), $S$ turns out to have eigenvalues ${\mbox{\small$1/\lambda$}}$, ${\mbox{\small$(2\lambda^2-1)/\lambda$}}$, and $-{\mbox{\small$(2\lambda^2+1)/\lambda$}}$, with degeneracies $4,2$ and 2 respectively. Remarkably, for the case of interest with $\lambda^2=1/5$ and $f^2=9\lambda^2/4$, $S$ can have an eigenvalue $-2f$ as long as we take $f=3\lambda/2$. The corresponding eigenvector has the simple form =
(
[c]{} s\_1\
s\_2\
s\_3\
s\_4\
0\
0\
0\
0
)
; s\_1 = - ; s\_4 = , \[etafull\] where $s_2$ and $s_3$ in principle depend on all internal coordinates.
From the gravitino variation $\delta \psi_\mu$, using (\[etaev\]), we find D\_- e\^[/4]{} f \_5 \_= 0 . \[killingads\] This is the expected equation for the supersymmetry parameter in ${\rm AdS}_4$ with cosmological constant $\Lambda= -12 e^{\phi/2} f^2 $. Finally, from the variation $\delta \psi_m$ we obtain the Killing equation D\_m - 2 \_m - 14 F\_m\^[ n]{} \_n \_0 = 0 , \[killingcp3\] where we have set $e^\phi=1$. For the covariant derivative acting on spinors we use the conventions of [@dnp].
It remains to solve the Killing equation to determine the unknown functions $s_2$ and $s_3$ in $\eta$. From the $\psi$ component we find s\_2 = i e\^[-i]{} s\_3 . \[s2s3\] It further follows that $s_3$ is completely independent of the $\S^4$ coordinates $(\psi, \alpha, \beta. \gamma)$, but depends on the $\S^2$ variables as s\_3 = e\^[i]{} e\^[-i/2]{} 2 , \[s3final\] where $\delta$ is a constant phase. The normalization guarantees that the Weyl spinors \_= 2 \[etaweyl\] satisfy $\eta_\pm^{\dagger} \eta_\pm =1$. The phase $\d$ is fixed by imposing the reality condition $\eta_+^* = C \, \eta_-$.
We are now ready to compute the fundamental forms $J$ and $\Omega$ defined by J\_[mn]{} = i \_-\^ \_[mn]{} \_- ; \_[mnp]{} = \_+\^ \_[mnp]{} \_- . \[joeta\] In the end we obtain the results reported in section \[ccp3\]. We stress that there is a unique Killing spinor $\eta$ so that the internal manifold has $SU(3)$ structure and there is 1 supersymmetry in 4.
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[^1]: The sign differences with respect to equation (7.9) in [@gmpt2] are due to our conventions ${}^* J = J^2/2$ and ${}^*1 = J^3/6$, where ${}^*$ is the Hodge dual in six dimensions.
[^2]: We thank P. Cámara for these observations.
[^3]: The metric on the squashed $\S^7$ is $ds_7^2 = d\tilde s_4^2 + \lambda^2( d\sigma^A - \ca^A)^2$, where $\sigma^A$ is a second set of $SU(2)$ left-invariant 1-forms. To recover (\[ss7\]) just set $\sigma^1 = \sin \varphi \, d\theta + \sin \theta \cos \varphi \, d\tau$, $\sigma^2 = -\cos \varphi \, d\theta + \sin \theta \sin \varphi \, d\tau$, $\sigma^3 = -d\varphi + \cos \theta \, d\tau$.
[^4]: A volume factor ${\cc}$ appears here due to normalization (\[MGvolume\]).
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | ArXiv |
That (10) High where you get freaked out taking a shit because things are escaping your body
119 shares | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
hamilton - Authorities have captured one of the two fugitives who escaped last week from the Marion County Jail in Hamilton.
Zeppelin Kennedy, 20, Hamilton, is in custody and has been returned to the county jail after his capture at a family member’s home in Hamilton on Tuesday, March 21.
Officers with the Marion County Sheriff’s Department and Hamilton Police Department arrived at the home where Kennedy was seeking refuge and remained less than 30 minutes before the fugitive was back in custody.
Marion County Sheriff Kevin Williams said Kennedy was not armed at the time and was arrested without incident. Kennedy was in custody and returned to the county jail by 1:50 p.m. on Tuesday.
He was being held at the jail pending recent charges on 31 counts of possession of pornography and production of pornography with a minor.
Law enforcement officials in Alabama and Mississippi had worked in partnership in the search since his escape at 1:30 a.m. on Friday, March 17.
An informant notified local authorities that Kennedy had circled back from Mississippi to his hometown and could be found at his grandmother’s house.
Located inside the home at the time of his arrest were his grandmother, uncle and aunt.
His grandmother, Annette Huddleston, 57, Hamilton, has been arrested in connection with the case for assisting the fugitive in his run from the law.
She has been charged with aiding and abetting, harboring a fugitive and obstruction of a governmental operation.
Neither of the remaining family members were charged in the case.
Her arrest marks the ninth by authorities involving those who have been charged with aiding Kennedy since he’s been on the run from the law.
She joins three others from the county now being held at the local jail for their alleged role in the case.
Also being held at the jail is Kennedy’s mother, Rachel Parrish, 42, Hamilton.
The remaining five who have been charged with aiding Kennedy and Dean in their run are currently being held at the Lamar County Jail in Vernon.
Asked the message these arrests send to the community, Williams said, “I think this will send a strong message.
“If you know a fugitive is on the run and provide aid of any kind--money, cell phone, food or clothing--you will be arrested.’’
The sheriff said the search for the second fugitive to run from the county jail.
Cory Dean, 22, Brilliant, was on the run with Kennedy for more than 48 hours until authorities said the two split up on Sunday.
The sheriff said authorities believe the two separated while being sought in Mississippi. Later reports confirmed that Kennedy had been spotted at a gas station in Kennedy.
Williams said U.S. marshals are still involved in the search for Dean, who was being held in connection with a string of church burglaries in Alabama.
More information on the route taken by the fugitives and other details of the recent turn of events is expected as local authorities interview Kennedy. Williams said no such information had been provided as of presstime at 2 p.m. on Thursday, March 23.
Sheriff disputes media report
Media attention for the case has extended well beyond the Marion County area as news crews from each of the states involved have reported the story.
Williams admitted to his having taken exception with a news report quoting a family member of Kennedy’s, saying the inmate had been the victim of abuse from other inmates inside the jail.
The television report was aired by a station located in Mississippi.
“Hearing what was said in this report was the first time our office had even heard of some of these complaints,’’ the sheriff said in an interview with the Journal Record.
“No reports have been filed or given to us. No reports have been filed asking to be moved to another facility. Despite the media report, there have been no assaults. The inmate was in protective custody while here. I can assure you we would have known had anything like that happened.’’
(When a defendant is charged with a crime, the charge is merely an accusation and the defendant is presumed innocent until and unless proven guilty.) | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Gudetama Relief Ceramic Mug: Don't Look
Pour yourself a cup of coffee or tea with this die-cut ceramic Gudetama mug. The design features Gudetama breaking out of a large, grey crack. The Japanese characters translates to "Don't look at my butt." Start your day off lazy with Gudetama. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Nathaniel sez, "Sonicwall, the web content filtering vendor, now blocks XKCD as "Adult/Mature". A STICK FIGURE COMIC is now too mature for the internet. Classic."
As of this week I can no longer see XKCD at my office, due to SonicWall, a content filter service my company subscribes to. It is not blocked as "Adult/Mature Content". As this is the same service some businesses that offer public wifi use (Panera Bread in particular), this may mean XKCD has been dropped from a lot of public places.
I don't blame you, guy. I blame SonicWall. They're most anal about the smallest things. Only recently has my office gotten access again to MySpace, which was also listed as "Adult/Mature". principiadiscordia.com was listed as "Occult"; now it's still blocked, but listed as "Other". My best guess is that what did it for XKCD was the sexual positions strip…as far as I can tell, these people have little brain and less sense of humor. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Q:
Center an UIImageView on the screen when zoom out
I have an UIImageView inside an UIScrollView. I want that the user can zoom and navigate the image.
This is my work code:
//img is the UIImageView
//scroller is the UIScrollView
- (UIView *)viewForZoomingInScrollView:(UIScrollView *)scrollView {
return img;
}
- (void)viewDidLoad {
[super viewDidLoad];
UIImage *image = [UIImage imageNamed:@"map_screen.png"];
img = [[UIImageView alloc] initWithImage:image];
scroller.delegate = self;
scroller.autoresizesSubviews = YES;
scroller.autoresizingMask = UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleHeight | UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleWidth;
scroller.contentSize = img.frame.size;
scroller.scrollEnabled = YES;
scroller.directionalLockEnabled = NO;
scroller.userInteractionEnabled = YES;
CGSize ivsize = img.frame.size;
CGSize ssize = scroller.frame.size;
float scalex = ssize.width / ivsize.width;
float scaley = ssize.height / ivsize.height;
scroller.minimumZoomScale = fmin(1.0, fmax(scaley, scalex));
scroller.zoomScale = fmin(1.0, fmax(scalex, scaley));
[scroller addSubview:img];
img.userInteractionEnabled = YES;
}
all works, but this happened: the minimum zoom is the height of the screen.
My image has the width bigger than the height, so i want that the minumum zoom is the width.
If i write
scroller.minimumZoomScale = fmin(1.0, scalex);
works, but when the user zooms out, the image is not at the center of the screen, but at the top.
i've tried something like this
CGPoint scrollCenter = [scroller center];
[img setCenter:CGPointMake(scrollCenter.x, scrollCenter.y)];
or
img.center = scroller.center;
but with this solution, the image is not completly scrollable, and if i zoom out, it stay again at the top of the screen, but is not completly visible!
What can i do for fix it?
A:
You have to do it manually while the zooming is in progress using the scrollViewDidZoom delegate function... something like
- (void)scrollViewDidZoom:(UIScrollView *)scrollView
{
// center the image as it becomes smaller than the size of the screen
CGSize boundsSize = scrollView.bounds.size;
CGRect frameToCenter = imageView.frame;
// center horizontally
if (frameToCenter.size.width < boundsSize.width)
{
frameToCenter.origin.x = (boundsSize.width - frameToCenter.size.width) / 2;
} else {
frameToCenter.origin.x = 0;
}
// center vertically
if (frameToCenter.size.height < boundsSize.height)
{
frameToCenter.origin.y = (boundsSize.height - frameToCenter.size.height) / 2;
} else {
frameToCenter.origin.y = 0;
}
imageView.frame = frameToCenter;
}
A:
A Swift 3.0 version of Bastian 's answer, a little more succinct:
func scrollViewDidZoom(_ scrollView: UIScrollView) {
// center the image as it becomes smaller than the size of the screen
let boundsSize = scrollView.bounds.size
var frameToCenter = imageView.frame
// center horizontally and vertically
let widthDiff = boundsSize.width - frameToCenter.size.width
let heightDiff = boundsSize.height - frameToCenter.size.height
frameToCenter.origin.x = (widthDiff > 0) ? widthDiff / 2 : 0;
frameToCenter.origin.y = (heightDiff > 0) ? heightDiff / 2 : 0;
imageView.frame = frameToCenter;
}
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Season six is likely Adventure Time’s most divisive season, and for understandable reasons. This season strayed away from the goofy, enjoyable adventures that made up the first few seasons, or the surface level excitement and emotional unambiguity that was featured more heavily in seasons three and four. After the series had reached a comfortable groove of popularity around the time when Pendleton Ward decided to step down, Adam Muto and the crew decided to try something completely different that didn’t meet the standard expectations of the common television viewer. Not to discredit the first five seasons; they were entirely unique and still utilized the characters and fantasy world to the series’ best abilities. Season six is simply just… different. It doesn’t focus entirely on our main duo, it experiments more with serialized elements, emotional ambiguity is at its highest, and the series really branches out by giving a variety of different artists and animators an opportunity to lend their creative energy to the show. While this is clearly seen as a turning point for some, it stands at to me as one of the most ambitious seasons of television out there.
I’d say there’s three main “storylines” in season six, two of which are established in Escape From the Citadel: the first being Finn’s crisis of faith in the world around him, and the second being Finn’s relationship to his father, Martin, which are relatively interconnected. The third doesn’t come until later, which revolves around the catalyst comet heading straight for Ooo. Finn’s arc ties mostly into the overarching theme of the season, which is the act of finding purpose and meaning in one’s life. The overarching theme itself was the best thing to come out of this season, giving us many episodes that provide hints towards methods of managing stressors in life, such as The Tower, Breezy, Astral Plane, The Visitor, The Mountain, The Diary, Friends Forever, Jermaine, and The Comet. While the theme remains consistent throughout the season, it’s somewhat difficult to incorporate Finn’s sadness as a major part of the series, mainly because of the fact that episodes of AT tend to shift in tone frequently. One episode can be dark and heavy-handed, while the very next episode can easily be a light and silly romp. And that’s not to say that these lighter episodes aren’t welcomed, but it is a bit of a drastic shift to see Finn devastated in Escape From the Citadel, playful and joy-filled in James II, and then back to being angry and depressed in The Tower. I think this is more so just a trademark of the series that I’ve grown to accept and not mind as much, and it is important to know that we’re never truly shown how exactly Finn is feeling in an episode like James II, so it doesn’t necessarily border on discontinuity. Martin also showed up sporadically, but it was actually a pretty insightful part of his character that he would always leave just as soon as he showed up. Martin establishes in the last episode that he continuously aims to “move forward,” and he’s shown to do as much as possible. I thought the comet subplot was the most haphazardly executed… it’s introduced in Evergreen, revealed in Astral Plane, disproved in The Visitor, and then doesn’t appear again until the final five episodes of the series, only to bring no actual lasting changes to the series aside from Martin’s final exit. Again, this one helps to close out the main theme that season six aims to execute, but it also never feels like it has a coherent role in the actual story.
Aside from the main arcs, this season is also well-known for its use of side stories featuring the lesser known participants of Ooo. This part of the season also contributes to Finn’s realization that the world around him is massive and expansive, and that the Land of Ooo certainly does not center solely around himself. We got some terrific entries through said stories, such as Little Brother, Nemesis, Evergreen, The Diary, Graybles 1000+, You Forgot Your Floaties, and so on. On occasion, this method could fail, like Sad Face, where the featured character failed to be interesting in the slightest. But, a majority of the time, these “day in the limelight” episodes were a refreshing treat and managed to have me invested in characters that I would never even expect to. It’s an AT specialty.
Overall, I think this season had the highest amount of subpar or bad episodes so far, but man, the episodes that are good and really friggin’ fantastic. When I think of really tremendous episodes of Adventure Time, I’m typically drawn to thinking of Escape From the Citadel, Breezy, You Forgot Your Floaties, and so many other goodies that managed to take my breath away upon a first viewing and still “wow” me even to this day. Every episode feels like it’s trying to do something completely different and innovative, and it really does pay off. If an outside viewer watched three episodes back-to-back – let’s say The Diary, Walnuts & Rain, and Friends Forever – it’d almost give off the impression that they were watching an entirely different show with every viewing. The Diary is a lovely episodes that exudes beauty through its top-notch scenery and some nice, poetic readings. Walnuts & Rain is a silly and laidback episode featuring the two main boys. Friends Forever is a highly tense one that focuses on Ice King’s insecurities as a person. Really don’t seem related to each other in any way, do they? And that’s what I love about this season: it felt like I was being treated to something unique and different with every single episode. Most shows tend to run out of ideas and lose steam after the course of 100 episodes, but season six is full of concepts that feel completely fresh and new, not only for the series, but television in general.
A lot of people felt that the series lost touch with its roots by this point, which I disagree with, but it is obvious that Adventure Time became a different show than what it started out as. One of the main complaints I’ve seen regarding this season is the “pretentious nature” of some of these episodes, namely Jesse Moynihan’s. While I understand why people might not like the deeper themes that encapsulate some of these episodes, I think most of these episodes DO remain interesting on a surface level as well. Even without understanding the subtext and knowing what the fuck is going on in The Mountain, it’s still a really cool episode with neat ideas, trippy visuals, and a funny main character to carry the whole story through. The same could be said for an episode like Astral Plane, with deep ideologies reflecting the futility of life, yet is still packed with AT silliness and a compelling plot. In my eyes, the only time the season truly fails at using such subtext is when a story is subjectively uninteresting, like Friends Forever, or when the moral/takeaway is misguided, like Princess Day. I don’t know how much opinions have changed regarding these episodes today, but I think it also has to do partly with the fact that this season aired right when Steven Universe started churning out some really great entries. I’ve touched on this topic before, but SU was beginning to get highly serialized, reveal new information with each episode, and was largely unambiguous in how its characters were feelings about certain situations at hand. I think this certainly made the spontaneity and ambiguity of season six seem like more of a flaw than it actually was. Animation had gone through a change within the five years that Adventure Time had been on air, and serialization was more heavily utilized by other shows like Gravity Falls and Steven Universe by this point in time, so it may have negatively affected people’s views of AT to see it handle overarching stories as somewhat of an afterthought. Though again, this is only a theory and season six may still very well be regarded as a black sheep for most people. For myself, I’ve learned to accept the series for what it was trying to accomplish, rather than what other shows were accomplishing at the time, and I don’t necessarily see the structure or tonal shift of season six as a problem overall.
The writing teams were somewhat jumbled this season, as a ton of guest writers and animators joined the crew for a small period of time to share their style with the AT world. It quickly became a game of “who is Jesse Moynihan going to board with this week?” As usual, Tom Herpich and Steve Wolfhard wrote some of the most intriguing stories, Moynihan produced some truly bizarre and ambitious entries, Andy Ristaino and Cole Sanchez continued to be the best comedy duo in the series, Graham Falk concocted some delightfully weird and goofy tales with fun drawings, and… Somvilay Xayaphone and Seo Kim struggled. Seriously, it pains me to keep ripping on these two, because I really want to keep an open mind while rewatching their episodes, but I truthfully only fully liked three of the episodes they worked on this season, that being The Pajama War, On the Lam, and Be Sweet. Thanks for the Crabapples, Giuseppe! and Chips & Ice Cream had their moments (though the latter is probably only a personal opinion) while the others were either mediocre or plain bad. I will say that they have improved (and will continue to) since the last half-season, where nearly every episode they worked on was just plain bad. They managed to improve slightly this season by at least having a couple of entertaining entries, though I’m also being a bit generous. Xayaphone still struggles to captivate audiences with his obscure style and humor, and Kim struggles to find a voice at all.
A lot of guest board artists were also pleasantly welcomed as well, like Madeleine Flores, Sam Alden, Jillian Tamaki, Derek Ballard, and Brandom Graham, who all managed to capture Adventure Time’s tone while blending it with their own unique style. Masaaki Yuasa also provided his lovely animation skills to Food Chain, and David Ferguson utilized his own design for Water Park Prank, though that one is better left erased from my memory.
Since this season was full of so many great episodes, I’m gonna extend the top 5 best to a top 10, but still leave the “worst”s as a top 5. Most of the duds in this season were just mediocre, so I’d rather focus on categorizing the ones that I thought were actually bad to some extent.
Top 10 Best Episodes
Honorable Mentions: The Mountain, The Diary, Astral Plane, and The Cooler
10. Is That You? – The most entertaining clip show to date, with a story so convoluted that only AT could pull it off successfully.
9. The Comet – An entertaining conclusion of themes that finally has Finn shifting his mindset regarding reality.
8. Joshua & Margaret Investigations – A hilarious and fun tale about Joshua and Margaret before their puppers were born.
7. Jermaine – A really interesting spotlight episode for the least prominent of the Dog family, and one that really has me more invested in Jermaine’s life than I ever thought I would be.
6. Jake the Brick – An atmospheric and scenic delight, and one of the calmest AT episodes to date.
5. Little Brother – An adorable episode capitalizing on one of my favorite one-shot characters to date, that’s filled with whimsy and a neat little adventure to boot.
4. Escape From the Citadel – A stressful, fast-paced episode that is invigorating till the very end, and one of the toughest trials that Finn has ever experienced.
3. Breezy – A harsh and realistic portrayal of depression that features our main protagonist at his absolute lowest, that is filled with allegories, interesting relationships, tough truths, and an illuminating final message.
2. Evergreen – Arguably one of the best stories that Adventure Time has ever told, this is an all-around awesome episode that plays out like a modern fable, and one with an equally startling conclusion.
1. You Forgot Your Floaties – Essentially a visual piece of Jesse Moynihan’s blood, sweat, and tears, this is a wildly unique and bizarre episode that makes for one of the most different pieces of media I’ve ever seen, all while being veiled with a heavy feeling of sadness.
Top 5 Worst Episodes
5. Dark Purple – A Susan Strong centered episode that isn’t really interesting in its story or characterization in the slightest, and merely seems to exist to move Susan’s arc further.
4. Sad Face – A bland story faced with an equally bland character.
3. Princess Day – Adventure Time at possibly it’s most mean-spirited, with a misguided message at the helm.
2. The Prince Who Wanted Everything – The primary example of why Fionna & Cake has overstayed its welcome.
1. Water Park Prank – You all saw it coming.
Final Consensus
Season six certainly isn’t a perfect season, but it tries so many different things and new approaches to entertainment that I hold it close as a personal fave of mine. I totally understand why people dislike this one, but with every experimental episode that failed, there was always one really, really strong, experimental episode on the horizon. It’s likely the most flawed out of any season, but uniquely flawed. This was the first full season with Muto as showrunner, and while it’s better than I could have ever expected, you can somewhat tell that he is still trying to get a feel for what direction he wants the series to take. Does he want it do be fully serialized? Does he want it to be mostly funny, or really profound? Regardless, even the episodes that don’t work are still usually interesting and have some sort of redeeming quality that makes them stand out. It’s one hell of a rollercoaster, but one I certainly never mind riding for it’s unique, ambitious, and beautiful entries. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
But, in case you missed it, Caldara took heat from fellow Republicans too, such as State Sen. Larry Crowder (R-Alamosa), who wrote a letter to The Post in response to Caldara, who heads up the conservative/libertarian Independence Institute.
Crowder pointed out that doing nothing would have resulted in “demise and closure of a vast number of these rural hospitals.”
Crowder took issue with Caldara for thanking Republicans who voted against the measure, which reclassified the “hosptital provider fee” as a business under TABOR.
Crowder: The lawmakers Jon Caldara thanked for voting against the bill all happen to represent metropolitan areas, where hospitals are big business. But that isn’t true for rural hospitals, many of which are just trying to stay open. Closure of these facilities would mean real hardship for rural Colorado.
But Republican state senators who voted against the reclassification of the HPF were doing more than rejecting the painful cries from rural hospitals.
They were turning their backs on pretty much the entire business community, with deep ties to Republicans, which stood together in favor of the HPF reclassification. Recall this list of biz groups that backed the HPF reclassification last year.
So, it’s no surprise that State Sen. Ray Scott (R-Grand Junction), is apparently a persona non grata at the Grand Junction Chamber of Commerce these days.
In a recent Facebook post, Scott wrote that the GJ Chamber “refused” to read his statement at their annual breakfast because, Scott wrote, he’s “chopped liver or they wanted to see how many would notice.”
Scott posted his rejected statement, which stated that “cities and counties put immense pressure on legislators to help fulfill their budget demands especially in the 44 counties that are distressed as Mesa County is. It was so hard to say no to many times but the reality is the state budget has been a runaway train for 12 years are we are tasked with holding the line.”
Scott, who was unable to attend the Grand Junction Chamber’s event, went on to blame Democrats for the budget problem, but he didn’t mention that some of his fellow Republicans, like Crowder, inched toward a solution. While Scott’s success was getting thanked by Caldara in The Denver Post.
“I want to point out something important. Everybody that stands before you moving forward, who says that they want your vote to be the Republican nominee for fill-in-the-blank, you must insist on finding out whom they voted for for president.”
That might sound like a progressive media critic urging reporters to find out where conservatives candidates stand on Trump, but it’s actually GOP gubernatorial candidate George Brauchler speaking at a celebration of Trump’s first 100 days in office.
“And I’m here to tell you I voted for Donald Trump,” continued Brauchler, saying how impressed he was with the turnout. “…If you listen to the news, you think we’re on the verge of some sort of Constitutional crisis. This tells me we’re all in pretty damn good hands right now in terms of the United States of America.”
Later Brauchler, who’s the Arapahoe County District Attorney, told a conservative radio host that Trump’s first 100 days have been “productive.” And he bashed the media as “biased” and, with Trump’s help, making “mountains out of molehills.”
Mountains out of molehills?
By grabbing onto Trump like he’s doing, Brauchler is embracing the conventional wisdom that bedding down with the right is essential to winning the GOP primary next year.
But remember that Dick Wadhams (or was it Jack Graham?) finished second behind Darryl Glenn in the 2016 GOP U.S. Senate primary last year. And who knows what impact the open primaries will have on the Republican primary, which is looking to be a crazy clash of dynasties and cash.
So, yeah, the GOP Trump base seems energized, but it’s still surprising that when Brauchler looks across the state, all he seems to see is Trump. During his KNUS 710-AM interview (below), he said Colorado Republicans see “steady progress forward on a lot of things that people care about.” And, Brauchler said on air, “within the party, when you go to the Lincoln Day dinners…you can’t find a Trump naysayer in the group.”
Not a Trump naysayer! And this was the day Trump leaked classified information to Russians in the White House.
So how far will the GOP primary candidates go in their courtship of Trump voters?
Reporters should take a cue from Brauchler and not wait until the September to tell this dramatic and high-stakes story.
Education is a motivating issue anywhere in soccer-mom country, but in Colorado its force is compounded by the lingering impact of the emotional 2015 Jefferson County School Board recall election, in which voters overwhelmingly tossed out conservatives.
Republican Bob Beauprez’s outspoken alignment with the losing school board members, including his support of vouchers, during the 2014 gubernatorial election was arguably a key factor in his loss to Democrat John Hickenlooper. And Republicans have lost a string of state legislative races in Jeffco, with the winning Democrats standing against public school privatization.
So along comes the 2018 gubernatorial race, and reporters should note where Republican candidates come down on vouchers, charters, and education issues. Will they distance themselves from the positions of the losing Jeffco School Board members? Or will they align with them?
Republican candidate George Brauchler, the Arapahoe County District Attorney, has already spoken up for vouchers, agreeing “100 percent” with KNUS 710-AM’s Dan Caplis last month that vouchers benefit kids and empower parents, particularly in low-income areas.
Caplis (11 min 30 sec below): I’m a big believer without even increasing the budget, kids would be benefited immediately by healthy education competition, and by empowering those poor and middle income parents with true purchasing power in education through vouchers, etc. Where do you come down on school choice?
Brauchler: I 100 percent agree with you, in every place, specifically inner cities and socio economically depressed areas. Every place you offer parents the opportunity at a charter school or choice, you see a mad scramble to be part of that successful system. And our family is no different. I got four kids, 14, 12, 9, and 7. They are all in charter schools. They’ve all gone to charter grade schools. Two of them are still there. I am a big believer in choice. And they are figuring out a way to put a better product on the field and turn out students with a better education, better scores than the big establishment system. That’s not an indictment of the entire big establishment system. That is a challenge. That is that kind of competition that you and I have talked about that give you a better product. I am a big believer in choice…big-time public school system, which I am a product of, my wife’s a product of, my kids are going to be a product of it, has got to look internally, but also externally at a better way to do what they are doing.”
I can’t find campaign statements by other Republican candidates on public school privatization, but it’s likely they will be coming soon–with Democrats likely to continue to oppose vouchers. In any case, it’s clearly a key issue for reporters to track, given the Jeffco history and the stakes involved.
Last month, Rocky Mountain Community Radio’s Bente Birkeland broke the news that Colorado Republicans are taking concrete steps, including more frequent press briefings, to improve their relations with Colorado journalists.
In response, I offered the free advice that GOP lawmakers should consider a halt to sweeping accusations of liberal media bias.
State Sen. Vicki Marble (R-Ft. Collins) didn’t take my advice–or she isn’t one of the three people who read my blog posts–because she hit reporters with the salvo in a recent Facebook post, forwarded to me by a source.
Marble apparently “liked” a meme that read:
THE MEDIA ARE THE ENEMY. FIGHT THEM, OR LOSE AMERICA.–Ben Shapiro.”
“Do you believe the lies of the liberal media? LIKE if you agree we need to fight back,” reads the comment atop the meme, sponsored by the Daily Wire, founded by Shapiro, who’s a former Breitbart editor.
Marble, the state Senate majority caucus leader, isn’t alone, as 1.5 million others also liked the meme, according to the ad, if you can believe that. You’d be excused doubting it, given that a Daily Wire headline last week read, “Trump Is 100% Vindicated On Wiretapping, and 7 Other Things You Should Know.”
It’s one thing to “fight back” with reporters over facts; it’s another to suggest that they are the enemy.
In any case, I can understand if you’re wondering why I’d bother writing this post about a small deep-swimming fish like Marble, when we have Trump regularly calling professional journalism fake news.
But that’s why I’m writing about Marble. Marble is the fish in our tank, and her colleagues, who seem to want to respect journalism more, should talk to her about whether suggesting the media are the enemy helps their cause or anyone’s. She didn’t return an email from me.
Rolly Fischer, who bravely fought off 2o1o GOP gubernatorial candidate Scott McInnis’ attempts to blame him for McInnis’ plagiarized water articles, died last week in Glenwood Springs.
Fischer went from “irascible” water nerd to cult hero in Colorado political circles after some of McInnis’ articles, commissioned by the Hasan Family Foundation, on Colorado water issues turned out to be substantially lifted from the writings of then Colorado Supreme Court Judge Gregory Hobbs.
After the plagiarism came to light, McInnis blamed Fischer, who was 82 years old at the time.
The 82-year-old said, “I never knew about the foundation or any foundation Scott was associated with.”
“Did you know how he was using these?” Ferrugia asked, referring to the articles.
“No. I had this sophomoric assumption that he wanted them for his own inventory,” said Fischer.
Turned out, McInnis even tried to get Fischer to sign a letter saying the plagiarism was Fischer’s fault.
After the Ferrugia interview, McInnis sort of took responsibility for the plagiarism, telling The Denver Post, “I made a mistake. . . . I immediately owned up to it. It’s my responsibility. I’ve got to fix it. I’ve told my side of the story. So that’s where we are on that. I’d love to talk to you on jobs and some of these other things.”
He gave his two-year stipend of $300,000 back to the foundation. (He’d paid Fischer a few hundred dollars per water article.)
But in 2014, McInnis appeared to throw Fischer under the bus again, telling the Grand Junction Sentinel that he “didn’t plagiarize, period” and that he’d “used ghost writers my whole career” and “didn’t make the mistake.”
Scott McInnis, a former U.S. representative and current Mesa County commissioner, called Fischer “a water giant in his time,” who prepared the district for the issues it faces today…
Fischer figured in the collapse of McInnis’ campaign for governor in 2010, but McInnis said he never held the incident against Fischer.
“That’s water under the bridge now. I always thought Rollie was one of the brightest water people on the Western Slope,” McInnis said.
Did McInnis really say water under the bridge? A new water musing?
In any case, Fischer’s uninvited but starring role in the story of the downfall of McInnis deserves more than an asterisk in Colorado history. It was game changing.
If you were around at the time, you know that McInnis’ treatment of Fischer was far more damaging politically to McInnis than the plagiarism itself. It lead directly to McInnis’ loss in the GOP gubernatorial primary to Dan Maes, whose many flaws (and despite the best efforts of Tom Tancredo) paved the way for Hickenlooper to be governor.
Unlike now, Hickenlooper, you may recall, was weak and flailing during the 2010 election, and Hick would might have lost to McInnis in a general election. And McInnis might have won the GOP primary had Fischer lied and taken fake responsibility for the plagiarism, as McInnis asked him to do. I mean, Tancredo and Maes, who both ran for governor in 2010, together had nearly as many votes as Hick.
It clearly wasn’t easy for Fischer, who served as a Colorado Water District Chief, to stand up to his long-time friend McInnis, but apparently in keeping with his personality, he did, and it brightened the spotlight not only on the plagiarism but on a nasty side of McInnis that GOP voters didn’t like. Can you blame them?
We owe Fischer our collective gratitude for his honesty and integrity.
Fischer’s memorial service will take place tomorrow, Saturday, November 12, at 10:30 a.m. at the First United Methodist Church in Glenwood Springs. Contributions should be sent to the National MS Society, in care of S. Reel, 521 Rood Avenue, Suite B, Grand Junction, CO, 81504.
In an interview on KNUS 710-AM Saturday Arapahoe County District Attorney George Brauchler announced he’s considering a run for governor in 2018.
Asked by host Craig Silverman what he thought about going for the governor’s job in 2018, Brauchler said:
Brauchler: “I am going to consider it, Craig, of course. I am going to look hard at it. And I have been really encouraged by a bunch of different people across the spectrum… It’s surreal for people to be saying, ‘Hey, you should consider taking a stab at the biggest statewide office in Colorado.’ That’s kind of bizarre.”
When Brauchler announced his decision in September, 2015, not to run for U.S. Senate, he told The Denver Post he “”had gone pretty far down the road” toward running but had decided against it for family reasons.
But now, looking ahead to 2018, he said:
Brauchler: “It’s something I would definitely consider. I wouldn’t say no. I love this state. I’ve been here almost every minute of my life. And I want my kids to want to be here. I want other kids from across country to move to Colorado and have the same opportunities I had. And I’m concerned that that may not be the case. So for those reasons, yeah, I will definitely consider it.”
Brauchler is the first candidate, Democrat or Republican, to announce a possible gubernatorial run.
In a Facebook post last month, Republican businessman Jerry Natividad, who toyed with a U.S. Senate run this year, downplayed GOP presidential candidate Donald Trump’s widely publicized comments about undocumented immigrants being “rapists.”
“I’m sure some of them in the drug business are rapists, either in Mexico or when they cross the border,” wrote Natividad in his Facebook post, which was obtained from a source.
The post refers to former Denver Mayor Federico Pena and former U.S. Senator Ken Salazar as over-reacting to Trump’s comment
Trump: “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”
Natividad was apparently not bothered by this.
Natividad: It’s a shame when the Hillary campaign callled Latinos needy, not one Latino, Federico, Salazar, those Texas brother Latino clowns, did not raise an eyebrow, just fell in line, mesmerized. Yet Trump mentions all those illegal Mexicans moving drugs and weapons across the border feeding our drug demise and oh my god, he said that of Mexicans. I guess either you have tough skin or not…and I’m sure some of them in the drug business are rapists, either in Mexico or when the cross the border.
Natividad did not return a call for clarification and to get his thoughts on whether he stands behind his defense of Trump, and his attacks on Pena and Salazar, especially now that Hispanic voters are seen as one of Trump’s biggest obstacles to winning the election.
In what could presage the upending of the Republican Party after next week’s election, Elbert County Commissioner Robert Rowland left the GOP this week with a blazing facebook post alleging corruption, weakness, disorganization, and cluelessness.
Rowland wrote, in part:
Rowland: “I am leaving the once Grand Ole’ Party and am now going to where I feel I belong, unaffiliated (Independent).
The Party has become fractured, but worse, it has become corrupted, at every level, and it has lost its way. At the national level…we see the ‘leaders’ of the party only serve those who will protect and maintain the status quo, and who will preserve the self-serving favors that are now the motivator for most.
At the state level…we have seen this powerful inner establishment circumvent the will of the base time and time again. I still see a party that ignores accountability for the failed conservatives that it blindly supports and elects. We see the Cory Gardner’s, Mike Coffman’s protected and adored by the establishment, even though they prove time and time again that they are not the conservatives the claim to be during the campaign….
I believe our nation, this state, and our counties, cities and towns are in for a long hard fight to save our nation from the radical left and from a weak, corrupt, and disorganized conservative party controlled by the powerful who only care about their power and preserving the status quo.”
Asked why he didn’t wait until after the election to resign, Rowland said he didn’t want his departure from the GOP to be “about the election.” As Trump’s campaign manager for Elbert County, he didn’t want his action to appear as “sour grapes.”
But he thinks the anger he has toward the GOP, including the failure of party leaders to rally around Trump, is shared by many others.
“My gut tells me the party is going to go through a dramatic revolution after the election,” said Rowland, who identifies with the Tea Party wing of the GOP and emphasizes that he still sees himslef as a conservative.
The combination Trump’s “misogyny,” last year’s murders at a Colorado Springs clinic, and the popularity of Planned Parenthood is translating into votes for pro-choice candidates in Colorado, according to Planned Parenthood Votes Colorado (PPVC) Director Sarah Taylor-Nanista.
“Violent rhetoric across the country angers women, but there is a specific connection in Colorado, where we just saw how violent anti-choice language actually ended up hurting people,” said Taylor-Nanista. “And I think it’s hitting home among women voters in a profound way.”
Trying to take advantage of this election climate, PPVC is executing a multi-prong strategy to push pro-choice voters, particularly women, to the polls.
Under a $250,000 state-wide program, PPVC staff has knocked on over 6,000 doors, called over 13,000 voters, launched 10 mail pieces, and pushed earned and digital communications efforts focusing on reproductive health messages, including abortion access, according to Taylor-Nanista.
Taylor-Nanista said internal polling shows Planned Parenthood’s approval rating in Colorado to be over 65 percent.
“Beyond just the state of Colorado, we’re seeing nationally that defunding Planned Parenthood is one of the biggest incentives for people to get out and vote this year,” said Taylor-Nanista. “It’s a message that’s resonating over and over.”
Asked for a response to the alleged good will that voters feel toward Planned Parenthood, Leslie Hanks, a Denver-based spokeswoman for American Right to Life, said via email that Planned Parenthood staff should be put on trial for murder.
There’s no evidence Planned Parenthood profits from the sale fetal tissue, and exhaustive investigations have concluded that Planned Parenthood has broken no laws.
“In this election, where there is so much emphasis on misogyny and violence against women, Planned Parenthood is a perfect messenger,” said Taylor-Nanista. “We’re seeing that. Our partners see that. We are in a place to make an incredible impact this year.”
“Folks are coming to us and saying, ‘Can we use your messaging to further our own program?’”
In Colorado, PPVC is focusing on three key suburban state-senate districts and one state-house district, where women are widely seen as a swing voter bloc, and are responding favorably to the positions of candidates on women’s health issues, including abortion access, according to Taylor-Nanista.
If Planned Parenthood lost federal funding, the organization would be forced to turn away about 1,000 low-income patients, whose care is provided by federal funding, at its Arvada clinic, in Woods’ district, according to Planned Parenthood.
PPVC canvassers in the Arvada/Westminster district have visited and called hundreds of voters, mailed multiple ads, and pushed pro-choice messages out on multiple digital platforms.
During the last election, former Democratic U.S. Sen. Mark Udall emphasized pro-choice messaging throughout his race against U.S. Sen. Cory Gardner, who narrowly defeated Udall. This year, despite polling in Colorado that shows the popularity of pro-choice messaging, abortion has played a diminished role, both in campaign advertising and debate.
Below is a partial transcript of Woods’ comments. Woods, who’s long supported Trump, got the most media attention for leading the chant of, “Lock her up,” referring of course to Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton. But reporters should have flagged other falsehoods in the speech. To fill the gap, I’ve done so below.
Laura Woods: Good morning everyone. Good morning patriots.
I was supposed to come up and say something I forget. Why don’t we just state with, Lock her up!
[Crowd chants “Lock her up.”
Thank you very much. You just got all the jitters out of my stomach. So I appreciate that.
Whether you are a Republican or a Democrat or an unaffiliated voter you attendance today at this rally proves you are a proud American who believes this country can be made great again.
As Don mentioned, I am State Sen. Laura Woods from Jefferson County. I have served Arvada and Westminster in the state senate for two sessions. I am now running for my last four-year term. I am a native of Colorado.
I am a proud American, and I am a patriot to the core. I love this country, and I love our state, but I too am very worried.
I am worried because for decades we Americans have watched the media and the political elite and the corrupt media drive an agenda across our nation and into our schools and down throats [FACT CHECK: “Corrupt media” is a tough accusation to support, but it’s her opinion.]
As conservatives, as patriots, we have been choking on that agenda for decades. Hillary Clinton has made millions while in government selling access to foreigners, to corporations, and to others, while hard-working people like you and I want to make an honest living. [FACT CHECK: There’s no evidence that Clinton “made millions” by selling access.]
Hillary broke the law so she could hide her emails, and lied to us again and again, and again yesterday. [FACT CHECK: Hillary has not been convicted of breaking any law.]
We are people who believe no one should be above the law. Hillary and her team have actually paid people to attack people at rallies just like this one. We are peaceful Americans holding peaceful rallies. [FACT CHECK: Clinton has not been shown to have paid anyone to disrupt Trump.]
Hillary Clinton allowed four people to die in Benghazi. [FACT CHECK: This is not true.]
Hillary Clinton and her campaign have had private meetings with dozens of reporters, and she’s been given the questions in advance, while this same media attacks us at every turn. We just want the media to report the truth. [FACT CHECK: Reporters, overall, treat both sides the same way.]
And if that’s not enough, Hillary Clinton is on record saying she wants open borders. Who cares what the rest of Americans think. We Americans want safe neighborhoods. We want safe cities. [FACT CHECK: Clinton does not advocate an open-border immigration policy.]
Hillary Clinton has called Americans a basket full of deplorables, but she hates people of faith and she demands that we change our beliefs while we as Americans go about loving our neighbors and loving our country. [FACT CHECK: It’s not supportable to say Hillary hates people of faith, or that she demands anyone to change his or her faith, but this is Woods’ opinion.]
Hillary Clinton and her team are scheming to steal this election, while we are citizens who believe in a fair political process, and we want our votes to count. [FACT CHECK: There’s no evidence that Clinton is trying to perpetrate election fraud.]
Hillary Clinton has been in the center of the swamp, as Donald Trump says, for decades. You guys are great.
So folks, we can change the course of our country. We can stop those elites who are wanting to control us. We can stand up to corruption. You and I can help drain the swamp.
In fact, we have to be the ones to do it. We are the ones to do it.
I am a Donald Trump supporter not just because he’s the Republican candidate but because I believe he will lead our country to greatness once again. I believe he will make America safe again. I believe he will put you and your family, as citizens of this great country, first again. I believe he will support our military and our law enforcement and I believe he will put Americans back to work again by creating jobs. Donald Trump is a business man who’s created thousands of jobs. And he’ll bring a common-sense business approach to government. Now there is a fresh idea.
So folks if this list of horribles about Hillary Clinton doesn’t convince you of the importance of this election, I can’t imagine what will. …. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Q:
Deployment failed, Internal error
I am working on Xamarin Android Application.When I run my application I am getting this error :
error: Unexpected install output: pkg: /data/local/tmp/com.iKart.androidapplication-Signed.apk
Failure [INSTALL_PARSE_FAILED_MANIFEST_MALFORMED]
My Package Name is : com.iKart.androidapplication
I have already uninstall my application from device using adb uninstall,still I am getting this error.
What is the solution ? Please Help!
This is my Menifest :
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<manifest xmlns:android="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res/android" android:versionCode="1" android:versionName="1.0" package="com.iKart.androidapplication">
<uses-sdk android:minSdkVersion="16" android:targetSdkVersion="21" />
<application android:theme="@style/Theme.AppCompat.Light" android:label="Mono.Droid">
<meta-data android:name="com.facebook.sdk.ApplicationId" android:value="@string/facebook_app_id" />
<activity android:name="com.facebook.FacebookActivity" android:configChanges="keyboard|keyboardHidden|screenLayout|screenSize|orientation" android:theme="@android:style/Theme.Translucent.NoTitleBar" android:label="@string/app_name" />
</application>
<uses-permission android:name="android.permission.INTERNET" />
<uses-permission android:name="android.permission.WRITE_EXTERNAL_STORAGE" />
</manifest>
In Android Device Logging(Visual Studio) I am getting :
09-16 11:16:20.736 D/AndroidRuntime(23211):
09-16 11:16:20.736 D/AndroidRuntime(23211): >>>>>> AndroidRuntime START com.android.internal.os.RuntimeInit <<<<<<
09-16 11:16:20.736 D/AndroidRuntime(23211): CheckJNI is OFF
09-16 11:16:20.746 D/dalvikvm(23211): Trying to load lib libjavacore.so 0x0
09-16 11:16:20.746 D/dalvikvm(23211): Added shared lib libjavacore.so 0x0
09-16 11:16:20.756 D/dalvikvm(23211): Trying to load lib libnativehelper.so 0x0
09-16 11:16:20.756 D/dalvikvm(23211): Added shared lib libnativehelper.so 0x0
09-16 11:16:20.957 D/AndroidRuntime(23211): Calling main entry com.android.commands.pm.Pm
09-16 11:16:20.967 D/PackageItemInfo(23211): PackageItemInfo static run
09-16 11:16:20.967 D/AndroidRuntime(23211): Shutting down VM
09-16 11:16:21.157 D/dalvikvm(23211): GC_FOR_ALLOC freed 3206K, 51% free 3107K/6332K, paused 5ms, total 7ms
09-16 11:16:21.167 I/dalvikvm-heap(23211): Grow heap (frag case) to 7.284MB for 2359312-byte allocation
09-16 11:16:21.177 D/dalvikvm(23211): GC_CONCURRENT freed 9K, 38% free 5402K/8640K, paused 2ms+4ms, total 10ms
09-16 11:16:21.247 D/dalvikvm(23211): GC_FOR_ALLOC freed 466K, 35% free 5674K/8640K, paused 5ms, total 5ms
09-16 11:16:21.247 I/dalvikvm-heap(23211): Grow heap (frag case) to 7.779MB for 250016-byte allocation
09-16 11:16:21.257 D/dalvikvm(23211): GC_FOR_ALLOC freed 34K, 34% free 5917K/8888K, paused 5ms, total 5ms
09-16 11:16:21.257 I/dalvikvm-heap(23211): Grow heap (frag case) to 7.823MB for 46672-byte allocation
09-16 11:16:21.297 D/PackageItemInfo(23211): MessageLoop costTime=336
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): GC_CONCURRENT freed 1102K, 27% free 6590K/8936K, paused 1ms+1ms, total 6ms
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): Compiler shutdown in progress - discarding request
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): Compiler shutdown in progress - discarding request
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): Compiler shutdown in progress - discarding request
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): Compiler shutdown in progress - discarding request
09-16 11:16:21.307 D/dalvikvm(23211): Compiler shutdown in progress - discarding request
A:
I have solved this Myself :
uninstall app from device and then run again.If it still not work then open Android SDK Command Prompt
(open Xamrin-studio > Tools > open a Android SDK Command Prompt)
then write following :
D:\Android\android-sdk> adb uninstall (Applicationpackagename)
you can get application package name from Androidmenifest file which is in properties folder.
This will definitely solve the error.
Thank you
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Here's the latest in "American news is f*cking crazy!" InTouch just released the entirety of their 2011 exclusive with Stormy Daniels, the porn star who allegedly had an affair with Donald Trump - and the actress dishes some seriously funny details. The dirt that Twitter fans are appreciating the most is the president's fear and hatred of sharks:
"You could see the television from the little dining room table and he was watching Shark Week and he was watching a special about the U.S.S. something and it sank and it was like the worst shark attack in history. He is obsessed with sharks. Terrified of sharks. He was like, "I donate to all these charities and I would never donate to any charity that helps sharks. I hope all the sharks die." He was like riveted. He was like obsessed. It's so strange, I know."
Strange is right. Jokesters on Twitter are definitely taking advantage of the bizarre phobia and meme-ing the news to oblivion. And for those of you who doubt the info - it's polygraph certified.
A new Oregon gas pumping law passed in June of last year is causing a stir on social media. The law, which allows people in towns of under 40,0000 to pump their own gas, is inspiring rage, confusion, and quite a bit of trolling from people in other states. Here's a selection of the best reactions to the law, inspired by a poll from a Medford Oregon CBS station. We're not sure which we enjoy more, the temper tantrums or the trolls.
It's either the weakest excuse of all time or they're the best grandparents ever, but an elderly couple was stopped in Nebraska trying to pass their gigantic haul of marijuana off as Christmas gifts. Patrick and Barbara Jiron, both in their eighties, told authorities that the weed was for gifts after being stopped for the overwhelming scent of the herb. The couple was on their way to Vermont from Northern California with a haul that was worth an estimated $336,000. Twitter had a riot over the geriatric lovers' arrest; even pro-marijuana Senator Orrin Hatch had something funny to say on the matter. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Ceruloplasmin and copper level in maternal and cord blood and in the placenta in normal pregnancy and in pre-eclampsia.
Copper and ceruloplasmin were assayed in maternal and cord blood sera and in the placenta of 10 women with normal pregnancies, in 10 patients mild and 10 with severe pre-eclampsia. Copper and ceruloplasmin levels were significantly elevated in the maternal blood of pre-eclamptic patients as compared with normal pregnant women. The placental and cord blood concentrations of copper and ceruloplasmin showed non-significant changes, which indicates that their increase in the maternal blood is not of placental origin. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Q:
Insertar dato aleatorio en en formulario conectado a MYSQL
Me encuentro trabajando con un formulario de datos conectado a una base de datos de MYSQL, dichos datos son tomados con el método POST he insertados a esa base de datos ya funcional. Pero uno de los problemas que tengo es que uno de los campos de la tabla de mysql llamado "pin" tiene que ser insertado con un dato aleatorio que genero con la siguiente función. (Esto sólo me funciona si inserto los datos a otra tabla diferente con un solo campo de igual forma llamado "pin", pero quiero que se inserte en la tabla dónde tengo todos mis registros del formulario que tomo con POST).
<?php try{
$sqlconnection = new
pdo('mysql:host=localhost;dbname=norma035;charset=utf8','root','');
}catch(PDOException $pe){
echo 'Cannot connect to database';
die;
}
$caracteres = '123ANBCF';
for($x = 0; $x < 1; $x++){
$aleatoria = substr(str_shuffle($caracteres), 0, 6);
echo $aleatoria . "\n";
}
$commandtext = 'INSERT INTO empresasregistradas (pin) VALUES (:aleatoria)';
$cmd = $sqlconnection->prepare($commandtext);
$cmd->bindParam(':aleatoria', $aleatoria, PDO::PARAM_STR);
$cmd->execute(); ?>
La siguiente consulta es la que utilizo originalmente para insertar los datos leídos por POST y que si introduce el usuario:
$sql = "INSERT INTO empresasregistradas (nombre_empresa, razon_social,
representante_legal, email, password, numero_empleados, rango_empleados,
categoria, estado) VALUES ('$nombreEmpresa', '$razonSocial',
'$representanteLegal', '$email', '$password', '$numeroEmpleados',
'$rangoEmpleados', '$estado', '$arrayCategorias')";
Esta consulta funciona si no añado el campo que me hace falta (PIN) y que quiero que se inserte automáticamente con la variable :aleatoria (que es el dato que no inserta el usuario PIN).
Agradezco su ayuda.
A:
He solucionado mi problema incluyendo la variable que se genera aleatoriamente dentro de la misma consulta y esto ha quedado así:
<?php
$caracteres = '123ANBCF';
for($x = 0; $x < 1; $x++){
$aleatoria = substr(str_shuffle($caracteres), 0, 6);
echo $aleatoria . "\n";
}
$sql = "INSERT INTO empresasregistradas (nombre_empresa, razon_social,
representante_legal, email, password, numero_empleados, rango_empleados, categoria,
estado, pin) VALUES ('$nombreEmpresa', '$razonSocial', '$representanteLegal',
'$email', '$password', '$numeroEmpleados', '$rangoEmpleados', '$arrayCategorias',
'$estado', '$aleatoria')";
$resultado = $mysqli->query($sql);
?>
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
A south Ottawa martial arts instructor has been acquitted of sexual assault charges involving one of his former students.
A student reported to police in October 2013 that she was inappropriately touched by Ahmed Saroughi, the co-owner of Saroughi Martial Arts at 1844 Bank St.
Saroughi was then charged with assault, sexual assault and sexual exploitation.
During a three-day trial in February 2015, he was acquitted on all charges, according to his defence lawyer Joseph Addelman. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Safety and efficacy of an insulin infusion protocol designed for the non-intensive care setting.
To determine whether glycemic control can be safely achieved with use of a simplified insulin infusion protocol in hospitalized patients who are not in the intensive care unit (ICU). We developed a novel intravenous insulin protocol specifically designed for use in the non-ICU setting. We then collected clinical data on the first 30 patients treated with use of this protocol. Our study focused on safety and glycemic control. The insulin infusion protocol was used in 30 patients for a total of 634 hours. A single hypoglycemic episode (glucose level <60 mg/dL) occurred in 3 patients. The target mean glucose level of <150 mg/dL was achieved in 9 hours. Once the glucose target had been achieved, the mean and median glucose concentrations were 156 mg/dL and 140 mg/dL, respectively. Use of a simple intravenous insulin protocol can safely and effectively control the blood glucose level in patients in a non-ICU setting. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
SECOND-CHANCE CITY | This is the first installment in a series that will examine issues related to repeat violent offenders in the District of Columbia. Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI
A pedestrian walks on a sidewalk along A Street SE in the D.C. neighborhood where Antwon Pitt is accused of committing a rape. (Matt McClain/The Washington Post)
The woman was sitting on her sofa, working on her laptop, when she saw him.
A young man, 6 feet 5 inches tall, wearing fuzzy knit gloves and gray denim pants. Standing inside her condominium in Hill East near the Stadium-Armory Metro station. It was Oct. 13, in broad daylight, a little after 2 p.m.
At first, she thought he was lost. But then he grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. She punched and kicked, but he dragged her across the hardwood floor and into the bedroom. And he raped her, according to charges filed in D.C. Superior Court.
“Stop fighting, or I’ll kill you,” he said.
The 40-year-old woman, described in court papers as 5 feet tall and 100 pounds, suffered fractures in her eye socket and cheekbone.
The alleged perpetrator, 21-year-old Antwon Durrell Pitt, had an extensive criminal history, including eight arrests in four years and a robbery conviction. Three times, he was sentenced under laws designed to promote leniency and second chances for inexperienced adult offenders. In two of those cases, he was sentenced under the District’s Youth Rehabilitation Act, a 1980s-era law aimed at “deserving” offenders under the age of 22.
Pitt’s case shows that such laws, combined with lax enforcement by key federal agencies, can give many chances to violent offenders despite repeated criminal behavior and the failure to abide by terms of release, according to a Washington Post review of court records, transcripts and probation reports.
The D.C. criminal justice system relies on a mix of federal agencies and D.C. judges to swiftly intervene and communicate vital information to protect the public from violent offenders.
In the crucial weeks before the rape, a D.C. Superior Court magistrate judge and two federal agencies — the Court Services and Offender Supervision Agency (CSOSA) and the U.S. Parole Commission — failed to work together to take Pitt off the streets.
Pitt’s behavior raised many red flags, indicating escalating risk.
Just out of prison last summer after serving a robbery sentence, Pitt did not report for some of his court-ordered drug testing and anger management sessions. He did not keep in contact with his supervision officer. And in a final act of defiance, Pitt cut off the GPS monitoring bracelet affixed to his ankle and let the battery run dead. He was completely off the grid.
CSOSA, the federal agency charged with watching D.C. offenders released from prison, did not request a warrant for Pitt’s arrest for 15 days after losing contact with him. The Parole Commission waited a week after getting that request before forwarding it to law enforcement. And the magistrate judge denied a prosecutor’s request to keep Pitt behind bars, despite a troubling report from the Pretrial Services Agency.
“No conditions or combination of conditions can reasonably assure the defendant’s appearance or safety to the community,” said the report that was given to magistrate William Nooter.
The District’s Youth Rehabilitation Act was passed in 1985 to give youthful adult offenders a chance to have their records wiped clean from public view if they successfully complete their sentences, even those who commit violent crimes, with the exception of murder and a second crime of violence while armed.
[Audit finds lax controls at agency for troubled youth]
At a time when the Obama administration and Congress are working to ease “mandatory minimum” sentencing guidelines for non-violent offenses, in part because of concerns that such laws have unjustly imprisoned large numbers of African Americans, D.C. law enforcement officials are increasingly concerned about the number of repeat violent offenders on the streets. The District, for example, has seen a near doubling in the percentage of homicide suspects with prior gun-related arrests.
“Sometimes, we just scratch our heads,” D.C.police Chief Cathy L. Lanier said. “We feel like there’s a revolving door for violent offenders. It’s very frustrating for us because we see the victim, and we see the impact on the victim.”
Pitt’s case is among at least 3,600 under the Youth Act since 2007 that have not been scrubbed from court records, according to Post research. Of those, 1,900 were felonies, including more than 700 for violent crimes.
CSOSA spokesman Leonard A. Sipes Jr. said the agency followed its policies and procedures in the Pitt case.
“Mr. Pitt was assessed, closely supervised, referred for appropriate services and placed on GPS,” Sipes said.
Nooter, now a Superior Court judge, and two other Superior Court judges involved in Pitt’s cases declined to comment for this story, as did two of Pitt’s supervision officers, citing privacy rules. James E. Bacchus, the chief of staff for the Parole Commission, said that the agency can in some cases prioritize certain warrants.
“The criminal activity in this case didn’t rise to the level that would have us redivert our work routine,” Bacchus said.
Pitt is set to go on trial Monday on a charge of first-degree sexual abuse, along with charges of robbery, burglary and kidnapping related to the alleged October attack.
“Mr. Pitt is about to stand trial for crimes he did not commit,” said his attorney, Judith Pipe of the Public Defender Service, in a written statement. “His DNA wasn’t on the victim, wasn’t on her sheets, and wasn’t in her apartment, and the victim doesn’t identify him as her assailant. We are confident that a fair trial — a trial based on the evidence and not on unrelated past acts and allegations — will show that Mr. Pitt did not commit these crimes.”
A prosecutor recently said in court that the victim’s DNA was found on Pitt’s glove. The U.S. attorney’s office declined to comment for this story.
In Hill East, the rape devastated a close-knit block of neighbors on A Street SE. Hundreds of frightened residents attended a community meeting in October.
“I want to know why he was out. He has a violent background. He has clearly targeted women in the past,” said Denise Krepp, an advisory neighborhood commissioner who lives half a block from the scene of the crime. “So who made the decision that he should be out on the streets?
“And I want a name. Because someone is responsible for this.”
LEFT: Pitt, then 17 years old, is pictured in a mug shot from 2011, when he was arrested and charged with battery and aggravated assault for slamming a chair against a boy’s head in a live-in treatment facility in Georgia. RIGHT: Pitt, now 21, is shown in his most recent mug shot from an arrest in Prince George’s County in October 2015. According to court documents, members of a task force approached Pitt outside a gas station after they had traced a stolen cellphone from a woman allegedly raped by Pitt. (Cobb County Sheriff’s Office/Prince George’s County State’s Attorney's Office)
A troubled youth
Antwon Pitt was born in the District on June 1, 1994, and grew up the oldest of three children. His biological father was not involved in his life, according to court records. At age 12, Pitt was removed from his mother’s home and placed into the foster-care system. He began psychiatric treatment at age 13.
“They thought I needed somebody to talk to cause my mom was drinking,” he told a forensic psychologist, according to court records. “They thought I was affected by the drinking.”
Pitt worked at a recreation center and a movie theater when he was a teenager. The Post unsuccessfully attempted to reach several family members, and the available information about him is limited to what can be gleaned from police, court and probation records.
At 17, Pitt left Washington to enter treatment at Devereux, a live-in facility in Cobb County, Ga., that specializes in the care of emotionally troubled young adults. Pitt told the psychologist that he moved there because his social worker thought it “was the best thing for me at the time.”
The Post was unable to determine whether Pitt had a juvenile record, which would have been closed to public view. But he “had a long history of violent behavior” prior to his treatment in Georgia, according to comments from the facility’s program manager in court records.
[Timeline: Eight arrests, three convictions, three sentences under leniency laws]
On Oct, 28, 2011, within a few weeks after Pitt’s arrival in Georgia, a boy named DeAngelo, also 17, stepped in front of Pitt while they waited in line for medications. Pitt reacted by calling DeAngelo names, according to a police report.
Later in the evening, according to the police report, Pitt picked up a metal chair and slammed it against the back of DeAngelo’s head. DeAngelo was taken to Kennestone Hospital, where he received 11 staples.
A police officer asked Pitt why he did it.
“I thought it was a good idea,” Pitt told him.
A Cobb County grand jury indicted Pitt as an adult on charges of aggravated assault and battery. Later, a judge ordered Pitt examined for mental competency.
The psychologist wrote that Pitt had below-average intelligence and did not understand what medications he was taking. “While Pitt may suffer from a mental illness,” she wrote, there was no indication that he did not understand the difference between right and wrong.
After a plea deal in October 2012, a judge sentenced Pitt to one year in jail, with credit for the nearly 12 months he had already served.
He was sentenced under Georgia’s First Offender law, which unlike D.C.’s Youth Act can be applied only to individuals who have not been previously convicted of felony crimes. Under the law, Pitt would have no conviction on his record unless a judge revoked the sentence.
Within days of his Oct. 10, 2012, release from the Georgia jail, he was in trouble again.
Crimes in D.C.
After his return from Georgia, Pitt, now 18, moved into a group home on E Street SE. He commuted daily to attend Youth in Transition, an alternative school based in Baltimore.
Within a five-month span, he was arrested five times.
The first arrest occurred just two weeks after his release from jail in Georgia. On Oct. 24, a security guard at a Macy’s department store on G Street NW spotted Pitt stuffing five shirts into his pants and jacket sleeves. He was charged with shoplifting. After an appearance in court on Nov. 8, he was released upon signing a promise to return to court for his next hearing.
Pitt failed to show up for the hearing, and a bench warrant was issued for his arrest. On Dec. 22, he was arrested for the second time in two months and charged with a violation of the Bail Reform Act, a law that lays out criminal penalties for violating terms of release. This time he was held in jail for 16 days, unable to pay the $1,000 bond set for his shoplifting case and the $500 bond in the bail case.
On Jan. 7, 2013, he pleaded guilty to the bail charge, and the shoplifting charge was dropped. He was sentenced that day by Judge Juliet McKenna. Pitt’s social worker, Leslie Palmer, told the judge about his background, including his child neglect case beginning when he was 12 in 2006 and his stay at the Georgia facility.
“I’ve probably been the only person that he’s had . . . consistent . . . in his treatment,” Palmer said. “But as he’s getting older, our relationship isn’t as close as it used to be.”
McKenna sentenced Pitt to six months of probation under D.C.’s Youth Act. In Pitt’s case, the law would allow him to avoid the statutory minimum 90-day sentence for the Bail Reform Act violation.
[From the archives: D.C. considers law to protect youth offenders]
McKenna declined to comment for this story.
The judge warned Pitt that if he violated his probation “then I’m kind of stuck with having to give you a 90-day sentence. So the 16 days that you’ve done already at the jail are going to seem like nothing in comparison to the time you’ll be serving if you’re not successful on probation.”
Pitt told her that he understood.
Signs of trouble appeared eight days later.
On Jan. 15, Pitt’s CSOSA probation officer, LaTonya Clement, went to look for him at his group home on E Street SE. She learned that Pitt had been “officially ‘put out’ ” of the home four days earlier. He had allegedly assaulted another resident and two staff members, according to Clement’s report. No criminal charges were apparently filed over the alleged attack.
From E Street, Pitt had moved into a group home on Kansas Avenue NW. Soon someone called police and reported that he was pacing back and forth with a knife, threatening to “kill everyone in this house,” according to police records. “I’ll smoke the police,” he told other residents. “I don’t give a damn.” He stated that he needed the knife for protection in case anyone “gets in his face,” according to two witnesses.
That day, Jan. 29, 2013, he was arrested for the third time in three months and charged with making threats. He was promptly released pending future proceedings on his personal promise that he would return to court.
At this point, with battery, aggravated assault and threats in his background, Pitt’s propensity for violent behavior was becoming unmistakable.
‘I just don’t want to go to jail’
Pitt’s probation officer did not learn of his re-arrest until Feb. 7, records show.
Concerned about the turn of events, Clement filed her report the next day and requested a hearing in D.C. Superior Court to determine whether he had violated his probation. A hearing was eventually scheduled for Feb. 26.
Clement documented Pitt’s ejection from the E Street group home and said his whereabouts were “unknown at the writing of this violation report.” Pitt posed a “high risk for community supervision” because of his “history of assaultive behavior,” his antisocial peers and environments, lack of employment, lack of discipline, and his maturity level, she wrote.
A few days after Clement’s report, Feb. 11, Pitt was arrested for the fourth time in 31/2 months. This time, he was caught trying to go through the emergency gate at the Benning Road Metro station without paying his fare. A police officer noticed that he had a folding knife in the pocket of his pants and attempted to remove it.
“F--- no,” Pitt told the officer. “You not taking my knife.” After a struggle on the ground, the officer handcuffed Pitt. The officer found a second weapon, a 51/2-inch Rambo-style knife, in the left pocket of Pitt’s coat. He was charged with possession of a prohibited weapon.
He was held in jail for 15 days, until his Feb. 26 hearing. After the hearing, he was released into the community under the additional supervision of a “specialized supervision unit” of the Pretrial Services Agency, which is responsible for gathering information about newly arrested defendants and preparing recommendations for release options. The agency attempted to connect Pitt with mental-health services, and a judge scheduled a mental-health status hearing for him. His probation hearings were deferred for the mental evaluation.
Once again, Pitt was free on his personal recognizance, his promise to appear in court.
The next month, on March 20, Pitt was arrested for the fifth time in five months and charged with destruction of property for breaking a bedroom door at the Kansas Avenue group home.
Five days later, he was found to be “not in full compliance with release conditions, mental health services, and drug testing,” according to the court docket.
In late May, Pitt appeared before McKenna to determine whether his probation would be revoked.
Clement, Pitt’s probation officer, stated that Pitt had missed a number of drug tests and office visits.
“You used to call in the beginning,” Clement told Pitt in court. “And he would even say, ‘I’m coming,’ but still never show up.”
Clement, through a spokesman, declined to comment for this story.
McKenna stated Pitt had not shown “any compliance” with his probation or with his mental-health requirements. The judge also said that since February, Pitt’s probation officer had consistently requested that his probation be revoked.
Pitt’s defense attorney, Robert Athanas, asked that Pitt be sentenced to the time he already served and still receive the benefit of the Youth Act.
“With all due respect, Mr. Athanas, I think based on Mr. Pitt’s consistent pattern of behavior here, I don’t see that he remains eligible for treatment under the Youth Act,” McKenna stated. “There’s simply no indication here that Mr. Pitt is amenable to rehabilitation.”
The judge stated that she would sentence Pitt to 90 days, the statutory minimum for the Bail Reform Act, and he would get credit for the days he had already spent in jail.
Pitt’s defense attorney asked for that time to be served in a halfway house, so that Pitt could continue to go to school and to receive treatment. The judge denied that request, saying that Hillcrest, a behavioral health program, was “unwilling” to continue to treat Pitt because of his behavior.
[D.C. fails to meet federal targets for helping jobless youths]
The defense attorney tried again, this time asking for the judge to re-sentence him to probation.
“No,” she said. “Not at this time. Not given the history here.”
Pitt spoke up.
“I’ll plead to anything,” he told her. “I just don’t want to go to jail.”
She told Pitt to step back to the U.S. Marshals, who took him into custody. The hearing was over.
In June, Pitt pleaded guilty to the misdemeanor weapon charge in exchange for dismissal of his other criminal cases involving the threats and the destruction of property. He received another 90-day sentence, to be served at the same time as his other one for the bail violation.
On July 26, 2013, he was released from jail.
His freedom would last for four days.
‘But he’s violent’
Just before 2 a.m. on July 30, 2013, a 46-year-old woman was on her doorstep entering her home on Ridge Street NW. A man approached, grabbed her and threw her down. He took her purse and fled.
A D.C. police officer soon spotted a suspect — later identified as Pitt — who matched the description of the assailant. The suspect ran, and two other officers joined in pursuit. After one of the officers pulled the suspect to the ground, the man dropped a dark, rolled-up T-shirt. Inside was a BB gun. The suspect reached for the gun, and an officer struck him in the face, according to the police report. He then bit another officer’s forearm.
The officers recovered the victim’s black Samsung cellphone and the T-shirt, which had been in her purse. Pitt was charged with robbery while armed and assault on a police officer while armed.
“I just bought that gun today,” he volunteered, according to the report. “I’ve been carrying it all day. It’s not illegal.”
In the fall of 2013, Pitt pleaded guilty to one count of robbery, a felony, and one count of assault on a police officer, a misdemeanor.
Pitt’s court-appointed attorney asked for the statutory minimum for robbery, 24 months, with all but six months suspended. He also asked for sentencing under the Youth Act.
The prosecutor in the case, Marvin Lett, opposed the Youth Act sentencing. He argued that Pitt had already received leniency in Georgia for his “first offender” sentence and had failed the terms of his first Youth Act conviction in the District. By this point, Pitt had been arrested seven times and convicted three times, Lett wrote.
“Quite simply, the defendant has exhausted his second chances,” he wrote.
Pitt was also subject to a pre-sentence report by CSOSA, which involves an assessment of the defendant’s criminal and family history. Such reports are not released to the public.
But details from the report are included in Lett’s filings to the judge. They reveal, for the first time in public records, concerns about sexual behavior regarding Pitt.
Lett revealed that the report documented “fabrications, deceptions and sexually inappropriate conduct,” including an incident in which Pitt had exposed himself to a jailhouse nurse on Aug. 8, 2013. The report said both Pitt’s mother and his social worker said he needed to receive treatment for “sexual misconduct,” according to Lett.
Additionally, according to Pitt’s social worker, his “homicidal thoughts increased” after he was released from jail in Georgia in 2012, Lett said.
[Is throwing children in prison a bad idea?]
“The fact that Mr. Pitt is so young and has had such a troubled childhood is more than unfortunate,” the prosecutor wrote. “But it should not entirely protect him from the cause-and-effect of his own bad and violent decisions. . . . The government is concerned with releasing so quickly back into the community a defendant who continues to show ‘defiance, aggression and violent and sexual tendencies.’ ”
Lett recommended a total of 36 months in prison.
During a sentencing hearing on Dec. 3, 2013, Pitt’s attorney said his client was a young man who still had the chance to turn his life around.
“Your honor, he’s consistently communicated to his — his younger family members that they should not make the same mistakes that he has,” his attorney said.
D.C. Superior Court Judge Heidi Pasichow asked Pitt why he committed the robbery.
“I wasn’t really thinking, your honor,” he said.
Pasichow said she understood that Pitt was young. But she struggled with the severity of his crimes.
“I mean it might be bad enough if we were talking about just simply a shoplifting or just simply a car theft, but we’re talking about a battery and we’re talking about an aggravated assault and we’re talking about possession of a prohibited weapon, a knife, and in this case we’re talking about coming up from behind someone in the early morning hours and I’m sure scaring — scaring this person. And then apparently wrestling around with an officer,” she said in court.
“So I think the circumstances are dangerous, and the problem with that is as you said, you haven’t really given me any good explanation as to why you would do something like that other than you weren’t thinking.”
Pasichow sentenced Pitt to the statutory minimum — 24 months — to be served in prison. Then she considered whether he would receive the benefit of the Youth Act to allow his record to be cleared of the robbery charge if he successfully completed his supervised release.
Pitt’s defense attorney argued that he would be an ideal candidate because he was a young man who did not use drugs or alcohol.
The judge was still hesitant.
“Right, but he’s violent,” the judge said. “It’s not clear to me that he understands exactly what he’s done. He’s had no explanation for it, no thought about it and I don’t know.”
Ultimately, Pasichow decided to sentence Pitt under the Youth Act.
“It’s a very difficult decision,” the judge said. “I’m concerned about Mr. Pitt. I’m going to give him the benefit of the Youth Act sentence, but we’ll see.”
She ordered a list of conditions for Pitt after his release from prison, including: mental-health treatment, sexual therapy and instructions to find a job or further his education.
“Good luck, Mr. Pitt,” she told him.
Pasichow declined to comment for this article through a court spokeswoman.
Denise Krepp stands in an alley off of A Street SE in the D.C. neighborhood of Hill East. Krepp has led a neighborhood effort to seek answers about crime in the area. (Matt McClain/The Washington Post)
A missed opportunity
On July 29, 2015, about 850 miles south of D.C., Pitt was released from a high-security federal prison close to Orlando, the Coleman II facility, which houses the notorious Boston mobster Whitey Bulger. Pitt had spent more than 19 months in prison and earned 126 days for time spent in jail in the District, according to Bureau of Prison records.
He was now 21 years old. Under the terms of his release, he would be monitored for three years — until July 2018 — by CSOSA. After he returned to Washington, he was fitted on Aug. 6 with a GPS bracelet. As an offender under “intensive” supervision requirements, Pitt would be required to have at least eight contacts a month with CSOSA.
His supervision officer, George Eatmon, last had contact with Pitt on Sept. 18, court records show. Pitt also had missed court-ordered drug-testing appointments and anger-management sessions. Eatmon, through a spokesman, declined to comment for this story.
Sipes, the spokesman for CSOSA, said that Eatmon followed agency policy by trying to bring Pitt back into compliance:
On Sept. 21, Pitt reported to CSOSA and had contact with someone there, but not with Eatmon, the agency said. After that, there was no contact. The next day, Eatmon tried to visit Pitt at home but could not find him.
On Sept. 28, Pitt did not appear for a scheduled appointment. That day, CSOSA received a “master tamper alert” — indicating that Pitt had cut off his GPS bracelet and removed it from his ankle. His phone was disconnected as well.
On Sept. 29, the agency learned the GPS battery had died.
But Pitt would be back within the grasp of law enforcement within a day.
About 5:30 p.m. on Sept. 30, a Wednesday night, Pitt was found by a D.C. police officer in a restroom stall on the third floor of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library in downtown Washington. He had a substance that appeared to be synthetic marijuana, along with a digital scale and small plastic bags. In his backpack, Pitt carried his GPS bracelet, the police report said.
Pitt was arrested on three charges: unlawful possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance of synthetic cannabinoid, possession of drug paraphernalia and tampering with a GPS device.
Two days later, Pitt was taken from his jail cell to appear in court for a formal reading of the drug charge against him.
Pitt was in a basement level courtroom — C-10 — where recent arrestees are brought in several at a time. The presiding magistrate judge typically spends just a few minutes on each case to decide whether to keep defendants in custody or release them.
A Pretrial Services Agency report, summarizing the defendant’s criminal history, is given to the judge. On Pitt’s report, there was a note that a Pretrial Services Agency employee had spoken on the phone with Pitt’s supervision officer. Pitt’s compliance was poor, the report stated. The report did not mention that CSOSA had lost contact with Pitt or that he was supposed to be wearing a GPS bracelet. It did warn the judge that no release options would assure “safety to the community.”
Cliff Keenan, the director of the Pretrial Services Agency, said such language indicates that a defendant has been assessed as “high risk.”
On Oct. 2, Nooter was the presiding magistrate judge.
A transcript of the brief proceeding reveals that there was confusion about Pitt’s GPS monitoring.
“It just says that he had a GPS monitoring device that appeared to be tampered with. It doesn’t indicate that he was supposed to be wearing a GPS device,” Nooter said that day.
Noting that Pitt’s compliance with his supervised release had been poor, the prosecutor requested a “five-day hold,” a stop-gap action commonly used for offenders who have violated the terms of their release from prison. The hold would allow CSOSA time to request a warrant from the Parole Commission to keep Pitt in custody.
Nooter denied the request. He did not explain his reasoning during the hearing. Instead, he told Pitt to return to court later that month and to check in with his supervision officer by the following week.
He also told Pitt that he must not commit any more crimes.
“Mr. Pitt, I’m going to release you in this matter on your personal promise to return to court,” the judge told him.
Pitt was not refitted with a new GPS bracelet before he was ushered back into the community.
Nooter declined to be interviewed for this article.
For Krepp, the Hill East neighborhood commissioner, the decision to release Pitt is maddening.
“Someone said, ‘I look at his background, and I think he’s okay,’ ” she said. “And that individual owes my neighbor an apology. Because but for him being released, he would not have been in this neighborhood.”
People walk near the Stadium-Armory Metro station down the block from the Hill East neighborhood that was traumatized by a rape last October. (Matt McClain/The Washington Post)
Whereabouts unknown
Oct. 6 was the deadline for Pitt to report back to his CSOSA supervision officer. He failed to do so. If he had checked in that day, he would have been refitted with a GPS bracelet, according to Sipes, the CSOSA spokesman.
The day Pitt missed his deadline, just before dawn, a 21-year-old woman was sleeping in her bed in her apartment on Michigan Avenue NE, in a neighborhood close to Catholic University and the Brookland Metro stop.
When she woke up, a tall man — later identified in charging documents as Pitt — was standing next to her bed. “I will get out of here,” he told her. He allegedly took her tote bag, her phone and her wallet, along with a photograph of her mother.
That same day, in an attempt to return Pitt to custody despite the magistrate’s ruling, CSOSA filed an “alleged violation report” to request that the Parole Commission issue a warrant for his arrest.
“By the time a warrant is requested, there is a very substantive reason that someone should go back to jail,” commission spokesman Bacchus said.
The U.S. Parole Commission took seven days to grant that request. In the meantime, no one was out looking for Pitt.
A parole commissioner signed off on the warrant on Oct. 13. The signed warrant had to be mailed to the U.S. Marshals, who would then enter it into the National Crime Information Center database, allowing law enforcement officers to arrest Pitt. The signed warrant did not arrive at the U.S. Marshals until Oct. 23 and was entered into the database that day, according to a Marshals spokesman.
“We don’t sit on requests for warrants,” said Supervisory Deputy Linwood Battle.
On Oct. 13, Pitt allegedly entered the 40-year-old woman’s home in Hill East, through an unlocked door, and raped her. He allegedly stole her cellphone, her husband’s checks and cash and fled to the Stadium-Armory Metro station, where he was recorded on surveillance video.
A task force composed of D.C. police, Secret Service and U.S. Capitol Police officers began to track the cellphone belonging to the victim.
The next day, Oct. 14, officers pinpointed the cellphone at a gas station in Prince George’s County, Md. When an officer approached Pitt at the station, he ran and was eventually wrestled to the ground, a police report says. One officer needed medical care after the struggle, according to court records.
Pitt had in his possession the cellphones of both the burglary and rape victims, according to the charges filed in D.C. Superior Court.
In December, Pitt was extradited to Washington. He remains in jail awaiting trial.
In April, the U.S. attorney’s office indicted Pitt on 10 charges related to the alleged rape and burglary. Earlier this spring, Pitt was also indicted on charges related to the drug arrest in the library, including tampering with his GPS bracelet.
Steven Rich, Peter Hermann and Keith L. Alexander contributed to this report. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
After years of widespread violence and sexual abuse at Mississippi's for-profit prison for juvenile offenders, state officials and civil rights groups signed a federal court decree in March aimed at overhauling a facility described by a federal judge as "a cesspool of unconstitutional and inhuman acts."
U.S. Justice Department investigators found that both state officials and the GEO Group Inc., the nation's second-largest operator of private prisons, had essentially ignored the safety of youth prisoners, denying them basic health care and employing guards with known gang affiliations. Sexual misconduct between staff and inmates at the Walnut Grove youth prison was "among the worst we have seen in any facility anywhere in the nation," the Justice Department's investigation concluded.
Yet two months after a federal court settlement, violence and poor staffing have persisted, including a fight that resulted in a young man being stabbed in the eye, according to recent court transcripts. In response, a top Mississippi state prison official recently testified that the state has no authority to force the GEO Group to improve security at the chronically understaffed facility, raising questions about the lines of authority for corrections policy in Mississippi.
"All we can do is make a request," said Emmitt Sparkman, deputy commissioner of the Mississippi Department of Corrections, in federal court testimony two weeks ago. He added that the GEO Group was "under no obligation" to increase staffing under the terms of its contract with the state.
Though a federal judge found that state officials "repeatedly failed to monitor the contracts with GEO," Mississippi plans to replace GEO with Management & Training Corp., a private company responsible for one of the most tragic prison breaks in recent memory.
The GEO Group, which has donated more than $56,000 to Mississippi elected officials over the past decade, did not respond to questions about its contracts in the state. A spokeswoman for the Mississippi Department of Corrections declined to make officials available for comment. GEO Group has operated Walnut Grove since 2010, after acquiring the prison in a merger with another prison corporation, Cornell Companies Inc.
In July 2010, three convicted murderers escaped from a prison run by Management & Training Corp. in Kingman, Ariz., after cutting a hole through the fence.
Subsequent investigations by the Arizona Department of Corrections found that perimeter alarms at the Kingman prison had long been dysfunctional. Guards had become "conditioned" to constant false alarms, and the company hadn't performed maintenance on the system for more than a year, according to a state report first obtained by the Arizona Republic.
More than two hours went by before Management & Training alerted the local sheriff's office. One of the inmates was arrested in Colorado two days later. It took more than two weeks for authorities to apprehend the other two escapees, following a nationwide manhunt. Two of the inmates were later charged in connection with the carjacking and murders of a husband and wife from Oklahoma who were driving through New Mexico.
Even five months after the escapes, the Arizona Department of Corrections sent Management & Training a letter about the company's slow progress in training its staff for emergencies, such as escapes or riots. The department director, Charles Ryan, wrote, "I retain serious concerns about myriad chronic operational deficiencies, as well as discrepancies between what you report as having been accomplished compared with what my staff is observing."
Among many problems noted in the letter, Ryan pointed out "a pattern of unacceptable inmate behavior," where large groups of inmates refused to listen to correctional officers and chased them away on several occasions.
Management & Training spokesman Issa Arnita said the company has worked with the state of Arizona to make the proper upgrades since the incident. "We took responsibility for what happened there, and that was a couple of years ago," Arnita said. "We've moved forward. That's the important thing."
Those who have worked on the Walnut Grove case in Mississippi have questioned why the state is choosing to outsource management to a private contractor again, given the state's past problems with oversight.
"Our position is that the state has substituted one bad actor for another," said Jody Owens, a managing attorney with the Southern Poverty Law Center who leads juvenile justice efforts in Mississippi. "The results are almost guaranteed to be the same, where they are putting the lives of people in their custody at risk. Private prisons have an inherent profit motive to not run facilities in a matter that's safe for the people there, and to shortcut staff and medical and mental health services whenever possible."
Arnita, the Management & Training spokesman, argued that violent incidents happen in any prison, public or private.
"It's the nature of the business," Arnita said. "It's a correctional facility. You'll sometimes have inmates who will do their very darndest to cause problems, and so you try to deal with it the best way you can."
Management & Training will take over the troubled Walnut Grove facility on July 2, and two other GEO facilities by mid-August. Under the federal court settlement, youth at Walnut Grove who are 17 or under, plus some high-risk 18- and 19-year-olds, must be moved to a separate state-run facility by the end of the year.
Arnita said the company will be bringing in a new management team, including wardens and deputy wardens. He said the company anticipates retaining many of the correctional officers now working for GEO Group.
It's unclear whether the new contract for Walnut Grove and other Mississippi state prisons will have specific staffing requirements. According to a court transcript, documentation from Walnut Grove showed that "only on rare occasions are all housing zones in the pods fully staffed."
Sparkman, the deputy corrections commissioner in Mississippi, testified last month in federal court that the department's current contracts don't require certain levels of staffing. U.S. District Judge Carlton Reeves, who has been overseeing the Walnut Grove case, asked Sparkman what incentives the GEO Group had to ensure that inmates are properly supervised.
"It's just standard terms of the agreement that they're to provide a safe facility," Sparkman testified. "Specific staffing requirements -- no, sir, there's not any in the agreement that we have right now."
He went on to testify that the department intended to include staffing requirements and financial penalties in the new contract. A spokeswoman for the Mississippi Department of Corrections, Tara Booth, declined to respond to any questions until the final contract with Management & Training has been signed.
Owens, the Southern Poverty Law Center attorney, said Mississippi must take a harder line on oversight for anything to change with a new private operator.
"The state takes the position that their hands are tied, that it's under the control of the private prison provider, and that's just not true," Owens said. "You can't just have an agreement with somebody and say, 'OK, well, they're not doing what they're supposed to do.' If somebody doesn't pay their rent, you kick them out." | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Dr. Linda Lambert is a best-selling author of books on leadership, educator, international consultant and now, a novelist of historical fiction. She is currently compelled to bring the worlds of leadership and literature together around themes of liberation, empathy and learning.
A sizzling new novel set in Taos, New Mexico. The third in the Justine Trilogy, preceded by the award-winning, The Cairo Codex and The Italian Letters. Buy it at your local independent bookstore, IndieBound.org, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or other online retailers.
Conceptions of leadership have evolved, and Liberating Leadership Capacity captures these new ideas and provides a pathway to create sustainable systems of high leadership capacity. Available April 2016 from Teachers College Press, your local independent bookstore, IndieBound.org, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or other online retailers.
The Italian Letters- Chapter 4
Chapter 1-3 of The Italian Letters are attached to The Cairo Codex e-book now on sale
from Amazon. Here is Chapter 4:
The Italian Letters
“Unrequited love is the only possible way to give yourself
to another without being held in indentured servitude.”
-Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
Her head still spinning from the museum visit, Justine parked her Spider in front of Chez Anna and checked in. She climbed the stairs to her room, threw open the shutters, and gazed out on the valley below, the sea beyond. Her mind floated back to the carved mirror in the ceiling of the tomb, the married couple in a warm, respectful relationship on the sarcophagus lid in the museum. Riveting images of men and women together . . . what did she know now?
The iron four-poster bed, covered with a white quilted coverlet, coaxed her to take off her shoes and dirt-encrusted khakis and relax with her latest purchase—D.H. Lawrence’s Virgin and the Gypsy, a quick read that the author had written for his stepdaughter, Barbara. She was again surprised by Lawrence’s ability to write with such sensuality without explicitly describing sexual consummation (until Lady Chatterley, that is):
[[Q]]
. . . And through his body, wrapped round her strange and lithe and powerful, like tentacles, rippled with shuddering as an electric current, still the rigid tension of the muscles that held her clenched steadied them both, and gradually the sickening violence of the shuddering, caused by shock, abated, in his body first, then in hers, and the warmth revived between them. And as it roused, their tortured semi-conscious minds became unconscious, they passed away into sleep.
[[/Q]]
An hour later, Justine was awakened by a cool air drifting in from the sea. Stretching and shivering, she took a warm shower and dressed in a white silk blouse and clean khaki slacks. She was ready for dinner with her father.
###
It was a short walk back down a narrow street, hugged by fourteenth-century stone houses, to the fish restaurant Morgan had suggested. The theatrical owner and chef came from Napoli, and therefore was immediately held suspect by locals. The Ristorante Vladimiro ai Bastioni boasted the best Napolitano seafood outside of Rome . . . and Napoli, of course. Two diners at the table in the intimate room. One was her apprehensive father.
“Good evening, Dad,” she said in a lighthearted tone. “I see you’ve started on our bottle of wine.”
The other man turned toward her. She gasped. “Oh . . . Amir! What a surprise! I didn’t know you were here.” Her voice sounded slightly accusatory.
“Whoa! Hold on here!” Morgan nearly shouted. “If I’d thought there was something between you two, I’d never have hired Amir without talking with you, Justine.”
“There is nothing between us.” Justine’s voice was confident.
Amir looked wounded. He turned toward the mustard stucco walls, dotted with framed photos and commendations to the owner as a much younger man. “Quite an array of accomplishments,” he noted, and picked up his wine. “Your father’s offering me a job. Archaeologist on the new dig.”
Morgan glanced at each of his guests, one at a time. He squinted. “You do know that I’ve known this young man since he was a mere whippersnapper.”
“Of course, Dad. I was just caught off guard.”
“Now for the wine. A little celebration,” Morgan said. “Mastroberardino Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio Bianco, tears of the Christ. I thought it apropos. Made from the Coda di Volpe, tail of the fox, to be exact.” He poured them each a glass. “Did you get some rest?” he asked, cautious with his daughter.
“I couldn’t rest until I went to the museum. Remarkable!”
“How so?” asked Amir.
“I visited it on my first day in town,” Morgan interrupted. “Impressive structure, but not much of a museum. At least, it doesn’t live up to the reputation of the necropolis itself.” He sipped his wine, watching them closely over the rim of his glass.
“You asked why I found it remarkable, Amir,” she said, ignoring her father. “I found it not only informative but moving. Particularly the Sarcophagus of the Married Couple. There seemed to be such an equal, respectful relationship among Etruscan men and women.” Picking up her wine glass, she held it suspended in her right hand until she concluded her impassioned description, then she took her first sip.
Amir nodded, captivated by her passion.
“You read too much into things, honey,” said Morgan. A flicker of regret moved through his eyes.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Her comment surprised both of them. Morgan relaxed into a familiar grin. He didn’t anticipate what was coming.
“Women are gifted with intuitive powers denied to men. Perhaps men are just defective women.” She saluted the two men with her glass, winked, and suggested that they order.
Amir laughed wholly, a laugh that Justine loved, and looked around for the menu.
“So true, Justine. So true.” Morgan also laughed with unrestrained fullness. “We don’t order here. Giuseppe tells us what we want to eat.” He motioned to the owner, who walked toward the table, his majestic stride practiced for a more abundant audience. “What delightful dishes do you have for us tonight, my friend?” Morgan had become a regular patron, one who was treated with the reverence of family.
“CalamariRipieni and Pescespado o Tonno Alla Stemperata, signore. Giuseppe’s best. Only for you.” He clustered his chubby fingers into a bud and pressed them to his pursed lips. His smile stretched from cheek to cheek.
“Squid and tuna?” Justine asked, turning toward her father.
“Tonight, no tuna. Swordfish, my lovely signorina. Calamari stuffed with pecorino and prosciutto,” Giuseppe said in his rich Genoan accent. “And who is this beauty with you tonight, signore?”
The chef came to stand next to Giuseppe. “My friend here prepares the swordfish with olives and raisins and capers. Delicious,” said her father. The rotund chef hurried back to his open kitchen.
Two hours later, compliments about the glorious seafood paid, the three of them exhausted from speculating about the work to come in Cerveteri, the evening was winding down. With the second bottle of wine, tensions had relaxed and the three had become playful, recalling the years Morgan had taken Lucrezia and Justine with him on dig assignments in Egypt. Amir had tagged along, fascinated by Justine’s buoyant crinoline skirts, at children’s parties at his family home in Cairo. Morgan’s partner and mentor, Amir’s grandfather, Ibrahim El Shabry, had brought the families together on festive occasions. Being Egyptian, Lucrezia had forever been the guide and the star of any occasion.
Justine watched Amir closely as he picked at his dinner. Both Justine and her father knew that Egyptians tended to shy away from exotic cuisine. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was with his rumpled, curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. So sensual, so sexy.
“I’ll walk you back to Anna’s. That’s where you’re staying—right?” asked Amir.
“Thank you, Amir. Dad—you coming?”
“I’ll nurse my brandy.” Morgan pointed to the owner. “Giuseppe and I have some lies to exchange.”
###
“Why did you say there was nothing between us?” Amir asked as they turned the corner and started west down the narrow, darkened street. “We’ve been through a lot together. How about the kidnapping? Finding the Virgin Mary’s comb? My brother’s death?”
Justine shivered. He was right. They had been through a great deal together. Perhaps she didn’t want her father to know how intertwined they really were. They had desired one another, but refused to act on those feelings. Besides, she knew she wasn’t entirely over her affair with her betraying Egyptian lover, Nasser. Her father had been pressuring her on the details. “I know, you’re right, Amir. I’m sorry. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Going to be working with Dad? You have my e-mail.”
Amir took a deep breath. They had arrived in front of Anna’s. “I’d like to come up for a few minutes. At least try to resolve some misconceptions.”
Justine let the comment pass. She opened the outside door with her key and started up the stairs. Amir followed. The door to her room was unlocked. Inside, she turned to face him. “So, what’s the story here?”
“I assumed your father would tell you—and, frankly, as you said at dinner, I feared you’d think I was following you.”
“Were you?” she challenged.
“Justine, you know I’ve wanted to get back into the field for a long time . . . but there is some truth in your hunch. I did want to be nearer to you.” He stepped closer, moonlight catching the side of her face, her white blouse.
“So you relied upon my father to be the intermediary? To inform me of your intentions?” Her voice rose, eyes flashing. She reached over and turned on the table lamp. “I think you know I don’t like being treated like a little girl, especially when my father is concerned. Please don’t communicate with me through him.”
Amir looked confused, miserable, angry. “Why are you overreacting like this? I thought you’d be glad to see me!” He grabbed her by the shoulders. Their fiery eyes met, and held. Her body stiffened—then, breathing deeply, relaxed.
She let her head drop onto his chest. He softened his grip, wrapped his arms around her, holding her, and both began weeping, exhausted by the old desire that now seized them. They began breathing together, the near panting that marked longing. Finally, he raised her chin to meet his and kissed her tenderly, the embrace long, delicious, leading to hunger, then to demand. Shivering, she pushed him back, enveloping him with her eyes. He was handsome, sensual beyond belief. Slowly she began to unbutton her blouse.
He took her in his arms, spun her back toward the bed and let them both fall, press into her quilt. He kissed her with near desperation, born of unrequited obsession.
She held him tightly as they embraced, her legs wrapped around him now, and rolled on the bed. They slowed as they flourished in each other’s bodies, exploring with touch, caressing, finding the heat of buried passion. Shadows danced across the walls, then stilled. No words were spoken before they fell into a deep sleep. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
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--- Day 5: Doesn't He Have Intern-Elves For This? ---
Santa needs help figuring out which strings in his text file are naughty or nice.
A nice string is one with all of the following properties:
It contains at least three vowels ( aeiou only), like aei , xazegov , or aeiouaeiouaeiou .
only), like , , or . It contains at least one letter that appears twice in a row, like xx , abcdde ( dd ), or aabbccdd ( aa , bb , cc , or dd ).
, ( ), or ( , , , or ). It does not contain the strings ab , cd , pq , or xy , even if they are part of one of the other requirements.
For example:
ugknbfddgicrmopn is nice because it has at least three vowels ( u...i...o... ), a double letter ( ...dd... ), and none of the disallowed substrings.
is nice because it has at least three vowels ( ), a double letter ( ), and none of the disallowed substrings. aaa is nice because it has at least three vowels and a double letter, even though the letters used by different rules overlap.
is nice because it has at least three vowels and a double letter, even though the letters used by different rules overlap. jchzalrnumimnmhp is naughty because it has no double letter.
is naughty because it has no double letter. haegwjzuvuyypxyu is naughty because it contains the string xy .
is naughty because it contains the string . dvszwmarrgswjxmb is naughty because it contains only one vowel.
How many strings are nice? | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
За что благодарите (уточнять не обязательно)?
За что благодарите (уточнять не обязательно)?
На выставке D23 Expo 2019 официально подтвердился ещё один слух — об участии в сериале «Сокол и Зимний солдат» Эмили Ванкэмп. Актриса действительно вернётся в мир MCU и вновь исполнит партию Шэрон Картер.
Вдобавок актёрский состав проекта пополнился за счёт Уайатта Рассела («Оверлорд»), которому досталась роль Джона Уокера, также известного как супергерой-патриот СШАгент (U.S.Agent).
Шестисерийный супергеройский экшен Marvel Studios поведает о приключениях Сэма Уилсона (Энтони Маки) и Баки Барнса (Себастиан Стэн), которым после событий «Мстителей: Финала» вновь придётся иметь дело со злодеем Гельмутом Земо (Даниэль Брюль).
За сценарий отвечают Малкольм Спеллман («Империя») и Дерек Кольстад (кинотрилогия «Джон Уик»). Все шесть эпизодов срежиссирует Кари Скогланд («Викинги»). Съёмки начнутся в октябре в Атланте, штат Джорджия, а премьера состоится на потоковом сервисе Disney+ следующей осенью. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
He Couldn’t Stop Himself: The Codex of Justinian - allthebest
https://www.lrb.co.uk/v41/n06/michael-kulikowski/he-couldnt-stop-himself
======
justinian
Man, I thought personal attacks against other users were against the
guidelines.
------
vmh1928
A follower of the Edward Gibbon school of Byzantine bashing.
" Justinian’s reign destroyed the Roman world." and "his ambitions enfeebled
the state he tried to restore and the future he bequeathed to Europe was one
of poverty and schism."
Seems like a pretty harsh assessment. Empires acquire territory, that's why
they're called empires. If you get kicked out of some place you try to take it
back.
The Eastern Empire continued on for another 900 years or so which is pretty good for a "destroyed" world. Europe? As in France, Spain, Italy, the British Isles? Justinian bequeathed poverty and schism to that Europe?
I think it's far more complicated than this article portrays.
------
cafard
Procopius piles on to the point that one reflexively doubts him.
~~~
djur
Yes, all of the dirt about corruption or sexual license kind of gets
overwhelmed by the claims about Justinian's head flying around independent of
his body, or that he depopulated Africa, or that he was personally responsible
for pretty much every earthquake and plague in the known world, etc. And of
course there's the fact that he also wrote an incredibly glowing official
history of Justinian. If he lied in one, it seems pretty easy to assume he
lied in the other.
------
man-and-laptop
Is there any way to actually read this? Pay wall.
~~~
c22
The 'web' link worked for me.
~~~
man-and-laptop
This comment comes across as snarky.
You should be happy you're behind a computer screen.
~~~
c22
I apologize, I did not intend any offense. What wording would you have found
more appropriate?
~~~
man-and-laptop
Apologies, I guess I overreacted. I do that sometimes.
~~~
graeme
The user was referring to a hacker news feature. Under the main link, there is
one titled ‘web’ that searches the web for the aeticle. This sometimes
bypasses paywalls.
Commenting as I read your other comment; you may have misinterpreted OP m
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | HackerNews |
Online chatting with women without registration - Common dating show questions
(5) Psalm 4:8 Catechism: Mary's function as mother of men...
However, "relative" dating or time can be an easy concept for students to learn.
In this activity, students begin a sequencing activity with familiar items letters written on cards.
While the term has several meanings, the most frequent usage refers to two or more people exploring whether they are romantically or sexually compatible by participating in dates with the other.
With the use of modern technology, people can date via telephone or computer or meet in person.
When I saw the job description and responsibilities, it looked like a great fit for my background and skillset. [Name of company] is one of the few places where I’ll be able to use the [name of your industry…e.g.
The opportunity to work for [insert name of company], a company with offices around the world, is particularly interesting as I’ve always wanted to work for a multinational company. customer service] skills I gained during my previous job, while spending my day thinking about [insert a particular sub-topic in your industry…e.g.
Stop all unnecessary activity and spending for a few months or longer. Whatever you have to do to stabilize the home, do it on a temporary basis.
Start getting help on any practical issues where you need instruction or counseling.
And while there are a number of articles on the web that list the most common job interview questions, most of these articles take one of two forms: None of these articles give you a comprehensive list of all the questions you are likely to be asked with actual sample answers, the types of answers that will make a hiring manager salivate and get you hired. The result of this work was the comprehensive list below that will cover most of the general interview questions that you could be asked during your job interview. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
A fertile man with a high sperm agglutination titer in the seminal plasma: a case report.
A fertile man had sperm-agglutinating activity in his serum (titers 1:16-1:128) and in his seminal plasma (titers 1:128-1:2048). The antibodies in the seminal plasma could be absorbed with anti-IgA antiserum but not with anti-IgG antiserum. A fresh ejaculate showed strong auto-agglutination of the spermatozoa. With mixed antiglobulin reaction tests (MART) and/or immunobead tests (IBT), IgA and IgG were detected on almost all motile spermatozoa; the erythrocytes, in the MART, and the latex spheres, in the IBT, adhered mainly to the tip of the tail. After mixing the fresh semen with cervical mucus, only 40% of the spermatozoa were locally shaking. The spermatozoa showed excellent penetration of cervical mucus in vitro. This case shows that IgA coating of the tails of the spermatozoa does not necessarily lead to adherence of these spermatozoa to the micelles of the cervical mucus and that the sperm cervical mucus contact test has a better predictive value than the sperm agglutination titer in the seminal plasma. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Title Page
Dedication
1: Secrets and... Fibs!
2: Room of Gloom
3: To the Carpet!
4: Streets of Water
5: Going Shopping
6: So Many Wings
7: The Dream Crown
8: Mirror, Mirror, in the Hand
9: Adventures in Dreamland
10: A Special Boy
The Adventure Continues...
Also Available
Copyright
"Eric Hinkle?"
Mrs. Michaels peered down from the auditorium stage at the students sitting in the front row. "Eric, are you there?"
No answer.
"Where in the world is Eric?" Mrs. Michaels asked her students.
While her classmates turned and looked around at one another, Julie Rubin whispered to her friend Neal Kroger, "That's just the problem, isn't it? Eric isn't in this world at all!"
It was true. Eric wasn't in this world.
For the past three days he had been far away in the mysterious land of Droon.
Droon was the secret world the kids had discovered under Eric's basement. It was a marvelous land of fantastic creatures, adventure, and magic, both good and bad.
Eric had fallen to bad magic.
"Can someone run back to the classroom and see if Eric is there?" asked Mrs. Michaels.
Julie raised her hand eagerly. "I'll go!"
"Me, too!" said Neal. "We'll also check the cafeteria. Eric might be sneaking crackers from the kitchen closet... or wherever they hide them."
"Thank you," said the teacher. "We need to start rehearsing this play."
As Julie and Neal hustled out to the hall, they recalled the frightening events of three days before. The friends had been far in the snowy north of Droon, when Eric was wounded by an ice dagger aimed at the wizard Galen Longbeard.
Hurled by one of Emperor Ko's fiendish Nesh warriors, the ice dagger carried a dangerous poison intended to fulfill a prophecy — to strike down one of the sons of Zara: Galen, Lord Sparr, or Urik.
While Galen and Sparr had been present, the man thought to be Urik had turned out to be the mysterious Prince of Stars. But that didn't matter, because when the poisoned dagger was thrown, Eric thought only of protecting the wizards.
He threw himself in the way.
Galen was saved, but Eric was hit.
Within seconds, he grew icy cold and slipped into unconsciousness.
Galen hurried Julie and Neal home to the Upper World, then rushed Eric to Jaffa City to try to reverse Ko's dark magic.
That was three very long days ago.
Neal and Julie had heard nothing since.
"I can't understand why Keeah doesn't call us to Droon," said Neal grimly as they walked down the empty hall. "We need to see our friend. But we've had no dreams of Droon. And the magic soccer ball hasn't given us any messages. Should we be worried? I mean... really worried?"
Julie frowned. "I don't want to think about it. Worrying about Eric isn't going to help him. Besides, we've got enough to worry about here at home. Every time I pretend to be Eric, I feel like I'm lying. Being him — and me — for the last three days is more than I can handle. Our poor parents don't even know!"
"At least you can change shape," said Neal. "That scratch you got from a wingwolf lets you transform into anyone —"
Julie gave Neal a sharp look. "I'm pretty sure your genie magic lets you do the same. Why am I the one who always has to change?"
"Because Eric and I are always together," said Neal. "It would be weird if Eric hung out with you. No offense."
"Let's just do it," Julie grumbled.
Checking first that no one was watching, Julie twirled on one foot. When she stopped, she looked just like Eric.
"I wish you really were him," said Neal.
"I know," said Julie. "Come on. Let's go back and do our best."
The two friends, now looking like Eric and Neal, reentered the auditorium and took the stage.
"Good, you're here," said Mrs. Michaels. "Now, Eric, let's rehearse your scene with Neal. Page one. Ready? Begin."
And the two friends began to run lines.
As difficult as it was for Julie and Neal to pretend that Eric was with them, it was harder still being unable to get to Droon to see their friend.
Every afternoon after school, they had tramped down to his basement closet. They'd closed the door behind them. They'd switched off the light. And they'd waited.
The staircase to Droon had not appeared.
Each day, the two friends woke up more worried than the day before. Each day, they went to sleep not knowing.
Then it happened.
Just as they were finishing up the first scene of the play, Neal turned to Julie and said, "I think I see the moon —"
And something round and white dropped straight from the ceiling.
Whump! It struck Neal on the head.
"Owww!" he cried, falling to his knees.
Whump! It hit him again, and he fell forward onto his hands.
Whump! It smacked him a third time, and he dropped facedown onto the floor.
"Neal, are you all right?" called Mrs. Michaels, running over.
"I guess," grumbled Neal. Then he saw what had struck him on the head.
It was not the moon.
It was a soccer ball.
Neal gasped. Julie! he said silently. The soccer ball. It's our magic soccer ball!
Two hastily scribbled words suddenly seemed to float across the surface of the ball.
Ylkciuq Emoc.
They were the words, written backward, that both friends had been hoping for every moment of the last three days.
Ylkciuq emoc meant Come quickly.
Hooray! Julie said silently, looking at Neal. We're going to Droon!
Mrs. Michaels helped Neal to his feet. "Everyone take a break while I try to figure out how that soccer ball got up there!"
"You bet!" said Julie, in Eric's voice. "We'll be outside, running our lines."
"Or just plain running," Neal whispered, scooping up the soccer ball.
Five minutes later, the two friends were dashing through backyards, across driveways, and straight up the sidewalk to Eric's house.
Without being seen, the two friends slipped quietly through the side door and flew down the basement stairs. By the time Neal had safely stowed away the soccer ball, Julie had changed back into herself.
"We've never actually gone to Droon without Eric before," said Julie, entering the closet under the stairs and reaching for the ceiling light. "It's weird, you know?"
Neal nodded. "Let's hope this is the first and only time."
"And that Eric comes safely back with us," said Julie. She tugged the chain on the light — click! — and the bulb went dark.
All at once — whoosh! — the floor of the closet vanished. In its place was the top step of a long, curving staircase. The wispy pink clouds of Droon's sky swirled below.
"Eric, here we come!" said Julie as the two friends ran down the stairs together.
The moment they pushed past the clouds, they spied the familiar towers of Jaffa City.
But the closer they came, the more changes they noticed to the jaunty, springtime capital.
Gloomy pennants were draped on the city walls. Black flags flew atop the towers. And inside the gates, throngs of somber-clothed citizens streamed toward the royal palace.
"Oh, no," said Neal. "Oh, no."
Rushing down the stairs, the two friends hurried to join the crowd. Julie stopped a woman dressed in black, who was hobbling toward the palace. "Tell us, how is Eric Hinkle?"
The woman raised her eyes. They were moist. She tried to speak, then cupped her hand over her mouth and hid her face.
The two friends shared a frightened look.
"Come on!" said Neal, grabbing Julie's hand. "We can't waste a second!"
Julie and Neal hurried up the palace steps.
"Eric is in the royal bedchamber," said the first guard they passed.
"Please go quickly!" said the second.
The two friends raced through one glittering hall after another, from staircase to golden staircase, all the way to the uppermost room.
They stopped in surprise when they reached the hall outside the royal chamber. It was crowded with many old friends.
Pacing back and forth in front of the door was Shago, the whiskered master thief whose skills had often helped them on their journeys. He smiled sadly when he saw the friends.
"To see you again like this," Shago said, sniffling. "Eric is so weak...."
"But he will rally once he senses you are here!" said Khan, king of the Lumpies. His boots were dusty from his journey from the distant desert of Lumpland.
"Everyone, stand aside!" said Queen Ortha while Batamogi, the Oobja king, waved the way clear for Neal and Julie to enter the room. Ortha, ruler of the clever Bangledorn monkeys, bowed as the children passed. Batamogi did the same. Like the others, both showed signs of long and weary travel.
The chamber itself was crowded but nearly silent, except for the continuous murmur of a low voice in the corner.
The sorcerer, Lord Sparr, blind and old before his time, sat rocking back and forth on a small stool, whispering to himself. His tattered cloak was draped low over his face, obscuring all but his thin gray beard. His hands were locked together atop a rusty saber that he used as a cane.
Crowded nearest to the bed were Galen; Max, the spider troll; the royal couple, King Zello and Queen Relna; and Princess Keeah.
Eric himself was lying motionless in an ornate four-poster bed, his face as pale as the midday moon, his slight body barely showing beneath the heavy blankets.
"Oh..." Julie gasped.
Keeah rose to greet her friends. Her eyes were red from crying.
"Dear friends," she said, hugging them. "I'm glad you've come. Expeditions have been sent all over Droon to find a cure for Eric's dark wound."
"But none has been found," said Max.
"We hope that Eric senses you are here," said Relna, "and this will help him heal."
"Hope!" said Galen, storming from one end of the chamber to the other. "In my youth, I could move stars. I fought armies single-handed. I braved dangers unknown! But I cannot help a little boy. Eric is like a son to me. A grandson. An old friend. A brother! And yet..."
"Even Sparr cannot help," said Zello, gesturing to the sorcerer, still rocking on his stool. "Since Eric was struck, he has been in a dark world of his own."
"Yet we cannot give up hope," said Max. "We must never give up hope."
"Never," said Galen, turning to a large, elaborately framed mirror and studying it closely. The children knew it was a magic mirror through which the wizard could see all of Droon.
"No rock, no pebble, no grain of dust shall remain unturned in our quest to find a cure for this terrible wound!" the wizard said.
Keeah put her hand on Eric's forehead.
"So pale, so cold!" she said, pulling another blanket to his chin. "It's as if Eric's spirit has left him and gone far away. If we only knew where his spirit has gone!"
* * *
Where my spirit has gone!
Eric's eyelids felt as heavy as lead. He struggled to open them. When he finally succeeded, he saw a room filled with people. There were his friends from home, Julie and Neal. And there were Galen and Max and Queen Relna and Khan, the pillow king.
"Hi, everyone!" he said. But his words sounded strange and far away, as if someone else had said them. "What's up?"
His friends all looked down at the bed, though none answered him. Their expressions were... what? Sad? Worried?
Why? he wondered.
And here was Keeah, bending to him, her fingers extended to touch his forehead. She pulled them away. Strange. He hadn't felt her hand on his skin.
Instinctively, he reached for the bandage on his shoulder. The wound under it was open, raw, and unhealed. He remembered that.
And yet... the wound didn't hurt.
With great effort, Eric propped himself up in the large bed, pushed the blankets aside, and slid down to the floor.
"I feel pretty good for someone who's supposedly injured," he said.
All the sad faces were still looking down at the bed. He followed their gaze.
He shuddered.
On the bed he saw — himself!
"What?" he said. "But I'm over here!"
His face — his face — was as white as the pillow behind it. His hair was damp and matted, as if wet cloths had been applied to his forehead. His eyeglasses were placed lovingly on the side table next to a goblet of water.
Eric touched his own face. His glasses were right there atop his nose. How could that be?
"How could I still be in the bed? Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Hey! Anyone?"
No one spoke.
Then, all at once, something strange happened.
The air... rippled... across the room like a wave. It seemed to come from the big mirror. It flowed past him and settled on the boy in the bed.
His pale white face grew paler still!
"This is so weird!" Eric said. "Hey! People!"
It was then that he realized something else. When that ripple had passed over, the people standing by the bed looked both sadder and strangely different. Eric found himself struggling to recall the names he had just had in mind.
That boy with blond hair was a friend, right? And the girl in the red T-shirt. He knew her, for sure. The tall wizard... his name began with a G or something. And the pretty blond girl with the crown and the wet eyes — she was a princess... wasn't she?
Eric stepped over to the mirror. At first he saw only mist. Looking more closely, he began to make out tall buildings and domes, canals and bridges, and streets paved with stones of different colors. A city?
A wild city!
In the center of the streets stood a large palace of colorful stones. It had curving walls and steps circling up the highest tower.
"What is that place?" he asked.
You know its name....
Eric spun around to see a dark-cloaked man seated on a stool. The man's head rose slowly to reveal eyes that flashed under his hood.
"You heard me?" asked Eric. "But... who are you?"
The man's lips did not move, but his words sounded in Eric's head.
The city's name is Saaa...
And the name of the wild city came to Eric.
"Saaa..." he said to himself.
* * *
There was a sudden commotion at the chamber door. Shago and Khan jumped aside as Ortha called out, "Make way, everyone! Pasha comes!"
The crowd parted, and Pasha, the diminutive carpet weaver with the striped cap and long mustache, scampered into the room, cradling a small green bird in his hands.
"Friends!" he panted. "Since Lord Sparr's blindness, I have cared for his little bird, Isha. Now Isha brings word of a miraculous cure from the very fringes of the Dark Lands —"
"And look here!" said Galen suddenly, staring into the magic mirror. "The image clears. I see a city of bridges, water, domes, and streets of many colors —"
"Eric is moving!" cried Keeah as Eric twitched suddenly and his lips parted.
"Isha has described a magical city in the east," Pasha went on. "A city of wonder."
"I know this distant place!" said Galen, staring at the mirror's image. "It is —"
"The city of..." Pasha continued.
The moment Pasha and Galen spoke the name together, Eric sat straight up in bed and shouted at the top of his lungs —
"Samarindo!"
Then, as if the effort to speak was more than he could bear, Eric sank back into the sheets, his breathing slowed, and he grew even paler than before.
"The cure will be found in Samarindo!" cried Galen. "Samarindo, city of magic! City of danger! Keeah, you must go at once!"
Princess Keeah rushed to the door. "City of danger? I don't care about danger. I'm going there now! Julie, Neal, come with me —"
"Wait!" said Max. "In the mirror!"
The moment the children looked in the mirror, they saw the air tremble away from the city's palace like water from a pebble dropped in a pond. The ripple spread from street to street, and the long, broad avenues leading from the palace changed their direction like writhing worms.
"Legends call Samarindo the City of Dreams," said Galen. "Now you see why."
A bridge arched here; a river snaked there. Buildings vanished for a moment before re-forming, altered, somewhere else. Paved plazas with fountains became bare clearings, hills became valleys, streams crossed by bridges became streets, twisted and crabbed.
And through it all, the colorful palace in the center of the city did not move. But its colors dimmed a little, fading so they appeared almost gray.
"Legends say the city's ruler wears a Dream Crown," said Galen. "The crown is the source of this powerful magic."
"But the City of Dreams is a city of nightmares for anyone looking for something," said Julie. "How will we find the cure?"
"Lord Sparr will not mind if I offer little Isha as your guide," said Pasha, petting the bird. "Dreams or not, her sense of direction is first-rate. She'll help you find the cure."
Keeah looked at Sparr, rocking and whispering to himself, then turned back to Pasha. "If you come, too," she said.
The little rug weaver beamed. "Me? Really? A mission? Do you mean it?"
"We do," said the princess.
"Then I'd be honored!" he said, bowing so low that his nose touched the ground. "Now I can test my latest carpet innovation, invisibility threads. I've made a completely undetectable flying carpet!"
"Great! Let's go get it," said Neal.
"It's already here!" said Pasha. He tugged at the air next to him and — floop! — a carpet suddenly appeared.
"The crew is set!" said Galen. "Keeah —"
"Not yet!" said a sudden voice.
All eyes turned to the corner.
Lord Sparr raised his head to Keeah. His cheeks — nearly as pale as Eric's — were glistening with tears. "Keeah, know one thing. While you seek the cure my little Isha has found, I will not leave Eric's side, no matter where he goes."
"Where he goes?" Keeah said. "But —"
"Remember!" he said. Then, patting Isha's head, he lowered his own until his aged face could not be seen. He resumed rocking back and forth on the stool.
"Thank you, Lord Sparr," Keeah said.
Galen had watched his brother silently. "We all thank you. Now, Keeah, take this."
He handed her a mirror that looked like a perfect miniature of the larger one. "It will help us keep in touch. In the meantime, Max and I will consult the ancient books for other possible cures."
"Khan, Shago, and I will sail to the faraway island of Mikos," said Zello, "in hopes a cure may lie hidden in Bazra's treasure fortress. Ortha, Batamogi, and the others, please search the distant reaches of the Saladian Plains."
"We will," said Batamogi, bowing.
Queen Relna took her daughter's hand. "Sparr and I will look after Eric. While he is in danger, we're all in danger."
Keeah nodded, wiping away a tear. She took one last look at Eric, paler than ever, then turned and joined her friends at the window.
Moments later, she, Julie, and Neal, with Pasha as pilot, flew the carpet — visible for the moment — out of the room and across the rooftops of Jaffa City. There was a chorus of cheers from the townspeople below as they swept by.
After conversing quietly with Isha, the carpet weaver set a course southeast, toward the Dark Lands.
Though the air over Jaffa City was sunny, the sky grew increasingly overcast and chilly the farther they flew into enemy territory.
"I'll never forget when I first heard of Samarindo," said Neal.
Everyone knew what he meant.
Samarindo was home to two princesses the children had met once before. Their names were Looma and Sarla, and they were violently attracted to Neal's wavy blond hair.
"I've decided to keep my turban pulled safely low," he said. "Of course, it's hard to blame the girls. I do have awesome hair —"
All at once, Isha fluttered up and began to tweet noisily.
"We are?" said the little weaver. He peered over the edge of the rug. "So we are! Look, everyone. There it is!"
And there it was.
A walled city of domes and bridges and streets and towers appeared amid a vast desert of purple sand dunes stretching all the way to the Dark Lands in the east.
"It actually looks beautiful," said Julie.
"The next dream will change it, no doubt," said Keeah. "Pasha, let's land just inside the wall."
"Aye-aye," the little pilot said. He gently landed the rug in a narrow alley beneath the city wall, folded the carpet to the size of a handkerchief, and stowed it under his cap.
The sounds of a busy city bubbled around them. Voices called, pilka hooves clopped on the cobblestones, and the melodic strains of strange instruments filled the air.
"Cool," said Neal. "Now where?"
"Isha will tell us," said Pasha, listening closely to the bird's tweets and whistles. "She says the cure can be found at... the Silver Dome. Isha, where is the Silver Dome?"
Twittering once, the bird dipped to the end of the alley, looked both ways, and flew left.
"Left it is!" said Keeah. "Let's follow!"
The four friends hurried after the little bird and entered a street where dozens of shops bustled with life and the air sang with voices. Creatures of every sort milled about the streets. Some were small and scaly, others plump and furry. The children decided not to attract attention but to simply follow Isha as she swooped from street to street.
Entering one narrow alley, they spied a low-roofed shop piled high with brass urns, lamps, and pots, while another featured scarves of every hue and size.
"Samarindo is lovely," Keeah said as she breathed in the warm morning air. It was scented with the fragrance of summer flowers. "But Isha is flying so quickly, we can't pause."
Neal stopped in his tracks. "Except to eat!"
He pointed to a tiny pie shop squeezed between a bucket stand and a shop filled with curly-tipped shoes. Neal spied a little creature in the window of the pie shop. It had knobby blue skin, wild whiskers, and one eye in the center of its forehead that brightened when it saw Neal.
"Yes?" said the creature.
"Blueberry, please —" Neal began.
All of a sudden, the ground quivered as if a giant wave were washing over the street.
"Brace yourselves. It's a dream!" said Julie.
Pasha grabbed Neal and pulled him back, while the shopkeepers quickly grabbed their wares and held them steady.
"Here's my card!" said the pie maker, stuffing a card into Neal's hand even as the shop began to fade. "But the address... is... wrong!"
In less time than it takes to say it, the street buckled and sank and changed. When the dream finally passed, Neal was flat on the ground without his turban, Julie and Keeah were twisted in a knot, and Pasha was on his knees, gently cradling Isha in his hands.
Instead of a lively cobblestone street, they found themselves in a bare, open square paved with ashes.
The air had darkened.
Clouds had drifted overhead.
And the place where the pie shop had been was now occupied by two orange-haired young princesses, one dressed all in pink, the other in green.
They spied Neal and screamed.
"My goodness, it's him!" cried the one named Sarla.
"And he brought his hair with him!" yelled the one named Looma.
Neal shrieked, "The instant I'm not wearing my turban, you show up!"
"Get him!" the girls cried together.
"Girls, halt!" snapped Keeah, shooting violet sparks from her fingertips. "Now!"
The two princesses froze.
"Don't hurt us," pleaded Looma.
"I won't," said Keeah. "But please don't bother Neal or his hair. We've come to Samarindo seeking a cure for our sick friend. We can't waste time running away from you."
The sisters looked at each other, at Neal's hair, and at Keeah's sparking fingers, then sighed.
"Fine," said Sarla, the one dressed in pink. "It hardly matters, anyway. Nothing's fun anymore. Not since... Tuesday."
"Tuesday?" said Pasha, counting on his fingers. "Tuesday is exactly when Isha flew from Jaffa City to find a cure. She found it here."
Looma, the one in the green gown, nodded. "It's also the day the Dream Crown was stolen and the city became strange and frightening."
"Galen told us about the crown," said Julie.
"It belongs to our father, Boola, duke of Samarindo," said Sarla. "The dreams from his Dream Crown are why people have come here for years. Father would dream of wonderful things, and they would happen! He's always used the crown for good."
"And for fun," added Looma. "Food appeared when we were hungry. Rain came to help flowers grow. On the first day of summer, my father dreamed up a beach right in the center of town. It was lovely."
"Only now it's a terrible place," said Looma. "Since that thing stole his crown."
"What thing?" said Keeah.
"Like a big wolf," said Sarla. "With wings."
The children looked at one another.
Julie's eyes widened. "You mean... a wingwolf ?"
"That's it!" both princesses said together.
Wingwolves were beasts from the ancient past. The kids had encountered them before, when the wingwolves were working for Ko. A wingwolf's scratch had given Julie the ability to fly and to change shape.
"Not to mention the flock of hideous fire dragons!" said Looma. "But they're all just working for someone else who's taken over our father's palace and his crown."
"Wingwolves and fire dragons and stolen crowns," said Neal. "Samarindo is in trouble."
Keeah paced back and forth, then stopped. "We'd like to help your father get his crown back and stop your city's bad dreams. But first we have to find a place called the Silver Dome. That's where the cure can be found."
"And I fear Isha, our guide, is getting confused by all the dreams," said Pasha.
"Well, here comes another one!" said Looma. "The palace is shaking again. Everyone hold on to something —"
"Not my hair!" said Neal, jumping away from the princesses.
As the friends huddled close together, the sun dimmed. The sky turned gray. The ash-paved square vanished into a downward-curving street with torches along the walls.
The giggle twins were nowhere in sight.
And neither was Isha!
"Isha?" said Pasha. "Where is Isha? Isha! Oh, dear, now we're really lost!"
"Lost? You're not lost," growled a deep voice. "Because I found you!"
The four friends looked up.
Crouched on a nearby rooftop was a tall, wolflike creature with purple-red fur. From his back arched a pair of dark wings.
Julie gasped. "A wingwolf!"
"Captain Talon, to be exact," said the wolf. "But you got it wrong, miss. Not a wingwolf, ten wingwolves! I say, boys, that's your cue."
There came a loud fluttering of wings, and the roof crowded with nearly a dozen wolfish beasts. They slashed the air with their claws.
"Guys," said Keeah, "we should run —"
But before the friends could move, Captain Talon shouted, "Attack!"
Eric Hinkle saw his own pale figure sit up and shout, "Samarindo!" then fall back again. But he was more interested in the magic mirror's vision of the city.
He watched the air ripple down one cobblestone street after another, reach right through the mirror, and wash over him.
"It tingles!" he said. "Cool!"
He felt an urge to touch the mirror. He did. His fingers slid right into the image as if into water. He felt another urge — to step into the mirror. He did that, too.
He slipped right into the mirror. Instantly, the royal bedchamber and the crowd of people around him disappeared. He stepped down and felt a cobblestone beneath his foot. All around him, the air jangled with the sound of bells and the babble of many voices.
"This is so unbelievably cool!" he said. "I'm in Samarindo! I love it!"
Then he saw a pie shop and felt hungry. But when he approached, he realized he couldn't see his reflection in the shop window.
"Weird window," he said, knocking on it. But his knock sounded more like a light tap. Eric looked at his fist and frowned.
"Hello?" said a voice from the shop. A creature with bumpy blue skin looked out the door with one big eye.
"Hello," said Eric. "I don't know how I came here, but I'm really hungry and —"
"No one!" said the blue creature. "If only that blond boy had bought a pie!"
Eric frowned. "But excuse me —"
The little creature disappeared into the shop and slammed the door behind it.
"Fine. Be that way," Eric grumbled. "I don't want your pie, anyway!"
Stepping down the street once more, Eric saw an odd, wing-shaped shadow move across the cobblestones ahead of him. But when he looked up, there was nothing there.
"Weird and a half," he said to himself. "But so is everything else here."
At first, he simply wandered down the streets of Samarindo, enjoying the strange and wondrous sights of the city. But soon he found that he was actually following the wing-shaped shadow. From street to street, from alley to bridge to square, he felt drawn by the shadow. No matter how quickly or slowly he walked, the shadow floated at the same pace.
At last he heard the sound of flowing water. "A river?" he said. He closed his eyes, and the image of a boat popped into his mind.
"Of course! The shadow's leading me to the water to find a boat. I need a boat!"
Eric walked faster until he turned down a street that dipped to a low wall.
The shadow slipped past the wall to the other side. Eric leaned over and saw a small wooden boat moored to the riverbank. Resting on its seat was a single oar.
"And there's my boat!" he exclaimed.
The shadow moved down the river.
"Wait for me!" said Eric. He climbed into the boat. It barely made a splash when he sat down. He tried to loosen the rope that held the boat to the bank, but he found he couldn't. In fact, Eric realized, he could barely see his hands.
"I have to follow the shadow! Come on!" he said, frustrated.
Finally, he managed to untie the rope. The boat began to drift down the river.
After several tries, Eric was able to slide the oar from the seat and lower it into the water. He managed to row once, then twice, and the boat glided more swiftly down the canal.
Rounding a bend in the river, Eric heard a tweeting noise. He saw a green bird fly overhead. It sped away.
Turning around another bend, Eric spied some winged creatures with wolf heads chasing a bunch of children and a little man with a long striped cap.
Eric didn't stop rowing. "I can't get involved. I don't even know them."
Strangely, as soon as he left the children behind, he found that every stroke of the oar became easier, and the boat glided along swiftly.
As he drifted around a third bend in the river, he saw what looked like the face of a boy his age floating in midair.
When the boy saw Eric, his eyes bugged out, his mouth opened, and he screamed at the top of his lungs. "A ghost!"
"Same to you," murmured Eric.
And he rowed on.
* * *
Blam! Blam!
Keeah blasted violet sparks as she, Julie, Neal, and Pasha tried desperately to escape Captain Talon and his band of flying creatures. But the wingwolves dodged her sparks and took up the chase, driving them deep into the streets.
The friends raced down long alleys and shot around corner after corner until they spied a ramshackle old pilka stable.
They dived inside and hid.
For minutes, they listened, unmoving.
"Maybe they didn't see us," whispered Pasha. "Perhaps they flew on."
"They're out there," said Neal. "They'll pick us off the second we try to leave."
"I don't get what wingwolves are doing here in the first place," said Julie. "They're ancient beings with ties to Ko and Gethwing. But Ko fell down a bottomless pit, and Gethwing's still trapped in the Underworld."
"These are not standard wingwolves," said Pasha. "I knew there was something strange about Captain Talon's way of talking. Their purple-red fur convinced me. They're eastern wingwolves! Eastern!"
Everyone stared at Pasha.
"And..." said Keeah.
"And," said Pasha, "eastern wingwolves are frightened of water, never go near it! We saw a river in Galen's mirror. If dreams haven't changed it yet, we can escape to the river and continue our search for the Silver Dome."
"Okay," said Julie. "But we don't want to wander the streets if the wingwolves are still out there."
The carpet weaver smiled. "Perhaps one of us could hide under my invisible carpet, find the river, and return to help us escape."
The friends looked at one another.
"If we don't hurry," said Keeah, "a new dream may throw us out in the open even farther from the river. I'll go."
"No," said Neal. "I'll go. You check the mirror and see if anything's happened since we left Jaffa City. I'll be back soon."
He threw the carpet over his shoulders and tugged on the fringes. Blink!
The rug — with Neal under it — vanished.
"I like you better this way," said Julie.
"Really?" said Neal.
"I'm kidding!" she said. "Hurry before another dream changes everything."
Creeping outside, Neal saw Captain Talon ordering his wolves all around the stable. They didn't see him. Sniffing deeply, he sensed the river close by.
"And I go!" he said to himself. He scrambled invisibly, street after street, until he saw water glinting in the torchlight.
"And I find it!" he said.
As he paused to catch his breath, he saw something drift upriver into view.
It was a small, empty boat.
"Hey, I wonder if we can use that," he said. Lowering the carpet from his face, he peered closely at the boat.
And his eyes bugged out.
The boat was clearly empty, but Neal saw its oar splash in and out of the water as if it were being rowed by... by...
"A ghost!" he screamed.
* * *
The floating face screamed at Eric as he passed, but he didn't stop.
"I have to follow the shadow," he said to himself, "even if I don't know where it's leading me."
With each stroke he seemed to gather strength. He kept the shadow always in sight.
At last, the shadow moved up the bank to a large stone building.
The building was the colorful one he had seen before, but now it was the color of slate.
Eric was soon at the bank and out of the boat. Back on foot, he followed the shadow to a set of giant doors.
Eric set his hands on two giant doorknobs, but the knobs did not move. He tried again until air rippled out of the building over him, and the knobs began to turn.
"Holy cow!" a voice shouted behind him. "Eric? Eric Hinkle? Hey, Eric —"
"Oh, no," Eric muttered. "That floating head again." He didn't bother turning around.
"Eric, is that you?" said the voice, growing closer. "You look like a ghost! How did you get here all the way from Jaffa City? Did Galen bring you? Turn around. It's Neal —"
"Neal, schmeal!" Eric said, turning on his heel to face the boy he had seen earlier. "This'll teach you to talk to strangers!"
His hand went up, and silver sparks sprayed the cobblestones at the boy's feet.
"Whoaaaa!" the boy yelled, tumbling head over heels away from the palace.
Eric gripped the knobs once more and turned them as hard as he could. Click. Pushing with all his might, he swung the doors open wide.
Torches on both sides of the entrance flickered onto a narrow hallway. The doors shut behind him with a resounding boom.
"Enter..."
The word was no more than a hoarse whisper, but Eric heard it.
And he obeyed.
Thrown back by the sudden blast, Neal rolled away from the palace.
By the time he stopped, the boy he thought was Eric was gone.
"Was that really him?" Neal asked himself. "No way. That wasn't Eric. Eric would never blast me. It couldn't be him."
The sudden howling of wingwolves reminded Neal to hurry back to his friends. He dusted himself off, felt around, and found the carpet. Covering himself completely, he made his way to the stable and entered right under the noses of Captain Talon and his crew.
Inside Neal found his friends gathered around the magic mirror. "Guys," he said, "you totally won't believe who I saw —"
"Hush," Pasha whispered. "The magic mirror. It's not good. Eric..."
The mirror showed Galen, Max, and Relna in the royal bedchamber. On the bed beside them lay Eric, his face now no more than a ghostly shadow on the pillow.
"Every moment that passes, Eric grows more pale, less here," Galen said into the mirror. "The ice dagger's curse is drawing him away bit by bit, taking him somewhere —"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you!" said Neal. "Eric is here!"
Keeah turned. "You saw Eric? Here?"
"At first he was so pale I almost didn't see him," said Neal. "When I did see him, he didn't know me. Then a dream came out of the palace, and Eric became more real, and he blasted my feet!"
"My worst fear," said Galen from the mirror. "The curse has released Eric's dark side. As he fades away from here, he reappears in Samarindo —"
"Hold on!" said Pasha. "Another dream!"
But as the children braced themselves amid the quivering walls of the stable, they were stunned to see what happened on the other side of the mirror.
As if the dream rippling through Samarindo traveled halfway across the world, the royal bedchamber wobbled and twisted for an instant, leaving Eric paler than ever.
"That's it!" said Keeah. "Whoever stole the Dream Crown is bringing Eric here —"
"The more the merrier!" said a voice.
At that moment, the stable vanished completely, and the kids found themselves standing in a courtyard of gray stone. There before them was Captain Talon with his band of growling wingwolves.
"Your hiding place is now our finding place," he said. "Shall we get 'em, boys?"
"Get 'em!" the wolves agreed.
With fierce swiftness, the wingwolves swooped down at the friends.
"Oh, no, you don't!" shouted Keeah.
Blam! Blam! She blasted the air with sparks, and the wingwolves scattered.
"The river's that way!" said Neal, tossing the carpet up into the air. "Everyone underneath, now!"
The friends huddled together and disappeared from sight as the carpet fell over them.
"Where'd they go?" snarled Talon. "Old Red Eyes will be mad if we lose 'em! Spread out, boys!"
As the wolves flew around, frantically looking for them, the four friends made their way quietly from street to street.
"Did you hear Captain Talon?" asked Pasha. "Old Red Eyes? He's the one in the palace!"
Keeah peered up at the gigantic palace. The last dream had sapped its color entirely. It loomed over them, big and black. A long, curved tower had appeared on its summit.
"As soon as we find the cure," said Keeah, "we're going in there after Eric. That's got to be the only way to free him."
The four friends hugged the riverbank and soon found themselves in a warren of dark streets, winding alleys, and dead ends.
"You know, Samarindo gets spookier with every dream," said Julie.
"No kidding," said Neal. "Okay, if I were a Silver Dome, where would I be?"
"If only Isha were here to tell us which way to go," said Pasha. "Isha? Come back —"
Tweeeeeet!
The friends turned, and there was the green bird, perched on the handle of a little wooden cart that stood in the center of the narrow street.
"Isha! You darling bird!" cried Julie.
Sitting atop the cart next to Isha was a silver bowl upon whose sides were etched strange signs and characters.
Keeah picked up the bowl, turning it to try to read the characters. "I don't know the language. Eric might — oww!"
The bowl's sharp edges scratched Keeah's finger, and she dropped the bowl.
It landed upside down.
The children gasped — for upside down, the silver bowl looked like something else.
"The Silver Dome!" said Neal.
"Customers!" said a gray-haired old woman in a drab red cloak, appearing suddenly behind the cart.
Keeah jumped. "Yes. We were told —"
"Can I interest you in a shirtless collar?" asked the woman. "How about a pair of short-sleeved boots? Perhaps an invisible jacket is what you're after?"
She pinched her fingers together and lifted what looked like nothing.
"How do you know when you're wearing an invisible jacket?" asked Julie.
"When you don't see it on you!" said the old woman. "It is a priceless treasure. But for you, a mere eight kopecks!"
"Please," Keeah began. "We're here because a friend of ours is very ill. We were told —"
"To find a cure?" the woman said suddenly, folding the unseen jacket carefully and replacing it on the cart. "Let me see, a boy was struck by an ice dagger and now you want to prevent him from fading away?"
The children were dumbfounded.
"How did you know that?" asked Julie.
"I have ears all around the world!" the woman said with a cackle. "But listen! This curse is ancient and dark. The boy will soon fade from the light and reappear in darkness. He will be drawn away from the good in him until only evil remains. Once that happens, he will be lost."
"Not Eric," said Pasha.
"What about the cure? There must be some hope," said Julie.
"Only one hope," said the woman. "Only one."
"What is it?" asked Keeah.
"Our true selves appear in dreams," the old woman said. "To save the boy, you must enter his dream before he is lost completely."
"How do we enter his dream?" asked Neal.
The old woman cackled again. "Like you enter anything else. First, you must come properly dressed. Second, you must pay the price of admission."
Keeah frowned. "What does that mean?"
The old woman tapped the upside-down bowl. "We'll start simple. You discovered that the opposite of a silver bowl is a silver dome. What's the opposite of a silver dome?"
"A silver bowl?" said Julie.
Keeah turned the dome over. Clinging to the inside was a silver necklace the color of moonlight. From it hung a single ruby in the shape of a drop of blood.
Keeah looked at her finger. The scratch was as red as the ruby. "That necklace wasn't there before. How did you —"
"Wear it when you see your friend again, Keeah," the woman said.
The princess blinked. "You know my name?"
"Oops, I've said too much!" the woman said. "Wear that to enter Eric's dream!"
"You know Eric's name, too?" said Neal.
"Oh, boy. I'm out of here!" said the woman, and she vanished from sight.
Julie gasped. "Keeah, look! Your neck!"
The ruby necklace was no longer in the bowl. Instead, it was dangling from Keeah's neck.
Pasha studied the necklace. "So if you are now properly dressed, all that remains to enter Eric's dream is to pay the price of admission, whatever that means. I suggest that if he is in the palace, that's where we must go —"
Oooo-ooo! A terrifying howl echoed in the air. Looking up, the children saw a dozen golden wings circling the palace.
"Fire dragons!" said Pasha. "Hide!"
But before the friends could escape, hands thrust out of the shadows and grabbed them.
The instant the palace doors slammed behind Eric, torches flared on either side of a narrow passage hewn out of gray stone.
Eric smelled smoke, but it wasn't coming from the torches. It was drifting down the passage from the dusky distance.
Acting on instinct, he followed the smell down the passage, through twists and turns, until he came to a large stone room. The room was nearly empty except for a wood fire roaring in a pit hollowed out of the floor.
Eric watched the smoke drift up from the pit and take the shape of... of... what?
The shape of a wing.
Just like the shadow on the ground.
As Eric watched, one, two, three, four wings appeared. Then a massive, horned head, a body, and steely claws.
On its head was a crown of brilliant gold, sparkling with emeralds.
Soon the smoke grew into the monstrous shape of a dragon with frightening red eyes.
"So," the dragon said. "You came."
"I guess so," said Eric. "Where am I?"
"Perhaps you are home," said the dragon.
Eric wasn't sure about that. He tried to think back, but he couldn't actually remember his home, so he said nothing.
"Does your wound hurt?" asked the dragon.
Eric touched his shoulder. "Not so much."
The dragon smiled. "I didn't think so. It put you into a dream state, very like death. That is how we are able to meet here. How much do you remember of being wounded, Eric?"
"My memory's not so good," said Eric. "Is that my name? Eric?"
A snort like an icy breeze came from the smoky dragon. "Not for long. But you remember me, don't you, Eric? We're old friends."
Eric peered closely at the smoky image. It was strange, but somehow he did remember the creature. He had seen the four big wings before, and the glittering eyes.
The dragon had an odd name.
It came to him.
"Gethwing?" he said.
"Very good," said the dragon, growing more substantial. He flexed his wings.
"But aren't you in the Underworld?" Eric asked, wondering how he knew that.
The dragon twisted his mouth in a way that Eric knew was supposed to be a smile. "Even from the Underworld, I was able to call in some favors. The wingwolves stole this crown for me. The fire dragons came to protect me. Since Emperor Ko is gone, I was able to use the crown to take over his curse. Samarindo is an amazing place. It makes dreams come true. And speaking of dreams coming true, you remember the prophecy, don't you?"
Eric thought and thought. His mind felt as smoky as the room. It was a fog of shapes and words he couldn't quite make out.
"The ice dagger?" said Gethwing.
Eric's heart skipped. He touched his shoulder. "That's right. An ice dagger struck me."
"Because of the prophecy," said the dragon.
That didn't sound right. "No," said Eric. "It was an accident. I tried to save... someone."
With each word that Eric spoke, the dragon grew more whole, more real, less ghostly.
"Whether or not you were the target, you were struck, and here you are," said Gethwing. "In a way, you did fulfill the prophecy. You are special, you know. You are powerful. One of the most powerful of all the wizards."
"No," said Eric. "How am I special?"
The dragon stared at him. "Zara."
"Ahh..." Eric winced. A pain went through his wound, sending shivers through his shoulders, his chest, his heart.
"The mother of wizards is called... Zara," said the dragon.
Again Eric's heart ached. "Stop!"
"I did that just to show you. You are special in a way few others are," said Gethwing. "I know that because I think that the prophecy is... well... never mind. All in due time."
"But wait," said Eric. "Tell me everything. I really can't remember too much. My brain feels... empty."
"Empty?" said Gethwing. "Good. Let's fill it up!" The smoky moon dragon fluttered his wings and grew larger still, rising to the ceiling. When he did, smoke drifted from the fire into other shapes.
"What's happening?" Eric asked.
Gethwing's terrible jaws twisted into a smile again. "Look, and tell me who you see."
Eric saw faces in the smoke. The girl wearing the blue tunic and the gold crown. The floating head that had called to him. A tall man with a beard. An odd spider with a mass of unruly orange hair. A purple, pillow-shaped creature.
The more Eric studied the faces, the less he seemed to know them.
"Who are these people?" asked Eric.
"What did you say?" Gethwing asked.
"Who are these people?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"WHO ARE THEY?" shouted Eric.
The moon dragon flapped his wings, and the smoky faces vanished. "No one," he said. "Not anymore. And the dagger's curse has done its work. Now look at... this!"
With a wave of the dragon's claw, the smoke formed a vast battalion of ships crossing a rough sea. Overhead flew a force of thousands of fire dragons, black-winged serpents, and scaly airborne lizards.
"Is this a dream?" asked Eric.
"One that can come true," said the dragon. "If you join me... Prince Ungast!"
"Prince Ungast?" said Eric. "Who's he?"
"He's... you!" said Gethwing.
Prince Ungast. The name sounded strange and odd. But in a way it also sounded right to Eric. Ungast. It sounded natural. Ungast. His name.
"I like it," said Eric. "When do I get all those ships and serpents and stuff ?"
"First, you have to dress the part," said Gethwing. "How would you like a cloak? And some high boots? A pair of jeweled gloves?"
The dragon whispered, and two wingwolves entered the chamber. They carried a black cloak studded with silver moons, and boots and gloves to match.
Eric pulled the heavy cloak over his shoulders. He felt as if his wound would smart under the weight of the cloak, but there was no pain. He donned the gloves, stepped one by one into the black boots, and stood tall.
Suddenly, his fingertips tingled.
Eric remembered sprinkling silvery sparks at someone recently, but the sparks flying from him now were jet black. As they struck the floor, they jangled like raucous bells.
"Try them," said the dragon.
Eric aimed his hands and blasted great holes into the walls, showering the two wingwolves with dust. They ran squealing from the room.
Eric laughed. "The sparks are cool. But... I don't think I need these anymore." He took off his glasses and dropped them to the floor.
"That's better," he said. "I see perfectly."
"It's a deal, then," said Gethwing, becoming more solid by the moment. "Agreed?"
Eric felt his gloved hand move through the smoky air to Gethwing. The dragon raised the gnarled claw of his left hand.
Eric touched the moon dragon's claw.
The moment he did, the smoke hardened into Gethwing's monstrous shape, and the dragon became whole. With a swift flash of his wings, Gethwing extinguished the fire, the smoke vanished, and the moon dragon was completely present in the room. He was his old self again — evil, powerful, and cunning.
"You see, Prince Ungast," he said, "you really are powerful. With just a touch of your hand, you've helped me return to my world. Now let's see about getting you the things you want."
Gethwing strode toward a dark doorway at the rear of the chamber. "This world of Droon — and the world above it — will soon belong to us. But first I have a mission for you. Some troublemakers have entered our city. I want you to eliminate them."
"Can I use my sparks?" Eric said with a frosty smile. "My fingertips are itchy."
"Make them sizzle, Prince Ungast!" said the dragon. "And to help, meet... Gondra!"
The hands that shot out from the shadows dragged Neal to the ground. By his hair.
"Hey!" he screamed.
"Sarla! Looma! Leave that boy alone — and hush!" squeaked a little man in yellow robes. "Those fire dragons will hear you!"
"Yes, Father," replied the giggle twins.
They all scrambled deeper into the shadows as a host of golden dragons swept overhead.
"Forgive my daughters," whispered the little man. "They're not used to such hair in Samarindo. I am Boola. Until last Tuesday I was the duke of Samarindo."
"You're still Daddy to us," said Looma.
"Thank you, dear," said the duke.
The friends watched as the dragons circled over the streets one more time, then again, and finally flew on together.
"I don't like them," said Pasha.
"You haven't seen the largest," said Sarla. "He's known by the silly name of Gondra."
"Why is that silly?" asked Neal.
"G-o-n-d-r-a," said Looma, "are the same letters as d-r-a-g-o-n mixed up!"
"Tell us what happened," said Keeah. "We believe whoever stole your crown is behind what's happening to our friend."
"I only use my powerful Dream Crown on special occasions," Boola said. "Tuesday, a snotty wingwolf broke into the treasury and stole it. Now Samarindo's reputation as the official City of Dreams is kaput!"
Keeah peered out at the dark palace, where a second and third curved tower had appeared. The palace was starting to look like a dragon's head.
And all at once, she knew.
"Old Red Eyes?" she said. "Of course! I should have guessed! Gethwing! He can't resist dragon-shaped palaces."
"But he's supposed to be lost in the Underworld," said Neal.
"He must have gotten the wingwolves to help him steal the crown," Keeah said. "It helped him make his way back here."
Boola went pale. "Gethwing? Everyone knows him. He's ruthless! Oh, my poor City of Dreams has become a nightmare!"
"Our best friend is caught right in the middle of this nightmare. We need to save him," said Neal. "What can we do?"
Boola stroked his chin. "The truest way to find your way in a dream — even a bad one — is to be swept away by it. I can get us into the palace. From there —"
"We'll do the rest," said Keeah.
The duke nodded. "Then follow me!"
The friends hoisted the carpet over their heads, making them invisible once more. Quickly, they began to march through the streets.
Sarla and Looma held on to Neal's arms. "So we can keep an eye on you," Looma said.
"And off my hair!" said Neal.
Holding the weaver's carpet high, the four friends and three Samarindians wove through the streets. Though dreams came and went, Boola's steps did not hesitate.
"Look at this," said the duke with a snort. "Hazards everywhere. Rickety bridges, streets circling upon themselves and going nowhere, sudden canals, deep ponds. I don't care for Gethwing's dreams at all. Not at all."
When they reached the palace at last, it loomed larger than ever, a monstrous hulk of black stone in the shape of a dragon's head.
"Our poor home!" said Sarla.
Just as the little band set foot on the path leading to the gates, a cry echoed through the streets.
"Oh, no! Look!" cried Pasha.
Shapes moved overhead. Shapes of many wings flapping in unison. The sky filled with row upon row of golden dragons flying in formation over the city.
"The fire dragons are back!" said Neal.
"Gethwing's terrible dream is becoming more real by the second!" said Keeah. "We have to stop this —"
"Wait!" said Sarla. "Look there. The dragons brought their terrible leader!"
"Gondra!" cried Looma.
The children watched, dumbfounded, as the largest dragon they had ever seen moved slowly over the city.
Its great head turned this way and that, searching the dark streets below.
All at once, the children spied a tiny figure riding on Gondra's back.
He had a black cloak and black boots and scowled when he saw the children.
"Who is that?" said Keeah.
Pasha gasped. "Oh, no, no, no..."
For when Gondra banked low, the children saw the rider's face.
It was familiar to them.
"I think we just found Eric," said Neal.
The rider's eyes stared coldly at the children, as if he didn't know them.
Julie felt her heart skip a beat. "But what happened to him? He's not wearing glasses... his eyes... he's... different!"
"The Dream Crown!" said Boola. "Gethwing must have used it to capture your friend's mind!"
The dragon rider snarled at the children, then raised his black gloved hand. "Gondra, attack those troublemakers!"
Oooo-ooo! howled Gondra.
And the fire dragons coiled together in a single mass and dived at the little band.
Prince Ungast pulled Gondra's reins, and the fire dragon dived swiftly.
Blam! Blam! Black sparks streamed from the dark prince's gloved fingers and strafed the street below.
The friends scurried to safety under a low stone bridge. Keeah's fingers sparked.
"Do we really have to fight our friend?" asked Julie, gasping for breath.
The princess shook her head. "No. We have to fight for our friend. If Gethwing has used Ko's curse and the Dream Crown to draw the evil side of Eric out, we have to help his good side battle it."
"But how?" asked Neal.
Keeah didn't know exactly how. But she couldn't forget the cure hanging around her neck. Nor could she forget the old woman's words about entering Eric's dream.
Pay the price of admission.
Pay the price.
She fired a blast into the sky, careful to aim at Gondra's tail and not near Eric.
Wha-boom-boom! The fire dragon squealed and coiled away. As one, the flock of orange-scaled dragons shrieked and swept back into the sky after it.
"Ooooh, nice!" yelled Looma.
"That was good!" cried Sarla.
"We should split up," Keeah told Boola and his daughters. "If Gethwing is in the palace, you may still have a chance to steal back the crown. We'll give you cover while you run to the palace."
"We'll meet you inside later," said Neal.
"Really? When?" said Sarla, her fingers reaching for Neal's hair.
"Just... later!" said Neal, pulling away.
Boola nodded. "We'll do it. My head itches for that crown to sit back where it belongs. While you battle the dragons, I'll find a way to get my crown back. Girls?"
"We're with you, Daddy!" said Looma.
As the yellow-robed duke and his daughters zigzagged to the palace gates, Keeah blasted at the sky to confuse the dragons and give cover to her new friends.
Blam! Blam! The sky lit up with blasts.
"Eric!" called Julie as the dragon swooped low. "Don't you know us?"
"Who is Eric?" snarled the boy on Gondra's back. "I am Prince Ungast!" He raised his hands and hurled a blast of black fire at his friends.
Ka-blam!
"Eric!" called Neal. "This is only Gethwing's dream, his horrible dream —"
"A dream in which I'm the star!" said Ungast coldly. "How do you like my role so far? Now give up or pay the price!"
He sent stinging blasts of sparks at the street. Boom! Boom!
"Pay the price?" said Keeah. As she looked into Eric's stony face, she suddenly understood what the old woman meant.
"To enter Eric's dream, I have to pay the price!" she cried. "The ultimate price! The only way is to battle him. To be wounded —"
"Are you kidding?" said Julie. "You're going to fight him? For real?"
"What if he hurts you?" asked Neal.
Keeah touched the ruby necklace. "I think that's the point. I have to be wounded as he was —"
"No!" cried Julie. "You can't!"
"Keeah!" said Pasha. "Please don't!"
"Pasha, I need the carpet," said Keeah calmly. "It's the only way. I'll bring Eric back to us, or... or..."
She didn't dare say what she was thinking. But she didn't have to. Reluctantly, Pasha slipped the carpet from his pocket and gave it to her.
Keeah laid it flat on the ground, sat on it, and gave the front fringes a tug. Whooosh! She swept far up into the evening sky and straight for Eric and the giant fire dragon.
As she banked high over the palace, she gazed at the desert outside the city. Ranged on the dunes were hundreds of war tents, each one lit by a flaming torch.
"Gethwing's nightmare!" Keeah said to herself. More determined than ever, she turned sharply and flew at Gondra's rider.
"Face me, will you?" Ungast yelled, his face twisted in anger. He dug his heels into the dragon's sides. "Then prepare to fall!" His fingertips exploded with black sparks.
Keeah's carpet reeled from the blasts. She yanked it to the left and swooped high over the fire dragon.
But the beast was as nimble as a sparrow. Ungast tugged the reins and it corkscrewed in the air, circling around behind the princess.
Keeah knew that the time had come. She was afraid, but she had put it off long enough, and now there was no escape.
Closing her eyes to speak a loving word to her faraway parents, she set her carpet on a collision course with Gondra.
"This — is — it!" Ungast aimed a huge blast of black sparks at the princess.
Wha-blammm! The blast struck Keeah's necklace like an arrow hitting its target.
Keeah screamed. As she fell, she knew it was the most powerful blow she'd ever received. She hurtled head over heels from the carpet.
"Oh, dear, no!" cried Pasha, clutching Julie and shutting his eyes, unable to look.
Pressing her miniature magic mirror to herself, Keeah fell, fell, fell to the city below.
Julie and Neal raced to try to catch Keeah before she struck the ground. But as they drew close, they saw her fade before their eyes until she vanished into her own magic mirror.
Her friends were dumbstruck.
"She's gone into Eric's dream!" cried Pasha, his lips trembling. "Poor Keeah!"
Gondra coiled straight up into the sky, while Prince Ungast howled at the top of his lungs, "Yahooooo!"
Keeah fell for a long time — or maybe it was a short time. She couldn't tell. But when she opened her eyes, she was in the royal bedchamber in Jaffa City. It was evening. Candles flickered on tables beside the bed.
The little mirror was still in her hand.
The room was nearly empty. Queen Relna sat alone at Eric's bedside. Lord Sparr sat in the shadowy corner, as before. Galen and Max were likely in the wizard's tower and her father, the king, on his way to faraway Mikos.
"Mother?" Keeah said. "Mother —"
But the queen remained huddled over the bed as if she hadn't heard her daughter.
"Sparr?" Keeah said, turning to the corner.
No answer from the sorcerer.
"They don't hear me or see me," she said to herself. "So... it worked. The necklace has brought me... into the dreamworld."
All at once, her mother cried aloud, stood, and turned away from the bedside.
Keeah looked down and gasped. "No!"
The blankets lay flat. The pillow showed the indentation of a head, but no head was there. Eric had faded completely.
"No!" Keeah sobbed. "Eric! No!"
"Why is everyone crying?" said a voice from the corner of the room.
Keeah turned. "Who's there?"
Someone stepped from the dusky shadows, a figure more of mist than of flesh and blood.
"Can you see me?" he asked.
Keeah gasped. "Eric? Eric! It's you!" She tried to wrap her arms around him, but couldn't. Her hands went through him easily. She shuddered and tried not to show her fear. "I can't believe it's you!"
"I've been trying to talk to your mom," he said, practically crying, "but she doesn't hear me. I feel as if I died or something —"
"No," she said, trembling.
"Well, I look on the bed and I'm not there," said Eric, "and I'm barely even here. I feel like a ghost. What's happening to me?"
For a moment, Keeah wondered what to say, then decided that she simply had to tell him, and quickly.
"The curse of the ice dagger put you into a deep sleep," she explained. "Then Gethwing... Gethwing used the power of dreams to draw you halfway across the world. I've seen you there."
"You've seen me?" he asked. "Where?"
"The dream city of Samarindo," she said.
Eric nodded when he heard the name. "Samarindo. I remember. So I'm still alive?"
"There's some not-so-good news," Keeah said. "Gethwing has unlocked your evil side. Eric, you're bad."
Eric looked surprised. "I have an evil side?"
"You call yourself Prince Ungast," she said.
"Ungast? That's so creepy," said Eric. "It's like what happened to you. Your evil twin called herself Neffu. All wizards go through a trial like this, don't they?"
Keeah nodded. "I remember Neffu every day of my life."
"He won't win, will he?" asked Eric. "Ungast won't win against me, will he?"
Looking at Eric's ghostly form, Keeah was unsure how to answer. "I hope not. He wears a heavy black cloak. His face is hard. And your silver sparks? Well, they're black now. And believe me, they hurt."
Eric's eyes widened. "Did I blast... you?"
Keeah touched the ruby stone on her necklace and recalled the fierce blow. "A little. But if you hadn't wounded me, I wouldn't be here now. Look, along with everything else, time is against us. We need to get you to Samarindo now, or... well, we just need to go."
Eric understood. "How do we get there?"
"The same way your other self did," she said. "Through the magic mirror. Ready?"
"I'm ready," said Eric.
Keeah stepped toward Galen's magic mirror, then turned to the silent figure on the stool. "Lord Sparr, you said you wouldn't abandon Eric. I wish you could come with us now." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for Isha —"
Under the pressure of her fingers, however, the sorcerer's tattered cloak collapsed to the floor.
There was nothing underneath!
"Wait, Sparr is a ghost, too?" asked Eric.
Keeah gasped. "But —"
She suddenly knew why the old woman in Samarindo had known her name. And Eric's.
"Sparr didn't abandon you!" Keeah cried. "He never abandoned you. He's been in Samarindo the whole time, and I know exactly where to find him! Let's go!"
The two friends jumped through the mirror. An instant later, they were back on the streets of the dream city.
But even in that short time, things had changed. Spreading out for miles beyond the dragon palace were more war tents than ever. They extended as far as the eye could see. Next to the tents were thousands of wingwolves and fire dragons, all standing at attention.
"Gethwing's dream army!" Keeah said. "Ungast will lead them against Droon."
"I will? I mean, he will?" said Eric.
"Not if we win this battle first," said Keeah. "We need to battle Ungast, and we need some help, the best help there is. Hurry. Look for a strange little cart!"
They rushed through the streets as quickly as they could until, all at once — tweeeeeet!
A little green bird swept over their heads.
"Isha!" gasped Keeah. "Lead us!"
The little bird led the two friends in and out of alleys and right under a wooden bridge to where the little cart stood alone.
"Sparr!" Keeah called out as they approached. "Sparr. I know it's you!"
A face popped up from behind the cart. This time, it was Sparr's familiar face. He was dressed in the old woman's drab red cloak. He leaned on his rusty saber. He was old and blind. But he was smiling.
"So it was you!" said Keeah.
"Look who the clever one is," said Sparr.
"You said you'd never abandon Eric," said Keeah. "And you're a sorcerer of your word."
"I am old and blind, and yet I sensed Gethwing trying to return from the Underworld," said Sparr. "I knew he might take advantage of Eric's curse to make his own dreams come true. Pretending to take up the vigil in the royal bedchamber, I actually came here and concocted a magic cure. Keeah, you played your part well."
"Thank you," she said.
"And thanks for helping me," Eric said.
Sparr's face turned grim. "Don't thank me yet. You must defeat Prince Ungast — or be defeated by him. There is no room for both of you. Thanks to Gethwing, the curse, and the Dream Crown, Ungast is already far more powerful than you!"
Eric looked at his ghostly hands. "So how can I fight him? I'm barely here."
"That may work to your advantage," said Sparr. "I am old, but I still know a thing or two about battling enemies. I'll show you moves you can use. Watch and learn!"
The sorcerer handed Eric his rusty saber. "It won't take long for Ungast to sense you are here," he said. "We must hurry. Keeah, tell me when the moon is at its height."
"I will," she said.
"Then — on guard!" said Sparr.
For the next hour, the old sorcerer taught Eric one move after another.
"Wake up! Look there!" he shouted, spinning on his heels. "Sense the position of your enemies. They give off an aura of evil. Imagine someone behind you. Be quick about it, that person is you! Let Ungast tire himself fighting a ghost. But remember, with every success, you become more visible and more vulnerable. Use the boy's cloak against him. Trip him up. Make him so angry, he makes a mistake. Use that mistake to defeat him!"
Clack! Clonk! Using his hands, Sparr parried Eric's blows. The more he instructed Eric, the more tired the boy became. Eric turned more visible, then less visible. He jabbed quickly, but recovered slowly.
"Again!" Sparr coaxed. "You are fighting for your life! Fake left! Spin! Duck! You know Ungast's moves. They are your own!"
"The moon is up," Keeah said finally.
"And so is our time," said the sorcerer, breathing hard. "Eric, ready or not, the hour has arrived. Magic is over now. Help is over now. Keep the saber. The rest is up to you."
Sparr laid his hands upon Keeah and Eric. They bowed their heads in thanks. A moment later, the red cloak collapsed. It was empty.
Looking into her mirror, Keeah saw the figure in the corner begin to rock again.
"He did as much as he could," she said.
Holding Sparr's saber, which grew heavier by the moment, Eric nodded. "It's up to me."
"Hey, Eric! Is that you?" called a familiar voice. "Is that really the good you?"
It was Neal. He was rushing down the street to his friend. "It is you! Yay, Eric!"
Julie and Pasha were right behind him.
Eric smiled to see his friends. But his time had already run out.
There came a great flapping of wings, but it was not Gondra the fire dragon this time.
It was Gethwing himself.
His four massive wings thundered in a storm of dust as he dropped from the sky.
Riding on his back was Prince Ungast.
"What a surprise!" said Ungast, jumping to the ground and adjusting his collar. "Is it my birthday or something?"
"The opposite maybe," Eric said.
"And he's funny, too," Ungast snarled.
"You won't be laughing long," said Neal.
The moon dragon stretched his wings to the sky. "Perhaps not," said Gethwing, "but I will be. Wingwolves?"
"Let her go, boys!" called Captain Talon.
A heavy net of chains dropped right over Keeah, Neal, Julie, and Pasha. It flattened them to the ground and trapped them helplessly beneath it.
"My idea of a good time!" said Gethwing.
Ungast sneered as he slowly circled around Eric. "Why, there's barely any of you left to fight. I won't even break a sweat!"
Eric felt sure he would fail. He bit his lip to keep from fainting. "Don't be so sure," he said. "I know what to do with this blade. A friend gave it to me. Oh, sorry. Did I say 'friend'? Friends are something you don't know anything about —"
Ungast's smile dropped from his face. "I don't care about your saber or your friends. Let's see what you're made of. Not much, I bet!" He tossed his cloak back and thrust his hand high.
Voooomp! A sword of shimmering black steel rose from his jeweled glove.
"Blade to blade, little boy, let's see who's got the stuff!"
Flang! Clomp! Bam!
As everyone watched, mesmerized, Eric managed to duck and dodge the first of Ungast's thrusts. He spun around on his heels as Sparr had taught him. He chopped and hacked with all his strength.
But it was clear he couldn't keep it up. Ungast was far stronger and faster.
Finally, Ungast leveled a blow against Eric's saber, knocking the blade out of his hand. Eric fell to the ground.
"Oops!" said Ungast. "Did I win so soon?"
Gethwing grinned. "Finish him —"
"No!" cried Keeah, twisting herself around and burning through the iron chains with two concentrated blasts. Blam! Blam! She freed the others in a flash.
"Neal, give the wolves a bath!" said Pasha.
Neal laughed. "Great idea!"
"What? No. No!" cried Captain Talon. "We hate water —"
Unwrapping his turban, Neal whipped the cloth through the air. It became a wave of water that doused and scattered Captain Talon and his shrieking wingwolves.
"Eric, the carpet, quickly!" shouted Pasha. Even as the air flamed with sparks, Pasha flung the carpet across the ground, and Eric clambered onto it.
"No fair!" shouted Ungast. "Gethie!"
In a single move, the dark prince leaped onto the dragon's back and aimed blast after blast at Eric. Blam! Blam!
Eric dipped and swooped, trying to escape. The carpet was fast, but not as fast as Gethwing. The dragon followed close enough for Ungast to score a flaming hit.
Blam! Eric felt the sting of sparks on his wounded shoulder. He paled even more.
"Ungast gains power with every blast," cried Julie. "We need to help Eric!"
"I'm on it!" said Keeah. She conjured up fireballs and hurled them at Gethwing. The dragon howled in surprise.
Eric turned the carpet abruptly around and flew it straight at Gethwing. Whump! He rammed him right between the wings.
In anger, Gethwing thrust out his claws and caught Eric's carpet with a talon. The carpet ripped. Eric clutched the air and caught the hem of Ungast's cloak. The two enemies screamed and dropped twenty feet onto the streets below.
Dazed, Ungast struggled to his feet. He looked for Eric and saw him pulling himself up from the ground. He raised his gleaming sword. "Now — to end it!"
Then came a shriek from above. As Gethwing circled behind the black palace, one of Keeah's fireballs sizzled at him.
"Enough of you!" the princess shouted.
The moon dragon batted the fireball away with his giant tail. But the tip of his tail struck the tallest horn of the palace with a fierce impact, and Gethwing faltered.
Ungast raged against Eric. "Enough of you!"
Eric remembered what Sparr had taught him and faked left, then twirled to his right, sticking his foot out. Ungast slid past him and tumbled flat on his face.
Ungast groaned and went still.
Eric fell to his knees. "I win! I win —"
WHOOOOM!
The impact of Gethwing's tail sent black stones flying everywhere, knocking the Dream Crown from his forehead and tangling his wings. He crashed into the tower, and the entire palace began to crumble.
Julie screamed. "Eric — watch out!"
Exhausted, Eric pushed his glasses up his nose and saw Duke Boola and his daughters escaping the palace. He tried to get to his feet but could not.
With a tremendous crash, the entire palace — and Gethwing himself — collapsed in a rush of tumbling stones and showering dust.
Directly onto Eric and Prince Ungast.
"No!" screamed Keeah. "Eric!"
The air thundered, and the ground quaked for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, all was still once more.
Out of the debris came a flutter of tiny wings. Isha swooped around the wreckage over and over until she hovered over a single spot.
"There!" cried Pasha. "Dig there!"
Not waiting for the dust to clear, everyone climbed into the rubble and began digging.
"Eric!" Julie called. "Eric, can you hear us?"
"Where are you? Answer us!" yelled Neal, tossing smoking chunks of black stone behind him. "Eric —"
"Hush!" said Keeah, holding up her hand. "I hear something!"
The friends went silent.
Tap... tap...
Sounds of life came from deep under the wreckage. The children listened.
"Help... me..."
"Dig!" cried Keeah.
With all their strength, the friends picked away at the stones. Keeah blasted where she could, lifted stones gently when she could not.
When at last they could dig no farther, Julie yelled, "Eric! Are you there? Eric?"
Seconds passed. No sound.
Then a stone shifted. Dust stirred. Out of the rubble, a small figure emerged. It was a boy in rags. His brown hair stuck out every which way. He staggered from the wreckage, then fell to his knees. In his hand was a crumpled pair of glasses. He was no longer faded.
He was completely whole.
"Eric!" Keeah yelled. She ran and threw her arms around him, overjoyed. "You made it! You made it!"
Neal, Julie, Pasha, and the twin princesses surrounded him.
"Eric!" Neal said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "You're back!
"I am?" Eric said, blinking his eyes. He managed a weak smile. "That was... amazing. Do... do you think he's really... gone?"
The children turned to the rubble. The remains of Ungast's cloak smoked among the rocks like a pile of burning leaves.
"I think so," Keeah said, wiping away her tears. "Gethwing, too. We thought we lost you, Eric. But you defeated him. You won!"
"Gethwing has been defeated," said Duke Boola. "The wingwolves have fled. The fire dragons have vanished. Our city is restored. Samarindo rises from its ashes. Look!"
Below the ruins of Gethwing's palace lay the multicolored stones of Boola's original castle. Setting the dented crown on his head for the first time in days, the duke dreamed of colorful streets, and Gethwing's dark dream became the enchanted city again. The sun shone as at noon, and the streets filled with townspeople who set right to work clearing the rubble away.
At the same time — whoosh! — the rainbow stairs appeared, glittering in the blazing light of Boola's colorful palace.
"Such a dark day ends happily and full of light!" said Pasha. "Hooray!"
Keeah held on to Eric's hand. "Gethwing is defeated. I can't believe you did it. Eric, you won against your darkest self."
"Are you sure?" he said.
"I am sure," she said. "You are amazing."
"Could this mean that Droon will be at peace?" asked Pasha, gazing at the wreckage. "Ko and Gethwing, both gone? How wonderful it would be!"
Eric lifted his glasses and chuckled. The frames were bent like a pretzel.
"My glasses," he said.
"You can always get them fixed," said Julie.
"I can," said Eric. "But why would I want to?"
With that, the smile dropped from Eric's lips, his eyes went gray and cold, and he dropped the glasses to the ground. "I don't wear glasses."
"You'll need them at home," said Neal.
"Home?" said the boy, glaring at the children. "My home is in the Dark Lands."
"What?" said Julie. "Eric —"
"Eric doesn't live here anymore," he snapped. "My name is Ungast. Prince Ungast. Remember it. You'll be hearing the name a lot. I need to go now. Gethwing?"
The rubble exploded, and the air thundered with the flapping of giant wings. The moon dragon rose up from the remaining wreckage, larger and stronger than ever.
"Come, Gethie," Ungast said. "A new day awaits us. And a new Droon!"
"My dream come true!" said Gethwing.
"No!" cried Keeah. "No! No! No! No!" She fell to her knees. "Eric!"
"Oh, boo-hoo!" said Ungast.
With a laugh, the dark prince jumped onto Gethwing's back. He gave the dragon a sharp nudge, and together they flew up into the sky, winging their way straight to the heart of the Dark Lands.
Crunch... crunch... slurp... crunch...
"Try to be quiet, Neal," whispered Julie. "You'll wake the Hinkles."
"Sorry," said Neal, licking his lips. "It's hard to resist free food."
Crunch... slurp...
Neal had plucked a ripe apple off the tree outside their friend Eric's bedroom window.
It was an hour before dawn, and Julie and Neal were high in the branches of the tree. Once they'd sneaked in Eric's window, they hoped to slip down to his basement without his parents seeing them.
Neal had woken Julie earlier to say that he'd dreamed of giant drifts of green snow. Green snow could mean only one thing.
They were being called back to Droon.
"Tell me again," whispered Neal. "Why aren't we using the door?"
"Because I unlocked the window yesterday when I pretended to be Eric," Julie said.
Julie had the power to change shape. She'd pretended to be Eric because he was trapped in Droon — and because she didn't want his parents to worry.
"The door would have been so much easier," Neal sighed.
"The Hinkles lock the door at night," said Julie, reaching for another branch. "Now, hush!"
As she drew closer to the window, Julie thought about how much she loved that tree. It was the same tree they had all gotten stuck in way back in kindergarten. Eric's mother had had to come rescue them.
If it hadn't been for the hour spent in those branches, Julie might not have become Eric's close friend. If she hadn't become his friend, she might not have been in his basement when the magical staircase to Droon was discovered. And if she'd never discovered Droon, she would certainly not have gained magical powers.
Magical powers!
That also happened in a tree.
But not this one.
It was high in the treetops of the Bangledorn Forest that Julie was scratched on the hand by a wicked creature called a wingwolf. The scratch had hurt at the time, but Julie later discovered that it had passed both wingwolf powers to her: She could fly and change her shape.
Crunch... crunch...
"It's a little sour," Neal said.
"And a little loud," said Julie. "Shhh!"
Pausing just below Eric's window, Julie wondered what she always wondered: Would her powers help them in Droon that day?
She hoped so, because Droon certainly needed help.
In a fierce attack directed at Galen the wizard, Eric had been poisoned by an ice dagger. That was bad enough. But the terrible moon dragon, Gethwing, had used Eric's illness to transform him into Prince Ungast, a wicked boy sorcerer who joined Gethwing's Crown of Wizards, the greatest alliance of evil in the history of Droon.
Eric was still alive, deep inside Prince Ungast, but he was fading fast. Even worse was the fact that Gethwing's armies were gathering for a massive attack on Jaffa City.
Five days, Eric had told their friend Princess Keeah. I can hold them off for five days. Bring me the Moon Medallion. It's the only way to save Droon. If you can't... then it's over.
The Moon Medallion was a device of unspeakable power. Julie knew that plans were under way to bring it to Eric.
Pausing to steady herself, she looked out at their sleeping neighborhood. I can hold them off. Eric's words were brave, but she knew that he was locked in the greatest struggle of his life.
But there was something else preying on Julie's mind as she scanned the houses and streets. Only hours before, a trio of strange, silent creatures known as the Hunters had ascended the magic stairs. Now they were out there somewhere.
What were they hunting for? Or whom?
"Okay, one more branch," she whispered.
Reaching up to the top limb, Julie felt her fingers slip. "Owww!"
A twig flicked her hand, scratching it.
All at once, her breath caught in her throat. Her ears burned. Her heart thumped. Her head swam. "Neal, I —"
To stop everything spinning around her, she closed her eyes.
And she was no longer outside Eric's house. She was in a place filled with swirling purple smoke, a fog of violet so thick she could barely see.
A shape moved in the smoke. It was large and cloaked and stepped toward her awkwardly. The smoke parted, and she saw the figure's face.
It was Galen! His old features were dark. He seemed troubled, uncertain, and afraid.
He spoke in a whisper. "... stolen... no one... for a hundred years!"
"Galen?" Julie whispered.
A second shape now hovered behind him in the swirling smoke. "Wizard, come," it said. "It is time...."
The wizard shook his head over and over. "Nooooooo —"
Was this the journey the wizard had told them he would soon be taking? Could the other figure be Anusa, Galen's genie friend, his guide on the journey? And if it was Anusa, then why was he so troubled?
A moment later, the purple smoke enshrouded both figures, and they were gone.
"Galen?" said Julie. "Galen —"
"The name is Neal!" said Neal. "And you're in my way!"
Suddenly, Julie was back in the apple tree.
"Oh, my gosh!" she said. "I just had a vision. I think Galen might be in danger. Neal, I have to warn him —"
"Ahem!" said a voice.
Julie looked up. Five feet away, leaning out the bedroom window, was Eric's mother, Mrs. Hinkle. "Just what do you two think you're doing out there?"
Neal sighed. "We are so busted."
Mrs. Hinkle frowned. "Get in here before you break your necks!"
She helped them through the window and into Eric's room. Then she searched their faces and breathed out a long, slow breath. Her eyes pooled with tears.
"The forgetting spell," said Julie. "You remember, don't you?"
Mrs. Hinkle nodded slowly. "When I saw Eric's empty bed this morning, everything came back to me. I know your friend Keeah put a spell on me, but it faded. I know about Prince Ungast and that... dragon."
"Keeah said the power of love can break even the strongest spell," said Julie.
Mrs. Hinkle sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, my Eric!"
"Mrs. H, we need to get to the basement right away," said Neal. "Eric said Droon would fall in five days if we didn't act fast."
Eric's mother wiped her cheeks and stood. "Then I'm going with you."
"What?" said Neal. "Very funny, Mrs. H."
"It's not a joke. I'm going," the woman said. "He's my son. I'm his mother. I'm going."
"Yeah, but..." Neal murmured.
"I can help Eric," his mother said. "I'm certain of it."
When she saw the determination in Mrs. Hinkle's face, Julie realized they couldn't stop her from trying to help her son. She knew how she would feel if someone tried to stop her from helping her friend. Whatever Mrs. Hinkle was feeling must be ten times that. "Well, maybe just you can go —" she said.
The bedroom door opened, and in walked Mr. Hinkle. "Go? Go where?" he said. "Where are we going? Wait. Where's Eric? Eric —"
"Dear, there's no time to waste," said Mrs. Hinkle. "Our son is a wizard. He's trying to keep the land of Droon free, but he's in trouble. Serious trouble."
As they explained everything, Mr. Hinkle's face went through a dozen expressions in rapid succession — disbelief, anger, concern, sorrow, and bewilderment.
Finally, he turned to the children.
"Eric is a wizard?" he asked.
"He is," said Julie.
"I wonder if he gets that from me," Mr. Hinkle said. "People say I'm kind of a wizard with the hedge clippers."
Julie smiled. Of course, it was really a blast from Keeah that had given Eric his powers, just as it was the wingwolf scratch that gave her her abilities. But it was just like Mr. Hinkle to find the funny in a terrible situation.
"Well, if Eric's in trouble, then we are absolutely going to Dreen!" Mr. Hinkle said.
"First of all, it's Droon," said Neal. "And you really kind of have to do what we say. I mean... please?"
"Fair enough," said Mrs. Hinkle. "Let's go."
Moments later, they were crammed into the little closet under the basement stairs. They shut the door behind them, and Julie switched off the ceiling light.
Whoosh!
The floor beneath their feet vanished and became the top step of a staircase that curved through the air all the way to Droon.
"Amazing!" said Mr. Hinkle. "Who built these steps? They're very professional."
"Our friend the wizard Galen created them," said Julie, remembering her strange vision again. He was so worried. I must tell him what I saw!
Down and down they went, through swirling pink clouds, while Neal barked orders to the Hinkles every step of the way.
"Not too fast. Hold on to the railing. The stairs are slick. And be careful where it curves. The stairs have a mind of their own. Also, whatever you do, don't look down. Don't look up, either. You'll get dizzy."
"Neal, we've walked down stairs before," said Mr. Hinkle.
"Sorry. I guess I'm taking control again," Neal said. "It's the genie in me."
"You're a genie, Neal?" said Mrs. Hinkle. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. I really like my turban," he said.
Soon the children spotted a vast green plain sliced by several lines of blue water.
"Rivertangle," said Julie. "We've been here before. Be careful. Beasts are everywhere."
"One more thing," said Neal. "Sometimes the stairs vanish."
Mr. Hinkle smiled. "Now, that's pretty clever. The stairs vanish at the bottom so that the bad guys can't see them, right?"
Julie stole a look at Neal. "Not always. Sometimes they disappear at other times."
"What other times?" asked Mrs. Hinkle.
"Sometimes the stairs vanish before we get to the bottom," said Neal, picking up the pace.
Mrs. Hinkle paused. "Before? Like when?"
"Like now," said Neal as the steps quivered beneath their feet. "Like now. Now! NOW!"
All at once, the rainbow stairs wobbled and wiggled and faded into the air.
"You said to hold the railing," said Mr. Hinkle. "But there is no railing —"
And the two children and two parents plunged headfirst to the ground below.
Text copyright © 2009 by Tony Abbott.
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.
SCHOLASTIC, LITTLE APPLE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, February 2009
Cover art by Tim Jessell
e-ISBN 978-0-545-41848-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Books3 |
913 F.2d 832
Ronald Dean MURRAY, Petitioner-Appellant,v.Jack COWLEY, Warden; and Attorney General, State ofOklahoma, Respondents-Appellees.
No. 89-6436.
United States Court of Appeals,Tenth Circuit.
Sept. 5, 1990.Rehearing Denied Oct. 29, 1990.
Ronald Dean Murray, pro se.
Robert H. Henry, Atty. Gen., and A. Diane Hammons, Asst. Atty. Gen., Oklahoma City, Okl., for respondents-appellees.
Before LOGAN, SEYMOUR and TACHA, Circuit Judges.
TACHA, Circuit Judge.
1
After examining the briefs and appellate record, this panel has determined unanimously that oral argument would not materially assist the determination of this appeal. See Fed.R.App.P. 34(a); 10th Cir.R. 34.1.9. The case is therefore ordered submitted without oral argument.
2
Ronald Dean Murray appeals from the district court's order denying his petition for a writ of habeas corpus. Murray contends that the district court erred in finding no equal protection violation in the Oklahoma courts' refusal to reduce his indeterminate ten year to life sentence to ten years. The district court also denied Murray's motion for permission to proceed in forma pauperis and a certificate of probable cause. We dismiss the appeal.
I.
3
Murray was convicted of second degree murder on November 26, 1975. At the time of sentencing, Oklahoma law provided:
4
Every person convicted of murder in the second degree shall be punished by imprisonment in the State Penitentiary for not less than 10 (10) years nor more than life. The trial court shall set an indeterminate sentence in accordance with this section upon a finding of guilty by the jury of murder in the second degree.
5
Okla.Stat.Ann. tit. 21, Sec. 701.4 (repealed in 1976) (emphasis added). In 1976, section 701.4 was repealed and replaced by new section 701.9, which provides:
6
A person who is convicted of or pleads guilty or nolo contendere to murder in the second degree shall be punished by imprisonment in a state penal institution for not less than ten (10) years nor more than life.
7
Id. tit. 21, Sec. 701.9 (1983).
8
Also pertinent to Murray's contentions are the general indeterminate sentencing provisions:
9
In all cases where a sentence of imprisonment in the penitentiary is imposed, the court in assessing the term of the confinement may fix a minimum and a maximum term, both of which shall be within the limits now or hereafter provided by law as the penalty for conviction of the offense. The minimum term may be less than, but shall not be more than, one-third ( 1/3) of the maximum sentence imposed by the court....
10
Id. tit. 57, Sec. 353 (1984).
11
In White v. State, 774 P.2d 1072 (Okla.Crim.App.1989), the Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals ruled that an indeterminate sentence of five years to life imprisonment violated section 353:
12
We find no statutory authority or case law instructing this Court as to how to calculate one-third of a life sentence. Since one-third of a life sentence cannot be calculated, we find that the trial court may not set an indeterminate sentence where a life sentence is the maximum imposed. Therefore, Appellant's conviction must be vacated.
13
Id. at 1072.
II.
14
Against this background, Murray argues that after White prisoners who received indeterminate ten years to life sentences under new section 701.9 have had their sentences reduced to the statutory minimum in a series of unpublished opinions by the Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals. By analogy, Murray contends that the Oklahoma courts' failure similarly to reduce his sentence violates equal protection. We disagree. Equal protection of the laws "is essentially a direction that all persons similarly situated should be treated alike." City of Cleburne v. Cleburne Living Center, 473 U.S. 432, 439, 105 S.Ct. 3249, 3254, 87 L.Ed.2d 313 (1985). In this case, we find that Murray is not similarly situated to the prisoners whose sentences were reduced.
15
Unlike the prisoners in the Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals' decisions, Murray was sentenced under old section 701.4 and not sections 701.9 and 353, which are subject to the rule in White. Section 701.4, unlike section 701.9, required an indeterminate sentence of ten years to life. See Okla.Stat.Ann. tit. 21, Sec. 701.4 (repealed); see also Cantrell v. State, 562 P.2d 527, 529 (Okla.Crim.App.1977) (only proper sentence is ten years to life imprisonment); Wampler v. State, 553 P.2d 198, 203 (Okla.Crim.App.1976) ("the sentence upon a conviction of murder in the second degree shall in all cases by an indeterminate sentence of ten (10) years to life"). Under Oklahoma law, a specific penalty provision, such as section 701.4, controls the application of a general provision authorizing indefinite sentences, such as section 353. See McWilliams v. State, 777 P.2d 1370, 1372 (Okla.Crim.App.1989) (specific statute provision controls over general); Swenson v. State, 525 P.2d 1395, 1400 (Okla.Crim.App.1974) ("a general statute must be construed and applied in light of and within the limits of those specific statutes which provide a specific punishment for a specific crime"); Okla.Stat.Ann. tit. 21, Sec. 11. Section 353 is the general statute which is limited by the specific provisions of section 701.4; section 701.4 is not limited by section 353 as Murray contends. Accordingly, because section 701.4 mandates an indeterminate sentence of ten years to life, the Oklahoma trial court was required to impose that sentence. The indeterminate sentencing provision, section 353, was never invoked and has no application in the face of section 701.4's express penalty provisions. Murray is thus not similarly situated to the prisoners whose sentences were reduced.
16
The fundamental error in Murray's equal protection argument is that he is not entitled to habeas relief due to a subsequent change in Oklahoma's second degree murder statute. As the Seventh Circuit observed in United States ex rel. Scott v. Illinois Parole & Pardon Board, 669 F.2d 1185 (7th Cir.), cert. denied, 459 U.S. 1048, 103 S.Ct. 468, 74 L.Ed.2d 617 (1982):
17
States are certainly free to amend their sentencing laws and, having done so, they are not required to apply them retroactively to persons who have been validly sentenced under the law as it previously existed.... Having been properly sentenced under the law as it existed at the time of his conviction, he is not entitled to modification at this time.
18
Id. at 1192; see also Rubio v. Estelle, 689 F.2d 533, 536 (5th Cir.1982) ("repeal of a statute does not repeal prior convictions based on violations of that statute when that statute was in effect"). Murray's case is indistinguishable from Niemann v. Paratt, 596 F.2d 316, 318 (8th Cir.1979), where the Eighth Circuit rejected a challenge to an indeterminate second degree murder sentence lawful under the statute and indeterminate sentencing provisions in effect at sentencing, but subsequently rendered unlawful due to an amendment to the sentencing provisions. The Eighth Circuit held that there was no constitutional violation where the habeas petitioner was properly sentenced under the statute then in effect. Id. at 318 (quoting State v. Rivera, 249 N.W.2d 914, 915-16 (Neb.1977)). Stated simply, Murray is not similarly situated to persons convicted under the new second degree murder statute. Accordingly, Oklahoma's refusal to reduce Murray's sentence as if he had been convicted under the new statute does not violate due process, and the district court did not err in denying Murray's petition for a writ of habeas corpus.
III.
19
Because we find that Murray has neither raised a reasoned argument on the law and facts, Coppedge v. United States, 369 U.S. 438, 82 S.Ct. 917, 8 L.Ed.2d 21 (1962), nor demonstrated that the issues raised are debatable among jurists, Barefoot v. Estelle, 463 U.S. 880, 103 S.Ct. 3383, 77 L.Ed.2d 1090 (1983), we DENY the certificate of probable cause and the motion to proceed in forma pauperis. APPEAL DISMISSED. The mandate shall issue forthwith.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | FreeLaw |
1. Introduction {#sec1-insects-11-00368}
===============
Knowledge of the taxonomy, diagnostic features, and geographical distribution of the species used for biological control of plant pests is of great practical importance. The ladybug *Chilocorus kuwanae* Silvestri, 1909 has been used for the biological control of coccids for more than 100 years \[[@B1-insects-11-00368],[@B2-insects-11-00368],[@B3-insects-11-00368],[@B4-insects-11-00368],[@B5-insects-11-00368],[@B6-insects-11-00368],[@B7-insects-11-00368],[@B8-insects-11-00368],[@B9-insects-11-00368],[@B10-insects-11-00368],[@B11-insects-11-00368],[@B12-insects-11-00368],[@B13-insects-11-00368],[@B14-insects-11-00368],[@B15-insects-11-00368],[@B16-insects-11-00368],[@B17-insects-11-00368],[@B18-insects-11-00368],[@B19-insects-11-00368],[@B20-insects-11-00368],[@B21-insects-11-00368],[@B22-insects-11-00368],[@B23-insects-11-00368],[@B24-insects-11-00368],[@B25-insects-11-00368],[@B26-insects-11-00368],[@B27-insects-11-00368],[@B28-insects-11-00368],[@B29-insects-11-00368],[@B30-insects-11-00368],[@B31-insects-11-00368],[@B32-insects-11-00368],[@B33-insects-11-00368]\]. However, despite this, the taxonomy of this species is still highly problematic, and its geographic distribution is uncertain \[[@B34-insects-11-00368]\].
Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], Savoyskaya \[[@B35-insects-11-00368]\], and Kuznetsov \[[@B36-insects-11-00368],[@B37-insects-11-00368]\] noted that *Ch. kuwanae* is morphologically similar to the widely distributed Palearctic species *Ch. renipustulatus* (Scriba, 1791). *Chilocorus kuwanae* was originally described by Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\] based on uncertain number of specimens received alive from the Japanese entomologist Shinkai Inokichi Kuwana (1872--1933) for biological control of *Pseudaulacaspis pentagona* (Targioni Tozzetti, 1886) in Italy. Therefore, the type specimens were syntypes, and type locality is Japan. It is not known where Coccinellidae specimens from the collection by Silvestri are deposited \[[@B38-insects-11-00368]\]. We sent a request about the type of *Ch. kuwanae* to the "Museo entomologico Filippo Silvestri", but this type was not found there. Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\] did not study any specimens of *Ch. renipustulatus* and mentioned the characteristics of the latter after Ganglbauer \[[@B39-insects-11-00368]\] and Mulsant \[[@B40-insects-11-00368]\].
The type locality of *Ch. renipustulatus* was not indicated originally \[[@B41-insects-11-00368]\]. Most likely, it is in Hessen-Darmstadt (Germany), where the author, Ludwig Gottlieb Scriba (1736--1804), worked. It is unknown where the L.G. Scriba collection was deposited \[[@B38-insects-11-00368]\]. None of the types of taxa described by Scriba, including *Ch. renipustulatus*, are currently known.
According to Kuznetsov \[[@B37-insects-11-00368]\] and Kovář \[[@B42-insects-11-00368]\], the native range of *Ch. kuwanae* includes the Far East (Primorsky Krai), Sakhalin, Kuriles, Japan, Korean Peninsula, and China, while *Ch. renipustulatus* is widely distributed in Europe, Central Asia, the Caucasus, China, Mongolia, Siberia, and the Far East (east to the Amur Region). Therefore, it is generally assumed that the geographical ranges of *Ch. kuwanae* and *Ch. renipustulatus* almost do not overlap. No cases of the establishment of *Ch. kuwanae* in Central and Eastern Europe have been recorded \[[@B7-insects-11-00368],[@B8-insects-11-00368],[@B9-insects-11-00368],[@B10-insects-11-00368],[@B15-insects-11-00368]\].
A number of external morphology and male genitalia features were indicated as distinguishing between these two species \[[@B33-insects-11-00368],[@B36-insects-11-00368],[@B37-insects-11-00368],[@B43-insects-11-00368]\]. However, while working on the key to Coccinellidae for European Russia and the Russian Caucasus, Bieńkowski found that it was impossible to distinguish *Ch. renipustulatus* from *Ch. kuwanae* \[[@B34-insects-11-00368]\] and formally synonymized them. However, this conclusion was based on the examination of only 10 specimens from Europe and four specimens from Japan without statistical treatment. The aim of the present study is to verify this synonymy by examination of large number of specimens and statistical analysis of the geographic variability in morphology.
2. Materials and Methods {#sec2-insects-11-00368}
========================
2.1. Material Examined {#sec2dot1-insects-11-00368}
----------------------
We studied adult beetles from the following collections: Zoological Institute of Russian Academy of Sciences, St. Petersburg (ZIN), Zoological Museum of Moscow State University (ZMMU), All-Russian Institute of Plant Quarantine, Moscow region (IPQ), Naturhistorisches Museum Wien (NHMW), Far Eastern branch of Russian Academy of Sciences, Vladivostok (FERAS), Naturkundemuseum Erfurt (NME), All-Russian Institute of Plant Protection, St. Petersburg (IPP), and Siberian Zoological Museum, Novosibirsk (SZM). In addition, specimens were presented to us by H. W. Cho (Republic of Korea) and Sh. Shigehiko (Japan). Materials from the first author's collection were also studied.
We examined materials from Central and Eastern Europe and from the Far East islands (Japan and Sakhalin) ([Table 1](#insects-11-00368-t001){ref-type="table"}) because *Chilocorus renipustulatus* occurs all over Europe and does not occur in Japan and Sakhalin, while *Ch. kuwanae* occurs in Japan and Sakhalin and does not occur in Central and Eastern Europe \[[@B37-insects-11-00368]\].
We do not designate the neotype of *Ch. renipustulatus* because it is no doubt that all specimens from Central Europe belong to *Ch. renipustulatus* (no other species from this group are recorded from C. Europe). We also do not designate the neotype of *Ch. kuwanae* because it is no doubt that all examined specimens from Japan and Sakhalin belong to the taxon, described as *Ch. kuwanae.*
2.2. Methods of Examination of Morphology {#sec2dot2-insects-11-00368}
-----------------------------------------
All specimens were placed into water with a small amount of detergent for 12 h to soften before preparation and clean the surface of the body (old specimens were often contaminated, which made the puncturation and microsculpture difficult to observe). All specimens were dissected since we did not find any external differences between males and females; penis guides and parameres of all males were prepared.
The structural details of all beetles were studied by one author to reduce the subjectivity of the assessment of characters \[[@B44-insects-11-00368]\]. Individuals from different regions were studied in random order to reduce the influence of systematic error in the assessment of characters (drift of understanding of characters with continuous variability during processing of the material). The terminology used for the details of external morphology is accepted according to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], with the exception of "lateral parts of pronotum," which we call "anterior lateral lobes of pronotum". Details of the structure of male genitalia are accepted according to Li et al. \[[@B45-insects-11-00368]\].
Qualitative characteristics were studied by comparison with the "reference" samples, i.e., the specimens with the most clear manifestation of the character, as adopted by Bontems \[[@B46-insects-11-00368]\] and Bieńkowski and Orlova-Bienkowskaja \[[@B47-insects-11-00368]\]. The measurements are shown in [Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}. Metric characteristics were studied under a stereomicroscope using a measuring eyepiece, and the division value was 0.07 mm for characters 1--3 and 0.02 mm for characters 4--10 ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}).
2.3. Studied Characters {#sec2dot3-insects-11-00368}
-----------------------
We studied 17 morphological characters, including all characters that were used by the authors of the original descriptions of species, revisions, and keys for this group of species to distinguish *Ch. kuwanae* and *Ch. renipustulatus* \[[@B7-insects-11-00368],[@B33-insects-11-00368],[@B36-insects-11-00368],[@B37-insects-11-00368],[@B43-insects-11-00368],[@B45-insects-11-00368],[@B46-insects-11-00368],[@B47-insects-11-00368],[@B48-insects-11-00368],[@B49-insects-11-00368]\] as well as characters used for differentiation between *Ch. kuwanae* and other similar species:Size of the elytral marking: maximal width of the elytral marking ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 6)/body width ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 2).Body length ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 1).Proportion of the elytral marking: maximal width of the elytral marking ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 6)/length of the elytral marking along the midline ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 4).Proportion of the body: body length ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 1)/body width ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 2).Convexity of the body: body length ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 1)/body height ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 3).Relative length of parameres: length of paramere ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 8)/length of penis guide ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 7).Shape of parameres: maximal width of paramere ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 9)/width of paramere at the constriction near the base ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 10).Location of the marking along the length of elytron (body length ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 1)/distance from the elytral marking to base of elytron ([Figure 1](#insects-11-00368-f001){ref-type="fig"}: 5)).Marginated line of pronotum anteriorly: entire or narrowly interrupted at the middle (the interruption is not wider than half the width of the frons at the top between eyes) or broadly interrupted at middle.Interspace between punctures on frons medially (smooth or obsoletely shagreen or distinctly shagreen).Shagreened part on anterior lateral lobes of pronotum (absent or developed in a narrow region anteriorly or developed on the whole surface of the lobe).Punctures of scutellum (large mixed with fine or fine only or absent).Shape of scutellum (flat or weakly impressed or distinctly impressed).Punctures at the elytral disk (fine, i.e., approximately 0.01 mm wide, or large, i.e., approximately 0.02 mm wide).Shape of penis guide (with parallel sides in basal ½ or constricted basally and broadest in basal ¼).Punctures on anterior lateral lobes of pronotum (fine, i.e., approximately 0.02 mm wide, or large, i.e., approximately 0.03 mm wide).Punctures on frons (fine, i.e., approximately 0.01 mm wide, or large, i.e., approximately 0.02 mm wide).
The results of the study of morphological characteristics can be found in the [Supplementary Material (Tables S1 and S2)](#app1-insects-11-00368){ref-type="app"}.
2.4. Criteria of Species and Subspecies {#sec2dot4-insects-11-00368}
---------------------------------------
We adhere to the morphological concept of the species, i.e., we consider only morphologically different taxa. According to this concept, continuous variability in diagnostic characters should occur within the species, and different species should be distinguished by at least one diagnostic character without overlapping the limits of variability and with an unoccupied gap between them (hiatus) \[[@B50-insects-11-00368]\]. Exceptions to this rule are sibling species, different morphs within the species, and differences between males and females.
We use the morphological concept since this concept corresponds to the biological and ecological differences between populations \[[@B50-insects-11-00368]\] and because all known *Chilocorus* species exhibit morphological differences from each other. Though sibling species are known in Coleoptera \[[@B51-insects-11-00368]\], they are very rare. No sibling species of *Chilocorus* have been described in the literature. There are no external differences between males and females in the species under consideration, and there are also no different morphs. This gives us the opportunity to talk about morphological species in the present work.
For subspecies, we follow the classical rule by Amadon \[[@B52-insects-11-00368]\], which is used in current taxonomy \[[@B53-insects-11-00368]\]: 97% of specimens in one sample should be separable from 97% of specimens in the other sample to qualify these samples as representing different subspecies. Amadon has shown that this rule is fulfilled for a metric character if the following inequalities are true:$$\left\{ \begin{matrix}
{\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| \geq 3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2}} \\
{\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| \geq 3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1}} \\
\end{matrix} \right.$$ where $M_{1}$ is the mean value of the variable in the first population, $M_{2}$ is the mean value of the variable in the second population, $\mathsf{\sigma}_{1}$ is the standard deviation in the first population, and $\mathsf{\sigma}_{2}$ is the standard deviation in the second population \[[@B52-insects-11-00368]\]. Subspecies must be defined on diagnosability, not on mean differences \[[@B54-insects-11-00368]\]. We use the classical statistical method for the distinguishing of the subspecies because this is the only method appropriate for distinguishing of the subspecies currently used in zoology \[[@B54-insects-11-00368],[@B55-insects-11-00368]\]. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of insect subspecies are currently described and revised without any statistical treatment.
3. Results {#sec3-insects-11-00368}
==========
3.1. Size of Elytral Marking {#sec3dot1-insects-11-00368}
----------------------------
According to Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], the marking in *Ch. kuwanae* is smaller than that in *Ch. renipustulatus*. Savoyskaya \[[@B43-insects-11-00368]\] and Kuznetsov \[[@B36-insects-11-00368],[@B37-insects-11-00368]\] noted that this marking is large in *Ch. renipustulatus* and very small in *Ch. kuwanae*. Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\] noted that this marking is very small in *Ch. kuwanae*.
Our measurement of the elytral marking in specimens from Europe and the Far East showed that the limits of the variation in this character in these two populations strongly overlap ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}). There is no hiatus between these populations; therefore, this character cannot differentiate them at the species level. In 72% of our specimens from Europe, the size of the elytral marking is within the range of variability of our specimens from the Far East, and in 78% of our specimens from the Far East, the size of the elytral marking is within the range of variability of our specimens from Europe. This character also cannot differentiate these populations at the subspecies level because it does not meet the subspecies criteria:$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.05}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.13}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.09}$$
Therefore, $\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| < 3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2}$ and $\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| < 3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1}$.
3.2. Body Length {#sec3dot2-insects-11-00368}
----------------
According to Kuznetsov \[[@B36-insects-11-00368]\], *Ch. renipustulatus* is 2.7--3.7 mm long, and *Ch. kuwanae* is 3.5--4.8 mm long, i.e., very little overlap of these limits of variability takes place. However, we did not find such a difference between the examined samples from Europe and the Far East. The ranges of variability of our samples strongly overlap: 3.41--5.18 mm in our specimens from Europe and 3.34--4.64 mm in our specimens from the Far East ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}). In 73% of our specimens from Europe, the body length is within the range of variability of our specimens from the Far East, and in 78% of our specimens from the Far East, the body length is within the range of variability of our specimens from Europe. The populations from Europe and the Far East do not correspond to Amadon's criteria of subspecies by this character:$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.45}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 1.20}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.96}$$
3.3. Proportion of the Elytral Marking {#sec3dot3-insects-11-00368}
--------------------------------------
According to Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], the elytral marking in *Ch. kuwanae* is less transverse than that in *Ch. renipustulatus*. Savoyskaya \[[@B43-insects-11-00368]\] and Kuznetsov \[[@B37-insects-11-00368]\] mentioned transverse and sometimes rounded markings in *Ch. kuwanae*, and transverse markings in *Ch. renipustulatus*.
The average proportion of elytral markings in our sample from Europe (1.52) is greater than that in our sample from the Far East (1.20). However, the ranges of variability strongly overlap (1.19--2.02 and 0.96--1.50). In 52% of our specimens from Europe, the proportion of elytral markings is within the range of variability of our specimens from the Far East, and in 45% of our specimens from the Far East, the proportion of elytral markings is within the range of variability of our specimens from Europe ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}). The populations from Europe and the Far East do not correspond to Amadon's criteria of subspecies by this character:$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.32}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.61}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.38}$$
3.4. Proportion of the Body {#sec3dot4-insects-11-00368}
---------------------------
According to Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], *Ch. kuwanae* is narrower than *Ch. renipustulatus*. However, in our samples, the ranges of variability are almost the same: 1.06--1.30 in Europe and 0.98--1.30 in the Far East ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}). The populations from Europe and the Far East do not correspond to Amadon's criteria of subspecies:$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.01}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.19}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.17}$$
3.5. Convexity of the Body {#sec3dot5-insects-11-00368}
--------------------------
According to Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], *Ch. kuwanae* is less convex than *Ch. renipustulatus*. We did not find differences in specific or subspecific levels in the samples from Europe and the Far East according to the convexity of the body. The ranges of variability of our samples are almost the same: 1.78--2.50 in Europe and 1.86--2.58 in the Far East ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}). The populations from Europe and the Far East do not correspond to Amadon's criteria of subspecies:$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.06}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.51}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.34}$$
3.6. Relative Length of Parameres {#sec3dot6-insects-11-00368}
---------------------------------
According to Savoyskaya \[[@B43-insects-11-00368]\], the paramere is distinctly longer than the penis guide in *Ch. kuwanae*, and the paramere is slightly longer than the penis guide in *Ch. renipustulatus*. According to Li et al. (2018), parameres are as long as 1.5× the penis guide length in *Ch. kuwanae*. We did not find differences in samples from different regions at the species or subspecies level ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}):$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.04}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.16}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.12}$$
3.7. Shape of Parameres {#sec3dot7-insects-11-00368}
-----------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], a slightly clavated paramere is found in *Ch. kuwanae*. There are no species or subspecies differences in our samples from different regions ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}):$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.16}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.66}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.41}$$
3.8. Location of the Marking along the Length of the Elytron {#sec3dot8-insects-11-00368}
------------------------------------------------------------
Gordon \[[@B49-insects-11-00368]\] used this character to distinguish *Ch. kuwanae* from similar American species. We did not find differences in samples from different regions at either the species level or the subspecies level according to this character ([Table 2](#insects-11-00368-t002){ref-type="table"}):$${\left| {M_{1} - M_{2}} \right| = 0.18}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} = 0.93}{3.24\mathsf{\sigma}_{2} + 0.68\mathsf{\sigma}_{1} = 0.70}$$
3.9. Marginated Line of Pronotum Anteriorly {#sec3dot9-insects-11-00368}
-------------------------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], the marginated line is interrupted in *Ch. kuwanae* and fully developed in the similar species *Chilocorus esakii* Kamiya, 1959. We did not find differences in the samples from different regions according to this character at either the species level or the subspecies level ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}). The majority of specimens from Europe as well as the majority of specimens from the Far East have broadly interrupted marginated lines.
3.10. Interspace between Punctures on Frons Medially {#sec3dot10-insects-11-00368}
----------------------------------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], a distinctly developed microsculpture of the frons occurs in *Ch. kuwanae*, and the interspace between punctures is smooth in the similar species *Ch. esakii*.
In most specimens from Europe, the interspace between punctures is smooth (58 ± 4%), while in most specimens from the Far East, the interspace is distinctly shagreen (63 ± 5%). Intermediate states (frons are obsoletely shagreen) occur in specimens from the Far East (34 ± 5%) and Europe (36 ± 4%). There is no hiatus between them, since all three variants occur in both regions. The populations cannot be qualified as subspecies since they do not correspond to Amadon's criteria.
3.11. Shagreened Part on Anterior Lateral Lobes of Pronotum {#sec3dot11-insects-11-00368}
-----------------------------------------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], the shagreened part is absent in *Ch. kuwanae*. In our material, this character varies in Europe and the Far East, but the large shagreened part dominates in both regions. There are no species or subspecies differences ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}).
3.12. Punctures of Scutellum {#sec3dot12-insects-11-00368}
----------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], punctures of the scutellum are fine in *Ch. kuwanae*. There are no species or subspecies differences in our samples ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}). The punctures of scutellum are fine in most specimens from Europe (71 ± 3%) and the Far East (51 ± 5%).
3.13. Shape of Scutellum {#sec3dot13-insects-11-00368}
------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], the scutellum in *Ch. kuwanae* is flat. In our material, an intermediate state (slightly impressed scutellum) is present in 45--55% of specimens from both regions. There are no species or subspecies differences ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}).
3.14. Punctures at Elytral Disk {#sec3dot14-insects-11-00368}
-------------------------------
According to Silvestri \[[@B7-insects-11-00368]\], *Ch. kuwanae* has more distinct puncturation of the body than *Ch. renipustulatus*. We did not find differences in the specific or subspecific levels of elytral puncturation in the samples from different regions ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}).
3.15. Shape of Penis Guide {#sec3dot15-insects-11-00368}
--------------------------
According to Li et al. \[[@B45-insects-11-00368]\], the penis guide is constricted basally, and it is broadest in the basal ¼ in *Ch. kuwanae*; while it is parallel in the basal half in the similar species *Ch. esakii*. In our materials, the former shape of the penis guide prevails in all regions. There are no species or subspecies differences in our samples from different regions ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}).
3.16. Punctures on Anterior Lateral Lobes of Pronotum {#sec3dot16-insects-11-00368}
-----------------------------------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], the fine punctures on anterior lobes occur in *Ch. kuwanae*, and larger punctures are found in the similar species *Ch. esakii*. In our material, fine punctures prevail in all regions. There are no species or subspecies differences according to this character ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}).
3.17. Punctures on Frons {#sec3dot17-insects-11-00368}
------------------------
According to Kamiya \[[@B33-insects-11-00368]\], punctures on frons in *Ch. kuwanae* are larger than in *Ch. renipustulatus*. However, our study has shown that there is no hiatus between the populations from Europe and the Far East according to this character: both fine and large puncturation is common in both populations. Most European specimens (89%) have fine punctures, while most specimens from the Far East (65%) have large punctures ([Table 3](#insects-11-00368-t003){ref-type="table"}). However, this difference is not enough to qualify these populations as subspecies.
4. Discussion {#sec4-insects-11-00368}
=============
Until now, the diagnostic differences between *Ch. renipustulatus* and *Ch. kuwanae* were considered by taxonomists without an analysis of the geographic and individual variability in morphological characters. We studied the variability of a number of morphological characteristics on the materials from different locations, including the type localities of both taxa, for the first time. As a result, no differences between *Ch. kuwanae* and *Ch. renipustulatus* were found, neither at the species level nor at the subspecies level. Therefore, we confirm the synonymy of *Ch. kuwanae* and *Ch. renipustulatus* established by Bieńkowski \[[@B34-insects-11-00368]\] ([Figure 2](#insects-11-00368-f002){ref-type="fig"} and [Figure 3](#insects-11-00368-f003){ref-type="fig"}).
*Chilocorus kuwanae* and *Ch. renipustulatus* are two names for the same species, which means that the introductions of "*Ch. kuwanae*" from the Far East to Europe and the Caucasus were in fact introductions of specimens of *Ch. renipustulatus*. The plant protection experts believed that they had introduced the species outside its native range, while in fact, they introduced specimens from one part of the range of the species to another part of the range of the same species. Our study has shown that thorough taxonomical revision with the study of morphological variability should be conducted before the introduction of any species to a new region. The genus *Chilocorus* should be further investigated, including molecular studies.
5. Conclusions {#sec5-insects-11-00368}
==============
1. No differences between the specimens from Asia (Japan and Sakhalin) and Europe were found at specific or subspecific levels. *Chilocorus kuwanae* is a junior synonym of *Ch. renipustulatus*.
2. The releases of "*Chilocorus kuwanae*" in Europe and the Caucasus did not represent classical biological control since the same species was native to these regions.
3. A thorough taxonomical revision with the study of morphological variability should be conducted before the introduction of any species to new regions.
4. Taxonomical conclusions based on morphological studies should be confirmed by statistical methods.
We are grateful to all curators of the institutional and museum collections: B.A. Korotyaev (ZIN), A.A. Gusakov (ZMMU), S.A. Kurbatov (IPQ), H. Shaverdo (NHMW), M.Yu. Proshchalykin (FERAS), M. Hartmann (NME), A.G. Koval (IPP), A.A. Legalov and V.V. Dubatolov (SZM) for generously allowing us to borrow material from the respective collections, to H. W. Cho (Republic of Korea) and Sh. Shigehiko (Japan) who presented material to us. We are also grateful to our son S.A. Bieńkowski for preparation of the photos.
The following are available online at <https://www.mdpi.com/2075-4450/11/6/368/s1>, Table S1: Studied characters of the specimens from Europe, Table S2: Studied characters of the specimens from the Far East.
######
Click here for additional data file.
Conceptualization, A.O.B.; methodology, M.J.O.-B.; formal analysis, M.J.O.-B.; investigation, A.O.B.; writing---original draft preparation, A.O.B.; writing---review and editing, M.J.O.-B.; funding acquisition, M.J.O.-B. All authors have read and agreed to the published version of the manuscript.
This research was funded by RUSSIAN SCIENCE FOUNDATION, grant number 16-14-10031.
The authors declare no conflicts of interest. The funders had no role in the design of the study; in the collection, analyses, or interpretation of data; in the writing of the manuscript, or in the decision to publish the results.
{#insects-11-00368-f001}
{#insects-11-00368-f002}
{#insects-11-00368-f003}
insects-11-00368-t001_Table 1
######
Material examined.
Region Number of Specimens Number of Males
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- -----------------
Europe (Austria, Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Germany, Slovakia, European Russia) 174 58
Far East (Sakhalin, Japan) 107 38
Total number of specimens 281 96
insects-11-00368-t002_Table 2
######
Metric characters of the populations from Europe and the Far East. $M$---mean value, $\mathsf{\sigma}$---standard deviations, SE---standard error. Numbers of characters correspond to their numbers in the text. E from FE---ratio of specimens from Europe within the range of variability of the samples from the Far East, FE from E---ratio of specimens from the Far East within the range of variability of the samples from Europe.
Europe Far East
--- ----------------------------------------------------- -------- ---------- ------------- ------ ------ ------------- ---- ----
1 Size of the elytral marking 0.26 0.44 0.34 ± 0.01 0.21 0.36 0.29 ± 0.01 72 78
2 Body length 3.41 5.18 4.43 ± 0.02 3.34 4.64 3.98 ± 0.03 73 99
3 Proportion of the elytral marking 1.19 2.02 1.52 ± 0.01 0.96 1.50 1.20 ± 0.01 52 45
4 Proportion of the body 1.06 1.30 1.17 ± 0.01 0.98 1.30 1.16 ± 0.01 99 95
5 Convexity of the body 1.78 2.50 2.15 ± 0.01 1.86 2.58 2.09 ± 0.01 99 99
6 Relative length of parameres 1.02 1.22 1.15 ± 0.01 1.07 1.29 1.18 ± 0.01 98 92
7 Shape of parameres 1.33 2.20 1.67 ± 0.02 1.25 1.86 1.51 ± 0.02 88 95
8 Location of the marking along the length of elytron 2.96 4.17 3.47 ± 0.02 2.71 4.05 3.28 ± 0.02 98 91
insects-11-00368-t003_Table 3
######
Qualitative characters of the populations from Europe and the Far East. SE---standard error. Numbers of characters correspond to their numbers in the text.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
№ Character\ Europe Percentage ± SE, % Far East Percentage ± SE, %
--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------- ----------------------------- --------
9 Marginated line of pronotum anteriorly broadly interrupted 89 ± 2 76 ± 4
narrowly interrupted 10 ± 2 24 ± 4
entire 1 ± 1 0 ± 0
10 Interspace between punctures on frons medially smooth 58 ± 4 4 ± 2
obsoletely shagreen 36 ± 4 34 ± 5
distinctly shagreen 6 ± 2 63 ± 5
11 Shagreened part on anterior lateral lobes of pronotum absent 16 ± 3 5 ± 2
developed in narrow region anteriorly 25 ± 3 14 ± 3
developed on whole surface of lobe 60 ± 4 81 ± 4
12 Punctures of scutellum absent 5 ± 1 1 ± 1
fine only 71 ± 3 51 ± 5
large mixed with fine 24 ± 3 48 ± 5
13 Shape of scutellum flat 52 ± 4 24 ± 4
weakly impressed 45 ± 4 55 ± 5
distinctly impressed 3 ± 1 21 ± 4
14 Punctures at elytral disk fine 3 ± 1 11 ± 3
large 97 ± 1 89 ± 3
15 Shape of penis guide parallel in basal half 7 ± 3 3 ± 3
constricted basally 93 ± 3 97 ± 3
16 Punctures on anterior lateral lobes of pronotum fine 83 ± 3 76 ± 4
large 17 ± 3 24 ± 4
17 Punctures on frons fine 89 ± 2 35 ± 5
large 11 ± 2 65 ± 5
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
1989 Baltimore Orioles season
The 1989 Baltimore Orioles season was a season in American baseball. It involved the Orioles finishing 2nd in the American League East with a record of 87 wins and 75 losses. The team was known as the Comeback Kids as they rebounded from the 54 wins and 107 losses of the 1988 season. The season also took on the "Why Not?!" promotional slogan as the team's pursuit of the pennant went down to the final series of the regular season. The Orioles went into the three-game season finale against the first place Toronto Blue Jays down by one game in the AL East standings and needing either a sweep to win the AL East championship, or two wins to force a one-game playoff. The Blue Jays won the first two games of the series, clinching first place on the penultimate game of the season.
Offseason
October 3, 1988: Don Aase was released by the Orioles.
November 9, 1988: Pete Blohm (minors) was traded by the Orioles to the Pittsburgh Pirates for Randy Milligan.
November 17, 1988: Dickie Noles was released by the Orioles.
December 4, 1988: Eddie Murray was traded by the Orioles to the Los Angeles Dodgers for Ken Howell, Brian Holton, and Juan Bell.
December 8, 1988: Ken Howell and Gordon Dillard were traded by the Orioles to the Philadelphia Phillies for Phil Bradley.
March 1, 1989: Mark Huismann was signed as a free agent by the Orioles.
March 31, 1989: Carl Nichols was traded by the Orioles to the Houston Astros for Dave Johnson and Victor Hithe (minors).
Regular season
Bill Ripken's 1989 Fleer Baseball Card (#616) made national news when it included a hidden obscenity (the words "fuck face"). The obscenity was printed in black marker on the knob of his bat. Once the discovery was made public, subsequent printings of the card were issued with the words obscured. The first obscuring involved a blob of white out, another was scribbled with a black pen while the last was covered with a black square.
Opening Day starters
Brady Anderson
Phil Bradley
Steve Finley
Rene Gonzales
Cal Ripken, Jr.
Dave Schmidt
Larry Sheets
Mickey Tettleton
Jim Traber
Craig Worthington
Season standings
Record vs. opponents
Notable transactions
May 19, 1989: Rick Schu was purchased from the Orioles by the Detroit Tigers.
June 1, 1989: John Posey (minors) was traded by the Orioles to the Philadelphia Phillies for Shane Turner.
June 5, 1989: 1989 Major League Baseball Draft
Ben McDonald was drafted by the Orioles in the 1st round (1st pick). Player signed August 19, 1989.
Mike Oquist was drafted by the Orioles in the 13th round. Player signed June 14, 1989.
Gregg Zaun was drafted by the Orioles in the 17th round. Player signed August 25, 1989.
July 20, 1989: John Habyan was traded by the Orioles to the New York Yankees for Stan Jefferson.
July 28, 1989: Brian Dubois was traded by the Orioles to the Detroit Tigers for Keith Moreland.
August 5, 1989: Jamie Quirk was signed as a free agent by the Orioles.
Roster
{| class="toccolours" style="font-size: 95%;"
|-
! colspan="10" style="background-color: black; color: white; text-align: center;" |1989 Baltimore Orioles
|-
| colspan="10" style="background-color: #F87217; color: white; text-align: center;" | Roster
|-
| valign="top" | Pitchers| width="25px" |
| valign="top" | CatchersInfielders| width="25px" |
| valign="top" | OutfieldersOther batters| width="25px" |
| valign="top" | ManagerCoaches (Bullpen)
(Pitching)
(Hitting)
(First Base)
(Bench)
(Third Base)
|-
|}
Player stats
Batting
Starters by position
Note: G = Games played; AB = At Bats; H = Hits; Avg. = Batting Average; HR = Home Runs; RBI = Runs Batted In
Other batters
Pitching
Starting pitchers
Other pitchers
Relief pitchers
Awards and honors
Frank Robinson, Associated Press Manager of the Year
Frank Robinson, American League Manager of the Year
Gregg Olson, American League Rookie of the YearMLB All-Star Game'''
Cal Ripken, Jr.
Farm system
References
1989 Baltimore Orioles team page at Baseball Reference
1989 Baltimore Orioles season at baseball-almanac.com
Category:Baltimore Orioles seasons
Baltimore Orioles season
Baltimore Orioles | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Wikipedia (en) |
What were the first organisms to have sex? We may never know the answer, but as Bill Nye explains in this Big Think interview, scientists are very interested in why sexual activity remains so popular in nature...
MXI Corp and Multilevel Marketing: Pyramid Schemes By Any Other Name Would Smell Like Chocolate
If a friend or colleague (or your hairdresser) has ever tried to sell you products from Herbalife, Avon or Amway, that person has also likely tried to recruit you to become a distributor yourself. As Max Ehrenfreund explains in the Washington Post, that friend, colleague or hairdresser is currently operating within a multilevel marketing (MLM) business model.
In his article, Ehrenfreund tells the story of a New Mexico couple whose lives unraveled when they became distributors for MXI Corp., an MLM company that moves chocolate products, and bit off way more than they could chew.
What's the Big Idea?
Sad stories of broke MLM sellers are a dime a dozen, often telling of wide-eyed wannabe entrepreneurs who became consumed by their products and failed in their Sisyphian quest to turn a profit. Companies that employ multilevel marketing often rely on manipulative methods in order to recruit their sellers. These tactics contribute to accusations that the companies are pyramid schemes in disguise.
A traditional pyramid scheme involves people paying to join an organization and then getting kickbacks for every person they recruit. The business model is mathematically unsustainable and thus is illegal in the United States, among other countries. Allow Michael Scott to fully explain the concept:
"Most of their customers are salespeople who also buy products for themselves... The industry's defenders point to these customers as evidence that the companies are filling a demand in the market. In surveys commissioned by the trade association, more than half of distributors identify discounts on products as a reason they joined the ranks of multilevel marketers."
Despite those claims, the number of success stories involving regular folks who became distributors are very, very few. You can chalk it up to "a fool and his money will soon part," but protections ought to be put in place to ensure those susceptible to the marketing pitch don't throw their lives away.
The next time a friend of yours tries to goad you into selling analeptic chocolates or legal insurance -- just run, don't walk. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Prenatal exposure to phenobarbital permanently decreases testosterone and causes reproductive dysfunction.
Exposure of rats to phenobarbital during late prenatal development decreased the concentration of testosterone in plasma and the brain during the late fetal, early postnatal, pubertal, and adult periods, By decreasing the production of testosterone in the brain during the period of sexual differentiation, phenobarbital may lead to sexual dysfunction in later life. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Introduction {#Sec1}
============
The vaginal mucosal surface is colonised by a variety of bacterial species and the composition, which has implications for reproductive health, is influenced by both endogenous and exogenous factors (reviewed in^[@CR1]^). Using culture-dependent and molecular amplification techniques (such as quantitative polymerase chain reaction (qPCR) and next generation sequencing), a 'normal' vaginal microbiota (VMB) has been defined as one dominated by lactic acid-producing *Lactobacillus* species. The clinical condition bacterial vaginosis (BV) is associated with increased diversity and quantity of bacteria and a concomitant decrease in lactobacilli^[@CR2]^. Molecular studies have shown some lactobacilli (notably *L. crispatus*) are more associated with health than others (*L. iners*) because they are associated with a lower risk of developing vaginal dysbiosis^[@CR3]^ or acquiring sexually transmitted infections (STIs)^[@CR4]^.
BV is the most common vaginal dysbiosis^[@CR1]^ and has been associated with adverse clinical outcomes including pre-term birth and miscarriage^[@CR5]^, pelvic inflammatory disease^[@CR6]^, and the acquisition and transmission of STIs including HIV^[@CR7]--[@CR10]^. It has been suggested that such adverse outcomes are directly associated with inflammatory or immune activation cascades triggered by vaginal dysbiosis^[@CR11]^. For example, inflammation triggered by vaginal dysbiosis probably attracts CD4 + cells to the cervicovaginal mucosa, thereby increasing the availability of target cells for HIV at the site of viral entry into the body^[@CR12]^.
Sub-Saharan Africa has the highest prevalence of BV^[@CR13]^ but diagnosis is often missed because symptoms are frequently absent or nonspecific, and the microscopic methods necessary for diagnosis by Amsel criteria or Nugent^[@CR14]^ scoring are typically not available. Cross-sectional studies using molecular techniques have confirmed the high prevalence of vaginal dysbiosis in sub-Saharan Africa and have also shown that *L. iners* dominated VMB are more frequent than those dominated by *L. crispatus* ^[@CR15],[@CR16]^. Sub-Saharan African women may therefore be less protected from vaginal dysbiosis, even when they have a lactobacilli-dominated VMB.
Information on fluctuations in the VMB over time is limited, but studies^[@CR17],[@CR18]^ have shown the variation within an individual over time is more pronounced than the variation between individuals^[@CR19]^, and that such changes are influenced by the menstrual cycle and can occur rapidly^[@CR17],[@CR20]^.
We conducted a longitudinal cohort study (the Vaginal Biomarkers Study) in 430 women at three sites in Kenya, Rwanda and South Africa^[@CR21]^. The study visits were tightly scheduled to control for the menstrual cycle. We selected 40 women with consistently normal VMB (defined as a Nugent score of 0--3) at five study visits over eight weeks and 40 women who developed BV (Nugent score of 7--10) during the same eight-week period. The primary objective of this sub-study was to describe the vaginal bacterial species and concentrations of vaginal immune mediators in these cohorts over time. Secondary objectives included the determination of host correlates of vaginal bacteria and immune mediators, any associations between them and those which occurred around the time of incident BV diagnosis. This is the first longitudinal study to describe the composition of the VMB and vaginal immune mediators in quantitative terms over time as well as any associations between them whilst controlling for menstrual cycle and other factors known to be associated with changes in the vaginal micro-environment.
Results {#Sec2}
=======
The cross-sectional characteristics of all 430 women enrolled in the Vaginal Biomarkers Study, including the composition of the VMB, have been previously described^[@CR15],[@CR16],[@CR21],[@CR22]^. In this sub-study, the median age of the 40 women with a consistently normal VMB (reference group) and the 40 women who developed incident BV (incident BV group) was 23 and 24 years respectively (ranges 16--34 years and 16--33 years). The median age at first vaginal intercourse was 17 years for both groups. Half of the women with a consistently normal VMB (53%) and 43% of the women who developed BV had had two or three lifetime sex partners with most (78% and 88%, respectively) having had one sex partner in the last three months. Over fifty percent of the women in both groups had delivered a child at least once. Most women in both groups (80%) currently used contraception: 36% used progestin injections, 13% used combined hormonal pills, 5% were sterilised, and 26% used condoms only. All women in the reference group tested negative for pregnancy, HIV, syphilis, *Neisseria gonorrhoeae*, *Chlamydia trachomatis*, and *Trichomonas vaginalis*, by design. The baseline herpes simplex virus type 2 (HSV-2) prevalence was 30% in the women with a consistently normal VMB and 33% in the women who developed BV.
Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"} describes participant characteristics by group over the five study visits for those parameters that were subsequently included in mixed effects regression models as potential confounders of the main associations of interest between VMB bacteria and vaginal immune mediators (see methods). The reference group included HIV-negative adult women (N = 16 Kenya, N = 16 South Africa), adolescents (N = 6 Kenya), and HIV-negative sex workers (N = 2 Rwanda). The incident BV group included HIV-negative adult women (N = 16 Kenya, N = 11 South Africa), adolescents (N = 5 Kenya, N = 2 South Africa), pregnant women (N = 1 Kenya, N = 3 South Africa); and HIV-negative sex workers (N = 2 Rwanda). The detection of prostate-specific antigen (PSA) in the vagina as a marker of vaginal sex in the last 24--48 hours^[@CR23],[@CR24]^ and self-reported vaginal cleansing in the evening or morning just prior to the study visit were both common (25--57% and 28--53% at different visits, respectively). Clinician-observed abnormal vaginal discharge and cervical mucus were also common, but cervical epithelial findings visible by the naked eye (abrasion, laceration, ecchymosis, petechiae, erythema, or ulcer) were uncommon (occurring in 1--8 women at each visit), throughout the study (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}). At all visits, a substantial proportion of women (up to 33% of the women with a consistently normal VMB and up to 68% of the women who developed BV) had a vaginal pH above 4.5, which is considered outside the normal range and is one of the Amsel criteria for the diagnosis of BV^[@CR25]^.Table 1The prevalence of participant characteristics at each study visit.**Characteristics of women with a normal VMB throughoutVisit 1 (n = 40)Visit 2 (n = 40)Visit 3 (n = 40)Visit 4 (n = 40)Visit 5 (n = 40)**Vaginal PSA present11 (27.5)11 (27.5)10\* (25.0)11 (27.5)16 (40.0)Vaginal cleansing during bathing this morning or last night16 (40.0)12 (30.0)11 (27.5)11 (27.5)11 (27.5)Clinician-observed abnormal vaginal discharge7 (17.5)10 (25.0)10 (25.0)10 (25.0)16 (40.0)Clinician-observed cervical mucus present13 (32.5)11\* (28.2)15 (37.5)17 (42.5)16 (40)Clinician-observed cervical epithelial abnormalities present†6 (15.0)4 (10.0)4 (10.0)4 (10.0)8 (20.0)Petechiae5 (12.5)3 (7.5)2 (5.0)3 (7.5)3 (7.5)Erythema1 (2.5)01 (2.5)1 (2.5)4 (10.0)Ecchymosis01 (2.5)1 (2.5)00Ulcer00001 (2.5)Vaginal pH \< 48 (20.0)9 (22.5)13 (33.3)11 (27.5)9 (22.5)4--4.519 (47.5)20 (50.0)17 (43.6)16 (40.0)22 (55.0)4.6--510 (25.0)9 (22.5)6 (15.4)11 (27.5)7 (17.5)\>53 (7.5)2 (5.0)3 (7.5)2 (5.0)2 (5.0)**Characteristics of women with incident BVVisit 1 (n = 40)Visit 2 (n = 40)Visit 3 (n = 40)Visit 4 (n = 40)Visit 5 (n = 40)**Vaginal PSA present12 (30.8)18 (48.7)21 (56.8)15 (40.5)14 (43.8)Vaginal cleansing during bathing this morning or last night21 (52.5)15 (38.5)14 (35.0)16 (41.0)13 (33.3)Clinician-observed abnormal vaginal discharge5 (20.5)6 (15.4)\*13 (32.5)11 (28.2)\*11 (29.0)\*\*Clinician-observed cervical mucus present14 (35.0)10 (25.6)\*10 (25.0)12 (30.8)\*14 (36.8)\*\*Clinician-observed cervical epithelial abnormalities present^ǁ^5 (12.5)3 (7.7)\*2 (5.0)3 (7.7)\*3 (7.7)\*Petechiae3 (7.5)01 (2.5)01 (2.6)Ecchymosis1 (2.5)1 (2.6)000Erythema01 (2.6)01 (2.6)2 (5.1)Laceration1 (2.5)1 (2.6)01 (2.6)0Ulcer001 (2.5)00Abrasion0001 (2.6)0Vaginal pH \< 44 (10.0)4 (10.5)3 (7.5)1 (1.6)3 (7.9)4--4.522 (55.0)16 (42.1)10 (25.0)16 (41.0)10 (26.3)4.6--512 (30.0)8 (21.1)13 (32.5)16 (41.0)16 (42.1)\>52 (5.0)10 (26.3)14 (35.0)6 (15.4)9 (23.7)Abbreviations: PSA = prostate specific antigen; VMB = vaginal microbiota. Data are number of women with the characteristic (% of total number of women). Cervical mucus presence includes mild, moderate or abundant mucus. \* One missing value. \*\* Two missing values. † 26 events in 13 participants. ^ǁ^16 events in ten participants.
VMB bacteria and Candida over time (reference group) {#Sec3}
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The presence of individual VMB bacteria and *Candida albicans* was determined by qPCR and expressed as log~10~ genome equivalents (geq) per millilitre (ml). Over the five visits, presence was classified as: never present (0% of visits); sporadically present (1--25% of visits); regularly present (26--74% of visits) and consistently present (75--100% of visits). The presence of individual *Lactobacillus* species was relatively stable over the five visits in the reference group; i.e. either consistently or never present (Figs [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"} and [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). This was particularly true of *L. crispatus*, which was consistently present in 47% of women or never present in 53% of women (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). In 79% of the women with consistent *L. crispatus*, this was accompanied by a consistent or regular presence of *L. vaginalis* (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}). *L. iners* was consistently present in 75% of women and regularly present in another 10% of women. *L. iners* and *L. crispatus* did occur together at least twice in 35% of women, but women with high concentrations of *L. crispatus* had lower concentrations of *L. iners* and vice versa (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}). *C. albicans*, *L. jensenii* and *L. gasseri* were never present in 60%, 63% and 75% of the women, respectively. *Escherichia coli* was present (but always in a lower concentration than the lactobacilli) at least once in 90% of women, *Prevotella bivia* in 91% of women, *Gardnerella vaginalis* in 58% of women, and *Atopobium vaginae* in only 17% of women.Figure 1Presence/absence and concentration of vaginal microbiota bacteria over the eight week study period in women with a Nugent score of 0--3 throughout. Each box depicts one visit for a particular woman. The shading of the box indicates the concentration (in log~10~ geq/ml) of each taxon with darker colours depicting a higher concentration. If the taxon was absent, the box is white. Figure 2Frequency of vaginal microbiota presence over the eight week study period in women with a Nugent score of 0--3 throughout. Data in Y-axis are % of women. Sporadically present: present at 25% or fewer visits; regularly present: present at 26--74% of visits; consistently present: present at 75% or more visits.
Correlates of longitudinal variations in the concentrations of VMB bacteria were assessed in mixed effects linear regression models for those VMB bacteria that were consistently present in at least 25% of the women in the reference group. Each model had one such VMB bacteria concentration as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and presence or absence of a menstrual cycle, menstrual cycle phase (follicular or luteal phase; see methods), presence of vaginal PSA, and recent vaginal cleansing as fixed effects. It is important to note that all amenorrhoeic women in this sub-study were progestin injection users. The models showed that changes in the concentrations of VMB bacteria over time were larger within women than they were between women, with the exception of *L. jensenii* (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). The mean *Lactobacillus* genus concentration in amenorrhoeic women was lower (−0.55 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.023) than the mean concentration in women with a menstrual cycle (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}), with *L. crispatus* accounting for the greatest difference (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). The mean *Lactobacillus* genus (−0.39 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.010), *L. iners* (−0.75 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.008) and *P. bivia* (−0.38 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.045) concentrations were significantly lower at visits with vaginal PSA detected (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). The mean *E. coli* concentration was significantly lower at luteal phase visits compared to follicular phase visits in women with a menstrual cycle (−0.75 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.020). There were no significant associations between recent vaginal cleansing and concentration of any VMB bacteria (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}).Table 2Mean differences in VMB bacteria concentrations in women with a Nugent score of 0--3 during five visits over eight weeks by presence and phase of the menstrual cycle, presence of PSA and recent vaginal cleansing.VMB bacteriaWomen with cycle, follicular phase visitsWomen with cycle, luteal phase visits vs follicular phase visitsAmenorrhoea (all visits) vs women with cycle (all visits)Visits with PSA present vs not, among follicular phase visits with no recent vaginal cleansing reportedVisits with recent vaginal cleansing reported vs not, among follicular phase visits with PSA absentMean conc^1^SD between^2^SD within^2^Mean diff^3^p^4^Mean diff^5^p^4^Mean diff^6^p^4^Mean diff^7^p^4^*Lactobacillus* genus7.620.600.730.200.124−0.55**0.023**−0.39**0.010**−0.270.146*L. crispatus*6.761.341.560.490.245−1.330.091−0.300.529−0.050.939*L. iners*8.360.621.29−0.250.3560.080.811−0.75**0.008**−0.320.272*L. jensenii*5.791.411.320.850.066−0.300.7850.360.4760.120.842*L. vaginalis*5.840.921.31−0.190.5450.750.1920.010.9800.500.239*E. coli*5.26\<0.0011.18−0.75**0.020**0.140.6370.100.757−0.260.373*P. bivia*3.000.310.81−0.160.3460.270.199−0.38**0.045**0.030.880Abbreviations: conc = concentration; diff = difference; PSA = prostate-specific antigen; SD = standard deviation; VMB = vaginal microbiota; vs = versus.^1^Expressed in log~10~ genome equivalents per mL (geq/ml). The expected value for women with a menstrual cycle in the follicular phase of the cycle.^2^The between-women and within-women standard deviations.^3^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ geq/ml) between the luteal and follicular phases of the cycle for women with a menstrual cycle.^4^From the mixed effects linear regression models with each item in the first column as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and fixed effects as described in the first row of the table. For women with the bacteria present during at least 75% of visits and excluding the visits during which the bacteria was absent. We only included VMB bacteria that were consistently present (in at least 75% of the visits) in at least 25% of women.^5^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ geq/ml) between women with amenorrhoea (all visits) and women with a cycle (all visits).^6^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ geq/ml) between visits with PSA present versus not present for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle and the same vaginal cleansing status.^7^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ geq/ml) between visits at which reporting recent vaginal cleansing was reported versus not reported among visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle and the same PSA status.
Vaginal immune mediators over time (reference group) {#Sec4}
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Concentrations of various cytokines, chemokines, and growth factors were measured in cervicovaginal lavages (CVLs) and expressed in log~10~ pg/ml (see methods). Mixed effects linear regression models with each immune mediator concentration as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and menstrual cycle presence and phase as fixed effects showed that changes in concentrations of immune mediators over time were larger within women than they were between women, with the exception of interleukin (IL)−1α (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}). The mean IL-1α concentration was significantly higher in luteal phase relative to follicular phase visits (0.16 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.004) but mean IL-6 (−0.26 log~10~ pg/ml; p \< 0.001), CC chemokine macrophage inflammatory protein (MIP)−1β (−0.26 log~10~ pg/ml; p \< 0.001) and granulocyte colony-stimulating factor (G-CSF) concentrations (−0.26 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.007) were significantly lower. Mean concentrations of IL-8 (0.28 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.016), IL-12(p70) (0.15 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.038) and MIP-1β (0.34 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.013) were higher in amenorrhoeic women compared to women with a menstrual cycle. Further mixed effects linear regression models with each immune mediator as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and presence and phase of the menstrual cycle as fixed effects, were fitted with the following additional fixed effects added (in separate models): vaginal pH category (\<4.0, 4.0--4.5, \>4.5); presence of abnormal vaginal discharge, cervical mucus, a cervical epithelial finding, or vaginal PSA; and recent vaginal cleansing. Visits with PSA detected had significantly higher mean concentrations of IL-6, IL-12(p70), and CXC chemokines interferon (IFN)-γ-inducible protein (IP-10); visits with a higher vaginal pH had a higher mean concentration of IL-1RA and a lower mean concentration of secretory leucocyte peptidase inhibitor (SLPI); visits with abnormal vaginal discharge had lower mean concentrations of IL-1α, IL-1RA, GM-CSF and elafin; visits with cervical mucus had a lower mean concentration of elafin; and visits with cervical epithelial findings had a lower mean concentration of granulocyte macrophage colony stimulating factor (GM-CSF) (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}). Recent vaginal cleansing was not significantly associated with concentrations of any of the immune mediators (data not shown).Table 3Mean differences in immune mediator concentrations in women with a Nugent score of 0--3 during five visits over eight weeks by presence and phase of the menstrual cycle (A), clinical characteristics and presence of PSA (B).**A. Immune mediatorsWomen with cycle**, **follicular phase visitsWomen with cycle**, **[luteal phase]{.ul}** **vs follicular phase visits[Amenorrhoea]{.ul}** **(all visits) vs women with cycle (all visits)**Mean conc^1^SD between^2^SD within^2^Mean diff^5^p^3^Mean diff^6^p^3^Total protein8.170.210.240.030.4470.150.071IL-1α1.100.360.300.16**0.004**0.150.253IL-1β0.660.390.51−0.060.5210.270.081IL-60.780.420.50−0.32**\<0.001**0.310.055IL-82.010.300.34−0.060.3340.28**0.016**IL-12(p70)−0.050.160.30−0.000.9490.15**0.038**IL-1RA4.730.480.570.120.2570.070.708IP-102.520.290.42−0.090.2580.170.155MIP-1β0.810.360.37−0.26**\<0.001**0.34**0.013**GM-CSF0.320.120.350.020.7410.060.340G-CSF1.810.480.53−0.26**0.007**0.330.071Elafin5.070.340.370.010.824−0.120.333SLPI4.750.330.410.040.6110.050.666**B**. **Immune mediatorsVisits with** **[vaginal pH]{.ul}** **4.0--4.5 or \>4.5 vs \<4Visits with** **[vaginal discharge]{.ul}** **vs notVisits with** **[cervical mucus]{.ul}** **vs notVisits with** **[cervical epith findings]{.ul}** **vs notVisits with** **[PSA present]{.ul}** **vs not4.0--4.5 Mean diff** ^**8**^**\>4.5 Mean diff** ^**8**^**p** ^**4**^**Mean diff** ^**9**^**P** ^**4**^**Mean diff** ^**10**^**p** ^**4**^**Mean diff** ^**11**^**p** ^**4**^**Mean diff** ^7^**p** ^**4**^Total protein−0.00−0.16**0.014**−0.070.150−0.040.3860.080.2350.020.650IL-1α0.090.010.187−0.13**0.024**−0.090.080−0.090.2660.100.095IL-1β0.140.070.3660.070.464−0.040.601−0.070.6380.090.390IL-60.080.220.1700.160.0980.040.6710.000.9880.21**0.032**IL-80.090.060.4090.060.355−0.020.684−0.080.3950.090.188IL-12(p70)0.110.140.0970.060.2800.010.8760.110.1540.19**0.001**IL-1RA0.050.35**0.015**−0.25**0.025**−0.140.1320.050.734−0.020.840IP-100.06−0.130.064−0.040.611−0.080.9810.000.9810.20**0.014**MIP-1β0.140.140.163−0.000.9890.030.601−0.080.4340.130.085GM-CSF0.01−0.090.304−0.19**0.001**−0.010.926−0.18**0.040**−0.070.251G-CSF0.060.030.844−0.010.9420.110.215−0.070.6260.170.117Elafin0.04−0.020.678−0.23**0.001**−0.13**0.033**0.100.3490.020.773SLPI0.01−0.20**0.034**0.010.8990.070.2880.080.4890.140.103Abbreviations: clin char = clinical characteristics; conc = concentration; diff = difference; epith = epithelial; G-CSF = granulocyte colony stimulating factor; GM-CSF = granulocyte macrophage colony stimulating factor; IL = interleukin; IP-10 = interferon-inducible protein 10; MIP-1β = macrophage inflammatory protein 1β; PSA = prostate-specific antigen; SD = standard deviation; SLPI = secretory leukocyte protease inhibitor; VMB = vaginal microbiota; vs = versus.^1^Expressed in log~10~ pg/ml. The expected value for women with a menstrual cycle in the follicular phase of the cycle.^2^The between-women and within-women standard deviations for women in the model with presence and phase of the cycle as fixed effects.^3^From mixed effects linear regression models with each item in the first column as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and including presence and phase of the menstrual cycle as fixed effects.^4^From mixed effects linear regression models (separate model for each clinical characteristic and PSA) with each item in the first column as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and including the item in the first row as fixed effects, and controlled for presence and phase of the menstrual cycle. A model with recent vaginal cleansing (the evening or morning before the visit) as fixed effect controlled for presence and phase of the menstrual cycle was also fitted but the data are not shown because none of the findings were statistically significant. The clinical characteristics are clinician-observed during speculum examination.^5^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between luteal and follicular phase visits in women with a menstrual cycle.^6^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between women with amenorrhoea (all visits) and women with a cycle (all visits).^7^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between visits with PSA present versus absent, for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle.^8^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between visits at which the vaginal pH was 4.0--4.5, or \>4.5, each compared to \<4, for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle.^9^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between visits with vaginal discharge present versus absent, for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle.^10^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between visits with cervical mucus present versus absent for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle.^11^The mean difference in concentration (log~10~ pg/ml) between visits with cervical epithelial findings present versus absent, for visits with the same presence and phase of menstrual cycle. Cervical epithelial findings included abrasions, oedema, ecchymosis, petechiae, erythema, and ulcers.
VMB bacteria, Candida, and immune mediators over time (incident BV group) {#Sec5}
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All women in this cohort had a Nugent score of 0--3 at visit 1 (enrolment). The first visit during which BV was diagnosed was visit 2 in 16 women, visit 3 in seven women, visit 4 in 11 women, and visit 5 in six women (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}). Two women had an intermediate VMB (Nugent score 4--6) prior to an incident BV visit. At the first visits during which BV was detected, the mean concentrations of *Lactobacillus* genus (−1.51 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.005) and *L. vaginalis* (−1.35 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.021) were statistically significantly lower, and the mean concentrations of *G. vaginalis* (2.84 log~10~ geq/ml; p \< 0.001), *A. vaginae* (3.92 log~10~ geq/ml; p \< 0.001), and *P. bivia* (1.38 log~10~ geq/ml; p = 0.003) higher, than the mean concentrations at the preceding visit. (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). *C. albicans*, *L. jensenii* and *L. gasseri* were never present at any visits in 58%, 60% and 73% of the women, respectively. Mean concentrations of IL-1β (0.66 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.003) and IL-12(p70) (0.22 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.024) were significantly increased, and mean concentrations of IP-10 (−0.39 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.046), elafin (−0.26 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.010), and total protein (−0.17 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.026) significantly decreased, at the first BV incident visit (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).Figure 3Presence/absence and concentration of vaginal microbiota over the eight week study period in women with incident BV (Nugent 7--10). Each box depicts one visit for a particular woman. The shading of the box indicates the concentration level (in log~10~ geq/ml) of each taxon with darker colours depicting a higher concentration. If the species was absent the box is white. Boxes bordered by a red line are the first BV visit for that woman. Boxes in yellow denote visits with an intermediate Nugent score of 4--6 if present before development of BV. Table 4Differences in VMB bacteria and immune mediator concentrations in 40 women with incident BV between the visit before the incident BV visit and the incident BV visit.Visit before the first incident BV visitFirst incident BV visit^1^Mean concentration differenceP^3^Mean concentration^2^Mean concentration^2^**VMB bacteria**Triple taxa qPCR vaginal health score^4^5.440.20−5.24**\<0.001***Lactobacillus* genus7.606.09−1.51**0.005***L. crispatus*1.910.86−1.050.250*L. iners*5.844.85−0.990.080*L. vaginalis*2.761.42−1.35**0.021***G. vaginalis*2.114.952.84**\<0.001***A. vaginae*0.204.123.92**\<0.001***E. coli*3.042.75−0.290.709*P. bivia*1.763.131.38**0.003Immune mediators**Total protein8.298.12−0.17**0.026**IL-1α1.231.490.260.157IL-1β0.691.350.66**0.003**IL-60.771.060.280.081IL-82.072.290.220.104IL-12(p70)−0.000.220.22**0.024**IL-1RA4.714.990.280.250IP-102.632.25−0.39**0.046**MIP-1β0.700.890.180.372GM-CSF0.340.28−0.060.157G-CSF1.961.960.110.579Elafin5.074.81−0.26**0.010**SLPI4.804.62−0.180.287Abbreviations: BV = bacterial vaginosis; G-CSF = granulocyte colony stimulating factor; GM-CSF = granulocyte macrophage colony stimulating factor; IL = interleukin; IP-10 = interferon-inducible protein 10; MIP-1β = macrophage inflammatory protein 1β; SLPI = secretory leukocyte protease inhibitor; VMB = vaginal microbiota.^1^The first incident BV visit was visit 2 for 16 women, visit 3 for 7 women, visit 4 for 11 women and visit 5 for 6 women.^2^Expressed in log~10~ genome equivalents per mL (geq/ml) for VMB bacteria and log~10~ pg/ml for immune mediators.^3^Wilcoxon signed rank tests. ^4^log~10~ geq/ml (*Lactobacillus* genus)−log~10~ geq/ml (*G. vaginalis* + *A. vaginae*).
VMB bacteria and immune mediator associations over time (both groups) {#Sec6}
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In mixed effects linear regression models including all 80 women and controlled for presence and phase of menstrual cycle and PSA presence, a higher 'composite qPCR vaginal health score' was associated with a higher IP-10 concentration (2.53 log~10~ pg/ml; p \< 0.001) and lower IL-1α (−1.14 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.005), IL-8 (−1.55 log~10~ pg/ml; p = 0.002), and IL-12(p70) (−1.80 log~10~ pg/ml; p \< 0.001) concentrations (Table [5](#Tab5){ref-type="table"}). This vaginal health score was calculated as \[log~10~ geq/ml (*Lactobacillus* genus)−log~10~ geq/ml (*G. vaginalis* + *A. vaginae*)\] and a higher score therefore suggests better vaginal health^[@CR26]^. The *Lactobacillus* genus concentration (which is one component of the vaginal health score) showed a similar pattern except that it was not significantly associated with the IL-1α concentration and the reduction in IL-12(p70) concentration did not reach statistical significance. The *L. crispatus* and *L. vaginalis* concentrations were not significantly associated with any immune mediator concentrations over time. The *L. iners* concentration was significantly positively associated with IP-10 and IL-8 concentrations and negatively associated with IL-1α concentration. The *P. bivia* concentration was positively associated with the IL-1α and IL-8 concentrations and negatively associated with the IP-10 concentration, and the *E. coli* concentration was positively associated with the IL-8 concentration.Table 5Longitudinal associations between VMB bacteria and immune mediator concentrations among all visits of all 80 women (with Nugent 0--3 throughout and with incident BV) over the eight week study period.IL-1αIL-8IL-12(p70)IP-10ElafinPSAAmenorrhoeaLuteal phaseEst.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Est.^1^p^1^Triple taxa qPCR vaginal health score^2^−1.14**0.005**−1.55**0.002**−1.80**\<0.001**2.53**\<0.001**0.340.383−1.07**0.002**0.800.1600.520.118*Lactobacillus* genus^3^0.020.939−0.75**0.003**−0.420.1050.92**\<0.001**−0.210.301−0.49**0.005**−0.370.1350.340.054*L. crispatus* ^3^0.490.353−0.490.466−0.050.9210.790.098−0.390.317−0.550.218−1.360.0530.290.452*L. iners* ^3^−0.58**0.020**0.77**0.010**−0.500.1080.49**0.011**−0.420.078−0.380.076−0.260.280−0.100.696*L. vaginalis* ^3^0.240.5630.600.289−0.250.562−0.430.276−0.000.991−0.140.6880.180.722−0.060.849*P. bivia* ^3^0.52**0.004**0.78**0.001**0.030.917−0.69**\<0.001**0.200.296−0.050.759−0.290.214−0.190.268*E. coli* ^3^−0.000.9950.55**0.049**−0.600.0540.280.139−0.050.8320.290.160−0.050.812−0.140.491Abbreviations: BV = bacterial vaginosis; Est = model estimate; IL = interleukin; IP-10 = interferon-inducible protein 10; qPCR = quantitative polymerase chain reaction; PSA = prostate-specific antigen; VMB = vaginal microbiota; vs = versus.^1^From mixed effects multiple regression models with each item in the first column as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and fixed effects for all variables in the first row.^2^log~10~ geq/ml (*Lactobacillus* genus)−log~10~ geq/ml (*G. vaginalis* + *A. vaginae*).^3^For women with the bacteria present during at least 75% of visits and excluding the visits during which the bacteria was absent. We only included VMB bacteria that were consistently present (in at least 75% of the visits) in at least 25% of women.
Discussion {#Sec7}
==========
In this longitudinal study of young sub-Saharan African women, we confirmed that a Nugent score of 0--3 over an eight week period was associated with consistently high concentrations of *Lactobacillus* species (regularly accompanied by much lower concentrations of the BV-associated bacteria *G. vaginalis*, *A. vaginae*, and *P. bivia* and the pathobiont *E. coli*), whereas incident BV was associated with significantly reduced concentrations of lactobacilli and increased concentrations of *G. vaginalis*, *A. vaginae* and *P. bivia*, but not *E. coli*. In women with a normal VMB throughout the study, VMB variations were larger within women over time than between women, as has been seen in other studies^[@CR19]^. *L. iners* and *L. crispatus* were the dominant lactobacilli in our study, as has been seen in studies enrolling Caucasian European and American women^[@CR2],[@CR27],[@CR28]^. However, the following of our findings have not been reported in those studies: *L. crispatus* was often accompanied by *L. vaginalis*; *L. jensenii* and *L. gasseri* were never present in most women; and *E. coli* was regularly present in almost all women. Another important pathobiont in the vaginal niche is *Streptococcus agalactiae*, and unfortunately, we only have qPCR data for that organism at baseline^[@CR29]^. In a cross-sectional baseline analysis of all 430 women in the Vaginal Biomarkers Study using qPCRs, 16% had *S. agalactiae* ^[@CR29]^ and 28% *E. coli* in their VMB^[@CR16]^. The limited number of other molecular VMB studies that reported on *S. agalactiae* and *E. coli* carriage showed varying results, with generally lower detection in studies that employed 16 S sequencing compared to qPCR^[@CR18],[@CR30],[@CR31]^. Vaginal carriage of these pathobionts should be further investigated, preferably by qPCR in longitudinal studies, given their associations with vaginitis, reproductive health, and neonatal meningitis and sepsis^[@CR32]^.
In women with a normal VMB throughout the study, variations in concentrations of soluble immune mediators were greater within women over time than between women, which is in agreement with other studies^[@CR12],[@CR33],[@CR34]^. In the women developing BV, incident BV was associated with increased concentrations of proinflammatory cytokines and decreased concentrations of the antiprotease elafin and IP-10. Other studies have reported similar proinflammatory profiles associated with BV, as well as increased proteolytic activity^[@CR35]--[@CR38]^. IP-10 findings across studies are more difficult to interpret (see below). It should be noted that incident or recurrent urogenital infections other than BV could have been responsible for some of the variation in immune mediators seen. However, none of the 80 women in this study had symptomatic vaginal candidiasis throughout the study and *C. albicans*, detected only occasionally and never more than twice in the same women, was present in low concentrations in the majority of women. Furthermore, we screened all women for STIs at baseline and selected women without STIs (with the exception of chronic HSV-2 infection) for this sub-study. Only women with clinician-observed signs of urogenital infections during the eight-week follow-up period were retested for STIs, but such clinician-observed signs were rare (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}). We therefore believe that incident or recurrent STIs during the eight-week follow-up period were uncommon.
We assessed several other potential correlates of VMB bacteria as well as immune mediator concentration variations in women with a normal VMB throughout the study: the presence and phase of the menstrual cycle, the presence of PSA as a marker of recent sex, and recent vaginal cleansing. Amenorrhoeic women had a reduced concentration of lactobacilli, (notably *L. crispatus*), compared to women with a menstrual cycle even after controlling for PSA presence and recent vaginal cleansing, and this may be due to the induction of a hypo-oestrogenic state during injectable progestin use. Current evidence suggests that the VMB destabilising effect of hypo-oestrogenism in these women is larger than any potential protective effect associated with the absence of regular menstrual bleeding^[@CR30]^. Amenorrhoeic women also had increased concentrations of several proinflammatory immune mediators. This is in agreement with results from two African studies (Tanzania and South Africa/Kenya)^[@CR39],[@CR40]^ but in contrast to the results of a recent study in Kenyan women that showed sustained decreases in IL-6, IL-8, and IL-1RA after initiation of depot medroxyprogesterone acetate (DMPA) injectable contraception^[@CR41]^. The comparison groups in these studies differed, with our study comparing amenorrhoeic injectable progestin users with all other women, the Tanzanian and South Africa/Kenya studies comparing current DMPA users with women not using hormonal contraception, and the Kenyan study comparing women before and after initiation of DMPA use. It is possible that DMPA use is immunosuppressive initially as it binds to the corticosteroid receptor with an affinity similar to that of cortisol^[@CR42]^, but becomes proinflammatory with prolonged use due to increasing hypo-oestrogenism which in turn can lead to VMB dysbiosis and vaginal wall atrophy.
We did find some differences in VMB bacteria and the concentration of immune mediators in samples collected during luteal phase visits compared to follicular phase visits, but these patterns were not consistent. While levels of both oestrogen and progesterone are higher in the luteal phase than the follicular phase of the menstrual cycle, we sampled women around days 9 and 23 of their cycles, and these time points do not correspond with peak hormone levels. Oestrogen in particular is known to associate with higher concentrations of lactobacilli^[@CR17],[@CR43],[@CR44]^. We did see increases in concentrations of *Lactobacillus* genus, *L. crispatus*, and *L. jensenii* at luteal phase visits, but these did not reach statistical significance. The differences in mean immune mediator concentrations between the luteal and follicular phases that we observed were not seen in the earlier mentioned Tanzanian study, and that study assessed menstrual cycle stage more carefully by urine pregnanediol 3-glucuronide testing^[@CR39]^.
Vaginal sex in the last 24--48 hours as measured by the presence of PSA in vaginal swab eluates was associated with concentrations of various lactobacilli, with *L. iners* showing the greatest reduction. PSA presence was also associated with higher concentrations of IL-6, IL-12(p70), and IP-10. Similar effects of recent vaginal sex on the VMB have been previously reported by us^[@CR33]^ and by others^[@CR17],[@CR45]--[@CR47]^. A direct effect was demonstrated *in vitro* when seminal plasma was co-cultured with cervical epithelial cells^[@CR48]^. The VMB-destabilising and proinflammatory effects of sexual activity are likely due to the direct effect of seminal fluid as condom use seems to prevent them^[@CR45],[@CR49]^. Recent vaginal cleansing was not significantly associated with any changes in VMB bacteria or immune mediator concentrations in any of our analyses.
Using data from all 80 women, we investigated the direct associations between the concentrations of VMB bacteria and vaginal immune mediator concentrations over time while controlling for presence and phase of the menstrual cycle and PSA presence. Perhaps the most significant finding was that a higher 'composite qPCR vaginal health score' (suggesting better vaginal health) was associated with decreased concentrations of all three modelled proinflammatory cytokines (IL-1α, IL-8, and IL-12(p70)) and an increased concentration of IP-10. Unfortunately, the sample size of this sub-study was small; some statistically significant associations in the cross-sectional analyses of the Vaginal Biomarkers Study baseline data showed the same trends as this sub-study but did not reach statistical significance^[@CR22]^. When interpreting the cross-sectional^[@CR16],[@CR22]^ and longitudinal data together, we conclude that *Lactobacillus* species are associated with an increase in IP-10 and reductions (*L. crispatus*, *L. vaginalis*) or no change in multiple proinflammatory cytokines; BV-associated bacteria are associated with a decrease in IP-10 and increases in multiple proinflammatory cytokines; and *E. coli* and *S. agalactiae* are associated with increases in IP-10 and multiple proinflammatory cytokines (the *S. agalactiae* data are unpublished). A cross-sectional Canadian study employing 16 S sequencing to characterise the VMB reported very similar results: a decrease in IP-10 and increases in multiple proinflammatory cytokines in women with BV (community state type (CST)-4), and no inflammation but an increase in IP-10 in women with a *L. iners* dominated VMB (CST-3)^[@CR50]^. A longitudinal South African study also found significant increases in multiple proinflammatory cytokines at visits during which vaginal dysbiosis was detected, but no association with IP-10^[@CR12]^. IP-10 (also known as CXCL10) is induced by type I and II interferons and TNF-α and is a ligand for the CXCR3 receptor^[@CR51]--[@CR53]^. IP-10 levels are generally elevated in uncontrolled viral infection, but a reduction of IP-10 levels by pathogenic bacteria, and particularly combinations of bacteria, has been described before^[@CR54]--[@CR57]^. The significance of this remains unclear. A recent study among women in South Africa by Masson *et al*. found that increased IL-1β and reduced IP-10 concentrations in female genital secretions of HIV-negative women predicted the presence of BV and/or other treatable discharge-causing STIs^[@CR37]^. The combination of these two biomarkers identified a significantly higher proportion (77%) of women with BV and treatable STIs than clinical criteria (19%). Consequently, the authors suggested to explore the use of those biomarkers in the detection of BV and discharge causing STIs^[@CR38]^.
Our study had some limitations. Unfortunately, we could not afford to quantify all relevant bacteria and immune mediators in all longitudinal samples from all participants of the Vaginal Biomarkers Study. The current sub-study design was considered a next best but feasible alternative. This design required us to select women based on longitudinal Nugent scores, which are a cruder way of classifying VMBs than the molecular methods we employed in the sub-study. However, multiple studies have shown a good correlation between the two methods in classifying woman as having a lactobacilli-dominated or dysbiotic VMB^[@CR1]^, with the molecular testing adding nuance. Our sub-study design also reduced our statistical power, especially related to the potential effects of VMB minority species. Due to the stringent selection criteria, our results may not be generalisable to all women.
In conclusion, our well-controlled longitudinal data confirm the inflammatory nature of anaerobic vaginal dysbiosis and *E. coli* colonisation, recent vaginal sex, and progestin-injectable use. While anaerobic vaginal dysbiosis or BV is by far the most common vaginal dysbiosis, high abundance of *E. coli*, *S. agalactiae*, and other pathobionts as a distinct inflammatory vaginal dysbiosis deserves further study. The roles of a selection of the vaginal mediators (IL-1α, IL-1β, IL-8, IL-12, IP-10) with or without the composite qPCR vaginal health score as predictive biomarkers for the above conditions warrant further investigation.
Methods {#Sec8}
=======
Ethical approvals {#Sec9}
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The study protocol was approved by the Ethical Review Committee, Kenyatta National Hospital, Kenya; the Human Research Ethics Committee (Medical), University of the Witwatersrand, South Africa; the Rwanda National Ethics Committee, Rwanda; the Institutional Review Board of the Institute of Tropical Medicine (ITM), Belgium; and the ethics committees of the Ghent University Hospital in Ghent and the Antwerp University Hospital in Antwerp, Belgium. In addition the study was approved by the National Council of Science and Technology, Kenya; and the National Health Research Committee, Rwanda. All methods described below were performed in accordance with the relevant guidelines and regulations.
Study participants and clinic visits {#Sec10}
------------------------------------
This paper describes a longitudinal analysis of 80 women who were part of the Vaginal Biomarkers Study, which enrolled a total of 430 women at three study sites: the International Centre of Reproductive Health Kenya in Mombasa, Kenya; the Wits Reproductive Health and HIV Institute in Johannesburg, South Africa and Rinda Ubuzima in Kigali, Rwanda. In the original study design, women were recruited into predefined groups: HIV-negative adult women (N = 219), adolescents (N = 60), and pregnant women (N = 60) in Kenya and South Africa; HIV-positive women (N = 30) and HIV-negative sex workers (N = 30) in Rwanda; and women engaging in traditional vaginal practices in South Africa (N = 31). For the current analysis, we selected 40 women who had a normal VMB (defined as a Nugent score of 0--3) at five consecutive visits over eight weeks and 40 women who had a normal VMB at baseline and incident BV (defined as a Nugent score of 7--10) at one of the four follow-up visits over eight weeks. Additional selection criteria were: none of the relevant samples were missing; women tested negative for pregnancy, HIV, syphilis, *N. gonorrhoeae*, *C. trachomatis*, *T. vaginalis*), and vaginal candidiasis at baseline and did not become HIV-positive or pregnant (reference group) during follow-up; and reported not to engage in traditional vaginal practices (such as the use of cloth, lemon juice or detergents inside the vagina) at baseline. Women with positive HSV-2 serology at baseline were included due to the high prevalence of 34%. A total of 54 and 48 women qualified for the reference and incident BV groups, respectively, and 40 women were selected for each group from among the qualifying women at random. No matching was done.
Women were followed for five consecutive visits over eight weeks. The visits were tightly scheduled around the menstrual cycle with the enrolment visit (visit 1) scheduled shortly after the last day of the menstrual period on day 9 (±2 days) of the cycle; the absence of menses was verified during vaginal examination at this visit. The next four visits were scheduled with two week intervals over two menstrual cycles (visits 2--5). Thus, visits 3 and 5 coincided with day 9 (±2 days) of the menstrual cycle (the follicular phase) and visits 2 and 4 with day 23 (±2 days) or the luteal phase. The same visit schedule was followed for women using hormonal contraception, including those who were amenorrhoeic due to progestin-injectable use. At baseline, eligible women interested in participating provided written informed consent, were interviewed about sociodemographic and behavioural characteristics, underwent a physical and vaginal examination, and were tested for HIV and the above-mentioned reproductive tract infections. Interviews and vaginal examinations were also done at all subsequent visits.
Sample collection {#Sec11}
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At each of the five visits included in this sub-study, the following samples were collected before any other procedures in the following order: two sterile flocked swabs (Copan Diagnostics, Inc., Murrieta, CA) that were rotated against the mid-portion of the vaginal wall under visual inspection, dipped in the posterior fornix and carefully removed to prevent contamination; and a CVL that was obtained by gently flushing 10 ml normal saline through the speculum and aspirating the fluid from the posterior fornix. At each study site, one trained clinician performed all the examinations using one standard operating procedure to minimise inter-clinician variability.
Sample processing {#Sec12}
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CVLs were collected in 15 ml falcon tubes, kept on ice for transport (2--8 °C), and processed within a maximum of one hour after collection. CVLs were centrifuged at 1,000 x g for 10 minutes at 4 °C and supernatants (\~9 ml) were aliquoted into three fractions; two of approximately 4 ml each and one of 1 ml. The aliquots were stored at −80 °C locally. CVLs and vaginal swabs, frozen at −80 °C, were shipped in batches using a temperature-monitored dry shipper to the central laboratory at the ITM in Antwerp, Belgium, where they were stored at −80 °C before analysis of soluble immune mediators and VMB bacteria.
Characterisation of vaginal microbiota {#Sec13}
--------------------------------------
Vaginal Gram-stained slides were examined and scored at the ITM using the Nugent method^[@CR14]^. qPCR was performed on extracted DNA from vaginal swab eluates for the following ten species and one genus: *Lactobacillus* genus, *L. crispatus*, *L. gasseri*, *L. iners*, *L. jensenii*, *L. vaginalis*, *A. vaginae*, *G. vaginalis*, *E. coli*, *P. bivia*, and *C. albicans* and in duplicate at the ITM and at the University of Ghent, Belgium, as previously described^[@CR16],[@CR18]^. The number of organisms was expressed as genome equivalents per ml (geq/ml); the genomic concentration was calculated using the described genomic sizes of the type strains.
Quantification of soluble immune mediators in CVLs {#Sec14}
--------------------------------------------------
Concentrations of the cytokines IL-1α, IL-1β, IL-6 and IL-12(p70), MIP-1β, IP-10 and IL-8, and growth factors GM-CSF and G-CSF in CVLs were measured at the ITM using the Bio-Plex™ human cytokine assay kit (Bio-Rad Laboratories NV-SA, Nazareth, Belgium) as previously described^[@CR33]^. Elafin, SLPI, IL-1RA and the total protein concentration in CVLs were measured in the Laboratory of Genital Tract Biology, Brigham and Women's Hospital, Boston, MA, USA. Elafin and SLPI were quantified using ELISA kits from R&D Systems (Minneapolis, MN) following manufacturers' instructions. IL-1RA was measured using the Meso Scale Discovery (MSD) multiplex platform and Sector Imager 2400 (MSD, Gaithersburg, MD). The MSD Discovery Workbench Software was used to convert relative luminescent units into protein concentrations (pg/ml) using interpolation from several log calibrator curves. Total protein in CVLs was determined by a bicinchoninic acid (BCA) assay (Thermo Scientific, Rockford, IL) using the Victor 2 counter. Optical densities were read at 450 nm with a second reference filter of 570 nm using a Victor2 multi-label reader and WorkOut Software (PerkinElmer, Waltham, MA).
Prostate-specific antigen detection {#Sec15}
-----------------------------------
PSA was measured in vaginal swab eluates using the Seratec^®^ PSA semiquant assay (Seratec Diagnostica, Göttingen, Germany). A volume of 150 µl of the eluate, in diluted phosphate buffered saline (1,200 μl; 1 part phosphate buffered saline and 9 parts saline, pH 7.4), was centrifuged for 10 min at 13,000 x g. After centrifugation, 120 µl of supernatant was used for testing according to the manufacturer's instructions.
Data analysis {#Sec16}
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Statistical analyses were performed using Stata 13 (StataCorp, College Station, TX), SAS 9.4 (SAS Institute Inc, Cary, NC) and R 3.0.1 (The R Foundation, Vienna, Austria). Over the five study visits, the detection of individual VMB bacteria by qPCR was classified as follows: never present; sporadically present (present at 25% or fewer visits); regularly present (present at 26--74% of visits) and consistently present (present at 75% or more visits). The concentrations of VMB bacteria (in geq/ml) and immune mediators (in pg/ml) were log~10~ transformed in all analyses.
For the women with a normal VMB throughout the study: Longitudinal variations in the concentrations of VMB bacteria were assessed in mixed effects linear regression models for those VMB bacteria consistently present in at least 25% of the women with a normal VMB throughout the study. All models included one VMB bacteria as the outcome and individual women as random effects. We added the following fixed effects: sampling in the luteal (visits 2 and 4) versus follicular phase (visits 1, 3 and 5) of the menstrual cycle, the absence (amenorrhoea due to progestin-injectable use) or presence of a menstrual cycle (either a natural cycle or regular withdrawal bleeds during combined contraceptive use), presence of PSA as a marker of sex within the last 24--48 hours^[@CR23],[@CR24]^, and recent vaginal cleansing (the evening or morning just prior to the study visit).
For the women with a consistently normal VMB, mixed effects linear regression models were also fitted with each immune marker concentration as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and including presence and phase of the menstrual cycle as fixed effects. Further mixed effects linear regression models for each marker as outcome, controlled for presence and phase of the menstrual cycle, were fitted separately for the following covariates: vaginal pH category (\<4.0, 4.0--4.5, \>4.5), presence of clinician-observed abnormal vaginal discharge, cervical mucus, a cervical epithelial finding (abrasion, laceration, ecchymosis, petechiae, erythema, or ulcer), vaginal cleansing, and PSA. These covariates were selected based on previous cross-sectional analyses in the same study population^[@CR16],[@CR21],[@CR22]^ and based on the published literature^[@CR7],[@CR39]^.
In the women with incident BV, we assessed the mean change in concentrations of VMB bacteria and immune mediators between the visit preceding the first incident BV visit and the first incident BV visit using Wilcoxon signed rank tests. Furthermore, the direct associations between VMB bacteria concentrations (for VMB bacteria consistently present in at least 25% of the women) and immune marker concentrations (IL-1α, IL-8, IL-12, IP-10, and elafin) were determined in mixed effects linear regression models in all 80 women. All models included the concentration of an individual VMB bacterium as the outcome, individual women as random effects, and the following fixed effects: each immune mediator concentration, PSA presence, and presence and phase of menstrual cycle. We also considered a 'triple taxa qPCR vaginal health score' based on the concentrations of three key VMB bacteria \[log~10~ (*Lactobacillus* genus)−log~10~ (*G. vaginalis* + *A. vaginae*)\] as the outcome because this score was shown to be the best indicator of vaginal health in the Vaginal Biomarkers Study^[@CR26]^.
Data availability {#Sec17}
-----------------
According to the Institute of Tropical Medicine's policy, all data are available from the Institute of Tropical Medicine Institutional Data Access for researchers who meet the criteria for access to confidential data. Requests for data access can be made by emailing Mr. Jef Verellen, Quality Specialist at ITMresearchdataaccess\@itg.be.
Vicky Jespers and Jordan Kyongo contributed equally to this work.
**Publisher\'s note:** Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
This work was supported by the European and Developing Countries Clinical Trials Partnership (EDCTP) as part of a grant titled "Characterisation of novel microbicide safety biomarkers in East and South Africa"; grant number: IP_2007_33070_001. The views expressed in this manuscript are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of EDCTP. The authors wish to thank the study participants and the Vaginal Biomarkers Study teams at the International Centre for Reproductive Health in Mombasa, Kenya (PIs: Mary Mwaura and Kishor Mandaliya), and in Ghent, Belgium; the Wits Reproductive Health and HIV Institute, Johannesburg, South-Africa (PI: Sinead Delany-Moretlwe); Rinda Ubuzima in Kigali, Rwanda (PI: Gilles Ndayisaba); the Institute of Tropical Medicine in Antwerp, Belgium; the Amsterdam Institute of Global Health and Development in Amsterdam, the Netherlands; the MRC Clinical Trials Unit at University College London, United Kingdom; and the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine in London, United Kingdom. The authors also thank Kevin Ariën and Raina Fichorova for contributions to the immunology testing, and Joris Menten for contributions to the statistical analyses.
Conceived and designed the study: V.J., J.VDW., G.V., T.C. Performed the study & experiments: M.M., S.D., G.N., J.K, L.H., T.C., P.C., S.J. Analysed the data: J.B., V.J., J.K. Wrote the original paper: V.J., J.K., J.V.D.W. Reviewed and contributed to the paper: all authors.
Competing Interests {#FPar1}
===================
The authors declare that they have no competing interests.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
Stephen A. Smith would love to see Mike Tomlin get a Jon Gruden-type deal and have complete control of football operations for the Redskins. (2:02)
Stephen A. wants Tomlin to get control of the Redskins (2:02)
ALAMEDA, Calif. -- While Oakland Raiders coach Jon Gruden would not speculate on whether his brother Jay might join his staff after being fired by the Washington Redskins on Monday, the elder Gruden did stick up for his younger brother.
And he did so with a nod and a wink.
"I'm obviously very disappointed for my brother," Gruden said Tuesday during his weekly media conference. "It was a long night, last couple of nights. He worked hard. Got a lot of respect for my brother. Obviously, disappointed for him getting fired."
But ...
"My dad's been fired," Gruden added. "I've been fired. Jay's been fired and ... welcome to the club, bro."
Gruden, who was traded from Oakland to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in 2001, founded his somewhat satirical Fired Football Coaches Association when he was dismissed by the Bucs in 2008. He spent the next nine seasons in ESPN's "Monday Night Football" booth before returning to the Raiders last year.
Meanwhile, Los Angeles Rams coach Sean McVay, a former Redskins offensive coordinator under Jay Gruden who got his first NFL job on the Tampa Bay staff with Jon, said he exchanged texts with Jay Gruden on Monday and called it a "tough situation" for a close friend.
McVay worked with Jay Gruden for the Florida Tuskers of the UFL in 2009 and with Washington from 2014 to '16.
"When I was his coordinator, in a lot of ways he kind of groomed me and brought me along to where you kind of learn some of the things about how you're setting up a game plan," McVay said of Jay Gruden. "He protected me from a lot of the things."
McVay was asked whether he'd consider adding Jay Gruden to his staff.
"He'll have a lot of options," McVay said. "Those are things that I think we'll, I'm sure, discuss at some point. But right now it's more about just reaching out to a buddy and seeing how he's doing."
With consecutive wins at the Indianapolis Colts and in London against the Chicago Bears, Jon Gruden gave the Raiders (3-2) the entire bye week off, except one player -- wide receiver Zay Jones, who was officially acquired in a trade with the Buffalo Bills on Tuesday.
"I'm gonna teach Zay Jones some plays today," a smiling Gruden said when asked how he was going to spend his bye week. "And I'm gonna come in tomorrow and teach Zay Jones some more plays."
Gruden opened his presser Tuesday by acknowledging the eighth anniversary of Al Davis' passing -- which occurred Oct. 8, 2011.
"My respects go out to the Davis family," Gruden said. "And I know if Al Davis was still here, he would have been proud of our team, the way they've played the last couple of weeks." | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
/// Why Netflix Getting What It Wants From Congress Means Your Email Will Get Warrant Protection
Good news today for those people worried about the government snooping in their inboxes. The Senate Judiciary Committee approved a bill Thursday that would require the feds and the po-po to get a warrant before they can get access to your email. That means getting a judge involved, and it would be an improvement from the current state of affairs. As David Kravets at Wired ably explains, the law governing your email is outdated, giving little protection to email in the cloud after it’s been there for 6 months. When the Electronic Communications Privacy Act was first passed in 1986, after all, email that sat around in transit for that long was seen as being “abandoned” because you hadn’t downloaded it to your computer.
“This is an important gain for privacy. We are very happy that the committee voted that all electronic content like emails, photos and other communications held by companies like Google and Facebook should be protected with a search warrant,” said Chris Calabrese, legislative counsel for the American Civil Liberties Union in a statement. “We believe law enforcement should use the same standard to search your inbox that they do to search your home.”
Privacy advocates have been wishing and praying and hoping for email privacy reform to happen for years now. The battle is far from over — the bill still needs to get the attention and approval of the House and Senate — but it’s a big step forward. How did it finally happen?
Senator Patrick Leahy tacked the amendment updating ECPA on to another bill that’s been fast-tracked this year thanks in part to the efforts of Netflix and Facebook. The ECPA amendment is attached to H.R. 2471, a bill to amend yet another piece of privacy legislation, the Video Privacy Protection Act. This is an act that was passed to protect the privacy of your video rental records, brought about after an enterprising Washington City Paper reporter shocked lawmakers by getting and publishing Supreme Court nominee Robert Bork’s Blockbuster rentals. The knee-jerk bill forbids video providers from disclosing what you watch; they have to get your explicit consent every time they want to share that info.
This has been a thorn in the side for Netflix, preventing the video giant from taking advantage of Facebook’s “frictionless sharing.” So Netflix and Facebook and others have been pushing Congress to change the law so that Netflix can help your friends spam your newsfeed with their movie selections. Despite some criticism from privacy advocates who are concerned that it will “reduc[e] consumer control over another category of sensitive, personal information,” lawmakers have seemed open to making the change so that you can grant a company the right to share your watching habits in one fell swoop as you already can with your reading and listening habits. (Yes, talking about you, Washington Post Social Reader and Spotify users.)
During the hearing today, Senator Diane Feinstein added an amendment to the VPPA legislation to allow users to retain some control. Companies would only be granted a two-year right to share and broadcast your movie habits; after two years, they’ll have to ask for consumer consent again.
Seeing the momentum the VPPA update had, Leahy tacked the ECPA reform amendment onto it. Little did Leahy know, extra momentum would come in the form of the recent David Petraeus scandal and the questionable investigation that allowed FBI agents to get access to his sexy emails with, as far as we currently know, little judicial oversight.
So, if Congress passes the bill, you’ll wind up losing a little movie rental privacy in exchange for better email protection. When the film about the Petraeus email scandal inevitably comes out, I hope you’ll appreciate the irony when you watch it on Netflix and the fact that you did so pops up on your Facebook Timeline.
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Talk NYC/WW is your daily download of the tech, marketing and advertising news you need to know. It’s smartly curated to keep you up to speed on the innovators and innovations that are shaking up the digital world today. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
I AM ON ALL FOURS on the Lake Superior shore, ogling the contents of a pothole: pebbles and cobbles, water, and the sun’s direct rays. Shirt sleeves rolled, I survey the colors — muted purples, greens, yellows, and blacks. I choose a stone, then reach in to retrieve it. So the process goes: like a god selecting souls, I compile a handful of stones, then move to the next pothole to see what it has to offer.
When we get home, my husband buys two field guides: Is This an Agate? and Lake Superior Rocks & Minerals. I’ve never been adept at identifying rocks. This granite we found — pink and speckled as a kestrel egg — is composed of quartz, mica, and feldspar. There is feldspar again in a pepper-colored rock I think might be diabase, but here the feldspar is mixed with augite and possibly hornblende, magnetite or olivine. You can see how things get complicated.
The difficulty goes deeper than simple composition. When identifying a rock, you often must detect the almost unfathomable process that melded its minerals together. Several of my rocks could be quartz or metamorphosed sandstone — quartz subjected to high temperatures and pressure, which would make them quartzite. The only difference, my field guide says, is that quartzite has a little more texture. Identifying rocks, it seems, is more about parts than wholes, more about process than product. It is less about naming what you’ve found than about understanding how that thing came to be. In this case, how volcanoes, glaciers, and plate tectonics, over billions of years, produced and changed the rocks I hold in my hand. And how ten thousand years of wave action in Lake Superior smoothed them into something I want to take with me.
With flowers, categorizing is a simple matching game: look at the flower, look at the field guide picture. Is it the same size, shape, and color? Even birds, which can disappear in an instant, aren’t as perplexing to me as the rocks I can carry home to study with the aid of a library of reference books. Once, at a relative’s cabin in northern Wisconsin, an odd bird landed on the deck seemingly just to confound us. Warbler-sized, the bird was a bright olive green with black wings and tail, blotches of white on its underside, and speckles and blotches of neon orange on its throat, head, and belly. It looked like a parakeet. But even without internet, and with only a few generic field guides dug out of a neighbor’s basement, we identified it within three hours: a molting male scarlet tanager.
My understanding of rocks seems to go only as far as the broad divisions taught in grade school, and even on these categories I don’t have a firm hold. So I look up definitions. Igneous rocks are basically cooled lava. Sedimentary rocks are compacted, cemented-together pieces of other broken-up rocks. And metamorphic rocks are rocks that have changed form. A University of Oregon website states: “Just as any person can be put into one of two main categories of human being, all rocks can be put into one of three fundamentally different types of rocks.” Though the website clearly defines the rock types, it doesn’t say anything about the two categories of human being, and I can’t help thinking about the options that lie beyond the obvious divisions of male and female. Gay or straight? Accepted or marginalized? Convinced or uncertain?
I LIKE TO ROAM the forest naming things. Wood anemone. Rue anemone. False rue anemone. I wonder what makes the third one false: its more deeply lobed leaves, its slightly smaller flowers? It’s a buttercup, like the other two; but not, my Newcomb’s Wildflower Guide indicates, an anemone.
When I was an environmental educator, I taught a class called Stone Wall Study. I hiked my mostly elementary-aged students to a wall — one with its upper boulders spilled in the sun and gaps through which two could pass abreast — and asked them to speculate on the wall’s original purpose, as well as to investigate the distinct habitats it now delineated. On one side was a red pine plantation; on the other, a mixed deciduous forest. Which side of the wall looks more natural? I would ask. Did the wall keep something out or something in? Once, during the class, I thought I had discovered a new species: on the wild side of the wall was what looked like an anemone with multiple tiers of petals, its flower a fancy petticoat, like some kind of double hybrid. When I couldn’t find it in my books, I brought a local biology professor to check it out. Not a new species, he said, just an anemone with some kind of odd gene.
I don’t know how well my students could imagine the farmer’s sons who dutifully dug the rocks from the soil and piled them on the wall to provide safety for a few dairy cows, or the Civilian Conservation Corps crew that planted the red pines in the deserted pasture one hundred years later. Even with more life experience than my students, I myself have trouble imagining what I can’t see, and what has occurred over a period of time longer than a lifespan. I am baffled by the process that created the rock, known as Shawangunk conglomerate, of which this particular wall was composed. I’ve always been plagued with a mental deficit for understanding composition, processes, and change — the kind of thinking the stones I have brought home from Lake Superior also demand — and this deficit has extended far beyond my ability to properly identify our planet’s rocky foundations.
All my life I’ve battled a sort of dyslexia of cause and effect. On a recent canoe trip, I was mystified by a high browse line on the trees overhanging a lake. Did the deer stand in the water and dine? How tall could the deer possibly be? I wondered, until someone explained that in winter the lake froze, and they walked across the ice to graze. A weirder example: growing up in the early ’80s, I lived for a while under the fear that contracting AIDS turned you gay. My older sister set me straight, telling me AIDS actually killed you. It didn’t make you gay; gay people got it. I was, initially, relieved: if I contracted AIDS I wouldn’t turn gay, only die. (Now, older and away from religious and family creeds, this response, of course, is embarrassing.) But almost immediately a seemingly darker worry surfaced: without a disease to cause homosexuality, how could I be sure to avoid this “affliction”? (For, at the time, that is what I had gathered from society that homosexuality was.) “How do you know if you’re gay?” I asked my sister. The question arose from a presexual mind — one that couldn’t yet fathom romantic love or physical attraction to anything. “You just wake up one morning and you know,” was her response.
I couldn’t understand how one day you would not know and the next you would, so I imagined it must be like getting your period — a milestone still many years off for me. I assumed you would open your eyes one morning and pull back the covers to reveal, on the bed sheets, written in blood, the universe’s edict: gay or straight. I believed you had no say in the matter, that the issue was as tightly and long-ago cemented as a conglomerate’s quartz and pebbles.
The issue, though, is much more complex. Some evidence does point to sexual orientation as something people awaken to — an inborn predisposition. Identical twins are more likely to both be homosexual than fraternal twins or non-twin siblings. And having several older biological brothers — whether you live with them or not — slightly increases a man’s chance of being homosexual (from 3 percent to 5 percent), implying that the cause occurs prenatally. However, sexual orientation and sexual behavior are also considerably influenced by social and cultural factors. Among the Marind-anim people of southern Papua New Guinea, teen boys freely engage in homosexual relations with each other and with older married men, whereas all women are presumed heterosexual. In ancient Greece, men in their twenties permissibly wooed boys whose beards had yet to grow.
Perhaps my childhood fears were influenced by a society focused too much on sex and not enough on love. As it turns out, recent research and theory indicate that human sexuality — especially women’s — may harbor a subtle plasticity. Whether you fall into the category of heterosexual or homosexual, your sexuality may include a secondary characteristic that enables you to fall in love with people who contradict your sexual orientation. Regardless of any “odd” genes or environmental conditions (in womb or world) that may lead to one or another sexual orientation, love, it appears, is ultimately metamorphic.
ON THE NIGHT OF March 30, 1778, in Woodstock, Ireland, twenty-three-year-old Sarah Ponsonby donned men’s clothing, grabbed a pistol and her little dog, Frisk, then climbed out the parlor window of the Georgian mansion where she lived with the family of her first cousin, Irish aristocrat William Fownes.
Twelve miles away, at Kilkenny Castle at ten p.m. that same night, thirty-nine-year-old Eleanor Butler, daughter of one of the period’s most powerful Irish families, also put on men’s clothing and secretly mounted a horse bound for Woodstock. Once there, she hid in a barn and waited for her dear friend. Avoiding unwanted marriages, they planned to travel twenty-three miles to Waterford, board a boat for England, and withdraw to the countryside to live together. Their escape did not succeed. The two women were returned to their families, who were relieved that the elopements did not involve men, which would have undermined the ladies’ honor.
Sarah and Eleanor persisted, though, and openly now, in their desire to live together. Threatened with being sent to a convent, Eleanor escaped again, fled to the Ponsonby estate, snuck in through a hall window (aided by a housemaid), and hid in Sarah’s closet. A day later she was discovered, but instead of coming to retrieve his daughter, Eleanor Butler’s father sent word the two women could go away together. For ten days the Fownes family resisted, but when Sarah declared at all costs her one desire was “to live and die with Miss Butler,” they too relented. Early on a May morning the two ladies left, with Sarah’s housemaid, in a coach provided by the Butlers. Their journey ended in Llangollen, Wales, where they lived together for fifty years, studying literature and languages, writing letters and diaries, helping the poor, gardening, and running a small dairy. Despite keeping to themselves, they became widely known as “the ladies,” and later “the Ladies of Llangollen.”
For over a century, people have tried to identify what these two women were. Were they lesbians or, as we so diminutively tend to put it, were they just friends?
ATTEMPTING TO IDENTIFY my rocks, I pause at a page in the field guide between Jasper and Laumontite titled Junk. It is structured the same as every other page, with a map depicting junk’s occurrence along Lake Superior in the upper right corner and the same headings, like HARDNESS and STREAK, in the left margin. Next to SIZE the text reads: “Beach junk can be as small as a shard of glass or as large as furniture or appliances.” Next to WHERE TO LOOK the book says, “You can find beach junk all around the shores of Lake Superior.” It’s amusing to me that beach junk, though its name implies a lack of value, is important enough to have garnered a page in the guide and that, although the idea of beach junk having a universal hardness or streak is ludicrous, an attempt has been made to mold such a find into the accepted classification system of rocks and minerals. But I’m confused by the accompanying picture, which shows a porcelain tile, beach glass, rusty metal, an aluminum blob, slag glass, and a piece of driftwood. How does driftwood — something natural, something people collect — fit into the same category as discarded furniture and appliances — basically trash? I suppose it’s all about perspective. Like being “just friends” when you might be lovers, to a rockhound, even driftwood is junk.
MOST SCHOLARS call the eighteenth-century relationship enjoyed by the Ladies of Llangollen “romantic friendship” — a particularly intense, exclusive, intimate, asexual love between same-sex friends (either male or female) that may or may not include holding hands, cuddling, kissing, cohabitating, and sharing a bed. Though the term “romantic friendship” did not come into use until the nineteenth century, passionate nonerotic friendships had already existed and been considered ordinary for some time: Plato describes them in his Symposium, circa 385 bc; Montaigne describes them in his essay “Of Friendship,” dated mid-sixteenth century. During Victorian times, romantic friendships flourished between middle- and upper-class women, likely because Victorian men and women — even married couples — resided in two opposing worlds, marriages were often arranged, divorce was rarely sanctioned, and women were assumed to be uninterested in sex. Thus, ardent female friendships — like the relationship between Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby — were tolerated and even encouraged.
These relationships have been tagged with all sorts of labels. Intimate friendships between college-aged women were termed “smashes” in nineteenth-century literature. “Boston marriage,” another widely used phrase, originated in Henry James’s novel The Bostonians. The phrase “mummy-baby friendships” comes from studies in Lesotho, South Africa, where intimate relationships between younger girls and slightly older girls are part of the female social order. Yet another name, “Tom-Dee relationships,” is borrowed from Thailand; Tom is short for tomboy, and Dee for lady.
Even though contemporary America does have terms for intimate, nonsexual, same-sex relationships, such as “bromance” and “womance,” it’s hard for the modern American mind to understand and accept the concept. In the school where I teach, students titter at the way Brutus and Cassius speak of each other in Julius Caesar, throwing the words love and lover around shamelessly. According to Lillian Faderman, author of Surpassing the Love of Men: Romantic Friendship and Love Between Women from the Renaissance to the Present, society began scorning intimate same-sex friendships around 1920: “Such friendships are usually dismissed by attributing them to the facile sentimentality of other centuries, or by explaining them in neat terms such as ‘lesbian,’ meaning sexual proclivity. We have learned to deny such a depth of feeling toward anyone but a prospective or an actual mate.”
As Faderman implies, everything today must be about sex. The idea of romantic friendship washes up on the shores of our post-Freudian era like so much beach junk, its field marks smoothed through the last century into something difficult to identify but simple to lump into a single, discriminatory category: latent homosexuality.
THE LORD’s PRAYER of metamorphism goes like this: limestone to marble, sandstone to quartzite, shale to slate, granite to gneiss. I can recite it as if I am practicing for some kind of religious confirmation. But even as I utter the words, I don’t really understand them. I remember the rock cycle. Igneous rock can become sedimentary or metamorphic. Sedimentary rock can become igneous or metamorphic. Metamorphic rock can become igneous, sedimentary, or even a new kind of metamorphic. But I am baffled by any description of how these processes actually work.
Limestone to marble, sandstone to quartzite, shale to slate, granite to gneiss. I recite the words again. At what point does the granite become gneiss? On what day? At what hour? That old dyslexia kicks in. Where is the line or the moment in time that divides what it once was and what it now is? Metamorphism, my source says, is impossible to observe; it can only be studied after some sort of weathering, erosion, or uplift. Often the processes that caused the change are tricky to discern. And metamorphism is not sudden; it takes millions of years for rocks to change.
The changes that we suffer within ourselves can be just as incomprehensible. For a heterosexual, falling into a particularly intimate friendship with someone of the same sex (or, for a homosexual, someone of the opposite sex) can lead to a small crisis of identity when considered within the restrictive categories we currently use to describe relationships and sexuality. When Basil Hallward first saw Dorian in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, he stated, “I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.” I have met a woman like this.
SHE IS WHERE I have never been. She is almost always where I have never been. This time it is Biakpa, Ghana. Her husband is ill, in bed. She reads and looks for insects. She feeds grains of rice to three types of ant colonies, watches snails mate, finds a cigar-sized millipede. There are moths whose wings look like animal eyes or dead leaves, a green bug that looks like a green leaf, huge spiders, a caterpillar that hangs upside down from the ceiling with a tube that covers its body. Hard-skinned grubs stick to both the ceiling and the cement wall; their colors match what attracts them. She and the local kitty hunt in the evening. Where she crouches and looks, it crouches and looks, then it kills what she sees.
I know this because she has written me. In fact, what I have written above is almost entirely plagiarized — her version of herself, which she meant for only me to see. What I remember is her turning to laugh as she locked the cabin door before a hike during a three-day weekend in the woods, no husbands, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I was startled because I saw age in her face. The last time I had felt so close to a friend I was young. And this woman was as old as my mother was then, and I am old enough to be my mother then, and neither of us are mothers — which is beside the point, but maybe it isn’t. Inside us are half of each child we’ve never had and some small piece of all the women we’ve descended from. When I admire the distal edges of her fingernails, white and perfectly curved like the horizon of Ely, Minnesota, must have been the weekend she went mushing — which I read about on her travel blog (also there: a picture of her juggling with dried mud for some children along the Mekong River) — when I admire these things, it is because I love her passion for living.
One night, we are actually in the same place: full of seafood and wine, seated between our husbands at the musical Wicked. When the lovely Glinda, who becomes the Good Witch, sings to the emerald green Elphaba, future Wicked Witch of the West, “Because I knew you, I’ve been changed for good,” she whispers, “That’s us!” and grabs my hand. I am taken by surprise. I whisper back, joking, “I guess I’m Elphaba.” I say this because my friend is beautiful: hair the almost-black of the basalt I brought home from the lake, eyes as blue as the kind of cloudless sky that almost everywhere, you must patiently await.
For one week, in the month of July, I go to where she is. To her favorite place on earth: high desert, a place that’s made of circumstantial evidence — dry riverbeds, already eroded buttes and mesas, a beauty mute and built on abstinence. She plans a ten-mile loop hike at Capitol Reef National Park, which sounds marine but water is scarce here. We don’t have four-wheel drive so we have to hike five extra miles, round trip, to and from the trailhead. My husband comes along. Her husband stays back — at the end of our hike, he will meet us on the road, the blue plastic tub they use to wash their camp dishes filled with ice and a two-liter Diet Coke.
None of the dreams I had of hiking side-by-side, steeped in conversation, pan out because I hike much faster than she, especially on the uphills, which once or twice have made her faint. We hike to the lip of the waterpocket fold, a hundred-mile-long gash in the earth’s crust, the rocks on one side lifted seven thousand feet higher than the other. It is dry, beautiful, alien. But by the end of the fifteen miles, I trail behind her and my husband, in so much pain I am crying. It’s because of the pounding, she says. These are not the soft soil trails of the forest. Everything is rock.
She is where I would like to be. I do not mean that she is there. I mean that she is this thing: a sun-warmed rock next to a rushing stream — a rejuvenating combination of sunlight, stone, and water. When I travel, I seek out these things. Likewise, she is where my mind goes when it decides to wander.
CONSTANT THOUGHT about the object of desire is a common sign of romantic love, as are a need for proximity and physical contact, despair at separation, elation when the object of desire gives you attention, and a tremendous awareness and understanding of the partner’s moods. But in the article “What Does Sexual Orientation Orient?” Lisa Diamond points out that these feelings and behaviors also characterize the infant-caregiver bond. And who has not heard a new mother comment that she is totally “in love” with her child? Although we may not remember it, we were in love with our parents, too, during the first year or so of our lives.
The mistake most of us make is to assume romantic love evolved to ensure that mammalian mothers and fathers stuck together to raise their highly dependent young and, thus, that it occurs in concert with sexual desire, and is only legitimate when directed toward the opposite sex. But it’s likely that romantic love between adults is what’s known as an exaptation, a trait evolved for one reason but co-opted for something else. Here’s why: from an evolutionary standpoint, long before there was “mating for life” there was the necessity for a mother to bond with her child — creating a totally physical, totally loving, but totally asexual relationship between her and either a daughter or son. The point here, as Lisa Diamond puts it, is that “romantic love and sexual desire are functionally independent,” and “love knows no gender.” In fact, humans may be biologically predisposed to experience romantic friendship.
THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON website that divided humanity into two undeniable (but unstated) groups gave this definition for metamorphism: rocks that have “moved into an environment in which the minerals which make up the rock become unstable and out of equilibrium with the new environmental conditions.” So metamorphism is situation-dependent. It’s the process of adjusting to some kind of change, usually caused by increased temperature or pressure. Above 200 degrees Celsius (392 degrees Fahrenheit) rocks begin to recrystallize. Whatever elements are available in the original rock will be broken down and recombined in a different way, creating new minerals.
If temperatures reach 600 degrees Celsius, a complete meltdown occurs: rocks become magma, which, when it cools, creates igneous rocks, something entirely new. But during metamorphism, nothing is lost or added at the elemental level. The basic composition stays the same, which is what is so complex about it: that the rock can still be what it is and yet be in the process of becoming something slightly different. What I don’t get about metamorphism, that the metamorphism takes place while the rocks are in a solid state, is also perhaps what is so groundbreaking about new theories on human sexuality: according to Lisa Diamond, it is possible for a person’s sexual desire to change in the context of a single relationship while that person’s sexual orientation remains the same.
Diamond has coined the phrase “sexual fluidity” to describe this phenomenon. In her book by that name, Diamond addresses how most people believe that the biological order of a romantic relationship entails sexual desire first (that initial “chemistry”) and romantic love (the intimate bond) second. But, Diamond’s research shows, the opposite can also be true, especially for women. What begins as an intimate friendship can turn sexual. Different from bisexuality, which involves regular attraction to both sexes, sexual fluidity might happen only once in a lifetime, or only a few times, or not at all. The likely catalyst is oxytocin, a hormone that facilitates not only bonding between infants and caregivers (or close friends), but also sexual arousability. Simply hanging out with someone for whom you care deeply can — sometimes and for some women — produce desires that conflict with a person’s primary sexual orientation. In other words, the body’s chemistry can temporarily change its own seemingly fixed tendencies. When this happens, the world may call you something different. But you are still you.
IF YOU SEARCH Elizabeth Mavor’s biography of the Ladies of Llangollen, or the diaries of the ladies themselves, you won’t find a single hint of anything sexual. And neither will you here. All I can say is this: there is no field guide for love, or friendship, or the great variety of people one will encounter in a lifetime. And: this is not a coming out piece. It is about going inward.
One Christmas, we go with our husbands to Les Eyzies-de-Tayac, France. I want to see the engravings of early man, something inconceivably old. I arrange a visit to the Grotte de Bara-Bahau — an onomatopoeic name, given for the sound the large rocks that have fallen inside the cave must have made. We listen to a woman give a brief tour to just the four of us, in broken English. We strain to see in the rock the living things she traces with her laser pointer: a reindeer, a horse without legs and a horse without a head, and aurochs — an early ancestor of cattle. The bear is a bit easier: natural convexities in the cave wall itself form its head and shoulders, a large flint pebble acts as eye, and from its mouth is etched a long line, representing the animal’s breath. Easier still is the phallus, which my friend points out privately to her husband before the guide even gets to it, not sure if it is an actual engraving or an instance of pareidolia — the imagined perception of a pattern or meaning where it does not actually exist, like seeing a picture in the clouds. “Oh, yes,” the guide chimes in, overhearing. “There is a phallus.” This is rather rare; more common are depictions of female genitalia, I later read.
We leave the cave, joking like teenagers about my friend’s singlehanded ability to identify the phallus in a cave of otherwise obscure engravings, but also about the strange question our guide repeated over and over during the tour, singling out each one of us, multiple times, as its recipient. “Do you know?” she would ask, the intonation and pronunciation of her mother tongue adding mystique to her inquiry. Then she would turn to the next one of us, making direct eye contact: “Do you know?”
“I do not know,” she would respond to her own question. She seemed to want to preserve, in addition to the engravings, some other element of the cave’s mystery.
ON THE SHORE of Lake Superior, among those wave-carved potholes filled with stones, I looked in, chose the ones I liked, and held them close. But just as the page on beach junk in my field guide suggested, I also found something in one of those potholes that I didn’t expect. When my husband accidentally dropped a coveted quartz pebble into the largest and deepest of the holes, I rolled up my shirt sleeve as far as it would go and leaned over to recover the stone. Suddenly, I saw myself.
It must have been similar to what Narcissus experienced in that silvery-surfaced forest pond. Never before had I seen a clearer picture than what I saw that day in the pothole. I couldn’t move. Like Narcissus, all I could do was gaze. Perhaps what kept Narcissus at the pool, in admiration over what was before him, was not self-love but a fascination with the image of himself as reflected by the earth. What I saw in that pothole, now a portal, was not made of skin and bone — the usual “junk” — brown hair, brown eyes, small ears, my father’s nose. I was made of water and stone. Though we may label ourselves heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, lovers, or just friends, we should not be surprised to find that we are as dynamic as the earth that holds us up. We are simultaneously solid and fluid, inherently uncategorizable. We are always in the process of transformation.
Originally, life on earth was divided into two kingdoms: plants and animals. Then there were three; then four; then five; now six. Perhaps two categories — whatever they may be — are not sufficient for humans either. Names that come from without are destined to be inaccurate. It is not what we are called that we must answer to, but what calls us from within. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Adventurous Nubile Fuck-fest
A calming afternoon turns kinky when Shelby is affected via an mighty wish for her dude and he anxiously entices the sexy dame. They make enjoy at the sofa and her nubile poon is taut and humid as whippersnapper will get laid from the rear and climbs on most sensible to rail and milk him together with her cell. Issue attempts each and every posture with him and it handiest concludes when he frees and pops on her vag lips. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Acute inhibition of mineralization and stimulation of bone resorption mediated by hypophosphatemia.
Using rats previously labeled with 45Ca, the effects of a severely phosphate deficient diet on calcium mobilization from bone into serum were examined in both intact and thyroparathyroidectomized (TPTX) RATS. With the TPTX animals, increased calcium mobilization from bone was evident 12 hr after the rats had been placed on the low phosphorus diet. At that time period, both TPTX and intact rats had become severely hypophosphatemic. However, in intact rats, calcium mobilization was not observed until 48 hr had elapsed. Both intact and TPTX hypophosphatemic rats developed hypercalcemia. To determine if inhibition of calcium deposition into bone contributed to this change, the course of 45Ca movement from blood into bone was followed in an experiment where rats received a single injection of the isotope at the time the low phosphorus diet was given. The animals on the low phosphorus diet showed a significantly lower bone specific activity and a higher serum specific activity compared to the control group, indicating calcium deposition into bone was inhibited. We conclude that the acute response to hypophosphatemia, resulting from the low phosphorus dietary regimen, was an increase in bone resorption and an inhibition of bone mineralization. The increase in bone resorption occurred more rapidly in TPTX rats than in the intact animals. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
During July 2016, I was part of a delegation of US Fintech executives visiting our counterparts in Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Shanghai, China. We toured and visited some of the most exciting Fintech platforms in China such as LuFax, CreditEase, Tencent (the creator of WeChat), and Alibaba. Our tour finished at the beginning of the largest Fintech conferences in the world, the LendIt Conference in Shanghai (or Lang Di Fintech).
China Views the World Differently
Our tour group was well received with enthusiasm and respect from our Chinese friends. A ton of discussion on business strategies, regulatory environment, and government support, dominated our agenda. Personally, it was a surreal and anxious experience. Seeing how the Chinese have developed their financial technologies with little governmental hindrance gave me some profound perspective.
Chinese businesses see the world differently than businesses in the United States. For one, they are building an economy, not businesses.
Jack Ma recently explained his vision as he creates this economy. He wants Alibaba to become more than Amazon. Each one of the Chinese Fintech companies we visited all had one goal in mind; global domination through payment and financial services.
Our day in Shenzhen was hot and humid. This bourgeoning city grew from 1 million people to 10 million in just two decades. Because of it’s proximity to Hong Kong, this city has ballooned into a finance and tech driven metropolis.
The tour group took a short bus ride from Hong Kong and our first stop was Tencent’s headquarters. Tencent, perhaps is most known for it’s chat program Weixin, also known as WeChat. To put this platform into perspective, WeChat has nearly one billion active users on it’s platform at any given time, that’s 13% of the entire world population.
We walked through the highly choreographed corporate tour that took us from the founding of the company to a miniature model of Tencent’s new headquarters being built next door. We also made a pit stop at the R&D exhibit where Tencent is working on some of the most advanced mobile and embedded technology. I remember seeing their GPS tracking technology that tracks your children via wearables in real time and cashless dispensers of any type using their WeChat platform.
We finally settled into a conference room where a gentleman with impeccable command of the English language walked us through Tencent’s vision of our future.
The presenter went through a few slides but the slide grabbed my attention was a comparative analysis of Tencent’s business strategy vs. American business strategies. To a larger extent, this strategy reflects how Tencent, Alibaba, Huawei, Lenovo, Baidu and Haier see the world.
The left hand side of the slide has Tencent’s logo watching over 5 swimming lanes: Instant Messaging, Music Distribution, Publications (Film, Books, Video Games), TenPay (payments) and online shopping platforms. The right hand side of the slide also has 5 swimming lanes, but each swim lane is only represented by a single U.S. company: Facebook, Apple, Amazon, PayPal and so forth.
The stark contrast is obvious. Chinese companies such as Tencent and Alibaba Group operate on all verticals, they see the world as one connected organism where a U.S. company too frequently only focuses on a single vertical. Tencent wants to leverage their billion WeChat users to control their media consumption and force them to transact on WeChat’s wallet.
Tencent’s presentation ended with their strategy around a newly acquired banking license from the Chinese government. Two of these banking licensees were issued, one to Alibaba and the other to Tencent.
Tencent aptly called their bank, WeBank. (We will hear more about it in the coming years). They proceeded to demonstrate their mobile banking app where ordinary Chinese with just a few clicks may borrow up to 20,000 RMB, roughly $3,000 USD. They already have hundreds of thousands of users within a year of beta testing their app.
Walking away from that presentation, I must be honest that the Chinese way of conducting business is a little unsettling. Their ambition is seemingly unchecked and as capitalistic as the John D. Rockefeller of the 1870s. These Chinese colossal conglomerates are the way of life and these firms want to dominate every vertical possible. Their insatiable appetite wants to monetize every user, every interaction and transaction on every platform under their control.
[clickToTweet tweet=”Can US companies compete with the same mentality as their Chinese counterparts? #Fintech” quote=”Can US companies compete with the same mentality as their Chinese counterparts? #Fintech”]
Can U.S. companies compete?
Resources aside, can U.S. companies compete with the same mentality as their Chinese counterparts?
This week, we saw a glimpse of hope. Jeff Bezos of Amazon acquired grocery chain Whole Foods. Most of us were stunned and it’s certainly a chin stroker. While Business Insider and Forbes are figuring out the situation, Amazon is continuing it’s domination in physical distribution channels with their brick and mortar bookstores and Amazon Go (their hipster version of a 7-11).
A few months ago, Microsoft acquired LinkedIn. Intel acquired Mobileye (software maker behind autonomous cars). SoftBank acquired Boston Dynamics. SoFi bought Zenbanx.
Not to be outdone… Tencent acquired 5% of Tesla for $1.78 billion and took a 12% stake in Activision Blizzard. Tencent now controls over 13% of the $100 billion gaming industry.
Let’s check Alibaba’s acquisition war chest: $200 million in Snapchat; $250 million in Lyft; $400 million in Riot Games; and $140 million into Jet.com before Walmart acquired Jet for $3.3 billion. Close to the competition loo, Alibaba controls over 30% of Tencent’s rival Sina Weibo.
Perhaps Alibaba’s and Tencent’s style of business just wouldn’t work there in the U.S. Perhaps we need to take a closer look at how the Chinese are rewriting the rules for global domination in today’s economy.
Will Apple pony up $60 billion for Netflix? We can only hope.
Timothy Li is the CEO of Kuber and MaxDecisions. He has over 14 years of Fintech industry experience. He’s passionate about changing the finance and banking landscape. Kuber launched Fluid, a credit building product designed for college students to borrow up to $500 interest free. Kuber’s 2nd product Mobilend is a true debt consolidation product, aiming to lower debt for all Americans. Li also the co-founder and President of P2P Protect, an Insurtech platform that offers P2P insurance products. Li sits on multiple advisory boards including Rocketloans. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
---
abstract: 'We present results of a study comparing the relative velocity of $\rm Ly\alpha$ absorbers to the rotation velocity of nearby galaxy disks in the local universe ($z \leq 0.03$). We have obtained rotation curves via long-slit spectroscopy of eight galaxies with the Southern African Large Telescope, and combine this dataset with an additional 16 galaxies with data from the literature. Each galaxy appears within $3R_{\rm vir}$ of a QSO sightline with archival Cosmic Origin Spectrograph (COS) spectra. We study the velocity orientation of absorbers with respect to nearby galaxy’s rotation, and compare with results from both the [@steidel2002] monolithic halo model and a new cylindrical Navarro-Frenk-White galaxy halo model to interpret these data in the context of probing 3D galaxy halos via 1D QSO absorption-line spectroscopy. Relative to these models we find that up to $59\pm5\%$ of $\rm Ly\alpha$ absorbers have velocities consistent with co-rotation. We find the $\rm Ly\alpha$ co-rotation fraction to decrease with galaxy luminosity ([$L^*$]{}) and impact parameter in a model-independent fashion. We report that both anti-rotating absorbers and those found near luminous galaxies ($L \gtrsim 0.5$[$L^*$]{}) mostly have low Doppler $b$-parameters ($b \lesssim 50$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}). Absorbers consistent with co-rotation show a wide range of Doppler $b$-parameters. Finally, we find a strong anticorrelation between co-rotation fraction and galaxy inclination, which is at odds with recent metal-line kinematic studies and suggests the kinematic and geometric distribution of the circumgalactic medium is complex and multiphase.'
author:
- 'David M. French'
- 'Bart P. Wakker'
bibliography:
- 'rotation\_paper\_submitted.bib'
title: 'Evidence for a Rotational Component in the Circumgalactic Medium of Nearby Galaxies[^1]'
---
Introduction
============
The current lambda cold-dark-matter ($\Lambda$CDM) cosmological model describes galaxies forming hierarchically out of over-densities in the underlying dark matter distribution. As the surrounding intergalactic medium (IGM) is funneled toward a growing galaxy, simulations predict the angular momentum of the inflowing gas is redistributed onto the disk and seeds the overall rotation of the galaxy (e.g., @chen2003 [@sharma2005; @brook2011; @kimm2011; @pichon2011; @stewart2011a; @stewart2013; @ho2019]). As this infalling gas is responsible for birthing and continuing to feed the galaxies throughout their lifetimes, it is expected that the extended gaseous halos should rotate in the same sense as both the galactic disks and dark matter halos.
In this $\Lambda$CDM picture, accretion falls broadly into two types. In the so-called “hot-mode", gas shock-heats at the virial radius as it encounters the galaxy halo. The inner, denser region of this hot gaseous halo then rains down onto the disk as it radiatively cools (e.g., @fillmore1984 [@bertschinger1985; @danovich2012; @shen2013; @stevens_2017]). However, most gas arrives cold ($T\sim 10^{4}$ K) from the IGM, and the proposed radiative shock is unstable to cooling. Thus this hot-halo scenario may not actually be created [@birnboim2003; @keres2005; @ocvirk2008; @brooks2009; @dekel2009].
In contrast, as part of the alternative “cold-mode" accretion model, filaments of gas from the IGM would merge smoothly with the disk, thus converting a significant fraction of their infall velocity to rotational velocity of the galaxy [@keres2005; @keres2009a; @stewart2017; @el-badry_2018; @ho2019]. Alternatively, if these cold filaments break into cloudlets entrained in the hotter ambient halo they may still accrete and carry angular momentum [@keres2009b; @wetzel2015; @oppenheimer2018; @melso2019].
This cold-mode of accretion likely dominates the global growth of all but the most massive halos at high redshifts ($z \gtrsim 3$), and the growth of lower-mass ($M_{\rm halo} \leq 5 \times 10^{11} ~M_{\rm *}$) objects at late times [@dekel2006; @vandevoort2011]. Furthermore, cosmological SPH simulations such as those by [@stewart2011b; @stewart2013] and [@ho2019] suggest that halo gas should co-rotate with disk gas out to at least 100 kpc, and that absorption in intervening QSO sightlines should be able to accurately capture this rotation signature. Thus, observing co-rotating gas in the halos of galaxies would provide the most direct evidence of cold-mode accretion.
[l l l l l l l c l r]{} CGCG039-137 & 11 21 27.0 & +03 26 41.7 & $6918 \pm24$ & $6902 \pm 52^{a}$ & Scd & $132 \pm 16$ & $143 \pm 25$ & 05 11 2016 & 700\
ESO343-G014 & 21 37 45.2 & $-$38 29 33.2 & $9139 \pm32$ & $9162 \pm 45^{b}$ & S & $203 \pm 32$ & $203 \pm 32$ & 05 16 2016 & 1000\
IC 5325 & 23 28 43.4 & $-$41 20 00.5 & $1512 \pm8$ & $1503 \pm 7^{c}$ & SAB(rs)bc & $53 \pm 5$ & $125 \pm 27$ & 05 17 2016 & 600\
MCG-03-58-009 & 22 53 40.9 & $-$17 28 44.0 & $9015 \pm19$ & $9030 \pm 10^{d}$ & Sc & $150 \pm 11$ & $171 \pm 22$ & 05 16 2016 & 1200\
NGC 3633 & 11 20 26.2 & +03 35 08.2 & $2587 \pm7$ & $2600 \pm 2^{f}$ & SAa & $149 \pm 6$ & $157 \pm 9$ & 05 11 2016 & 1200\
NGC 4939 & 13 04 14.4 & $-$10 20 22.6 & $3093 \pm33$ & $3110 \pm 4^{e}$ & SA(s)bc & $204 \pm 23$ & $234 \pm 39$ & 05 14 2016 & 500\
NGC 5786 & 14 58 56.3 & $-$42 00 48.1 & $2975 \pm22$ & $2998 \pm 5^{h}$ & SAB(s)bc & $156 \pm 14$ & $172 \pm 25$ & 05 11 2016 & 250\
UGC 09760 & 15 12 02.4 & +01 41 55.5 & $2094 \pm16$ & $2023 \pm 2^{i}$ & Sd & $46 \pm 10$ & $46 \pm 16$ & 05 11 2016 & 500\
\[salt\_targets\]
Some observational evidence of corotating halo gas has been obtained at higher redshifts. In pioneering studies focusing on the Mg[[ii]{}]{} absorber kinematics and their connection with neighboring galaxies, [@charlton1998] and [@steidel2002] (and later @kacprzak2010 [@bouche_2013; @bouche_2016; @ho2017; @martin_2019], see also @kacprzak2017 for a review) found tantalizing evidence that a significant fraction of Mg[[ii]{}]{} absorbers have velocities that can be explained by an extended gaseous disk. However, as noted by [@steidel2002] among others, a simple extended disk model is insufficient to explain the observed bulk motion implied by their sample of 5 Mg[[ii]{}]{} absorber-galaxy systems, and a rotating *halo* may be a better model.
Approaching the question from a different angle, [@bowen2016] probed the halo of a single galaxy, NGC 1097, with four nearby QSO sightlines at impact parameters of 48 - 165 kpc, and suggested that an extended, slowly rotating disk with additional inflowing IGM material best matches observations. Additionally, [@diamond-stanic2016] detect co-rotating H$\alpha$ emission and Mg[ii]{} and Fe[ii]{} absorption toward a Milky Way-like galaxy at $z=0.413$.
Additionally, the picture may have changed since $z \sim 0.5$, the epoch 5 Gyr ago that most of these Mg[[ii]{}]{} systems are probing. By $z \sim 0$ simulations (e.g., @keres2005 [@keres2009a; @stewart2017]) predict a drop-off in cold-mode accretion and a decrease in the density of IGM filaments. Observational confirmation has been even more inconclusive in this low-redshift regime, where metal-poor IGM inflows are best traced via the Ly$\alpha$ absorption line. In the largest such study, involving Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorber-galaxy kinematics, [@cote2005] probed the halos of nine galaxies using *Hubble Space Telescope* (*HST*) observed background QSOs, and found that large warps would be needed to explain the velocity of [ ]{} absorbers by an extended rotating disk. Additionally, [@wakker2009] compiled a sample of 76 sightlines, which included only four galaxy-QSO systems for which the galaxy’s rotation curve was known from the literature, and found that only one-fourth of Ly$\alpha$ absorbers appeared to co-rotate with the associated galaxy disk. Similarly, [@kacprzak2011_kinematics] claimed a reduction in Mg[[ii]{}]{} co-rotation around $\rm \sim $[$L^*$]{} galaxies between $z\sim 0.5$ and $z\sim 0.1$. The need remains for a larger-scale, low-redshift study specifically targeting the Ly$\alpha$ absorbers that can directly trace cool, metal-poor IGM inflows.
This current work aims to address many of these observational challenges by (1) significantly increasing the sample size of galaxy-absorber systems, and (2) implementing a 3D rotating halo model to aid in the interpretative challenge that is inherent in a 1D sightline probing a 3D structure. To significantly improve observational statistics in this low-redshift regime, we have obtained rotation curves from the Southern African Large Telescope (SALT) for eight nearby spiral galaxies which are located within $3R_{\rm vir}$ of a background QSO observed by the Cosmic Origins Spectrograph (COS) on board *HST*. A literature search yielded an additional 16 galaxies with published rotation curves and known orientations. Each of these is probed by at least one QSO within $3R_{\rm vir}$.
In Section \[data\] we describe the selection and reduction of both SALT and COS spectra. In Section \[model\] we present the rotating halo model we have developed to aid in the interpretation of our observations. In Section \[discussion\] we discuss the overall results of this exercise and present a physically-motivated interpretation of these results. See Section \[summary\] for a summary of our results and conclusions. Each galaxy-QSO system is discussed in detail in Appendices \[SALT\_sample\] (SALT-observed galaxies) and \[ancillary\_data\] (galaxies from the literature).
Data and Analysis {#data}
=================
SALT Data
---------
Our sample contains eight galaxies observed with the SALT Robert Stobie Spectrograph (RSS) in long-slit mode [@burgh2003; @kobulnicky2003; @buckley2006; @odonoghue2006]. Our selection of these galaxies and associated QSO targets included several steps. First we identified galaxies in the NASA Extragalactic Database (NED) that are visible to SALT, within the redshift window of $z \leq 0.33$ ($cz \leq 10,000$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}), and within $3 R_{\rm vir}$ of QSOs with existing COS G130M spectra available. From these we selected those with angular sizes less than 6’ to enable easy sky subtraction using the outer edges of the slit and thus avoiding additional, off-target exposures, and surface brightnesses sufficient to keep exposure times below $\sim 1300 s$. This resulted in a pool of 48 galaxies, which were submitted to the SALT observing queue with the expectation that SALT would observe as many as possible within our awarded time. We obtained data for 14 galaxies, but two proved to be unusable due to issues with spectral identification and low signal-to-noise.
Finally, we applied the QSO-galaxy matching scheme outlined in [@french2017] to exclude systems for which multiple galaxies could reasonably be matched with a particular absorption line. In short, for each QSO-galaxy system we calculate the likelihood value $\mathcal{L} = e^{-(\rho/R_{\rm vir})^2} e^{-(\Delta v / 200)^2}$, where $\rho$ is the impact parameter, $R_{\rm vir}$ the galaxy virial radius, and $\Delta v$ the difference between the absorption and galaxy system velocities in [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We require that $\mathcal{L} \ge 0.01$ for all systems, and for no other nearby galaxies to be within a factor of 5$\times \mathcal{L}$. This requires that the QSO be within approximately $3R_{vir}$ of the galaxy, and be obviously closer than any other neighboring galaxies. After a careful inspection using this scheme we chose to remove an additional four galaxies from the SALT sample.
All SALT galaxy spectra were reduced and extracted using the standard PySALT reduction package [@crawford2010][^2], which includes procedures to prepare the data, correct for gain, cross-talk, bias, and overscan, and finally mosaic the images from the three CCDs. Next, we rectify the images with wavelength solutions found via Ne and Ar arc lamp spectra. Finally, we perform a basic sky subtraction using an off-target portion of the spectrum, and extract 5-10 pixel wide 1D strips from the reduced 2D spectrum.
For each resulting 1D spectrum, we identify the H$\alpha$ emission lines and perform a nonlinear least-squares Voigt profile fit using the Python package LMFIT[^3]. While normally Gaussian profiles are used for fitting emission lines, we found that a Voigt profile resulted in a better fit of the peak velocity (which is the measurement of prime importance for this analysis). The line centroid and 1$\sigma$ standard errors are returned, and these fits are then shifted to rest-velocity based on the galaxy systemic redshift with heliocentric velocity corrections calculated via the IRAF *rvcorrect* procedure. The final rotation velocity is calculated by then applying the inclination correction, $v_{\rm rot} = v / \sin(i)$.
[l l l l r r r]{} 2E1530+1511 & NGC 5951 & 15 33 14.3 & +15 01 03.0 & 0.09000 & 14071 & 9348\
3C 232 & NGC 3067 & 09 58 20.9 & +32 24 02.0 & 0.53060 & 8596 & 44662\
CSO295 & NGC3432 & 10 52 05.6 & +36 40 40.0 & 0.60900 & 14772 & 1088\
FBQSJ0908+3246 & NGC2770 & 09 08 38.8 & +32 46 20.0 & 0.25989 & 14240 & 7430\
MRC2251-178 & MCG-03-58-009 & 22 54 05.9 & $-$17 34 55.0 & 0.06609 & 12029 & 5515\
MRK 335 & NGC 7817 & 00 06 19.5 & +20 12 11.0 & 0.02578 & 11524 & 5122\
MRK 771 & NGC 4529 & 12 32 03.6 & +20 09 30.0 & 0.06301 & 12569 & 1868\
MRK 876 & NGC 6140 & 16 13 57.2 & +65 43 11.0 & 0.12900 & 11524 & 12579\
PG0804+761 & UGC 04238 & 08 10 58.7 & +76 02 43.0 & 0.10200 & 11686 & 5510\
PG1259+593 & UGC 08146 & 13 01 12.9 & +59 02 07.0 & 0.47780 & 11541 & 9200\
PG1302-102 & NGC 4939 & 13 05 33.0 & $-$10 33 19.0 & 0.27840 & 12038 & 5979\
QSO1500-4140 & NGC 5786 & 15 03 34.0 & $-$41 52 23.0 & 0.33500 & 11659 & 9258\
RBS1503 & NGC 5907 & 15 29 07.5 & +56 16 07.0 & 0.09900 & 12276 & 1964\
RBS1768 & ESO343-G014 & 21 38 49.9 & $-$38 28 40.0 & 0.18299 & 12936 & 6962\
RBS2000 & IC 5325 & 23 24 44.7 & $-$40 40 49.0 & 0.17359 & 13448 & 5046\
RX\_J1017.5+4702 & NGC 3198 & 10 17 31.0 & +47 02 25.0 & 0.33544 & 13314 & 8655\
RX\_J1054.2+3511 & NGC 3432 & 10 54 16.2 & +35 11 24.0 & 0.20300 & 14772 & 533\
RX\_J1117.6+5301 & NGC 3631 & 11 17 40.5 & +53 01 51.0 & 0.15871 & 14240 & 4943\
RX\_J1121.2+0326 & CGCG039-137, NGC 3633 & 11 21 14.0 & +03 25 47.0 & 0.15200 & 12248 & 2695\
RX\_J1236.0+2641 & NGC 4565 & 12 36 04.0 & +26 41 36.0 & 0.20920 & 12248 & 4235\
SBS1116+523 & NGC 3631 & 11 19 47.9 & +52 05 53.0 & 0.35568 & 14240 & 4949\
SDSSJ091052.80+333008.0 & NGC 2770 & 09 10 52.8 & +33 30 08.0 & 0.11631 & 14240 & 7442\
SDSSJ091127.30+325337.0 & NGC 2770 & 09 11 27.3 & +32 53 37.0 & 0.29038 & 14240 & 10028\
SDSSJ095914.80+320357.0 & NGC 3067 & 09 59 14.8 & +32 03 57.0 & 0.56462 & 12603 & 2273\
SDSSJ104335.90+115129.0 & NGC 3351 & 10 43 35.9 & +11 05 29.0 & 0.79400 & 14071 & 4736\
SDSSJ111443.70+525834.0 & NGC 3631 & 11 14 43.7 & +52 58 34.0 & 0.07921 & 14240 & 13440\
SDSSJ112439.50+113117.0 & NGC 3666 & 11 24 39.4 & +11 31 17.0 & 0.14300 & 14071 & 10427\
SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 & UGC 06446, NGC 3631 & 11 24 48.3 & +53 18 19.0 & 0.53151 & 14240 & 7920\
SDSSJ151237.15+012846.0 & UGC 09760 & 15 12 37.2 & +01 28 46.0 & 0.26625 & 12603 & 7590\
TON1009 & NGC 2770 & 09 09 06.2 & +32 36 30.0 & 0.81028 & 12603 & 4740\
TON1015 & NGC 2770 & 09 10 37.0 & +33 29 24.0 & 0.35400 & 14240 & 4774\
\[COS\_targets\]
Final errors are calculated as a quadrature sum of $1\sigma$ fit errors, systemic redshift error, and inclination uncertainty as follows:
$$\begin{aligned}
\label{error_calculation}
\nonumber
\sigma^2 = \left( \frac{\partial v_{rot}}{\partial \lambda_{obs}} \right)^2 (\Delta \lambda_{obs})^2 + \left(\frac{\partial v_{rot}}{\partial v_{sys}} \right)^2 (\Delta v_{sys})^2 + \\
\nonumber
\left( \frac{\partial v_{rot}}{\partial i} \right)^2 (\Delta i)^2,\end{aligned}$$
where $\Delta \lambda_{\rm obs}$, $\Delta v_{\rm sys}$, and $\Delta i$ are the errors in observed line center, galaxy redshift, and inclination, respectively. We determine the inclination error by calculating the standard deviation of the set of all axis ratio values available in NED for each galaxy. This inclination component tends to dominate the error for low-inclination galaxies.
The final physical scale is calculated using the SALT image scale of 0.1267 arcsec $\rm pixel^{-1}$, multiplied by the 4 pixel spatial binning, and converted to physical units using a redshift-independent distance if available, and a Hubble flow estimate if not (corrected for Virgocentric flow following [@huchra1982]). We adopt a Hubble constant of $H_0= 71$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} $\rm Mpc^{-1}$ throughout.
Finally, we calculate our approaching and receding velocities via a weighted mean of the outer-half of each rotation curve, with errors calculated as weighted standard errors in the mean. Our final redshifts are calculated by forcing symmetric rotation, such that the outer-half average velocity for each side matches in magnitude. The upper-left panel of Figure \[figure:model\_fits\] shows an example of this; the black points and error bars are the observed rotation measurements, the dark green lines show the average rotation velocity for the outer-half edge of each rotation curve, and the green shading shows the $1\sigma$ error for this average value. Table \[salt\_targets\] summarizes the observations for this final sample. See Appendix \[SALT\_sample\] for rotation curves and finder charts for each observed galaxy.
Additional Galaxy Data
----------------------
We have augmented our observed sample of galaxies with an additional 16 systems from the literature. While rotation curves for many galaxies have been published, a far smaller sample also included the necessary orientation information for our purposes. Of these, only the 18 included here were also relatively isolated based on our likelihood criteria and within $3R_{\rm vir}$ of a background QSO with sufficient spectral coverage and signal-to-noise. The resulting sample comes from a variety of sources, and we have endeavored to keep the galaxy properties (e.g., *i*, $v_{\rm sys}$) adopted by the original data authors. For a small subset of these we have adopted more modern inclination and/or position angle measurements where appropriate (see Appendix \[ancillary\_data\] for details). We used the plot digitization software WebPlotDigitizer[^4] to extract rotation curve data from figures when necessary. Rotation velocity errors are calculated with Eq. \[error\_calculation\] as for the SALT-observed sample.
COS Spectra
-----------
The Barbara A. Mikulski Archive for Space Telescopes (MAST) archives yield 31 QSO targets observed by COS which lie within $3R_{\rm vir}$ of our SALT galaxies (see Table \[COS\_targets\]). These targets vary widely in signal-to-noise from approximately 5 to 100 due to our choosing them based only on their proximity to galaxies with known rotation. The reduction procedure for these spectra follows those described by [@wakker2015] and [@french2017]. In short, spectra are processed with CALCOS v3.0 or higher and are aligned using a cross-correlation, and then shifted to make sure that (a) the velocities of the interstellar lines match the 21 cm [ ]{}profile, and (b) the velocities of the lines in a single absorption system line up properly. Multiple exposures are combined by summing total counts per pixel before converting to flux. The COS instrument is described in detail by [@green2012].
Once reduced we fit each absorption system with Voigt profiles using the VoigtFit package [@krogager2018]. The VoigtFit routine first fits a continuum around the line region using third-order or lower Chebyshev polynomials. Instrumental broadening is taken into account by convolving COS line-spread function (LSF) tables for the appropriate central wavelength and detector lifetime position with the fitted Voigt profile model. In all cases we use the minimum number of components to obtain a satisfactory fit (i.e., reduced $\chi ^2 \sim 1$). The resulting fits are shown in Figure \[figure:line\_fits1\] and component velocities $v$, column densities $N$, Doppler widths $b$, and associated errors are reported in Table \[models\].
Halo Rotation Model {#model}
===================
In order to better understand how the potential 3D rotation of galaxy halo gas is mapped onto a 1D QSO sightline, we have developed a simple halo rotation model. This model is seeded by an observed rotation curve, which is then extrapolated out to a radius and height of $3R_{\rm vir}$ to form a coherently rotating cylindrical halo. For each galaxy-QSO pair we create two rotation models: 1) a cylindrical halo model with rotation velocities which smoothly decline as a function of radius based on a Navarro-Frenk-White (NFW) profile fit [@navarro1996; @navarro1997] to the rotation curve data, and 2) the thick-disk model developed in [@steidel2002]. In Section \[discussion\] we compare the results of these models, as well as to using the simple on-sky apparent rotation velocity of each galaxy.
For our cylindrical halo model, we first fit an NFW rotation velocity profile to the observed rotation curve. The form of this NFW fit is as follows:
$$V(R) = V_{200} \left [\frac{\ln(1 + c x) - c x / (1 + c x)}{x [ \ln(1 + c) - c / (1 + c)]} \right]^{\frac{1}{2}},$$
where $x = R / R_{200}$, with $R_{200}$ being the radius at which the density contrast with respect to the critical density of the universe exceeds 200, $c = R_{200} / R_s$, with $R_s$ being the characteristic radius of the halo, and $V_{200}$ being the characteristic velocity at $R_{200}$. For all fits $R_{200}$ is set to each galaxy’s virial radius, $R_{\rm vir}$. We have taken this form from [@deblok2008]. The best-fit concentration parameters, $c$, are mostly in the expected 10-20 range, but get up to $\sim 50$ for several galaxies. This is likely because we are fitting to a rotation profile containing both dark matter and baryons, which results in more contracted profiles with higher concentrations than dark-matter-only halos. The resulting NFW fits tend to be somewhat poor toward the inner parts of the rotation curve (as has been noted by others, e.g., @cote2005). Regardless, we are most interested in achieving a physically motivated, declining velocity profile in the outer halo regions where most of our QSO sightlines are located, for which these fits are certainly adequate.
We estimate the virial radius of each galaxy according to the combined “halo-matching" and constant mass-to-light ratio technique developed in [@stocke2013] (see the green line in their Figure 1). This method uses a halo matching with the CfA *B*-band galaxy luminosity function of [@marzke1994] with $\alpha = -1.25$ for the faint $L < 0.2 L^{\**}$ end of the luminosity function, and a constant mass-to-light ratio of $M_{\rm halo}/L_{\rm gal} = 50 M_{\odot}/L_{\odot}$ above this (see @stocke2013 and references therein for further detail).
{width="0.46\linewidth"} {width="0.446\linewidth"}
{width="0.455\linewidth"}
{width="0.317\linewidth"} {width="0.297\linewidth"} {width="0.317\linewidth"}
{width="0.90\linewidth"}
\[figure:line\_fits1\]
{width="0.90\linewidth"}
Next, we project the NFW fit onto a plane oriented to a mock QSO sightline identically to the input galaxy-QSO pair orientation. By then stacking multiple such rotation planes along the galaxy z-axis direction, we build a cylindrical halo embedded with the rotation curve fit.
Finally, we calculate the projected rotation velocity encountered at each position along the sightline. The result is a function representing the rotation velocity encountered by the sightline as a function of distance along it. Hence, each model produces the velocity a co-rotating absorber would project onto the spectrum as a function of distance from the center of the galaxy (scaled according to $R_{\rm vir}$).
We also compute the co-rotation velocity ranges produced by the thick-disk model developed by [@steidel2002], which represents a monolithic rotating disk with a flat rotation curve. This model produces a line-of-sight velocity $v_{\rm los}$ as a function of impact parameter $\rho$, galaxy inclination $i$, QSO-galaxy azimuth angle $\Phi$, and maximum projected rotation velocity $v_{\rm max}$ as follows:
$$\begin{aligned}
\nonumber
v_{\rm los} = \frac{- v_{\rm max}}{\sqrt{1 + \left (\frac{y}{p} \right)^2}} e^{-\frac{|y-y_0|}{h_v \tan i}} ~\rm with,\\
y_0 = \frac{\rho \sin \phi}{\cos i}~and~p = \rho \cos \phi.\end{aligned}$$
Here $h_v$ represents the scale height for the velocity lag in the $z$-direction. We have assumed a thick disk for maximum disk/halo rotation for all galaxies ($h_v$ = 1000 kpc; see, e.g., @kacprzak2019a). This effectively maximizes the potential for rotation above and below the disk, resulting in a cylindrical halo of complimentary shape to our NFW model but with constant rotation velocity at all radii (see Fig. 6 in [@steidel2002] for a diagram of the resulting halo).
We calculate $1 \sigma$ model errors via a bootstrapping method which reruns the NFW fitting and modeling while resampling the rotation curve data points together with a $3{\ensuremath{^{\circ}}}$ position angle uncertainty. The final model output is the minimum and maximum velocity an absorber would need in order to be consistent with co-rotation within these 1 $\sigma$ error regions.
Figures \[figure:model\_fits\] illustrates an example model for the SALT-observed galaxy NGC 3633, with our observed rotation curve, the NFW fit, and the resulting NFW and Steidel model output velocity distributions from left to right on top, and a 3D halo mock-up from three different viewing angles on the bottom. In most cases, and as seen in this example, the two model outputs have similar *shape*, but vary in maximum predicted velocity.
[l l l r r r r r r r r r r r r]{} 1 & CGCG039-137 & RX\_J1121.2+0326 & 99 & 86 & 72 & 155 & 0.6 & $6918 \pm 24$ & $136 \pm 24$ & $53 \pm 27$ & $112.2 \pm 17.3$ & $14.27 \pm 0.06$ & \[1.1, 137.2\] & \[1.6, 210.4\]\
2 & ESO343-G014 & RBS1768 & 466 & 75 & 90 & 187 & 1.1 & $9139 \pm 32$ & $-203 \pm 32$ & $166 \pm 32$ & $14.4 \pm 5.9$ & $13.05 \pm 0.08$ & \[-0.1, -0.0\] & \[-158.8, -20.2\]\
2 & ESO343-G014 & RBS1768 & 466 & 75 & 90 & 187 & 1.1 & $9139 \pm 32$ & $-203 \pm 32$ & $244 \pm 32$ & $31.6 \pm 2.9$ & $14.26 \pm 0.03$ & \[-0.1, -0.0\] & \[-158.8, -20.2\]\
2 & ESO343-G014 & RBS1768 & 466 & 75 & 90 & 187 & 1.1 & $9139 \pm 32$ & $-203 \pm 32$ & $308 \pm 32$ & $15.3 \pm 3.5$ & $13.58 \pm 0.06$ & \[-0.1, -0.0\] & \[-158.8, -20.2\]\
3 & IC 5325 & RBS2000 & 314 & 67 & 25 & 175 & 0.9 & $1512 \pm 8$ & $-53 \pm 11$ & $84 \pm 9$ & $20.9 \pm 9.0$ & $12.85 \pm 0.1$ & \[-14.6, -1.7\] & \[-30.3, -4.5\]\
4 & MCG-03-58-009 & MRC2251-178 & 355 & 74 & 61 & 259 & 2.9 & $9015 \pm 19$ & $150 \pm 19$ & $14 \pm 19$ & $48.7 \pm 4.9$ & $13.08 \pm 0.04$ & \[15.9, 101.6\] & \[8.8, 137.4\]\
5 & NGC 2770 & FBQSJ0908+3246 & 204 & 56 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $-146 \pm 6$ & $-38 \pm 5$ & $22.7 \pm 5.0$ & $13.95 \pm 0.1$ & \[-12.2, -3.8\] & \[-164.9, -14.7\]\
5 & NGC 2770 & FBQSJ0908+3246 & 204 & 56 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $-146 \pm 6$ & $43 \pm 6$ & $37.8 \pm 7.1$ & $13.81 \pm 0.05$ & \[-12.2, -3.8\] & \[-164.9, -14.7\]\
6 & NGC 2770 & TON1009 & 267 & 38 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $-146 \pm 6$ & $-35 \pm 7$ & $26.0 \pm 10.1$ & $13.38 \pm 0.12$ & \[-23.4, -7.5\] & \[-142.0, -28.2\]\
6 & NGC 2770 & TON1009 & 267 & 38 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $-146 \pm 6$ & $32 \pm 5$ & $24.5 \pm 3.7$ & $14.06 \pm 0.05$ & \[-23.4, -7.5\] & \[-142.0, -28.2\]\
7 & NGC 2770 & TON1015 & 218 & 58 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $146 \pm 6$ & $-114 \pm 4$ & $28.3 \pm 2.5$ & $13.96 \pm 0.04$ & \[17.3, 123.8\] & \[14.3, 163.8\]\
7 & NGC 2770 & TON1015 & 218 & 58 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $146 \pm 6$ & $36 \pm 6$ & $29.6 \pm 8.8$ & $13.24 \pm 0.08$ & \[17.3, 123.8\] & \[14.3, 163.8\]\
8 & NGC 2770 & SDSSJ091052.80+333008.0 & 239 & 63 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $146 \pm 6$ & $-124 \pm 4$ & $31.1 \pm 3.8$ & $14.05 \pm 0.06$ & \[15.2, 120.4\] & \[12.9, 167.7\]\
8 & NGC 2770 & SDSSJ091052.80+333008.0 & 239 & 63 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $146 \pm 6$ & $21 \pm 6$ & $20.4 \pm 10.2$ & $13.22 \pm 0.11$ & \[15.2, 120.4\] & \[12.9, 167.7\]\
9 & NGC 2770 & SDSSJ091127.30+325337.0 & 234 & 33 & 80 & 221 & 1.8 & $1948 \pm 4$ & $-146 \pm 6$ & $114 \pm 11$ & $28.0 \pm 10.0$ & $14.0 \pm 0.2$ & \[-134.2, -35.8\] & \[-141.9, -27.9\]\
10 & NGC 3067 & 3C 232 & 11 & 71 & 71 & 144 & 0.5 & $1465 \pm 5$ & $135 \pm 9$ & $-48 \pm 9$ & $80.8 \pm 6.0$ & $20.09 \pm 0.02$ & \[-134.4, -0.4\] & \[-136.5, -0.3\]\
11 & NGC 3067 & SDSSJ095914.80+320357.0 & 128 & 40 & 71 & 144 & 0.5 & $1465 \pm 5$ & $135 \pm 9$ & $27 \pm 5$ & $28.4 \pm 10.7$ & $16.23 \pm 1.43$ & \[14.7, 124.7\] & \[10.2, 86.4\]\
12 & NGC 3198 & RX\_J1017.5+4702 & 370 & 58 & 73 & 217 & 1.7 & $660 \pm 1$ & $-145 \pm 5$ & $-37 \pm 8$ & $39.2 \pm 15.0$ & $13.18 \pm 0.12$ & \[-106.0, -30.9\] & \[-96.7, -19.0\]\
13 & NGC 3351 & SDSSJ104335.90+115129.0 & 31 & 46 & 42 & 198 & 1.3 & $778 \pm 4$ & $-133 \pm 11$ & $-79 \pm 19$ & $78.6 \pm 14.7$ & $14.53 \pm 0.12$ & \[-93.5, -2.8\] & \[-128.3, -1.9\]\
14 & NGC 3432 & CSO295 & 20 & 79 & 90 & 136 & 0.4 & $616 \pm 4$ & $119 \pm 8$ & $-16 \pm 16$ & $48.1 \pm 12.0$ & $15.05 \pm 0.37$ & \[0.3, 124.5\] & \[0.3, 141.3\]\
14 & NGC 3432 & CSO295 & 20 & 79 & 90 & 136 & 0.4 & $616 \pm 4$ & $119 \pm 8$ & $46 \pm 16$ & $62.1 \pm 9.9$ & $15.18 \pm 0.32$ & \[0.3, 124.5\] & \[0.3, 141.3\]\
15 & NGC 3432 & RX\_J1054.2+3511 & 290 & 60 & 90 & 136 & 0.4 & $616 \pm 4$ & $119 \pm 8$ & $73 \pm 14$ & $66.8 \pm 21.7$ & $13.58 \pm 0.12$ & \[0.0, 0.1\] & \[30.4, 130.7\]\
16 & NGC 3631 & RX\_J1117.6+5301 & 78 & 78 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $42 \pm 7$ & $-26 \pm 2$ & $38.2 \pm 2.6$ & $14.21 \pm 0.04$ & \[0.4, 11.2\] & \[1.5, 40.2\]\
16 & NGC 3631 & RX\_J1117.6+5301 & 78 & 78 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $42 \pm 7$ & $109 \pm 4$ & $20.9 \pm 9.5$ & $13.17 \pm 0.1$ & \[0.4, 11.2\] & \[1.5, 40.2\]\
17 & NGC 3631 & SBS1116+523 & 163 & 37 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $-42 \pm 7$ & $...$ & $...$ & $...$ & \[-11.3, -2.3\] & \[-24.0, -7.9\]\
18 & NGC 3631 & SDSSJ111443.70+525834.0 & 145 & 74 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $42 \pm 7$ & $2 \pm 5$ & $27.4 \pm 8.7$ & $13.52 \pm 0.09$ & \[0.7, 9.2\] & \[2.5, 29.5\]\
19 & NGC 3631 & SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 & 86 & 77 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $-42 \pm 7$ & $-138 \pm 5$ & $18.6 \pm 9.4$ & $13.18 \pm 0.11$ & \[-10.9, -0.4\] & \[-38.6, -1.8\]\
19 & NGC 3631 & SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 & 86 & 77 & 17 & 139 & 0.5 & $1156 \pm 1$ & $-42 \pm 7$ & $-21 \pm 3$ & $17.2 \pm 4.0$ & $13.7 \pm 0.07$ & \[-10.9, -0.4\] & \[-38.6, -1.8\]\
20 & NGC 3633 & RX\_J1121.2+0326 & 184 & 55 & 72 & 174 & 0.9 & $2587 \pm 7$ & $-149 \pm 9$ & $21 \pm 16$ & $36.3 \pm 20.1$ & $13.7 \pm 0.18$ & \[-128.2, -16.1\] & \[-107.4, -10.0\]\
21 & NGC 3666 & SDSSJ112439.50+113117.0 & 58 & 86 & 78 & 154 & 0.6 & $1063 \pm 2$ & $-124 \pm 6$ & $-1 \pm 3$ & $36.0 \pm 8.9$ & $15.53 \pm 0.67$ & \[-120.0, -0.7\] & \[-129.3, -0.9\]\
22 & NGC 4529 & MRK 771 & 158 & 26 & 80 & 193 & 1.2 & $2536 \pm 11$ & $-104 \pm 15$ & $22 \pm 11$ & $33.0 \pm 3.9$ & $13.82 \pm 0.04$ & \[-111.2, -17.8\] & \[-124.9, -18.4\]\
22 & NGC 4529 & MRK 771 & 158 & 26 & 80 & 193 & 1.2 & $2536 \pm 11$ & $-104 \pm 15$ & $-23 \pm 12$ & $4.0 \pm 12.4$ & $13.03 \pm 0.49$ & \[-111.2, -17.8\] & \[-124.9, -18.4\]\
23 & NGC 4565 & RX\_J1236.0+2641 & 147 & 38 & 86 & 229 & 2.0 & $1230 \pm 5$ & $252 \pm 12$ & $-64 \pm 6$ & $26.8 \pm 5.5$ & $14.05 \pm 0.12$ & \[6.3, 14.7\] & \[14.9, 182.2\]\
23 & NGC 4565 & RX\_J1236.0+2641 & 147 & 38 & 86 & 229 & 2.0 & $1230 \pm 5$ & $252 \pm 12$ & $27 \pm 7$ & $16.6 \pm 10.3$ & $13.31 \pm 0.14$ & \[6.3, 14.7\] & \[14.9, 182.2\]\
24 & NGC 4939 & PG1302-102 & 254 & 64 & 61 & 320 & 5.5 & $3093 \pm 33$ & $-205 \pm 34$ & $356 \pm 33$ & $26.4 \pm 3.6$ & $13.23 \pm 0.04$ & \[-163.6, -23.3\] & \[-162.1, -9.0\]\
25 & NGC 5786 & QSO1500-4140 & 453 & 2 & 65 & 248 & 2.6 & $2975 \pm 22$ & $156 \pm 23$ & $163 \pm 22$ & $18.9 \pm 3.3$ & $13.85 \pm 0.08$ & \[50.9, 161.2\] & \[33.8, 93.0\]\
26 & NGC 5907 & RBS1503 & 478 & 66 & 90 & 193 & 1.2 & $667 \pm 3$ & $-229 \pm 6$ & $...$ & $...$ & $...$ & \[-0.1, -0.1\] & \[-138.2, -31.5\]\
27 & NGC 5951 & 2E1530+1511 & 55 & 88 & 74 & 203 & 1.4 & $1780 \pm 1$ & $127 \pm 7$ & $12 \pm 3$ & $48.5 \pm 4.0$ & $14.36 \pm 0.05$ & \[0.2, 121.4\] & \[0.2, 134.6\]\
27 & NGC 5951 & 2E1530+1511 & 55 & 88 & 74 & 203 & 1.4 & $1780 \pm 1$ & $127 \pm 7$ & $179 \pm 4$ & $39.8 \pm 6.3$ & $13.73 \pm 0.05$ & \[0.2, 121.4\] & \[0.2, 134.6\]\
28 & NGC 6140 & MRK 876 & 113 & 18 & 49 & 106 & 0.2 & $910 \pm 4$ & $104 \pm 4$ & $7 \pm 6$ & $49.2 \pm 4.1$ & $13.9 \pm 0.06$ & \[9.0, 78.2\] & \[24.1, 103.8\]\
28 & NGC 6140 & MR K876 & 113 & 18 & 49 & 106 & 0.2 & $910 \pm 4$ & $104 \pm 4$ & $61 \pm 5$ & $27.4 \pm 4.0$ & $13.49 \pm 0.15$ & \[9.0, 78.2\] & \[24.1, 103.8\]\
29 & NGC 7817 & MRK 335 & 343 & 87 & 80 & 168 & 0.8 & $2309 \pm 4$ & $-178 \pm 10$ & $-360 \pm 4$ & $29.3 \pm 0.9$ & $13.8 \pm 0.01$ & \[-0.7, 0.8\] & \[-151.7, 204.4\]\
29 & NGC 7817 & MRK 335 & 343 & 87 & 80 & 168 & 0.8 & $2309 \pm 4$ & $-178 \pm 10$ & $-36 \pm 4$ & $43.3 \pm 3.3$ & $13.32 \pm 0.03$ & \[-0.7, 0.8\] & \[-151.7, 204.4\]\
30 & UGC 04238 & PG0804+761 & 148 & 62 & 75 & 151 & 0.6 & $1544 \pm 7$ & $89 \pm 12$ & $-21 \pm 7$ & $36.7 \pm 4.3$ & $13.04 \pm 0.04$ & \[7.0, 85.5\] & \[12.7, 120.5\]\
30 & UGC 04238 & PG0804+761 & 148 & 62 & 75 & 151 & 0.6 & $1544 \pm 7$ & $89 \pm 12$ & $67 \pm 8$ & $23.4 \pm 7.1$ & $12.6 \pm 0.08$ & \[7.0, 85.5\] & \[12.7, 120.5\]\
31 & UGC 06446 & SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 & 143 & 19 & 52 & 98 & 0.1 & $645 \pm 1$ & $62 \pm 5$ & $16 \pm 3$ & $39.8 \pm 4.0$ & $14.07 \pm 0.04$ & \[6.0, 50.0\] & \[18.7, 53.4\]\
32 & UGC 08146 & PG1259+593 & 114 & 52 & 78 & 123 & 0.3 & $670 \pm 1$ & $80 \pm 3$ & $-49 \pm 8$ & $19.6 \pm 8.4$ & $13.04 \pm 0.14$ & \[2.9, 29.1\] & \[14.9, 101.7\]\
32 & UGC 08146 & PG1259+593 & 114 & 52 & 78 & 123 & 0.3 & $670 \pm 1$ & $80 \pm 3$ & $23 \pm 4$ & $39.7 \pm 4.8$ & $13.72 \pm 0.04$ & \[2.9, 29.1\] & \[14.9, 101.7\]\
33 & UGC 09760 & SDSSJ151237.15+012846.0 & 123 & 87 & 90 & 156 & 0.6 & $2094 \pm 16$ & $-54 \pm 16$ & $-69 \pm 16$ & $43.2 \pm 7.1$ & $14.5 \pm 0.15$ & \[-0.0, 0.0\] & \[-44.9, 42.3\]\
Discussion
==========
We present data on 33 galaxy-QSO systems, representing 47 individual Ly$\rm \alpha$ component-galaxy pairs and two non-detections, for which we have galaxy information including kinematics, inclination, size and luminosity. This is the largest sample of its kind to date and provides the best yet opportunity to study the kinematic connection between galaxies and their neutral [ ]{} halos.
We designate each system as co-rotating or anti-rotating by comparing the absorption velocity difference, $\Delta v = v_{\rm absorber} - v_{\rm galaxy}$, to both the orientation of each galaxy and the model results. For example, the galaxy CGCG039-137 is probed on the receding side by the sightline RX\_J1121.2+0326, with a $\Delta v_{\rm Lya} = 53$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} component detected. This $\Delta v$ lies within the NFW model range (\[1.6, 210.4\]) as well as the Steidel (\[1.1, 137.2\]), and so is marked as “co-rotating” in all cases.
Table \[models\] summarizes our galaxy-absorber sample and includes the rotation velocity and associated error for each galaxy in Column (7), with the resulting co-rotation velocity ranges predicted from the [@steidel2002] and NFW models given in Columns (10) and (11). In order to broadly account for velocity uncertainties we have calculated our model ranges to include the $1\sigma$ rotation velocity errors. We note that the majority of our “co-rotating" sample fall well within the model ranges, so few would be thrown into uncertainty based on the relative size of included errors.
{width="0.484\linewidth"} {width="0.505\linewidth"}
{width="0.485\linewidth"} {width="0.485\linewidth"}
\[figure:full\_map\]
Co-rotation Fraction
--------------------
Here we consider in aggregate our sample of Ly$\alpha$ absorbers, and the fraction consistent with co-rotation under various constraints.
To start we consider the fraction of absorbers whose $\Delta v$ velocity indicates they are on the “correct" side of the galaxy to be consistent with co-rotation. Based on their orientation and apparent velocities alone, we find 27/47 ($57\pm5\%$) of absorbers have velocities consistent with co-rotation with the nearby galaxy. The [@steidel2002] model produces 19/47 ($40\pm5\%$), and the NFW model produces 23/47 ($49\pm3\%$) consistent with co-rotation. All of our rotation fraction errors are calculated via a bootstrapping method which randomly resamples our dataset, thus robustly accounting for outliers.
Figure \[figure:full\_map\] presents maps of the locations of each absorber relative to it’s assumed host galaxy. In Figure \[figure:full\_map\] we have rotated every system such that the galaxy major axes are horizontal with the approaching side on the left. The diamond symbols indicate the absorber velocity is consistent with co-rotation, the crosses indicate an anti-rotation, and the open gray circles indicate non-detections. They are further separated into two groups based on the associated galaxy inclination; the blue-diamonds and red-crosses represent $i> 75^{\circ}$ co- and anti-rotation, respectively, and the purple-diamonds and orange-crosses represent $i\leq75$ systems. We have also scaled the size of each marker according to its relative column density, and annotated each with a number corresponding to the appropriate system number given in Column (1) of Table \[models\]. Figure \[figure:full\_map\] also includes the same map zoomed-in to a radius of $1 R_{\rm vir}$, as well as one each based on the [@steidel2002] and our cylindrical NFW model results.
A cursory look at the maps from Figure \[figure:full\_map\] reveals several interesting results. First, the highest column density absorbers are all found within $1 R_{\rm vir}$. This is not surprising, given the results by numerous groups finding an impact parameter - column density anti-correlation (see, e.g., @french2017, and references therein). Second, just under half of our absorbers lie beyond $1 R_{\rm vir}$. Previously, most groups have concentrated on studying the sub-$1 R_{\rm vir}$ regime, but doing so may artificially truncate the full extent of the CGM. Third, just over half (12/23) of galaxies have either multiple distinct velocity components in a single QSO sightline, or multiple sightlines containing absorbers. Of these 12, seven are oriented such that at least one component is co- and one anti-rotating with the galaxy.
However, a more in-depth look at the data reveals a number of these absorbers have $\Delta v$ much larger than the inclination-corrected galaxy rotation velocity ($v_{\rm rot}$). In other words, the velocity of the absorber relative to galaxy systemic is much greater than the rotation velocity of the galaxy disk. This results in a much smaller fraction of co-rotating absorbers when compared to our models, which will never output a velocity *higher* than $v_{\rm rot}$. In undertaking this study we necessarily must begin by assuming that absorption within some velocity limit and impact parameter from a galaxy is likely associated with that galaxy. To start with we set these limits at $\Delta v_{\rm max} = 400$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and $\rho_{\rm max} = 3 R_{\rm vir}$, but now let us consider a stricter velocity range.
We now consider only absorbers with $\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$, or absorbers with velocity differences no greater than the maximal galaxy rotation velocity (i.e., we are only considering absorbers where $|v_{\rm Ly\alpha} - v_{\rm sys}| \leq v_{\rm rot}$, which are those absorbers within the velocity range of $\pm$ rotation $-$ this constraint removes eight from our original sample of 47 absorbers). This constraint just means we only consider those absorbers for which it is a priori possible to be found as co-rotating. In the full sample, lines not meeting this criterion would *always* be classified as non-rotating. Hence, we are effectively just setting the $\Delta v$ velocity separation limit on a case-by-case basis informed by each galaxy instead of globally given the additional information available. We could just as easily have started this study by looking for only absorbers within $\Delta v = 150$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} of a galaxy instead of $\Delta v = 400$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}, which would have a similar overall effect. This criteria instead narrows the focus to only those absorbers kinematically close enough to a galaxy to test for a co-rotation fraction with minimal contamination from $\rm Ly\alpha$ forest lines.
With this rotation-based velocity constraint in place the co-rotating fractions for the [@steidel2002] and cylindrical NFW models increase to 19/39 ($49\pm5\%$) and 23/39 ($59\pm6\%$), while the apparent co-rotation fraction also increases slightly to 24/39 ($62\pm4\%$). Consistently, we find our NFW model to predict an $\sim 8-10 \%$ higher co-rotation fraction than the [@steidel2002] model, and similar to the apparent velocity results. This is a not wholly unexpected, and yet refreshing result; simulations have predicted that galaxies are strongly linked to their surroundings and share angular momentum, which should result in a higher than $50\%$ halo-gas co-rotation fraction. Figure \[figure:nfw\_map\_vconstraint\] shows an absorber map based on our NFW model results with this velocity constraint in place.
\[lstar\_impact\_fig\]
\[inc\_az\_fig\]
Co-rotation as a function of [$L^*$]{}
--------------------------------------
For brevity’s sake we will concentrate only on the NFW model results with our $\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$ restriction from here on-wards. We now consider the effect of galaxy luminosity on co-rotation fraction by first separating our sample around $0.5$[$L^*$]{}. This results in 13 absorbers near $L \leq 0.5$[$L^*$]{} galaxies and 26 around more luminous galaxies. The co-rotating fraction around luminous galaxies is then $54\pm5\%$, compared to $69\pm7\%$ around $L \leq 0.5$[$L^*$]{} galaxies. Figure \[figure:nfw\_map\_lstar\] shows absorbers map for this $L \leq 0.5$[$L^*$]{} galaxy subsample (right) compared to the full sample (left).
Furthermore, we find this co-rotation fraction smoothly decreases as a function of [$L^*$]{}, as shown in Figure \[figure:lstar\_fraction\]. In this figure we have binned galaxy-absorber systems into four bins of luminosity, and are plotting the corresponding co-rotation fraction for each bin. This uneven bin spacing was chosen algorithmically to produce relatively evenly sized bins, and the exact binning does not affect the overall trend. The bin sizes are labeled explicitly underneath each data point for clarity. We have used a bootstrapping routine to calculate errors for Figures \[lstar\_impact\_fig\] and \[inc\_az\_fig\], which randomly resamples the selection of galaxies in each bin 10,000 times.
Given that recent simulation results suggest that co-rotating accretion gas is predominantly cold-mode for low-mass galaxies in the local universe, this may be a signature of this co-rotating, cold-mode accreting gas. Additionally, [@lutz2018] find that galaxies with high [ ]{}mass compared to their stellar mass have higher halo angular momentum, which may be impeding their ability to efficiently form stars. While we do not have independent measures of [ ]{}and stellar mass for our galaxies, it may not be unreasonable to think that such lower stellar-mass galaxies are analogous to the low luminosity galaxies in our sample.
Finally, we show in Figure \[impact\_fraction\] the co-rotation fraction as a function of impact parameter. For all three cases we consistently find a declining co-rotation fraction at greater physical distances from galaxies. Within $\sim 100$ kpc, nearly 85% of Ly$\alpha$ absorbers have velocities consistent with co-rotation, compared to $\sim50$% beyond this distance. As no correlation between disk gas and halo kinematics should result in a $\sim$ 50% co-rotation fraction, this implies that the sub-100 kpc regime harbors the majority of coherent halo angular momentum. Moreover, we note that the [@steidel2002] model dives far below this 50% co-rotation mark at large distances. This constant-velocity monolithic disk model is thus likely unphysical.
Inclination & Azimuth
---------------------
Here we investigate how the orientation of each galaxy affects the co-rotation rate. Figures \[figure:inclination\] and \[figure:azimuth\] show the co-rotation fraction for each model as a function of inclination and azimuth angle. We use the standard definitions wherein inclination ranges from $0^{\circ}$ (face-on) to $90^{\circ}$ (edge-on), and azimuth angle ranges from $0^{\circ}$ (major axis) to $90^{\circ}$ (minor axis). The co-rotation fraction is largely invariant as a function of azimuth angle but sharply drops off above inclinations of $\sim 70$ degrees, while remaining mostly flat below that. The [@steidel2002] model in particular predicts $\lesssim 20$% co-rotation rate for highly inclined galaxies, which is less than half that predicted by our NFW model or apparent velocity ($\sim 40$%). Hence, this simple monolithic disk model is likely not physical.
![[]{data-label="figure:b_vs_dv"}](figures/SALT_b_vs_dv_hists_NFW_velstrict_True_non_True_Lstar_05_minsep_False_fits_True.pdf){width="0.956\linewidth"}
![[]{data-label="figure:b_vs_az"}](figures/SALT_b_az_NFW_velstrict_True_non_True_Lstar_0_minsep_False_mininc_0.pdf){width="0.966\linewidth"}
Numerous simulations (e.g., @stewart2011b and @ho2019) and metal-line absorption studies (e.g., @kacprzak2010, @martin_2019) suggest that co-rotation should instead *peak* around the major axis of highly inclined galaxies (i.e., azimuth = $0^{\circ}$). Our results may differ for several reasons. First, we simply do not have many systems that are both highly inclined and aligned along the major axis. Of the 30 components associated with galaxies inclined $70^{\circ}$ or more, only eight are within $45^{\circ}$ of the major axis (and the co-rotation fraction of these eight does not differ significantly from the rest of the sample). We do not otherwise see a strong correlation with azimuth angle, but there may be a combination of azimuth and inclination effects present which are difficult to untangle. Second, our sample consists almost entirely of low column density gas, whereas the Mg[[ii]{}]{} absorbers in other studies trace much denser material. As simulations suggest that cold, dense gas accretes mostly along an extended, warped disk, the more diffuse gas we are tracing may be more geometrically and kinematically complex.
Doppler $b$-parameters
----------------------
Finally, we consider the Doppler $b$-parameters of our absorber sample. In Figure \[figure:b\_vs\_dv\] we show how the $b$-parameters vary as a function of $\Delta v$ for co-rotating versus anti-rotating absorbers (based on our NFW model results and limited to $\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$ absorbers). Figure \[figure:b\_vs\_dv\] also includes marginal histograms to show the distribution of $b$ and $\Delta v$. We might expect the co-rotating sample to occupy a narrower $\Delta v$ space as the NFW model predicts decreasing $\Delta v$ with distance, but the elevated $b$-parameters for these compared to the relatively flat distribution for anti-rotators is intriguing. All the anti-rotators have $b \lesssim 50$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}, leaving all five broader lines as co-rotating systems.
As previously discussed however, the picture described by the simulations of [@stewart2011b] and others describes a scenario where co-rotating gas is predominately the product of cold-mode accretion. Hotter, and thus broader, outflowing gas would likely carry angular momentum from the disk with it, but this would be quickly lost as the outflows expand into the halo and result in negligible observable rotation signature. Indeed, as shown in Figure \[figure:b\_vs\_az\], there is a slight correlation between $b$ and azimuth angle, with the broadest absorbers within $\sim 50^{\circ}$ of the minor axis (azimuth = $90^{\circ}$).
As the broadest lines are higher than expected for purely thermal motions within a single $\rm Ly\alpha$ structure, we may be observing either a number of clouds that are close in velocity space or a filament with a range of turbulent, internal velocities. In this scenario these high $b$-parameters could be consistent with filamentary inflows versus around higher [$L^*$]{} galaxies where virial shocks are perhaps breaking larger structures into smaller, more isolated cloudlets and producing lower $b$-parameter absorption.
To further explore this, we now consider the nine galaxies for which we find multiple Ly$\alpha$ components. Figure \[figure:b\_hist\_multiple\] shows the $b$ and $\log N({\mbox{H\,{\sc i}} })$ distributions for each of these galaxies. Intriguingly, 8/9 of these galaxies have at least one component consistent with both co-rotation and anti-rotation. Of these eight, six are oriented such the lower $b$ component is co-rotating, and 7/8 such that the lower $\log N({\mbox{H\,{\sc i}} })$ component is co-rotating. Hence, narrower, lower column density components appear more likely to be co-rotating. Once again these results differ from the finding of numerous metal-line kinematic studies that suggest the entirety of Mg[[ii]{}]{} absorption tends to lie on one side of galaxy systemic velocities (e.g., @kacprzak2010, @ho2017). Galaxy halos are thus likely multiphase, with distributions of material complex both geometrically and kinematically.
[l | c c | c c | c c]{} Apparent Vel. & 27 & 20 & 17 & 10 & 10 & 10\
Steidel Model & 19 & 28 & 11 & 16 & 8 & 12\
NFW Model & 23 & 24 & 10 & 12 & 15 & 19\
With Constraint: & & & & & &\
$\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$ & & & & & &\
Apparent Vel. & 24 & 15 & 14 & 9 & 10 & 6\
Steidel Model & 19 & 20 & 11 & 12 & 8 & 8\
NFW Model & 23 & 16 & 14 & 9 & 9 & 7\
With Constraint: & & & & & &\
$\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$ & & & & & &\
$[0 \leq $[$L^*$]{}$ \leq 0.5]$ & & & & & &\
Apparent Vel. & 9 & 4 & 5 & 3 & 4 & 1\
Steidel Model & 8 & 5 & 4 & 4 & 4 & 1\
NFW Model & 9 & 4 & 5 & 3 & 4 & 1\
With Constraint: & & & & & &\
$\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$ & & & & & &\
$[$[$L^*$]{}$ > 0.5]$ & & & & & &\
Apparent Vel. & 14 & 12 & 9 & 6 & 5 & 6\
Steidel Model & 11 & 15 & 7 & 8 & 4 & 7\
NFW Model & 14 & 12 & 9 & 6 & 5 & 6\
Summary
=======
We have presented complimentary COS Ly$\alpha$ absorption-line and nearby galaxy rotation curve analysis for a sample of 33 galaxy-QSO pairs, including 47 Ly$\alpha$ components, resulting in the largest yet sample of its kind. Table \[results\] provides a summary of the absorber co-rotation fractions resulting from the various models and constraints we have explored. Overall, our findings suggest that galaxy halo rotation is only one of many factors contributing to the velocity distribution of Ly$\alpha$ clouds near galaxies. The fact that we see coherent co-rotation trends with galaxy luminosity, impact parameter, and orientation suggests that these absorbers are kinematically connected to the nearby galaxy disks.
These findings contrast slightly with recent results concerning the kinematics of metal tracers such as Mg[[ii]{}]{} (e.g., @kacprzak2010, @ho2017, @martin_2019), which find clear and ubiquitous co-rotation with nearby galaxy disks. Likely, the neutral [ ]{} studied here is tracing more complex structures, with contributions from both extended, co-rotating disks as well as infalling IGM material. The effect of outflow, inflow, and turbulent velocities certainly also plays an important role, and one that is extremely difficult to untangle. Metals mostly originate within already co-rotating disks however, which should account for their higher co-rotation rates. Our main conclusions are the summarized below:
1\. We have tested two halo rotation models against a simple on-sky velocity designation of Ly$\alpha$ absorber velocities. We find a $62 \pm 4$% apparent on-sky Ly$\alpha$ co-rotation fraction, while the [@steidel2002] model results in $49 \pm 5$% and our new cylindrical NFW model results in $59 \pm 6$% fractions. We find the constant-velocity, monolithic disk [@steidel2002] model to be a poor descriptor of Ly$\alpha$ CGM kinematics, as it predicts unphysically low co-rotation fractions for higher-impact parameter systems (Figure \[impact\_fraction\]), as well as for those at high-azimuth and inclination angles (Figure \[inc\_az\_fig\]).
2\. The fraction of Ly$\alpha$ absorbers appearing to co-rotate with the nearby galaxy declines as a function galaxy luminosity ([$L^*$]{}). Based on the predicted velocity of our NFW halo model, $69\pm7\%$ of absorbers co-rotate around $\rm \leq 0.5 $[$L^*$]{} galaxies, which falls down to $54\pm5\%$ around more luminous galaxies at $z \sim 0$. Our overall co-rotation fraction is broadly consistent with the simulation results of [@stewart2011b; @stewart2013], and the effect of galaxy luminosity on halo gas co-rotation is consistent with predicted cold-mode filamentary accretion schemes.
3\. Over 80% of Ly$\alpha$ absorbers appear to co-rotate with galaxies within 100 kpc. Beyond this the co-rotation fraction returns to approximately 50%, consistent with no correlation, according to our NFW model and apparent on-sky velocities.
4\. The Ly$\alpha$ co-rotation fraction is mostly inclination-independent below $\sim 70$ degrees, but sharply declines at higher inclinations. This is likely due to a combination of azimuth and inclination effects which are difficult to untangle. If gas is primarily accreting along galaxies’ major axes, the infall velocity may further complicate the projected velocity profile. A larger sample encompassing a wide range of azimuth and inclination angles will be needed to make further progress here.
5\. Co-rotating absorbers (when chosen from the sample restricted to $\lvert \Delta v \rvert \leq v_{\rm rot}$) occupy a wide range in Doppler $b$-parameter, while anti-rotators have mostly $b \leq 50$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. However, for galaxies with multiple sightlines, 8/9 have both a co-rotating and anti-rotating absorber. Within this subsample, the co-rotating absorbers are both narrower (i.e., lower $b$ values) and have lower column densities in 6/8 and 7/8 cases, respectively.
D.M.F. thanks Claire Murray for useful insights, particularly related to our halo model, and Julie Davis for invaluable SALT data reduction pointers. This research has made use of the NASA/IPAC Extragalactic Database (NED), which is operated by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, California Institute of Technology, under contract with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Based on observations with the NASA/ESA *Hubble Space Telescope*, obtained at the Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI), which is operated by the Association of Universities for Research in Astronomy, Inc., under NASA contract NAS 5-26555. Spectra were retrieved from the Barbara A. Mikulski Archive for Space Telescopes (MAST) at STScI. Some of the observations reported in this paper were obtained with the Southern African Large Telescope (SALT) under program 2016-1-SCI-062 (PI: Wakker). Over the course of this study, D.M.F. and B.P.W. were supported by grant AST-1108913 from the National Science Foundation and GO-13444.01-A, GO-14240.01-A, and AR-14577.01-A from STScI.
\[galaxy\_sample\]
SALT Galaxies {#SALT_sample}
=============
In this section we summarize each galaxy-QSO system observed by SALT. Here we provide rotation curves and finder chart images for the subsample of galaxies with newly observed SALT data. Please see Table \[models\] for further details. Each rotation curve figure includes a legend with the galaxy name, $v_{\rm sys}$, and $v_{\rm rot}$. Each associated finder chart includes the position of the SALT-RSS slit in red, an arrow toward each nearby QSO with QSO name and impact parameter labels in blue (or a red circle around the QSO for CGCG039-137, the only case where the QSO is within the image), and a physical scale legend in the lower-left corner.
CGCG039-137
-----------
CGCG039-137 is an isolated Scd type galaxy with a measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 6918 \pm 24$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination of $i = 72^{\circ}$. The QSO RX\_J1121.2+0326 is located nearby at an impact parameter of 99 kpc and azimuth angle of $86^{\circ}$ on the receding side. The data for RX\_J1121.2+0326 has low signal-to-noise ($\sim 4.2$), but we are able to detect Ly$\alpha$ at 6971 [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}.
ESO343-G014
-----------
ESO343-G014 is an edge-on ($i = 90^{\circ}$) spiral galaxy with a measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 9139 \pm$ 32 [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. It has a smaller neighboring galaxy, 2MASXJ21372816-3824412, located north of its major axis at a projected distance of 216 kpc and velocity of 9129 [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. The nearest sightline is towards RBS1768 at $\rho = 466$ kpc and $75^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side. We detect 3 blended Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorption components toward RBS1768 at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 9305, 9383, 9447$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}.
IC5325
------
IC5325 is a mostly face-on ($i = 25^{\circ}$) SAB(rs)bc type galaxy with a measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1512 \pm 8$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. It’s inclination is just high enough to obtain a reasonable rotation curve. The background QSO RBS2000 is located northeast at $\rho = 314$ kpc and $67^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of IC5325. We detect Ly$\alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1596$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} towards RBS2000.
MCG-03-58-009
-------------
MCG-03-58-009 is a massive and very isolated Sc type galaxy at a measured systemic velocity of $v_{\rm sys} = 9015 \pm 19$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination angle of $i = 61^{\circ}$. The background QSO MRC2251-178 is located southeast at $\rho = 355$ kpc at an azimuth angle of $74^{\circ}$ on the receding side. We detect a weak Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorber at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 9029$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} towards MRC2251-178.
NGC3633
-------
NGC3633 is an isolated, edge-on ($i = 72^{\circ}$) SAa type galaxy with a measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 2587 \pm 7$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. Several locations along the disk of NGC3633 show two velocities for emission. We have combined these into a single velocity measurement via a weighted average.
The background QSO RX\_J1121.2+0326 is located southeast at $\rho = 184$ kpc and $55^{\circ}$ azimuth on the approaching side of NGC3633. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 2608$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward RX\_J1121.2+0326.
NGC4939
-------
NGC4939 is a large SA(s)bc type galaxy with measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 3093 \pm 33$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination $i = 61^{\circ}$. The background QSO PG1302-102 is located southeast at $\rho = 254$ kpc and $64^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC4939. We detect a Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorber at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 3449$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} towards PG1302-102.
NGC5786
-------
NGC5786 is a large, strongly-barred spiral galaxy with measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 2975 \pm 22$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination $i = 65^{\circ}$. The background QSO QSO1500-4140 is located directly east at $\rho = 453$ kpc and $2^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC5786. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 3138$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward QSO1500-4140.
UGC09760
--------
UGC09760 is an edge-on ($i = 90^{\circ}$), slow-rotating Sd galaxy with measured systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 2094 \pm 16$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. This systemic velocity deviates slightly from other published redshifts, such as the The Updated Zwicky Catalog value of $v_{\rm sys} = 2023 \pm 2$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} [@falco1999]. This is likely due to our method of imposing rotation symmetry and averaging the approaching and receding velocities to derive $v_{\rm sys}$. If we do not sample the rotation curve far enough out, a systematic offset is not unreasonable. Indeed, we do not detect the rotation curve turnover or flattening point.
The background QSO SDSSJ151237.15+012846.0 is located southeast at $\rho = 123$ kpc and $87^{\circ}$ azimuth angle. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorption at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 2025$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ151237.15+012846.0. It is worth noting that there are several small satellite galaxies nearby, including SDSSJ151208.16+013508.5, SDSSJ151121.63+013637.6, SDSSJ151241.38+013723.7 and UGC09746 (impact parameters $\rho = 53, 88, 82, 230$ kpc respectively). All of these galaxies lie slightly blue-ward of UGC09760, and thus *farther* away in velocity from the Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorber at 2025 [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}.
Ancillary Data {#ancillary_data}
==============
To increase our sample size we have also searched the literature for galaxies with published rotation curves and orientations. Unfortunately, while the rotation velocity is available for thousands of galaxies, only a handful of publications also include the *orientation* of the rotation on the sky. Of these, we were able to find 16 additional galaxies which have a systemic velocity greater than $\sim 500$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}, and are near to a COS sightline with available data. We have included 3 of the galaxy-QSO systems analyzed by [@cote2005]. We briefly summarize each of these systems here, and refer the reader to [@cote2005] for a more complete discussion. As new spectra and redshift-independent distances are available for these systems our results, while similar, are not identical.
NGC2770
-------
NGC2770 is a large, edge-on ($i = 80^{\circ}$) Sc type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1948 \pm 2$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. It is mostly isolated except for two nearby small dwarfs MCG+06-20-036NED02 and GALEXASCJ090946.88+330840.4 (both 25 kpc away, on opposite sides of NGC2770). We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@rhee1996]. There are five nearby QSOs, which we present in order of increasing impact parameter.
First, the QSO FBQSJ0908+3246 is located south at $\rho = 204$ kpc and $56^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC2770. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1910, 1991$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward FBQSJ0908+3246.
Second, the QSO TON1015 is located northeast at $\rho = 218$ kpc and $58^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC2770. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1834, 1984$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward TON1015.
Third the QSO SDSSJ091127.30+325337.0 is located southeast at $\rho = 234$ kpc and $33^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC2770. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 2062$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ091127.30+325337.0.
Fourth, the QSO SDSSJ091052.80+333008.0 at is located northeast at $\rho = 239$ kpc and $63^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC2770. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 1824, 1969$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ091052.80+333008.0.
Finally, the QSO TON1009 is located south at $\rho = 267$ kpc and $38^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC2770. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 1913, 1980$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward TON1009.
NGC3067
-------
NGC3067 is a mostly edge-on ($i = 71^{\circ}$) SAB(s)ab type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1465 \pm 5$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. This galaxy and the nearby QSO sightline toward 3C232 is a particularly well studied system. They are separated by only $\rho = 11$ kpc ($71^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the northwest, receding side) and a Lyman Limit System (LLS) with column density $N_{\scriptsize {\mbox{H\,{\sc i}} }} = 1 \times 10^{20}$ $\rm cm^{-2}$ is detected toward 3C232 at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1417$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}, which has been postulated as a high velocity cloud (HVC) orbiting NGC3067 [@carilli1989; @keeney2005].
We obtained the rotation curve for NGC3067 from [@rubin1982] and the orientation from [@carilli1989]. We fit a single component to the Lyman Limit System with $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1417$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}$\rm log \emph{N}_{\scriptsize {\mbox{H\,{\sc i}} }} = 20.086$ $\rm cm^{-2}$. Some studies suggest this system could have 2 or more components (e.g., @keeney2005 and @stocke2010), but we do not see strong evidence for multiple components here.
A second QSO SDSSJ095914.80+320357.0 is located farther away, to the southeast at $\rho = 128$ kpc and $40^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC3067. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at v$_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1492$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ095914.80+320357.0.
NGC3198
-------
NGC3198 is a SB(rs)c type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 660 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}and inclination = $i = 73^{\circ}$. It is a well studied galaxy, and is included in the detailed THINGS rotation curve study of [@deblok2008]. NGC3198 has an even and flat rotation curve, with an average velocity of $v_{\rm rot} = 152$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. The background QSO RX\_1017.5+4702 is located northeast at $\rho = 370$ kpc and $58^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC3198. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ toward RX\_1017.5+4702 at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 623$. We note that the small dwarf galaxy SDSSJ101848.77+452137.0 is located 65 kpc away from NGC3198 toward the southwest.
NGC3351
-------
NGC3351 is a mostly face-on ($i = 42^{\circ}$) SB(r)b type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 778 \pm 4$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. It is located $\sim200$ kpc southwest of the core of the Leo I group. We take the rotation curve and orientation produced by [@dicaire2008]. While we expect any extended disk rotation to be quickly disrupted due to the complex Leo I environment, this galaxy also has one of the closest sightlines in our sample with SDSSJ104335.90+115129.0 at $\rho = 31$ kpc and $46^{\circ}$ azimuth on the northwest, approaching side. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 699, 862, 1036$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ104335.90+115129.0. We note also that there are multiple metal ions associated with the $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 699$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} line, including C[ii]{}, N[i]{}, N[v]{}, O[i]{}, Si[ii]{}, Si[iii]{}, Si[iv]{}, S[ii]{}, and Fe[ii]{}.
NGC3432
-------
NGC3432 is an edge-on ($i = 90^{\circ}$) SB(s)m type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 616 \pm 4$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. It is interacting with the nearby dwarf galaxy UGC05983 located 11 kpc away and at $v_{\rm sys} = 765$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take a rotation curve and orientation for NGC3432 from [@rhee1996]. The QSO CSO295 is located just 20 kpc away and just to the receding side of the minor axis ($79^{\circ}$ azimuth angle). This is the second closest pair in our sample, after the 11 kpc separated NGC3067-3C232 system. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 600, 662$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward CSO295. We also detect C[ii]{}, Si[ii]{}, Si[iii]{}, and Si[iv]{} associated with this absorption system.
A second QSO RX\_J1054.2+3511 is located south at $\rho = 290$ kpc and $60^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC3432. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 689$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward RX\_J1054.2+3511.
NGC3631
-------
NGC3631 is a mostly face-on ($i = 17^{\circ}$) SA(s)c type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1156 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@knapen1997]. There are 4 nearby QSOs, which we will present in order of increasing impact parameter.
First, the closest background QSO RX\_J1117.6+5301 is located southwest at $\rho = 78$ kpc and $78^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC3631. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1130, 1265$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward RX\_J1117.6+5301.
Second, background QSO SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 is located northeast at $\rho = 86$ kpc and $77^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC3631. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1018, 1135$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0.
Third, the background QSO SDSSJ111443.70+525834.0 is located in the same direction but farther than RX\_J1117.6+5301, at $\rho = 145$ kpc and $74^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC3631. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1158$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ111443.70+525834.0.
Finally, the background QSO SBS1116+523 is located south at $\rho = 163$ kpc and $37^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC3631, but we do not detect any Ly$\rm \alpha$ within $\pm400$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} of NGC3631.
NGC3666
-------
NGC3666 is a mostly isolated and edge-on ($i = 78^{\circ}$) SA(rs)c type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys}=1060 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@rhee1996]. The QSO SDSSJ112439.50+113117.0 is located north at $\rho = 58$ kpc and $86^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC3666. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 1062$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ112439.50+113117.0.
NGC4529 {#NGC4529}
-------
NGC4529 is an edge-on ($i = 80^{\circ}$) and isolated Scd type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 2536 \pm 11$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@cote2005]. The QSO MRK771 is located west at $\rho = 158$ kpc and $26^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the approaching side of NGC4529. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 2558, 2513$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward MRK771.
NGC4565
-------
NGC4565 is an edge-on ($i = 86^{\circ}$) SA(s)b type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1230 \pm 5$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation produced by [@sofue1996]. The background QSO RX\_J1236.0+2641 is located directly north at $\rho = 147$ kpc and $38^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on receding side of NGC4565. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ absorption at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1166, 1257$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward RX\_J1236.0+2641.
NGC5907
-------
NGC5907 is a large, edge-on ($i = 90^{\circ}$) SA(s)c type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 667 \pm 3$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation produced by [@yim2014]. The background QSO RBS1503 is located southeast at $\rho = 478$ kpc and $66^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC5907. We do not detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ toward RBS1503 within $\pm 400$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} of NGC5907.
NGC5951
-------
NGC5951 is a large, edge-on ($i = 74^{\circ}$) SBc type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1780 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation for NGC5951 from [@rhee1996]. The QSO 2E1530+1511 is located east at $\rho = 55$ kpc and $88^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of NGC5951. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1792, 1959$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward 2E1530+1511.
NGC6140 {#NGC6140}
-------
NGC6140 is a small SB(s)cd type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 910 \pm 4$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination $i = 49^{\circ}$. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@cote2005]. A background QSO Mrk876 is located northwest at $\rho = 113$ kpc and azimuth angle $18^{\circ}$. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 917, 971$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward MRK876. Additionally, we detect Ly$\rm \beta$ and O[vi]{} associated with this system (see @narayanan2010).
NGC7817
-------
NGC7817 is an edge-on ($i = 80^{\circ}$) SAbc type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 2309 \pm 4$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@rhee1996]. The background QSO MRK335 is located southeast at $\rho = 343$ kpc and almost directly along the minor axis of NGC7817 ($87^{\circ}$ azimuth angle). We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm sys} = 1949, 2273$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward MRK335.
UGC04238 {#UGC04238}
--------
UGC04238 is an isolated, mostly edge-on ($i = 62^{\circ}$) SBd type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 1544 \pm 7$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@cote2005]. The background QSO PG0804+761 is located directly south at $\rho = 148$ kpc and $62^{\circ}$ azimuth on the receding side of UGC04238. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 1523, 1611$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward PG0804+761.
UGC06446 {#UGC06446}
--------
UGC06446 is a Sd type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 645 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} and inclination $i = 52^{\circ}$ on the far northwest edge of the Ursa Major cluster of galaxies. We take the rotation curve and orientation information produced by [@verheijen2001] and [@swaters2009]. The background QSO SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0 is located southwest at $\rho = 143$ kpc and $19^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of UGC06446. We detect Ly$\rm \alpha$ at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 661$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} toward SDSSJ112448.30+531818.0.
UGC08146 {#UGC08146}
--------
UGC08146 is an isolated and edge-on ($i = 78^{\circ}$) Sd type galaxy with systemic velocity $v_{\rm sys} = 670 \pm 1$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}. This galaxy (and the nearby QSO PG1259+593) are included in the [@cote2005] sample also, but we have taken the rotation curve and orientation information from [@rhee1996]. The QSO PG1259+593 is located northwest at $\rho = 114$ kpc at $52^{\circ}$ azimuth angle on the receding side of UGC08146. While [@cote2005] cite a single Ly$\rm \alpha$ component at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 679$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{}, we detect two components at $v_{\rm Ly\alpha} = 621, 693$ [$\rm km\, s^{-1}$]{} in the higher signal-to-noise COS data now available for PG1259+593.
[^1]: Based on observations made with the Southern African Large Telescope (SALT).
[^2]: http://pysalt.salt.ac.za/
[^3]: <http://cars9.uchicago.edu/software/python/lmfit/contents.html>
[^4]: WebPlotDigitizer; https://automeris.io/WebPlotDigitizer/
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | ArXiv |
Manuel Antonio Cano Pacheco, a high school student from Des Moines, was killed in Mexico weeks after he was sent back to the country. (Photo: Mike Blake / Reuters)
An Iowa high school student who was sent back to Mexico by immigration authorities was killed three weeks after he returned to his home country, The Des Moines Register reported Thursday.
Manuel Antonio Cano Pacheco, 19, was expected to graduate from high school in Des Moines in May, but he drew the scrutiny of Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents after he was convicted of a misdemeanor drug charge last year. The student, who was brought to the U.S. without a visa by his family when he was three years old, had been protected by the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, or DACA, under President Barack Obama.
After his conviction, as well as another for a separate misdemeanor charge, a judge vacated his protections.
“Based on his criminal convictions, his DACA status was terminated making him amenable to deportation,” Shawn Neudauer, an ICE spokesman, told The Hill.
ICE told the Register that Pacheco then requested a voluntary departure to return to Mexico “under safeguards” while his immigration hearing was pending. Leaving the country voluntarily under such terms carries penalties less stiff than a formal deportation, and The Hill notes he would have been allowed to return legally with a visa.
Pacheco returned to Zacatecas, Mexico, on April 24 with an ICE escort. However, weeks later, he was out to get food with a friend of his cousin and both were killed. Pacheco had his throat slit.
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” another friend, Juan Verduzco said at his memorial service earlier this month, according to the Register. “I kind of don’t believe it still. It still hasn’t hit me... I don’t understand.”
Verduzco said Pacheco had suffered from depression and drinking issues since his father was sent to prison several years ago, but described him as upbeat and always smiling. ICE noted that Pacheco had been convicted of driving under the influence while awaiting his hearing.
Story continues
President Donald Trump moved to end DACA in September and gave Congress six months to come up with a replacement to the program for the 800,000 DREAMers in America. Various efforts have stalled in Congress as lawmakers fight about a potential solution that includes Trump’s demands for increased border security and curbing family-based immigration.
But House Speaker Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) expressed optimism this week that the body would soon force a vote on legislation.
“I really do believe that there’s a sweet spot here,” he told reporters earlier this week. “When we fix DACA we want to fix it permanently so we don’t have another DACA problem down the road.”
Related...
Trump's Family Separation Policy Aims To Deter Immigration. That May Make It Illegal.
Republicans Continue Their Search For A GOP-Only Immigration Bill
U.S. Immigration Authorities Sending 1,600 Detainees To Federal Prisons
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This article originally appeared on HuffPost. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Background {#Sec1}
==========
Speciation is still one of the overarching concepts in biology. The process is usually assumed to involve the development of both pre- and postmating isolation, and a large number of studies have been dedicated to understanding how these arise \[[@CR1]\]. One factor which has been gaining attention as a contributor to the speciation process in animals is the influence of microbial symbionts \[[@CR2]\]. Growing evidence indicates that microorganisms affect host traits, such as behavior, metabolism, immunity and reproduction, which in turn can influence mating incompatibilities \[[@CR3]\]. Insects, in particular, are associated with a large variety of microbial symbionts that are often implicated as contributors to the remarkable species diversity in this group of organisms \[[@CR2]\].
The Neotropical fruit fly *Drosophila paulistorum* (Diptera: Drosophilidae) is considered a classical example of incipient speciation. Its six semispecies, Amazonian (AM), Andean-Brazilian (AB), Centro American (CA), Interior (IN), Orinocan (OR) and Transitional (TR) \[[@CR4], [@CR5]\] are morphologically similar, have partially overlapping geographical distributions, and yet show both pre- and postmating barriers to hybridization \[[@CR6], [@CR7]\]. Premating isolation is observed through female rejection of males belonging to other semispecies \[[@CR7], [@CR8]\], while postmating barriers manifest as embryonic lethality and male sterility in the rare hybrids that develop into adults \[[@CR9], [@CR10]\]. Early studies suggested that the reproductive incompatibility observed in *D. paulistorum* was due to a microbial infection \[[@CR11], [@CR12]\], but it was only recently determined that the microbe in question is *Wolbachia* \[[@CR8]\].
*Wolbachia* (Alphaproteobacteria) are widespread endosymbionts of invertebrates, infecting over 60% of insect species \[[@CR13]\] as well as Arachnids \[[@CR14]\], Crustaceans \[[@CR15]\] and Nematodes \[[@CR16]\]. They are vertically transmitted through the maternal line and infect primarily the reproductive tissues, although other organs will often also host bacteria \[[@CR17], [@CR18]\]. *Wolbachia* have been found to participate in a range of biological interactions with arthropod hosts, from nutritional mutualism and protection against pathogens to various forms of reproductive parasitism \[[@CR19], [@CR20]\].
*Wolbachia* have high prevalence among arthropods, but they are often facultative for these hosts. However, in *D. paulistorum, Wolbachia* are obligate mutualists necessary for proper gonad development \[[@CR8]\], analogous to what is observed in some wasps of the genus *Asobara* \[[@CR21], [@CR22]\]. The mutualistic nature of *Wolbachia* is further supported by its presence in every *D. paulistorum* semispecies tested so far, although the titer of the infection can vary from high to only a few endosymbiont cells per fly \[[@CR8]\]. In such low titer cases, *Wolbachia* presence is below the detection limit of a standard PCR, and more sensitive techniques must be used \[[@CR8]\]. Remarkably, even very low titer infections are capable of inducing reproductive incompatibility, as successful mating across semispecies is facilitated once the *Wolbachia* titer is reduced through mild antibiotic treatment \[[@CR8], [@CR11]\]. Specifically, antibiotic treated females become more accepting of males belonging to other semispecies \[[@CR8]\] and hybrid male sterility is partially rescued after treatment of the parents \[[@CR11]\]. This suggests that, in this system, the endosymbiont is able to prevent hybridization by inducing not only postmating incompatibility but also premating isolation between semispecies.
Little is known about the influence of *Wolbachia* on biological functions of *D. paulistorum*, but a recent study shows that the symbiont affects male pheromone profiles and thereby modulates mate recognition in that species \[[@CR23]\]. This suggests the effect of *Wolbachia* on premating isolation might be associated with changes in host chemical communication \[[@CR8]\]. *Wolbachia* has been shown to infect brain regions responsible for sensory perception in *D. paulistorum* \[[@CR17]\], and many of the 50 odorant-binding proteins (OBPs) encoded by the *Drosophila* genome could be targets for affecting reception of chemical stimuli \[[@CR24], [@CR25]\]. An important group of pheromones in *Drosophila* are the cuticle hydrocarbons (CHCs), molecules derived from fatty acid metabolism \[[@CR26], [@CR27]\]. Unique CHC profiles have been associated with each semispecies and sex of *D. paulistorum* \[[@CR28]\], and *in vivo* tests demonstrated that cuticular extracts from one semispecies can inhibit courtship by males of others, supporting their role in semispecies isolation \[[@CR28]\]. Consequently, *Wolbachia* manipulation of genes related to CHC production and/or perception could affect host premating behavior.
The influence of *Wolbachia* on host postmating compatibility is usually associated with cytoplasmic incompatibility (CI). CI is the most commonly observed *Wolbachia*-induced host manipulation and is characterized by partial or complete embryonic lethality in crosses between infected males and non-infected females or between hosts carrying incompatible symbiont strains. It is not known whether CI has a role in the incompatibilities between *D. paulistorum* semispecies, but the phenotype has been suggested as a driver of speciation in other systems due to its potential to reproductively isolate insect populations \[[@CR8], [@CR29], [@CR30]\]. On a cellular level, CI affects paternal chromosome condensation during the first embryonic mitosis, leading to lethal chromatin missegregation in anaphase \[[@CR31], [@CR32]\]. Recent studies have also elucidated some of the *Wolbachia* proteins responsible for inducing CI in *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR31], [@CR33]\], but very little is known about which host genes are involved in the process.
In the present study, we use RNA-seq to investigate the impact of *Wolbachia* on the biology of three semispecies of *Drosophila paulistorum*, two with low titer *Wolbachia* infections, AM and CA, and one with a high titer *Wolbachia* infection, OR. For each semispecies, we analyze samples from heads and abdomens of both sexes from wild type (WT) flies as well as from corresponding antibiotic-treated and gut flora restored (GFR) individuals. Our goal is to get a better understanding of how *Wolbachia* affects its host and to investigate whether this interaction contributes to the speciation process of *D. paulistorum*. We find that *Wolbachia* affects hundreds of genes associated with global and condition-specific biological processes, including metabolism, immunity, olfactory perception, vision and reproduction. We suggest that the metabolic changes caused by *Wolbachia* might be responsible for other observed phenotypes and discuss the possibility that some of the affected genes and processes support a role for *Wolbachia* in the speciation of *D. paulistorum.*
Results {#Sec2}
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Data, transcriptome assembly and quality assessment {#Sec3}
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RNA-seq data was collected from heads and abdomens of female and male WT and GFR treated flies of the AM, CA and OR semispecies. While WT flies contain the natural *Wolbachia* titer, GFR flies were subjected to mild antibiotic treatment in order to reduce the *Wolbachia* titer. To avoid host effects stemming from removal of gut microbes, the GFR flies had their gut flora restored after antibiotic treatment (see [Materials and Methods](#Sec38){ref-type="sec"}). The effectivity of the antibiotic treatment to reduce *Wolbachia* titer in both low and high titer *Wolbachia* in *D. paulistorum* has been previously tested with qPCR \[[@CR23]\] (unpublished data). Additionally, we see a strong reduction in the number of reads mapping to *Wolbachia* in samples from GFR compared to WT flies of the high titer semispecies OR (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). The absence of differentially expressed (DE) non-*Wolbachia* bacterial genes between WT and GFR samples in all but one condition (data not shown) indicates that gut microbes likely have a very small impact on the results.
Following read quality control, the transcriptomes for the AM, CA and OR semispecies of *D. paulistorum* were assembled separately with Trinity using reads from most samples of that semispecies (see [Materials and Methods](#Sec38){ref-type="sec"}). Before further analyses, each assembly was then filtered to reduce sequence redundancy and remove non-coding contigs. Additionally, contigs with multiple open reading frames (ORFs) were split. The final reference assemblies showed very high completeness, as measured by recovery of BUSCO markers, and contained between 33000-36000 ORFs each (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}). Most ORFs were of *Drosophila* origin, with a minority associated to either bacteria or yeast (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}), and the three assemblies show very high overlap in *Drosophila* gene content (Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1). The OR transcriptome was the only one containing *Wolbachia* ORFs (1.43%), which is consistent with OR WT samples having considerably more *Wolbachia* reads than any other condition (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}) and with OR being the only semispecies with a high titer *Wolbachia* infection.Table 1Assembly metrics for the transcriptomes used in the differential expression analysis of each semispeciesAMCAORNumber of contigs (ORFs)352333642233680Maximum contig length262532734823729Average contig length138412841374Contig N50192317811889BUSCO marker recovery (%) Arthropod98.5098.5098.78 Insecta98.0198.1398.37 Diptera95.6895.6195.93ORF completeness (%) Complete41.8237.3241.20 3-prime partial12.7413.6813.23 5-prime partial23.1323.0723.41 Internal22.3125.9322.16ORFs associated to: (%) *Drosophila*77.9477.2882.92 *Wolbachia*0.000.001.43 Other bacteria6.3610.103.33 Yeast1.180.980.96 Not assigned^a^14.5111.6411.35^a^ Non-assigned ORFs didn\'t fulfill our alignment similarity threshold for annotation (see [Materials and Methods](#Sec38){ref-type="sec"})
The reads from each semispecies were mapped to their respective reference transcriptome assembly and counted using FeatureCounts followed by principal component analysis (PCA) in DEseq2. Gene expression in each semispecies varied according to sex, tissue and *Wolbachia* infection, although the latter on a smaller scale (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}, Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figures S2, S3). Expression differences between sexes were greater in abdomens than in heads, and particularly distinct between male abdomens and other conditions (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}, Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figures S2, S3). Variation between biological replicates was low (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}).Fig. 1Principal component analysis (**a**) and heatmap (**b**) of expression data of the OR semispecies. The PCA is based on all *Drosophila* genes in the analysis, while the heatmap shows only DE genes. F: female, M: male, WT: wild type, GFR: gut flora restored, abd: abdomen
Differential expression analysis in the three semispecies {#Sec4}
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Separate differential expression analyses were done for each sex and tissue in each semispecies using DESeq2 and an adjusted p-value of 0.05 as significance cutoff. GFR was set as reference condition, which means that the direction of gene expression change is due to *Wolbachia* rather than antibiotic treatment. Since our focus is on investigating the effect of *Wolbachia* on the host gene expression, all results, numbers, figures and discussion presented from here on refer to *Drosophila* genes only, unless otherwise noted.
A total of 175, 209 and 1192 *Drosophila* genes were differentially expressed between WT and GFR flies in AM, CA and OR, respectively. Out of these, 67-81% could be assigned putative functional annotations (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). A heatmap of the DE genes in OR (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}b) allows visualization of the expression differences between WT and GFR, which clearly are mild compared to differences between tissues and sex. A complete list of DE genes in the three semispecies and their respective annotations is available in Additional files [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}, [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"} and [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}. We identified one up- and 9 downregulated genes which are DE in all three semispecies, irrespectively of condition (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). Among these we find *RyR*, a calcium channel which is important for muscle contraction, *FASN2*, which is involved in fatty acid metabolism and implicated in *Drosophila* speciation (see [Discussion](#Sec24){ref-type="sec"}), the cytochrome P450 gene *Cyp6g1*, and several uncharacterized genes (Additional file [6](#MOESM6){ref-type="media"}). On the other hand, a small number of DE genes were present only in one of the assemblies, 4, 2 and 6 genes in AM, CA and OR respectively. None of these were annotated (Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1).Table 2Number of DE *Drosophila* genes in the three semispeciesConditionRegulation^a^AM (annotated)CA (annotated)OR (annotated)Female abdomenUp7 (7)3 (2)325 (203)Down24 (18)104 (88)164 (143)Female headUp59 (50)18 (14)36 (23)Down23 (17)30 (25)202 (188)Male abdomenUp37 (20)7 (4)223 (108)Down7 (5)15 (14)324 (282)Male headUp20 (17)3 (2)25 (8)Down55 (21)13 (7)225 (203)Total unique DE genes175 (139)209 (142)1192 (921)^a^ Up- and downregulation presented as a response to *Wolbachia* infectionFig. 2Number of genes up- (**a**) or downregulated (**b**) in one or multiple semispecies. Shared genes are identified as those included in the same OrthoMCL cluster. All conditions are pooled in this analysis and GFR is used as the reference
Most DE genes in the CA and OR semispecies are downregulated in WT (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}), and these are proportionally better annotated than upregulated genes in both semispecies. The opposite is seen in AM, where DE genes are more commonly upregulated in WT and these are generally better annotated. (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). In OR, abdomens have more than twice as many DE genes than heads (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}). A similar trend is observed in CA, but again the opposite is found in AM (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}).
The lower number of DE genes in AM and CA compared to OR (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}) might be a consequence of differences in infection titer or *Wolbachia* strains between the semispecies (see [Discussion](#Sec24){ref-type="sec"}). Given these reduced numbers of DE genes in the AM and CA, from here on we will only present the results from the DE analysis of the OR semispecies, unless otherwise stated.
Patterns of differential expression in the OR semispecies {#Sec5}
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Most DE genes in the three semispecies are DE in a single tissue, sex or condition (i.e. the combination of tissue and sex), with only a small number DE in both sexes or tissues (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}, Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figures S4, S5). In the OR semispecies, tissue-specific responses include several upregulated genes in both male and female WT abdomens as well as genes downregulated in both male and female WT heads (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}). Sex-specific responses to *Wolbachia* are less common and more prominent in males, in which 47 genes are downregulated in both abdomens and heads (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}).Fig. 3Number of genes differentially expressed in one or multiple conditions of the OR semispecies. A black dot indicates the presence of DE genes for the condition named on the left side. Dots linked by lines represent DE genes in multiple conditions. Vertical bars above the dots correspond to the number of annotated (blue) and unannotated (grey) DE genes present in the condition(s) marked with a dot. Horizontal black bars on the lower left indicate how many genes are DE in each condition. F: female, M: male, WT: wild type, GFR: gut flora restored, abd: abdomen, up: upregulated, down: downregulated
Male abdomens have the largest number of DE genes (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}) and female abdomens the highest condition-specificity, with 93% of the down- and 58% of the upregulated genes being exclusive to it (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}). In heads, males have only a slightly larger number of DE genes than females, but again females have a higher condition-specificity (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}, Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}).
Enrichment of biological process among DE genes in the OR semispecies {#Sec6}
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Using TopGO and GO term annotation, we analyzed which biological functions were enriched among the DE genes identified in each condition (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [7](#MOESM7){ref-type="media"}). We found that the DE genes between WT and GFR participate in a wide range of biological processes and are enriched either globally or in specific tissues and conditions, indicating that responses to *Wolbachia* can be either general or localized.Table 3Ten most significantly enriched GO terms in each condition of the OR semispeciesGO TermAnnotationNr Ann.^a^Nr DE^a^Nr Exp.^a^Signif.^a^**Female abdomen upregulated** GO:0045214sarcomere organization27120.589.20E-14 GO:0030239myofibril assembly38180.824.90E-09 GO:0007498mesoderm development74121.64.80E-08 GO:0006936muscle contraction23100.54.50E-07 GO:0071688striated muscle myosin thick filament assembly540.111.00E-06 GO:0007015actin filament organization111122.42.30E-06 GO:0034446substrate adhesion-dependent cell spreading740.157.00E-06 GO:0006941striated muscle contraction840.171.40E-05 GO:0060361flight1040.224.00E-05 GO:0007519skeletal muscle tissue development730.150.00033**Female abdomen downregulated** GO:0031122cytoplasmic microtubule organization2050.319.80E-06 GO:0006270DNA replication initiation2350.352.10E-05 GO:0007147female meiosis II530.083.40E-05 GO:0007338single fertilization2760.410.00019 GO:0006277DNA amplification2130.320.00023 GO:0007280pole cell migration2140.320.00025 GO:0006013mannose metabolic process1030.150.00038 GO:0071480cellular response to gamma radiation1030.150.00038 GO:0006517protein deglycosylation1330.20.00089 GO:0048640negative regulation of developmental growth6751.020.00131**Female head upregulated** GO:0016059deactivation of rhodopsin mediated signaling1630.046.60E-06 GO:0042052rhabdomere development3630.098.10E-05 GO:0007601visual perception1820.040.00083 GO:0045494photoreceptor cell maintenance2920.070.00216 GO:0050830defense response to Gram-positive bacterium3620.090.00331 GO:2000370positive regulation of clathrin-mediated endocytosis510.010.01202 GO:0051282regulation of sequestering of calcium ion510.010.01202 GO:0051966regulation of synaptic transmission, glutamatergic510.010.01202 GO:0050913sensory perception of bitter taste510.010.01202 GO:0007604phototransduction, UV510.010.01202**Female head downregulated** GO:0002181cytoplasmic translation86281.789.10E-27 GO:0055114oxidation-reduction process472379.783.60E-10 GO:0046653tetrahydrofolate metabolic process540.18.70E-07 GO:0000028ribosomal small subunit assembly1250.252.50E-06 GO:0006414translational elongation1950.393.30E-05 GO:0006730one-carbon metabolic process1440.290.00015 GO:0006164purine nucleotide biosynthetic process8351.720.00042 GO:0006635fatty acid beta-oxidation3150.640.00134 GO:0017085response to insecticide1230.250.00167 GO:0009620response to fungus5441.120.00214**Male abdomen upregulated** GO:0045214sarcomere organization2790.273.00E-12 GO:0030239myofibril assembly38140.396.50E-09 GO:0014866skeletal myofibril assembly740.073.40E-07 GO:0006936muscle contraction2380.239.80E-07 GO:0060361flight1040.12.00E-06 GO:0007629flight behavior2550.254.30E-06 GO:0007498mesoderm development7470.759.00E-06 GO:0071688striated muscle myosin thick filament assembly530.051.00E-05 GO:0007015actin filament organization11181.131.60E-05 GO:0006099tricarboxylic acid cycle3450.352.10E-05**Male abdomen downregulated** GO:0032504multicellular organism reproduction9433523.136.50E-16 GO:0055114oxidation-reduction process4723711.585.50E-11 GO:0006508proteolysis6773316.611.50E-06 GO:0009631cold acclimation840.22.30E-05 GO:0006629lipid metabolic process370289.083.30E-05 GO:0042364water-soluble vitamin biosynthetic process730.170.00047 GO:0042761very long-chain fatty acid biosynthetic process1640.390.00051 GO:0045434negative regulation of female receptivity,postmating830.20.00074 GO:0006465signal peptide processing830.20.00074 GO:0005975carbohydrate metabolic process4102210.060.00187**Male head upregulated** GO:0055093response to hyperoxia710.010.0053 GO:0019731antibacterial humoral response2810.020.0212 GO:0045793positive regulation of cell size2910.020.0219 GO:0042052rhabdomere development3610.030.0271 GO:0050830defense response to Gram-positive bacterium3610.030.0271 GO:0030307positive regulation of cell growth4010.030.0301 GO:0008286insulin receptor signaling pathway4210.030.0316 GO:0018105peptidyl-serine phosphorylation4210.030.0316 GO:0040018positive regulation of multicellular organism4410.030.0331 GO:0046620regulation of organ growth4910.040.0368**Male head downregulated** GO:0055114oxidation-reduction process4724510.144.40E-19 GO:1901606alpha-amino acid catabolic process3570.752.10E-05 GO:0046653tetrahydrofolate metabolic process530.119.40E-05 GO:0009620response to fungus5451.160.00013 GO:0006730one-carbon metabolic process1440.30.00017 GO:0019236response to pheromone1540.320.00023 GO:0042559pteridine-containing compound biosynthetic process730.150.00032 GO:0072329monocarboxylic acid catabolic process4030.860.00046 GO:0005977glycogen metabolic process1550.320.00049 GO:0006098pentose-phosphate shunt830.170.0005^a^*Nr Ann*. Number of times a GO term appears in the reference gene universe. *Nr DE* Number of DE genes which are annotated with the GO term. *Nr Exp.* Number of times a GO term would be expected to appear in the DE genes dataset. *Signif* Significance value in Fishers' test
In the following sections, we present the main biological functions associated with the DE genes in our dataset based on GO term enrichment, pathway analyses and manual curation (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). For each function, we mention if the response is global or specific and highlight DE genes with high fold change, as these are likely the most reliable and biologically relevant signals in the analysis (Additional files [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}, [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"} and [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}). DE genes with high fold change are those having a fold change higher than at least one standard deviation from the mean fold change of the condition.Table 4Main biological functions associated with DE genes in the OR semispecies^a^GeneFull gene nameF abdF headM abdM head**Metabolism - Lipids and fatty acids** AcslAcyl-CoA synthetase long-chainD ATPCLATP citrate lyaseD CDaseCeramidaseD HmgsHMG Coenzyme A synthaseD JheJuvenile hormone esteraseD magmagroD Sc2Sc2D bgmbubblegumDD minominotaurDD sPLA2secretory Phospholipase A2DD Unannotated22 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*D/ UDD walwalrusD yip2yippee interacting protein 2D FarOFatty acyl-CoA reductase in oenocytesU**Metabolism - Purines** ade2adenosine 2D Prat2Phosphoribosylamidotransferase 2D Unannotated2 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*D UroUrate oxidaseU**Metabolism - Amino acids** HnHennaD pplpumplessD SsadhSuccinic semialdehyde dehydrogenaseD Unannotated6 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*DDD AhcyAdenosylhomocysteinaseDD SardhSarcosine dehydrogenaseDD ShmtSerine hydroxymethyl transferaseDD SpatSerine pyruvate aminotransferaseDD aayastrayD CG8129no_fullnameD NmdmcNAD-dependent methylenetetrahydrofolate dehydrogenaseD P5cr-2Pyrroline-5-carboxylate reductase-like 2D mndminidiscsD GnmtGlycine N-methyltransferaseD Gs2Glutamine synthetase 2U**Metabolism - Carbohydrates and others** Ilp8Insulin-like peptide 8D LManIIILysosomal alpha-mannosidase IIID LManVILysosomal alpha-mannosidase VID AkhRAdipokinetic hormone receptorD GalkGalactokinaseD Ilp2Insulin-like peptide 2D TaldoTransaldolaseDD AcCoASAcetyl Coenzyme A synthaseDDD Hex-CHexokinase CDDD Idgf6Imaginal disc growth factor 6DDD Mdh1Malate dehydrogenase 1DDD Unannotated9 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*DDD LManIILysosomal alpha-mannosidase IIDD pugpugilistDD PepckPhosphoenolpyruvate carboxykinaseD AmyrelAmyrelD Cht4Chitinase 4D Mal-A4Maltase A4D InRInsulin-like receptorU LManILysosomal alpha-mannosidase IU Cda5Chitin deacetylase-like 5UU kdnknockdownUU rgnregenerationUU Idgf4Imaginal disc growth factor 4U bossbride of sevenlessU**Proteolysis** LUBELLinear Ubiquitin E3 ligaseDD 26-29-p26-29kD-proteinaseD AnceAngiotensin converting enzymeD cathDcathDD iotaTryiotaTrypsinD CtsB1Cathepsin B1DD AcerAngiotensin-converting enzyme-relatedDD Ance-5Ance-5DD Unannotated30 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*D/ UDDD golgoliathD Jon99CiJonah 99CiDD Ance-3Ance-3D Bacebeta-site APP-cleaving enzymeD CG13025no_fullnameU CG2224no_fullnameU dmpddampenedU e(y)2benhancer of yellow 2bU Jon65AivJonah 65AivU Jon66CiiJonah 66CiiU Npl4Nuclear protein localization 4U SP1029SP1029U Usp30Ubiquitin specific protease 30U epsilonTryepsilonTrypsinUU Prosalpha4Proteasome alpha4 subunitU**Immunity** RelRelishD GltGlutactinDD GNBP-like3GNBP-like 3DD MP1Melanization Protease 1DD GNBP2Gram-negative bacteria binding protein 2D Tsf1Transferrin 1D SPESpatzle-Processing EnzymeDD Spn28DcSerpin 28DcDD yellow-f2yellow-f2DDD caspcasparD Hsp27Heat shock protein 27D PPO2Prophenoloxidase 2D CBPsarcoplasmic calcium-binding proteinD Dlip3Dorsal interacting protein 3D Hat1Histone acetyltransferase 1D heixheixuedianD Unannotated4 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*UDU/ DD AttAAttacin-AU LysDLysozyme DU LmptLimpetUU AttDAttacin-DUU DptBDiptericin BUU AttCAttacin-CU eebonyU edinelevated during infectionU Fer2LCHFerritin 2 light chain homologueU Fucaalpha-L-fucosidaseU pirkpoor Imd response upon knock-inU Tep3Thioester-containing protein 3U Tep4Thioester-containing protein 4U yellow-byellow-bU**Perception - Olfactory** Est-6Esterase 6DD Obp56aOdorant-binding protein 56aDD Obp99cOdorant-binding protein 99cDD Obp56gOdorant-binding protein 56gD Obp56hOdorant-binding protein 56hD Obp83efOdorant-binding protein 83efD Obp99bOdorant-binding protein 99bDD Obp56dOdorant-binding protein 56dUDD**Perception - Vision** ninaDneither inactivation nor afterpotential DD chpchaoptinU eyseyes shutU Fbxl4F box and leucine-rich-repeat gene 4U ninaCneither inactivation nor afterpotential CU ninaGneither inactivation nor afterpotential GU norpAno receptor potential AU prompromininU**Pheromone production** Desat2Desaturase 2D FASN1Fatty acid synthase 1D FASN2Fatty acid synthase 2D Fbp2Fat body protein 2D Fbp1Fat body protein 1DD**Reproduction - Females: Cell cycle, germline development** alphaTub67Calpha-Tubulin at 67CD aPKCatypical protein kinase CD BicCBicaudal CD cadcaudalD CDC45LCDC45LD cortcortexD CycB3Cyclin B3D dhddeadheadD eggegglessD exuexuperantiaD fs(1)Yafemale sterile (1) Young arrestD Fs(2)KetFemale sterile (2) KetelD fzyfizzyD gclgerm cell-lessD Grip84Gamma-tubulin ring protein 84D gusgustavusD hophopscotchD loklokiD Mcm10Minichromosome maintenance 10D MerMerlinD MosMos oncogeneD nosnanosD pblpebbleD PenPendulinD piepineapple eyeD pngpan guD polopoloD slamslow as molassesD spd-2spindle defective 2D sshslingshotD staistathminD swaswallowD tortorsoD Tre1Trapped in endoderm 1D twetwineD XpcXeroderma pigmentosum%2C complementation group CD aspabnormal spindleD cmetCENP-metaD spn-Espindle ED Mdr49Multi drug resistance 49D Rab1Rab1D kugkugeleiU DoaDarkener of apricotUU bondjames bondU c(3)Gcrossover suppressor on 3 of GowenU LanALaminin AU**Reproduction - Males: Regulation of postmating behavior** antrantaresD aqrsaquariusD CHOp24CHOp24D EspEpidermal stripes and patchesD totakeoutD EbpIIIEjaculatory bulb protein IIIUDDD**Muscular functions** Fkbp14FK506-binding protein 14D MicalMolecule interacting with CasLU SERCASarco/endoplasmic reticulum Ca(2+)-ATPaseU sesBstress-sensitive BU skdskuldU Actnalpha actininUU btbentUU clumsyClumsyUU flnflightinUU MhcMyosin heavy chainUU MhclMyosin heavy chain-likeUU Mlc1Myosin alkali light chain 1UU Mlc2Myosin light chain 2UU Mlp60AMuscle LIM protein at 60AUU Msp300Muscle-specific protein 300 kDaUU shotshort stopUU Tm2Tropomyosin 2UU tnthinUU TpnC4Troponin C isoform 4UU uifuninflatableUU Unannotated28 unannotated genes with homologs in *D. melanogaster*UU Unc-89Unc-89UU upupheldUU vkgvikingUU Zasp52Z band alternatively spliced PDZ-motif protein 52UU AlkAnaplastic lymphoma kinaseU CAPCAPU chaschasconU Col4a1Collagen type IV alpha 1U eyaeyes absentU GripGlutamate receptor binding proteinU ifinflatedU Mlp84BMuscle LIM protein at 84BU NeurochondrinNeurochondrinU RyRRyanodine receptorU salssarcomere length shortU TpnC73FTroponin C at 73FU Zasp66Z band alternatively spliced PDZ-motif protein 66U**Translation** Tfb4Transcription factor B4D eEF1gammaeukaryotic translation elongation factor 1 gammaD eEF2eukaryotic translation elongation factor 2D eEF5eukaryotic translation elongation factor 5D Rack1Receptor of activated protein kinase C 1D stastubaristaD eEF1alpha1eukaryotic translation elongation factor 1 alpha 1DD RpL/ RpS28 Ribosomal proteinsDDD eEF1alpha2eukaryotic translation elongation factor 1 alpha 2UU**Cytochrome P450** Cyp311a1Cyp311a1D Cyp4e2Cytochrome P450-4e2D Cyp6a8Cytochrome P450-6a8D Cyp6d2Cyp6d2D Cyp12a4Cyp12a4D Cyp12d1-pCyp12d1-pD Cyp6t1Cyp6t1D Cyp309a2Cyp309a2DD Cyp6g1Cyp6g1DD Cyp4p3Cyp4p3DDD Cyp6d5Cyp6d5DDD Cyp4ac2Cyp4ac2D Cyp4e3Cytochrome P450-4e3U**Yolk proteins** Yp1Yolk protein 1D Yp2Yolk protein 2D Yp3Yolk protein 3D^a^ *F* Female, *M* Male, *Abd* abdomen, *D* Downregulated in WT, *U* Upregulated in WT
Metabolism {#Sec7}
----------
A large number of genes involved in carbohydrate, fatty acid and amino acid metabolism are DE in multiple conditions, often with high fold changes (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). Most of these are downregulated in WT flies*,* particularly in female and male heads and in the male abdomens (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).
The precise identities of the affected genes differ somewhat between conditions, even so, a relatively clear pattern exists for up- and down-regulated genes in glucose and energy metabolism (Fig. [4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}). In WT flies, there is an increased expression of genes involved in the TCA cycle (abdomens), whereas in GFR flies there is an increased expression of genes involved in the pentose phosphate pathway, the breakdown of glycogen to UDP-glucose (males) and beta-oxidation of fatty acids (female heads). This pattern suggests increased catabolism in WT flies, possibly with an increased flux through the TCA cycle, whereas GFR flies have more anabolic metabolism and use beta-oxidation for producing acetyl-CoA as well as the pentose phosphate pathway for generating precursors for nucleotide, amino acid or lipid biosynthesis.Fig. 4Metabolic map of differentially expressed genes in carbon and energy metabolism of *Drosophila paulistorum.* Upregulated genes are shown in green and downregulated genes in blue. DE genes from all conditions of the OR semispecies are represented. Green box: TCA cycle. Yellow box: Glycine and serine metabolism. Blue box: pentose phosphate pathway. The figure is redrawn based on KEGG map01200
### Lipids {#Sec8}
The putative increased anabolism in GFR flies is supported by the upregulation of genes involved in fatty acid biosynthesis and phospholipid metabolism in multiple conditions (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). These include several genes in pathways for converting glycerate to phosphatidic acid, phosphatic acid to phosphatidylethanolamine and phosphatidylcholine, and ethanolamine to phosphoethanolamine.
Furthermore, GFR flies have a higher expression of five genes putatively involved in cholesterol hydrolysis (*CG8093*, *CG31091*, *CG2772*, *CG7329* and *CG18302*) as well as three genes containing the Niemann-Pick type C-2 domain, which has a potential role in intracellular cholesterol transport.
### Nucleotides {#Sec9}
Several genes related to purine biosynthesis are upregulated in the head of female GFR flies, which further supports their increased anabolism. The presence of genes for *de novo* purine synthesis in *Wolbachia* genomes indicates that the symbiont is likely able to synthesize such molecules, and the increased expression of purine biosynthesis genes in GFR flies might thus be a compensation for the loss of *Wolbachia*-provided purines. In filarial nematodes, where *Wolbachia* is also an obligate mutualist, it has been suggested that one of its functions is to provide purines for the host \[[@CR34]\].
### Amino acids {#Sec10}
Although *Wolbachia* relies on the host for obtaining most amino acids \[[@CR35]\], we only observe one amino acid biosynthesis gene with a higher expression in WT flies (*glutamine synthetase 2*). Hence, increased host biosynthesis is likely not a source of amino acids for *Wolbachia*. However, and again in agreement with the putative increased anabolism in GFR flies, some amino acid biosynthetic genes have lower expression in WT flies. These include two genes in the pathway converting glutamate to proline and several genes involved in serine and glycine metabolism (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}, Fig. [4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}), all with lower expression in male and/or female heads. Collectively, this suggests that both glycine and serine levels might be reduced in the heads of WT flies.
Furthermore, two putative components of the glycine cleavage system are downregulated in heads of WT males and females. This is a further indication that the level of glycine is lower in WT flies, as the activity of this system is normally regulated by the concentration of glycine*.* Apart from its role in glycine breakdown, the glycine cleavage system uses tetrahydrofolate (THF) to generate 5,10-Methylene-THF, which can be further utilized in purine biosynthesis or as a substrate for the enzyme serine hydroxymethyl transferase. Several additional genes involved in THF conversions, such as *pug* and *CG34424*, or in purine biosynthesis, like *Nmdmc* and *CG11089*, also have a lower expression in heads of WT flies. An increase in THF conversion is a further indication of anabolic metabolism in GFR flies, as these conversions are mainly performed by enzymes involved in biosynthesis of amino acids and nucleotides.
We note that most of the above-mentioned expression changes manifest in heads and that glycine acts as a neurotransmitter which has both serine and proline as agonists. Several putative transporters of glycine and proline are encoded in *Wolbachia* genomes from various *Drosophila* species, and among the few genes for amino acid synthesis found in these genomes are those that can perform serine to glycine and threonine to glycine conversions.
### Metabolic hormones {#Sec11}
Both *insulin-like peptide 2* and *8* have lower expression in WT flies, and the *adipokinetic hormone* (insect glucagon) *receptor* (*AkhR*) has significantly lower expression in heads of male WT flies. Also the G-couple receptor encoded by *boss* has increased expression in heads of WT female flies. *Boss* is involved in regulation of sugar and lipid metabolism, and loss of function mutants show symptoms that resemble those of flies with defective insulin signaling \[[@CR36]\]. Once again, this suggests that GFR flies have more nutrients available and a predominantly anabolic metabolism whereas WT flies have reduced nutrient availability and more catabolic metabolism.
Proteolysis {#Sec12}
-----------
Although the GO term proteolysis is only enriched in downregulated genes in male abdomens, genes containing protease or peptidase domains are DE in various conditions, sometimes with high fold change. These DE genes are involved in various biological functions, but since the majority are downregulated in WT flies, the overall breakdown of proteins and consequent release of free amino acids appears to be lower in WT flies. One of the DE genes associated with proteolysis is a component of the proteasome (*Proteasome alpha4 subunit*). Proteins destined for degradation by the proteasome are tagged with ubiquitin, and a few genes involved in ubiquitination and deubiquitination, such as *LUBEL*, are also DE (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).
Four different serpins (serine protease inhibitors) are downregulated in male abdomens, some of which are also DE in other conditions (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). If these serpins inhibit proteases, this pattern indicates increased proteolysis in the presence of higher *Wolbachia* titer. However, two of them (*Spn43Ab* and *Spn75F*) are classified as non-inhibitory serpins and may have roles in reproduction, with *Spn75F* being produced by the male accessory gland \[[@CR37]\]. Of the remaining two, *Spn28Dc* inhibits spontaneous melanization and is necessary for pupal viability, while *Spn42Da* might be involved in retention of proteins in the endoplasmic reticulum \[[@CR37]\].
Immunity {#Sec13}
--------
The effect of *Wolbachia* on immunity genes is a global response in the host, being observed in both sexes and tissues (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).
One of the most important constituents of the insect immune system are the antimicrobial peptides (AMPs), small proteins which are active against a variety of bacteria, protozoans, fungi and viruses \[[@CR38]\]. Several AMPs are upregulated with high fold changes in WT flies (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}), including three attacins and *Diptericin B*. *Attacin A* and *Diptericin B* are also upregulated in WT males of the AM semispecies (Additional file [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}).
*Wolbachia* also affects the expression of several genes involved in the Toll and IMD pathways, which regulate AMP induction. DE components of the Toll pathway include two gram negative binding proteins (*GNBP2* and *GNBP-like3)* and the Spatzle processing enzyme (*SPE*), all of which are downregulated in various conditions of WT flies (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). *GNBP-like3* is also downregulated in AM (female heads) and CA (female abdomens) flies, while the peptidoglycan recognition proteins *PGRP-SD* and *PGRP-SB1* are upregulated in AM WT flies (male heads and abdomens) (Additional files [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"} and [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}). Several regulators of the IMD pathway are also present among the DE genes and include *Relish,* which modulates expression of diptericins and attacins \[[@CR39]\], *heix*, and the negative regulators *caspar* and *SC2,* all of which are downregulated in WT flies.
A number of DE genes are also associated with melanization, another important innate immune response in *Drosophila*. This is the case for Prophenoloxidase, *MP1 and Yellow-f2*, the latter is also DE in the CA semispecies (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"}). The immune gene *edin,* whose expression in the fat body is induced by bacterial infections \[[@CR40]\], is upregulated with high fold change in OR WT flies and in males of WT AM flies (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}, Additional files [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}, [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"} and [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}). Additionally, we identify DE genes linked to regulation of iron availability (*Tsf1, Fer2LCH*), response to fungus (*Lmpt, CG9372)* and opsonization (*Tep3*, *Tep4*) (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).
Perception {#Sec14}
----------
Several genes associated with sensory perception are DE in multiple conditions, suggesting *Wolbachia* affects how *D. paulistorum* perceives its environment. This global response includes several odorant-binding proteins which are associated with the enriched GO terms "Response to pheromone", and "sensory perception of smell" (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [7](#MOESM7){ref-type="media"}). Most DE OBPs are downregulated in WT male heads (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}), a few of which with high fold change (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). Additionally, Esterase 6*,* which affects the speed of odorant recognition \[[@CR41]\], is downregulated in heads of WT flies of both sexes.
We also find several genes related to visual perception and eye development upregulated in female heads (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}), among which *chaoptin*, *eyes shut* and *ninaG* are DE with high fold changes (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"})*.* Several GO terms associated with visual functions are enriched in the same condition (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}).
Pheromone production {#Sec15}
--------------------
Since cuticle hydrocarbon production is dependent on fatty acid metabolism, DE genes associated with such processes are candidates for affecting pheromone production. Among these, *FASN1, FASN2* and *desat2*, all of which are downregulated in WT flies, have previously been implicated in *Drosophila* speciation (see [Discussion](#Sec24){ref-type="sec"}). Other genes associated with fatty acid metabolism but so far with no described influence on pheromone synthesis are *Bubblegum,* which mediates activation of long chain fatty acids for synthesis and degradation of cellular lipids \[[@CR42]\] and *FarO*, a fatty acyl-CoA reductase with activity in oenocytes, the cells which produce CHCs (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Also the fat body proteins *Fbp1* and *Fbp2,* which participate in import of storage proteins into the fat body \[[@CR43]\], might be involved in transport of pheromone precursors and are downregulated with high fold change in WT flies (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). *Fbp1* is also DE in AM female abdomens (Additional file [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}).
Reproduction {#Sec16}
------------
Many GO terms related to reproduction are enriched among downregulated genes in both male and female abdomens of WT flies (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}). In females, these involve several replication and cell-cycle-associated functions, as well as female-specific reproductive processes such as oogenesis, oocyte maturation, egg activation and germ cell migration. The DE genes in female abdomens associated with reproduction contribute to the high condition-specificity observed in this condition. In males, the enriched GO term with the largest number of reproduction-related genes is the broad "multicellular organism reproduction". Most genes in this category encode proteins of unknown functions that are inferred to be involved in reproduction through indirect evidence, for example by the fact that they are specifically expressed in the male accessory gland of *D. melanogaster*.
### Females {#Sec17}
Among the many reproduction-associated genes downregulated by *Wolbachia* in WT female abdomens are the two meiotic regulators *Twine* and *Polo*. Both are involved in activating Cyclin-dependent kinase 1 (*CDK1*)/*Cyclin B*, which in turn is required for releasing the oocyte from the prophase I primary meiosis arrest \[[@CR44], [@CR45]\]. *CyclinB3*, which has been shown to be involved in oocyte maturation, is downregulated. Furthermore, *Cortex* and *Fizzy*, two activators of the Anaphase promoting complex (APC/C) which is necessary for metaphase to anaphase transition, are downregulated in WT flies.
As a further indication of *Wolbachia*'s effect on cell cycle, several genes involved in spindle formation and microtubule dynamics are also downregulated in WT flies. These include two subunits of the augmin complex that is involved in microtubule-dependent nucleation by recruitment of gamma-tubulin to the spindle (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Furthermore, *Pan gu*, implicated in the translational control of a large majority of mRNAs during egg activation, also has a lower expression in WT female abdomens, although the two activating proteins that usually form a complex with it are not affected.
Finally, since the first cell divisions after fertilization of the egg are controlled by maternal mRNAs and proteins, early embryonic development can also be affected by female DE genes. Several such genes are downregulated in WT female abdomens and include *Deadhead*, which is involved in male pronucleus activation after sperm entry into the egg, *female sterile (1)* and *Young arrest*, which is necessary for mitotic phase initiation during early embryogenesis. Additionally, many of the maternal effect genes involved in defining anterior-posterior polarity of the egg and embryo have lower expression in WT female abdomens. *Nanos* and *caudal*, two of the critical components for regulation of the posterior part of the embryo, as well as *exuperantia* and *swallow*, both of which interact with the anterior localization of *bicoid* mRNA, all have a lower expression in WT female abdomens (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Several other genes important for the development and migration of germ cells are also downregulated by *Wolbachia*, such as *germ cell-less* (*gcl*), whose low expression causes females to produce sterile offspring without germ cells \[[@CR46]\], and *gustavus* (*gus*), involved in localizing *vasa* to the posterior end of the embryo and needed for primordial germ cell development \[[@CR47]\].
### Males {#Sec18}
Several reproduction-related genes are DE in males, but only a handful have known functions. As in females, these genes are all downregulated in WT flies. Among the genes with known functions are several associated with post mating modulation of female receptivity and egg production. The two proteins *aquarius* and *antares*, for example, are necessary to facilitate the bond between sperm and sex peptide, a seminal protein known to increase production of eggs and decrease receptivity in mated females. Knocking down the expression of these genes in *D. melanogaster* males result in disturbed release of sperm from storage and reduced long term fertility in mated females \[[@CR48]\].
The Angiotensin converting enzyme, *Ance*, suggested to have a role in spermatogenesis, has previously been considered a possible CI target \[[@CR49]\]. *Ance* is downregulated in male WT abdomens while *Ance-3* is upregulated in female WT abdomens, which supports the previous *in vivo* observation that *Ance* expression is higher in infected ovaries but lower in infected testes of *D. simulans* and *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR49]\]. The genes *Ance-5* and *Acer* (Angiotensin-converting enzyme-related), however, are here downregulated in the heads of WT flies of both sexes.
Two genes that affect male mating behavior are also downregulated in WT male abdomens. These are *Takeout*, a sex specific factor shown to influence courtship behavior in a non-pheromone dependent way \[[@CR50]\] and Juvenile hormone esterase.
Finally, the Ejaculatory bulb protein III, a protein component of the posterior mating plug, is differentially expressed not only in male abdomens but in all sexes and tissues (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}).
Muscular functions {#Sec19}
------------------
We find a large number of upregulated genes associated with enriched muscle-related GO terms in both male and female WT abdomens (Tables [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"} and [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Most of these encode structural components of the sarcomere, the basic unit of skeletal and cardiac striated muscles (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}), and many are DE with high fold change (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). Other upregulated genes include the ryanodine receptor (*RyR*), which appears DE in all three semispecies and is involved in calcium channeling, and the sarcoendoplasmic reticulum Ca^2+^ ATPase (*SERCA*), involved in muscle contraction (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). The fact that *Drosophila* ventral abdominal muscles are innervated by glutamatergic synapses might also be the reason why genes associated with glutamate metabolism and reception such as *Grip*, *Gs2* and *clumsy*, are upregulated in abdomens (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Taken together, these results indicate that *Wolbachia* is either directly or indirectly affecting muscle contraction.
Translation {#Sec20}
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A large number of translation-associated genes are downregulated in heads of both sexes, albeit in higher numbers in females where translation is also an enriched GO term (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}). In total, 36 ribosomal proteins and four elongation factors are downregulated by *Wolbachia* (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}) in WT flies, suggesting that *Wolbachia* reduces host translation at least in female heads.
Cytochrome P450 {#Sec21}
---------------
Cytochrome P450 is a family of heme-containing proteins which in *D. melanogaster* is associated with detoxification, production of the hormone 20-hydroxyecdysone and various behavioral and reproductive phenotypes \[[@CR51]\]. In *D. paulistorum*, *Wolbachia* downregulates several cytochrome P450 genes, most of which are poorly characterized (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}). Studies with their orthologs in *D. melanogaster* suggest that *Cyp311a1* is essential for larval development and that *Cyp12d1-p*, *Cyp6g1*, *Cyp4s3*, *Cyp6a8* and *Cyp12a4* have a role in detoxification, while defects in either *Cyp4ac2* or *Cyp4s3* lead to lower fitness. \[[@CR51]\].
Yolk proteins {#Sec22}
-------------
Three yolk proteins (*Yp1*, *Yp2, Yp3*) are downregulated in WT male heads, two of them with high fold change (*Yp1*, *Yp3*) (Additional file [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}). The gene *CG5966*, downregulated with high fold change in WT female heads, has the same Lipase/Vitellogenin domains found in yolk proteins, which suggests it may be involved in similar responses in the female head.
Does *Wolbachia* contribute to differences in semispecies-specific gene expression? {#Sec23}
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In order to investigate if *Wolbachia* could contribute to speciation via changes in gene expression between semispecies, we mapped reads from all semispecies to the same transcriptome. The three assemblies show very high overlap with each other (Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1), but since most of our analyses are focused on OR, we selected this transcriptome as reference. This choice is supported by the fact that the number of mismatches per base and the percentage of mapped reads obtained when mapping AM and CA to OR are similar to those seen when those semispecies are mapped to their own references (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}).
The PCA produced from these mappings showed that the three semispecies could be discriminated by their gene expression in both sexes and tissues (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}). The first and second principal components (PCs) separated the semispecies in all conditions except female abdomens, in which they were distinguished by PC2 and PC3 (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}, Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S6). We could not identify any particular factor associated with PC1 in the female abdomen.Fig. 5Principal component analysis of all semispecies mapped to the OR transcriptome. (**a**): Female abdomens, (**b**): Male abdomens, (**c**): WT male and female heads, (**d**): GFR male and female heads. F: female, M: male, WT: wild type, GFR: gut flora restored, abd: abdomen
The three semispecies were clearly separated in a PCA of the WT head samples, but were less clearly separated in the corresponding GFR plot (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}c, d, Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figures S7, S8). Additionally, we found that DE genes between WT and GFR head samples in the OR and AM semispecies are significantly overrepresented (Chi^2^ test, p \< 0.01) among the genes that contribute the most to separating the semispecies in the PCA of WT head samples. Taken together, our results indicate that *Wolbachia* might contribute to the difference in expression pattern between heads of the three abdomens, although sex (PC1) explains 98% of the separation between the WT samples, a distinction between semispecies is seen when PC2 and PC3 are plotted (Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S9). Similar to what we detected in heads, DE genes between WT and GFR abdomen samples in the OR semispecies are overrepresented (Chi^2^ test, p \< 0.01) among the genes that contribute most to the semispecies separation. This suggests that *Wolbachia* may also contribute to gene expression differences between abdomens of the three semispecies, although in a more subtle way than in heads.
Discussion {#Sec24}
==========
Differential expression analysis between WT and GFR flies of the AM, CA and OR *D. paulistorum* semispecies revealed *Wolbachia*-induced changes on a wide range of host biological processes, particularly in the OR semispecies. Some of the most prominent effects are seen in metabolism, reproduction, immunity and muscular functions. Several differentially expressed genes possibly involved with production and reception of pheromones may have implications for host mating behavior and speciation.
The strategy of performing separate *de novo* transcriptome assemblies for AM, CA and OR was chosen in order to preserve potentially unique contigs of each semispecies. The relatively high percentage of ORFs which remained unannotated after similarity searches against both *D. willistoni* and *D. melanogaster* (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}) is likely an indication of sequence divergence between these species and *D. paulistorum*. This suggests *de novo* assembly as not only a suitable but potentially necessary approach. A high number of unannotated DE genes was found in both our analysis and in other systems \[[@CR49], [@CR52], [@CR53]\], further showing the need for a *de novo* approach and also clearly demonstrating our incomplete understanding of the biology of *Wolbachia*--*Drosophila* interactions.
The use of different reference assemblies for the three semi-species also allowed us to detect a few DE genes that are specific to a semispecies. The percentage of reads mapping back to the assembled transcriptomes, the proportion of complete ORFs and the number of BUSCO marker genes recovered indicate that the assemblies of all three semispecies are of high quality and completeness (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}).
Influence of experimental setup and *Wolbachia* strain on differential expression results {#Sec25}
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Although other studies have investigated the influence of *Wolbachia* on gene expression in insect hosts \[[@CR49], [@CR54], [@CR55]\], none has analyzed the influence across different tissues and sexes separately. Using whole flies or cell lines might dilute the signal or blur the specificity of the biological response which, as we see from our results, is often tissue specific. Thus, using multiple tissues and both sexes is expected to be a more precise strategy for transcriptome studies between *Wolbachia* and host. As a likely result of this method, the 1192 DE genes found in OR (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}) are considerably more than the 250-450 DE genes reported in a number of previous studies \[[@CR49], [@CR52]--[@CR54]\].
On the other hand, the numbers of DE genes for AM and CA (Table [2](#Tab2){ref-type="table"}) are in line with other studies of *Wolbachia* and host gene expression, and consequently lower than those in OR. A likely explanation for the smaller number of DE genes in AM and CA is the low *Wolbachia* infection titer in these two semispecies compared to OR \[[@CR8]\]. This difference in *Wolbachia* titer is illustrated by the number of reads and ORFs associated with *Wolbachia* in each semispecies (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}) but is also known from previous studies \[[@CR8], [@CR23]\]. In the lower titer infections, it is possible that extracting RNA from whole heads and abdomens might have diluted the signal, since probably only a small number of cells are infected with *Wolbachia*. Hence, analyzing infected and uninfected cells separately might thus be necessary in order to detect differential expression in low titer infections. Alternatively, it is also possible that the observed differences between AM, CA and OR are a consequence of the three semispecies being infected with different *Wolbachia* strains. Previous studies have shown that which host genes are differentially expressed in response to *Wolbachia* can differ according to the infecting *Wolbachia* strain \[[@CR52]\]. Unfortunately, we currently do not know what the genetic differences between the strains are, and are therefore unable to test or speculate further about this.
Given that we don't fully understand the biological reason behind the observed differences between the semispecies, we can't completely discard the hypothesis that the lower numbers of DE genes in AM and CA also mean a reduced or divergent impact of the symbiont on these hosts compared to OR. However, we notice that several functional categories are enriched in all the semispecies (Table [3](#Tab3){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [7](#MOESM7){ref-type="media"}). This fact not only supports previous observations that low titer AM and CA *Wolbachia* have a relevant impact on host biology \[[@CR8], [@CR11], [@CR12], [@CR23]\], but also suggest similarities on host effects in the three semispecies. In AM, this is seen as upregulated muscle functions in male abdomens, upregulated visual function in the female heads, upregulated defense genes in male and female heads and downregulated metabolic processes in female heads (Additional file [7](#MOESM7){ref-type="media"}). In CA, we observe upregulation of immunity genes in male abdomens and downregulation of carbohydrate metabolism in female abdomens (Additional file [7](#MOESM7){ref-type="media"}). Interestingly, even though these functional categories are affected in multiple semispecies, only a small overlap exits in the actual DE genes (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). This again suggests a relatively high specificity in the interactions between each *Wolbachia* and its *D. paulistorum* host.
In the next sessions, we discuss the main biological functions affected by *Wolbachia* in the *D. paulistorum* host. Both previously known and novel/putative functions are discussed and, whenever relevant, we consider how the affected genes might support the hypothesis that *Wolbachia* contributes to host speciation.
Functions previously known to be affected by *Wolbachia* {#Sec26}
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### Metabolism {#Sec27}
Given its obligate intracellular lifestyle and small genome with limited gene content, it is clear that *Wolbachia* is not able to produce all the nutrients it needs and thus must obtain them from the host. As a likely consequence of this, we find that many genes involved in metabolic and biosynthetic processes are DE between WT and GFR flies. High *Wolbachia* levels are associated with upregulation of genes in the TCA cycle and a generally more catabolic metabolism. Low *Wolbachia* levels, on the other hand, have increased expression of genes involved in beta-oxidation and the pentose phosphate pathway, an indication of anabolic metabolism and active production of precursors for nucleotide, amino acid and lipid biosynthesis. These differences in gene expression are similar to those observed in protein expression of *D. melanogaster* on a poor vs. a rich diet \[[@CR56]\], suggesting that being infected with *Wolbachia* may have a significant metabolic cost for the host.
In contrast to what we described for genes in glucose and energy metabolism, several of the downregulated genes associated with amino acid metabolism were recently shown to have a higher expression in starved compared to non-starved brains of *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR57]\]. The upregulation of these genes is correlated with high serine levels and starvation-induced sleep suppression \[[@CR57]\]. Hence, the expression pattern of the serine and glycine metabolism genes in heads of GFR flies, rather than WT flies, mimic starvation conditions. Interestingly, in line with this observation, a recent study showed an increase in nighttime activities in non-*Wolbachia* infected *D. melanogaster* flies compared to infected \[[@CR58]\].
Several studies have shown that *Wolbachia* rely on cholesterol from the host, a property which is also believed to be important for the pathogen blocking phenotype of the symbiont \[[@CR59], [@CR60]\]. We observe that many genes involved in fatty acid and lipid metabolism are downregulated in WT flies, including some that encode proteins with different abundances in *Wolbachia-*infected and uninfected mosquito cells \[[@CR60]\]. Additionally, several putative cholesterol ester hydrolases responsible for making cholesterol and free fatty acids available to the cell when they are required for membrane and lipoprotein formation are downregulated in WT flies. Recent work on the human pathogenic bacterium *Chlamydia trachomatis* has demonstrated that cholesterol esterification is likely essential for cholesterol import into the membrane inclusion where the bacterium resides \[[@CR61]\]. It is thus possible that the downregulation of genes that hydrolyze cholesterol esters in WT flies reflects a need for these molecules also by *Wolbachia*.
### Reproduction {#Sec28}
*Wolbachia* downregulates several genes involved in cell cycle, oocyte development, germ cell development and germ cell migration in OR female abdomens. Differential expression of these could potentially lead to phenotypes that are lethal for the embryo or which may cause defects in ovary development. An example of this is *Deadhead*, which is necessary for proper paternal chromatin decondensation during fertilization \[[@CR62]\]. Interestingly, mutant maternal *Deadhead* can result in haploid embryonic development due to failed paternal chromatin condensation, a condition that resembles the CI phenotype induced by *Wolbachia* \[[@CR32]\]. Further studies are still necessary to investigate whether CI occurs in *D. paulistorum*, but differential expression of such genes suggest *Wolbachia* might influence postmating compatibility in this species either through CI or other mechanisms.
### Immunity {#Sec29}
Our results show that *Wolbachia* influences the expression of genes associated with a wide range of immune responses in *D. paulistorum*. Among these, a clear pattern is seen on AMPs, which are consistently upregulated in WT flies, often with high fold change. Genes associated with melanization, opsonization, regulation of Toll and IMD pathways and control of nutrient availability are also affected, although with variable intensity and direction of regulation.
Different studies have linked symbionts in general and *Wolbachia* in particular to effects on the insect immune system. Tsetse flies, for example, become heavily immunocompromised if cleansed of their primary symbiont *Wigglesworthia* \[[@CR63], [@CR64]\], and mosquitoes develop increased resistance to viruses, bacteria, nematodes and protozoans when transinfected with *Wolbachia* \[[@CR65]\]. Likewise, natural *Wolbachia* infections are known to provide protection against viruses and bacteria in *Drosophila* \[[@CR66]--[@CR68]\], although the mechanisms involved are not fully understood. Current hypotheses suggest the symbiont may directly or indirectly promote immune priming \[[@CR65]\], activate the Toll and IMD pathways \[[@CR69]\], or induce production of detoxifying agents and AMPs \[[@CR70]\].
The upregulation of AMPs in WT *D. paulistorum* (Table [4](#Tab4){ref-type="table"}, Additional files [3](#MOESM3){ref-type="media"}, [4](#MOESM4){ref-type="media"} and [5](#MOESM5){ref-type="media"}) corroborates similar observations previously made in *D. melanogaster* and mosquito cell lines \[[@CR49], [@CR52], [@CR53], [@CR55]\]. Although this increase in AMP expression may be an infection-mediated immune response, it is also possible that the host needs to produce more of these molecules to control the number and localization of *Wolbachia* cells. In *D. paulistorum*, *Wolbachia* is localized in highly defined tissues and cell types such as the embryonic primordial germ cells \[[@CR8]\], specific brain regions \[[@CR17]\] and oenocytes \[[@CR23]\]. Thus, one can hypothesize that AMPs could be used by the host to create and maintain this pattern in a similar way to what is observed in the weevil *Sitophilus zeamais,* which uses AMPs to restrict its bacterial endosymbiont to bacteriocytes. \[[@CR71]\]. The fact that AMPs interact directly with their targets in a concentration dependent way could also explain why these molecules are generally DE with higher fold change than other immune genes, as larger changes in expression would be necessary for creating biologically relevant variations in their effect. Elevated levels of the AMP *Diptericin B* and of the immune gene *GNBP-like3* have also been recently correlated with enhanced long-term memory in *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR72]\] suggesting that *Wolbachia*-mediated higher expression of AMPs in *D. paulistorum* might, directly or indirectly, improve host memory and thereby possibly affect sexual behavior \[[@CR8]\]. It's also worth noting the differential expression of genes associated with the Toll and IMD pathways, which mediate AMP production*.* Although only a few of the constituents of the pathway are affected, they might still have a relevant role in host immunity given their regulatory functions.
Finally, we also find several DE genes in OR associated with melanization, suggesting that the increase in this response induced by *w*MelPop in female mosquitos \[[@CR73]\] could also be induced in *D. paulistorum* by its native *Wolbachia* infection.
### Translation {#Sec30}
The downregulation of ribosomal proteins and elongation factors in heads of OR WT flies suggests that *Wolbachia* suppresses host translation. Similar effects have been observed on the protein level in *Wolbachia*-infected *D. melanogaster* and *D. simulans* ovaries \[[@CR74]\] and it is possible that they arise as a consequence of symbiont-mediated metabolic changes. Translation initiation is inhibited when the cell lacks essential amino acids such as leucine and methionine \[[@CR75]\], hence, if severe enough, the appropriation of amino acids by *Wolbachia* could possibly reduce overall translation. However, it is unclear if such a lack of amino acids could result in a reduced expression of the ribosomal proteins and other genes involved in translation as observed here. Recent work suggests that *Wolbachia* titer increases if host translation is blocked \[[@CR55]\], thus one possibility is that *Wolbachia* lowers translation in *D. paulistorum* heads in order to attain the high infection titer observed in the brain of this species \[[@CR17]\].
Novel functions affected by *Wolbachia* {#Sec31}
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### Muscular functions {#Sec32}
An unexpected number of genes related to muscular functions are upregulated by *Wolbachia* in both male and female abdomens. *Wolbachia* is known to infect muscles in *Drosophila* \[[@CR18]\] and to increase locomotion in mosquitoes \[[@CR76]\], but those observations are related to thoracic and not abdominal muscles, which is what we analyze here. One possibility is that *Wolbachia* might affect the heart, which in *Drosophila* is one of the largest skeletal muscles in the abdomen. Reduced expression of sarcomere genes has been connected to various cardiac diseases in *Drosophila* \[[@CR77]\], and removing *Wolbachia* and thereby lowering the expression of such genes could possibly cause disease and lowered fitness in the flies. However, currently no phenotype connects *Wolbachia* and heart disease.
Although relatively little is known about the functions of abdominal muscles in *Drosophila* \[[@CR78]\], one might speculate that altered muscle function could have implications in movement patterns associated with courtship and reproduction. The ventral abdominal muscles (VAMs), for example, are necessary for proper folding movements of the abdomen \[[@CR78]\], and male *Drosophila* are known to use abdominal vibrations during courtship \[[@CR79]\]. Hence, it is possible that changes in VAM activities could affect mating success. Another possibility is that the muscular genes observed to be DE in the abdominal muscles are also DE in thoracic muscles. If so, wing muscle function might be affected and have an impact on the generation of "love songs" by male flies. These songs are produced by rapid wing vibrations and have crucial role in *Drosophila* courtship by affecting female receptivity \[[@CR79]\].
Finally, the large number of DE genes with muscle-related functions could also be a result of *Wolbachia*'s effect on host metabolism, since starvation induces a set of behavioral changes in *Drosophila* that enhances the search for food \[[@CR80]\]. This behavioral change occurs through modulated perception of odors and tastes \[[@CR81]\] as well as increased locomotor activity, which leads to a higher chance of finding food. One possibility is thus that the increased expression of muscle related genes might indicate that locomotion is increased in flies with WT levels of *Wolbachia*, possibly as a result of malnutrition. Again, we would have to assume that thoracic muscles are also affected, as much of the locomotion is supported by these muscle groups. Contrary to this hypothesis, though, the *adipokinetic hormone* (insect glucagon) *receptor* (*AkhR*) required for starvation-induced activity \[[@CR80]\] has a significantly lower expression in WT flies, whereas the insulin-like receptor that was seen to counteract *AkhR*-induced locomotion, is instead upregulated. This is the opposite pattern of what would be expected if WT titers of *Wolbachia* lead to starvation-induced behavior.
Overall, an effect of *Wolbachia* on muscles, either directly or as a byproduct of metabolic changes, might impact courtship behavior and thus conceivably lead to the emergence of assortative mating.
### Pheromone production and reception {#Sec33}
Most DE genes involved in pheromone production participate in CHC synthesis and have a role in fatty acid metabolism. Among these, the fatty acid synthase *FASN2* has been implicated in the reproductive isolation between *D. serrata* and *D. birchii* \[[@CR82]\]. In that case, selective pressure for different cuticle composition in populations living in contrasting humidity conditions probably led to divergence, as CHCs have a dual role as cuticle constituents and pheromones \[[@CR82]\]. In an analogous way, one can hypothesize that *Wolbachia*-induced changes to fatty acid metabolism could affect the expression of *FASN* in *D. paulistorum*, leading to premating isolation between populations that respond differently to *Wolbachia* or which carry distinct symbiont strains. Importantly, *FASN2* is one of the few genes that are DE in all three semispecies (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, Additional file [6](#MOESM6){ref-type="media"}). The influence of *Wolbachia* on *D. paulistorum* chemical communication is exemplified by a recent study showing that reduction of *Wolbachia* titer in males significantly affect semispecies-specific CHC profiles and triggers assortative mating of WT females against the symbiont-depleted mates \[[@CR23]\].
Other fatty acid-related genes known to affect pheromone production in *Drosophila* are *desat1* and *desat2*, the latter of which is downregulated in CA and OR male WT abdomens. Desaturases create double bonds in CHC molecules, thus influencing the proportion of different compounds in the fly pheromone mix \[[@CR26], [@CR83]\]. *desat1* has been shown to affect sex pheromones of *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR84]\], and both *desat1* and *2* are likely implicated in incipient speciation in the same species \[[@CR83]\]*.*
Mechanisms for pheromone reception in *Drosophila* are generally poorly understood, but at least one OBP, *LUSH*, has been linked to responses to the courtship pheromone 11-cis-vaccenylacetate in *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR85], [@CR86]\]. Thus, the differential regulation of seven OBPs in OR flies can possibly affect pheromone response and consequently mate choice. Another protein involved in pheromone perception is the odorant degrading protein *Esterase 6*, here downregulated in heads of WT OR flies. It degrades odorants after they have bound to a receptor, thus allowing faster interaction with new molecules \[[@CR41], [@CR87]\].
Overall, the majority of the DE genes likely to be associated with pheromone production and reception are downregulated in OR WT heads and male abdomens, but a small number is upregulated in WT female abdomens. It is not clear why the direction of regulation in female abdomens is opposite to heads and male abdomens, but this pattern is seen in fatty acid metabolism genes, OBPs and Esterase 6, suggesting a biological reason might exist.
### Vision {#Sec34}
We found that several genes related to visual functions are upregulated in female heads of WT OR flies. *Wolbachia* is known to infect the optic lobe and the retina of *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR18]\], and recent work in *D. paulistorum* showed that it also infects areas of the brain responsible for sensorial responses in that species, including vision \[[@CR17]\]. It is not clear what biological consequences this has for the host, but one possibility is that it affects reproductive behavior, as vision has a documented importance in recognition of potential mates and perception of locomotor cues during *Drosophila* courtship \[[@CR88], [@CR89]\].
### Yolk proteins {#Sec35}
The *Wolbachia*-induced upregulation of yolk proteins in heads of WT *D. paulistorum* is rather intriguing given the usual association of these proteins with vitellogenesis. In female *D. melanogaster*, *Yp1-3* produce most of the components of egg yolk and are positively correlated with fertility, while in males they are implicated in sperm processing \[[@CR90], [@CR91]\]. Functions in the head are not known, although an association with the head fat body has been observed in *D. melanogaster* \[[@CR92]\]. In the same species, yolk proteins are known to interact with the insect hormone ecdysone and to negatively impact longevity of both sexes \[[@CR91]\]. So far, there is no clear connection between *Yp1-3* and any known *Wolbachia* phenotype, but it is interesting to note that the three yolk proteins are among the genes contributing the most to the separation between semispecies in the PCA of WT heads (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}).
Does Wolbachia play a role in D. paulistorum speciation? {#Sec36}
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Mating between WT flies of different *D. paulistorum* semispecies has been shown to result in very low reproductive success, hybrid male sterility, and high rates of embryonic lethality \[[@CR4], [@CR8], [@CR9], [@CR11], [@CR12]\]. In such conditions, it is expected that mechanisms would arise allowing individuals to recognize compatible mates before they waste energy and resources on unsuccessful reproductive attempts \[[@CR93], [@CR94]\]. *Wolbachia* most likely also benefits from preventing unfruitful host matings, as these are dead ends for a vertically transmitted symbiont. It seems plausible, then, that both host and symbiont would benefit if *Wolbachia* could enhance discrimination between *D. paulistorum* semispecies by inducing or enhancing some form of premating incompatibility.
Although our data doesn't allow us to make definite conclusions regarding a role of *Wolbachia* in *D. paulistorum* speciation, especially in the case of low titer infections, several of our results support that hypothesis. Host premating isolation, for example, could be affected by DE genes involved in pheromone production and reception, as those might interfere with chemical communication. Genes associated to muscular functions might influence mating locomotor activities, including production of "love songs" through wing vibrations and abdominal tapping. Finally, genes which affect vision could impact recognition of mating cues and partner identification. The fact that genes affected by *Wolbachia* are overrepresented among those that contribute most towards distinguishing the gene expression between heads of AM, CA and OR flies (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}) also suggests that the symbiont might contribute to the emergence of behavioral differences between the semispecies, possibly including mate recognition.
Postmating isolation, on the other hand, could be influenced by many of the reproduction genes associated with cell cycle and germ cell development, as a disruption of their usual expression pattern could potentially harm or prevent embryonic development.
The strong metabolic changes observed in *D. paulistorum* as a result of *Wolbachia* infection also lead to the hypothesis that some or all of the functions with putative effects on speciation are a consequence of altered host metabolism. If correct, the metabolic cost of carrying *Wolbachia* might have causes physiological alterations which in turn impact reproductive behavior. Ultimately, those changes might have led to pre- and postmating isolation and speciation.
Conclusions {#Sec37}
===========
The obligate relationship between *D. paulistorum* and *Wolbachia* combined with the ongoing divergence in the *D. paulistorum* complex results in a unique system for investigating symbiont-mediated speciation. Our results show that *Wolbachia* affects gene expression in different ways in two tissues and both sexes of three semispecies of *D. paulistorum*. The effect is particularly strong in OR, potentially due to the higher infection titer compared to the AM and CA semispecies.
Genes affected by *Wolbachia* are linked to a wide variety of biological functions. Some are globally responsive and previously known to be affected by the symbiont*,* such as immunity, reproduction and metabolism, while a few are novel tissue- or condition-specific functions, like those associated with muscles and vision. Our findings suggest that the competition between host and symbiont for amino acids, carbohydrates and lipids can be the cause of several of the physiological changes observed in *D. paulistorum* and that the association with *Wolbachia* either requires or leads to adjustments in the host immune functions.
We show that *Wolbachia* contributes to making the gene expression in heads more distinct between semispecies, supporting the hypothesis that the symbiont might influence mate choice and modulate host behavior. Furthermore, we suggest that a role for *Wolbachia* in the speciation of *D. paulistorum* is supported by the differential expression of genes involved in pheromone production and reception as well as reproduction and early embryonic development, as these are likely to influence pre- and postmating isolation between semispecies. It remains to be tested whether *Wolbachia* is a driving force of the speciation process or if it reinforces an already ongoing trend. In either case, we hypothesize that the possible contribution of *Wolbachia* to *D. paulistorum* semispecies isolation could be a benefit that maintains the infection in spite of the metabolic costs, as it might ultimately increase the chance of a fly identifying a suitable mate.
Materials and methods {#Sec38}
=====================
Flies were kept in Wolfgang Miller's lab at the Medical University of Vienna and belong to three of the classical semispecies of *D. paulistorum*: Orinocan - line O11, Amazonian - line A28 and Centro American -- line C2. These lines were obtained from Lee Ehrman, and descend from flies used in the experiments which helped define the classical *D. paulistorum* semispecies, back in the 1960s \[[@CR5]\]. Flies were reared on Formula 4-24 ® instant food at 21-22 °C and 12 hour light/ dark cycle.
Antibiotics treatment and gut flora restoration {#Sec39}
-----------------------------------------------
In order to knock down the *Wolbachia* infection, WT flies were kept on food containing Rifampicin 0.2% w/v for three consecutive generations according to \[[@CR8]\]. PCR screenings targeting the *Wolbachia wsp* gene showed that infection titer was reduced to below detection level after treatment. Gut flora restoration was done by transferring treated flies to tubes containing regular food in which virgin WT females of the corresponding semispecies had been kept for 2-3 days, so that feces had accumulated on the food and inner surfaces. After egg deposition, adults were removed and the larvae which developed in those vials were considered gut flora restored.
Sample collection and RNA extraction {#Sec40}
------------------------------------
Whole heads, including brain and mouthparts, and abdomens, containing both gonads and gut, were severed from 3-day old adult females and males of either WT or F3 generation GFR flies using fine tweezers. No attempt was made to keep flies virgins. A total of approximately 20 heads and 10 abdomens were pooled per head and abdomen sample, respectively. Three biological samples were collected per condition and RNA was subsequently extracted using a TRIzol™ Reagent protocol (Sigma). In brief, samples were homogenized in TRIzol™ reagent with sterile pestles, incubated at room temperature, and phases were separated using 1--bromo--3--chloropropane (BCP) phase separation reagent. RNA was collected from the aqueous phase, transferred into new tubes and precipitated with isopropanol. Pellets were washed, dried and rehydrated in RNase free water.
Sequencing and read quality control {#Sec41}
-----------------------------------
The extracted RNA was used for library preparation at the SNP&SEQ Technology Platform in Uppsala, Sweden. Per sample, a total of 0.5 μg of RNA was treated with the ScriptSeq complete Gold Epidemiology kit (Illumina, part\# BEP1224) for rRNA depletion according to the manufacturer's protocol (Lit\#356-4-2013 RevA). The kit was originally designed for human, mouse, rat and bacterial samples, but successful use in *Drosophila* is reported at the manufacturer's species compatibility table. Sequencing was done with Illumina HiSeq2500, to produce paired-end 125 bp reads using v4 sequencing chemistry. All 72 samples were run in the same Illumina flowcell. Samples from the different conditions (sex, treatment, semispecies) were arranged so that replicates of the same condition were run in different lanes and with molecular identifiers rotated between samples to avoid any systematic bias.
Sequenced reads were quality-checked with FastQC v0.10.0 \[[@CR95]\] and processed with Trimmomatic v0.36 \[[@CR96]\] for residual adapter removal and mild quality trimming using the parameters: ILLUMINACLIP:TruSeq3-PE.fa:2:40:15 LEADING:3 TRAILING:3 SLIDINGWINDOW:4:15 MINLEN:95
Transcriptome assembly and ORF prediction {#Sec42}
-----------------------------------------
Transcriptomes of each semispecies were separately assembled with Trinity v2.1.1 \[[@CR97]\] using the parameters "\--min_kmer_cov 2" and "\--normalize_reads". All samples of each semispecies were used for the respective assembly with the exception of O11-GFR-F-abd3 and O11-WT-M-abd3, for the OR assembly, and C2-WT-abd1, for CA assembly, which contained higher than average rRNA level as indicated by the reports from the sequencing facility. Contigs within one Trinity gene group are referred to as "genes" as they likely represent isoforms or possible assembly artefacts from the same gene.
Transcriptome completeness was evaluated with BUSCO v3.0.2 \[[@CR98]\] using Arthropoda, Insecta and Diptera markers. Assembly quality was further assessed through the percentage of reads mapping back to their respective assembly using BWA mem aligner \[[@CR99]\] and by calculating N50, average contig length and percentage of complete ORFs.
An estimate of the percentage of reads mapping to different organisms was obtained for each assembly through competitive mapping with BWA mem to a reference including genomes of *Drosophila*, *Wolbachia*, yeast and *Drosophila* gut bacteria (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}).
Open reading frames were predicted with TransDecoder v2.0.1 \[[@CR100]\] using the "-S" flag for paired end reads. Identified ORFs were aligned to PFAM (Release 31.0) with HMMer v3.1b2 \[[@CR101]\] and to Swissprot (Release 2017_10) with BLAST v2.2.20. The resulting matches were used as input to TransDecoder together with the previously detected ORFs for a refined predictive round using the flags "\--retain_pfam_hits" and "--retain_blastp_hits".
Differential expression analysis {#Sec43}
--------------------------------
In each assembly, contigs containing multiple ORFs were split and replaced by the corresponding ORFs. The resulting sequences were then clustered with CD-HIT-est \[[@CR102]\] using a 100% identity cutoff. This procedure removed redundancy while preserving as much as possible the assembled sequence diversity so as to reduce the risk of inducing misalignments during mapping. Reads from each semispecies were mapped to its corresponding reference using STAR v2.5.2b \[[@CR103]\] with default parameters. Some of the mapping statistics produced by STAR are presented in Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}, including the percentage of reads mapping to the assemblies and the percentage of mismatches per base.
Reads mapping to each contig were counted with FeatureCounts \[[@CR104]\] using the flags "-M", "-s 1" and "-p" for counting multimapping reads, taking strand information into account, and counting fragments instead of reads, respectively. Contigs in the subsequent count table were clustered using CD-HIT with 98% identity cutoff at amino acid level for decreasing redundancy, removal of non-coding RNAs and reducing downstream issues with multiple testing. The resulting contigs and respective read counts were used as reference for the differential expression analysis. Contigs were not removed from the transcriptomes with basis on which organism they were associated with (*Drosophila*, *Wolbachia*, yeast or other bacteria) so as to avoid misalignments during mapping.
The differential expression analysis was done in R v3.2.2 \[[@CR105]\] with the DESeq2 v2_1.10.1 \[[@CR106]\] package, which uses an inbuilt normalization pipeline. Tests were performed between WT and GFR samples of heads or abdomens of each sex. GFR was set as reference condition so that difference in expression could be read as being induced by *Wolbachia*. Contigs were considered differentially expressed if an adjusted pvalue (qvalue) ≤ 0.05 was observed in DESeq2's default Wald test. Contigs were said to be differentially expressed with high fold change whenever their absolute fold change value was greater than one standard deviation from the mean absolute fold change for the condition in which they were DE.
Plots and statistics {#Sec44}
--------------------
Principal component analyses were performed with DESeq2 and plotted with ggplot2 \[[@CR107]\]. PCAs of individual semispecies were based on reads of that semispecies mapped to its own reference transcriptome, while PCAs of multiple semispecies are based on reads of all semispecies mapped to the OR reference transcriptome. Genes which contributed the most to each principal component (PC) were identified by their loading values. These were obtained by extracting the "rotation" element when calculating the PCA using the prcomp() function in R. Loadings were then plotted in ascending order and the genes whose values stood out in the beginning or end of the curve were selected. A chi-squared test was used to verify whether DE genes between GFR and WT flies were significantly overrepresented (pvalue \< 0.05) among the genes which contributed the most to the separation between semispecies in the PCA plots.
Heatmaps of individual semispecies were generated with ggplot2 and were based on the expression values obtained in DESeq2 for the contigs DE between WT and GFR for that semispecies.
Venn diagrams were created in R using the VennDiagrams package \[[@CR108]\] and are based on *Drosophila* genes identified as homologous between semispecies after clustering of the three differential expression reference transcriptomes with OrthoMCL \[[@CR109]\] using default parameters. Venn diagram in Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"} shows only *Drosophila* DE genes while the one in Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1 includes all *Drosophila* genes --- whether DE or not. BLAST searches to identify organisms associated to the genes associated to a single transcriptome in Additional file [2](#MOESM2){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1 were performed with protein BLAST against the non-redundant database of NCBI. Plots showing the number of DE genes in one or in multiple conditions were made in R with the upsetR package \[[@CR110]\].
Contig and gene annotation {#Sec45}
--------------------------
DE contigs were annotated using two independent strategies. In the first one, all contigs were run through Interproscan v5.24-63.0 for GO term annotation.
In the second strategy, all contigs were blasted to a database containing genes from *Drosophila willistoni*, *Drosophila melanogaster*, *Wolbachia*, the yeast *Saccharomyces cerevisiae* and a number of *Drosophila* gut bacteria (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). Contigs with a best hit to *Wolbachia*, other bacteria or yeast were discarded, while those with higher similarity to *Drosophila* were considered for annotation if the following criteria were met: the length of either the query or the subject, whichever was shortest, should correspond to at least 60% of the length of the longest, and the size of the aligned segment should correspond to at least 80% of the length of the shortest sequence.
Among the contigs which fulfilled these criteria, those with a best hit to *D. melanogaster* were directly annotated according to the Flybase *D. melanogaster* gff annotation file (release 6.18), while those with a best hit to *D. willistoni* had their annotation inferred from *D. melanogaster* orthologs listed in the Flybase gene ortholog table v2017_04. GO terms for each annotated contigs were extracted from the Flybase go-basic.obo file (release 2017-04-19). GO terms obtained through this method were generally considered more detailed than the ones annotated through InterproScan and were thus used for GO term enrichment analysis with the R package TopGo v2.22.0 \[[@CR111]\]. TopGO's default "weight01" algorithm and Fisher's exact test statistic were employed in the analysis and GO terms were considered enriched when an adjusted pvalue \< 0.05 was obtained. In order to avoid biasing the GO enrichment analysis with eventual multiple copies of a same transcript, the analysis was performed on a dataset containing only one contig for each assembled "Trinity gene". This dataset was created using the script "extract_GO_assignments_from_Trinotate_xls.pl", available with the Trinotate software package \[[@CR112]\], which annotates each "Trinity gene" with the GO terms of all the contigs associated with it.
Contigs identified as differentially expressed were mapped against the KEGG (<http://www.kegg.jp/>) database for identification of metabolic pathways associated with them. The online tool blastKOALA (<http://www.kegg.jp/blastkoala/>) was used for this purposed, with Taxonomy ID set to 7215 (*Drosophila*) and KEGG gene database set to "family_eukaryotes + genus_prokaryotes". The metabolic map in Fig. [4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"} was prepared with the "search&color pathway" function of the KEGG mapper tool (<https://www.genome.jp/kegg/mapper.html>) and redrawn in Adobe Illustrator.
Additional files
================
{#Sec46}
Additional file 1:Assembly metrics for the mapping reference transcriptomes of the AM, CA and OR semispecies. Transcriptome assembly metrics, including BUSCO marker recovery, ORF prediction and completeness, and the percentage of reads and ORFs associated with different organisms. (XLSX 24 kb) Additional file 2:Additional figures. **Figure S1.** Overlap in *Drosophila* gene content between the transcriptomes of the three semispecies. **Figure S2.** Principal component analysis (a) and heatmap (b) of expression data of the AM semispecies. **Figure S3.** Principal component analysis (a) and heatmap (b) of expression data of the CA semispecies. **Figure S4.** Number of genes differentially expressed in one or multiple conditions of the AM semispecies. **Figure S5.** Number of genes differentially expressed in one or multiple conditions of the CA semispecies. **Figure S6.** First and second principal components in the PCA of female abdomen samples of all semispecies. **Figure S7.** Second and third principal components in the PCA of head samples of all semispecies mapped to the OR transcriptome. **Figure S8.** Principal component analysis of GFR head samples of all semispecies mapped to the OR transcriptome based on the same genes used in the WT head PCAs (Figs. [5c](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}, [2d](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). **Figure S9.** Principal component analysis of abdomen samples of all semispecies mapped to the OR transcriptome. (PDF 2115 kb) Additional file 3:All DE genes in the OR semispecies. Complete list of all DE genes in the OR semispecies including which condition, sex and tissue it was DE in, fold change, significance value, annotated Flybase gene identities for orthologs in *D. willistoni* and *D. melanogaster*, annotated gene name and domain predictions. (XLSX 505 kb) Additional file 4:All DE genes in the CA semispecies. Complete list of all DE genes in the CA semispecies including which condition, sex and tissue it was DE in, fold change, significance value, annotated Flybase gene identities for orthologs in *D. willistoni* and *D. melanogaster*, annotated gene name and domain predictions. (XLSX 67 kb) Additional file 5:All DE genes in the AM semispecies. Complete list of all DE genes in the AM semispecies including which condition, sex and tissue it was DE in, fold change, significance value, annotated Flybase gene identities for orthologs in *D. willistoni* and *D. melanogaster*, annotated gene name and domain predictions. (XLSX 69 kb) Additional file 6:DE genes in multiple semispecies. List of all DE genes in more than one semispecies. (XLSX 17 kb) Additional file 7:All enriched GO terms in the AM, CA and OR semispecies. List of all GO terms enriched in each condition of the three semispecies. (XLSX 48 kb)
AB
: Andean-Brazilian
AM
: Amazonian
AMP
: Antimicrobial peptide
BCP
: 1--bromo--3--chloropropane
CA
: Centro-American
CHC
: Cuticle hydrocarbon
CI
: Cytoplasmic incompatibility
DE
: Differentially expressed
GFR
: Gut flora restored
GO
: Gene ontology
IN
: Interior
OBP
: Odorant-binding protein
OR
: Orinocan
ORF
: Open reading frame
PC
: Principal component
PCA
: Principal component analysis
THF
: Tetrahydrofolate
TR
: Transitional
VAM
: Ventral abdominal muscle
WT
: Wild type
**Publisher's Note**
Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
We would like to thank Johan Reimegård for running OrthoMCL, for advice and discussions regarding methods for RNA-sequencing and differential expression analysis, as well as for many insightful discussions on the obtained results. Sequencing was performed at the SNP&SEQ Technology Platform in Uppsala, Sweden, which is part of the Swedish National Genomics Infrastructure.
LK and WJM designed the study. GB and LK performed bioinformatic analyses of the data. DSI extracted the RNA. GB and LK wrote the paper. All authors read and commented on the manuscript.
The project was funded by the Swedish research council VR grant 2014-4353 to LK, and by the Austrian Science Fund FWF grant P28255-B22 to WJM. The funding bodies had no role in the design of the study and collection, analysis, and interpretation of data or in writing the manuscript.
The datasets generated and analyzed during the current study are available in the SRA database at NCBI, accession number PRJNA515416, <https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/bioproject/PRJNA515416>
Not applicable
Not applicable
The authors declare that they have no competing interests
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
BOFFINS at a hi-tech Scots robot centre unveiled a droid which is set to carry out high-risk tasks on Mars.
Scientists at the Edinburgh Centre for Robotics showed off Nasa Valkyrie which can perform tasks without human control.
1 Valkyrie could be sent to Mars Credit: PA:Press Association
The £2million humanoid will work alongside astronauts on missions and is a result of a collaboration between Edinburgh University and Nasa's Johnson Space Center in Texas.
It's expected Valkyrie could begin its mission as early as 2020, although humans are not expected to follow until at least 2030.
Professor Sethu Vijayakumar, 46, said autonomy had to be built into the robot.
He said: "We've had trips to the moon and astronauts inhabit the International Space Station, but when you start thinking about slightly further-away planets such as Mars there are additional challenges.
"You are no longer able to tele-operate robotic systems.
"You can't move a joystick and have it respond in real time because of the time delay and distance from Earth.
"That means building significant autonomy into the platform."
The white robot looks similar to a modern Power Ranger as it stands at 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighs 19 stone.
The machine is able to open doors, hold onto objects and even crawl into small spaces.
The bot is also expected to help out on earth with plans put forward for the Valkyrie platform to be used in disaster recovery and medical rehabilitation.
Professor Vijayakumar has credited popular sci-fi hits such as Westworld and Humans with assisting the creative process.
He added: "Science fiction has always been the forbearer of new technologies.
"People who are creative and in the arts have always been one step ahead of scientists in terms of thinking about innovative use of technology.
READ MORE KILLED ON HOLIDAY First pics of Brit dad of two who died in 'in brawl with couple in Tenerife after woman hit him with cleaner's sign on his birthday' Beast snared Girl set up iPad spy camera to catch Edinburgh beast, 17, trying to rape younger sister aged just SIX Exclusive SHANNON BOOK DEAL 'Kidnapped' Shannon Matthews offered tell-all book deal to heap more shame on mum Karen LEGO HOUSE Stackable 'Lego' homes are being rushed out to deal with housing crisis - so would you live in one? STILLBORN DEATH PROBE Deaths of 24 stillborn babies to be probed by NHS Forth Valley as rates rise to twice Scots average
"We had to build in dexterous capabilities such as being able to open doors, grasp objects, recognising things for itself and crawling through narrow spaces.
"The real vision for the Nasa Valkyrie platform is to do what we call pre-deployment missions to Mars.
"These unmanned missions would go ahead of the astronauts and set up habitats.
"This would allow the astronauts to go and start their experiments without needing to construct labs and living quarters.
"When the astronauts return to Earth, the habitats that are expensive to transport and maintain would be looked after by this flock of humanoid robots."
We pay for your stories! Do you have a story for The Scottish Sun Online. Email us at scottishsundigital@news.co.uk or call 0141 420 5266 | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Erections occur in response to tactile, olfactory, and visual stimuli. The ability to achieve and maintain a full erection depends not only on the penile portion of the process but also on the status of the peripheral nerves, the integrity of the vascular supply, and biochemical events within the corpora. The autonomic nervous system is involved in erection, orgasm, and tumescence. The parasympathetic nervous system is primarily involved in sustaining and maintaining an erection, which is derived from S2-S4 nerve roots.
There have been some studies to suggest that a placebo effect that improves ED may work for some men. One study found that men taking an oral placebo pill showed as much improvement in ED symptoms as men who took actual medication to improve ED. Conversely, men who were given therapeutic suggestions to improve ED did not see signs of symptom improvement.
VIP is a neurotransmitter with regulatory actions on blood flow, secretion and muscle tone with intracorporal adenylate cyclase activation and smooth muscle relaxation. VIP has been shown to elevate cAMP intracellular concentrations without affecting cGMP levels. However, when VIP is given alone it may not induce erection and requires combination with phentolamine or papaverine for it to be effective (88). Common associated adverse effects were facial flushing and headache. VIP in combination with phentolamine is currently being used in the UK and Europe and is seeking regulatory approval for use in the United States.
In rare cases, the drug Viagra ® can cause blue-green shading to vision that lasts for a short time. In rare cases, the drug Cialis® can cause or increase back pain or aching muscles in the back. In most cases, the side effects are linked to PDE5 inhibitor effects on other tissues in the body, meaning they are working to increase blood flow to your penis and at the same time impacting other vascular tissues in your body. These are not ‘allergic reactions'. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Subcategory Navigation
Emma Loewe
mbg Sustainability Editor
Emma is the Sustainability Editor at mindbodygreen and the author ofThe Spirit Almanac: A Modern Guide To Ancient Self Care, which she wrote alongside her colleague and pal Lindsay Kellner. She studied Environmental Science & Policy at Duke University and is fascinated by the way nature impacts humans and vice versa. Her favorite wellness practice is running outside in the sunshine (and following it up with cheese, because balance). Follow her adventures on her website and Instagram. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
This research will be done primarily at the Bose Institute in Calcutta, India in collaboration with Anuradha Lohia as an extension of NIH grant R01AI 53724. The human pathogen Entamoeba histolytica is responsible for causing amoebic dysentery and liver abscesses. Infection of the human gut is quickly followed by proliferation and multiplication of the parasite, which may then lead to colonic disease. We are interested in identifying molecular factors regulating cell proliferation in this protist parasite, in an effort to devise new strategies to prevent amoebiasis. The goal of the parent proposal is to identify novel amoebic virulence factors by microarray based transcriptional profiling. The FIRCA supplement is written with Prof. Anuradha Lohia who has been studying the regulation of cell cycle progression Entamoeba histolytica. [unreadable] [unreadable] Results from Anuradha's laboratory in India have shown that in E. histolytica genome reduplication may occur without cell division and single nuclei may contain several genome contents during the proliferative phase (Gangopadhyay et al, 1997a; Das and Lohia, 2002). Therefore, unlike most eukaryotes the cell cycle of E. histolytica does not appear to be controlled by known checkpoint surveillance mechanisms. It would be important therefore to identify a global profile of genes that regulate cell cycle progression in E. histolytica. In this proposal we plan to use dsRNA interference (Kaur and Lohia, 2004) to down-regulate cell cycle homologues- Eh Cdks and cyclins, followed by transcriptional profiling using microarrays in order to identify groups of genes controlled by CDKs and cyclins in E. histolytica. This work has important implications for identifying novel aspects of cell cycle control in E. histolytica. Additionally, this project is an ideal collaborative environment in which a main goal is technology transfer (use and analysis of microarray data) to the Lohia lab in India. Arrays as a post-genomic tools are powerful yet highly specialized, thus the "hands-on" use of this application by Lohia's group is an important component of this work. [unreadable] [unreadable] | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | NIH ExPorter |
Pekka Rinne is expected to start in goal for the Predators against the Blackhawks tonight in Chicago. (Sanford Myers / The Tennessean)
This would finally vault Nashville out of sixth place in the West and fourth in the Central Division. The Predators have won 11 of 13 games, but have been unable to get ahead of one of the top three teams in the Central.
“We have to have a goal, our goal is to try to catch Chicago,” Coach Barry Trotz said. “We’re looking ahead all the time. We know if we play well, we win our games, we’re going to pass some teams.”
Chicago forward Jonathon Toews (upper body) won’t be in the lineup tonight. He ranks second in the NHL with 27 goals.
“They’re so offensively gifted. They have three lines that can score,” defenseman Shea Weber said. “It hurts for them not having him. But they have other guys who can fill in, and we have to make sure we’re ready.”
Trotz didn’t exactly say Pekka Rinne would start, but he is highly likely to go with the 6-foot-5 Finn. Rinne allowed one goal on 26 shots last night against Columbus. Said Trotz: “The second period (against the Blue Jackets) was really his workload. I didn’t think the first or third was much of a workload at all.”
Defenseman Francis Bouillon (upper body) made the trip, but is unlikely to play tonight. “It’s getting better. I can see some improvement, but probably not tonight,” Bouillon said. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Why Is There So Much Hate For Origin?
I’ll admit it. I hate Origin. But I’m not exactly sure why. Hating EA’s Origin is akin to hating Microsoft. At one point there were legitimate reasons, but we hate it now because it’s popular to do so. It would be easier if Origin was just a mess and didn’t function well. But if I’m honest, Origin really isn’t that bad of a system. So then, why do we hate it?
We could lay the blame on the fact on the forfeiture of legal rights, the data capturing, or their various “Origin Exclusives”; but none of those reasons are the defining point into why we hate Origin. If there is any reason you can hate Origin, then having it backed by EA is as good a reason as any. EA quite frankly, has not been the white knight of the gaming realm in a long time. But whilst I think this is a core issue, there is certainly more behind it than meets the eye. For example, if Origin, in its current state was actually created by Rockstar; would this make a difference? The answer is quite simply, no.
The root of the issue lies with Steam. Not as its competition, but as its perceived intention. If you don’t know the story behind Steam, then here is a little perspective. Steam started off as a distribution and digital rights software, specifically for their (Valve) own games. The concept was needed for an upcoming update of Counter-Strike as well as to replace the aging WON system. Previously, each update of Counter-Strike, caused large amounts of players to have issues, preventing them from playing.These ranged from server version, to client version and even WON issues. This ultimately caused Valve to rethink their strategy. Whether anyone at Valve had the ambition to turn Steam into the monopoly it is now, no one is quite sure.
Nonetheless, Steam changed the course of PC gaming and brought it back from the brink of death. PC gamers are, in my most humblest opinion, the most hardcore gamers. Games like Counter-Strike, Warcraft III and the original Starcraft, experienced an unprecedented dominance that survived well over a decade are evidence of that. In saving the platform they most endear, Valve earned the utmost respect from gamers. However, it is likely EA saw the monopoly that the Steam platform had, and looked to address the issue by creating Origin, in an attempt to take market share. Whilst I can’t fault their business practices to take a slice of the pie; EA is already perceived as a greedy company. Unfortunately this gives the impressions that EA is in it for the money and not for the interests of the gaming community.
In EA’s defence, history shows that they are up against the wall, as generally speaking; gamers hate change. Going back to when Steam was first released and the WON servers were finally shut down; there was still a huge outcry. Despite the issues of updating, WON was perceived largely as a good system for PC. While it’s standard practice to install DRM software today, back when Steam was released, this was unheard of and was seen as almost draconian. Today, Steam is the standard practice for the PC platform, but having to use Origin is deviation from the norm and is largely a nuisance. If Origin were redefining the platform, then this lack of forgiveness for the system is only part of the process of change. But it really isn’t and there are few reasons to install it in the first place.
Steam on the other hand, continues to evolve and grow. Greenlight and Big Picture are already evidence that Valve intends to take its juggernaut beyond distribution and DRM. They are looking to actively engage the community, and change the way we thinking about gaming. Ultimately, the wider issue at hand is, when the hearts and minds of gamers are already won and a company like Electronic Arts, tries to profit on the work of another company, it does no favours for their already tarnished public image. And although it may be easy to attribute the hatred we feel towards Origin as justified; most gamers in the end would choose to believe: “We hate it, because we can.” | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Three women have been arrested for allegedly tampering and hindering a police investigation into an Arizona man suspected of killing nine people in three weeks.
Cleophus Emmanuel Cooksey Jr, 35, was taken into custody in Phoenix on December 17 after a spree of shootings police said on Thursday.
Police recently arrested Cooksey's girlfriend, Liliana Vasquez, her sister Griselda Vasquez and Desaree Coronado, for allegedly tampering with evidence.
Coronado is the mother of Jesus Real's child. Police said Real was one of Cooksey's victims.
Scroll down for video
Liliana Vasquez (left), her sister Griselda Vasquez (center) and Desaree Coronado (right), were arrested for allegedly protecting suspected serial killer, Cleophus Emmanuel Cooksey Jr, by tampering with crime scene evidence
Cooksey (left) was taken into custody in Phoenix on December 17 after a spree of shootings police said on Thursday. Authorities have linked Cooksey to the shooting death of Jesus Real (right) whose body was discovered on December 11, 2017
Police said Coronado is the mother of Real's child and the Vasquez sisters (pictured with Real) are the victim's sisters. Griselda (right) posted this photo on Facebook a day after her brother's death
Using ballistic evidence, Phoenix police have linked Cooksey to at least nine fatal shootings in three cities that took place between November 27 and December 17.
On December 11, Real, 25, was killed around 3.30pm near 500 E Harrison Drive in Avondale.
Officers responded to a shooting call for service and found the victim dead on arrival in an apartment complex, with the suspect having fled. Real was the brother of Cooksey's ex-girlfriend, Liliana Vasquez, and Griselda Vasquez, police said.
Authorities said Liliana discovered Real's body but left the apartment without calling the police, according to CBS 5.
Liliana reportedly went to pick up Griselda instead and called two other family members about Real being hurt and possibly dead.
They then went back to the apartment with Coronado and called 911.
Authorities said Liliana (left) discovered Real's body but left the apartment without calling the police. Liliana reportedly went to pick up Griselda (right) instead and called two other family members about Real being hurt and possibly dead. Coronado is pictured center
Griselda (left) told police that she took Real's cellphone off his body on December 11 and gave it to Coronado (right). Coronado reportedly admitted that she had the phone and only wanted it because it had photos of her and Real that she wanted to keep
When the three women were initially interviewed by police, all of them denied removing any evidence from the scene.
But police tracked Real's cellphone to a motel room in Goodyear where the Vasquez sisters and Coronado were staying on December 14, court documents show.
Griselda then told police that she took the cellphone off Real's body on December 11 and gave it to Coronado.
Coronado reportedly admitted that she had the phone and only wanted it because it had photos of her and Real that she wanted to keep.
Officers said Liliana told them she broke up Cooksey a night before Real's murder and left the apartment around 7am.
Police said Real was killed between 8am and 11am. The two shell casings haven't been found, according to the report.
Authorities said evidence also shows that Liliana's vehicle was in the area of two of Cooksey's murders.
The Vasquez sisters were both charged with hindering prosecution and tampering with physical evidence. Bond was set at $3,000 for both of them.
This map shows the locations and the victims of the nine murders Cooksey is accused of. The numbers refer to the order of the murders
Victim Andrew Remillard was one of the first two victims. It is unclear what relationship if any he had with the suspect Cooksey
Andrew Remillard, 27, (left) and Parker Smith, 21, (right) were the first two victims in the alleged murder spree. They were found dead together on November 27
Latorrie Beckford, 29, (left) and Kristopher Cameron, 21, (right) were killed on December 13 and December 15 respectively. Cameron was believed to be lured by a drug transaction
Coronado was charged with hindering prosecution, tampering with physical evidence and false reporting to law enforcement.
Cooksey's victims were of multiple races and both genders, ranging in age from 21 to 56.
The suspected serial killer aspired to be a rapper. He is also the grandson of a civil rights leader.
He has been in custody since December 17, when police found him at the scene of his mother and stepfather's murders.
Using forensic evidence and witness statements, cops say they quickly linked him to seven other recent murders in Phoenix as well as in nearby Avondale and Glendale.
Investigators said the murder spree began on November 27 at 10.45pm, when Andrew Remillard, 27, and Parker Smith, 21, were found dead together inside a car near 1500 E. Indian School Road in Phoenix.
Police have yet to identify a motive and are unsure whether Cooksey knew the victims.
On December 2, Salim Richards, 35, was killed around at 7.44pm near 4030 N 44th Avenue in Phoenix.
The victim was walking in the area when he was shot and killed. Some witnesses said Cooksey and Richards knew each other, police said. Property was stolen from Richards, including a handgun
On December 13, Latorrie Beckford, 29, was killed on around 6.53pm near 5038 N 55th Avenue in Glendale. Patrol officers were called to respond to a gunshot wound.
The male victim was treated on scene and died. Police had information that Cooksey was in the apartment complex at the time, but don't yet know a motive in the murder.
On December 15, Kristopher Cameron, 21, was killed around 7.22pm near 5045 N 58th Avenue in Glendale.
The victim was transported for care and died shortly after. Cameron came to that area to make a drug transaction with Cooksey, and forensic evidence links him to the murder, police say.
Maria Villanueva, 43, was kidnapped on December 15. Her body was found the following day with signs of sexual assault
Cleophus Cooksey (left and right) was arrested on December 17 when he was found in a residence with the bodies of his murdered mother and stepfather
Investigators provided this graphic tracing the homicides that they allege Cooksey was responsible for between November 27 and December 17
Hours later on the same day, December 15, Maria Villanueva, 43, was kidnapped near 58th Avenue and Camelback in Phoenix around 8.52pm.
She arrived to an apartment complex and got into a car with Cooksey under unknown circumstances. Her body was found with evidence of a sexual assault the next day.
Finally, on December 17 around 7.50pm, officers are called to a disturbance near 1300 E Highland in Phoenix.
The responding officer saw Cooksey with blood on him, and noted he appeared to be concealing something. Rene Cooksey, 56, the suspect’s mother, and his stepfather, Edward Nunn, 54, were found dead inside the residence.
Cooksey confronted the responding officer and shouted 'I'm the strongest man alive' and 'I'll cut your throat' as he was taken into custody, police said.
Cleophus Cooksey was then arrested and charged with murder. A task force including the Phoenix, Avondale, and Glendale police department, as well as FBI profilers and ballistics experts from the ATF, worked to connect him to the other murders.
Police said that evidence from shell casings tied at least some of the murders together, and that advances in forensic technology allowed investigators to get results from those tests within hours instead of weeks.
Cooksey's stepfather Ed Nunn (left) and mother Rene Cooksey (center) were the final victims. Cleo Cooksey was found at their residence with the bodies after police responded to a 911 call
The probable cause statement describing police's encounter with Cooksey on December 17. He was arrested at the time on suspicion of killing his mother and stepfather
'At the end of the day what this came down to was a patrol officer answering a call for service and doing the right things - taking a person into custody and noticing there were abnormalities to his behavior,' said Glendale Police Chief Rick St. John at a press conference on Thursday.
Despite stereotypes of patient killers who wait months or years between victims, the shocking apparent burst of murders in just three weeks is an increasingly familiar pattern for serial killers, said Enzo Yaksic, the co-founder of Northeastern University's Atypical Homicide Research Group, in an email to DailyMail.com.
'Cooksey represents the next crop of serial homicide offender, one not beholden to rule structures or averse to risk and empowered by their self-assumed sense of importance,' said Yaksic.
The expert believes that advances in law enforcement have put pressure on serial offenders, making them more likely to compress their crimes into bursts of activity in a race against the clock before they are captured.
'While the hurried nature of these crimes can sometimes make it difficult for law enforcement to catch up, it is also ironically often the cause of their demise given that little time is dedicated to properly planning their homicides and preparing to evade the fallout,' said Yaksic.
Cooksey is seen in two mugshots: Left from a prior incarceration, and right in a mugshot provided to the press last week
Cooksey is the grandson of civil rights leader Roy Cooksey, who was prominent in the Tucson area from the 1960s until his death in 2009, according to an obituary in the Arizona Daily Star.
Police said that Cleophus Cooksey was an aspiring musician, and homemade hip hop videos have emerged that show him showcasing his lyrical skills under the name 'King Playbola'.
Cooksey was previously imprisoned in Arizona for 16 years for manslaughter and armed robbery convictions.
Those convictions were in connection with the death of an armed robbery partner, police said.
State records show that he was released in July 2017 after being found guilty of 22 different disciplinary infractions while in prison, including assault of prison staff, disobeying orders, fighting, disorderly conduct, possession of drugs and more.
Cooksey faces two counts of premeditated first-degree murder and one count of weapon possession by a prohibited person in the December 17 murders.
He was ordered held pending $1million cash bail in that case and faces seven additional murder charges.
Anyone with information about the murders or additional connected crimes is urged to contact Silent Witness at 1-480-WITNESS. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Q:
Unable to load scapy after Catalina update on MacBook Air. Scapy: read_routes netif = rt[4 + mtu_present + prio_present + refs_present + locked]
Scapy was working fine before Catalina update on my MacBook, I was using scapy with anaconda. After the Catalina update anaconda was disabled (as it was installed in root directory earlier) so I had to move anaconda to home directory. Now after moving anaconda to my home directory, scapy has stopped working. I got the following set of errors while trying to import scapy as shown below.
from scapy.all import * Traceback (most recent call last):
File "", line 1, in from scapy.all import *
File "/Users/artibatra/anaconda3/lib/python3.6/site-packages/scapy/all.py", line 27, in from scapy.route import *
File "/Users/artibatra/anaconda3/lib/python3.6/site-packages/scapy/route.py", line 194, in conf.route = Route()
File "/Users/artibatra/anaconda3/lib/python3.6/site-packages/scapy/route.py", line 27, in init self.resync()
File "/Users/artibatra/anaconda3/lib/python3.6/site-packages/scapy/route.py", line 35, in resync self.routes = read_routes()
File "/Users/artibatra/anaconda3/lib/python3.6/site-packages/scapy/arch/unix.py", line 82, in read_routes netif = rt[4 + mtu_present + prio_present + refs_present + locked]
IndexError: list index out of range
I am new with this. Could you please tell me how to update scapy to work with anaconda(now moved to home directory).
A:
The issue you are having is that your scapy version does not support Catalina. Support was added in 2.4.3 (https://github.com/secdev/scapy/pull/2139)
You need to make sure you are using Scapy 2.4.3+. When using anaconda, make sure you are using the official conda-forge repo which has 2.4.3:
https://anaconda.org/conda-forge/scapy
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Cooking with Kids: Cookbook Edition
A few weeks ago Rachel did a post with tips for cooking with kids (read it here if you missed it). Inspired by that post, I thought it would be a great idea if we did a roundup of the best cookbooks geared toward children, so here we go!
1) The Disney Princess Cookbook– This book just looks adorable and the recipes are rated by level of difficulty, making it a great book for a multitude of ages. I can’t wait to try Princess Tiana’s recipes!
3) My A to Z Recipe Box: An Alphabet of Recipes for Kids– What could be better than working on your alphabet while cooking! This book is especially great for connecting the Letter of the Week with snacktime. Full of fun recipes like Ants in Your Applesauce, Yummy Yogurt Parfait, and Tremendous Three-layer Dip and healthy too.
4) The Spatulatta Cookbook– For a slightly older crowd (9-12). This book won my heart since it includes a “Stone Soup” recipe. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
How Democratic voters are being funneled into controlled opposition without knowing it.
One of the sole positive effects of Trump’s 2016 election is awakening increased social and political consciousness in the U.S. public. This phenomenon has been shorthanded as “woke.” Yet this “wokeness” has too often congealed into superficial critiques, a Resist hashtag and concern with tokenism rather than real structural change. This tends to think our problems sprung from Trump like Athena from the head of Zeus — rather than Trump being a metastasized result of 40+ years of human-crushing neoliberal policy under both Republicans and Democrats.
For those newly emerging into wakefulness, this ahistorical perspective is understandable: the nasty rhetoric and in-your-face casual cruelty are the first and most obvious sign. But it focuses on the symptoms rather than the deeper, root causes.
2017 Climate change rally in the aftermath of the Trump election
“The Democratic establishment mixes social critique with ‘around the edges’ reform to mitigate the most obvious abuses to prevent a head-on challenge to the fundamental premise of the system.”
Controlling Opposition
This focus on social outrage actually works in favor of the trans-national corporatocracy and oligarchs by funneling activist impulses, fueled by justified anger, away from deep structural inequalities in the system and into social wedge issues. Interestingly, there’s a mirror on the Right: ‘Red Pilled.’ This term uses the same metaphor (taking a cue from the film The Matrix wherein a red pill to awakens one from the simulation). Like the ‘woke left’ outrage is similarly channeled.
To be clear: as a progressive I firmly believe racism, sexism and homophobia are real, important and valid social issues that need addressing. I also believe the misdirection peddled to the right is more damaging because of the way attention is focused off inequities is through scapegoating the powerless (i.e. don’t blame the billionaire that off-shored your job. Blame the Mexican dishwasher, et. all).
However, #Resistance often misses that addressing issues of economic justice and war and peace on a deep systemic level will have a vastly greater effect on social justice problems than putting an intersectionally-friendly face on the neoliberal machine. As a minority, I would love a person of color as president. I would would love a woman president. However, that’s the icing not the cake. If you eat nothing but icing you’ll get sick.
I’m throwing ‘neoliberal’ around a lot, so let’s quickly define it: an ideology framing societal relationships as transactions (and citizens as consumers) that defines freedom in terms of buying and selling: the freedom of trade and capital. It favors deregulation of markets and corporations — on the premise that perpetual national economic growth and corporate profit growth are key to social well-being and stability. Often economic domination of other countries to open markets and resources (a form of mercantilism) is required.
Two great primers on Neoliberalism can be found on YouTube if you want to delve deeper:
“Neoliberalism Explained” by Stuart Bass
“Crash Course in Neoliberalism” by Mad Blender
Since the late 70’s/early 80’s neoliberalism has been dominant in U.S. and key western nation policy. Republicans and Democrats from Reagan (& Thatcher in the UK) onward have been in it’s thrall. Bill Clinton’s ‘third way’ triangulation was a combination of being somewhat more socially liberal (vs. Republicans) married to a neoliberal economic & foreign policy. Bush Sr., Dubya and Obama also presided over neoliberal policy administrations. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Suomeen on perustettu yhdistys nimeltä Toimittajaliitto. Sen verkkosivuilla kerrotaan, että liitto edistää rehellistä suomalaista tiedonvälitystä, ja sivuston osoite on lähes sama kuin Suomen Journalistiliitolla, erotuksena vain .com-loppu.
”Se on erikoista, että he ovat näin halunneet toimia, mutta se on myöskin hyvin tavallista. Tällaiset disinformaatiota ja valheita levittävät tahot usein nimenomaan pyrkivät jäljittelemään tunnettuja toimijoita, jotta epävarmuus lisääntyisi”, sanoo Suomen Journalistiliiton puheenjohtaja Hanne Aho.
Liitoksi itseään kutsuvan yhdistyksen puheenjohtaja on Juha Korhonen, joka on toiminut MV-julkaisun vastaavana ja varapuheenjohtaja on Janus Putkonen, joka on UMV:n eli Uusi MV -lehden nykyinen päätoimittaja.
”Tämän porukan Venäjän kytkökset ovat hyvin tunnetut. Se on hyvin pieni, mutta äänekäs porukka”, Aho sanoo.
Aho lisää, että Journalistiliitossa ei olla huolissaan MV-puuhamiesten uusimmasta sivustosta.
”Heidän nettisivunsa eivät vakuuta. Teksti siellä on sen tason puppua, että on vaikea uskoa, että kukaan niistä vakuuttuisi. Se on disinformaation ja valheiden levittämistarkoituksessa perustettu kyhäelmä, jonka tarkoitus on aiheuttaa epävarmuutta ja pelkoa ja horjuttaa yhteiskuntarauhaa.”
MV-lehti on tunnettu vihapuhealusta. Sen perustaja Ilja Janitskin sai vuosi sitten Helsingin käräjäoikeudessa lähes kahden vuoden vankeustuomion loukkaavista ja rasistisista kirjoituksista. Asiaa käsitellään tällä hetkellä Helsingin hovioikeudessa.
Mistä tuntee valetoimittajan?
Entäpä median kuluttajat, mistä he voivat tietää, kuka heitä lähestyvä on journalisti, kuka vahvalla agendalla varustettu tarkoituksenhakuinen hybridivaikuttaja? Toimittajaliitto kun kertoo sivuillaan tarjoavansa jäsenilleen muun muassa pressikortin.
”Totta kai on mahdollista, että joku kansalainen hämääntyy nimenomaan sanasta Toimittajaliitto. Tietysti on riski, että joku esiintyy tällaisen yhdistyksen nimissä ja joku siitä hämääntyy, mutta riski on jo nyt olemassa. Nämä ihmiset soittelevat ahdistelutarkoituksessa esiintyen erilaisten medioiden toimittajina.”
Median kuluttajilta vaaditaan nykypäivänä yhä enemmän medialukutaitoa. Ahon mukaan sekä Journalistiliiton että medioiden tehtävä on pitää huolta siitä, että median kuluttajat ymmärtävät, mikä on journalistinen työprosessi.
”Uskon, että tänä päivänä tietoisuus siitä on noussut ja yritämme opetella kertoa siitä yhä selkeämmillä tavoilla. Sitä työtä pitää edelleen jatkaa.”
Myös Toimittajaliitto ilmoittaa sitoutuneensa noudattamaan journalistin eettisiä ohjeita ja on kopioinut sivuilleen journalistin ohjeet. Twitter sulki tuoreeltaan yhdistyksen tilin Twitterin sääntöjen vastaisena.
Toimittajaliitto ilmoittaa, että sen jäseneksi voi liittyä käytännössä kuka tahansa: bloggaajat, striimaajat, toimittajat, verkkolehtien toimitukset ja ihan tavalliset somettajatkin, sivuilla luetellaan.
Suomen Journalistiliiton jäseneksi hyväksytään henkilö, joka ansaitsee vähintäänkin merkittävän osan tuloistaan työllä, joka sisältää journalistisia elementtejä, tai alaa opiskelevat. Esimerkiksi omatoimista bloggaamista harjoittavia ei hyväksytä Journalistiliiton jäseniksi.
”Suora vastaus kysymykseen, miten kansalainen voi tunnistaa valetoimittajan on, että kansalainen voi aina tarkistaa että toimittaja työskentelee medialle, joka on sitoutunut Journalistin ohjeisiin”, Aho sanoo.
Journalistin ohjeet Julkisen sanan neuvoston sivuilla
LUE MYÖS: | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
An environmental magnetism approach to assess impacts of land-derived sediment disturbances on coral reef ecosystems (Cartagena, Colombia).
We used environmental magnetism methods to study recently deposited marine sediments from the estuarine ecosystems on the Caribbean coast of Colombia. Cartagena region has undergone an increasing sediment load during the last decades via sediment plumes from Magdalena River and its distributary man-made channel. Concentration dependent magnetic parameters show an increasing abundance of ferrimagnetic minerals on the uppermost sediments on sites located close to the continent (remanent magnetization SIRM = 5.4-9.5 × 10-3Am2 kg-1) as well as faraway sites (SIRM = 0.5-1.7 × 10-3Am2 kg-1 near Rosario Islands coral reef complex). The magnetic grain size and mineralogy along the cores are variable, showing the dominance of the magnetite-like minerals (remanent coercivity Hcr = 34.3-45.3 mT), with a minor contribution of high-coercivity minerals (Hcr = 472-588 mT). In addition, there is a moderate enrichment of elements Cu, Mo, and Zn (enrichment factor EF = 1.5-3.8) that indicates the additional land-derived contribution on sediments. The environmental magnetism approach, which shows significant signals of magnetic minerals and trace elements, is a reliable tool to prove the presence of continental sediment supply in coral reef ecosystems. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Q:
ImageMagick.net issues
I am using ImageMagick.net and I have added ImageMagickNET.dl reference to my project. This is the code is I am using.
MagickNet.Magick.Init();
MagicNet.Image img = new MagicNet.Image("file.jpg");
img.Resize(System.Drawing.Size(100,100));
img.Write("newFile.png");
MagickNet.Magick.Term();
But I am getting this error "'ImageMagickNET.MagickNet' does not contain a definition for 'Magick'"
A:
oups, try this I test it it works:
using System;
using M = MagickNet;
using System.Drawing;
namespace ConsoleApplication1
{
class Program
{
static void Main(string[] args)
{
M.Magick.Init();
M.Image img = new M.Image("file.jpg");
img.Resize(new Size(100, 100));
img.Write("newFile.png");
MagickNet.Magick.Term();
}
}
}
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Q:
Xcode archive Stuck compiling Swift source files
I am using XCode Version 8.2.1 (8C1002) product. I archive to upload my app to the iTunes Store, which has been stopped for several hours in the 'Compiling Swift source files' section. The actions I have taken to solve this problem are as follows, but have not been resolved.
Product> Clean
Product> Clean Build Folder
OS reboot
Sign out and sign in
Even up to hardware memory upgrades
The biggest question is that the test runs well on all devices. However, when I try to archive, it stops at that section without any error message.
A:
Miraculously I solved this problem.
1. Reduced image file size.
I upgraded the memory of the hardware from 4GB to 10GB.
3. Press and hold the archive button to sleep.
4. When I woke up, it was miraculously complete.
The image file was 40MB, but it was reduced to 20MB. And I upgraded my MacBook memory in the hardware from 4GB to 10GB, but I do not know which one helped me solve the problem. Anyway, I have solved this problem and hope you can help if you have difficulties with the same problem.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
---
abstract: 'We report the detection of spatially extended and emission in the $z$=2.49 submillimeter galaxy (SMG) J123707+6214, using the Expanded Very Large Array and the Plateau de Bure Interferometer. The large molecular gas reservoir is spatially resolved into two components (north-east and south-west; previously identified in emission) with gas masses of 4.3 and 3.5$\times$10$^{10}\,(\alpha_{\rm CO}/0.8)$. We thus find that the optically invisible north-east component slightly dominates the gas mass in this system. The total molecular gas mass derived from the observations is $\gtrsim$2.5$\times$ larger than estimated from . The two components are at approximately the same redshift, but separated by $\sim$20kpc in projection. The morphology is consistent with that of an early-stage merger. The total amount of molecular gas is sufficient to maintain the intense 500starburst in this system for at least $\sim$160Myr. We derive line brightness temperature ratios of $r_{31}$=0.39$\pm$0.09 and 0.37$\pm$0.10, and $r_{51}$=0.26$\pm$0.07 and 0.25$\pm$0.08 in the two components, respectively, suggesting that the $J$$\geq$3 lines are substantially subthermally excited. This also suggests comparable conditions for star formation in both components. Given the similar gas masses of both components, this is consistent with the comparable starburst strengths observed in the radio continuum emission. Our findings are consistent with other recent studies that find evidence for lower CO excitation in SMGs than in high-$z$ quasar host galaxies with comparable gas masses. This may provide supporting evidence that both populations correspond to different evolutionary stages in the formation of massive galaxies.'
author:
- |
Dominik A. Riechers, Christopher L. Carilli, Fabian Walter, Axel Weiss,\
Jeff Wagg, Frank Bertoldi, Dennis Downes, Christian Henkel, and Jacqueline Hodge
title: |
Imaging the Molecular Gas Properties of a Major Merger\
Driving the Evolution of a $z$=2.5 Submillimeter Galaxy
---
Introduction
============
Detailed studies of submillimeter galaxies (SMGs; see review by Blain [-@bla02]) have revealed that they represent a relatively rare, but cosmologically important high redshift population of massive galaxies. They harbor intense ($>$500yr$^{-1}$), often heavily obscured, but rather short-lived ($<$100Myr) starbursts that rapidly consume their gas content through star formation at high efficiencies. SMGs may trace a common phase in the formation and evolution of massive galaxies in the early universe, making them the likely progenitors of today’s massive spheroidal galaxies.
Given their substantial dust obscuration, the most insightful way to study SMGs and their star formation properties is through the dust-reprocessed emission at rest-frame far-infrared (FIR) wavelengths. While continuum diagnostics at such wavelengths are particularly useful to determine star formation rates (SFRs) unaffected by obscuration, the most insightful way to study the fate of such galaxies is through emission line fluxes, morphology and dynamics of the material that fuels the star formation, i.e., molecular gas (typically CO). Molecular gas was detected in $>$30 SMGs to date, revealing large gas reservoirs of $>$10$^{10}$ in most cases (see Solomon & Vanden Bout [-@sv05] for a review). However, most of these studies were carried out in mid- to high-$J$ CO transitions, rather than the fundamental transition.
Recent studies of emission indicate that (in contrast to high-$z$ quasar hosts) this line appears to carry a higher brightness temperature than the mid- to high-$J$ lines in several SMGs, suggesting relatively low gas excitation (e.g., Hainline et al.[-@hai06]; Riechers et al. [-@rie06], [-@rie10]; Carilli et al. [-@car10]; Ivison et al.[-@ivi10]; Harris et al. [-@har10]). Therefore, earlier studies may systematically underestimate the total amount of molecular gas that is present in SMGs. The low excitation in at least part of the molecular gas reservoirs raises the question whether the commonly used $\alpha_{\rm CO}$ conversion factor from CO luminosity to gas mass ($M_{\rm gas}$) for ultra-luminous infrared galaxies (ULIRGs) in the nearby universe (Downes & Solomon [-@ds98]) is applicable, or if this practice leads to an underprediction of $M_{\rm
gas}$.
To further investigate this issue, we have started a systematic Expanded Very Large Array (EVLA) survey of emission in high-$z$ SMGs and quasar host galaxies that were previously detected in higher-$J$ CO lines. In this Letter, we report the first results from this study, i.e., the detection of spatially extended emission toward the $z$=2.49 SMG J123707+6214 (GN19; HDF242; Borys et al.[-@bor03]). We also report the detection of emission in this system, using the Plateau de Bure Interferometer (PdBI). We use a concordance, flat $\Lambda$CDM cosmology throughout, with $H_0$=71Mpc$^{-1}$, $\Omega_{\rm M}$=0.27, and $\Omega_{\Lambda}$=0.73 (Spergel [-@spe03], [-@spe07]).
Observations
============
EVLA
----
We observed the ($\nu_{\rm rest} = 115.2712$GHz) emission line toward J123707+6214 using the EVLA. At $z$=2.49, this line is redshifted to 33.029GHz (9.08mm). Observations were carried out under excellent weather conditions (typical atmospheric phase rms:2.3$^\circ$ on a 300m baseline) in D array on 2010 April 11 (NRAO Legacy ID: AR708), resulting in 2.9hr on-source time with 18antennas (equivalent to 1.2hr with 27antennas) after rejection of bad data. The nearby ($5.4^\circ$ distance) quasar J1302+5748 was observed every 7.5minutes for pointing, secondary amplitude and phase calibration. For primary flux calibration, the standard calibrator 3C286 was observed, leading to a calibration that is accurate within $\lesssim$10%. Observations were set up using a total bandwidth of 252MHz (dual polarization; after rejection of overlapping edge channels between sub-bands; corresponding to $\sim$2300 at 9.08mm) with the WIDAR correlator.
For data reduction and analysis, the AIPS package was used. All data were mapped using ‘natural’ weighting. Maps of the velocity-integrated CO $J$=1$\to$0 line emission yield a synthesized clean beam size of 2.8$''$$\times$2.1$''$ at an rms noise level of 39$\mu$Jybeam$^{-1}$ over 490 (54MHz).
PdBI
----
We observed the ($\nu_{\rm rest} = 576.2679$GHz) emission line toward J123707+6214 using the IRAM PdBI. At $z$=2.49, this line is redshifted to 165.1198GHz (1.82mm). Observations were carried out under good weather conditions with five antennas in the compact D configuration during 3tracks on 2008 July 10, and August 09 and 14 (IRAM program ID: SC47), for a total of 14.9hr, resulting in 8.1hr of 6 antenna equivalent on-source time after rejection of bad data. The nearby quasars B0954+658 and B1418+546 (distance to J123707+6214: $17.4^\circ$ and $15.4^\circ$) were observed every 20minutes for pointing, secondary amplitude and phase calibration. For primary flux calibration, the standard calibrators MWC349 and 3C454.3 were observed. Observations were set up using a total spectrometer bandwidth of 1GHz (dual polarization; corresponding to $\sim$1800 at 1.82mm).
For data reduction and analysis, the GILDAS package was used. All data were mapped using ‘natural’ weighting. Maps of the velocity-integrated CO $J$=5$\to$4 line emission yield a synthesized clean beam size of 3.7$''$$\times$3.0$''$ at an rms noise level of 0.39/0.54mJybeam$^{-1}$ over 563/309 (320/180MHz).
Results
=======
Gas Morphology and Emission Line Properties
-------------------------------------------
We have detected spatially resolved line emission toward the $z$=2.49 SMG J123707+6214, measuring two components at 7$\sigma$ (north-east; ‘ne’)[^1] and 6$\sigma$ (south-west; ‘sw’) significance in the velocity-integrated emission line map (Fig.\[f1\], [*left*]{}). We do not detect the underlying continuum emission at a 3$\sigma$ upper limit of 54$\mu$Jybeam$^{-1}$ at 9.08mm (rest-frame 2.6mm).
From Gaussian fitting to the line profiles of the ne and sw components (Fig. \[f1\], [*right*]{}),[^2] we obtain line peak strengths of $S_{\nu}$=375$\pm$57 and 340$\pm$64$\mu$Jy at line FWHMs of d$v$=454$\pm$87 and 414$\pm$92, centered at redshifts of $z$=2.4879$\pm$0.0005 and 2.4873$\pm$0.0005, respectively. The line widths and redshifts are consistent with those measured for the emission line (Tacconi et al. [-@tac06]), and are equal for both spatial components within the uncertainties. From the spatially-integrated emission, we determine a systemic redshift of $z$=2.4876$\pm$0.0004, which we adopt as the nominal value for the system in the following. The line parameters for J123707+6214ne and sw correspond to velocity-integrated emission line strengths of $I_{\rm
CO(1-0)}$=0.180$\pm$0.029 and 0.149$\pm$0.029Jy, i.e., line luminosities of $L'_{\rm CO(1-0)}$=(5.36$\pm$0.86) and (4.43$\pm$0.85)$\times$10$^{10}$.
We have also detected spatially resolved line emission at $\gtrsim$5$\sigma$ significance toward both components of J123707+6214 (Fig. \[f1x\]). The ne component dominates the integrated line emission (Fig. \[f1x\], [*left*]{}), extracted over a velocity range comparable to the map. The maximum signal-to-noise ratio on the sw component is obtained over a narrower velocity range (Fig.\[f1x\], [*middle*]{}). In this map, the sw component is brighter than the ne component, comparable to what is seen in the maps of Tacconi et al. ([-@tac06], [-@tac08]). Only $\sim$60% of the emission from the ne component are seen over this narrower velocity range. We do not detect the underlying continuum emission at a 3$\sigma$ upper limit of 0.8mJybeam$^{-1}$ at 1.82mm (rest-frame 520$\mu$m).
From Gaussian fitting to the integrated line profile (Fig.\[f1x\], [*right*]{}), we obtain $S_{\nu}$=4.1$\pm$0.8mJy at d$v$=485$\pm$110, centered at $z$=2.4875$\pm$0.0006. This corresponds to $I_{\rm CO(5-4)}$=2.12$\pm$0.51Jy. Fitting the ne and sw components individually yields $S_{\nu}$=2.4$\pm$0.5 and 2.1$\pm$0.5mJy, d$v$=467$\pm$124 and 432$\pm$130, and $I_{\rm CO(5-4)}$=1.17$\pm$0.33 and 0.94$\pm$0.29Jy, respectively. We thus derive $L'_{\rm
CO(5-4)}$=(1.39$\pm$0.32) and (1.12$\pm$0.29)$\times$10$^{10}$, respectively.
This implies CO $J$=3$\to$2/1$\to$0 line brightness temperature ratios of $r_{31}$=0.39$\pm$0.09 (ne)[^3] and 0.37$\pm$0.10 (sw), and CO $J$=5$\to$4/1$\to$0 line brightness temperature ratios of $r_{51}$=0.26$\pm$0.07 and 0.25$\pm$0.08. The and emission lines are clearly subthermally excited toward both components ($r_{31}$$<$1 and $r_{51}$$<$1). Interestingly, both components appear to have comparable gas excitation. The ne component is brighter in all CO transitions. This suggests that the ne component carries the dominant fraction of the molecular gas mass in this system. Based on a ULIRG conversion factor $\alpha_{\rm
CO}$=0.8()$^{-1}$ to derive $M_{\rm gas}$ from $L'_{\rm CO(1-0)}$ (Downes & Solomon [-@ds98]), we determine the total molecular gas masses of J123707+6214ne and sw to be $M_{\rm
gas}$=4.3 and 3.5$\times$10$^{10}$,[^4] i.e., by more than a factor of 2 higher than previously found based on the data (scaled to the same $\alpha_{\rm CO}$), and corresponding to $\sim$2/3 of the stellar mass in this system (Tacconi et al. [-@tac06], [-@tac08]).
Dynamical Structure of the Gas Reservoir
----------------------------------------
In Figure \[f2\], maps of the emission are shown in 182wide velocity channels. The emission toward J123707+6214ne appears dynamically resolved on $\sim$1.5$''$ ($\sim$12kpc) scales, which may suggest that the emission is more spatially extended than in the line (0.5$''$$\pm$0.2$''$, or 4.1$\pm$1.6kpc; Tacconi et al.[-@tac06]). J123707+6214sw appears marginally spatially resolved in position-velocity space at best, consistent with the size measured in emission within the relative uncertainties (0.9$''$$\pm$0.3$''$, or 7.4$\pm$2.5kpc; Tacconi et al. [-@tac06]). Assuming radii of 6 and 3.7kpc for J123707+6214ne and sw, this yields dynamical masses of $M_{\rm dyn}$sin$^2$$i$=2.9 and 1.5$\times$10$^{11}$ (which we estimate to be reliable within a factor of 2). This is about twice as high as previous estimates based on emission (Tacconi et al. [-@tac08]), and corresponds to gas mass fractions of $f_{\rm gas}$=0.15 and 0.23 for J123707+6214ne and sw, respectively. Higher resolution observations are required to better constrain how the merger dynamics impact the CO line profiles and the morphology of the gas reservoir, which is necessary to determine more precise dynamical masses.
Analysis and Discussion
=======================
Origin of the CO Emission
-------------------------
SMGs are commonly associated with heavily obscured starbursts. J123707+6214 is a particularly insightful example of this population, as the ne component remains undetected at all wavelengths shortward of 3.6$\mu$m (rest-frame 1.0$\mu$m). As shown in Figure \[f4\], the peak of the emission of the ne component is clearly associated with peaks in the mid-infrared (8.0$\mu$m; rest-frame 2.3$\mu$m) and radio continuum (20cm; rest-frame 6cm; see also Tacconi et al. [-@tac08]). The ne component also slightly dominates the radio emission ($\sim$55%), which suggests that it contributes the dominant fraction to the source’s SFR. As also shown in Fig. \[f4\], J123707+6214sw consists of multiple components in the optical (606nm; rest-frame 174nm) that are separated by a few kpc (see also Swinbank et al.[-@swi04]). This may correspond to multiple star-forming clumps, embedded in a more complex, extended molecular gas reservoir, but may also reflect the high degree of obscuration in this source.
Gas Surface Densities and Star Formation Timescales
---------------------------------------------------
Estimating that the emission in J123707+6214ne and sw is distributed over 6 and 3.7kpc radius regions, the surface-averaged gas densities are $\Sigma_{\rm gas}$=3.8 and 8.1$\times$10$^8$kpc$^{-2}$, i.e., comparable to but somewhat lower than estimates based on the (assuming the above size estimates) more compact emission (Tacconi et al. [-@tac06], [-@tac08]). This would be consistent with some of the emission being in a diffuse, low surface brightness component.
Based on the SFR of 500$\pm$250yr$^{-1}$ determined by Tacconi et al. ([-@tac08]), we derive a gas depletion timescale of $\tau_{\rm dep}$=$M_{\rm gas}$/SFR $\sim$160Myr for J123707+6214. This is consistent with but on the high end of what is found for other SMGs (for which $M_{\rm gas}$ are inferred from mid-$J$ CO lines; e.g., Greve [-@gre05]).
Conclusions
===========
We have detected spatially resolved and emission toward the $z$=2.49 SMG J123707+6214. We resolve the emission into two components previously detected in emission (Tacconi et al.[-@tac06], [-@tac08]), which are likely merging galaxies. Both components show similar CO excitation properties, with moderate $J$=3$\to$2/1$\to$0 line ratios of $r_{31}$$\sim$0.38, and relatively low $J$=5$\to$4/1$\to$0 line ratios of $r_{51}$$\sim$0.25. The implied $J$=5$\to$4/3$\to$2 line ratios of $r_{53}$$\sim$0.66 are comparable to those found in other SMGs that show evidence for mergers (e.g., Weiß et al. [-@wei05]). On the other hand, the low $r_{31}$ are comparable to those found in massive gas-rich star-forming galaxies with much lower SFRs (Dannerbauer et al. [-@dan09]; Aravena et al.[-@ara10]). This may suggest that, in addition to the highly-excited gas associated with the starburst, J123707+6214 hosts a substantial amount of low-excitation gas.
The emission suggest the presence of $\gtrsim$2.5$\times$ more molecular gas than expected if assuming a constant brightness temperature from . The optically detected merger component (sw) carries $\sim$45% of the gas mass in this system, suggesting comparable amounts of gas in both components, with a slightly higher contribution coming from the optically invisible component (ne; $\sim$55%). The radio continuum emission consistently indicates a comparable starburst strength in both components. Assuming that none is substantially contaminated by an obscured AGN, and given the high SFR of 500$\pm$250yr$^{-1}$, this provides supporting evidence for a ULIRG-like $\alpha_{\rm CO}$ in both components. The emission in J123707+6214 likely arises from the same gas phase detected in the higher-$J$ lines, but the emission appears somewhat more spatially extended. This yields a revised, $\sim$2$\times$ higher estimate for the dynamical mass of the system. Also, this finding would be consistent with the presence of some diffuse, low-excitation gas (which may have a higher $\alpha_{\rm
CO}$ than the highly-excited gas). Such a low-excitation component could be associated with gas that is redistributed by mechanical energy input from the starburst, or with tidal structure in the ongoing, gas-rich merger in this system.
Our findings highlight the importance of observing multiple CO lines including to determine the total molecular gas mass and gas properties in SMGs (as already acknowledged by Tacconi et al.[-@tac08] in the initial observations of this source). Our results are consistent with those found for other SMGs observed in emission (Hainline et al. [-@hai06]; Carilli et al.[-@car10]; Ivison et al. [-@ivi10]; Harris et al.[-@har10]), which commonly show lower CO line excitation than typically found in FIR-luminous quasar host galaxies at comparable redshifts and with comparable gas masses (e.g., Riechers et al.[-@rie06]; [-@rie09]; Weiß et al. [-@wei07]). This provides supporting evidence that both populations trace different evolutionary stages of the same massive galaxy population, as would be expected in the ULIRG-quasar transition scenario proposed by Sanders et al. ([-@san88]).
J123707+6214 is a prototypical example of an SMG during an early merger stage, found in the peak epoch of galaxy formation. Higher resolution, dynamical mapping of emission in this intriguing system (and others) is desirable to narrow down $\alpha_{\rm CO}$ through dynamical mass measurements over several resolution elements, as possible with the full EVLA in the future. A more complete census of observations of SMGs will provide the necessary context to interpret the results of such investigations. Such studies provide the most direct means to constrain the gas fraction, total mass and evolutionary state of SMGs, which is necessary to better understand the evolutionary path of massive galaxies through their most active phases, and to constrain the molecular gas mass density of the universe.
We thank the referee for a critical reading of the manuscript and for a helpful report. DR acknowledges support from NASA through Hubble Fellowship grant HST-HF-51235.01 awarded by STScI, operated by AURA for NASA, under contract NAS5-26555. The EVLA is a facility of NRAO, operated by AUI, under a cooperative agreement with the NSF.
Aravena, M., 2010, ApJ, 718, 177 Blain, A. W., Smail, I., Ivison, R. J., Kneib, J.-P., & Frayer, D. T. 2002, PhR, 369, 111 Borys, C., Chapman, S., Halpern, M., & Scott, D. 2003, MNRAS, 344, 385 Carilli, C. L., 2010, ApJ, 714, 1407 Coppin, K., 2008, MNRAS, 389, 45 Daddi, E., 2010, ApJ, 713, 686 Dannerbauer, H., Daddi, E., Riechers, D., Walter, F., Carilli, C. L., Dickinson, M., Elbaz, D., & Morrison, G. E. 2009, ApJ, 698, L178 Downes, D., & Solomon, P. M. 1998, ApJ, 507, 615 Giavalisco, M., et al. 2004, ApJ, 600, L93 Greve, T. R., 2005, MNRAS, 359, 1165 Hainline, L. J., Blain, A. W., Greve, T. R., Chapman, S. C., Smail, I., & Ivison, R. J. 2006, ApJ, 650, 614 Harris, A. I., Baker, A. J., Zonak, S. G., Sharon, C. E., Genzel, R., Rauch, K., Watts, G., & Creager, R. 2010, ApJ, 723, 1139 Ivison, R. J., Smail, I., Papadopoulos, P. P., Wold, I., Richard, J., Swinbank, A. M., Kneib, J.-P., & Owen, F. N. 2010, MNRAS, 404, 198 Ivison, R. J., Papadopoulos, P. P., Smail, I., Greve, T. R., Thomson, A. P., Xilouris, E. M., & Chapman, S. C. 2011, MNRAS, in press Morrison, G. E., Owen, F. N., Dickinson, M., Ivison, R. J., & Ibar, E. 2010, ApJS, 188, 178 Riechers, D. A., 2006, ApJ, 650, 604 Riechers, D. A., Walter, F., Carilli, C. L., & Lewis, G. F. 2009, ApJ, 690, 463 Riechers, D. A., 2010, ApJ, 720, L131 Sanders, D. B., Soifer, B. T., Elias, J. H., Madore, B. F., Matthews, K., Neugebauer, G., & Scoville, N. Z. 1988, ApJ, 325, 74 Solomon, P. M., & Vanden Bout, P. A. 2005, ARA&A, 43, 677 Spergel, D. N., 2003, ApJS, 148, 175 Spergel, D. N., 2007, ApJS, 170, 377 Swinbank, A. M., Smail, I., Chapman, S. C., Blain, A. W., Ivison, R. J., & Keel, W. C. 2004, ApJ, 617, 64 Tacconi, L. J., 2006, ApJ, 640, 228 Tacconi, L. J., 2008, ApJ, 680, 246 Weiß, A., Downes, D., Walter, F., & Henkel, C. 2005, A&A, 440, L45 Weiß, A., Downes, D., Neri, R., Walter, F., Henkel, C., Wilner, D. J., Wagg, J., & Wiklind, T. 2007, A&A, 467, 955
[^1]: Following the nomenclature by Tacconi et al. ([-@tac06]).
[^2]: spectra are Hanning-smoothed.
[^3]: We recomputed the fluxes based on the data presented in Tacconi et al. ([-@tac06]) by extracting the emission over the same (broader) velocity range as the and emission. This yields $I_{\rm CO(3-2)}$=0.63$\pm$0.10 and 0.50$\pm$0.10Jy for the ne and sw components, respectively. The different methods for extracting fluxes are likely responsible for differences between our analysis and an independent study carried out in parallel by Ivison et al. ([-@ivi11]).
[^4]: A Milky-Way-like $\alpha_{\rm CO}$=3.5()$^{-1}$ (e.g., Daddi et al.[-@dad10]) would increase $M_{\rm gas}$ by a factor of 4.4.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | ArXiv |
Design of highly potent HIV fusion inhibitors based on artificial peptide sequences.
Specific interactions were introduced between an artificial heptad repeat peptide template and HIV-1 gp41 for fusion inhibitor design, using a structure based rational design strategy. The designed peptides are nonhomologous with naturally occurring peptide and protein sequences, specifically interact with HIV-1 gp41, and show strong anti-HIV activity. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
This Week’s Tarot Reading, 5-11 Jun 2017
Kelly is a psychic medium and channel. She offers Tarot readings, animal communication sessions, energy healings, and other lightwork services. She is based in Singapore.
This week is interesting, and in a good way! We have two homecomings/reunions on Tuesday: Taurus receives its planetary ruler, loving Venus, in a warm and earthy embrace; on the other hand, gregarious Mercury zips into Gemini, his home ground, ready for a chatty catch-up. While on their home turf, these two planets get a sweet boost in their influence over our lives and our world. After all…
There’s no place like home!
Venus rules love, relationships, beauty and harmony, whilst Mercury rules communication, travel, and technology. For the next couple of weeks, creative/business ventures will be blessed with lots of positive energy – especially if they’re partnerships – and this is a good time to have that important discussion with significant people in your life if you’d like to take your relationships with them to another level.
The Mars-Saturn opposition early last week was challenging – lots of folks were feeling really blah with such confrontational energies. So this week’s planetary movements would come as good news, especially for those of you who have Mars and Saturn featuring prominently in your birth charts (Sun signs in Aries, Scorpio, Capricorn, and Aquarius, take note).
I know of two Aries (ruled by Mars) who got into incredibly shitty situations last week with men in management (Saturn governs leadership and the patriarchy). Thankfully, they’re shaking it off and moving forward (a high-vibrational Aries with an action plan is unstoppable).
Excited about This Week’s Tarot? I am – here we go!
LEFT: KNIGHT OF SWORDS. There’s no coincidence with Spirit. Last week’s reading ended with the Knight of Swords, and this week begins with the same card + energies. This is Spirit’s gentle reminder to us that we are always responsible for our thoughts, words and actions, and that Karma is an incontrovertible Spiritual Law. So, consider yourself reminded: the Knight of Swords calls for steady and strategic action, as well as mental clarity and conviction.
The Knight of Swords tells us to use our heads and get shit done. You have the power.
MIDDLE: ACE OF PENTACLES REVERSED. Even in the reverse position, the Ace of Pentacles is a good card to get. It heralds new potential for growth and abundance; in this spread, I sense that this Ace is upside-down to draw attention to our attitudes towards the good things in life. Remember the Law of Attraction: you draw into your life what you believe you truly deserve. Envy, jealousy, pride, and competitiveness don’t attract wealth or happiness – they attract situations that provoke you to further negativity and cut even deeper into your wounded ego. This is how the root of bitterness grows and makes people’s lives miserable.
What do you desire?
Love. Money. Health. Friends. You fill in the blanks. Everyone deserves these blessings, and the Universe is always willing to provide. If She hasn’t, it’s time to take a step back and ask yourself what holds you back… and act accordingly to clear your path towards your best life.
RIGHT: QUEEN OF PENTACLES. When this card appears, productive and nurturing energies are present. We are reminded to take care of ourselves and those around us in practical ways that promote health, wellbeing, stability and abundance.
You get the promotion by being the best worker you can be, so treat yourself well – burnout gets you nothing but sick leave. Your relationships and self-esteem thrive when you are good to yourself and to those you love – so hug a friend who’s feeling down, help out a struggling co-worker, plan a surprise date with your boo, make a charitable donation.
Notice that the Queen of Pentacles is looking towards the right in this spread – and so is the Knight of Swords. This represents a future-oriented perspective, and is the Tarot’s parting word of wisdom to us for this week:
Look forward, not back.
Have a great week ahead!
* * * * *
Seeking clarity and insight from Spirit? Please contact me for a consultation, and I’ll be with you soon: | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
B4Tea.com
Useful Google Search Tips you must know
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Google search is one of the best search engines and it is used worldwide by heaps of people to search on various issues, products, topics, tips, etc. Most of people use Google in its simplest form; they simply enter the keywords in the search bar and search anything. If you are one of them, then let me tell you that, Google search is featured with some built-in functions which make the searching stuff even easier. This built-in functions provide a better way for Google searching and they are not hard to capture. This article includes some Useful Google Search Tips based on built-in Google functions; just follow the tips to simplify your Google Search and become Google expert.
1, Google Search uses the synonyms automatically
Searching for ‘Scared of the dark’ also include the search results for ‘afraid of the dark’ and ‘fear of the dark’. Here, ‘afraid’ and ‘fear’ are synonyms of ‘Scared’ which are employed automatically by Google, for the search results of ‘Scared of the dark’.
2, The power of symbols
Putting a tilde “~” symbol directly in front of search term provide search results for that term plus its synonyms or similar words. For instance, typing ~food facts in search bar also includes results for “nutrition facts”.
The asterisk “*” symbol has a very powerful feature. In Google search, it works as a placeholder for any wildcard or unknown word of phrase and helps to discover the best matches. For example: searching for ‘a * saved is a * earned’ provides results like ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’, ‘a whore saved is a whore earned’, ‘a ‘stossel’ saved is a ‘stossel’ earned’, etc.
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You can place a minus “-” symbol before any word, if you want to exclude all results which contain that word. This is particularly useful for similar terms such as jaguar – the animal and Jaguar – the car brand; searching results of lsquo;jaguar speed – car’ will exclude the results related to jaguar car. That is not all; the – symbol can also be used to exclude types of websites, like searching results of ‘pandas -site:wikipedia.org’ will exclude the results from Wikipedia.
3, Google Search Is Always Case Insensitive
That means, ABCD = abcd. You can find your searching results with both uppercase and lowercase letter contents, no matter you have searched by uppercase or lowercase. For example, National Geographic Expeditions is the same as national geographic expeditions, so searching for any of them provides the results for both. Moreover, the punctuation marks like ~!@#$%^&*()=+{}[]\ and other special characters are usually ignored in Google searching.
4, Magic of Quotes in Google Search
Google allows the users to search for precisely matched results for one definite word by placing double quotes around that word. Same way, if you want to search any phrase in its exact words and exact order without any change, place double quotes around phrase or a set of words. This option is useful, if you want to search for adages, song lyrics or a line from literature.
Google enables the users to specify that their search results must come from one specific website. Search by ‘site:kmart.com wallpapers’, and you will get the results regarding wallpapers but only from kmart.com.
7, Search for Related Websites
In Google, it is very simple to search for websites related to one specific website. Type ‘related: name of site’ in Google search bar, and you will get all related websites. Example – related: videobam.com.
By placing the ‘intitle:’ in front of term, you can search the web page titles which contain that search term. Example – ‘intitle:cristiano ronaldo’ provides the web page titles containing the name cristiano ronaldo, a Portuguese footballer.
10, Search the Web Address of a Page
Users have an ability to search the Web Addresses or URLs of pages containing specific terms. For example, ‘inurl:gob bluth’ searches the web addresses containing both “gob” and “bluth”.
11, Power of Numeric Ranges
This is a rarely used, but very handy tip. If you want to find results that contain any of a range of numbers, place … between numbers. This type of search is valuable for prices, years, or anything in which you need to provide a series of numbers. Example: Olympics 1950…1960 or president 1940…1950 or camera $40…$80.
12, Get Word Definitions
Want to quickly lookup the definition of a term from various dictionaries? Simply use ‘define:’ operator and get a list of dictionary definitions. Example – define: sympathetic.
13, Give Options to Yourself
Considering each specified word in a search is the default behavior of Google. By using the OR operator, users can specifically search for either one of two words/numeric. ‘India poverty 1999 OR 2000’ will provide the results about one of these years, whereas ‘India poverty 1999 2000’ (without the OR) will provide the results which contain both years on the same page.
14, Search by Image
Google also facilitates the searching by an image. You can do this by simply dragging and dropping an image into the search bar. There is also another option; click on the ‘camera’ icon situated at left-hand side in search bar, and either paste the URL of image you want to use or Upload the image.
15, Power of Google Convertor
Google allows the users to convert units of measurements such as time, mass, length, currency, temperature, etc. You have ability to convert units like liters into ml, kilometers into miles, millimeter into inches, etc. Example: type ‘100km in miles’ or ‘25litres in ml’ in search bar, and get results instantly.
The users have an ability to know the weather condition of any city and any place by using the ‘weather:’ operator. Example – weather: New York
18, Sync Yourself with Local Time Anywhere
By using the ‘time:’ operator, you can ask Google to give the current time at any location. Example – time: California, USA.
19, Get Instant Solution for Math Problems
You can utilize Google search as a calculator as it has capability to calculate anything from the most complex equation to the easiest math. All you have to do is just entering your math problem in search bar and clicking ‘enter’. Example: entering a math problem, sin(pi / 8) + ((26 + 12) * 6) – 20, in Google search bar gives a result 208.382683.
20, Track Flight Prices
You can search for the price of any flight just by entering departure and arrival airport codes. Example: SFO BOS.
21, Keep Your Mad Stacks in Check
By using a ‘stocks:’ operator or just by entering a valid ticker symbol, users can get the stock information including current financials and a quick thumb-nail chart. Example – stocks:goog or goog. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Aphasic subjects' comprehension of synthetic and natural speech.
This study investigated the ability of aphasic patients with mild auditory comprehension problems to respond to synthetic speech produced by an inexpensive speech synthesizer attached to a personal computer. Subjects were given four practice sessions with synthetic speech; testing of synthetic speech comprehension was performed during Sessions 1 and 4. During testing, aphasic subjects' comprehension of synthetic speech was compared with their comprehension of natural speech on four tasks: (a) picture identification, (b) following commands, (c) yes/no questions, and (d) paragraph comprehension with yes/no questions. Aphasic subjects comprehended natural speech better than synthetic speech in Session 1 but not in Session 4. Their synthetic speech scores improved between Sessions 1 and 4. There was also a significant difference among scores on the four tasks for both sessions. The means for picture identification were highest, followed by yes/no questions, commands, and finally paragraph comprehension for both sessions. Although performance by some subjects on some tasks was accurate enough to indicate that an inexpensive speech synthesizer could be a useful tool for working with mild aphasic patients, considerable caution in selecting both tasks and patients is warranted. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
Laurent Gbagbo’s forces stepped up their counter-attack on Alassane Ouattara,
Ivory Coast’s internationally recognised president, by firing on his hotel
headquarters in Abidjan.
Soldiers loyal to the defeated president, who has refused to cede power after
losing an election last November, have continued to fight despite an
onslaught by Mr Ouattara’s forces, who swept from the north to the economic
capital Abidjan almost unopposed more than a week ago.
Mr Ouattara’s men control most of the city — and the country — but successive
onslaughts have failed to prise Mr Gbagbo and his loyalists out of his
bunker. They have used a | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
magicwife chaturbate record
I get super creamy and spread for you magicwife chaturbate . We rolled some dice to determine how many spanks with the paddle this fucker was going to get. hold in that cum, loser. Objects like an electric shaver, a toilet plunger, a pylon, wrenches, and more. I AM your sex life. magicwife record ok. he turns it on, and it sits up abruptly and promptly. Playing outside by the pool :) Decided to play a bit because. My Ass controls your cum. Continuation from the first scene. Krissy Lynn is your moms friend and u have always wanted to fuck her. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
The Urban Dictionary Mug
A small band out of Novi, Michigan. Psychadellic rock. They also are known to suck penis occasionally. Do not get too close, they will attack with their spider senses. An amazing band, if you like bad music and are deaf, dumb, and blind. Also known as Spiderfag.
"Hey have you heard Spiderqueen's new song?"
"No, is it good?"
"No, but it did make my ears bleed." | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
It appears that authorities have finally caught up with Patrik Mathews, the Canadian military reservist who went on the lam after authorities found out about his activities in the neo-Nazi organization The Base. And it may have been just in the nick of time.
The FBI announced today that it had arrested Mathews, along with two other members of The Base. They were planning acts of violence around Monday’s planned protest in Richmond, Virginia, against gun control measures being planned by the Virginia Legislature.
Brian Mark Lemley of Elkton, Maryland and Newark, Delaware, and William Garfield Bilbrough IV of Denton, Maryland, were the two other men charged, according to the U.S. Attorney's office in Maryland, the state where the men were based.
The complaint unsealed Thursday says Lemley and Mathews transported a firearm and ammunition “with intent to commit a felony.” It also charges Lemley and Bilbrough with transporting and harboring aliens, as well as conspiracy to do so.
According to the affidavit, Lemley and Mathews bought about 1,650 rounds of 5.56mm and 6.5mm ammunition for their planned trip to Virginia to participate in the anti-gun-control rally.
Concerned about the presence of such extremists and the violent rhetoric on social media surrounding the protest, Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam on Wednesday declared a state of emergency, and announced that firearms would be prohibited from the Capitol grounds on Monday. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Australian athletes' knowledge of the WADA Prohibited Substances List and performance enhancing substances.
This study investigated athlete knowledge of the World Anti-doping Agency (WADA) Prohibited Substances List and the effects of four well-known performance enhancing substances (PES). A sample of 1925 elite and sub-elite athletes (mean age 20.6 years) completed a questionnaire about the banned status of 30 substances/methods and their knowledge of the effects of amphetamines, anabolic steroids, growth hormone and erythropoietin. Athletes showed limited understanding of the WADA Prohibited Substances List, scoring 32.2% correct, 36.3% incorrect, and 31.4% indicated they did not know the status of 30 substances. Responses of >50% correct were given for only eight substances/method: anabolic steroids, amphetamines, blood doping, erythropoietin, caffeine, vitamins/minerals, protein powders and iron. Athletes demonstrated moderate knowledge of the desired effects of the four PES (49% correct), but poor knowledge of their adverse effects (29% correct). Age, sex, ethnicity, professional/amateur status, and current competition level were significant predictors of the number of correct responses (r2 = 0.16, p < 0.05). Athletes most likely to provide correct responses were male, 19-22 year-olds, Caucasian, professional and international representatives. This comprehensive study of anti-doping demonstrated that Australian athletes had limited knowledge of a wide range of substances and PES. Better targeted drug education towards younger and non-professional athletes and evaluation of current anti-doping programs are warranted. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Abstracts |
It’s a feeling rare enough to go unnoticed, but that shouldn’t preclude its ultimate awesomeness: first you discover the pinnacle work of an influential musician/composer, and then you discover, some 40 years after that initial piece was composed or recorded, that the musician/composer is still around and STILL making music arguably on par with the stuff that garnered him or her a legendary reputation in the first place!
Not unlike Brian Eno — who is still admirably trying to match the influence of his works that began in the early 70s — Steve Reich has been out there studiously avoiding the limelight and releasing notable pieces of an immersive, hypnotic, and/or so-called “minimalist” bent since the mid 60s. True, everybody and their mother with the dangerously low blood pressure has seemingly dabbled in ambient music by now, but those distinctive pulsing waves of sound for which Reich has become known? That “scene” (if you want to call it that) doesn’t seem to get a lot of that good h-y-p-e here in the 21st century.
Maybe those hypnotically lapping tides will turn soon, though, because Reich has announced that he’ll be pulsing out a brand new album via the Nonesuch label on February 2. It’s called Pulse/Quartet , a verbal amalgam of two pieces that premiered in 2013 and 2015, respectively.
Concerning the differences between Pulse and Quartet , Reich has noted that the former is something of a foil to the latter, given that “Pulse” is a “calmer more contemplative piece,” while “Quartet” confuses the brain until your mind images are a rendition of Alice and her psychotropic plunge. (You can listen to the track “Quartet: III. Fast” below.)
In keeping with Reich’s propensity for all-things-out-of-phase, the vinyl version of Pulse/Quartet will be released two months after the CD + digital version, on March 30. You can pre-order either right here any old time that suits you, though.
Pulse/Quartet tracklisting:
01. Pulse
02. Quartet: I. Fast
03. Quartet: II. Slow
04. Quartet: III. Fast | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Gilbane Building Co. – Northwestern Mutual Tower and Commons
In erecting its new 32-story office tower along the Milwaukee lakefront, Northwestern Mutual is not only positioning itself for growth, but also providing a lift to the entire city’s economy and building industry.
As part of the project’s approval, the financial and life insurance company agreed to a host of requirements designed to bring Milwaukee’s small businesses together and create training opportunities for the city’s construction trades workers. “The project itself is historic for Milwaukee and the Midwest,” says Adam Jelen, senior vice president at Gilbane Building Co., the firm serving as the tower’s general contractor. Gilbane is also partnered with CG Schmidt for the construction.
Work on the $450 million building began in late 2014 and is on track to be completed by the end of 2017, Jelen says. Foundation work was finished earlier this year and work began on the superstructure in late summer. The tower will blend the old and new by adjoining a two-block-long, three-story historic building known as The Commons.
Portions of the 1912 structure will be preserved, although The Commons’ atrium will be replaced with a $7 million glass design running through the middle section of the old building with public space and casual dining. There will be conference rooms for employees to meet with civic groups and vendors, and a visitor center will share the story of Northwestern Mutual’s past and present with the public. All together, the Northwestern Mutual Tower and Commons will comprise 1.1 million square feet.
“It’s a custom building that’s set to be timeless,” Jelen says. The curved glass façade will face the lakefront and sit alongside the city’s other architectural jewel, the sail-inspired Quadracci Pavilion of the Milwaukee Art Museum. When paired with the museum, Jelen believes Northwestern Mutual Tower will create a dynamic look along the city’s lakefront. “This building will reshape the skyline for Milwaukee, period,” he says.
The tower is being designed for Northwestern Mutual’s current and future employees. Floors will feature flexible layouts that can be easily shifted from individual quiet workspaces to larger, collaborative areas. The company’s expansion plans also factor into the philosophy behind the building. Northwestern Mutual Vice President and project leader Sandy Botcher says the company has found a growing preference among young professionals to work in an urban environment. By locating its state-of-the art offices along Lake Michigan, Northwestern Mutual hopes to enhance its ability to recruit top talent.
The project will employ nearly 1,000 construction workers and the finished building will preserve 1,100 downtown jobs while creating 1,900 new positions at Northwestern Mutual’s downtown campus, according to the company.
“The Northwestern Mutual Tower and Commons will be a physical manifestation of Northwestern Mutual’s incredible, bright future,” Botcher says. “We view this as a once-in-a-generation opportunity to create greater efficiency and a workspace that allows us to work more innovatively and collaboratively. We believe this is key to enhancing our ability to better serve our millions of policy owners and our financial representatives. We also wanted to create even stronger connections to the community we have called home for over a century and this building allows us to do that in many ways.”
Enlisting the City
The building is already reshaping the way the region thinks about construction. Last March, more than 250 construction workers helped to pour 10,000 cubic yards of concrete to form the tower’s foundation. Taking 27 hours, it was the largest continuous concrete pour in the state’s history, Jelen says. The work required 50 cement trucks to make 1,000 trips to three different concrete plants located in the region.
The foundation pour is an example of how Northwestern Mutual and Gilbane have coordinated with the city’s small businesses to create partnerships that support the project. Pulling off the 27-hour marathon required cooperation between four different companies that handled the rebar installation, concrete, site survey work and material testing.
Making sure small businesses had a role in the project has been an important part of the Northwestern Mutual Tower since the planning stages. The site sits in a tax increment financing district and, as part of the city’s approval, Northwestern Mutual agreed to several requirements designed to energize the local economy. Through the Resident Preference Program, Northwestern Mutual and Gilbane committed to using Milwaukee-based subcontractors and suppliers the city designated as small business enterprises (SBE) to perform at least 25 percent of the overall project costs and 40 percent of the total hours worked.
The project is on track to exceed those requirements, according to a report submitted by Prism Technical Management Marketing Services in September. Through March 2015, 46 percent of construction work and $98.7 million in contracts or commitments – representing 29.6 percent of the project’s total value – have been doled out to Milwaukee residents through the Resident Preference Program. “Our commitment from day one has been to build capacity and meet these requirements,” Jelen says.
Coordinating what has become a truly citywide effort requires strong leadership and collaboration. Gilbane regularly communicates with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, Wisconsin Regional Training Partnership and the city of Milwaukee’s Office of Small Business Development. Northwestern Mutual’s senior leadership is also involved on a daily basis. “This is an integrated team and we couldn’t achieve what we’re endeavoring to do without the seamless integration the client is giving us every day,” Jelen says.
More than 50 contractors are involved, alongside trade groups and government entities, making efficient planning and budgeting a necessity. Jelen says Gilbane is minimizing the scale of the project to better manage the work and stakeholders. That approach even trickles down to budgeting. Instead of being paid once a month, as is typical, Gilbane is paying its small business partners twice monthly to help those SBEs better manage the size of the project. Gilbane is also using building information modeling, lean scheduling, electronic documentation and web-based project management to improve coordination.
Managing Requirements
The Resident Preference Program restricted the pool of companies that can work on the project and required Gilbane to develop a new approach to determining how it divides up work, Jelen says. Breaking down the scope of work has made specific jobs more manageable for the marketplace and helped the project meet its small business goals. For example, Gilbane broke up the stone bids into five different packages to spread out the opportunity to multiple businesses and set up a shop in Milwaukee to assemble the tower’s main curtainwall using almost all Resident Preference Program workers.
About 225 people are working on the site, about 40 percent of which were unemployed or underemployed before the project began, Jelen says. The number of on-site workers will grow to about 600 as work continues. The ultimate goal is to provide local companies and workers with the tools and training needed to develop valuable job skills that will extend beyond the Northwestern Mutual Tower job. “This is much more than a business transaction; it’s about building Northwestern Mutual’s future while building significant capacity in both small business and workforce in the metro Milwaukee community,” Jelen explains.
It is a vision shared by Northwest Mutual. “We wanted to reinvest in Milwaukee not only by growing our own workforce in Milwaukee, but also by creating opportunities for small businesses and residents during the construction of the project,” Botcher says. “In fact, we’ve said from day one that it’s vital the community and our fellow businesses – especially local companies and Milwaukee workers – be a partner through all phases of the project. Those partnerships will serve as catalysts for job create and economic growth, and continue moving our community forward.” | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Summers Vindicated (again) - ivankirigin
http://www.marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2008/07/summers-vindica.html
======
helveticaman
I guess the "politically correct < correct" debacle is the one thing nowadays
future generations will look back on our time and say, "These people were
vehemently retarded about some things. [1]" This is the current case of
"emperor's new clothes". I for one prefer to have intellectual self-respect
and avert my gaze, _even though I'm Hispanic._ My IQ, as given by race, should
be around 93, and I still can't put up with this nonsense. I'd benefit if
every brain was suddenly standardized to match that of Anglo-Saxons, but that
doesn't mean I'm going to lie to myself. If I have to lie to myself, I'm going
to do it about bullshit that isn't quite so pungent.
The evidence in favor of cognitive differences across race and gender is
enormous; in fact, it couldn't reasonably expected to be any greater. Hundreds
of millions of standardized tests, tens of thousands of autopsies, brain
scans, hormonal testing, etc. They all align. Not only that, but it's plain
even to small children that not all humans were created equal. We're past the
point of an emperor's new clothes dilemma; at this point, the emperor is butt-
ass naked, trudging through snow, losing toes to frostbite, with big
billboards of closeups of his genitals all over the place. I don't publicly
call out the nakedness, but I'll at least avert my gaze.
[1] They'll say retarded because it will be the most appropriate term for
something that is slow and stupid, and because they won't be chastised for
saying it.
~~~
time_management
"The evidence in favor of cognitive differences across race and gender is
enormous".
That differences in realized cognitive ability exist is without dispute.
Evidence for a genetic basis for these differences is pretty much nonexistent.
The Flynn effect basically shreds the credibility of any argument from so-
called "g". Disadvantaged groups invariably score 10-20 points lower than the
dominant groups within societies, and when members of both emigrate to other
countries, the gap vanishes.
Frankly, I'm pretty sure that my barbaric, 7th-century European ancestors
would have tested very poorly on any IQ test.
~~~
helveticaman
The genetic basis is there. First, I suspect the Flynn effect is simply
natural selection in modern society; after all, if environment changes in the
Galapagos can change the shape of birds beaks in a few generations,
industrialization should make people better at desk jobs. And according to
Gregory Clark, this has happened to Anglo-Saxons between the 1300s and the
1800s. [1] The same appears to have happened to Ashkenazi Jews and East
Asians.[2] Keep in mind they, too, were once very disadvantaged in American
society, but there's no keeping them down; both groups are richer than whites
now, and had to contend with heavy discrimination on their way to riches. In
fact, because of the belief all races should be equally represented, Asian
students are heavily penalized in college admissions to make room for African
Americans and Hispanics. [3] Finally, I wouldn't go so far as saying
emigration eliminates gaps; emigrants aren't necessarily representative of a
group, as they're the ones who are ambitious or desperate enough to want to
leave. Mexican immigrants in the United States do not form an accurate cross-
section of Mexican culture. Nigerian immigrants in United States have the
highest rate of PhDs and Master degrees per capita [4], but that has a lot to
do with immigration policies. It's a lot easier to get into the States with a
Masters or a PhD, so there's selection at hand.
[1][http://www.econ.ucdavis.edu/faculty/gclark/papers/clark_evol...](http://www.econ.ucdavis.edu/faculty/gclark/papers/clark_evolution.pdf)
[2]<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashkenazi_intelligence>
[3][http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&ct=res&cd=1&url=h...](http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&ct=res&cd=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fopr.princeton.edu%2Ffaculty%2FTje%2FEspenshadeSSQPtII.pdf&ei=uziPSLHMJZSUeur3gKwH&usg=AFQjCNFM9ICtMOYFosbcEEFCncLmIX26UA&sig2=kHO7HZtc2qijBQqh6LaYlw)
[4][http://isteve.blogspot.com/2008/05/nigerians-are-most-
educat...](http://isteve.blogspot.com/2008/05/nigerians-are-most-educated-
nationality.html)
~~~
time_management
Why do you assume that the changes in the Galapagos occurred over "a few
generations"? My understanding was that the separation occurred thousands of
years ago.
If industrialization has been driving human evolution, it has probably not
been in a positive direction. Fertility and IQ are negatively correlated in
contemporary industrialized societies, so if anything, this would propel the
opposite of the Flynn effect. The dark comedy Idiocracy is essentially about
this.
~~~
helveticaman
The separation indeed occurred long ago, and the most dramatic evolutionary
changes happened then. But the populations on the Galapagos continue to make
observable evolutionary changes because of weather conditions.
[http://www.nwf.org/nationalwildlife/article.cfm?issueID=115&...](http://www.nwf.org/nationalwildlife/article.cfm?issueID=115&articleID=1472):
"Recently, the Grants witnessed another form of natural selection acting on
the medium ground finch: competition from bigger, stronger cousins. In 1982, a
third finch, the large ground finch, came to live on Daphne Major. The stout
bills of these birds resemble the business end of a crescent wrench. Their
arrival was the first such colonization recorded on the Galápagos in nearly a
century of scientific observation. 'We realized,' Peter Grant says, 'we had a
very unusual and potentially important event to follow.' For 20 years, the
large ground finch coexisted with the medium ground finch, which shared the
supply of large seeds with its bigger-billed relative. Then, in 2002 and 2003,
another drought struck. None of the birds nested that year, and many died out.
Medium ground finches with large bills, crowded out of feeding areas by the
more powerful large ground finches, were hit particularly hard.
When wetter weather returned in 2004, and the finches nested again, the new
generation of the medium ground finch was dominated by smaller birds with
smaller bills, able to survive on smaller seeds. This situation, says Peter
Grant, marked the first time that biologists have been able to follow the
complete process of an evolutionary change due to competition between species
and the strongest response to natural selection that he had seen in 33 years
of tracking Galápagos finches."
I'm also aware of the negative correlation between IQ and Fertility; however,
this is not without explanation. IQ correlates with k-strategy (bigger
investments in fewer children that are slow to develop), and k-strategy
correlates with having few children. [1] R-strategists have lower IQs and
higher fertility rates. In the society outlined by Gregory Clark in his paper,
wealth correlated with reproductive success. Right now, we live in an
anomalous situation where food is not a limiting factor. But this is coming to
an end; food prices have increased dramatically in recent years, with no sign
of falling any time soon. This phenomenon is not new, and illustrates the
possible advantages of r-selection.
From Clark's article: "The strength of the selection process through survival
of the richest also seems to have varied depending on the circumstances of
settled agrarian societies. Thus in the frontier conditions of New France
(Quebec) in the seventeenth century where land was abundant, population
densities low, and wages extremely high the group that reproduced most
successfully was the poorest and the most illiterate."
[http://www.econ.ucdavis.edu/faculty/gclark/papers/Capitalism...](http://www.econ.ucdavis.edu/faculty/gclark/papers/Capitalism%20Genes.pdf)
[1] <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K-selection>
------
mynameishere
Men fall to the extremes of every pursuit. Even dressmaking, cooking, and
interior design. Both testosterone and a greater likelihood of psychosis would
account for this.
------
DaniFong
The article mentions 'Note that we are assuming that mathematical ability is
normally distributed - we know the data fit this distribution around the mean
but we don't know much about what happens at the very top.'
Which is precisely the thing being talked about. Why is this being voted up?
The post isn't a relevant part of the discussion, and has little to no bearing
on the articles it links to...
------
dissenter
Generations from now our scholars will be lumped in the same category as
alchemists and geocentrists---much to their discredit.
~~~
william42
Don't you mean "our media"?
~~~
ivankirigin
Larry Summers was effectively forced to step down by a large body of highly
educated academics at Harvard that reacted emotionally to statistically
accurate statements. The media didn't help though.
~~~
jacobolus
That is nonsense. Summers was forced to step down because he picked fights (on
hiring/firing/promotions, spending priorities, the balance of power between
different parts of the university, etc.) with the majority of the faculty, and
forced out some wonderful and very popular members of the community. He tried
to run the university like a CEO would run a corporation, and learned that a
faculty made up of many of the the top scholars in every field isn’t easily
pushed around. The public gaffes were just the icing on the cake.
Also, in being “forced to step down”, he was given a University Professorship:
not the roughest of deals, to be sure.
~~~
byrneseyeview
Are you referring to Cornell West? My impression was that Cornell West was not
bothering to show up for class and grade papers, and that Summers asked him to
do the job he'd been hired to do. I guess that could make someone unpopular.
~~~
jacobolus
No, I’m not. However, “not bothering to show up for class and grade papers” is
grossly inaccurate. Here’s a link to West’s radio interview with Tavis Smiley
at the time:
[http://www.npr.org/programs/tavis/features/2002/jan/020107.w...](http://www.npr.org/programs/tavis/features/2002/jan/020107.west.html)
~~~
byrneseyeview
"In 2000 economist and former U.S. Treasury Secretary Lawrence Summers became
president of Harvard. In a private meeting with West, Summers allegedly
rebuked West for neglecting his scholarship, and spending too much time on his
economically profitable projects.[5] Summers allegedly suggested that West
produce an academic book befitting his professorial position. West had written
several books, some of them widely cited, but his recent output consisted
primarily of co-written and edited volumes. According to some reports, Summers
also objected to West's production of a CD, the critically panned Sketches of
My Culture, and to his political campaigning."
And
"In October, he had the temerity to meet with Cornel West and suggest that he
turn his hand to some serious scholarship-West's most recent production was a
rap CD called Sketches of My Culture-and lead the way in fighting the scandal
of grade inflation at Harvard, where one of every two grades is an A or A-.
What an outrage! West went to sulk in his tent, announcing on the way that he
was applying for another year's leave of absence (he had just returned from
one) and letting it be known that he might just up and leave Harvard."
To whom were you referring?
_Edit: I accidentally misspelled the professor's name in my previous comment.
He is, of course, Cornel and not Cornell._
~~~
jacobolus
First: whoops, I edited my comment while you were replying. Second: Summers
was clearly in the wrong at the beginning of his spat with West, who was at
the time a University Professor (an extreme honor, which places a professor
outside any department, and accords him the ability to teach whatever he
likes); West’s outrage at Summers’ disrespect was predictable and easily
avoidable.
There were several resignations of much-loved deans, &c. in the last couple of
years of Summers’ presidency. Go read through the Crimson’s coverage of
Summers’ departure if you want a reasonable semi-outsider’s (students aren’t
party to internal faculty disputes) look.
Edit: that National Review article you quote is garbage: _“The unpalatable
truth is that Afro-American Studies is a pseudo-discipline—an academic ghetto
constructed to accommodate the beneficiaries of ‘affirmative action’—and that
the celebrated occupants of Harvard's department are second-class scholars
with first-class salaries and perquisites.”_
~~~
byrneseyeview
What was summer wrong about? West was an embarrassment -- too busy writing a
bad rap album to publish any actual work? It's not like they have accounting
professors who are busy playing country music or death metal.
I hadn't heard about the other deans. I can understand Harvard professors
being huffy when someone tries to make them behave differently, but that
doesn't tell me it's wrong to ask -- it could be, but perhaps those professors
were too egotistical or cozy. Very hard to say.
Is the _National Review_ article factually incorrect? What parts of my life
have been improved by the diligent and industrious researchers of the world's
Afro-American Studies departments?
~~~
jacobolus
I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with this discussion—you have an existing
prejudice about those involved which causes you to toss around trivializing
sarcastic insults of Professor West (have you read any of his “actual” work?)
and Harvard professors in general (“huffy”, “egotistical”, “cozy”? “behave
differently?”).
And no, it’s not “factually incorrect”: it’s an opinion piece. It is, however,
garbage.
~~~
byrneseyeview
It's more of a post-judice. I notice that in disputes with Larry Summers,
Summers offers lots of data and the other side offers lots of emotion. I mean,
the Big Stink over Summers was when he mentioned a fact about the standard
deviations of test scores, and a professor in the audience swooned ("I
would've either blacked out or thrown up.")
So yes, I think referring to the emotional aspect is important, here. People
nail Summers for mentioning data they don't like -- which is probably why he
gave up on academia and government and moved closer to finance.
I would like to know what about the article is garbage. My request for ways in
which the legitimate field of Afro-American studies has improved my life still
stands. If you can't discern a single logical or factual error in the entire
_National Review_ article, but you persist in, er, trashing it, shouldn't I
just accept that you're reenacting the typical disagree-with-Larry pattern?
~~~
jacobolus
No, Summers was not canned because of his comments about women in science (at
least that was not the primary reason; it certainly didn’t help him out). That
was the whole point of this sub-thread. “People” didn’t nail Summers for
mentioning data: that is a straw-man mischaracterization of any serious part
of the dispute with Summers, even of the dispute about women in science.
Summers did not give up on academia: he holds a University Professorship and
teaches courses.
But more to the point, you are conflating three separate disputes, and trying
to change the subject as a way to dodge my questions. But again, this
discussion is going nowhere, and is therefore pointless.
As for the National Review article, it adds no substance, and makes no attempt
to engage with any of the discussion it supposedly disagrees with, and instead
makes a classic troll argument of empty epithets. It has no factual
inaccuracies, because it not arguing facts. (Note: it does not take factual
inaccuracies to make a stupid argument.) It is garbage, because the only
possible reactions to reading it are “Yeah, they’re right. Those liberals
_are_ just useless elitist leeches on society,” or else “No, they’re wrong.
Studying how society works is important,” neither of which is a worthwhile
reaction (e.g., “Hey! That article taught me something I didn’t already know,”
or “Wow! That article really clarified that concept I was having trouble
understanding.”).
------
time_management
The issue is one of variance, not mean. When social intelligence is included,
I think the average woman is probably smarter than the average man, but men
have more variance and are thus more prominent at the extremes.
I doubt that there is a strong genetic basis for this. It is probably due, in
large part, to the ways boys and girls are raised. Speaking very broadly, and
acknowledging the existence of counterexamples; boys are raised to be smart,
while girls are raised to be social and cooperative. This means that gifted
male children can more easily zip ahead in school, but that the stragglers
fall further behind in academic and social skills... and are more likely to
end up becoming criminals. A lot of girls feel guilty and insecure about being
"too smart" compared to their peers, which holds them back.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | HackerNews |
NCMNS Education Blog
If you are out and about this July 4th, stop by the Micro World iLab to find out just what chemicals cause the amazing display of color in fireworks. We have a quick iPad activity to give you all you’d like to know about this.
Also we have handouts in the lab you can take to your local fireworks display in case you’re one of those people who wants to yell out chemical names instead of “oooooh and ahhhh” while watching colorbursts in the sky! :)
Here’s the poster, available through a Creative Commons shared post at the “Compound Interest” website in case you want to print your own! :) Have a happy July 4th weekend!!!!
Last night we debuted our “Biology of Marine Invertebrates” Class, aka, Dissections class! We had a nice group of 8 and spent two hours exploring the external and internal structures of a Quahog clam, Blue crab, and a squid. The time flew by and all seemed to enjoy themselves.
We will be doing the Marine Vertebrates Dissection class — using a perch, skate and dogfish shark — on Thursday night July 30th from 6-8. Go to the Museum website for Registration info.
Lastly, if you missed last night and you can’t join us next month, stay tuned. We will be doing both on Tuesday mornings in the fall!
WE ARE TESTING TO SEE IF BACTERIA OR FUNGI CAN CLEAN UP THE OIL WE SPILLED IN SOME SEA WATER, AS WELL AS THE OIL WE DUMPED IN SOME SOIL.
Come visit the Micro World Investigate Lab to check up on our oil spill and oil-contaminated soil experiments.
We are monitoring how well oil-eating bacteria, and oyster mushrooms can break down the oil and clean up the mess.
In the trays of soil are chive seeds and motor oil. To two of the trays we have added bacteria or fungus to see if either can clean up the soil enough for chives to grow.
These experiments are part of the demos we will be using this year in our “Pollution, Bioremediation, and Toxicology course. We’ll be holding this class either this Fall or next spring.
Participants can learn how to identify pollution and its source, monitor its severity, understand its effects on the human body, and learn of a success story of a dead river– the Naugatuck River in Connecticut, and how that river is being brought back to life.
It is a testament to what can happend when CONCERNED CITIZENS REFUSE TO GIVE UP , TAKE CHARGE OF THE EFFORT, AND MAKE THEIR LEGISLATORS LISTEN TO THEIR WISHES.
So watch the Museum website for postings this fall or spring, for when we’ll hold our class: “Pollution, Bioremediation & Toxicology”
And remember,watch our blog for updates over the next few months on our experiment!
1) What is the scientific name for Vinegar eels? (alright, so this one’s a dead giveaway if you look at the “tags” but it’s like giving you points if you spell your name right. I’ll give you one question for free)
ANSWER: Turbatrix aceti
2) What do vinegar eels feed on? (no it’s not vinegar)
ANSWER: Bacteria
3) Can you see a vinegar eel without a microscope?
ANSWER: Yes you can, though it’s small, about 1mm. If you look closely at the slide, you can see movement
4) Pick the right answer: A vinegar eel culture will last for:
hours
days
years
ANSWER: A vinegar eel culture is easy to maintain and can be kept alive for years. So the closest correct answer would be years
5) True or false: Vinegar eels have an incomplete digestive tract (i.e. they do not have both a mouth and an anus connected by a complete intestinal tract)
ANSWER: False. Vinegar eels DO have a complete digestive tract.
6) How many stages of development do vinegar eels go through?
ANSWER: 6 stages of development – egg, 4 larval stages, and an adult
7) Which is larger: a male or a female vinegar eel?
ANSWER: Female vinegar eel
8) Apart from length, how can you tell a male from a female vinegar eel?
ANSWER: The males have a curved end vs the females with a straight end.
9) How long does it take for a vinegar eel to go from an egg to an adult?
ANSWER: About 5 weeks.
10) How big is a vinegar eel?
1 nanometer
1 micro
1 millimeter
ANSWER: 1mm
BONUS QUESTION:
Who authored the 1961 research article on the physiology of vinegar eels that reports that they may lack the tricarboxylic acid cycle (Krebs Cycle) in its usual form? (yes this is for real! ;) )
So noticing how much interest there has been in the Vinegar eel articles lately, and knowing that many people like scavenger hunts, trivia, and quizzes, I decided to create a “Vinegar eel Trivia Quiz” Here’s 10 questions on vinegar eel trivia. You have until the end of the week to find the answers. I’ll post the answers on Friday. Fair?
What is the scientific name for Vinegar eels? (alright, so this one’s a dead giveaway if you look at the “tags” but it’s like giving you points if you spell your name right. I’ll give you one question for free)
What do vinegar eels feed on? (no it’s not vinegar)
Can you see a vinegar eel without a microscope?
Pick the answer that is closest to being correct: A vinegar eel culture will last for:
hours
days
years
True or false: Vinegar eels have an incomplete digestive tract (i.e. they do not have both a mouth and an anus connected by a complete intestinal tract)
How many stages of development do vinegar eels go through?
Which is larger: a male or a female vinegar eel?
Apart from length, how can you tell a male from a female vinegar eel?
How long does it take for a vinegar eel to go from an egg to an adult?
How big is a vinegar eel?
1 nanometer
1 micro
1 millimeter
Lastly, for the stout Google adventurer, here’s a bonus question:
Who authored the 1961 research article on the physiology of vinegar eels that reports that they may lack the tricarboxylic acid cycle (Krebs Cycle) in its usual form? (yes this is for real! ;) )
I just noticed that here it is, almost exactly 3 years later, and this post is STILL generating TREMENDOUS interest! In the last 5 days, we’ve had 2,175 hits on this article!!!!
I am not sure why the sudden surge in interest in Vinegar eels, but obviously they are a hot topic, so I am reblogging this post. There are several followup posts to this one, and if you do a tag search on “vinegar eel” you should be able to see the progression of our experiment with this. Enjoy!!!
The Micro World iLab has been abuzz with the sounds of amazement to shock. The cause? Visitors reacting to the fact that unpasteurized apple cider vinegar is home to the creature, Turbatrix aceti, more commonly known as the “Vinegar Eel.”
It’s not that people mind eels, though these are not eels but free-living nematodes that are present in the environment, in soil, and in water. But what they really seem to find amazing? disturbing? fun? is that these creatures might be living on their kitchen shelf.
Regardless of whether they like or hate the vinegar eels, people almost universally have that initial reaction of “Oh my God — I have a bottle of vinegar that’s months old. Are they living in MY vinegar?” So it is suddenly “personal.”
The next question makes sense: “Are they harmful?” And all are relieved and reassured to learn these are worms that…
Imagine the most recognizable plant you know. Is it a flower, or maybe something you eat? Now imagine a plant that eats like you do, with a “mouth” and a vicious catch that insects have no hope of escaping. You probably imagined the Venus Fly Trap, which is considered one of the most recognizable plants in the entire world. Some North Carolinaians are unaware that these iconic plants are native, and that we have a chance to see them growing healthy in the wild–not in a tiny pot at your local department store!
The NC Museum of Natural Sciences hosted a trip for interns led by Jerry Reynolds, Senior Manager of Outreach, that took us deep into the Green Swamp Preserve in Brunswick County. Green Swamp is like a whole new world (cue Disney Aladdin music) to those unaccustomed to this landscape; a magical open Savannah dotted with areas of thick pocosin that offered up a plethora of plant diversity comparable to that of the Amazon rainforest. It was mentioned that if you ran at the thick pocosin, it would just pick you up and throw you back out! The pine Savannah was a glimpse into the old world of settlers and pioneers, a peaceful open place with the air of protection that tall trees bring. A passage was read to us from those days noting how the trees were spacious, and yet if you looked off into the distance they seemed an impenetrable wall of wood. We then looked out and saw the same scene from hundreds of years ago, and we all felt a sobering sort of wisdom from the land that has seen so much human history.
Walking into the Green Swamp Preserve.Photo by Elizabeth Breedlove
We learned that while the land was similar today, it had actually changed a lot. The historic Longleaf Pine forest was taken down, trees up to three feet in diameter, and used for the growing populations of humans. A large part of the tree supplied sap for making water tight seals and glues for building ships and homes. These trees were often replaced with faster growing, shorter lived, Loblolly Pines. Longleaf Pine forests are kept healthy by fire and these pines even require fire to go from one growth stage to the next. Human control of fires has weakened the Longleaf pine ecosystem that we are now working to restore with prescribed burns. The picture below shows ‘pole’ stage Longleaf Pine trees that needed fire to open up from the ‘grass’ stage and shoot straight up.
Young Longleaf Pine TreesPhoto by Elizabeth Breedlove
I mentioned Venus Fly Traps right? This place was teeming with them, we actually had to watch our steps constantly to ensure we weren’t going to demolish one! Have you ever seen a happy Venus Fly Trap blooming in a store? I haven’t. All around us were the gleeful white blooms of the flytrap, an innocent aspect of the toothed killer underneath it.
Venus Fly Trap in BloomPhoto by Elizabeth Breedlove
Underneath these flowers we saw multiple examples of the famous Fly Trap- some green and some the dark red that is meant to resemble meat and attract insects.
Hungry Venus Fly Trap. Photo by Elizabeth Breedlove
What else were we to see in this savannah that could beat out a Venus Fly Trap? How about five more species of carnivorous plants! These plants are all adapted to capture insects that supply the nitrogen needed for plants to survive in nutrient-poor wet swamp soil.
Not only were we delighted with the amazing types of carnivorous plants that call the Carolinas home, but also the natural orchids, grasses, and critters that thrive in this type of ecosystem. Perhaps the cutest critter of the day was the exciting find of a Palamedes Swallowtail Caterpillar…does anyone else see the Pokemon Caterpie?!
Palamedes Swallowtail Caterpillar. Photo by Elizabeth Breedlove
Our trip to the Green Swamp Preserve was an experience so amazing that I can’t believe it was offered to me. Trips like this are what inspires people in nature and makes learning truly exciting. This post only covers the 1st half of the trip too! The second half included snorkeling in Lake Waccamaw to search for endemic species of mussels found only in this lake and to learn about the creation of lakes known as Carolina Bays. This gave us interns a chance to see more species, such as alligators, found in or near Lake Waccamaw. Yes, there are alligators in NC, and yes, they are big!
As an intern at the Museum I’ve learned more than any class has ever taught me and have been immersed in a wealth of knowledge that is not only willing, but wanting, to share. Getting involved with the Museum has given me the unique chance to not only get the public excited about nature and science in a positive way, but also to be taught by the best and create lifelong memories I may never get to experience anywhere else.
Elizabeth is a senior studying Environmental Science at NC State University. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
The following arrests were reported by the Lowndes County Sheriff's Office and the Columbus Police Department:
■ Bobby Z. Ashley, 21, of 207 North Foster Drive in Tupelo, was arrested at the Lee County Jail by LCSO March 27 and charged with statutory rape. He has not been released.
■ Thomas J. Evans III, 39, of 3270 South Union Road in Ackerman, was arrested by LCSO March 28 and charged with felony false pretense. He was released the same day on a $2,500 surety bond. His court date is scheduled for May 13.
■ James Adam Jordan, 58, of 657 Hughes Road, was arrested by MDOC and charged with violation of probation. He has not been released.
■ Donald Eugene Kilgore, 45, of 173 Watertank Road in Guin, Ala., was arrested at the Marion County Jail in Hamilton, Ala., by MDOC March 28 and charged with violation of probation. He has not been released.
■ Timothy Ross Wilson, 27, of 306 Forrest Blvd, was arrested at his residence by MDOC March 28 and charged with violation of parole. He has not been released.
■ Ashley Levon Edmond, 28, of 500 Greentree Drive Apt. R-88, was arrested at Columbus High School by CPD March 31 and charged with domestic violence-aggravated assault. She has not been released.
■ Johnathan Wilkes Hughes, 29, of 821 22th St. N., was arrested at his residence by CPD March 29 and charged with domestic violence. His court date is scheduled for Wednesday. He has not been released.
■ Diane Butler, 33, of 2320 7th Ave. N., was arrested at 806 17th St. N., by MDOC April 1 and charged with violation of probation. She has not been released.
■ Lutece Sharee Roland, 24, of 411 17th St. S., was arrested at her residence by CPD April 1 and charged with felony malicious mischief. She was released the same day on a $2,500 surety bond. Her court date is scheduled for June 20.
■ Donta Devoris Shirley, 29, of 2211 Land Road, was arrested at 634 31st. Ave. N., Apt. 94, by CPD vApril 1 and charged with possession of a weapon by a felon and two counts of contempt of court. Bond is set at $25,000. He has not been released. His court date is scheduled for April 17.
■ James Ray Conn, 23, of 149 Television Road, was arrested at his residence by LCSO March 30 and charged with domestic violence. He has not been released. His court date is scheduled for April 23. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
WEST UNIVERSITY PLACE, Texas (KTRK) -- Ashly Horace, a Houston graduate student studying library science, has felt comfortable within the walls of the library.As part of her graduate work, Horace has been to libraries across the area to observe song and play through story time. It wasn't until her encounter at the West University branch that she faced a problem, and she believes she was targeted because she is black."As soon as I got to the door, a lady stood in front of the door, blocking the door, almost as if she didn't want me to come in," Horace recalled. "She said, 'Well, why are you here?' I said 'I'm here for story time.'"Eventually, she got in and sat in the back of the room. A few minutes later, the same employee told Horace her manager said she had to leave."She said, 'If you don't leave right now, I'm going to call the cops.' And I was like, 'Call the cops? What did I do?' She was like 'I'm going to call and tell them you're trespassing,'" Horace continued.Five West University Place police officers responded to the library.After speaking with Horace and the manager, they told the grad student the manager has the right to ask whoever she wants to leave and said this appeared to be a misunderstanding.In audio from one of the officer's body cams, Horace explains the situation."She's making a big deal out of this. I didn't do anything. I didn't even get out of my chair," Horace said in the recording.An officer replied: "I'm not going to cite you or anything like that. There's no criminal violation or anything like that, OK?"In the day and age where people of color have had 911 called on them for arguably innocent reasons, Horace feels there was more to this."I said, 'You know, why are you doing this? If my skin wasn't brown, you wouldn't be doing this.' And she kind of looked, like, shocked," Horace recalled.According to Harris County Public Library officials, Horace was asked to leave because she didn't have a child with her during story time. Even though that's not a written policy, they do consider it a "best practice," because they've had incidents where people have shown up to play with other people's kids.They call it a case of miscommunication, and say she's welcome back to story time as long as she gives advance notice.Horace says she still doesn't have a clear understanding of what happened."I was almost shell-shocked, like, what is going on?"Horace wasn't a stranger to the West U library branch. She had applied to be a story assistant volunteer, so they knew her name and were familiar with her. She says she'd ultimately like to see the branch manager fired, because she fears other people of color may be treated the way she was. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Q:
Request with Post title
I have a post & request.
I need when user on post page click on button "Add request" and filled out the form with his name and phone number, with this two params I had a post title or post ID on requests#index page
How I can do this?
http://rostbiz.herokuapp.com/posts/1 when user on this page click on blue button. He refer on form http://rostbiz.herokuapp.com/requests/new where he fill his name & phone nubmer. I need to know, that on page
http://rostbiz.herokuapp.com/requests/1 I see this information:
1 name
2 phone number
3 post name (from http://rostbiz.herokuapp.com/posts/1)
I need hidden_field :post_id, but how I can recieve this ID on page http://rostbiz.herokuapp.com/requests/new
May be I can with request.referer get id for f.hidden_field :post_id, post_id
and validate post_id? But I don't know how do this:)
A:
Send post_id as a parameter
<%= link_to "new request", new_request_path(post_id: @post.id) %>
Find post in requests_controller's new action.
def new
@post = Post.find(params[:post_id])
@request = Request.new
end
Use it like below in new request form
<%= f.hidden_field, :post_id, value: @post.id %>
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Abstract
Introduction
Legionella pneumonia can appear with different levels of severity and it can often present with complications such as acute respiratory distress syndrome.
Case presentation
We report the case of a 44-year-old Caucasian man with Legionella pneumonia with successive development of severe acute respiratory distress syndrome. During his stay in intensive care the clinical and radiological situation of the previously observed acute respiratory distress syndrome unexpectedly worsened due to acute pulmonary eosinophilic infiltrate of iatrogenic origin.
Conclusion
Levofloxacin treatment caused the occurrence of acute eosinophilic infiltrate. Diagnosis was possible following bronchoscopic examination using bronchoaspirate and transbronchial biopsy.
Keywords
Introduction
Since the pneumonia epidemic that struck the delegates of the American Legion Convention in Philadelphia in 1976, Legionella spp. has become a relatively frequent cause of community acquired pneumonia [1].
Legionella may appear in different forms, from subclinical presentations to Legionnaires' disease, which has a mortality rate as high as 30 to 50% in cases of hospital infections and in cases of complications such as acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS). The fatality rate is 5 to 25% even in patients who are immunocompetent [2].
Other complications are rare, although a significant number of drugs used in the treatment of Legionella pneumonia can be associated with the appearance of pulmonary eosinophilic infiltrates, especially non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs) and antibiotics [3]. The diagnosis is mainly based on the temporal correlation between the administration of drugs and the appearance of the clinical condition, but it is often not easy to determine the etiologic agent with certainty.
This report concerns the case of a man with Legionella pneumonia that evolved into ARDS and then became complicated with eosinophilic infiltration as an effect of treatment with levofloxacin. Usually this drug is safe, though in some cases can cause eosinophilic pneumonia [4].
Case presentation
A 44-year-old Caucasian man presented to our hospital for hyperpyrexia (over 39°C) for about a week, with general weakness and strong headaches; he had been treated by his general practitioner with amoxicillin and clavulanate administrated orally with no improvement.
His case history revealed that he was a smoker (20 packs/year). No other pathologies or trips abroad had been registered in the last 6 months.
The results of a physical examination of his chest were reduced vesicular respiration and crackling in the median axillary line to the left and in front; a chest X-ray showed extensive inconsistent parenchymal consolidation at the fissure of the left upper lobe (Figure 1A).
Figure 1
Chest X-ray and computed tomography (CT) images. A) A chest X-ray taken on admission: extensive pulmonary consolidation can be seen in the upper left lobe (arrow). There was an absence of pleural effusion and no cardiomegaly. B) A chest CT scan taken on the ninth day: consolidation areas can be seen on the whole superior left lobe, mixed with ground-glass areas and air bronchogram. There was an absence of pleural effusion. C, D) A CT scan taken on the 21st day: on the left there is parenchymal consolidation with air bronchogram and pneumothorax, and several areas of parenchymal consolidation on the right superior lobe. There was an absence of pleural effusion.
Our patient began treatment with intravenous piperacillin and tazobactam (13.5 g/day) and clarithromycin orally (1 g/day). On the third day the results of his urinary antigen test were found to be positive for Legionella serogroup 1, so clarithromycin was suspended and substituted with intravenous levofloxacin (750 mg/day). We maintained the piperacillin and tazobactam treatment to help prevent secondary infection from other Gram-positive and Gram-negative bacteria.
On the sixth day, his clinical condition worsened. After consultation with an infectious disease specialist, we added rifampicin (900 mg/day) to support the l evofloxacin action against Legionella pneumonia.
On the ninth day he showed respiratory distress (40 breaths/minute). An Arterial Blood Gas analysis in room air gave the following results: partial O2 pressure (pO2) of 50 mmHg, partial CO2 pressure (pCO2) of 30 mmHg, pH 7.50 and oxygen saturation (SaO2) of 86%.
A computed tomography (CT) scan of his chest revealed multiple areas of parenchymal consolidation in the entire upper left pulmonary lobe, mixed with ground-glass areas and abundant pleural effusion. In the right lung, in the dorsal and basal regions, there were ground-glass areas mixed with consolidation areas (Figure 1B).
On the 10th day PaO2/fraction of inspired O2 (FiO2) ratio was 101 and he was moved to our intensive care unit. Here he was placed on a ventilator on continuous positive airway pressure modality, with noticeable improvement of the respiratory parameters (PaO2/FiO2 ratio of 254). On the 17th day, levofloxacin was suspended in order to allow wash-out and taking of further blood cultures. On the 19th day levofloxacin was resumed; after advice from an infectious diseases specialist intravenous levofloxacin 1500 mg per day together with intravenous fluconazole 800 mg per day were given
On the 21st day, after an initial improvement, he showed respiratory distress. A CT scan showed increased parenchymal consolidation with left pneumothorax (Figure 1C, D).
On the 22nd day, because of the unexpected occurrence of muscular exhaustion, orotracheal intubation was performed and he was placed on a mechanical ventilator in synchronized intermittent mandatory ventilation mode associated with appropriate kinetic therapy on a reclining bed. A fibrobronchoscopy study, carried out with bronchoalveolar lavage (BAL) for bacteriological reasons and in order to define the cytological profile, revealed the presence of numerous macrophages (32%), lymphocytes (26%; CD4/CD8 ratio 0.8), neutrophilic granulocytes (40%) and some eosinophilic granulocytes (2%). Protozoa, fungus and neoplastic cells were absent.
On the 23rd day, methylprednisolone (120 mg/day intravenously) was added to the therapy.
On the 26th day, he underwent another bronchoscopy, with BAL and transbronchial biopsy in the basal segments of the lower right lobe, which revealed a histological condition compatible with acute eosinophilic pneumonia (Figures 2 and 3). The BAL confirmed the presence of eosinophils 28%, macrophages 57%, lymphocytes 15%, neutrophilic granulocytes 2% and a CD4/CD8 ratio of 1. Incidental findings showed masses of finely pigmented macrophages (due to our patient's smoking habit). Serum levels of total IgE were within normal limits, and the specific IgE antibody results for allergens (food, pollen, fungal) were also negative. Fecal and serological test results were negative for parasites.
On the 27th day, his steroid therapy was increased (methylprednisolone 1 g/day) while levofloxacin was suspended. His response to steroid therapy was rapid, with a general improvement starting from the fifth day of treatment (the 32nd day overall), associated with accompanying improvement of respiratory exchange and subsequent return to spontaneous breathing on the 41st day (PaO2/FiO2 ratio of 357).
On the 51st day, a chest X-ray showed that the pneumonia bilateral consolidation had completely resolved (Figure 4).
Figure 4
Chest X-ray. Thickening areas and parenchymal distortion can be seen on the left upper lobe. Diffuse thickening can be seen on medial and lower lobes (arrow).
Discussion
ARDS is a common medical emergency and is usually a complication of a previous illness, which is the etiological cause [5]. In our patient, the unusual fact was the overlapping of acute eosinophilic infiltrate in legionellosis.
Eosinophilic pneumonias include a wide range of pulmonary pathologies, characterized by alveolar and peripheral blood eosinophilia. Peripheral eosinophilia may be absent, in particular in the early stages of acute idiopathic eosinophilia pneumonia or in patients taking systemic corticosteroids. It may occur with extremely variable forms of seriousness, from asymptomatic pulmonary infiltrates to acute respiratory distress syndrome associated with respiratory insufficiency. The possible causes, such as drugs or parasitic infections, have been widely studied, but are, in most cases, idiopathic [6]. In our opinion, in accordance with the findings of other authors [7], early low-dose steroid therapy leads to a better outcome of pneumonia with severe respiratory distress; however it could determine a delayed onset of eosinophilic pneumonia.
In our patient, we are inclined to consider it as having an iatrogenic etiopathogenesis. Other causes were excluded by laboratory tests for differential diagnosis options (serum total and specific IgE, fecal and serologic examinations for parasite infections).
Eosinophilic pneumonia has been linked to more than 80 drugs, although only 20 of these (for the most part NSAIDs and antibiotics) can be considered as common causes of this pathology [6]. All the drugs administered in the weeks prior to the appearance of eosinophilic infiltrate should be suspected as a possible cause of the pathology. Iatrogenic eosinophilic infiltrates usually develop progressively, with dyspnea, cough and fever in subjects who have taken certain drugs for weeks or months.
The diagnosis of drug-induced eosinophilic pneumonia is mainly based on a detailed history of drug exposure, evidence of eosinophil accumulation in the lung and exclusion of other causes. Numerous methods have been studied in order to demonstrate sensitivity to one or more drugs. One of the most commonly applied methods is the lymphocyte stimulation test (LST), which measures the proliferation of T lymphocytes in response to a drug in vitro, in order to diagnose a previous reaction in vivo. This concept was confirmed by the finding of drug-specific T lymphocyte clones that can interact with cellular receptors without being metabolized and without bonding to protein carriers [8].
We did not consider it necessary to carry out the LST with our patient because this method is not specific and sensitive, and it has the major drawback of being difficult to interpret [8].
With regard to the challenge test in vivo, this was not performed because of the serious clinical condition of our patient, who in any case did not give his consent. However, voluntary challenge may cause life-threatening adverse reactions and it should be limited to rare situations [9].
Among the possible causes we considered, the first was levofloxacin. There are some reports in the literature regarding the possibility of development of eosinophilic pneumonia during the course of levofloxacin therapy [4]; moreover, it was the drug administered to our patient for the greatest number of days (21 in total). Other points can be taken into account: (1) the drug was suspended for four days in order to allow for wash-out and subsequent blood culture; afterwards, the same drug was resumed. At the same time, the clinical radiological findings became worse, with an unintentional challenge effect. (2) The BAL on the 22nd day, as some other authors have reported, still showed compatibility with ARDS Legionella, [10] while the following BAL showed eosinophilia (28%) compatible with an acute eosinophilic pneumonia [6], which histological exams confirmed (Figure 3).
With regard to the other drugs administered, there are reports of isolated cases of eosinophilia associated with parenchymal infiltrates as a consequence of rifampicin therapy [11]. There is only one reported case where clarithromycin may have led to eosinophilic pneumonia [12], but our patient was only treated with this drug for two days. Moreover, it is possible that eosinophilic pneumonia could be an adverse reaction to smoking in predisposed subjects: this sometimes happens to patients who have recently started smoking or who have modified their 'way' of smoking (for example, increasing or changing type of smoking). Our patient, however, did not report any changes, either in quantity or in quality, in his smoking habits, so this would seem to exclude any relation to smoking [13].
However, it is plausible that smoking could have acted as a cofactor (together with the drugs) in triggering the clinical condition, because it is a known fact that acute eosinophilic infiltrates are often frequent in smokers [14].
Conclusion
In conclusion, levofloxacin may be the most probable cause of the occurrence of acute eosinophilic infiltrate in this patient. It is important to emphasize that we decided to change the diagnostic and therapeutic approach only when the presence of eosinophilic infiltrate was proven by transbronchial biopsy. Published studies dealing with risks of invasive endoscopic procedures in a patient who was critically ill on mechanical ventilation showed a higher incidence of complications such as hemorrhage and pneumothorax. Correlating the endoscopic risk to the percentage of correctly carried out diagnoses, which varies from 33% to 76%, with consequent change in therapeutic strategy, it may be stated that the risk/benefit ratio of the endoscopic procedure in terms of therapeutic response is surely in its favor and it is, therefore, recommended [15].
Consent
Written informed consent was obtained from the patient for publication of this case report and any accompanying images. A copy of the written consent is available for review by the Editor-in-Chief of this journal.
Declarations
Authors' original submitted files for images
Below are the links to the authors’ original submitted files for images.
Competing interests
The authors declare that they have no competing interests.
Authors' contributions
NF coordinated diagnostic and therapeutic stages and was one of the principal contributors in writing the manuscript. MF contributed to the clinical approach, analyzed and interpreted the data and was a major contributor in writing the manuscript. CC was a contributor in writing the manuscript. AC performed the histological examination of the lung and was a contributor in writing the manuscript. CC was a contributor in writing the manuscript. RP was a contributor in writing the manuscript. LZ was a contributor in writing the manuscript and he gave final approval of the version to be published. All authors read and approved the final manuscript.
Copyright
This article is published under license to BioMed Central Ltd. This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0), which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original work is properly cited. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
---
author:
- 'Pekka Koskela and Yuan Zhou$^\ast$'
date:
title: '**Geometry and Analysis of Dirichlet forms** '
---
Introduction\[s1\]
==================
It is well known that on $\rn$, associated to the Dirichlet energy $$\int_\rn|\nabla f(x)|^2dx,$$ there is a naturally defined heat semigroup (flow). Jordan, Kinderlehrer and Otto [@jko98] and Otto [@o01] understood this heat flow as a gradient flow of the Boltzman-Shannon entropy with respect to the $L^2$-Wasserstein metric on the space of probability measures on $\rn$. Since then this has been extended to Riemannian manifolds, Finsler manifolds, Heisenberg groups, Alexandrov spaces and metric measure spaces; see, for example, [@o01; @ags; @v09; @e10; @j11; @os09; @gko; @ags11]. The gradient flow has also attracted considerable attention in various settings, see, for example, [@ags; @gko; @v09; @g10] and the reference therein. In particular, the works [@ags; @g10; @gko] in abstract setting motivate one to extend the above phenomenon of [@jko98] to settings such as metric measure spaces with Ricci curvatures of Lott-Sturm-Villani [@s06a; @s06b; @lv09] bounded from below.
Moreover, a heat semigroup (flow) is naturally associated to any given Dirichlet form. Via this, a notion of Ricci curvature bounded from below was introduced by Bakry and Emery [@be83]. Observe that the Ricci curvature of Bakry-Emery essentially depends on the differential (gradient) structure. On the other hand, under some additional assumptions on the underlying metric measure space, a notion of Ricci curvature bounded from below was introduced by Lott-Villani-Sturm [@lv09; @s06a; @s06b], purely in terms of the length structure. It is then natural to analyze the connections between these different approaches; see [@gko; @ags11] for seminal studies in this direction. In this paper, we consider the intrinsic length structures and gradient structures of Dirichlet forms.
Let $ X$ be a locally compact, connected and separable Hausdorff space and $ m$ a nonnegative Radon measure with support $ X$. Let $\mathscr E$ be a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2( X)$, $\Gamma$ the squared gradient and $d$ the intrinsic distance induced by $\mathscr E$. We always assume that the topology induced by $d$ coincides with the original topology on $ X$.
In Section \[s2\], we establish the coincidence of the intrinsic length structure and the gradient structure of Dirichlet forms under a doubling property, a weak Poincaré inequality and the Newtonian property. Indeed, we prove that if $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property, then for every $u\in\lip( X)$, the energy measure $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$ and $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere; see Theorem \[t2.1\]. If we further assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$ and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property introduced in this paper, then $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)= (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere; see Theorem \[t2.2\].
In Section \[sx2\], by perturbing the classical Dirichlet energy form of $\rr^2$ on a large Cantor set, we construct a simple example that satisfies a doubling property and a weak Poincaré inequality, but so that the intrinsic length structure does not coincide with the gradient structure; see Proposition \[p2.3\]. This shows that a doubling property and a weak Poincaré inequality are not sufficient to guarantee that $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)= (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere. A more general construction can be found in [@s97]. Moreover, the gradient (differential) structure of our perturbed Dirichlet form does not coincide with the distinguished gradient (differential) structure of Cheeger’s; see Proposition \[p2.4\]. Recall that if $(X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property and a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$, then Cheeger [@c99] constructed a differential structure equipped with a distinguished inner product norm, which coincides with the gradient structure of $\Gamma$ if $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ further satisfies the Newtonian property; see Corollary \[c2.3\].
In Section \[s3\], with the aid of the above results, for the standard (resistance) Dirichlet form on the standard Sierpinski gasket equipped with the Kusuoka measure, we identify the intrinsic length structure with the measurable Riemannian and the gradient structures. In particular, some refined Rademacher theorems are established. See Theorem \[t3.1\] through Theorem \[t3.3\] below.
In Section \[s4\], we assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property. If the entropy $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weak $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$, then we obtain the equivalence of the following:
\(i) for all Lipschitz functions $u$, $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)= (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere,
\(ii) $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property,
\(iii) the heat flow of $\mathscr E$ gives the unique gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$;
see Theorems \[t4.1\] and \[t4.2\] below. Recall that the existence and uniqueness of the gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$ was already established in [@ags; @g10].
In Section 6, applying the results of Section 2, we first obtain a dual fomula related to Kuwada’s dual theorem and the boundedness from below of the coarse Ricci curvature of Ollivier \[35\]; this does not require the Newtonian property. Moreover, with some additional assumptions, relying on [@s07], we obtain that if the Ricci curvature of $(X,\,d)$ is bounded from below in the sense of Lott-Sturm-Villani [@s06a; @s06b; @lv09], then the Ricci curvature of $(X,\,\mathscr E)$ is bounded from below in the sense of Bakry-Emery [@b97; @be83].
In Section 7, assuming that $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ is compact and has a spectral gap, we show that the identity $\Gamma(d_x,\,d_x)=m$ for all $x\in X$ actually reflects some short time asymptotics of the gradient of the heat kernel.
Finally, we state some [*conventions*]{}. Throughout the paper, we denote by $C$ a [*positive constant*]{} which is independent of the main parameters, but which may vary from line to line. Constants with subscripts, such as $C_0$, do not change in different occurrences. The [*notation*]{} $A\ls B$ or $B\gs A$ means that $A\le CB$. If $A\ls B$ and $B\ls A$, we then write $A\sim B$. Denote by $\nn$ the [*set of positive integers*]{}. For any locally integrable function $f$, we denote by $\bbint_E f\,d\mu$ the [*average of $f$ on $E$*]{}, namely, $\bbint_E f\,d\mu\equiv\frac 1{\mu(E)}\int_E f\,d\mu$.
Dirichlet forms: $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)= (\lip u)^2$\[s2\]
==============================================================
The main aim of this section is to establish the coincidence of the intrinsic length structure and the gradient structure of Dirichlet forms under a doubling property, a weak Poincaré inequality and the Newtonian property; see Theorem \[t2.1\] and Theorem \[t2.2\] below.
Let $ X$ be a locally compact, connected and separable Hausdorff space and $ m$ be a nonnegative Radon measure with support $ X$. In this paper, $L^p( X)$ with $p\in(1,\,\fz]$ is the space of integrable functions of order $p$ on $ X$; $\mathscr C( X)$ (resp. $\mathscr C_0( X)$) the collection of all continuous functions (with compact supports) on $ X$, and $\mathscr M( X)$ the collection of all signed Radon measures on $ X$.
Recall that a [*Dirichlet form*]{} $\mathscr {E}$ on $L^2( X)$ is a closed, nonnegative definite and symmetric bilinear form defined on a dense linear subspace $\bd$ of $L^2( X),$ that satisfies the [*Markov property*]{}: for any $u\in\bd$, $v=\min\{1,\,\max\{0,\,u\}\}$, we have $\mathscr E(v,\,v)\le \mathscr E(u,\,u)$. Then $\mathscr {E}$ is said to be [*strongly local*]{} if $\mathscr E(u,\,v)=0$ whenever $u,\,v \in \bd$ with $u$ a constant on a neighborhood of the support of $v$; to be [*regular*]{} if there exists a subset of $ \bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$ which is both dense in $\mathscr C_0( X)$ with uniform norm and in $\bd$ with the norm $\|\cdot\|_\bd$ defined by $\|u\|_\bd=[\|u\|^2_{L^2( X)}+\mathscr E(u,\,u)]^{1/2}$ for each $u\in\bd$. Beurling and Deny [@bd59] showed that a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form $\mathscr E$ can be written as $$\mathscr E(u,\,v)=\dint_ X d\Gamma(u,\,v)$$ for all $u,\,v\in\bd$, where $\Gamma$ is an $\mathscr M( X)$-valued nonnegative definite and symmetric bilinear form defined by the formula $$\label{e2.x1}
\int_ X \phi\, d\Gamma(u,\,v)\equiv\frac12\lf[\mathscr E(u,\,\phi v)+\mathscr E(v,\,\phi u)-\mathscr E(uv,\,\phi)\r]$$ for all $u,\,v \in \bd\cap L^\fz( X)$ and $\phi\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0 ( X)$. We call $\Gamma(u,\,v)$ the [*Dirichlet energy measure (squared gradient)*]{} and $ \sqrt{\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)}$ the [*length of the gradient*]{}.
Observe that, since $\mathscr E$ is strongly local, $\Gamma$ is local and satisfies the Leibniz rule and the chain rule, see for example [@fot]. Then both $\mathscr E(u,\,v)$ and $\Gamma(u,\,v$) can be defined for $u,\,v\in\bd_\loc$, the [*collection of all $u\in L^2_\loc( X)$ satisfying*]{} that for each relatively compact set $K\subset X$, there exists a function $w\in\bd$ such that $u=w$ almost everywhere on $K$. With this, the [*intrinsic distance on $ X$ associated to $\mathscr E$*]{} is defined by $$\label{e2.1}
d(x,\,y)\equiv\sup\{u(x)-u(y):\ u\in\bd_\loc\cap \mathscr C( X),\, \Gamma(u,\,u)\le m\}.$$ Here $\Gamma(u,\,u)\le m$ means that $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$ and $\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le1$ almost everywhere.
In this paper, we always assume that $\mathscr E$ is a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2( X)$, and that the topology induced by $ d$ is equivalent to the original topology on $ X$. Notice that, under this assumption, $d$ is a distance, $d(x,\,y)<\fz$ for all $x,\,y\in X$, and $( X,\, d)$ is a length space; see [@s94; @s98b; @s10].
For such a space, the very first question is the coincidence of the gradient structure of $ \Gamma$ and the length structure of $d$. It is well known that for all $x\in X$, $\Gamma( d_x,\, d_x)\le m$ as proved in [@s94]. Very recently, it was observed in [@flw11] (see also [@s10]) that, for $u\in\lip( X)$ with Lipschitz constant $1$, we have $\Gamma(u,\,u)\le m$. Moreover, under a doubling assumption, we are able to establish a pointwise relation between $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)$ and $\lip\,u$ as follows. Here and in what follows, for a measurable function $u$, its [*pointwise Lipschitz constant*]{} is defined as $$\lip\,u(x)\equiv\limsup_{y\to x}\frac{|u(x)-u(y)|}{ d(x,\,y)},$$ and $\lip( X)$ stands for the [*collection of all measurable functions $u$*]{} with $$\|u\|_{\lip( X)}\equiv\sup_{x,\,y\in X,\,x\ne y} \frac{|u(x)-u(y)|}{ d(x,\,y)}<\fz.$$ When it is necessary, we also write $\lip $ as $\lip_d$ to specify the distance $d$. We say that $( X,\, d,\, m)$ satifies a [*doubling property*]{} if there exists a constant $C_0>1$ such that for all $x\in X$ and $ r>0$, $$\label{e2.2}
m( B(x,\,2r))\le C_0 m(B(x,\,r))<\fz.$$
\[t2.1\] Suppose that $( X,\, d,\, m)$ satisfies a doubling property. Then $\lip( X)\subset\bd_\loc$ and for every $u\in\lip( X)$, $\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\lip\, u )^2 m ,$ that is, $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$ and $$\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\lip\, u )^2$$ almost everywhere.
The proof of Theorem \[t2.1\] relies on the following three auxiliary lemmas.
\[l2.1\] For $n\in\nn$, $E=\{x_i\}_{i=1}^n\subset X$ and $A=\{a_i\}_{i=1}^n\subset\rr$, set $$d_{A,\,E}(x)\equiv\max_{i=1,\,\cdots,\,n} \lf\{a_i- d(x_i,\,x)\r\}.$$ Then $\Gamma( d_ {A,\,E},\, d_{A,\,E})\le m.$
Moreover, if $\Gamma(d_x,\,d_x)=m$ for every $x\in X$, then $\Gamma( d_ {A,\,E},\, d_{A,\,E})= m.$
We prove this by induction. It is easy to see that if $n=1$, then from $\Gamma (a_1,\,v)=0$ for all $v\in\bd_\loc$ and from $\Gamma( d_{x_1},\, d_{x_1})\le m$ proven in [@s94], we deduce that $$\label{e2.3}
\Gamma(a_1- d_{x_1},\, a_1- d_{x_1})=
\Gamma(a_1 ,\, a_1- d_{x_1})-\Gamma( d_{x_1},\, a_1- d_{x_1})
=\Gamma( d_{x_1},\, d_{x_1})\le m.$$ Now assume that the claim holds for $n$. We are going to prove it for $n+1$. To this end, let $E_{n+1}=\{x_i\}_{i=1}^{n+1}\subset X$ and $A_{n+1}\subset\{a_i\}_{i=1}^{n+1}\in\rr$. Notice that $$\begin{aligned}
d_{A_{n+1},\,E_{n+1}} &&=\max_{i=1,\,\cdots,\,n+1} \lf\{a_i- d_{x_i}\r\}\\
&&=\max\lf\{\max_{i=1,\,\cdots,\,n} \lf\{a_i- d_{x_i}\r\},\,a_{n+1}- d_{x_{n+1}}\r\}\\
&&=\max\lf\{ d_{A_{n },\,E_{n }} ,\,a_{n+1}- d_{x_{n+1}}\r\},\end{aligned}$$ where $A_n=A_{n+1}\setminus\{a_{n+1}\}$ and $E_n=E_{n+1}\setminus\{x_{n+1}\}$. Recall that the following truncation property was proven in [@s94]: $$\Gamma(u\wedge v,\,u\wedge v)=1_{u<v}\Gamma(u ,\,u )+1_{u\ge v}\Gamma(v,\,v),$$ where $u\wedge v=\min\{u,\,v\}$, and $1_F$ refers to the characteristic function of $F.$ Denote $u\vee v=\max\{u,\,v\}$. Then we have $$\Gamma(u\vee v,\,u\vee v)=\Gamma((-u)\wedge(- v),\,(-u)\wedge(- v))
=1_{u>v}\Gamma(u ,\,u )+1_{u\le v}\Gamma(v,\,v),$$ and moreover, if $\Gamma(u ,\,u )\le m$ and $\Gamma(v,\,v)\le m$, then $\Gamma(u\vee v,\,u\vee v)\le m.$ Now $$\Gamma( d_ {A_{n},\,E_{n} } ,\,
d_{A_{n},\,E_{n}} ) \le m$$ by induction and $$\Gamma( a_{n+1}- d_{x_{n+1}},\,
a_{n+1}- d_{x_{n+1}} )\le m$$ by . Hence, we have $$\Gamma( d_{A_{n+1},\,E_{n+1}},\, d_{A_{n+1},\,E_{n+1}})\le m,$$ as desired.
Moreover, if $\Gamma(d_x,\,d_x)=m$ for every $x\in\cx$, then holds with $\le$ replaced by $=$. With this, by induction, we further obtain $\Gamma( d_ {A,\,E},\, d_{A,\,E})= m.$
\[l2.2\] Let $V\subset X$ be a bounded open set. Define $u(x)\equiv\sup_{z\in V}\{v(z)- d(z,\,x)\}.$ If $v\in\bd_\loc$, $1_V\Gamma(v,\,v)\le 1_V m$ and $\|v\|_{\lip(V)}\le1$, then $ \Gamma(u,\,u)\le m$.
For every $n\in\nn$, choose a maximal finite set of $V$, $\{x_{n,\,i}\}\subset V$, such that $ d(x_{n,\,i},\,x_{n,\,j})\ge \frac1n\diam V$, and for all $x\in X$, set $$u_n\equiv\max_i\{v(x_{n,\,i})- d(x_{n,\,i},\,x)\}.$$ Then, by Lemma \[l2.1\], $\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)\le m$, which implies that $\{u_n\}_{n\in\nn}$ is a locally bounded set and hence has a subsequence which converges weakly in $\bd_\loc$ to some $u_0$. Without loss of generality, we still denote this subsequence by $\{u_n\}_{n\in\nn}$. Now $\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)\le\lim_{n\to\fz} \Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)\le m$.
It suffices to show that $ u =u_0$. To see this, we first notice that $u_n(x)\le u(x)$ for all $x\in X$. On the other hand, obviously, for all $x\in V$, $u(x)=v(x)$ and for all $i$, $u(x_{n,\,i})=v(x_{n,\,i})=u_n(x_{n,\,i})$. For any $x\in X$, there exists $z\in V$ such that $u(x)\le u(z)- d(z,\,x)+\frac1n\diam V.$ By the choice of $x_{n,\,i}$, we can find $x_{n,\,i}\in B(z,\,\frac2n\diam V)$. Since $\|v\|_{\lip(V)}\le1$, we have $|u(z)-u(x_{n,\,i})|= |v(z)-v(x_{n,\,i})|\le d(x,\,x_{n,\,i})$. Hence $$\begin{aligned}
u(x)&&\le u(z)- d(z,\,x)+\frac1n\diam V\\
&&=u(x_{n,\,i})- d(x_{n,\,i},\,x)+
u(z)-u(x_{n,\,i})- d(z,\,x)+d(x_{n,\,i},\,x)+\frac1n\diam V\\
&&\le u_n(x)+ 2 d(z,\,x_{n,\,i})+\frac1n\diam V\\
&&\le u_n(x)+\frac1n\diam V.\end{aligned}$$ So $u_n\to u$ uniformly. Thus $u_n\to u=u_0$ weakly in $\bd_\loc$, which implies that $$\Gamma(u,\,u)\le\liminf_{n\to\fz} \Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)\le m.$$ This finishes the proof Lemma \[l2.2\].
The following lemma was established in [@c99 Lemma 6.30]. Its proof uses the Lusin theorem and relies on decay property of a doubling measure on a length space observed in [@cm98].
\[l2.3\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\, m)$ satisfies a doubling propery. Then for every ball $B(x_0,\,r_0)\subset X$, there exists a constant $C_2\ge 1$ such that for every $n \in\nn$ and $u\in\lip(B(x_0,\,r_0))$, there exists a finite collection $\{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})\}$ of mutually disjoint balls with $x_{n,\,j}\in B(x_0,\,r_0)$ and $r_{n,\,j}\le r_0$ satisfying that $$\begin{aligned}
&\dist(B(x_{n,\,i},\,r_{n,\,i}),\, B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))\ge\frac12 (r_{n,\,i}+r_{n,\,j}), &\label{e2.4}\\
& m(B(x_0,\,r_0)\setminus\cup_{j}B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))\le C_2\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0)),&\label{e2.5}\\
%&\frac1Cr_u\le r_j\le r_u,&\label{e2.16}\\
&\int_{B(x_{n,\,j}\,3r_{n,\,j})}|\lip\,u(x)-\lip\, u(x_{n,\,j})|^2\,d m\le\frac1nm(B(x_{n,\,j}\,3r_{n,\,j}))&\label{e2.6}\end{aligned}$$ and so for all $x,\,y\in B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})$ with $ d(x,\,y)\ge \frac1 n r_{n,\,j}$, $$\label{e2.7}
\frac{|u(x)-u(y)|}{ d(x,\,y)}<\lip\,u(x_{n,\,j})+\frac1n.$$
Let $u\in\lip( X)$. It suffices to prove that for every ball $B(x_0,\,r_0)\subset X$, $$\label{e2.8}
\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\,d \Gamma(u,\,u) \le \int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}(\lip\,u)^2\,d m.$$ Indeed, by this and a covering argument, one can show that $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$, and $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\lip\,u)^2$ almost everywhere. We omit the details.
To prove , we need the following construction via the MacShane extension, which is a slight modification of that in [@c99]. For $n\in\nn$, let $\{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})\}$ be the covering provided by Lemma \[l2.3\]. For every $j$, we choose a maximal set $\{z_{n,\,j,\,k}\}\subset B(x_0,\,r_0)$ such that for $k\ne \ell$, $$d(z_{n,\,j,\,k},\,z_{n,\,j,\,\ell})\ge \frac1{ n}r_{n,\,j}.$$ Define a function $u_n$ on $\cup_jB(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})$ as follows: for $x\in B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})$, set $$u_n(x)\equiv\max_k\{u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})-L_j d(z_{n,\,j,\,k},\,x)\},$$ where $L_{n,\,j}\equiv\lip\,u(x_{n,\,j})+\frac1n$, and for $x\in X\setminus\cup_{j}B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})$, set $$u_n(x)\equiv\sup_{z\in\cup_{j}B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}) }\lf\{u_n(z)-\|u_n\|_{\lip( \cup_{j}B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))} d(z,\,x)\r\}.$$
Notice that for almost all $x\in B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})$, since $$\label{e2.9}
L_{n,\,j}\ge \max_{k\ne\ell}\lf\{\frac{|u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})-u(z_{n,\,j,\,\ell})|}{ d(z_{n,\,j,\,k},z_{n,\,j,\,\ell})} \r\},$$ we have $$\label{e2.10}\lip\,u_n(x)=\|u_n\|_{\lip(B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))}= L_{n,\,j}.$$ Then by Lemma \[l2.1\] and the strong locality of $\Gamma$, $$\begin{aligned}
&&1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}\Gamma \lf(\frac1{L_{n,\,j}}u_n,\,\frac1{L_{n,\,j}}u_n\r)\label{e2.11}\\
&&\quad= 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}
\Gamma \lf(\max_k\lf\{\frac 1{L_{n,\,j}}u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})- d(z_{n,\,j,\,k},\,\cdot)\r\},\,\r.\nonumber\\
&&\quad\quad\lf.\max_k\lf\{\frac 1{L_{n,\,j}}u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})- d(z_{n,\,j,\,k},\,\cdot)\r\}\r)\nonumber\\
&&\quad\le
1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})} m.\nonumber\end{aligned}$$ Moreover, by Lemma \[l2.3\], $$\label{e2.14}
\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)\le \|u \|_{\lip(\cup_{j}B(x_{n,\,j}\,r_{n,\,j}))}m=(\sup_j L_{n,\,j})^2 m\le(\|u\|_{\lip( X)}+1)^2m,$$ which implies that $\int_ X1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)$ is bounded in $\bd$. So there is a subsequence of $\{1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}u_n\}_{n\in\nn}$ weakly converging to some $v\in\bd$. Without loss of generality, we still denote the subsequence by the sequence itself, and hence $$\int_ X\,d\Gamma(v,\,v)\le\liminf_{n\to\fz}\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\,d\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n).$$
On the other hand, by , we have $u_n(z_{n,\,j,\,k})=u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})$ for all $j$ and $k$. For every $x\in B(x_j,\,r_j)$, by the choice of $z_{n,\,j,\,k}$, there exists $z_{n,\,j,\,k}$ such that $d(x,\,z_{n,\,j,\,k})\le \frac1m$, and hence $$\begin{aligned}
|u(x)-u_n(x)|&&\le|u(x)-u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})|+|u_n(x)-u_n(z_{n,\,j,\,k})|\\
&&\le (\|u\|_{\lip( X)}+L_{n,\,j})d(x,\,z_{n,\,j,\,k})
\le \frac1n(2\|u\|_{\lip( X)}+1).\end{aligned}$$ For $x\in B(x_0,\,r_0)\setminus\cup_j{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}$, we have $$|u_n(x)-u(x)|\le|u_n(x)-u_n(z_{n,\,j,\,k})|+|u(x)-u(z_{n,\,j,\,k})|\le 2(2\|u\|_{\lip( X)}+1) r_0.$$ Thus we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{e2.15}
\|u_n-u\|^2_{L^2(B(x_0,\,r_0))}&&\ls\|u-u_n\|_{L^2(\cup_jB(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))}\\
&&\quad+
2(2\|u\|_{\lip( X)}+1) r_0 m(B(x_0,\,r_0)\setminus\cup_j B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j}))\nonumber\\
&&\ls C(u,\,B(x_0,\,r_0))\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0)),\nonumber\end{aligned}$$ where $C(u,\,B(x_0,\,r_0))$ is a constant independent of $n$. This means that $\{1_B(x_0,\,r_0)u_n\}_{n\in\nn}$ converges to $1_B(x_0,\,r_0)u$ in $L^2( X)$, and hence $v=1_B(x_0,\,r_0)u$, which together with the locality of $\Gamma$ implies that $$\label{e2.16}
\int_ X1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\,d\Gamma(u,\,u)\le\liminf_{n\to\fz}\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\,d\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n).$$
Now we estimate $\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)$ from above. Observe that by , $$\label{e2.17}
1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}\Gamma ( u_n,\, u_n)\le (L_j)^21_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})} m=(\lip\,u_n)^21_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})} m$$ which yields $$\begin{aligned}
\label{e2.18}
\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}\,d
\Gamma ( u_n,\, u_n)
\le\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})} (\lip\,u_n)^2\,d m\end{aligned}$$
Moreover, by the triangle inequality, Lemma \[l2.3\] again, , and the doubling property, we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{e2.19}
&&\lf|\lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(\lip\, u)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}-
\lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(\lip\, u_n)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}\r| \\
&&\ \le \lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(\lip\, u-\lip\, u_n)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}\nonumber\\
&&\ \le \lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(\lip\, u-\lip\, u(x_{n,\,j}))^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}\nonumber\\
&&\ \quad \quad+\lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(L_{n,\,j}-\lip\, u(x_{n,\,j}))^2\,d m \r\}^{1/2}\nonumber\\
&&\ \ls\frac1n \lf\{\sum_{j} m(B(x_{n,\,j},\,3r_{n,\,j}))\,d m\r\}^{1/2}+\frac1n [ m(B(x_0,\,2r_0))]^{1/2} \nonumber\\
&&\ \ls\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0)). \nonumber\end{aligned}$$ >From this and , it follows that $$\begin{aligned}
&&\lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}\,d\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n)\r\}^{1/2}\\
&&\quad\le
\lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}(\lip\, u)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}+C\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0))
\\ &&\quad\le\lf\{\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}(\lip\, u)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}+C\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0))\end{aligned}$$ which together with and yields $$\begin{aligned}
\lf\{\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}\,d\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n) \r\}^{1/2}&&\le \lf\{\sum_{j}\int_ X 1_{B(x_{n,\,j},\,r_{n,\,j})}
\,d\Gamma(u_n,\,u_n) \r\}^{1/2}+ \frac Cn m(B(x_0,\,r_0))\\
&&\le \lf\{\int_ X 1_{B(x_0,\,r_0)}(\lip\, u)^2\,d m\r\}^{1/2}+C\frac1n m(B(x_0,\,r_0)).\end{aligned}$$ Therefore, by , we obtain .
\[c2.1\] Assume that $(X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property. For every $u\in\lip(X)$, $$\|u\|_{\lip(X)}=\sup_{x\in X}\lip\,u(x)=\|\lip\,u\|_{L^\fz(X)}=\lf\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r\|_{L^\fz(X)}^{1/2}.$$
By the definition of $\lip\,u(x)$, we easily have $\|u\|_{\lip(X)}\ge\lip\, u(x) $ for all $x\in X$. The inequality $\sup_{x\in X}\lip\, u(x)\ge\|\lip\,u\|_{L^\fz(X)}$ is trivial. By Theorem \[t2.1\], we also have $\|\lip\,u\|_{L^\fz(X)}\ge\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\|_{L^\fz(X)}^{1/2}$. Now, the proof of Corollary \[c2.1\] is reduced to proving that $\|u\|_{\lip(X)}\le \|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\|_{L^\fz(X)}^{1/2}$.
Fix $u\in\lip(X)$ with $\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\|_{L^\fz(X)}<\fz$ (by Theorem \[t2.1\] this actually holds for each $u\in \lip(X)$). Then, for $\ez >0$, we have $v_\ez\equiv u(\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\|_{L^\fz(X)}+\ez)^{-1/2}\in\bd_\loc $ and $\Gamma(v_\ez,\,v_\ez)\le m$. By , we have that for all $x,\,y\in X$, $|v_\ez(x)- v_\ez(y)|\le d(x,\,y)$, which implies that $$|u(x)-u(y) |\le \lf(\lf\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r\|_{L^\fz(X)}+\ez\r)^{1/2}d(x,\,y).$$ This, together with the arbitrariness of $\ez>0$, implies that $\|u\|_{\lip(X)}\le \|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\|_{L^\fz(X)}^{1/2}$ as desired.
\(i) In the proof above, we used the result that $\Gamma(d_x,\,d_x)\le m$ from [@s94], but did not use the conclusion from [@flw11] that this also holds for each $1$-Lipschitz function $u$.
\(ii) The doubling property in Theorem \[t2.1\] can be relaxed to a local doubling property: for every $x_0\in X$, there exists $r_{x_0}>0$ and $C_{x_0}$ such that for all $x\in B(x_0,\,r_{x_0})$ and $r\le r_{x_0}$, $ m( B(x,\,2r))\le C_{x_0} m(B(x,\,r))<\fz.$ We would like to know if Theorem \[t2.1\] holds for a general strongly local Dirichlet form.
Applying Theorem \[t2.1\], we clarify the relations of two kinds of weak Poincaré inequalities on $ X$ with the aid of a quasi-Newtonian property.
Recall that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\, m)$ is said to support a [*weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality*]{} with $p\in[1,\,\fz)$ if there exist constants $\lz\ge1$ and $C >0$ such that for all $u\in\lip( X)$, $x\in X$ and $r>0$, $$\label{e2.20}
\bint_{B(x,\,r)}|u- u_{B(x,\,r)}|\,d m\le Cr \lf\{ \bint_{{B(x,\,\lz r)}}\,\lf[\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u) \r]^{p/2}\,d m\r\}^{1/p}.$$ Similarly, $( X,\, d,\, m)$ is said to support a [*weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality*]{} if holds with $\lf[\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u) \r]^{p/2}$ replaced by $(\lip\,u)^p$.
We say that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies a [*$K$-quasi-Newtonian property*]{} if for every $u\in\lip( X)$, there exists a Borel representative $g$ of $\sqrt{\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)}$ such that for all Lipschitz curves $\gz:[0,\,1]\to X$, $$|u(\gz(0))-u(\gz(1))|\le K\int_\gz g\,ds.$$ Here $g$ is called a [*Borel representative*]{} of a measurable function $h$ if $g$ is a Borel measurable function and satisfies that $g(x)\ge h(x)$ for all $x\in X$ and $g(x)=h(x)$ for almost all $x\in X$. If $K=1$, we say that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the [*Newtonian property*]{}; otherwise we say that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies a [*quasi-Newtonian property*]{}.
\[p2.1\] Suppose that $( X,\, d,\, m)$ satisfies a doubling property. Then for every $p\in[1,\,\fz)$, $( X,\,\mathscr E,\, m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality if and only if $( X,\, \mathscr E,\, m)$ satisfies a quasi-Newtonian property and $( X,\, d,\, m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality.
To prove Proposition \[p2.1\], we recall the notion of an upper gradient; see [@hk98] and also [@k03; @s00]. Recall that a nonnegative Borel measurable function $g$ is called a [*$p$-weak upper gradient of $u$*]{} with $p\in[1,\,\fz)$ if $$\label{e2.21}
|u(x)-u(y)|\le \int_\gz g\,ds$$ for all $\gz\in\Gamma_{\rm rect}\setminus \Gamma_o$, where $x$ and $y$ are the endpoints of $\gz$, $\Gamma_{\rm rect}$ denotes the collection of non-constant compact rectifiable curves and $\Gamma_o$ has $p$-modulus zero in the sense that $$\inf\lf\{\|\rho\|_{L^p(X)}^p:\ \rho\ \mbox{is non-negative, Borel measurable,\ } \int_\gz\rho\,ds\ge1\mbox{\ for all\ }\gz\in\Gamma_o\r\}=0.$$ We denote by $N^{1,\,p}( X)$ the collection of functions $u\in L^p( X)$ that have a $p$-weak upper gradient $g\in L^p( X)$, and moreover, $\|u\|_{N^{1,\,p}( X)}=\|u\|_{L^p( X)}+\inf_{g}\|g\|_{L^p( X)}$, where $g$ is taken over all $p$-weak upper gradients of $u$. We denote by $N^{1,\,p}_\loc( X)$ the class of functions $u\in L_\loc^p(X)$ that have a $p$-weak upper gradient that belongs to $L^p(B)$ for each ball $B$.
For the following relations between the weak upper gradient and the (approximate) pointwise Lipschitz constant, see [@c99 Theorem 6.38] with a correction in [@k04 Remark 2.16] and also [@s00; @k03]. For a measurable function $u$, its [*approximate pointwise Lipschitz constant*]{} is defined as $$\aplip u(x)\equiv\inf_A\limsup_{y\in A,\,y\to x}\frac{|u(x)-u(y)|}{ d(x,\,y)}$$ for every $x\in X$, where the infimum is taken over all Borel sets $A\subset X$ with a point of density at $x$. Notice that if $u\in\lip( X)$, then $\aplip u=\lip\, u$ almost everywhere.
\[l2.5\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\, m)$ satisfies a doubling property and supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$. Then for every $u\in N^{1,\,p}_\loc( X)$, there exists a unique $p$-weak upper gradient $g_u$ of $u$ such that $g_u=\aplip u$ almost everywhere and $g_u\le g$ almost everywhere whenever $g$ is a $p$-weak upper gradient of $u$. In particular, if $u\in\lip( X)$, then $g_u=\lip\, u$ almost everywhere.
Proposition \[p2.1\] follows from Theorem \[t2.1\] and the following lemma.
\[l2.4\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\, m)$ satisfies a doubling property and $( X,\,\mathscr E,\, m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$. Then there exists a constant $C_1\ge1$ such that for all $u\in N^{1,\,p}_\loc( X)$, $$(\aplip u )^2\le C_1\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)$$ almost everywhere.
Let $u\in N^{1,\,p}_\loc( X)$ and let $g_u$ be the $p$-weak upper gradient of $u$ as in Lemma \[l2.5\]. Set $$g_k(x)\equiv\sup_{j\ge k}\lf\{\bint_{B(x,\,\lz 2^{-j})}\lf[\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r]^{p/2}\,d m\r\}^{1/p}.$$ Then $g_k$ is Borel measurable; indeed, $g_k$ is lower semicontinuous. Observe that if $g_k(x)<\fz$, then $\lim_{j\to\fz}u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}$ exists. In fact, since for every $j$, $$\bint_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}|u -u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}| \,d m
\ls 2^{-j} \lf\{\bint_{B(x,\,\lz 2^{-j})}\lf[\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r]^{p/2}\,d m\r\}^{1/p},$$ by a telescope argument, we have $$|u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}-u_{B(x,\,2^{-\ell})}|\ls 2^{-\min\{j,\,\ell\}} g_k(x)\to 0$$ as $j,\,\ell \to \fz$. For such an $x$, we define $\wz u(x)\equiv\lim_{j\to\fz}u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}$. Generally, for $x\in X$, if $\lim_{j\to\fz} u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}$ exists, then we define $\wz u(x)\equiv\lim_{j\to\fz} u_{B(x,\,2^{-j})}$; otherwise, set $\wz u(x)\equiv0$. Obviously, $u(x)=\wz u(x)$ for almost all $x\in X$, and hence $u$ and $\wz u$ generate the same element of $ N_\loc^{1,\,p}( X)$.
Now we are going to check that $g_k$ is a $p$-weak upper gradient of $\wz u$. Observe that by a telescope argument again, for all $x,\,y\in X$ with $ d(x,\,y) \le 2^{-k-2}$, we have $$|\wz u(x)-\wz u(y)|\ls d(x,\,y)[g_k(x)+g_k(y)].$$ Recall that, by [@s00 Proposition 3.1], $\wz u$ is absolutely continuous on $p$-almost every curve, namely, $\wz u\circ \gz$ is absolutely continuous on $[0,\,\ell(\gz)]$ for all arc-length parameterized paths $\gz\in\Gamma_{\rm rect}\setminus \Gamma$, where $\Gamma$ has $p$-modulus zero. For $\gz\in\Gamma_{\rm rect}\setminus \Gamma$, we are going to show that $$\label{e2.22}
|\wz u(x)-\wz u(y)|\ls \int_\gz g_k\,ds.$$ To this end, by the absolute continuity of $u$ on $\gz$, it suffices to show that for $j$ large enough, $$2^j\lf|\int_0^{2^{-j}}\wz u\circ \gz(t)\,dt-\int_{\ell(\gz)-2^{-j}}^{\ell(\gz)}\wz u\circ \gz(t)\,dt\r|\ls \int_0^{\ell(\gz)}g_k\circ\gz(t)\,dz.$$ But, for $j$ large enough, we have that $$\begin{aligned}
&&2^j\lf|\int_0^{2^{-j}}\wz u\circ \gz(t)\,dt-\int_{\ell(\gz)-2^{-j}}^{\ell(\gz)}\wz u\circ \gz(t)\,dt\r|\\
&&\quad=2^j\lf|\int_0^{\ell(\gz)-2^{-j}}[\wz u\circ \gz(t+2^{-j}) -\wz u\circ \gz(t)]\,dt\r|\\
&&\quad\le 2^j\int_0^{\ell(\gz)-2^{-j}}\lf|\wz u\circ \gz(t+2^{-j}) -\wz u\circ \gz(t)\r|\,dt\\
&&\quad\ls\int_0^{\ell(\gz)-2^{-j}}\lf[g_k\circ \gz(t+2^{-j}) +g_k\circ \gz(t)\r]\,dt\\
&&\quad\ls\int_0^{\ell(\gz) } g_k\circ \gz(t) \,dt.\end{aligned}$$ This gives and hence $g_k$ is a $p$-weak upper gradient of $\wz u$. Notice that Lemma \[l2.5\] gives that $\aplip u$ coincides with the unique minimal $p$-weak upper gradient of $ u$ and hence that of $\wz u$ almost everywhere. So $\aplip u \ls g_k$ almost everywhere and hence, by the Lebesgue differentiation theorem, for almost all $x\in X$, $$\begin{aligned}
\aplip u(x) &&\ls \liminf_{k\to\fz} g_k(x)\\
&&\ls \lim_{k\to\fz}\sup_{j\ge k}\lf\{\bint_{B(x,\,\lz 2^{-j})}\lf[\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r]^{p/2}\,d m\r\}^{1/p}\\
&&\ls
\lf\{ \frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)(x)\r\}^{1/2}.
\end{aligned}$$ This finishes the proof of Lemma \[l2.4\].
Moreover, from Theorem \[t2.1\] and Lemma \[l2.5\] we conclude the following result.
\[p2.2\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property and supports a weak $(1,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$. Then $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property if and only if for all $u\in\lip( X)$, $$\frac{d}{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)=(\lip\, u)^2$$ almost everywhere.
When $p=2$, we further have the following conclusion. Recall that, as proved by Sturm [@s96], $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property and $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality if and only if a scale invariant Harnack inequality for the parabolic operator $\frac{\partial}{\partial t}-\Delta$ on $\rr\times X$ holds true, with $\Delta$ corresponding to $\mathscr E.$
\[t2.2\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property and $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. Then the following hold:
\(i) $\bd=N^{1,\,2}( X)$ with equivalent norms, $\lip( X)\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$ is dense in $\bd$, and $\bd_\loc=N^{1,\,2}_\loc( X)$;
\(ii) for all $u\in\bd_\loc$, $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$, and there exists a constant $C_1\ge1$ such that for all $u\in\bd_\loc$, $$\label{e2.23}
\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\aplip u)^2 \le C_1\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)$$ almost everywhere, where $\aplip u=\lip\, u$ almost everywhere for $u\in\lip( X)$.
\(iii) If $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property, then $C_1=1$ in .
Recall that if $( X,\,d,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality, then $\lip( X)\cap \mathscr C_0( X)$ is dense in $N^{1,\,2}( X)$ as proved in [@s00; @c99]. Notice that Theorem \[t2.1\] and Lemma \[l2.4\] implies that $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\sim (\lip u)^2
$ holds almost everywhere for all $u\in \lip(X)$. Under this, it was proved in [@kst04; @s09] that $\bd=N^{1,\,2}( X)$ with equivalent norms. This implies that $\lip( X)\cap \mathscr C_0( X)$ is dense in $\bd$ and also that $\bd_\loc=N^{1,\,2}_\loc( X)$. This gives (i).
Obviously, for $u\in\lip( X)$, (ii) follows from Theorem \[t2.1\], Lemma \[l2.4\] and Proposition \[p2.2\]. For $ u\in\bd_\loc$, by $\bd_\loc=N^{1,\,2}_\loc( X)$, we have that $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$, and Lemma \[l2.4\] gives $(\aplip u)^2 \le C_1\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)$ almost everywhere. Finally, a density argument together with the closedness of $\mathscr E$ and the fact that (ii) holds for Lipschitz functions leads to $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le (\aplip u)^2$ for all $ u\in\bd_\loc$, which completes the proof of Theorem \[t2.2\].
Dirichlet forms: $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\ne (\lip u)^2$ {#sx2}
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This section is a continuation of Section \[s2\]. By perturbing the classical Dirichlet energy form on $\rr^2$, we construct an example that satisfies the doubling property and a weak Poincaré inequality but so that the intrinsic length structure does not coincide with the gradient structure; see Proposition \[p2.3\]. This shows that doubling and Poincaré are not enough to obtain $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)= (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere (this fact can also be deduced from [@s97]; see Remark \[r2.x1\] below). Moreover, the gradient (differential) structure of our perturbed Dirichlet form does not coincide with the distinguished gradient (differential) structure of Cheeger; see Proposition \[p2.4\]. Notice that the distinguished differential structure of Cheeger coincides with the gradient structure of $\Gamma$ if $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ further satisfies the Newtonian property; see Corollary \[c2.3\].
Our example is a perturbation of the classical Dirichlet energy form on $\rr^2$ on a large Cantor set $E$. Denote by $m$ the Lebesgue measure on $\rr^2$, and denote by $|\cdot-\cdot|$ the Euclidean distance. The classical Dirichlet form $\mathscr E$ is defined by $\mathscr E(u,\,u)=\int_{\rr^2}|\nabla u|^2\,dm $ with the domain $\bd=W^{1,\,2}(\rr^2)$, where $\nabla$ is the distributional gradient. Notice that the Euclidean distance gives the intrinsic distance associated to $\mathscr E$. Thus $(\rr^2,\,\mathscr E,\,m,\,|\cdot-\cdot|)$ satisfies a doubling property, a weak $(1,\,1)$-Poincaré inequality and the Newtonian property. Moreover, the length structure coincides with the gradient structure, that is, $|\nabla u|=\aplip u $ almost everywhere for all $u\in W^{1,\,2}(\rr^2)$.
Let $F$ be the Cantor set constructed as follows: $I_{i}$ are the two closed intervals obtained by removing the middle open interval with length $1/10$ from $[0,\,1]$ and are ordered from left to right; when $n\ge2$, $I_{i_1\cdots i_n}$ are the two closed intervals obtained by removing the middle open interval with length $(1/10)^n$ from $I_{ i_1\cdots i_{n-1}}$, and are ordered from left to right; $F \equiv\cap_{n\in\nn}\cup_{i_1,\,\cdots,\,i_n}I_{i_1\cdots i_n}$. Notice that $F$ has positive $1$-dimensional Lebesgue measure. Set $E\equiv F\times F$. Then $ \rr^2\setminus E$ is dense in $\rr^2$ and by the Fubini theorem, $m(E)>0$.
Now, for any $\dz\in(0,\,1)$, we define a perturbation $\mathscr E_\dz$ of $\mathscr E$ by setting $$\mathscr E_\dz(u,\,u)\equiv\int_{\rr^2}(1-\delta 1_E)|\nabla u|^2 \,dm.$$ It is easy to see that $\mathscr E_\dz$ is a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form with the domain $\bd=W^{1,\,2}(\rr^2)$, and for $u\in\bd_\loc$, $\Gamma_E(u,\,u)=(1-\delta 1_E)|\nabla u|^2 \,m.$ Moreover, let $d_\dz$ be the intrinsic distance defined as in . Then $$(1-\delta)|\nabla u|^2\le\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma_\dz(u,\,u)\le |\nabla u|^2$$ implies that $$|x-y|\le d_\dz(x,\,y)\le \frac1{1-\dz}|x-y|.$$ >From this, it is easy to see that $(\rr^2,\,\mathscr E_\dz,\,d_\dz,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property and a weak $(1,\,1)$-Poincaré inequality. However, the intrinsic length structure does not coincide with the gradient structure when $\dz$ is close to $1$.
\[p2.3\] There exists $\dz_E\in(0,\,1)$ such that, for every $\dz\in(\dz_E,\,1)$, the intrinsic length structure and the gradient structure of $(\rr^2,\,\mathscr E_\dz,\,d_\dz,\,m)$ do not coincide, that is, there exists $u\in\bd$ such that $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)<(\aplip_{d_\dz} u)^2$ on some set of positive measure.
To prove this, we need the following crucial property.
\[l2.6\] There exists a positive constant $C_E>1$ such that for every pair of $x,\,y\in\rr^2$, we can find a rectifiable curve $\gz$ joining $x$ and $y$ and satisfying
\(i) $\ell_{\rr^2}(\gz)\le C_E|x-y|$, where $\ell_{\rr^2}(\gz)$ is the length of $\gz$ with respect to the Euclidean distance,
\(ii) the set $ \gz\cap E$ contains at most $2$ points.
It suffices to consider all pairs of $x,\,y\in [0,\,1]^2\equiv[0,\,1]\times[0,\,1]$. Indeed, if both $x$ and $y$ belong to $\rr^2\setminus (0,\,1)^2$, (i) and (ii) obviously hold; if only one of $x,\,y$ belongs to $(0,\,1)^2$, say $y\in (0,\,1)^2$, taking $z$ to be the intersection of the boundary of $(0,\,1)^2$ and the interval joining $x$ and $y$, and gluing the interval joining $x,\,z$ and the assumed curve joining $y,\,z$, we obtain the desired rectifiable curve.
We claim that for all pairs of $x,\,y\in[0,\,1]^2\setminus E$, there exists $\gz$ joining $x$ and $y$ such that $\ell_{\rr^2}(\gz)\ls|x-y|$ and $ \gz\cap E=\emptyset$. Assume that this claim holds for the moment. If $x\in E$ and $y\notin E$, since $\rr^2\setminus E$ is dense in $\rr^2$, there exists a sequence $\{x_n\}_{n\in\nn}\subset [0,\,1]^2\setminus E$ of points such that $x_n\to x$ as $n\to\fz$ and $|x-x_n|\le \frac12 |x-x_{n-1}|$ for all $n\ge 1$, where $x_0=y$. Let $\gz_{n}$ be the assumed rectifiable curve joining $x_{n-1},\,x_n$ for $n\in\nn$. Set $\gz\equiv(\cup_{n\in\nn}\gz_n)\cup\{x,\,y\}$. Observing that $$|x_n-x_{n-1}|\le |x-x_{n-1}|+|x-x_n|\le 2|x-x_{n-1}|\le 2^{-n+1} |x-x_0|,$$ we have that $$\ell_{\rr^2}(\gz)\le \sum_{n\in\nn} \ell_{\rr^2}(\gz_n)\ls
\sum_{n\in\nn} |x_n-x_{n-1}|\ls \sum_{n\in\nn} 2^{-n }|x-x_0|\ls|x-y|.$$ Obviously, $ \gz_n\cap E=\emptyset$ for each $n\in\nn$ implies that $\gz\cap E$ cointains a single point. If $x,\,y\in E$, we pick a point $z$ in the intesection of $\rr^2\setminus E$ and the interval joining $x$ and $y$. This reduces us to the case $x\in E$ and $y\notin E$.
Now we prove the above claim. Let $x,\,y\in[0,\,1]^2\setminus E$. Let $L^{(1)}_x\equiv\{ x+t(x_1,\,0):\ t\in\rr\}$ be the line parallel to $x_1$-axis and and $L^{(2)}_x\equiv\{ x+t(0,\,x_2):\ t\in\rr\}$ parallel to $x_2$-axis. Observe that at least one of $L^{(1)}_x$ and $L^{(2)}_x$ does not intersect $E$. Otherwise, if both $L^{(1)}_x$ and $L^{(2)}_x$ intersect $E$, then $(x_1+t_1x_1,\,x_2), (x_1,\,x_2+t_2x_2)\in E$ for some $t_1,\,t_2\in\rr$, and hence, $x_1,\,x_2\in F$. Thus $x=(x_1,\,x_2)\in E$, which is a contradition. Similarly, define $L^{(1)}_y$ and $L^{(2)}_y$ and then at least one of $L^{(1)}_y$ and $L^{(2)}_y$ does not intersect $E$. If $L^{(1)}_x$ and $L^{(2)}_y$ do not intersect $E$, since $L^{(1)}_x\cap L^{(2)}_y\ne\emptyset,$ there exists a unique $z\in (L^{(1)}_x\cap L^{(2)}_y)\cap [0,\,1]^2$. Then we take $\gz$ as the union of the interval joining $x$ and $z$ and the interval joining $y$ and $z$. Obviously, $\gz$ is as desired. We reason analogously if $L^{(2)}_x$ and $L^{(1)}_y$ do not intersect $E$. However, it may happen that only $L^{(1)}_x$ and $L^{(1)}_y$ do not intersect $E$. In this case, we take $z=(z_1,\,x_2)\in L^{(1)}_x$ such that $z_1\in[0,\,1]\setminus F$ but $|z_1-x_1|\le |x_1-y_1|/2$. Notice that the fact that $L^{(1)}_x$ and $L^{(1)}_y$ do not intersect $E$ implies that $x_2,\,y_2\in [0,\,1]\setminus F$, and that $z_1,\,x_2\in[0,\,1]\setminus F$ implies that $L_z^{(2)}$ does not intersect $E$. Hence $w\equiv (z_1,\,y_2)\in L_z^{(2)}\cap L_y^{(1)}$ does not belong to $E$. The desired rectifiable curve $\gz$ is given by the union of the interval joining $x,\,z$, the one joining $z,\,w$ and the one joining $w,\,y$. Indeed, obviously, we have $\gz\in[0,\,1]\setminus E$, and moreover, $$\ell_{\rr^2}(\gz)\le |x-z|+|z-w|+|w-y|\le \frac12|x_1-y_1| +|x_2-y_2|+|z_1-y_1|\ls |x-y|.$$ We reason analogously if $L^{(2)}_x$ and $L^{(2)}_y$ do not intersect $E$. This finishes the proof of Lemma \[l2.6\].
We first prove that for all $x,\,y\in\rr^2$, $$\label{e2.25}
d_\dz(x,\,y)\le { C_E}|x-y|,$$ where $C_E$ is the constant from Lemma \[l2.6\]. For every $u\in\bd_\loc$ with $\Gamma_\dz(u,\,u)\le m$, we have $u\in\lip(\rr^2)$ (with respect to the Euclidean distance) and $|\nabla u(x)|\le1$ for almost all $x\in\rr^2\setminus E$. Thus $u$ is locally $1$-Lipschitz outside of $E$. For a pair of points $x,\,y\in\rr^2$, let $\gz$ be a curve as in Lemma \[l2.6\] of length at most $C_E|x-y|$. We conclude that $|u(x)-u(y)|\le C_E|x-y|.$
Let $u$ be a smooth function with compact support. Then $u\in\lip_{d_\dz}(\rr^2)\subset\bd_\loc$. For every $x\in E\cap(0,\,1)^2$, since $$\limsup_{r\to0}\sup_{{d_\dz}(x,\,y)\le r}
\frac{|u(x)-u(y)-\nabla u(x)\cdot(x-y)|}{{d_\dz}(x,\,y)}=0,$$ we have that $$\begin{aligned}
\lip_{d_\dz} u(x)&&\ge \liminf_{r\to0}\sup_{d_\dz(x,\,y)\le r}\frac{|u(x)-u(y)|}{d_\dz(x,\,y)}
\ge \liminf_{r\to0}\sup_{d_\dz(x,\,y)\le r}\frac{|\nabla u(x)\cdot(x-y)|}{d_\dz(x,\,y)}.\end{aligned}$$ Assume that $\nabla u(x)\ne0$. Observe that there exists a sequence $\{y_i\}_{i\in\nn}\subset\rr^2\setminus E$ such that $ y_i=x+\ez_i\nabla u(x)$ and $\ez_i\to 0$. Choose $\dz_E\equiv1-\frac1{C_E}$. Then by and $\dz\in(1-\frac1{C_E},\,1)$, $$\begin{aligned}
\lip_{d_\dz} u(x)&&
\ge |\nabla u(x)|\liminf_{i\to\fz} \frac{| x-y_i|}{d_\dz(x,\,y_i)}\ge\frac1{ C_E}|\nabla u(x)|
>(1-\dz)|\nabla u(x)|=\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)(x).\end{aligned}$$ Since $ E\cap(0,\,1)^2$ has positive measure, if $u$ has non-vanishing gradient on this set, then $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)<(\lip_{d_\dz} u)^2$ on $ E\cap(0,\,1)^2$ as desired.
\[r2.x1\]It can be also deduced from Sturm [@s97] that doubling and Poincaré are not sufficient to guarantee that $\frac d{d m}\Gamma(u,\,u)\equiv (\lip\, u )^2$ almost everywhere. Indeed, Sturm [@s97 Theorem 2] constructed a Dirichlet form $$\mathscr E_a(u,\,u)=\int_{\rr^2}a(x)|\nabla u(x)|^2\,dm(x),$$ where $a(x)$ satisfies $0<c\le a(x)<1$ for all $x\in\rr^2$, for which the intrinsic distance $d_a$ is exactly the Euclidean distance. Our construction is motivated by the Cheeger differential structure below.
Now we recall the distinguished differential structure constructed by Cheeger [@c99]. Assume that $(X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property and a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$. Cheeger [@c99 Theorem 4.38] proved the existence of an atlas that consists of a countable collection $\{(U_\az,\,y^\az,\,k(\az))\}_{\az\in\ca}$ of [*charts*]{}, where
\(i) $U_\az$’s are measurable sets and $m(X\setminus \cup_\az U_\az)=0$;
\(ii) $k(\az)\in\nn$, $\sup_{\az\in\ca}k(\az)<\fz$ and if $m(U_\az\cap U_\bz)>0$; then $k(\az)=k(\bz)$,
\(iii) $y^\az\equiv(y^\az_1,\,\cdots,\,y^\az_{k(\az)}):\ U_\az\to \rr^{k(\az)}$ is Lipschitz; (iv) for every $\az\in\mathcal A$ and $u\in\lip(X)$, there exist $V_\az(u)\subset U_\az$ and a collection $$\lf\{\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_i}:\ U_\az\to\rr\r\}_{ 1\le i\le k(\az)}$$ of bounded Borel measurable functions uniquely determined almost everywhere such that $m(U_\az\setminus V_\az(u))=0$ and for all $z\in V_\az(u)$, $$\label{e2.26}
u(w)=u(z)+\sum_{j=1}^{k(\az)}\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_i}(y^\az_j(w)-y_j^\az(z))
+o(d(w,\,z));$$
\(v) if $m(U_\az\cap U_\bz)>0$, then the matrix of $\frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial y^\bz}$ is invertible almost everywhere in $U_\az\cap U_\bz$.
The above atlas yields a bi-Lipschitz invariant measurable tangent bundle $TX$ and cotangent bundle $T^\ast X$. In fact, for every Lipschitz function $u:\ X\to\rr$, its differential $du$ is defined as $(\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_1},\,\cdots,\,\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_{k(\az)}})$ and its derivative as $Du=\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)}\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_i}\frac{\partial}{ \partial y^\az_i}$ on each $U_\az$. Notice that $TX$ is the dual of $T^\ast X$. For a Lipschitz function $u$, its derivative $Du:\ TX\to\rr$ coincides with its differential $du$ in the sense that $$\langle Du(z),\,v\rangle_z\equiv\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)}\frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_i}(z)v_i=du(v)(z)$$ for every $z\in V_\az(u)\subset U_\az$ and $v=\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)}v_i\frac{\partial}{ \partial y^\az_i}\in
T_z X$. Moreover, for each $z\in V_\az(u)\subset U_\az$, a natural norm $\|\cdot \|_{T_zX}$ on $T_zX$ is defined by setting $\|v \|_{T_zX}\equiv\lip_d\lf(\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)} v_iy_i^\az\r)$ for $v=\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)}v_i\frac{\partial}{ \partial y^\az_i}\in
T_z X$ and hence $\|Du \|_{T_zX}=\lip_d\lf(\sum_{i=1}^{k(\az)} \frac{\partial u}{\partial y^\az_i}y_i^\az\r)$ for every Lipschitz function $u$. Generally, $\|v \|_{T_zX}$ is not Hilbertian. Cheeger [@c99 p. 460] introduced a distinguished inner product norm $ \||v \||_{T_zX}$ associated to it as follows.
Let $V$ be a $k$-dimensional vector space and $\|\cdot\|$ be a norm on $V$. Denote by $V^\ast$ the dual space of $V$, endowed with the norm $\|\cdot\| ^\ast$ induced by $\|\cdot\| $. Then a distinguished inner product norm $ \||\cdot \||^\ast$ on $V^\ast$ is obtained by identifying the functions of $V^\ast$ with their restriction to the unit ball $B_{\|\cdot\|}(0,\,1))$ (with respect to $\|\cdot\| $) and regarding the functions so obtained as elements of $L^2(B_{\|\cdot\|}(0,\,1),\, (k+1)\frac{{\rm Vol}(k)}{{\rm Vol}(k+2)}H^k_{\|\cdot\| })$. Here ${\rm Vol}(n)$ denotes the volume of the Euclidean unit ball of $\rr^n$ and $H^k_{\|\cdot\| }$ is the $k$-dimensional Hausdorff measure associated to the metric induced by $\|\cdot\| $. In other words, for $v^\ast\in V^\ast$, we define $$\label{e2.x30}
\||v^\ast\||^\ast\equiv\lf((k+1)\frac{{\rm Vol}(k)}{{\rm Vol}(k+2)}\int_{B_{\|\cdot\| }(0,\,1)}|v^\ast(v)|^2\,dH^k_{\|\cdot\| }(v)\r)^{1/2}.$$ Then the inner product norm $\||\cdot\||$ on $V$ is defined by $\||v\||=\sup_{\||v^\ast\||^\ast\le1}v^\ast(v)$. Notice that if $\|\cdot\| $ is an inner product norm, then $\||\cdot\||^\ast= \|\cdot\|^\ast$ and $\||\cdot\||= \|\cdot\|$.
Now we have two differential (gradient) structures on $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,d,\,m)$: the original one of $\Gamma$ induced by $\mathscr E$ and the distinguished one $\||\cdot\||_{TX}$ induced from the intrinsic distance in the sense of Cheeger. Under some reasonable assuptions, they coincide as a corollary to Theorem \[t2.2\].
\[c2.3\] Suppose that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property, and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality and the Newtonian property. Then for all $u\in\bd$, $\frac {d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=\||D u\||_{TX}^2=(\aplip_d u)^2$ almost everywhere.
However, generally, $\frac d{dm}\Gamma$ and $\||\cdot\||^2_{TX}$ do not necessarily coincide. This will be illustrated by the above example in Proposition \[p2.4\] below. To this end, notice that since $(\rr^2,\,d_\dz,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property and a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality, by [@c99], there exists some atlas. Up to some change of the coordinate functions, we can take the atlas with a single chart $U\subset\rr^2$ with $m(\rr^2\setminus U)=0$, and naturally, choose $x=(x_1,\,x_2)$ as the coordinate. Indeed, let $\{(U_\az,\,y^\az,\,k(\az))\}_{\az\in\ca}$ be the atlas determined by [@c99] as above. We will compare it with the usual coordinates via the classical Rademacher theorem: for every $u\in\lip(\rr^2)$ and almost all $z\in\rr^2$, $$\label{e2.xx1}
u(w)=u(z)+\sum_{i=1}^2\frac{\partial u(z)}{\partial x_i}(w_i-z_i)+o(|w-z|).$$ Notice that this formula also holds when $|w-z|$ is replaced by $d_\dz(w,\,z)$ since the two distances are equivalent. Now, for $\az\in\mathcal A$, applying to $(y_i^\az)_{i=1}^{k(\az)}$, we get a Jacobian matrix $\frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial x}\equiv(\frac{\partial y_i^\az}{\partial x_j})_{i=1,\,\cdots,k(\az);\, j=1,\,2}$ almost everywhere; while applying to $(x_1,\,x_2)$, we get $\frac{\partial x}{\partial y^\az}\equiv(\frac{\partial x_i}{\partial y_j^\az})_{i=1,\,2;\,j=1,\,\cdots,k(\az)}$ on $V_\az(x_1)\cap V_\az(x_2)$. Then for almost all $z\in U_\az$, we have $$w=z+ \frac{\partial x}{\partial y^\az}(z)\frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial x}(z) (w-z)+ o(d_\dz(w,\,z)),$$ which implies that $\frac{\partial x}{\partial y^\az} \frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial x}=Id_{2}$ almost everywhere in $U_\az$. Similarly, $ \frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial x}\frac{\partial x}{\partial y^\az}=Id_{k(\az)}$ almost everywhere in $U_\az$. This implies that $k(\az)=2$, and $\frac{\partial x}{\partial y^\az}=(\frac{\partial y^\az}{\partial x})^{-1}$ almost everywhere. Therefore on $U_\az$, and hence on $\cup_{\az\in\mathcal A} U_\az$, we can use the uniform coordinate function $x$.
Under the above atlas $\{(U,\,x,\,2)\}$, from the above argument, we also see that the Cheeger derivative $D_\dz u$ coincides with $\nabla u$ for all Lipschitz functions $u$, namely, $D_\dz u=\frac{\partial u}{\partial x_1}\frac{\partial}{\partial x_1}+\frac{\partial u}{\partial x_2}\frac{\partial}{\partial x_2}$. For almost all $z\in U $ and $v= v_1\frac{\partial}{\partial x_1}+v_2\frac{\partial}{\partial x_2}\in T_z\rr^2$, $\|v\|_{T_z {\rr^2}}=\lip_{d_\dz}(v_1x_1+v_2x_2)$. But when $\dz$ is close to $1$, the following result shows that $ \||D_\dz u\||_{T\rr^2}^2$ does not coincide with the squared gradient $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma_\dz(u,\,u)$ and hence, the distinguished differential structure of Cheeger does not coincide with the original differential structure on $(\rr^2,\,\mathscr E_\dz,\,d_\dz,\,m)$.
\[p2.4\] There exists a $\wz\dz_E\in(0,\,1)$ such that for every $\dz\in(\wz\dz_E,\,1)$, we can find a function $u\in\lip(\rr^2)$ such that $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma_{\dz}(u,\,u)<\||D_\dz u\||^2_{T\rr^2}$ on some set with positive measure.
To this end, we need the following result, whose notation is that of the paragraphh containing formula .
\[l2.7\] Assume that $\|\cdot\| $ and $\|\cdot\|_o$ are two norms on $V$ that satisfy $M^{-1}\|\cdot\| \le \|\cdot\|_o\le M\|\cdot\| $ for some $M\ge1$. Then there exists a positive constant $C(M,\,k)$ such that $$\frac1{C(M,\,k)}\||\cdot\|| \le \||\cdot\||_o\le C(M,\,k)\||\cdot\||.$$
We first notice that $H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o}$ (and also $H^k_{\|\cdot\|}$) is a constant multiple of the Lebesgue measure on $\rr^k$ due to the its translation invariance. Then $H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o}=c_oH^k_{\|\cdot\| }$ for some $c_o>0$. We claim that $
M^{-k}\le c_o\le M^k.
$ Indeed, recall that for any set $F$, its $k$-dimensional Hausdorff measure with respect to the norm $\|\cdot\|_o$ is defined by $H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o}(F)\equiv \lim_{\ez\to0+} H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o,\,\ez}(F)$ with $$H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o,\,\ez}(F)\equiv\inf\lf\{\sum_{i}(\diam_{\|\cdot\|_o}U_i)^k\r\},$$ where the infimum is taken over all covers $\{U_i\}_i$ of $F$ with $\diam_{\|\cdot\|_o}U_i\le\ez.$ Notice that $M^{-1}\|\cdot\| \le \|\cdot\|_o\le M\|\cdot\| $ implies that $$M^{-1}\diam_{\|\cdot\| } U\le \diam_{\|\cdot\|_o} U\le M\diam_{\|\cdot\| } U.$$ Then it follows that $H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o,\,\ez}(F)\le M^{k} H^k_{\|\cdot\| ,\,M\ez}(F)$ and hence $H^k_{\|\cdot\|_o}(F)\le M^kH^k_{\|\cdot\| }(F)$. Similarly, $H^k_{\|\cdot\| }(F)\le M^kH^k_{\|\cdot\|_o }(F)$ as desired.
Moreover, observing that $ B_{\|\cdot\|_o}(0,\,1)\subset B_{\|\cdot\| }(0,\,M)$, by the scaling property of the Lebesgue measure and hence of $H^k_{\|\cdot\| }$, we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\||v^\ast\||_o^\ast&&
\le\lf(c_o(k+1)\frac{{\rm Vol}(k)}{{\rm Vol}(k+2)}\int_{B_{\|\cdot\| }(0,\,M)}|v^\ast(v)|^2\,
dH^k_{\|\cdot\| }(v)\r)^{1/2}\\
&&
\le\lf(c_o(k+1)M^{k+2}\frac{{\rm Vol}(k)}{{\rm Vol}(k+2)}\int_{B_{\|\cdot\| }(0,\,1)}|v^\ast(v)|^2\,
dH^k_{\|\cdot\| }(v)\r)^{1/2}\\
&&\le\lf( c_o M^{k+2}\r)^{1/2}
\||v^\ast\|| ^\ast,\end{aligned}$$ which implies that $\||v \||\le \lf( c_o M^{k+2}\r)^{1/2}\||v \||_o$. Similarly, we have $$\||v \||_o\le \lf( \frac1{ c_o} M^{k+2}\r)^{1/2}\||v \||,$$ which finishes the proof of Lemma \[l2.7\].
For almost every $z\in U$ and $v=v_1\frac{\partial}{\partial x_1}+v_2\frac{\partial}{\partial x_2}\in T_z\rr^2,$ following Cheeger’s definition, we have $\|v\|_{T_z\rr^2}=\lip_{d_\dz}(v_1x_1+v_2x_2)(z).$ Set $$\|v\|\equiv|\nabla (v_1x_1+v_2x_2)(z)|=(v_1^2+v_2^2)^{1/2}.$$ Since implies that $\frac1{C_E}|\nabla u(z)|\le\lip_{d_\dz}u(z)\le |\nabla u(z)|$ for $u\in\lip(\rr^2)$, we have that $\frac1{C_E}\|v\| \le\|v\|_{T_z\rr^2}\le \|v\|,$ which together with Lemma \[l2.7\] leads to $$\frac1{C(C_E,\,2)}\||v\||\le\||v\||_{T_z\rr^2}\le C(C_E,\,2)\||v\||.$$ Notice that $\|\cdot\|=\||\cdot\||$. We choose $\wz \dz_E\equiv1-\frac1{C(C_E,\,2)}$. For every $\dz\in( \wz\dz_E,\,1)$ and $z\in E\cap U$, we have $$\begin{aligned}
&&\frac d{dm}\Gamma_\dz(v_1x_1+v_2x_2,\,v_1x_1+v_2x_2)(z) \\
&&\quad =
(1-\dz)^2|\nabla (v_1x_1+v_2x_2)(z)|^2=(1-\dz)^2
\|v\|^2\\
&&\quad < \||v\||^2_{T_z\rr^2}=
(\lip_{d_\dz}(v_1x_1+v_2x_2)(z))^2.\end{aligned}$$ Since the set $E\cap U$ has positive measure, this finishes the proof of Proposition \[p2.4\].
A Sierpinski gasket with $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=({\lip}_d\, u)^2$ {#s3}
=====================================================================
In this section, for the standard (resistance) Dirichlet form on the Sierpinski gasket equipped with the Kusuoka measure, we will identify the intrinsic length structure with the measurable Riemannian and the gradient structures; see Theorem \[t3.1\] through Theorem \[t3.3\] below. We begin with the definition of the Sierpinski gasket $K$.
\[d3.1\]Let $V_0\equiv\{p_1,\,p_2,\,p_3\}\in\rr^2$ be the set of the three vertices of an equilateral triangle, and for $p_i\in V_0$, define $F_i(x)\equiv(x+p_i)/2$ for all $x\in\rr^2$. The [*Sierpinski gasket*]{} $K$ is defined as the self-similar set associated with the family of contractions $\{F_i\}_{i=1}^3$, namely, $K$ is the unique non-empty compact set satisfying $K=\cup_{i=1}^3 F_i(K)$.
On the Sierpinski gasket $K$, there is a standard resistance form $(\mathscr E,\,\mathbb F)$. Before defining it, we recall the following standard notation and notions.
\(i) Let $S\equiv\{1,\,2,\,3\}$. Set $W_0\equiv S^0=\{\emptyset\}$ and for $n\in\nn$, $W_n\equiv S^n=\{i_1i_2\cdots i_n|i_j\in S\}$. Let $W_\ast\equiv \cup_{n\in\nn\cup\{0\}}W_n$. Set $\Sigma\equiv S^\nn=\{i_1i_2\cdots|i_n\in S\}$ and for $w\in W_n$, $\Sigma_w\equiv\{v\in\Sigma|v_1\cdots v_n=w\}$.
\(ii) For $w=w_1\cdots w_n\in W_n$ with $n\in\nn \cup\{0\}$, define $|w|=n$, write $F_w\equiv F_{w_1}\circ\cdots \circ F_{w_n}$ if $n\ne1$ and $F_w=Id_K$ if $n=0$, and set $K_w\equiv F_w(K)$. For $n\in\nn\cup\{0\}$, $V_n\equiv\cup_{w\in W_n}F_w(V_0)$. $V_\ast=\cup_{n\in\nn\cup\{0\}} V_n$.
\(iii) For $w=w_1w_2\cdots\in\Sigma$, define $\pi(w)=\cap_{n\ge1} K_{w_1\cdots w_n}$. Then $\pi:\Sigma\to K$ is continuous, surjective, and $\sharp(\pi^{-1}(x))=2$ if $x\in\cup_{n=1}^\fz V_n$ and $\sharp\pi^{-1}(x)=1$ otherwise. For $w\in W_\ast$, $\pi(\Sigma_w)=K_w$ and $\Sigma_w=\pi^{-1}(K_w)$.
For $n\in\nn\cup\{0\}$ and each pair of $u,\,v\in \mathscr C(K)$, define $$\mathscr E_n(u,\,v)\equiv \frac18 \lf(\frac53\r)^{n} \sum_{p,\,q\in V_n,\,p\sim q}[u(p)-u(q)][v(p)-v(q)],$$ where $p\sim q$ if and only if $p,\,q\in F_w(V_0)$ for some $w\in W_n$. Notice that $\mathscr E_n$ is a non-negative definite symmetric quadratic form on $\mathscr C(K)$ and $\mathscr E_n(u,\,u)\le \mathscr E_{n+1}(u,\,u)$ for all $u\in \mathscr C(K)$. Then the following resistance form $(\mathscr E,\,\mathbb F)$ is well defined.
\[d3.2\]Let $\mathbb F\equiv\{u\in\mathscr C(K)| \lim_{n\to\fz}\mathscr E_n(u,\,u)<\fz \}$ and define $\mathscr E(u,\,v)\equiv\lim_{n\to\fz}\mathscr E_n(u,\,v)$ for all $u,\,v\in\mathbb F$.
Observe that, associated to the above resistance form $(\mathscr E,\,\mathbb F)$, the square gradient $\Gamma(u,\,v)$ is well defined by as a signed Radon measure on $K$ for each pair of $u,\,v\in\mathbb F$.
Kusuoka [@k89] endowed $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,\mathbb F)$ with a “Riemannian volume” measure. Here we recall its definition via the harmonic embedding $\Phi$ of $K$ into $\rr^2$ see [@k93; @ka10]. We say that $h\in\mathbb F$ is an $E$-[*harmonic function*]{} for some compact set $E\subset K$ if $\mathscr E(h,\,u)=0$ for all $u\in\mathbb F$ with $u=0$ on $E$. Let $h_1,\,h_2\in\mathbb F$ be $V_0$-harmonic functions satisfying $$h_1(p_1)=h_2(p_1)=0,\ h_1(p_2)=h_1(p_3)=1,\ \mbox{and}\ -h_2(p_2)=h_2(p_3)=\frac1{\sqrt 3}.$$ For the existence of such functions see, for example, [@k01 Section 3.2]. Observe that by [@k93 Theorem 3.6], the harmonic embedding $\Phi \equiv(h_1,\,h_2)$ actually induces a homeomorphism between $K$ and $\Phi(K)$. Due to this, $\Phi(K)$ is called the harmonic Sierpinski gasket.
\[d3.3\]The [*Kusuoka measure*]{} $m$ on $K$ is defined by $ m\equiv \Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)+\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2).
$
Notice that the Kusuoka measure $m$ is non-atomic and satisfies $m(U)>0$ for all open nonempty sets $U\subset K$; see [@k89; @k93] and below. Then by [@k01 Theorem 3.4.6], $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ is a strongly local, regular Dirichlet form on $L^2(K,\,m)$ with domain $\bd=\mathbb F$. The strong locality obviously follows from the definition of $\mathscr E$. The intrinsic distance $d$ associated to $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ is then defined as in . To distinguish it from the Euclidean distance on $\rr^2$, we let $B_d(x,\,r)=\{y\in K| d(x,\,y)<r\}$ for $x\in K$ and $r>0$, and denote by $\lip_d(K)$ the space of Lipschitz functions and by $\lip_d\, u$ (resp. ${\rm apLip}_d\, u$) the (resp. approximative) pointwise Lipschitz constant with respect to $d$.
The following result identifies the intrinsic length structure with the gradient structure on $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,d,\,m)$.
\[t3.1\] For every $u\in \bd$, the energy measure $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to the Kusuoka measure $m$ and $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=({\lip}_d\, u)^2$ almost everywhere.
To prove this, we first recall the following properties of $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,d,\,m)$.
\[p3.1\] The topology induced by $d$ coincides with the original topology on $K$ inherited from $\rr^2$, $(K,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property, and $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality.
Proposition \[p3.1\] has been proved in [@k08 Theorem 6.2] and [@ka10 Lemma 3.7 and Proposition 3.20] with the aid of the dual formula: for all $x,\,y\in K$, $$\label{e3.1}
d(x,\,y)=\inf\{\ell_{\rr^2}(\Phi\circ\gz)|\gz: [0,\,1]\to K,\, \gz \ \mbox{is continuous},\,\gz(0)=x,\, \gz(1)=y\},$$ where $\ell_{\rr^2}(\Phi\circ\gz)$ denotes the length of $\Phi\circ\gz:[0,\,1]\to\rr^2$ with respect to the Euclidean distance. Recall that is proved in [@ka10 Theorem 4.2], and the right hand side of is first introduced in [@k08] as the harmonic geodesic metric. >From , it easily follows that $$\label{e3.2}
d_\Phi(x,\,y)\equiv|\Phi(x)-\Phi(y)|\le d(x,\,y).$$ But, as pointed out in [@k08 p.800], $d_\Phi$ is not comparable to $d$; indeed, there exists a double sequence $\{x_n,\,y_n\}_{n\in\nn}\subset K$ such that $ d_\Phi(x_n,\,y_n)/d(x_n,\,y_n) \to0$ as $n\to\fz$.
We also need the following Rademacher theorem on $K$, which is a corollary to Theorem \[t3.2\] below.
\[p3.2\] For every $u\in\bd$, there exists a unique measurable vector field $\wz\nabla u$ such that $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=|\wz\nabla u|^2$ almost everywhere, and for almost all $x\in K$ and all $y\in K$, $$\label{e3.3}
|u(y)-u(x)-\wz\nabla u(x)\cdot(\Phi(y)-\Phi(x))|=o(d(x,\,y)).$$
With the help of the results in Section \[s2\] and the above Proposition \[p3.1\], Proposition \[p3.2\] and , we now prove Theorem \[t3.1\].
Combining Proposition \[p3.1\] and Theorem \[t2.2\], we have that for all $u\in\bd$, $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $ m$ and holds with some $C_1\ge1$. By Theorem \[t2.2\] and Proposition \[p2.2\] or some density arguments, the proof of Theorem \[t3.1\] is reduced to verifying that we may take $C_1=1$. For almost all $x\in K$ satisfying for all $y$, applying Proposition \[p3.2\] and , we have $$\begin{aligned}
\frac{|u(y)-u(x)|}{d(x,\,y)}
&&\le \frac{|u(y)-u(x)-\wz\nabla u(x)\cdot(\Phi(y)-\Phi(x))|}{d(x,\,y)} +
\frac{|\wz\nabla u(x)\cdot(\Phi(y)-\Phi(x))|}{d(x,\,y)}\\
&&\le o(1)+\lf|\wz\nabla u(x) \r|\frac{|\Phi(y)-\Phi(x) |}{d(x,\,y)}\\
&&\le o(1)+\lf|\wz\nabla u(x)\r|,\end{aligned}$$ which implies that $\lip_du(x)\le|\wz\nabla u(x)|$. This finishes the proof of Theorem \[t3.1\].
To prove Proposition \[p3.2\], we need several geometric properties of $(K,\,\mathscr E,\,d,\,m)$. We first recall the geometric description of $\Phi(K)$; see [@k89; @k93] and also [@k08; @ka10]. Let $\{T_i\}_{i=1}^{3}$ be the linear transformation on $\rr^2$ with the matrix representations: $$T_1\equiv\lf(\begin{array}{cc}
3/5\ & 0\\
0 & 1/5
\end{array}\r),\ \
T_2\equiv\lf(\begin{array}{cc}
3/10\ & -\sqrt3/10\\
-\sqrt3/10 & 1/2
\end{array}\r) \
\mbox{and}\ \
T_3\equiv\lf(\begin{array}{cc}
3/10\ & \sqrt3/10\\
\sqrt3/10 & 1/2
\end{array}\r).$$ Define $H_i(x)=\Phi(p_i)+T_i(x-\Phi(p_i))$ for all $x\in\rr^2$, $i=1,\,2,\,3$. Then $\Phi(K)$ is exactly the self-similar set determined by the system $\{H_i\}_{i=1}^3$, namely, $\Phi(K)=\cup_{i=1}^3H_i(\Phi(K))$. Moreover, $H_i\circ \Phi=\Phi\circ H_i$ and $\Phi:\ K\to\Phi(K)$ is a homeomorphism.
We recall the “Riemannian volume” $m$ on $\Sigma$ introduced in [@k89], namely, the Kusuoka measure via geometric description. There exists a unique Borel regular probability measure $m_\Sigma$ on $\Sigma$ such that for all $w=w_1\cdots w_n\in W_\ast$, $m_\Sigma(\Sigma_w)= (5/3)^n\|T_w\|^2$, where $T_w=T_{w_1}\circ\cdots\circ T_{w_n}$ and $\|T_w\|$ denotes its Hilbert-Schmidt norm; see [@k89]. The pushforward measure $\pi_\ast m_\Sigma=m_\Sigma\circ\pi^{-1} $ is exactly the Kusuoka measure $m$ as in Definition \[d3.3\]. Indeed, for $w=w_1 \cdots w_n\in W_\ast$, $$\begin{aligned}
\label{e3.4}
\pi_\ast m_\Sigma(K_w)&&=m_\Sigma(\pi^{-1}(K_w))=m_\Sigma( \Sigma_w) =\lf(\frac 53\r)^n\|T_w\|^2=
m(K_w);\end{aligned}$$ see [@k93] and also [@ka10 Proposition 2.14].
Now we collect some further properties, which will be used later. See [@k89; @k93; @k08; @ka10] for their proofs or details.
\[l3.1\] (i) If $u,\,v\in\bd$, then $u\circ F_i,\,v\circ F_i\in\bd$ for $i=1,\,2,\,3$ and $$\mathscr E(u,\,v)=\frac 53\sum_{i=1}^3\mathscr E(u\circ F_i ,\,v\circ F_i).$$
\(ii) There exists a constant $C_2\ge1$ such that for $u \in\bd$, $$\osc_ K u \le C_2\sqrt{\mathscr E(u,\,u)},$$ where $\osc_ E u \equiv \sup_{x\in E}u(x)-\inf_{x\in E}u(x)$ for any set $E$.
For $s\in(0,\,1]$, denote by $\Lambda(s)$ the collection of all $w=w_1 \cdots w_n\in W_\ast$ such that $\|T_w\|\le s<\|T_{w_1}\circ\cdots\circ T_{w_{n-1}}\|$ when $n\ge2$ and $\|T_w\|\le s$ when $n=1$. For $x\in K$ and $s\in(0,\,1]$, set $$K(x,\,s)\equiv\bigcup_{w\in\Lambda(s),\,x\in K_w}K_w,\ \mbox{and}\
\ U(x,\,s)\equiv\bigcup_{w\in\Lambda(s),\, K_w\cap K(x,\,s)\ne\emptyset}K_w.$$
Then we have the following results; see [@k08] and [@ka10].
\[l3.x2\] (i) For all $x\in K$, $s\in(0,\,1]$ and $w\in\Lambda(s)$, $$\label{e3.5}
\sharp\{v\in\Lambda(s)| K_v\cap K(x,\,s)\ne\emptyset\}\le 6\ \
\mbox{and}\ \
\sharp\{v\in\Lambda(s)| K_v\cap K_w\ne\emptyset\}\le 4,$$ and that $$\label{e3.6}
B_d(x,\,\sqrt2s/50)\subset U(x,\,s)\subset B_d(x,\,10s).$$ (ii) There exists a positive constant $C_3\ge1$ such that if $w,\,v\in\Lambda(s)$ and $K_w\cap K_v\ne\emptyset$, then $$\label{e3.7}
C_3^{-1}m(K_v)\le m(K_w)\le C_3m(K_v).$$ (iii) There exists $C_4\ge 1$ such that for all $w\in W_\ast$ and $i\in\{1,\,2,\,3\}$, $$\label{e3.8}
C_4^{-1}m(K_w)\le m(K_{wi})\le m(K_w).$$
Applying the properties above, we obtain the following results.
\[l3.2\] (i) There exists a positive integer $N$ such that for all $x\in K$ and $s\in (0,\,1)$, if $w,\,v\in \Lambda(s)$ satisfy $x\in K_w$ and $K_v\cap K(x,\,s)\ne\emptyset$, then $\max\{|w|-N,\,0\}\le |v|\le |w|+N$.
\(ii) There exists a constant $C_6\ge1$ such that for all $x\in K$ and $s\in (0,\,1)$, if $w\in \Lambda(s)$ and $x\in K_w$, then $m(B_d(x,\,s))\le C_6m(K_w)$.
\(i) Without loss of generality, we may assume that $K_w\cap K_v\ne\emptyset$. Indeed, there must exist $\sz\in \Lambda(s)$ such that $K_\sz\cap K_w\ne\emptyset$ and $K_\sz\cap K_v\ne\emptyset$. By , $ v\in \Lambda(s)$ and , we have $$C_4^{-1}\lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|-1} s^2\le C_4^{-1}\lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|-1} \|T_{v_1\cdots v_{n-1}}\|^2
\le \lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|} \|T_v\|^2\le \lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|}s^2,$$ and the same inequality also holds with $v$ replaced by $w$. >From this, it is easy to see that $\|T_w\|\le s< \|T_{w_1 \cdots w_{n-1}} \|\ls s $. Moreover, by , $w,\,v \in \Lambda(s)$ and , we also have $$C_3^{-1}\lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|} \|T_v\|^2\le \lf(\frac53\r)^{|w|} \|T_w\|^2 \le C_3 \lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|} \|T_v\|^2
,$$ which gives that $ \|T_w\|^2 \sim \lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|-|w|}s^2.$ Hence, $\lf(\frac53\r)^{|v|-|w|}\sim 1$, which yields (i).
\(ii) By the doubling property and , $$m(B_d(x,\,s))\ls m(B_d(x,\,\sqrt 2s/25))\ls m(U(x,\,s)).$$ Then, by , it suffices to show that for all $v\in \Lambda(s)$ such that $K_v\cap K(x,\,s)\ne\emptyset$, we have $m(K_v)\ls m(K_w)$. But this follows from and the fact that there must exist $\sz\in \Lambda(s)$ such that $K_\sz\cap K_w\ne\emptyset$ and $K_\sz\cap K_v\ne\emptyset$. This finishes the proof of Lemma \[l3.2\].
\[al.3\] Let $h\equiv h_1$ or $h\equiv h_2$. Then for all $u,\,v,\,f,\,g\in \bd$ and for almost all $x\in K$, $$\label{e3.9}
\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,v)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)\frac{d\Gamma(f,\,g)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)=\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,g)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)
\frac{d\Gamma(f,\,v)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x),$$ and for all $c\in\rr$, $$\label{e3.10}
\frac{d\Gamma(cu+v,\,g)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)=
c\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,g)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)+\frac{d\Gamma( v,\,g)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x).$$ Moreover, and also hold with $\Gamma(h,\,h)$ replaced by $m$.
By [@h10 Theorem 5.6], for every $u\in\bd$, $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $\Gamma(h,\,h)$. Thus $\Gamma(h ,\,h )$ and $m$ are mutually absolutely continuous, and moreover, for every $u\in \mathbb F$, by and the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality, both $\Gamma(u,\,h )$ and $\Gamma(u,\,u) $ are absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ and $\Gamma(h ,\,h )$. Let $\{f_i\}_{i\in\nn}$ be an arbitrary complete orthonormal system of $\bd$. By [@h10 Proposition 2.12] and the fact that the index of $(K,\,\mathscr E)$ is $1$ (see [@h10 Section 4]), there exists a sequence of functions, $\{\zeta^i\}_{i\in\nn}$, such that for all $i,\,j\in\nn$, $\frac {d\Gamma(f_i,\,f_j)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}=\zeta^i\zeta^j$ almost everywhere. Recall that $u$ has a unique representation $u=\sum_{i\in\nn}a_i(u) f_i$ with $\sum_{i\in\nn}a_i(u)^2<\fz$. Then $\gz(u)\equiv\sum_{i\in\nn}a_i(u)\zeta^i\in L^2(K,\,\Gamma(h ,\,h ))$ is well defined. Indeed, for $u,\,v\in\bd$, $$\begin{aligned}
\lf(\sum_{i=1}^ N a_i(u)\zeta^i\r)\lf(\sum_{j=1}^ Na_j(v)\zeta^j\r)
&&=\sum_{i,\,j=1}^Na_i(u)a_j(v)\frac {d\Gamma(f_i,\,f_j)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}\\
&&=\frac{d\Gamma(\sum_{i=1}^ Na_i(u)f_i,\,\sum_{j=1}^Na_j(v)f_j )}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)} \to
\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,v)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}\end{aligned}$$ as $N\to\fz$ in $L^2(K,\,\Gamma(h,\,h))$ and hence almost everywhere. Moreover, from this, we deduce that $\gz(u)\gz(v)=\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,v)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}$ almost everywhere, which implies .
The linearity property $a_i(cu+v)=ca_i(u)+a_i(v)$ implies linearity of $\gz$ and hence also by repeating the above argument.
Since $\Gamma(h ,\,h )$ and $m$ are mutually absolutely continuous, (resp. ) with $\Gamma(h,\,h)$ replaced by $m$ follows from the Radon-Nikodym theorem and (resp. ). Indeed, for almost all $x\in X$, $$\begin{aligned}
\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,v)}{dm}(x)&&=\lim_{r\to0} \frac{ \int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}\,d\Gamma(u,\,v)}{\int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}\, dm} \\
&&= \lim_{r\to0} \frac{ \int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}d \,\Gamma(u,\,v)}
{\int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}\, d\Gamma(h,\,h)}\cdot \lim_{r\to0} \frac{ \int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}d \,\Gamma(h,\,h)}
{\int_X 1_{B(x,\,r)}\, dm}\\
&&=
\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,v)} {d\Gamma(h,\,h)} (x) \frac{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}{dm}(x).\end{aligned}$$ This finishes the proof of Lemma \[al.3\].
The set of points $x\in K$ for which holds is independent of $c\in\rr$.
The following Rademacher theorem is an improvement on [@h10 Theorem 5.4] and [@ka10 Theorem 2.17 (ii)].
\[p3.3\] Let $h\equiv h_1$ or $h\equiv h_2$. For every $u\in\bd$, there exists a unique measurable function $\frac{du}{dh}$ such that for almost all $x\in K$ and all $y\in K$, $$\label{e3.11}
|u(y)-u(x)-\frac{du(x)}{dh}(h(y)-h(x))|=o(d(x,\,y)).$$ Moreover, $\frac {d\Gamma(u,\,u)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}=|\frac{du}{dh}|^2$ almost everywhere.
Set $$\frac{du }{dh}\equiv\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)},$$ and $$R_x(y)\equiv u(y)-u(x)-\frac{du(x)}{dh} (h(y) -h(x))$$ for all $y\in K$ whenever $\frac{du(x)}{dh}$ exists. Then $R_x(\cdot)\in\mathbb \bd$ and implies that $$\label{e3.12}
\frac{d\Gamma( u ,\,u ) }{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)= \frac{d\Gamma( u ,\,u ) }{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)
\frac{d\Gamma( h ,\,h )}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)= \lf(\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}(x)\r)^2= \lf(\frac{du(x)}{dh}\r)^2.$$
Now it suffices to prove that for almost all $x\in K$ and all $s\in(0,\,1)$, $$\label{e3.13}
\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|u(y)-u(x)-\frac {du(x)}{dh}(h(y)-h(x))|=o(s).$$ Recall that for all $x\in K$ and $s\in(0,\,1/10]$, $B_d(x,\,s)\subset U(x,\,10s)$; see . Therefore, for each $y\in B_d(x,\,s)$, there exist $w,\,v\in \Lambda(10s)$ such that $x\in K_w$, $K_w\cap K_v\ne\emptyset$ and $y\in K_v$, where $w$ and $v$ may be equal. Taking $y_\ast\in K_w\cap K_v=F_w(V_0)\cap F_v(V_0)$ and using $R_x(x)=0$, we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
|R_x(y)|&&\le |R_x(y)-R_x(y_\ast)|+ |R_x(y_\ast)-R_x(x)|\\
&&\le \dosc _{ K_w}R_x +\dosc _{ K_v} R_x = \dosc _{ K}R_x\circ F_w +\dosc_{ K } R_x\circ F_v .\end{aligned}$$ By Lemma \[l3.1\], we have $$\begin{aligned}
|R_x(y)| &&\ls \sqrt{\Gamma(R_x\circ F_w,\,R_x\circ F_w)(K )}+\sqrt{\Gamma(R_x\circ F_v,\,R_x\circ F_v)(K )}\\
&&\ls \sqrt{\lf(\frac35\r)^{|w|}\Gamma(R_x,\,R_x)(K_w)}+\sqrt{\lf(\frac35\r)^{|v|}\Gamma(R_x,\,R_x)(K_v)}.\end{aligned}$$ Noticing that $|v|\sim|w|$ by Lemma \[l3.2\] and $U(x,\,10s)\subset B_d(x,\,500s/\sqrt2)$ by , for $s\in(0,\,1/500]$, we have $$\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|R_x(y)|\ls \sqrt{\lf(\frac35\r)^{|w|}\Gamma(R_x,\,R_x)(B_d(x,\,500s/\sqrt2))}.$$ On the other hand, for $s\in(0,\,1)$, $$\begin{aligned}
\frac{ \Gamma(R_x,\,R_x)(B_d(x,\,s))}{ \Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))}
&&=\frac{\Gamma( u-\frac{du(x)}{dh} h ,\,u-\frac{du(x)}{dh}h)(B_d(x,\,s))}{\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))} \\
&&=\frac{\Gamma( u ,\,u )(B_d(x,\,s))}{\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))}-2\frac{du(x)}{dh}
\frac{\Gamma(u,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))}{\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))}+ \lf(\frac{du(x)}{dh}\r)^2.\end{aligned}$$ By this, , the definition of $\frac{du}{dh}$ and the Radon-Nikodym theorem, we conclude that $$\begin{aligned}
\lim_{s\to0}\frac{ \Gamma(R_x,\,R_x)(B_d(x,\,s))}{\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,s))}&&= \frac{d\Gamma( u ,\,u )(x)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h) }-2\frac{du(x)}{dh}
\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h)(x)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}+ \lf(\frac{du(x)}{dh}\r)^2 =0\end{aligned}$$ for almost all $x\in K$. Therefore, $$\label{e3.14}
\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|R_x(y)|=o\lf(\sqrt{\lf(\frac35\r)^{|w|}\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,500s/\sqrt2))}\r).$$ Observe that, by the doubling property, definition of $m$ and Lemma \[l3.1\] (ii) and Lemma \[l3.2\], we have $$\Gamma(h,\,h)(B_d(x,\,500s/\sqrt2))\le m(B_d(x,\,500s/\sqrt2))\ls m(B_d(x,\,10s))\ls m(K_w).$$ Thus by and $w\in\Lambda(10s)$, we arrive at $$\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|R_x(y)|=o\lf(\sqrt{\lf(\frac35\r)^{|w|}m(K_w)}\r)=o( \|T_w\|)=o(s),$$ as desired.
To see the uniqueness, assume that $ a$ is a measurable function such that holds with $\frac{du(x)}{dh}$ replaced by $ a(x)$, for almost all $x\in K$. Then $$\label{e3.15}
\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}\lf| \frac {du(x)}{dh}-a(x) \r| |h(y)-h(x)|=o(s).$$ Take $x=\pi^{-1}(w)\in K_w$ such the above holds, and for $s\in(0,\,1)$, and $w_1\cdots w_{n_s}\in\Lambda(\sqrt s/25)$. Observe that gives $K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}}\subset U(x,\,\sqrt2s/25)\subset B_d(x,\,s )$. Since $$\begin{aligned}
\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}| h(y)-h(x) |&&\ge\frac12\osc_{ B_d(x,\,s)}h \\
&&\ge
\frac12\osc_{ K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}}}h \ge\frac12\mathscr E(h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}},\,h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}}),\end{aligned}$$ it suffices to show that $\mathscr E(h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}},\,h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})\gs s$. Indeed, this would imply that $\frac {du(x)}{dh}-a(x)=0$.
By the martingale convergence theorem and the mutual absolute continuity of $m$ and $\Gamma(h,\,h)$, for almost all $x\in K$, we have $$\begin{aligned}
\lim_{s\to0}
\frac{\mathscr E(h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}},\,h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})}{m(K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})}
&& = \lim_{s\to0}\frac{\Gamma(h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}},\,h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})(K)}{m(K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})}\\
&&= \lim_{s\to0}
\frac{\Gamma( h ,\,h)(K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})}{m(K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})}=\frac{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}{dm}(x)>0,\end{aligned}$$ which together with and $w_1\cdots w_{n_s}\in\Lambda(\sqrt2 s/25)$ implies that $$\mathscr E(h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}},\,h\circ F_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})\gs m( K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s}})\gs
m( K_{w_1\cdots w_{n_s-1}})\gs s.$$ This finishes the proof of Proposition \[p3.3\].
Now, we are going to identify the intrinsic length structure with the “measurable Riemannian structure” of Kusuoka [@k89] in Theorem \[t3.2\] below.
Recall that Kusuoka further introduced the “measurable Riemannian metric” $Z$ on $K$. Indeed, for $w\in W_\ast$, set $Z_m(w)\equiv T_wT_w^\ast/\|T_w\|^2$. Kusuoka [@k89] proved that $$\label{e3.16}
Z(w)\equiv\lim_{n\to\fz} Z_m(w_1\cdots w_n)$$ exists for almost all $w=w_1w_2\cdots\in\Sigma$, and moreover, rank $Z(w)=1$ and $Z$ is orthogonal projection onto its image for almost all $w\in\Sigma$. Since $m_\Sigma(V_\ast)=0$, the pushforward mapping $\pi_\ast Z=Z\circ\pi^{-1}$, which is still denote by $Z$ by abuse of notation, is well defined on $K$.
The above measurable Riemannian structure is identified with the gradient structure in the following sense; see [@k89; @k93] and [@k08 Theorem 4.8]. Let $\mathscr C^1(K)\equiv\{v\circ\Phi| v\in\mathscr C^1(\rr^2)\}$. Then $\mathscr C^1(K)$ is dense in $(\bd,\,\|\cdot\|_\bd)$. Moreover, for every $u\in\mathscr C^1(K)$, define $\nabla u\equiv (\nabla v)\circ\Phi$, which is well defined since it is independent of the choice of $v\in\mathscr C^1(\rr^2)$ with $u=v\circ\Phi$; see [@k93 Section 4]. Here $\nabla v(x)\equiv(\frac{\partial v(x)}{\partial x_1},\, \frac{\partial v(x)}{\partial x_2})$ denotes the usual gradient for $v\in\mathscr C^1(\rr^2)$.
\[p3.4\] For every $u\in \bd$, there exists a measurable vector field $Y(u)\in\rr^2$ such that $Y(u) \in {\rm Im\,}Z$, $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u) =|Y(u) |^2$ almost everywhere, and hence $\mathscr E(u,\,u)=\int_K |Y(u)(x)|^2 \,dm(x).$ Moreover, if $u\in\mathscr C^1(K)$, then $Y(u) =Z\nabla u $.
Applying Propositions \[p3.3\] and \[p3.4\], we have a formula for the projection $Z$ via the harmonic embedding (or coordinate) $\Phi$.
\[l3.5\] The pushforward $\pi_\ast Z$ to $K$ of the projection $Z$ on $\Sigma$ as in is given by $$\pi_\ast Z=\lf(\begin{array}{cl}
\frac1{1+a^2}\quad& \frac a{1+a^2}\\
\frac a{1+a^2}\quad&\frac{a^2}{1+a^2}
\end{array}\r)$$ almost everywhere, where $a=\frac{dh_2}{dh_1}=\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}$. The eigenvalues of $\pi_\ast Z$ are $\lz_1=0$ and $\lz_2=a^2+1$, the corresponding eigenvectors are $\xi_1=(-\frac a{1+a^2},\,\frac 1{1+a^2})$ and $\xi_2=(\frac 1{1+a^2},\,\frac a{1+a^2})$. The projection space is ${\rm Im} Z=(\frac 1{1+a^2},\,\frac a{1+a^2})\rr$.
By the Radon-Nikodym theorem and Proposition \[p3.3\], we have $$a^2=\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}=
\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}
=\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}$$ and $$\frac{dm}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}=\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}+
\frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}=1+a^2.$$ Hence by Proposition \[p3.4\] and the Radon-Nikodym theorem, $$Ze_i\cdot e_j=Z\nabla h_i\cdot\nabla h_j= \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}=\frac{d\Gamma(h_i,\,h_j)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}
=\frac1{1+a^2}\frac{d\Gamma(h_i,\,h_j)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)},$$ which implies that $$Ze_1\cdot e_1=\frac1{1+a^2},\ \ Ze_1\cdot e_2=Ze_2\cdot e_1= \frac a{1+a^2}\ \
\mbox{and}\ \ Ze_2\cdot e_2=\frac{a^2}{1+a^2}.$$ The other conclusions follow from this by standard computations. This finishes the proof of Lemma \[l3.5\].
Now we improve Proposition \[p3.4\] and [@k10 Theorem 2.17 (i)] as follows. Notice that Proposition \[p3.2\] follows from Theorem \[t3.2\].
\[t3.2\] For every $u\in\bd$, there exists a unique measurable vector field $\wz\nabla u$ such that for almost all $x\in K$, and for all $s\in(0,\,1)$, $$\label{e3.17}
\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|u(y)-u(x)- \wz\nabla u(x) \cdot(\Phi(y)-\Phi(x))|=o(s).$$ Moreover, $\wz\nabla u=Y(u)\in {\rm Im}Z$ and $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u) =|Y(u) |^2=|\wz\nabla u |^2 $ almost everywhere; in particular, if $u\in\mathscr C^1(K)$, then $\wz\nabla u=Y(u)=Z\nabla u$ almost everywhere.
We first observe that, by Proposition \[p3.4\], $\nabla h_1=e_1$, and mutual absolute continuity of $\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)$ and $m$, we obtain $$|Z(x)e_1|^2=|Z(x)\nabla h_1(x)|^2=\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x) >0$$ for almost all $x\in K$. Similarly, we have that $ |Z(x)e_2|^2>0$ for almost all $x\in K$. For such an $x\in K$, let $\zeta\equiv (\zeta _1,\,\zeta _2)=\zeta_1e_1+\zeta_2e_2$ with $\zeta_1\equiv|Ze_1|$ and $\zeta_2\equiv Ze_1\cdot e_2/ |Ze_1|$. Take $\wz\nabla u \equiv\frac{du }{dh_1}\zeta_1 \zeta $. Then for almost all $x\in K$, obviously, $\wz\nabla u(x)\in {\rm Im}Z(x)$. Since $|\zeta(x)|^2=1$ and $(\zeta_1(x))^2=\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x)$, applying Lemma \[al.3\] and , we further have $$|\wz\nabla u(x)|^2= \lf(\frac{du(x)}{dh_1} \r)^2 \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x)= \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,u)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)} (x) \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x)=\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,u)}{dm}(x).$$
Whenever $\wz\nabla u(x) $ exists, write $$\begin{aligned}
&&u(y)-u(x)- \wz\nabla u(x) \cdot(\Phi(y)-\Phi(x))\\
&&\quad= (\zeta_1(x))^2[u(y)-u(x)- \frac{du(x)}{dh_1}(h_1(y)-h_1(x))]\\
&&\quad\quad+ [(1-(\zeta_1(x))^2)(u(y)-u(x))-\zeta_1(x) \zeta_2(x)\frac{du(x)}{dh_1}(h_2(y)-h_2(x))]\\
&&\quad\equiv\wz R^{(1)}_x(y)+\wz R^{(2)}_x(y)\end{aligned}$$ for all $y\in K$. Observe that Proposition \[p3.3\] implies that $\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|\wz R^{(1)}_x(y)|=o(s)$. Then is reduced to proving $\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|\wz R^{(2)}_x(y)|=o(s)$. To this end, observe that by Proposition \[p3.4\] and the Radon-Nikodym theorem, $$1-(\zeta_1(x))^2=1- \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x)= \frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{dm}(x)$$ and $$\zeta_1(x)\zeta_2(x)=Z\nabla h_1(x)\cdot\nabla h_2(x)=\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)}{dm}(x)=\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x)
\frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)$$ for almost all $x\in K$. Also by Proposition \[p3.3\] and the Radon-Nikodym theorem, for almost all $x\in K$, $$\begin{aligned}
\frac{du}{dh_1}(x)&&=\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\\
&&
= \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_1)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\\
&& = \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\\
&&= \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)} {d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\\
&&=\frac{du}{dh_2}(x)\frac{dh_2}{dh_1}(x).\end{aligned}$$ Therefore, $$\begin{aligned}
\zeta_1(x)\zeta_2(x)\frac{du}{dh_1}(x)
&& = \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x) \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\frac {d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_2)} {d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x)\frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\\
&& = \frac{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}{dm}(x) \frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_1,\,h_1)}(x) \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x)\\
&& = \frac{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)} {dm}(x) \frac{d\Gamma(u,\,h_2)}{d\Gamma(h_2,\,h_2)}(x) \\
&&= (1-(\zeta_1(x))^2) \frac{du}{dh_2}(x).\end{aligned}$$ Thus $$\begin{aligned}
\wz R^{(2)}_x(y) &&= (1-(\zeta_1(x))^2)[u(y)-u(x)-\frac{du(x)}{dh_2}(h_2(y)-h_2(x))].\end{aligned}$$ and hence by Proposition \[p3.3\], $\sup_{y\in B_d(x,\,s)}|\wz R^{(2)}_x(y)|=o(s)$ as desired.
The uniqueness of $\wz \nabla u$ follows from exactly the same argument that was used in the proof of Proposition \[p3.3\].
We also extend Theorems \[t3.1\] and \[t3.2\] to the case of an energy measure $\Gamma(h,\,h)$, where $h$ is a nontrivial $V_0$-harmonic function with $\mathscr E(h,\,h)=1$. Notice that $\Gamma(h,\,h)$ and $m$ are mutually absolutely continuous. Recall that $(K,\,\mathscr E,\, \Gamma(h,\,h))$ is a strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2(K,\,\Gamma(h,\,h))$ with domain $\bd=\mathbb F$. Denote by $d_h$ the associated intrinsic distance. Proposition \[p3.1\] and Proposition \[p3.3\] still hold for $(K,\,\mathscr E,\, \Gamma(h,\,h),\,d_h)$ and a dual formula similar to is still available. For the above see [@k93; @k08; @ka10]. The following result identifies the length structure with the length of the gradient on $(K,\,\mathscr E,\, \Gamma(h,\,h),\,d_h)$.
\[t3.3\] For every $u\in \bd$, the energy measure $\Gamma(u,\,u)$ is absolutely continuous with respect to the Kusuoka measure $\Gamma(h,\,h)$ and the square of the length of the gradient satisfies $ \frac {d\Gamma(u,\,u)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}=({\lip}_{d_h} u)^2$ almost everywhere. Moreover, for almost all $x\in K$ and all $y\in K$, $$|u(y)-u(x)-\frac{du(x)}{dh}(h(y)-h(x))|=o(d_h(x,\,y)).$$ where $\frac{du }{dh}=\frac {d\Gamma(u,\,h)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}$ and $|\frac{du }{dh}|^2=\frac {d\Gamma(u,\,u)}{d\Gamma(h,\,h)}$.
We point out that Theorem \[t3.3\] can be proved by repeating the above arguments as in Theorems \[t3.1\] and \[t3.2\], and all the properties needed in the arguments are available by [@k93; @k08; @ka10]. We omit the details.
Heat flow, gradient flow and $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=({\lip} \, u)^2$ {#s4}
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In this section, under the Ricci curvature bounds of Lott-Sturm-Villani, we will clarify the relations between the coincidence of the intrinsic length structure and the gradient structure and the identification of the heat flow of $\mathscr E$ and the gradient flow of entropy; see Theorem \[t4.1\] and \[t4.2\]. We begin with the definition of Wasserstein distance.
On a given metric space $( X,\,d)$, denote by $\mathscr P( X)$ the [*collection of all Borel probability measures*]{} on $ X$ and endow it with weak $\ast$-topology, that is, $\mu_i\to\mu$ if and only if for all $f\in\mathscr C( X)$, $\int_ X f\,d\mu_i\to\int_ X f\,d\mu$. For $p\in[1,\,\fz)$, denote by $\mathscr P_p(X)$ the collection of all measures $\mu\in\mathscr P(X)$ such that $\int_X d^p(x_1,\,x)\,d\mu(x)<\fz$. Moreover, for every pair of $\mu,\,\nu\in\mathscr P( X)$, define the [*$L^p$-Wasserstein distance*]{} as $$\label{e4.1}
W_p(\mu,\,\nu)\equiv\inf_\pi\lf(\int_{ X\times X}[d(x,\,y)]^p\,d\pi(x,\,y)\r)^{1/p},$$ where the infimum is taken over all couplings $\pi$ of $\mu$ and $\nu$. Recall that a [*coupling* ]{}$\pi$ of $\mu$ and $\nu$ is a probability measure $\pi\in\mathscr P( X\times X)$ with the property that for all measurable sets $A\subset X$, $\pi(A\times X)=\mu(A)$ and $\pi( X\times A)=\nu(A)$. There always exists (at least) one optimal coupling, and so the above infimum can be replaced by minimum; see for example [@v09 Proposition 2.1].
In the rest of this section, we always assume that $X$ is compact, $\mathscr E$ is a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $X$ and $m$ is a probability measure, namely, $m( X)=1$. Let $d$ be the associated intrinsic distance as in and assume that the topology induced by $d$ coincides with the original topology on $X$. Then $(X,\,d)$ is a compact length space by [@s94; @s98b], and hence, $\mathscr P_2( X)= \mathscr P( X)$ equipped with the distance $ W_2$ is a compact length space (hence a geodesic space); see [@lv09]. Notice that the topology induced by $ W_2$ coincides with the above weak $\ast$-topology (see for example [@v09]).
Let $U:[0,\,\fz)\to [0,\,\fz)$ be a continuous convex function with $U(0)=0$ and define the associated [*functional*]{} $\mathscr U:\mathscr P_2( X)\to\rr\cup\{+\fz\}$ by setting $$\mathscr U(\mu)\equiv\int_ X U\lf(\frac{d\mu}{dm}\r)\,dm+U'(\fz)\mu_ {\rm sing }( X),$$ where $\mu_{\rm sing }$ is the singular part of the Lebesgue decomposition of $\mu$ with respect to $m$, and $U '(\fz)\equiv\lim_{r\to\fz}\frac1r U (r)$. If $U'(\fz)=\fz$, then $\mathscr U(\mu)<\fz$ means that $\mu$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$, namely, $\mu_{\rm sing }=0$. If $U'(\fz)<\fz$, this is not necessarily the case.
\[d4.1\]Let $U$ be a continuous convex function with $U(0)=0$ and $\lz\in\rr$. Then $\mathscr U$ is called [*weakly $\lz$-displacement convex*]{} if for all $\mu_0,\,\mu_1\in\mathscr P_2( X)$, there exists some Wasserstein geodesic $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}$ along which $$\label{e4.2}
\mathscr U(\mu_t)\le t\mathscr U(\mu_1)+(1-t)\mathscr U(\mu_0)-\frac12\lz t(1-t) W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)^2.$$
If for every pair of $\mu_0,\,\mu_1\in\mathscr P_2( X)$ that are absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ and have continuous densities, there exists some Wasserstein geodesic $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}$ along which holds, then as shown in [@lv09 Lemma 3.24], $\mathscr U$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex.
A curve $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in I}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$ on an interval $I\subset\rr$ is [*absolutely continuous*]{} if there exists a function $f\in L^1(I)$ such that $$\label{e4.3}
W_2(\mu_t,\,\mu_s)\le\int_t^sf(r)\,dr$$ for all $s,\,t\in I$ with $t\le s$. Obviously, an absolutely continuous curve is continuous. For an absolutely continuous curve $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in I}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$, its [*metric derivative*]{} $$|\dot\mu_t|\equiv\lim_{s\to t}\frac{ W_2(\mu_t,\,\mu_s)}{|t-s|}$$ is well defined for almost all $t\in I$; see [@ags Theorem 1.1.2]. Moreover, $|\dot\mu_t|\in L^1(I)$, and it is the minimal function such that holds. For $\mu\in\mathscr P_2( X)$, define the [*local slope*]{} of $\mathscr U$ at $\mu$ as $$|\nabla^-\mathscr U|(\mu)\equiv\limsup_{\nu\to\mu,\,\nu\ne\mu}\frac{
[\mathscr U(\mu)-\mathscr U(\nu)]_+}{ W_2(\mu,\nu)},$$ where $a_+=\max\{a,\,0\}$.
Now we recall the definition of a gradient flow of a weakly $\lz$-displacement convex functional $\mathscr U$, via the energy dissipation identity.
\[d4.2\]Let $\mathscr U:\mathscr P_2( X)\to\rr\cup\{\fz\}$ be weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$. An absolutely continuous curve $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$ is called a [*gradient flow*]{} of $\mathscr U $ if $\mathscr U(\mu_t)<\fz$ for all $t\ge0$, and for all $0\le t<s$, $$\label{e4.4}
\mathscr U(\mu_t)=\mathscr U(\mu_s)+\frac12\int_t^s |\dot\mu_r|^2\,dr+
\frac12\int_t^s|\nabla^- \mathscr U|^2(\mu_r) \,dr.$$
Associated with the convex function $U_\fz:\ [0,\,\fz)\to[0,\,\fz)$ defined by $U_\fz(r)=r\log r$ for $r>0$ and $U(0)=0$, we have the functional $\mathscr U_\fz:\ \mathscr P_2( X)\to\rr\cup\{+\fz\}$, which is well-defined and lower semicontinuous on $\mathscr P_2( X)$; see, for example, [@lv09 Theorem B.33]. Denote by $\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$ the collection of $\mu\in\mathscr P(X)$ such that $\mathscr U_\fz(\mu)<\fz$. Since $U'_\fz(\fz)=\fz$, $\mu\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$ implies that $\mu$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ and $U_\fz(\frac{d\mu}{dm})\in L^1( X)$. Recall that if $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex on $\mathscr P_2(X)$ for some $\lz\in\rr$, then $(X,\,d,\,m)$ is said to have [*Ricci curvature bounded from below*]{} in the sense of Lott-Sturm-Villani [@s06a; @s06b; @lv09].
Recently, under the compactness of $ X$ and weak $\lz$-displacement convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$, Gigli [@g10] obtained the existence, uniqueness and stability of the gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$; for the basics of the theory of gradient flows see [@ags]. Under some further additional conditions, we are going to prove in Theorem \[t4.1\] below that this gradient flow is actually given by the heat flow. Recall that the heat flow is the unique gradient flow of the Dirichlet energy functional $\mathscr E$ on the Hilbert space $L^2( X).$ Moreover, the heat flow can be represented by the strongly continuous group $\{T_t\}_{t\ge 0}$ on $L^2( X)$ generated by the unique selfadjoint operator $\Delta $, which is determined by $$-\int_ X u \Delta v \,d m =\mathscr E(u,\,v)=\int_ X\,d\Gamma(u,\,v)$$ for all $u,\,v\in\bd$. Indeed, for every $\mu\in\mathscr P( X)$, the [*heat flow*]{} $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is given by $T_0\mu=\mu$ and when $ t>0$, $T_t\mu$ is defined as the unique nonnegative Borel regular measure satisfying $$\int_ X \phi dT_t\mu=\int_ X\int_ X \phi(x)T_t(x,\,y)\,d\mu(y)\,d m(x).$$ Then by $T_t1=1$, we have $T_t\mu\in\mathscr P( X)$, and hence $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is a curve in $\mathscr P_2( X)$. Notice that if $\mu =f m$, then $T_t\mu=(T_tf) m$ for all $t\ge0$.
\[t4.1\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property, and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property. If $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weak $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$, then for every $\mu\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$, the heat flow $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ gives the unique gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$ with initial value $\mu$.
We follow the procedure of [@gko] to prove Theorem \[t4.1\]. Let $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$ be an absolutely continuous curve that satisfies $\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)<\fz$ for all $t\ge0$. To prove that $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is a gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$, we observe that since $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weak $\lz$-displacement convex and lower semicontinuous, by [@ags Corollary 2.4.10], for all $s>t\ge0$, we have $$\label{e4.x5}
|\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_s)|
\le\int_t^s|\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|(\mu_r)|\dot\mu_r|\,dr,$$ which implies, by Young’s inequality, that $$\label{e4.5}
\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)\le \mathscr U_\fz(\mu_s)+\frac12\int_t^s |\dot\mu_r|^2\,dr+
\frac12\int_t^s|\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|^2(\mu_r) \,dr.$$ So it suffices to check that for all $s>t\ge0$, $$\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_s)+\frac12\int_t^s |\dot\mu_r|^2\,dr+
\frac12\int_t^s|\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|^2(\mu_r) \,dr\le \mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t),$$ which is further reduced to proving $$\label{e4.6}
\frac12\ |\dot\mu_r|^2+
\frac12 |\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|^2(\mu_r) \le -\frac d{dr}\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_r)$$ for almost all $r\ge0$.
Therefore, with the aid of [@r11; @r12], Theorem \[t4.1\] will follow from Lemma \[l4.1\], Proposition \[p4.2\] and Proposition \[p4.3\] below.
\[l4.1\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property, and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. If $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$, then there exists a constant $C_6\ge1$ such that for $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P^\ast_2 ( X)$, $$\label{e4.7}
|\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|^2(\mu)\le 4 C_6\int_ X \,d\Gamma(\sqrt f,\,\sqrt f).$$ Moreover, if $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property, then $C_6=1$.
Lemma \[l4.1\] follows from the following result; see [@v09 Theorem 20.1].
\[p4.1\] Let $U$ be a continuous convex function on $[0,\,\fz)$. Let $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$ be an absolutely continuous geodesic with density $\{\rho_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}$, and $U( \rho_t)\in L^1( X)$ for all $t\in[0,\,1]$. Further assume that $\rho_0\in\lip( X)$, $U(\rho_0),\,\rho_0U'(\rho_0)\in L^1( X)$ and $U'$ is Lipschitz on $\rho_0( X)$. Then $$\liminf_{t\to0}\lf[\frac{\mathscr U(\mu_t)-\mathscr U(\mu_0)}{t}\r]\ge -\int_{ X\times X}
U''(\rho_0(x_0))|\nabla^-\rho_0|(x_0)d(x_0,\,x_1)\,d\pi(x_0,\,x_1),$$ where $\pi$ is an optimal coupling of $\mu_0$ and $\mu_1$.
In Proposition \[p4.1\] and below, for a measurable function $f$ on $ X$, set $$|\nabla^-f|(x)\equiv\limsup_{y\to x}\frac{[f(x)-f(y)]_+}{d(x,\,y)}.$$ Obviously, $|\nabla^-f|(x)\le \lip\,f(x)$ for all $x\in X$. However, if $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property and supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$, then $|\nabla^-f|=\lip\,f$ almost everywhere. See [@lv07 Remark 2.27].
We first assume that $f\in \lip( X)$ and $f$ is bounded away from zero. By the definition of $|\nabla^- \mathscr U_\fz|(\mu)$, it suffices to consider $\nu\in\mathscr P_2( X)$ with $\mathscr U_\fz(\nu)<\mathscr U_\fz(\mu)$. Since $\mathscr U_\fz(\nu)<\fz$, we have $\nu\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$. By the convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$, there exists a curve $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}\subset\mathscr P_2( X)$ such that $\mu_0=\mu$ and $\mu_1=\nu$, along which holds. Moreover, by , we have $\mathscr U(\mu_t)<\fz$ for all $t\in[0,\,1]$, which further means that $\mu_t$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$. Denote the density by $\rho_t$.
Notice that $U_\fz$ and $\{\mu_t\}_{t\in[0,\,1]}$ fulfill all the conditions required in Proposition \[p4.1\]. So by $U''(s)=\frac1s$, optimality of $\pi$ and the Hölder inequality, we have $$\begin{aligned}
\liminf_{t\to0}\lf[\frac{\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_0)}{t}\r]&&\ge -\int_{ X\times X}
\frac1{[\rho_0(x_0)]^2}|\nabla^-\rho_0|(x_0)d(x_0,\,x_1)\,d\pi(x_0,\,x_1)\\
&& \ge -\lf\{\int_{ X\times X}
\frac1{[\rho_0(x_0)]^2}|\nabla^-\rho_0|^2(x_0)\,d\pi(x_0,\,x_1) \r\}^{1/2} \\
&&\quad\quad\times\lf\{\int_{ X\times X}d(x_0,\,x_1)^2\,d\pi(x_0,\,x_1)\r\}^{1/2}\\
&& =-W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)\lf\{\int_ X
\frac1{[\rho_0(x_0)]^2}|\nabla^-\rho_0|^2(x_0)\,d\mu_0(x_0) \r\}^{1/2} \\
&& =-W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)\lf\{\int_ X
\frac1{f}|\nabla^-f|^2 \,dm \r\}^{1/2},\end{aligned}$$ which together with $|\nabla^-f|^2\le |\lip\, f|^2\le C_1^2\Gamma(f,\,f) $ almost everywhere implies that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{e4.8}
\limsup_{t\to0}\lf[\frac{\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_0)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)}{tW_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)}\r]
\le C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\frac1{f}\,d\Gamma(f,\,f) \r\}^{1/2}.\end{aligned}$$ On the other hand, by the weak displacement convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$, we have $$\lf[\frac{\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_0)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_1)}{ W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)}\r]
\le \lf[\frac{\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_0)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_t)}{tW_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)}\r]-\frac12\lz(1-t) W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1),$$ which together with yields that $$\lf[\frac{\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_0)-\mathscr U_\fz(\mu_1)}{ W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1)}\r]
\le C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\frac1{f}\,d\Gamma(f,\,f) \r\}^{1/2}+ \frac12|\lz| W_2(\mu_0,\,\mu_1),$$ and hence, letting $\mu_1\to\mu_0$ with respect to $ W_2$, $$|\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|(\mu_0)
\le C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\frac1{f}\,d\Gamma(f,\,f) \r\}^{1/2}=2C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\,d\Gamma(\sqrt f,\,\sqrt f) \r\}^{1/2} .$$ This is as desired.
For $f\in \lip ( X)$ with $\sqrt f\in\bd$, letting $f_n=(f\vee\frac1n)\wedge n$, we have $f_n\in\lip( X)$ and $\frac{f_nm}{\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}}\in\mathscr P_2( X)$. Moreover, since $f_n\ge \frac1n$, by the above argument, we have $$|\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|\lf(\frac{f_nm}{\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}}\r)
\le 2C_1\frac1{{\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}}}\lf\{\int_ X
\,d\Gamma(\sqrt{f_n},\,\sqrt{f_n}) \r\}^{1/2}.$$ Moreover, recall that the lower semicontinuity of $\mathscr U_\fz$ implies that of $|\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|$; see [@ags Corollary 2.4.11]. Since $\sqrt {f_n}\to\sqrt f$ in $\bd$, $\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}\to1$ and $\frac{f_nm}{\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}}\to fm$ in $\mathscr P( X)$, we have $$\begin{aligned}
|\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|(fm)&& \le\liminf_{n\to\fz} |\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|\lf(\frac{f_nm}{\|f_n\|_{L^1( X)}}\r)
\le 2C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\,d\Gamma(\sqrt f,\,\sqrt f) \r\}^{1/2}.\end{aligned}$$
Generally, for $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$, we may assume $\sqrt f\in\bd$ without loss of generality. By Theorem \[t2.2\], we know that $\lip( X)$ is dense in $\bd$. So there exists a sequence $\{g_n\}_{n\in\nn}\subset\lip( X)$ such that $g_n\to \sqrt f$ in $\bd$. Since $f\ge 0$ almost everywhere, we still have $|g_n|\to \sqrt f$ in $\bd$. Notice that $|g_n|^2\in\lip( X)$ and $\|g_n\|_{L^2( X)}\to1$. By the lower semicontinuity of $\mathscr U_\fz$ again and the above result for Lipschitz functions, we have $$\begin{aligned}
|\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|(\mu)&& \le\liminf_{n\to\fz} |\nabla^-\mathscr U_\fz|\lf(\frac{|g_n|^2m}{\|g_n\|_{L^2( X)}}\r)\\
&&\le 2C_1\liminf_{n\to\fz}\frac1{\|g_n\|_{L^2( X)}}\lf\{\int_ X
\,d\Gamma(|g_n|,\,|g_n|) \r\}^{1/2}\\
&&=2C_1\lf\{\int_ X
\,d\Gamma(\sqrt f,\,\sqrt f) \r\}^{1/2}.\end{aligned}$$ This finishes the proof of Lemma \[l4.1\].
\[p4.2\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property, and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. Let $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P^\ast_2( X)$. Then $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}\subset\mathscr P^\ast_2( X)$, $\{\sqrt {T_tf}\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}\subset\bd$ with a locally uniform bound on $ (0,\,\fz)$, and $\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu) $ is locally Lipschitz on $(0,\,\fz)$ and for almost all $t\in(0,\,\fz)$, $$\label{e4.9}
\frac d{dt}\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)=-\int_ X\frac1{T_tf}\,d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf).$$
Recall that, under the assumptions of Proposition \[p4.2\], it was proved in [@s95] that for every $t>0$, the kernel $T_t$ is locally Hölder continuous in each variable and satisfies $$\label{e4.10}
C^{-1}\frac1{m(B(x,\,{\sqrt t}))}e^{-\frac{d^2(x,\,y)}{ c_1t}}\le T_t(x,\,y)\le C\frac1{m(B(x,\,{\sqrt t}))}e^{-\frac{d^2(x,\,y)}{ c_2t}}.$$ So, for every $t\ge\frac1n$, $T_t f$ is continuous, and moreover, $0<C(n)^{-1}\le T_t(x,\,y)\le C(n) $ implies that $ C(n)^{-1}\le T_tf(x)\le C(n) $ for all $x\in X$. From this, it is easy to see that $0\le \mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)\le C(n)\log C(n)<\fz$ for all $t\ge 1/n$. For $t\ge 1/n$, by $T_{1/n}f\in\bd$ and the fact that $\mathscr E(T_tf,\,T_tf)$ is decreasing in $t$ (both of these facts follow by functional calculus), we have $$\int_ X\frac1{T_tf}\,d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf)\le C(n)\int_ X \,d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf)
\le C(n)\int_ X \,d\Gamma(T_{1/n}f,\,T_{1/n}f),$$ which together with the chain rule implies that $\sqrt {T_tf}\in\bd$ with locally uniform bound on $(0,\,\fz)$.
Observe that the function $U_\fz(s)=s\log s$ is smooth on the interval $(\frac1n,\,n)$ for all $n$, and that $T_t f$, as $L^2( X)$-valued function in $(0,\,\fz)$, is locally Lipschitz on $(0,\,\fz)$. So $\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)$ is locally Lipschitz in $(0,\,\fz)$. Therefore, by the chain rule for $\Gamma$ and the fact that $\Gamma (1,\,h)=0$ for all $h\in\bd$, we have $$\begin{aligned}
\frac d{dt}\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)&&=\int_ X U_\fz'(T_tf)\Delta T_tf\,dm
=\int_ X (\log T_tf+1)\Delta T_tf\,dm\\
&&=-\int_ X\,d\Gamma(\log T_tf+1,\, T_tf)=-\int_ X\,d\Gamma(\log T_tf ,\, T_tf)\\
&&=-\int_ X\frac1{T_tf}\,d\Gamma( T_tf ,\, T_tf).\end{aligned}$$ This is as desired.
The following result is essentially proved in [@gko Proposition 3.7]. We point out that, comparing with the assumptions of Theorem \[t4.1\], we can get rid of the Newtonian property here since in the proof, instead of $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=(\lip\, u)^2$, it is enough to use $\frac d{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\le(\lip\, u)^2$ (after writing the first version of this paper, we learned that this was also realized in [@ags11 Lemma 6.1]). For completeness, we give its proof.
\[p4.3\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property, and that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. For every $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$, $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is an absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P_2( X)$ and for almost all $t\in[0,\,\fz)$, $$\label{e4.11}
|\dot T_t\mu|^2\le\int_ X\frac1{T_tf}\,d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf).$$
To prove this, we recall the following result about the Hamilton-Jacobi semigroup established in [@lv07; @behm]. For $\phi\in\lip( X)$, set $Q_0f=f$ and for $t\ge0$, define $$Q_t\phi(x)\equiv\inf_{y\in X}\lf[\phi(y)+\frac{1}{2t}d^2(x,\,y)\r].$$
\[p4.4\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies a doubling property and supports a weak $(1,\,p)$-Poincaré inequality for some $p\in[1,\,\fz)$. Then the following hold:
\(i) For all $t,\,s\ge0$ and all $x\in X$, $Q_tQ_s\phi(x)=Q_{t+s}\phi(x)$;
\(ii) For all $t\ge0$, $Q_t\phi\in\lip( X)$;
\(iii) For all $t\in (0,\,\fz)$ and almost all $x\in X$, $$\frac d{dt}Q_t\phi(x)+\frac12|\nabla^-\, Q_t\phi|^2(x)=0.$$
Let $t,\,s>0$. By the Kantorovich duality, $$\begin{aligned}
\frac12 W^2_2(T_t\mu,\,T_{t+s}\mu)&&
=\lf[\int_ X Q_1\phi\,dT_ {t+s}\mu-\int_ X \phi\,dT_t\mu\r];\end{aligned}$$ for some $\phi\in L^1( X)$; see, for example, [@v09 Theorem 5.10] and [@ags Section 6]. Moreover, by checking the proof (see, for example, [@v09 p.66]), we know that $|\phi|$ is bounded and for all $x\in X$, $$\phi(x)=\sup_{y\in X}[Q_1\phi(y)-\frac12d^2(x,\,y) ].$$ Since $ X$ is compact and hence bounded, we further have that $\phi,\, Q_1\phi \in \lip( X)$; we omit the details. Observe that, by Proposition \[p4.4\], $Q_r\phi$ as an $L^2( X)$-valued function of $r$ is Lipschitz on $[0,\,1]$ and hence is differentiable almost everywhere. Similarly, $T_{t+rs}f$ as an $L^2( X)$-valued function of $r$ is Lipschitz on $[0,\,1]$ and hence is differentiable almost everywhere. Therefore, $(Q_r\phi)T_{t+rs}f$ as an $L^1( X)$-valued function of $r$ is Lipschitz in $[0,\,1]$ and hence is differentiable almost everywhere. Thus $$\begin{aligned}
%&&\int_ X (Q_1\phi)(T_ {t+s}f)\,dm - \int_ X\phi (T_tf)\,dm\\
\frac12 W^2_2(T_t\mu,\,T_{t+s}\mu)&& =\int_0^1\frac d{dr}\int_ X (Q_r\phi)(T_ {t+rs}f)\,dm\,dr\\
&& =\int_0^1\int_ X\lf[-\frac12|\nabla^-\, Q_r\phi|^2 (T_{t+rs}f)+s(Q_r\phi)\Delta T_{t+rs}f \r]\,dm\,dr.\end{aligned}$$ Since $$\frac d{dm}\Gamma(Q_r\phi,\,Q_r\phi)\le (\lip\, Q_r\phi)^2=|\nabla^-\, Q_r\phi|^2$$ almost everywhere as given by Theorem \[t2.1\] and [@lv07 Remark 2.27], we have $$\begin{aligned}
\frac12 W^2_2(T_t\mu,\,T_{t+s}\mu)
&& \le-\frac12\int_0^1\int_ X T_{t+rs}f \,d\Gamma(Q_r\phi,\,Q_r\phi)\,dr
+ s\int_0^1\int_ X (Q_r\phi)\Delta T_{t+rs}f \,dm\,dr.\end{aligned}$$ Moreover, by the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality for Dirichlet forms, we have $$\begin{aligned}
&&\int_ X (Q_r\phi)\Delta T_{t+rs}f \,dm
=
\int_ X\,d\Gamma(Q_r\phi,\, T_{t+rs}f)\\
&&\quad=
\int_ X (T_{t+rs}f)^{1/2}\cdot\frac1{(T_{t+rs}f)^{1/2}}\,d\Gamma(Q_r\phi,\, T_{t+rs}f)\\
&&\quad\le \frac1{2s} \int_ X T_{t+rs}f\, d\Gamma(Q_r\phi,\,Q_r\phi)
+ \frac s{2 } \int_ X\,\frac1{T_{t+rs}f}\, d\Gamma(T_{t+rs}f,\,T_{t+rs}f),\end{aligned}$$ which implies that $$\label{e4.12}
W^2_2(T_t\mu,\,T_{t+s}\mu)\le {s^2} \int_0^1\int_ X\,\frac1{T_{t+rs}f}\, d\Gamma(T_{t+rs}f,\,T_{t+rs}f)\,dr.$$ Since $T_{1/n}f\in\bd$, by an argument as in the proof of Proposition \[p4.2\], we have for $t\ge 1/n$, $$\begin{aligned}
W^2_2(T_t\mu,\,T_{t+s}\mu)&&
\le {s^2}C(n) \int_0^1\int_ X\ \, d\Gamma(T_{t+rs}f,\,T_{t+rs}f)\,dr\\
&&
\le {s^2} C(n) \int_ X\, d\Gamma(T_{1/n}f,\, T_{1/n}f),\end{aligned}$$ which implies that $T_t\mu$ is locally Lipschitz continuous and hence, $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\ge0}$ is an absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P_2( X)$. Moreover, also implies that $$|\dot T_t\mu|^2\le \int_ X\,\frac1{T_tf}\, d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf),$$ which is as desired.
For the proof of Theorem \[t4.1\], we still need a very recent result of Rajala [@r11; @r12]: $\lambda$-displacement convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$ implies that $(X,\,d,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,1)$- and hence a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. This combined with Proposition \[p2.2\] allows us to use Lemma \[l4.1\] and Propositions \[p4.2\] and \[p4.3\] in the proof of Theorem \[t4.1\].
For $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$, it was proved in Proposition \[p4.3\] that $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is an absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$. To prove that $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is a gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$, since follows from the displacement convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$, it suffices to check the reverse inequality which is further reduced to . But follows from with $C_3=1$, and and .
Under the assumptions of Proposition \[p4.2\], for every $\mu\in\mathscr P_2( X)$ and $t>0$, $T_t\mu$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ and its density is continuous and bounded away from zero. Indeed, for $t>0$ and every nonnegative $\phi\in\mathscr C( X)$, by $\mu( X)=1$ and , we have $$\begin{aligned}
\int_ X\phi\,dT_t\mu=\int_ X\int_ X\phi(x)T_t(x,\,y)\,d\mu(y)\,dm(x)\le
C(t) \int_ X\phi(x)\,dm(x),\end{aligned}$$ which implies the absolute continuity of $T_t\mu$. Let $f_t=\frac{d}{dm}T_t \mu$ for $t>0$. Then $f_t\in L^1( X)$, and moreover, by the semigroup property, $f_t=T_{t/2}f_{t/2}$, which together with and the continuity of the kernel of $T_{t/2}$ implies that $f_t$ is continuous and bounded away from zero. Relying on the observations above and Theorem \[t4.1\], we conclude the following result.
\[c4.1\] Let all the assumptions be as in Theorem \[t4.1\]. For every $\mu\in\mathscr P( X)$, the curve $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in(0,\,\fz)}\subset\mathscr P^\ast(X)$ is absolutely continuous on each $[\ez,\,\fz)$ for all $\ez>0$, and $\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)<\fz$ for all $t>0$ and holds for all $s>t>0$.
Let $\mu\in\mathscr P(X)$. For every $n\in\nn$, by the argument before Corollary \[c4.1\], we see that $T_{1/n}\mu$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ and that the Radon-Nikodym derivative $f_{1/n}=\frac{d}{dm}T_{1/n}\mu$ belongs to $L^1(X)$, that is, $T_{1/n}\mu=f_{1/n}m\in\mathscr P_2^\ast(X)$. Hence Proposition \[p4.3\] ensures that $\{ T_t(f_{1/n}m) \}_{t\in[0, \infty)}$ is an absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P_2^\ast(X).$ By Theorem \[t4.1\], $\{T_t(f_{1/n}m)\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ gives the unique heat flow with initial value $T_{1/n}\mu=f_{1/n}m$, which means that for all $s>t\ge0$, holds with $\mu_r=(T_rf_{1/n})m$ when $t\le r\le s$. Observe that $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[\frac1n,\,\fz)}=\{T_t(T_{1/n}\mu)\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}=\{T_t(f_{1/n}m)\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$. We further obtain $\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu )<\fz$ for all $t\ge\frac1n$, $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[1/n,\,\fz)}$ is an absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P^\ast(X)$, and for all $\frac1n\le t<s$, holds with $\mu_r=T_r\mu$ when $t\le r\le s$. By the arbitrariness of $n$, we finally have that $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\ge(0,\,\fz)}$ is a locally absolutely continuous curve in $\mathscr P^\ast(X)$, $\mathscr U_\fz(T_t\mu)<\fz$ for all $t>0$ and for all $0< t<s$, holds with $\mu_r=T_r\mu$ when $t\le r\le s$.
Furthermore, for $1< N<\fz$, associated to the convex function $U_N\equiv Nr-Nr^{1-1/N}$ for $r\ge0$, we have the functional $\mathscr U_N:\ \mathscr P_2( X)\to\rr\cup\{+\fz\}$, which is well defined; see for example [@lv09]. Assume that $\mathscr U_N$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $N\in[1,\,\fz)$ and $\lz\ge0$. Then, as proved in [@lv09 Theorem 5.31], $( X,\,d,\,m) $ satisfies a doubling property.
\[c4.2\] Assume that $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property. If $\mathscr U_N$ is weakly $0$-displacement convex for some $N\in(1,\,\fz)$, and $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$, then the heat flow gives the unique gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$.
As pointed out by the referee, the weak $0$-displacement convexity assumption on $\mathscr U_N$ and the weak $\lz$-displacement convexity assumption on $\mathscr U_\fz$ in Corollary \[c4.2\] can be replaced by a weaker condition, the curvature-dimension condition $CD(\lz,\,N)$ (see [@s06b Definition 1.3]). Indeed, under the condition $CD(\lz,\,N)$, by [@s06b Proposition 1.6], $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex. By the compactness of $X$ and [@s06b Corollary 2.4], $m$ satisfies the doubling property, and by [@r11], $(X,
\,d,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,
1)$-Poincaré inequality. With these, the conclusion of Corollary 5.2 follows from Theorem \[t4.1\].
By the linearity and symmetry of heat flows, we also have the following property of the gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$.
\[c4.3\] Let all the assumptions be as in Theorem \[t4.1\]. For every $\nu\in\mathscr P^\ast_2( X)$, let $\{\mu^\nu_t\}_{t\ge0}$ be the gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$ with $\mu_0^\nu=\nu$
Then
\(i) for all $\nu_0,\,\nu_1\in\mathscr P^\ast_2( X)$, $t\ge0$ and $\lz\in[0,\,1]$, $$\mu_t^{(1-\lz)\nu_0+\lz\nu_1}= (1-\lz)\mu_t^{\nu_0}+ \lz\mu_t^{\nu_1};$$
\(ii) for all nonnegative $f,\,g\in L^1( X)$ with $\|f\|_{L^1( X)}=\|g\|_{L^1( X)}=1$ and $t\ge0$, $$\int_ X f\,d\mu_t^{gm}=\int_ X g\,d\mu_t^{fm}.$$
Recall that, under a non-branching condition, additional semiconcavity and local angle conditions, the linearity property in Corollary \[c4.3\] (i) was proved in [@s07]. For the definitions of [*$K$-semiconcavity*]{} and [*local angle condition*]{} introduced in [@s07], see Section 6 below. We do not know if these conditions hold under the assumptions of Theorem \[t4.1\]. Also recall that the linearity property fails on Finsler manifolds as pointed out in [@os09].
After we obtained Theorem \[t4.1\], we learned about a related result established in [@ags11 Theorem 9.3]. Indeed, instead of the Dirichlet energy form $\mathscr E$, Ambrosio, Gigli and Savaré [@ags11] considered the Cheeger energy functional ${\bf {Ch}}$ on $L^2(X)$, which is not necessarily Hilbertian. They showed that, under the convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$ and very few assumptions on $X$, the gradient flow of ${\bf Ch}$ coincides with the gradient flow of the entropy $\mathscr U_\fz$; see [@ags11 Theorem 9.3]. Their proof also relies on the procedure outlined in [@gko] but works at a high level of generality.
Assume that $X$ satisfies a doubling property and supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. Then, with the aid of Lemma \[l2.4\], ${\bf Ch}$ can be written as $${\bf {Ch}}(f)=\int_X(\aplip f)^2\,dm.$$ Moreover, by Theorem \[t2.2\] (ii), $$\label{e4.x2}
\mathscr E(f,\,f)\le {\bf Ch}(f)\le C_1\mathscr E(f,\,f),$$ while $C_1=1$ if we further assume that $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ supports a Newtonian property. We point out that, under the assumptions of Theorem \[t4.1\], the conclusion of Theorem \[t4.1\] follows from with $C_1=1$ and [@ags11 Theorem 9.3].
Recall that in Theorem \[t4.1\], we showed that the Newtonian property is a sufficient condition to identify the heat flow and the gradient flow of entropy. Combining Theorem \[t2.2\], Proposition \[p4.3\] and [@ags11 Theorem 9.3], we will show that the Newtonian property is also necessary in the following sense.
\[t4.2\] Assume that $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is compact and satisfies a doubling property, and that $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$. Then the following are equivalent:
\(i) For every $\mu\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$, the heat flow $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ gives the unique gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$ with initial value $\mu$.
\(ii) $( X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies the Newtonian property.
\(iii) For all $u\in\bd$, $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)=(\aplip u)^2$ almost everywhere.
We recall again that, by [@r11; @r12], the $\lambda$-displacement convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$ implies that $(X,\,d,\,m)$ supports a weak $(1,\,2)$-Poincaré inequality. Then the equivalence of (ii) and (iii) follows from Theorem \[t2.2\] and Lemma \[l2.5\]. If (ii) holds, then by Theorem \[t4.1\], we have (i). Now assume that (i) holds. Let $f\in\lip (X)$ be a positive function and set $\mu=fm\in\mathscr P_2^\ast( X)$. By Proposition \[p4.3\], we have that for almost all $t\in[0,\,\fz)$, $$\label{e4.x1}
|\dot T_t\mu|^2\le\int_ X\frac1{T_tf}\,d\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf).$$ Moveover the assumption (i) says that $\{T_t\mu\}_{t\in[0,\,\fz)}$ is the gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$. By this, the convexity of $\mathscr U_\fz$, and Theorem 9.3 and Theorem 8.5 of [@ags11], we know that $ T_t\mu$ coincides with the gradient flow of ${\bf Ch}$ and satisfies that for almost all $t\in(0,\,\fz)$, $$|\dot T_t\mu|^2=\int_ X\frac1{T_tf} (\aplip T_tf)^2\,dm.$$ This and , with the aid of $ \Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf)\le(\aplip T_tf)^2m$ given in , further gives $ \Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf)=(\aplip T_tf)^2m$ for almost all $t\in(0,\fz)$. Therefore, $$\mathscr E(f,\,f)=\lim_{t\to\fz}\mathscr E(T_tf,\,T_tf)\ge \liminf_{t\to0}\int_X(\aplip T_tf)^2\,dm.$$ Observing that $$\int_X(\aplip f-\aplip T_tf)^2\,dm \le \int_X[\aplip (f-T_tf)]^2\,dm
\ls \mathscr E(f-T_tf,\, f-T_tf)\to0,$$ we obtain $\mathscr E(f,\,f)= \int_X(\aplip f )^2\,dm$. With the help of $ \Gamma( f,\, f)\le(\aplip f)^2m$ given in again, we have $ \Gamma( f,\, f)=(\aplip f)^2m$ as desired. Then a density argument yields (iii).
Applications to (coarse) Ricci curvatures {#s5}
=========================================
In this section, we apply Corollary \[c2.1\] to a variant of the dual formula of Kuwada [@k10] and the coarse Ricci curvature of Ollivier in Theorem \[t5.1\] and Corollary 6.1, and then apply Theorem 5.1 to the Ricci curvatures of Bakry-Emery and Lott-Sturm-Villani in Corollary \[p5.3\]. We always let $ \mathscr E $ be a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2(X,\,m)$, assume that the topology induced by the intrinsic $d$ coincides with the original topology on $X$ and that $(X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property.
We begin with a variant of the dual formula established in [@k10 Theorem 2.2], which is closely related to the coarse Ricci curvature of Ollivier [@o09]. Let $\{P_x\}_{x\in X}\subset\mathscr P( X)$ be a family of probability measures on $X,$ so that the map $x\to P_x$ from $ X$ to $ \mathscr P( X)$ is continuous. Then $\{P_x\}_{x\in X} $ defines a bounded linear operator $P$ on $\mathscr C( X)$ by $Pf(x)=\int_ X f(y)\,dP_x(y)$ and we denote its dual operator by $P^\ast:\, \mathscr P( X)\to \mathscr P ( X)$. We also assume that $P_x$ is absolutely continuous with respect to $m$ with density $P_x(y)$ for all $x\in X$, and that $P_x(y)$ is a continuous function of $x$ for almost all $y\in X$. Observe that we do not assume that $\{P_x\}_{x\in X}$ has any relation with the Dirichlet form $\mathscr E$. By Corollary \[c2.1\] and [@k10], we have the following result.
\[t5.1\] Assume that $\mathscr E$ is a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2( X)$, the topology induced by the intrinsic distance is equivalent to the original topology on the locally compact space $X$, and $( X,\,d,\,m)$ satisfies the doubling property. Let $K_1\ge 0$ be a positive constant. Then the following are equivalent:
\(i) For all $\mu,\,\nu\in\mathscr P( X)$, $ W_1(P^\ast\mu,\,P^\ast\nu)\le K_1 W_1( \mu,\, \nu).$
\(ii) For all $f\in \lip( X)\cap L^\fz( X)$, $Pf\in \lip(X)$ and $\|Pf\|_{\lip( X)}\le K_1 \| f\|_{\lip( X)}.$
\(iii) For all $f\in \lip( X)\cap L^\fz( X)$, $Pf\in \lip(X)$ and $$\|\lip\, Pf\|_{L^\fz( X)}\le K_1 \|\lip\, f\|_{L^\fz( X)}.$$
\(iv) For all $f\in \lip( X)\cap L^\fz( X)$, $Pf\in \lip(X)$ and $$\lf\|\frac d{dm}\Gamma(Pf,\,Pf)\r\|_{L^\fz( X)}\le (K_1) ^2 \lf\| \frac d{dm}\Gamma(f,\,f)\r\|_{L^\fz( X)}.$$
For $K_1>0$, the equivalence between (i) and (ii) follows from [@k10 Theorem 2] (by taking $\wz d=K_1d$ there). Notice that the proof of [@k10 Theorem 2] for the case $p=1$ does not require any weak Poincaré inequality. The equivalence of (ii), (iii) and (iv) follows from $$\|u\|^2_{\lip(X)} =\|\lip\,u\|^2_{L^\fz(X)}=\lf\|\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u,\,u)\r\|_{L^\fz(X)}$$ with $u=f\in L^\fz(X)$ and $u=Pf\in L^\fz(X)$, see Corollary \[c2.1\]. For $K_1=0$, the equivalence of (i) through (iv) follows from the case $K_1+\ez$ with $\ez>0$ and an approximation argument. We omit the details.
Associated to $(X,\,d,\,P)$ with $P$ as above, Ollivier [@ol09] introduced the [*coarse Ricci curvature*]{} via $$\kz(x,\,y)=1-\frac{W_1(P^\ast\dz_x,\,P^\ast\dz_y)}{d(x,\,y)}.$$ $(X,\,d,\,P)$ is said to have the [*coarse Ricci curvature bounded from below by constant $K$*]{} if $\kz(x,\,y)\ge K$ for all $x,\,y\in X$. Obviously, $K\le1$. Applying Theorem \[t5.1\], we have the following result.
\[c5.x1\] Under the assumptions of Theorem \[t5.1\], the following are equivalent:
\(i) $(X,\,d,\,P)$ has the coarse Ricci curvature bounded from below by $K\le 1 $.
\(ii) For all $\mu,\,\nu\in\mathscr P( X)$, $ W_1(P^\ast\mu,\,P^\ast\nu)\le (1-K) W_1( \mu,\, \nu) $.
\(iii) For all $f\in \lip( X)\cap L^\fz( X)$, $Pf\in \lip(X)$ and $$\lf\|\frac d{dm}\Gamma(Pf,\,Pf)\r\|_{L^\fz( X)}\le ( 1-K) ^2 \lf\| \frac d{dm}\Gamma(f,\,f)\r\|_{L^\fz( X)}.$$
By Theorem \[t5.1\], (i) follows from (ii) or (iii). Conversely, if (i) holds, then (ii) holds with $\mu=\dz_x$ and $\nu=\dz_y$, which together with [@k10 Lemma 3.3] further yields that (ii) holds with $\mu $ and $\nu \in\mathscr P(X)$.
On the other hand, combining [@s07 Theorem 1], [@k10], and Theorems \[t4.1\] and \[t2.2\] of our paper, and following the procedure of [@gko], we know that, under some additional conditions, a Ricci curvature bound from below in the sense of Lott-Sturm-Villani [@lv09; @s06a; @s06b] implies that in the sense of Bakry-Emery [@b97; @be83]. Recall that $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ is said to have Ricci curvature bounded from below by $\lz\in\rr$ in the sense of Bakry-Emery if for all $f\in \bd$ and $t\ge0$, and for almost all $x\in X$, $$\label{e5.x3}
\frac d{dm}\Gamma(T_tf,\,T_tf)(x)\le e^{-2\lz t} T_t\lf(\frac d{dm}\Gamma(f,\,f)\r)(x)$$ Indeed, Savaré [@s07] obtained the contraction property of the gradient flow of the entropy with the aid of the semiconcavity and local angle conditions. Recall that $ X$ is [*$K$-semiconcave*]{} if $K\ge 1$ and for every geodesic $\gz$ and $y\in X$, $$d^2(\gz(t),\,y)\ge (1-t)d^2(\gz(0),\,y)+td^2(\gz(1),\,y)-Kt(1-t)d^2(\gz(0),\,\gz(1)).$$ Moreover, $X$ satisfies the [*local angle condition*]{} if for every triplet of geodesics $\gz_i$, $i=1,\,2,\,3$, emanating from the same initial point $x_0$, the corresponding angles $\angle(\gz_i,\,\gz_j) \in[0,\,\pi]$ satisfy $$\angle(\gz_1,\,\gz_2)+\angle(\gz_2,\,\gz_3)+\angle(\gz_3,\,\gz_1)\le 2\pi,$$ where $$\angle(\gz_i,\,\gz_j)\equiv\liminf_{s,\,t\to0+}\frac{d^2(x_0,\,\gz_i(s))+d^2(x_0,\,\gz_j(t))-d^2( \gz_i(s),\,\gz_j(s))}{
2d(x_0,\,\gz_i(s))d(x_0,\,\gz_j(t))}.$$ Kuwada established a dual relation between contraction of the gradient flow in Wassertein distance and its pointwise Lipchitz constant estimate (see [@k10]). Under our assumptions, Theorem \[t2.2\] identifies the pointwise Lipschitz constant with length of the gradient, while Theorem \[t4.1\] identifies the heat flow and gradient flow.
\[p5.3\] Under the assumptions of Theorem \[t4.1\], and further assuming that $(X,\,d)$ is compact, $( X,\,d,\,m)$ is $K$-semiconcave for some $K\ge1$ and satisfies a local angle condition, if $\mathscr U_\fz$ is weakly $\lz$-displacement convex for some $\lz\in\rr$, then the following hold:
\(i) For all $\mu,\,\nu\in\mathscr P( X)$, $ W_2(T_t\mu,\,T_t\nu)\le e^{- \lz t} W_2( \mu,\, \nu),$
\(ii) For all $f\in \bd$ and $t\ge0$, $T_tf\in\lip(X)$ and for all $x\in X$, $$\label{e5.x2}
[\lip\, T_tf (x) ]^2\le e^{-2\lz t} T_t( \aplip f )^2(x).$$
\(iii) For all $f\in \bd$ and $t\ge0$, holds for almost all $x\in X$.
To see (i), since the heat flow coincides with gradient flow of $\mathscr U_\fz$ as given in \[t4.1\], it suffices to prove that for the gradient flows $\{\mu_t\}_{t\ge 0}$ and $\{\nu_t\}_{t\ge 0}$, $ W_2 (\mu_t,\,\nu_t)\le e^{- \lz t} W_2 (\mu_0,\,\nu_0)$. But this was already proved by Savaré [@s07] and hence we have (i).
Obviously, applying (ii) and Theorem \[t2.2\] (iii), we have (iii).
Moreover, (ii) follows from (i), [@k10 Theorem 2] and an approximation argument. Indeed, for $f\in\lip(X)$, by [@k10 Theorem 2], follows from (i). Generally, let $f\in \bd$. By Theorem \[t2.2\] (i), $\lip(X)$ is dense in $\bd$. Thus, there exists a sequence $f_i\in\lip(X)$ such that $f_i\to f$ in $\bd$ as $i\to\fz$. For each $x\in X$, $$\begin{aligned}
|T_tf(x)-T_tf_i(x)|&&\le \int_XT_t(x,\,y)|f(y)-f_i(y)|\,dy\\
&&\le \|T_t(x,\,\cdot)\|_{L^2(X)} \|f -f_i \|_{L^2(X)} \le C(t)\|f -f_i \|_{L^2(X)},\end{aligned}$$ where $C(t)=\sup_{x\in X} \|T_t(x,\,\cdot)\|_{L^2(X)}<\fz$. Thus for each pair of $x,\,y\in X$, $$|T_tf(x)-T_tf(y)|\le 2C(t)\|f -f_i \|_{L^2(X)}+ |T_tf_i(x)-T_tf_i(y)|.$$ Notice that for every rectifiable curve $\gz$, $$|T_tf_i(x)-T_tf_i(y)|\le \int_\gz \lip\, T_tf_i \,ds\le e^{- \lz t}\int_\gz [T_t(\lip f_i)^2]^{1/2}\,ds$$ and by Theorem \[t2.2\] (iii), $$\begin{aligned}
[T_t(\lip f_i)^2]^{1/2} &&\le [T_t(\lip f_i-\aplip f)^2]^{1/2}+[T_t(\aplip f)^2]^{1/2}\\
&&
\le [T_t(\aplip (f_i- f))^2]^{1/2}+[T_t(\aplip f)^2]^{1/2}\\
&&\le \wz C(t) \|\aplip(f -f_i) \|_{L^2(X)}+[T_t(\aplip f)^2]^{1/2}\\
&&\le \wz C(t) \| f -f_i \|_{\bd}+[T_t(\aplip f)^2]^{1/2},\end{aligned}$$ where $\wz C(t)=\sup_{x,\,y\in X} T_t(x,\,y)<\fz$. Then $$|T_tf(x)-T_tf(y)|\le [2C(t)+\wz C(t) e^{- \lz t}\ell(\gz)]\| f -f_i \|_{\bd}+ e^{- \lz t}\int_\gz [T_t(\aplip f )^2]^{1/2}\,ds$$ and hence $$|T_tf(x)-T_tf(y)|\le e^{- \lz t}\int_\gz [T_t(\aplip f )^2]^{1/2}\,ds\le \wz C(t) \ell(\gz)\|f\|_\bd.$$ Choosing $\gz$ to be a geodesic joining $x$ and $y$, we see that $T_tf\in\lip(X)$. Moreover, by the continuity of the heat kernel and hence of $e^{- \lz t}[T_t(\aplip f )^2]^{1/2}$, we have that $\lip\, T_tf(x)\le e^{- \lz t}[T_t(\aplip f )^2(x)]^{1/2}$ for all $x\in X$.
Notice that, by [@s07; @o09], compact Aleksandrov spaces with curvature bounded from below satisfy the assumptions of Corollary 6.2 (in particular, the $K$-semiconcavity and the local angle condition) and thus they have Ricci curvature bounded from below in the sense of Bakry-Emery. This conclusion can also be found in [@gko].
Asymptotics of the gradient of the heat kernel {#s6}
==============================================
We are going to give a characterization for the condition that $\Gamma(d_x,\,d_x)=m$ for all $x\in X$ via the short time asymptotics of the gradient of the heat semigroup; see Theorem \[t6.1\] below.
Assume that $X$ is compact and $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ has a spectral gap, that is, there exists a positive constant $C_{\rm spec}$ such that for all $u\in \bd$, $$\int_X|u-\bint_X u\,dm|^2\,dm\le C_{\rm spec}\mathscr E(u,\,u).$$ Obviously, if $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfies a weak Poincaré inequality in the sense of Section 2, then it has a spectral gap. Then the Varahdan asymptotic behavior of heat kernels was established in [@r01]: for all $x,\,y\in X$, $$\label{e6.7}
\lim_{t\to0}-4t\log T_t(x,\,y)= d^2(x,\,y);$$ see [@n97] for Lipschitz manifolds and [@hr03] for general local and conservative Dirichlet forms.
On the other hand, on a Riemannian manifold, Malliavin and Stroock [@ms96] (see also [@st97]) proved that $$\label{e6.x7}
\lim_{t\to0}-4t[\nabla \log T_t(\cdot ,\,y)](x)= [\nabla d^2(\cdot ,\,y)](x),$$ for all $y\in M$ and all $x\in M$ outside the cut locus of $y$, where $\nabla$ denotes the gradient on a Riemannian manifold. On $\rn$, the Gaussian kernel $h_t(x)=c_nt^{n/2}\exp(-\frac{|x|^2}{4t}) $ satisfies $ |\nabla|x|^2|= {4t|\nabla \log h_t(x)| } $ for all $t\in(0,\,\fz)$.
We show that a weak variant of will reflect a connection between the length structure and gradient structure of Dirichlet forms.
\[t6.1\] Let $\mathscr E$ be a regular, strongly local Dirichlet form on $L^2(X,\,m)$. Assume that $X$ is compact, the topology induced by $d$ coincides with the original topology, and that $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ has a spectral gap. Then the following are equivalent:
\(i) For all $x\in X$, $\Gamma(d_{x},\,d_{x})= m$.
\(ii) For every Borel measurable set $A$ with positive measure and each $\vz\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$, $$\label{e6.3}
\int_ X\vz d\Gamma(t\log T_t1_A,\,t\log T_t1_A )\to
\int_ X\vz d\Gamma(d_A^2/4,\, d_A^2/4 ).$$
Notice that is a weak variant of while has a weak variant as established in [@r01 Theorem 3.10].
\[p6.1\] Under the assumptions of Theorem \[t6.1\], for every Borel measurable set $A$ with positive measure and each $\vz\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$, $$\label{e6.2}
\int_ X (-t\log T_t1_A)\vz\,dm\to
\int_ X\vz d_A^2/4\, dm.$$
We first prove that (ii) implies (i). Let $A$ be a Borel measurable set in $ X$, $u_t=-t\log T_t1_A$ for all $t>0$, and $u_0=d_A ^2/4$. Then $u_t,\,u_0\in\bd_\loc$. From $\Gamma(d_{x },\,d_{x })\le m$, it follows that $\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)\le u_0\,m.$ It suffices to prove the converse inequality.
Notice that the strong locality of $\mathscr E$ implies that $\Gamma$ satisfies the Lebniz rule, namely, for $F\in C^1(\rr)$, every $\phi \in\bd\cap L^\fz( X)$ and $\vz\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$, we have $$\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(F\circ\phi,\,F\circ\phi)= \int_ X \vz (F'\circ\phi)^2\,d\Gamma( \phi,\,\phi),$$ and if $F\in C^2(\rr)$, $$\int_ X\vz\Delta (F\circ\phi)\,d\mu=\int_ X \vz (F'\circ\phi) \Delta\phi\,d\mu+
\int_ X \vz (F''\circ\phi)\,d\Gamma( \phi,\,\phi).$$
Then for every $\vz\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$, by $$\int_ X \vz\lf[\frac{d}{dt}T_t1_A+\Delta T_t1_A\r]\,d\mu=0,$$ we have $$t\int_ X \frac{d u_t}{dt}\vz\,d\mu-t\int_ X\Delta u_t\vz\,d\mu=\int_ X u_t\vz\,d\mu-
\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(u_t,\,u_t),$$ from which it follows that $$t\int_ X\frac{d u_t}{dt}\vz\,d\mu+t\mathscr E(u_t,\,\vz)=\int_ X u_t\vz\,d\mu-
\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(u_t,\,u_t)$$ and that $$\begin{aligned}
&&\frac1{ t}\int_0^t\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(u_s,\,u_s)\,ds\label{e6.4}\\
&&\quad=\frac1t\int_0^t\int_ X u_s\vz\,d\mu\,ds-\frac1t\int_0^t\int_ X s\frac{du_s}{ds} \vz\,d\mu\,ds-\frac1t\int_0^ts\mathscr E(u_s,\,\vz)\,ds.\nonumber\end{aligned}$$
Let $\wz\vz\in \bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$ such that $\wz\vz=1$ on the support of $\vz$. Notice that $$|\mathscr E(u_s,\,\vz)|=\lf|\int_ X \wz\vz\,d\Gamma(u_s,\,\vz)\r|
\le \mathscr E(\vz,\,\vz)\int_ X(\wz\vz)^2\,d\Gamma(u_s,\,u_s ).$$ Then, by , we know that $\mathscr E(u_s,\,\phi)$ is uniformly bounded with respect to $s$. Hence $$\label{e6.5}
\frac1t\int_0^ts\mathscr E(u_s,\,\vz)\,ds\to0$$ as $t\to0$.
By , for every $\vz\in\bd\cap\mathscr C_0( X)$, $$\int_ X u_0\vz\,d\mu=\lim_{s\to0}\int_ X u_s\vz\,d\mu.$$ Hence $$\frac1t\int_0^t\int_ X u_s\vz\,d\mu\,ds\to \int_ X u_0\vz\,d\mu$$ and $$\frac1t\int_0^t\int_ X s\frac{du_s}{ds} \vz\,d\mu=\lim_{\ez\to0}
\frac st\int_ X u_s \vz\,d\mu\Big|_{s=\ez}^t- \frac1t\int_0^t\int_ X u_s \vz\,d\mu\,ds
\to 0$$ as $t\to0$. From these two facts, and , it follows that $$\frac1{ t}\int_0^t\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(u_s,\,u_s)\,ds\to \int_ X u_0\vz\,d\mu$$ as $t \to0$, which together with implies $$\label{e6.6}
\int_ X \vz\,d\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)= \int_ X u_0\vz\,d\mu.$$ This gives $\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)= u_0\,\mu$. Moreover, if $A$ is compact, then for all $\vz\in\mathscr C_0( X)$ with $\mathrm {supp}\, \vz\subset A^\complement$, $$\int_ X\vz\,d\Gamma(d_A,\,d_A)= 4 \int_ X\vz\,d\Gamma(\sqrt {u_0},\,\sqrt{u_0})= \int_ X\vz\frac1{ u_0}\,
d\Gamma( {u_0},\, {u_0})= \int_ X\vz\,d\,\mu,$$ which means that $\Gamma(d_A,\,d_A)=\mu$. Since $d_{\overline{B(x_0,\,r)}}\to d_{x_0}$ in $\bd_\loc$ as $r\to0$, we have (i).
Now we turn to prove that (i) implies (ii). It suffices to prove that $\mathscr E(u_0,\,u_0)\ge \|u_0\|_{L^1(X)}$. Indeed, from this and $\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)\le u_0m$, it follows that $ u_0-\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(u_0,\,u_0)=0$ almost everywhere, which further implies that $\frac{d}{dm}\Gamma(d_A,\,d_A)=1$ almost everywhere on $A^\complement$, and hence gives (i). We first observe that, by our assumption (ii), $$\label{e6.x1}
\mathscr E(u_0,\,u_0)= \lim_{s\to0}\mathscr E(u_s,\,u_s)= \lim_{t\to0}\frac1t\int_0^t \mathscr E(u_s,\,u_s)\,dt.$$ But, taking $\vz=1$, yields that $$\begin{aligned}
\frac1t\int_0^t \mathscr E(u_s,\,u_s)\,dt&&= \frac1t\int_0^t \|u_s\|_{L^1(X)}\,ds-
\frac1t\int_0^ts\frac d{ds}\|u_s\|_{L^1(X)} \,ds \\
&&=\frac1t\int_0^t \|u_s\|_{L^1(X)}\,ds- \frac1t(s\|u_s\|_{L^1(X)})\Big|_{s\to0}^{s=t}+
\frac1t\int_0^t \|u_s\|_{L^1(X)} \,ds \\
&&=2\frac1t\int_0^t \|u_s\|_{L^1(X)}\,ds- \|u_t\|_{L^1(X)}.\end{aligned}$$ Then, by as given in Proposition \[p6.1\], taking $\vz=1$, we have $\|u_t\|_{L^1(X)}\to \|u_0\|_{L^1(X)}$ as $t$ tends to $0$, which yields that $$\lim_{t\to0}\frac1t\int_0^t \mathscr E(u_s,\,u_s)\,dt= \|u_0\|_{L^1(X)}.$$ Combining this with , we have $\mathscr E(u_0,\,u_0)\ge \|u_0\|_{L^1(X)}$ as desired.
There exist a large variety of $(X,\,\mathscr E,\,m)$ satisfying $\Gamma (d_x,\,d_x)=m$ for all $x\in X$, including compact Riemannian manifolds, compact Alexandrov spaces, and the Sierpinski gasket considered in Section 3. Theorem \[t6.1\] (ii) then gives the short time asymptotics of the gradient of the heat kernel for them.
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J. Lott and C. Villani, Hamilton-Jacobi semigroup on length spaces and applications, J. Math. Pures Appl. (9) 88 (2007), 219-229.
J. Lott and C. Villani, Ricci curvature for metric-measure spaces via optimal transport, Ann. of Math. (2) 169 (2009), 903-991.
P. Malliavin and D. W. Stroock, Short time behavior of the heat kernel and its logarithmic derivatives, J. Differential Geom. 44 (1996), 550-570.
J. R. Norris, Heat kernel asymptotics and the distance function in Lipschitz Riemannian manifolds, Acta Math. 179 (1997), 79-103.
S.-I. Ohta, Gradient flows on Wasserstein spaces over compact Alexandrov spaces, Amer. J. Math. 131 (2009), 475-516.
S.-I. Ohta and K.-T. Sturm, Heat flow on Finsler manifolds, Comm. Pure Appl. Math. 62 (2009), 1386-1433.
Y. Ollivier, Ricci curvature of Markov chains on metric spaces, J. Funct. Anal. 256 (2009), 810-864.
F. Otto, The geometry of dissipative evolution equations: the porous medium equation, Comm. Partial Differential Equations 26 (2001), 101-174.
T. Rajala, Local Poincaré inequalities from stable curvature conditions on metric spaces, Calc. Var. Partial Differential Equations, 44 (2012), 477-494.
T. Rajala, Interpolated measures with bounded density in metric spaces satisfying the curvature-dimension conditions of Sturm, preprint.
J. A. Ramírez, Short-time asymptotics in Dirichlet spaces, Comm. Pure Appl. Math. 54 (2001), 259-293.
M.-K. von Renesse and K.-T. Sturm, Transport inequalities, gradient estimates, entropy, and Ricci curvature, Comm. Pure Appl. Math. 58 (2005), 923-940.
G. Savaré, Gradient flows and diffusion semigroups in metric spaces under lower curvature bounds, C. R. Math. Acad. Sci. Paris 345 (2007), 151-154.
N. Shanmugalingam, Newtonian spaces: an extension of Sobolev spaces to metric measure spaces, Rev. Mat. Iberoamericana 16 (2000), 243-279.
N. Shanmugalingam, A universality property of Sobolev spaces in metric measure spaces. Sobolev spaces in mathematics. I, 345-359, Int. Math. Ser. (N. Y.), 8, Springer, New York, 2009.
D. W. Stroock and J. Turetsky, Short time behavior of logarithmic derivatives of the heat kernel, Asian J. Math. 1 (1997), 17-33.
K.-T. Sturm, Analysis on local Dirichlet spaces. I. Recurrence, conservativeness and $L^p$-Liouville properties, J. Reine Angew. Math. 456 (1994), 173-196.
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Pekka Koskela
Department of Mathematics and Statistics, P. O. Box 35 (MaD), FI-40014, University of Jyväskylä, Finland
[*E-mail address*]{}: `pkoskela@maths.jyu.fi`
Yuan Zhou
Department of Mathematics, Beijing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics, Beijing 100191, P. R. China
and
Department of Mathematics and Statistics, P. O. Box 35 (MaD), FI-40014, University of Jyväskylä, Finland
[*E-mail address*]{}: `yuanzhou@buaa.edu.cn`
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | ArXiv |
Traducción de
Carlos Milla Soler
SÍGUENOS EN
@megustaleerebooks
@megustaleer
@megustaleer
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_En recuerdo de Sandra Bland_
DOOLING, CAPITAL DEL CONDADO DE DOOLING
**Truman Mayweather** , conocido como **Trume** , 26, cocinero de meta.
**Tiffany Jones** , 28, prima de Truman.
**Linny Mars** , 40, operadora del departamento de Policía.
**Lila Norcross** , 45, jefa del departamento de Policía.
**Jared Norcross** , 16, alumno de tercero en el instituto, hijo de Lila y Clint.
**Anton Dubcek** , 26, dueño y operario de Anton el Chico de la Piscina, S. R. L.
**Magda Dubcek** , 56, madre de Anton.
**Frank Geary** , 38, agente del departamento de Control Animal.
**Elaine Geary** , 35, voluntaria en Goodwill y esposa de Frank.
**Nana Geary** , 11, alumna de la escuela de secundaria.
**Vieja Essie** , 60, indigente.
**Terry Coombs** , 45, del departamento de Policía.
**Rita Coombs** , 42, esposa de Terry.
**Roger** **Elway** , 28, del departamento de Policía.
**Jessica** **Elway** , 28, esposa de Roger.
**Platinum** **Elway** , 7 meses, hija de Roger y Jessica.
**Reed** **Barrows** , 31, del departamento de Policía.
**Leanne** **Barrows** , 32, esposa de Reed.
**Gary Barrows** , 2, hijo de Reed y Leanne.
**Vern Rangle** , 48, del departamento de Policía.
**Elmore Pearl** , 38, del departamento de Policía.
**Rupe Wittstock** , 26, del departamento de Policía.
**Will Wittstock** , 27, del departamento de Policía.
**Dan Treat** , conocido como **Treater** , 27, del departamento de Policía.
**Jack Albertson** , 61, del departamento de Policía (retirado).
**Mick Napolitano** , 58, del departamento de Policía (retirado).
**Nate McGee** , 60, del departamento de Policía (retirado).
**Carson Struthers** , alias **Recio** , 32, exboxeador amateur.
**J. T. Wittstock** , 64, entrenador de los Warriors, equipo de fútbol juvenil del instituto.
**Garth Flickinger** , 52, cirujano plástico.
**Fritz** **Meshaum** , 37, mecánico.
**Barry** **Holden** , 47, abogado de oficio.
**Oscar** **Silver** , 83, juez.
**Mary** **Pak** , 16, alumna de tercero en el instituto.
**Eric** **Blass** , 17, alumno de tercero en el instituto.
**Curt** **McLeod** , 17, alumno de tercero en el instituto.
**Kent** **Daley** , 17, alumno de tercero en el instituto.
**Willy** **Burke** , 75, voluntario.
**Dorothy Harper** , 80, jubilada.
**Margaret O'Donnell** , 72, hermana de Gail, jubilada.
**Gail Collins** , 68, hermana de Margaret, secretaria en la consulta de un dentista.
**Señora Ransom** , 77, panadera.
**Molly Ransom** , 10, nieta de la señora Ransom.
**Johnny Lee Kronsky** , 41, investigador privado.
**Jaime Howland** , 44, profesor de Historia.
**Eve Black** , aparenta unos treinta años, desconocida.
LA CÁRCEL
**Janice Coates** , 57, directora del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Lawrence Hicks** , conocido como **Lore** , 50, subdirector del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Rand Quigley** , 30, funcionario del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Vanessa Lampley** , 42, funcionaria del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling y campeona de la competición de pulsos de Ohio Valley en 2010 y 2011, grupo de edad 35-45.
**Millie Olson** , 29, funcionaria del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Don Peters** , 35, funcionario del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Tig Murphy** , 45, funcionario del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Billy Wettermore** , 23, funcionario del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Scott Hughes** , 19, funcionario del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Blanche McIntyre** , 65, secretaria del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Clinton Norcross,** conocido como **Clint** , 48, psiquiatra del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling y esposo de Lila.
**Jeanette Sorley** , 36, reclusa n.º 4582511-1 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Reese Marie Dempster** , conocida como **Ree** , 24, reclusa n.º 4602597-2 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Kitty McDavid** , 29, reclusa n.º 4603241-2 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Angel Fitzroy** , 27, reclusa n.º 4601959-3 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Maura Dunbarton** , 64, reclusa n.º 4028200-1 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Kayleigh Rawlings** , 40, reclusa n.º 4521131-2 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Nell Seeger** , 37, reclusa n.º 4609198-1 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Celia Frode** , 30, reclusa n.º 4633978-2 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
**Claudia Stephenson** , alias **Cuerpo de Dinamita** , 38, reclusa n.º 4659873-1 del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
OTROS
**Lowell Griner** , alias **Pequeño Low** , 35, delincuente.
**Maynard Griner** , 35, delincuente.
**Michaela Morgan** , antes apellidada **Coates** , 26, periodista de ámbito nacional, NewsAmerica.
**Compadre Hoja Dorada** (Scott David Winstead Jr.), 60, pastor-general, los Dorados.
**Un zorro común** , entre 4 y 6 años. __
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_Lo mismo da que seas rica o pobre,_
_que seas lista o tonta._
_El sitio de una mujer en este mundo_
_está en el puño de un hombre._
_Y si has nacido mujer,_
_has nacido para que te hagan sufrir,_
_has nacido para que te pisoteen,_
_para que te mientan,_
_para que te engañen,_
_y para que te traten como a un perro._
__
SANDY POSEY,
«Born a Woman»
(letra de Martha Sharp)
No puedes _no_ preocuparte por un recuadro de luz, te lo digo yo.
REESE MARIE DEMPSTER,
reclusa n.º 4602597-2
Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling
Se la avisó. Se le dio una explicación. Aun así, insistió.
ADDISON «MITCH» MCCONNELL,
senador, en referencia a la
senadora Elizabeth Warren
###
_Evie ríe al ver la mariposa nocturna. Se posa en su antebrazo desnudo, y ella acaricia las ondas grises y marrones que colorean sus alas. «Hola, preciosa», la saluda. La mariposa emprende el vuelo. Sube, sube y sube, hasta que la engulle un haz de sol enredado entre las relucientes hojas verdes, a siete metros por encima de Evie, que se encuentra en el suelo, entre las raíces._
_Una soga cobriza se descuelga desde el agujero negro que hay en el centro del tronco y zigzaguea entre las láminas de corteza. Evie no se fía de la serpiente, como es natural. Ya le ha causado problemas antes._
_Su mariposa y otras diez mil se elevan desde la copa del árbol en una nube crepitante de color parduzco. El enjambre ondea en el cielo hacia los pinos replantados de aspecto enfermizo que se alzan más allá del prado. Evie se levanta y lo sigue. Los tallos crujen bajo sus pies, y la hierba, que le llega a la cintura, le araña la piel desnuda. Mientras avanza en dirección al bosque triste, talado casi por completo, percibe los primeros olores a sustancias químicas —amoníaco, benceno, petróleo y otros muchos, diez mil cortes en un solo pedazo de carne— y abandona la esperanza que, sin darse cuenta, albergaba._
_Desde sus huellas se propagan telarañas que destellan a la luz de la mañana._ __
_En la cárcel de mujeres,_
_setenta mujeres hay,_
_y ojalá con ellas_
_yo viviera._
_Así ese viejo triángulo tintinearía_
_por las orillas del Canal Real._
__
BRENDAN BEHAN
### 1
1
Ree preguntó a Jeanette si alguna vez se fijaba en el recuadro de luz proyectado por la ventana. Jeanette contestó que no. Ree ocupaba la cama superior de la litera; Jeanette, la inferior. Las dos estaban esperando a que se abrieran las celdas para el desayuno. Era una mañana más.
Al parecer, la compañera de celda de Jeanette se había dedicado a estudiar el recuadro. Ree explicó que primero se veía en la pared opuesta a la ventana, bajaba, bajaba, bajaba, se derramaba sobre la superficie del escritorio y finalmente llegaba al suelo. Como Jeanette podía comprobar en ese momento, allí estaba, en medio del suelo, en extremo resplandeciente.
—La verdad, Ree —dijo Jeanette—, no puedo preocuparme por un recuadro de luz.
—¡No puedes _no_ preocuparte por un recuadro de luz, te lo digo yo! —Ree dejó escapar el graznido mediante el cual expresaba que algo le parecía gracioso.
—Vale —respondió Jeanette—. Aunque no sé qué coño quiere decir eso.
Su compañera de celda soltó otro graznido.
Ree no era mala persona, pero daba la impresión de que el silencio la ponía nerviosa, como a un niño pequeño. Estaba entre rejas por uso fraudulento de tarjetas de crédito, falsificación y posesión de drogas destinadas al tráfico ilegal. Nada de eso se le daba demasiado bien, razón por la cual había acabado allí.
Jeanette estaba entre rejas por homicidio; en 2005, una noche de invierno, le clavó un destornillador de estrella en la entrepierna a su marido, Damian, quien, como iba ciego de droga, se limitó a quedarse sentado en un sillón y murió desangrado. Ella también iba ciega, claro.
—He mirado el reloj —informó Ree—. Lo he cronometrado. La luz tarda veintidós minutos en llegar desde la pared hasta ese punto en el suelo.
—Tendrías que llamar a los de _Guinness_ —contestó Jeanette.
—He soñado que comía tarta de chocolate con Michelle Obama, y ella se cabreaba: «¡Con eso vas a engordar, Ree!». Pero ella también estaba comiéndose un trozo. —Ree soltó un graznido—. ¡Qué va! No es verdad. Me lo he inventado. En realidad he soñado con una profe que tuve. Me repetía una y otra vez que yo no estaba en la clase que me correspondía, y yo le repetía una y otra vez que sí estaba en la clase que me correspondía, y ella decía vale, y luego seguía con la lección un rato, y al final volvía a decirme que no estaba en la clase que me correspondía, y yo decía que sí, que estaba en la clase que me correspondía, y así seguíamos, dale que dale. Más que nada era exasperante. ¿Tú qué has soñado, Jeanette?
—Pues... —Jeanette trató de hacer memoria, pero no se acordaba. Le parecía que con la nueva medicación dormía más profundamente. Antes a veces tenía pesadillas: soñaba con Damian. Por lo general, él aparecía con el mismo aspecto de la mañana siguiente, ya muerto, con la piel de un azul disparejo, como tinta aguada.
Jeanette había preguntado al doctor Norcross si pensaba que esos sueños podían tener algo que ver con la culpa. El doctor la miró con los ojos entrecerrados, como diciendo «No jodas, ¿en serio?» —expresión que la sacaba de quicio pero a la cual había acabado acostumbrándose—, y luego le preguntó si, en su opinión, la leche era blanca. Bueno, vale. Lo pillo. En cualquier caso, Jeanette no echaba de menos esos sueños.
—Lo siento, Ree. No me acuerdo de nada. Si he soñado algo, ya se me ha borrado.
En algún lugar del pasillo de la segunda planta del módulo B, se oyó un taconeo contra el cemento: algún funcionario que hacía una comprobación de último minuto antes de abrir las puertas.
Jeanette cerró los ojos. Se inventó un sueño. En él, la cárcel estaba en ruinas. Exuberantes enredaderas trepaban por las antiguas paredes de la celda y filtraban la brisa de primavera. Había desaparecido parte del techo, roído por el tiempo, de modo que solo quedaba un saliente. Un par de lagartijas correteaban por una pila de escombros herrumbrosos. En el aire revoloteaban mariposas. Los intensos aromas de la tierra y las hojas sazonaban lo que quedaba de la celda. Bobby, de pie junto a ella en una brecha de la pared, la miraba impresionado. Su madre era arqueóloga. Había descubierto ese lugar.
—¿Tú crees que puedes salir en un concurso de la tele si tienes antecedentes penales?
La visión se desvaneció. Jeanette dejó escapar un gemido. En fin, fue bonito mientras duró. La vida era decididamente mejor con las pastillas. Le permitían acceder a un lugar tranquilo y relajado. Había que reconocérselo al doctor: la química mejoraba la vida. Jeanette volvió a abrir los párpados.
Ree miraba a Jeanette con los ojos como platos. Era poco lo que podía decirse en favor de la cárcel, pero quizá una chica como Ree corría menos peligro dentro que fuera. En el mundo exterior, era muy posible que acabase atropellada por un coche. O vendiendo drogas a un estupa con toda la pinta de estupa. Como había sido el caso.
—¿Qué pasa? —preguntó Ree.
—Nada. Es que estaba en el paraíso, solo eso, y lo has echado a perder con esa bocaza tuya.
—¿Qué?
—Da igual. Mira, en mi opinión, debería haber un concurso en el que solo pudiera participar gente con antecedentes. Podría llamarse _Premio a la Mentira._
—¡Me encanta! ¿Cómo funcionaría?
Jeanette se incorporó, bostezó y se encogió de hombros.
—Tendré que pensarlo. Ya sabes, establecer las reglas.
Su hogar era como siempre había sido y como siempre sería, por los siglos de los siglos, amén: una celda de diez pasos de largo y cuatro pasos entre la litera y la puerta. Las paredes de cemento eran lisas, de color crudo. Sus fotos y postales, abarquilladas en los bordes y pegadas con bolas de masilla adhesiva verde, ocupaban el único espacio autorizado para eso (como si a alguien fuera a interesarle mirarlas). Había un pequeño escritorio metálico adosado a una pared y, en el extremo opuesto, una estantería baja, también metálica. A la izquierda de la puerta se hallaba el inodoro de acero, donde tenían que sentarse en cuclillas, mirando cada una en una dirección para crear una ilusión de intimidad no muy convincente. La puerta, con una ventanilla de doble cristal a la altura de los ojos, ofrecía una vista del corto pasillo que atravesaba el módulo B. Cada centímetro y objeto de la celda destilaba los penetrantes olores de la cárcel: sudor, moho, lisol.
Contra su voluntad, Jeanette se fijó por fin en el recuadro de sol del suelo. Casi había llegado a la puerta, pero no iría más allá, eso desde luego. A menos que algún celador metiese una llave en la cerradura o abriera la celda desde la Garita, se quedaría atrapado allí dentro, igual que ellas.
—¿Y quién sería el presentador? —preguntó Ree—. Todo concurso necesita un presentador. Además, ¿cuáles serían los premios? Tienen que ser buenos. ¡Los detalles! Tenemos que pensar en todos los detalles, Jeanette.
Ree, con la cabeza reclinada, se enrollaba los espesos rizos decolorados en torno al dedo mientras miraba a Jeanette. Casi en lo alto de la frente, tenía una cicatriz similar a la marca de una parrilla, tres profundas líneas paralelas. Aunque Jeanette desconocía el origen de dicha cicatriz, adivinaba _quién_ era el autor: un hombre. Quizá su padre, quizá su hermano, quizá un novio, quizá un tío al que nunca antes había visto y nunca volvería a ver. Entre las reclusas del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, había, por decirlo suavemente, muy pocas historias sobre premios. En cambio, había muchas sobre malos hombres.
¿Qué podía hacer una? Podía compadecerse de sí misma. Podía detestarse a sí misma o detestar a todo el mundo. Podía colocarse esnifando productos de limpieza. Una podía hacer lo que le viniera en gana (dentro de sus limitadas opciones, todo había que decirlo), pero la situación no cambiaría. Su turno siguiente para hacer girar la gran y resplandeciente Rueda de la Fortuna sería en todo caso su vista de libertad condicional. Jeanette procuraría impulsarla con todas sus fuerzas cuando llegara el momento. Tenía que pensar en su hijo.
Resonó un ruido sordo cuando el funcionario, desde la Garita, abrió las sesenta y dos cerraduras. Eran las seis y media de la mañana, y todas debían salir de sus celdas para el recuento.
—No sé, Ree. Piensa en ello —dijo Jeanette—, y yo lo pensaré también; luego intercambiamos notas.
Bajó las piernas al suelo y se levantó.
2
A unos kilómetros de la cárcel, en la terraza de la casa de los Norcross, Anton, el chico de la piscina, retiraba los bichos muertos del agua. La piscina había sido el regalo del doctor Clinton Norcross a su mujer, Lila, por su décimo aniversario de boda. Viendo a Anton, Clint dudaba a veces, como esa mañana por ejemplo, de la sensatez del regalo.
Anton se había quitado la camisa, y por dos buenas razones. En primer lugar, iba a ser un día caluroso. En segundo lugar, tenía el abdomen como una roca. Estaba cachas, Anton el chico de la piscina. Parecía uno de esos sementales que salen en las portadas de las novelas románticas. Si alguien disparara contra el abdomen de Anton, le convendría hacerlo en ángulo, por si rebotaban las balas. ¿Qué comía? ¿Montañas de proteína pura? ¿Qué ejercicios hacía? ¿Limpiar los establos de Augias?
Anton levantó la mirada y sonrió desde debajo de los cristales relucientes de sus Wayfarer. Con la mano libre, dirigió un saludo a Clint, que lo observaba desde la ventana del cuarto de baño principal, en el piso de arriba. —Por Dios, tío —susurró Clint para sí. Devolvió el saludo—. Ten compasión.
Clint, de costado, se apartó de la ventana. En el espejo de la puerta cerrada del baño, apareció un hombre blanco de cuarenta y ocho años, licenciado por Cornell y doctorado en Medicina por la Universidad de Nueva York, con unos discretos michelines debido al moca de tamaño grande de Starbucks. Su barba entrecana no era tanto de leñador viril como de capitán de barco cutre con una sola pierna.
Le resultaba irónico el hecho de que su edad y su cuerpo reblandecido le causaran cierta sorpresa. Nunca había tenido mucha paciencia con la vanidad masculina, y menos con la que solía aparecer en la madurez, y en todo caso se le había ido agotando a medida que acumulaba experiencia profesional. De hecho, lo que Clint consideraba el gran punto de inflexión de su carrera como médico se había producido hacía dieciocho años, en 1999, cuando un posible paciente, un tal Paul Montpelier, había acudido al joven médico por una «crisis de ambición sexual».
—Cuando dice «ambición sexual», ¿a qué se refiere? —había preguntado Clint a Montpelier. Las personas ambiciosas aspiraban a ascensos, y ciertamente uno no podía llegar a ser vicepresidente de Asuntos de Sexo. Se trataba de un eufemismo peculiar.
—Me refiero a que... —Montpelier pareció sopesar distintos términos para describirlo—. Todavía quiero hacerlo. Todavía quiero buscarlo.
—Eso no parece excepcionalmente ambicioso —dijo Clint—. Parece normal.
Por aquel entonces, su cuerpo aún no se había reblandecido. Acababa de terminar la residencia en psiquiatría, era su segundo día en la consulta, y Montpelier, su segundo paciente.
(La primera había sido una adolescente con cierta ansiedad fruto de las solicitudes de ingreso a la universidad. Sin embargo, no tardó en salir a la luz que había sacado una nota de 6,5 en las pruebas de acceso. Clint señaló que era una calificación excelente, y no hubo necesidad de tratamiento ni de una segunda visita. «¡Curada!», se apresuró a escribir al pie del cuaderno de papel pautado amarillo en el que solía tomar notas.)
Paul Montpelier, sentado en el sillón de piel sintética frente a Clint, llevaba aquel día un chaleco de punto blanco y un pantalón de pinzas. Hablaba encorvado, con el tobillo de una pierna sobre la rodilla de la otra y una mano apoyada en el zapato. Clint lo había visto aparcar un deportivo de color rojo caramelo delante del achaparrado edificio de oficinas. Trabajaba en lo alto de la cadena alimenticia de la industria del carbón, con lo que podía permitirse un coche así, pero con aquel rostro alargado y el semblante atribulado, a Clint le recordaba a los Golfos Apandadores que atormentaban a Gilito McPato en las antiguas historietas.
—Dice mi mujer... bueno, no con esas palabras, pero, ya me entiende, el significado es claro, el... esto... _subtexto._ Quiere que renuncie. Que renuncie a mi ambición sexual. —De repente alzó el mentón.
Clint siguió su mirada. En el techo giraba un ventilador. Si Montpelier mandaba ahí su ambición sexual, las aspas la rebanarían.
—Retrocedamos un poco, Paul. ¿Cómo salió el tema entre usted y su mujer? ¿Dónde empezó?
—Tuve una aventura. Ese fue el incidente que lo precipitó. ¡Y Rhoda, mi mujer, me puso de patitas en la calle! Le expliqué que el asunto no tenía nada que ver con ella; tenía que ver con... una necesidad mía, ¿entiende? Los hombres tienen necesidades que las mujeres no siempre comprenden. —Montpelier movió en círculos la cabeza para estirar el cuello. Dejó escapar un bufido de frustración—. ¡No quiero divorciarme! Una parte de mí siente que es ella quien debe aceptarlo. Aceptarme a mí.
Ojeras de un morado intenso oscurecían los párpados de Montpelier, y bajo la nariz tenía un corte, que posiblemente se había hecho con una maquinilla de tres al cuarto porque, al despacharlo su mujer, se había olvidado la navaja de afeitar buena. La tristeza y la desesperación de aquel hombre eran sinceras, y a Clint no le costaba imaginar la náusea provocada por ese desplazamiento repentino: vivir en un hotel con lo que llevaba en la maleta, cenar tortillas medio crudas sin compañía. Era auténtico dolor. No se trataba de una depresión clínica, pero era algo digno de consideración y merecía respeto y atención, por más que el causante de la situación fuera él mismo.
Montpelier se inclinó sobre el vientre, a su edad ya un poco abultado.
—No nos engañemos. Voy para los cincuenta, doctor Norcross. Mi mejor momento sexual ya pasó. Renuncié a él por mi mujer. Se lo _entregué_. Cambié pañales. Llevé a los niños en coche a todos los partidos y competiciones, y aparté dinero en fondos de ahorro para la universidad. Marqué todas las casillas del cuestionario del matrimonio. ¿Por qué, entonces, no podemos llegar a alguna clase de acuerdo ahora? ¿Por qué hay que tomárselo tan a la tremenda y separarse por una cosa así?
Clint no contestó, se limitó a esperar.
—La semana pasada estaba en casa de Miranda, la mujer con la que he estado acostándome. Lo hicimos en la cocina. Lo hicimos en su habitación. Casi conseguimos hacerlo una tercera vez en la ducha. ¡Yo estaba que me salía! ¡Endorfinas! Y luego me fui a casa. Disfrutamos de una buena cena en familia, jugamos al Scrabble, ¡y todos los demás se sentían genial también! ¿Cuál es el problema? Es un problema _inventado_ , esa es mi opinión. ¿Por qué no puedo tener un poco de libertad? ¿Es mucho pedir? ¿Tan intolerable es?
Durante unos segundos, nadie habló. Montpelier observó a Clint. En la cabeza de este, las buenas palabras nadaban de acá para allá como renacuajos. No le habría costado atraparlas, pero siguió postergándolo.
Detrás de su paciente, apoyada en la pared, estaba la reproducción del Hockney enmarcada que le había regalado Lila para «animar la consulta». Se proponía colgarla ese mismo día. Junto a la reproducción, estaban las cajas de manuales de medicina a medio vaciar.
Alguien tiene que ayudar a este hombre, pensó de pronto el joven médico, y debería hacerlo en esta consulta tranquila y agradable, con esa reproducción del Hockney en la pared. Pero ¿debería ser el doctor Clinton R. Norcross quien lo ayude?
Al fin y al cabo, él había trabajado muchísimo para convertirse en médico, y no había contado con la ayuda de ningún fondo de ahorro. Se había criado en circunstancias difíciles y se había pagado los estudios por sus propios medios, a veces no solo con dinero. Para salir adelante, había hecho cosas que nunca había contado a su mujer, ni le contaría jamás. ¿Para eso había hecho aquellas cosas? ¿Para tratar a Paul Montpelier, un hombre sexualmente ambicioso?
El rostro ancho de Montpelier se contrajo en una tierna mueca de disculpa.
—Venga, suéltelo. No estoy haciéndolo bien, ¿verdad?
—Está haciéndolo perfectamente —contestó Clint, y durante los siguientes treinta minutos dejó de lado sus dudas con un esfuerzo consciente.
Desarrollaron el tema; lo estudiaron desde todos los ángulos; analizaron la diferencia entre deseo y necesidad; hablaron sobre la señora Montpelier y sus preferencias en la alcoba, vulgares y corrientes, en opinión de Montpelier; incluso se permitieron una digresión de una franqueza sorprendente para hablar de la primera experiencia sexual adolescente de Paul Montpelier, cuando se masturbó utilizando las fauces del cocodrilo de peluche de su hermano pequeño.
Clint, conforme a su obligación profesional, preguntó a Montpelier si alguna vez había contemplado la posibilidad de hacerse daño. (No.) Quiso saber cómo se sentiría Montpelier si se invirtieran los papeles entre su esposa y él. (Insistió en que le diría que hiciera lo que tuviese que hacer.) ¿Dónde se veía Montpelier al cabo de cinco años? (Fue entonces cuando el hombre del chaleco de punto blanco se echó a llorar.)
Al final de la sesión, Montpelier dijo que ya esperaba con impaciencia la siguiente y, en cuanto se marchó, Clint llamó a su servicio de recepción de llamadas. Dio instrucciones para que desviaran todas a un psiquiatra de Maylock, el pueblo vecino. La operadora le preguntó hasta cuándo.
—Hasta que anuncien que nieva en el infierno —respondió Clint. Desde la ventana vio a Montpelier dar marcha atrás en su deportivo de color rojo caramelo y salir del aparcamiento. Nunca volvería a verlo.
A continuación telefoneó a Lila.
—Hola, doctor Norcross. —Al oír su voz, experimentó esa sensación a la que la gente se refería (o debería referirse) cuando decía que le brincaba el corazón dentro del pecho. Le preguntó cómo le había ido el segundo día.
—Acaba de hacerme una visita el hombre que menos se entera de nada de todo Estados Unidos —respondió.
—Ah, ¿sí? ¿Ha estado ahí mi padre? Seguro que el Hockney lo ha desconcertado.
Era aguda, su mujer, tan aguda como cariñosa, y tan implacable como aguda. Lila lo quería, pero nunca dejaba de descolocarlo. Clint pensaba que probablemente él lo necesitaba. Probablemente lo necesitaban casi todos los hombres.
—Ja, ja —dijo Clint—. Pero escúchame: esa vacante en la cárcel que mencionaste... ¿A quién se lo oíste comentar?
Siguieron unos segundos de silencio mientras su mujer se detenía a pensar en las implicaciones de la pregunta. Respondió con su propia pregunta:
—Clint, ¿tienes algo que contarme?
Clint no se había planteado siquiera que pudiera decepcionarla su decisión de abandonar la medicina privada a cambio de una plaza de funcionario. Estaba seguro de que no le importaría.
Daba gracias a Dios por concederle a Lila.
3
Para llegar al vello gris de debajo de la nariz con la maquinilla eléctrica, Clint tenía que alzar la cara de tal forma que parecía Quasimodo. Una púa blanca como la nieve asomaba de su orificio nasal izquierdo. Anton podía levantar pesas cuanto quisiera, pero a todo hombre lo aguardaban los pelos blancos en la nariz, al igual que los que salían en las orejas. Clint consiguió cortarse ese.
Nunca había tenido la complexión de Anton, ni siquiera el último año de instituto, cuando el juez le concedió la independencia y vivió solo y practicó atletismo. Por entonces Clint era más larguirucho, más flaco, sin abdominales pero con el vientre liso, como su hijo Jared. En su memoria, Paul Montpelier era más rechoncho que la versión de sí mismo que veía esa mañana, pero se parecía más a este que al Clint de antaño. ¿Dónde estaría en ese momento, Paul Montpelier? ¿Se habría resuelto la crisis? Probablemente. El tiempo todo lo cura. O todo locura, y la locura no tiene cura, como señaló algún gracioso.
Clint no sentía más deseos de líos extraconyugales que los normales, es decir, unos deseos saludables, plenamente conscientes y circunscritos a la fantasía. Su situación, a diferencia de la de Paul Montpelier, no era una crisis. Era la vida normal y corriente tal como él la entendía: una segunda ojeada a una chica guapa en la calle; un vistazo instintivo a una mujer con minifalda que salía de un coche; un arranque inconsciente de lujuria al ver a una de las modelos que adornaban _El precio justo_. Era un hecho lamentable, suponía, y quizá un poco cómico, que la edad lo alejara a uno progresivamente del cuerpo que más le gustaba y dejara intactos, en cambio, esos arraigados instintos (no ambiciones, gracias a Dios), como el olor de un guiso mucho después de que se consuma la cena. ¿Y acaso juzgaba a todos los hombres por su propia experiencia? No. Él era solo uno más de la tribu. Los verdaderos enigmas eran las mujeres.
Clint se sonrió en el espejo. Estaba recién afeitado. Estaba vivo. Tenía más o menos la misma edad que Paul Montpelier en 1999.
—Eh, Anton: jódete —dijo al espejo. Esa fanfarronada era falsa, pero al menos hizo el esfuerzo.
En el dormitorio, al otro lado de la puerta del cuarto de baño, oyó el chasquido de una cerradura, el roce de un cajón al abrirse, un golpe sordo cuando Lila depositó la pistolera en el cajón, lo cerró y echó la llave. La oyó exhalar un suspiro y bostezar.
Cuando salió, por si ya estaba dormida, se vistió sin hablar y, en lugar de sentarse en la cama para calzarse, cogió los zapatos para llevárselos abajo.
Lila carraspeó.
—No te preocupes. Todavía estoy despierta.
Clint dudó que fuera del todo cierto: Lila no había pasado de desabrocharse el botón superior del pantalón del uniforme antes de echarse en la cama. Ni siquiera se había metido entre las sábanas.
—Debes de estar agotada. Enseguida salgo. ¿Todo el mundo bien en Mountain?
La noche anterior, Lila le había enviado un mensaje de texto para comunicarle que se había producido un accidente de tráfico en Mountain Rest Road: «No me esperes levantado». Sin ser un hecho insólito, era poco habitual. Jared y él se hicieron a la parrilla unos filetes y bebieron unas Anchor Steam en la terraza.
—Se desenganchó el remolque de un camión. De Pet... como se llame. De esa cadena de tiendas, ya sabes. Volcó y bloqueó toda la calzada. Había arena para gatos y pienso para perros por todas partes. Al final hemos tenido que retirarlo con un buldócer.
—Menudo follón se habrá armado. —Se inclinó y le dio un beso en la mejilla—. Oye, ¿quieres que empecemos a salir a correr juntos? —Acababa de ocurrírsele, y la idea lo animó de inmediato. No puedes evitar que tu cuerpo se estropee y se ensanche, pero puedes presentar batalla.
Lila abrió el ojo derecho, verde claro en la penumbra de la habitación, con las cortinas corridas.
—Esta mañana no.
—Claro que no —dijo Clint.
Se quedó inclinado hacia Lila, pensando que ella le devolvería el beso, pero se limitó a desearle un buen día y decirle que recordara a Jared que debía sacar la basura. El ojo se cerró. Un destello verde... y desapareció.
4
En el cobertizo, el olor era casi insoportable.
A Evie se le erizó el vello en la piel desnuda y hubo de contener las arcadas. El hedor procedía de una mezcla de sustancias químicas quemadas, humo de hojas viejas y comida pasada.
Una de las mariposas nocturnas, anidada en su pelo, palpitaba contra su cuero cabelludo y le transmitía serenidad. Evie procuró no respirar hondo y escrutó alrededor.
El cobertizo prefabricado disponía de todo lo necesario para cocinar droga. En el centro se alzaba un fogón de gas unido mediante unos tubos amarillentos a un par de bombonas blancas. En un aparador adosado a la pared, había bandejas, garrafas de agua, un paquete abierto de bolsas de plástico con cierre hermético, tubos de ensayo, trozos de corcho, incontables cerillas usadas, una pipa pequeña con la cazoleta chamuscada y un fregadero con una manguera conectada al desagüe. Esta llegaba hasta el exterior por debajo de la malla que Evie había retirado para entrar. En el suelo, botellas vacías y latas abolladas. Una hamaca de aspecto inestable con el logo de Dale Earnhart Jr. estampado en la parte de atrás. En un rincón, una camisa gris de cuadros hecha un rebujo.
Tras sacudir la camisa para eliminar la rigidez y al menos parte de la mugre, se la puso. Los faldones le cubrían el trasero y los muslos. Hasta hacía poco, esa prenda había pertenecido a alguien repulsivo. Un manchurrón impresionante con forma de mapa de California en la pechera indicaba que esa persona repulsiva era descuidada y aficionada a la mayonesa.
Se acuclilló junto a las bombonas y arrancó los tubos amarillos de un tirón. Después giró medio centímetro las llaves de las bombonas de propano.
De nuevo fuera del cobertizo, con la malla ya bien cerrada, Evie se detuvo a respirar hondo el aire fresco varias veces.
A unos cien metros de allí, al pie del terraplén boscoso, se veía una caravana frente a una extensión de grava en la que había una furgoneta y dos coches aparcados. Tres conejos destripados, uno de los cuales todavía goteaba, colgaban de un tendedero junto a unas cuantas bragas descoloridas y una cazadora vaquera. Vaharadas de humo de leña se elevaban de la chimenea de la caravana.
Desde allí, después de atravesar el bosque ralo y el campo, ya no se veía el Árbol del que Evie procedía. Pero no estaba sola: las mariposas nocturnas, que revoloteaban y se agitaban, revestían el techo del cobertizo.
Evie empezó a descender por el terraplén. Las ramas caídas se le clavaban en los pies, y se hirió el talón con una piedra. No aminoró el paso. Sus heridas cicatrizaban enseguida. Se detuvo junto al tendedero y aguzó el oído. Oyó la risa de un hombre, el sonido de un televisor, y diez mil gusanos en el pequeño terreno que la rodeaba, fertilizando la tierra.
El conejo que aún sangraba dirigió hacia Evie sus ojos velados. Ella le preguntó cuál era la situación.
—Tres hombres, una mujer —respondió el conejo.
Una única mosca alzó el vuelo desde los labios negros y maltrechos del conejo, zumbó alrededor y penetró en la cavidad de una oreja flácida. Evie oyó el ruido bronco de la mosca allí dentro. No culpaba a la mosca —se comportaba como cabía esperar—, pero lo lamentaba por el conejo, que no merecía un destino tan ingrato. Si bien Evie amaba a todos los animales, sentía especial aprecio por los más pequeños, aquellos que reptaban por la pradera y brincaban entre la maleza, los de alas frágiles y los huidizos.
Ahuecó la mano por detrás de la cabeza del conejo moribundo y con delicadeza se acercó su boca negra, cubierta de sangre seca, a la suya.
—Gracias —susurró Evie, y lo dejó descansar en paz.
5
Una ventaja de vivir en ese rincón en particular de la región de los Apalaches era que uno podía permitirse una casa de tamaño aceptable con dos sueldos de funcionario. La vivienda de los Norcross era una edificación de estilo contemporáneo, con tres habitaciones, en una urbanización de casas similares. Eran casas agradables, espaciosas sin ser desproporcionadas, con jardines de tamaño suficiente para lanzarse la pelota y unas vistas de la montaña que, en las estaciones húmedas, adquirían un aspecto frondoso y exuberante. Lo que resultaba un tanto deprimente de la urbanización era que, incluso a precios reducidos, casi la mitad de sus casas, bastante atractivas, estaban vacías. La única excepción era la unidad piloto, en lo alto de la cuesta; esa estaba amueblada, limpia y reluciente. Según Lila, era solo cuestión de tiempo que algún adicto a la meta forzara la entrada de una de las casas y tratara de montar un laboratorio. Clint le había dicho que no se preocupara, que él conocía a la sheriff. De hecho, se veían con cierta regularidad.
(«¿A esa le van los hombres mayores?», había contestado Lila al tiempo que le hacía ojitos y se arrimaba a su cadera.)
El piso superior de la casa de los Norcross contenía el dormitorio principal, la habitación de Jared y un tercer cuarto que los dos adultos utilizaban como despacho. En la planta baja estaba la cocina, abierta y amplia, separada del salón por una barra. A la derecha del salón, detrás de unas puertas de cristal cerradas, se hallaba el comedor, que apenas usaban.
Clint bebía café y leía _The_ _New York Times_ en su iPad en la barra de la cocina. Un terremoto en Corea del Norte había provocado un número incalculable de víctimas. El gobierno norcoreano insistía en que los daños eran menores gracias a su «arquitectura superior», pero imágenes captadas con móviles mostraban escombros y cadáveres polvorientos. En el golfo de Adén, ardía una plataforma petrolífera, probablemente como consecuencia de un sabotaje, pero nadie lo había reivindicado. La reacción diplomática de los países de la región era equiparable a la de un puñado de críos que rompen una ventana jugando al béisbol y se van corriendo a casa sin volver la vista atrás. En el desierto de Nuevo México, el FBI iba ya por el día número cuarenta y cuatro de su pulso con un grupo armado que capitaneaba Compadre Hoja Dorada (seudónimo de Scott David Winstead Jr.). Esa alegre banda se negaba a pagar sus impuestos, a aceptar la legalidad de la Constitución y a entregar su arsenal de automáticas. Cuando la gente se enteraba de que Clint era psiquiatra, a menudo le pedían que diagnosticara las enfermedades mentales de políticos, celebridades y otros personajes públicos. Por lo general, él se resistía, pero en ese caso no tuvo inconveniente en emitir un diagnóstico a distancia: Compadre Hoja Dorada padecía algún trastorno disociativo.
Al pie de la primera plana, figuraba una foto de una joven de rostro consumido ante una cabaña de los Apalaches con un recién nacido en brazos: «Cáncer en la región del carbón, p. 13». Clint recordó entonces el vertido químico que se había producido en un río de la zona cinco años antes. Había causado el corte del suministro de agua durante toda una semana. Pese a que en teoría ya estaba todo en orden, para mayor seguridad, Clint y su familia seguían bebiendo agua embotellada. El sol le calentaba la cara. Miró en dirección a los dos grandes olmos que crecían al fondo del jardín, más allá del borde de la piscina. Los olmos lo llevaron a pensar en hermanos, en hermanas, en maridos y mujeres; tenía la certeza de que, bajo tierra, sus raíces se entrelazaban mortalmente. A lo lejos se alzaban unas montañas de color verde oscuro. Las nubes parecían fundirse en la bóveda del cielo, azul claro. Los pájaros volaban y trinaban. ¿No era una lástima la forma en que un buen país se echaba a perder por su gente? Esa era otra de las cosas que le había dicho algún viejo gracioso.
A Clint le gustaba creer que no se echaba a perder por culpa de él. Nunca había esperado poseer una vista como esa. Se preguntaba cuán decrépito y reblandecido tenía que llegar a estar para encontrarle sentido a eso: cómo a unos les sonreía la suerte en tanto que a otros los lastraba la mala fortuna.
—Hola, papá. Buenos días. ¿Cómo va el mundo? ¿Ha pasado algo bueno?
Clint apartó la vista de la ventana y vio a Jared entrar en la cocina cerrando la cremallera de su mochila.
—Un momento... —Pasó un par de páginas electrónicas. No quería mandar a su hijo al colegio con la noticia de un vertido de petróleo, un grupo armado o un cáncer. Ah, dio con una perfecta—. Según la teoría de algunos físicos, el universo podría durar eternamente.
Jared revolvió en el armario de los tentempiés, encontró una Nutribar y se la metió en el bolsillo.
—¿Y eso te parece bueno? ¿Puedes explicarte?
Clint se detuvo a pensar unos segundos antes de caer en la cuenta de que su hijo estaba tomándole el pelo.
—Te he visto el plumero. —Mientras miraba a Jared, se rascó el párpado con el dedo corazón.
—No tienes por qué avergonzarte, papá. Puedes acogerte al derecho de confidencialidad entre padre e hijo. Todo queda entre nosotros. —Jared se sirvió café. Lo tomaba solo, tal como hacía Clint cuando su estómago era joven.
La cafetera estaba cerca del fregadero, donde la ventana daba a la terraza. Jared tomó un sorbo y contempló la vista.
—Uau. ¿Seguro que te conviene dejar a mamá aquí sola con Anton?
—Vete, por favor —dijo Clint—. Vete al colegio y aprende algo.
Su hijo ya era más alto que él, cosa que, además de conmoverlo, le generaba melancolía, irritación, desorientación, admiración, asombro, alarma. «¡Perro!», esa fue la primera palabra que dijo Jared, aunque con la erre pronunciada suave: _pero_. «¡Perro! ¡Perro!» De niño era afable, curioso y bien intencionado, y en ese momento era un joven afable, todavía curioso y bien intencionado. Clint se enorgullecía de ver cómo el hogar seguro y estable que le habían proporcionado le permitía ser cada vez más él mismo. No había sido el caso de Clint.
Había contemplado la idea de dar unos condones al chico, pero no le apetecía hablarlo con Lila y tampoco quería fomentar nada. No quería ni pensar en ello. Jared insistía en que Mary y él eran solo amigos, y quizá incluso se lo creyera. Pero Clint veía de qué manera miraba a la chica, y era la forma en que uno miraba a alguien de quien quería ser amigo muy muy íntimo.
—El saludo de la liga infantil —propuso Jared, y tendió las manos—. ¿Todavía te acuerdas?
Clint se acordaba: choque de puños, pulgares extendidos y enlazados, manos trabadas, _roce_ de palma con palma y dos palmadas por encima de la cabeza. Pese a que hacía mucho tiempo desde la última vez, les salió perfectamente, y los dos se rieron. Eso infundió alegría a la mañana.
Clint no se acordó de que debía decir a Jared que sacara la basura hasta que su hijo ya se había ido.
Otro aspecto de hacerse mayor: uno se olvidaba de lo que quería recordar y recordaba lo que quería olvidar. El viejo gracioso que dijera eso podía ser él. Debería hacer que le bordasen la frase en un cojín.
6
Después de recibir informes de buena conducta durante sesenta días, Jeanette Sorley disfrutaba de privilegios de sala común tres mañanas por semana, entre las ocho y las nueve. En realidad eso significaba entre las ocho y las nueve menos cinco, porque su turno en el taller de carpintería, de seis horas, empezaba a las nueve. Allí se pasaba el tiempo inhalando barniz a través de una fina mascarilla de algodón y torneando patas de silla. Ganaba tres dólares la hora. El dinero se ingresaba en una cuenta, y el pago se le efectuaría mediante cheque cuando saliera en libertad (las reclusas llamaban a sus cuentas de trabajo «Parking Gratuito», como en el Monopoly). Las sillas se vendían en la tienda de la cárcel, al otro lado de la Interestatal 17. Algunas salían por sesenta dólares, la mayoría por ochenta, y la cárcel vendía muchas. Jeanette no sabía adónde iba a parar ese dinero, y le daba igual. Los privilegios de sala común, en cambio, no le daban igual. Allí había un televisor grande, juegos de mesa y revistas. Contaba también con una máquina expendedora de tentempiés y otra de refrescos, que solo funcionaban con monedas de veinticinco centavos, y las reclusas no _tenían_ monedas de veinticinco centavos, porque las monedas de veinticinco centavos se consideraban contrabando —¡un sinsentido!—, pero al menos podían recrear la vista. (Además, la sala común, en determinadas horas de la semana, se convertía en la sala de visitas, y los visitantes veteranos, como Bobby, el hijo de Jeanette, sabían que debían llevar muchas monedas de veinticinco centavos.)
Esa mañana, sentada junto a Angel Fitzroy, veía las noticias de la mañana en la WTRF, Canal 7, que emitía desde Wheeling. El noticiario ofrecía el batiburrillo de costumbre: un tiroteo desde un coche en marcha, el incendio de un transformador, una mujer detenida por agredir a otra en el Monster Truck Jam, una trifulca en la asamblea legislativa del estado a causa de una nueva cárcel para hombres que se había construido sobre una antigua explotación minera a cielo abierto y, por lo visto, tenía problemas estructurales. En el frente nacional, proseguía el asedio a Compadre Hoja Dorada. En el otro extremo del planeta, se calculaba que habían muerto miles de personas en un terremoto en Corea del Norte, y en Australia los médicos informaban de un brote de la enfermedad del sueño que, al parecer, solo afectaba a las mujeres.
—Eso será cosa de la meta —comentó Angel Fitzroy. Mordisqueaba un Twix que había encontrado en la bandeja de la máquina expendedora. Despacio, para hacerlo durar.
—¿Qué en concreto? ¿Lo de las mujeres dormidas, lo de la tía del Monster Truck Jam o lo de ese fulano que parece salido de un reality?
—Podría ser cualquiera de las tres noticias, pero estaba pensando en la tía del Jam. Estuve una vez en uno de esos y, menos los críos, prácticamente todo el mundo estaba fumado o hasta arriba de coca. ¿Quieres un poco? —Ahuecó la mano en torno al resto de Twix (por si en ese momento la funcionaria Lampley vigilaba por una de las cámaras de la sala común) y se lo ofreció a Jeanette—. No está tan rancio como algunos de los que hay ahí dentro.
—Paso —dijo Jeanette.
—A veces veo algo y me dan ganas de morirme —comentó Angel con toda naturalidad—. O de que se muera el resto del mundo. Mira eso. —Señaló un póster nuevo entre las dos máquinas expendedoras. Mostraba una duna de arena en la que se alejaban unas huellas, aparentemente hacia el infinito. Debajo de la foto se leía este mensaje: EL RETO ES LLEGAR ALLÍ.
—El tío llegó allí, pero ¿adónde? ¿Dónde _está_ ese lugar? —quería saber Angel.
—¿Irak? —preguntó Jeanette—. El tío seguro que está en el siguiente oasis.
—No, se ha muerto de una insolación. Está tirado ahí detrás, donde no se lo ve, con los ojos fuera de las órbitas y la piel negra como la pez.
No sonrió. Angel le había pegado a la meta, y era rural hasta la médula, hasta el límite de masticar corteza y ser bautizada en aguardiente casero. La habían encerrado por agresión, pero Jeanette suponía que Angel podría haber encajado en la mayoría de las categorías del catálogo de delitos. Su rostro era todo huesos y ángulos: parecía lo bastante duro para romper asfalto. Durante su estancia en Dooling, había pasado no poco tiempo en el módulo C. Allí solo te dejaban salir dos horas al día. Era una chica mala de pueblo, una chica de módulo C.
—Dudo que tú te pusieras negra aunque te murieras de una insolación en Irak —comentó Jeanette. Podía ser un error discrepar (aunque fuese en broma) de Angel, aquejada de lo que el doctor Norcross se complacía en llamar «episodios de ira», pero esa mañana a Jeanette le apetecía vivir peligrosamente.
—Lo que quiero decir es que es una gilipollez —explicó Angel—. El reto está en sobrevivir hasta el final del puto día sin más, como tú bien sabes.
—¿Quién lo habrá colgado ahí? ¿El doctor Norcross?
Angel dejó escapar un resoplido.
—Norcross tiene más sentido común. No, eso es cosa de la directora Coates. _Jaaanice_. A ese encanto de mujer le va el rollo de la motivación. ¿Has visto el póster que tiene en su despacho?
Jeanette lo había visto: un clásico, pero no de los buenos. Mostraba a un gatito colgado de la rama de un árbol. Aguanta ahí, sí señor. La mayoría de las gatitas encerradas allí ya se habían caído de sus ramas. Algunas no sabían ni si estaban arriba o abajo.
En el noticiario apareció la foto policial de un preso que se había fugado.
—Vaya —dijo Angel—. Con este no se cumple eso de que lo negro es hermoso, ¿no crees?
Jeanette se abstuvo de hacer comentarios. El hecho era que a ella todavía le gustaban los hombres de mirada malévola. Seguía trabajando en ello con el doctor Norcross, pero de momento no lograba superar la atracción por tipos que parecían capaces de atizarte sin previo aviso con un batidor de mano en la espalda desnuda mientras estabas en la ducha.
—McDavid está en una de las celdas del módulo A, al cuidado de Norcross —comentó Angel.
—¿Dónde te has enterado de eso?
Kitty McDavid, lista y pendenciera, era una de las preferidas de Jeanette. Corría el rumor de que Kitty había andado con una panda peligrosa cuando estaba fuera, pero ella carecía de auténtica maldad, excepto esa que una dirigía contra sí misma. En algún momento de su pasado, había cultivado insistentemente el hábito de cortarse; tenía cicatrices en los pechos, los costados, la parte superior de los muslos. Y era propensa a sufrir períodos de depresión, aunque los medicamentos que Norcross le recetaba, fueran cuales fuesen, parecían haberla ayudado en eso.
—Si quieres todas las noticias, tienes que llegar aquí antes. Me he enterado por esa. —Angel señaló a Maura Dunbarton, una anciana presa de confianza condenada a perpetua.
En ese momento Maura iba con su carrito de mesa en mesa colocando revistas con cuidado y precisión infinitos. El cabello blanco le rodeaba la cabeza como una corona vaporosa. Llevaba las piernas enfundadas en gruesas medias de compresión del color del algodón de azúcar.
—¡Maura! —llamó Jeanette, aunque en voz baja. Gritar en la sala común estaba estrictamente prohibido, excepto para los niños los días de visita y las reclusas la noche de fiesta mensual—. ¡Ven para acá, amiga mía!
Maura empujó el carrito lentamente hacia ellas.
—Tengo un número de _Seventeen_ —anunció—. ¿Os interesa a alguna de las dos?
—A mí no me interesaba ni cuando tenía diecisiete años —contestó Jeanette—. ¿Qué le ha pasado a Kitty?
—Se ha tirado la mitad de la noche gritando —respondió Maura—. Me extraña que no la hayáis oído. La han sacado de la celda, la han pinchado y la han llevado al A. Ahora duerme.
—¿Gritando algo en particular? —preguntó Angel—. ¿O gritando sin más?
—Decía que viene la Reina Negra —contestó Maura—. Que llegará hoy.
—¿Va a venir Aretha a cantar? —preguntó Angel—. Es la única reina negra que yo conozco.
Maura no le prestó atención. Miraba a la rubia de ojos azules de la portada de la revista.
—¿Seguro que ninguna de las dos quiere este _Seventeen_? Salen vestidos de fiesta bonitos.
—Yo no me pongo un vestido así a menos que tenga mi tiara —dijo Angel, y se rio.
—¿Ha visto el doctor Norcross a Kitty? —preguntó Jeanette.
—Todavía no —respondió Maura—. Yo tuve un vestido de fiesta. De un azul precioso, y con la falda abullonada. Mi marido lo quemó con la plancha. Fue un accidente. Quería ayudar. Pero nadie le había enseñado a planchar. La mayoría de los hombres nunca aprenden. Y ahora ya no aprenderá, eso desde luego.
Ninguna de las dos contestó. Era bien sabido lo que había hecho Maura Dunbarton a su marido y sus dos hijos. Había ocurrido treinta años antes, pero algunos crímenes son inolvidables.
7
Hacía tres o cuatro años —o tal vez cinco o seis; le bailaban los números y tenía poco claros los puntos de referencia—, en un aparcamiento situado detrás de un Kmart, en Carolina del Norte, un hombre había augurado a Tiffany Jones que iba a acabar metida en problemas. Pese a lo confusa que había sido la última década y media, ese momento se le quedó grabado en la memoria. Las gaviotas chillaban y picoteaban la basura en el muelle de carga y descarga del Kmart. La llovizna veteaba el cristal de la ventanilla del todoterreno en el que se encontraba, que pertenecía al tipo que le había augurado que se metería en problemas. El tipo era un segurata del centro comercial. Ella acababa de hacerle una mamada.
Lo que ocurrió fue que la pilló robando desodorante. La contraprestación acordada fue bastante clara y nada sorprendente: ella le practicaba sexo oral, y él la dejaba ir. Era un gordo mantecoso, el muy hijo de puta. Acceder a su polla, abriéndose paso entre la barriga, los muslos y el volante del coche, había constituido toda una aventura. Pero Tiffany había hecho muchas cosas ya, y esa, en comparación, era tan insignificante que ni siquiera habría ocupado un lugar destacado en la lista de no ser por lo que él dijo.
—Tiene que ser un mal rollo para ti, ¿eh? —Una mueca de lástima se había extendido por su rostro sudoroso mientras se contoneaba en el asiento para subirse el pantalón de chándal de plástico de color rojo vivo que probablemente era lo único que le cabía con semejante tamaño—. Oye, vas a acabar metida en problemas si has terminado en una situación como esta, teniendo que cooperar con una persona como yo.
Hasta ese momento Tiffany había dado por supuesto que quienes cometían abusos sexuales —personas como su primo Truman— debían de vivir en un estado de negación. Si no, ¿cómo podían seguir adelante? ¿Cómo iba a poder uno hacer daño o degradar a alguien si era del todo consciente de lo que estaba haciendo? Pues resultaba que podía, y hombres como ese cerdo, el guardia de seguridad, podían. Había sido una auténtica conmoción para ella, esa súbita toma de conciencia que explicaba tantas cosas de toda su vida de mierda. Tiffany no estaba segura de haberlo superado.
Tres o cuatro mariposas nocturnas repiqueteaban dentro de la tulipa del aplique instalado encima de la encimera. La bombilla estaba fundida. Daba igual; la luz de la mañana iluminaba de sobra la caravana. Las mariposas aleteaban y se agitaban, pugnando entre sí sus pequeñas sombras. ¿Cómo habían llegado ahí? Y ya puestos, ¿cómo había llegado _ella_ ahí? Durante un tiempo, después de una época complicada hacia el final de la adolescencia, Tiffany había conseguido forjarse una vida. En 2006 servía mesas en un pequeño restaurante y se sacaba buenas propinas. Vivía en un apartamento de dos habitaciones en Charlottesville, con helechos en el balcón. Para no haber terminado el instituto, no le iban mal las cosas. Los fines de semana se permitía el placer de alquilar un caballo zaíno enorme llamado Moline, un animal de carácter amable y medio galope relajado, y se iba a cabalgar por el parque nacional de Shenandoah. En ese momento estaba en una caravana perdida en el culo del mundo, en la región de los Apalaches, y no iba a acabar metida en problemas, sino que ya se había metido. Pero al menos eran problemas entre algodones. No hacían tanto daño como cabía esperar, y tal vez eso fuera lo peor, porque estaba metida hasta el cuello, hasta lo más hondo, donde ni siquiera podía...
Tiffany oyó un ruido sordo, y de repente se hallaba en el suelo. Le palpitaba la cadera, donde se había golpeado con fuerza contra el borde de la encimera.
Con un cigarrillo colgando del labio, Truman la miró fijamente.
—Muévete, puta crackera. —No llevaba más que unos calzoncillos tipo bóxer y las botas camperas. Tenía la carne del torso tan tirante como un plástico adherido a las costillas—. Muévete, puta crackera —repitió Truman, y batió las palmas ante el rostro de Tiffany como si esta fuera un perro malo—. ¿Es que no lo oyes? Están llamando a la puerta.
Tru era un gilipollas de tal calibre que Tiffany, o la parte de ella que seguía viva —la parte que de vez en cuando sentía el impulso de cepillarse el pelo o de telefonear a aquella mujer, Elaine, la del consultorio de Planificación Familiar, que la animaba a inscribirse en un programa de desintoxicación en aislamiento—, a veces lo observaba con perplejidad científica. Tru era un baremo de gilipollez. Tiffany se preguntaba: «¿Es tal o cual tipo más gilipollas que Truman?». Pocos podían comparársele; de hecho, hasta la fecha, oficialmente solo daban la talla Donald Trump y los caníbales. Truman tenía un largo historial delictivo. De niño se metía el dedo en el culo y luego se lo incrustaba en la nariz a críos más pequeños. Más adelante robó a su madre, empeñó sus joyas y antigüedades. Introdujo a Tiffany en la meta la primera tarde que se pasó a verla por el bonito apartamento de Charlottesville. Su idea de una broma era aplastarte un cigarrillo encendido en la piel desnuda del hombro mientras dormías. Truman era un violador, pero nunca había cumplido condena por ello. Algunos gilipollas sencillamente tenían suerte. Le crecía en la cara un asomo de barba desigual de un rojo dorado y las pupilas le abarcaban casi todo el ojo, pero el chico desdeñoso e incorregible que siempre había sido se ponía de manifiesto en la prominencia de su mandíbula.
—Puta crackera, adelante.
—¿Qué? —consiguió preguntar Tiffany.
—¡Te he dicho que abras la puerta! ¡Por Dios! —Truman amagó un puñetazo, y ella se tapó la cabeza con las manos. Parpadeó para contener las lágrimas.
—Vete a la mierda —dijo Tiffany sin mucha convicción. Esperaba que el doctor Flickinger no la oyera. Estaba en el cuarto de baño. A ella le caía bien el médico. Ese hombre era la monda. Siempre la llamaba «señora» y le guiñaba el ojo para que supiera que no se reía de ella.
—Eres una puta crackera sorda y desdentada —anunció Truman, pasando por alto el detalle de que él mismo necesitaba cirugía estética dental.
El amigo de Truman salió del dormitorio de la caravana, se sentó a la mesa plegable y dijo:
—La puta crackera llama a casa. —Se rio de su propio chiste e hizo un corte de mangas.
Tiffany no recordaba su nombre, pero esperaba que su madre se enorgulleciera muchísimo de su hijo, que tenía el zurullo de _South Park_ tatuado en la nuez.
Llamaron a la puerta. Esta vez Tiffany sí lo captó, dos golpes secos y enérgicos.
—¡Déjalo, Tiff! No querría molestarte. Tú quédate ahí como una imbécil. —Truman abrió la puerta de un tirón.
Apareció en el umbral una mujer con una de las camisas de cuadros de Truman, bajo la cual quedaban a la vista unas piernas de tono oliváceo.
—Pero ¿esto qué es? —preguntó Truman—. ¿Qué quieres?
—Hola, tío —contestó ella con voz débil.
El amigo de Truman habló desde la mesa.
—¿Eres la chica de Avon o qué?
—Oye, guapa —contestó Truman—, entra si quieres, pero creo que vas a tener que devolverme la camisa.
Eso arrancó una risotada al amigo de Truman.
—¡Esto es increíble! En serio, ¿es tu cumpleaños o qué, Tru?
Tiffany oyó que se vaciaba la cisterna en el cuarto de baño. El doctor Flickinger había terminado con lo suyo.
La mujer de la puerta levantó una mano y agarró a Truman por el cuello. Él dejó escapar un ligero resuello; el cigarrillo le saltó de la boca. Hincó los dedos en la muñeca de la visitante. Tiffany vio que la mano de la mujer perdía color por efecto de la presión, pero no soltó a Truman.
Las mejillas de este se tiñeron de rojo. Corrían hilillos de sangre de las heridas que abría con las uñas en la muñeca de la mujer. Aun así, ella no lo soltó. El resuello se redujo a un silbido. Con la mano libre, Truman buscó a tientas la empuñadura del machete que llevaba en el cinturón y lo sacó.
La mujer entró en la caravana al tiempo que detenía con la otra mano el antebrazo de Truman a media estocada. Lo obligó a retroceder y lo estampó contra la pared opuesta. Ocurrió tan deprisa que Tiffany no llegó a registrar plenamente el rostro de la desconocida, sino solo la cortina de cabello enmarañado, que le caía hasta los hombros, tan oscuro que parecía teñido de verde.
—Eh, eh, eh —dijo el amigo de Truman mientras cogía la pistola de detrás de un rollo de papel de cocina y se levantaba de la silla.
En las mejillas de Truman, las manchas rojas se habían extendido hasta convertirse en nubes moradas. Emitió un ruido semejante al chirrido de unas zapatillas sobre parqué, y su rostro se transformó en la mueca triste de un payaso. Se le quedaron los ojos en blanco. Tiffany veía latir su corazón en la piel tirante a la izquierda del esternón. La mujer poseía una fuerza asombrosa.
—Eh —repitió el amigo de Truman al tiempo que la mujer asestaba un cabezazo a Truman.
Le partió la nariz, y el chasquido sonó como un petardo.
Un chorro de sangre se elevó hacia el techo, y unas gotas salpicaron la tulipa del aplique. Las mariposas, enloquecidas, arremetían contra el cristal produciendo un sonido semejante al repiqueteo de los cubitos de hielo contra un vaso.
Cuando Tiffany volvió a bajar la mirada, vio a la mujer zarandear el cuerpo de Truman en dirección a la mesa. El amigo de Truman, de pie, apuntó con el arma. En la caravana resonó algo parecido al ruido atronador de una bola de bolos de piedra. En la frente de Truman cobró forma una pieza de puzle irregular. Un pañuelo hecho jirones cayó sobre el ojo de Truman, piel con una porción de ceja, desgarrada y colgante. La sangre se desparramó por su boca torcida y le resbaló hasta el mentón. La tira de piel con parte de la ceja batió contra la mejilla. A Tiffany le recordó a esas esponjas como fregonas que limpiaban el parabrisas en los túneles de lavado.
Una segunda bala perforó el hombro de Truman, y la sangre roció la cara de Tiffany. La mujer embistió al amigo de Truman con el cadáver. La mesa se desplomó bajo el peso de los tres cuerpos. Tiffany no oía sus propios gritos.
Se produjo un salto en el tiempo.
Tiffany descubrió que se hallaba dentro del armario, en un rincón, tapada hasta la barbilla con una gabardina. La caravana se mecía sobre su base al compás de unos golpes ahogados y rítmicos. Tiffany se vio arrastrada a un recuerdo de muchos años atrás, en la cocina del restaurante de Charlottesville: el cocinero ablandaba carne de ternera con un mazo. Los golpes se parecían a esos, solo que eran mucho mucho más potentes. Se oyó un desgarrón de metal y plástico, y acto seguido cesaron los golpes. La caravana dejó de moverse.
Llamaron enérgicamente a la puerta del armario.
—¿Estás bien? —Era la mujer.
—¡Vete! —exclamó Tiffany.
—El del baño ha salido por la ventana. No creo que tengas que preocuparte por él.
—¿Qué has hecho? —preguntó Tiffany entre sollozos. Estaba manchada de sangre de Truman y no quería morir.
La mujer no contestó de inmediato. Tampoco era necesario. Tiffany ya había visto lo que había hecho, o había visto suficiente. Y había oído suficiente.
—Deberías descansar —aconsejó la mujer—. Descansa.
Al cabo de unos segundos, a través del eco persistente de los disparos, Tiffany creyó oír el chasquido de la puerta exterior al cerrarse.
Se arrebujó con la gabardina y, entre gemidos, pronunció el nombre de Truman.
Él la había enseñado a fumar crack: da pequeños sorbos, decía. «Te sentirás mejor.» Vaya embustero. Vaya cabrón había sido, vaya monstruo. ¿Por qué entonces lloraba por él? No podía contenerse. Ojalá hubiera podido, pero no podía.
8
La chica de Avon que no era una chica de Avon se alejó de la caravana y regresó al laboratorio de meta. El olor a propano era más intenso a cada paso que daba, hasta que un tufo a rancio invadió el aire. Detrás de ella quedaba el dibujo de sus pisadas, blancas, pequeñas y delicadas, formas que salían de la nada y parecían hechas de pelusa de algodoncillo. Los faldones de la camisa prestada ondeaban en torno a sus largos muslos.
Delante del cobertizo, desprendió un papel atrapado en un arbusto. El encabezamiento anunciaba con grandes letras azules: ¡TODO ESTÁ EN LIQUIDACIÓN TODOS LOS DÍAS! Debajo incluía fotos de frigoríficos tanto grandes como pequeños, lavadoras, lavavajillas, microondas, aspiradoras, compactadores de basura, procesadores de comida y muchas cosas más. En una foto aparecía una joven esbelta en vaqueros; dirigía una sonrisa de complicidad a su hija, rubia como mamá. La monada de criatura acunaba un bebé de plástico en los brazos y devolvía la sonrisa. También había grandes televisores en los que salían hombres jugando al fútbol, hombres jugando al béisbol, hombres en coches de carreras, y barbacoas junto a las cuales se veía a hombres con tenedores gigantes y pinzas gigantes. Aunque no lo decía abiertamente, el mensaje del anuncio era inequívoco: las mujeres trabajan y cuidan del nido mientras los hombres asan las presas cobradas.
Evie enrolló el anuncio y empezó a chascar los dedos de la mano izquierda debajo del extremo. Con cada chasquido saltaba una chispa. El papel prendió con el tercero. Evie también sabía asar. Sostuvo el anuncio enrollado en alto, examinó la llama y arrojó el papel al interior del cobertizo. Se alejó briosamente y atravesó el bosque en dirección a la Interestatal 43, conocida entre los lugareños como Ball's Hill Road.
—Un día ajetreado —dijo a las mariposas que de nuevo revoloteaban a su alrededor—. Muy pero que muy ajetreado.
El cobertizo estalló, y ella no se volvió; tampoco se inmutó cuando un trozo de acero acanalado pasó silbando por encima de su cabeza.
### 2
1
La oficina del sheriff del condado de Dooling dormitaba bajo el sol de la mañana. Los tres calabozos se hallaban vacíos; las puertas de barrotes permanecían abiertas, y los suelos, recién fregados, olían a desinfectante. La única sala de interrogatorios también estaba vacía, como lo estaba el despacho de Lila Norcross. Linny Mars, la operadora, tenía la oficina para ella sola. Detrás de su escritorio colgaba un póster de un preso musculoso, vestido con un mono de color naranja, que levantaba un par de mancuernas y enseñaba los dientes en un gruñido. NO DESCANSAN UN SOLO DÍA, advertía el póster, ¡TÚ TAMPOCO DEBERÍAS!
Linny tenía por norma desoír ese consejo bienintencionado. No hacía ejercicio desde un breve escarceo con la danza aeróbica en el YWCA, pero se enorgullecía de su físico. En ese momento estaba absorta en un artículo de _Marie Claire_ sobre la manera adecuada de delinearse los ojos. Para conseguir una raya firme, primero había que apoyar el meñique en el pómulo. Así se lograba más control y se evitaban las contracciones repentinas. El artículo sugería empezar por la mitad y seguir hacia la comisura exterior del ojo, y continuar luego hacia la nariz hasta completar la tarea. Una raya fina para diario; una más gruesa, más espectacular, para esa noche importante en que una salía con el tío con quien esperaba...
Sonó el teléfono. No era la línea normal, sino la que tenía una banda roja en el auricular. Linny dejó la _Marie Claire_ (recordándose que debía pasar por Rite Aid, la farmacia, y comprar un poco de L'Oréal Opaque) y descolgó. Trabajaba como operadora desde hacía cinco años, y a esa hora de la mañana bien podía tratarse de un gato incapaz de bajar de un árbol, un perro extraviado, un percance en la cocina o —esperaba que no— un caso de riesgo de asfixia por atragantamiento de un niño de corta edad. Los líos con armas de por medio casi siempre ocurrían una vez se ponía el sol, y normalmente estaban relacionados con el Squeaky Wheel.
—Aquí el nueve uno uno, ¿cuál es su urgencia?
—¡La chica de Avon ha matado a Tru! —contestó a gritos una voz femenina—. ¡Ha matado a Tru y al amigo de Tru! ¡El amigo no sé cómo se llama, pero esa mujer le ha hundido la puta cabeza en la puta pared! ¡Si vuelvo a mirarlo, me quedaré ciega!
—Señora, todas las llamadas al nueve uno uno quedan grabadas —advirtió Linny—, y no nos gustan las bromas.
—¡No bromeo! ¿Quién bromea? ¡Una desconocida ha entrado aquí por las buenas y ha matado a Tru! ¡A Tru y al otro! ¡Hay sangre por todas partes!
Linny, al oír que esa voz gangosa mencionaba a la chica de Avon, estuvo segura en un noventa por ciento de que aquello era una broma o un delirio; ahora, en cambio, estaba segura en un ochenta por ciento de que se trataba de un hecho real. La mujer farfullaba de tal modo que era casi imposible entenderla, y tenía un marcado acento sureño. Si la propia Linny no hubiese sido de Mink Crossing, en el condado de Kanawha, quizá habría pensado que su interlocutora hablaba un idioma extranjero.
—¿Cómo se llama, señora?
—Tiffany Jones, ¡pero da igual quién soy! Están muertos, y no sé por qué me ha dejado viva a mí, pero ¿y si vuelve?
Linny se encorvó para examinar la hoja de turnos del día: quién estaba en la oficina, quién de patrulla. El departamento del sheriff disponía de solo nueve coches, y casi siempre había uno o dos en el taller. El condado de Dooling era el más pequeño del estado, aunque no el más pobre; ese dudoso honor correspondía a su vecino, el condado de McDowell, en medio de la nada.
—No veo su número en mi pantalla.
—Claro que no. Llamo desde uno de los desechables de Tru. Les hace algo. Les... —Se produjo un silencio, una interferencia, y de pronto la voz de Tiffany Jones se alejó y adquirió un tono más agudo—. ¡Dios mío, el laboratorio acaba de volar por los aires! ¿Por qué habrá hecho eso? Dios mío, Dios mío...
Linny se disponía a preguntar de qué hablaba cuando oyó un retumbo. No fue muy potente, no temblaron las ventanas, pero había sido una explosión sin lugar a dudas. Como si un reactor salido de Langley, en Virginia, hubiese roto la barrera del sonido.
¿A qué velocidad viaja el sonido?, se preguntó. ¿No lo aprendimos en clase de física? Pero de eso hacía mucho tiempo. Había sido casi en otra vida.
—¿Tiffany? ¿Tiffany Jones? ¿Sigue ahí?
—¡Mande a alguien aquí antes de que se incendie el bosque! —exclamó Tiffany, levantando tanto la voz que Linny tuvo que apartarse el auricular de la oreja—. ¡Guíese por el olfato! ¡Busque el humo! ¡Ya se está formando una nube! ¡En Ball's Hill, pasados el transbordador y el almacén de madera!
—Esa mujer, la que ha llamado usted «chica de Avon»...
Tiffany se echó a reír a la vez que lloraba.
—Ah, los polis la reconocerán si la ven. Es la que va manchada de sangre de Truman Mayweather.
—¿Puede darme su dir...?
—¡La caravana no tiene dirección! ¡Tru no recibe correo! ¡Cierre la boca y mande a alguien aquí!
Dicho esto, Tiffany colgó.
Linny cruzó la oficina principal vacía y salió al sol de la mañana. En las aceras de Main Street, unas cuantas personas miraban hacia el este haciéndose visera con las manos. En esa dirección, a unos cinco kilómetros de distancia quizá, se elevaba una columna de humo negro. Recta y bien definida, sin ondear, gracias a Dios. Y sí, era cerca del almacén de madera de Adams, un lugar que Linny conocía bien, primero por las excursiones con su padre en furgoneta y después por las excursiones con su marido en furgoneta. A los hombres les fascinaban cosas extrañas. Por lo visto, los almacenes de madera eran una de ellas, probablemente un poco por encima de los _monster trucks_ pero muy por debajo de las exposiciones de armas.
—¿Qué pasa? —preguntó Drew T. Barry, de la Aseguradora Drew T. Barry, de pie delante de su local, en la acera de enfrente.
Linny casi veía las columnas de cifras de primas deslizándose al fondo de sus ojos. Volvió a entrar sin contestarle para llamar primero al departamento de Bomberos (donde ya estarían sonando los teléfonos), después a Terry Coombs y Roger Elway, de la Unidad Cuatro, y por último a la jefa. Que seguramente estaría dormida, porque la noche anterior había llamado para decir que estaba enferma.
2
Pero Lila Norcross no dormía.
Había leído en una revista, probablemente mientras esperaba para una limpieza dental o para examinarse la vista, que una persona tardaba, por término medio, entre quince y treinta minutos en quedarse dormida. Había una advertencia, no obstante, de la que Lila no necesitaba ser informada: convenía hallarse en un estado de ánimo sereno, y no era su caso. Para empezar, seguía vestida, si bien se había desabrochado el pantalón y la camisa marrón del uniforme. También se había quitado el cinturón reglamentario. Se sentía culpable. No estaba acostumbrada a mentir a su marido por pequeñeces, y nunca había mentido por nada verdaderamente importante hasta esa mañana.
«Accidente de tráfico en Mountain Rest Road —había escrito en un mensaje de texto—. No intentes llamar, tenemos que dejar esto en condiciones.» Esa mañana incluso había añadido un poco de verosimilitud que en ese momento se le clavaba como una espina: «Había arena para gatos por todas partes. Necesitamos un buldócer». Pero una cosa como esa aparecería en el semanario de Dooling, ¿no? Solo que Clint nunca lo leía, así que quizá por ese lado no había problema. No obstante, la gente hablaría de un accidente tan cómico, y él, al no oír a nadie comentarlo, tendría sus dudas.
«Quiere que lo descubran —había dicho a Clint mientras veían un documental de la HBO ( _El gafe_ , se titulaba) sobre un asesino en serie rico y excéntrico, un tal Robert Durst. Eso fue al principio del segundo de seis episodios—. Nunca habría accedido a dejarse entrevistar para el documental si no lo quisiera.» Y, en efecto, Robert Durst se hallaba actualmente en la cárcel. La cuestión era: ¿quería _ella_ que la descubrieran?
De no ser así, ¿por qué ya de entrada le había enviado un mensaje? En su momento se dijo que lo hacía porque si él llamaba y oía de fondo el ruido del gimnasio del instituto Coughlin —las ovaciones del público, los chirridos de las zapatillas en el parqué, los trompetazos—, lógicamente le preguntaría dónde estaba y qué hacía allí. Pero podría haber dejado que la llamada pasara al buzón de voz, ¿no? ¿Y devolverla más tarde?
No se me ha ocurrido, se dijo. Estaba nerviosa y alterada.
¿Verdadero o falso? Esa mañana se inclinaba a pensar que era lo segundo. Que había estado urdiendo una enmarañada red a propósito. Que quería obligar a Clint a que la obligara a ella a confesar, y que fuera él quien deshiciera la madeja.
Tristemente, se dijo que, pese a sus numerosos años de experiencia en las fuerzas del orden, era su marido, el psiquiatra, quien podría convertirse en mejor delincuente con diferencia. Clint sabía guardar un secreto, ¿no?
Lila se sentía como si de pronto hubiese averiguado que su casa tenía una planta más. Por casualidad, se apoyó en cierto punto desgastado de la pared y apareció una escalera. A la entrada del pasadizo secreto había un gancho, y del gancho colgaba una chaqueta de Clint. La conmoción fue considerable, el dolor fue mayor, pero ni lo uno ni lo otro podía compararse con la vergüenza: ¿cómo podía una no percibirlo? Y en cuanto una se enteraba, en cuanto una despertaba a la realidad de su vida, ¿cómo podía seguir viviendo un solo segundo más sin anunciarlo a gritos? Si el descubrimiento de que su marido, un hombre con el que había hablado a diario durante más de quince años, el padre de su hijo, tenía una hija a la que nunca había mencionado... si eso no justificaba un grito, un desgarrador alarido de rabia y pesar, ¿qué lo justificaba? En cambio, le había deseado buenos días y se había acostado.
Al cabo de un rato el cansancio empezó a imponerse y a atenuar su angustia. Por fin sucumbía al sueño, y eso era bueno. Aquella situación le parecería más sencilla después de dormir cinco o seis horas; su determinación sería mayor; se vería capaz de hablar con él; y tal vez Clint la ayudara a comprender. En eso consistía el trabajo de él, ¿no? En dar sentido a los embrollos de esta vida. ¡Y vaya si era un embrollo aquello que ella tenía que plantearle! Arena para gatos por toda la calzada. Mierda de gato en el pasadizo secreto, arena para gatos _y_ mierda de gato en la cancha de baloncesto, donde una chica, Sheila, se llamaba, bajó el hombro, obligando a retroceder a la defensora, dribló y enfiló hacia el aro.
Mientras una lágrima le resbalaba por la mejilla, Lila exhaló un suspiro, ya cerca de la escapatoria del sueño.
Algo le hizo cosquillas en la cara. Parecía un mechón de pelo o quizá un hilo desprendido de la funda de la almohada. Lo apartó, se sumió un poco más en el sueño verdadero, y estaba ya casi dormida cuando el teléfono, con un toque de clarín, reclamó su atención desde el cinturón reglamentario, que había dejado en el arcón de cedro situado al pie de la cama.
Abrió los ojos y se incorporó en el acto. El hilo o el pelo o lo que fuera le rozó la mejilla; lo apartó de un manotazo. Clint, si eres tú...
Cogió el teléfono, miró la pantalla. No era Clint. Se leía una única palabra: BASE. El reloj marcaba las 7.57. Lila pulsó ACEPTAR.
—¿Sheriff? ¿Lila? ¿Estás levantada?
—No, Linny, todo esto es un sueño.
—Es posible que tengamos un problema grave, me parece.
Linny era concisa y profesional. A ese respecto Lila le daba un sobresaliente, pero el acento asomaba de nuevo a su voz: no «tenemos un problema grave, _me parece_ », sino _me parese_ , de lo que se deducía que estaba preocupada y hablaba muy en serio. Lila abrió los ojos de par en par, como si con eso fuera a despertarse más deprisa.
—La persona que ha llamado ha denunciado un homicidio múltiple cerca del almacén de madera de Adams. Puede que se haya equivocado, o que haya mentido, o incluso que fuera una alucinación, pero desde luego sí ha habido una explosión de las gordas. ¿No lo has oído?
—No. Dime exactamente qué tenemos.
—Puedo ponerte la grabación de la llamada...
—Solo dímelo.
Linny la puso al corriente: una mujer colocada, histérica, dice que hay dos muertos, la chica de Avon es la autora, explosión, humo visible.
—Y has mandado...
—A la Unidad Cuatro. Terry y Roger. Según su última comunicación, están más o menos a un kilómetro de allí.
—De acuerdo. Bien.
—¿Vas...?
—De camino.
3
Estaba a medio camino del coche patrulla, aparcado en la vía de acceso, cuando advirtió que la miraba Anton Dubcek. Descamisado, con los pectorales relucientes, el pantalón (apenas) por encima de los huesos de la cadera, el chico de la piscina parecía estar presentándose a un casting para la foto de mayo del calendario de Chippendales. De pie en la acera, al lado de su camioneta, sacaba algún elemento de su equipo de limpieza de piscinas. ANTON EL CHICO DE LA PISCINA, se leía en el costado del vehículo en letra florentina.
—¿Qué estás mirando?
—El esplendor de la mañana —contestó Anton, y le dedicó una sonrisa radiante que probablemente debía de haber encandilado a todas las camareras de la zona de los Tres Condados.
Ella bajó la vista y vio que no se había remetido ni abotonado la camisa. El sencillo sujetador blanco mostraba mucho menos que cualquiera de sus dos biquinis (y era mucho menos sugerente), pero los hombres tenían algo con la ropa interior; veían a una chica en sujetador, y era como si acabaran de ganar cincuenta dólares por un billete de lotería de cinco pavos. Por Dios, pero si Madonna en su día había hecho carrera con eso. Seguramente antes de que Anton naciera, Lila cayó en la cuenta.
—¿Te da resultado esa frase, Anton? —preguntó ella al tiempo que se abotonaba y remetía la camisa—. ¿Alguna vez?
Él desplegó una sonrisa aún más amplia.
—La sorprendería.
Vaya, qué dientes tan blancos. No la sorprendería.
—Dejo abierta la puerta de atrás por si quieres una Coca-Cola. Ciérrala al salir, ¿vale?
—Recibido, procedo. —Le dirigió un apático saludo militar.
—Y nada de cerveza. Es demasiado temprano incluso para ti.
—Siempre son las cinco de la tarde en algún...
—No me vengas con letras de country, Anton. He tenido una larga noche y, si no consigo dar una cabezada en algún momento, va a ser un largo día.
—Recibido también. Pero, oiga, jefa, tengo que darle una mala noticia: casi seguro que allí, al fondo, tiene grafiosis del olmo. ¿Quiere que le deje el número de teléfono de mi experto en árboles? No le conviene que...
—Tú mismo, gracias.
A Lila la traían sin cuidado los árboles, al menos esa mañana, aunque debía reconocer lo inoportuno del momento: sus propias mentiras, las omisiones de Clint, el agotamiento, el incendio, los cadáveres, y para acabar una plaga en los árboles, y todo antes de las nueve de la mañana. Ya solo faltaba que Jared se rompiera un brazo o algo así, y a Lila no le quedaría más remedio que ir a St. Luke y rogar al padre Lafferty que la oyera en confesión.
Salió del camino de acceso marcha atrás, se dirigió hacia el este por Tremaine Street, se saltó un stop, cosa que le habría valido una multa de no haber sido sheriff, vio la columna de humo que se elevaba cerca de la Interestatal 17 y encendió las luces de emergencia. Pondría la sirena en las tres manzanas que constituían el centro de Dooling. Para sobresaltarlos a todos.
4
En el semáforo de delante del instituto, Frank Geary tamborileaba con los dedos sobre el volante. Iba camino de la casa del juez Silver. El viejo juez lo había llamado al móvil; por su tono de voz, era obvio que a duras penas mantenía la compostura. Habían atropellado a su gata, Cocoa.
Una indigente a la que ya conocía, envuelta en tal cantidad de capas de ropa que no se le veían los pies, cruzó por delante de su furgoneta empujando un carrito. Hablaba sola con una expresión risueña y jubilosa. Tal vez una de sus personalidades planeaba organizar una fiesta de cumpleaños sorpresa para otra de sus personalidades. A veces Frank pensaba que no le desagradaría volverse loco, loco no como Elaine creía que estaba, sino loco de verdad, loco como para hablar solo y empujar un carrito que contuviera bolsas de basura y la mitad superior de un maniquí masculino.
¿Qué razones tenían los dementes para preocuparse? Razones disparatadas, era probable, pero Frank, en su fantasía de la locura, quería imaginar que en ese estado todo era más sencillo. ¿Me echo la leche y los cereales por encima de la cabeza o lo echo todo en el buzón? Si uno estaba como un cencerro, quizá esa fuera una decisión estresante. Para Frank, una fuente de estrés eran los recortes inminentes en el presupuesto municipal anual de Dooling, que podían costarle el empleo, y otra fuente de estrés era tratar de controlarse los fines de semana cuando veía a su hija, y otra fuente de estrés era saber que Elaine esperaba que él fuera incapaz de controlarse. Su propia mujer deseando que fracasara, ¿qué tal eso como fuente de estrés? En comparación, la decisión entre echarse la leche y los cereales en la cabeza o echarlos al buzón era, a su juicio, perfectamente manejable. Los cereales en la cabeza, la leche en el buzón. Listo. Problema resuelto.
El semáforo se puso en verde, y Frank dobló a la izquierda por Malloy.
5
En la otra acera, la indigente —conocida como Vieja Essie entre los voluntarios del albergue, Essie Wilcox en un tiempo lejano— empujó cuesta arriba el carrito bamboleante por el corto terraplén cubierto de hierba que rodeaba el aparcamiento del instituto. Al acceder a la superficie asfaltada, se encaminó hacia los campos de deporte y la zona de bosque y matorral que se extendía más allá, donde vivía en los meses cálidos.
—¡Deprisa, niñas! —Essie dirigía la voz al frente, como si hablase al ruidoso contenido de su carrito, aunque en realidad se lo decía a su familia invisible, compuesta por cuatro niñas idénticas, que la seguían en fila, como patitos—. Tenemos que llegar a casa a la hora de la cena, ¡o si no, podríamos acabar _convertidas_ en cena! ¡En la olla de una bruja!
Essie dejó escapar una risa, pero las niñas empezaron a llorar e inquietarse.
—¡Serán bobaliconas estas niñas! —exclamó—. Lo decía en broma.
Essie llegó al final del aparcamiento y siguió empujando el carrito por el campo de fútbol. A su espalda, las niñas se habían animado. Sabían que su madre nunca consentiría que les pasara nada. Eran niñas buenas.
6
Evie se hallaba entre dos palés de tablones de pino recién cortados en el lado izquierdo del almacén de madera de Adams cuando la Unidad Cuatro pasó a toda velocidad. Quedaba oculta a los curiosos que se hallaban delante del edificio principal, pero no a los que pasaban por la carretera. Así y todo, los agentes que acudían al aviso no se fijaron en ella, pese a que solo cubría su cuerpo la camisa de Truman Mayweather y presentaba en la cara y los brazos manchas de sangre de Truman Mayweather. Los polis solo tenían ojos para el humo que se elevaba en el linde de un bosque sumamente seco.
Terry Coombs se echó hacia delante en el asiento y señaló.
—¿Ves esa roca grande donde pone TIFFANY JONES LA CHUPA pintado con espray?
—Sí.
—Justo detrás verás un camino de tierra. Dobla por ahí.
—¿Seguro? —preguntó Roger Elway—. Parece que el humo está al menos un kilómetro más allá.
—Hazme caso. He estado aquí antes, en los tiempos en que Tru Mayweather se consideraba chulo de caravana a jornada completa y señorito cultivador de hierba a tiempo parcial. Supongo que ha medrado en la vida.
La Unidad Cuatro derrapó en la tierra, pero los neumáticos enseguida recuperaron la tracción. Roger avanzó a setenta, y la parte de atrás del coche patrulla a veces tocaba el suelo pese a la suspensión dura. Los altos hierbajos que crecían en el montículo central del camino zumbaban contra los bajos. Ya olían el humo.
Terry cogió el micrófono.
—Unidad Cuatro a Base; Base, aquí Cuatro.
—Cuatro, aquí Base —respondió Linny.
—Llegaremos al lugar de los hechos en tres minutos, siempre y cuando a Roger no se le vaya el coche a la cuneta.
Roger apartó una mano del volante el tiempo necesario para hacer una peineta a su compañero.
—¿Cuál es la situación de los bomberos? —preguntó Terry.
—Han puesto en marcha los cuatro camiones, además de la ambulancia. Van también algunos voluntarios. Deberían estar justo detrás de vosotros. Cuidado con la chica de Avon.
—La chica de Avon, entendido. Corto.
Terry dejó el micro en la horquilla justo cuando el coche patrulla superaba un bache y quedaban suspendidos en el aire momentáneamente. Roger detuvo el vehículo con un derrape. Más adelante salpicaban el camino fragmentos de tejado acanalado, bombonas de propano hechas añicos, garrafas de plástico y papeles rotos, algunos de ellos llameantes. Alcanzó a ver un disco negro y blanco que parecía el mando de un fogón.
Una pared del cobertizo, apoyada contra un árbol muerto, ardía como una antorcha tiki. El fuego había prendido también en dos pinos próximos a lo que fuera la parte de atrás del cobertizo, al igual que en los matorrales que delimitaban el camino.
Roger abrió el maletero, cogió el extintor y empezó a rociar la maleza con espuma blanca. Terry agarró la manta ignífuga y se puso a golpear con ella los restos en llamas dispersos por el camino. Los bomberos no tardarían en llegar; de momento sus esfuerzos debían concentrarse en la contención.
Roger se acercó al trote, extintor en mano.
—Ya está vacío, y tú con eso no vas a apagar una mierda. Larguémonos de aquí o nos quedaremos atrapados, ¿cómo lo ves?
—Me parece una idea excelente. Veamos qué ha pasado _chez_ Mayweather.
El sudor perlaba la frente de Roger y resplandecía entre su escaso cabello, rubio claro. Entrecerró los ojos.
—¿ _Che_? ¿Qué es eso de _che_?
A Terry le caía bien su compañero, pero no habría querido a Roger en su equipo en el concurso de preguntas de los miércoles en el Squeaky Wheel.
—Déjalo. Tú conduce.
Roger se sentó al volante. Terry rodeó el vehículo a toda prisa. A cuarenta metros por detrás de ellos, un camión bomba del departamento de Bomberos de Dooling dobló el recodo, escorado, rozando con sus altos flancos las ramas de los árboles que prácticamente invadían el camino. Terry los saludó con la mano y después desprendió la escopeta anclada bajo el salpicadero. Más valía prevenir que curar.
Llegaron a un claro donde una caravana pintada de un turquesa horrendo, como el de los guijarros de un acuario, se alzaba sobre gatos hidráulicos. Los peldaños eran bloques de hormigón. Una furgoneta F-150 oxidada descansaba sobre un par de neumáticos pinchados. Había una mujer desplomada contra el portón trasero, su rostro oculto tras una melena de color castaño claro. Vestía vaqueros y un top sin mangas. Tenía decorada con tatuajes la mayor parte de piel a la vista. Terry leyó la palabra AMOR en el antebrazo derecho. Iba descalza y una capa de mugre le cubría los pies. De tan flaca parecía demacrada.
—Terry... —Roger tomó aire y se aclaró la garganta con un ruido que semejaba más bien una arcada—. Allí.
Lo que Terry vio le trajo a la memoria la caseta de una feria de pueblo en la que había jugado de niño. Un hombre asomaba la cabeza a través de una silueta de Popeye, y por diez centavos podías lanzarle tres bolsas de plástico con agua coloreada. Solo que lo que había bajo la cabeza que sobresalía de la pared de la caravana no era agua coloreada.
A Terry le sobrevino un inmenso cansancio. Todo su cuerpo pareció aumentar de peso, como si sus entrañas se hubiesen convertido en hormigón. Ya había experimentado esa sensación antes, sobre todo en lugares donde se habían producido accidentes de tráfico graves, y sabía que era algo pasajero, pero mientras duraba era atroz. Se producía en el momento en que uno miraba a un niño sujeto todavía a su sillita por el cinturón pero con el pequeño cuerpo abierto igual que una bolsa de ropa sucia —o en el momento en que uno miraba una cabeza que asomaba de una caravana, con la piel arrancada de las mejillas por efecto del brutal modo en que había traspasado la pared— y se preguntaba por qué demonios se había creado el mundo ya de entrada. Las cosas buenas escaseaban, y el resto, en su mayor parte, se había podrido.
La mujer que estaba sentada en el portón trasero de la furgoneta levantó la cabeza. Estaba pálida y ojerosa. Tendió los brazos en dirección a ellos y en el acto volvió a bajarlos hacia los muslos, como si le pesaran demasiado, sencillamente demasiado. Terry la había visto ya allí; era una de las chicas de Tru Mayweather antes de que este entrara en el negocio de la meta. Tal vez continuaba allí porque él la había ascendido a seminovia, si es que a eso podía llamárselo ascender.
Salió del coche patrulla. Ella se deslizó por el portón, y habría caído de rodillas si Terry no la hubiese sujetado a medio camino. Al tocarla, notó su piel fría y las costillas muy marcadas. De cerca vio que algunos de los tatuajes eran en realidad magulladuras. Ella se aferró a él y se echó a llorar.
—Ya, ya —dijo Terry—. Ya, ya, chica. Estás a salvo. No sé qué ha pasado aquí, pero, sea lo que sea, ya ha terminado.
En otras circunstancias habría considerado a la única superviviente la sospechosa principal y habría pensado que todo eso de la chica de Avon no eran más que mentiras, pero el saco de huesos que tenía entre los brazos jamás habría podido empotrar la cabeza de aquel individuo en la pared de la caravana. Terry ignoraba cuánto tiempo llevaba Tiffany colocándose con el alijo de Truman, pero en su estado actual, pensó, solo sonarse la nariz le habría supuesto un esfuerzo sobrehumano.
Roger se acercó con una actitud extrañamente jovial.
—¿Es usted quien ha llamado, señora?
—Sí...
Roger sacó el cuaderno.
—¿Su nombre?
—Es Tiffany Jones —contestó Terry—. Es así, ¿no, Tiff?
—Sí. Yo a usted ya lo he visto antes. Aquella vez que fui a recoger a Tru cuando salió de la cárcel. Me acuerdo. Me trató bien.
—¿Y ese tío? ¿Quién es?
Roger señaló con el cuaderno la cabeza que asomaba de la pared; fue un gesto despreocupado, como si indicase un lugar turístico interesante en la zona, y no a un ser humano destrozado. Esa despreocupación daba grima, y Terry se la envidió. Si él fuera capaz de aprender a adaptarse a imágenes de esa índole tan fácilmente como Roger sería un hombre más feliz, pensó, y quizá un policía mejor.
—No lo sé —respondió Tiffany—. Era solo un amigo de Trume. Vino la semana pasada, de Arkansas, según decía. O quizá hace ya dos semanas.
Más abajo en el camino, se oían las voces de los bomberos y el zumbido del agua, procedente, cabía suponer, de un camión cisterna; allí no llegaba la conducción del agua. Terry vio un arcoíris momentáneo en el aire, frente al humo, que adquiría ya un color blanco.
Terry sujetó a Tiffany con delicadeza por las muñecas, finas como palos, y le escudriñó los ojos, inyectados en sangre.
—¿Qué sabes de la mujer que ha hecho esto? Has dicho a la operadora que ha sido una mujer.
—El amigo de Tru la llamó «chica de Avon», pero desde luego no lo era. —Una pizca de emoción afloró en Tiffany pese al estado de shock. Se irguió y, temerosa, miró alrededor—. Se ha ido, ¿no? Más vale.
—¿Cómo era?
Tiffany negó con la cabeza.
—No me acuerdo. Pero le ha robado la camisa a Tru. Creo que debajo iba desnuda.
Se le cerraron los ojos, y al cabo de un momento volvió a abrirlos lentamente. Terry reconoció los síntomas. Primero el trauma fruto de un suceso violento inesperado; a continuación la llamada histérica al novecientos once, y en ese momento el shock posterior al suceso. A eso debían sumarse las drogas que había consumido, independientemente de cuáles fuesen y durante cuánto tiempo las hubiera tomado. Subidón, bajón. Por lo que él podía adivinar, Truman Mayweather, Tiffany y el colega de Arkansas de Truman Mayweather llevaban tres días colocados.
—¿Tiff? Quiero que te sientes en el coche patrulla mientras mi compañero y yo echamos un vistazo. Siéntate aquí, en la parte de atrás. Relájate.
—Hora de echarse un sueñecito, chica —dijo Roger, sonriente, y por un momento Terry sintió el impulso casi irresistible de darle una patada en el culo a aquel paleto.
En lugar de eso, mantuvo abierta la puerta del coche para ella, y eso le trajo otro recuerdo: la limusina que había alquilado para ir al baile de graduación con Mary Jean Stukey. Ella con un vestido rosa sin tirantes y las mangas abullonadas, y el ramillete que él le había regalado prendido en la muñeca; él con un esmoquin de alquiler. Eran los tiempos dorados en que aún no había visto el cadáver de ojos blancos de una chica guapa con el cráter de un disparo de escopeta en el pecho; o un hombre ahorcado en un pajar; o una prostituta de ojos hundidos, adicta a la meta, a la que no parecían quedarle más de seis meses de vida.
Ya estoy viejo para este trabajo, se dijo Terry. Debería retirarme.
Tenía cuarenta y cinco años.
7
Aunque en realidad Lila nunca había herido a nadie de un tiro, sí había desenfundado el arma en cinco ocasiones y había disparado al aire una vez (y la de papeleo que tuvo que hacer solo por eso). Al igual que Terry y Roger, y todos los demás miembros de su pequeña banda de caballeros de azul, había retirado restos humanos de las carreteras del condado después de muchos accidentes de tráfico (normalmente con el olor a alcohol flotando todavía en el aire). Había esquivado objetos voladores, disuelto disputas familiares que llegaron a las manos, había practicado la reanimación cardiopulmonar, y había entablillado brazos y piernas rotos. Ella y sus hombres habían encontrado a dos niños perdidos en el bosque, y le habían vomitado encima en unas cuantas ocasiones. A lo largo de catorce años en las fuerzas del orden, había acumulado numerosas experiencias, pero nunca se había encontrado con una mujer manchada de sangre sin más ropa que una camisa de franela caminando por la línea central de la carretera principal del condado de Dooling. Era su primera vez.
Rebasó el cambio de rasante de Ball's Hill a ciento treinta kilómetros por hora, y allí apareció la mujer, a menos de treinta metros del coche patrulla. No hizo siquiera ademán de apartarse a derecha o izquierda para esquivar el vehículo, pero en ese brevísimo instante Lila no advirtió en su rostro la característica expresión de ciervo asustado por los faros, sino solo serena observación. Y se fijó también en algo más: era guapísima.
Lila no podría haber parado a tiempo aunque hubiese dormido toda la noche, no a ciento treinta por hora. Se limitó a girar el volante a la derecha y sorteó a la mujer de la carretera por escasos centímetros, sin sortearla del todo, en realidad; oyó un ruido sordo, y de repente el retrovisor exterior no reflejaba la carretera, sino a la propia Lila.
Entretanto, tenía que lidiar con la Unidad Uno, ya un proyectil apenas bajo control. Embistió un buzón, que salió volando por los aires; antes de caer al suelo, el poste dio vueltas como el bastón de una _majorette_. El pesado coche patrulla levantó una polvareda, y Lila notó que amenazaba con deslizarse hacia la cuneta. Frenar no la salvaría, así que optó por pisar el acelerador, aumentando la velocidad. El coche patrulla rodó por el arcén derecho, y la grava repiqueteó en los bajos. Avanzaba ya con una inclinación considerable. Si la cuneta la atrapaba, volcaría, y sus probabilidades de llegar a ver a Jared graduarse en el instituto se reducirían de manera drástica.
Lila giró el volante ligeramente a la izquierda. Al principio el coche derrapó, pero al cabo de un momento recuperó la tracción y volvió a la calzada con un rugido. Con el asfalto de nuevo bajo las ruedas, Lila pisó el freno, el morro se hundió, y la deceleración la impulsó con tal fuerza contra el cinturón de seguridad que tuvo la sensación de que los ojos se le salían de las órbitas.
Paró al final de una larga huella doble de caucho quemado. El corazón le palpitaba con violencia. Ante sus ojos flotaban puntos negros. Se obligó a tomar aire para no desmayarse y echó un vistazo por el retrovisor.
La mujer no se había adentrado en el bosque, ni corría cuesta arriba por Ball's Hill, donde había otra carretera que se desviaba hacia el transbordador de Ball Creek. Se quedó allí sin más, volviendo la cabeza por encima del hombro. Esa mirada atrás, unida al trasero desnudo que asomaba por debajo del faldón de la camisa, resultaba extrañamente coqueta; parecía una foto de algún calendario de Alberto Vargas.
Con la respiración acelerada y un sabor metálico en la boca a causa de la adrenalina consumida, Lila retrocedió por el camino de acceso de una casa unifamiliar pequeña y cuidada. En el porche había una mujer con un niño en brazos. Lila bajó la ventanilla eléctrica y dijo:
—Entre en casa, señora. Inmediatamente.
Sin esperar a ver si la mujer obedecía, Lila arrancó y, atenta para esquivar el buzón caído, volvió a subir por Ball's Hill hacia donde se hallaba la mujer. Oía el roce del guardabarros abollado contra uno de los neumáticos.
La radio emitió un sonido. Era Terry Coombs.
—Unidad Uno, aquí Cuatro. ¿Estás ahí, Lila? Contesta. Tenemos a dos cocineros de meta muertos cerca del almacén de madera.
Lila agarró el micrófono.
—Ahora no, Ter —dijo, y dejó caer el micro en el asiento.
Se detuvo delante de la mujer, desabrochó el cierre de la pistolera y, al tiempo que se apeaba de la Unidad Uno, desenfundó su arma reglamentaria por sexta vez en toda su carrera al servicio de las fuerzas del orden. Mientras contemplaba aquellas piernas largas y bronceadas y aquellos pechos turgentes, se retrotrajo por un instante a su propio camino de acceso... ¿era posible que hubieran pasado solo quince minutos? «¿Qué estás mirando?», había preguntado. Anton había contestado: «El esplendor de la mañana» _._
Esa mujer, allí en medio de la carretera de Dooling, sí era el esplendor de la mañana, un esplendor como Lila nunca había visto.
—Levante las manos. Levántelas, ahora mismo.
La chica de Avon, alias Esplendor de la Mañana, alzó las manos.
—¿Sabe lo cerca que ha estado de morir?
Evie desplegó una sonrisa que iluminó todo su rostro.
—No tan cerca —dijo—. Lo has tenido bajo control todo el tiempo, Lila.
8
El viejo hablaba con un ligero temblor.
—He preferido no moverla.
La gata, una atigrada marrón, yacía en la hierba. El juez Oscar Silver estaba en el suelo a su lado, manchándose las rodillas de los pantalones caquis. Tendido de costado, el animal casi parecía normal, salvo por la pata delantera derecha, que colgaba, laxa, en una grotesca V. De cerca, se veían también volutas de sangre en sus ojos, alrededor de las pupilas. Tenía la respiración superficial y, conforme al instinto de los felinos heridos, contrario a la lógica, ronroneaba.
Frank se sentó en cuclillas junto a la gata. Se levantó las gafas de sol por encima de la frente y entornó los ojos, deslumbrado por la implacable luz de la mañana.
—Lo siento, juez.
Silver ya no lloraba, pero había llorado. Frank lamentó verlo, pero no le sorprendió: las personas querían a sus animales, a menudo con un grado de franqueza que no se permitían expresar con sus congéneres.
¿Cómo definiría eso un psiquiatra? ¿Como desplazamiento? Bueno, el amor era difícil. Lo único que Frank sabía era que de quienes uno realmente debía cuidarse en este mundo era de los que no podían sentir amor ni por un gato ni por un perro. Y uno debía cuidarse de sí mismo, naturalmente. Mantener las cosas bajo control. Conservar la calma.
—Gracias por venir tan pronto —dijo el juez Silver.
—Es mi trabajo —respondió Frank, aunque no era exactamente así.
Como único funcionario a jornada completa del departamento de Control Animal del condado, se ocupaba más de mapaches y perros callejeros que de gatos moribundos. No obstante, consideraba a Oscar Silver un amigo, o algo parecido. Antes de que el juez pasara al dique seco por culpa de sus riñones, Frank había compartido con él no pocas cervezas en el Squeaky Wheel, y fue Oscar Silver quien le había facilitado el nombre de un abogado matrimonialista y le había sugerido que pidiese hora con él. Silver le recomendó también «alguna forma de orientación psicológica» cuando Frank reconoció que a veces levantaba la voz a su mujer y a su hija (guardándose de mencionar aquella ocasión en que atravesó la pared de la cocina de un puñetazo).
Frank no había ido a ver al abogado ni al psicoterapeuta. Con respecto a lo primero, aún creía que podía resolver las cosas con Elaine. Con respecto a lo segundo, tenía la sensación de que podía controlar bastante bien su mal genio si los demás (Elaine, por ejemplo, pero también Nana, su hija) tomaban conciencia de que él solo pensaba en el interés de ellos.
—La he tenido desde que era una cría —decía entonces el juez Silver—. La encontré detrás del garaje. Fue poco después de que falleciera Olivia, mi mujer. Sé que suena ridículo, pero me pareció... un mensaje.
Recorrió con el índice el valle entre las orejas de la gata, frotándole la piel con delicadeza. Si bien la gata siguió ronroneando, no alargó el cuello hacia el dedo ni reaccionó. Sus ojos ensangrentados permanecían fijos en la hierba verde.
—Quizá lo fuera —dijo Frank.
—Fue mi nieto quien le puso Cocoa. —Meneó la cabeza y torció el gesto—. Ha sido un Mercedes. Lo he visto. Yo salía a por el periódico. Ese maldito coche debía de ir casi a cien. ¡En un barrio residencial! ¿Qué razón hay para eso?
—Ninguna. ¿De qué color era ese Mercedes?
Frank estaba pensando en algo que Nana le había comentado unos meses antes. En una de las casas grandes de lo alto de Briar, por delante de la cual pasaba cuando repartía el periódico, vivía un hombre que tenía un coche de lujo. Un Mercedes verde, le había dicho, si Frank no recordaba mal.
—Verde —dijo entonces el juez Silver—. Era verde.
Un gorgoteo acompañaba ya el ronroneo de la gata. Su costado subía y bajaba más rápidamente. Sin duda estaba sufriendo.
Frank apoyó una mano en el hombro de Silver y le dio un apretón.
—Tengo que hacerlo ya.
El juez se aclaró la garganta, pero no habría sido capaz de hablar. Se limitó a asentir con la cabeza.
Frank abrió la cremallera de la bolsa de piel que contenía la aguja hipodérmica y los dos viales.
—La primera solo la relaja. —Clavó la aguja en el vial y llenó la jeringuilla—. La segunda la deja dormida.
9
Hubo un tiempo, mucho antes de los acontecimientos narrados aquí, en que la zona de los Tres Condados (McDowell, Bridger y Dooling) elevó una petición para que el desaparecido reformatorio juvenil de Ash Mountain pasara a ser una muy necesaria cárcel de mujeres. El estado pagó el terreno y los edificios, y se le puso el nombre del condado —Dooling— que más dinero aportó a la reforma del Centro Penitenciario. Este abrió sus puertas en 1969, e integraban el personal residentes de los Tres Condados muy necesitados de empleo. En su día se había considerado aquella prisión «de última generación» y «un punto de referencia en el sector penitenciario femenino». Parecía más un instituto de las afueras que una cárcel si pasabas por alto la concertina que coronaba los metros y metros de alambrada del perímetro.
Casi medio siglo después, seguía pareciendo un instituto, pero uno que atravesaba tiempos difíciles y tenía una base tributaria decreciente. Los edificios habían empezado a deteriorarse. La pintura (rica en plomo, según rumores) se desconchaba. Las cañerías tenían escapes. El sistema de calefacción estaba obsoleto, y en lo más crudo del invierno solo la zona de administración mantenía la temperatura por encima de los dieciocho grados. En verano las reclusas se asaban en sus módulos. La iluminación era tenue; el antiguo cableado eléctrico era una catástrofe en ciernes, y el vital equipo de vigilancia de las reclusas se averiaba como mínimo una vez al mes.
En cambio disponía de un excelente patio de ejercicio, con pista de atletismo, una cancha de baloncesto en el gimnasio, otra de _shuffleboard_ , un pequeño diamante para softball y un huerto contiguo a la zona de administración. Era allí, cerca de los guisantes y el maíz en flor, donde la directora Janice Coates, sentada en una caja de plástico azul para el reparto de la leche, con el bolso de punto de color beige abandonado en la tierra a sus pies, fumaba un Pall Mall sin filtro y veía acercarse el coche de Clint Norcross.
El psiquiatra mostró su carnet (algo innecesario, puesto que todo el mundo lo conocía, pero exigido por el protocolo) y la verja principal se deslizó sobre su riel. Accedió al espacio de seguridad intermedio y esperó a que se cerrara la verja. Cuando la funcionaria de guardia —esa mañana Millie Olson— vio una señal verde en su tablero, lo que indicaba que la verja exterior estaba bien cerrada, abrió la interior. Al volante de su Prius, Clint avanzó lentamente junto a la valla hasta el aparcamiento del personal, que a su vez disponía de verja. Allí un letrero advertía: ¡NO DESCUIDE LA SEGURIDAD! ¡CIERRE BIEN SU VEHÍCULO!
Al cabo de dos minutos, estaba de pie junto a la directora, con el hombro apoyado en el viejo muro de ladrillo y el rostro vuelto hacia el sol de la mañana. Lo que siguió se asemejó a un salmo responsorial en una iglesia fundamentalista.
—Buenos días, doctor Norcross.
—Buenos días, directora Coates.
—¿Preparado para un nuevo día en el maravilloso mundo penitenciario?
—La verdadera pregunta es si el maravilloso mundo penitenciario está preparado para mí. Así de preparado estoy. ¿Y usted, Janice?
Ella se encogió de hombros en un gesto parco y dejó escapar el humo.
Clint señaló el cigarrillo con el mentón.
—Pensaba que lo había dejado.
—Y así era. Me gusta tanto dejarlo que lo dejo una vez por semana. En ocasiones dos.
—¿Todo en orden?
—Esta mañana, sí. Anoche tuvimos una crisis nerviosa.
—No me lo diga, a ver si lo adivino: Angel Fitzroy.
—No. Kitty McDavid.
Clint enarcó las cejas.
—Eso no me lo esperaba. Cuénteme.
—Según su compañera de celda, Claudia Stephenson, a la que las otras mujeres llaman...
—Claudia Cuerpo de Dinamita —completó Clint—. Muy orgullosa de esos implantes. ¿Fue Claudia la que inició algo?
Clint no tenía nada en contra de Claudia, pero confiaba en que fuera el caso. Los médicos, como seres humanos que eran, tenían sus preferencias, y Kitty McDavid era una de las suyas. Kitty se hallaba en mala forma cuando llegó: autolesiones, humor muy variable, alto nivel de ansiedad. Habían avanzado mucho desde entonces. Los antidepresivos habían surtido un efecto óptimo y, Clint se complacía en creer, las sesiones de psicoterapia también habían ayudado un poco. Al igual que él, Kitty era producto del sistema de acogida familiar de la región de los Apalaches. En una de sus primeras entrevistas, Kitty le había preguntado con acritud si se hacía una mínima idea, en su enorme cabeza de zona residencial, de cómo se sentía uno sin hogar ni familia.
Clint no titubeó.
—No sé cómo fue para ti, Kitty, pero yo me sentí como un animal. Como si estuviera siempre cazando o siendo cazado.
Ella se quedó mirándolo con los ojos como platos.
—¿Usted...?
—Sí, yo —contestó él, queriendo decir: «Yo también».
Kitty había pasado a recibir informes de buena conducta casi a diario y, mejor aún, había llegado a un acuerdo con la fiscalía para atestiguar en el caso de los hermanos Griner, fruto de una importante redada por un asunto de droga organizada ese invierno por la mismísima sheriff de Dooling, Lila Norcross. Si Lowell y Maynard Griner caían, la libertad condicional era una clara posibilidad para Kitty. De conseguirla, tal vez saliera adelante, pensaba Clint. Ella entendía ya que, si bien quedaría en sus propias manos encontrar un lugar en el mundo, para asumir esa responsabilidad necesitaría apoyo continuo, tanto médico como de la comunidad. Clint consideraba que Kitty poseía la fortaleza suficiente para pedir ese apoyo, para luchar por él, y se fortalecía cada día más.
Janice Coates era menos optimista. En lo que se refería a las reclusas, su postura consistía en no hacerse demasiadas ilusiones. Quizá por eso ella era la directora —la mandamás—, y él, solo el psiquiatra residente de ese hotel del Estado.
—Según Stephenson, McDavid la despertó —explicó Janice—. Primero empezó a hablar dormida, luego levantó la voz y al final gritó. Decía que venía el Ángel Negro o algo así. O tal vez fuera la Reina Negra. Sale en el informe del incidente. «Con telarañas en el pelo y muerte en las yemas de los dedos.» Daría para un buen programa de televisión, ¿no cree? Para el canal de ciencia ficción. —La directora dejó escapar una risa sin sonreír—. Seguro que se lo pasaría usted en grande con eso, Clint.
—Suena más a película —comentó Clint—. Puede que alguna que vio de niña.
Coates alzó la vista al cielo.
—¿Lo ve? Citando a Ronnie Reagan: «Ya está otra vez con lo mismo».
—¿Qué? ¿No cree en los traumas infantiles?
—Yo creo en una cárcel agradable y tranquila, en eso creo. Se la llevaron al módulo A, la Tierra de los Chiflados.
—Políticamente incorrecto, directora Coates. El término preferido es Centro de Apretado de Tornillos. ¿Tuvieron que ponerla en la silla de inmovilización?
Aunque a veces era necesaria, Clint detestaba esa silla, que parecía el asiento envolvente de un coche deportivo transformado en instrumento de tortura.
—No, le dimos medicación amarilla, y se calmó. No sé cuál, tampoco me importa demasiado, pero constará en el informe del incidente, si quiere consultarlo.
En Dooling había tres niveles de medicación: rojo, que solo podía administrar personal médico; amarillo, que podían administrar los funcionarios; y verde, que las reclusas podían tener en las celdas siempre y cuando no estuvieran en el módulo C ni hubieran sido objeto de informes de mala conducta.
—De acuerdo —dijo Clint.
—Ahora mismo, su chica, McDavid, está durmiendo la mona...
—No es _mi_ chica...
—Y con eso concluye el parte de la mañana. —Janice bostezó, restregó el cigarrillo contra la pared y echó la colilla bajo la caja de reparto de leche, como si por no estar a la vista de algún modo fuera a desaparecer.
—¿No la dejo dormir, Janice?
—No es usted. Anoche cené comida mexicana. Me he levantado no sé cuántas veces para ir al váter. Eso que dicen es verdad: lo que sale se parece sospechosamente a lo que entra.
—Exceso de información, directora.
—Es usted médico, puede manejarla. ¿Va a ir a ver cómo está McDavid?
—A lo largo de la mañana, sin duda.
—¿Quiere que le diga cuál es mi teoría? Pues bien, es esta: de pequeña sufrió malos tratos por parte de alguna mujer que se hacía llamar la Reina Negra. ¿Qué le parece?
—Podría ser —dijo Clint, sin morder el anzuelo.
— _Podría ser_. —La directora negó con la cabeza—. ¿Por qué investigar su infancia, Clint, cuando todavía son niñas? En esencia por eso están aquí la mayoría de ellas: comportamiento infantil en primer grado.
Eso llevó a Clint a pensar en Jeanette Sorley, que después de soportar los crecientes malos tratos en su matrimonio había apuñalado a su marido con un destornillador y se había quedado mirando cómo moría desangrado. Si no hubiese actuado así, al final Damian Sorley habría acabado matándola. A ese respecto Clint no albergaba la menor duda. Para él eso no era comportamiento infantil, sino instinto de supervivencia. En todo caso, si se lo decía a la directora Coates, ella se negaría a oírlo: en ese sentido, era de la vieja escuela. Más valía limitarse a dar por concluido el salmo (responsorial).
—Iniciemos, pues, directora Coates, un día más en la vida de la cárcel femenina, a orillas del Canal Real.
Ella cogió su bolso, se puso en pie y se sacudió los fondillos del pantalón del uniforme.
—No hay canal, pero siempre está el transbordador de Ball's Creek, a un paso de aquí carretera abajo, así que sí. Iniciemos el día.
Prendiéndose las tarjetas de identificación en sus respectivas camisas, entraron juntos aquel primer día de la enfermedad del sueño.
10
Magda Dubcek, madre del joven y apuesto limpiador de piscinas del pueblo conocido como Anton el Chico de la Piscina (además, se había convertido en sociedad, así que tengan la bondad de extender los cheques a nombre de Anton el Chico de la Piscina, S. R. L.), entró tambaleante en el salón del dúplex que compartía con su hijo. Llevaba el bastón en una mano y un tonificante matutino en la otra. Se desplomó en su sillón con un suspiro y un pedo y encendió el televisor.
A esa hora del día, normalmente habría sintonizado la segunda parte de _Good Day Wheeling_ , pero esa mañana puso NewsAmerica. Había una noticia que le interesaba, lo cual era bueno, y conocía a una de las corresponsales que la cubrían, lo cual era aún mejor. La pequeña Michaela Coates, que en ese momento se hacía llamar Michaela Morgan pero para Magda sería por siempre jamás la pequeña Mickey, a quien había cuidado cuando era niña, hacía ya muchos años. Por aquel entonces Jan Coates era solo celadora en la prisión de mujeres situada en el extremo sur del pueblo, una madre viuda que intentaba salir adelante como buenamente podía. Se había convertido en la directora, la jefa de toda la banda, y su hija Mickey, en una corresponsal de televisión conocida a nivel nacional y establecida en Washington, famosa por sus preguntas contundentes y sus faldas cortas. No cabía duda de que las Coates habían llegado a algo en la vida. Magda se enorgullecía de ellas, y si sentía un amago de tristeza por el hecho de que Mickey nunca la telefoneara ni le escribiera, o porque Janice nunca se dejase caer por allí para pegar la hebra, bueno, las dos tenían trabajos que atender. Magda no pretendía siquiera comprender las presiones bajo las que las dos actuaban.
Esa mañana el presentador de turno era George Alderson. Con sus gafas y sus hombros cargados, y el pelo ralo, no se parecía en nada a los ídolos de los informativos vespertinos que solían leer las noticias sentados tras grandes mesas. Alderson parecía el empleado de un depósito de cadáveres. Además, tenía una voz poco afortunada para dedicarse a la televisión. Una especie de graznido. En fin, Magda suponía que por alguna razón NewsAmerica era la cadena número tres por detrás de FOX y CNN. Esperaba con impaciencia el día en que Michaela ascendiera a una de esas otras. Entonces ya no tendría que soportar a Alderson.
«A esta hora todavía seguimos con atención una noticia reciente que empezó en Australia», dijo Alderson. En su semblante intentaba combinar preocupación y escepticismo, pero el resultado parecía más bien una mueca de estreñimiento.
«Deberías jubilarte y quedarte calvo en la comodidad de tu casa», pensó Magda, y brindó con el primer cubalibre del día. «Ve a encerarte la cabeza, George, y deja paso a mi Michaela.»
«Responsables médicos de Oahu, Hawái, informan de que continúa propagándose el brote de lo que algunos llaman "enfermedad del desvanecimiento asiática", y otros, "gripe del desvanecimiento australiana". Según parece, nadie sabe con certeza dónde se originó en realidad, pero hasta el momento las únicas víctimas han sido mujeres. Ahora nos llega la noticia de que se han observado algunos casos en nuestras costas, primero en California, luego en Colorado y ahora en las Carolinas. Damos paso a Michaela Morgan, que nos trae más información.»
—¡Mickey! —exclamó Magda, y brindó de nuevo en dirección al televisor (derramándose un poco de cubalibre en la manga de la rebeca). Esa mañana Magda tenía solo un leve dejo checo, pero para cuando Anton llegara a casa a las cinco hablaría como si acabara de desembarcar, pese a llevar casi cuarenta años viviendo en la zona de los Tres Condados—. ¡La pequeña Mickey Coates! Yo perseguía tu trasero desnudo por el salón de tu madre, y nos partíamos las dos de risa. Te cambiaba los pañales sucios, locuela. ¡Quién te ha visto y quién te ve!
Michaela Morgan, antes Coates, vestida con una blusa sin mangas y una de sus características minifaldas, se hallaba delante de un complejo de edificios dispersos de color rojo establo. Magda opinaba que esas minifaldas le hacían un buen servicio. Incluso los políticos de altos vuelos podían quedar hipnotizados por un atisbo de muslo, y a veces, cuando se hallaban sumidos en ese estado, la verdad escapaba de sus bocas mentirosas. No siempre, claro, pero sí a veces. En lo referente a la nueva nariz de Michaela, Magda albergaba sus dudas. Echaba en falta la graciosa naricilla que tenía su chica de pequeña, y en cierto modo, con su afilada nariz actual, Mickey ya no se parecía mucho a Mickey. Por otro lado, estaba espectacular. Uno no podía apartar la vista de ella.
«Estoy en el centro de cuidados paliativos Loving Hands, de Georgetown, donde esta mañana temprano se han observado los primeros casos de lo que algunos llaman "gripe del desvanecimiento australiana". Hay aquí internados casi cien pacientes, en su mayoría geriátricos, y más de la mitad son mujeres. La gerencia no quiere confirmar ni desmentir el brote, pero he hablado con un auxiliar hace unos minutos, y lo que ha dicho, aunque breve, resulta inquietante. Ha pedido que se respete su anonimato. Aquí lo tienen.»
La entrevista grabada era ciertamente breve, apenas un puñado de frases. Mostraba a Michaela conversando con un hombre que vestía una bata blanca; este tenía la cara pixelada y la voz alterada electrónicamente, de modo que parecía el siniestro jefe supremo alienígena de una película de ciencia ficción.
«¿Qué está pasando ahí dentro? —preguntó Michaela—. ¿Puede ponernos al corriente?»
«La mayoría de las mujeres están dormidas, y es imposible despertarlas —dijo el auxiliar con su voz de jefe supremo alienígena—. Pasa lo mismo que en Hawái.»
«Pero ¿los hombres...?»
«Los hombres como si nada. En pie y desayunando.»
«En Hawái se ha informado de... _excrecencias_ en las caras de las mujeres dormidas. ¿Ocurre aquí lo mismo?»
«Creo... creo que no debo hablar de eso.»
«Por favor —insistió Michaela con un pestañeo—, la gente está preocupada.»
—¡Así se hace! —graznó Magda, saludó al televisor con su copa y se derramó un poco más de cubalibre en la rebeca—. ¡Ponte sexy! ¡En cuanto te los metes en el bolsillo, puedes sacarles cualquier cosa!
«No hay excrecencias en el sentido de tumores —dijo la voz del jefe supremo—. Parece más bien como si tuvieran algodón pegado. Ahora tengo que irme.»
«Solo una pregunta más...»
«Tengo que irme. Pero... crece, esa especie de algodón. Da... asco.»
Las imágenes dieron paso a la toma en directo.
«Una declaración inquietante de una persona con información de primera mano... de ser cierta. Te devuelvo la palabra, George.»
Una vez que había visto a Mickey, Magda apagó el televisor. Esperaba que aquello fuera un bulo, otro rumor falso para sembrar el pánico, como lo del Efecto 2000 o el SRAG; aun así, la idea de que una enfermedad provocara en las mujeres no solo el sueño sino además el crecimiento de algo era, como decía Mickey, inquietante. Se alegraría cuando Anton llegara a casa. Sin más compañía que el televisor, se sentía sola, aunque no era de las que se quejaban. Magda no quería causar preocupaciones a su hijo, un joven muy trabajador, eso ni hablar. Ella le había prestado el dinero para abrir el negocio, pero era él quien lo mantenía en marcha.
De momento, sin embargo, quizá una copita más, solo un trago, y después una siesta.
### 3
1
En cuanto Lila tuvo esposada a la mujer, la envolvió con la manta isotérmica que llevaba en el maletero del coche patrulla y la ayudó a acomodarse en el asiento trasero. Entretanto le recitó sus derechos. La mujer, en silencio, con aquella sonrisa radiante reducida a una expresión ensoñadora, había aceptado sin resistirse la mano de Lila en el brazo y se había dejado guiar de buen grado al asiento. En menos de cinco minutos, se había reducido a la sospechosa y se había efectuado la detención; la polvareda que habían levantado los neumáticos del coche patrulla aún no se había posado del todo cuando Lila rodeó el vehículo para dirigirse a la puerta del conductor.
—Mariposa viene de «mari», forma abreviada de María, y de «posa», del verbo posar.
Lila estaba cambiando de sentido para enfilar Ball's Hill abajo, en dirección al pueblo, cuando la detenida le dio a conocer este dato. A través del retrovisor, vio los ojos de la mujer, que la miraba. Tenía la voz suave, aunque no especialmente femenina, y parecía divagar. Lila no supo si se dirigía a ella o si hablaba sola.
«Drogas —pensó—. Fenciclidina, probablemente. También podía tratarse de ketamina.»
—Sabe cómo me llamo —dijo Lila—. ¿De qué la conozco, entonces?
Había tres posibilidades: la APA (improbable pero no imposible), el periódico o que Lila la hubiera detenido en algún momento de los catorce últimos años y no se acordara. La puerta número tres parecía la mejor opción.
—Todo el mundo me conoce —contestó Evie—. Vengo a ser algo así como una It Girl, Chica Eso. —Las esposas tintinearon cuando ladeó un hombro para rascarse la barbilla—. Algo así. Eso y Chica. Mí, me y yo. Padre, Hijo y Eva Santa. Eva, que rima con cueva. Y con luna nueva. Luna, noche. Cuando todas nos vamos a dormir. ¿Entiendes? Mariposa, ¿captas? De María, de madre.
La población civil no se imaginaba siquiera la cantidad de disparates que un poli tenía que oír. Al público le encantaba rendir homenaje a los agentes de policía por su valor, pero nadie les reconocía el mérito por la entereza que requería a diario sobrellevar las gilipolleces. Si bien la valentía era un rasgo excelente en un policía, más importante era, en opinión de Lila, la resistencia innata a las idioteces.
Casualmente, por eso había costado tanto cubrir la última plaza disponible de ayudante a jornada completa. Era sin duda la razón por la que Lila había desestimado la solicitud del tipo de Control Animal, Frank Geary, y contratado en su lugar a un joven veterinario llamado Dan Treater, pese a que este apenas tenía experiencia laboral en las fuerzas del orden. Aun siendo inteligente y bienhablado como Geary obviamente era, su expediente le pareció demasiado extenso: había generado demasiado papeleo, puesto demasiadas multas. El mensaje entre líneas denotaba una tendencia a la confrontación; no era un individuo capaz de hacer la vista gorda ante pequeñeces. Eso no era bueno.
No podía decirse que sus hombres en conjunto fuesen una superbrigada de la lucha contra el crimen, pero qué más daba, bienvenidos al mundo real. Uno reunía a los mejores elementos a su alcance y luego intentaba ayudarlos. Roger Elway y Terry Coombs, sin ir más lejos. Posiblemente Roger hubiera recibido un golpe de más en su época como defensa del equipo de fútbol del instituto de Dooling, al servicio del entrenador Wittstock, hacía más de una década. Terry tenía más luces, pero podía desanimarse y contrariarse si las cosas no salían según lo previsto, y bebía demasiado en las fiestas. Sin embargo, los dos poseían mucho aguante, lo cual significaba que podía confiar en ellos. Casi siempre.
Lila albergaba la opinión no expresada de que la maternidad era el mejor entrenamiento posible para un futuro agente de policía. (No expresada en particular ante Clint, que se lo habría pasado en grande al oírlo; se lo imaginaba ladeando la cabeza y torciendo los labios de aquella manera un tanto enojosa suya, para acabar diciendo: «Eso es interesante» o «Podría ser».) Las madres tenían un don natural para imponer orden, porque los niños pequeños, al igual que los delincuentes, a menudo eran belicosos y destructivos.
Si una podía superar esos primeros años de la vida de un niño sin perder la calma ni volverse loca, posiblemente sería capaz de afrontar la delincuencia de personas mayores. La clave era no reaccionar, mantener una actitud adulta/madura... ¿y estaba pensando en la mujer desnuda y ensangrentada que tenía algo que ver con la muerte violenta de dos personas, o en cómo manejar a alguien más cercano, mucho más cercano, el hombre que apoyaba su cabeza en la almohada junto a la de ella? (Cuando el cronómetro llegó a 00.00, sonó la bocina del gimnasio, y los chicos y chicas prorrumpieron en vítores. La puntuación final: Equipo Femenino Amateur del Condado de Bridger 42 – Equipo Femenino Amateur de Fayette 34.) Como quizá diría Clint: «Oye, es interesante. ¿Quieres contarme un poco más?».
—Ahora hay muchas buenas ofertas —prosiguió Evie, erre que erre—. Lavadoras-secadoras. Parrillas. Bebés que comen y cagan comida de plástico. Grandes descuentos en todos los departamentos.
—Ya —dijo Lila, como si las palabras de la mujer tuvieran sentido—. ¿Cómo se llama?
—Evie.
Lila volvió la cabeza.
—¿Y el apellido? ¿Cuál es?
La mujer tenía los pómulos firmes y prominentes. Sus ojos, de color castaño claro, resplandecían. Su piel poseía lo que Lila consideraba un tono mediterráneo, ¡y vaya cabello oscuro el suyo! Se le había secado una mancha de sangre en la frente.
—¿Lo necesito? —preguntó Evie.
Por lo que a Lila se refería, eso confirmaba sus sospechas: decididamente su nueva conocida llevaba un colocón de órdago.
Se volvió hacia delante, pisó el acelerador y desprendió el micro.
—Base, aquí Unidad Uno. Tengo a una mujer bajo custodia, la he encontrado paseando al norte del almacén de madera de Ball's Hill. Va muy manchada de sangre, así que necesitamos el kit para recogida de muestras. Necesita además un mono desechable. Y llama a una ambulancia para que se reúna con nosotras. Ha tomado algo.
—Recibido —contestó Linny—. Según Terry, lo de la caravana es un verdadero asco.
—Recibido. —Evie se rio alegremente—. Un verdadero asco. Llevad toallas de sobra. Pero no de las buenas, ja ja ja. Recibido.
—Unidad Uno, corto. —Lila prendió el micro. Echó un vistazo a Evie por el retrovisor—. Debería quedarse callada, señora. La he detenido bajo sospecha de asesinato. La cosa va en serio.
Se acercaban al límite del término municipal. Lila aminoró y detuvo el coche patrulla ante el stop que regulaba el tráfico en el cruce de Ball's Hill con West Lavin. West Lavin llevaba a la cárcel. En el lado opuesto de la calle, un cartel muy visible prevenía contra la recogida de autostopistas.
—¿Está herida, señora?
—Todavía no —contestó Evie—. Pero ¡eh! Triple doble. Muy bien.
Algo titiló en la cabeza de Lila, el equivalente mental a una mota resplandeciente en la arena, barrida de inmediato por una ola espumosa.
Volvió a mirar por el retrovisor. Evie, con los ojos cerrados, se había recostado. ¿Estaba dándole el bajón?
—Señora, ¿va a vomitar?
—Más vale que le des un beso a tu hombre antes de dormirte. Más vale que le des un beso de despedida mientras estés a tiempo.
—Claro que... —empezó a decir Lila, pero de pronto la mujer se abalanzó de cabeza contra la rejilla divisoria. Cuando esta vibró y se sacudió por efecto del testarazo de Evie, Lila se apartó instintivamente—. ¡No haga eso! —exclamó un segundo antes de que Evie embistiera la rejilla por segunda vez. Lila alcanzó a ver un asomo de sonrisa en su rostro, sangre reciente en los dientes y, a continuación, una tercera arremetida.
Con la mano ya en la puerta, Lila se disponía a salir para ir a la parte de atrás e incapacitar a la mujer mediante una descarga eléctrica por su propia seguridad, para calmarla, pero el tercer golpe fue el último. Evie se había desmoronado en el asiento y jadeaba satisfecha, como un corredor que acabara de cruzar la línea de meta. Tenía sangre en torno a la boca y la nariz, y una brecha en la frente.
—¡Triple doble! ¡Desde luego! —exclamó Evie—. ¡Triple doble! ¡Un día ajetreado!
Lila descolgó el micro y transmitió a Linny: cambio de planes. El abogado de oficio tenía que acudir a la oficina cuanto antes. Y también el juez Silver si era posible convencer al viejo para que se acercara por allí y les hiciera un favor.
2
Hundido hasta el vientre entre unas matas de helecho dulce, un zorro observaba a Essie descargar el carrito.
El animal no pensaba en ella como Essie, claro está, no la llamaba de ninguna manera. Era sencillamente una humana más. En todo caso el zorro llevaba observándola mucho tiempo —lunas y soles— y se daba perfecta cuenta de que aquel cobertizo cochambroso de láminas de plástico y lonas era una guarida. El zorro entendía también que los cuatro trozos de cristal verde que la mujer había dispuesto en semicírculo y a los que se refería como «las niñas» tenían un gran significado para ella. A veces, cuando Essie no estaba presente, el zorro los olisqueaba —ahí no había vida— e inspeccionaba sus pertenencias, que eran desdeñables, a excepción de unas cuantas latas de sopa desechadas que él había limpiado a lengüetazos.
Consideraba que ella no representaba la menor amenaza, pero era un zorro viejo, y uno no llegaba a zorro viejo por confiarse en ningún asunto. Uno llegaba a zorro viejo por andarse con cautela y aprovechar las oportunidades, aparearse con la mayor frecuencia posible procurando no enredarse, no cruzar jamás una carretera a la luz del día y escarbar hondo en marga buena y blanda.
Esa mañana no parecía necesario ejercer la prudencia. El comportamiento de Essie era el normal en ella. Después de sacar del carrito las bolsas y los diversos objetos misteriosos, informó a los fragmentos de cristal de que su madre necesitaba dar una cabezada.
—Nada de tonterías, ¿eh, niñas? —advirtió Essie, y entró en el cobertizo para tumbarse sobre una pila de mantas de mudanza que utilizaba como colchón. Aunque el cobertizo ocultaba su cuerpo, la cabeza asomaba a la luz.
Mientras Essie conciliaba el sueño, el zorro enseñó los dientes en silencio a la mitad superior del maniquí masculino que ella había dejado junto al cobertizo, entre las hojas, pero el maniquí no reaccionó. Probablemente estaba tan muerto como el cristal verde. El zorro se mordisqueó una pata y esperó.
La respiración de la vieja no tardó en acompasarse, cada honda inspiración se veía seguida de una espiración sibilante y superficial. El zorro abandonó despacio los helechos y avanzó con sigilo hacia el cobertizo para cerciorarse de las intenciones o la ausencia de las mismas del maniquí. Le enseñó los dientes de modo más manifiesto. El maniquí no se movió. Sí, decididamente muerto.
Trotó hasta hallarse a cierta distancia del cobertizo y se detuvo. Sobre la cabeza de la mujer dormida se propagaba una sustancia blanquecina en movimiento: hebras blancas, como telarañas, que se elevaban desde sus mejillas, se desplegaban sin pausa y se depositaban en la piel, recubriéndola. Nuevas hebras se formaban a partir de las ya extendidas, y enseguida revistieron la cara, formando una máscara que pronto envolvería toda la cabeza. En la penumbra del cobertizo, revoloteaban en círculo unas mariposas.
El zorro, husmeando, retrocedió unos pasos. No le gustaba aquella cosa blanca: la cosa blanca estaba sin duda viva, y sin duda era una criatura distinta de todas las que conocía. El intenso olor de aquella cosa blanca llegaba incluso a lo lejos, y era una mezcla inquietante: en ese olor se percibían sangre y tejidos, avidez e inteligencia, y un elemento surgido de la tierra, de muy hondo, de la Guarida entre todas las Guaridas. ¿Y qué dormía en ese gran lecho? Un zorro, no, de eso estaba seguro.
El olfateo dio paso a un gimoteo, y el zorro se volvió y empezó a alejarse al trote en dirección oeste. Un sonido de movimiento atravesó el bosque detrás de él —alguien se acercaba—, y el trote se convirtió en carrera.
3
Después de ayudar a Oscar Silver a enterrar a la gata Cocoa —envuelta en una toalla raída—, Frank recorrió en coche las dos cortas manzanas hasta el número 51 de Smith Lane, casa cuya hipoteca pagaba, pero donde, desde que Elaine y él se habían separado, solo residían esta y su hija de once años, Nana.
Elaine había sido asistenta social a sueldo del estado hasta hacía dos recortes presupuestarios, pero en ese momento trabajaba a tiempo parcial en la tienda de Goodwill y, como voluntaria, en un par de bancos de alimentos y en el centro de Planificación Familiar de Maylock. El lado bueno de eso era que no necesitaban buscar dinero para canguros. Cuando terminaban las clases, nadie ponía reparos a que Nana hiciera compañía a su madre en Goodwill. El lado malo era que iban a perder la casa.
Eso preocupaba más a Frank que a Elaine. De hecho, a ella no parecía preocuparla en absoluto. Por más que Elaine lo negara, Frank sospechaba que se proponía utilizar la venta como pretexto para abandonar la zona y marcharse quizá a Pennsylvania, donde vivía su hermana. Si eso ocurría, los fines de semana alternos de Frank se convertirían en un fin de semana cada dos meses, como mucho.
Excepto los días de visita, procuraba evitar aquel lugar. E incluso entonces, si podía arreglarlo para que Elaine le llevara a Nana, lo prefería. Los recuerdos que acompañaban esa casa —la sensación de injusticia y fracaso, el agujero parcheado en la pared de la cocina— seguían en carne viva. Frank tenía la sensación de que, mediante engaños, le habían arrebatado toda su vida, y la mejor parte de esa vida la había pasado en el 51 de Smith Lane, la casa unifamiliar ajardinada, sencilla y cuidada, con un pato que su hija había pintado en el buzón.
No obstante, el asunto del Mercedes verde lo obligaba a detenerse allí.
Al subirse con una sacudida al bordillo, vio a Nana dibujar con tiza en el camino de acceso. Uno normalmente asociaría esa actividad con una niña mucho menor, pero su hija tenía talento para la ilustración. El curso anterior había ganado el segundo premio en un concurso organizado por la biblioteca de la localidad que consistía en diseñar un marcapáginas. Nana había dibujado una bandada de libros volando como aves a través de un banco de nubes. Frank lo había enmarcado y colgado en su despacho. Lo miraba continuamente. Era hermoso, eso de imaginar libros volando dentro de la cabeza de su hija.
Nana estaba sentada al sol en la cámara de aire de un neumático, con las piernas cruzadas, y tenía dispuesto alrededor, en abanico, su arcoíris de utensilios. Junto con la aptitud para el dibujo, o quizá en consonancia con ella, Nana poseía un don para ponerse cómoda. Era una niña soñadora, de movimientos lentos, más parecida a Frank que a su enérgica madre, que nunca se andaba con rodeos, que siempre iba al grano.
Se inclinó sobre la consola de la furgoneta y abrió la puerta del lado opuesto.
—Eh, Ojos Brillantes. Ven aquí.
La niña lo miró con los párpados entornados.
—¿Papá?
—Sí, que yo sepa —dijo él, esforzándose por mantener levantadas las comisuras de los labios—. Ven, ¿quieres?
—¿Ahora? —Ya había echado un vistazo a su dibujo.
—Sí. Ahora mismo. —Frank respiró hondo.
No había empezado a ponerse de «esa manera», como lo llamaba Elaine, hasta después de despedirse del juez. Con eso se refería a «perder los estribos». Cosa que, al margen de lo que ella pensara, rara vez le ocurría. ¿Y ese día? Al principio estaba bien. Luego, tras dar cinco pasos por la hierba del jardín de Oscar Silver, era como si se hubiese activado un disparador invisible. A veces ocurría sin más. Como cuando Elaine le reprochó que hubiera levantado la voz en la reunión de la APA y él atravesó la pared de la cocina de un puñetazo, y Nana, llorando, corrió arriba, sin entender que a veces uno daba un puñetazo a un _objeto_ para no dárselo a una _persona_. O aquel asunto con Fritz Meshaum, donde él había perdido un poco el control, debía reconocerlo, pero Meshaum se lo merecía. Cualquiera que hiciese eso a un animal se lo merecía.
«Esa gata podría haber sido mi hija», era lo que estaba pensando Frank mientras cruzaba el jardín de Oscar Silver. Y de pronto, ¡bum! Como si el tiempo fuera el cordón de un zapato y, en el recorrido hasta la furgoneta, se hubiese desatado. Porque de repente estaba en su furgoneta, camino de Smith Lane, y no recordaba el momento en que se había subido. Tenía las manos sudorosas en torno al volante y las mejillas calientes, y seguía pensando que la gata podría haber sido su hija, solo que no era un pensamiento. Era más bien un mensaje luminoso urgente en una pantalla LED:
error error error
mi hija mi hija mi hija
Con cuidado Nana dejó un trozo de tiza morado en el espacio vacío entre uno naranja y uno verde. Empujándose, se levantó de la cámara de aire y, durante unos segundos, se quedó allí de pie sacudiéndose el polvo de los fondillos del pantalón corto amarillo de flores y frotándose contemplativamente las yemas de los dedos, manchadas de tiza.
—Cariño —dijo Frank, conteniéndose para no levantar la voz. Porque hay que tener en cuenta que la niña estaba justo en el camino de acceso, donde cualquier borracho, cualquier gilipollas en un coche de lujo, podía atropellarla.
mi hija mi hija mi hija
Nana dio un paso, se detuvo y se examinó los dedos otra vez, al parecer no muy satisfecha.
—¡Nana! —Frank, todavía inclinado sobre la consola, dio una palmada en el asiento del acompañante. Una palmada fuerte—. ¡Ven aquí!
La niña alzó la cabeza en el acto, sobresaltada, como si un trueno acabara de arrancarla del sueño. Avanzó lentamente, y cuando llegó a la puerta abierta, Frank la agarró por la pechera de la camiseta y tiró de ella para atraerla hacia sí.
—¡Eh! Me estás deformando la camiseta —dijo Nana.
—Eso da igual —contestó Frank—. Aquí lo importante no es tu camiseta. Yo te diré qué es lo importante, así que atiende. ¿Quién tiene un Mercedes verde? ¿De qué casa es?
—¿Cómo? —Nana intentó apartarle la mano con la que la tenía sujeta por la camiseta—. ¿De qué me hablas? Vas a estropearme la camiseta.
—¿Es que no me has oído? ¡Olvídate de la puta camiseta! —Estas últimas palabras se le escaparon, y se aborreció por ello, pero a la vez le complació ver que su hija dejaba de mirarse la camiseta para fijar la vista en él. Por fin había captado su atención. Nana parpadeó y tomó aire—. Vale, ahora que ya has bajado de las nubes, centrémonos los dos en esto. Me hablaste de un hombre al que veías cuando repartías periódicos, que conducía un Mercedes verde. ¿Cómo se llama? ¿En qué casa vive?
—No me acuerdo del nombre. Lo siento, papá. —Nana se mordió el labio inferior—. Pero es la casa que está al lado de la que tiene esa bandera grande. Hay una tapia. En Briar. Arriba del todo de la cuesta.
—Bien. —Frank le soltó la camiseta.
Nana no se movió.
—¿Ya no estás enfadado?
—Cariño, no estaba enfadado. —Al ver que la niña callaba, añadió—: Bueno, sí. Un poco. Pero no contigo.
Nana no lo miró, se limitó a seguir frotándose los malditos dedos. La quería, era lo más importante en su vida, pero a veces costaba creer que no le faltara algún tornillo.
—Gracias. —Parte del sofoco empezaba a desaparecer de su cara; parte del sudor se enfriaba ya en su piel—. Gracias, Ojos Brillantes.
—De nada —dijo Nana. La niña dio un corto paso atrás, y a Frank el ruido de la suela de su zapatilla en contacto con la acera se le antojó estridente en extremo.
Frank se irguió en el asiento.
—Una cosa más. Hazme el favor de no quedarte en el camino esta mañana, hasta que yo resuelva un asunto. Hay un hombre que va conduciendo por ahí como un loco. Dibuja en papel dentro de casa, ¿de acuerdo?
La niña se mordisqueaba el labio inferior.
—De acuerdo, papá.
—No vas a llorar, ¿verdad?
—No, papá.
—Bien. Esa es mi chica. Nos vemos el fin de semana que viene, ¿vale?
Frank notó que tenía los labios muy secos. Se preguntó qué más debería haber hecho, y una voz dentro de él contestó: «Bueno, digámoslo de otra manera: ¿qué más _podrías_ haber hecho? Quizá podrías, no sé, esto posiblemente te sonará absurdo, Frank, pero, oye, quizá podrías _no haber perdido los papeles_ ». La voz era como una parodia jocosa de la del propio Frank, la voz de un hombre que estaba repantigado en una tumbona, con gafas de sol, bebiendo té helado quizá.
—Vale. —La niña asintió con la cabeza como una autómata.
A su espalda, en la acera, había dibujado un elaborado árbol, con el tronco nudoso de través y la copa a un lado del camino. De las ramas colgaba musgo, y al pie se amontonaban las flores. Las raíces descendían hasta el contorno de un lago subterráneo.
—Me gusta eso que has dibujado ahí —dijo él, y sonrió.
—Gracias, papá —respondió Nana.
—Es solo que no quiero que te pase nada. —La sonrisa que tenía en el rostro parecía fijada con clavos.
Su hija se sorbió la nariz y le dirigió otro asentimiento de autómata. Él supo que estaba conteniendo las lágrimas.
—Oye, Nana... —empezó a decir, pero las palabras que buscaba se dispersaron cuando la voz interior intercedió de nuevo para avisarlo de que la niña ya había tenido bastante. De que lo dejara correr de una vez.
—Adiós, papá.
Ella tendió los brazos y cerró la puerta de la furgoneta con delicadeza. Giró sobre los talones y se alejó corriendo por el camino de acceso, desparramando las tizas, pasando por encima de su árbol, emborronando los verdes y los negros de la copa. La cabeza gacha. Los hombros trémulos.
Los niños, se dijo Frank, no siempre lo entienden cuando uno intenta hacer lo correcto.
4
Había tres informes de esa noche en el escritorio de Clint.
El primero era previsible pero preocupante: una de las funcionarias que estaba de guardia la noche anterior había conjeturado que acaso Angel Fitzroy se hallaba bajo los efectos de algo. Cuando se apagaron las luces, Angel había intentado entablar conversación con la funcionaria sobre una cuestión semántica. En Dooling era de estricto cumplimiento la norma de llamar «funcionario» a todo representante de la autoridad. Sinónimos como «guardia» o «celador», y ya no digamos —¡obviamente!— improperios como «gilipollas» o «cabrón» eran inaceptables. Angel había preguntado a la funcionaria Wettermore si entendía el idioma. _Claro_ que eran guardias, afirmó Angel. También podían ser funcionarios, en eso no había inconveniente, pero no podían no ser guardias, puesto que guardaban. ¿Acaso no guardaban a las presas? Si uno hacía pan, ¿no era acaso panadero? Si excavaba un hoyo, ¿no era excavador?
«Se advirtió a la reclusa que había rebasado el límite de una conversación razonable y podía esperar consecuencias si no se callaba de inmediato —escribió Wettermore—. La reclusa cedió y entró en su celda, pero después preguntó que cómo esperábamos que las presas respetaran las normas cuando las palabras con que se formulaban las normas no tenían sentido. El tono de la reclusa era amenazador.»
Angel Fitzroy era una de las pocas mujeres de la cárcel a quienes Clint consideraba verdaderamente peligrosas. Por sus interacciones con ella, sospechaba que podía tratarse de una sociópata. Jamás había percibido en la reclusa la menor empatía, y en sus antecedentes figuraban numerosas infracciones: drogas, peleas, comportamiento amenazador.
—¿Cómo crees que te sentirías si el hombre al que agrediste hubiese muerto a causa de sus heridas, Angel? —le había preguntado durante una sesión de terapia en grupo.
—Ah —había contestado Angel, arrellanada en la silla, recorriendo las paredes de la consulta con la mirada—. Me habría sentido... esto... bastante mal... supongo. —De pronto se relamió y fijó los ojos en la reproducción de Hockney que había colgada en la pared—. Mirad ese cuadro, chicas. ¿No os gustaría visitar ese sitio?
Si bien la condena por agresión ya era bastante grave —un hombre, en una gasolinera, dijo algo a Angel que a ella no le gustó, y Angel arrancó una varilla del limpiaparabrisas del coche de la víctima y lo molió a golpes—, existían indicios de que había quedado impune de cosas mucho peores.
Un inspector de Charleston había viajado a Dooling para solicitar a Clint ayuda en un caso relacionado con Fitzroy. Lo que el inspector buscaba era información respecto a la muerte de un antiguo casero de Angel. El suceso se había producido un par de años antes de su encarcelamiento actual. Angel era la única sospechosa, pero solo la proximidad la vinculaba al crimen, sin motivo aparente. La cuestión era (como el propio Clint sabía) que Angel, según su historial, no necesitaba grandes motivos. Devolverle veinte centavos menos de cambio podía bastar para que estallara. El inspector de Charleston casi se había regodeado en la descripción del cadáver del casero: «Daba la impresión de que el vejete solo se había caído por la escalera y se había partido el cuello. Pero, según el forense, alguien se había entretenido con su paquete antes de la muerte. Tenía los huevos... no recuerdo qué palabra usó exactamente el forense, si dijo "fracturados" o qué. Pero, hablando en plata, quiso decir: "En esencia los tenía aplastados"».
Clint no se dedicaba a delatar a sus pacientes, y así se lo hizo saber al inspector, pero sí mencionó posteriormente esa investigación a Angel.
Con una expresión de inescrutable asombro, respondió: «¿Los huevos pueden fracturarse?».
Clint tomó nota mentalmente de que debía pasarse por la celda de Angel ese mismo día y efectuar una lectura sismológica.
El segundo informe trataba de una reclusa asignada al servicio de conserjería que afirmó que había una plaga de mariposas en la cocina de la cárcel. La funcionaria Murphy, tras comprobarlo, no vio ninguna mariposa. «La reclusa se sometió voluntariamente a un análisis de orina: limpia de drogas y alcohol.»
Parecía poder interpretarse como el caso de una reclusa empeñada en enloquecer a una funcionaria y una funcionaria empeñada en devolverle el favor. Clint no tenía interés en alimentar ese círculo con su propia intervención. Lo archivó.
Kitty McDavid era el último incidente.
La funcionaria Wettermore había anotado algunos de sus desvaríos: «El Ángel Negro ascendió desde las raíces y descendió desde las ramas. Sus dedos son muerte, y su pelo está lleno de telarañas, y el sueño es su reino». __ Tras administrarle una dosis de haloperidol, la habían trasladado al módulo A.
Clint salió de la consulta y atravesó la zona de administración en dirección a la sección este del centro, que albergaba las módulos de celdas. La cárcel tenía aproximadamente la forma de una «t» minúscula, siendo el trazo central largo el pasillo conocido como Broadway, que corría paralelo a la Interestatal 17/West Lavin Road, por dar una referencia con respecto al exterior. Las oficinas de administración, el centro de comunicaciones, la sala de funcionarios, el salón de recreo del personal y las aulas se hallaban todos en el extremo oeste de Broadway. El otro pasillo, Main Street, era perpendicular a West Lavin. Main Street iba desde la puerta principal de la cárcel hasta el taller de actividades artesanales, el cuarto de máquinas, la lavandería y el gimnasio. En el otro extremo de Main Street, Broadway continuaba hacia el este, dejando atrás la biblioteca, el comedor, la sala de visitas, la enfermería y la zona de ingresos, antes de llegar a los tres módulos.
Una puerta de seguridad separaba Broadway de las celdas. Clint se detuvo allí y pulsó el botón con el cual uno comunicaba a la Garita su intención de entrar. Sonó un zumbido, y los cerrojos de la puerta de seguridad se descorrieron con un chasquido potente. Clint la empujó.
Los tres módulos, A, B y C, estaban dispuestos en forma de tenaza. En el centro se hallaba la Garita, una estructura semejante a un cobertizo protegida con cristal blindado. Contenía los monitores de las funcionarias y el panel de comunicaciones.
Aunque la mayor parte de la población reclusa se mezclaba en el patio y en otros sitios, los módulos estaban organizados conforme al peligro hipotético que cada presa representaba. En la cárcel había sesenta y cuatro celdas; doce en el módulo A, doce en el módulo C y cuarenta en el módulo B. A y C se encontraban al nivel del suelo; el módulo B contaba con una segunda planta de celdas.
El módulo A se destinaba a la atención médica, aunque también alojaban allí a algunas reclusas consideradas «tranquilas», al final del pasillo. Las presas no necesariamente tranquilas pero «estables», como en el caso de Kitty McDavid, ocupaban las celdas del módulo B. El C se reservaba a las conflictivas.
C era la zona menos poblada, y actualmente la mitad de las doce celdas estaban vacías. Cuando se producía una crisis o un problema disciplinario grave, el procedimiento oficial exigía que se trasladara a la reclusa de su celda a una de las celdas «Ojo» del módulo C, conocidas entre las presas como «celdas del pajilleo», porque unas cámaras instaladas en el techo permitían a los funcionarios observarlas en todo momento. Se insinuaba que los funcionarios varones se ponían cachondos espiándolas. En cualquier caso, las cámaras eran indispensables. Si una reclusa intentaba hacerse daño o incluso quitarse la vida, era necesario verlo para prevenirlo.
La funcionaria de guardia en la Garita ese día era la capitana Vanessa Lampley. Se inclinó por encima del panel de control para abrirle la puerta. Clint se sentó a su lado y le preguntó si podía mostrarle la Unidad Doce en el monitor para observar a McDavid.
—¡Pasemos al vídeo! —exclamó alegremente Frank.
Lampley le lanzó una mirada.
—¡Pasemos al vídeo! Ya sabe, es lo que siempre dice Warner Wolf.
Ella se encogió de hombros y activó la cámara de la Unidad Doce para inspección visual.
—¿El comentarista deportivo? —aclaró Clint.
Vanessa volvió a encogerse de hombros.
—Lo siento. Debió de ser antes de mi época.
A Clint le pareció extraño el comentario —Warner Wolf era una leyenda—, pero lo dejó correr para concentrarse en la pantalla. Kitty yacía en posición fetal, con el rostro oculto entre los brazos.
—¿Ha visto algo fuera de lo común?
Lampley negó con la cabeza. Ella había empezado su turno a las siete, y McDavid había dormido como un tronco todo el tiempo.
A Clint no le sorprendió. El haloperidol era un fármaco potente. Aun así, le preocupaba Kitty, madre de dos hijos, condenada por falsificación de recetas. En un mundo ideal, Kitty no habría entrado en un centro penitenciario para empezar. Era una drogadicta bipolar que no había terminado el instituto.
Lo sorprendente era cómo se había manifestado la bipolaridad en esa ocasión. Anteriormente Kitty solía retraerse. En su historial médico no había antecedentes de delirios violentos como los de esa noche. Clint tenía la certeza casi absoluta de que el tratamiento de litio que le había prescrito surtía efecto. Durante más de medio año, Kitty había permanecido estable, en general animada, sin picos ni bajones de consideración. Y había tomado la decisión de testificar para la acusación en el caso de los hermanos Griner, lo cual no solo era una prueba de valor, sino que además sin duda podía favorecerla en su propia causa. Existían sobradas razones para creer que podía salir en libertad condicional poco después del juicio. Los dos habían empezado a hablar del centro de reinserción social, de cómo reaccionaría la primera vez que se enterase de que alguien pasaba drogas, de cómo volvería a presentarse ante sus hijos. ¿Había empezado a parecerle todo de color de rosa?
Lampley debió de percibir la preocupación de Frank.
—Se pondrá bien, doctor. Ha sido un episodio aislado, esa es mi opinión. La luna llena, posiblemente. Hoy anda todo un poco revuelto, ¿sabe?
La fornida veterana era pragmática pero concienzuda, exactamente las cualidades que uno esperaba en una funcionaria con rango de jefa. Tampoco estaba de más que Van Lampley se hubiese labrado cierto renombre por su poderío como contrincante en las competiciones de pulsos. Sus voluminosos bíceps se dibujaban bajo las mangas grises del uniforme.
—Sí, ya —dijo Clint, acordándose del accidente de tráfico en la carretera que Lila había mencionado. Había asistido un par de veces a la fiesta de cumpleaños de Van, que vivía al otro lado de la montaña—. Hoy debe de haber venido al trabajo por el camino largo. Lila me ha comentado que ha volcado un camión. Me ha contado que han tenido que retirar con buldócer toda la carga.
—¿Eh? —contestó Van—. Yo no he visto nada de eso. Deben de haberlo limpiado antes de que yo saliera. Me refería a lo de West y Ryckman. —Jodi West y Claire Ryckman eran las auxiliares sanitarias del turno de día. Como Clint, trabajaban de nueve a cinco—. No se han presentado. Así que no tenemos a nadie en la sección médica. Coates está que trina. Dice que va a...
—¿No ha visto nada en Mountain Rest Road? —¿No había dicho Lila que era en Mountain Rest Road? Clint estaba seguro, o al menos casi seguro.
Van negó con la cabeza.
—Aunque no sería el primer accidente en esa carretera. —Sonrió, exhibiendo una buena dentadura amarillenta—. En otoño volcó allí un camión. Vaya calamidad. Era de PetSmart, ¿sabe? Arena para gatos y pienso para perros por toda la calzada.
5
La caravana que perteneciera al difunto Truman Mayweather no tenía buen aspecto la última vez que Terry Coombs había estado allí (para apaciguar un altercado doméstico relacionado con una de las numerosas «hermanas» de Truman, la cual abandonó la residencia poco después), pero esa mañana era un caos. Mayweather yacía desmadejado bajo la mesa del comedor con parte de los sesos sobre el pecho desnudo. Los muebles (adquiridos en su mayor parte en mercadillos a pie de carretera, en Dollar Discount o en Chapter 11, suponía Terry) estaban tirados por todas partes. El televisor, del revés, se hallaba en el plato de ducha oxidado. En el fregadero, una tostadora entablaba amistad con una zapatilla Converse remendada con cinta aislante. Había salpicaduras de sangre en todas las paredes. Además, cómo no, estaba el otro cadáver, cuya cabeza asomaba por el costado de la caravana, encorvado, con la raja del culo visible por encima de unos vaqueros sin cinturón. En el suelo de la caravana, había un billetero que contenía el documento de identidad del señor Jacob Pyle, de Little Rock, Arkansas.
¿Cuánta fuerza se requería para empotrar la cabeza de un hombre en una pared como esa?, se preguntó Terry. Las paredes de la caravana eran finas, cierto, aun así...
Lo fotografió todo debidamente y a continuación realizó una toma de trescientos sesenta grados con uno de los iPad del departamento. Permaneció dentro el tiempo suficiente para mandar las pruebas fotográficas a Linny Mars. Ella, en la oficina, imprimiría un juego de imágenes para Lila y crearía dos archivos, uno digital y otro en papel. Además, Terry envió un breve mensaje de texto a Lila.
«Ya sé que estarás cansada, pero será mejor que te pases por aquí.»
Aún débil pero cada vez más cerca, se oyó el sonido reconocible de la única ambulancia completamente equipada del hospital de St. Theresa, no un potente ulular, sino un gimoteo un tanto remilgado.
Roger Elway, con un cigarrillo colgando de la comisura de los labios, precintaba el lugar con cinta amarilla en la que se leía: ESCENARIO DE UN CRIMEN. NO PASAR. Terry le habló desde los peldaños de la caravana.
—Si Lila se entera de que has estado fumando en la escena de un crimen, te hará un culo nuevo.
Roger se quitó el cigarrillo de la boca, lo examinó como si nunca hubiese visto algo semejante, se lo apagó en la suela del zapato y se guardó la colilla en el bolsillo de la camisa.
—¿Dónde está Lila, por cierto? El ayudante del fiscal viene de camino; espera encontrarla aquí.
La ambulancia se detuvo, las puertas se abrieron en el acto, y a toda prisa, calzándose ya los guantes, se apearon Dick Bartlett y Andy Emerson, dos sanitarios con los que Terry ya había trabajado. Uno llevaba una tabla espinal, y el otro acarreaba el hospital portátil que llamaban bolsa de primeros auxilios.
Terry dejó escapar un gruñido.
—Solo el ayudante del capullo del fiscal, ¿eh? Dos muertos, y ni siquiera así merecemos la visita del mandamás.
Roger se encogió de hombros. Bartlett y Emerson, entretanto, después de las prisas iniciales, se habían detenido junto a la caravana, donde la cabeza asomaba de la pared.
—Dudo que este caballero vaya a beneficiarse mucho de nuestros servicios —comentó Emerson.
Bartlett, con los guantes de goma ya enfundados, señalaba con un dedo el sitio por donde salía el cuello.
—Creo que tiene el Señor Mojón tatuado en el cuello.
—¿El zurullo parlante de _South Park_? ¿En serio? —Emerson se volvió para mirar—. Pues sí. Es verdad.
—¡Aquí estoy! —entonó Bartlett.
—Eh —dijo Terry—. Lo hacéis muy bien, chicos. Algún día deberíais colgar vuestro numerito en YouTube. Pero de momento tenemos otro cadáver dentro, y hay una mujer en el coche patrulla a la que no vendría mal un poco de ayuda.
—¿Seguro que quieres despertarla? —preguntó Roger. Movió la cabeza en dirección a la Unidad Cuatro. Se veían mechones de cabello lacio y sucio pegados a la ventanilla trasera—. La novia se ha quedado frita. Sabe Dios qué se habrá tomado.
Bartlett y Emerson cruzaron el patio sucio hasta el coche patrulla, y el primero golpeó el cristal con los nudillos.
—¿Señora? ¿Señorita? —Nada. Golpeó con más insistencia—. Vamos, despierte. —Todavía nada. Probó el tirador, y al ver que no cedía, se volvió hacia Terry y Roger—. Necesito que lo abráis.
—Ah —dijo Roger—. Claro.
Pulsó el botón de apertura del mando a distancia. Los faros de la Unidad Cuatro destellaron. Dick Bartlett abrió la puerta de atrás, y Tiffany Jones cayó hacia fuera como un saco de ropa sucia. Bartlett la sujetó justo a tiempo de evitar que la mitad superior de su cuerpo aterrizara en la grava entremezclada con hierbajos.
Emerson saltó hacia delante para ayudarlo. Roger se quedó inmóvil, con aire un tanto irritado.
—Si esta se nos va, Lila se va a cabrear como una mona. Es la única testi...
—¿Dónde tiene la cara? —preguntó Emerson con tono de asombro—. Maldita sea, ¿dónde tiene la _cara_?
Eso sí que hizo que Terry se moviera. Se acercó al coche patrulla mientras los dos sanitarios depositaban a Tiffany con cuidado en el suelo. Terry le sujetó el cabello —sin saber muy bien por qué—, pero lo soltó en el acto al notar entre los dedos un contacto grasiento y una especie de chasquido. Se limpió la mano en la camisa. Tiffany tenía el pelo veteado de una sustancia blanca y membranosa. Le cubría también el rostro, y sus facciones apenas se distinguían, como si quedaran ocultas por uno de esos velos que aún llevaban algunas ancianas cuando iban a la iglesia en aquella tierra de gente devota.
—¿Qué es eso? —Terry seguía frotándose la mano. La sustancia, un tanto viscosa, le producía una sensación desagradable, un ligero hormigueo—. ¿Telarañas?
Roger miraba por encima del hombro, con los ojos muy abiertos en una mezcla de fascinación y repugnancia.
—¡Le sale de la nariz, Ter! ¡Y de los ojos! ¿Qué coño es esto?
El sanitario Bartlett retiró una porción de aquel pringue de la mandíbula de Tiffany y se lo limpió en su propia camisa, pero Terry advirtió que parecía fundirse en cuanto se despegaba de la piel de ella. Se miró la mano. Tenía la piel limpia y seca. Tampoco quedaba residuo alguno en la camisa, pese a que la mancha estaba ahí hacía un momento.
Emerson apoyó los dedos a un lado de la garganta de Tiffany.
—Noto el pulso. Firme y estable. Y respira bien, porque en la boca, según veo, esa mierda sube y baja. Saquemos el kit de diagnóstico.
Bartlett extrajo el estuche de color naranja de la bolsa de primeros auxilios, vaciló y a continuación volvió a meter la mano en la bolsa para sacar unos paquetes de guantes desechables. Entregó un par a Emerson y se quedó otro. Terry observaba, lamentando profundamente haber tocado aquella especie de telaraña que cubría la piel de Tiffany. ¿Y si era venenosa?
Obtuvieron una tensión arterial que, según Emerson, era normal. Los sanitarios discutieron largo y tendido sobre si convenía o no limpiarle los ojos y examinarle las pupilas, y si bien aún no lo sabían, cuando se decantaron por no hacerlo, tomaron la mejor decisión de sus vidas.
Mientras hablaban, Terry vio algo que no le gustó: la boca revestida de telarañas de Tiffany se abrió y cerró lentamente, como si masticara el aire. Su lengua se había teñido de blanco. De ella surgían filamentos, ondeantes como plancton.
Bartlett se irguió.
—Deberíamos trasladarla al St. Theresa, ahora mismo, a no ser que tengáis algún inconveniente. Si es así, decidlo, porque parece estable... —Miró a Emerson, quien asintió.
—Fijaos en los ojos —apuntó Roger—. Los tiene totalmente blancos. ¡Qué asco!
—Adelante, lleváosla —contestó Terry—. Tampoco parece que podamos interrogarla.
—Los dos fallecidos... —dijo Bartlett—. ¿Ellos también presentan esta sustancia?
—No —respondió Terry, y señaló hacia la cabeza saliente—. En ese podéis verlo vosotros mismos. En Truman, el tío de dentro, tampoco.
—¿Y en el fregadero? —preguntó Bartlett—. ¿En el váter? ¿En la ducha? O sea, en sitios húmedos.
—La tele está en el plato de ducha —explicó Terry, lo cual no era una respuesta; era, de hecho, una incongruencia, pero en un primer momento no se le ocurrió nada más. Otra incongruencia: ¿estaba ya abierto el Squeaky? Aunque era temprano, en mañanas como esa se les permitía tomar una o dos cervezas; existía una dispensa especial para situaciones con cadáveres espeluznantes o mierda repulsiva en la cara de la gente. Seguía mirando a Tiffany Jones, quien lenta pero incesantemente estaba siendo enterrada viva bajo una bruma blanca y diáfana de... algo. Se obligó a contestar a la pregunta—. Solo en ella.
A continuación, Roger Elway dijo lo que todos estaban pensando.
—Tíos, ¿y si es contagioso?
Nadie respondió.
Terry captó un movimiento con el rabillo del ojo y se volvió al instante hacia la caravana. Al principio pensó que la bandada que se elevaba del tejado eran mariposas, pero durante el día las mariposas eran de colores, y aquellas eran marrones y grises. No eran mariposas diurnas corrientes, sino mariposas nocturnas. Centenares.
6
En torno a unos doce años antes, un bochornoso día de finales de verano, llegó a Control Animal el aviso de que había un mapache bajo el suelo de un granero reformado que la iglesia Episcopal utilizaba como «centro pastoral». La mayor preocupación era la posibilidad de que tuviese la rabia. Frank se presentó allí en el acto. Se puso la mascarilla y unos guantes hasta los codos, se arrastró por debajo del granero e iluminó con una linterna al animal, que huyó despavorido, como correspondía a un mapache sano. Ahí debería haber acabado todo —los mapaches rabiosos eran un problema grave; los mapaches intrusos, no tanto—, salvo por el hecho de que la bonita mujer de veintitantos años que le había mostrado el hueco bajo el granero le ofreció un vaso de Kool-Aid azul del mercadillo benéfico de bollos y pastas organizado en el aparcamiento. Sabía bastante mal —aguado, sin azúcar suficiente—, pero Frank consumió bebida por valor de tres dólares con tal de quedarse allí, de pie en la hierba amarillenta, hablando con aquella mujer, que tenía una risa maravillosa y vibrante, y una forma de ponerse en jarras que le despertaba cierto cosquilleo.
—Bueno, ¿y va usted a cumplir con su deber, señor Geary? —preguntó por fin Elaine a su peculiar manera, interrumpiendo de pronto la charla intrascendente para ir al grano—. Con mucho gusto le permitiría que me invitara a salir si tapara ese hueco de algún modo para impedir que ese bicho siga matando a seres debajo del suelo de la iglesia. Ese es mi ofrecimiento. Se le han quedado los labios azules.
Él regresó después del trabajo y clavó una tabla en el hueco —lo siento, mapache, un hombre tiene que hacer lo que tiene que hacer—, y acto seguido llevó a su futura mujer al cine.
Hacía doce años.
Entonces ¿qué había ocurrido? ¿Era culpa de él o es que el matrimonio sencillamente tenía fecha de caducidad?
Durante largo tiempo, Frank creyó que las cosas les iban bien. Tenían a la niña, la casa, buena salud. No todo era miel sobre hojuelas, naturalmente. El dinero salía tal como entraba. Nana no era la estudiante más aplicada. A veces Frank se ponía... en fin... ciertas cosas lo desbordaban, y cuando se sentía desbordado, afloraba en él cierta _tensión_. Pero todo el mundo tenía sus defectos, y a lo largo de doce años forzosamente tenía que aparecer alguna que otra gotera. Solo que su mujer no lo veía de esa manera. Hacía ocho meses le había explicado cómo lo veía ella exactamente.
Le había dado a conocer su visión de las cosas después del famoso puñetazo en la pared de la cocina. Poco antes del famoso puñetazo en la pared de la cocina, le dijo que había donado ochocientos dólares a la iglesia en una recaudación de fondos para procurar alimento a los niños hambrientos de algún lugar de África sumido en la miseria. Frank no era un desalmado; se hacía cargo del sufrimiento ajeno. Pero uno no donaba un dinero que no podía permitirse donar. Uno no ponía en peligro la situación de su propia hija para ayudar a los hijos de otras personas. Aun así, por descabellado que resultase —un plazo entero de la hipoteca se había ido volando al otro lado del océano—, aquella no había sido la causa del famoso puñetazo en la pared. La causa fue lo que ella añadió a continuación, y la expresión de su cara cuando lo dijo, a la vez insolente y hermética: «Ha sido decisión mía porque era mi dinero» _._ Como si sus votos matrimoniales no significaran nada para ella después de once años, como si pudiera hacer lo que le viniera en gana sin tenerlo a él en cuenta. Así que Frank dio un puñetazo a la pared (no a _ella_ , a la _pared_ ), y Nana corrió escalera arriba lloriqueando, y Elaine hizo su declaración: «Al final se te irá la mano con nosotras, cariño. Un día de estos, no será la pared».
Ya no cambió de idea al margen de lo que Frank dijera o hiciera. La alternativa era un período de separación de prueba o el divorcio, y Frank eligió lo primero. Y Elaine había fallado en su predicción. A él nunca se le había ido la mano con ellas. Nunca se le iría. Era fuerte. Era un protector.
Lo cual dejaba en el aire una pregunta muy importante: ¿qué trataba de demostrar Elaine? ¿Qué ganaba ella haciéndolo pasar por eso? ¿Se debía a algún conflicto infantil sin resolver? ¿Era puro y simple sadismo?
Fuera lo que fuese, era jodidamente irreal. Y jodidamente absurdo. Como afroamericano en la zona de los Tres Condados (o en cualquier condado de Estados Unidos), uno no llegaba a los treinta y ocho años sin encontrarse con sobradas situaciones absurdas: al fin y al cabo, el racismo era la máxima expresión de lo absurdo. Se acordó de la hija de un minero allá en primero o segundo de primaria, una niña con los dientes en abanico, como una mano de póquer, y el pelo recogido en trenzas tan cortas que parecían muñones de dedos. La cría le había hincado un dedo en la muñeca y había observado: «Eres del color de la mugre, Frank, como la que tiene mi papá debajo de las uñas».
La niña tenía una expresión a medio camino entre la jocosidad y el asombro, dominada por una estupidez extrema. Pese a su corta edad, Frank había reconocido el agujero negro de la estupidez incurable. Le causó estupefacción y perplejidad. Más adelante, cuando vio eso mismo en otros rostros, lo asustaría, y lo indignaría, pero en aquel momento se quedó de una pieza. Una estupidez de esa magnitud tenía su propio campo gravitacional. _Tiraba_ de uno.
Solo que Elaine no era estúpida. Nada más lejos.
Elaine sabía qué se sentía cuando a una, en unos grandes almacenes, la seguía de acá para allá un muchacho blanco que ni siquiera tenía el graduado escolar, actuando como si fuera Batman y se dispusiera a sorprenderla robando un tarro de cacahuetes. A Elaine la habían maldecido manifestantes frente a Planificación Familiar, la habían mandado al infierno personas que ni siquiera sabían cómo se llamaba.
¿Qué quería, pues? ¿Por qué le infligía ese dolor?
Una incómoda posibilidad: no le faltaba razón para preocuparse.
Mientras iba en busca del Mercedes verde, Frank veía una y otra vez en su cabeza a Nana alejarse de él, pisar sus tizas bien ordenadas y pasar por encima de su dibujo.
Frank sabía que no era perfecto, pero también sabía que en esencia era un hombre bueno. Ayudaba a la gente, ayudaba a los animales, quería a su hija y haría cualquier cosa por protegerla, y jamás había maltratado a su mujer. ¿Había cometido errores? ¿Se contaba el famoso puñetazo en la pared entre ellos? Eso Frank lo admitía. Así lo habría declarado ante un juez. Pero nunca había hecho daño a nadie que no lo mereciera, y su intención era sencillamente hablar con el hombre del Mercedes.
Frank detuvo la furgoneta delante de una elegante verja de hierro forjado y aparcó detrás del Mercedes verde. El guardabarros delantero del lado izquierdo estaba polvoriento, pero el del derecho resplandecía. Se veía por dónde había pasado el trapo, el muy hijo de puta.
Frank subió por el sendero de pizarra que comunicaba el camino de acceso con la puerta de la gran casa blanca. Terraplenes ajardinados en los que crecían sasafrases bordeaban el sendero, y la enramada creaba un pasadizo. Los pájaros gorjeaban en las copas por encima de él. Al final del sendero, al pie de la escalinata, un lilo joven, casi en flor, crecía en un tiesto de piedra. Frank resistió el impulso de arrancarlo de raíz. Subió hasta el porche. En la puerta maciza de roble había una aldaba de latón con forma de caduceo.
Se dijo que debía dar media vuelta y marcharse derecho a casa. A renglón seguido agarró la aldaba y golpeó una y otra vez contra la placa.
7
Garth Flickinger tardó en despegarse del sofá.
—Ya va, ya va —dijo, en vano: la puerta era muy gruesa y él tenía la voz muy ronca. Llevaba fumando sin parar desde que había vuelto a casa tras su visita a la señorial caravana del placer de Truman Mayweather.
Si alguien le hubiera preguntado por las drogas, Garth habría puesto especial empeño en transmitir a su interlocutor la idea de que él solo consumía de vez en cuando, para pasar un buen rato, pero esa mañana había sido una excepción. Una emergencia, en realidad. No ocurría todos los días que uno estuviese echando una meada en la caravana de su camello y de pronto estallara la Tercera Guerra Mundial al otro lado de la endeble puerta del cagadero. Allí había sucedido algo —golpes, disparos, gritos—, y a Garth, en un momento de idiotez incomprensible, no se le había ocurrido otra cosa que abrir la puerta para averiguar qué pasaba. Lo que había visto sería difícil de olvidar. Quizá imposible. En el extremo opuesto de la caravana, una mujer de cabello negro, desnuda de cintura para abajo, tenía al colega de Truman llegado de Arkansas agarrado por el pelo y la cinturilla de los vaqueros y estaba estampándolo de cabeza contra la pared: _¡pum! ¡pum! ¡pum!_
Imaginemos un artefacto de asedio que embiste con un tronco descomunal las puertas de un castillo. El hombre tenía la cabeza bañada en sangre y los brazos le bailaban a los costados como los de una muñeca de trapo.
Por otro lado, allí yacía Truman, desplomado en el suelo con un orificio de bala en la frente. ¿Y aquella mujer extraña? Mantenía una expresión horrorosamente plácida. Era como si se ocupara de sus asuntos sin ninguna preocupación en particular, salvo que sus asuntos consistían en utilizar la cabeza de un hombre como ariete. Garth había cerrado la puerta con cuidado, se había subido a la tapa del inodoro y se había descolgado por la ventana. Después había corrido hasta su coche y había vuelto a casa a la velocidad de la luz.
La experiencia le había alterado un poco los nervios, y eso no solía ocurrir. A Garth Flickinger, cirujano plástico certificado en su especialidad, miembro destacado de la sociedad estadounidense de cirujanos plásticos, por lo general no le temblaba el pulso.
Ya se sentía mejor, la piedra que se había fumado le había sentado bien, pero esos golpes en la puerta le disgustaban.
Garth rodeó el sofá y, abriéndose paso a través de un pequeño mar de cajas de comida rápida, atravesó el salón.
En el televisor de pantalla plana, una periodista sumamente sexy hablaba en actitud sumamente seria sobre unas ancianas comatosas de una residencia de la tercera edad de Washington. Su seriedad no hacía sino realzar lo sexy que era. Tenía una copa A, pensó Garth, pero su complexión pedía a gritos una B.
«¿Por qué solo mujeres? —se preguntaba la periodista en voz alta en la pantalla plana—. Al principio pensábamos que solo eran vulnerables las muy mayores y las muy jóvenes, y ahora parece que mujeres de todas las edades...»
Garth apoyó la frente en la puerta y dio una palmada en la madera.
—¡Basta! ¡No más!
—¡Abra!
Era una voz grave y malhumorada. Reunió fuerzas y levantó la cabeza para echar un vistazo por la mirilla. Fuera había un afroamericano, de unos treinta y cinco años, hombros anchos, rostro de magnífica estructura ósea. A Garth se le aceleró el pulso por un momento al ver que el hombre vestía uniforme beige —¡policía!—, pero enseguida advirtió que en la placa rezaba CONTROL ANIMAL.
«Ah, eres un perrero, un apuesto perrero, pero empleado de perrera de todos modos. Aquí no tenemos a ningún can fugitivo, caballero, así que no hay de qué preocuparse.»
¿O sí? Era difícil estar del todo seguro. ¿Podía ser ese individuo amigo de la arpía semidesnuda de la caravana? Mejor ser su amigo que su enemigo, supuso Garth, pero mejor aún, mucho mejor, eludirla totalmente.
—¿Lo manda ella? —preguntó Garth—. Yo no he visto nada. Dígaselo, ¿quiere?
—¡No sé de qué me está hablando! ¡He venido por iniciativa propia! ¡Ahora abra! —repitió el hombre a voz en cuello.
—¿Por qué? —preguntó Garth. Para mayor seguridad añadió—: Ni pensarlo.
—¡Oiga! Solo quiero hablar con usted. —El empleado de la perrera había hecho el esfuerzo de bajar la voz, pero Garth advirtió que contraía los labios para contener la necesidad (sí, la necesidad) de seguir gritando.
—En este momento no —contestó Garth.
—Alguien ha atropellado un gato. Alguien que iba en un Mercedes verde. Usted tiene un Mercedes verde.
—Eso es una desgracia. —Se refería al gato, no al Mercedes. A Garth le gustaban los gatos. También le gustaba su camiseta de los Flamin' Groovies, que en ese momento estaba hecha un ovillo al pie de la escalera. Garth la había utilizado para limpiar un poco de sangre del guardabarros del coche. Corrían tiempos difíciles—. Pero yo no sé nada de eso, y he tenido una mañana complicada, así que será mejor que se marche. Lo siento.
Un golpe, y la puerta se sacudió en el marco. Garth retrocedió. Aquel tipo le había asestado una patada.
Por la mirilla, Garth vio que el empleado de la perrera tenía los tendones del cuello en tensión.
—¡Mi hija vive cerca de aquí, más abajo, pedazo de gilipollas! ¿Y si hubiese sido ella? ¿Y si hubieses atropellado a mi hija en lugar de a ese gato?
—Voy a llamar a la policía —advirtió Garth. Confiaba en que aquel individuo lo encontrara más convincente que él mismo.
Se retiró al salón, se hundió en el sofá y cogió su pipa. La bolsa de droga estaba en la mesita de centro. Fuera empezó a oírse ruido de cristales rotos. Siguió un crujido metálico. ¿Acaso estaba el Señor Empleado de la Perrera maltratando su Mercedes? A Garth no le importó, ese día no. (De todos modos lo tenía asegurado.) Aquella pobre yonqui. Tiffany, se llamaba, tan consumida y tan encantadora. ¿Habría muerto? ¿La habría matado la gente que había atacado la caravana (suponía que esa mujer extraña formaba parte de una banda)? Se dijo que Tiff, por encantadora que fuese, no era su problema. Mejor no obsesionarse con lo que no podía cambiarse.
La bolsa era de plástico azul, así que las piedras parecían azules hasta que uno las sacaba. Probablemente ese era el patético homenaje de Tru Mayweather a _Breaking Bad_. Truman Mayweather ya no rendiría más homenajes, ni patéticos ni de ningún tipo, no después de esa mañana. Garth cogió una piedra y la echó en la cazoleta de la pipa. Lo que quiera que el Señor Empleado de la Perrera estuviera haciendo en ese momento al Mercedes disparó la alarma: _bip, bip, bip._
El televisor mostraba imágenes de una luminosa habitación de hospital. Dos siluetas femeninas yacían bajo sábanas de hospital. Capullos de un tejido tenue cubrían las cabezas de las mujeres. Era como si llevaran sendos panales encasquetados hasta la barbilla. Garth encendió la pipa, dio una calada, se llenó los pulmones y retuvo el humo.
_Bip, bip, bip._
Garth tenía una hija, Cathy, de ocho años. Padecía de hidrocefalia y vivía en un centro especializado, uno muy agradable, en Carolina del Norte, lo bastante cerca de la costa para que llegara el salitre con la brisa. Él corría con todos los gastos, qué otra cosa podía hacer. Para la niña, era mejor que la madre se ocupara de los detalles. Pobre Cathy. ¿Qué se había dicho antes con respecto a la yonqui? Ah, sí, que era mejor no obsesionarse con lo que no podía cambiarse. Resultaba más fácil decirlo que hacerlo. Pobre Garth. Pobres ancianas con panales encasquetados en las cabezas. Pobre gato.
La guapa corresponsal se hallaba en una acera frente a una multitud cada vez mayor. A decir verdad, la talla de copa A le quedaba bien. Lo de la B había sido solo una primera impresión. ¿Tenía la nariz operada? Caray, si la tenía operada —y Garth, sin verla de cerca, no estaba del todo seguro—, el resultado era excelente, muy natural, ligeramente respingona.
«El Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades ha emitido un aviso —anunció—: Bajo ningún concepto intenten retirar la excrecencia.»
—Parecerá una locura —dijo Garth—, pero solo de oírlo me entran ganas de hacerlo.
Cansado de las noticias, cansado del tío de Control Animal, cansado de la alarma del coche (aunque supuso que se apagaría en cuanto el individuo de Control Animal decidiera llevarse su mal genio a otra parte), cansado de obsesionarse con lo que no podía cambiarse, Garth fue cambiando de canal hasta encontrar un publirreportaje sobre cómo desarrollar los abdominales en solo seis días para tener tableta. Intentó anotar el número 800, pero el único bolígrafo que encontró no escribía en la palma de su mano.
### 4
1
La población total de los condados de McDowell, Bridger y Dooling ascendía a setenta y dos mil almas aproximadamente, el cincuenta y cinco por ciento hombres, el cuarenta y cinco por ciento mujeres. Eso equivalía a cinco mil personas menos desde el último censo general de Estados Unidos, lo que oficialmente convertía los Tres Condados en una «zona de emigración». Contaba con dos hospitales, uno en el condado de McDowell («¡Una tienda de regalos estupenda!», decía el único post en la sección de comentarios de la página web del hospital de McDowell) y uno mucho más grande en el condado de Dooling, donde residía la mayor parte de la población: treinta y dos mil personas. La zona de los Tres Condados disponía de un total de diez dispensarios, más dos decenas de «dispensarios del dolor», como se los llamaba, en los pinares, donde podían obtenerse diversos opiáceos con recetas extendidas in situ. Tiempo atrás, antes de que cerraran casi todas las minas, la zona de los Tres Condados era conocida como la República de los Hombres Sin Dedos. En la actualidad se había convertido en la República de los Hombres en Paro, pero eso tenía su lado bueno: los menores de cincuenta años, en su gran mayoría, conservaban todos los dedos, y hacía diez años que nadie moría en un derrumbe.
La mañana que Evie Sin Nombre (así inscrita por Lila Norcross, porque la detenida no facilitó su apellido) visitó la caravana de Truman Mayweather, la mayor parte de las aproximadamente catorce mil mujeres del condado de Dooling despertaron como de costumbre e iniciaron su jornada. Muchas vieron en televisión la noticia sobre la propagación de la epidemia que inicialmente recibió el nombre de enfermedad del sueño australiana, luego de gripe del sueño de las mujeres, y después gripe de Aurora, así llamada por la princesa de la versión de Walt Disney del cuento de hadas _La Bella Durmiente_. __ La noticia asustó a pocas de las mujeres de los Tres Condados que la vieron; Australia, Hawái y Los Ángeles eran lugares lejanos, al fin y al cabo, y si bien la información trasmitida por Michaela Morgan desde aquella residencia de ancianos de Georgetown era un tanto alarmante, y Washington se hallaba cerca desde el punto de vista geográfico —a menos de un día de viaje en coche—, Washington era una ciudad, y eso, para la mayor parte de la gente en los Tres Condados, la situaba en una categoría totalmente distinta. Además, por aquellos lares no muchos veían NewsAmerica, porque preferían _Good Day Wheeling_ o a Ellen DeGeneres.
El primer indicio de que podía estar ocurriendo algo grave incluso allí, en aquel rincón perdido, tuvo lugar poco después de las ocho de la mañana. Se presentó a las puertas del hospital de St. Theresa en la persona de Yvette Quinn, quien estacionó su viejo Jeep Cherokee oblicuamente junto al bordillo e irrumpió en Urgencias con sus dos hijas gemelas en brazos. Una pequeña cara envuelta en un capullo descansaba sobre cada uno de sus pechos. La mujer vociferaba con la estridencia de una sirena de bomberos, lo que atrajo de inmediato a médicos y enfermeras.
—¡Que alguien ayude a mis niñas! ¡No se despiertan! ¡No se despiertan de ninguna manera!
Tiffany Jones, mucho mayor pero envuelta de manera similar, llegó poco después, y hacia las tres de esa tarde el servicio de Urgencias estaba abarrotado. Y seguían llegando: padres y madres con sus hijas, chicas con sus hermanas menores, tíos con sus sobrinas, maridos con sus esposas. Esa tarde nadie veía en el televisor de la sala de espera _Judge Judy_ , ni el _Show del doctor Phil_ , ni ningún programa concurso. Solo los noticiarios, en los que no se hablaba más que de la misteriosa enfermedad del sueño, que afectaba únicamente a las con el cromosoma XX.
El minuto exacto, o el medio minuto, o el segundo en que las hembras de Homo sapiens dormidas dejaron de despertar y empezaron a formar sus capullos no llegó a determinarse de manera concluyente. Sin embargo, basándose en los datos acumulados, los científicos consiguieron por fin reducir la franja al espacio de tiempo comprendido entre las 7.37 y las 7.57, hora de la costa atlántica.
«Solo nos queda esperar que despierten —dijo George Alderson en NewsAmerica—. Y por el momento ninguna ha despertado. Doy paso a Michaela Morgan, con más información.»
2
Para cuando Lila Norcross llegó al edificio cuadrado de obra vista que albergaba la oficina del sheriff del condado de Dooling a un lado y el departamento de Asuntos Municipales al otro, estaban todos a punto. El ayudante Reed Barrows esperaba en el bordillo, listo para ocuparse de la actual detenida de Lila.
—Sé buena, Evie —dijo Lila, y abrió la puerta—. Enseguida vuelvo.
—Sé buena, Lila —contestó Evie—. Aquí estaré. —Se echó a reír. La sangre que le había salido de la nariz iba secándose en sus mejillas en forma de craquelado; la de la brecha de la frente le apelmazaba el pelo por delante, formando una pequeña cola de pavo en abanico.
Mientras Lila salía del coche y se apartaba para dejar paso a Reed, Evie añadió:
—Triple doble. —Se rio otra vez.
—Los técnicos forenses van de camino a la caravana —anunció Reed—. También el ayudante del fiscal y la Unidad Seis.
—Bien —contestó Lila, y se dirigió al trote hacia la puerta de la oficina.
Triple doble, pensó. Ah, eso era: al menos diez puntos, diez asistencias y diez rebotes. Y eso era lo que había conseguido la chica la noche anterior en la cancha de baloncesto, la chica a la que Lila había ido a ver.
La chica, tal como Lila pensaba en ella. Se llamaba Sheila. No era culpa de la chica. Culpa de _Sheila_. Su nombre era el primer paso hacia... ¿qué? No lo sabía. Sencillamente no lo sabía.
Y Clint. ¿Qué quería _Clint_? Lila sabía que no debería preocuparle, dadas las circunstancias, pero le preocupaba. Clint era un auténtico misterio para ella. Acudió a su mente una imagen familiar: su marido, sentado junto a la barra de la cocina, contemplando los olmos del jardín trasero, deslizándose el pulgar por los nudillos, esbozando una mueca vaga. Hacía mucho que ya no le preguntaba si le pasaba algo. Solo estaba pensando, decía él siempre, solo estaba pensando. Pero ¿en qué? ¿Y en quién? Eran preguntas lógicas, ¿no?
Lila no daba crédito a lo cansada, lo débil que se sentía, como si se hubiese derretido dentro del uniforme y se hubiese desparramado por encima de los zapatos en los veinte pasos que separaban el coche de la escalinata. De pronto todo parecía abierto a la duda, y si Clint no era Clint, ¿quién era ella? ¿Quién era cualquiera?
Debía concentrarse. Habían muerto dos hombres, y la presunta autora del crimen se hallaba en la parte trasera del coche patrulla de Lila, con un globo de aúpa. Lila podía estar cansada y débil, pero no en ese momento.
Oscar Silver y Barry Holden esperaban en la oficina principal.
—Caballeros —dijo.
—Jefa —contestaron ellos casi al unísono.
El juez Silver era más viejo que Matusalén y le flojeaban las piernas, pero no padecía la menor carencia en la azotea. Barry Holden se ganaba la vida para sí y para su tribu de mujeres dependientes (esposa, cuatro hijas) a fuerza de redactar testamentos y contratos y negociar acuerdos con las compañías de seguros (sobre todo con el infame ogro Drew T. Barry, de la Aseguradora Drew T. Barry). Holden era también uno de los cinco o seis abogados de la zona de los Tres Condados que actuaban de oficio por rotación. Era un buen hombre, y Lila no tardó mucho en explicarle qué quería. Él accedió, aunque necesitaba un anticipo por sus servicios. Dijo que un dólar bastaría.
—Linny, ¿tienes un dólar? —preguntó Lila a la operadora—. Podría quedar un poco raro que yo contratara a un representante legal para una mujer a la que he detenido por dos cargos de asesinato en primer grado.
Linny entregó un dólar a Barry. Este se lo guardó en el bolsillo, se volvió hacia el juez Silver y adoptó su mejor voz de juzgado.
—Habiendo sido contratado por Linnette Mars en representación de la detenida que la sheriff Norcross acaba de traer bajo custodia, solicito que... ¿cómo se llama, Lila?
—Evie, el apellido no lo sabemos aún. Llámela Evie Sin Nombre.
—Que Evie Sin Nombre quede bajo la custodia del doctor Clinton Norcross para ser sometida a un examen psiquiátrico, examen que se realizará en el Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
—Así queda ordenado —apostilló el juez Silver en el acto.
—Esto... ¿y qué pasa con el fiscal? —preguntó Linny desde su mesa—. ¿No tiene Janker algo que decir?
—Janker accede _in absentia_ —respondió el juez Silver—. Después de salvar su incompetente pellejo en mi sala en más de una ocasión, puedo afirmarlo con total seguridad. Decido que Evie Sin Nombre sea trasladada al Centro Penitenciario de Dooling inmediatamente y retenida allí por un período de... ¿unas cuarenta y ocho horas, Lila?
—Que sean noventa y seis —intervino Barry Holden, considerando al parecer que debía hacer algo por su clienta.
—De acuerdo, juez, noventa y seis —convino Lila—. Solo quiero llevarla a algún sitio donde no se haga más daño mientras consigo algunas respuestas.
Linny decidió pronunciarse. En opinión de Lila, empezaba a ponerse pesada.
—¿No tendrán inconveniente Clint y la directora Coates en acoger a una invitada?
—Ya me ocuparé yo de eso —respondió Lila, y volvió a pensar en su nueva detenida. Evie Sin Nombre, la misteriosa asesina que sabía cómo se llamaba Lila y hablaba de triples dobles sin ton ni son. Obviamente una coincidencia, pero de lo más inoportuna—. Hagámosla entrar el tiempo justo para tomarle las huellas. Además, Linny y yo tenemos que acompañarla a un calabozo y ponerle el mono desechable. La camisa que viste ha de apartarse como prueba, y es lo único que lleva. No estaría bien que la mandara a la cárcel en cueros, ¿verdad que no?
—No, como abogado suyo, yo no lo aprobaría en absoluto —dijo Barry.
3
—¿Y bien, Jeanette? ¿Qué tenemos?
Jeanette reflexionó sobre la táctica de apertura de Clint.
—Hummm, veamos. Ree ha dicho que anoche soñó que comía tarta con Michelle Obama.
Los dos, el psiquiatra de la prisión y la reclusa-paciente, caminaban lentamente por el patio de ejercicio. Estaba vacío a esa hora de la mañana, cuando casi todas las reclusas se dedicaban a sus diversos trabajos (carpintería, ebanistería, mantenimiento, lavandería, limpieza) o asistían a clases para sacarse el graduado escolar en lo que en el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling se conocía como Escuela para Tontos o se limitaban a quedarse tumbadas en sus celdas y dejar pasar el tiempo.
Jeanette llevaba prendido en la casaca del uniforme beige un Pase de Patio firmado por el propio Clint. Lo que lo convertía en responsable de ella. Eso no le suponía el menor problema. Era una de sus reclusas-pacientes preferidas (una de sus «mascotas», habría dicho la directora Janice Coates, cáusticamente), y la menos conflictiva. En su opinión, el lugar de Jeanette estaba fuera de allí; no en otro centro, sino en el exterior, caminando en libertad. No era una opinión que fuera a compartir con Jeanette, porque ¿de qué iba a servirle a ella? Aquello era la región de los Apalaches. En los Apalaches, uno no salía en libertad condicional con una condena por asesinato, por más que fuese de segundo grado. Su convicción de que Jeanette no podía considerarse culpable de la muerte de Damian Sorley era una de esas cosas que no manifestaba a nadie excepto a su mujer, y quizá ni siquiera a ella. De un tiempo a esa parte notaba a Lila un poco ausente. Un poco abstraída. Esa misma mañana, por ejemplo, aunque quizá se debiera a la falta de sueño. Y a eso se añadía lo que Vanessa Lampley había dicho sobre el camión de pienso volcado en Mountain Rest Road el año anterior. ¿Qué probabilidades existían de que se produjeran dos accidentes idénticos, tan peculiares, con solo unos meses de diferencia?
—Eh, doctor N., ¿está usted ahí? Decía que Ree...
—Soñó que comía con Michelle Obama, lo he oído.
—Eso es lo que ha dicho _al principio_. Pero se lo ha inventado. En realidad soñó con una profesora que le decía que no estaba en la clase que le correspondía. Un sueño de máxima ansiedad, ¿no le parece?
—Podría ser. —Era una de las diez o doce respuestas por defecto que tenía siempre a punto para contestar a las preguntas de las pacientes.
—Eh, doctor, ¿cree que Tom Brady vendría aquí? ¿A dar una charla, firmar autógrafos?
—Podría ser.
—Podría firmar algunos de esos balones de fútbol pequeños de juguete, ¿sabe?
—Claro.
Jeanette se detuvo.
—¿Qué acabo de decir?
Clint se lo pensó por un momento y se echó a reír.
—Me has pillado.
—¿Dónde tiene hoy la cabeza, doctor? Está haciendo ese gesto que suele hacer. Disculpe por, digamos, meterme en su espacio privado, pero ¿va todo bien en casa?
Con un desagradable sobresalto interior, Clint cayó en la cuenta de que ya no tenía la total seguridad de que así fuese, y la inesperada pregunta de Jeanette —su percepción— lo inquietó. Lila le había mentido. No había habido ningún accidente en Mountain Rest Road, no la noche anterior. De pronto estaba seguro.
—Todo va perfectamente en casa. ¿Qué gesto hago?
Ella adoptó una expresión ceñuda, levantó el puño y se pasó el pulgar una y otra vez por los nudillos.
—Cuando hace eso, sé que anda usted por ahí cogiendo margaritas o algo así. Da la impresión de que se acuerda de una pelea en la que estuvo metido.
—Ah —dijo Clint. Apuntaba demasiado cerca para su tranquilidad—. Una vieja costumbre. Hablemos de ti, Jeanette.
—Mi tema preferido.
Esa respuesta quedaba bien, pero Clint sabía que distaba mucho de ser cierta. Si permitía a Jeanette dirigir la conversación, se pasarían la hora entera al sol hablando de Ree Dempster, Michelle Obama, Tom Brady y quienquiera que le acudiese a la cabeza por libre asociación. En lo tocante a libre asociación, Jeanette no tenía rival.
—Bien. ¿Qué soñaste _tú_ anoche? Si vamos a hablar de sueños, hablemos de los tuyos, no de los de Ree.
—No me acuerdo. Ree me lo ha preguntado, y le he contestado lo mismo. Me parece que es por ese medicamento nuevo que usted me recetó.
—Es decir, que soñaste algo.
—Sí... probablemente... —Jeanette miraba el huerto en lugar de mirarlo a él.
—¿Podrías haber soñado con Damian? Antes soñabas mucho con él.
—Desde luego, con su aspecto. Todo azul. Pero hace mucho que no tengo el sueño del hombre azul. Oiga, ¿se acuerda de aquella película? ¿ _La profecía_? ¿Sobre el hijo del diablo? El nombre del niño era parecido: Damien.
—Tienes un hijo...
—¿Y? —Jeanette sí lo miraba, y con cierta desconfianza.
—Bueno, algunos podrían decir que tu marido, en tu vida, era el demonio, con lo cual Bobby sería...
—¡El hijo del diablo! ¡ _La profecía 2_! —Señalándolo con el dedo, soltó una carcajada—. ¡Eso sí que tiene gracia! Bobby es el niño más adorable del mundo, ha salido a la familia de mi madre. Viene a verme desde Ohio con mi hermana cada dos meses. Ya lo sabe. —Se rio otra vez, un sonido poco común en esa hectárea de terreno cercada y rigurosamente vigilada, pero muy grato—. ¿Sabe qué pienso?
—No —dijo Clint—. Soy psiquiatra, no mentalista.
—Pienso que podría ser un caso clásico de _transferencia_. —Trazó unos signos en el aire con el índice y el corazón de ambas manos para indicar las comillas en torno a la palabra clave—. En el sentido de que es usted quien está preocupado porque _su_ chico sea el hijo del diablo.
Esta vez fue Clint quien rio. La idea de que Jared tuviera cualquier lazo con el diablo —Jared, que se ahuyentaba los mosquitos de los brazos en vez de aplastarlos de una palmada— era surrealista. Su hijo le preocupaba, sí, pero no por la posibilidad de que acabara entre rejas y alambre de espino, como Jeanette y Ree Dempster, Kitty McDavid y la bomba de relojería conocida como Angel Fitzroy. Por Dios, pero si su hijo ni siquiera tenía valor para pedir a Mary Pak que lo acompañara al baile de primavera.
—A Jared no le pasa nada, y seguro que a tu Bobby tampoco. ¿Qué tal te va la medicación para los...? ¿Cómo lo llamas?
—Mis desenfoques. Es cuando no veo o no oigo del todo bien a la gente. Estoy muchísimo mejor desde que empecé con las nuevas pastillas.
—¿No lo dices solo por decir? Porque tienes que ser sincera conmigo, Jeanette. ¿Recuerdas lo que siempre digo?
—La sinceridad da dividendos. Y soy franca con usted. Estoy mejor. Aunque a veces todavía tengo bajones, y entonces empiezo a perder el norte y vuelven los desenfoques.
—¿Alguna excepción? ¿Hay alguien que te llegue alto y claro cuando estás deprimida? ¿Y que quizá te catapulte para salir de ese estado?
—¡Catapulte! Eso me gusta. Sí, Bobby puede. Él tenía cinco años cuando entré aquí. Ahora tiene doce. Es teclista de un grupo, ¿no es increíble? ¡Y canta!
—Debes de estar muy orgullosa.
—¡Y tanto! El suyo debe de ser de la misma edad, ¿no?
Clint, que sabía cuándo una de sus pacientes intentaba desviar la conversación, contestó con una evasiva entre dientes en lugar de decirle que Jared pronto tendría edad para votar, por raro que le pareciera a él mismo.
Ella le dio una palmada en el hombro.
—Asegúrese de que lleve condones.
Desde el puesto de guardia, bajo una sombrilla cerca de la pared norte, una voz amplificada advirtió:
—¡RECLUSA! ¡NADA DE CONTACTO FÍSICO!
Clint dirigió un gesto al funcionario (costaba distinguirlo debido al altavoz, pero le pareció que el hombre de uniforme sentado en la silla plegable era el gilipollas de Don Peters) para indicarle que todo estaba en orden, y luego dijo a Jeanette:
—Ahora voy a tener que hablar de esto con _mi_ terapeuta.
Ella se rio, complacida.
A Clint se le ocurrió, no por primera vez, que si las circunstancias fueran muy distintas, le habría gustado tener a Jeanette Sorley por amiga.
—Eh, Jeanette. ¿Sabes quién es Warner Wolf?
—¡Pasemos al vídeo! —exclamó ella al instante en una imitación perfecta—. ¿Por qué quiere saberlo?
Era una buena pregunta. ¿Por qué quería saberlo? ¿Qué tenía que ver con nada ese viejo comentarista deportivo? ¿Y qué más daba si su marco de referencia en la cultura popular (al igual que su físico) estaba algo desfasado?
Una pregunta mejor: ¿por qué le había mentido Lila?
—Ah —dijo Clint—, lo ha mencionado alguien. Me ha hecho gracia.
—Sí, a mi padre le encantaba —añadió Jeanette.
—A tu padre.
Un fragmento de _Hey Jude_ sonó en su teléfono. Miró la pantalla y vio la foto de su mujer. Lila, que debería haber estado sumida en el sueño; Lila, que tal vez recordara a Warner Wolf o tal vez no; Lila, que había mentido.
—Tengo que atender esta llamada —dijo a Jeanette—, pero será solo un momento. Acércate al huerto, arranca unas malas hierbas, y a ver si recuerdas qué soñaste anoche.
—Un poco de privacidad, lo pillo —respondió ella, y se encaminó hacia el huerto.
Clint hizo otra seña hacia la pared norte, para indicar al funcionario que el movimiento de Jeanette estaba autorizado, y a continuación pulsó ACEPTAR.
—Hola, Lila, ¿qué tenemos? —dijo, consciente en cuanto la frase salió de su boca de que era así como iniciaba muchas conversaciones con sus pacientes.
—Ah, lo de costumbre —dijo ella—. Una explosión en un laboratorio de meta, un doble homicidio, con la autora bajo custodia. La he pescado mientras se paseaba por Ball's Hill casi como Dios la trajo al mundo.
—Es broma, ¿no?
—Me temo que no.
—Joder, ¿estás bien?
—Sigo en pie a fuerza de pura adrenalina, pero por lo demás estoy perfectamente. El caso es que necesito un poco de ayuda.
Le dio los detalles. Clint escuchó, sin hacer preguntas. Jeanette trabajaba a lo largo de una hilera de guisantes, arrancando las malas hierbas y cantando algo alegre sobre su intención de ir al río Harlem a ahogarse. En el extremo norte del patio de la cárcel, Vanessa Lampley se acercó a la silla plegable de Don Peters, le habló y después ocupó el asiento mientras Don se dirigía con gesto cansino hacia la zona de administración con la cabeza gacha, como un niño llamado al despacho del director del colegio. Y si alguien merecía ser emplazado era aquel saco de tripas y líquidos.
—¿Clint? ¿Sigues ahí?
—Aquí mismo. Solo estaba pensando.
—Solo estabas pensando —repitió Lila—. ¿En qué?
—En el proceso. —Esa forma de presionarlo lo cogió por sorpresa. Casi parecía que Lila se hubiera burlado de él—. En teoría, es posible, pero tendría que consultarlo con Janice...
—Pues hazlo, por favor. Puedo estar ahí dentro de veinte minutos. Y si Janice necesita que la convenzan, convéncela. Necesito ayuda con esto, Clint.
—Tranquila, lo haré. El temor a una posible autolesión es una preocupación válida. —Jeanette había terminado con una fila y trabajaba en el sentido opuesto con la siguiente—. Solo digo que en condiciones normales la llevarías primero al St. Theresa para que la examinaran. Por lo que dices, parece que se ha destrozado la cara.
—Su cara no es mi preocupación inmediata. Casi le ha arrancado la cabeza a un hombre, y ha hundido la cabeza de otro en la pared de una caravana. ¿De verdad crees que debería meterla en una sala de reconocimiento con un interno de veinticinco años?
Clint deseó preguntarle de nuevo si se encontraba bien, pero, dado su ánimo, se pondría hecha una fiera, porque así era como uno reaccionaba bajo los efectos del cansancio y la tensión: arremetía contra la persona que no representaba un peligro. A veces, a menudo, incluso, Clint lamentaba tener que ser él quien no representara peligro.
—Quizá no.
Clint había empezado a oír los ruidos de la calle. Lila había salido del edificio.
—No solo es que sea peligrosa, ni que esté mal de la cabeza. Es como si... Jared diría: «Noto un cosquilleo en mi sentido arácnido».
—Quizá cuando tenía siete años.
—No había visto a esa mujer en mi vida, lo juraría sobre una pila de biblias, pero ella me conoce. Me ha llamado por mi nombre.
—Si llevas la camisa del uniforme, y supongo que así es, tiene una placa de identificación en el bolsillo del pecho.
—Exacto, pero solo dice NORCROSS. Me ha llamado Lila. Tengo que cortar. Dime que cuando llegue ahí con ella encontraré fuera el felpudo de bienvenida.
—Así será.
—Gracias. —Clint la oyó carraspear—. Gracias, cariño.
—No hay de qué, pero tienes que hacer algo por mí. No la traigas tú sola. Estás agotada.
—Conducirá Reed Barrows. Yo voy de copiloto.
—Bien. Te quiero.
Se oyó que se abría la puerta de un vehículo, probablemente el coche patrulla de Lila.
—Yo también te quiero —dijo ella, y cortó.
¿Había percibido una ligera vacilación? En ese momento no tenía tiempo para pensar en eso, para desmenuzarlo hasta convertirlo en algo que posiblemente no era, y mejor así.
—¡Jeanette! —Y cuando ella se volvió hacia él, añadió—: Voy a tener que interrumpir la sesión antes de tiempo. Ha surgido un problema.
4
Las memeces eran el archienemigo de Coates. Tampoco es que la gente en general las apreciara, o le gustaran siquiera, pero muchos toleraban las memeces, llegaban a un entendimiento con ellas, y a su vez aportaban una abundante cosecha propia. La directora Janice Tabitha Coates no era dada a las memeces. No formaba parte de su manera de ser, y en todo caso habría resultado contraproducente. La cárcel era en esencia una fábrica de memeces, podía llamársela Centro Manufacturero de Memeces para Mujeres de Dooling, y la misión de Janice Coates consistía en evitar que la producción se descontrolara. Las autoridades del estado lanzaban aluviones de memeces en forma de memorandos en los que le exigían simultáneamente que recortara costes y mejorara servicios. Había un flujo constante de memeces procedente de los juzgados —reclusas, abogados defensores y fiscales enzarzados en disputas por recursos de apelación—, y de alguna manera Coates siempre acababa viéndose en medio de todo. El departamento de Sanidad era muy aficionado a dejarse caer para llevar a cabo inspecciones, más memeces. Los técnicos que acudían a reparar la instalación eléctrica de la cárcel siempre prometían que sería la última vez, pero sus promesas eran memeces. La instalación seguía averiándose.
Y las memeces no terminaban cuando Coates llegaba a casa. Incluso mientras dormía, continuaban amontonándose, como la nieve en una nevada, una nieve marrón hecha de memeces, porque las memeces eran del color de la mierda. Como el ataque de locura de Kitty McDavid y la ausencia sin aviso de las dos auxiliares sanitarias, que habían elegido exactamente la misma mañana para no presentarse. Esa pila pestilente estaba esperándola cuando cruzó la puerta.
Como psiquiatra, Norcross era fiable, pero también producía su dosis de memeces, solicitando tratamientos y exenciones especiales para sus pacientes. Aquella incapacidad crónica para darse cuenta de que la gran mayoría de sus pacientes, las reclusas de Dooling, poseían a su vez un gran talento para las memeces, de que habían dedicado sus vidas a cultivar excusas que eran memeces, resultaba casi conmovedora, solo que luego le tocaba a Coates empuñar la pala para retirar toda esa mierda en forma de memeces.
Y sí, debajo de las memeces, algunas de esas mujeres tenían razones reales. Janice Coates no era tonta ni insensible. Muchas mujeres de Dooling, por encima de todo, habían tenido mala suerte. Eso Coates lo sabía. Malas infancias, maridos horrendos, situaciones inviables, trastornos mentales medicados a base de drogas y alcohol. Además de proveedoras, eran víctimas de las memeces. Así y todo, no correspondía a la directora cribar nada de eso. La compasión no podía poner en peligro sus obligaciones. Las reclusas estaban allí, y Coates debía ocuparse de ellas.
Y por esa misma razón debía vérselas con Don Peters, el artista supremo de la memez, a quien tenía delante en ese momento, quien estaba acabando de exponer su última sarta de memeces: el trabajador honrado, acusado de manera injusta.
Cuando hubo dado las últimas pinceladas, Coates respondió:
—No me salga con ese rollo del sindicato, Peters. Una queja más, y se va a la calle. Una reclusa dice que la agarró usted del pecho; otra dice que le pellizcó el culo, y una tercera dice que le ofreció medio paquete de Newports por una mamada. Si el sindicato quiere levantar el hacha de guerra por usted, es asunto suyo, pero dudo mucho que lo hagan.
El funcionario, bajo y rechoncho, estaba sentado en el sofá de la directora con las piernas muy abiertas (como si ella tuviera algún interés en verle la entrepierna) y de brazos cruzados. Lucía un flequillo a lo Buster Brown, que le caía sobre las cejas, y se lo apartó de un soplido.
—Nunca he tocado a nadie, directora.
—Presentar la dimisión no tiene nada de vergonzoso.
—No pienso dejar el puesto, ¡y no me avergüenzo de nada de lo que he hecho! —Las mejillas de Peters, por lo general pálidas, se tiñeron de rojo. Con la indignación, se le dilataban las aletas de la nariz al respirar.
—Eso debe de estar bien. Yo sí tengo toda una lista de cosas de las que avergonzarme. Aprobar su solicitud para este empleo ocupa una de las primeras posiciones. Es usted como un moco que no consigo despegarme del dedo.
Don torció los labios con expresión ladina.
—Sé que pretende provocarme, directora. No va a darle resultado.
No era tonto, ese era el problema. Por eso no lo habían pescado hasta el momento. Peters tenía la astucia de cometer sus fechorías cuando no había nadie cerca.
—Supongo que no. —Coates, sentada en el borde de su escritorio, cogió el bolso y se lo apoyó en el regazo—. No puede culparme por intentarlo.
—Usted sabe que mienten. Son delincuentes.
—El acoso sexual también es un delito. Esta ha sido mi última advertencia. —Coates revolvió el contenido del bolso en busca de su barra de cacao de labios—. Por cierto, ¿solo medio paquete? Vamos, Don. —Sacó los pañuelos de papel, el mechero, un frasco de píldoras, el iPhone, el billetero y finalmente encontró lo que buscaba. El tapón se había soltado y la barra tenía pelusa adherida. Janice la utilizó de todos modos.
Peters se había quedado en silencio. Ella lo miró. Era un canalla y un acosador, y tenía la extraordinaria suerte de que ningún otro funcionario se hubiese prestado a denunciar sus abusos. Pero lo atraparía. Tenía tiempo. En una cárcel, de hecho, tiempo era sinónimo de condena.
—¿Qué? ¿Quiere un poco? —Coates le tendió la barra de cacao—. ¿No? Pues vuelva al trabajo.
Peters cerró la puerta con tal violencia que tembló contra el marco, y Coates oyó los sonoros pasos de sus pies planos en la recepción, como si fuera un adolescente con una rabieta. Satisfecha con que la sesión disciplinaria hubiese transcurrido conforme a lo previsto, centró de nuevo la atención en su barra de cacao llena de pelusa y revolvió en el bolso en busca del tapón.
Vibró el teléfono. Coates dejó el bolso en el suelo y se acercó al sofá. Tras detenerse a pensar en la aversión que le producía la persona cuyo trasero había estado allí plantado por última vez, se sentó a la izquierda del hueco todavía visible en el cojín central.
—Hola, mamá. —Por detrás de la voz de Michaela se oían otras voces, algunas de ellas estridentes, y sirenas.
Coates contuvo el impulso inicial de soltar un rapapolvo a su hija por no telefonearla en tres semanas.
—¿Qué pasa, cariño?
—Un momento.
Los sonidos quedaron ahogados, y Janice esperó. La relación con su hija había tenido altibajos. La decisión de Michaela de dejar la carrera de Derecho para dedicarse al periodismo televisivo (a su manera, una fábrica de memeces de igual magnitud que el sistema penitenciario, y probablemente llena también de delincuentes) había sido un valle en esa relación, y con la rinoplastia posterior se había hundido más aún, quedando muy muy por debajo del nivel del mar durante un tiempo. Aun así, Michaela poseía una persistencia que Coates había aprendido a respetar de manera gradual. Tal vez no fueran tan distintas como parecía. La chiflada de Magda Dubcek, la mujer del pueblo que había cuidado de Michaela cuando esta aún no sabía caminar, había dicho en una ocasión: «¡Es igualita que tú, Janice! ¡No puede negarse! Dile que solo una galleta, y comerse tres se convierte en una misión personal. Todo son sonrisas y risitas y zalamerías, hasta que no puedes decirle que no».
Dos años antes Michaela se dedicaba a hacer loas en los noticiarios locales. Para entonces ya trabajaba para NewsAmerica, donde había ascendido meteóricamente.
—Vale —dijo Michaela al volver a la línea—. Tenía que buscar un sitio tranquilo. Nos han echado del Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades. No tengo mucho tiempo para hablar. ¿Has visto las noticias?
—Las de la CNN, por supuesto. —A Janice le encantaba esa pulla y no perdía ocasión para lanzarla.
Esta vez Michaela la pasó por alto.
—¿Te has enterado de lo de la gripe de Aurora? ¿La enfermedad del sueño?
—He oído algo por la radio. Unas ancianas que no pueden despertar en Hawái y Australia...
—Es real, mamá, y puede afectar a cualquier mujer. Mayores, recién nacidas, jóvenes, de mediana edad. Cualquier mujer que se quede dormida. O sea: _no duermas_.
—¿Cómo dices? —Algo no cuadraba. Eran las once de la mañana. ¿Por qué iba a dormir? ¿Estaba diciéndole Michaela que no podía volver a dormir nunca? Si era así, no iba a dar resultado. Sería como si le pidiera que no volviera a orinar jamás—. Eso es absurdo.
—Pon las noticias de la televisión, mamá. O de la radio. O míralo en internet.
La imposibilidad quedó suspendida entre ellas en la línea.
—Vale —contestó Janice, sin saber qué otra cosa decir. Su hija podía estar equivocada, pero no le mentiría. Tanto si aquello era una memez como si no, Michaela creía que era verdad.
—La científica con la que acabo de hablar... trabaja para el gobierno federal, y es amiga mía, confío en ella... está al corriente. Dice que, según estimaciones, en el huso horario de la costa del Pacífico, el ochenta y cinco por ciento de las mujeres ya están inconscientes. No se lo digas a nadie; en cuanto la noticia llegue a internet, va a ser un caos.
—¿Qué quieres decir con eso de «inconscientes»?
—Quiero decir que no se despiertan. Forman esos... una especie de capullos. Membranas, revestimientos. Los capullos parecen hechos en parte de cerumen... cera de orejas... en parte de seborrea, que es la sustancia aceitosa que se forma a los lados de la nariz, en parte de mucosidad y en parte de... otra cosa que no han identificado, más allá de que es una proteína sin ADN. Cambia de forma casi en el instante mismo en que aparece, pero no intentes quitarlo. Se han producido... reacciones. ¿Queda claro? _No intentes retirar esa sustancia._ —Sobre esta última cuestión, no menos absurda que el resto, Michaela adoptó una actitud de una severidad impropia de ella—. ¿Mamá?
—Sí, Michaela. Aquí sigo.
De pronto su hija adoptó un tono más intenso, vehemente.
—Ha empezado entre las siete y las ocho hora local, entre las cuatro y las cinco hora del Pacífico, por eso las mujeres que viven más al oeste han sufrido tanto los efectos. Así que nosotras tenemos todo el día. Tenemos prácticamente el depósito lleno.
—El depósito lleno... ¿de horas de vigilia?
—Premio. —Michaela respiró hondo—. Ya sé que parece un disparate, pero no bromeo ni mucho menos. Debes quedarte despierta. Y vas a tener que tomar algunas decisiones difíciles. Te conviene pensar qué hacer con tu cárcel.
—¿Con mi cárcel?
—Las reclusas empezarán a quedarse dormidas.
—Ah —dijo Janice. De pronto comprendió. Más o menos.
—Tengo que dejarte, mamá, tengo que salir al aire, y el productor está que se sube por las paredes. Volveré a llamarte cuando pueda.
Coates se quedó en el sofá. Posó la mirada en la fotografía enmarcada que tenía en el escritorio. Mostraba al difunto Achibald Coates con su pijama de quirófano, sonriente, sosteniendo a su hija recién nacida en el brazo. Fallecido de un infarto a la edad extraordinariamente injusta de treinta años, Archie llevaba muerto casi tanto tiempo como había vivido. En la foto se veía un poco de placenta blanquecina en la frente de Michaela, como un retal de tela. La directora lamentó no haber dicho a su hija que la quería, pero el pesar solo la paralizó unos segundos. Tenía trabajo que hacer. Había tardado unos segundos en asimilar el problema, pero la respuesta —qué hacer con las mujeres de la cárcel— no admitía muchas opciones. Mientras fuera posible, debía seguir haciendo lo que había hecho siempre: mantener el orden y anticiparse a las memeces.
Encargó a su secretaria, Blanche McIntyre, que volviera a telefonear a las auxiliares sanitarias a casa. Después de eso, Blanche debía ponerse en contacto con Lawrence Hicks, el subdirector, e informarlo de que su convalecencia por la extracción de la muela del juicio tendría que acortarse; se requería su presencia en el recinto inmediatamente. Por último, necesitaba que Blanche comunicara a todos los funcionarios de servicio, uno por uno, lo siguiente: debido a la situación nacional, todos debían hacer turnos dobles. La directora dudaba seriamente de que el otro turno se presentara. En las crisis, la gente era reacia a separarse de sus seres queridos.
—¿Cómo? —preguntó Blanche—. _¿La situación nacional?_ ¿Le ha pasado algo al presidente? ¿Y quiere que todos hagan turno doble? Eso no va a gustarles.
—Me trae sin cuidado si les gusta o no. Pon las noticias, Blanche.
—No lo entiendo. ¿Qué está pasando?
—Si mi hija tiene razón, lo sabrás en cuanto lo oigas.
A continuación Coates fue a buscar a Norcross a su consulta. Irían juntos a ver cómo estaba Kitty McDavid.
5
Jared Norcross y Mary Pak estaban sentados en la grada durante la tercera hora de Educación Física, con las raquetas de tenis a un lado de momento. Junto con un grupo de Memos de Segundo que ocupaban las gradas inferiores, estaban viendo jugar en la pista central a dos estudiantes de último curso, que gruñían como Monica Seles con cada golpe. El flaco era Curt McLeod. El pelirrojo musculoso era Eric Blass.
Mi rival invencible, pensó Jared.
—No creo que sea buena idea —dijo.
Mary lo miró con las cejas enarcadas. Era alta, y (en opinión de Jared) perfectamente proporcionada. Tenía el cabello negro, los ojos grises, las piernas largas y bronceadas, y llevaba unas zapatillas de un blanco inmaculado. Inmaculada era, de hecho, la mejor palabra para describirla. En opinión de Jared.
—¿Y eso a qué viene?
Como si no lo supieras, pensó Jared.
—Viene a que te vas a ver a Arcade Fire con Eric.
—Hummm. —Mary pareció reflexionar al respecto—. Entonces tienes suerte de no ser tú quien vaya con él.
—Oye, ¿te acuerdas de aquella excursión al Museo de Juguetes y Trenes de Kruger Street? ¿En quinto?
Mary sonrió y se deslizó la mano por la larga melena; llevaba las uñas pintadas de un azul aterciopelado.
—¿Cómo iba a olvidarlo? Por poco no entramos, porque Billy Mears se escribió alguna burrada en el brazo. La señorita Colby lo obligó a quedarse en el autobús con el conductor, aquel que tartamudeaba.
Eric lanzó la pelota al aire, se puso de puntillas y sirvió un saque letal que apenas rozó la red. Curt, en lugar de devolverlo, dio un respingo. Eric levantó los brazos como Rocky en lo alto de la escalinata del Museo de Arte de Filadelfia. Mary aplaudió. Eric se volvió hacia ella e inclinó la cabeza.
—En su brazo decía LA SEÑORITA COLBY ES UN COÑAZO —recordó Jared—, y no lo escribió Billy. Fue Eric. Billy estaba profundamente dormido cuando Eric lo escribió, y luego mantuvo la boca cerrada porque quedarse en el autobús era mejor que recibir una paliza de Eric días más tarde.
—¿Y?
—Y Eric es un matón.
—Era un matón —corrigió Mary—. Quinto fue hace mucho tiempo.
—Árbol que crece torcido jamás su tronco endereza. —Jared oyó el tono pedante que a veces adoptaba su padre, y lo habría retirado de haber podido.
Mary posó en él sus ojos grises, evaluándolo.
—¿Lo cual significa...?
Basta, se dijo Jared; haz un gesto de indiferencia, di _da igual_ y déjalo correr. A menudo se daba buenos consejos similares, y por lo general la lengua lo traicionaba. Como ocurrió en ese momento.
—Significa que la gente no cambia.
—A veces sí. Antes mi padre bebía demasiado, pero lo dejó. Ahora va a las reuniones de Alcohólicos Anónimos.
—Vale, algunas personas cambian. Me alegro de que tu padre sea una de ellas.
—Más te vale. —Aquellos ojos grises seguían fijos en él.
—Pero la mayoría de la gente no cambia. Piénsalo. Los deportistas de quinto, como Eric, siguen siendo los deportistas. Tú eras lista entonces y eres lista ahora. Los niños que se metían en líos en quinto siguen metiéndose en líos en los últimos cursos. ¿Ves alguna vez juntos a Eric y a Billy? ¿No? Caso cerrado.
En esa ocasión Curt sí consiguió devolver el servicio a Eric, pero la bola le quedó corta, y Eric se abalanzó como un buitre sobre la red, prácticamente se colgó de ella. El tiro —tras un claro contacto con la red— golpeó a Curt en la hebilla del cinturón.
—¡No te pases, tío! —exclamó Curt—. ¡Quizá quiera tener hijos algún día!
—¡Mala idea! —contestó Eric—. Ve a buscarla; es mi pelota de la suerte. Venga, perrito, tráela.
Mientras Curt, malhumorado, se dirigía hacia la valla, adonde había ido a parar la pelota, Eric miró a Mary e inclinó de nuevo la cabeza. Ella le dirigió una sonrisa de cien vatios. Todavía la exhibía cuando se volvió hacia Jared, aunque con muchos menos vatios.
—Te quiero por querer protegerme, Jere, pero ya soy mayorcita. Es un concierto, no un compromiso de por vida.
—Tú intenta...
—Intenta ¿qué? —La sonrisa había desaparecido por completo.
Intenta cuidarte de él, quiso decir Jared. Porque escribir en el brazo de Billy fue solo un detalle menor. Una de esas cosas de primaria. En secundaria ha habido bromas pesadas en el vestuario de las que prefiero no hablar. En parte porque nunca he impedido ninguna de ellas. Me limité a mirar.
Otro buen consejo, y antes de que su boca traidora pudiera desoírlo, Mary se volvió en el asiento y miró en dirección al colegio. Debía de haberle llamado la atención algún movimiento, y de pronto Jared lo vio también: desde el tejado del gimnasio se elevaba una nube marrón. Era tan grande que espantó a los cuervos que se habían posado en los robles que rodeaban el aparcamiento del profesorado.
Polvo, pensó Jared, aunque en lugar de disiparse, la nube viró bruscamente y se dirigió hacia el norte. Ese era comportamiento de bandada, pero aquello no eran pájaros. Eran demasiado pequeños incluso para ser gorriones.
—¡Un eclipse de mariposas nocturnas! —exclamó Mary—. ¡Uau! ¿Quién iba a pensarlo?
—¿Así llamas a un montón de mariposas juntas? ¿Eclipse?
—¡Sí! ¿Quién iba a pensar que volaban en bandada? Y son mariposas nocturnas, que rara vez se ven durante el día. Al menos normalmente.
—¿Cómo sabes todo eso?
—Hice el proyecto de Ciencias de octavo sobre las mariposas nocturnas. Mi padre me convenció de que eligiera ese tema, porque antes me asustaban. Cuando era pequeña, alguien me dijo que si me entraba en los ojos el polvillo de las alas de una mariposa nocturna me quedaría ciega. Mi padre me aseguró que eso eran cuentos de viejas, y que si hacía el proyecto de Ciencias sobre las mariposas nocturnas, quizá llegara a apreciarlas. Dijo que las mariposas diurnas son las reinas de la belleza en el mundo de los insectos, las que siempre consiguen ir al baile, y las pobres mariposas nocturnas son las que se quedan atrás, como la Cenicienta. Por entonces él aún bebía, pero fue una historia divertida igualmente.
Aquellos ojos grises posados en él, retándolo a que le llevara la contraria.
—Sí, una pasada —contestó Jared—. ¿Y fue así?
—Fue así ¿qué?
—Llegaste a apreciarlas.
—No exactamente, pero encontré mucha información interesante. Las mariposas diurnas pliegan las alas sobre la espalda cuando están en reposo; las nocturnas utilizan las suyas para protegerse el vientre. Estas tienen frénulo, o frenillo, una especie de ganchos para mantener unidas las alas, pero las diurnas, no. Las diurnas forman una crisálida, que es dura; las nocturnas forman un capullo, que es blando y sedoso.
—¡Eh! —Era Kent Daley, que cruzaba en bicicleta el campo de softball desde el terreno baldío cubierto de maleza del otro lado. Llevaba una mochila, y la raqueta de tenis colgada al hombro—. ¡Norcross! ¡Pak! ¿Habéis visto todos esos pájaros que han echado a volar?
—Son mariposas nocturnas —aclaró Jared—. De las que tienen frénulo. O frenillo.
—¿Eh?
—Déjalo. ¿Qué estás haciendo? Hoy hay clase, ¿lo sabías?
—Mi madre me ha dicho que sacara la basura.
—Debía de haber mucha —comentó Mary—. Ya estamos en la tercera hora.
Kent le dirigió una mueca. Entonces vio a Eric y a Curt en la cancha central y dejó caer la bicicleta en la hierba.
—Siéntate, Curt; déjalo en manos de un hombre. No podrías devolverle un saque a Eric aunque te fuera la vida de tu perro en ello.
Curt cedió su campo a Kent, un vivales que, al parecer, no sentía ninguna necesidad acuciante de pasar por secretaría para explicar su retraso. Eric sirvió, y Jared vio con satisfacción que el recién llegado le devolvía el saque con contundencia.
—Los aztecas creían que las mariposas nocturnas eran un mal augurio —prosiguió Mary. Había perdido el interés en el partido de tenis—. En los valles de los Apalaches, aún hay quien cree que una palomilla blanca dentro de casa significa que va a morir alguien.
—Eres una _mariposabidilla_ , Mary.
Mary emitió un triste sonido de trombón.
—Un momento, tú no has estado en uno de esos pueblos perdidos en tu vida. Te lo has inventado para meterme miedo. Buen trabajo, por cierto.
—No, no me lo he inventado, lo leí en un libro.
Le dio un puñetazo en el hombro. A Jared le dolió un poco, pero fingió que no.
—Esas eran marrones —observó Jared—. ¿Qué significan las marrones?
—Ah, eso es interesante —contestó Mary—. Según los indios pies negros, las mariposas nocturnas marrones adormecen y traen los sueños.
6
Jared estaba vistiéndose en un banco al fondo del vestuario. Los Memos de Segundo ya se habían marchado, temerosos de que los azotaran con toallas mojadas, cosa por la que Eric y sus adláteres eran famosos. Aunque eso, más que fama, era infamia. Tú dices frénulo, yo digo frenillo, pensó Jared mientras se ponía las zapatillas. Demos por zanjado el asunto.
En la ducha, Eric, Curt y Ken aullaban, salpicaban y gritaban todas las lindezas habituales: jódete, fóllate a tu madre, ya lo he hecho, maricón, chúpame un cojón, tu hermana es un monstruo, está con la menstru, etcétera. Aburría, y a Jared aún le quedaba mucho instituto por delante hasta poder escaparse.
Se cerraron los grifos. Eric y los otros dos salieron con los pies mojados, y sus ruidosos pasos resonaron camino de la zona del vestuario que consideraban su coto privado —solo último curso, por favor—, así que Jared no tuvo que padecer más que una breve ojeada a su trasero desnudo antes de que doblaran el recodo y desaparecieran. Por él no había problema. Olfateó sus calcetines de tenis, hizo una mueca, los metió en la bolsa de deporte y cerró la cremallera.
—He visto a la Vieja Essie cuando venía —decía Kent.
—¿La sintecho? —preguntó Curt—. ¿La del carrito?
—Sí. Casi choco con ella y me caigo en ese agujero en el que vive.
—Alguien debería echarla de aquí —afirmó Curt.
—Anoche debió de pulirse las reservas de peleón —dijo Kent—. Estaba completamente inconsciente. Y debía de haberse envuelto con algo. Tenía una especie de pringue por toda la cara, como telarañas. ¡Qué asco, joder! Lo veía moverse cuando respiraba. Así que voy y le pego un grito: «Eh, Essie, ¿qué te pasa, nena? ¿Qué te pasa, puta desdentada?». Nada, tíos. Como muerta, joder.
—Ojalá existiera una poción mágica para hacer dormir a las chicas y tirárselas sin tener que camelarlas antes —comentó Curt.
—Existe —afirmó Eric—. La burundanga.
Mientras se desternillaban de risa, Jared pensó: Ese es el tío que va a llevar a Mary al concierto de Arcade Fire. Ese tío de ahí.
—Además —continuó Kent—, tiene todo tipo de cosas raras en ese pequeño barranco en el que duerme, incluida la parte de arriba de un maniquí. Me follaría a casi cualquier cosa, tío, pero ¿una vagabunda borracha cubierta de telarañas? Ahí pongo mi línea roja, y es una línea gruesa.
—Mi límite ahora mismo es de puntos. —Se advirtió un tonillo melancólico en la voz de Curt—. La situación ya es desesperada. Me cepillaría hasta a un zombi de _Walking Dead_.
—Ya lo has hecho —dijo Eric—. Harriet Davenport.
Más carcajadas trogloditas. ¿Por qué estoy escuchando esto?, se preguntó Jared, y en su cabeza cobró forma de nuevo el mismo pensamiento: Mary va a ir de concierto con uno de estos psicópatas. Ni se imagina cómo es Eric en realidad, y después de nuestra conversación en las gradas, no estoy muy seguro de que me creyera si se lo dijese.
—A esa no te la cepillarías —aseguró Kent—. Pero tiene gracia. Deberíamos pasar por allí después de clase. A ver cómo está.
—Después de clase no —intervino Eric—. Larguémonos después de la sexta hora.
Se oyeron palmadas cuando la chocaron para cerrar el trato. Jared cogió su bolsa de deporte y se marchó.
Ya en el almuerzo, Frankie Johnson se sentó junto a Jared y dijo que la extraña enfermedad del sueño de las mujeres que antes afectaba solo a Australia y Hawái se había extendido hasta Washington, Richmond e incluso Martinsburg, que no quedaba muy lejos. Jared pensó por un momento en lo que Kent había contado sobre la Vieja Essie —telarañas en la cara—, pero decidió que era imposible. Allí no. En Dooling nunca ocurría nada tan interesante.
—La llaman Aurora —informó Frankie—. Oye, ¿eso es ensalada de pollo? ¿Qué tal está? ¿Cambiamos?
### 5
1
La Unidad Doce del módulo A no contenía más mobiliario que un camastro, el inodoro de acero y, en los ángulos del techo, las cámaras. Carecía de escritorio y recuadro en la pared donde pegar fotos. Coates había arrastrado una silla de plástico hasta el interior para sentarse mientras Clint, en cuclillas, examinaba a Kitty McDavid, que yacía en el camastro.
—¿Y bien? —preguntó la directora.
—Está viva. Mantiene las constantes vitales estables. —Clint se incorporó. Se quitó los guantes quirúrgicos y los metió cuidadosamente en una bolsa de plástico. Del bolsillo de la chaqueta extrajo un cuaderno pequeño y un bolígrafo, y empezó a tomar notas—. No sé qué es esa sustancia. Es pegajosa, como la savia, y también resistente, y sin embargo salta a la vista que es permeable, porque respira a través de ella. Huele... a tierra, creo. Y un poco a cera. Si me apuran, diría que es una especie de hongo, pero no se comporta como ninguno de los hongos que he visto o conozco. —Para Clint, el mero hecho de tratar de analizar la situación era como trepar por una montaña de monedas—. Un biólogo podría tomar una muestra y examinarla con un microscopio...
—Me han dicho que no conviene retirar esa cosa.
Clint cerró el bolígrafo y se lo guardó en el bolsillo de la chaqueta junto con el cuaderno.
—Bueno, en todo caso no soy biólogo. Y como se la ve tranquila...
La excrecencia que había aparecido en el rostro de Kitty era blanca y vaporosa, y se ceñía a la piel. Recordaba a una mortaja, pensó Clint. Notó que tenía los ojos cerrados y los movía en fase REM. La idea de que estuviera soñando bajo esa cosa le produjo desazón, aunque no sabía muy bien por qué.
Minúsculas volutas de ese tejido fino brotaban de sus manos y muñecas inertes, se desenrollaban y, ondeando como movidas por la brisa, se prendían en la cintura del uniforme de McDavid, donde formaban conexiones. Basándose en cómo se propagaba la sustancia, Clint dedujo que al final recubriría todo el cuerpo.
—Parece un pañuelo de hada. —La directora tenía los brazos cruzados. No se la veía disgustada, solo pensativa.
—¿Un pañuelo de hada?
—Los tejen las arañas del pasto. Se ven por la mañana, cuando aún hay rocío.
—Ah. Sí. A veces veo telarañas de ese tipo en el jardín de atrás.
En silencio, observaron los pequeños bucles de tejido vaporoso. Debajo de la envoltura, los párpados de Kitty se agitaban. ¿Qué clase de viaje era ese? ¿Estaba soñando que pillaba? Kitty le contó una vez que la perspectiva de ponerse a tono, esa dulce expectación, le gustaba incluso más que el colocón en sí. ¿Soñaba acaso que se hacía cortes? ¿O con Lowell Griner, el camello que había prometido matarla si lo delataba algún día? ¿O tenía el cerebro inactivo, anulado por el virus (si es que era un virus) cuya manifestación más visible era aquella membrana? ¿Eran sus ojos en movimiento el equivalente neural de las chispas que desprendía un cable de alta tensión arrancado?
—Joder, da miedo—dijo Janice—. Y yo no uso esos términos a la ligera.
Clint se alegraba de que Lila estuviese de camino. Al margen de lo que estuviera ocurriendo entre ellos, deseaba ver su cara.
—Debería llamar a mi hijo —dijo Clint, básicamente para sí.
Rand Quigley, el funcionario de servicio en esa planta, asomó la cabeza. Lanzó una fugaz mirada de inquietud a la mujer incapacitada con el rostro amortajado antes de acercarse a la directora y carraspear.
—Se prevé que la sheriff llegue con la detenida dentro de veinte o treinta minutos. —Se quedó inmóvil un momento—. Blanche ya me ha informado, directora. Seguiré aquí mientras me necesite.
—Buen hombre —dijo ella.
De camino, Clint había puesto al corriente a Coates del aplazamiento que Lila había obtenido para la mujer hallada en el escenario del crimen, y de que iba a trasladarla allí. La directora, mucho más preocupada por lo que Michaela le había contado, había mostrado una indiferencia nada propia de ella ante semejante incumplimiento del protocolo. Para Clint fue un alivio, que duró solo unos segundos, ya que acto seguido la directora le soltó todo lo que sabía acerca de Aurora.
Sin dar tiempo a Clint a preguntar si hablaba en serio, le había enseñado en su iPhone la primera plana de _The_ _New York Times_. __ EPIDEMIA, anunciaba el titular en cuerpo veinte. El artículo correspondiente explicaba que en torno a las mujeres se formaba una envoltura mientras dormían y ya no despertaban; informaba asimismo de disturbios multitudinarios en las zonas horarias del oeste, incendios en Los Ángeles y San Francisco. Nada sobre las calamidades que podían producirse si retiraban aquella gasa, advirtió Clint. Posiblemente porque no era más que un rumor. O porque era verdad, y la prensa no quería desatar el pánico a gran escala. Llegados a ese punto, ¿quién sabía?
—Puede llamar a su hijo dentro de unos minutos, Clint, pero esto es muy importante. Además de usted y yo, contamos con los seis funcionarios de este turno, Blanche en el despacho, y Dunphy, de mantenimiento. Y hay ciento catorce reclusas, más una que viene de camino. La mayoría de los funcionarios son como Quigley, son conscientes de que tienen un deber que cumplir, y espero que resistan un tiempo. Por lo cual doy gracias a Dios, porque no sé cuándo dispondremos de refuerzos, ni en qué número llegarán. ¿Se hace cargo?
Clint se hacía cargo.
—Bien. Para empezar, doctor, ¿qué hacemos con Kitty?
—Ponernos en contacto con el Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades y pedirles que envíen hombres con trajes NBQ para que se la lleven, la examinen, pero... —Clint abrió las manos como poniendo en duda la utilidad de su propuesta—. Si esto está tan extendido como usted dice, y desde luego las noticias parecen confirmarlo, no vamos a recibir ayuda de ningún tipo hasta que haya ayuda disponible, ¿no es así?
Coates seguía de brazos cruzados. Clint se preguntó si lo hacía para ocultar el temblor. La idea hizo que se sintiera mejor y peor a un tiempo.
—Y supongo que en estos momentos no cabe esperar que ni el St. Theresa ni ningún otro centro nos la quite de encima, ¿verdad? Es probable que ellos también estén desbordados.
—Deberíamos llamarlos, pero eso mismo preveo yo —dijo Clint—. Así que mantengámosla aislada, en cuarentena. No conviene que nadie se le acerque o la toque, ni siquiera con guantes. Van puede vigilarla desde la Garita. Si hay algún cambio, si parece inquieta, si se despierta, vendremos corriendo.
—Es un plan. —Coates agitó la mano en el aire allí donde revoloteaba una mariposa nocturna—. Bicho estúpido. ¿Cómo entran aquí? Maldita sea. Punto siguiente: ¿y el resto de la población? ¿Cómo las tratamos?
—¿A qué se refiere?
Clint lanzó un manotazo a la mariposa, pero falló. El insecto se elevó en espiral hacia los fluorescentes del techo.
—Si se duermen... —La directora señaló a McDavid.
Clint se tocó la frente; en parte esperaba notársela ardiendo de fiebre. Acudió a su mente una pregunta demencial con respuesta de elección múltiple.
**¿Cómo mantener despiertas a las reclusas de una cárcel? Elija entre las siguientes opciones:**
a) Poniendo música de Metallica por el sistema de megafonía de la cárcel en un bucle infinito.
b) Proporcionando un cuchillo a cada presa y diciéndoles que se corten cuando el sueño empiece a vencerlas.
c) Proporcionando a cada presa una bolsa de Dexedrina.
d) Todas las anteriores.
e) No se las mantiene despiertas.
—Hay fármacos para mantener a la gente despierta, pero, Janice, diría que la mayoría de estas mujeres son drogadictas. La idea de ponerlas a cien con lo que en esencia es speed no me parece ni segura ni saludable. Además, para algo como, por ejemplo, Provigil, tampoco podría extender una receta para cien comprimidos. Mucho me temo que el farmacéutico de Rite Aid lo miraría con recelo, ¿entiende? En resumidas cuentas, no veo _ninguna_ manera de ayudarlas. Lo único que podemos hacer es mantener la normalidad en la medida de lo posible e intentar sofocar cualquier ataque de pánico, conservar la esperanza de que entretanto aparezca alguna explicación o novedad, y...
Clint vaciló un momento antes de recurrir al eufemismo que parecía la única manera de decirlo y a la vez del todo incorrecto.
—Y dejar que la naturaleza siga su curso. —Pese a que aquello no era ninguna manifestación de la naturaleza que conociera.
Janice dejó escapar un suspiro.
—Esa es también mi postura.
Salieron al pasillo, y la directora pidió a Quigley que hiciera correr la voz: nadie debía tocar la excrecencia que presentaba McDavid.
2
Las reclusas del taller de carpintería comían en el propio cobertizo en lugar de ir al comedor y, cuando el tiempo acompañaba, se les permitía disfrutar del almuerzo fuera, a la sombra del edificio. Aquel día hacía buen tiempo, cosa que Jeanette Sorley agradeció. Había empezado a notar un dolor de cabeza en el huerto mientras el doctor Norcross hablaba por teléfono, y lo sentía cada vez a mayor profundidad, como si le penetraran la cabeza con una varilla de acero desde la sien izquierda. El hedor del barniz no ayudaba. Tal vez el dolor se disipara con un poco de aire fresco.
A las doce menos diez, dos Gorra Roja —como llamaban a las presas de confianza— llevaron hasta allí una mesa rodante con bocadillos, limonada y vasitos de pudín de chocolate. A las doce sonó el timbre. Jeanette dio una última pasada a la pata de silla que estaba puliendo y apagó el torno. Media docena de reclusas hicieron lo mismo. El nivel de decibelios descendió. De pronto el único sonido en la sala —ya sofocante y ni siquiera estaban en junio— fue el gemido continuo y agudo de la aspiradora industrial, con la que Ree Dempster recogía el serrín entre la última hilera de máquinas y la pared.
—¡Apague eso, reclusa! —ordenó Tig Murphy a voz en grito. En Dooling había dieciocho funcionarios en rotación a jornada completa; Murphy era nuevo. Como la mayoría de los novatos, levantaba mucho la voz porque aún carecía de seguridad en sí mismo—. ¡Hora de comer! ¿Es que no ha oído el timbre?
—Funcionario —empezó a decir Ree—, solo me queda este poco...
—¡Apague, he dicho! ¡Apague!
—Sí, funcionario.
Ree apagó la aspiradora, y Jeanette acogió el silencio con un estremecimiento de alivio. Le dolían las manos dentro de los guantes de faena, y la cabeza a causa del fuerte olor del barniz. Su único deseo era volver a su querida B-7, donde tenía aspirinas (un Medicamento Verde aprobado, aunque solo se permitían una docena al mes). Luego quizá podría dormir hasta las seis, la hora del papeo del módulo B.
—En fila, manos en alto —entonó el funcionario Murphy—. En fila, manos en alto. Permítanme ver esas herramientas, señoras.
Formaron fila. Ree, que precedía a Jeanette, susurró:
—El funcionario Murphy es tirando a gordo, ¿no?
—Será que ha estado comiendo tarta con Michelle Obama —contestó Jeanette, también en voz baja, y Ree ahogó una risita.
Sostuvieron en alto sus herramientas: lijadoras, destornilladores, taladros, escoplos. Jeanette se preguntó si en las cárceles de hombres se permitía a los reclusos el acceso a armas potencialmente peligrosas como esas. En especial los destornilladores. Con un destornillador se podía matar, como ella bien sabía. Y a eso se parecía el dolor de cabeza: a un destornillador. Que se hundía. Que llegaba a la carne tierna y la desgarraba.
—¿Comemos hoy _al fresco_ , señoras? —preguntó el funcionario Murphy. Alguien había mencionado que antes era profesor de instituto, hasta que perdió el empleo a causa de los recortes—. Significa...
—Fuera —masculló Jeanette—. Significa comer fuera.
Murphy la señaló.
—Hay entre nosotros una becaria de Oxford. —Pero esbozó una sonrisa, y aparentemente no lo dijo con mala intención.
Una vez efectuadas la verificación y la recogida de las herramientas, estas se guardaron en un arcón de acero, que quedó cerrado bajo llave. El personal de ebanistería se acercó con parsimonia a la mesa, cogió bocadillos y la bebida en vasos de papel y esperó a que Murphy realizara el recuento.
—Señoras, el magnífico aire libre las espera. Que alguien coja uno de jamón y queso para mí.
—Lo que tú digas, monada —musitó Angel Fitzroy.
Murphy le lanzó una mirada severa, a la que Angel respondió con aire inocente. Jeanette sintió un poco de lástima por él. Pero con la lástima no se pagaba la cuenta del supermercado, como decía su madre. Le daba a Murphy tres meses. Como mucho.
Las mujeres salieron en fila del cobertizo, se sentaron en la hierba y se apoyaron en el muro del edificio.
—¿De qué es el tuyo? —preguntó Ree.
Jeanette echó un vistazo a las profundidades de su bocadillo.
—De pollo.
—A mí me ha tocado de atún. ¿Me lo cambias?
A Jeanette, sin apetito, le daba igual una cosa que otra, así que aceptó el trueque. Se obligó a comer con la esperanza de que eso le aliviase un poco el dolor de cabeza. Se bebió la limonada, que sabía amarga, pero cuando Ree le llevó un vasito de pudín, negó con la cabeza. El chocolate provocaba migrañas, y si su jaqueca actual se convertía en una de esas, tendría que ir a la enfermería a por un zolmitriptán, que solo conseguiría si el doctor N. aún no se había marchado. Corría la voz de que las auxiliares sanitarias en plantilla no se habían presentado.
Un camino de cemento conducía hasta el edificio principal de la cárcel, y alguien había dibujado en él una cuadrícula de rayuela, ya descolorida. Unas cuantas mujeres se pusieron en pie, buscaron piedras y empezaron a jugar, entonando rimas que debían de haber aprendido de niñas. Qué cosas se quedaban grabadas en la cabeza de una persona, pensó Jeanette; lo encontró curioso.
Ayudó a bajar el último bocado con el último trago de limonada amarga, se recostó y cerró los ojos. ¿Mejoraba ya un poco la jaqueca? Tal vez. En todo caso aún tenían otros quince minutos como mínimo. Podía dar una cabezadita...
Fue entonces cuando el funcionario Peters salió súbitamente del taller de carpintería como un muñeco de resorte de una caja sorpresa. O un trol escondido bajo una roca. Miró a las mujeres que jugaban a la rayuela; luego a las que se hallaban sentadas al pie de la fachada lateral del edificio. Posó los ojos en Jeanette.
—Sorley. Entra aquí. Tengo una tarea que encargarte.
El cabrón de Peters. Muy aficionado a pellizcar tetas y dar palmadas en el culo, siempre se las apañaba para cometer sus abusos en alguno de los numerosos puntos ciegos que las cámaras no cubrían. Se los conocía todos. Y si una lo delataba, en lugar de recibir un pellizco, bien podía acabar con la teta estrujada.
—Este es mi descanso para comer, funcionario —contestó ella con la mayor amabilidad posible.
—A mí me parece que ya ha terminado. Así que mueve el culo y ven.
Murphy pareció vacilar, pero le habían inculcado bien una norma sobre el trabajo en una cárcel de mujeres: no se permitía a los funcionarios varones quedarse a solas con ninguna reclusa.
—Sistema de vigilancia mutua, Don.
Las mejillas de Peters se tiñeron de rojo. No estaba de humor para las pamplinas de ese maestrillo, no después de la combinación uno-dos a que lo habían sometido, primero el acoso de Coates y luego la reciente llamada de Blanche McIntyre para informarlo de que «debía» hacer turno doble como consecuencia de «la situación nacional». Don lo había consultado en su teléfono: «la situación nacional» se reducía a un puñado de ancianas de una residencia que tenían hongos. Coates estaba mal de la cabeza.
—Para lo que necesito no hace falta vigilancia —dijo Don—. Basta con ella.
El novato va a dejarlo correr, pensó Jeanette. Aquí es solo un niño. Pero Murphy la sorprendió.
—Vigilancia mutua —repitió. Quizá, después de todo, el funcionario Murphy sí saldría adelante.
Peters reflexionó. Las mujeres sentadas junto al cobertizo lo miraban y la partida de rayuela se había interrumpido. Eran reclusas, pero también testigos.
— _Yuju._ —Angel trazó un gesto ceremonioso—. _Eh, yuju._ Funcionario Peters, ya me conoce, para mí siempre es un placer ayudar.
Don pensó por un momento, alarmado —por absurdo que fuera—, que de algún modo Fitzroy sabía lo que le rondaba la cabeza. Por supuesto no era así; solo pretendía exasperarlo, como a todas horas del día. Aunque le habría gustado quedarse alguna vez cinco minutos a solas con esa chiflada, no lo atraía en absoluto la idea de darle la espalda ni un segundo siquiera.
No, Fitzroy, no, para esto no.
Señaló a Ree.
—Tú. Dumpster.
Algunas de las mujeres se rieron.
— _Dempster_ —corrigió Ree, muy dignamente.
—Dempster, Dumpster, Dimplebutt, me importa un carajo. Vamos, las dos. No me obliguéis a repetirlo, no con el día que llevo. —Lanzó una mirada a Murphy, el enteradillo—. Hasta luego, profe-drilo.
Eso provocó más risas, esta vez entre las lameculos. Murphy era nuevo y estaba metiéndose en honduras, y ninguna de ellas quería verse incluida en la lista negra del funcionario Peters. No eran del todo tontas, pensó Don, las mujeres de aquel lugar.
3
El funcionario Peters obligó a Jeanette y a Ree a avanzar por Broadway y, una vez recorrida una cuarta parte del pasillo, a detenerse frente a la sala común, o de visita, que, como era la hora del almuerzo, estaba vacía. Jeanette empezaba a albergar un muy mal presentimiento. Cuando Peters abrió la puerta, ella no se movió.
—¿Qué quiere que hagamos?
—¿Estás ciega, reclusa?
No, no estaba ciega. Vio la fregona apoyada en el cubo y, en una de las mesas, una bandeja de plástico, llena de trapos y productos de limpieza en lugar de vasitos de pudín.
—Se supone que es nuestra hora del almuerzo. —Ree intentaba aparentar indignación, pero la traicionaba el temblor en la voz—. Además, ya _tenemos_ trabajo.
Peters se inclinó hacia ella, contrajo los labios para enseñar las puntas afiladas de sus dientes, y Ree se encogió contra Jeanette.
—A mí no me cuentes tus penas, ¿vale? Entra ahí ahora mismo, y si no quieres ganarte un informe de mala conducta, no discutas. Llevo un día de mierda, y estoy de un humor de mierda, y a menos que quieras sobrellevar la carga conmigo, más te vale ponerte manos a la obra.
A continuación, desplazándose a la derecha para obstruir la línea visual de la cámara más cercana, agarró a Ree por la parte de atrás de la casaca del uniforme, introdujo los dedos bajo el elástico de su sujetador de deporte y la empujó hacia el interior de la sala común. Ree tropezó y se agarró al costado de la máquina de tentempiés para no caerse.
—¡Vale, vale!
—Vale, ¿qué?
—Vale, funcionario Peters.
—No debería empujarnos —protestó Jeanette—. Eso no está bien.
Don Peters alzó la vista al techo.
—Guárdate los sermones para quien quiera oírlos. Mañana es día de visita, y este sitio parece una pocilga.
No era la impresión que tenía Jeanette. Ella lo veía bien. Aunque poco importaba. Si el hombre de uniforme afirmaba que aquello parecía una pocilga, pues parecía una pocilga. Así era en esencia como se aplicaba el sistema penitenciario en el pequeño condado de Dooling, y probablemente en todo el mundo.
—Vais a limpiarlo de arriba abajo y palmo a palmo, y me aseguraré de que hacéis bien el trabajo.
Señaló la bandeja con productos de limpieza.
—Eso es tuyo, Dumpster. A la señorita Eso No Está Bien le toca la fregona, y quiero el suelo impecable, como para comer en él.
Ya me gustaría a mí hacerte comer del suelo, pensó Jeanette, pero se acercó al cubo rodante de la fregona. No quería acabar con un informe de mala conducta. Si eso ocurría, era muy poco probable que estuviese en esa sala cuando llegara su hermana con su hijo para verla ese fin de semana. Era un largo viaje en autobús, y cuánto agradecía a Bobby no quejarse nunca de tener que hacerlo. Pero el dolor de cabeza empeoraba, y lo único que deseaba en este mundo era una aspirina y una siesta.
Ree inspeccionó los productos de limpieza y eligió abrillantador en aerosol y un trapo.
—¿Te apetece esnifar ese abrillantador, Dumpster? ¿Metértelo por la napia y colocarte?
—No —contestó Ree.
—Te gustaría colocarte, ¿eh?
—No.
—No, ¿qué?
—No, funcionario Peters.
Ree se puso a abrillantar una mesa. Jeanette llenó el cubo en la pila del rincón, introdujo la fregona en el agua, la escurrió y empezó a fregar el suelo. A través de la alambrada de la parte delantera de la cárcel, veía West Lavin, donde coches llenos de personas libres circulaban de acá para allá, camino del trabajo, de casa, de una comida en el Denny's, de algún sitio.
—Acércate, Sorley —ordenó Peters, de pie entre la expendedora de tentempiés y la de refrescos, un punto ciego a las cámaras donde a veces las reclusas intercambiaban pastillas, cigarrillos y besos.
Jeanette negó con la cabeza y siguió pasando la fregona, cuyas largas estelas de humedad en el linóleo se secaban rápidamente.
—Acércate si quieres ver a tu hijo la próxima vez que venga.
Debería negarme, pensó ella. Debería decirle que me deje en paz o lo denunciaré. Solo que lleva mucho tiempo saliéndose con la suya, ¿no? Todo el mundo sabía lo de Peters. Coates tenía que saberlo también, y a pesar de sus grandes palabras sobre la tolerancia cero al acoso sexual, aquello seguía ocurriendo.
Jeanette, fregona en mano, se acercó remisamente al estrecho hueco que había entre las máquinas y se detuvo delante de Peters con la cabeza gacha.
—Entra ahí. La espalda contra la pared. ¿Adónde vas con la fregona? Déjala.
—No quiero, funcionario. —La jaqueca había pasado a ser atroz; la palpitación, incesante. La B-7 estaba a un paso de allí, en ese mismo corredor, y la aspirina, en el pequeño estante.
—Entra ahí o te cae un informe de mala conducta y pierdes el derecho de visita. Luego ya me encargaré yo de que te caiga otro, y... puf, se acabó el trato de favor.
Y la posibilidad de conseguir la libertad condicional el año que viene, pensó Jeanette. Sin trato de favor, no había condicional, vuelta a empezar, caso cerrado.
Cuando pasó junto a Peters, él arrimó la pelvis a ella para que notara su erección. Jeanette se situó contra la pared. Peters avanzó. Ella olió su sudor, el aftershave y el tónico capilar. Era más alta que él y, por encima de su hombro, veía a su compañera de celda. Ree había dejado de abrillantar. Tenía en los ojos una expresión de miedo, consternación y lo que acaso fuese ira. Agarró el bote de abrillantador y lo levantó lentamente. Jeanette movió la cabeza en un gesto mínimo de negación. Peters no lo vio; estaba ocupado bajándose la bragueta.
Ree bajó el bote y siguió abrillantando la mesa, que ya no necesitaba más abrillantado, que no había necesitado para empezar.
—Ahora cógeme la polla —ordenó Peters—. Me hace falta un desahogo. ¿Sabes lo que me gustaría? Ojalá fueras Coatsie. Ojalá tuviera su culo viejo y plano contra esa pared. Si fueras ella, esto tampoco quedaría en una simple paja.
Dio un grito ahogado cuando ella se la agarró. El miembro en cuestión era un tanto ridículo, a decir verdad. No le medía más de ocho centímetros, y por nada del mundo habría querido que se lo vieran otros hombres, a menos que fuera absolutamente inevitable, pero lo tenía bastante duro. Y ella sabía qué hacer. Como la mayoría de las mujeres. Los tíos tenían un arma; tú se la descargabas; ellos seguían a lo suyo.
—¡Despacio, por Dios! —siseó Peters. El aliento le apestaba a carne con especias, quizá por alguna barrita de cecina o de salami—. Espera, trae la mano. —Jeanette se la dio, y él le escupió en la palma—. _Así._ Y acaríciame un poco las pelotas.
Ella obedeció, sin apartar la mirada de la ventana, por encima del hombro de Peters. Había aprendido aquella técnica a los once años, cuando su padrastro la toqueteaba, y que había perfeccionado con su difunto marido. Si encontrabas algo en lo que concentrarte, un punto de enfoque, mientras ponías la atención en eso que de pronto te resultaba tan fascinante casi podías dejar atrás tu cuerpo y pensar que este actuaba de manera autónoma.
Fuera se detuvo un coche de la Oficina del Sheriff del Condado, y Jeanette lo observó primero esperar en el espacio de seguridad intermedio y a continuación, cuando se abrió ruidosamente la verja interior, entrar en el patio. La directora Coates, el doctor Norcross y la funcionaria Lampley salieron a recibirlo. Los jadeos del funcionario Peters al oído se le antojaban lejanos. Se apearon del coche dos policías, una mujer del asiento del conductor y un hombre del lado del pasajero. Los dos desenfundaron sus pistolas, lo que indicaba que la detenida era una buena pieza, probablemente destinada al módulo C. La agente abrió la puerta de atrás y salió otra mujer. A Jeanette no le pareció peligrosa. Era guapa, a pesar de las magulladuras que tenía en la cara. El cabello le caía espalda abajo en una cascada oscura, y tenía una figura tan curvilínea que incluso el holgado mono marrón le quedaba bien. Algo se agitaba en torno a su cabeza. ¿Un mosquito enorme? ¿Una mariposa nocturna? Jeanette forzó la vista, pero no lo distinguía. El agente agarró a la morena por el hombro y la encaminó hacia la zona de ingresos, donde Norcross y Coates la recibieron. Una vez dentro, iniciarían el proceso. La mujer, abriendo la ancha boca y volviendo la cabeza hacia el cielo, espantó con la mano el bicho que volaba alrededor de su pelo, y Jeanette la vio reírse, vio sus dientes brillantes y rectos.
Peters arqueó la espalda y, sacudiéndose contra ella, eyaculó en su mano.
Retrocedió. Tenía las mejillas enrojecidas. Asomó una sonrisa a su cara pequeña y rechoncha mientras se subía la cremallera.
—Límpiate en la parte de atrás de la máquina de Coca-Cola, Sorley, y luego acaba de fregar el puto suelo.
Jeanette se limpió el semen y después empujó el cubo de la fregona hasta la pila para poder enjuagarse la mano. Cuando regresó, Peters estaba sentado a una de las mesas, tomándose una Coca-Cola.
—¿Estás bien? —preguntó Ree en un susurro.
—Sí —contestó Jeanette, también en voz baja. Y lo estaría en cuanto se tomara una aspirina para el dolor de cabeza. Los últimos cuatro minutos ni siquiera habían ocurrido. No había hecho más que observar a la mujer que había salido del coche patrulla, eso era todo. No necesitaba volver a pensar en los últimos cuatro minutos nunca más. Solo necesitaba ver a su Bobby en la siguiente visita.
Se oyó el siseo intermitente del aerosol.
Transcurrieron tres o cuatro segundos de grato silencio hasta que Ree volvió a hablar.
—¿Has visto a la nueva?
—Sí.
—¿Ha sido cosa mía o era guapa?
—Era guapa.
—Esos polis del condado han sacado las pistolas, ¿te has fijado?
—Sí. —Jeanette miró de soslayo a Peters, que había encendido el televisor y veía las noticias. Las imágenes mostraban a alguien desplomado al volante de un coche. Costaba saber si era hombre o mujer, porque, fuese él o ella, estaba envuelto en gasa. Al pie de la pantalla destellaba en rojo el rótulo FLASH INFORMATIVO, pero eso no significaba nada; flash informativo podía ser cualquier cosa, incluso que Kim Kardashian se tirase un pedo. Jeanette parpadeó para contener las lágrimas que le empañaban los ojos.
—¿Qué crees que habrá hecho esa mujer?
Jeanette carraspeó y se tragó las lágrimas.
—Ni idea.
—¿Seguro que estás bien?
Antes de que Jeanette pudiera contestar, Peters habló sin volver la cabeza.
—Señoras, dejen de cuchichear o recibirán las dos un informe de mala conducta.
Y como Ree no podía dejar de hablar —sencillamente no formaba parte de su naturaleza—, Jeanette se alejó, fregando, hasta el otro extremo de la sala.
En la tele, Michaela Morgan dijo: «De momento el presidente se niega a declarar el estado de emergencia, pero fuentes cercanas al Gabinete de Crisis afirman que...».
Jeanette dejó de prestar atención. La nueva había levantado las manos esposadas hacia las mariposas que revoloteaban en círculo. ¡Y qué carcajada cuando se posaron las mariposas! Un sonido rebosante de libertad.
Aquí dentro perderás esa risa, hermana, pensó Jeanette.
Nos pasa a todas.
4
Anton Dubcek volvió a casa a comer, como de costumbre, y aunque no eran más que las doce y media, en realidad se trataba de un almuerzo tardío para lo que él tenía por norma: llevaba bregando desde las seis de la mañana. En lo que se refería al mantenimiento de piscinas, la gente no entendía que no era un trabajo apto para flojos. Uno necesitaba motivación. Si quería triunfar en el negocio de las piscinas, no podía dormirse soñando con blinis y mamadas. Para permanecer a la cabeza en la competición, era necesario sacar la delantera al mismísimo sol. A esa hora, al mediodía, ya había barrido, ajustado los niveles y limpiado los filtros de siete piscinas, además de sustituir las juntas de dos bombas. Podía dejar las cuatro visitas restantes de su agenda para última hora de la tarde.
Entretanto: la comida, una siesta corta, algo de ejercicio y quizá una breve visita a Jessica Elway, la tía a la que se tiraba por ese entonces, una esposa aburrida. El hecho de que su marido fuese de la pasma local era la guinda del pastel. Los polis se pasaban el día en el coche, engullendo donuts y acosando a negros por pura diversión. Anton controlaba las jodidas aguas y se ganaba la vida.
Dejó las llaves en el cuenco que había junto a la puerta y fue derecho a la nevera en busca de su batido. Apartó la leche de soja, la bolsa de kale y el envase de moras; y no había batido.
—¡Mamá! ¡Mamá! —exclamó—. ¿Dónde está mi batido?
No hubo respuesta, pero oyó el televisor en la sala de estar. Anton asomó la cabeza por la puerta. Las pruebas a la vista —el televisor puesto, la copa vacía— indicaban que Magda se había retirado a dar una cabezada a su vez. Pese a lo mucho que quería a su madre, Anton era consciente de sus excesos con la bebida. Debido a eso a veces se mostraba descuidada, cosa que a él lo sacaba de quicio. Desde la muerte de su padre, era Anton quien pagaba la hipoteca. Según lo acordado, los gastos de mantenimiento y alimentación corrían por cuenta de ella. Si Anton no tomaba sus batidos, no podía imponerse en el sector de las piscinas como le convenía, ni destacar en sus sesiones de ejercicio, ni embestir un jugoso trasero con el vigor que las señoras le exigían.
—¡Mamá! ¡Esto es una mierda! ¡Tienes que cumplir tu parte! —Su voz reverberó en la casa. Magda estaba tan borracha que ni se inmutó.
Anton extrajo la licuadora del armario situado debajo del cajón de los cubiertos y, con el máximo alboroto posible, la plantó en la encimera y encajó la jarra y la cuchilla a la base. Echó una buena cantidad de hortalizas, unas moras, un puñado de nueces, una cucharada de mantequilla de cacahuete orgánica y una taza de Mister Ripper Protein PowderTM. Mientras elaboraba la mezcla, acudió a su mente la sheriff Lila Norcross. Era una mujer atractiva para su edad y estaba muy en forma —era una auténtica mamá sexy, desde luego ni probaba los donuts—, y a Anton le gustaba la soltura con que reaccionaba cuando él dejaba caer una de sus frases. ¿Lo deseaba? ¿O deseaba cometer actos de brutalidad policial contra él? ¿O (y este era el verdadero enigma) lo deseaba _y_ deseaba cometer actos de brutalidad policial contra él? El asunto merecía atención. Anton puso la licuadora a velocidad máxima y observó cómo se revolvía la mezcla. En cuanto adquirió un color verde guisante homogéneo, la apagó, retiró la jarra y se dirigió a la sala de estar.
Y en la pantalla vio nada más y nada menos que a Mickey Coates, ¡su antigua compañera de juegos!
Aunque Mickey le caía bien, verla le provocaba una nostalgia impropia del presidente, consejero delegado, director financiero y único empleado de Anton el Chico de la Piscina, S. R. L. ¿Se acordaría Mickey de él? En otro tiempo su madre cuidaba de ella, así que en la infancia habían tenido mucho trato. Anton recordaba que Mickey exploraba su habitación, revolvía en sus cajones, hojeaba los tebeos, enlazaba una pregunta con otra: ¿Quién te ha dado esto? ¿Por qué este soldadito es tu preferido? ¿Por qué no tienes calendario? Tu padre es electricista, ¿no? ¿Te enseñará a conectar cables y cosas así? ¿Quieres aprenderlo? Debían de rondar los ocho años, y daba la impresión de que Mickey se propusiera escribir su biografía. Pero Anton ponía pegas. De hecho, le parecía bien. Gracias al interés que ella mostraba, él se sentía especial. Antes de eso, antes de Mickey, Anton ni siquiera había deseado atraer el interés de otra persona; se había contentado con ser solo un niño. Lógicamente, Mickey se había marchado antes a un colegio privado, y apenas habían cruzado palabra desde que empezaron el instituto.
Es probable que a ella, ya adulta, le tiraran más los hombres con maletín y gemelos que leían _The_ _Wall Street Journal,_ que entendían dónde demonios residía el atractivo de la ópera y que veían programas de la televisión pública, esa clase de tíos. Anton meneó la cabeza. Ella se lo perdía, se dijo con aplomo.
«Quiero advertirles que las imágenes que van a ver a continuación pueden herir la sensibilidad, y no hemos confirmado su autenticidad.»
Mickey informaba desde un asiento de la parte de atrás de una unidad móvil con la puerta abierta. A su lado, una mujer con auriculares trabajaba en un ordenador portátil. La sombra de ojos azul de Mickey se veía claramente húmeda. Debía de hacer un calor sofocante dentro de la furgoneta. Se percibía algo distinto en su rostro. Anton dio un gran trago de batido espumoso y la observó. Debía de usar una talla de copa A, pensó. Quizá una B, pero más probablemente una A. No había nada de malo en eso. Más de lo que cabe en la mano es un desperdicio, esa era su filosofía.
«Sin embargo —prosiguió ella—, a la luz de todo lo que rodea Aurora, y de los rumores de que se han producido reacciones adversas cuando se ha despertado a las durmientes, hemos decidido poner estas secuencias porque parecen confirmar que la información es cierta. He aquí el fragmento de las imágenes extraídas de la web de vídeo en _streaming_ que mantienen los Dorados, como se hacen llamar, desde su complejo a las afueras de Hatch, Nuevo México. Como saben, este grupo armado está en conflicto con las autoridades federales por los derechos del agua...»
A Anton le complacía ver a Mickey, pero le aburrían las noticias. Cogió el mando a distancia y puso los dibujos animados del Cartoon Network, donde un caballo y su jinete galopaban a través de un bosque oscuro perseguidos por las sombras. Cuando volvió a dejar el mando a distancia en la mesa auxiliar, reparó en la presencia de una botella de ginebra vacía en el suelo.
—Maldita sea, mamá. —Anton bebió otro trago de batido y cruzó la sala de estar. Tenía que asegurarse de que su madre dormía de lado por si regurgitaba de pronto; su madre no iba a morir como una estrella del rock mientras él pudiera evitarlo.
En la encimera de la cocina gorjeó su teléfono móvil. Era un mensaje de texto de Jessica Elway. Por fin había acostado al bebé y se proponía fumarse un canuto, desnudarse y evitar la televisión e internet, que ese día contaban cosas la mar de raras. ¿Le apetecía a Anton reunirse con ella? Su pobre marido no podía moverse del escenario de un crimen.
5
Frank Geary pensó que el tipo que protagonizaba las imágenes de Nuevo México parecía un anciano refugiado de la nación Woodstock, alguien que debería haber estado interpretando _The Fish Cheer_ en lugar de encabezar una secta de bichos raros.
Compadre Hoja Dorada era el trabalenguas que había elegido por nombre. Vestido con un sarape naranja con un estampado de triángulos que le llegaba hasta las rodillas, exhibía unas greñas canosas rizadas y una barba canosa rizada. Frank había seguido la noticia de los Dorados, que venía desarrollándose a lo largo de toda la primavera, y llegó a la conclusión de que aquellos individuos, bajo sus adornos religiosos y políticos, por llamarlos de algún modo, eran solo un hatajo de Trump... tramposos sin más objetivo que la evasión fiscal.
Se presentaban como los Dorados, lo cual tenía su guasa. Eran alrededor de treinta, hombres, mujeres y unos cuantos niños, y habían declarado su independencia como nación. Además de negarse a pagar impuestos, llevar a sus hijos al colegio y deponer las armas automáticas (que, por lo visto, necesitaban para proteger el rancho de las plantas rodadoras), habían desviado ilegalmente el único arroyo de la zona hacia el matorral del que eran propietarios. El FBI y la ATF llevaban meses apostados frente a sus cercas, intentando negociar una rendición, pero la situación seguía prácticamente igual.
A Frank le daba grima la ideología de los Dorados. Se trataba de egoísmo disfrazado de espiritualidad. Uno podía trazar una línea recta entre los Dorados y los interminables recortes presupuestarios que amenazaban con convertir el empleo del propio Frank en un trabajo a tiempo parcial o de voluntariado directamente. La civilización exigía una contribución, o un sacrificio, si se prefería llamarlo así. De lo contrario, al final serían los perros salvajes los que rondaran por las calles y ocuparan los puestos de poder en Washington. Lamentaba (sin demasiada convicción, debía reconocerlo) que hubiera niños en ese complejo, de modo que las autoridades no podían aplastar sin más a esos individuos y barrerlos como la escoria que eran.
Frank se hallaba en su pequeño despacho, sentado al escritorio. Tenía por todas partes jaulas de distintos tamaños y estanterías con material. Como espacio, no era ninguna maravilla, pero le traía sin cuidado. A él ya le valía.
Tomó un sorbo de zumo de mango de la botella y vio la televisión mientras sostenía una bolsa de hielo contra el lado de la mano con que había aporreado la puerta de la casa de Garth Flickinger. La luz del móvil parpadeaba: Elaine. No estaba seguro de cómo enfocar el asunto, así que dejó que saltara el buzón de voz. Se había excedido presionando a Nana, se daba cuenta. Cabía la posibilidad de que hubiera repercusiones.
En ese momento había un Mercedes verde destrozado en el camino de entrada a la residencia de un médico rico. Las huellas de Frank estaban en el adoquín pintado que había utilizado para romper las ventanillas del Mercedes y machacar la carrocería, así como en el tiesto del lilo que, en pleno arranque de ira, había plantado en el asiento trasero del coche de aquel cabrón desconsiderado. Era precisamente la clase de prueba incontestable —delito de vandalismo— que un juez de juzgado de familia (los cuales, en cualquier caso, siempre se ponían del lado de la madre) necesitaría para dictar que solo podía ver a su hija durante una hora cada dos lunas llenas y bajo supervisión. Una demanda por vandalismo le costaría, además, el empleo. En retrospectiva, lo que resultaba evidente era que Frank el Malo había irrumpido. Frank el Malo, de hecho, se había desmelenado.
Pero Frank el Malo ni era del todo malo ni estaba del todo equivocado, porque ojo: el Mercedes verde de Garth Flickinger no iba a atropellar a ningún otro gato en el futuro inmediato. Por el momento su hija podía dibujar sin peligro delante de casa otra vez. Quizá Frank el Bueno hubiera manejado mejor la situación. Pero quizá no. Frank el Bueno tenía algo de calzonazos.
«No pienso quedarme... no _pensamos_ quedarnos... de brazos cruzados mientras el _denominado_ gobierno de Estados Unidos perpetra esta engañifa.»
En la pantalla del televisor, Compadre Hoja Dorada pronunciaba su alocución desde detrás de una larga mesa rectangular. En ella yacía una mujer con un camisón azul claro. Le envolvía el rostro una sustancia blanca semejante a esas telarañas postizas que vendían en los supermercados por Halloween. El pecho de la mujer subía y bajaba.
—¿Qué es esa mierda? —preguntó Frank al chucho que tenía al lado en ese momento.
El perro alzó la vista y enseguida volvió a dormirse. Era un tópico, pero, para disfrutar de una compañía incondicional, no había nada mejor que un perro. No había nada mejor que un perro, y punto. Los perros no conocían otra cosa; se limitaban a sacar el máximo partido de todo. Sacaban el máximo partido de sus dueños. De niño, Frank siempre había tenido perro. Elaine aseguraba que era alérgica. También a eso había renunciado Frank por su mujer, y era mucho más importante de lo que ella entendería jamás.
Frank frotó al chucho mestizo entre las orejas.
«Hemos visto a sus agentes manipulando nuestro suministro de agua. Nos consta que han recurrido a sus sustancias químicas para perjudicar al elemento más vulnerable y preciado de nuestra familia, las mujeres de los Dorados, con el propósito de sembrar el caos, el miedo y la duda. Anoche envenenaron a nuestras hermanas, incluida mi esposa, mi tierna Sussanah. El veneno actuó en ella y en nuestras hermosas mujeres mientras dormían.» La voz de Compadre Hoja Dorada era ronca a causa del tabaco, lo cual resultaba curiosamente entrañable. Llevaba a pensar en ancianos reunidos en torno a una mesa para desayunar, ufanos en su jubilación.
Auxiliaban al sumo sacerdote de la evasión fiscal dos hombres de menor edad, también con barba, aunque no tan impresionantes, y sarape. Los tres portaban armas al cinto, lo que les confería cierto aire de extras de un espagueti western de Sergio Leone. De la pared a su espalda, colgaba un Cristo crucificado. Las imágenes procedentes del complejo eran nítidas, empañadas únicamente por alguna que otra línea de texto que se desplazaba por la pantalla.
« _¡Mientras dormían!_
»¿Veis la cobardía del Rey de las Mentiras actual? ¿Lo veis en la Casa Blanca? ¿Veis a los otros muchos embusteros como él en esos papeles verdes inservibles que quieren que creamos que valen algo? Ay, vecinos míos. Vecinos, vecinos. Esa gente tan taimada, tan cruel, con tantas caras.»
De pronto asomaron todos sus dientes, un destello entre la barba greñuda. « _¡Pero no sucumbiremos al diablo!_ »
Vaya, vaya, pensó Frank. Y Elaine cree que tiene un problema conmigo; debería vérselas aquí con el amigo Jerry Garcia. A este le falta un tornillo.
«¡Las triquiñuelas de los descendientes de Pilato no son rivales para el Señor al que servimos!»
«Alabado sea Dios», musitó uno de los pistoleros.
«¡Eso! Alabémoslo. Claro que sí. —El señor Hoja Dorada batió palmas—. Quitémosle esto a mi mujer, pues.»
Uno de sus hombres le entregó unas tijeras de trinchar aves. Compadre se inclinó y empezó a cortar cuidadosamente la telaraña que recubría el rostro de su esposa. Frank se echó adelante en la silla.
Presintió que se avecinaba algo asombroso.
6
En cuanto entró en el dormitorio y vio a Magda tendida bajo la sábana, con una máscara de lo que parecía crema de malvavisco, Anton se arrodilló junto a ella, dejó la jarra de batido en la mesilla con ruido y, viendo el recortador —su madre debía de haber estado retocándose otra vez las cejas con ayuda de la cámara del iPhone—, se dispuso a quitarle aquello de la cara en el acto.
¿Acaso se lo había hecho alguien? ¿Se lo había hecho ella misma? ¿Era un accidente insólito o algo así? ¿Una reacción alérgica? ¿Un disparatado tratamiento de belleza que había acabado mal? Resultaba desconcertante, daba miedo, y Anton no quería perder a su madre.
En cuanto realizó la primera incisión en la membrana, dejó a un lado el recortador y hundió los dedos en la abertura del tejido. Era pegajoso, pero se desprendía, tensándose y separándose de las mejillas de Magda en forma de gomosas espirales blancas. Su rostro ajado, con marcadas patas de gallo, ese querido rostro que por un momento Anton había temido encontrar fundido bajo la extraña envoltura blanca (se parecía a los pañuelos de hada que veía relucir entre la hierba al amanecer en los jardines de las dos primeras piscinas de las que se encargaba todos los días), apareció indemne. Notó la piel un poco enrojecida, caliente al tacto, pero por lo demás seguía aparentemente igual que antes.
De la garganta de su madre comenzó a surgir un gruñido bronco, casi un ronquido. Le temblaban los párpados por el movimiento de los ojos bajo la piel. Abrió y cerró los labios. Le resbaló un hilillo de saliva desde la comisura de la boca.
—¿Mamá? ¿Mamá? ¿Puedes despertar? Hazlo por mí.
Al parecer sí que podía, porque abrió los ojos. La sangre le empañaba las pupilas, propagada por la esclerótica. Parpadeó varias veces. Recorrió la habitación con la mirada.
Anton deslizó un brazo por debajo de los hombros de su madre y la ayudó a incorporarse en la cama. El ruido procedente de su garganta cobró volumen; ya no era un ronquido, sino un rugido más bien.
—¿Mamá? ¿Llamo a una ambulancia? ¿Quieres una ambulancia? ¿Quieres que te traiga un vaso de agua? —Anton encadenó las preguntas atropelladamente. Sin embargo, sentía alivio. Ella seguía mirando alrededor, como si se orientara.
Posó la vista en la mesilla de noche: una lámpara Tiffany de imitación, la jarra de batido energético a medio beber, la Biblia, el iPhone. El rugido ganó intensidad. Era como si Magda hiciera acopio de fuerzas para levantar la voz o quizá lanzar un alarido. ¿Era posible que no lo reconociera?
—Es mi batido, mamá —dijo Anton cuando ella alargó el brazo y cogió la jarra—. No gracias a ti, ja ja. Te has olvidado de preparármelo, ¿eh, boba?
Magda blandió la jarra y le asestó un golpe a un lado de la cabeza; el impacto del plástico contra el hueso produjo un ruido sordo. Anton retrocedió, tambaleante, dolorido, mojado y perplejo. Se le doblaron las rodillas. Fijó la mirada en un manchurrón verde de la alfombra beige. Gotas rojas cayeron en el verde. Qué desastre, pensó justo cuando su madre volvía a golpearlo con la jarra, esta vez de pleno en la parte posterior del cráneo. En esa ocasión el sonido fue más agudo: el grueso plástico de la jarra de la licuadora se partió. Anton se desplomó de bruces en el charco de batido derramado en el pelo de la alfombra beige. Aspiró sangre, batido y fibras de la alfombra. Apoyó una mano en el suelo para apartarse, pero sintió pesado y laxo cada miembro, cada prodigioso músculo. A su espalda rugía un león, y si pensaba ayudar a su madre a escapar del animal, tendría que levantarse y recuperar la parte de atrás de la cabeza.
Trató de gritar para advertir a Magda que echara a correr, pero la alfombra le tapaba la boca, y lo que le salió fue un gorgoteo.
Notó algo pesado en la columna vertebral, y mientras el nuevo dolor se sumaba al anterior, albergó la esperanza de que su madre lo hubiera oído, de que aún pudiera escapar.
7
En una de las jaulas empezó a ladrar un perro abandonado; al poco, lo siguieron otros dos. El chucho sin nombre que tenía a sus pies —muy parecido al que Fritz Meshaum había hecho trizas— gimió. Estaba sentado. Con aire distraído, Frank le acarició el lomo para calmarlo. No apartó la vista de la pantalla. Uno de los jóvenes acólitos de Compadre Hoja Dorada —no el que le había entregado las tijeras de trinchar aves, sino el otro— lo agarró por el hombro.
«¿Papá? Quizá no deberías hacerlo.»
Hoja Dorada se sacudió la mano del hombro.
«¡Dios dice que salgas a la luz! Sussanah, Comadre Hoja Dorada, ¡Dios dice que salgas a la luz! ¡Sal a la luz!»
«¡Sal a la luz!», repitió el hombre que le había entregado las tijeras, y el hijo de Hoja Dorada, de mala gana, entonó a su vez: «¡Sal a la luz! ¡Comadre Hoja Dorada, sal a la luz!».
Compadre Hoja Dorada introdujo las manos bajo el capullo cortado que cubría el rostro de su mujer y, con voz atronadora, exclamó: « _¡Dios dice que salgas a la luz!_ ».
Tiró de la tela y se oyó un desgarrón que a Frank le recordó el ruido del velcro al despegarse. Apareció el rostro de Sussanah, señora de Compadre Hoja Dorada. Tenía los ojos cerrados pero las mejillas enrojecidas, y en los bordes del corte las hebras se agitaban movidas por su aliento. El señor Hoja Dorada se inclinó aún más como para besarla.
—No lo hagas —dijo Frank, y a pesar de que el volumen del televisor no estaba muy alto y había hablado casi en un susurro, todos los perros enjaulados (esa tarde una media docena) se pusieron a ladrar. El chucho mestizo que lo acompañaba emitió un sonido grave de preocupación—. Tío, no lo hagas.
« _¡Comadre Hoja Dorada, despierta!_ »
La mujer despertó, ciertamente. Y cómo. Abrió los ojos de par en par. Se incorporó de golpe y mordió a su marido en la nariz. Compadre Hoja Dorada gritó algo que el realizador censuró con un pitido, pero Frank dedujo que posiblemente había soltado _hija de puta_. La sangre manó a borbotones. Comadre Hoja Dorada cayó de espaldas sobre la mesa con un trozo considerable de la napia de su marido entre los dientes. La sangre le salpicaba la pechera del camisón.
Frank dio un respingo. Se golpeó la cabeza con el archivador encajado detrás del escritorio. Una idea —irrelevante pero muy clara— acaparó su atención: la cadena había censurado con un pitido la expresión «hija de puta» y, sin embargo, había permitido que todo el país viera a una mujer arrancar un buen pedazo de nariz a su marido. Esas prioridades apuntaban a algo seriamente demencial.
Alboroto en la estancia donde se había amputado la nariz. Gritos fuera de plano, y de pronto la cámara se volcó y no mostró más que un suelo de madera sobre el que se acumulaban gotas de sangre. Acto seguido un plano de Michaela Morgan, con expresión grave.
«Nos disculpamos nuevamente por el contenido de esta secuencia, que sin duda puede herir la sensibilidad del espectador, y deseo repetir que no hemos confirmado su autenticidad _con absoluta certeza_ , pero acaban de informarnos de que los Dorados han abierto sus puertas y el asedio ha terminado. Eso _parecería_ confirmar que lo que acaban de ver ha ocurrido realmente. —Sacudió la cabeza, como para despejársela, escuchó algo procedente del pequeño botón de plástico que llevaba en la oreja y añadió—: Volveremos a emitir estas escenas en la cabecera de cada informativo, no por sensacionalismo...»
Sí, claro, pensó Frank. Como para creérselo.
«... sino como servicio público. Ante la posibilidad de que esto esté sucediendo, hay una cosa que la gente debe saber: si alguien a quien quieren o una amiga suya ha quedado envuelta en uno de esos capullos, _no intenten retirárselo_. Devolvemos la conexión a George Alderson en el estudio. Me han dicho que tiene un invitado muy especial que quizá pueda arrojar un poco más de luz sobre este terrible...»
Frank apagó el televisor con el mando a distancia. ¿Y ahora qué? Joder, ¿y ahora qué?
En el pequeño alojamiento temporal, los perros aún por enviar al refugio de animales de Harvest Hills seguían ladrando desesperadamente a la mariposa nocturna que revoloteaba y danzaba en el estrecho pasillo que separaba las jaulas.
Frank acarició al chucho mestizo a sus pies.
—No pasa nada —dijo—. Todo en orden.
El perro se tranquilizó. Como no conocía otra cosa, lo creyó.
8
Magda Dubcek estaba sentada a horcajadas sobre el cadáver de su hijo. Lo había rematado clavándole a un lado del cuello una esquirla de la jarra veteada de verde y, para asegurarse, le hundió otra en el oído, introduciéndola por el conducto auditivo hasta el cerebro. La sangre seguía brotando de la herida del cuello y el charco se propagaba por la alfombra beige.
Las lágrimas empezaron a resbalarle por las mejillas. De un modo extrañamente distante, tenía la vaga conciencia de ese llanto. ¿Por qué llora esa mujer?, se preguntó sin saber muy bien quién era la persona que lloraba ni dónde estaba. Y si se paraba a pensarlo, ¿dónde estaba la propia Magda? ¿No había estado viendo la televisión y había decidido descansar un rato?
Ya no se hallaba en su habitación.
—¿Hola? —preguntó a la oscuridad que la rodeaba. Había otras en esa oscuridad, muchas otras. Le parecía percibir su presencia, pero no las veía... ¿Quizá ahí? ¿O allá? En algún sitio. Magda buscó a tientas.
Tenía que encontrarlas. No podía quedarse sola en ese lugar. Si había otras, tal vez pudieran ayudarla a regresar a casa, con su hijo, con Anton.
Su cuerpo se levantó de encima del cadáver, y las viejas rodillas le crujieron. Tambaleante, se acercó a la cama y se dejó caer en ella. Cerró los ojos. Nuevos filamentos blancos empezaron a desplegarse desde sus mejillas; ondeaban y se le posaban con delicadeza en la piel.
Se durmió.
Buscó a las otras, en ese otro lugar.
### 6
1
Era una tarde calurosa, más propia de verano que de primavera, y por todo Dooling empezaron a sonar los teléfonos, porque, entre los que habían seguido la noticia, algunos llamaban a familiares y amigos que no estaban al corriente. Otros callaron, convencidos de que todo quedaría en nada, como el Efecto 2000, o de que sería directamente un bulo, como el rumor en internet de que Johnny Depp había muerto. En consecuencia, muchas mujeres que preferían la música a la televisión pusieron a sus hijos pequeños a dormir la siesta, como todas las tardes, y en cuanto los niños dejaron de resistirse, se acostaron ellas también.
Para dormir y soñar con mundos distintos del suyo.
Sus hijas se unieron a ellas en esos sueños.
Sus hijos, no. El sueño no era para ellos.
Cuando esos críos despertaran hambrientos al cabo de una o dos horas y encontraran a sus madres todavía dormidas, con el rostro amoroso envuelto en una sustancia blanca y pegajosa, berrearían y arañarían, y rasgarían los capullos... y las mujeres despertarían.
La señora Leanne Barrows, del número 17 de Eldridge Street, por ejemplo, la esposa del ayudante del sheriff Reed Barrows. Tenía por costumbre echar una cabezada con Gary, su hijo de dos años, alrededor de las once todos los días. Eso mismo debió de hacer el jueves de Aurora.
Unos minutos después de las dos, el señor Alfred Freeman, el vecino de los Barrows del número 19 de Eldridge Street, un viudo jubilado, rociaba sus hostas junto a la acera con repelente de ciervos. De pronto se abrió la puerta del número 17 de Eldridge, y el señor Freeman vio salir a la señora Barrows, tambaleante, con su hijo bajo el brazo, como si fuera un tablón. El niño, que no llevaba más que el pañal, se desgañitaba y agitaba los brazos. Una máscara blanca opaca cubría la mayor parte del rostro de la madre, excepto por un colgajo de tejido que le caía sobre la barbilla desde la comisura de la boca. Cabía suponer que ese desgarrón era lo que la había despertado y había captado su atención, no precisamente grata.
El señor Freeman no supo qué decir cuando la señora Barrows fue derecha hacia él, que se hallaba a diez metros de la línea divisoria entre ambas parcelas. Había pasado la mayor parte de aquella mañana dedicándose al jardín; no había visto ni oído las noticias. Al fijarse en el rostro —o la ausencia de este— de su vecina, enmudeció. Por alguna razón, mientras ella se acercaba, él se quitó el panamá y se lo llevó al pecho, como si estuviese a punto de sonar el himno nacional.
Leanne Barrows dejó caer a su hijo berreón entre las plantas a los pies de Alfred Freeman; acto seguido, giró sobre los talones y, con un bamboleo de borracha, desanduvo el camino. Pingajos blancos, como jirones de papel de seda, pendían de las yemas de sus dedos. Volvió a entrar en casa y cerró la puerta.
Este fenómeno resultó ser uno de los enigmas más raros y analizados de Aurora: el llamado «instinto maternal» o «reflejo de entrega en adopción». Si bien las denuncias de interacciones violentas entre durmientes y otros adultos ascendieron en última instancia a millones, y otros muchos millones de esas interacciones quedaron sin denunciar, fueron pocas, o ninguna, las agresiones por parte de durmientes contra sus hijos pequeños. Las durmientes entregaban a sus hijos varones de corta edad a la persona que encontraban más cerca o se limitaban a sacarlos a la calle. Después regresaban al lugar donde dormían.
—¿Leanne? —llamó Freeman.
Gary se revolcaba en el suelo, llorando y pisoteando las hojas con sus piececillos regordetes y rosados.
—¡Mamá! ¡Mamá!
Alfred Freeman miró al niño, luego a las hostas que había podado, y se preguntó: _¿Lo devuelvo?_
Los niños no le entusiasmaban; había tenido dos hijos, y el sentimiento era mutuo. Desde luego no soportaba a Gary Barrows, un terrorista diminuto y feo para quien la urbanidad consistía en blandir escopetas de juguete y hablar a gritos de _La guerra de las galaxias_.
El rostro de Leanne, revestido de aquella porquería blanca, no parecía humano en absoluto. Freeman decidió quedarse con el crío hasta que fuera posible avisar al marido de Leanne, ayudante del sheriff, para que se hiciera cargo.
Esa decisión le salvó la vida. Aquellos que desafiaron el «instinto maternal» se arrepintieron. Lo que empujaba a las madres de Aurora a ceder pacíficamente a sus vástagos varones de corta edad, fuera lo que fuese, no admitía preguntas. Decenas de miles de hombres lo descubrieron en perjuicio propio, y no tuvieron ocasión de descubrir nada más.
—Lo siento, Gary —dijo Alf Freeman—. Pero es posible que tengas que quedarte con el viejo tío Alf un buen rato—. ¿Sería mucho pedir que te portaras bien?
2
Clint acompañó a Evie durante la mayor parte del proceso de ingreso en prisión. Lila, no. Clint habría deseado que se quedara con él, habría deseado seguir insistiendo en que no podía dormirse, pese a que había empezado a decírselo desde el momento mismo en que se apeó del coche en el aparcamiento de la cárcel. Se lo había repetido ya una docena de veces, y sabía que, mostrándole tanta preocupación, ponía a prueba su paciencia. También habría deseado preguntarle dónde había estado la noche anterior, pero eso tendría que esperar. Ante el desarrollo de los acontecimientos tanto allí como en el mundo en general, ni siquiera estaba seguro de que tuviese importancia. Sin embargo, volvía sobre el asunto una y otra vez, como un perro que se lamiera una pata dolorida.
El subdirector de la cárcel, Lawrence Hicks, más conocido como Lore, llegó poco después de que trasladaran a Evie a una celda de confinamiento. La directora Coates dejó el papeleo del nuevo ingreso en manos de Hicks mientras ella, al teléfono, solicitaba instrucciones a la Administración Penitenciaria y avisaba a todos los funcionarios fuera de servicio.
Como se vio, el trámite no requirió mucho esfuerzo. Evie permaneció sentada con las manos esposadas a la mesa de la sala de interrogatorios, vestida aún (por el momento) con el mono desechable que Lila y Linny Mars le habían proporcionado. Aunque tenía la cara magullada a causa de los repetidos cabezazos contra la rejilla protectora del coche patrulla de Lila, conservaba un ánimo incoherentemente alegre. A las preguntas sobre su dirección actual, familiares e historial médico, contestó solo con el silencio. Cuando se le preguntó su apellido, dijo:
—He estado pensando en eso. Dejémoslo en Black, negro. Eso servirá. Sin Nombre no está mal. Pero Black es más acorde con estos tiempos negros. Llámenme Evie Black.
—Entonces ¿no es su nombre real? —Hicks, que acababa de salir del dentista, hablaba con la boca adormecida todavía por la novocaína.
—Usted ni siquiera podría pronunciar mi verdadero nombre. Mis _nombres_.
—Dígamelo de todas formas —la invitó Hicks—. Uno solo.
Evie se limitó a mirarlo con aquellos ojos de expresión alegre.
—¿Cuántos años tiene? —probó Hicks.
Ante esto el rostro de la mujer se demudó, y el júbilo, le pareció a Clint, se tornó pesadumbre.
—Edad no tengo —respondió, aunque a renglón seguido guiñó el ojo al subdirector, como si se disculpara por dar una respuesta tan grandilocuente.
Clint intervino. Ya habría tiempo para un interrogatorio completo más adelante, pero se moría de impaciencia por hacerlo, a pesar de todo lo que estaba ocurriendo.
—Evie, ¿comprende la razón por la que está aquí?
—Para conocer a Dios, para amar a Dios y para servir a Dios —contestó ella. A continuación alzó las manos esposadas tanto como le permitía la cadena, se santiguó de manera ostentosa y se echó a reír. No tenía intención de decir nada más.
Clint se fue a su despacho, donde Lila había dicho que lo esperaría.
La encontró hablando por el micro del hombro, que enseguida devolvió a su sitio. Dirigió un gesto de asentimiento a Clint.
—Tengo que irme. Gracias por aceptarla.
—Te acompaño a la salida.
—¿No quieres quedarte con tu paciente?
Lila se encaminaba ya por el pasillo hacia la puerta principal y levantaba la cara para que la funcionaria Millie Olson, a través de los monitores, viese que era una vecina del pueblo —la poli, en realidad—, y no una reclusa.
—El registro con desnudo integral y el despioje son solo para mujeres —contestó Clint—. Volveré con ella en cuanto esté vestida.
Pero tú ya sabes todo eso, pensó. ¿Estás demasiado cansada para acordarte o es que no quieres hablar conmigo?
Se oyó el zumbido de la puerta, y accedieron al compartimento del tamaño de una cámara estanca que separaba la cárcel del vestíbulo, un espacio tan exiguo que a Clint siempre le producía cierta claustrofobia. Otro zumbido, y regresaron al mundo de los hombres y mujeres libres, con Lila por delante de él.
Clint la alcanzó antes de que saliera.
—Eso de Aurora...
—Como me repitas que tengo que quedarme despierta, puede que grite. —Lila estaba intentando abordar la cuestión con buen humor, pero Clint sabía que le costaba mucho controlarse. Era imposible pasar por alto las ojeras y las arrugas de tensión alrededor de los labios. Había elegido un momento sumamente desafortunado para hacer el turno de noche. Si es que la fortuna tenía algún papel en eso.
La siguió hasta el coche, donde Reed Barrows esperaba apoyado con los brazos cruzados a la altura del pecho.
—No eres solo mi mujer, Lila. En lo tocante a las fuerzas del orden del condado de Dooling, eres la mandamás. —Le tendió una hoja de papel doblada—. Ten esto, y pasa a buscarlo antes que nada.
Lila desplegó el papel. Era una receta.
—¿Qué es Provigil?
Clint le apoyó un brazo en el hombro y la atrajo hacia sí para asegurarse de que Reed no oía la conversación.
—Es para la apnea del sueño.
—Yo no tengo eso.
—No, pero te mantendrá despierta. No lo digo porque sí, Lila. Yo te necesito _despierta_ , y este pueblo te necesita despierta.
Ella se puso tensa bajo su brazo.
—De acuerdo.
—Hazlo enseguida, antes de que se dispare la demanda.
—Sí, señor. —Sus órdenes, por bien intencionadas que fuesen, sin duda la irritaban—. Tú averigua de qué va esa loca. Si puedes. —Esbozó una sonrisa—. Siempre puedo recurrir al depósito de pruebas. Tenemos montones de pequeñas pastillas blancas.
A Clint no se le había ocurrido.
—Conviene tenerlo en mente.
Ella se apartó.
—Era broma, Clint.
—No te estoy diciendo que manipules pruebas. Solo te digo que... —Alzó las manos abiertas—. Que lo tengas en mente. No sabemos en qué acabará esto.
Lila lo miró sin demasiado convencimiento y abrió la puerta del acompañante del coche patrulla.
—Si hablas con Jared antes que yo, dile que intentaré llegar a casa para la cena, pero las probabilidades son entre escasas y nulas.
Subió al coche, y antes de que cerrara la ventanilla para aprovechar plenamente el aire acondicionado, Clint estuvo a punto de dejar escapar la pregunta, a pesar de la presencia de Reed Barrows y a pesar de la crisis repentina e inconcebible que, según insistían las noticias, _era_ concebible. Se trataba de una pregunta que Clint suponía que los hombres venían formulando desde hacía miles de años: «¿Dónde estuviste anoche?».
—Ah, cariño, ¿te acuerdas de Mountain Rest Road? Puede que todavía esté cortado el paso. No vayas por el atajo —optó por decir, y se sintió sagaz por un momento.
Lila, sin inmutarse, se limitó a responder «Ajá, vale», y se despidió con la mano cuando Reed arrancó en dirección a la doble verja situada entre la cárcel y la carretera. Clint, no tan sagaz después de todo, solo pudo observarla alejarse.
Regresó al interior justo a tiempo de ver a Evie Black, alias Usted Ni Siquiera Podría Pronunciar Mi Verdadero Nombre, posar para la foto de la identificación. A continuación Don Peters le colocó la ropa de cama en los brazos.
—Tienes pinta de porrera, encanto. No vayas a vomitar en las sábanas.
Hicks le lanzó una mirada severa, pero mantuvo cerrada la boca adormecida por la novocaína. Clint, que ya estaba hasta la coronilla del funcionario Peters, no se calló.
—Corte el rollo.
Peters volvió la cabeza.
—A mí no me diga...
—Puedo dar parte del incidente, si lo prefiere —atajó Clint—. Respuesta inapropiada. Sin provocación previa. Usted elige.
Peters lo miró con inquina, pero se limitó a preguntar:
—Puesto que esta queda a su cargo, ¿qué celda le asigna?
—La A-10.
—Vamos, reclusa —dijo Peters—. Te ha tocado una celda acolchada. Menuda suerte.
Clint los vio alejarse, Evie cargada con la ropa de cama, Peters muy cerca detrás de ella. Permaneció atento por si Peters la tocaba, pero naturalmente no lo hizo. Sabía que Clint no le quitaba ojo.
3
Lila ya habría estado así de cansada antes, pero no recordaba cuándo. Lo que sí recordaba —de la clase de Educación para la Salud del instituto, nada menos— eran las consecuencias adversas de pasar mucho tiempo en vela: lentitud de reflejos, deterioro de la facultad de discernimiento, hipovigilancia, irritabilidad. Por no hablar de los problemas de memoria a corto plazo, tales como ser capaz de recordar la asignatura de Educación para la Salud del segundo año de instituto, pero no qué coño se suponía que debía hacer a continuación, ese día, en ese preciso minuto.
Entró en el aparcamiento del Olympia Diner (MMM, PRUEBE NUESTRO PASTEL DE HUEVO, se leía en el letrero del caballete que había junto a la puerta), apagó el motor, salió y respiró hondo varias veces, muy despacio, llenándose de oxígeno fresco los pulmones y el torrente sanguíneo. Eso ayudó un poco. Se inclinó por la ventanilla y cogió el micrófono del salpicadero, pero de pronto se lo pensó mejor: prefería no mantener esa comunicación en abierto. Dejó el micro de nuevo en la horquilla y sacó el móvil del compartimento correspondiente en el cinturón reglamentario. Pulsó uno de los diez o doce números que tenía en marcación rápida.
—¿Qué tal, Linny?
—Bien. Anoche dormí siete horas o así, un poco más que de costumbre. Así que todo en orden. Pero tú me tienes preocupada.
—Estoy bien, no te preocupes... —Se interrumpió para soltar tal bostezo que le crujió la mandíbula. Su respuesta quedaba un tanto absurda, pero insistió—. Yo también estoy bien.
—¿En serio? ¿Cuánto tiempo llevas despierta?
—No sé, puede que dieciocho o diecinueve horas. —Para mitigar la inquietud de Linny, añadió—: Anoche di una cabezada, descuida. —Seguían brotando mentiras de su boca. Había un cuento que prevenía acerca de eso, de que una mentira llevaba a otra, y al final uno se convertía en un periquito o algo así, pero el cerebro extenuado de Lila no recordó qué cuento era—. Ahora no te preocupes por mí. ¿Qué ha pasado con Tiffany... como se llame, la de la caravana? ¿La han trasladado al hospital?
—Sí. Menos mal que los sanitarios se la han llevado enseguida. —Linny bajó la voz—. El St. Theresa es una casa de locos.
—¿Dónde están Roger y Terry?
En la respuesta de Linny se advirtió cierta incomodidad.
—Verás... han esperado al ayudante del fiscal durante un rato, pero no se ha presentado, y querían ir a ver si sus mujeres estaban bien...
—O sea, ¿han abandonado el escenario del crimen? —Lila montó en cólera un momento, pero para cuando expresó su incredulidad, su ira ya se había disipado. Probablemente la razón por la que el ayudante del fiscal no había aparecido era la misma por la que Roger y Terry se habían marchado: para ver cómo estaba su esposa. No solo el St. Theresa era una casa de locos. Lo mismo ocurría en todas partes.
—Ya lo sé, Lila, ya lo sé, pero Roger tiene una niña, ya sabes... — _Si es que es suya_ , pensó Lila. Según las malas lenguas, Jessica Elway era aficionada a ir de cama en cama—. A Terry también le ha entrado el pánico, y ninguno de los dos recibía respuesta al llamar a casa. Ya les he dicho que te cabrearías.
—Bien, hazlos volver. Quiero que vayan a las tres farmacias del pueblo y digan a los farmacéuticos...
_Pinocho._ Ese era el cuento sobre las mentiras, y el niño no se convertía en periquito; le crecía la nariz hasta que la tenía más larga que el consolador de Wonder Woman.
—¿Lila? ¿Sigues ahí?
Contrólate, mujer.
—Que digan a los farmacéuticos que extremen la cautela con todos los estimulantes que tengan. Adderall, Dexedrina... y sé que hay al menos una metanfetamina que se vende con receta, pero no me acuerdo del nombre.
—¿Meta con receta? ¡Anda ya!
—Sí. Los farmacéuticos lo sabrán. Que extremen la _cautela_. Irá llegando gente con recetas. Que despachen el menor número posible de pastillas hasta que tengamos claro qué demonios está pasando. ¿Entendido?
—Sí.
—Otra cosa, Linny, y esto que quede entre nosotras. Ve a mirar en Pruebas. A ver qué _tenemos_ _nosotros_ ahí __ en cuanto a estimulantes, y eso incluye la coca y las bellezas negras de la redada a los hermanos Griner.
—Caray, ¿estás segura? ¡Hay más de doscientos gramos de polvo boliviano del bueno! Lowell y Maynard están pendientes de juicio. No nos conviene enredar con eso. ¡Hace una _eternidad_ que vamos detrás de ellos!
—No estoy segura ni mucho menos, pero Clint me ha metido la idea en la cabeza y ahora no puedo quitármela. Tú haz inventario del material, ¿vale? Nadie va a empezar a enrollar billetes y esnifar. —Al menos no esta tarde.
—Vale. —Linny parecía horrorizada.
—¿Quién está en la caravana donde ha estallado el laboratorio de meta?
—Un momento, déjame que lo consulte con Gertrude. —Linny llamaba Gertrude a su ordenador de la oficina por razones que Lila ni siquiera se molestaba en entender—. Los técnicos forenses y las unidades del departamento de Bomberos se han marchado. Me sorprende que hayan abandonado el lugar de los hechos tan pronto.
A Lila no la sorprendía. Esos hombres también tendrían esposas e hijas.
—Hummm... parece que quizá queden un par de tipos de la AAH por allí, apagando los últimos rescoldos. No sé decirte quiénes. Solo tengo un aviso en el que informaban de que habían salido de Maylock a las once y treinta y tres. Pero seguramente Willy Burke es uno de ellos. Ya conoces a Willy, nunca falla.
Con la AAH, sigla que sonaba a suspiro, se refería a la organización Adopt A Highway (Adopta una Carretera), y la cuadrilla de la zona de los Tres Condados se componía básicamente de jubilados con furgonetas. Eran también lo más parecido que tenían a un departamento de Bomberos Voluntarios y a menudo resultaban muy útiles durante la temporada de incendios forestales.
—Vale, gracias.
—¿Vas para allá? —En la voz de Linny se apreciaba un leve tono de desaprobación, y Lila, cansada como estaba, no captó el subtexto: «¿Con todo el lío que tenemos entre manos?».
—Linny, si tuviese una varita mágica para despertar a la gente, la usaría, créeme.
—Entendido, sheriff. —Subtexto: «Estás que muerdes».
—Perdona. Es solo que tengo que hacer lo que _puedo_ hacer. Cabe suponer que ya habrá alguien, mucha gente, ocupándose de esa enfermedad del sueño en el Centro de Control y Prevención de Atlanta. Aquí en Dooling, se ha producido un doble asesinato, y debo trabajar en eso.
¿Por qué estoy explicándole todo esto a mi operadora? Porque estoy cansada, por eso. Y para no pensar en cómo me miraba mi marido en la cárcel. Y para no pensar en la posibilidad —el hecho, en realidad, Lila; no es una posibilidad, sino un hecho, y el nombre de ese hecho es Sheila— de que el marido que tanto te preocupa no sea en realidad la persona a la que conocías.
«Aurora», lo llamaban. Si me quedo dormida, pensó Lila, ¿será el fin? ¿Moriré? Podría ser, como diría Clint. Joder que si podría ser.
La buena comunicación que siempre habían tenido, la fluida colaboración en proyectos, comidas y responsabilidades paternas, el cómodo placer que obtenían en sus respectivos cuerpos... esas experiencias reiteradas, el eje de su vida cotidiana juntos, habían empezado a desmoronarse.
Se representó a su marido sonriente y se le revolvió el estómago. Era la misma sonrisa que tenía Jared, y también la sonrisa de Sheila.
Lila recordó cómo había abandonado Clint la práctica privada, sin hablarlo con ella en absoluto. Todo el trabajo que habían dedicado a la planificación, el cuidado con que habían seleccionado no solo la ubicación sino también el pueblo, escogiendo finalmente Dooling porque era el mayor núcleo de población de la zona sin un psiquiatra con una consulta de orientación general. Pero Clint, exasperado con su segundo paciente, decidió de buenas a primeras que necesitaba un cambio. Y Lila accedió sin más. La molestó haber malgastado todo ese esfuerzo; la consiguiente disminución de sus expectativas económicas implicó recalcular muchas cosas, y en esas circunstancias ella habría preferido vivir más cerca de una ciudad, y no en los Tres Condados, una zona rural, pero quería que Clint fuera feliz. Accedió sin más. Lila no quería una piscina. Accedió. Un día Clint decidió que cambiaban al agua embotellada y llenó medio frigorífico de botellas. Ella accedió. Tenía una receta de Provigil que, según él, debía tomar. Probablemente accedería. Quizá el sueño fuera su estado natural. Quizá por eso podía aceptar Aurora, porque para ella no suponía un gran cambio. Podría ser. ¿Quién demonios lo sabía?
¿Acaso estaba Evie allí la noche anterior? ¿Era posible? ¿Viendo el partido de baloncesto de la liga amateur en el gimnasio del instituto de Coughlin mientras la chica rubia y alta lanzaba un tiro tras otro, abriéndose paso entre la defensa del Fayette como la aleta de un tiburón? Eso explicaría el comentario sobre el triple doble, ¿no?
«Más vale que le des un beso a tu hombre antes de dormirte.»
Sí, probablemente así es como empezaste a perder la cabeza.
—Linny, tengo que dejarte.
Puso fin a la llamada sin esperar respuesta y devolvió el teléfono a la funda.
De pronto se acordó de Jared y lo sacó de nuevo. Pero ¿para decirle qué? ¿Y por qué molestarse? Su hijo tenía acceso a internet en el móvil, como todos. A esas alturas era probable que Jere supiese más acerca de lo que estaba ocurriendo que ella. Su hijo... al menos tenía un hijo, no una hija. En un día así, era de agradecer. Los señores Pak debían de estar como locos. Envió un mensaje de texto a Jere para decirle que regresara derecho a casa después de clase, y que lo quería, y lo dejó ahí.
Lila volvió el rostro hacia el cielo y respiró hondo otra vez. Después de casi una década y media limpiando los resultados de la mala conducta, en gran parte relacionada con las drogas, Lila Norcross sentía el aplomo suficiente en su rango y posición para saber que, aunque concentraría toda su capacidad en el trabajo, tenía poco interés personal en obtener justicia por dos cocineros de meta muertos que seguramente, de un modo u otro, estaban condenados a electrocutarse en la gran lámpara matainsectos de la vida. Y por su conocimiento de la política sabía que nadie iba a clamar por una solución rápida, no con el pánico generado por Aurora. Pero la caravana próxima al almacén de madera de Adams era el lugar donde Evie Sin Nombre había hecho su debut en el condado de Dooling, y Lila sí tenía interés personal en la misteriosa Evie. No había salido de la nada. ¿Había dejado tal vez un coche allí? ¿Acaso uno con la documentación en la guantera? La caravana se hallaba a menos de ocho kilómetros; no había ningún motivo para no echar un vistazo. Solo necesitaba hacer otra cosa antes.
Entró en el Olympia. El restaurante estaba casi vacío, y las dos camareras chismorreaban en el reservado de un rincón. Una de ellas vio a Lila e hizo ademán de levantarse, pero Lila le indicó con un gesto que no era necesario. Gus Vereen, el dueño, instalado en el taburete junto a la caja, leía un libro de Dean Koontz en edición de bolsillo. A su espalda había un pequeño televisor encendido, en silencio. Al pie de la pantalla, en la banda deslizante de noticias, se leía: LA CRISIS DE AURORA SE AGRAVA.
—Este lo he leído —dijo Lila, tocando el libro—. El perro se comunica mediante fichas de Scrabble.
—Ya me lo has estropeado —protestó Gus. Tenía un acento tan cerrado como una ostra.
—Lo siento. Te gustará de todos modos. El argumento es bueno. Ahora que ya nos hemos quitado de en medio la crítica literaria, ponme un café para llevar. Solo. Extragrande.
Él se acercó a la cafetera Bunn y llenó un vaso grande para llevar. Lo sirvió solo, sin duda: posiblemente más fuerte que Charles Atlas y más amargo que la difunta abuela irlandesa de Lila. Por lo que a ella se refería, tanto mejor. Gus envolvió el vaso hasta la mitad con una funda isotérmica de cartón, encajó la tapa de plástico y se lo entregó. Pero cuando Lila hizo ademán de sacar la cartera, él negó con la cabeza.
—Invita la casa, sheriff.
—Ni hablar. —Era una norma inviolable, resumida en el lema de la placa que tenía en su escritorio: NADA DE POLIS GORDOS ROBANDO MANZANAS. Porque en cuanto uno empezaba a aceptar cosas de gorra, la situación se perpetuaba... y luego siempre se esperaba una.
Dejó un billete de cinco en la barra. Gus lo empujó hacia ella.
—No es por la placa, sheriff. Hoy hay café gratis para todas las mujeres. —Miró en dirección a las camareras—. ¿No es verdad?
—Sí —contestó una de ellas, y se acercó a Lila. Se metió la mano en el bolsillo de la falda—. Y échele esto al café, sheriff Norcross. No sabrá mejor, pero le dará marcha.
Era una bolsita de Goody's, polvos para el dolor de cabeza. Aunque Lila no los había tomado nunca, sabía que Goody's era de uso corriente en la zona de los Tres Condados, al mismo nivel que el bourbon Rebel Yell y los _hash browns_ recubiertos de queso. Cuando abrías el sobre y vertías el contenido, se parecía mucho al de las bolsas de coca halladas en el cobertizo trasero de la casa de los hermanos Griner, envueltas en plástico y guardadas dentro de un neumático viejo de tractor, la razón por la que ellos, y otros muchos traficantes, utilizaban Goody's para cortar su producto. Salía más barato que el laxante pediátrico.
—Treinta y dos miligramos de cafeína —dijo la otra camarera—. Yo hoy ya me he tomado dos. No voy a dormirme hasta que los lumbreras resuelvan esta mierda de Aurora. Por nada del mundo.
4
Una de las grandes ventajas de ser el único agente de Control Animal del condado de Dooling —quizá la única ventaja— era no tener que padecer el mangoneo de un jefe. En rigor, Frank Geary rendía cuentas al alcalde y a los concejales, pero estos casi nunca se dejaban ver por ese pequeño rincón situado en la parte de atrás del anónimo edificio que albergaba también la Sociedad de Historia, el departamento de Ocio y la oficina del Catastro, lo que a él ya la parecía bien.
Sacó a pasear a los perros y los tranquilizó (para eso no había nada mejor que un puñado de galletas de pollo del Dr. Tim), se aseguró de que tenían agua y comprobó que a Maisie Wettermore, la voluntaria del instituto, le tocaba pasar a las seis para darles de comer y sacarlos otra vez. Sí, constaba en la pizarra. Frank le dejó una nota en relación con los distintos medicamentos, luego echó el cerrojo y se marchó. Hasta más tarde no se le ocurrió pensar que tal vez Maisie tuviera cosas más importantes en la cabeza que unos cuantos animales sin hogar.
Era en su hija en quien pensaba. Otra vez. Esa mañana la había asustado. No le gustaba reconocerlo, ni siquiera para sí, pero así había sido.
Nana. Algo en ella había empezado a inquietarlo. No Aurora, exactamente, pero sí algo relacionado con Aurora. ¿Qué era?
Le devolveré la llamada a El, pensó. Lo haré en cuanto llegue a casa.
Aunque lo que hizo nada más llegar a la pequeña casa de cuatro habitaciones que tenía alquilada en Ellis Street fue echar un vistazo a la nevera. Dentro no había gran cosa: dos yogures, una ensalada mohosa, una botella de salsa barbacoa Sweet Baby Ray y una caja de Miner's Daughter Oatmeal Stout, una cerveza de avena rica en calorías que, suponía, debía de ser saludable; al fin y al cabo, contenía avena, ¿no? Justo cuando cogía una, sonó el teléfono. Contempló la foto de Elaine en la pequeña pantalla y tuvo un momento de lucidez que no le hacía ninguna falta: temía la Cólera de Elaine (un poco) y su hija temía la Cólera de Papá (solo un poco... o eso esperaba él). ¿Era una buena base para una relación familiar?
_Aquí el bueno soy yo_ , se recordó, y contestó.
—¡Hola, El! Perdona que no te haya devuelto la llamada antes, pero ha surgido un contratiempo. Muy triste. He tenido que sacrificar a la gata del juez Silver, y después...
Elaine no iba a dejarse distraer por la gata del juez Silver; quería ir al grano. Y como de costumbre tenía el volumen al máximo desde el principio.
—¡Le has dado un susto de muerte a Nana! ¡Muchas gracias!
—Cálmate, ¿quieres? Yo solo le he dicho que se llevara los dibujos adentro. Por el Mercedes verde.
—No sé de qué estás hablando.
—¿Recuerdas cuando empezó a repartir periódicos? Contó que tuvo que virar bruscamente con la bicicleta y meterse en el jardín de los Nedelhaft porque un tío que conducía un coche verde grande con una estrella delante se subió a la acera. Me dijiste que lo dejara correr, y eso hice. Lo dejé correr.
Las palabras le salían cada vez más deprisa; si no se controlaba, pronto estaría _espetándolas_. Lo que Elaine no entendía era que a veces él tenía que levantar la voz para hacerse oír. Al menos con ella.
—El coche que ha atropellado a la gata del juez Silver también era verde y grande, con una estrella delante. Un Mercedes. Yo ya sospechaba quién era el dueño de ese coche cuando Nana estuvo a punto de...
—¡Frank, Nana ha dicho que el coche había invadido la acera a media manzana de distancia!
—Puede ser, o puede que fuera más cerca y ella haya preferido no asustarnos. A lo mejor no quería perder el trabajo como repartidora justo después de conseguirlo. Tú escucha, ¿vale? Lo dejé correr. Había visto ese Mercedes por el barrio muchas veces, pero lo dejé correr. —¿Cuántas veces había dicho eso? Y, ¿por qué le recordaba a aquella canción de _Frozen_ , la que a Nana le dio por cantar hasta que él supo que lo volvería loco? Sujetaba la lata de cerveza con tal fuerza que la abolló, y si no se contenía, acabaría reventándola—. Pero esta vez no. No después de atropellar a Cocoa.
—¿Quién es...?
—¡Cocoa! ¡Cocoa, la gata del juez Silver! ¡Podría haber sido mi hija, Elaine! ¡ _Nuestra_ hija! Abreviando, ese Mercedes es de Garth Flickinger, vive calle arriba.
—¿El médico? —Elaine pareció interesarse. Por fin.
—El mismo. Y cuando he ido a hablar con él, adivina qué: llevaba un buen _colocón_ , Elaine. Estoy casi seguro. Apenas podía articular.
—En lugar de denunciarlo a la policía, _¿has ido a su casa?_ ¿Como aquella vez que fuiste al colegio de Nana y le levantaste la voz a la maestra delante de todos los niños, _incluida_ tu hija, que te oyeron despotricar como un loco?
Venga, sácalo a relucir, pensó Frank, estrujando aún más la lata. Como siempre. Eso o lo del famoso puñetazo en la pared, o aquella vez que le dije a tu padre que era un embustero. Sácalo a la luz, sácale partido. Los grandes éxitos de Elaine Nutting Geary. Cuando esté en el ataúd, le contarás a alguien lo de aquella vez que le levanté la voz a la maestra de segundo de Nana por burlarse del proyecto de Ciencias de mi hija y hacerla llorar en clase. Y cuando se canse de oírlo, puedes rememorar aquella vez que le grité a la señora Fenton por rociar herbicida por donde mi hija pasaba con su triciclo y tenía que respirarlo. Muy bien. Píntame como el malo si eso te ayuda a sobrellevar el día. Pero ahora mismo mantendré un tono sereno y equilibrado. Porque no puedo permitirme que me saques de quicio esta vez, Elaine. Alguien tiene que cuidar de nuestra hija, y a la vista está que tú no das la talla.
—Era mi deber como padre. —¿Quedaba pomposo? A Frank le dio igual—. No tengo ningún interés en que lo detengan por el delito menor de atropello felino y fuga, pero _sí_ tengo interés en asegurarme de que no atropelle a Nana. Si he conseguido eso, metiéndole un poco de miedo...
—Dime que no te has puesto en plan Charles Bronson.
—No, he sido muy razonable con él. —Eso al menos se acercaba a la verdad. Era con el coche con lo que no se había comportado de forma razonable. En todo caso, no le cabía duda de que un médico de altos vuelos como Flickinger tenía un buen seguro.
—Frank —dijo ella.
—¿Qué?
—No sé ni por dónde empezar. Tal vez por la pregunta que no has hecho al ver a Nana dibujar delante de casa.
—¿Cómo? ¿Qué pregunta?
—«¿Por qué no estás en el colegio, cielo?» _Esa_ pregunta.
No estaba en el colegio. Quizá era eso lo que le había estado causando desazón.
—Con el sol que hacía esta mañana, sencillamente... en fin, parecía verano, ¿sabes? Me he olvidado de que es mayo.
—Se te ha ido el santo al cielo, ¿eh, Frank? Te preocupa tanto la seguridad de tu hija que ni siquiera te has acordado de que estamos en pleno curso. Piénsalo. ¿No te has fijado en las tareas que hace en tu casa? Ya sabes, esos cuadernos en los que escribe y los libros de texto que lee. Con Dios y su único hijo Jesucristo como testigos...
Frank estaba dispuesto a aguantar mucho —y a reconocer que tal vez en parte lo merecía—, pero ese rollo de Jesucristo como testigo agotaba su paciencia. No era el único hijo de Dios quien años atrás había echado a aquel mapache de debajo de la iglesia episcopal y había clavado la tabla en la entrada del hueco, ni era Él quien pagaba la ropa y la comida de Nana. O las de Elaine, si a eso íbamos. Frank hacía todo eso, y no había ninguna magia en ello.
—Ve al grano, Elaine.
—Tú solo te das cuenta de lo que te afecta a ti. Todo se centra en qué cabrea hoy a Frank. Todo se centra en quién no entiende que solo Frank sabe hacer bien las cosas. Porque esas son tus posiciones por defecto.
Puedo aguantarlo. Puedo aguantarlo puedo aguantarlo puedo aguantarlo pero por Dios Elaine menuda cabrona puedes llegar a ser cuando te lo propones.
—¿Estaba enferma?
—Vaya, _ahora_ te has puesto en alerta roja.
—¿Lo estaba? ¿Lo está? Porque se la veía bien.
—Está perfectamente. La he dejado quedarse en casa porque tiene la regla. Su _primera_ regla.
Frank se quedó de una pieza.
—Estaba nerviosa y un poco asustada, a pesar de que el año pasado le expliqué cómo sería. Y también avergonzada, porque ha manchado un poco la sábana de sangre. Para ser una primera regla, era bastante abundante.
—No puede ser la... —Por un momento la palabra se le trabó en la garganta. Tuvo que expulsarla como un pedazo de comida que se le hubiese ido por el lado equivocado—. ¡No puede ser la _menstruación_! ¡Tiene _once_ años, por Dios!
—Creías que iba a seguir siendo eternamente tu princesita con alas de hada y botas centelleantes.
—No, pero... ¿a los once años?
—A _mí_ me vino a los once. Y esa no es la cuestión. La cuestión es esta: tu hija estaba dolorida, confusa y alicaída. Ha salido a dibujar delante de casa, porque eso siempre le sube el ánimo, y entonces viene su padre, hecho una furia, gritando...
— _¡Yo no he gritado!_ —Fue entonces cuando la lata de Miner's Daughter por fin cedió. La espuma corrió por su puño cerrado y salpicó el suelo.
—... gritando y tirándole de la camiseta, su camiseta preferida...
Frank, horrorizado, sintió el escozor de las lágrimas. Había llorado varias veces desde la separación, pero nunca mientras hablaba con Elaine. En el fondo temía que ella se aprovechara de cualquier asomo de debilidad, que lo utilizara como palanca, para abrirlo y devorarle el corazón. Su tierno corazón.
—Tenía miedo por ella. ¿Es que no lo entiendes? Flickinger es un borracho o un drogadicto, o las dos cosas; tiene un coche grande y ha matado a la gata del juez Silver. Yo temía por ella. Debía tomar medidas. Era __ mi _obligación_.
—Te comportas como si fueses la única persona que ha temido alguna vez por un niño, pero no es así. También _yo_ temo por ella, y tú eres lo que más miedo me da.
Frank guardó silencio. Las últimas palabras habían sido tal atrocidad que apenas podía asimilarlas.
—Mantén esa actitud y volveremos al juzgado, para reevaluar tus fines de semana y tus privilegios de visita.
Privilegios, pensó Frank. _¡Privilegios!_ De buena gana habría soltado un alarido. Eso ganaba por sincerarse con ella.
—¿Cómo está ahora?
—Bien, supongo. Se lo ha comido casi todo, luego ha dicho que iba a echarse la siesta.
Frank se balanceó sobre los talones y soltó la lata abollada de cerveza, que cayó al suelo. _Eso_ era lo que le causaba desazón, no la pregunta de por qué Nana no había ido al colegio. _Sabía_ cómo reaccionaba su hija cuando se ponía nerviosa: se dormía. Y él la había puesto nerviosa.
—Elaine... ¿no has visto la tele?
—¿Qué? —dijo Elaine, sin entender ese giro repentino en la conversación—. He visto un par de episodios atrasados de _Daily Show_ en TiVo...
—¡Las noticias, El, las _noticias_! ¡Sale en todos los canales!
—¿De qué estás hablando? ¿Te has vuelto lo...?
—¡Levántala! —bramó Frank—. Si aún no está dormida, ¡levántala! ¡Ahora mismo!
—Eso no tiene sen...
Solo que tenía todo el sentido del mundo. Ojalá no lo hubiera tenido.
— _¡No preguntes, hazlo! ¡Ahora mismo!_
Frank colgó y corrió hacia la puerta.
5
Jared había encontrado ya un sitio desde donde observar sin ser visto cuando Eric, Curt y Kent aparecieron por el bosque desde el instituto entre risas, bromas y parloteo.
—Tiene que ser un bulo. —Ese era Kent, pensó, y su voz reflejaba menos entusiasmo que antes, cuando Jared lo había oído en el vestuario.
La noticia sobre Aurora se había difundido. Las chicas lloraban en los pasillos. Algunos chicos también. Jared había oído a un profesor de Matemáticas, el fornido de la barba que siempre llevaba camisas vaqueras con botones de presión y preparaba al equipo de debate, decir a un par de alumnas de segundo llorosas que debían conservar la calma y que todo acabaría bien. La señora Leighton, que daba clases de Educación Cívica, se acercó y le hincó el índice en la camisa, justo entre dos vistosos botones. «¡Para ti es muy fácil decirlo! —había exclamado—. ¡Tú no sabes nada de esto! ¡No está pasándoles a los _hombres_!»
Era extraño. Era más que extraño. Jared percibía esa misma sensación de electricidad estática que acompañaba a una tormenta importante, cuando se acumulaban inquietantes nubes violáceas iluminadas desde dentro por efecto de los relámpagos. En esos casos el mundo no parecía extraño; el mundo ni siquiera parecía el mundo, sino otro lugar al que uno se había visto arrojado.
Era un alivio tener algo en lo que concentrarse. Al menos durante un rato. Había emprendido una misión en solitario. Operación Desenmascara a Estos Gilipollas, podía llamarse.
Su padre le había dicho que la terapia con electrochoque —TEC, como se la conocía en la actualidad— era un tratamiento eficaz para algunos enfermos mentales, que podía tener efectos paliativos en el cerebro. Si Mary le hubiera preguntado a Jared qué creía que iba a conseguir con eso, le habría contestado que era como una TEC. En cuanto todo el colegio viera y oyera a Eric y sus lacayos mientras ponían patas arriba el espacio de esa pobre mujer, la Vieja Essie, y se mofaban de sus tetas —que era exactamente lo que harían, Jared no albergaba la menor duda—, podía ser para ellos el «electrochoque» que los ayudara a convertirse en mejores personas. De paso, el «electrochoque» acaso sirviera a otras personas para andarse con un poco más de cuidado a la hora de elegir con quién salían.
Entretanto los troles casi habían llegado a la Zona Cero.
—Si es un bulo, es el bulo más grande de todos los tiempos. Corre en Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, en todas partes. Las mujeres se duermen y les sale esa especie de mierda de gusano de seda. Y tú eres el que ha dicho que lo ha visto a esa carcamal. —Ese era desde luego Curt McLeod, un pedazo de cretino.
Eric fue el primero en aparecer en la pantalla del teléfono de Jared, brincando por un pedregal que bordeaba la zona de la Vieja Essie.
—¿Essie? ¿Nena? ¿Encanto? ¿Estás por aquí? Kent quiere entrar en tu capullo y animarte un poco.
El sitio elegido por Jared como puesto de vigilancia era una mata de helechos situada a unos diez metros del cobertizo. Desde fuera parecía densa, pero en el centro era básicamente una porción de tierra desnuda. En el suelo se veían restos de pelaje blanco anaranjado allí donde había acampado algún animal. Probablemente un zorro. Jared mantenía el brazo extendido con el iPhone en la mano. Con la cámara asomada a través de una brecha entre el follaje, enfocaba a la Vieja Essie, tendida en la abertura de su cobertizo. Tal como Kent había dicho, tenía una excrecencia en la cara, y si antes parecían telarañas, había pasado a ser sólida, una máscara blanca, como la que todos habían visto ya en los móviles, los noticiarios y las redes sociales.
Esa era la única parte que lo incomodaba: la sintecho allí tumbada, indefensa, enferma de aquella Aurora. Si Jared daba a Lila su explicación del TEC, se preguntaba qué diría ella sobre el hecho de que él se limitase a grabar la escena en lugar de ponerle fin. Ahí era donde la estructura de su lógica empezaba a resquebrajarse. Su madre le había enseñado a defenderse y a defender a los demás, sobre todo a las chicas.
Eric se puso en cuclillas junto a la abertura del cobertizo, al lado del rostro envuelto en tela blanca de la Vieja Essie. Llevaba un palo en la mano.
—¿Kent?
—¿Qué? —Kent se había detenido a unos pasos de distancia. Visiblemente inquieto, se rascaba el cuello de la camiseta.
Eric tocó la máscara de Essie con el palo y enseguida lo retiró. Hebras de aquel tejido blanquecino se prendieron del palo.
— _¡Kent!_
—He dicho qué. —Su voz había adquirido un tono más agudo.
Eric miró a su amigo con un cabeceo, como si lo sorprendiera, lo sorprendiera y lo decepcionara.
—Vaya manera de correrte en la cara de esta mujer.
Curt prorrumpió en carcajadas. Al oírlo, Jared tembló y los helechos se agitaron un poco alrededor. Pero nadie prestaba atención.
—¡Vete a la mierda, Eric! —Kent se abalanzó hacia el torso del maniquí de Essie y lo lanzó entre las hojas caídas de un puntapié.
Ese arranque de animosidad no desvió a Eric del tema.
—Pero ¿tenías que dejar que se secara? Ahí has demostrado poca clase, dejando tu leche así sin más en la cara de esta bonita vieja.
Curt se aproximó a Eric para echar un vistazo de cerca. Inclinó la cabeza a un lado y al otro, lamiéndose los labios inconscientemente mientras examinaba a Essie como si estuviera decidiéndose entre unos caramelos de menta y unas gominolas ante la caja del supermercado.
Jared notó que se le estremecía el estómago a causa de las náuseas. Si se proponían hacer daño a la mujer, tendría que intentar impedírselo. Solo que no había forma de impedírselo, porque ellos eran tres y él estaba solo, y en realidad el motivo de aquello no era hacer lo correcto o realizar una TEC a través de las redes sociales o inducir a la gente a pensar; aquello tenía que ver con Mary y con el deseo de demostrarle que él era mejor que Eric, y dadas las circunstancias, ¿era verdad? Si él fuera tanto mejor que esos tíos, no se habría metido en semejante aprieto. Ya habría hecho algo para obligarlos a desistir.
—Te daría cincuenta pavos por tirártela —dijo Curt. Se volvió hacia Kent—. A cualquiera de los dos. A tocateja.
—Anda ya —dijo Kent. Enfurruñado, había seguido el torso del maniquí hasta donde lo había mandado de una patada y en ese momento lo pisoteaba; se oían ligeros crujidos procedentes de la cavidad del pecho cuando el plástico se rompía.
—Ni por un millón. —Eric, todavía en cuclillas junto a la abertura del cobertizo, señaló a su amigo con el palo—. Pero, por cien, le haré un agujero justo aquí... —tocó con el palo la oreja derecha de Essie— y me mearé en él.
Jared veía subir y bajar el pecho de Essie.
—¿En serio? ¿Por cien? —Sin duda Curt se sintió tentado, pero cien dólares eran una pasta.
—Qué va. Lo decía en broma. —Eric guiñó el ojo a su compinche—. No te haría pagar por eso. Lo haré gratis. —Se inclinó sobre Essie y hurgó con la punta del palo en el tejido para perforarlo hasta la oreja.
Jared tenía que hacer algo; no podía quedarse mirando y grabando, dejando que hicieran una cosa así. Entonces ¿por qué no te mueves?, se preguntó al tiempo que el iPhone, que sostenía con la mano húmeda, se le resbalaba — _¡ups!_ — y caía con un chasquido entre la maleza.
6
La pequeña furgoneta de Control Animal no pasaba de los ochenta kilómetros por hora ni pisando el pedal a fondo. No porque llevara un regulador instalado en el motor; sencillamente era vieja, y el cuentakilómetros iba ya por la segunda vuelta. Frank había solicitado al consistorio una nueva en varias ocasiones, y la respuesta era siempre la misma: «Lo estudiaremos».
Encorvado sobre el volante, Frank se imaginó haciendo picadillo a varios de esos políticos de pueblo. ¿Y qué respondería él cuando le suplicaran que parase? «Lo estudiaré.»
Vio mujeres por todas partes. Ninguna sola. Formaban corrillos de tres o cuatro, hablaban, se abrazaban, algunas lloraban. Ninguna miró a Frank Geary, ni siquiera cuando se saltaba los stops y los semáforos en rojo. Así es como debe de conducir Flickinger cuando está colocado, pensó. Ojo, Geary, o atropellarás al gato de alguien. O al hijo de alguien.
¡Pero... Nana! _¡Nana!_
Sonó el teléfono. Sin mirar, pulsó CONTESTAR. Era Elaine, y estaba sollozando.
—¡Está dormida y no se despierta, y tiene un _pringue_ por toda la cara! ¡Un pringue blanco, como telarañas!
Pasó por delante de tres mujeres que se abrazaban en una esquina. Parecían las invitadas de un programa de psicoterapia.
—¿Respira?
—Sí... sí, veo moverse esa cosa... agitarse hacia fuera y luego contraerse, como si la sorbiera... ¡Frank, creo que lo tiene en la _boca_ y en la _lengua_! ¡Voy a buscar las tijeras para las uñas y a cortarlo!
Una imagen invadió su mente, una tan nítida y repulsivamente real que por un momento se borró la calle que tenía delante: Comadre Sussannah Hoja Dorada, mordiendo la nariz a su marido.
—No, El, no lo hagas.
—¿Por qué no?
Ver _The Daily Show_ en lugar de las noticias cuando se estaba produciendo el suceso más importante de la historia... ¿cómo podía ser tan estúpida? Pero esa era la vieja Elaine Nutting de Clarksburg, Virginia Occidental. Era Elaine de la cabeza a los pies. Mucho juicio moralizante, poca información.
—Porque las despierta y, cuando despiertan, están locas. No, locas no. Más bien rabiosas.
—No irás a decirme... Nana nunca...
Eso si todavía es Nana, pensó Frank. Compadre Hoja Dorada desde luego no se encontró con la mujer encantadora y dócil a la que sin duda estaba acostumbrado.
—Elaine... cariño... enciende el televisor y lo verás tú misma.
—¿Qué vamos a hacer?
Ahora me lo preguntas, pensó. Ahora que estás entre la espada y la pared, ahora me sales con: Ay, Frank, ¿qué vamos a hacer? __ Sintió una satisfacción amarga y turbadora.
Su calle. Por fin. Gracias a Dios. La casa estaba más adelante. Aquello se arreglaría. Él lo _arreglaría_.
—Vamos a llevarla al hospital —contestó—. A estas alturas probablemente ya saben qué está pasando.
Más les valía. Desde luego más les valía. Porque se trataba de Nana. Su niña.
### 7
1
Mientras Ree Dempster se mordía la uña del pulgar hasta hacerse sangre, dudando si delatar al funcionario Don Peters o no, un vuelo entre los aeropuertos de Heathrow y JFK, un 767 a velocidad de crucero sobre el Atlántico, situado a tres horas de Londres en dirección sudoeste, se comunicó por radio con el control de tráfico aéreo para informar de un extraño brote de cierta enfermedad y consultar el procedimiento oportuno.
«Tenemos a tres pasajeras, entre ellas una niña, que parecen manifestar un... no estamos seguros. Según el médico de a bordo, puede tratarse de un hongo o un tumor. Están dormidas, o al menos da esa impresión, y el médico dice que sus constantes vitales son normales, pero le preocupa la posibilidad de que sus vías respiratorias se... esto... se obstruyan, así que supongo que va a...»
No quedó clara la causa de la interrupción que se produjo en ese punto. Se oyó un tumulto, ruidos metálicos y chirridos, griterío —«¡No pueden entrar aquí! ¡Sáquenlas de aquí!»— y algo similar al rugido de un animal. El alboroto prosiguió durante casi cuatro minutos, hasta que el radar perdió el rastro del 767 cuando, cabía suponer, el avión impactó contra el agua.
2
El doctor Clinton Norcross avanzaba a zancadas por Broadway camino de su entrevista con Evie Black, con el cuaderno en la mano izquierda y el bolígrafo, cuyo botón apretaba una y otra vez, en la derecha. Tenía el cuerpo en el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, pero su mente vagaba por la oscuridad de Mountain Rest Road preguntándose sobre qué mentía Lila. Y, quizá también, sobre quién mentía.
A unos metros de allí, en una celda de la planta superior del módulo B, Nell Seeger —la reclusa número 4609198-1, de cinco a diez años (posesión destinada al tráfico ilegal de clase B)— se incorporó en la cama de arriba de la litera para apagar el televisor.
El pequeño aparato, de pantalla plana, no más grueso que un ordenador portátil cerrado, descansaba en el estante situado a los pies de la litera. Nell había estado viendo las noticias. Su compañera de celda y amante intermitente, Celia Frode, que aún no había cumplido la mitad de su condena de uno a dos años (posesión de clase D, reincidente), también las había visto, sentada al escritorio de acero de su unidad.
—Gracias a Dios —dijo—. Ya no aguanto más esta locura. ¿Qué vas a hacer ahora?
Nell volvió a tumbarse y se puso de lado, de cara al cuadrado pintado en la pared donde tenía pegadas en una hilera las fotos de colegio de sus tres hijos.
—No es nada personal, cariño, pero voy a descansar un rato. Estoy rendida.
—Ah. —Celia lo entendió de inmediato—. Bien. De acuerdo. Que descanses, Nell.
—Eso espero —contestó Nell—. Te quiero. Puedes quedarte con mis cosas.
—Yo también te quiero, Nell.
Celia apoyó la mano en el hombro de Nell. Esta le dio una palmadita y se hizo un ovillo. Celia se sentó a esperar junto al pequeño escritorio de la celda.
Cuando Nell ya emitía suaves ronquidos, Celia se levantó y se acercó a echar un vistazo. Unas hebras se enrollaban en torno a la cara de su compañera: ondeaban, caían y se dividían en más hebras, agitándose como algas en una suave marea. Nell movía los ojos bajo los párpados. ¿Estaría soñando con ellas dos, juntas, disfrutando de un picnic en una manta, tal vez en la playa? No, probablemente no. Probablemente Nell estaba soñando con sus hijos. No era la pareja más comunicativa que Celia había tenido, y desde luego no era una gran conversadora, pero tenía buen corazón y quería a sus hijos, se pasaba la vida escribiéndoles.
Sin Nell me sentiría muy sola.
¡Qué demonios!, pensó, y decidió acostarse un rato también ella.
3
A cincuenta kilómetros al este del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, y más o menos en el mismo momento en que a Nell la vencía el sueño, dos hermanos aguardaban esposados a un banco en el juzgado del condado de Coughlin. Lowell Griner pensaba en su padre y en el suicidio, que acaso fuera preferible a vivir treinta años a costa del Estado. Maynard Griner soñaba con unas costillas asadas que había comido hacía unas semanas, justo antes de la redada. Ninguno de los dos tenía la menor idea de lo que ocurría en el mundo exterior.
El alguacil de guardia se hartó de esperar.
—¡Qué coño! Voy a ver si la jueza Wainer se decide de una vez. No cobro lo suficiente para pasarme el día haciendo de canguro de un par de paletos asesinos.
4
Mientras Celia decidía unirse a Nell en el sueño, mientras el alguacil entraba en la sala de vistas para consultar con la jueza Wainer, mientras Frank Geary cruzaba a todo correr el jardín de su antigua casa con su única hija en brazos y su exmujer unos pasos por detrás de él, mientras todo esto sucedía, unos treinta civiles improvisaron un asalto a la Casa Blanca.
La vanguardia, compuesta por tres hombres y una mujer, todos jóvenes y a primera vista desarmados, se encaramó a la verja de la Casa Blanca.
—¡Dadnos el antídoto! —vociferó uno de los hombres al tiempo que se descolgaba al otro lado de la verja. Era flaco y llevaba coleta y una gorra de los Cubs.
Pistolas en mano, diez o doce agentes del Servicio Secreto se apresuraron a rodear a los intrusos, pero en ese momento un segundo grupo mucho más numeroso, escindido de la muchedumbre congregada en Pennsylvania Avenue, derribó las barricadas y arremetió contra la verja. Agentes de policía equipados con material antidisturbios se les echaron encima desde atrás y, a tirones, los obligaron a bajar de la verja. Sonaron dos disparos muy seguidos, y uno de los policías se tambaleó y cayó con el cuerpo laxo al suelo. Después de eso los tiros se convirtieron en un muro de sonido. Un bote de gas lacrimógeno estalló en algún lugar cercano y una nube de humo ceniciento empezó a propagarse por la acera, dispersando a la mayoría de la gente que corría por allí.
Michaela Morgan, antes Coates, contempló la escena en un monitor de la trasera de la unidad móvil de NewsAmerica, aparcada en la acera opuesta al Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades, y se frotó las manos. Había empezado a temblar de forma evidente. Los ojos le escocían y le lloraban por las tres rayas que acababa de esnifar de la consola de control con un billete de diez dólares.
Una mujer con un vestido azul oscuro ocupó el primer plano en la toma de la Casa Blanca. Era más o menos de la edad de la madre de Michaela. La melena negra, veteada de gris, le caía hasta los hombros y llevaba un collar de perlas en torno al cuello. Ante sí, como si de un plato caliente se tratara, sostenía a un bebé cuya cabeza se balanceaba envuelta en tela blanca. Siempre de perfil, pasó deslizándose y desapareció a un lado de la toma.
—Creo que no me vendría mal un poco más. ¿Te importa? —preguntó Michaela al técnico.
Él dijo que tomara hasta que perdiera el sentido (quizá no la mejor elección de palabras dadas las circunstancias) y le entregó la bolsita de plástico.
5
Mientras la muchedumbre colérica y aterrorizada atacaba el 1600 de Pennsylvania Avenue, Lila Norcross conducía en dirección a Dooling. Pensaba en Jared, su hijo, y en la chica, Sheila, la hermanastra de su hijo, la hija de su marido. ¡Un nuevo árbol genealógico muy interesante! ¿No se parecían sus bocas, la de Sheila y la de Clint, esa pícara curvatura de los labios? ¿Era también ella una embustera, como su padre? _Podría ser._ ¿Y estaría la chica tan cansada como Lila lo estaba, notando aún los efectos de tanto correr y saltar la noche anterior? Si era así, ya tenían otra cosa en común, aparte de Clint y Jared.
Lila se preguntó si debía irse a dormir sin más, desentenderse de todo aquel lío. Desde luego sería más fácil. No habría pensado así unos días antes; unos días antes se habría visto como una mujer fuerte y resuelta, con la situación controlada. ¿Cuándo había plantado cara a Clint? Ni una sola vez, o eso le parecía a la luz de su nueva visión de las cosas. Ni siquiera al enterarse de la existencia de Sheila Norcross, la chica que llevaba el apellido de Clint, su apellido también.
Reflexionando al respecto, Lila dobló por Main Street. Apenas reparó en el utilitario de color canela que pasó junto a ella y subió a toda velocidad por la carretera en sentido opuesto.
La conductora del utilitario, una mujer de mediana edad, llevaba a su madre al hospital de Maylock. En el asiento trasero del automóvil, el anciano padre de la mujer de mediana edad —hombre poco cauto por naturaleza, de esos que lanzaban a los niños a las piscinas, apostaban a trifecta en las carreras de caballos, devoraban salchichas en vinagre salidas de tarros turbios en mostradores de tienduchas a pie de carretera— se valía de una rasqueta quitahielo para desprender la tela que cubría el rostro de su mujer.
—¡Se asfixiará! —exclamó.
—¡En la radio han dicho que no lo hagamos! —contestó también a voz en grito la mujer de mediana edad, pero su padre, un hombre con ideas propias hasta el final, siguió retirando la excrecencia de la cara de su mujer.
6
Y Evie estaba prácticamente en todas partes. En el 767 era una mosca que descendía hasta el fondo de un vaso de cóctel y se humedecía las patas en los restos de un whisky con Coca-Cola momentos antes de que el morro del avión entrara en contacto con la superficie del mar. La mariposa nocturna que revoloteaba en torno al fluorescente en el techo de la celda de Nell Seeger y Celia Frode también era Evie. De visita en el juzgado de Coughlin, tras la rejilla del conducto de ventilación de un rincón de la sala de vistas, miraba a través de los ojos negros y relucientes de un ratón. En el jardín de la Casa Blanca, en forma de hormiga, avanzaba entre la sangre todavía tibia de una adolescente muerta. En el bosque, donde Jared huía de sus perseguidores, era un gusano, ciego y multisegmentado, que horadaba la tierra bajo los zapatos del muchacho.
Evie iba de acá para allá.
### 8
1
Recuerdos de los entrenamientos de atletismo en el primer año de instituto acudieron a la mente de Jared mientras corría entre los árboles. El entrenador Dreifort había dicho que «prometía».
—Tengo planes para ti, Norcross, y conllevan ganar un montón de medallas relucientes —había dicho el entrenador Dreifort.
Al final de esa temporada Jared acabó quinto de quince en su grupo en la competición regional de ocho mil metros, una posición destacada para un novato, pero acto seguido, echando por tierra los planes del entrenador D, abandonó la práctica del deporte para aceptar un puesto en el Comité del Anuario.
En las carreras, Jared disfrutaba de aquellos últimos momentos en que, al encontrar energía renovada y recuperar el ritmo, experimentaba una sensación de éxtasis, enfervorizado por su propia fortaleza. La razón por la que lo había dejado era que Mary formaba parte del Comité del Anuario. La habían elegido presidenta de ventas y distribución de segundo curso, y necesitaba un vicepresidente. Jared renunció de inmediato al atletismo. «Cuenta conmigo», dijo a Mary.
—Vale, pero debo decirte dos cosas —explicó ella—. Primero, si muero, cosa que podría ocurrir porque hoy me he comido una de esas misteriosas empanadillas de carne de la cafetería, tendrás que ocupar la presidencia, cumplir mis obligaciones y asegurarte de que se dedica a mi memoria una página completa de homenaje en el anuario de último curso. Y tienes que asegurarte también de que mi foto no sea alguna estupidez que elija mi madre.
—Entendido —contestó Jared, y pensó: Te quiero de verdad. Sabía que aún era demasiado joven. Sabía que ella era demasiado joven. Pero ¿cómo no iba a quererla? Mary era preciosa, y de lo más activa, solo que en ella eso parecía algo totalmente natural, sin estrés, sin tensión—. ¿Qué es lo segundo?
—Lo segundo... —Le agarró la cabeza con las dos manos y se la movió adelante y atrás y de arriba abajo—. Lo segundo es que _¡la jefa soy yo!_
Por lo que a Jared se refería, tampoco eso suponía un problema.
De pronto pisó una piedra plana y suelta que sobresalía del suelo, y eso, como se vio, _sí_ supuso un problema, un problema grave, en realidad, porque notó en la rodilla derecha una torsión y una punzada intensa. Ahogó una exclamación y siguió adelante a la pata coja, concentrándose en la respiración como le habían enseñado en atletismo, sin dejar de mover los codos.
Eric avanzaba ruidosamente detrás de él.
—¡Solo queremos hablar contigo!
—¡No seas cagueta, joder! —Ese era Curt.
Al descender por una hondonada, Jared sintió que se le desplazaba la rodilla lesionada y le pareció oír un leve _crujido_ en algún lugar en medio del martilleo del pulso y la crepitación de las hojas secas bajo los talones de las zapatillas. Malloy Street, la calle que pasaba por detrás del instituto, estaba un poco más adelante, y por los huecos entre los arboles vio un coche amarillo en movimiento. Al fondo de la hondonada, le falló la pierna derecha y experimentó un dolor desconocido hasta entonces, un dolor solo interno, comparable al de apoyar la mano en un fogón encendido; se agarró a una rama espinosa para tirar de ella y ayudarse a subir, tambaleante, por el terraplén opuesto.
El aire se agitó por un momento a su espalda, como si una mano le hubiera rozado el cuero cabelludo, y oyó a Eric maldecir y el tumulto de cuerpos enmarañados. Habían perdido sus opciones al resbalar en la hondonada detrás de él. La calle estaba a cinco o seis metros; oyó el ronroneo de un motor. ¡Iba a conseguirlo!
Jared avanzó a trompicones, recortando la distancia que lo separaba de la calzada, y lo invadió aquella antigua euforia de la pista de atletismo, sintiéndose transportado repentinamente por el aire de los pulmones, que lo impulsaba y mantenía a raya el tormento de la rodilla torcida.
Ya en el borde de la calle, una mano lo agarró por el hombro y lo desequilibró. Se sujetó a un abedul para no caerse.
—Dame ese teléfono, Norcross. —Kent tenía el rostro de un rojo encendido, y el acné de la frente, morado—. Solo estábamos vacilando.
—No —contestó Jared. Ni siquiera recordaba haber recogido el teléfono, pero allí estaba, en su mano. Se notaba la rodilla enorme.
—Sí —dijo Kent—. Dámelo.
Los otros dos se habían repuesto y corrían para alcanzarlos; se hallaban a apenas unos pasos.
—¡Ibas a mear en la oreja de una anciana! —exclamó Jared.
—¡Yo no! —Kent parpadeó para quitarse unas lágrimas repentinas—. ¡Además, no habría podido! ¡Soy incapaz de mear en público!
Pero tampoco ibas a intentar impedírselo a ellos, podría haber contestado Jared; sin embargo, en lugar de eso, sin pensárselo dos veces, armó el brazo y lanzó el puño, que alcanzó a Kent en el hoyuelo de la barbilla. Con el impacto, sus dientes entrechocaron con un satisfactorio _chasquido_.
Mientras Kent retrocedía tambaleante en la maleza, Jared se metió el teléfono en el bolsillo y se puso de nuevo en movimiento. Con tres brincos desesperados, se plantó en la línea central amarilla y agitó los brazos ante un utilitario de color canela con matrícula de Virginia que avanzaba a gran velocidad. No advirtió que la conductora tenía la cabeza vuelta hacia atrás, y desde luego no vio qué ocurría en el asiento trasero del coche, donde una anciana con jirones de tela colgantes vociferaba e hincaba repetidamente el filo de una rasqueta quitahielo en el pecho y la garganta de su marido, quien había cortado dicha tela y la había desprendido de su rostro; pero sí observó el avance irregular del utilitario, que daba tumbos a izquierda y derecha casi sin control.
Jared trató de esquivarlo con una contorsión, deseando ser más pequeño, y se felicitaba ya de su táctica de evasión cuando el utilitario lo embistió y lo lanzó por los aires.
2
—¡Eh! ¡Quita las manos de mi Garita!
Ree había reclamado la atención de la funcionaria Lampley golpeando la ventana frontal de la Garita con los nudillos, algo terminantemente prohibido.
—¿Qué quieres, Ree?
—A la directora, funcionaria —respondió Ree, articulando cuidadosa e innecesariamente las palabras, que Vanessa Lampley oía con toda claridad a través de los respiraderos situados en la parte inferior de los cristales blindados—. Necesito ver a la directora por algo grave. A ella y solo a ella. Lo siento, funcionaria. No hay otra opción. Tiene que ser así.
Van Lampley se había esforzado en labrarse una reputación de funcionaria firme pero justa. Durante los diecisiete años que llevaba vigilando los módulos del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, la habían apuñalado en una ocasión, había recibido puñetazos varias veces y patadas incluso más, habían intentado asfixiarla, le habían arrojado excrementos pringosos y la habían invitado a joderse de las maneras más diversas y con muy variados objetos, muchos de ellos grandes hasta límites poco realistas o peligrosamente afilados. ¿Se inspiraba Van en esas evocaciones durante sus pulsos? La verdad era que sí, aunque con moderación, y en general solo durante enfrentamientos importantes. (Vanessa Lampley competía en la liga de Ohio Valley, primera división femenina.) El recuerdo de cuando una adicta al crack trastornada lanzó un trozo de ladrillo desde el piso superior del módulo B y dio a Vanessa en el cráneo (lo que resultó en una contusión y una conmoción cerebral) de hecho la había ayudado a imponerse en los dos campeonatos que había ganado. La ira era un combustible excelente si se refinaba como era debido.
A pesar de esas lamentables experiencias, nunca perdía de vista las responsabilidades que su autoridad conllevaba. Entendía que nadie quería estar en la cárcel. Sin embargo, algunas personas debían estar allí dentro. Resultaba desagradable, tanto para esas personas como para ella. Si no se mantenía una actitud respetuosa, la experiencia sería aún más desagradable... para esas personas y para ella.
Y aunque Ree era buena chica —la pobre tenía una cicatriz enorme en la frente que indicaba que su vida no había sido fácil—, era una falta de respeto hacer peticiones poco razonables. La directora no estaba disponible para entrevistas sin previo aviso, y menos con una urgencia médica en curso.
La propia Van tenía serias preocupaciones en torno a lo que había leído en internet acerca de Aurora en su último descanso, y también en cuanto a la orden de que todos debían permanecer en sus puestos durante un segundo turno. McDavid —quien, a juzgar por su aspecto en la pantalla del monitor, debería haber estado en un sarcófago más que en una celda— había quedado en cuarentena. El marido de Van, Tommy, cuando lo llamó a casa, insistió en que podía quedarse solo sin problemas todo el tiempo que fuera necesario, pero ella no se lo creyó ni por un instante. Tommy, discapacitado por una lesión de cadera, no era capaz ni de prepararse un sándwich tostado de queso él solo; comería pepinillos de un tarro hasta que ella llegara. Si Van no estaba autorizada a perder la cabeza por nada de eso, tampoco podía hacerlo Ree Dempster ni ninguna otra reclusa.
—No, Ree, tienes que apuntar más bajo. Puedes contármelo a mí o no contárselo a nadie. Si el asunto es lo bastante importante, informaré a la directora. ¿Y por qué has tocado mi Garita? Maldita sea. Ya sabes que no está permitido. Debería presentar un informe de mala conducta por eso.
—Funcionaria... —Ree, al otro lado del cristal, juntó las manos en un gesto de súplica—. Por favor. No miento. Ha ocurrido algo grave, y es demasiado grave para hacerlo correr, y tú eres mujer, así que entiéndelo, por favor. —Ree se retorció las manos, entrelazadas en alto—. _Eres mujer._ ¿Entiendes?
Van Lampley observó a la reclusa, que se hallaba en la plataforma de hormigón que había delante de la Garita y le rogaba como si tuvieran algo en común aparte del doble cromosoma X.
—Ree, te estás pasando de la raya. No estoy de broma.
—¡Y yo no quiero ganar un premio a la mentira! Créeme, por favor. Se trata de Peters, y es un asunto serio. La directora tiene que saberlo.
Peters.
Van se frotó el inmenso bíceps derecho, como tenía por costumbre cuando debía estudiar un asunto detenidamente. En el bíceps llevaba tatuada una lápida con las palabras TU ORGULLO. Bajo el rótulo se veía el dibujo de un brazo doblado. Simbolizaba a todas las adversarias a quienes había derrotado: nudillos contra la mesa, gracias por jugar. Muchos hombres se negaban a echarle un pulso. No querían arriesgarse al bochorno. Ponían excusas: tendinitis en el hombro, una lesión en el codo, etcétera. «No ganar un premio a la mentira.» Era una manera curiosa de expresarlo, pero en cierto modo muy adecuada. Don Peters era de los que sí merecían un premio a la mentira.
—Si no me hubiera destrozado el brazo jugando al béisbol en el instituto, Lampley, como imaginarás, te daría una paliza en un abrir y cerrar de ojos —le había explicado el pequeño gilipollas una vez mientras un grupo de funcionarios tomaba unas cervezas en el Squeaky Wheel.
—No lo dudo, Donnie —contestó ella.
El gran secreto de Ree seguramente era una bobada. Y sin embargo... Don Peters. Se habían presentado un montón de quejas sobre él, de esas que quizá solo una mujer comprendía bien.
Van levantó la taza de café que había olvidado que tenía. Se había enfriado. De acuerdo, bien podía acompañar a Ree Dempster a ver a la directora, imaginó. No porque Vanessa Lampley estuviera ablandándose, sino porque necesitaba otra taza. Al fin y al cabo, de momento no se sabía cuándo terminaría su turno.
—Muy bien, reclusa. Solo por esta vez. Probablemente me estoy equivocando, pero accederé. Aunque espero que te lo hayas pensado bien.
—Me lo he pensado bien, funcionaria, muy bien. Le he dado vueltas y vueltas y más vueltas.
Lampley avisó a Tig Murphy por el intercomunicador para que bajara y la sustituyera en la Garita. Dijo que necesitaba diez minutos de descanso.
3
Peters, apoyado en la pared frente a la celda acolchada, deslizaba el dedo por la pantalla de su móvil. Tenía los labios contraídos en un gesto de perplejidad.
—No quiero molestarlo, Don... —Clint señaló hacia la puerta de la celda con el mentón—, pero necesito hablar con la detenida.
—Ah, no es molestia, doctor.
Peters apagó el teléfono y forzó una sonrisa de _viejos colegas_ que, como ambos sabían, era tan auténtica como las lámparas Tiffany que se vendían en el mercadillo quincenal de Maylock.
Otras dos cosas que ambos sabían con certeza: 1) era una infracción del reglamento que un funcionario anduviera haciendo el tonto con el teléfono mientras estaba de servicio en pleno día; y 2) Clint llevaba meses intentando que trasladaran a Peters o lo despidieran directamente. Cuatro reclusas se habían quejado ante él de acoso sexual, pero solo en la consulta, al amparo del secreto profesional. Ninguna estaba dispuesta a denunciar los hechos por vía oficial. Temían las represalias. La mayoría de esas mujeres habían experimentado muchas represalias, parte entre esas paredes, más aún fuera de ellas.
—Así que a McDavid también le ha salido eso, ¿eh? ¿Eso de lo que hablan en las noticias? ¿Existe alguna razón para que me preocupe yo personalmente? Por todo lo que veo, afecta solo a las mujeres, pero el médico es usted.
Como Clint había augurado en su conversación con Coates, todo intento de ponerse en contacto con el Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades había sido en vano; el teléfono siempre comunicaba.
—No dispongo de más información que usted, Don, pero sí, hasta el momento, no existen indicios de que ningún hombre haya contraído el virus... o lo que sea. Ahora necesito hablar con la detenida.
—Bien, bien —dijo Peters.
El funcionario descorrió los cerrojos superior e inferior y a continuación pulsó el botón de su micro.
—Aquí el funcionario Peters. Dejo entrar al doctor en la A-10. Corto.
Abrió la celda de par en par.
Antes de hacerse a un lado para dejar pasar a Clint, Peters señaló a la detenida, sentada en el camastro de gomaespuma contra la pared del fondo.
—Voy a quedarme aquí, y te aconsejo que no intentes nada contra el doctor, ¿de acuerdo? ¿Queda claro? No quiero tener que usar la fuerza contigo, pero estoy dispuesto a hacerlo. ¿Está claro?
Evie no lo miró. Estaba absorta en su melena, que se desenredaba con los dedos.
—Entendido. Gracias por ser tan caballeroso. Su madre debe de estar muy orgullosa de usted, funcionario Peters.
Ante la duda de si la mujer estaba tomándole el pelo, Peters permaneció inmóvil en el umbral de la puerta. Claro que su madre estaba orgullosa de él. Su hijo servía en primera línea en la guerra contra la delincuencia.
Clint le dio un golpecito en el hombro antes de que llegara a una conclusión.
—Gracias, Don. Ya me ocupo yo.
4
—¿Señora Black? ¿Evie? Soy el doctor Norcross, el psiquiatra de este centro. ¿Se siente lo bastante tranquila para mantener una conversación? Es importante que me haga una idea de qué le ronda la cabeza, cómo se encuentra, si entiende cuál es la situación, qué está ocurriendo, si tiene alguna pregunta o preocupación.
—Claro. Charlemos. Echemos a rodar la pelota de la conversación.
—¿Cómo se encuentra?
—Bastante bien. Pero no me gusta cómo huele este sitio. Percibo cierto aroma químico. A mí me gusta el aire libre. Soy una Chica de la Naturaleza, podría decirse. Me gusta la brisa. Me gusta el sol. La tierra bajo los pies. Y entra la música de violines.
—Entiendo. En la cárcel puede pesar la falta de espacio. Es consciente de que está en la cárcel, ¿no? Esto es el Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling. No está acusada de ningún delito, y mucho menos condenada; solo está aquí por su propia seguridad. ¿Entiende todo esto?
—Sí. —Apoyó la barbilla en el pecho y, bajando la voz hasta susurrar, añadió—: Pero ese tipo, el funcionario Peters... Usted ya sabe lo que le pasa, ¿no?
—¿Qué le pasa?
—Se apropia de cosas que no le pertenecen.
—¿Por qué dice eso? ¿Qué cosas?
—Solo hago rodar la pelota de la conversación. Pensaba que era lo que usted quería, doctor Norcross. Oiga, no pretendo decirle cómo hacer su trabajo, pero ¿no se supone que debería sentarse detrás de mí, donde yo no pudiera verlo?
—No. Eso es en el psicoanálisis. Volvamos a...
—«La gran pregunta que nunca ha sido contestada y a la cual todavía no he podido responder, a pesar de mis treinta años de investigación del alma femenina, es: ¿Qué quiere una mujer?»
—Freud, sí. El iniciador del psicoanálisis. ¿Lo ha leído?
—Me parece que la mayoría de las mujeres, si se les preguntara ahora, y si fueran verdaderamente sinceras, dirían que quieren echarse una siesta. Y quizá también unos pendientes que hagan juego con todo, lo cual es imposible, claro. En cualquier caso, doctor, hoy hay grandes rebajas. Una liquidación por incendio. De hecho, sé de una caravana, un poco maltrecha... hay un agujero en la pared, eso habría que arreglarlo... pero seguro que usted podría quedársela gratis. Eso sí que es una ganga.
—¿Oye voces, Evie?
—No exactamente. Más bien... señales.
—¿Cómo suenan esas señales?
—Como un tarareo.
—¿Como una melodía?
—Como el sonido de las mariposas nocturnas. Hacen falta unos oídos especiales para percibirlo.
—¿Y yo no tengo unos oídos aptos para percibir el sonido de las mariposas?
—No, me temo que no.
—¿Recuerda el momento en que se ha autolesionado en el coche de policía? Se ha golpeado la cara contra la rejilla de seguridad. ¿Por qué lo ha hecho?
—Sí, me acuerdo. Lo he hecho porque quería ir a la cárcel. A esta cárcel.
—Eso es interesante. ¿Por qué?
—Para verlo a usted.
—Resulta halagador.
—Pero no sirven de nada, ya lo sabe. Los halagos, quiero decir.
—La sheriff ha dicho que sabía usted su nombre. ¿Es porque la han detenido antes? Intente recordarlo. Porque sería muy útil conocer algo más sobre sus antecedentes. Si existe una ficha, podría conducirnos a algún familiar, algún amigo. Le vendría bien tener un abogado, ¿no cree, Evie?
—La sheriff es su mujer.
—¿Cómo lo sabe?
—¿Le ha dado usted un beso de despedida?
—¿Cómo dice?
La mujer que se hacía llamar Eve Black se inclinó hacia delante y lo miró con expresión seria.
—Beso: un ósculo requiere... cuesta creerlo, ya lo sé... la intervención de ciento cuarenta y siete músculos distintos. Despedida: el acto de decir adiós. ¿Necesita alguna aclaración más?
Clint quedó desconcertado. Aquella mujer padecía un serio trastorno, entraba y salía de la coherencia, como si su cerebro se hallara en el equivalente neurológico de la silla de un oftalmólogo, viendo el mundo a través de una serie de lentes cambiantes.
—No necesito ninguna aclaración. Si contesto a su pregunta, ¿responderá usted a las mías?
—Trato hecho.
—Sí. Le he dado un beso de despedida.
—Oh, enternecedor. Se hace usted viejo, como bien sabe, ya no es El Hombre, me doy cuenta de eso. Seguramente lo asaltan las dudas de vez en cuando. «¿Aún lo conservo? ¿Aún soy un simio poderoso?» Pero no ha perdido el deseo por su esposa. Encantador. Y hay pastillas. «Consulte con su médico si son indicadas para usted.» Lo entiendo. De verdad. ¡Me hago cargo! Si piensa que envejecer es difícil para un hombre, permítame decirle que para una mujer no es coser y cantar. En cuanto se te caen las tetas, pasas a ser casi invisible para el cincuenta por ciento de la población.
—Me toca. ¿De qué conoce a mi mujer? ¿De qué me conoce a mí?
—Esas no son las preguntas adecuadas. Pero voy a contestar la que sí es adecuada para usted. «¿Dónde estaba Lila anoche?» Esa es la pregunta adecuada. Y la respuesta es: No en Mountain Rest Road. No en Dooling. Su mujer se ha enterado de lo suyo, Clint. Y ahora le está entrando sueño. Una lástima.
—¿De qué se ha enterado? No tengo nada que esconder.
—Me parece que usted lo cree sinceramente, y eso demuestra lo bien que lo ha escondido. Pregúntele a Lila.
Clint se levantó. En la celda hacía calor, y tenía la piel pegajosa por el sudor. Esa conversación no se había parecido en nada a ninguna de las charlas introductorias que había mantenido con las reclusas a lo largo de su carrera. Era esquizofrénica —tenía que serlo, y a algunas se les daba muy bien seguir pistas y obtener datos—, pero poseía una inquietante agilidad mental que no había visto en ninguna esquizofrénica.
¿Y cómo podía saber lo de Mountain Rest Road?
—No estaría _usted_ por casualidad en Mountain Rest Road, ¿verdad, Evie?
—Podría ser. —Le guiñó un ojo—. _Podría ser._
«Podría ser.» A Clint se le revolvió el estómago.
—Gracias, Evie. Pronto volveremos a hablar, estoy seguro.
—Claro que sí, y lo esperaré con impaciencia. —A lo largo de toda la conversación ella había mantenido la atención puesta en él sin pestañear (cosa que Clint tampoco había visto nunca en un esquizofrénico no medicado), pero de pronto volvió a tirarse del pelo sin orden ni concierto. Dejó escapar un gruñido al deshacerse un nudo con un audible desgarrón—. Ah, doctor Norcross...
—¿Sí?
—Su hijo ha resultado herido. Lo siento.
### 9
1
Dormido a la sombra de un sicómoro, con la chaqueta amarilla de bombero enrollada debajo de la cabeza a modo de almohada y la pipa ligeramente humeante sobre la pechera de la camisa de faena descolorida, Willy Burke, miembro de Adopte una Carretera, ofrecía una imagen digna de admiración. Bastante conocido por practicar la pesca y la caza furtivas en terrenos públicos, así como por la potencia de su selecto whisky ilegal, y célebre por no haber sido atrapado nunca ni por la caza y la pesca furtivas ni por destilar maíz, Willy Burke era la perfecta personificación del lema del estado, una altisonante frase en latín que se traducía como «los montañeros son siempre libres» _._ Tenía setenta y cinco años. La barba canosa se le ahuecaba alrededor del cuello y un raído sombrero de fieltro con un par de anzuelos prendidos descansaba en el suelo junto a él. Si alguien más quería tratar de detenerlo por sus diversos delitos, así era la vida, pero Lila hacía la vista gorda. Willy era un buen hombre que realizaba muchos servicios municipales de balde. Tenía una hermana que había muerto de alzhéimer, y Willy había cuidado de ella hasta el final. Lila solía verlos a los dos en las cenas informales del departamento de Bomberos; incluso cuando su hermana desviaba la mirada con los ojos vidriosos, Willy seguía con su charla, hablándole de esto y aquello, a la vez que le cortaba el pollo y le daba de comer.
Lila se plantó entonces a su lado y observó cómo se le movían los ojos bajos los párpados. La complació ver que al menos una persona no estaba dispuesta a permitir que una crisis mundial perturbase su tarde. Solo lamentaba no poder tenderse bajo un árbol cercano y dar una cabezada ella también.
En lugar de eso, le tocó ligeramente una bota de goma con el pie.
—Señor Van Winkle. Su mujer ha denunciado su desaparición. Dice que lleva décadas ausente.
Willy entreabrió los párpados. Pestañeó un par de veces, cogió la pipa del pecho y se incorporó.
—Jefa.
—¿Qué estaba soñando? ¿Que provocaba un incendio forestal?
—Duermo con una pipa en el pecho desde que era un chaval. Es totalmente seguro si dominas el arte. Para su información, soñaba con una furgoneta nueva.
La furgoneta de Willy, un dinosaurio herrumbroso de la época de Vietnam, se hallaba estacionada en el límite de la extensión de grava que había delante de la caravana de Truman Mayweather. Lila había dejado el coche patrulla al lado.
—¿Cómo van las cosas por aquí? —Lila señaló con el mentón el bosque circundante y la caravana rodeada de cinta amarilla—. ¿Están apagados todos los focos? ¿Solo queda usted?
—Hemos rociado el cobertizo de meta que ha estallado. También hemos echado agua en los trozos desperdigados. Muchos trozos. Esto no está muy seco, lo cual ha sido una suerte. Aunque el olor tardará un tiempo en irse. Todos los demás se han marchado. Yo he pensado que era mejor esperar, para vigilar el lugar de los hechos y esas cosas. —Willy se levantó con un gruñido—. ¿Me interesa saber por qué hay un agujero del tamaño de una bola de bolos en la pared de esa caravana?
—No —dijo Lila—. Tendría pesadillas. Puede irse, Willy. Gracias por asegurarse de que el fuego no se propagaba.
Lila se dirigió hacia la caravana acompañada del crujido de sus pasos en la grava. La mancha de sangre en torno al agujero del costado había adquirido un color granate. Por debajo del olor a quemado y ozono de la explosión, se percibía un tufo repulsivo de tejidos vivos dejados a cocer al sol. Antes de pasar por debajo de la cinta policial, Lila desplegó un pañuelo y se cubrió la nariz y la boca.
—Muy bien, pues —dijo Willy—, me voy. Deben de ser más de las tres. Tendría que comer algo. Ah, una cosa. Puede que esté produciéndose alguna reacción química allí, más allá de los restos del cobertizo. No se me ocurre otra explicación. —Willy, pese a su intención expresa de marcharse, no parecía tener mucha prisa; seleccionando hebras de tabaco del bolsillo de la pechera de la camisa, había empezado a cebar otra vez la pipa.
—¿Qué quiere decir?
—Mire entre los árboles. En el suelo. Pañuelos de hada, parecen, pero, no sé, además es algo pegajoso. Viscoso. Muy espeso. Los pañuelos de hada no son así.
—No —convino Lila. No entendía de qué le hablaba—. Claro que no. Oiga, Willy, tenemos a una persona bajo custodia por los asesinatos...
—Ya, ya, lo he oído por el receptor escáner. Cuesta creer que una mujer haya podido matar a esos hombres y abrir un agujero en la caravana de esa manera, pero las mujeres son cada vez más fuertes. Más y más fuertes. Fíjese en Ronda Rousey.
Lila tampoco tenía ni idea de quién era Ronda Rousey. La única mujer anormalmente fuerte en sentido físico a quien conocía por aquellos lares era Vanessa Lampley, que complementaba sus ingresos en la cárcel con las competiciones de pulsos.
—Usted conoce esta zona...
—Bueno, no como la palma de mi mano, pero la conozco bastante bien —admitió él al tiempo que prensaba el tabaco en la cazoleta con un pulgar amarillento por la nicotina.
—Esa mujer ha tenido que llegar aquí de alguna manera, y dudo que haya sido a pie. ¿Se le ocurre algún sitio en el que pueda haber dejado un coche? ¿No muy lejos de la carretera?
Willy acercó una cerilla a la pipa y lo pensó.
—Bueno, verá, el tendido de la Compañía Eléctrica de los Apalaches pasa más o menos a un kilómetro de aquí. —Señaló hacia lo alto del monte, en la dirección del cobertizo de meta—. Llega hasta el condado de Bridger. Una persona con un cuatro por cuatro podría entrar en esa vereda desde Pennyworth Lane, aunque yo no lo intentaría con ningún vehículo que hubiera pagado de mi propio bolsillo. —Echó una ojeada al sol—. Hora de ponerme en marcha. Si vuelvo deprisa al cuartel, llegaré a tiempo de ver _El doctor Phil_. __
__
__
_2_
En la caravana no había nada que ver que Terry Coombs y Roger Elway no hubieran fotografiado ya ni nada que pudiera ayudar a situar a Evie Black en el escenario. Ni bolso ni cartera.
Lila se paseó por el interior destrozado hasta que oyó el traqueteo de la furgoneta de Willy de regreso hacia la carretera principal. Luego cruzó la grava salpicada de reliquias delante de la caravana, se agachó para pasar por debajo de la cinta amarilla y se encaminó hacia el cobertizo de meta.
A un kilómetro de allí, según había dicho Willy, y pese a que desde donde estaba (deseando una mascarilla por lo intenso que seguía siendo el hedor a sustancias químicas) el espeso bosque le impedía ver las torres de alta tensión, oía el zumbido incesante de los cables que transportaban su carga de alto voltaje a los hogares y las empresas de ese pequeño rincón de la zona de los Tres Condados. La gente que vivía cerca de esas torres aseguraba que causaban cáncer, y por lo que Lila había leído en los periódicos existían algunas pruebas convincentes. Pero ¿y los sedimentos y las balsas de aguas residuales de las minas a cielo abierto que habían contaminado los cauces subterráneos? Quizá la causa fuera algo de eso. ¿O se trataba de una suerte de guiso tóxico, la combinación de diversas especias de producción humana cuyo resultado eran sabrosas dolencias, cánceres, enfermedades pulmonares y jaquecas crónicas?
Y ahora una nueva enfermedad, pensó. ¿Qué habría causado... esta? No los vertidos del carbón, si estaba ocurriendo en todo el mundo.
Se encaminó hacia el zumbido, y no había dado más de diez o doce pasos cuando vio el primer pañuelo de hada y entendió a qué se refería Willy. Solían verse por la mañana, telarañas perladas de rocío. Apoyó una rodilla en el suelo y tendió la mano hacia aquel retazo de blancura vaporosa, pero de pronto se lo pensó mejor. Cogió una ramita y optó por hurgar en aquella sustancia. Finas hebras se adhirieron a la punta y parecieron evaporarse o fundirse en la madera. Cosa que era imposible, claro. La engañaban sus ojos, cansados. No podía haber otra explicación.
Pensó en los capullos que se formaban en las mujeres que se quedaban dormidas y se preguntó si podía tratarse de la misma sustancia. Un detalle saltaba a la vista, incluso para una mujer extenuada como ella: parecía una pisada.
—Al menos a mí me lo parece —dijo en voz alta. Se sacó el teléfono del cinturón y la fotografió.
Descubrió otra más allá, y luego otra y otra más. No cabía duda. Eran huellas, y la persona que las había dejado se dirigía hacia el cobertizo de meta y la caravana. Había retazos de esa misma tela blanca prendidos también en los troncos de un par de árboles, formando el contorno impreciso de una mano, como si los hubieran tocado al pasar o se hubieran apoyado en ellos para descansar o aguzar el oído. ¿Qué era exactamente esa mierda? Si Evie Black había dejado en el bosque esas huellas de pies y manos hechas de telarañas, ¿cómo era posible que no hubiese ni rastro de esa sustancia en el coche patrulla de Lila?
Siguió el rastro hasta lo alto de un promontorio, bajó por una estrecha hondonada de esas que los lugareños rústicos como Willy Burke llamaban «foraida» u «hoyada», y después subió por la otra ladera. Allí el bosque era más denso; pinos de Virginia pugnaban por el espacio y la luz del sol. Aquellas peculiares telarañas pendían de algunas ramas. Tomó unas cuantas fotografías más con el teléfono y continuó hacia las torres de alta tensión y la intensa luz del sol. Se agachó para pasar por debajo de una rama baja, salió al claro y se quedó atónita. Por un momento el asombro disipó su cansancio.
No estoy viendo esto, pensó. Me he dormido, quizá en el coche patrulla, quizá en la caravana del difunto Truman Mayweather, y estoy soñando. Debe de ser eso, porque en los Tres Condados, o al este de las Rocosas, no existe nada así. No existe nada así en ningún sitio, a decir verdad, ni en la tierra ni en esta época.
Paralizada en el linde del claro, echó la cabeza atrás y miró hacia arriba. En torno a ella revoloteaban bandadas de mariposas nocturnas, de un tono marrón, que parecían adquirir un color dorado iridiscente a la luz del sol vespertino.
Había leído en alguna parte que el árbol más alto del planeta —una secuoya— medía unos ciento veinte metros. El árbol que crecía en el centro del claro parecía aún más alto, y no era una secuoya. No guardaba parecido con ningún árbol que Lila conociese. Lo más cercano eran los banianos que Clint y ella habían visto en Puerto Rico en su luna de miel. Esa... cosa... se alzaba sobre un gran podio de raíces nudosas, las más grandes de unos ocho o diez metros de grosor. El tronco se componía de docenas de troncos menores entrelazados, que se elevaban hacia ramas enormes con hojas semejantes a helechos. El árbol parecía emitir luz propia, un aura circundante. Probablemente era una ilusión óptica creada por el modo en que el sol poniente penetraba a través de los huecos existentes en las secciones trenzadas del tronco, pero...
Pero todo ello era una ilusión, ¿no? Los árboles no alcanzaban alturas de ciento cincuenta metros, e incluso si ese en concreto —en el supuesto de que fuese real— hubiese crecido tanto, ella lo habría visto desde la caravana de Mayweather. Terry y Roger lo habrían visto. Willy Burke lo habría visto.
Desde la nube de hojas de helecho situada muy por encima de ella, se elevó de repente hacia el cielo una bandada de aves. Eran verdes, y al principio Lila pensó que se trataba de papagayos, solo que eran demasiado pequeños. Volaron hacia el oeste, formando una **V** —como los patos, por el amor de Dios—, y desaparecieron.
Se desprendió el micro del hombro, pulsó el botón e intentó ponerse en contacto con Linny en la oficina. Solo obtuvo un ruido constante de estática, y por alguna razón no la sorprendió. Tampoco la sorprendió ver una serpiente roja —más gruesa que los bíceps hinchados de Van Lampley y de tres metros de longitud por lo menos— que se deslizaba desde una hendidura vertical en el tronco gris de aquel árbol extraordinario. La hendidura era del tamaño de una puerta.
La serpiente levantó la cabeza en forma de pala en dirección a Lila. Sus ojos negros la examinaron con frío interés. Probó el aire con la lengua, que luego escondió. La serpiente reptó a gran velocidad por una grieta del tronco y se enroscó en torno a una rama en una sucesión de aros ordenados. La cabeza le osciló como un péndulo. Observaba aún a Lila con sus ojos impenetrables, entonces cabeza abajo.
Detrás del árbol se oyó un gruñido grave y vibrante, y de las sombras surgió un tigre blanco de ojos verdes y relucientes. Apareció después un pavo real con la esplendorosa cola desplegada; mecía la cabeza y emitía un sonido que semejaba una única pregunta jocosa, repetida una y otra vez: _¿Hiii? ¿Hiii? ¿Hiii? ¿Hiii?_ Alrededor de este se arremolinaban mariposas nocturnas. Cuando Lila era pequeña, su familia tenía un Nuevo Testamento ilustrado, y esos insectos arremolinados le trajeron a la memoria la diadema que siempre parecía llevar Jesús, incluso de niño en el pesebre.
La serpiente roja bajó reptando por la rama, se descolgó a unos tres metros y cayó entre el pavo y el tigre. Los tres avanzaron hacia Lila, que seguía en el linde del claro, el tigre con silenciosas pisadas, la serpiente a rastras y el pavo dando brincos y glugluteando.
Lila experimentó una profunda sensación de alivio: Sí. Sí. Era un sueño, sin duda. Tenía que serlo. No solo ese momento, y no solo Aurora, sino todo, todo desde la noche del lunes, porque si bien no había sido NOTICIA DE ÚLTIMA HORA en la FOX o la CNN o NewsAmerica, en realidad fue entonces cuando el mundo —su mundo— había empezado a desintegrarse, en la reunión de primavera del Comité Curricular de la zona de los Tres Condados, en el auditorio del instituto de Coughlin.
Cerró los ojos.
3
Su incorporación al Comité Curricular había sido cosa de Clint (lo cual resultaba irónico; en último extremo, le había salido el tiro por la culata). Corría el año 2007. En el _Herald_ de los Tres Condados habían publicado un artículo sobre el padre de una alumna de tercero del instituto de Coughlin que estaba decidida a leer _¿Estás ahí, Dios? Soy yo, Margaret_ , un libro prohibido en la biblioteca del centro. En palabras textuales, el padre afirmaba que aquello era «un puñetero panfleto ateo». Lila no podía dar crédito. A ella, a los trece años, le había encantado la novela de Judy Blume y se había identificado intensamente con su retrato de lo que representaba la adolescencia para una chica, de la forma en que de pronto la vida adulta surgía ante ella como una nueva ciudad extraña y aterradora, y le exigía que cruzara sus puertas tanto si quería como si no.
—¡Ese libro me encantó! —exclamó Lila al tiempo que tendía el periódico a Clint.
Lo había arrancado de su habitual estado de ensoñación, sentado a la encimera de la cocina mirando el jardín a través de las puertas de cristal mientras se frotaba suavemente los nudillos de la mano derecha con los dedos de la izquierda. Clint echó una ojeada al artículo.
—Lo siento, cariño, es una lástima, pero ese libro ha de arder. Por orden directa del general Jesús. —Le devolvió el periódico.
—No es broma, Clint. La razón por la que ese individuo quiere censurar el libro es precisamente la razón por la que las chicas necesitan leerlo.
—Estoy de acuerdo. Y ya sé que no es broma. Bueno, ¿por qué no haces algo al respecto?
Lila lo había adorado por eso, por retarla.
—De acuerdo. Lo haré.
El periódico mencionaba a un grupo de padres y ciudadanos preocupados, el Comité Curricular, que se había constituido apresuradamente. Lila se unió a él. Y para promover su causa, hizo lo que todo buen policía sabe hacer: acudió a su comunidad en busca de ayuda. Lila congregó a todas las vecinas de mentalidad afín para que salieran en apoyo del libro. Gozaba de una posición singularmente ventajosa para formar un grupo así. Años dedicados a atender quejas por ruidos, aplacar disputas por la propiedad, dejar marchar a los infractores por exceso de velocidad con solo un aviso, y mostrarse en general como una representante de la ley concienzuda y razonable le había granjeado la buena voluntad de mucha gente.
«¿Quiénes son todas esas puñeteras mujeres?», exclamó al principio de la siguiente reunión del Comité Curricular el padre que había iniciado aquello, porque eran mujeres de la primera a la última, y ellas eran muchas, y él, solo uno. _Margaret_ se salvó. Judy Blume mandó una nota de agradecimiento.
Lila continuó en el Comité Curricular, pero no volvió a producirse ninguna controversia de la envergadura del caso de _Margaret_. Los miembros leían nuevos libros que se añadían a los planes de estudios y las bibliotecas de los institutos y los centros de secundaria en distintos lugares de los Tres Condados, y asistían a conferencias de profesores de Literatura y bibliotecarios de la zona. Era más un club de lectura que una asamblea política. A Lila le encantaba. Y al igual que la mayoría de los clubes de lectura, aunque de vez en cuando aparecía algún hombre, seguía siendo un asunto principalmente XX.
Habían tenido una reunión el lunes anterior por la noche. Después, de camino a su coche en el aparcamiento del instituto, Lila quedó a la par de una anciana, una tal Dorothy Harper, integrante de un grupo conocido como Club de Lectura del Primer Jueves, y una de las personas del pueblo a quienes Lila había reclutado inicialmente para ayudar en la defensa de _Margaret_.
—¡Estará orgullosa de su sobrina Sheila! —comentó Dorothy, apoyada en su bastón, con un enorme bolso estampado de flores al hombro en el que habría cabido un bebé—. Dicen que quizá le den una beca de baloncesto para un instituto con equipo en primera división. ¿No es maravilloso para ella? —Acto seguido Dorothy añadió—: Imagino que, como es lógico, no quiere usted entusiasmarse demasiado todavía. Ya sé que está solo en segundo. Pero son pocas las chicas que salen en primera plana a los quince años.
Lila estuvo a punto de decir a Dotty que se equivocaba: Clint no tenía hermanos y ella no tenía sobrinas. Pero Dorothy Harper rondaba ya una edad a la que a menudo los nombres se confundían. Deseó a la anciana un buen día y volvió a casa.
No obstante, Lila era policía, y le pagaban por sentir curiosidad. A la mañana siguiente, durante un momento libre ante su escritorio en la oficina, pensó en el comentario de Dorothy, y escribió _Sheila Norcross_ en Firefox. El primer resultado era un artículo sobre deporte con el titular UN FENÓMENO DE COUGHLIN LLEVA A LAS TIGERS HASTA LA FINAL DEL TORNEO, y el fenómeno en cuestión era Sheila Norcross, de quince años. Así que Dorothy Harper no se equivocaba en cuanto al nombre. ¿En la zona de los Tres Condados había otros Norcross? ¿Quién sabía? Ella desde luego no. Hacia el final del artículo, se mencionaba a la orgullosa madre de Sheila, que tenía otro apellido: Parks, Shannon Parks.
Eso abrió un resquicio en la memoria de Lila. Un par de años antes, cuando Jared se había decantado por el atletismo, Clint mencionó ese nombre de pasada: dijo que Shannon Parks era la persona que lo había convencido de que eligiera el atletismo a esa misma edad. Dado el contexto, Lila dio por sentado que Shannon Parks era un chico al que habían puesto un nombre un tanto pedante. Lo recordaba porque su marido casi nunca hablaba de la infancia y la adolescencia, y a Lila se le quedaban grabadas las pocas veces que lo hacía.
Clint había crecido en casas de acogida. Lila no conocía muchos detalles, y... eh, ¿a quién quería engañar? No conocía _ningún_ detalle. Lo que sabía era que había sido una época difícil. Cuando salía el tema, Lila notaba que a Clint le subía la temperatura. Si alguna vez comentaba un caso en el que se retiraba a los padres la custodia de un niño y este quedaba en acogida, Clint enmudecía. Sostenía que no le hacía sentir incómodo. «Solo pensativo.» Lila, muy consciente de que no convenía ejercer de poli dentro de su matrimonio, lo dejaba correr.
Aunque no podía decir que hubiese sido fácil, ni que no hubiese sentido la tentación. Sus recursos como policía le habrían dado acceso a todo tipo de documentos judiciales. Aun así, se resistió. Si querías a alguien, ¿no le permitías conservar sus lugares reservados? ¿Esas habitaciones que no deseaba abrir a los demás? Además, creía que Clint se lo contaría algún día, todo.
Menos...
Lo de Sheila Norcross.
En la habitación que no quería abrir a los demás y a la que Lila había supuesto despreocupadamente que algún día la invitaría, se hallaban una mujer —no un hombre sino una mujer— llamada Shannon y la fotografía de una adolescente cuya sonrisa, pícara y sesgada hacia la comisura derecha de los labios, le recordaba no solo a una persona a la que Lila conocía bien, sino a dos: su marido y su hijo.
4
El resto fue una investigación sencilla en dos partes.
En la primera, Lila transgredió la ley por primera vez no solo en su carrera profesional sino en toda su vida. Se puso en contacto con el director del instituto de Coughlin y, sin orden judicial, solicitó una copia del historial de Sheila Norcross. El director del instituto le estaba agradecido desde hacía tiempo por su ayuda para poner fin al breve escándalo en torno a _Margaret_ , y Lila, para tranquilidad del director, le aseguró que el asunto no tenía nada que ver con Sheila Norcross, sino con una red de robo de identidades. El director le mandó por fax el historial sin vacilar; su confianza en Lila era tal que también él transgredió la ley gustosamente.
Según el historial, Sheila Norcross era inteligente, buena estudiante en Literatura, e incluso mejor en Matemáticas y Ciencias. Tenía una nota media de sobresaliente. Sus profesores la describían como una chica un tanto arrogante pero cautivadora, una líder natural. Shannon Parks, su madre, constaba como la única tutora. Clinton Norcross constaba como su padre. Había nacido en 2002, con lo que tenía poco más de un año menos que Jared.
Hasta el partido de la liga amateur del miércoles por la noche, Lila se decía que aún no estaba segura. Esa incertidumbre carecía de sentido, por supuesto; la verdad saltaba a la vista en los formularios de matriculación y estaba tan clara como los rasgos de Norcross en la cara de la chica, pero, por alguna razón, se sentía obligada a dar todos los pasos. Se dijo, para asegurarse, que tenía que ver a la chica, ver a Sheila Norcross, distinguida base de su equipo, una alumna un poco arrogante pero simpática, con una media de sobresaliente.
Lila fingió ser una agente encubierta, con el cometido de convencer a Clint de que seguía siendo la mujer con la que estaba casado.
—Se te nota preocupada —le dijo Clint el martes por la noche.
—Lo siento. Quizá sea porque tengo una aventura con alguien del trabajo —contestó ella, exactamente la clase de respuesta que Lila habría dado, si aún era la Lila con la que él estaba casado—. Esas cosas distraen mucho.
—Ah. Entiendo —dijo Clint—. Es Linny, ¿no? —Y la atrajo hacia sí para darle un beso, y ella incluso se lo devolvió.
5
A continuación, el segundo paso de la investigación: la operación de vigilancia.
Lila ocupó un asiento en una de las últimas gradas del gimnasio y observó al equipo amateur de los Tres Condados realizar ejercicios de calentamiento. Identificó de inmediato a Sheila Norcross, la número 34, que entraba como una flecha para hacer una bandeja con rebote en el tablero y después retrocedía caminando sobre los talones y riendo. Lila examinó a la chica con mirada policial. Tal vez la 34 no tenía la mandíbula de Clint, y tal vez el porte fuera también distinto, pero ¿qué más daba? Los niños tenían un padre y una madre.
En la segunda fila, cerca del banquillo del equipo local, varios adultos, en pie, batían palmas al ritmo de la música previa al encuentro. Los padres de las jugadoras. ¿Era Shannon la mujer esbelta del jersey de punto trenzado? ¿O la madre de la chica era la rubia teñida con una moderna gorra de repartidor de periódicos? ¿O alguna otra? Lila no habría sabido decirlo. ¿Cómo iba a saberlo? Al fin y al cabo, ella era la desconocida en la fiesta, la que no había sido invitada. Cuando la gente hablaba de cómo se venían abajo sus matrimonios, decía: «No me parecía real». Lila pensó, en cambio, que aquel partido le parecía sobradamente real, bastante real: el bullicio del público, los olores del gimnasio. No, era ella. Era ella lo que parecía irreal.
Sonó la sirena. Empezaba el partido.
Sheila Norcross trotó hasta la valla, y en ese momento hizo algo que despejó toda duda, toda negación. Fue horrible, y simple y convincente, mucho más decisivo que cualquier parecido físico o cualquier historial académico. Lila lo presenció desde su asiento en las gradas y entendió que la relación entre Clint y ella se había ido a pique.
6
En cuanto Lila cerró los ojos ante los animales que se acercaban, sintió que sucumbía al verdadero sueño, que no le sobrevino con paso sigiloso ni reptando ni meciéndose, sino que se precipitó sobre ella como un tráiler de dieciséis ruedas sin conductor. Un vivo pánico activó sus nervios, y se abofeteó a sí misma. Con fuerza. Se le abrieron los ojos en el acto. No había serpiente, ni tigre blanco, ni pavo glugluteando. No había ningún árbol gigantesco parecido a un baniano. El lugar donde antes se alzaba este, en el centro del claro, lo ocupaba un roble, viejo e imponente, de veinticinco metros, magnífico a su manera pero normal. Desde una de las ramas inferiores, chirriaba una ardilla malhumorada.
—Tengo alucinaciones —dijo—. La cosa está mal.
Pulsó el botón del micro del hombro.
—¿Linny? ¿Estás ahí? Contesta.
—Aquí estoy, sheriff. —La voz sonaba metálica, un poco quebrada, pero sin estática—. ¿Qué... hacer por ti?
Lila volvió a percibir el zumbido de los cables de alta tensión: _zzz._ No se había dado cuenta de que había cesado. ¿ _Había_ cesado? Por Dios, qué confusa estaba.
—Da igual, Lins, volveré a ponerme en contacto cuando mejore la comunicación.
—¿Estás... ien, Lila?
—Perfectamente. Enseguida hablamos.
Echó otro vistazo por encima del hombro. Solo un roble. Uno grande; aun así, solo un roble. Cuando se disponía a darse media vuelta, de pronto otro pájaro de color verde vivo se elevó ruidosamente desde el árbol y enfiló rumbo al oeste, hacia el sol, ya bajo. La misma dirección en que las otras aves se habían ido.
Lila apretó los párpados y a continuación, con esfuerzo, los abrió de nuevo. Ningún pájaro. Claro que no. Se lo había imaginado todo.
«Pero ¿y las huellas? Me han traído hasta aquí.»
Lila decidió que no se permitiría pensar en las huellas, ni en el árbol, ni en aquella mujer extraña, ni en nada. Lo que necesitaba en ese momento era regresar al pueblo sin quedarse dormida. Tal vez fuera ya momento de visitar una de las excelentes farmacias de Dooling. Y si todo lo demás fallaba, estaba el depósito de pruebas. Sin embargo...
Sin embargo, ¿qué? Se le había ocurrido una idea, pero se había esfumado a causa del agotamiento. O casi. La atrapó antes de que desapareciera del todo. El rey Canuto, esa era la idea. El rey Canuto ordenando a la marea que retrocediera.
Había cosas sencillamente imposibles.
7
El hijo de Lila también seguía despierto. Yacía en una cuneta embarrada en el otro lado de la carretera. Estaba mojado, estaba dolorido, y algo se le clavaba en la espalda. Parecía una lata de cerveza. Todo eso era ya de por sí malo, pero además tenía compañía.
—Norcross.
Era Eric.
El puto Eric Blass.
Jared mantuvo lo ojos cerrados. Si creían que estaba inconsciente —o muerto incluso— se irían corriendo como los gallinas que eran, los muy gilipollas.
Quizá.
—¡Norcross! —Esta vez después de oír su nombre notó que le hincaban una bota en el costado.
—Eric, vámonos. —Oído desde otro país. Kent Daley, con un gimoteo que rayaba en el pánico—. Me parece que la ha palmado.
—O está en coma. —A juzgar por su tono de voz, Curt no consideraba demasiado trágico ese desenlace.
—No está en coma. Está fingiendo. —Aunque el propio Eric parecía nervioso. Se agachó. Jared tenía los ojos cerrados, pero le llegó más intensamente el olor a colonia Axe de Eric. Dios, ¿es que se bañaba en esa cosa?—. _¡Norcross!_
Jared se quedó quieto. Si al menos pasara un coche de policía, aunque lo condujera su madre, por embarazosas que fuesen las explicaciones posteriores... Pero la caballería solo aparecía en las películas.
—Norcross, voy a darte una patada en los huevos si no abres los ojos, y fuerte, joder, lo digo en serio.
Jared abrió los ojos.
—Perfecto —dijo Eric, sonriente—. Si no hay daño, no hay delito.
Jared, que tenía la sensación de que sí había serios daños —causados tanto por el coche que lo había embestido como por esos tíos—, guardó silencio. Le pareció lo más sensato.
—No le hemos hecho daño a esa vieja mugrienta, y a ti tampoco se te ve muy mal. Al menos, no te asoma ningún hueso por el pantalón. Así que estamos en paz. En cuanto me des el teléfono, claro.
Jared negó con la cabeza.
—Menudo gilipollas estás hecho. —Eric habló con benévola indulgencia, como a un cachorro que acabara de hacerse pis en la alfombra—. ¿Curt? ¿Kent? Sujetadlo.
—Caray, Eric, no sé —dijo Kent.
—Yo sí sé. Sujetadlo.
—¿Y si tiene... vete a saber, lesiones internas? —preguntó Curt.
—No tiene. El coche apenas lo ha rozado. Ahora sujetadlo.
Jared intentó zafarse, pero Curt lo sujetó de un hombro, y Kent, del otro. Le dolía todo, la rodilla era solo lo peor, y desde luego de nada le servía resistirse. Sentía una extraña languidez. Tal vez fuera efecto de la conmoción, pensó.
—El teléfono. —Eric chasqueó los dedos—. Dámelo. —Ese era el tío con el que Mary pensaba irse de concierto. Ese tío que tenía delante.
—Lo he perdido en el bosque.
Jared lo miró, procurando no llorar. Llorar sería lo peor.
Eric dejó escapar un suspiro, se arrodilló y palpó los bolsillos de Jared. Advirtió el rectángulo del iPhone en el bolsillo delantero derecho y lo sacó.
—¿Por qué tienes que ser tan capullo, Norcross? —En ese momento se le notaba malhumorado y harto, como si dijera: «¿Por qué me estás fastidiando el día?».
—Aquí hay un capullo, pero no soy yo —repuso Jared. Parpadeó con fuerza para que no se le escaparan las lágrimas—. Ibas a mearte en la oreja de esa mujer.
—No, no iba a hacerlo —terció Curt—. Das asco solo por el hecho de pensarlo, Norcross. Era una broma. Comentarios de tíos.
Kent levantó la voz con impaciencia, como si en realidad estuvieran manteniendo una conversación razonable y no se hallara sentado sobre su cuerpo para inmovilizarlo.
—¡Sí, eran comentarios de tíos! Solo estábamos haciendo el tonto. Ya me entiendes, como en el vestuario. No seas ridículo, Jared.
—Voy a dejar correr esto —declaró Eric. Mientras hablaba, pulsaba en la pantalla del teléfono de Jared—. Por Mary. Sé que es amiga tuya, y va a ser mucho más que amiga mía. Así que lo dejamos en tablas. Nos marchamos todos tranquilamente. —Dejó de pulsar—. Listo: he eliminado el vídeo de la nube y luego lo he borrado todo en el teléfono. Ya no queda nada.
De la cuneta sobresalía una roca gris, que miraba a Jared como una lengua gris que se burlara de él. Eric golpeó el iPhone de Jared contra ella cinco o seis veces: la pantalla se hizo añicos y volaron trozos de plástico negro. Arrojó al pecho de Jared lo que quedaba del móvil, que resbaló hasta caer en el barro de la cuneta.
—Una vez borrado el vídeo, ya no tenía por qué hacer eso, pero, dejando de lado a Mary, necesito que entiendas que ser un cotilla tiene sus consecuencias. —Eric se irguió—. ¿Queda claro?
Jared calló, pero Eric asintió como si hubiera hablado.
—Bien. Soltadlo.
Kent y Curt se levantaron y retrocedieron. Actuaban con cautela, como si temieran que Jared fuera a ponerse en pie de un salto y empezara a lanzar puñetazos a lo Rocky Balboa.
—Para nosotros esto ha terminado —afirmó Eric—. No queremos saber nada más de esa puta vieja y sucia, ¿vale? Mejor será que también termine para ti. Vámonos, tíos.
Lo dejaron en la cuneta. Jared aguantó hasta que se marcharon. Entonces se tapó los ojos con un brazo y lloró. Cuando se le pasó, se incorporó y se metió en el bolsillo los restos del teléfono (se desprendieron varios trozos más cuando lo hizo).
Soy un perdedor, pensó. Esa canción de Beck debió de escribirse pensando en mí. Eran tres contra uno, aun así... vaya un perdedor estoy hecho.
Renqueante, se encaminó hacia casa, porque era a casa adonde uno iba cuando se sentía lastimado y maltrecho.
### 10
1
Hasta 1997 el St. Theresa había sido un edificio monstruoso de hormigón más parecido a un bloque de viviendas protegidas que a un hospital. Entonces, después de las protestas generadas por el allanamiento de los montes Speck y Lookout para extraer los depósitos de carbón sobre los que se asentaban, la compañía minera Rauberson donó fondos para una ampliación ambiciosa. El periódico local, dirigido por un demócrata liberal —sinónimo de comunista para la mayor parte del electorado republicano—, declaró que «no era mejor que un soborno para acallar». La mayoría de la gente de los Tres Condados lo agradeció sin más. En la barbería de Bigbee, se oía decir a los clientes: «¡Tiene hasta helipuerto!».
Entre semana, por las tardes, no solían estar ocupadas más de la mitad de las plazas de ninguno de los dos aparcamientos, uno pequeño delante del servicio de Urgencias y otro más grande enfrente del hospital propiamente dicho. Cuando Frank Geary dobló por Hospital Drive aquella tarde, estaban los dos atestados y había un atasco en la rotonda de delante de la entrada principal. Vio un Prius con el maletero aplastado por el impacto de un Jeep Cherokee que lo había embestido por detrás. Los cristales rotos de las luces de posición brillaban en el asfalto como gotas de sangre.
Frank no vaciló. Iban en el Subaru Outback de Elaine, y subió al bordillo e invadió el césped, vacío (al menos de momento) salvo por la estatua de santa Teresa, que en su día había adornado el vestíbulo del antiguo hospital, y el mástil, donde la bandera de las barras y las estrellas ondeaba por encima de la del estado, con sus dos mineros a ambos lados de lo que parecía una lápida.
En cualquier otra circunstancia, Elaine habría dado rienda suelta a su lengua, que podía ser muy afilada: «¿Qué estás haciendo? ¿Estás loco? ¡Este coche no está acabado de pagar!». Ese día no dijo nada. Acunaba a Nana entre sus brazos, meciéndola como cuando era un bebé y tenía fiebre porque le estaban saliendo los dientes. El pringue que le cubría la cara descendía hasta la camiseta (su preferida, la que se ponía cuando estaba un poco triste, esa de la que Frank le había estirado hacía una eternidad, por la mañana), como los pelos de la barba de un prospector viejo y desastrado. Era repulsivo. Lo único que Frank quería era arrancársela, pero se contenía por el recuerdo de Comadre Hoja Dorada. Cuando Elaine hizo ademán de tocarla en su rápido viaje a través del pueblo, él había gritado « _¡No lo hagas!_ », y ella había retirado la mano. Le preguntó dos veces si Nana respiraba. Elaine dijo que sí, que veía moverse como un fuelle aquel repugnante tejido blanco, pero eso a Frank no le bastó. Tuvo que tender la mano derecha y apoyarla en el pecho de Nana para asegurarse.
Detuvo el Outback en medio de una lluvia de hierba y corrió al lado del pasajero. Cogió a Nana en brazos y se dirigieron a Urgencias, con Elaine por delante. Frank sintió una punzada momentánea al ver que llevaba abierta la cremallera lateral del pantalón, con lo que se le veían las bragas rosas. Elaine, que en condiciones normales iba siempre impecable: de punta en blanco, sin una sola arruga, todo combinado a la perfección.
Se detuvo tan bruscamente que Frank estuvo a punto de chocar con ella. Frente a las puertas del servicio de urgencias se agolpaba una muchedumbre. Elaine profirió una especie de relincho equino, parte frustración, parte ira.
—¡No vamos a entrar nunca!
Frank vio que el vestíbulo de Urgencias ya estaba al límite de su capacidad. Una imagen delirante cobró forma en su cabeza: compradores entrando a la carrera en Walmart un Black Friday.
—Al vestíbulo principal, El. Es más grande. Allí podemos entrar.
Elaine dio media vuelta al instante y, casi derribándolo, enfiló en esa dirección. Frank la siguió con esfuerzo, jadeando un poco. Estaba en buena forma, pero Nana parecía pesar más de los treinta y seis kilos registrados en la última revisión médica. Tampoco pudieron entrar en el vestíbulo principal. No había ninguna multitud a las puertas, y por un momento Frank albergó esperanzas, pero el vestíbulo se hallaba atestado. No consiguieron pasar de la entrada.
—¡Déjennos pasar! —exclamó Elaine al tiempo que aporreaba el hombro de una mujer fornida vestida con una sencilla bata de casa rosa—. ¡Estamos aquí por nuestra hija! ¡A nuestra hija le ha salido esa _excrecencia_!
Dio la impresión de que la mujer de la bata rosa no hacía más que flexionar uno de aquellos hombros de defensa de fútbol, pero bastó para que El saliera despedida hacia atrás, tambaleante.
—No eres la única, hermana —contestó la mujer, y Frank entrevió la sillita que la mujer fornida tenía delante. No alcanzó a ver el rostro del bebé, ni fue necesario. Las piernas separadas y laxas y un pequeño pie a rastras —con un calcetín rosa de Hello Kitty— fueron suficientes.
Delante, en algún lugar más allá de la gente arremolinada, un hombre bramó:
— _¡Si están aquí porque han leído en internet que existe un_ _antídoto o una vacuna, váyanse a casa! ¡Es falso! ¡De momento no hay antídoto ni vacuna! ¡Repito:_ DE MOMENTO NO HAY ANTÍDOTO NI VACUNA _!_
La noticia se recibió con exclamaciones de consternación, pero nadie se marchó. Ya estaba agolpándose más gente detrás de ellos y el vestíbulo iba llenándose rápidamente.
Elaine volvió el rostro sudoroso, con lágrimas en los ojos, muy abiertos, y gesto de desesperación.
—¡El Centro de Atención a la Mujer! ¡Podemos llevarla allí!
Con la cabeza gacha y los brazos extendidos, se abrió paso a empujones entre la multitud. Frank la siguió con Nana a cuestas. Con un pie, golpeó ligeramente a un hombre que sostenía a una adolescente de melena rubia sin rostro visible.
—Vaya con cuidado, amigo —protestó el hombre—. Estamos en esto todos juntos.
—Vaya con cuidado usted —gruñó Frank, y logró salir de nuevo al aire libre. En su cabeza, como si se tratara de un ordenador con un circuito defectuoso, destellaron otra vez las palabras:
mi hija mi hija mi hija
Porque en ese momento nada tenía la menor importancia excepto Nana. Nada en el ancho mundo. Haría lo que fuera necesario para que se curara. Consagraría su vida a su curación. Si era una locura, no quería estar cuerdo.
Elaine cruzaba ya la franja de césped. Una mujer sentada en el suelo, con la espalda apoyada en el mástil de la bandera, gimoteaba con un bebé contra el pecho. Era un sonido que Frank conocía bien; era el mismo lamento que emitía un perro con la pata rota y atrapada en una trampa. Tendió el bebé hacia Frank cuando este pasó por su lado, y él vio filamentos blancos que colgaban de detrás de su cabeza cubierta.
—¡Ayúdenos! —exclamó la mujer—. ¡Por favor, señor, ayúdenos!
Frank no respondió. Tenía la mirada fija en la espalda de Elaine. Ella se dirigía hacia uno de los edificios del lado opuesto de Hospital Drive. CENTRO DE ATENCIÓN A LA MUJER, se leía en el letrero de la fachada en blanco sobre azul. OBSTETRICIA Y GINECOLOGÍA, DOCTORAS ERIN EISENBERG, JOLIE SURATT, GEORGIA PEEKINS. Frente a las puertas había unas cuantas personas sentadas, que acompañaban a familiares con la cabeza cubierta, pero no muchas. Había sido buena idea. De hecho, Elaine solía tener buenas ideas cuando no andaba ocupada tocándole las pelotas... pero ¿por qué estaban todos sentados? Era raro.
—¡Rápido! —dijo ella—. ¡Rápido, Frank!
—Voy todo... lo rápido... que puedo. —Había empezado a jadear con fuerza.
Elaine miraba por encima de él.
—¡Algunos nos han visto! ¡Tenemos que mantener la ventaja!
Frank miró atrás. Una turba cruzaba el césped a todo correr, junto al Outback embarrancado. Iban a la cabeza los que solo llevaban bebés o niñas pequeñas.
Respirando con dificultad, siguió con paso vacilante a Elaine por el camino de acceso. La membrana que cubría el rostro de Nana ondeaba en la brisa.
—No les servirá de nada —advirtió una mujer sentada en el suelo y apoyada en la fachada lateral del edificio. A juzgar tanto por su aspecto como por su voz, estaba extenuada. Mantenía las piernas separadas para poder sostener contra sus pechos a su propia hija, más o menos de la edad de Nana.
—¿Qué? —preguntó Elaine—. ¿De qué está hablando?
Frank leyó el letrero colocado en el interior de la puerta: CERRADO POR LA EMERGENCIA GENERADA POR AURORA.
Médicas estúpidas, pensó él mientras Elaine tiraba de la manilla de la puerta. Médicas estúpidas y _egoístas_. Deberíais tener _abierto_ precisamente por la emergencia generada por Aurora.
—Probablemente tienen también hijas —comentó la mujer que sostenía a la pequeña. Tenía unas ojeras marrones—. No se les puede echar en cara, supongo.
Yo sí se lo echo en cara, pensó Frank. Vaya si se lo echo en cara.
Elaine se volvió hacia él.
—¿Qué hacemos ahora? ¿Adónde podemos ir?
Antes de que Frank pudiera contestar, llegó la caterva procedente de Urgencias. Un vejete con una niña al hombro como si cargara con un saco de cereales —una nieta, quizá— apartó a Elaine sin contemplaciones de la puerta para intentar abrirla.
Lo que ocurrió a continuación poseía una especie de inevitabilidad acelerada. El hombre se llevó la mano bajo el faldón de la camisa sin remeter, sacó una pistola del cinto, apuntó hacia la puerta y apretó el gatillo. Incluso al aire libre, la detonación fue ensordecedora. El cristal estalló hacia dentro.
—¡A ver si ahora está cerrado! —gritó el vejete con voz aguda y cascada. Se le había incrustado una esquirla de cristal en la mejilla—. ¡A ver si ahora está cerrado, cabrones!
Levantó el arma para disparar de nuevo. La gente retrocedió. Un hombre que llevaba en brazos a una niña dormida con un pelele de pana tropezó con las piernas extendidas de la mujer apoyada en el edificio. Echó las manos al frente para frenar la caída, con lo que soltó su carga. La niña dormida cayó en el asfalto con un ruido sordo. Al precipitarse al suelo, el hombre rasgó con una mano la membrana que cubría la cara de la hija de la mujer sentada. En el acto, la niña abrió los ojos de par en par y se incorporó, tiesa como una vara. Su rostro era una máscara de duende llena de odio y furia. Acercó la boca a la mano del hombre, le mordió los dedos y, contorsionándose en los brazos de su madre, se abalanzó hacia delante, como una serpiente, para hundir el pulgar en la mejilla derecha del hombre y el resto de los dedos en su ojo izquierdo.
El vejete se volvió y apuntó con el arma —un revólver de cañón largo que a Frank le pareció una antigualla— a la niña que se retorcía y gruñía.
— _¡No!_ —exclamó la madre, intentando proteger a su hija—. _¡No, a mi niña, no!_
Frank se volvió para proteger a su propia hija y lanzó un pie hacia atrás contra la entrepierna del vejete. Este ahogó una exclamación y reculó a trompicones. Frank lo desarmó de un puntapié. La gente que había llegado corriendo desde el servicio de Urgencias huía entonces en todas las direcciones. El vejete, tambaleante, retrocedió hasta el interior del vestíbulo del Centro de Atención a la Mujer, donde perdió el equilibrio y se desplomó entre los cristales rotos. Le sangraban las manos y el rostro. Su nieta yacía con la cara hacia abajo ( _qué_ cara, pensó Frank).
Elaine cogió a Frank por el hombro. Después de caer en el parterre, tenía el pantalón sucio y se había arañado un antebrazo.
—¡Vamos! ¡Esto es una locura! ¡Tenemos que irnos!
Frank no le prestó atención. La niña seguía hundiendo las uñas en el hombre que, sin querer, la había despertado de su sueño antinatural. Le había desgarrado la carne de debajo del ojo derecho, con lo que el globo ocular le sobresalía y la córnea se le estaba llenando de sangre. Frank no podía ayudarlo, no con Nana en brazos, pero el hombre no necesitaba ayuda. Agarró a la niña con una mano y la arrojó lejos.
— _¡No! ¡Oh, no!_ —gritó la madre de la niña, y se arrastró como pudo hacia su hija.
El hombre fijó la mirada en Frank y, hablando con toda naturalidad, dijo:
—Creo que esa niña me ha dejado ciego de un ojo.
Esto es una pesadilla, pensó Frank. Tiene que serlo.
Elaine lo sujetó por el brazo y tiró de él.
—¡Tenemos que irnos! ¡Frank, no nos queda más remedio!
Frank, rendido ya, la siguió hacia el Outback. Al pasar por delante de la mujer que antes estaba apoyada contra la fachada lateral del Centro de Atención a la Mujer, vio que la membrana de la niña volvía a tejerse a una velocidad asombrosa. Había cerrado los ojos. La expresión de furia había dado paso a una de plácida serenidad. Al cabo de un momento, quedó oculta bajo aquella pelusa blanca. La madre la cogió en brazos, la acunó y empezó a besarle los dedos ensangrentados.
Elaine casi había llegado al coche y, a gritos, lo instaba a continuar. Frank, arrastrando los pies, apretó el paso.
2
Ante la encimera de la cocina, Jared se desmoronó en uno de los taburetes y luego tomó a palo seco un par de aspirinas del frasco que su madre dejaba junto al platillo del cambio. En la encimera vio una nota de Anton Dubcek en relación con los olmos del jardín trasero y el nombre de un arboricultor a quien recomendaba. Jared se quedó mirando aquel trozo de papel. ¿En qué consistía el trabajo de un arboricultor? ¿Quién había enseñado a Anton Dubcek, que parecía casi retrasado, a escribir sin faltas de ortografía y con una letra tan clara y bonita? ¿Y él no era el chico de la _piscina_? Pero ¿entendía también de _árboles_? ¿Volverían a ser el estado y la salud del jardín de la familia Norcross un asunto mínimamente importante? ¿Seguiría Anton limpiando piscinas si todas las mujeres del mundo se dormían? Joder, ¿por qué no? A los tíos también les gustaba nadar.
Jared se frotó las cuencas de los ojos con los puños sucios y respiró hondo repetidas veces. Necesitaba tranquilizarse, ducharse, cambiarse de ropa. Necesitaba hablar con sus padres. Necesitaba hablar con Mary.
Sonó el teléfono fijo, un ruido extraño y poco familiar. Salvo en época de elecciones, casi nadie llamaba.
Jared fue a descolgar y, como no podía ser de otro modo, volcó el auricular, que fue a parar al suelo de baldosas al otro lado de la encimera. Se desmontó; la tapa posterior se desprendió con un chasquido de plástico y las pilas se desparramaron.
Apoyándose en los muebles a su paso, cruzó el salón y cogió el supletorio de la mesa auxiliar que había junto al sillón.
—¿Sí?
—¿Jared?
—El mismo. —Se sentó en el sillón de piel con un gemido de alivio—. ¿Qué tal, papá? —Tan pronto como la pregunta salió de sus labios, comprendió que era absurda.
—¿Estás bien? He estado llamándote al móvil. ¿Por qué no contestabas?
Su padre hablaba con voz tensa, lo que tampoco era de extrañar. Cabía suponer que la situación en la cárcel no era ninguna maravilla. Al fin y al cabo, era una cárcel de _mujeres_. __ Jared no quería que su padre se preocupara por él. La razón aparente de esa decisión era algo que cualquiera debería entender: en medio de una crisis sin precedentes, su padre no necesitaba más complicaciones. La verdadera razón, apenas oculta, era que se avergonzaba. Eric Blass le había dado una patada en el culo, le habían destrozado el móvil y, antes de volver a casa cojeando, se había quedado llorando en la cuneta. Era algo de lo que no quería hablar a su padre. No quería que nadie le dijera que no pasada nada, porque sí pasaba. Ni quería que nadie le preguntara cómo se _sentía_ al respecto. ¿Cómo se sentía? «Hecho una _mierda_ » lo describía bastante bien.
—Me he caído por la escalera en el colegio. —Carraspeó—. No miraba por dónde iba. Además, se me ha roto el móvil. Por eso no has podido hablar conmigo. Lo siento. Pero creo que todavía está en garantía. Iré yo mismo a la tienda de Verizon y...
—¿Te has hecho daño?
—Pues me he torcido, y mucho, la rodilla.
—¿Solo eso? ¿No te has hecho daño en ningún otro sitio aparte de la rodilla? Dime la verdad.
Jared se preguntó si su padre sabía algo. ¿Y si lo había visto alguien? Solo de pensarlo le dolió el estómago. Sabía lo que diría su padre si se enterase: diría que lo quería y que no había hecho nada malo; diría que eran los otros quienes habían actuado indebidamente. Y sí, procuraría que Jared estuviera _en contacto con sus sentimientos_.
—Claro que ha sido solo eso. ¿Por qué iba a mentir?
—No te estoy acusando, Jere; solo quería asegurarme. Es que es un alivio que por fin me hayas cogido el teléfono, oír tu voz. Las cosas andan mal. Ya te has enterado, ¿no?
—Sí, he oído las noticias. —Más aún, había visto las noticias: la Vieja Essie en el cobertizo, la máscara blanca de telarañas soldada a la cara.
—¿Has hablado con Mary?
—No desde antes de la comida. —Dijo que tenía previsto ponerse en contacto con ella en breve.
—Bien. —Su padre le explicó que no sabía cuándo volvería a casa, que Lila estaba de servicio y que él no debía moverse de allí—. Si esta situación no se resuelve pronto, ahí fuera van a complicarse las cosas. Cierra bien las puertas, ten el teléfono a mano.
—Sí, claro, papá, estaré bien, pero ¿de verdad tienes que quedarte ahí más tiempo? —No era fácil plantearlo. Se reducía a un cálculo elemental, pero señalarlo parecía en cierto modo de mal gusto; equivalía a decir en voz alta que un moribundo iba a morir—. O sea, en la cárcel solo hay mujeres. Quiero decir... por fuerza se dormirán... ¿no? —Al final de la última palabra se le quebró un poco la voz y esperó que su padre no lo notara.
Otra pregunta —«¿Y qué pasa con mamá?»— se formó en sus labios, pero Jared pensó que no podría expresarla sin echarse a llorar.
—Lo siento, Jared —dijo Clint al cabo de unos segundos de silencio en la línea—. Todavía no puedo marcharme. Me gustaría, pero aquí andan escasos de personal. En todo caso volveré en cuanto pueda. Te lo prometo. —A continuación, quizá adivinando la pregunta que Jared tenía en la cabeza, añadió—: Y tu madre también. Te quiero. No corras ningún riesgo ni te muevas de ahí. Llámame enseguida si me necesitas.
Jared se tragó toda la angustia que parecía acumularse en el fondo de su garganta y consiguió decir adiós.
Cerró los ojos y respiró hondo varias veces. No más llanto. Tenía que quitarse esa ropa rasgada y sucia y ducharse. Después vería las cosas con más optimismo. Empujándose con los brazos, se puso en pie y, cojeando, se dirigió hacia la escalera. Fuera resonó un golpeteo rítmico, seguido de un tambaleo metálico.
A través del cristal de lo alto de la puerta delantera, vio la acera opuesta. La última vivienda ocupada de la calle era propiedad de la señora Ransom, una mujer de setenta y tantos años que llevaba un negocio de repostería y bollería desde casa, aprovechando que en Dooling no existían leyes de zonificación. Era una casa de color verde claro, bien cuidada, engalanada con jardineras rebosantes de alegres flores de primavera en las ventanas. La señora Ransom, sentada en una tumbona de plástico en el camino de acceso, bebía una Coca-Cola. Una niña de diez u once años —seguramente una nieta, a quien Jared, si no se equivocaba, ya había visto allí— botaba una pelota de baloncesto en el pavimento y la lanzaba a una canasta en lo alto de un soporte a un lado del camino.
Con la coleta de pelo castaño asomando por la abertura posterior de una gorra de béisbol oscura, la niña dribló en círculo, a un lado y luego a otro, esquivando a defensoras invisibles, y por último hizo un tiro en suspensión desde media distancia. Se anticipó, y el lanzamiento se le fue alto. La pelota tocó el tablero y rebotó. A causa del efecto, fue a parar al jardín contiguo, una parcela cubierta de mala hierba y heno esparcido delante de la primera casa desocupada de la urbanización.
Fue a recuperar la pelota, y el heno crujió bajo sus pies. La pelota había rodado casi hasta el porche de la casa vacía, toda ella madera desnuda, con los adhesivos de fábrica pegados todavía a los cristales de las ventanas. La niña se detuvo y alzó la vista para contemplar la casa. Jared intentó adivinar qué pensaba. ¿Que era triste esa casa sin familia? ¿O que daba miedo? ¿O que sería divertido jugar dentro, driblar de acá para allá por los pasillos vacíos? ¿Amagar tiros en bandeja en la cocina?
Jared deseó con fuerza que su padre o su madre volvieran pronto a casa.
3
Después de escuchar dos veces el relato de Ree Dempster —la segunda para detectar las contradicciones que por lo general las reclusas no podían evitar cuando mentían—, Janice Coates llegó a la conclusión de que la joven decía la verdad pura y dura, y la mandó de regreso al módulo. Aun cansada como estaba después de las desavenencias de la noche anterior con su cena mexicana, sentía también una extraña euforia. Por fin tenía delante algo a lo que podía hacer frente. Llevaba esperando mucho mucho tiempo una razón que le permitiera poner en la calle a Don Peters, y si un detalle crucial del relato de Ree quedaba demostrado, por fin podría atraparlo.
Llamó a Tig Murphy y le explicó qué quería exactamente. Al ver que el funcionario tardaba un poco en reaccionar, añadió:
—¿Qué problema hay? Coja unos guantes de goma. Ya sabe dónde están.
El funcionario asintió y se marchó de mala gana para llevar a cabo el desagradable trabajito forense que la directora acababa de encargarle.
Janice telefoneó a Clint.
—Doctor, ¿estaría usted disponible en unos veinte minutos?
—Por supuesto —contestó Clint—. Estaba a punto de marcharme a casa para comprobar que mi hijo estuviera bien, pero por fin he podido ponerme en contacto con él.
—¿Estaba echándose una siesta? Afortunado él, si es así.
—Muy graciosa. ¿Qué pasa?
—Lo que pasa es lo único bueno en este puto día de mierda. Si todo sale según lo previsto, voy a poner de patitas en la calle a Don Peters. No creo que recurra a la violencia física... normalmente los matones solo recurren a la violencia física cuando huelen la debilidad, pero no estaría de más tener a un hombre presente. Más vale prevenir que curar.
—Esa es una fiesta a la que asistiré encantado —respondió Clint.
—Gracias, doctor.
Cuando la directora le contó lo que Ree había visto que Peters le hacía a Jeanette, Clint dejó escapar un gemido.
—Ese cabrón. ¿Ya ha hablado alguien con Jeanette? Dígame que no.
—No —contestó Coates—. En cierto modo, eso es lo mejor del caso. —Se aclaró la garganta—. Dadas las horrendas circunstancias, no la necesitamos.
Acababa de poner fin a la llamada cuando volvió a sonar el teléfono. Esta vez era Michaela, y Mickey no perdió el tiempo. Para las mujeres del mundo en el Día Uno de Aurora, no había tiempo que perder.
4
Durante los veintidós meses que llevaba en NewsAmerica, Michaela Morgan, conocida como Mickey, había visto a muchos invitados sonrojarse bajo las potentes luces del estudio, esforzándose por responder a preguntas para las que no estaban preparados o por tratar de justificar declaraciones precipitadas que habían hecho años antes y se conservaban grabadas en vídeo. Era el caso, por ejemplo, del congresista de Oklahoma al que habían obligado a ver unas imágenes en las que aseguraba: «Casi todas esas madres solteras tienen flojos los músculos de las piernas. Por eso las abren tan fácilmente». Cuando la moderadora del programa dominical de entrevistas de NewsAmerica le pidió algún comentario acerca de ese vídeo, el congresista farfulló: «Eso es del año catapum». Durante el resto de la legislatura, sus colegas se refirieron a él (en una ocasión durante una votación) como «representante Catapum».
Esos preciados «momentos infraganti» resultaban relativamente comunes, pero Michaela no supo lo que era un verdadero descontrol hasta última hora de la tarde del Día Uno de Aurora. Y no fue el invitado quien se descontroló.
Michaela se hallaba ante la consola de la unidad móvil, despejada y rebosante de energía gracias a la raya que le había facilitado su técnico. Relajándose en el camerino con aire acondicionado de la parte de atrás de la furgoneta, estaba la siguiente invitada, una de las mujeres que había padecido los gases lacrimógenos delante de la Casa Blanca. Era joven y guapa. Michaela pensaba que su testimonio causaría un impacto considerable, en parte por lo bien que se expresaba, pero sobre todo porque todavía se encontraba bajo los efectos del gas. Michaela había decidido entrevistarla delante de la embajada de Perú, en esa misma calle. El edificio se alzaba bajo la intensa luz del sol, lo cual permitiría realzar los ojos irritados y enrojecidos de la joven.
De hecho, si la sitúo bien, pensó Michaela, dará la impresión de que llora lágrimas de sangre. La idea era nauseabunda, pero así funcionaba NewsAmerica. Competir con FOX News no era tarea para blandengues.
Estaba previsto que salieran al aire a las 16.19, después de que concluyera la conversación actual en el estudio. George Alderson, cuya calva despedía un resplandor grasiento a través de los escasos mechones de pelo peinados hacia un lado, entrevistaba a un psiquiatra clínico, un tal Erasmus DiPoto.
«¿Ha habido algún brote como este en la historia de la humanidad, doctor DiPoto?», preguntó George.
«Una pregunta interesante», dijo DiPoto. Llevaba unas gafas redondas sin montura y un traje de tweed que debía de darle un calor insoportable bajo los focos. Aun así, como buen profesional que era, no parecía sudar.
—Fíjate en esa boquita de remilgado —comentó el técnico—. Si tuviera que cagar por un agujero así de pequeño, reventaría.
Michaela se rio a carcajadas. En parte por la coca, en parte por el cansancio, en parte por terror elemental, reprimido por la profesionalidad de momento pero esperando a salir.
«Confío en que tenga usted una respuesta interesante», dijo George Alderson.
«Estaba pensando en la Epidemia de Baile de 1518 —contestó DiPoto—. Ese fue también un fenómeno que afectó solo a las señoras.»
—Las señoras —repitió una voz a espaldas de Michaela. Era la manifestante de la Casa Blanca, que se había acercado a mirar—. Las _señoras_. Dios nos asista.
«El brote empezó por una mujer llamada Troffea, que bailó como loca en las calles de Estrasburgo durante seis días y seis noches —continuó DiPoto con creciente entusiasmo—. Antes de que se desplomara, se le unieron muchas otras. Esa fiebre del baile se propagó por toda Europa. Cientos, quizá miles, de mujeres bailaban en pueblos y ciudades. Muchas murieron de ataques al corazón, apoplejías o agotamiento. —Probó a esbozar una sonrisita de suficiencia—. Era simple histeria, y al final se extinguió.»
«¿Está diciendo que Aurora es algo como eso? Sospecho que a muchos de nuestros espectadores les costará aceptarlo. —Michaela vio con agrado que George era incapaz de disimular la incredulidad en su rostro y su voz. Por lo general, George no decía más que tonterías, pero en algún sitio debajo de su camisa Oxford latía un corazón de periodista—. Verá, tenemos imágenes de miles de mujeres y niñas con la cara y el cuerpo cubiertos por ese material fibroso, esos capullos. Afecta a millones de mujeres.»
«No resto importancia a la situación en modo alguno —aseguró DiPoto—. Ni mucho menos. Pero los síntomas físicos y los cambios físicos generados por la histeria colectiva no son algo fuera de lo común. En Flandes, por ejemplo, docenas de mujeres presentaron estigmas, manos y pies sangrantes, a finales del siglo XVIII. Dejando de lado la política sexual y la corrección política, opino que debemos...»
Fue entonces cuando Stephanie Koch, la productora de _Noticias vespertinas_ , __ irrumpió en el plató. Era una mujer en la cincuentena, curtida y fumadora incorregible, que lo había visto todo y había mostrado la mayor parte por televisión. Michaela habría pensado que Steph era inmune a toda opinión descabellada por parte de los invitados. Pero por lo visto su armadura tenía una grieta, y el doctor DiPoto, con sus gafas redondas y su boquita remilgada, la había encontrado.
«¿De qué coño estás hablando, pedazo de jerbo provisto de pene? —preguntó a voz en grito—. Tengo dos nietas a las que está creciéndoles esa mierda por todas partes, las dos en _coma_ , ¿y a ti te parece "histeria femenina"?»
George Alderson, vacilante, tendió la mano para contenerla. Stephanie se la apartó de un manotazo. Lloraba lágrimas de ira cuando se plantó ante el doctor Erasmus DiPoto, quien, encogido en la silla, miraba asombrado a aquella amazona demente surgida de la nada.
«Hay mujeres en todo el mundo haciendo lo imposible para mantenerse en vela por miedo a no despertar nunca más, ¿y a ti te parece _histeria femenina_?»
Michaela, el técnico y la mujer de la manifestación permanecían atentos al monitor, fascinados.
«¡Pasemos a publicidad! —exclamó George, mirando por encima de Stephanie Koch—. ¡Amigos, solo necesitamos un descanso! A veces las cosas se ponen un poco tensas. Pero así es la televisión en directo, y...»
Stephanie giró sobre los talones y se volvió hacia la cabina de control, fuera de cámara.
«¡Ni se os _ocurra_ ir a publicidad! ¡No hasta que acabe con este cerdo machista!» Aún llevaba puestos los auriculares. Se los arrancó y empezó a vapulear a DiPoto con ellos. Cuando este levantó las manos para protegerse la coronilla, lo alcanzó en la cara. DiPoto empezó a sangrar por la nariz.
«¡ _Esto_ es histeria femenina! —vociferó Stephanie, sin dejar de golpearlo con los auriculares. La boquita del médico había empezado a sangrar también—. ¡ _Así_ _es_ _en_ _realidad_ la histeria femenina, _pedazo de... de... de COLINABO_!»
—¿«Colinabo»? —repitió la manifestante. Se echó a reír—. ¿Acaba de llamarlo «colinabo»?
Un par de tramoyistas corrieron a contener a Stephanie Koch. Mientras ellos forcejeaban, DiPoto sangraba y George Alderson miraba boquiabierto, el estudio desapareció y dio paso a un anuncio de Symbicort.
—Vaya, vaya —dijo la manifestante—. Eso ha estado _genial_. —Desplazó la mirada—. Eh, ¿puedo tomar un poco de eso? —Se comía con los ojos la pequeña pila de polvo que había encima de la hoja de programación plastificada del técnico.
—Claro —contestó él—. Hoy hay barra libre.
Michaela observó a la manifestante mientras cogía un poco con la uña y lo esnifaba.
—¡Uau! —Sonrió a Michaela—. Ya estoy oficialmente lista para la acción.
—Vuelve al fondo y siéntate —indicó Michaela—. Ya te llamaré.
Pero no la llamaría. Mickey Coates, al ver que Stephanie Koch, fogueada profesional, perdía totalmente los papeles, tomó conciencia de una cosa. No solo estaba viendo esa noticia a través de una lente; ella formaba parte de la noticia. Y cuando por fin se durmiera, no deseaba estar entre desconocidos.
—Quédate tú al pie del cañón, Al —dijo.
—Cómo no —contestó el técnico—. Oye, eso ha sido la monda, ¿a que sí? Televisión en directo en su máxima expresión.
—La monda —convino ella, y salió a la acera. Encendió el móvil. Si el tráfico era fluido, podía estar en Dooling antes de las doce de la noche.
—¿Mamá? Soy yo. No puedo seguir con esto. Vuelvo a casa.
5
A las 15.10 horas, diez minutos después de que terminara su turno de 6.30 a 15.00, Don Peters, sentado en la Garita, mantenía la mirada fija en el monitor de la Unidad Diez, viendo adormilarse a la loca, medio desplomada en la cama con los ojos cerrados. Por alguna razón habían solicitado la presencia de Lampley, y después la de Murphy, así que Don disponía de la Garita para él solo, y tanto mejor: prefería estar sentado. En realidad habría preferido marcharse a casa, pero, para no provocar a Coatsie, había decidido quedarse allí de momento.
La puta chiflada estaba como un tren, Don lo reconocería sin vacilar. Incluso con el uniforme de reclusa, tenía unas piernas inacabables.
Pulsó el botón del micro que comunicaba directamente con la celda a fin de despertarla. Pero ¿para qué? Todas iban a dormirse y, al parecer, les saldría esa mierda en la cara y el cuerpo. Dios santo, adónde iría a parar el mundo si eso ocurría. El lado bueno era que las carreteras serían más seguras. Eso sí tenía gracia. Debía recordarlo para más tarde, a ver qué opinaban los chicos en el Squeaky Wheel.
Peters soltó el botón. La señorita Unidad Diez subió las piernas a la cama y se estiró. Don, con curiosidad, esperó a ver cómo sucedía, esa misteriosa aparición de la membrana sobre la que había leído en el móvil.
6
En otro tiempo poblaban la cárcel centenares de ratas y había docenas de colonias; ya no quedaba más que una cuarentena. Mientras Evie yacía con los ojos cerrados, habló con la hembra alfa, una vieja luchadora de largas garras cuyos pensamientos engranaban como herrumbrosas ruedas chirriantes. Evie imaginó el rostro de alfa como un entramado de cicatrices, enjuto y hermoso.
—¿Por qué quedáis tan pocas, amiga mía?
—Veneno —contestó esa reina guerrera—. Ponen veneno. Huele a leche, pero nos mata. —La rata se hallaba en un resquicio entre los bloques de hormigón que separaban las unidades Nueve y Diez—. Se supone que el veneno nos empuja a buscar agua, pero a menudo quedamos confusas y morimos sin llegar a ella. Es una muerte atroz. Estas paredes están llenas de cadáveres de las nuestras.
—No es necesario que ninguna más de vosotras sufra de esa manera —dijo Evie—. Lo prometo. Pero quizá necesite que hagáis ciertas cosas por mí, y algunas pueden ser peligrosas. ¿Lo aceptas?
Como Evie preveía, el peligro traía sin cuidado a la reina de las ratas. Para ocupar su puesto, había luchado contra su rey. Le arrancó las patas delanteras y, en lugar de rematarlo, se sentó sobre los cuartos traseros a observar mientras moría desangrado. La reina presentía que al final ella moriría de una manera similar.
—Lo acepto —respondió al poco la rata madre—. El miedo es la muerte.
Evie discrepaba —en su opinión, la muerte era la muerte, y merecía tenerle miedo—, pero lo dejó correr. Las ratas, aunque limitadas, eran sinceras. Se podía colaborar con una rata.
—Gracias.
—No hay de qué —contestó la reina de las ratas—. Solo necesito hacerte una pregunta, Madre. ¿Cumples tu palabra?
—Siempre —aseguró Evie.
—Entonces ¿qué quieres que hagamos?
—Ahora nada —dijo Evie—, pero pronto. Te avisaré. De momento basta con que sepas lo siguiente: tu familia ya no deseará comer el veneno.
—¿De verdad?
Evie se desperezó, sonrió y con delicadeza, sin abrir los ojos, besó la pared.
—De verdad —respondió.
7
De pronto Evie alzó la cabeza y abrió los ojos. Estaba mirando fijamente la cámara... y, al parecer, a Don.
Este, en la Garita, dio un respingo en la silla. La intensidad de esa mirada, la forma en que la había clavado en la cámara integrada en la bombilla nada más despertar, lo inquietó. ¿Qué demonios? ¿Cómo era posible que hubiera despertado? ¿No se suponía que, una vez dormidas, acababan cubiertas de telarañas? ¿Había estado fingiendo esa zorra? Si era así, había hecho un trabajo inmejorable: rostro relajado, cuerpo totalmente inmóvil.
Don activó el micro.
—Reclusa. Está mirando hacia mi cámara. Es de mala educación. Tiene una expresión poco respetuosa en la cara. ¿Hay algún problema?
La señorita Unidad Diez negó con la cabeza.
—Lo siento, funcionario Peters. Perdone por esa expresión. No hay ningún problema.
—Disculpa aceptada —dijo Don—. Que no se repita. —Y a continuación—: ¿Cómo ha sabido que era yo?
Evie, sin embargo, no contestó a la pregunta.
—Me parece que la directora quiere verlo —dijo, y en ese preciso momento sonó el intercomunicador. Debía presentarse en administración.
### 11
1
Blanche McIntyre dejó pasar a Don al despacho de la directora y le dijo que Coates llegaría al cabo de cinco minutos. Blanche no debería haberlo hecho, y no lo habría hecho de no haber estado tan alterada por los extraños acontecimientos que parecían estar desarrollándose en la cárcel, y en el mundo en general.
A Don le temblaban un poco las manos cuando, en el despacho, se sirvió de la cafetera del rincón, situada justo debajo del ridículo póster del gatito: AGUANTA AHÍ. Una vez que tuvo su café, escupió en el líquido negro de la jarra. Coates, esa vieja viciosa, fumaba y bebía café a todas horas. Don esperó estar incubando un resfriado para contagiárselo con su saliva. Dios santo, ¿por qué no se moría de un cáncer de pulmón y lo dejaba en paz?
El momento elegido, sumado a la inquietante predicción de la extraña mujer de la Unidad Diez, llevó a Don a la conclusión de que Sorley o Dempster se habían ido de la lengua. Mal asunto. Él no debería haber hecho lo que había hecho. Estaban esperando a que cometiera un desliz, y lo había cometido justo después de hablar con Coates esa mañana.
Ningún hombre razonable se lo habría echado en cara, por supuesto. Si uno se paraba a pensar en la presión a la que Coates lo había sometido, y en la cantidad de gimoteos e insensateces que soportaba a diario con las delincuentes a las que debía cuidar, era un milagro que aún no hubiera _asesinado_ a nadie, solo por pura frustración.
¿Tan grave era meter mano a alguna de vez en cuando? Por amor de Dios, antes si no le dabas una palmada en el culo a una camarera, quedaba decepcionada. Si no le silbabas a una mujer por la calle, se preguntaba para qué demonios se había molestado en acicalarse. Se acicalaban para que les dijeran algo, eso era un hecho. ¿Cuándo había cambiado tanto el género femenino? En esos tiempos de la informática, ni siquiera podías piropear a una mujer. Y a eso se reducía una palmada en el culo o un pellizco en la teta, ¿no? ¿No era una especie de piropo? Había que ser idiota para no verlo. Si Don pellizcaba a una mujer en el trasero, no era precisamente porque fuese un trasero feo. Lo hacía porque era un trasero de calidad. Era un jugueteo, nada más.
¿A veces las cosas llegaban un poco más lejos? Bueno, sí, de vez en cuando. Y en eso Don reconocía que tenía parte de la culpa. La cárcel era difícil para una mujer con una sexualidad saludable. Había allí felpudos para parar un tren, y ni un solo gallo para tanto gallinero. La atracción era inevitable. Las necesidades no podían negarse. Esa Sorley, por ejemplo. Tal vez fuese algo del todo inconsciente por su parte, pero, a un nivel u otro, ella lo deseaba. Había enviado numerosas señales: un contoneo ante él de camino al comedor, la punta de la lengua por los labios cuando cargaba un montón de patas de silla en los brazos, una miradita insinuante por encima del hombro.
Por supuesto Don cargaba con el peso de no ceder a esas invitaciones de delincuentes y degeneradas que aprovecharían la menor oportunidad para tenderle una trampa y ponerlo en un aprieto. Pero él era humano; no podían culparlo por sucumbir a impulsos masculinos normales. Aunque eso un cardo decrépito como Coates no lo entendería jamás.
No existía riesgo de demanda, de eso estaba seguro —la palabra de una fulana adicta al crack, o siquiera la de dos fulanas adictas al crack, nunca valdría más que la suya en un juzgado—, pero su empleo sin duda peligraba. La directora había prometido tomar medidas si recibía otra queja.
Don se paseó. Con aire sombrío, se preguntó si acaso Coates, con esa campaña contra él, no estaría expresando alguna clase de amor celoso y retorcido. Había visto aquella película de Michael Douglas y Glenn Close. Le había metido el miedo en el cuerpo. Una mujer despechada llegaría hasta donde hiciera falta por joder a un hombre, y eso era un hecho.
(Desvió la atención por un instante a su madre, quien, como ella misma había confesado, aconsejó a la ex de Don, Gloria, que no se casara con él, porque «Donnie, sé cómo eres con las chicas». Eso le llegó al alma, porque Don Peters quería a su madre. De niño, le gustaba notar su mano fría en la frente afiebrada, y recordaba cuando le cantaba que él era su sol, su único sol. ¿Cómo podía una madre volverse contra su propio hijo? ¿Qué decía eso de ella? Vaya si había mujeres controladoras, ese hecho era buena prueba de ello. Se le ocurrió que debería llamar a su madre para ver cómo estaba, pero a renglón seguido pensó: Dejémoslo, ya es mayorcita.)
La situación actual olía a conspiración de mujeres: seducción e incitación a cometer un delito. El hecho de que la chiflada de la Unidad Diez hubiese sabido de algún modo que la directora iba a emplazarlo no dejaba lugar a dudas. Don no diría que estaban todas metidas en el asunto, no, no iría tan lejos (sería un disparate), pero tampoco lo descartaría.
Se sentó en el borde del escritorio de la directora y, accidentalmente, tiró al suelo un pequeño estuche de piel.
Don se agachó a recogerlo. Parecía una de esas bolsas en las que uno guardaba el cepillo de dientes cuando se iba de viaje, pero era de piel de buena calidad. Descorrió la cremallera. Contenía un frasco de esmalte de uñas rojo oscuro (como si con eso alguien fuera a no darse cuenta de que Coates era una bruja horrenda), unas pinzas, un cortaúñas, un peine pequeño, unos cuantos blísteres sin abrir de omeprazol y... un frasco de un medicamento bajo prescripción médica.
Don leyó la etiqueta: «Janice Coates, Xanax, 10 mg».
2
—¡Jeanette! ¿Te puedes creer esto?
Era Angel Fitzroy, y ante la pregunta Jeanette sintió un nudo en su interior. ¿Qué era verdad? ¿Que Peters la había arrinconado junto a la máquina de Coca-Cola y la había obligado a pelársela? El dolor de cabeza ya no era un dolor de cabeza; era una sucesión de explosiones: bum, bum, bum.
Pero no, Angel no se refería a eso. No podía ser. Ree nunca se lo contaría a nadie, se dijo Jeanette para reconfortarse; sus pensamientos eran como gritos dentro del cráneo y sin embargo resultaban casi imperceptibles por encima de las detonaciones provocadas por la migraña. Entonces comprendió —o eso esperaba— de qué hablaba Angel.
—Te refieres... ¿a lo del sueño?
Angel estaba en el umbral de la puerta de la celda. Jeanette se hallaba en su cama. Ree se había ido a algún sitio. Esa planta del módulo quedaba abierta a última hora de la tarde, y todas las que tenían informes de buena conducta podían moverse con libertad.
—Sí, claro que me refiero a eso. —Angel entró en la celda, y acercó la única silla—. No puedes dormirte. Ni tú ni ninguna de nosotras. Para mí no será mucho problema, porque en cualquier caso apenas duermo. Siempre he dormido poco, incluso de niña. Dormir es como estar muerta.
A Jeanette la noticia de Aurora le había parecido absurda. ¿Mujeres que formaban un capullo mientras dormían? ¿Acaso la migraña le había dañado de algún modo el cerebro? Le apetecía darse una ducha, pero no quería hablar con ningún celador. Además, no se lo permitirían. Una cárcel tenía sus normas. Los celadores —perdón, los _funcionarios_ — eran la encarnación de las normas. Había que obedecerlos o, premio, informe de mala conducta.
—Angel, me duele la cabeza de verdad. Tengo migraña. Ahora mismo llevo bien los disparates.
Angel inspiró hondo y sonoramente por la nariz, larga y huesuda.
—Escucha, herma...
—No soy tu hermana, Angel. —Jeanette sentía tal dolor que le traía sin cuidado cómo se tomara Angel el desplante.
Pero Angel siguió a lo suyo sin más.
—Esto es una locura pero es real. Acabo de ver a Nell y a Celia. O lo que queda de ellas. Se han dormido y ahora están envueltas como putos regalos de Navidad. Dicen que a McDavid le ha pasado lo mismo. Adiós, nena, adiós. He visto cómo crecía en Nell y en Celia. Esa cosa aparece enseguida. Les cubre la cara. Parece un puto experimento científico.
Aparece enseguida. Les cubre la cara.
Así que era verdad. Por cómo lo contaba Angel, no cabía duda. En fin, por qué no iba a serlo. A Jeanette le daba igual. No podía hacer nada a ese respecto ni a ningún otro. Cerró los ojos, pero Angel la sujetó por el hombro y empezó a zarandearla.
—¿Qué pasa?
—¿Vas a dormirte?
—No si sigues haciéndome preguntas y sacudiéndome como si fuera un cubo de palomitas de maíz. Para ya.
Angel apartó la mano.
—No te duermas. Necesito tu ayuda.
—¿Por qué?
—Porque eres de fiar. No eres como la mayoría de las otras. Tienes la cabeza sobre los hombros. Eres guay. ¿No vas a dejarme decírtelo siquiera?
—Me da igual.
Aunque Angel no respondió inmediatamente, Jeanette notó su presencia junto a la cama.
—¿Ese es tu hijo?
Jeanette abrió los ojos. Angel observaba la fotografía de Bobby pegada al recuadro pintado en la pared junto a la litera. En la foto Bobby bebía de un vaso de papel con una pajita y llevaba una gorra con orejas de Mickey. Tenía una expresión de recelo adorable, como si temiera que alguien fuera a robarle la bebida y la gorra y salir corriendo. Era de cuando tenía cuatro o cinco años.
—Sí —contestó Jeanette.
—Una gorra guay. Yo siempre quise una así. Envidiaba a los niños que las tenían. Esa foto parece bastante antigua. ¿Qué edad tiene ahora?
—Doce.
Debía de ser más o menos de un año antes de que su mundo se desmoronara definitivamente, cuando Damian y ella llevaron a Bobby a Disney World. El niño de la fotografía no sabía que su padre daría a su madre un puñetazo de más y su madre clavaría un destornillador de estrella a su padre en el muslo, ni que su tía se convertiría en su tutora mientras su madre cumplía condena por asesinato en segundo grado. El niño de la fotografía solo sabía que su Pepsi sabía de maravilla y su gorra de Mickey era guay.
—¿Cómo se llama?
Mientras Jeanette pensaba en su hijo, habían remitido las explosiones en la cabeza.
—Bobby.
—Un nombre bonito. ¿Eso te gusta? ¿Ser madre? —La pregunta salió de los labios de Angel sin que supiera que quería hacerla. Madre. Ser madre. Solo de pensarlo le dio un vuelco el corazón. Sin embargo, no lo exteriorizó. Angel tenía sus secretos, y sabía guardarlos.
—Nunca se me ha dado muy bien —admitió Jeanette, y se obligó a incorporarse—. Pero quiero a mi hijo. Bueno, ¿de qué se trata, Angel? ¿Qué necesitas que haga?
3
Más tarde Clint pensaría que debería haber sospechado que Peters tramaba algo. Al principio se lo veía demasiado tranquilo; su sonrisa era del todo incompatible con las acusaciones que se habían formulado contra él. Pero Clint estaba furioso, furioso como no se sentía desde la edad de Jared, y no vio lo que debería haber visto. Era como si dentro de su cabeza hubiese una cuerda, que mantenía cerrada la caja donde guardaba muchas malas experiencias de la infancia. La mentira de su mujer había sido el primer corte en las fibras de esa cuerda; Aurora había sido el segundo; la entrevista con Evie había sido el tercero, y lo que le había ocurrido a Jeanette la había seccionado del todo. Sin darse cuenta, empezó a pensar, casi de forma científica, en los daños que podía infligir a Peters con diversos objetos. Podía aplastarle la nariz con el teléfono del escritorio; podía clavarle en la mejilla la placa de Funcionario Penitenciario del Año de la directora a aquel cabrón abusador. Clint había realizado un esfuerzo extraordinario para neutralizar esa clase de pensamientos violentos; en gran medida se había dedicado a la psiquiatría en reacción a eso.
¿Qué había dicho Shannon en aquella ocasión? «Clint, cielo, si sigues con las peleas, algún día vas a ganar más de la cuenta.» Se refería a que acabaría matando a alguien, y quizá no le faltaba razón. No mucho después el juez le concedió la independencia, y Clint ya no tuvo que pelearse nunca más. Luego, el último año de instituto, canalizó conscientemente la rabia a través del atletismo. Eso también había sido idea de Shannon, y una idea excelente. «Si quieres hacer ejercicio —le dijo—, deberías correr. Hay menos sangre.» Corriendo, escaparía de esa antigua vida, correría como el Hombre de Jengibre, correría hasta la facultad de Medicina, el matrimonio, la paternidad.
La mayoría de los niños salidos del sistema de acogida no lo conseguían; la acogida era una situación en la que uno lo tenía todo en contra. Muchos habían terminado en hoteles del Estado como el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling o el Presidio de Lion Head, a cierta distancia de allí en la misma carretera, la cual, según los ingenieros, corría peligro de desmoronarse por un corrimiento de tierras. De hecho, en Dooling eran muchas las chicas salidas del sistema, y vivían a merced de Don Peters. Clint había tenido suerte. Había superado las probabilidades en contra. Shan lo había ayudado. Hacía mucho tiempo que no pensaba en ella. Pero ese día era como si se hubiese reventado una cañería y muchas cosas salieran a la superficie, inundando las calles. Por lo visto, los días de catástrofes eran también días de evocación.
4
Clinton Richard Norcross ingresó en el sistema de acogida de manera definitiva en 1974, a los seis años, pero antes de eso las actas que él mismo vio más tarde ya registraban entradas y salidas. Una historia típica: padres adolescentes, drogas, pobreza, antecedentes penales, probablemente trastornos mentales. La asistenta social anónima que entrevistó a la madre de Clint había consignado: «Le preocupa transmitir a su hijo sus sentimientos de tristeza».
Clint no guardaba recuerdo alguno de su padre, y la única imagen que conservaba de su madre era la de una joven de rostro alargado cogiéndole las manos, envolviéndoselas con las suyas, sacudiéndoselas arriba y abajo, rogándole que no se mordiera las uñas. Lila le había preguntado una vez si tenía interés en tratar de ponerse en contacto con alguno de ellos, si es que aún vivían. Clint no lo tenía. Lila dijo que lo entendía, pero en realidad no se hacía la menor idea, y él lo prefería así. No quería que se hiciera la menor idea. El hombre con el que se había casado, el doctor Clinton Norcross, equilibrado y competente, había dejado atrás esa vida de abandono de forma muy consciente.
Solo que uno no dejaba nada atrás. Nada desaparecía hasta que la muerte o el alzhéimer se lo llevaba todo. Eso lo sabía. Lo veía confirmado en cada sesión con una reclusa; uno lucía su historia como un collar, un collar maloliente de dientes de ajo. Tanto si se lo escondía debajo de la ropa como si se lo dejaba a la vista, nada desaparecía. Uno libraba la pelea una y otra vez, y nunca ganaba el batido.
Durante la infancia y la adolescencia, había pasado por media docena de casas, ninguna de las cuales parecía un hogar si se entendía por eso el sitio donde uno se sentía a salvo. Tal vez no fuera de extrañar que hubiese acabado trabajando en una penitenciaría. En las cárceles anidaban los sentimientos de su juventud y los inicios de su vida adulta: una sensación de estar siempre al borde de la asfixia. Deseaba ayudar a personas que se sentían así, porque sabía lo duro que era y cómo incidía en el núcleo mismo de la humanidad de uno. En eso basó su decisión de abandonar la práctica privada de haberla iniciado realmente.
Había buenas casas de acogida, más que en otros tiempos, pero Clint nunca había ido a parar a ninguna. Lo mejor que podía decir era que algunas estaban limpias y las administraban padres de acogida eficientes y discretos, que hacían solo lo que se les exigía para embolsarse la retribución del estado. Eran poco memorables. Pero poco memorable era perfecto. Uno firmaba por lo poco memorable.
Las peores eran las peores en sentidos muy concretos: los sitios donde no había suficiente comida, donde las habitaciones eran pequeñas y sucias, y frías en invierno, donde los padres te hacían trabajar sin cobrar, los sitios donde te hacían daño. Las chicas eran las que más sufrían dentro del sistema, por supuesto.
Clint no se acordaba ni de las caras de algunos de sus hermanos de acogida, pero de otros sí conservaba un recuerdo nítido. Estaba Jason, por ejemplo, que se quitó la vida a los trece años bebiéndose un bote de desatascador sin marca. Clinton podía rememorar a Jason vivo, y podía rememorar a Jason muerto en su ataúd. Ocurrió cuando Clint vivía con Dermot y Lucille Burtell, que alojaban a sus pupilos no en su bonita casa de Cape Cod, sino detrás, en un cobertizo alargado con el suelo de contrachapado lleno de astillas y sin aislamiento térmico. Los Burtell organizaban lo que ellos llamaban «Veladas de Boxeo del Viernes», en las que los púgiles eran su media docena de pupilos y el premio consistía en un batido de chocolate de McDonald's. A Clint y a Jason los enfrentaron una vez y combatieron para diversión de los Burtell y sus amigos. Los espectadores se congregaban al borde de un cuadrilátero delimitado con cordel de tendedero y hacían sus apuestas. Jason, asustado y lento, tenía pocas opciones, y Clint quería ese batido. En el ataúd abierto Jason tenía un hematoma del tamaño de una moneda debajo del ojo, causado unas noches antes por un golpe de Clint.
El viernes de la semana siguiente, después de que Jason se tomara el desatascador y se retirara para siempre del boxeo, Clint volvió a ganar el batido, y esa vez, sin detenerse a pensar en las posibles consecuencias (al menos que él recordara), se lo tiró a la cara a Dermot Burtell. Para Clint, el resultado fue una paliza brutal, y no trajo de regreso a Jason, pero lo sacó de aquella casa.
En la casa siguiente, o quizá en la de después, fue donde compartió una habitación lúgubre en un sótano con el bueno de Marcus. Clint recordaba las maravillosas caricaturas de Marcus, su hermano de acogida. Marcus dibujaba a las personas de modo que fueran nariz en un ochenta por ciento, prácticamente solo nariz con diminutas piernas y diminutos brazos, los _Todo Narices_ , los llamaba; se le daba realmente bien, y además ponía mucha dedicación. Hasta que un día después de clase, sin ninguna explicación, Marcus le dijo a Clint que había tirado todos sus cuadernos y que ahuecaba el ala. Clint rememoraba las caricaturas, pero no a Marcus.
En cambio a Shannon sí la veía en su mente; era demasiado hermosa para desvanecerse.
—Oye, soy Shannon. ¿No quieres conocerme? —Se presentó así, sin mirar a Clint, que pasó por delante de ella camino del parque. Estaba tomando el sol sobre el capó de un Buick aparcado junto a la acera frente al hogar grupal de Wheeling, con una camiseta de tirantes azul y unos vaqueros negros, y sonreía al sol—. Eres Clint, ¿no?
—Sí —dijo él.
—Ajá. Bueno, qué bien que nos hayamos conocido, ¿no? —contestó ella, y Clint, a pesar de todo, se rio, se rio con ganas por primera vez desde hacía a saber cuánto tiempo.
El hogar grupal de Wheeling donde la conoció era la última parada en su gran viaje por el sistema de acogida público. Para la mayoría, era en esencia el punto de enlace con lugares como el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling y el sanatorio estatal de Weston. Weston, un asilo gótico monumental, cerró en 1994. En 2017 se abría para las visitas de turismo paranormal. ¿Acaso fue allí donde acabó su padre?, se preguntó Clint. ¿Su madre? ¿O Richie, a quien unos alumnos de un colegio privado le rompieron la nariz y tres dedos en un centro comercial porque les pidió que no se burlaran de su cazadora morada, procedente de una caja de beneficencia? ¿O Marcus? Sabía que no podía ser que todos estuviesen muertos o en la cárcel, y sin embargo parecía poco probable que alguno siguiera respirando y en libertad. ¿Flotaban todos por los pasillos oscuros de Weston al final del día? ¿Hablaban alguna vez de Clint? ¿Se alegraban por él o se avergonzaban de él porque seguía vivo?
5
El hogar de Wheeling era preferible a muchas de las paradas que lo habían precedido. El desdeñoso administrador, con los pulgares hundidos en los bolsillos de su chaleco gris de poliéster, advertía a cada recién llegado: «¡Disfruta de tu último año chupando de la teta del estado, jovencito!». Pero él, el desdeñoso administrador, no quería complicaciones. Siempre y cuando consiguieras no acabar detenido, te dejaba entrar y salir las veinticuatro horas del día. Podías pelearte, follar o pincharte. Pero fuera de la casa, jovencito.
Por entonces Shan y él tenían diecisiete años. Ella se había fijado en el hábito de lectura de Clint, que se escabullía a un parque calle abajo y se sentaba en un banco para mantenerse al día con sus tareas, pese al frío de finales de otoño. Shannon también había visto las heridas ensangrentadas de sus manos, fruto de los conflictos que encontraba —y a veces buscaba— entre el hogar y el colegio. Llegaron a ser amigos. Ella le daba consejos. Casi todos buenos.
«Ya casi has conseguido salir, lo sabes», decía ella. «Solo tienes que procurar no matar a nadie durante un tiempo más», decía. «Deja que tu cerebro te haga rico», decía. Shan hablaba como si a ella el mundo no le importara mucho, y en cierto modo precisamente por eso Clint quiso que le importara... a ella, a él.
Empezó a practicar el atletismo y dejó las peleas. Esa era la versión abreviada. La larga era Shannon, Shannon al sol, Shannon animándolo a correr más rápido, a solicitar becas, a seguir con los libros y eludir las aceras. Shannon de noche, abriendo la cerradura de la puerta de la planta de los chicos con una carta plastificada (la reina de picas) y colándose en la habitación de Clint.
«Vaya —comentó al verlo con el uniforme del equipo, la camiseta de tirantes y el pantalón corto—. Si yo gobernara el mundo, todos los chicos tendrían que llevar pantalones como ese.»
Shannon era preciosa, y lista, y tenía su propia carretada de problemas, y Clint pensaba que tal vez le había salvado la vida.
Él fue a la universidad. Ella se lo aconsejó, y cuando él vaciló (planteándose la opción del ejército), ella insistió. Dijo: «Déjate de tonterías, mueve el culo y ve a la universidad».
Él lo hizo, y perdieron el contacto, porque las llamadas telefónicas salían demasiado caras y las cartas requerían demasiado tiempo. Transcurrieron ocho o nueve años desde que él se marchó a la universidad hasta que retomaron el contacto en Washington la Nochevieja de... ¿2001? ¿2002? Él estaba de visita en la ciudad para asistir a un congreso en Georgetown y se quedó a pasar la noche por problemas con el coche. Lila le dijo que le daba permiso para salir y emborracharse, pero le prohibía besar a mujeres desesperadas. Podía besar a un hombre desesperado si no le quedaba más remedio, pero solo a uno.
El bar donde se tropezó con Shan era un hervidero de universitarios. Ella era camarera.
—Eh, colega —dijo a Clint. Se puso a su lado en la barra y le dio un golpecito con la cadera—. Yo conocía a un tipo en la trena que se parecía a ti.
Se abrazaron durante largo rato, meciéndose el uno en brazos del otro.
Se la veía cansada, pero bien. Consiguieron un minuto a solas bajo un letrero intermitente de cerveza Molson.
—¿Por dónde andas? —había preguntado ella.
—En el culo del mundo: los Tres Condados. Un sitio llamado Dooling. A un día en coche de aquí. Es un sitio bonito.
Le enseñó una foto de Jared, con cuatro meses.
—Vaya, fíjate. Bueno, Clint: ¿no valió todo la pena? Tengo que hacerme con uno de esos.
Las lágrimas brillaron en las pestañas de Shannon. La gente vociferaba a su alrededor. Estaba a punto de cambiar el año.
—Eh —había dicho él—. Eh, no pasa nada.
Ella lo miró y los años parecieron comprimirse, y fue como si volvieran a ser adolescentes.
—¿En serio? —preguntó Shannon—. ¿No pasa nada, Clint?
6
Por detrás de la directora, al otro lado del cristal, las sombras de última hora de la tarde teñían el huerto, donde hileras de lechugas, guisantes y tomateras trepaban por emparrados hechos con descartes de madera. Coates mantenía las manos ahuecadas en torno a la taza de café mientras hablaba.
¡La taza de café! ¡Clint podía vaciársela en la entrepierna a Don Peters y luego estrellársela contra la oreja!
Hubo una época, antes de que conociera a Shannon Parks, en la que lo habría hecho. Se recordó que era padre y marido, médico, un hombre con demasiadas canas para caer en la trampa de la violencia. En algún momento cercano, ficharía y se marcharía a casa con su mujer, su hijo y una agradable vista de una piscina en el jardín al otro lado de las puertas de cristal. Los combates por un batido eran cosa de otra vida. Aun así, se preguntó de qué material sería esa taza, si sería acaso de esa loza maciza que a veces no se agrietaba ni al caer en una dura baldosa.
—Te lo estás tomando bastante bien —comentó Janice Coates.
Peters se pasó un dedo por el bigote.
—Solo disfruto ante la idea de que mi abogado va a hacerme millonario gracias a este despido improcedente, directora. Creo que me compraré un barco. Además, me educaron para comportarme como un caballero, por mal que me traten. Así que despídame. Estupendo, pero no tiene pruebas. Ganaré el juicio de calle. —Miró de reojo a Clint, de pie junto a la puerta—. ¿Se encuentra bien? Lo veo ahí con los puños cerrados... ¿Está estreñido, doctor?
—Que le den —contestó Clint. Una respuesta manida pero satisfactoria.
—¿Lo ve? Qué desagradable —dijo Peters. Sonriente, enseñó una dentadura de color maíz.
Coates tomó un sorbo de la taza de café que acababa de rellenarse. Sabía amargo. Tomó otro sorbo de todos modos. Se sentía optimista. El día era apocalíptico, pero su hija iba camino de casa y ella por fin se libraría de Don Peters. Entre los montículos fecales, de vez en cuando resplandecían una o dos perlas de satisfacción.
—Es usted despreciable, y tiene suerte de que ahora no podamos ocuparnos de usted tal como merece. —Se sacó una bolsita del bolsillo de la chaqueta del traje. La sostuvo en alto y la agitó. Contenía dos bastoncillos—. Porque, como verá, sí tenemos pruebas.
A Peters le flaqueó la sonrisa; intentó revigorizarla, pero no acabó de lograrlo.
—Esto es su semen, amigo Donnie. Recogido de la máquina de Coca-Cola. —Coates echó un largo trago de aquel pésimo café y se relamió—. En cuanto todo se calme y _podamos_ ocuparnos de usted como se merece, irá a la cárcel. La buena noticia es que mantienen a los agresores sexuales en un módulo aparte, así que quizá sobreviva; la mala es que, incluso con un buen abogado, pasará allí una larga temporada. Pero, descuide, me verá cada vez que convoquen la vista para decidir sobre su libertad condicional. Formaré parte de la junta correspondiente, ¿sabe? —La directora se inclinó hacia el intercomunicador y pulsó el botón de llamada—. Blanche, ¿puedes preparar otra bolsa de café? Esto es infumable. —Esperó un momento la respuesta y llamó de nuevo—. ¿Blanche? —Coates soltó el botón—. Debe de haber salido.
Coates volvió a centrar su atención en Peters, que se hallaba sentado en el sofá. La sonrisa se le había borrado por completo. Respiraba con dificultad y se humedecía los labios con la punta de la lengua, sin duda sopesando las implicaciones de la prueba de ADN que acababan de agitar ante su rostro.
—De momento —dijo la directora— devuelva el uniforme y lárguese. Posiblemente ha sido un error por mi parte decirle que lo tenemos pillado, pero no he podido resistirme a la oportunidad de regodearme. Eso le deja unos días más hasta que caiga el mazo. Podría meterse en su coche y poner rumbo a Canadá. Quién sabe, a lo mejor puede pasar inadvertido, dedicarse a la pesca en el hielo.
—¡Un montaje! —Peters se levantó de un salto—. ¡Esto es un montaje!
Clint no pudo contenerse más. Dio un paso al frente, agarró al otro hombre, más bajo que él, por el cuello y lo estampó contra la pared. Don golpeó a Clint en los hombros y la cara, le arañó las mejillas. Clint apretó más. Bajo sus dedos, notó que el pulso de Peters se ralentizaba, notó que se le encogía la nuez, notó la inverosimilitud, la frustración y el temor que se habían acumulado durante todo el día y se propagaban en torno a sus manos como el zumo de un pomelo. Una mariposa revoloteaba en torno a su cabeza. Le dio un beso fantasmal en la sien y se fue.
— _¡Doctor Norcross!_
Clint asestó un puñetazo a Peters en el saco blando que tenía por vientre y lo soltó. El funcionario cayó en el sofá y resbaló hasta quedar a cuatro patas en el suelo. Emitió el sonido de un animal al borde de la asfixia:
— _Hi, hi, hi._
La puerta del despacho de la directora se abrió de pronto. Entró Tig Murphy empuñando una táser. La humedad resplandecía en sus mejillas y tenía mal color; le había dicho a Clint que estaba bien, pero no lo estaba, nada ni nadie estaba bien.
— _Hi, hi, hi._ —Peters se alejó de Clint arrastrándose.
La mariposa había perdido interés en el psiquiatra y volaba en círculo alrededor del hombre caído, aparentemente guiándolo hacia la salida.
—Justo íbamos a avisarlo, funcionario Murphy. —Coates, todavía tras su escritorio, actuó como si no hubiera ocurrido nada—. El señor Peters se disponía a abandonar el recinto y ha tropezado con un pliegue de la alfombra. Ayúdelo a levantarse, ¿quiere? Puede dejar sus cosas en la taquilla. —La directora alzó su taza en dirección a Tig Murphy y la apuró.
### 12
1
—Verá, funcionaria, ya sabe que soy propensa a los arranques de ira, ¿no?
Angel, de pie a una respetuosa distancia de la Garita, planteó esta pregunta retórica a Vanessa Lampley. Jeanette, a su lado, no se hacía ilusiones: se enfrentaban a una batalla cuesta arriba.
Detrás de la pantalla de cristal de la Garita, sentada ante el panel de control, Lampley mantenía los anchos hombros inclinados en una postura peligrosa. Parecía dispuesta a saltar a través del cristal. Jeanette supuso que, en una pelea, Angel podía dar bastante leña pese a su complexión delgada, pero no tanta como para imponerse a Lampley.
—Fitzroy, ¿eso no será una amenaza a medio gas o algo así? ¿Con la mierda que se nos está echando hoy encima? Tengo a tres reclusas cubiertas de telarañas, hace rato que debería haberme marchado, estoy muerta de cansancio, ¿y quieres ponerme a prueba? Es mala idea, te lo aseguro.
Angel levantó las palmas de las manos.
—No, no, no, funcionaria. Solo estoy diciendo que en una situación como esta yo tampoco respondo de mis actos, ¿vale? Mis antecedentes delictivos hablan por sí solos, y hay muchas cosas de las que quedé impune, aunque, como comprenderá, no puedo darle detalles.
Jeanette se tocó la frente y examinó el suelo. Si alguien tenía previsto que Angel, una vez en libertad condicional, se dedicara a la diplomacia internacional, debía replanteárselo.
—Lárgate de aquí, puta tarada —repuso Lampley.
—Razón por la cual he traído a Jeanette. —Dicho esto, Angel extendió un brazo: _¡tachán!_
—Bueno, eso lo cambia todo.
—No se burle. —Angel dejó caer el brazo. Se esfumó lo que antes había de infantil en su expresión—. No se burle de mí, funcionaria.
—A mí no me digas qué debo y no debo hacer, reclusa.
Jeanette decidió que era ahora o nunca.
—Funcionara Lampley, perdone. No es nuestra intención causar problemas.
Van, que había empezado a levantarse, de manera imponente, volvió a sentarse. A diferencia de Fitzroy, que en esencia vivía con un informe de mala conducta permanente, siempre en deuda como una propiedad maldita del Monopoly, Sorley era conocida por su actitud amigable. Y según Ree Dempster, Sorley había sido agredida sexualmente por Peters, ese sapo venenoso. Van decidió que bien podía escucharla.
—¿De qué se trata?
—Queremos preparar café. Un café especial. Para ayudar a todas a seguir despiertas.
Van mantuvo el dedo en alto sobre el intercomunicador durante uno o dos segundos antes de hablar y después preguntó lo evidente:
—¿Qué quiere decir eso de _especial_?
—Más fuerte que un café corriente —respondió Jeanette.
—Usted también puede tomar un poco —dijo Angel, y probó a adoptar una sonrisa magnánima—. La despejará en el acto.
—¡Vaya, es justo lo que necesito! ¡Una cárcel llena de reclusas con los nervios de punta! ¡Sería estupendo! A ver si lo adivino, Fitzroy: el ingrediente secreto es el crack.
—Bueno... no exactamente. Porque no tenemos. Y permítame hacerle una pregunta: ¿cuál es la alternativa?
Lampley admitió que no lo sabía.
Jeanette tomó la palabra.
—Funcionaria, a menos que ese asunto de Aurora se resuelva pronto, aquí la gente va a empezar a alterarse. —Ella misma tomó conciencia de la situación al exponerla. Excepto para Maura Dunbarton y otro par de presas condenadas a cadena perpetua, existía como mínimo un lejano rayo de esperanza: el final de la pena. La libertad. A todos los efectos, la gripe Aurora frustraba repentinamente esa esperanza. Nadie sabía qué ocurría después del sueño, si es que ocurría algo. En ese sentido, era como ir al cielo—. Empezarán a preocuparse y a ponerse nerviosas y asustarse, y podrían encontrarse ustedes con un... grave problema. —Jeanette se cuidó mucho de utilizar la palabra _motín_ , pero era el problema que preveía—. De hecho, _ya_ están preocupadas, nerviosas y asustadas. Usted misma lo ha dicho: ya hay tres reclusas contagiadas.
»Y tenemos los ingredientes en la cocina. Basta con que nos autorice a entrar, y nosotras haremos el resto. Oiga, no pretendo agobiarla ni causar alboroto. Ya me conoce, ¿no? Procuro mantener una buena convivencia. Aquí mi conducta siempre ha sido buena. Solo le transmito mi preocupación y le propongo una idea.
—¿Y vuestro café _especial_ va a resolver eso? ¿Con un estimulante todo el mundo va a darse por contento con la situación?
—No, funcionaria —respondió Jeanette—. No es eso lo que pienso.
Lampley se llevó la mano al tatuaje de la lápida que tenía en el bíceps: TU ORGULLO. Recorrió las líneas con los dedos. De pronto desvió la mirada hacia algo por encima de la pantalla de la Garita.
Un reloj, pensó Jeanette, seguramente tiene un reloj ahí colgado. Lampley hacía el turno de mañana. Se acostaría a eso de las nueve para levantarse a las cinco o las cinco y media y marcharse al trabajo. Por el reloj de su celda, Jeanette sabía que eran más o menos las cinco... empezaba a hacerse tarde.
La funcionaria movió la cabeza a un lado y al lado sobre el grueso cuello. Tenía ojeras, advirtió Jeanette. Esos eran los efectos de un turno doble.
—Joder —dijo Lampley.
Jeanette no lo oyó a través de la barrera insonorizada, pero leyó la palabra en los labios de la funcionaria.
Lampley volvió a inclinarse hacia el intercomunicador.
—Cuéntame algo más, reclusa. Convénceme.
—Creo que dará un poco de esperanza a todas. Tendrán la sensación de que hacen algo. Y de que ganan un poco de tiempo hasta que esto se arregle.
A Van se le fue otra vez la mirada hacia arriba. La conversación prosiguió un poco más; después se convirtió en una negociación y finalmente en un plan, pero ese fue el momento en que Jeanette supo que la funcionaria Lampley se rendiría: el avance del reloj era innegable.
2
Clint y Coates volvían a tener el despacho de la directora para ellos solos, pero al principio ninguno habló. Clint había recuperado el aliento, pero el corazón le latía aún con fuerza, y supuso que la tensión arterial, en el límite en su última revisión (dato que le había ocultado a Lila, por no preocuparla; ya bastante desbordada estaba con sus propios asuntos), ya rebasaba la línea roja.
—Gracias —dijo él.
—¿Por qué?
—Por cubrirme las espaldas.
La directora se frotó los ojos con los nudillos. A Clint le pareció una niña cansada que acabase de llegar de jugar más de la cuenta en casa de una amiga.
—Acabo de deshacerme de la manzana podrida de nuestra cesta, doctor. Eso tenía que hacerse, pero no pienso deshacerme de nadie más, no cuando ya ando escasa de personal. Al menos de momento se han quedado todos lo demás.
Clint abrió la boca para decir «Quería matarlo», pero la cerró de nuevo.
—Diré... —Janice bostezó de tal modo que le crujió la mandíbula— que me he sorprendido un poco. Se le ha echado usted encima como Hulk Hogan en pleno apogeo propiciado por los esteroides.
Clint agachó la cabeza.
—Pero al menos por ahora lo necesito. El subdirector ha vuelto a ausentarse, así que usted ocupará el puesto hasta que Hicks se presente.
—Habrá ido a casa a ver cómo está su mujer, imagino.
—Eso mismo imagino yo, y aunque lo comprendo, no lo apruebo. Tenemos encerradas a ciento catorce mujeres... no, a ciento quince contando a nuestra invitada sorpresa del módulo A... y esas mujeres deben ser nuestra prioridad. Lo último que necesito es que usted pierda el control.
—No lo haré.
—Espero que así sea. Sé que procede de un entorno difícil... he leído su expediente... pero ahí no constaba nada sobre esa destreza para estrangular a la gente. Aunque, claro, los antecedentes juveniles son información reservada.
Clint se obligó a mirar a la directora a los ojos.
—Eso es cierto.
—Dígame que lo que he visto con Peters ha sido un momento de enajenación.
—Ha sido un momento de enajenación.
—Dígame que nunca se descontrolaría de esa manera con una de las mujeres. Fitzroy, por ejemplo. O alguna otra. La nueva, tal vez. Evie la Rara.
La expresión de asombro de Clint debió de ser respuesta suficiente, porque Janice sonrió. Cuando la sonrisa daba paso a otro bostezo, le sonó el teléfono.
—Aquí la directora. —Escuchó—. ¿Vanessa? ¿Por qué me llama por _teléfono_ cuando tiene un intercomunicador en perfecto estado a su dispo...?
Escuchó de nuevo, y entretanto Clint observó un detalle extraño. El auricular se le deslizaba una y otra vez hacia arriba, desde la oreja hasta la raya del pelo. Ella se lo recolocaba, y enseguida se iniciaba de nuevo ese desplazamiento ascendente. Podía ser simple cansancio, pero no parecía eso exactamente. Se preguntó por un instante si Janice tenía una botella en el escritorio y descartó la idea. Lila y él habían salido a cenar con Coates varias veces, y nunca la había visto pedir nada más fuerte que una copa de vino, que por lo general no se acababa.
Se dijo que no debía caer en el alarmismo, pero no era fácil evitarlo. Si la directora Coates se venía abajo, ¿quién quedaría al frente hasta que Hicksie regresara? En el _supuesto_ de que Hicksie regresara. ¿Lampley? ¿Él? Clint pensó en lo que implicaría pasar a ser director en funciones y tuvo que contener un estremecimiento.
—De acuerdo —dijo Coates por teléfono. Escuchó—. _De acuerdo_ he dicho. _Sí._ Autorícelas. Adelante, y conecte el intercomunicador. Anuncie a la población reclusa que pasará el carrito del café.
Puso fin a la llamada, trató de dejar el auricular en la horquilla, falló y tuvo que hacerlo de nuevo.
—Caray —dijo, y se echó a reír.
—Janice, ¿se encuentra bien?
—Ah, no podría encontrarme mejor —contestó ella, pero deformó la palabra «podría»: _poía_ —. Acabo de dar el visto bueno a Van para que permita a Fitzroy, Sorley y otras dos reclusas preparar un supercafé en la cocina. En esencia, una especie de crank.
—¿ _Cómo_ dice _?_
Coates articuló las palabras despacio y con sumo cuidado, lo que recordó a Clint la manera de hablar de los borrachos cuando querían aparentar que estaban sobrios.
—Según Van, a quien se lo ha explicado Angel, nuestra Walter White particular, el café que tenemos aquí es de tueste claro, no oscuro, y eso es bueno porque contiene más cafeína. Por tanto, en lugar de poner una bolsa por cafetera, pondrán tres. Van a preparar _litrosh_. —Pareció sorprenderse, y se pasó la lengua por los labios—. Litros, quiero decir. Me noto la boca dormida.
—¿En serio? —preguntó Clint, sin saber muy bien si se refería al café o a los labios.
—Ah, y aún no ha oído la mejor parte, doctor. Van a echar en el café toda la pseudoefedrina de la enfermería, y tenemos unas existencias considerables. Pero antes de tomarse el café... las _recliushas_... reclusas... tienen que embucharse una _meshcla_ de zumo de pomelo y mantequilla. Acelera la _absorshion_. Eso _soshtiene_ Angel, y no veo qué mal...
Coates intentó levantarse y volvió a caerse en la silla con una risita. Clint corrió junto a ella.
—Jan, ¿ha bebido?
Ella lo miró con los ojos vidriosos.
—No, claro que no. _Eshto_ no es como estar borracha. _Eshto_ es como... —Miró alrededor—. ¿Mis _pashtillas_? Las tenía aquí en la mesa, detrás de la bandeja de entradas y salidas.
—¿Qué pastillas? ¿Qué toma? —Clint buscó un frasco, pero no vio nada. Se agachó y echó un vistazo debajo de la mesa. Nada excepto la pelusilla dejada allí por la última presa de confianza que limpió el despacho.
— _Shan_... _shan_... oh, joder. —Se arrellanó en la silla—. Adiós, doctor. Me duermo.
Clint miró en la papelera, y allí, entre unos pañuelos de papel y unos cuantos envoltorios de Mars arrugados, encontró un frasco marrón comprado con receta. En la etiqueta ponía JANICE COATES y XANAX y 10 MG. Estaba vacío.
Lo sostuvo en alto para que Janice lo viera, y pronunciaron la misma palabra al unísono, aunque Coates farfulló su parte del dueto:
—Peters.
Con gran esfuerzo, sin duda un esfuerzo supremo, Janice Coates irguió la espalda y fijó la mirada en la de Clint. Pese a tener los ojos vidriosos, cuando habló, apenas arrastró las palabras.
—Tráigalo, doctor. Antes de que abandone el edificio. Encierre a ese hijo de puta en una celda del módulo C y tire la llave.
—Tiene que vomitar —instó Clint—. Huevos crudos. Traeré unos cuantos de la coci...
—Ya es tarde. No aguanto más. Dígale a Mickey... —Cerró los ojos. Se obligó a abrirlos otra vez—. Dígale a Mickey que la quiero.
—Se lo dirá usted misma.
Coates sonrió. Se le bajaban de nuevo los párpados.
—Ahora está usted al frente, doctor. Al _menosh_ hasta que vuelva Hicks. _Ushted_... —Dejó escapar un profundo suspiro—. Vele por la _sheguridad_ de _lash_ _reclushash hashta_ que _todash she_ duerman... y luego... oh, vele por _shu_ seguridad, vele por _nueshtra sheguridad hashta_...
La directora Coates cruzó los brazos sobre el secante del escritorio y apoyó la cabeza en ellos. Con fascinación y horror, Clint vio como empezaban a tejerse las primeras hebras, que brotaban de su cabello, sus orejas y la piel de sus mejillas sonrojadas.
Tan deprisa, pensó. Tan condenadamente deprisa.
Salió corriendo del despacho con la intención de pedirle a la secretaria de Coates que utilizara el sistema de megafonía para asegurarse de que Peters permanecía en el recinto, pero Blanche McIntyre no estaba. Sobre el secante de su mesa había una única hoja con el membrete de la cárcel, y en ella una nota en rotulador negro. Clint leyó dos veces las enormes mayúsculas antes de dar crédito a lo que veían sus ojos.
ME HE IDO AL CLUB DE LECTURA.
¿Club de lectura?
¿Club de _lectura_?
¿De verdad?
¿Blanche se había ido a su puto club de _lectura_?
Mientras corría por Broadway hacia el vestíbulo de entrada, esquivó a unas cuantas reclusas errantes con sus holgados uniformes marrones, consciente de que algunas lo miraban con sorpresa.
Llegó a la puerta principal, que estaba bloqueada, y apretó repetidamente el botón del intercomunicador hasta que Millie Olson, todavía ante el panel del puesto de seguridad del vestíbulo, contestó.
—Por Dios, doctor, que lo va a desgastar. ¿Qué pasa?
A través de los cristales dobles, Clint vio el destartalado Chevrolet de Don Peters al otro lado de la verja interior, en la zona de seguridad, pero ya cruzaba la verja exterior. Incluso vio que los dedos regordetes de Don acercaban la tarjeta de identificación al lector.
Clint pulsó de nuevo el botón del intercomunicador y dijo:
—Da igual, Millie. Da igual.
### 13
1
Mientras Lila Norcross regresaba al pueblo, afloró a su cabeza una cancioncilla impertinente y absurda que, de niñas, ella y sus amigas entonaban cuando iban por la calle y sus padres no las oían. Empezó a cantarla, a la luz declinante del día.
—En Derby Town, en Derby Town, las calles son de cristal; en Derby Town, en Derby Town, las chicas te darán una patada en el pompa pom, pompa pom, pompa pompa ti pom pom pom...
¿Cómo seguía? Ah, sí.
—En Derby Town, en Derby Town, mi hermano tuvo un ataque; en Derby Town, mi hermana solo dice pompa pom, pompa p...
Casi demasiado tarde, se dio cuenta de que se había salido de la carretera y se internaba en la maleza, camino de una pendiente escarpada en la que el coche patrulla daría al menos tres vueltas de campana antes de llegar al fondo. Pisó el freno con los dos pies y el coche se detuvo al borde del terraplén de grava con el morro asomando al vacío. Puso el cambio de marcha en punto muerto y, al hacerlo, percibió el leve roce de unas briznas de algo en las mejillas. Se las arrancó, tuvo tiempo de ver cómo se le fundía una en la palma de la mano y a continuación abrió la puerta empujándola con el hombro para intentar apearse. Aún llevaba puesto el cinturón de seguridad, que tiró de ella hacia dentro.
Se lo desabrochó, bajó y se quedó allí de pie, respirando a bocanadas aquel aire que por fin empezaba a refrescar. Se abofeteó la cara una vez y luego otra.
—Ha ido de poco —dijo. Muy abajo, uno de los arroyos ( _regatos_ , en el jerga local) que alimentaban el río Ball descendía con un murmullo cantarín—. Ha ido de poco, Lila Jean.
De muy poco. Al final se dormiría, lo sabía, y ese pringue blanco brotaría de su piel y la envolvería, pero no permitiría que ocurriera antes de besar y abrazar a su hijo al menos una última vez. Era una promesa sagrada.
Volvió a sentarse al volante y cogió el micro.
—Unidad Cuatro, aquí Unidad Uno. Contesta.
Al principio nada, y se disponía a repetir la llamada cuando Terry Coombs respondió.
—Uno, aquí Cuatro. —Se le notaba la voz un poco rara, como si estuviera resfriado.
—Cuatro, ¿has pasado por las farmacias?
—Sí. Dos saqueadas, una incendiada. Los bomberos están en el lugar de los hechos, para que el fuego no se propague. Ese es un aspecto positivo, supongo. Al farmacéutico de CVS lo han matado de un tiro, y creemos que hay al menos un cadáver dentro de Rite Aid. Esa es la que está ardiendo. Los bomberos no están seguros de cuántas víctimas hay.
—Oh, no.
—Lo siento, jefa. Es lo que hay.
No, no como si estuviera resfriado... como si hubiese estado llorando.
—¿Terry? ¿Qué te pasa? Anda mal algo más.
—He ido a casa —contestó él—. He encontrado a Rita envuelta en esa mierda. Ha dado una cabezada en la mesa, como siempre antes de que yo vuelva al final de mi turno. Aprovecha esos quince o veinte minutos. La he avisado, y me ha asegurado que no lo haría, y cuando me he escapado un momento a casa para ver cómo estaba...
Entonces sí que se echó a llorar.
—Así que la he dejado en la cama y he salido para ir a las farmacias, como me has dicho. ¿Qué otra cosa podía hacer? He intentado llamar a mi hija, y en su habitación no contesta. Rita también ha intentado llamarla antes, varias veces. —Diana Coombs estudiaba primero en la Universidad del Sur de California. Su padre emitió un sonido ronco y acuoso—. Casi todas las mujeres de la costa Oeste están dormidas, no han llegado a despertar. Yo tenía la esperanza de que hubiera pasado la noche en vela, estudiando o algo así, o incluso de fiesta, pero... sé que no ha sido así, Lila.
—Quizá te equivoques.
Terry no se molestó en contestar a eso.
—Pero _respiran_ , eso sí —dijo en cambio—. Todas las mujeres y niñas todavía _respiran_. Así que a lo mejor... no sé...
—¿Está Roger contigo?
—No. Pero he hablado con él. Ha encontrado a Jessica cubierta con eso, de la cabeza a los pies. Ha debido de dormirse desnuda, porque parecía una momia de una de esas películas de terror antiguas. La niña también. Ahí en la cuna, envuelta, igual que las que han salido por televisión. Roger ha perdido el control. Gritaba como un poseso. He intentado convencerlo de que me acompañara, pero se ha negado.
Al oírlo Lila montó en cólera de manera irracional, posiblemente porque ella misma estaba extenuada. Si a ella no se le permitía rendirse, nadie tenía derecho a eso.
—Pronto será de noche, y necesitaremos a todos los agentes disponibles.
—Ya se lo he dicho...
—Iré a buscar a Roger. Reúnete conmigo en la oficina, Terry. Di a todo aquel con quien puedas ponerte en contacto que venga también. A las siete.
—¿Por qué?
Aunque el mundo estuviera yéndose a pique, Lila no estaba dispuesta a decir por la radio que iban a abrir el depósito de pruebas y usar la droga que tenían guardada —solo los estimulantes— para celebrar una fiestecita.
—Tú ve allí.
—No creo que Roger vaya.
—Irá, aunque tenga que llevarlo esposado.
Marcha atrás, se apartó del precipicio por el que había estado a punto de caer y se dirigió al pueblo. Pese a llevar encendidas las luces de emergencia, se detenía en todos los cruces. Porque con todo lo que estaba ocurriendo, tal vez las señales luminosas no bastaran. Para cuando llegó a Richland Lane, donde vivían Roger y Jessica Elway, la maldita cantinela sonaba de nuevo en su cabeza: en Derby Town, en Derby Town, cuando a tu padre le pica...
Un Datsun pasó lentamente por delante de ella, ajeno a los destellos de sus luces y al stop del cruce. Cualquier otro día se habría echado encima de aquel hijo de puta imprudente en el acto. Si no hubiese estado luchando contra el sueño, tal vez incluso se habría fijado en el adhesivo que llevaba detrás —QUÉ TIENEN DE GRACIOSAS LA PAZ, EL AMOR Y LA COMPRENSIÓN— y lo habría identificado como propiedad de la señora Ransom, la vecina de enfrente, que vivía a un paso de todas aquellas casas desocupadas. Si hubiese estado despejada, seguramente habría reconocido al conductor como su hijo y a la pasajera sentada junto a él como Mary Pak, la chica por la que estaba loco.
Pero no era un día cualquiera, y no estaba despejada ni mucho menos, así que siguió adelante hasta la casa de los Elway en Richland Lane, donde se encontró el siguiente acto de la incesante pesadilla de aquel día.
2
Jared Norcross escuchaba su propia cantinela, aunque no guardaba la menor relación con Derby Town, donde las calles eran de cristal. Era «coincidencia, serendipia, predestinación, destino» _._ Se eligiera una o ninguna, seguramente poco incidiría en la marcha del universo. «Coincidencia, serendipia, predestinación, des...»
—Te has saltado el stop —advirtió Mary, rompiendo el hechizo temporalmente—. Y me parece que he visto a un policía.
—No me digas eso —respondió Jared.
Iba muy erguido al volante, sudoroso, y su corazón acelerado enviaba punzadas directamente a la rodilla lesionada. Aún podía doblarla, lo cual lo llevaba a pensar que en realidad no se había roto nada, que era un simple esguince, pero la tenía muy hinchada y dolorida. La idea de que la policía lo pillara cuando legalmente no estaba autorizado a conducir, al menos no sin un conductor con carnet a su lado, no le gustaba en absoluto. Su madre le había repetido hasta la saciedad que para ella, como jefa de policía, lo peor sería que lo detuvieran por algo ilegal, _cualquier cosa_ , aunque no fuera más que salir del quiosco de Fenton con un caramelo que se le hubiera olvidado pagar. «Y créeme —dijo Lila—, si es lo peor para mí, ya me encargaré de que sea lo peor también para ti.»
La nieta de la señora Ransom, Molly, que iba arrodillada en el asiento de atrás, miraba por la ventanilla.
—No hay problema —informó—. La poli ha pasado de largo.
Jared se relajó un poco, aunque no acababa de creerse que estuviera haciendo aquello. No hacía ni media hora estaba en casa, esperando a recibir más noticias de su padre o su madre. Entonces llamó Mary, que empezó a gritar antes de que él pudiera enlazar tres palabras más allá de «hola».
—¿Dónde _estás_? ¡Llevo _años_ intentando hablar contigo!
—¿Sí? —Tal vez aquello no fuera del todo malo. Una chica no levantaba así la voz a un chico a menos que le importara, ¿no?—. Se me ha roto el móvil.
—Bueno, ¡ _ven_ aquí! ¡Necesito _ayuda_!
—¿Qué necesitas? ¿Qué pasa?
—¡Ya _sabes_ qué pasa! ¡ _Todo_ , si eres una chica! —Recobró el aliento y bajó un poco la voz—. Necesito a alguien que me lleve en coche a Shopwell. Si mi padre estuviera aquí, se lo pediría a él, pero se ha ido a Boston por trabajo, y está intentando volver a casa, pero eso ahora mismo no nos sirve de nada.
Shopwell era el supermercado grande de Dooling, pero se hallaba en la otra punta del pueblo. Jared había adoptado su tono más adulto y razonable.
—Oye, la tienda de ultramarinos está mucho más cerca de ahí. Sé que no tiene la mejor selección...
—¿Quieres _escucharme_?
Él calló, asustado por la histeria contenida que reflejaba la voz de Mary.
—Tiene que ser en Shopwell, porque allí, en la sección de fruta y verdura, trabaja una mujer. La conocen muchos chicos. Vende... ayudas para el estudio.
—¿Te refieres a speed?
Silencio.
—Mary, eso es ilegal.
— _¡Me da igual!_ De momento mi madre está bien, pero mi hermana pequeña solo tiene doce años, suele acostarse a las nueve y, por lo general, está zombi incluso antes.
Y estás tú, pensó Jared.
—También estoy yo. No quiero dormirme. No quiero acabar envuelta en un capullo. Estoy _muerta de miedo, joder_. __
—Eso lo entiendo —dijo Jared.
—No, no lo entiendes. Tú eres un _tío_. Ningún tío lo entiende. —Exhaló un suspiro lloroso y profundo—. Dejémoslo. No sé por qué esperaba noticias tuyas. Llamaré a Eric.
—Eso no —saltó Jared, presa del pánico—. Iré a buscarte.
—¿Sí? ¿De verdad? —Dios santo, ese tono de agradecimiento. A Jared le habían flaqueado las rodillas.
—Sí.
—¿A tus padres no les importará?
—No —contestó Jared, lo cual no era del todo falso. ¿Cómo iba a importarles si no se lo decía? Seguramente sí les habría importado, por supuesto, y mucho (aun dejando de lado, claro, la situación de crisis mundial), porque Jared no tenía carnet de conducir. Lo _habría_ tenido de no haber embestido un cubo de basura mientras intentaba aparcar en paralelo en su primer examen. Hasta entonces todo había ido de maravilla.
¿De verdad había dado la impresión a Mary de que había aprobado el examen? Bueno, solo en la medida en que Jared le había dicho que lo había aprobado. ¡Por Dios! En su momento le pareció una mentira inofensiva. Se sentía como un tonto por haber suspendido. Lo repetiría al cabo de un mes, y como en todo caso no tenía coche, ella no se enteraría. Había aplicado esa lógica. Algo le decía que los exámenes de conducir no serían una prioridad en el condado de Dooling durante un tiempo. Ni en ninguna parte.
—¿Cuánto tardarás en llegar?
—Un cuarto de hora. Veinte minutos como mucho. Tú espérame.
Solo después de colgar tomó conciencia de hasta qué punto aquello escapaba a sus posibilidades. No solo carecía de carnet de conducir, sino también de coche. Su padre se había llevado el Prius a la cárcel, y el Toyota de su madre se encontraba aparcado detrás de la oficina del sheriff. En cuestión de vehículos, la despensa de los Norcross estaba vacía. O pedía prestado un medio de transporte o tenía que volver a llamar a Mary para decirle que, al final, sería mejor que la llevara Eric. A la primera opción le veía pocas probabilidades, pero la otra, después de lo ocurrido esa tarde, se le antojaba inconcebible.
En ese preciso momento, sonó el timbre de la puerta.
Coincidencia, serendipia, predestinación o destino.
3
La señora Ransom, encorvada, se apoyaba en una muleta y llevaba un aparato metálico de aspecto cruel en la pierna derecha. Al verla así, Jared, pese a su apurada situación, tuvo la sensación de que había concedido demasiada importancia a su esguince de rodilla.
—Te he visto llegar —dijo la señora Ransom—. Jared, te llamas, ¿verdad?
—Sí, señora. —Jared, un chico que no habría olvidado sus modales ni en el _Titanic_ a punto de hundirse, le tendió la mano, arañada tras la carrera entre la maleza.
La señora Ransom sonrió y negó con la cabeza.
—Será mejor que no. Artritis. Discúlpame si paso por alto las formalidades, cosa que por norma general nunca haría, pero esta tarde el tiempo apremia, según parece. Jovencito, ¿tienes carnet de conducir?
Jared recordó de pronto una película en la que el taimado villano decía: «Solo podéis colgarme una vez».
—Sí, pero no tengo coche.
—Eso no es problema. Yo tengo uno, un Datsun, viejo pero en muy buen estado. Últimamente apenas lo uso, por la artritis. Además, con el aparato de la pierna, me cuesta manejar los pedales. Pido a mis clientes que vengan a recoger los encargos a casa. Por lo general, no tienen inconveniente... En fin, dejémoslo. No viene a cuento, ¿verdad que no? Jared, necesito un favor.
Jared estaba casi seguro de saber cuál sería el favor solicitado.
—Últimamente duermo mal incluso en las mejores circunstancias, y como mi nieta ha venido a quedarse conmigo mientras mi hijo y mi nuera resuelven sus... sus _diferencias_... apenas he dormido. Tengo sueño atrasado, podríamos decir, y a pesar de todos mis dolorosos achaques, creo que esta noche ese retraso va a pasarme factura. A no ser que, claro... —Levantó la muleta para poder rascarse entre las cejas—. En fin, esto me resulta difícil. Por norma, soy una persona reservada, una persona _decorosa_ , poco dada a contar mis problemas a un completo desconocido, pero te he visto llegar a casa y he pensado... he pensado que a lo mejor...
—Ha pensado que a lo mejor yo conozco a alguien, soy capaz de conseguir algo que la ayude a seguir despierta un rato más. —Lo expresó a modo de afirmación, no en tono interrogativo, pensando _coincidencia_ , _serendipia_ , _predestinación_ , _destino_.
La señora Ransom tenía los ojos muy abiertos.
—¡Ah, no! ¡No es eso! _Yo_ ya conozco a alguien. O al menos eso creo. Hasta la fecha solo le he comprado marihuana... me va bien para la artritis y el glaucoma... pero me parece que vende también otras cosas. Y no soy solo yo. Debo pensar en Molly, mi nieta. Ahora está como una moto, pero hacia las diez...
—Le entrará la modorra —completó Jared, pensando en la hermana de Mary.
—Sí. ¿Me ayudarás? La mujer se llama Norma Bradshaw. Trabaja en el supermercado Shopwell, al otro lado del pueblo. En la sección de fruta y verdura.
4
Y allí estaba, camino de Shopwell, conduciendo sin carnet y con una infracción de tráfico —saltarse un stop— ya en su historial, y con las vidas de dos personas en sus inexpertas manos. Con Mary ya contaba; con Molly Ransom, de diez años, no tanto. A esta la encontró sentada en el asiento trasero del viejo Datsun después de ayudar a su abuela a volver a casa, y la señora Ransom insistió en que se la llevara. Salir un rato «ayudaría a la pobre criatura a cargar las pilas». En las noticias informaban de disturbios en las ciudades, pero a la señora Ransom no le preocupaba en absoluto mandar a su nieta a un recado en Dooling, un pueblo pequeño y tranquilo.
Jared no estaba en situación de rechazar a un pasajero más. Al fin y al cabo, el coche era de la anciana, y si a pesar de eso se negaba a llevar a la niña, podía suscitar otra vez cierta pregunta muy pertinente: _Tenía_ carnet de conducir, ¿no? Tal vez la señora Ransom le permitiera ir incluso si admitía la verdad, estaba bastante desesperada, pero Jared prefería no correr el riesgo.
Por fin se acercaban al supermercado, gracias a Dios. Molly iba otra vez sentada y con el cinturón de seguridad puesto, pero hablaba por los codos, y en ese momento estaba disparada. A esas alturas Jared y Mary ya sabían que la mejor amiga de Molly era Olive, y Olive podía ser un asco cuando no se salía con la suya, lo cual venía a ser como un superpoder, solo que quién iba a querer un superpoder así, y los padres de Molly iban a terapia de pareja con un consejero _matrimonal_ , __ y la abuela fumaba una medicina especial porque le iba bien para la vista y la artritis, y tenía un trasto enorme para fumar decorado con el águila de Estados Unidos, y normalmente fumar era malo, pero en el caso de la abuela era distinto, aunque en principio Molly no debía hablar del tema, porque la gente podía llegar a pensar que fumar algo que no fuera medicina estaba bien...
—Molly —dijo Mary—, ¿te callas alguna vez?
—Normalmente solo cuando duermo —contestó Molly.
—No quiero que te duermas, pero todo eso que piensas agobia un poco. Además, deberías dejar de respirar el humo de la hierba que fuma tu abuela. No es bueno para ti.
—Bien. —Molly cruzó los brazos a la altura del pecho—. ¿Puedo preguntar solo una cosa, señorita marimandona?
—Supongo —respondió Mary.
El pelo, que solía llevar liso y recogido en una coleta, le caía suelto sobre los hombros. Jared pensó que estaba preciosa.
—¿Sois novios?
Mary miró a Jared y abrió la boca para decir algo. Antes de que pudiera hablar, él se atrevió a retirar una mano del volante y señalar al frente, un amplio aparcamiento bañado en luz halógena. Estaba abarrotado de coches.
—Shopwell a la vista.
5
—Esto es _de locos_ —dijo Mary.
— _De locos_ locos —coincidió Molly.
Jared estacionó en la hierba al fondo del aparcamiento de Shopwell. Probablemente fuera otra infracción, pero casi intrascendente en vista de que en el propio aparcamiento parecía disputarse una carrera de demolición. Los coches circulaban a velocidades temerarias por los pocos carriles libres, tocando el claxon a los compradores que empujaban carritos llenos. Mientras observaban la escena, dos carritos chocaron y los hombres que los llevaban iniciaron un intercambio de gritos.
—Quizá sea mejor que te quedes en el coche, Molly.
—Ni hablar. —La niña agarró a Jared de la mano—. No vas a dejarme aquí. Ninguno de los dos. _Por favor._ Mi madre me dejó una vez en un aparcamiento y...
—Vamos, pues —atajó Mary. Señaló uno de los carriles centrales—. Vayamos por ahí. Habrá menos probabilidades de que nos atropellen.
Los tres zigzaguearon por el laberinto de automóviles abandonados. Acababan de pasar por delante de uno de esos huérfanos cuando una furgoneta Dodge Ram retrocedió en su plaza y empujó a los vehículos de atrás hasta que dispuso de espacio suficiente para escapar. La Ram pasó junto a ellos con un rugido; el portón trasero recién abollado batía como una mandíbula desencajada.
Dentro, Shopwell era un caos. Se oían balbuceos. Se oían bramidos. Gritos y ruido de cristales rotos. Los hombres vociferaban. Mientras ellos permanecían junto a las pilas de cestas de la compra y los pocos carritos que quedaban, pasó a la carrera un hombre delgado con traje y corbata empujando un carrito hasta los topes de Red Bull, Blast-O Cola y Monster Energy. Lo perseguía un individuo fornido con vaqueros y camiseta; calzaba botas de motorista, y sus pisadas retumbaban.
—¡No puede llevarse todo eso! —exclamó el de las botas de motorista.
—¡Eso va por orden de llegada! —contestó el del traje y la corbata sin volverse—. ¡Va por orden de lle...!
Intentó un brusco viraje a la derecha en el pasillo 7 (comida para mascotas y artículos de papel), pero, por efecto del peso y la inercia, el carrito sobrecargado fue a estrellarse contra un expositor de galletas para perros, que salieron volando. El de las botas de motorista se abalanzó de inmediato sobre el carrito y se apropió de varios packs de bebidas energéticas. Cuando el del traje y la corbata intentó recuperar el carrito, el de las botas lo apartó de un empujón. El del traje y la corbata cayó al suelo.
Jared miró a Mary.
—¿Dónde está la sección de fruta y verdura? Es la primera vez que vengo aquí.
—Por allí, me parece.
Señaló hacia la izquierda.
Con Molly a caballito, pasó por encima del hombre del traje y la corbata, quien, apoyado en una mano, se frotaba con la otra la parte posterior de la cabeza.
—Ese tío se ha vuelto loco —comentó Jared—. Todo por unas bebidas energéticas.
—Lo sé. —Sin señalar lo evidente: que el del traje y la corbata pretendía escapar con una carretada de eso mismo.
— _Todos_ se han vuelto locos. ¿Qué se han pensado que es esto? ¿Un _huracán_? ¿Un puto _temporal_? —Miró de reojo a Molly y dijo—: Perdona.
—Ah, no te preocupes, mis padres lo dicen todo el tiempo —contestó Molly. Se agarró aún más fuerte a Jared.
Pescado y Carne, la sección situada a lo largo de la pared del fondo, estaba relativamente en calma, pero el pasillo 4 —Vitaminas, Suplementos para la Salud y Analgésicos— era una zona en guerra. Se había librado una batalla por los frascos marrones de Genestra, Lumiday, Natrol y otra media docena de marcas de venta sin receta. En los estantes centrales no quedaba nada, y Jared dedujo que era ahí donde antes se hallaban los suplementos destinados a combatir el sueño.
Una anciana que vestía un muumuu azul estampado enfiló apresuradamente hacia ellos por el pasillo, perseguida por J. T. Wittstock, entrenador del equipo de fútbol y padre de dos de los ayudantes de la madre de Jared, Will y Rupe Wittstock. Jared no conocía al entrenador como para dirigirle la palabra, pero en la fiesta que el departamento organizaba el día del Trabajo Will y Rupe habían ganado la carrera de sacos y luego estuvieron a punto de pelearse a puñetazos por ver quién se quedaba el trofeo, valorado en cinco dólares. (Lila, siempre muy diplomática en lo referente a sus hombres y las familias de estos, los describió como «muy jóvenes y rebosantes de energía».)
La mujer del muumuu avanzaba con dificultad por el peso de la cesta, repleta de botellas de un producto llamado Vita-Caff. El entrenador Wittstock la agarró por el cuello y tiró de ella hacia atrás. La cesta salió despedida y las botellas se dispersaron, varias rodaron hacia Jared, Mary y Molly.
—¡No! —gritó la anciana—. ¡Por favor, no! ¡Podemos compartirlo! ¡Podemos com...!
—Se ha agenciado de todo lo que quedaba —gruñó el entrenador Wittstock—. ¿A eso lo llama compartir? Necesito algunas para mi mujer.
El entrenador y la mujer del muumuu se dispusieron a recoger las botellas del suelo. Él la mandó contra una estantería de un empujón, con la consiguiente lluvia de cajas de aspirinas.
—¡Matón! —exclamó ella—. ¡Más que matón!
Sin pensárselo dos veces, Jared dio un paso al frente, apoyó un pie en la calva del entrenador Wittstock y lo empujó a un lado. El entrenador Wittstock se desplomó. La mujer empezó a rellenar la cesta. El entrenador se quedó en cuclillas detrás de ella un momento, con una mano en el suelo, como un jugador de fútbol, lanzando miradas a un lado y al otro. En el cuero cabelludo se le veía, marcada ligeramente, la huella de la zapatilla de Jared. De pronto saltó hacia delante y agarró la cesta medio llena con la atlética agilidad de un mono que robara una naranja. Al pasar a todo correr junto a Jared (lanzándole una mirada amenazadora con la que le decía: _Me he quedado con tu cara, chaval_ ), lo embistió con el hombro, y Jared, con Molly todavía a cuestas, dio varias vueltas antes de caer al suelo. Molly dejó escapar un gemido.
Mary hizo ademán de acercarse. Jared negó con la cabeza.
—Estamos bien. Asegúrate de que _ella_ también lo está —indicó, mirando a la mujer del muumuu, que recogía las pocas botellas de Vita-Caff que el entrenador Wittstock había dejado.
Mary apoyó una rodilla en el suelo.
—Señora, ¿se encuentra bien?
—Creo que sí —contestó la mujer—. Solo un poco nerviosa. ¿Por qué ese hombre...? Supongo que... ha dicho que tenía mujer... tal vez una hija... pero yo también tengo una hija.
El bolso de la anciana había acabado entre el género esparcido por el pasillo. Los compradores que se disputaban los frascos de suplementos, ya escasos, no le prestaban atención. Jared ayudó a Molly a levantarse y devolvió el bolso a la mujer, que guardó en él las botellas de Vita-Caff.
—Ya pagaré por esto otro día —dijo. Y mientras Mary la ayudaba a ponerse en pie, añadió—: Gracias. Compro aquí muy a menudo, y algunas de estas personas son vecinos míos, pero esta noche no reconozco a nadie.
Renqueante, con el bolso bien sujeto contra el pecho, se alejó.
—¡Quiero volver a casa de la abuela! —exclamó Molly.
—Consigue tú eso —dijo Mary a Jared—. La mujer se llama Norma, y tiene el pelo rubio y rizado, muy abundante. Yo llevaré a Molly al coche.
—Lo sé. Me lo ha dicho la señora Ransom —respondió Jared—. Tened cuidado.
Mary se marchó con Molly cogida de la mano. De pronto se dio media vuelta.
—Si se resiste a venderte, dile que te manda Eric Blass. Puede que eso ayude.
Mary debió de percibir una expresión dolida en los ojos de Jared, porque le dirigió una mueca parca antes de echar a trotar hacia la salida del supermercado, inclinada en actitud protectora sobre la niña asustada.
6
Hacia la mitad de la larga sección de fruta y verdura, había un hombre fumándose un cigarrillo. Vestía pantalón y casaca blancos, y bordado en el bolsillo del lado izquierdo del pecho, en hilo rojo, se leía ENCARGADO DE FRUTA Y VERDURA. Exhibía una expresión casi plácida mientras observaba el alboroto reinante en la tienda.
Vio acercarse a Jared, lo saludó con la cabeza y habló como si reanudasen una conversación ya iniciada.
—Esta mierda se calmará cuando todas las mujeres estén dormidas. Son ellas las que causan la mayor parte de los problemas, ¿sabes? Tienes delante a un hombre que sí lo sabe. He perdido tres veces en las guerras del matrimonio. Además, no solo he perdido. He sufrido derrotas aplastantes en todos los casos. Como si el matrimonio fuera Vicksburg, y yo, el Ejército Confederado.
—Busco a...
—Norma, muy probablemente —adivinó el encargado de la sección de fruta y verdura.
—¿Está?
—No. Se ha marchado hace media hora, después de vender hasta lo último que le quedaba de su producto. Excepto lo que se guarda para ella, supongo. Aunque tengo arándanos frescos. Añádelos a los cereales, y despejan en el acto.
—Gracias, pero no —contestó Jared.
—Tiene su lado bueno —comentó el encargado—: pronto dejaré de pagar pensiones alimenticias. El Sur se alza de nuevo. Nos mataron, pero aún no nos han derrotado.
—¿Cómo?
—Solo muertos, no derrotados. «Le mandaré un pedazo del faldón de la levita de Lincoln, coronel.» Es una frase de Faulkner. ¿Es que hoy día no os enseñan nada en el colegio?
Jared se abrió paso hacia la salida del supermercado, eludiendo las refriegas en las colas de las cajas. Había varias desatendidas, y los compradores pasaban por delante a toda prisa con las cestas cargadas.
Fuera, sentado en el banco de la parada del autobús, un hombre con una camisa de cuadros sostenía en el regazo una cesta llena de latas de café Maxwell House. Advirtió la mirada de Jared.
—Mi mujer está echándose una siesta —informó—, pero seguro que no tarda en despertarse.
—Espero que eso le dé resultado —dijo Jared, y echó a correr.
En el Datsun, Mary estaba sentada el asiento del acompañante con Molly en las rodillas. Dio una sacudida a la niña en cuanto Jared se puso al volante y, al hablar, levantó demasiado la voz.
—¡Aquí está, aquí está nuestro amigo Jared!
—Hola, Jared —saludó Molly con voz ronca y llorosa.
—A Molly le había entrado sueño —explicó Mary con la misma voz demasiado alta y alegre de antes—. Pero ya está despierta. ¡ _Muuuy_ despierta! Las dos lo estamos, ¿verdad, Mols? Háblanos un poco más de Olive, ¿quieres?
La niña abandonó el regazo de Mary y pasó al asiento trasero.
—No quiero.
—¿Lo has conseguido? —Esta vez Mary habló en voz baja. Baja y tensa—. ¿Lo has...?
Jared puso el coche en marcha.
—Ya se había ido. Se nos ha adelantado un montón de gente. No has tenido suerte. La señora Ransom, tampoco.
Salió del aparcamiento de Shopwell a toda velocidad, esquivando sin esfuerzo a los coches que intentaban cruzarse en su camino. Estaba demasiado alterado para preocuparse por si conducía bien o mal, y de ahí que lo hiciera mejor que antes.
—¿Ya nos vamos a casa de la abuela? Quiero ir a casa de la abuela.
—En cuanto deje a Mary —contestó Jared—. Necesita llamar a Eric, su amigo del alma, para ver si ha pillado. —Por un segundo arremeter contra ella, descargar el miedo que lo invadía, le sirvió de desahogo. Pero solo por un segundo. Fue una idiotez, algo infantil. Lo lamentó y sin embargo, al parecer, no pudo evitarlo.
—¿Qué quiere decir «pillar»? —preguntó Molly, pero nadie contestó.
Estaba anocheciendo cuando llegaron a casa de los Pak. Jared enfiló el camino de acceso y dejó el Datsun de la señora Ransom en punto muerto.
Mary lo observó en la creciente oscuridad de la primera noche de Aurora.
—Jere. No pensaba ir con él a ver a Arcade Fire. Iba a cancelar la cita.
Jared guardó silencio. Tal vez decía la verdad, tal vez no. Lo único que sabía era que Eric y ella hacían buenas migas hasta el punto de que él le había dado el nombre de una traficante del pueblo.
—Te estás comportando como un niño —le reprochó Mary.
Jared mantuvo la mirada fija al frente.
—Pues vale —dijo Mary—. Muy bien, bebé. El bebé quiere su biberón. Por mí puede irse todo a la mierda. Y tú también.
—Os estáis peleando como mi padre y mi madre —intervino Molly, y rompió a llorar de nuevo—. Me gustaría que pararais. Me gustaría que fuerais novios otra vez.
Mary se apeó, cerró de un portazo y echó a andar por el camino de acceso.
Casi había llegado a los escalones de atrás cuando Jared cayó en la cuenta de que existía una posibilidad real de que cuando volviese a verla, estuviera envuelta en una mortaja blanca de origen desconocido. Miró a Molly y dijo:
—Mantén los ojos abiertos. Si te duermes, te daré un coscorrón.
Jared bajó del coche y corrió detrás de Mary. La alcanzó justo cuando abría la puerta de atrás. Sobresaltada, se volvió hacia él. Una nube de mariposas nocturnas revoloteaba en torno a la lámpara exterior, y sus sombras zigzagueantes moteaban la cara de Mary.
—Perdona —dijo Jared—. Mary, lo siento mucho. Es que todo esto es una locura. Por lo que sé, mi madre podría estar dormida en su coche en algún sitio, y tengo miedo, y no he conseguido lo que necesitabas, y lo siento.
—Vale —contestó ella.
—Esta noche no te duermas, por favor. —Jared la estrechó entre sus brazos y la besó. Para asombro suyo, ella le devolvió el beso, con la boca abierta, y los alientos de ambos se fundieron.
—Estoy oficialmente despierta —dijo ella al tiempo que se apartaba para mirarlo a la cara—. Ahora coge a Caperucita Roja la Chismosa y llévala con su abuela.
Jared bajó un par de peldaños, se lo pensó mejor, regresó y la besó otra vez.
—Uau —exclamó Molly cuando volvió al coche. Por el tono, Jared advirtió que su humor había mejorado drásticamente—. Vaya morreo que os habéis pegado.
—Sí, ¿verdad? —dijo Jared. Se sentía aturdido, un desconocido dentro de su propio cuerpo. Aún notaba el contacto de los labios de ella y el sabor de su aliento—. Te llevo a casa.
El último tramo de ese largo y extraño viaje era solo de nueve manzanas, y Jared lo recorrió sin percances hasta llegar por fin a Tremaine Street y pasar por delante de las casa vacías. Entró en el camino de acceso de la señora Ransom. Los haces de los faros iluminaron la silueta sentada en una tumbona, un cuerpo sin rostro. Jared pisó el freno. La señora Ransom permaneció inmóvil bajo el resplandor, una momia.
Molly se puso a gritar, y Jared apagó los faros. Dio marcha atrás e introdujo el Datsun en su propio camino de acceso, en la acera opuesta.
Después desabrochó el cinturón de seguridad de Molly y la sacó del coche en brazos. La niña se aferró a él, y eso estuvo bien. Fue una sensación agradable.
—No te preocupes —dijo Jared, acariciándole el pelo. Lo tenía pegoteado en mechones, apelmazado por el sudor—. Vas a quedarte conmigo. Ponemos unas películas y nos pasamos toda la noche despiertos.
### 14
1
Maura Dumbarton —en su día objeto de titulares, ya prácticamente olvidada— se encontraba sentada en la parte inferior de la litera de la B-11, la celda que había compartido con Kayleigh Rawlings los últimos cuatro años. La puerta estaba abierta. En el módulo B todas las celdas permanecían abiertas, y Maura dudaba mucho de que esa noche las cerraran desde la Garita. No, esa noche no. Tenía puesto NewsAmerica en el pequeño televisor instalado en la pared, pero había quitado el sonido. Sabía qué estaba ocurriendo; a esas alturas ya se había enterado hasta la reclusa más lerda de Dooling. DISTURBIOS EN EL PAÍS Y EN EL EXTRANJERO, rezaba la banda deslizante al pie de la pantalla. Seguía una lista de ciudades. La mayoría de ellas eran de Estados Unidos, porque uno se preocupaba antes de su propia gente que de quienes vivían en lugares más lejanos, pero Maura había leído también Calcuta, Sidney, Moscú, Ciudad del Cabo, Ciudad de México, Bombay y Londres antes de dejar de mirar.
Tenía su gracia si una se paraba a pensarlo: ¿por qué se manifestaban todos esos hombres? ¿Qué creían que iban a conseguir? Maura se preguntó si habría disturbios en caso de que hubiera sido la otra mitad del género humano la que se quedara dormida. Lo consideraba improbable.
La cabeza de Kayleigh, envuelta en un casco blanco que palpitaba al ritmo de su respiración, descansaba en el regazo de Maura. Esta tenía sujeta una de las manos enguantadas de blanco de Kayleigh, pero en ningún momento trató de manipular aquel tejido. Por el sistema de megafonía de la cárcel, habían advertido de que podía ser peligroso, y en los noticiarios habían difundido el mismo aviso. A pesar de que los filamentos eran un poco pegajosos y muy densos, Maura notaba dentro los dedos de Kayleigh, como lápices en gruesas fundas de plástico. Kayleigh y ella habían sido amantes casi desde el momento en que Kayleigh, mucho más joven, se instaló en la B-11, condenada por agresión a mano armada. Pese a la diferencia de edad, congeniaban. El sentido del humor un tanto disparatado de Kayleigh cuadraba bien con el cinismo de Maura. Kay tenía buen carácter, y llenaba los vacíos que habían creado en la personalidad de Maura las cosas que había visto y las cosas que había hecho. Era una bailarina consumada, besaba de maravilla, y aunque de un tiempo a esa parte no hacían el amor con frecuencia, cuando lo hacían, aún era satisfactorio. Mientras yacían juntas con las piernas entrelazadas, durante un rato no existía la cárcel, ni el desconcertante mundo exterior. Existían solo ellas.
Kayleigh también cantaba de maravilla; había ganado el concurso de caza de talentos de la cárcel tres años consecutivos. En octubre del año anterior, no quedaba un solo ojo seco en la sala cuando acabó de cantar, _a capella_ , «The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face». Maura supuso que todo eso ya era agua pasada. La gente hablaba en sueños, pero pocos, si es que había alguien, cantaban en sueños. Incluso si Kayleigh llegaba a sentir el impulso de cantar, su voz quedaría ahogada. ¿Y si esa porquería le cubría también la garganta? ¿Y los pulmones? Seguramente así era, aunque en ese caso resultaba un misterio que pudiera seguir respirando.
Maura levantó una rodilla, luego la otra, las movió a izquierda y derecha, arriba y abajo, meciendo con delicadeza a su amante.
—¿Por qué has tenido que dormirte, cariño? ¿No podías esperar?
Aparecieron Jeanette y Angel empujando un carrito con dos grandes cafeteras y dos grandes jarras de zumo. Maura las olió antes de verlas, porque aquel brebaje despedía un olor _amargo_. Las acompañaba el funcionario Rand Quigley. Maura se preguntó cuántas celadoras quedarían. Supuso que no muchas. Y al siguiente turno se presentarían pocas. Quizá ninguna.
—¿Café, Maura? —preguntó Angel—. Joder, ya verás qué subidón.
—No —contestó Maura. Subía y bajaba las rodillas. Las subía y las bajaba. Mécete, Kayleigh, en la copa del árbol.
—¿Seguro? Te dará marcha. Si miento, que se me lleve el viento.
—No —repitió Maura—. Seguid.
A Quigley no le gustó el tono de Maura.
—Vigile esa boca, reclusa.
—O si no, ¿qué? ¿Me dejará grogui de un golpe de porra en la cabeza? Adelante. A lo mejor solo así consigo dormirme.
Quigley no respondió. Parecía tener los nervios a flor de piel. Maura no entendía por qué. A él aquello no lo afectaría; ningún hombre llevaría esa cruz.
—Tienes insomnio, ¿eh? —dijo Angel.
—Sí. Es fácil reconocer a un igual.
—Afortunadas nosotras —afirmó Angel.
Te equivocas, pensó Maura. _Des_ afortunadas nosotras.
—¿Esa es Kayleigh? —preguntó Jeanette.
—No —contestó Maura—. Debajo de esta mierda está la puta Whoopi Goldberg.
—Lo siento —dijo Jeanette, y parecía sincera, lo cual llegó a Maura al corazón de un modo contra el que había intentado prevenirse. No lloraría delante del funcionario Quigley, ni de esas jóvenes. No lloraría.
—Seguid, he dicho.
Cuando se marcharon con el puto carrito del café, Maura se inclinó hacia su compañera de celda durmiente, si a eso podía llamárselo dormir. A Maura le parecía más bien el hechizo de un cuento de hadas.
Para ella, el amor había llegado tarde, y el hecho de que hubiese llegado ya era un milagro, era muy consciente. Como si una rosa hubiese florecido en el cráter abierto por una bomba. Debería dar las gracias por el tiempo del que habían disfrutado juntas, como decían las tarjetas de felicitación y las canciones pop. Sin embargo, al ver la grotesca membrana que cubría el tierno rostro de Kayleigh, advirtió que su pozo de gratitud, nunca rebosante, se había secado.
Pero no sus ojos. Ya sin la presencia de las repartidoras de café y el funcionario Quigley (no quedaba más que la estela hedionda de aquel extraño brebaje), se abandonó al llanto. Las lágrimas cayeron en la tela que envolvía la cabeza de Kayleigh, y la sustancia blanca absorbió la humedad con avidez.
Si ella está en algún sitio cercano, y si yo pudiera dormirme, quizá podría llegar a su lado. Así podríamos estar juntas.
Pero no. Por el insomnio. Había convivido con él desde la noche que asesinó metódicamente a toda su familia, terminando por Slugger, el viejo pastor alemán. Lo acarició, lo tranquilizó, dejó que le lamiera la mano y después lo degolló. Si de noche conseguía un par de horas de inconsciencia, lo consideraba una suerte. Muchas noches no dormía nada... y en Dooling las noches podían ser largas. Pero Dooling era solo un lugar. A lo largo de esos años, el insomnio había sido su verdadera cárcel. El insomnio era ilimitado, y nunca le ganaba un informe por buena conducta.
Seguiré despierta cuando casi todas se hayan dormido, pensó. Tanto las celadoras como las reclusas. Tendré que dirigir este sitio. Siempre en el supuesto de que quiera quedarme, claro. ¿Y por qué habría de querer irme a otra parte? Puede que despierte mi Kayleigh. Con algo así, todo es posible. ¿No?
Maura no sabía cantar como Kayleigh —demonios, cantaba peor que una rana—, pero había una canción que a Kayleigh le gustaba mucho, y Maura la entonó a la vez que subía y bajaba las rodillas con delicadeza, como si accionase los pedales de un órgano invisible. El marido de Maura la escuchaba a todas horas, y ella se había aprendido la letra por ósmosis. Kay se la oyó una vez mientras cantaba para sí y le pidió que se la enseñase. «¡Eh, eso es indecoroso!», exclamó Kayleigh. Procedía de un elepé de una panda de memos irlandeses. Eso era prueba del tiempo que Maura llevaba entre rejas. Su marido tenía una amplia colección de elepés. Él ya daba igual. El señor Dunbarton había entrado en el sueño eterno la mañana del 7 de enero de 1984, muy temprano. Maura lo pasó a cuchillo a él primero, se lo clavó en pleno pecho, lo hundió como una pala en marga, y cuando él se incorporó, sus ojos dijeron: ¿ _Por qué?_
_Porque sí_ , __ por eso. Y lo habría matado a él o a cualquiera una y otra vez, lo haría en ese mismo momento, si eso le devolviera a Kayleigh.
—Escucha, Kay, escucha:
» _En la cárcel de mujeres, setenta mujeres hay... y ojalá con ellas yo viviera..._
En el pequeño televisor, el centro de Las Vegas parecía en llamas.
_—Así, ese viejo triángulo... tintinearía..._
Se inclinó y besó el capullo blanco que había ocultado el rostro de Kayleigh. Le supo amargo en los labios, pero no le importó, porque Kayleigh estaba debajo. Su Kay.
_—Por las orillas... del Canal Real._
Maura se reclinó, cerró los ojos y rezó para que la venciera el sueño. No la venció.
2
Richland Lane torcía a la izquierda con suavidad antes de terminar en un pequeño parque. Lo primero que Lila vio al rebasar la curva fue un par de cubos de basura volcados en la calle. Lo segundo fue un corrillo de vecinos que chillaban delante de la casa de los Elway.
Una adolescente en chándal corrió hacia el coche patrulla. Al resplandor de las luces de emergencia, su rostro era una imagen intermitente de consternación. Lila pisó el freno y, al tiempo que abría la puerta, desabrochó la correa de la empuñadura de la pistola.
—¡Venga, deprisa! —gritó la chica—. ¡Lo está matando!
Lila se dirigió rápidamente hacia la casa, apartó uno de los cubos de basura de un puntapié y se abrió paso a empujones entre dos hombres. Uno alzó una mano ensangrentada.
—He intentado impedírselo, y ese mal bicho me ha mordido. Parecía un perro rabioso.
Lila se detuvo al final del camino de acceso y, con el arma suspendida junto al muslo derecho, intentó asimilar lo que veía: una mujer en cuclillas en el asfalto, aparentemente envuelta en un camisón de muselina, ajustado y andrajoso a la vez, con incontables hilos sueltos. Ladrillos decorativos, pintados patrióticamente de rojo, blanco y azul, flanqueaban el camino. La mujer sostenía uno en la mano izquierda y otro en la derecha. Con los bordes, golpeaba el cuerpo de un hombre vestido con un uniforme ensangrentado del departamento del sheriff de Dooling. Lila pensó que debía de ser Roger, aunque habría que tomarle las huellas dactilares o una muestra de ADN para cerciorarse; salvo por los restos del ancho mentón, su rostro había desaparecido, hundido como un yacón pisoteado. La sangre, que corría en riachuelos por el camino, emitía destellos azules cada vez que la iluminaban las luces de emergencia del coche patrulla.
La mujer en cuclillas junto a Roger gruñía. Se le veía el rostro sonrojado —el rostro de Jessica Elway—, solo parcialmente cubierto por los jirones de tela que su marido, en un error fatídico, había intentado retirarle. Tenía enguantadas en rojo las manos, cerradas en torno a los ladrillos.
_Esa no es Jessica Elway_ , pensó Lila. _No puede ser, ¿o sí?_
—¡Para! —ordenó Lila a voz en grito—. ¡Para ahora mismo!
Asombrosamente, la mujer obedeció. Alzó la vista, con los ojos inyectados en sangre y tan abiertos que parecían ocuparle la mitad de la cara. Se irguió con un ladrillo goteante en cada mano. Uno rojo, uno azul. Dios bendiga América. Lila vio un par de dientes de Roger adheridos al tejido que colgaba de la barbilla de su mujer.
—Cuidado, sheriff —la advirtió uno de los hombres—. Desde luego que parece que tenga la rabia.
—¡Suéltalos! —Levantó la Glock. Lila nunca se había sentido tan cansada, pero mantuvo el brazo firme—. ¡Suelta los ladrillos!
Jessica soltó uno, y dio la impresión de que se quedaba pensando. Luego alzó el otro y echó a correr, no hacia Lila, sino hacia uno de los hombres que se había acercado para ver mejor y, por mucho que a Lila le costara creerlo, tomar una fotografía. Enfocaba a Jessica con el móvil. Cuando se le acercó, chilló y, dándose media vuelta, huyó con la cabeza gacha y los hombros encorvados. Derribó a la chica del chándal.
— _¡Suéltalo, suéltalo, suéltalo!_
La cosa-Jessica no prestó atención. Se abalanzó sobre la chica del chándal y alzó el ladrillo que aún sostenía. No había nadie detrás de ella, todos los vecinos se habían dispersado. Lila disparó dos veces, y la cabeza de Jessica Elway estalló. Salieron despedidos hacia atrás pedazos de cuero cabelludo con pelo amarillo todavía adherido.
—Dios mío. Dios mío. Dios mío. —Era la chica caída.
Lila la ayudó a levantarse.
—Vete a casa, cielo. —Cuando la chica hizo ademán de mirar hacia Jessica Elway, Lila la obligó a volver la cabeza. Levantó la voz—. ¡Váyanse todos a sus casas! ¡Entren en sus casas! ¡Ahora mismo!
El hombre del móvil se acercaba de nuevo poco a poco, buscando un buen ángulo, uno desde donde capturar todos los detalles de la carnicería. Pero no era un hombre. Bajo el pelo rubio rojizo se dibujaban las facciones poco definidas de un adolescente. Lo reconoció de haber visto su foto en el periódico del pueblo. Era alumno del instituto —Lila no sabía cómo se llamaba—, una estrella de algún deporte, probablemente. Lo señaló con un dedo tembloroso.
—Como saques una foto con eso, te lo tragas.
El chico —era Curt McLeod, el amigo de Eric Blass— la miró fijamente con expresión ceñuda.
—Esto es un país libre, ¿no?
—Esta noche no —contestó Lila. A continuación levantó la voz, sorprendiéndose tanto a sí misma como al grupo de vecinos—. ¡Fuera de aquí! ¡Fuera de aquí! _¡LARGO!_
Curt y los otros se marcharon; algunos lanzaban miradas furtivas hacia atrás, como si temieran que Lila fuera a perseguirlos, tan enloquecida como la mujer a la que acababa de abatir de un tiro en la calle.
—¡Ya sabía yo que se equivocaban poniendo a una mujer en el puesto de sheriff! —profirió un individuo por encima del hombro.
Lila contuvo el impulso de hacerle un corte de mangas y regresó al coche patrulla. Cuando un mechón de pelo le cayó ante los ojos, se lo apartó con un escalofrío de terror, pensando que aquellas hebras intentaban brotar de nuevo de su piel. Se apoyó en la puerta, respiró hondo un par de veces y activó el micro.
—¿Linny?
—Aquí estoy, jefa.
—¿Ha ido todo el mundo?
Un silencio.
—Bueno —dijo Linny al fin—. Tengo a cinco. Los dos Wittstock, Elmore, Vern y Dan Treat. Y Reed no tardará en volver. Su mujer... se ha dormido. Supongo que el vecino cuidará del pequeño Gary, el pobrecillo...
Lila calculó que, por tanto, disponían de ocho agentes, no muchos si aspirabas a contener la anarquía. Ninguna de las tres mujeres del departamento había respondido a las llamadas de Linny. Eso llevó a Lila a preguntarse cómo irían las cosas en la cárcel. Cerró los ojos, empezó a adormilarse y se obligó a abrirlos.
Linny había pasado a hablar de las innumerables llamadas de emergencia. Más de diez o doce eran de hombres que, como Reed Barrows, habían quedado de pronto como únicos tutores de niños varones de corta edad.
—¡Varios de esos idiotas irresponsables querían que les explicara cómo dar de comer a sus propios hijos! Un imbécil va y me pregunta si la Agencia Federal para la Gestión de Emergencias prevé habilitar un espacio para ocuparse de los niños, porque tiene entradas para un...
—¿Hay alguien en la oficina?
—¿Alguien de dónde? ¿De la Agencia Federal para la Gestión de Emergencias?
—No, Linny, ahí, algún ayudante. —Pero no Terry. Por favor, él no. Lila no quería que Terry viese los restos del hombre con quien más había patrullado en los últimos cinco años.
—Me temo que no. Aquí solo queda ese viejo de Adopte una Carretera y del departamento de Bomberos Voluntarios. Quería saber si podía hacer algo. Está fuera, fumando en su pipa.
El cerebro exhausto y conmocionado de Lila tardó unos segundos en procesar la información. Willy Burke, que sabía lo que eran los pañuelos de hada, y que conducía una furgoneta Ford destartalada.
—Lo necesito.
—¿A ese? ¿En serio?
—Sí. Estoy en el número 65 de Richland Lane.
—¿Eso no es...?
—Sí. Mal asunto, Linny. Muy mal asunto. Jessica ha matado a Roger. Él ha debido de cortarle la tela de la cara. Ella lo ha perseguido hasta la calle y luego... ha ido a por un chico armada con un ladrillo, un gilipollas que pretendía hacerle una puta foto. Esa mujer ha perdido la cabeza. —¿Qué cabeza?, pensó Lila—. Le he ordenado que parara y, como no ha obedecido, le he disparado. Está muerta. No me ha quedado elección.
—¿Roger ha _muerto_? —Ningún comentario sobre la muerte de la esposa. A Lila no le sorprendió. Linny siempre había sentido debilidad por Roger.
—Manda aquí a Willy. Dile que transportaremos los cadáveres al depósito del hospital. Debe traer una lona. Retén a los ayudantes en la oficina. Iré en cuanto pueda. Corto.
Bajó la cabeza y se preparó para llorar. Las lágrimas no le salieron. Se preguntó si podías ser incapaz de llorar a causa del cansancio. Parecía posible. Ese día todo parecía posible.
Le sonó el teléfono móvil en la pequeña funda que llevaba prendida del cinturón. Era Clint.
—Hola, Clint —contestó—. La verdad es que no es el mejor momento para hablar.
—¿Estás bien? —preguntó—. No se te nota bien.
Lila no sabía por dónde empezar. ¿Por Roger y Jessica Elway, muertos en el jardín? ¿Por la alucinación que había tenido junto a los cables de alta tensión en el bosque, detrás de los escombros del cobertizo de meta de Truman Mayweather? ¿Por Sheila Norcross? ¿Por Shannon Parks? ¿Por el día que Clint cerró la consulta sin previo aviso? ¿Por sus votos matrimoniales?
—No te está entrando sueño, ¿verdad? ¿Lila?
—No, aquí estoy.
—Janice está... fuera de servicio. Una larga historia. Hicks ha desaparecido. De algún modo he acabado a cargo del centro.
Lila dijo que lo sentía. Era una situación difícil, eso sin duda. Pero quizá su marido viera las cosas desde otra perspectiva en cuanto durmiera un poco. Él podía permitírselo: dormir, y después volver a despertar.
Dijo que iba a pasarse por casa para ver cómo estaba su hijo. Jared le había contado que se había hecho daño en una rodilla y no era nada grave, pero Clint prefería verlo con sus propios ojos. ¿Quería Lila reunirse con él allí?
—Lo intentaré. —Pero Lila no sabía cuándo podría escaparse. Lo único que sabía era que el día parecía que iba a alargarse otra vez.
3
—¿Has oído eso? —Una mujer había encontrado a Kayleigh Rawlings en la oscuridad. La mujer olía a alcohol y tenía el brazo suave. Magda, dijo que se llamaba—. Alguien canta, ¿no?
—Sí. —Era Maura quien cantaba. Maura tenía una voz de pena, y un sentido de la armonía que mareaba: arriba y abajo, chirriante y quebrado; y para Kayleigh en ese momento, su voz resultó de una dulzura incomparable, portadora de la letra absurda de aquella tonada picante.
—... _Canal Real..._
El canto se interrumpió.
—¿De dónde venía?
—No lo sé.
De algún lugar lejano, eso era lo único que Kayleigh podía afirmar con certeza. ¿Había llegado flotando desde Dooling? ¿Dónde _estaba_ Dooling? Desde luego aquello no era Dooling. ¿O sí? Costaba saberlo. En realidad era imposible.
Un viento ligero soplaba en círculo en la oscuridad. El aire era fresco y agradable, y bajo sus pies el suelo no parecía de cemento ni de baldosas pegajosas, sino de hierba. Se sentó en cuclillas y lo tocó: sí, era hierba, o maleza, alta hasta la rodilla. En algún sitio se oía el leve gorjeo de los pájaros. Kayleigh despertó sintiéndose fuerte, joven y descansada.
La penitenciaría le había robado doce años, casi toda la cuarta década de su vida y un par de años de la quinta, y le exigía aún otros diez. Maura era lo mejor de esos años perdidos. El arreglo que ambas tenían jamás habría sido posible fuera de aquellas paredes, eso por supuesto, pero en la cárcel una se las apañaba. Si Kayleigh hubiese abandonado de pronto el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, se habría acordado de Maura con afecto y gratitud, y habría pasado página. Una no se prendaba de la autora de un triple asesinato por extrañamente encantadora que la encontrara. Esa mujer estaba loca, Kayleigh no se hacía ilusiones al respecto. Aun así, quería a Kayleigh con toda su alma, y a Kayleigh le gustaba sentirse querida. Y en fin, quizá también ella, Kayleigh, estaba un poco loca.
Antes de la cárcel, no había conocido el amor despreocupado. Ni amor de ningún tipo, a decir verdad, no desde que era niña.
En un trabajo —no el golpe por el que la habían trincado—, Kayleigh y su novio desvalijaron a un traficante de pastillas que tenía la guarida en la parte de atrás de un motel por horas. En la habitación había un adolescente en una mecedora. La mecedora era bonita, reluciente de tan abrillantada, totalmente fuera de lugar en aquel motel de mala muerte, un trono en medio de la basura. El chico que estaba sentado en ella tenía un agujero enorme, volcánico, en la mejilla. Era una mezcla lustrosa y arremolinada de rojo e intenso negro; un destrozo virulento que emanaba un olor a carne podrida. ¿A qué se debía? ¿Había empezado con un arañazo, una herida, una pequeña infección? ¿O le habían clavado una navaja sucia? ¿Era una enfermedad? Kayleigh consideró una suerte no tener que saberlo ni por qué preocuparse.
Echó al chico unos dieciséis años. Se rascaba el vientre pálido y observaba mientras su novio y ella lo revolvían todo, en busca del alijo. ¿Qué más le pasaba para quedarse allí sentado tan tranquilo y observarlos sin miedo?
El novio de Kayleigh encontró lo que buscaba debajo del colchón de la cama y se lo guardó en la cazadora. Se volvió hacia el chico.
—Tienes la cara podrida —dijo—. ¿Lo sabes?
—Lo sé —contestó el chico.
—Bien. Ahora sal de esa puta mecedora, hijo.
El chico no opuso la menor resistencia. Se levantó de la mecedora y se dejó caer en la cama de muelles, donde se quedó tendido rascándose el vientre. Se llevaron la mecedora junto con el dinero y la droga. Podían cargar con ella porque el novio tenía una camioneta panel truck.
Esa era la clase de vida que Kayleigh llevaba por aquel entonces, una vida en la que, con su pasividad, había ayudado al hombre con el que se acostaba a robar la mecedora que ocupaba un crío. Un crío en un estado lastimoso. Y para colmo ese crío no había hecho nada al respecto. Se había quedado allí tendido, con la cara destrozada inclinada hacia el techo, rascándose el vientre sin hacer una mierda. Quizá porque estaba colocado. Quizá porque le importaba un carajo. Quizá por las dos cosas.
La brisa transportaba un aroma floral.
Kayleigh sintió una punzada de dolor por Maura, pero a la vez la asaltó una intuición: que aquel lugar era mejor, mejor que la cárcel, mejor que el mundo fuera de la cárcel. Parecía un espacio ilimitado, y notaba la tierra bajo los pies.
—Quienquiera que seas, debo decirte que estoy asustada —admitió Magda—. Y preocupada por Anton.
—No tengas miedo —dijo Kayleigh—. Seguro que Anton está bien. —No sabía quién era ni le importaba. Buscó a tientas la mano de Magda y la encontró—. Vayamos hacia el canto de los pájaros.
Al avanzar en la negrura, advirtieron que descendían por una pendiente suave, entre los árboles.
¿Y aquello de allí era un resplandor o una luz? ¿Era un asomo de sol en el cielo?
Amanecía cuando llegaron a los restos de una caravana situada entre la maleza. Desde allí siguieron un sendero casi desdibujado que las llevó hasta una carretera, Ball's Hill Road, la cual tenía el asfalto agrietado por el paso del tiempo.
### 15
1
El zorro dejó atrás la guarida de la Vieja Essie, atravesó en zigzag el bosque circundante y se detuvo a descansar en un rincón húmedo bajo un cobertizo invadido por la maleza. Una vez dormido, soñó que su madre le llevaba una rata, pero una rata podrida y envenenada, y él advertía que su madre estaba enferma. Tenía los ojos rojos, la boca abierta y torcida, y la lengua le colgaba hasta el suelo. Fue entonces cuando recordó que su madre ya no estaba, su madre había desaparecido hacía muchas estaciones. La había visto tenderse en la hierba alta, y al día siguiente continuaba tendida en el mismo sitio, pero ya no era su madre.
—Hay veneno en las paredes —dijo la rata muerta en la boca de su madre muerta—. Ella dice que la Tierra se compone de nuestros cuerpos. Yo la creo y, ay, el dolor no cesa. Incluso la muerte duele.
Una nube de mariposas nocturnas se abatió sobre la madre muerta del zorro y la rata muerta.
—No te detengas, hijo —dijo su madre—. Tienes trabajo que hacer.
El zorro despertó sobresaltado y acusó un dolor agudo al golpearse el lomo con el filo de algo que sobresalía, un clavo, un cristal o la astilla de una tabla. Era casi de noche.
Cerca de allí se produjo un estrépito atronador: metal y madera, un silbido de vapor, el crepitar violento del fuego. El zorro salió como una flecha de debajo del cobertizo invadido por la maleza y apretó a correr hacia la carretera. Al otro lado de la carretera, se hallaba el bosque más extenso y, confiaba el zorro, el terreno más seguro.
En la cuneta había un coche empotrado contra un árbol. Una mujer en llamas tiraba de un hombre para sacarlo del asiento delantero. El hombre gritaba. El sonido que emitía la mujer envuelta en fuego era un aullido canino. El zorro entendió su significado: «Te mataré, te mataré, te mataré» _._ Volutas de tela incendiada se agitaban en torno a su cuerpo.
Las circunstancias exigían una decisión. Entre los primeros preceptos personales del zorro figuraba este: No Cruzarás la Carretera en Pleno Día. De día circulaban más coches, y los coches no se dejaban intimidar ni ahuyentar, y menos aún vencer. Cuando pasaban a toda velocidad por el asfalto, emitían también un sonido, y si escuchabas con atención (un zorro siempre escuchaba con atención), descubrías que ese sonido se componía de palabras, y las palabras eran: «Quiero matarte, quiero matarte, quiero matarte» _._ Los restos calientes y húmedos de animales que habían desoído esas palabras habían proporcionado al zorro muchos excelentes bocados.
No obstante, un zorro que pretendiese sobrevivir debía mantener una actitud flexible ante el peligro. Necesitaba sopesar la amenaza de un coche que _quería_ matarlo y la de una mujer en llamas que anunciaba que _iba a_ matarlo.
El zorro echó a correr. Al pasar junto a ella, sintió el calor del fuego en el pelaje y la herida del lomo. La mujer en llamas había empezado a estampar la cabeza del hombre contra el asfalto, y el bramido de ira cobró volumen, pero se desvaneció cuando el zorro bajó precipitadamente por el terraplén del lado opuesto de la carretera.
En el bosque grande aminoró el paso. A causa del corte en la parte posterior del lomo, le dolía la pata trasera derecha con cada pisada. Era de noche. Las hojas del año anterior crujían bajo las almohadillas del zorro. Se detuvo a beber en un arroyo. Espirales de aceite se arremolinaban en el agua, pero tenía sed y debía conformarse con lo que encontraba. Posado en un tocón junto al arroyo, un halcón picoteaba el vientre de una ardilla.
—¿Me dejas un poco? —preguntó el zorro alzando la voz—. Podría ser amigo tuyo.
—Los zorros no tienen amigos —contestó el halcón.
Era verdad, pero el zorro nunca lo reconocería.
—¿Qué embustero te ha dicho eso?
—No sé si sabes que estás sangrando —informó el halcón.
Al zorro no le gustó el tono del ave. Denotaba cierta impaciencia.
El zorro consideró prudente cambiar de tema.
—¿Qué ocurre? Noto algo distinto. ¿Qué le ha pasado al mundo?
—Más adelante hay un árbol. Un árbol nuevo. Un Árbol Madre. Ha aparecido al amanecer. Muy hermoso. Muy alto. He intentado volar hasta arriba del todo y he llegado a ver la copa, pero estaba más allá del alcance de mis alas. —Un pedazo muy rojo de intestino se desprendió con un chasquido del cuerpo de la ardilla y el halcón lo engulló.
El ave ladeó la cabeza. Al cabo de un segundo, llegó un olor al hocico del zorro: humo. Había sido una estación seca. Si la mujer en llamas había cruzado la carretera, bastarían unos pasos entre los matorrales para prenderlo todo.
El zorro tenía que ponerse de nuevo en marcha. Jadeó. Tenía miedo y estaba herido, pero conservaba el entendimiento.
—Tus ojos serán una buena comida para algún animal afortunado —auguró el halcón, y emprendió el vuelo, arrastrando con las garras el cuerpo inerte de la ardilla.
2
Como de costumbre, el Club de Lectura del Primer Jueves empezó a apartarse del texto de ese mes, que era _Expiación_ , __ de Ian McEwan. El argumento de la novela seguía los pasos de dos amantes, separados casi desde antes de que se iniciara su relación por la falsa acusación de una niña extraordinariamente imaginativa que se llamaba Briony.
Dorothy Harper, a sus setenta y nueve años la mayor autoridad del grupo, declaró que no podía perdonar a Briony su delito.
—Esa golfilla les arruinó la vida. ¿De qué sirve que se arrepienta?
—Según dicen, el cerebro no se desarrolla plenamente hasta que eres mucho mayor —observó Gail Collins—. Briony tenía solo once o doce años cuando mintió. No se la puede culpar. —Gail sostenía la copa de vino entre las dos manos, ahuecadas en torno al cáliz. Estaba sentada a la mesa rinconera, junto a la barra de la cocina.
Blanche McIntyre, la fiel ayudante de la directora Coates (fiel por norma general, al menos), había conocido a Gail en un curso de secretariado hacia treinta años. Margaret O'Donnell, el cuarto miembro del Club de Lectura del Primer Jueves, era hermana de Gail, y la única mujer a quien Blanche conocía con una cartera de valores.
—¿Quién dice eso? —preguntó Dorothy—. Lo del cerebro.
—Los científicos —contestó Gail.
—¡Majaderías! —Dorothy agitó una mano, como para apartar un mal olor. (Dorothy era la única mujer a quien Blanche conocía que aún decía cosas como «majaderías».)
—Es verdad. —Blanche había oído decir al doctor Norcross en la cárcel casi exactamente lo mismo, que el cerebro humano no se desarrollaba plenamente hasta pasados los veinte años. Pero ¿en serio sorprendía tanto? Si uno había conocido alguna vez a un adolescente (o, ya puestos, lo había sido), ¿no era eso axiomático? Los adolescentes no sabían qué demonios hacían, y menos los varones. ¿Y una niña de doce años? Ni remotamente.
Dorothy ocupaba el sillón junto a la ventana de delante. Estaban en su casa, un cuidado piso en una primera planta de Malloy Street con elegante moqueta de color pizarra y paredes recién pintadas de beige. Daba al bosque que se extendía detrás del edificio. Del actual malestar del mundo, la única señal visible era un incendio —a esa distancia, semejante a la llama de una cerilla—, al oeste, hacia Ball's Hill y la Interestatal 17.
—Fue una crueldad. Me da igual lo pequeño que tuviera el cerebro.
Blanche y Margaret estaban sentadas en el sofá. En la mesita de centro, había una botella de chablis abierta y otra de pinot con el corcho todavía puesto. Estaban también el plato con las galletas que había preparado Dorothy y los tres frascos de pastillas que había llevado Gail.
—A mí me ha encantado —afirmó Margaret—. Me ha encantado todo el libro. Todos los detalles sobre el trabajo de las enfermeras durante los bombardeos de Londres me han parecido asombrosos. ¡Y todo eso sobre la gran batalla y Francia y el viaje a pie hasta la costa, uau! ¡Eso sí que es una caminata! ¡Una caminata _épica_ , podría decirse! ¡Y la historia de amor! Tenía un lado _bastante_ picante. —Meneó la cabeza y se echó a reír.
Blanche se volvió para mirarla, molesta pese al hecho de que Margaret, como ella, estaba en el bando de aquellas a quienes había gustado _Expiación_. __ Margaret había trabajado para la compañía ferroviaria hasta que le ofrecieron una bonita suma por aceptar la jubilación anticipada; algunas personas tenían una suerte loca. No paraba de reírse, Margaret O'Donnell, lo cual era raro en alguien que pasaba de los setenta, y le chiflaban las figuras de animales de cerámica; tenía decenas en las repisas de las ventanas. Su última elección de libro había sido la novela de Hemingway sobre aquel idiota que se resistía a soltar el pez, libro que exasperó a Blanche, porque, aceptémoslo, no era más que un puñetero _pez_. Margaret también le había visto el romanticismo a ese. ¿Cómo podía una mujer así haber convertido el pellizco de la jubilación anticipada en una cartera de valores? Era un misterio.
—Vamos, Midge —dijo entonces Blanche—. Somos adultas. No nos comportemos como tontas por un poco de sexo.
—Ah, no, no es eso. Es que es un libro _extraordinario_. Tenemos suerte de despedirnos con este. —Margaret se frotó la frente. Escrutó a Blanche por encima de las gafas de carey—. ¿No habría sido horrible morir después de un mal libro?
—Supongo —contestó Blanche—, pero ¿quién dice que lo que está ocurriendo sea la muerte? ¿Quién dice que vayamos a morir?
La reunión se había programado para esa noche mucho antes de que se declarase Aurora —nunca se perdían un primer jueves—, y las cuatro viejas amigas habían pasado buena parte del día intercambiando mensajes de texto como adolescentes, dando vueltas y más vueltas a si, dadas las circunstancias, debían cancelarla o no. Pero todas habían rechazado la idea. El primer jueves era el primer jueves. Dorothy había dicho en uno de sus mensajes que si esa era su última noche, emborracharse con sus amigas se le antojaba la mejor opción.
Gail y Margaret se habían pronunciado en favor de eso mismo, y también Blanche, con cierta sensación de culpabilidad por dejar a la directora Coates en la estacada, pero estaba en su derecho; ya había hecho horas extras por las que el estado no la compensaría. Además, Blanche quería hablar del libro. A ella, como a Dorothy, la asombraba la maldad de la pequeña Briony, y también la forma en que esa niña mala había madurado hasta convertirse en una adulta muy distinta.
Después, una vez cómodamente instaladas en el salón de Dorothy, Margaret había sacado los frascos de lorazepam, que tenían ya un par de años de antigüedad. Cuando su marido falleció, el médico se lo recetó «solo para ayudarte a sobrellevarlo, Midge». Margaret no había tomado ni un solo comprimido; aunque triste por haber perdido a su marido, estaba bien de los nervios, quizá mejor que antes, de hecho, porque en cuanto el murió, ella ya no tuvo que preocuparse por la posibilidad de que se matase retirando a paladas la nieve del camino de acceso en invierno o encaramándose a la escalera de mano para podar las ramas de un árbol que ya se acercaban demasiado a los cables de alta tensión. Pero como el seguro cubría el coste, aprovechó las recetas. Nunca se sabía qué podía llegar a ser útil, ese era su lema. O cuándo. En ese momento parecía que la ocasión había llegado.
—Mejor que lo hagamos juntas, eso he pensado —anunció Margaret—. Así da menos miedo.
Las otras tres, sin grandes objeciones, coincidieron en que era buena idea. Dorothy Harper también era viuda. El marido de Gail estaba en una residencia de ancianos y por entonces ya no reconocía ni a sus hijos. Y hablando de los hijos de las chicas del Primer Jueves, eran todos adultos de mediana edad que vivían en distintos lugares lejos de los montes Apalaches, y no era factible una reunión en el último momento. Blanche, la única del grupo que no estaba jubilada, no se había casado ni había tenido hijos, probablemente mejor así, teniendo en cuenta el cariz que estaban tomando las cosas.
La pregunta que había planteado Blanche puso fin a las risas.
—Quizá nos despertemos siendo mariposas —comentó Gail—. Esos capullos que he visto en las noticias me recuerdan a los que hacen las orugas.
—También las arañas envuelven a las moscas —apuntó Margaret—. Creo que los capullos se parecen más a eso que a los de una crisálida.
—Yo no me hago ilusiones. —En algún momento de los últimos cinco minutos la copa llena de Blanche había pasado a ser una copa vacía.
—Yo espero ver un ángel —dijo Dorothy.
Las otras tres la miraron. No parecía estar bromeando. Contrajo la barbilla y la boca como en un pequeño puño.
—Me he portado bastante bien, ¿sabéis? —añadió—. He intentado ser amable. Buena esposa. Buena madre. Buena amiga. Después de jubilarme, he trabajado como voluntaria. Incluso conduzco hasta Coughlin los lunes para la reunión de mi comité.
—Lo sabemos —dijo Margaret, y tendió una mano en el aire hacia Dorothy, que era la bondad personificada.
Gail la imitó, y lo mismo hizo Blanche.
Los frascos circularon de mano en mano, y cada mujer tomó dos comprimidos. Después de este acto de comunión, las cuatro amigas, inmóviles, se miraron.
—¿Qué hacemos ahora? —preguntó Gail—. ¿Esperar sin más?
—Llorar —respondió Margaret, y dejó escapar una risita a la vez que simulaba frotarse los ojos con los nudillos—. ¡Llorar, llorar, llorar!
—Pasa las galletas —dijo Dorothy—. Dejo la dieta.
—Yo quiero volver al libro —propuso Blanche—. Quiero hablar del cambio de Briony. _Ella_ sí es como una mariposa. Eso me ha parecido maravilloso. Me ha recordado a algunas mujeres de la cárcel de Dooling.
Gail había cogido el pinot de la mesa de centro. Retiró el capuchón y clavó el sacacorchos.
Mientras ella iba rellenando las copas, Blanche prosiguió:
—Ya sabéis que hay mucha reincidencia... violación de la libertad condicional, recaídas en las malas costumbres y esas cosas... pero algunas sí cambian. Algunas empiezan vidas totalmente nuevas como Briony. ¿No os parece inspirador?
—Sí —dijo Gail. Levantó su copa—. Porque resurjamos en vidas nuevas.
3
Frank y Elaine se detuvieron en el umbral de la puerta de la habitación de Nana. Eran más de las nueve. Tras apartar la sábana, la habían dejado acostada en la cama. En la pared colgaban un póster de una banda uniformada en pleno desfile y un tablón de corcho con los mejores dibujos de Nana de personajes de Manga. Pendía del techo un carillón de tubos y cuentas de cristal de colores. Elaine insistía en el orden, así que en el suelo no había ni ropa ni juguetes. Las persianas estaban cerradas. En torno a la cabeza de Nana, la excrecencia presentaba forma de bulbo. Las que tenía en torno a las manos eran idénticas, solo que más pequeñas. Mitones sin pulgares.
Aunque ninguno de los dos había dicho nada al respecto, cuando llevaban más un minuto allí juntos en silencio, Frank cayó en la cuenta de que ambos temían apagar la luz.
—Dentro de un rato volveremos a ver cómo sigue. —Por pura costumbre, Frank dijo esto a Elaine en susurros, como en tantas ocasiones cuando deseaban evitar a toda costa que Nana se despertase, en lugar de lo contrario.
Elaine asintió. Al unísono, se retiraron de la puerta abierta de su hija y bajaron a la cocina.
Mientras Elaine permanecía sentada a la mesa, Frank se dispuso a preparar café, llenó el depósito de agua y retiró los posos anteriores. Era algo que había hecho mil veces, aunque nunca a esas horas. La normalidad de esa actividad lo tranquilizó.
Los pensamientos de ella iban por los mismos derroteros.
—Como en los viejos tiempos, ¿no? La niña enferma arriba, nosotros aquí abajo, preguntándonos si estamos haciendo lo correcto.
Frank pulsó el interruptor de la cafetera. Elaine había apoyado la cabeza en la mesa, entre los brazos.
—Deberías erguirte —aconsejó él con delicadeza, y ocupó la silla de delante.
Elaine asintió y enderezó el tronco. Tenía el flequillo adherido a la frente y la expresión lastimera y perpleja —como si preguntase «¿qué ha pasado, quién ha sido?»— de alguien que acaba de recibir un golpe en el cráneo. Suponía que él no ofrecía mucho mejor aspecto.
—Pero, bueno, sé a qué te refieres —dijo Frank—. Me acuerdo. Preguntándonos cómo pudimos engañarnos hasta el punto de llegar a pensar, para empezar, que éramos capaces de cuidar de otro ser humano.
Aquello arrancó una sonrisa radiante al rostro de Elaine. Al margen de su situación actual, habían sobrevivido juntos a un bebé, lo cual no era un logro menor.
La cafetera emitió un pitido. Durante un momento había dado la impresión de que reinaba el silencio, pero de repente Frank tomó conciencia del ruido exterior. Alguien vociferaba. Se oían sirenas de policía, la alarma de un coche. Instintivamente ladeó la cabeza en dirección a la escalera, hacia Nana.
Por supuesto, no oyó nada; ya no era un bebé, y no estaban en los viejos tiempos, esos no se parecían a ninguno anterior. Tal como Nana dormía esa noche, era imposible imaginar qué nivel de alboroto podía despertarla, inducirla a abrir los ojos debajo de la capa de fibra blanca.
Elaine también había inclinado la cabeza hacia la escalera.
—¿Qué pasa, Frank?
—No lo sé. —Eludió la mirada de ella—. No deberíamos habernos marchado del hospital. —No estaba del todo seguro de creer en su propia insinuación de que la responsable era Elaine, pero necesitaba compartir la culpa, sacudirse un poco la suciedad que sentía y echársela a ella. El hecho de saber que era eso lo que estaba haciendo, de no dudarlo, lo llevó a detestarse. Aun así no podía evitarlo—. Deberíamos habernos quedado. Nana necesita un médico.
—Todas lo necesitan, Frank. Pronto yo también lo necesitaré. —Se sirvió una taza de café. Pasaron años mientras revolvía la leche y el edulcorante. Frank pensó que esa parte de la discusión quedaba zanjada, pero a continuación ella añadió—: Deberías agradecerme que haya insistido en que nos fuéramos.
—¿Qué?
—He impedido que hicieras lo que tal vez habrías hecho si nos hubiésemos quedado.
—¿De qué estás hablando?
Pero él ya lo sabía, naturalmente. Cada matrimonio tenía su propio lenguaje, sus propias palabras en clave, construido a base de experiencia compartida. Elaine pronunció a continuación dos de esas palabras:
—Fritz Meshaum.
Con cada vuelta, la cuchara chocaba contra la loza de la taza: _clic, clic, clic_. Como la combinación de una caja fuerte.
4
_Fritz Meshaum._
Un nombre de mala reputación, que Frank habría deseado olvidar, pero ¿se lo permitiría Elaine? No. Levantarle la voz a la maestra de Nana aquella vez había estado mal, y el famoso puñetazo en la pared había estado peor, pero el incidente con Fritz Meshaum era lo peor de todo. Fritz Meshaum era la rata muerta que ella meneaba ante su cara siempre que se sentía arrinconada, como ocurrió esa noche. Si al menos se diera cuenta de que estaban los dos juntos en el rincón, en el mismo bando, el bando de _Nana_... pero no. Muy al contrario, tenía que sacar a relucir lo de Fritz Meshaum. Tenía que menear la rata muerta.
Frank había ido a cazar un zorro, nada fuera de lo común en la zona boscosa de los Tres Condados. Alguien había visto que rondaba uno por los campos al sur de la Interestatal 17, no muy lejos de la cárcel de mujeres. Llevaba la lengua colgando, y la persona que lo había notificado pensaba que podría tener la rabia. Frank lo dudó, pero se tomaba los avisos de rabia muy en serio, como cualquier agente de Control Animal que se preciara. Fue al granero semiderruido donde habían avistado al zorro y se pasó media hora al acecho entre los matorrales. No encontró nada, salvo el armazón oxidado de un Cutlass de 1982 con unas bragas podridas atadas a la antena.
De regreso al arcén donde había estacionado la furgoneta, atajó por el borde de una finca vallada. Formaba la cerca una mezcla de chatarra, tablones putrefactos, tapacubos y planchas metálicas acanaladas, y las brechas eran tantas que, más que disuadir a los intrusos, atraía la atención. A través de esos huecos, Frank alcanzó a ver la casa blanca desconchada y el desatendido jardín. Un neumático se mecía en el extremo de una cuerda raída que colgaba de un roble; harapos negros rodeados de insectos se apilaban al pie del árbol; una caja de reparto de leche llena de restos de hierro montaba guardia junto a los peldaños del porche; un bidón de gasolina (vacío, cabía suponer), tirado de forma descuidada, descansaba como un sombrero en lo alto de una mata de buganvilla que crecía sin control e invadía parte del porche. Esparcidos por la tela asfáltica del tejado se veían los fragmentos de cristal de una ventana rota del piso de arriba, y en el camino de acceso, una furgoneta flamante, azul como el Pacífico y lustrosa. Dispersos en torno a los neumáticos traseros, había diez o doce cartuchos de escopeta usados, en otro tiempo de vivo color rojo, ya de un rosa desvaído, como si llevaran allí mucho tiempo.
Era un cliché en toda regla —la casa ruinosa y la furgoneta flamante—, tanto que Frank estuvo a punto de soltar una carcajada. Continuó tranquilamente, con una sonrisa, y tardó unos segundos en asimilar algo que no tenía sentido: los harapos negros se movían. Se revolvían.
Retrocedió hasta una brecha en el revoltijo de la cerca. Observó los harapos. Respiraban.
Y ocurrió como siempre parecían ocurrir las cosas, como en un sueño. Más que deslizarse por debajo de la cerca y cruzar realmente el patio, tuvo la impresión de que se teletransportaba hasta la silueta negra al pie del árbol.
Era un perro, aunque Frank no habría querido elucubrar sobre la raza: algo de tamaño medio, quizá un pastor alemán, quizá un labrador joven, quizá solo un chucho de campo. Tenía el pelaje negro raído y picaduras de pulga. Allí donde el pelo había desaparecido se veían ronchas infectadas. El único ojo visible del animal era una pequeña mancha blanca hundida en un contorno que semejaba vagamente una cabeza. En torno al perro, sobresalían las cuatro patas, todas torcidas, todas rotas sin duda. Grotescamente —ya que ¿cómo iba a escaparse?—, llevaba una cadena que le rodeaba el cuello y lo sujetaba al árbol. El costado del animal subía y bajaba al ritmo de su respiración.
—¡Has entrado en una propiedad privada! —anunció una voz a la espalda de Frank—. ¡Chico, estoy apuntándote con un arma!
Frank levantó las manos y, al volverse, se encontró ante Fritz Meshaum, un hombrecillo que, con su rústica barba roja y greñuda, parecía un gnomo. Vestía vaqueros y una camiseta descolorida.
—¿Frank? —Fritz pareció perplejo.
Se conocían, aunque no mucho, del Squeaky Wheel. Frank recordó que Fritz era mecánico, y que, según decían, era a quien acudir si querías comprar un arma. Si era verdad o no, Frank lo ignoraba, pero habían intercambiado rondas hacía unos meses, sentados a la barra, mientras veían un partido de fútbol universitario. Fritz —ese monstruo torturador de perros— había expresado su preferencia por la jugada optativa; dudaba que los Mountaineers tuvieran el talento necesario para llevarla a cabo con éxito de manera continuada. Frank no tuvo ningún problema en darle la razón. Apenas sabía nada de ese deporte. Sin embargo, hacia el final del partido, Meshaum, rebosante de cerveza, había dejado de insistir en los méritos de la jugada optativa y había intentado desviar la conversación hacia el tema de los judíos y el gobierno federal.
—Esos narigudos se llenan los bolsillos, ¿sabías? —Fritz se había inclinado hacia delante—. O sea, mi familia viene de Alemania. Así que lo sé bien.
Frank había elegido ese momento para disculparse y marcharse.
Fritz bajó el rifle con el que lo tenía encañonado.
—¿Qué haces aquí? ¿Has venido a comprar un arma? Podría venderte una buena, larga o corta. Eh, ¿te apetece una cerveza?
Aunque Frank siguió callado, su lenguaje corporal debió de transmitir algún tipo de mensaje, porque Fritz, con tono apesadumbrado, añadió:
—¿Te preocupa ese perro? Pues no te preocupes. El hijo de puta mordió a mi _neffe_.
—¿Tu qué?
— _Neffe._ Sobrino. —Fritz meneó la cabeza—. Algunas de las palabras que decía mi gente se te quedan. Te sorprendería...
Y eso fue lo último que Meshaum pronunció.
Cuando Frank terminó, la culata del rifle que le había quitado a aquel cabrón y había utilizado para la mayor parte del trabajo estaba agrietada y manchada de sangre. El otro hombre, caído en la tierra, se sujetaba la entrepierna, donde Frank le había golpeado repetidamente con la culata. Tenía los ojos enterrados en la carne hinchada y escupía sangre a cada exhalación trémula que lograba sacar de debajo de las costillas que Frank le había hundido o roto. Las probabilidades de que Fritz muriera a causa de la paliza parecían, inmediatamente después, considerables.
Aunque tal vez no hubiera hecho tanto daño a Fritz Meshaum como él pensaba, eso se decía a sí mismo, pese a que durante semanas permaneció atento a las necrológicas, y nadie fue a detenerlo. Pero Frank no se sentía culpable. Era un perro pequeño, y los perros pequeños no podían defenderse. No había justificación posible para torturar así a un animal, por muy malas pulgas que tuviera. Algunos perros eran capaces de matar a una persona. Sin embargo, ningún perro haría a una persona lo que Fritz Meshaum había hecho a aquella criatura lastimera encadenada al pie del árbol. ¿Qué podía entender un perro del placer que los hombres obtenían con la crueldad? Nada, y nunca podría entenderlo. En cambio Frank sí lo entendía, y en su alma se sentía en paz por lo que había hecho a Fritz Meshaum.
En cuanto a la mujer de Meshaum, ¿cómo iba a saber Frank que ese hombre tenía una mujer siquiera? Aunque para entonces sí lo sabía. Y tanto que lo sabía. Elaine se había asegurado de que así fuera.
5
—¿Su mujer? —preguntó Frank—. ¿Es ahí adonde querías ir a parar con esto? No me sorprende que se presentara en el albergue. Fritz Meshaum es un hijo de puta.
Cuando empezó a hablarse del asunto en el pueblo, Elaine preguntó si era verdad, que le había dado una paliza a Fritz Meshaum. Él cometió el error de sincerarse, y ella nunca le permitió olvidarlo.
Elaine dejó a un lado la cuchara y bebió café.
—Eso no te lo discuto.
—Espero que por fin lo haya abandonado —comentó Frank—. Aunque no es que ella sea responsabilidad mía.
—¿No es responsabilidad tuya que su marido, cuando se recuperó de la paliza que le diste lo suficiente para volver a casa del hospital, estuviera a punto de matarla a golpes?
—No, en absoluto. Yo no le he puesto la mano encima a esa mujer. Ya hemos hablado de ese asunto.
—Ajá —dijo Elaine—. Y el niño que perdió tampoco es responsabilidad tuya, ¿verdad?
Frank cogió aire entre los dientes apretados. Él no sabía nada de ningún bebé. Era la primera vez que Elaine lo mencionaba. Había esperado el momento idóneo para tenderle una emboscada. Vaya esposa, vaya amiga.
—Embarazada, ¿eh? Y perdió al bebé. Vaya, eso sí es un mal trago.
Elaine le lanzó una mirada de incredulidad.
—¿Así lo llamas? ¿Un mal trago? Me asombra tu compasión. Nada de eso habría pasado si te hubieras limitado a avisar a la policía. Nada de eso, Frank. Él habría ido a la cárcel, y Candy Meshaum tendría a su bebé.
Azuzar la culpabilidad ajena era la especialidad de Elaine. Pero si ella hubiera visto al perro —cómo lo había maltratado Fritz—, quizá se lo habría pensado mejor antes de fulminarlo con la mirada. Los Meshaum de este mundo tenían que pagar. Lo mismo podía decirse del doctor Flickinger...
En ese punto se le ocurrió una idea.
—¿Y si voy a buscar al hombre del Mercedes? Es médico.
—¿Te refieres al tío que atropelló al gato de ese viejo?
—Sí. Estaba muy arrepentido de conducir tan rápido. Seguro que nos ayudaría.
—¿Has oído algo de lo que acabo de decir, Frank? ¡Te vuelves loco, y eso siempre tiene consecuencias!
—Elaine, olvídate de Fritz Meshaum y olvídate de su mujer. Olvídate de mí. Piensa en Nana. Quizá ese médico podría ayudarla. —Tal vez Flickinger incluso se sintiera en deuda con Frank, que se había desahogado con su coche en lugar de echar la puerta abajo y desahogarse con el buen doctor en persona.
Se oyeron más sirenas, y el rugido de una moto que pasó por la calle.
—Frank, me gustaría creerlo. —Elaine habló lenta y cuidadosamente, con pretendida sinceridad, pero era la misma cadencia que adoptaba al explicar a Nana lo importante que era mantener los cajones en orden—. Porque te quiero. Pero te conozco. Pasamos juntos diez años. Estuviste a punto de matar a un hombre de una paliza por un perro. Dios sabe cómo has tratado a ese Flickmuller, o como se llame.
— _Flickinger._ Se llama Garth Flickinger. _Doctor_ Garth Flickinger. —En serio, ¿cómo podía ser tan tonta? ¿Acaso no habían estado a punto de pisotearlos, o pegarles un tiro, al intentar que un médico viera a su hija?
Elaine apuró el resto del café.
—Quédate aquí con tu hija. No trates de arreglar lo que ni siquiera entiendes.
Sombríamente, Frank Geary tomó conciencia de una cosa: todo sería más fácil una vez que Elaine también se quedase dormida. Pero de momento seguía despierta. Igual que él.
—Te equivocas —dijo Frank.
Elaine parpadeó.
—¿Cómo? ¿Qué has dicho?
—Crees que siempre tienes la razón. A veces la tienes, pero esta vez no.
—Gracias por esa extraordinaria percepción. Voy a subir a sentarme con Nana. Ven conmigo si quieres, pero si vas a buscar a ese hombre... si vas a _cualquier_ sitio... lo nuestro se acabó.
Frank sonrió. Se sentía bien. Era un gran alivio sentirse bien.
—Ya se ha acabado.
Elaine fijó la mirada en él.
—Lo único que me importa ahora es Nana. Solo ella.
6
De camino a la furgoneta, Frank se detuvo a contemplar la leña apilada junto a la escalera de la puerta de atrás, troncos que había cortado él mismo. Dos metros cúbicos del invierno anterior. La pequeña estufa Jøtul de la cocina creaba un ambiente hogareño y acogedor en los meses fríos. A Nana le gustaba sentarse cerca, a hacer sus tareas en la mecedora. Cuando se inclinaba sobre los libros con una cortina de cabello ante el rostro, parecía, pensaba Frank, una niña del siglo XIX, tiempos en que la relación entre hombres y mujeres era mucho más sencilla. Por aquel entonces uno decía a una mujer qué se proponía hacer, y ella coincidía o mantenía la boca cerrada. Recordaba lo que había dicho su padre a su madre cuando ella protestó por la compra de una nueva cortacésped a motor: «Tú ocúpate de la casa. Yo ganaré el dinero y pagaré las facturas. Si tienes algún problema con eso, dilo».
Ella no había dicho nada. El matrimonio les había ido bien en esos términos. Casi cincuenta años. Sin consejeros matrimoniales, ni separaciones ni abogados.
Había una lona grande encima de la leña, y otra más pequeña sobre el tajo. Levantó esta última y desclavó el hacha del tocón de madera, lleno de marcas. Flickinger no parecía gran cosa, pero nunca estaba de más ir preparado.
7
Dorothy fue la primera en caer. Con la cabeza hacia atrás, la boca abierta, la dentadura un poco desplazada y moteada de migas de galleta, empezó a roncar. Las otras tres observaron las hebras blancas que flotaron y se desprendieron, se dividieron y flotaron, flotaron y se posaron de nuevo en la piel. Se apilaban como vendas diminutas y, entrecruzándose, tejían la envoltura.
—Ojalá... —empezó a decir Margaret, pero no lograba acabar de formular el deseo, fuera cual fuese.
—¿Creéis que está sufriendo? —preguntó Blanche—. ¿Creéis que duele? —Aunque consciente de la gravedad de sus propias palabras, ella personalmente no sentía el menor dolor.
—No. —Gail, tambaleante, se puso en pie, y el ejemplar de _Expiación_ , que había tomado prestado de __ la biblioteca, cayó al suelo con un aleteo de papel y crujidos del forro de plástico. Apoyándose en los muebles, cruzó el salón hacia Dorothy.
En medio del aturdimiento, Blanche quedó impresionada por aquel esfuerzo. Además de las pastillas, habían dado cuenta de la botella de pinot, y era Gail quien más había bebido. En la cárcel había una funcionaria que participaba en competiciones de pulsos. Blanche se preguntó si también existían competiciones en las que una bebía vino y se drogaba y después deambulaba sin tropezar con las sillas ni chocar con las paredes. ¡Quizá fuera la verdadera vocación de Gail!
Blanche deseaba expresar todo eso a Gail, pero descubrió que solo era capaz de decir:
—Qué... bien... andas..., Gail.
Observó a Gail mientras se inclinaba hacia el oído de Dorothy, cubierta ya de un fino revestimiento de tela.
—¿Dorothy? ¿Nos oyes? Quedemos en el... —Gail se interrumpió.
—¿Qué sitio conocemos en el cielo, Midge? ¿Dónde le digo que nos veamos?
Pero Margaret no contestó. No podía. Las hebras también se entretejían ya en torno a su cabeza.
Los ojos de Blanche, que parecían moverse por voluntad propia, se posaron en la ventana y en el incendio al oeste. Este había aumentado: ya no era una cerilla, sino la cabeza de un ave ardiente. Quedaban los hombres para combatir el fuego, pero tal vez, ocupados en cuidar de sus mujeres, se desentendían de sus responsabilidades. ¿Cómo se llamaba esa ave mágica que se convertía en fuego y renacía, un ave temible, horrenda? No lo sabía. Lo único que recordaba era una vieja película japonesa de monstruos titulada _Rodan_. La había visto de niña, y el ave gigante la había aterrorizado. En ese momento no estaba aterrorizada, solo... interesada.
—Hemos perdido a mi hermana —anunció Gail. Se había sentado en la moqueta y estaba apoyada en las piernas de Dorothy.
—Solo duerme —dijo Blanche—. No la has perdido, cariño.
Gail asintió con la cabeza en un gesto tan enfático que el cabello le cayó sobre los ojos.
—Sí, sí. Tienes razón, Blanche. Solo tenemos que reencontrarnos. Buscarnos en el cielo. O... bueno... en una versión facsímil. —Se rio de su propio comentario.
8
Blanche fue la última. A rastras, se acercó a Gail, dormida bajo una capa de telarañas.
—Tuve un amor —le dijo Blanche—. Seguro que no lo sabías. Lo mantuvimos... bajo mano, como les gusta decir a las chicas de la cárcel. No hubo más remedio.
Los filamentos que cubrían la boca de su amiga ondearon cuando Gail exhaló. Un fino hilo se extendió insinuante en dirección a Blanche.
—Creo que él también me quería... —Era difícil de explicar. Ella era joven. Cuando eras joven, tu cerebro no estaba del todo desarrollado. No conocías a los hombres. Era triste. Él estaba casado. Ella esperó. Envejecieron. Blanche renunció a la parte más dulce de su alma por un hombre. Él le hizo hermosas promesas y no cumplió ninguna. Qué desperdicio.
—Puede que esto sea lo mejor que ha pasado jamás. —Si Gail hubiera estado despierta, esas palabras de Blanche habrían resultado demasiado débiles y confusas para entenderlas. Blanche tenía la lengua entumecida—. Porque al menos estamos todas juntas, ahora, al final.
Y si había algo más, en alguna otra parte...
Antes de que Blanche McIntyre pudiera acabar de formular el pensamiento, se adormeció.
9
Garth Flickinger no se sorprendió de ver a Frank.
Después de ver NewsAmerica durante las últimas doce horas más o menos, y de fumarse todo lo que tenía en casa excepto su mascota, una iguana (Gillies), probablemente nada lo habría sorprendido. Si sir Harold Gillies en persona, el pionero de la cirugía plástica muerto hacía muchos años, hubiese bajado por la escalera y entrado en la cocina para freírse un huevo, no habría elevado el listón de lo insólito muy por encima de los fenómenos de los que Garth había sido testigo ese día por televisión.
La conmoción por el violento episodio ocurrido en la caravana de Truman Mayweather mientras Garth estaba echando una meada en el váter no fue más que el preludio de lo que lo había mantenido absorto en las horas transcurridas desde entonces, allí sentado en el sofá. Disturbios frente a la Casa Blanca, una mujer arrancando la nariz de un bocado al líder de una secta, un enorme 767 perdido en el mar, celadores de residencias de la tercera edad ensangrentados, ancianas envueltas en telarañas y esposadas a sus camillas, incendios en Melbourne, incendios en Manila e incendios en Honolulú. Se había producido una catástrofe de padre y muy señor mío en el desierto a las afueras de Reno, donde estaba claro que el gobierno tenía una instalación nuclear secreta o algo así; los científicos informaban de que los contadores Geiger no paraban de oscilar y los sismógrafos subían y bajaban de golpe, detectando continuas detonaciones. En todas partes las mujeres se dormían y quedaban revestidas de un capullo, y en todas partes algún gilipollas las despertaba. La maravillosa periodista de NewsAmerica, Michaela, la de la rinoplastia de primera, había desaparecido a media tarde y, para sustituirla, habían ascendido a una becaria tartamuda con un aro en el labio. Garth recordó una pintada que había visto en la pared de unos lavabos de hombre: LA GRAVEDAD NO EXISTE, LA TIERRA SE NOS TRAGA.
Lo mirase por donde lo mirase, desde todos los puntos de vista, _aquello_ era como para decir: «Tierra, trágame». Ni la meta ayudaba. Bueno, ayudaba un poco, pero no tanto como debería. Para cuando empezó a sonar el timbre — _cling-clong_ , _cling-clong_ —, Garth se sentía lúcidamente sobrio. No tenía especiales ganas de abrir la puerta, no esa noche. Ni se sintió obligado a levantarse cuando su visitante prescindió del timbre y empezó a llamar a la puerta con los nudillos. Luego con el puño. ¡Muy enérgicamente!
Cesó el aporreo. Cuando Garth pensaba ya que la visita no deseada había desistido, empezaron los hachazos. Hachazos y ruido de madera astillada. La puerta se abrió hacia dentro con un temblor, liberada de la cerradura, y entró el hombre que había estado allí antes, hacha en mano. Garth supuso que aquel tipo se disponía a matarlo, y la perspectiva no le entristeció demasiado. Tal vez doliera, pero con suerte no duraría demasiado.
Mucha gente se mofaba de la cirugía plástica. Garth, no. ¿Qué tenía de gracioso que desearas que te gustase tu cara, tu cuerpo, tu única piel? A menos que fueras cruel o estúpido, no tenía nada de gracioso. Pero de pronto Garth se sintió como si el hazmerreír fuese él. ¿Qué clase de vida les esperaba si solo quedaba la mitad de la especie? Una vida cruel y estúpida. Garth enseguida tomó conciencia. A menudo llegaban a su consulta mujeres hermosas con fotografías de otras mujeres hermosas: «¿Puede conseguir que me parezca a ella?». Y detrás de muchas mujeres hermosas que pretendían retocarse esos rostros perfectos se ocultaban tipejos miserables que nunca estaban satisfechos. Garth no quería quedarse solo en un mundo de tipejos miserables, porque había muchos.
—Pase, pase, no se ande con formalidades. Solo estaba poniéndome al día con las noticias. ¿No habrá visto por casualidad esa parte en que la mujer arranca la nariz de un mordisco al hombre?
—Pues sí —contestó Frank.
—A mí se me dan muy bien las narices, y me encantan los desafíos, pero si no hay gran cosa con la que trabajar, poco puede hacerse.
Frank se quedó de pie junto al extremo del sofá, a unos pasos de Garth. El hacha era pequeña, pero seguía siendo un hacha.
—¿Tiene intención de matarme?
—¿Cómo? No. He venido...
Los distrajo a ambos el televisor de pantalla plana, donde una cámara mostró imágenes de una tienda de Apple en llamas. En la acera, delante de la tienda, un hombre con el rostro ennegrecido a causa del fuego y un bolso de color fucsia humeante al hombro, sumido en un estado de aturdimiento, caminaba en círculo. De repente el símbolo de la manzana de la entrada de la tienda se desprendió y se estrelló contra el suelo.
Un rápido cambio de plano llevó a los espectadores de nuevo con George Alderson. George presentaba un gris decolorado y tenía la voz áspera. Llevaba en el aire todo el día. «Acabo de recibir una llamada de mi... esto... hijo. Ha ido a casa a ver cómo estaba mi mujer. Sharon y yo llevamos casados... —El locutor agachó la cabeza y se tocó el nudo de la corbata rosa, manchada de café. Garth pensó que era la señal más perturbadora hasta el momento del carácter sin precedentes de la situación—. Cuarenta y dos años. Timothy, mi hijo, dice... dice...» George Alderson empezó a sollozar. Frank cogió el mando a distancia de la mesita y apagó el televisor.
—¿Tiene la cabeza lo bastante despejada para entender qué está pasando, doctor Flickinger? —Frank señaló la pipa que había encima de la mesita.
—Por supuesto. —Garth sintió un punto de curiosidad—. ¿Es vedad?, ¿no está aquí para matarme?
Frank se pellizcó el caballete de la nariz. Garth tuvo la impresión de estar observando el exterior de un serio monólogo interior.
—He venido para pedirle un favor. Usted lo hace, y estamos en paz. Se trata de mi hija. Es lo único bueno que me queda en la vida. Y se ha contagiado. De Aurora. Necesito que venga y la examine... —Abrió y cerró la boca varias veces más, pero sus palabras acabaron ahí.
Garth se acordó de su propia hija, Cathy.
—No se hable más —contestó Garth a la vez que cortaba el hilo de ese pensamiento de golpe y lo dejaba alejarse como un trozo de cinta arrastrado por un viento intenso.
—¿Sí? ¿En serio?
Garth tendió una mano. Puede que hubiera sorprendido a Frank Geary, pero no a sí mismo. Había muchas cosas que no podían evitarse. Garth siempre se alegraba cuando sí podía evitarlas. Y sería interesante ver de cerca los efectos de Aurora.
—Por supuesto. Ayúdeme a levantarme, ¿quiere?
Frank lo puso en pie, y Garth, después de unos pasos, se encontró bien. El médico se disculpó un momento y entró en una habitación contigua. Cuando regresó, llevaba un pequeño estuche negro y un maletín. Salieron a la noche. Mientras se dirigían hacia la furgoneta de Frank, Garth rozó con la mano las ramas del lilo que asomaba por la ventanilla trasera del lado del pasajero de su Mercedes, pero se abstuvo de hacer comentarios.
10
El zorro se alejó renqueante del incendio que la mujer en llamas había provocado en la maleza, pero llevaba fuego en su interior. Le ardía la parte posterior del lomo. Era un problema, porque no podía apretar el paso y olía su propia sangre. Si él olía su sangre, otros también la olerían.
Todavía quedaban unos cuantos pumas en ese bosque, y si uno de ellos olfateaba su lomo y su cuarto trasero ensangrentados, sería su final. Hacía mucho que no veía un puma, no desde que su madre rebosaba leche y los otros cuatro cachorros de la camada vivían (ya habían muerto todos, uno por beber agua corrompida, otro por comer un cebo envenenado, otro con la pata desgarrada en una trampa, chillando y llorando, otro desapareció en medio de la noche), pero también había cerdos salvajes. El zorro los temía más que a los pumas. Se habían escapado de la pocilga de un granjero y se habían criado en el bosque. Ya había muchos. Normalmente, el zorro habría escapado de ellos sin mayor dificultad y tal vez incluso se habría divertido un poco a su costa; eran muy torpes. Esa noche, sin embargo, apenas podía correr. Pronto ni siquiera sería capaz de trotar.
El bosque terminaba en una casa metálica que olía a sangre humana y muerte humana. Cintas amarillas colgaban alrededor. Había objetos metálicos de los hombres entre la maleza y en la piedra triturada de delante. Con el tufo de la muerte, se mezclaba otro olor, algo que no había percibido nunca. No era exactamente un olor humano, pero _parecía_ un olor humano.
Y femenino.
Dejando de lado el miedo a los cerdos salvajes, el zorro se alejó del escenario del asesinato. Cojeaba y de vez en cuando se tumbaba de costado, postura en la que permanecía un rato, jadeando, hasta que el dolor remitía. Entonces seguía adelante. Tenía que seguir adelante. Ese olor era exótico, dulce y amargo al mismo tiempo, irresistible. Tal vez lo condujera a un lugar seguro. Parecía poco probable, pero el zorro estaba desesperado.
El olor exótico se intensificó. Se combinaba con otro olor femenino, pero ese era más reciente y claramente humano. El zorro se detuvo para olisquear una de las huellas de Lila en la marga y después una mancha de una sustancia blanca en forma de pie humano descalzo.
Un pájaro pequeño revoloteó hasta posarse en una rama baja. Esta vez no era un halcón. Era un tipo de pájaro que el zorro no había visto nunca. Era verde. Emanaba un aroma, húmedo y penetrante, para el que el zorro carecía de contexto. Ahuecó las alas, dándose importancia.
—No cantes, por favor —dijo el zorro.
—De acuerdo —contestó el pájaro verde—. De todos modos casi nunca canto de noche. Veo que estás sangrando. ¿Te duele?
El zorro, cansado como estaba, fue incapaz de disimular.
—Sí.
—Revuélcate en esa telaraña. Dejará de dolerte.
—Me envenenaré —afirmó el zorro. Le ardía el lomo, pero conocía el veneno, vaya si lo conocía. Los humanos lo envenenaban todo. Era su mayor talento.
—No. El veneno está desapareciendo de este bosque. Revuélcate en la telaraña.
Quizá el pájaro mentía, pero el zorro no veía otra salida. Se dejó caer de costado y se revolcó sobre el lomo, como hacía a veces entre los excrementos de ciervo para camuflar su propio rastro. Un grato frescor le alivió el dolor del lomo y el cuarto trasero. Se dio otro revolcón y luego, levantándose de un brinco, miró hacia la rama con los ojos brillantes.
—¿Tú qué eres? ¿De dónde has venido? —preguntó el zorro.
—Del Árbol Madre.
—¿Dónde está?
—Déjate llevar por el olfato —respondió el pájaro verde y, alzando el vuelo, se alejó en la oscuridad.
El zorro siguió las pisadas recubiertas de tela, deteniéndose dos veces más para revolcarse en ellas. Lo aliviaban, refrescaban y vigorizaban. El aroma a mujer era aún intenso; ese otro olor no del todo femenino, ya resultaba más débil. Para el zorro, esos datos, unidos, tenían una interpretación. La no-mujer había llegado primero y se había dirigido al este, en dirección a la casa metálica y el cobertizo, ya quemado. La mujer real había llegado después y había seguido el rastro de la no-mujer hasta algún destino más adelante; luego había regresado a la maloliente casa metálica rodeada de cintas amarillas.
En pos de esos rastros entrecruzados, el zorro se adentró en los matorrales, ascendió por el terraplén y atravesó una arboleda de abedules enanos. De algunas ramas pendían jirones de tela que despedían ese exótico olor. Más allá había un claro. El zorro salió trotando. Trotaba con más facilidad y sintió que si aparecía uno de esos cerdos, no solo podría correr, sino incluso volar. Se sentó en el claro y contempló el árbol, que parecía compuesto de muchos troncos entrelazados. Se elevaba en el cielo oscuro hasta donde alcanzaba a ver. Pese a que no había viento, el árbol susurraba, como si hablara solo. Allí el olor de la no-mujer se perdía en un centenar de rastros distintos. Muchas aves y muchos animales; el zorro no conocía ninguno.
Un felino salió con sigilo del otro lado del gran árbol. No un lince; era mucho mayor. Y blanco. En la oscuridad, sus ojos verdes semejaban lámparas. Si bien el instinto de huir de los depredadores estaba muy arraigado en el zorro, permaneció inmóvil. El gran tigre blanco avanzó hacia él con paso firme. La hierba del claro murmuraba al doblarse bajo el denso pelaje de su vientre.
Cuando lo tenía a apenas un metro y medio, el zorro se tumbó y rodó para mostrar el vientre en actitud de sumisión. Un zorro podía albergar cierto orgullo, pero la dignidad era inútil.
—Levántate —dijo el tigre.
El zorro así lo hizo y tímidamente alargó el cuello hacia delante para rozar el hocico del tigre.
—¿Estás curado? —preguntó el tigre.
—Sí.
—Entonces escúchame, zorro.
11
En su celda, Evie Black yacía con los ojos cerrados y una leve sonrisa en los labios.
—Entonces escúchame, zorro —dijo—. Tengo trabajo para ti.
### 16
1
Clint se disponía a pedir a Tig Murphy por el intercomunicador que le abriera la puerta principal para salir, pero en ese momento entró el subdirector Lawrence Hicks.
—¿Adónde va, doctor Norcross?
La pregunta parecía una acusación, aunque al menos la articuló nítidamente. Si bien Lore Hicks presentaba un desaliño visible —con el cabello un halo revuelto en torno a la calva y un asomo de barba en los flácidos carrillos—, parecían haber remitido los efectos de la novocaína administrada en la intervención dental de esa mañana.
—Al pueblo. Tengo que ver a mi mujer y a mi hijo.
—¿Le ha dado Janice el visto bueno?
Clint tardó unos segundos en controlar su genio. Lo ayudó recordar que Hicks ya había perdido a su mujer a causa de Aurora o pronto la perdería. Eso no cambiaba el hecho de que el hombre que tenía delante fuera la última persona a quien uno desearía al frente de un centro como Dooling en un momento de crisis. En una ocasión Janice contó a Clint que su segundo al mando tenía acreditadas menos de treinta horas en Gestión Penitenciaria —de una fábrica de títulos de Oklahoma— y ni una sola en Administración Penitenciaria.
«Pero la hermana de Hicksie está casada con el vicegobernador —había aclarado. Aquella vez se había tomado una copa de más de pinot. O quizá dos—. Así que haga usted los cálculos. Se le dan muy bien las tareas organizativas y el control de inventario, pero lleva aquí dieciséis meses, y dudo que fuera capaz de encontrar el camino al módulo C sin un plano. No le gusta salir del despacho, y no ha hecho un solo recorrido por el centro, pese a que teóricamente debe hacerlo una vez al mes. Le dan miedo las chicas malas.»
Esta noche sí saldrás de tu despacho, Hicksie, pensó Clint, y además harás el recorrido. Te colocarás un walkie-talkie al cinto y harás rondas por los tres módulos, igual que los demás funcionarios de uniforme. Los que quedan.
—¿Me ha oído? —preguntó entonces Hicks—. ¿Ha dado Janice el visto bueno para que se marche?
—Tengo tres cosas que decirle —anunció Clint—. Primero: mi hora de salida es las tres de la tarde, de lo cual hace... —Consultó su reloj—. Unas seis horas.
—Pero...
—Un momento. Aquí viene lo segundo. La directora Coates está dormida en su sofá, dentro de un gran capullo blanco.
Hicks llevaba unas gafas de cristales gruesos con efecto lupa. Cuando abría mucho los ojos, como en ese instante, parecían a punto de salírsele de las órbitas.
— _¿Qué?_
—En la versión abreviada, Don Peters al final la ha cagado. Lo han cogido abusando de una reclusa. Janice lo ha puesto en la calle, pero Don se las ha arreglado para echarle una buena dosis de Xanax en el café. La ha dejado grogui rápidamente. Y antes de que me lo pregunte, Don ha ahuecado el ala. Cuando vea a Lila le diré que difundan un aviso de búsqueda y captura, pero dudo que lo consideren prioritario. Al menos esta noche.
—Dios mío. —Hicks se pasó la mano por el pelo, revolviéndose aún más el poco que le quedaba—. _Dios_... mío.
—Y lo tercero. Siguen aquí los otros cuatro funcionarios del turno de mañana: Rand Quigley, Millie Olson, Tig Murphy y Vanessa Lampley. Usted es el número cinco. Esta noche tendrá que hacer las rondas de medianoche con los demás. Ah, y Van lo pondrá al corriente sobre lo que las reclusas llaman «supercafé». Lo reparten Jeanette Sorley y Angel Fitzroy.
—¿Supercafé? ¿Qué es eso? ¿Y cómo es que Fitzroy está fuera? ¡No es de fiar, ni mucho menos! ¡Tiene arranques de ira! ¡He leído su informe!
—Esta noche no está iracunda, al menos no todavía. Se ha prestado a echar una mano. Como tendrá que hacer usted. Y si nada cambia, todas estas mujeres van a dormirse, Lore. De la primera a la última. Con supercafé o sin él. Se merecen un poco de esperanza. Hable con Van, y déjese guiar por ella si se complican las cosas.
Hicks agarró a Clint por la chaqueta. Se advertía pánico en sus ojos agrandados.
—¡No puede irse! ¡No puede abandonar su puesto!
—¿Por qué no? Usted se ha ido. —Clint vio la mueca de Hicks y lamentó no poder retirar sus palabras. Cogió la mano del subdirector y, con delicadeza, se la retiró de la chaqueta—. Ha ido a ver cómo estaba su mujer; yo necesito ver cómo están Jared y Lila. Y volveré.
— _¿Cuándo?_
—En cuanto pueda.
—¡Ojalá se hubieran dormido todas! —prorrumpió Hicks. Parecía un niño malhumorado—. ¡Hasta la última de esas ladronas, fulanas y drogadictas! ¡Deberíamos darles somníferos en lugar de café! Eso resolvería el problema, ¿no?
Clint se limitó a mirarlo.
—De acuerdo. —Hicks se esforzó en cuadrar los hombros—. Me hago cargo. Tiene usted seres queridos. Es solo que... todo esto... todas estas mujeres... ¡tenemos una cárcel _llena_!
¿Ahora se da cuenta de eso?, pensó Clint, y a continuación preguntó a Hicks por su mujer. Supuso que debería haberse interesado antes por ella. Solo que, en fin, tampoco Hicksie había mostrado el menor interés por Lila.
—Sigue despierta, al menos de momento. Ha... —Hicks carraspeó y apartó la mirada de Clint—. Ha tomado unos estimulantes.
—Bien. Eso está bien. Volve...
—Doctor. —Era Vanessa Lampley, y no por el intercomunicador. La tenía a su lado en el vestíbulo ante la puerta principal. Había abandonado su puesto en la Garita, algo casi insólito—. Tiene que venir a ver esto.
—Van, no puedo. Tengo que ir a comprobar cómo está Jared, y a ver a Lila...
Para despedirme de ella, pensó Clint. Se le ocurrió de pronto. El posible carácter definitivo de la situación. ¿Cuánto más aguantaría despierta? No mucho. Por teléfono la había notado... lejana, como si hubiese recorrido ya parte del camino a otro mundo. Una vez que el sueño la venciera, nada llevaba a pensar que podrían hacer que recuperara la consciencia.
—Lo entiendo —dijo Vanessa—, pero será solo un minuto. Usted también, señor Hicks. Esto... no sé, pero podría cambiarlo todo.
2
—Miren el monitor dos —indicó Van cuando llegaron a la Garita.
En ese momento el número 2 mostraba el pasillo del módulo A. Dos mujeres —Jeanette Sorley y Angel Fitzroy— empujaban un carrito de café hacia la celda acolchada, la A-10, al fondo. Se detuvieron antes de llegar para hablar con una reclusa sumamente corpulenta que por alguna razón se había instalado en la cámara de despioje.
—Hasta ahora tenemos al menos diez mujeres dormidas dentro de esa tela de mierda —informó Van—. Quizá sean quince ya. La mayoría en sus celdas, pero hay tres en la sala común y una en el taller de carpintería. Esa porquería empieza a salir de ellas en cuanto se duermen. _Excepto..._
Pulsó un botón de la consola, y el monitor 2 mostró el interior de la A-10. La detenida recién llegada yacía en su cama con los ojos cerrados. El pecho le subía y le bajaba al ritmo lento de la respiración.
—Excepto ella —añadió Van. En su voz se advertía algo así como veneración—. La nueva duerme como un bebé, y tiene la cara como recién lavada.
«Como recién lavada.» Algo en la expresión chocó a Clint, pero se le borró de la mente debido a su sorpresa ante lo que veía y su preocupación por Lila.
—Que tenga los ojos cerrados no quiere decir forzosamente que esté dormida.
—Oiga, doctor, hago este trabajo desde hace más tiempo que usted el suyo. Sé cuándo están despiertas y cuándo están dormidas. Esa está dormida, y lleva así al menos tres cuartos de hora. Si a alguien se le cae algo o hace ruido, ella reacciona con una sacudida y luego se da la vuelta.
—No la pierda de vista. Puede informarme con más detalle cuando regrese —dijo Clint—. Tengo que irme. —Pese a la insistencia de Van en que reconocía la diferencia entre el sueño y los ojos cerrados, no se lo creyó. Y tenía que ver a Lila mientras fuera posible. No quería perderla con aquello —fuera lo que fuese, la razón por la que mentía— entre ellos.
Había salido e iba camino de su coche cuando lo que había estado inquietándolo por fin cobró forma en su cabeza. Evie Black se había golpeado la cara repetidas veces contra la rejilla del coche patrulla de Lila, y sin embargo solo unas horas después la hinchazón y los hematomas habían desaparecido por completo. No quedaba nada, tenía la cara como recién lavada.
3
Jeanette dirigía el carrito del café mientras Angel, caminando a un lado, golpeaba una de las cafeteras con la tapa y voceaba:
—¡Café! ¡Café especial! ¡Traigo un brebaje para espabilaros a todas! ¡No os dormiréis, brincaréis!
En el módulo A, donde la mayoría de las celdas estaban abiertas y vacías, casi nadie tomó.
Antes, en el B, la reacción de Ree había sido un anticipo de lo que vendría. El café especial quizá fuese una buena idea, pero costaba tragarlo. Ree había hecho una mueca al probarlo y había devuelto la taza.
—Dios, Jeanette, me tomaré un zumo, pero esto es demasiado fuerte para mí.
—¡Fuerte para no acabar inerte! —proclamó Angel. Esa noche había cambiado su acento sureño habitual por una jerga de gueto demencialmente animosa. Jeanette se preguntó cuántas tazas de su café especial habría ingerido la propia Angel. Por lo visto, ella no tenía ningún problema en beberlo—. Es un potente brebaje, así que date un buen viaje, a no ser que tonta seas y convertida en momia te veas.
Una de las mujeres del módulo A la miró.
—Si eso es rap, encanto, por mí que vuelva la música disco.
—No desprecies mis rimas. Estamos haciéndote un favor. La que beber no quiera no está bien de la mollera.
Pero ¿de verdad era buena idea aplazar lo inevitable? Eso había pensado Jeanette al principio, impulsada por el recuerdo de su hijo, pero volvía a sentirse cansada e intuía ya la desesperanza a la vuelta de la esquina. Además, no iban a aplazar lo inevitable por mucho tiempo; cuando habían planteado la propuesta del supercafé a la funcionaria Lampley, en la cárcel ya había tres reclusas dormidas, pero desde entonces se habían sumado varias. Aun así, Jeanette no sacó el tema. No porque temiera el famoso mal genio de Angel, sino porque la idea de discutir sobre cualquier cosa se le hacía pesada. Ella se había tomado tres tazas de ese café especial —bueno, dos y media, su estómago se había negado a aceptar la tercera completa— y seguía sintiéndose agotada. Tenía la impresión de que habían pasado años desde que Ree la había despertado para preguntarle si alguna vez se había fijado en el recuadro de luz de la ventana que se desplazaba por el suelo.
«La verdad, no puedo preocuparme por un recuadro de luz», __ había dicho Jeanette.
«No puedes _no_ preocuparte por un recuadro de luz, te lo digo yo», había contestado Ree, y esa frase se repetía entonces una y otra vez en la cabeza de Jeanette, como un delirante kōan zen.
«No puedes no preocuparte» __ no tenía sentido, ¿no? O quizá sí. ¿No existía una regla por la que una doble negación se convertía en afirmación? En tal caso quizá _sí_ tenía sentido. Quizá...
—¡Eh! ¡Alto, amiga! —bramó Angel, y dio un violento empujón al carrito con el trasero. Embistió en las ingles a Jeanette, que se despejó del todo momentáneamente. El café especial se agitó en las cafeteras y el zumo se agitó en las jarras.
—¿Qué? —preguntó—. ¿Qué coño pasa, Angel?
—¡Aquí está mi colega Claudia! —exclamó Angel—. ¡Eh, chica!
Habían recorrido unos siete metros del pasillo del módulo A. Junto al dispensador de agua, sentada en un banco, se hallaba Claudia Stephenson, conocida entre todas las reclusas (y los funcionarios, aunque no utilizaban el mote en presencia de las presas) como Claudia Cuerpo de Dinamita. Sin embargo, el cuerpo en cuestión no era ya tan dinamita como diez meses antes. Desde su ingreso, a fuerza de fécula y litros de salsa carcelaria, había ganado diez o quince kilos. Tenía las manos apoyadas en el pantalón marrón del uniforme. La casaca estaba arrugada a sus pies, con lo que quedaba a la vista un sujetador deportivo de talla XL. Claudia, pensó Jeanette, seguía teniendo unas tetas imponentes.
Angel sirvió café en un vaso de papel, derramando un poco en el suelo movida por su entusiasmo potenciado. Tendió la taza a Claudia.
—¡Bébetelo, señorita Dinamita! ¡Fuerte para no acabar inerte! ¡Abundante para tener horas de aguante, hermana!
Claudia negó con la cabeza sin apartar la vista del suelo de baldosas.
—¿Claudia? —preguntó Jeanette—. ¿Qué te pasa?
Algunas reclusas envidiaban a Claudia, pero a Jeanette le gustaba, y le daba lástima. Claudia había malversado una suma considerable de dinero de la iglesia presbiteriana donde actuaba como directora de ceremonias para costear la feroz drogadicción de su marido y su hijo mayor. Y esos dos seguían en la calle, libres como el viento. Tengo una rima para ti, Angel, pensó Jeanette. Los hombres se divierten, las mujeres pierden.
—No pasa nada, solo estoy armándome de valor. —Claudia no apartó la vista del suelo.
—Para hacer ¿qué? —preguntó Jeanette.
—Para pedirle que me deje dormir como siempre, como ella.
Angel guiñó un ojo a Jeanette, asomó la lengua por la comisura de los labios y trazó un par de círculos con el dedo en torno a su oreja.
—¿De quién hablas, señorita Dinamita?
—La nueva —contestó Claudia—. Me parece que es el diablo, Angel.
Eso a Angel le encantó.
—¡Diablo-Angel! ¡Angel-Diablo! —Trazó escalas en el aire, arriba y abajo—. He ahí la historia de mi vida, señorita Dinamita.
—Debe de ser alguna clase de criatura maligna —prosiguió Claudia, en sus trece— si es la única que puede dormir como antes.
—No te entiendo —dijo Jeanette.
Claudia levantó por fin la cabeza. Tenía unas grandes ojeras moradas.
—Está durmiendo, pero no en uno de esos capullos. Id a verlo vosotras mismas. Preguntadle cómo lo hace. Decidle que si quiere mi alma, es suya. Yo solo quiero volver a ver a Myron. Es mi niño, y necesita a su mamá.
Angel vació en la cafetera la taza que había ofrecido a Claudia y se volvió hacia Jeanette.
—Vamos a ver de qué va esto. —No aguardó la señal de conformidad de Jeanette.
Cuando esta llegó con el carrito del café, Angel estaba agarrada a los barrotes y miraba hacia el interior de la celda con asombro. La mujer a la que Jeanette había alcanzado a ver mientras Peters abusaba de ella yacía en ese momento relajadamente en su cama, con los ojos cerrados y la respiración acompasada. Su cabello oscuro se extendía en un abanico magnífico. De cerca, su rostro era aún más hermoso, y lo tenía impoluto. No solo seguía libre de telarañas, sino que habían desaparecido también las magulladuras que Jeanette había visto. ¿Cómo era eso posible?
A lo mejor es el diablo de verdad, pensó Jeanette. O un ángel, que ha venido para salvarnos. Aunque eso no parecía muy probable. Los ángeles no acababan en sitios como aquel. Aparte de Angel Fitzroy, claro, y ella tenía más de murciélago.
—¡Despierta! —exclamó Angel.
—¿Angel? —Jeanette apoyó una mano vacilante en el hombro de Fitzroy—. Quizá no deberías...
Angel se sacudió la mano de Jeanette e intentó deslizar la puerta de la celda, pero tenía el cerrojo echado. Angel agarró la tapa de la cafetera y empezó a golpear los barrotes. Jeanette se tapó los oídos con las manos para protegerse de aquel estruendo insoportable.
— _¡Despierta, bruja! ¡Despierta y huele el_ _puto café!_
La mujer tendida en la cama abrió los ojos, que tenía almendrados y tan oscuros como el cabello. Bajó al suelo las piernas —largas y preciosas, incluso con el holgado uniforme de la cárcel— y bostezó. Al desperezarse, echó al frente unos pechos que dejaban en ridículo los de Claudia.
—¡Compañía! —exclamó.
En apariencia sus pies descalzos apenas rozaron el suelo cuando corrió hacia los barrotes y, pasando los brazos entre ellos, agarró de las manos a Angel y a Jeanette. Angel se apartó de manera instintiva. Jeanette, atónita, fue incapaz de moverse. Era como si una leve corriente eléctrica fluyera de la mano de la nueva a la suya.
—¡Angel! ¡Me alegro mucho de que estés aquí! Puedo hablar con las ratas, pero su conversación es limitada. No es una crítica, solo una realidad. Cada criatura tiene sus propios méritos. Por lo que sé, Henry Kissinger es un conversador fascinante, pero ¡pensad en la sangre que ese hombre tiene en sus manos! Puestos a elegir, me quedo con la rata, eso por descontado, y podéis publicarlo en el periódico, aunque aseguraos de escribir bien mi nombre.
—¿De qué _demonios_ estás hablando? —preguntó Angel.
—Ah, en realidad de nada. Perdón por la verborrea. Solo visitaba el mundo en la otra parte del mundo. Se me alborota un poco el cerebro de tanto ir de un lado al otro. ¡Vaya, y aquí tenemos a Jeanette Sorley! ¿Qué tal Bobby, Jeanette?
—¿Cómo sabes nuestros nombres? —preguntó Angel—. ¿Y cómo es posible que puedas dormir sin que te crezca esa mierda por todas partes?
—Soy Evie. Vengo del Árbol. Este es un sitio interesante, ¿no? ¡Tan animado! ¡Tantas cosas que ver y hacer!
—Bobby está bien —contestó Jeanette. Tenía la sensación de estar en un sueño... y quizá fuera así—. Me gustaría volver a verlo antes de quedarme dormi...
Angel tiró de Jeanette hacia atrás con tal fuerza que estuvo a punto de derribarla.
—Calla, Jeanie. Esto no tiene nada que ver con tu hijo. —Introdujo la mano en la celda acolchada y agarró a Evie por la pechera admirablemente llena del uniforme—. ¿Cómo es que te has despertado? Dímelo o te doy una paliza que ni te la imaginas. Acabarás con el coño donde tienes el culo, y viceversa.
Evie dejó escapar una alegre risotada.
—Eso sería un prodigio médico, ¿no? En fin, tendría que aprender a hacer mis necesidades otra vez.
Angel se sonrojó.
—¿Quieres jugar conmigo? ¿Eso quieres? ¿Te crees que solo porque estás en esa celda no puedo llegar a ti?
Evie miró las manos que la sujetaban. Se limitó a mirarlas. Pero Angel gritó y retrocedió tambaleándose. Se le estaban poniendo los dedos rojos.
—¡Me ha quemado! ¡La muy zorra me ha quemado no sé cómo!
Evie se volvió hacia Jeanette. Sonreía, pero Jeanette pensó que esos ojos oscuros reflejaban tristeza además de buen humor.
—El problema es más complejo de lo que pueda parecer a simple vista, lo sé. De verdad. A algunas feministas les gusta creer que todos los problemas del mundo se deben a los hombres. A la agresividad innata de los hombres. Tienen un argumento a favor: ninguna mujer ha iniciado una guerra... aunque, creedme, algunas eran firmes _partidarias_... y el caso es que ahí fuera hay chicas malas pero que muy malas. No puedo negarlo.
—¿A qué viene todo ese rollo?
Volvió a mirar a Angel.
—El doctor Norcross tiene sus sospechas sobre ti, Angel. Sobre el casero al que mataste en Charleston, para empezar.
—¡Yo no he matado a _nadie_! —Angel, no obstante, había palidecido. Dio un paso atrás y tropezó con el carrito del café. Mantuvo las manos enrojecidas contra el pecho.
Evie centró de nuevo la atención en Jeanette y le susurró con aire confidencial.
—Ha matado a cinco hombres. _Cinco._ —Y se volvió de nuevo hacia Angel—. Durante un tiempo fue una especie de pasatiempo, ¿no, Angel? Hacías autostop sin destino en particular, con una navaja en el bolso y una pistola pequeña del calibre 32 en el bolsillo de aquella cazadora de cuero sin curtir que siempre llevabas puesta. Pero eso no es todo, ¿a que no?
—¡Cállate! _¡Cállate!_
De nuevo posó en Jeanette aquellos ojos asombrosos. Hablaba en voz baja, pero con un tono cálido. Era la voz de una mujer en un anuncio de televisión, la que decía a su amiga que a ella antes también le costaba quitar las manchas de hierba de los pantalones de sus hijos, pero con ese nuevo detergente todo había cambiado.
—Se quedó embarazada a los diecisiete. Lo disimuló con muchas capas de ropa ancha. Hizo autostop hasta Wheeling... esa vez no mató a nadie, bravo por ella... y alquiló una habitación. Tuvo al niño...
— _¡CÁLLATE, HE DICHO!_
Alguien con un monitor había advertido el enfrentamiento: Rand Quigley y Millie Olson corrían hacia allí. Quigley llevaba un bote de gas pimienta en la mano; Olson, una táser regulada a media potencia.
—Lo ahogó en el lavabo, echó el cuerpo a la incineradora. —Evie hizo una mueca, parpadeó un par de veces y añadió en voz baja—: Pum, dice la comadreja.
Quigley intentó agarrar a Angel. Ella giró en redondo de inmediato al notar el contacto, lanzó un puñetazo y volcó el carrito, el café, el zumo y todo. Un líquido marrón —que ya no quemaba pero seguía muy caliente— se derramó sobre las piernas de Millie Olson. Esta profirió un grito de dolor y cayó de espaldas.
Jeanette observó atónita a Angel, que se abalanzó sobre Quigley como Hulk Hogan, lo agarró por el cuello con una mano y le arrancó el gas pimienta con la otra. El bote cayó al suelo y rodó por entre los barrotes de la celda acolchada. Evie se agachó, lo recogió y se lo ofreció a Jeanette.
—¿Lo quieres?
Jeanette lo aceptó sin pensar.
La funcionaria Olson, chapoteando en un charco marrón, trataba de salir de debajo del carrito volcado. El funcionario Quigley intentaba evitar morir asfixiado. Aunque Angel era flaca y Quigley la superaba en veinte kilos como mínimo, ella lo sacudió como un perro con una serpiente entre los dientes y lo arrojó contra el carrito del café en el momento en que Millie Olson se levantaba, de modo que se fueron al suelo los dos juntos en medio de un ruido sordo y un chapoteo. Angel se volvió de nuevo hacia la celda acolchada, con los ojos enormes y brillantes en el rostro pequeño y estrecho.
Evie abrió los brazos todo lo que los barrotes le permitieron y los tendió hacia Angel, como una amante que invitara al ser amado. Angel abrió también los brazos, con los dedos contraídos como garras, gritó y arremetió contra ella.
Solo Jeanette vio lo que ocurrió a continuación. Los dos funcionarios intentaban zafarse del carrito volcado, y Angel estaba sumida en un mundo de furia. Jeanette tuvo tiempo de pensar: No solo estoy viendo un arranque de mal genio; esto es un episodio psicótico en toda regla. De pronto Evie abrió la boca en un bostezo tan amplio que la mitad inferior de su cara pareció desaparecer totalmente. De su boca salió una bandada —no, una _avalancha_ — de mariposas nocturnas. Se arremolinaron en torno a la cabeza de Angel, y algunas se prendieron en la cresta de pelo rubio oxigenado. Angel chilló y se puso a dar manotazos.
Jeanette golpeó a Angel en la cabeza con el bote de gas pimienta. Voy a crearme una enemiga, pero, bueno, quizá se duerma antes de poder desquitarse conmigo.
Las mariposas volaron hacia las lámparas revestidas de rejilla del techo del módulo A y entraron en la zona principal de la cárcel. Angel se volvió, mesándose el pelo todavía (pese a que aparentemente todos los insectos habían ido a reunirse con sus congéneres), y Jeanette roció de gas pimienta la cara de la mujer, que no paraba de gritar.
—Ves lo complejo que es el problema, ¿verdad, Jeanette? —comentó Evie mientras Angel, aullando y frotándose los ojos desesperadamente, chocaba contra la pared—. Creo que tal vez sea el momento de eliminar del todo la ecuación hombre-mujer. Pulsar «borrar» y empezar de cero sin más. ¿Tú que crees?
—Que quiero ver a mi hijo —contestó Jeanette—. Quiero ver a mi Bobby. —Dejó caer el bote de gas pimienta y se echó a llorar.
4
Mientras eso ocurría, Claudia Stephenson alias Cuerpo de Dinamita salió de la cámara de despioje y decidió buscar tierras más tranquilas y nuevas vistas. Esa noche había demasiado ruido en el módulo A. Demasiada crispación. Además, ese café especial derramado por todas partes olía francamente mal. Una no iba a tratar de negociar con el diablo cuando tenía los nervios a flor de piel, era de sentido común. Ya hablaría más tarde con la mujer de la A-10. Pasó por delante de la Garita y entró en el módulo B. Dejó atrás la casaca.
—¡Reclusa! —Van Lampley se asomó por la puerta de la Garita, desde donde había detectado la inminente pelea. (Angel y su puto supercafé; Van, rendida como estaba, no tenía fuerzas para fustigarse, pero no debería haber accedido a ese plan.) Había enviado a Quigley y a Olson para calmar los ánimos, y se disponía a unirse a ellos cuando Stephenson pasó por delante.
Claudia no respondió, se limitó a seguir su camino.
—Te has olvidado de algo, ¿no? Esto es una cárcel, no un local de striptease. ¡Estoy hablando contigo, Stephenson! ¿Adónde te crees que vas?
Pero ¿de verdad le importaba eso a Van? Muchas reclusas se ocupaban de la colada en ese momento, probablemente en un esfuerzo por mantenerse despiertas, y entretanto se estaba armando un guirigay al fondo del módulo A. Allí era donde la necesitaban.
Se encaminó en esa dirección, pero Millie Olson —salpicada de café de arriba abajo— le indicó que podía irse.
—Bajo control —anunció—. Ya tengo encerrada a la puta loca de Fitzroy. Todo ha vuelto a la normalidad.
Van, pensando que nada estaba bajo control ni existía tal normalidad, asintió con la cabeza.
Se volvió buscando a Stephenson, pero no la vio. Regresó a la Garita y activó en uno de los monitores la cámara de la planta superior del módulo B a tiempo de ver a Claudia entrar en la B-7, la celda que ocupaban Dempster y Sorley. Solo que Sorley seguía en el módulo A, y Van no veía a Dempster desde hacía un buen rato. Las reclusas no se privaban de algún pequeño hurto si encontraban una celda vacía (los objetivos predilectos eran las pastillas y las bragas), y esos expolios inevitablemente causaban problemas. No tenía ninguna razón para sospechar que Claudia —quien nunca alteraba el orden pese a tener tamaño suficiente para armar bulla si quería— fuera a hacer algo así. No obstante, sospechar era parte del trabajo de Van. No convenía que se organizara una trifulca por un caso de pertenencias robadas. No con todo lo que ya se había torcido.
Van decidió llevar a cabo una comprobación rápida. Era solo un presentimiento, pero no le había gustado la forma de andar de Claudia, con la cabeza gacha, el pelo delante de la cara y la casaca del uniforme abandonada Dios sabía dónde. Tardaría solo un minuto, y no le iría mal estirar las piernas. Hacer circular la sangre otra vez.
5
Claudia no pretendía robar nada. Solo quería un poco de conversación serena. Le serviría para matar el tiempo hasta que las aguas volvieran a su cauce en el módulo A. Entonces hablaría con la nueva y averiguaría cómo podía irse también a dormir y despertar como cualquier otro día. Tal vez la mujer no se lo dijera, pero, claro, tal vez sí. El diablo era imprevisible; en otro tiempo había sido un ángel.
Ree yacía en su cama vuelta hacia la pared. Claudia advirtió por primera vez, y no sin lástima, que el pelo de Ree empezaba a encanecer. Lo mismo le ocurría a Claudia, pero ella se lo teñía. Cuando no podía permitirse el tinte auténtico (o cuando no conseguía convencer a ninguno de sus escasos visitantes para que le llevaran Nutrisse rubio champán, su preferido), usaba el concentrado cítrico ReaLemon de la cocina. Le daba bastante buen resultado, aunque no duraba mucho.
Alargó el brazo para tocar el pelo de Ree y lo retiró con un respingo y una ligera exclamación al notar que parte del gris se le adhería a los dedos. Las hebras ondearon en el aire unos segundos y después se fundieron y desaparecieron.
—Oh, no, Ree —se lamentó Claudia—. Tú también no.
Pero quizá no fuera demasiado tarde; Ree solo tenía en el pelo unas hebras de aquella sustancia con que se formaba el capullo. Tal vez Dios hubiera enviado a Claudia a la B-7 cuando aún había tiempo. Tal vez fuera una prueba. Cogió a Ree por el hombro y la puso boca arriba. El tejido surgía en espiral de las mejillas y la frente surcada de cicatrices de la pobre Ree; de las fosas nasales le salían briznas que se arremolinaban por efecto de la respiración, pero su rostro seguía allí.
Bueno, la mayor parte.
Claudia, con una mano, empezó a frotarle las mejillas y otras partes de la cara para eliminar aquel pringue, sin olvidar las hebras blanquecinas que le brotaban de la boca y se ceñían a sus labios. Con la otra mano, Claudia agarró a Ree por el hombro y comenzó a sacudirla.
—¿Stephenson? —Desde el pasillo—. Reclusa, ¿qué estás haciendo ahí? Esa no es tu celda.
—¡Despierta! —exclamó Claudia, sacudiéndola con más fuerza—. ¡Despierta, Ree! ¡Antes de que ya no puedas!
Nada.
—¿Reclusa Stephenson? Te estoy hablando.
—Es la funcionaria Lampley —dijo Claudia, sin dejar de sacudir a Ree ni de retirar las implacables hebras blancas. Dios santo, era difícil adelantarse a ellas—. Me cae bien, ¿a ti no? ¿A ti no, Ree? —Claudia se echó a llorar—. ¡No te vayas, cielo! ¡Es demasiado pronto para irse!
Y en un primer momento Claudia pensó que la mujer tendida en la cama le daba la razón en eso, porque de repente abrió los ojos y sonrió.
—¡Ree! —exclamó Claudia—. ¡Gracias a Dios! Pensaba que estabas...
Solo que la sonrisa siguió ensanchándose, y los labios se contrajeron hasta que aquello no fue una sonrisa, sino un gruñido con el que le enseñó los dientes. Ree se incorporó y cerró las manos en torno al cuello de Claudia. De un mordisco le arrancó uno de sus pendientes preferidos, la cara de un gatito de plástico. Claudia chilló. Ree escupió el pendiente junto con el trozo de lóbulo correspondiente y fue a por la garganta de Claudia.
Esta pesaba treinta kilos más que la diminuta Ree Dempster y era fuerte, pero Ree había enloquecido. Claudia apenas podía apartarla de sí. Ree le deslizó los dedos por el cuello y le hincó las uñas en los hombros desnudos, haciéndole sangre.
Claudia se alejó de la litera en dirección a la puerta abierta de la celda, y Ree se aferró a ella como una lapa, gruñendo y haciendo rechinar los dientes, sacudiéndose de un lado al otro para liberarse de las manos de Claudia y hacerle daño de verdad. Habían salido al pasillo, y las reclusas vociferaban y la funcionaria Lampley bramaba, pero esos sonidos procedían de otra galaxia, otro universo, porque Ree, con los ojos desorbitados, dentellaba a apenas unos centímetros de la cara de Claudia. De pronto, Dios santo, Claudia trastabilló y cayó en el pasillo del módulo B con Ree encima.
—¡Reclusa! —gritó Van—. ¡Reclusa, suéltala!
Las mujeres gritaban. Claudia, no, al menos al principio. Gritar requería fuerzas, y ella necesitaba las suyas para contener a aquella loca, aquel _demonio_. Solo que no lo conseguía. Aquella boca dispuesta a morder se aproximaba. Claudia olía el aliento de Ree y veía gotas de la saliva de Ree, y en cada una de ellas danzaban minúsculos filamentos blancos.
—¡Reclusa, he desenfundado el arma! ¡No me obligues a disparar! ¡ _Por favor_ , no me obligues!
—¡Péguele un tiro! —exclamó alguien, y Claudia se dio cuenta de que ese alguien era ella. Por lo visto, después de todo sí tenía fuerzas suficientes—. _¡Por favor, funcionaria Lampley!_
En el pasillo resonó un tremendo estampido. Un ancho orificio negro apareció en lo alto de la frente de Ree, justo en medio de la cuadrícula de tejido cicatricial. Desvió la mirada hacia arriba, como si intentara ver dónde la había alcanzado la bala, y la sangre caliente se derramó sobre el rostro de Claudia.
Con un último esfuerzo revulsivo, Claudia apartó a Ree, que cayó en el pasillo con un ruido sordo. La funcionaria Lampley permanecía con las piernas afianzadas y el arma reglamentaria sujeta ante sí entre las dos manos. El humo que se elevó en espiral de la boca del cañón recordó a Claudia las hebras blancas que se habían adherido a sus dedos al rozar el cabello de Ree. La funcionaria Lampley estaba blanca como el papel, excepto por las ojeras, moradas.
—Iba a matarme —dijo Claudia con la respiración agitada.
—Lo sé —contestó Van—. Lo sé.
### 17
1
A medio camino del pueblo, a Clint Norcross se le ocurrió una idea que hizo que entrara en el aparcamiento del Olympia Diner, donde aparcó junto al caballete con el letrero MMM, PRUEBE NUESTRO PASTEL DE HUEVO. Sacó el teléfono y buscó HICKS. No tenía su número, lo cual lo decía todo sobre su relación con el subdirector del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. Se desplazó hacia abajo en la pantalla y encontró LAMPLEY.
Lampley contestó cuando el timbre sonaba por segunda vez. Parecía sin aliento.
—¿Van? ¿Está bien?
—Sí, pero se ha marchado usted antes de los fuegos artificiales. Atienda, doctor: he tenido que disparar contra alguien.
—¿Cómo? ¿Contra quién?
—Ree Dempster. Está muerta. —Van explicó lo ocurrido.
Clint escuchó horrorizado.
—Dios —dijo cuando ella terminó—. ¿Se encuentra bien, Van?
—Físicamente ilesa. Emocionalmente jodida hasta decir basta, pero ya me psicoanalizará usted más tarde. —Van se sonó en algo con un colosal bocinazo acuoso—. Hay más.
Informó a Clint del violento enfrentamiento entre Angel Fitzroy y Evie Black.
—Yo no estaba delante, pero he visto parte de lo ocurrido por los monitores.
—Menos mal. ¿Y Claudia? Parece que le ha salvado usted la vida.
—Dempster no ha salido bien parada.
—Van...
—Dempster me caía bien. Habría jurado que si alguien aquí era incapaz de ponerse como una fiera, era ella.
—¿Dónde está el cuerpo?
—En el cuarto de la limpieza. —Van parecía avergonzada—. No se nos ha ocurrido nada mejor.
—Lo entiendo. —Clint se frotó la frente y apretó los párpados. Tuvo la sensación de que debía añadir algo para reconfortar a Lampley, pero no encontró las palabras—. ¿Y Angel? ¿Qué ha pasado con ella?
—Sorley, quién lo habría dicho, se ha hecho con un bote de gas pimienta y la ha rociado. Quigley y Olson la han metido por la fuerza en una celda del módulo A. Ahora mismo está aporreando las paredes y pidiendo un médico a gritos. Dice que se ha quedado ciega, lo cual es una chorrada. También dice que tiene mariposas en el pelo, lo cual podría no ser una chorrada. Tenemos una plaga de esos bichos. Tiene que volver, doctor. Hicks va corriendo de acá para allá como un pollo sin cabeza. Me ha pedido que le entregue el arma, a lo que me he negado, pese a que supongo que es lo que dice el protocolo.
—Ha hecho usted lo que debía. Hasta que la situación se calme, pasaremos del protocolo.
—Hicks es un inútil.
Como si no lo supiera, pensó Clint.
—O sea, siempre ha sido un inútil, pero en estas circunstancias, podría ser incluso peligroso.
Clint buscó algún cabo suelto.
—Ha dicho que Evie estaba provocando a Angel. ¿Qué decía exactamente?
—Ni idea. Quigley y Millie tampoco lo saben. Quizá lo sepa Sorley. Ha sido ella quien le ha bajado los humos a Angel. La chica se merece una medalla. Si no se queda frita antes, puede usted sacarle la historia completa cuando vuelva. Lo cual será pronto, ¿verdad?
—Lo antes posible —aseguró Clint—. Escuche, Van, ya sé que está usted alterada, pero necesito tener clara una cosa. ¿Angel la ha emprendido con Evie porque Evie no estaba en uno de esos capullos?
—Eso he entendido yo. Solo la he visto golpear los barrotes con la tapa de una cafetera y hablarle a gritos. Luego otro asunto ha reclamado mi atención.
—Pero ¿se ha despertado?
—Sí.
— _Evie se ha despertado._
—Sí. La ha despertado Fitzroy.
Clint intentó extraer alguna conclusión coherente, y no pudo. Quizá si él mismo durmiera un poco...
Al plantearse esa opción, se sonrojó por un repentino sentimiento de culpabilidad. Se le ocurrió una posibilidad descabellada: ¿Y si _Evie Black_ era hombre? ¿Y si su mujer había detenido a un travesti?
Pero no. Cuando Lila había detenido a Evie, iba en cueros. Cabía suponer que las funcionarias que habían supervisado su ingreso en prisión también la habían visto desnuda. ¿Y qué podía explicar que los hematomas y arañazos se le curasen en menos de medio día?
—Necesito que transmita un mensaje a Hicks y a los otros funcionarios que siguen ahí. —Clint había retomado la idea que se le había ocurrido minutos antes, la razón por la que se había detenido en el aparcamiento del restaurante y había llamado a la cárcel.
—No me llevará mucho tiempo —contestó ella—. Acaban de llegar Billy Wettermore y Scott Hughes, lo cual es buena noticia; aun así, llamar a eso servicios mínimos sería pecar de optimismo. Tenemos solo siete elementos, contando a Hicks. Con usted, seremos ocho.
Clint pasó por alto esa clara indirecta.
—Cuando entraba en el pueblo, me ha venido a la cabeza eso de que Evie Black es distinta del resto de las mujeres, a lo cual se suma lo que usted acaba de contarme... y sencillamente no sé qué pensar. Pero sí sé que no conviene dejar que la noticia salga de la cárcel, todavía no. Sea verdadera o falsa. Podría causar disturbios. ¿Entiende a qué me refiero?
—Hummm...
Al oír ese «hummm», Clint tuvo un mal presentimiento.
—¿Qué pasa?
—Bueno...
Ese «bueno» le gustó aún menos.
—Dígamelo.
Siguió otro bocinazo húmedo.
—He visto que Hicks hablaba por el móvil después de la batalla campal en el módulo A, y otra vez después de que me haya negado a entregarle el arma. Además, cuando Millie ha puesto al corriente a Scott y a Billy, los dos han llamado por teléfono.
Demasiado tarde, pues. Clint cerró los ojos. Un cuento de hadas cobró forma rápidamente en su cabeza: érase una vez un anónimo psiquiatra penitenciario vestido de negro que huyó en plena noche y se tumbó de través en medio de la Interestatal. Un autocar de Trailways pasó por allí y acabó con su sufrimiento, y los demás mortales vivieron felices por los siglos de los siglos, o quizá no, pero ya no era problema del anónimo psiquiatra penitenciario. Fin.
—Vale, vale —dijo Clint—. Esto es lo que haremos: dígales que ninguna llamada más, a nadie. ¿Entendido?
—¡Yo he llamado a mi hermana Bonnie! —prorrumpió Van—. ¡Lo siento, doctor, pero quería hacer una buena acción, algo en compensación por haber matado a Dempster! Le he dicho que no se duerma por más sueño que tenga, porque quizá en la cárcel hay una persona inmune, y _eso_ podría significar que existe curación. ¡O que se cura solo!
Clint abrió los ojos.
—¿Cuánto tiempo hace que está despierta, Van?
—¡Desde las cuatro de esta mañana! ¡Me ha despertado la condenada perra! ¡Tenía que salir a _mear_! —Pese a ser dura como el pedernal, Vanessa Lampley no pudo contenerse más. Se echó a llorar.
—Limítese a decir al resto del personal que no más llamadas, ¿queda claro? —Casi con toda seguridad era demasiado tarde, pero quizá pudiera evitarse que la noticia corriera demasiado deprisa. Quizá incluso fuera posible poner freno a aquello—. Llame otra vez a su hermana y dígale que estaba equivocada. Dígale que era un rumor falso y que usted se lo había tragado. Y que los demás que han usado sus teléfonos hagan lo mismo.
Silencio.
—Van, ¿sigue ahí?
—Me niego, doctor Norcross. Y con el debido respeto, no creo que sea la manera acertada de proceder. Bonnie se quedará despierta, al menos esta noche, porque cree que hay una esperanza. No quiero privarla de eso.
—Entiendo cómo se siente, pero eso _es_ lo correcto. ¿Quiere que se presente en la cárcel un montón de gente del pueblo, como... como los campesinos con antorchas que asaltan el castillo en una versión antigua de _Frankenstein_? __
—Vaya a ver a su mujer —sugirió Van—. Me ha dicho que lleva en pie incluso más tiempo que yo. A ver si es capaz de mirarla a la cara y no decirle que a lo mejor hay una luz al final del túnel.
—Van, escuche...
Pero Van había colgado. Clint miró durante largo rato el mensaje FIN DE LA LLAMADA en la pantalla del teléfono antes de guardárselo en el bolsillo y recorrer el resto del camino hasta el pueblo.
Dempster había muerto. La alegre Ree Dempster. Le costaba creerlo. Y lo lamentaba por Van Lampley, a pesar de su insubordinación. Aunque, en realidad, ¿cómo podía insubordinarse a él? Por Dios, no era más que el loquero de la cárcel.
2
Clint aparcó en una de las plazas marcadas con el rótulo SOLO 15 MINUTOS delante de la oficina del sheriff y, por la puerta abierta, oyó lo último que habría esperado oír: carcajadas procedentes del interior.
Había bastante personal en la sala de espera. Lila estaba sentada tras la centralita, al lado de Linny. A su alrededor, formaban un círculo irregular otros cinco ayudantes, todos hombres: Terry Coombs, Reed Barrows, Pete Ordway, Elmore Pearl y Vern Rangle. Sentados fuera del corrillo de policías se hallaban Barry Holden, el abogado de oficio que se había ocupado brevemente del caso de Evie Black, y un anciano de barba blanca a quien Clint no conocía.
Lila estaba fumando. Había dejado el tabaco hacía ocho años, cuando un día Jared comentó que esperaba que su madre no muriese de cáncer de pulmón hasta que él fuera mayor. Linny Mars y otros dos de los presentes también echaban bocanadas de humo. El aire tenía un color azul y un olor fragante.
—¿Qué pasa, chicos? —preguntó.
Lila lo vio, y se le iluminó el rostro. Apagó el cigarrillo en una taza de café, cruzó la sala corriendo y saltó a sus brazos. Literalmente, entrelazando los tobillos por detrás de los muslos de él. Lo besó con vehemencia. Eso arrancó más risas, un silbido del abogado Holden y una salva de aplausos.
—¡No sabes cuánto me alegro de verte! —dijo ella, y volvió a besarlo.
—Iba a ver a Jared —explicó Clint—. He pensado en parar un momento aquí para ver si estabas y si podías marcharte un rato.
—¡Jared! —exclamó Lila—. Vaya un chico extraordinario hemos creado, Clint. Caray, hemos hecho tan buen trabajo que a veces pienso que ha sido egoísta por nuestra parte no tener otro hijo. —Su mujer le dio una palmada en el pecho y se descolgó de él. Por encima de la sonrisa, sus pupilas eran dos puntos.
Se acercó Terry Coombs. Tenía los ojos enrojecidos e hinchados. Estrechó la mano a Clint.
—Ya sabes lo que le ha pasado a Roger, ¿no? Ha intentado quitar el envoltorio a su mujer. Mala idea. Debería haber esperado hasta Navidad. —Terry prorrumpió en una risotada que terminó en sollozo—. Mi mujer también ha caído. Y no consigo ponerme en contacto con mi hija.
A Terry le olía el aliento a alcohol, pero a Lila no; lo que ella había consumido, fuera lo que fuese, aceleraba mucho más que la bebida. Clint pensó en corresponder a Terry contándole lo que acababa de suceder en la cárcel, pero descartó la idea. La muerte de Ree Dempster no era anécdota para una fiesta, lo que precisamente parecía aquella reunión.
—Lo siento, Terry.
Pete Ordway rodeó los hombros de Terry con un brazo y se lo llevó.
Lila señaló al hombre de la barba.
—Cariño, ¿conoces a Willy Burke? Me ha ayudado a trasladar a Roger y a Jessica al depósito de cadáveres con su furgoneta. Aunque cuando digo «depósito», en realidad me refiero a la cámara frigorífica del Squeaky Wheel. Por lo visto, ahora mismo el hospital es inaccesible. Qué cutre, ¿no? —Soltó una risita y se dio una palmada en la cara con las dos manos—. Lo siento. No puedo evitarlo.
—Me alegro de verlo —saludó Willy—. Excelente esposa la suya. Hace bien su trabajo, pese a lo cansada que está.
—Gracias. —Volviéndose hacia su excelente esposa, Clint dijo—: Deduzco que habéis recurrido al depósito de pruebas.
—Solo Lila y yo —contestó Linny—. Terry tenía un poco de whisky.
Lila se sacó del bolsillo de atrás la receta de Provigil y se la entregó a Clint.
—No ha habido suerte con esto, ni con ninguna otra cosa. Dos de las farmacias han sido saqueadas, y Rite Aid ha quedado reducida a cenizas y ascuas. Seguramente lo has olido al entrar en el pueblo.
Clint negó con la cabeza.
—Hemos organizado esta reunión a modo de velada, podríamos decir —comentó Vern—. Que es como yo querría que estuvieran todas las mujeres.
Por un momento los demás quedaron perplejos. De pronto Barry se echó a reír, y enseguida se sumaron los otros ayudantes del sheriff, además de Willy, Lila y Linny. El sonido resultaba discordantemente alegre.
—De velada —repitió Lila. Dio un puñetazo a Clint en el brazo—. _Desvelada_. ¿Lo pillas?
—Lo pillo —contestó Clint. Acababa de entrar en la versión policial del País de las Maravillas.
—Un servidor está sobrio —informó Willy Burke al tiempo que levantaba la mano—. Destilo un poco de vez en cuando... —Guiñó un ojo a Lila—. Usted no ha oído nada, jefa. Pero no lo pruebo. Llevo cuarenta años sin beber.
—Reconozco que me he apropiado de la botella del señor Burke —dijo Barry Holden—. Me parecía lo adecuado, con todo lo que está pasando.
Los ayudantes Barrows, Ordway, Pearl y Rangle se declararon sobrios; el último levantó la mano como si prestara testimonio en un juicio. Clint estaba empezando a enfadarse. Era por las risas. Lo entendía, desde luego. Lila tenía derecho a descontrolarse un poco después de treinta horas o más sin dormir, y lo de recurrir al depósito de pruebas había sido idea suya; aun así, aquello no le gustaba nada de nada. En el trayecto hasta el pueblo, se sentía preparado casi para cualquier cosa, pero no lo estaba para la noticia de que Van había matado a Ree de un tiro, ni para entrar en la oficina del sheriff y encontrarse con un velatorio a la irlandesa.
—Estábamos hablando —decía Lila— de una vez que Roger acudió a un aviso de disputa doméstica, y la señora de la casa se asomó por una ventana del piso de arriba y le dijo que se largara de allí y se muriera. Como él no hizo ni lo uno ni otro, ella le vació un cubo de pintura en la cabeza. Al cabo de un mes, aún no había conseguido quitársela del todo del pelo.
—¡Rojo bermellón! —exclamó Linny.
Soltó una carcajada y se le cayó el cigarrillo en el regazo. Lo recogió, estuvo a punto de dar una calada al extremo encendido y, cuando intentaba darle la vuelta, volvió a caérsele, esta vez al suelo. Eso provocó más risas entre los presentes.
—¿Qué habéis tomado? —preguntó Clint—. ¿Linny y tú? ¿La coca?
—No, la reservábamos para más tarde —respondió Lila.
—No se preocupe, sheriff, yo la defenderé —terció Barry—. Alegaré causa mayor. Ningún jurado de Estados Unidos la condenará.
Eso causó otro estallido de carcajadas.
—Nos incautamos de un centenar de bellezas negras en la redada de los hermanos Griner —explicó Linny—. Lila ha abierto una de las cápsulas y hemos esnifado el polvo.
Clint pensó en Don Peters, que primero había obligado a Jeanette Sorley a tener relaciones sexuales en la sala común y luego había dejado grogui a Janice mediante un fármaco. Pensó en el absurdo café que él mismo había autorizado. Pensó en la extraña mujer del módulo A. Pensó en Ree intentando estrangular a Claudia y abrirle la garganta a dentelladas. Pensó en las reclusas aterrorizadas llorando en sus celdas, y en Vanessa Lampley diciendo «Me niego, doctor Norcross».
—Veo que ha dado resultado —dijo Clint. Tuvo que hacer un gran esfuerzo para contenerse—. Se os ve muy despiertas.
Lila cogió a Clint de las manos.
—Ya sé qué impresión da, cariño... qué impresión damos... pero no teníamos elección. Han asaltado las farmacias, y todo producto estimulante de venta en supermercados ha volado hace horas. Me lo ha dicho Jared. He hablado con él. Está bien, que lo sepas; no tienes por qué preocuparte, te...
—Ajá. ¿Puedo hablar contigo a solas un momento?
—Claro.
3
Salieron al frescor de la noche. Entonces Clint sí olió a ceniza y a plástico quemado; lo que quedaba de Rite Aid, supuso. Detrás de ellos se reanudó la conversación. Y las risas.
—A ver, ¿qué pasa con Jared?
Lila alzó una mano como un guardia de tráfico. Como si Clint fuese un conductor agresivo.
—Está cuidando de una niña que se llama Molly. Es la nieta de la señora Ransom. La señora Ransom está en un capullo, así que él ha asumido la responsabilidad. Por ahora lo lleva bien. No es necesario que te preocupes por él.
No, pensó Clint, no me digas que no me preocupe por nuestro hijo. Hasta que cumpla los dieciocho, _nuestra_ obligación es preocuparnos por él. ¿Tan drogada estás que te has olvidado de eso?
—O al menos no más de lo necesario —añadió ella al cabo de unos segundos.
Está cansada y tiene muchas cosas entre manos, se recordó Clint. Por amor de Dios, acaba de matar a una mujer. No tienes ninguna razón para enfadarte con ella. Pero _estaba_ enfadado igualmente. La lógica ejercía escaso poder sobre las emociones. Como psiquiatra, lo sabía, por más que en ese momento saberlo sirviera de poco.
—¿Tienes idea de cuánto tiempo llevas despierta?
Lila cerró un ojo mientras lo calculaba. Con ese gesto adquirió un aspecto de pirata que a él no le gustó.
—Desde quizá... la una del mediodía de ayer o algo así, creo. Eso son... —Meneó la cabeza—. No puedo hacer la cuenta. ¡Caray, cómo me late el corazón! Pero estoy totalmente despierta, eso sí. ¡Y mira las estrellas! ¿No son preciosas?
Clint sí pudo hacer la cuenta. Eran treinta y dos horas poco más o menos.
—Linny ha mirado en internet cuánto puede aguantar una persona sin dormir —continuó Lila, radiante—. El récord está en doscientas sesenta y cuatro horas. Interesante, ¿no? ¡Once días! Lo estableció un estudiante de instituto en un proyecto de Ciencias. Te aseguro que ese récord va a _caer_. Hay mujeres muy decididas por ahí.
»No obstante, la cognición decrece rápidamente, y después la contención emocional. Además, se produce ese fenómeno llamado microsueño, que yo misma he experimentado en la caravana de Truman Mayweather. Uf, qué miedo. He notado cómo me salían del pelo briznas de esa sustancia. El lado positivo es que los humanos son mamíferos diurnos, y eso quiere decir que en cuanto salga el sol todas las mujeres que hayan conseguido mantenerse despiertas toda la noche tendrán un subidón. Seguramente se les pasará a eso de media tarde, pero...
—Fue mala suerte que ayer tuvieras que hacer el turno de noche —dijo Clint. Las palabras se le escaparon sin darse cuenta.
—Sí. —La expresión risueña desapareció al instante del rostro de Lila—. Fue mala suerte.
—No —repuso Clint.
—¿Cómo dices?
—Un camión de pienso para mascotas volcó en Mountain Rest Road, cierto, pero de eso hace un año. ¿Qué hiciste anoche, entonces? ¿Adónde demonios fuiste?
Lila estaba muy pálida, pero en la oscuridad sus pupilas habían recuperado más o menos su tamaño normal.
—¿Estás seguro de que quieres hablar de eso en este preciso momento? ¿Con todo lo que está pasando?
Clint podría haber dicho que no, pero dentro de la oficina se produjo otro exasperante estallido de carcajadas, y la agarró por los brazos.
—Dímelo.
Lila miró las manos de Clint en torno a sus propios bíceps y luego lo miró a él. Clint la soltó y se apartó.
—A un partido de baloncesto —respondió Lila—. Fui a ver jugar a una chica. La número treinta y cuatro. Se llama Sheila Norcross. Su madre es Shannon Parks. Así que dime, Clint, ¿quién ha estado mintiendo a quién?
Él abrió la boca —sin saber qué iba a decir—, pero, antes de que pudiera hablar, Terry Coombs salió apresuradamente por la puerta con una mirada de desesperación.
—¡Dios santo, Lila! ¡Joder!
Lila se volvió hacia él.
—¿Qué pasa?
—¡Nos hemos olvidado! ¿Cómo hemos podido olvidarnos? _¡Por Dios!_
—¿De qué nos hemos olvidado?
—¡De Platinum!
—¿Platinum?
Lila se limitó a quedarse mirándolo, y lo que Clint vio en su cara aplacó de inmediato su ira. Su expresión de perplejidad indicaba que sabía más o menos de qué le hablaba pero era incapaz de situarlo en ningún contexto o marco de referencia. Estaba demasiado cansada.
—¡Platinum! ¡La hija de Roger y Jessica! —exclamó Terry—. ¡Solo tiene ocho meses, y sigue en la casa! _¡Nos hemos olvidado del puto bebé!_
—Cielo santo —dijo Lila.
Giró en redondo y corrió escalera abajo seguida de cerca por Terry. Ninguno de los dos miró a Clint, ni se volvió cuando él los llamó. Bajó los peldaños de dos en dos y agarró a Lila por el hombro antes de que entrara en el coche. No estaba en condiciones de conducir, ni ella ni Terry, pero Clint comprendió que eso no los detendría.
—Lila, escúchame. Lo más seguro es que el bebé esté bien. En cuanto quedan envueltas en esos capullos, parecen entrar en una especie de estado estacionario, como en soporte vital.
Ella encogió el hombro para desprenderse de su mano.
—Hablamos luego. Nos vemos en casa.
Terry se sentó al volante. Terry, que había estado bebiendo.
—Espero que tengas razón en cuanto al bebé, Clint —dijo, y cerró de un portazo.
4
Cerca de Fredericksburg, la rueda de repuesto con la que la hija de la directora de la cárcel llevaba circulando desde hacía varias semanas reventó en el momento menos oportuno, tal como su madre —dedicada de forma obsesiva, como era propio de las madres y las directoras de cárcel, a la previsión de la peor situación posible— le habría advertido que por fuerza ocurriría. Michaela redujo la velocidad hasta detener el coche en el aparcamiento de un McDonald's. Entró a orinar.
Delante del mostrador vio a un motero descomunal con el torso desnudo salvo por un chaleco de cuero con el rótulo SATAN'S 7 bordado y lo que parecía una semiautomática Tec-9 colgada a la espalda. Explicaba a una cajera con ojos de mapache que no, que no pensaba pagar ninguna de sus Big Macs. Esa noche había una oferta especial: todo lo que quisiera era gratis. Cuando se cerró la puerta y se hizo el silencio, el motero volvió la cabeza y vio a Michaela.
—Eh, hermana. —Le dirigió una mirada de admiración: _No está mal_ —. ¿Te conozco de algo?
—¿Es posible? —contestó Michaela.
Sin detenerse, recorrió el pasillo lateral del McDonald's, dejó atrás el cuarto de baño y salió por la puerta trasera. Cruzó apresuradamente el aparcamiento y, al fondo, se abrió paso entre las ramas de un seto. Al otro lado se extendía el aparcamiento de una papelería Hobby Lobby. Había luz en la tienda, y vio gente dentro. Michaela pensó que había que dedicarse con mucho entusiasmo a los álbumes de recortes para ir a comprar a un Hobby Lobby precisamente una noche como aquella.
Dio un paso y le llamó la atención algo más cercano: un Corolla al ralentí a unos cinco o seis metros. Una silueta blanca ocupaba el asiento delantero.
Michaela se acercó al coche. La silueta blanca era una mujer, naturalmente, y tenía la cabeza y las manos envueltas en capullos. Aunque Michaela seguía bajo los efectos de la coca, lamentó no estar mucho mucho más colocada. En el regazo de la mujer de los capullos, yacía un perro muerto, un caniche, con el cuerpo retorcido y maltrecho.
Ay, Fido, no deberías quitarle las telarañas de la cara a tu mami a lametones mientras se echa una siesta en el aparcamiento. Mami puede enfadarse mucho si la despiertas.
Michaela trasladó con cuidado el perro muerto a la hierba. Luego arrastró a la mujer, Ursula Whitman-Davies, según su carnet de conducir, al asiento del acompañante. Aunque no le gustaba mucho la idea de quedarse con la mujer en el coche, la incomodaba profundamente la alternativa, que era depositarla en la hierba junto al caniche muerto. Y debía tener en cuenta el aspecto práctico: con Ursula de pasajera, podía circular legalmente por el carril reservado a los vehículos compartidos.
Michaela se sentó al volante y avanzó hasta la vía de servicio que la llevaría de regreso a la I-70.
Al pasar por delante del McDonald's, se le ocurrió una idea malévola. Sin duda era fruto de la coca, pero se le antojó exquisitamente acertada de todos modos. Cambió de sentido en el Motel 6 contiguo y regresó al McDonald's. Aparcó justo delante, y allí, apoyada en su caballete, había una Harley Softail que parecía de época. En el guardabarros trasero, por encima de la matrícula de Tennessee, exhibía una calcomanía de una calavera con SATAN'S en la cuenca de un ojo y 7 en la otra. En los dientes se leía CUIDADO.
—Solo será un momento, Ursula —dijo Michaela a su copiloto envuelta en capullos, y dirigió el Corolla hacia la motocicleta.
No iba ni a veinte kilómetros por hora cuando impactó, pero la moto se volcó con un estrépito satisfactorio. El motero, sentado a una mesa junto a la ventana de delante, tenía ante sí una montaña de comida apilada en una bandeja. Alzó la vista a tiempo de ver a Michaela dar marcha atrás y apartarse de su caballo de hierro, que en ese momento parecía más bien un poni muerto. Ella le vio mover los labios mientras corría hacia la puerta con una Big Mac goteando salsa secreta en una mano y un batido en la otra, y la Tec-9 bamboleándose a su espalda. Michaela ignoraba qué decía, pero dudaba que fuese _shalom_. Le dirigió un saludo desenfadado con la mano antes de girar para acceder de nuevo a la vía de servicio y pisar el acelerador del Corolla de Ursula hasta alcanzar los cien.
Al cabo de tres minutos, se incorporó de nuevo a la Interestatal, desternillándose de risa, consciente de que la euforia no duraría y deseando más coca para alargarla.
5
El Corolla de Ursula estaba provisto de radio vía satélite, y, después de toquetear los mandos durante un rato, Michaela encontró NewsAmerica. La información no era para dar saltos de alegría. Corría la noticia sin confirmar de un «incidente» relacionado con la esposa del vicepresidente, por el cual se había emplazado al Servicio Secreto en el número uno de la Rotonda del Observatorio. Activistas en pro de los derechos de los animales habían dejado en libertad a los ocupantes del Zoológico Nacional; varios testigos habían visto a un león devorar lo que parecía un ser humano en las vías de la línea naranja del metro. Conservadores de extrema derecha proclamaban en tertulias radiofónicas que el virus Aurora era una prueba de que Dios veía con malos ojos el feminismo. El Papa había pedido a todo el mundo que rezara en busca de orientación. Los Nationals habían cancelado su serie interligas del fin de semana contra los Orioles. Esto último Michaela lo entendía hasta cierto punto, pero solo hasta cierto punto; todos los jugadores (también los árbitros) eran hombres, ¿no?
En el asiento del acompañante, la criatura con una bola de algodón por cabeza que antes fuera Ursula Whitman-Davies se movía al ritmo de la Interestatal, meciéndose suavemente en los tramos de asfalto liso y bailoteando cuando las ruedas pisaban pavimento lleno de surcos o deteriorado. Como compañera de viaje, era la absolutamente mejor o la absolutamente peor de la historia de la humanidad.
Durante un tiempo Michaela había salido con una chica consagrada a los cristales, que estaba convencida de que, con atención serena y fe sincera, podías adoptar la forma de la luz. Aquella chica encantadora y apasionada probablemente ya estaba dormida, envuelta en blanco. Michaela pensó en su propio padre, ya fallecido: su buen padre, que se sentaba junto a su cama cuando ella tenía miedo por la noche, o al menos eso le había contado su madre. Michaela tenía tres años cuando él murió. No lo recordaba con vida. Michaela —pese a haberse operado la nariz, pese a su apellido falso— era una auténtica periodista. Conocía los hechos, y el único hecho sobre Archie Coates que conocía bien era que lo habían metido en un ataúd y lo habían enterrado en el cementerio de Shady Hills, en la localidad de Dooling, y allí seguía. No se había convertido en luz. No se permitió a sí misma alimentar la fantasía de que ella pronto se reuniría con su padre en el más allá. La situación era ni más ni menos esta: el mundo se acababa y una mujer envuelta en telarañas que había estrangulado a su caniche se balanceaba junto a Michaela, que lo único que deseaba era pasar unas horas con su madre antes de que el sueño se las llevara a las dos.
En Morgantown tuvo que llenar el depósito del Corolla. Era una gasolinera con personal. El tipo joven que atendía el surtidor se disculpó: no funcionaban los datáfonos. Michaela pagó con billetes de un fajo que encontró en el bolso de Ursula.
El hombre llevaba una barba rubia corta, vaqueros y una sencilla camiseta blanca. Nunca le habían atraído especialmente los hombres, pero le gustó el aspecto de ese esbelto vikingo.
—Gracias —dijo—. ¿Lo llevas bien?
—Ah —contestó él—, por mí descuide, señora. No tiene por qué preocuparse. ¿Sabe cómo usar eso?
Michaela siguió la dirección de su barbilla hasta el bolso de Ursula, que descansaba junto a la cadera de la mujer envuelta en capullos. Por la cremallera abierta asomaba la empuñadura de un revólver. Al parecer la señora Whitman-Davies era aficionada a las armas de fuego además de los canes.
—La verdad es que no —reconoció ella—. Mi amiga sabía que iba a hacer un viaje largo y me lo ha prestado.
Él le dirigió una mirada severa.
—El seguro debe de estar a un lado. No se olvide de retirarlo si ve venir algún problema. Apunte al centro del cuerpo del problema en cuestión, la masa central, y apriete el gatillo. No afloje la mano o la golpeará en la teta por el retroceso. ¿Se acordará?
—Sí —respondió Michaela—. Masa central. No aflojar la mano o me golpeará en la teta. Entendido. Gracias.
Cuando se ponía en marcha, oyó al vikingo levantar la voz.
—Oiga, ¿sale usted en televisión, quizá?
A eso de la una de la madrugada del viernes, llegó a las afueras de Dooling. Las nubes de humo del incendio en el bosque ondeaban por encima de West Lavin cuando, en la oscuridad, condujo el Corolla hacia la forma baja y alargada de la cárcel. Se tapó la boca con la mano para no aspirar el hedor de las cenizas.
En la verja, se apeó del coche y pulsó el botón rojo de llamada.
6
Maura Dunbarton estaba sentada en su celda del módulo B con lo que quedaba de Kayleigh, no muerta pero como si lo estuviera. ¿Soñaba dentro de la mortaja?
Maura, con la mano apoyada en el pecho de Kayleigh, percibía el suave movimiento de su respiración y observaba la maraña blanca de pringue fibroso que se expandía y se contraía, de modo que se le perfilaba la boca abierta con cada inspiración. En dos ocasiones Maura había hincado las uñas en aquella tela gruesa y un tanto pegajosa, tentada de rasgarla y liberar a Kayleigh. Las dos veces se acordó de la información facilitada por los noticiarios de la televisión y retiró las manos.
En una sociedad cerrada como el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, los rumores se propagaban igual de rápido que los virus del resfriado. Pero lo ocurrido hacía una hora en el módulo A no era un rumor. Angel Fitzroy estaba encerrada en una celda con los ojos hinchados a causa del gas pimienta. Según sus desvaríos, la nueva era una jodida bruja.
A Maura le parecía totalmente posible, sobre todo después de haber visto a Claudia Stephenson arrastrarse por el módulo B con magulladuras en el cuello y profundos arañazos en los hombros, contando que Ree había estado a punto de matarla, y todo lo que había visto y oído antes de eso. Según Claudia, la nueva conocía los nombres de Jeanette y Angel, pero eso era no era nada en comparación con todo lo demás. También sabía — _¡sabía!_ — que Angel había matado al menos a cinco hombres y un recién nacido.
—La mujer se llama Evie, como la Eva del Paraíso Terrenal —había dicho Claudia—. ¡Pensadlo! Luego Ree ha intentado matarme, y me apuesto lo que sea a que la bruja sabía lo que iba a pasar, igual que sabía los nombres de las otras, y lo del bebé de Angel.
Claudia no era lo que podría considerarse un testigo fiable, pero todo eso tenía su lógica. Solo una bruja podía saber esas cosas.
En la cabeza de Maura se fundieron dos cuentos que se combinaron para crear una verdad. Uno trataba de una hermosa princesa que, maldita por una bruja malvada, se sumió en un profundo sueño al pincharse el dedo con una rueca (Maura no sabía muy bien qué era una rueca, pero debía de ser afilada). Después de incontables años, un beso sacó a la princesa de su sopor. El otro era el cuento de Hansel y Grettel, quienes, capturados por una bruja, mantuvieron la calma y escaparon después de quemar viva a la arpía en su propio horno.
Los cuentos solo eran cuentos, pero los que perduraban cientos de años debían de contener retazos de verdad. La verdad en esos dos podía ser: los hechizos podían deshacerse; las brujas podían aniquilarse. Liquidar a la mujer-bruja del módulo A tal vez no despertara a Kayleigh y todas las demás mujeres del mundo. O tal vez sí. Desde luego era una posibilidad. Incluso si eso no ocurría, la tal Evie por fuerza debía tener _algo_ que ver con esa epidemia. ¿Por qué si no podía dormirse y despertar con normalidad? ¿Cómo si no podía saber cosas que no tenía forma de saber?
Maura llevaba décadas en la cárcel. Había leído mucho, incluso la Biblia de cabo a rabo. En su día le había parecido un montón de papel bastante inútil, hombres que creaban leyes y mujeres que engendraban engendros, pero recordaba un versículo convincente: «A la hechicera no la dejarás con vida».
Un plan cobró forma en la mente de Maura. Necesitaría un poco de suerte para llevarlo a cabo. Pero, con la mitad de los celadores ausentes y la rutina nocturna de la cárcel patas arriba, quizá no tanta. Angel Fitzroy no lo había conseguido, porque la rabia de Angel asomaba a la superficie para que todos la vieran. Por eso se hallaba entonces en una celda de aislamiento. La rabia de Maura, en cambio, era un fuego enterrado a gran profundidad, de brasas relucientes ocultas bajo las cenizas. Razón por la cual era presa de confianza y tenía la cárcel a su disposición.
—Volveré, cielo —dijo a la vez que daba unas palmaditas en el hombro a Kayleigh—. A no ser que esa mujer me mate, claro. Si es una auténtica bruja, supongo que podría hacerlo.
Maura levantó su colchón y buscó a tientas la pequeña ranura que había abierto. Introdujo los dedos y sacó un cepillo de dientes. El mango, de plástico duro, tenía la punta afilada. Se lo metió en el elástico del pantalón, a la espalda, lo ocultó bajo el faldón de la holgada casaca y salió de la celda. En el pasillo del módulo B, se volvió y lanzó un beso a su compañera de celda sin rostro.
7
—Reclusa, ¿qué haces?
Era Lawrence Hicks, de pie en el umbral de la puerta de la biblioteca del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, pequeña pero sorprendentemente bien surtida. Por lo general, le gustaba vestir terno y corbata oscura, pero esa noche había prescindido tanto de la chaqueta como del chaleco, y llevaba el nudo de la corbata tan flojo que el extremo le oscilaba justo por encima de la bragueta, como una flecha que señalaba su chisme, sin duda encogido.
—Hola, señor Hicks —saludó Maura, y siguió cargando libros en un carrito de la biblioteca. Le dirigió una sonrisa, y su único diente de oro destelló bajo los fluorescentes del techo—. Voy a repartir libros.
—¿No es un poco tarde para eso, reclusa?
—No lo creo, señor. Esta noche no creo que vayan a apagarse las luces.
Habló de forma respetuosa y sin perder la sonrisa. Así había que actuar: sonriendo y mostrándose inofensiva. No es más que Maura Dunbarton, esa vieja canosa, amansada a fuerza de años de rutina carcelaria y dispuesta a lamerle el culo a cualquiera cuyo culo necesitara ser lamido, exorcizado hacía ya mucho tiempo lo que en su día se adueñara de ella para inducirla a matar a aquella gente. Era una argucia que las Angel Fitzroy de este mundo nunca aprendían. Había que conservar la pólvora seca por si alguna vez se necesitaba.
Hicks se acercó a inspeccionar el carrito, y Maura casi sintió lástima por él —pálido, un asomo de barba en los carrillos blandos como la masa de pan, revuelto el poco pelo que le quedaba—, pero si intentaba detenerla, le clavaría el arma en esa gruesa barriga. Tenía que salvar a Kayleigh si era posible salvarla. A la Bella Durmiente la habían salvado con un beso; Maura tal vez pudiera salvar a su chica con un pincho.
No te metas en mi camino, Hicksie, pensó. No, a no ser que quieras un agujero en el hígado. Sé dónde lo tienes exactamente.
Hicks examinaba los libros que Maura había elegido de las estanterías: Peter Straub, Clive Barker, Joe Hill.
—¡Son todo novelas de terror! —exclamó Hicks—. ¿Permitimos a las reclusas leer estas cosas?
—Esto y novelas románticas es prácticamente lo único que leen, señor —contestó Maura, sin añadir: Lo que sabrías si supieras algo del funcionamiento de este sitio, pedazo de comadreja _._ Renovó la sonrisa—. Imagino que esta noche serán las historias de terror lo que mantenga despiertas a las mujeres, si es que algo lo consigue. Además, nada de esto es real; todos tratan de vampiros, hombres lobo y cosas así. Son como cuentos de hadas.
Por un momento Hicks pareció vacilar, quizá preparándose para ordenarle que volviera a su celda. Maura se llevó la mano a los riñones como si le picara y quisiera rascarse. Finalmente Hicks deshinchó las mejillas en un suspiro.
—Adelante. Al menos te mantendrá despierta a _ti_.
Esta vez la sonrisa de Maura fue sincera.
—Ah, por mí no se preocupe, señor Hicks. Tengo insomnio.
8
Michaela había pasado de pulsar el botón una y otra vez a mantenerlo apretado sin más. La parte acristalada de fachada de la cárcel estaba muy iluminada y había coches en el aparcamiento; dentro quedaba alguien despierto.
—¿Qué? —La voz masculina que contestó era la viva representación del cansancio; era una voz a la que se le notaba todo un día a cuestas—. Aquí el funcionario Quigley. Deje de apretar el puñetero botón.
—Me llamo Michaela Morgan. —Al cabo de un segundo, recordó que allí su nombre televisivo no significaba nada.
—¿Y? —La voz no parecía impresionada.
—Antes era Michaela Coates. Mi madre es la directora. Me gustaría verla, por favor.
—Esto...
Silencio, salvo por un ligero zumbido en el intercomunicador. Michaela se enderezó; se le había agotado la paciencia. Tocó el botón de llamada con todas sus fuerzas.
—Le comunico que, además, trabajo para NewsAmerica. ¿Es necesario que denuncie públicamente este comportamiento o puedo hablar con mi madre?
—Lo siento, señorita Coates. Se ha quedado dormida.
Entonces fue Michaela quien quedó en silencio. Llegaba demasiado tarde. Se desplomó contra la alambrada. El reflejo de los faros del Corolla en la verja la deslumbró.
—Lo siento —repitió la voz—. Era una buena jefa.
—Y ahora ¿qué hago? —preguntó Michaela. No estaba pulsando el botón de llamada, así que la pregunta iba dirigida solo a la noche y el humo que emanaba del bosque.
El funcionario Quigley acudió con la respuesta, como si la hubiera oído.
—¿Por qué no va al pueblo? Coja una habitación. O... he oído que esta noche hay barra libre en el Squeaky Wheel, y no cerrarán hasta que salga el sol o se acabe la cerveza.
9
Maura empujó el carrito por el módulo B, despacio, para que nadie pensara que tenía un objetivo concreto en mente.
—¿Libros? —preguntaba en cada celda ocupada o al menos en aquellas cuyas ocupantes no estaban ya cubiertas por esa mierda blanca—. ¿Queréis leer una historia de miedo? Tengo nueve versiones distintas del hombre del saco.
Unas cuantas aceptaron. La mayoría estaba viendo las noticias, una historia de terror en sí. El funcionario Wettermore la detuvo cerca del módulo B para echar un vistazo a los títulos del carrito. A Maura no lo sorprendió verlo allí esa noche, porque el funcionario Wettermore era un gay declarado. La habría extrañado mucho que tuviera alguna mujer en casa.
—A mí todo eso me parece un montón de basura —comentó—. Sigue adelante y lárgate de aquí, Maura.
—De acuerdo, funcionario. Ahora voy al módulo A. Hay allí un par de mujeres; el doctor Norcross las tiene en el grupo del Prozac, pero les gusta leer igualmente.
—Bien, pero no te acerques a Fitzroy ni a la celda acolchada del fondo, ¿entendido?
Maura le dedicó su sonrisa más amplia.
—Por nada del mundo, funcionario Wettermore. ¡Y gracias! ¡Muchas gracias!
Aparte de la nueva —la bruja—, solo había dos mujeres despiertas en el módulo A, más la silueta dormida que fuera Kitty McDavid.
—No —dijo la mujer de la A-2—. No puedo leer, no puedo leer. Los medicamentos que Norcross me da me dañan la vista. No puedo leer, no. Se han oído gritos. No me gustan los gritos.
La otra mujer, en la A-8, era Angel. Miró a Maura con los ojos hinchados y cara de no saber qué coño le había pasado.
—Sigue adelante, Mo-Mo —previno cuando Maura, pese a la advertencia de Wettermore, le ofreció un par de libros.
No había problema. Maura se encontraba casi al final del pasillo. Echó una ojeada por encima del hombro y vio a Wettermore de espaldas a ella, enfrascado en una conversación con el funcionario Murphy, al que las chicas llamaban Tigger, como el personaje de las historias de Winnie de Pooh.
—Maura...
Fue solo un susurro pero penetrante. En cierto modo resonó.
Era la nueva. Evie. Eva. La que en la Biblia había comido del Árbol del Conocimiento, razón por la cual tanto ella como su apuesto maridito habían sido desterrados a este mundo de dolor y perplejidad. Maura conocía el destierro. Lo conocía bien. La habían desterrado a Dooling por desterrar a su marido y sus dos hijos (además de Slugger) a la inmensa eternidad.
Evie, de pie junto a la puerta de barrotes de la celda acolchada, miraba a Maura. Y sonreía. Maura no había visto una sonrisa tan hermosa en su vida. Una bruja, quizá, pero espectacular. Sacó una mano entre los barrotes y le hizo una seña con un dedo largo y elegante. Maura empujó el carrito hacia allí.
—¡Alto, reclusa! —Era el funcionario Tig Murphy—. ¡No pases de ahí!
Maura siguió adelante.
—¡A por ella, hay que detenerla! —exclamó Murphy, y Maura oyó el estrépito de sus duros zapatos contra las baldosas.
Maura colocó el carrito de medio lado y lo volcó para crear una barricada momentánea. Libros en rústica destrozados volaron y resbalaron por el suelo.
— _¡Alto, reclusa, alto!_
Maura se encaminó a toda prisa hacia la celda acolchada al tiempo que se llevaba la mano a los riñones y sacaba el cepillo de dientes convertido en pincho. La mujer-bruja seguía atrayéndola con el dedo. No ve lo que traigo para ella, pensó Maura.
Echó atrás el brazo a la altura de la cadera con intención de hundírselo a la mujer-bruja en el vientre. En el hígado. Solo que aquellos ojos oscuros primero la obligaron a aminorar el paso y luego a detenerse. No era maldad lo que Maura veía en ellos, sino frío interés.
—Quieres estar con ella, ¿verdad? —preguntó Evie en un rápido susurro.
—Sí —dijo Maura—. Dios mío, no sabes cuánto.
—Puedes estar con ella. Pero antes debes dormirte.
—No puedo. Tengo insomnio.
Wettermore y Murphy se acercaban. Maura disponía solo de unos segundos para pinchar a la mujer-bruja y acabar con esa epidemia. Pero no lo hizo. Los ojos oscuros de la desconocida la inmovilizaron, y descubrió que no deseaba oponer resistencia. No eran ojos en absoluto, advirtió Maura, sino rendijas, aberturas a una nueva oscuridad.
La mujer-bruja apretó el rostro contra los barrotes, sin apartar los ojos de los de Maura.
—Bésame, deprisa. Ahora que aún hay tiempo.
Maura no se lo pensó. Dejó caer el cepillo de dientes afilado y acercó la cara a los barrotes. Los labios de ambas se encontraron. El aliento cálido de Evie penetró en la boca y la garganta de Maura. Esta sintió que el bendito sueño ascendía desde el fondo de su cerebro, como cuando era niña y estaba a salvo en su propia cama con Freddy el osito de peluche en un brazo y Gussie el dragón en el otro. Escuchando el frío viento exterior, a sabiendas de que dentro estaba a salvo y caliente, camino del mundo de los sueños.
Cuando Billy Wettermore y Tig Murphy llegaron a ella, Maura yacía boca arriba delante de la celda de Evie, y las primeras hebras le brotaban del cabello, de la boca y de debajo de los párpados cerrados, con los ojos sumidos ya en el sueño.
### 18
1
Frank esperaba otra abundante ración de chorradas por parte de Elaine cuando regresara a casa, pero se encontró con una situación sin posibilidad de chorradas. Como ninguna otra cosa aquel día —o, de hecho, en los días venideros—, sus problemas con El se resolvieron por la vía fácil. ¿Por qué entonces no sentía la menor alegría?
La esposa de la que estaba separado yacía dormida en la cama de Nana con el brazo derecho alrededor del hombro de su hija. El capullo formado en torno a su rostro era fino, una primera capa tirante de papel maché, pero una capa completa de todos modos. Una nota en la mesilla de noche decía: «He rezado por ti, Frank. Espero que tu reces por nosotras. E.».
Frank arrugó la nota y la tiró a la papelera que había junto a la cama. Tiana, la princesa negra de Disney, bailaba en el costado de la papelera con su resplandeciente vestido verde, seguida de un cortejo de animales mágicos.
—No hay palabras para esto. —Garth Flickinger lo había seguido arriba y se hallaba detrás de Frank en la puerta de la habitación de Nana.
—No —dijo Frank—. Supongo que no.
En la mesilla de noche había una foto enmarcada de Nana con sus padres. En ella, Nana sostenía en alto el marcapáginas con el que había ganado el premio. El médico cogió la foto y la examinó.
—Ha heredado sus pómulos, señor Geary. Una niña con suerte.
Frank no supo qué contestar a eso, así que calló.
El médico, indiferente al silencio, volvió a dejar la foto en la mesilla.
—Bueno. ¿Procedemos?
Dejaron a Elaine en la cama, y Frank, por segunda vez ese día, cogió a su hija en brazos y la llevó abajo. Se le movía el pecho; seguía viva bajo aquella membrana. Pero a los pacientes en coma con muerte cerebral también les latía el corazón. Era bastante probable que la última conversación entre ellos, la que acompañaría a Frank hasta la muerte —cuandoquiera que llegase— fuese la de esa mañana, en la que él le había gritado en el camino de acceso. La había asustado.
La melancolía se adueñó de Frank, una bruma terrestre que lo engulló desde las botas hacia arriba. No existía ninguna razón para esperar que ese médico drogadicto fuera capaz de hacer algo para ayudarlo.
Flickinger, entretanto, extendió unas toallas en el parqué del salón y pidió a Frank que colocara a Nana encima.
—¿Por qué no en el sofá?
—Porque quiero que la iluminen las luces del techo, señor Geary.
—Ah. Vale.
Garth Flickinger se arrodilló junto a Nana y abrió el maletín. Los ojos inyectados en sangre y ribeteados de rojo le conferían un aspecto vampírico. La nariz estrecha y la frente ancha y huidiza, enmarcada por rizos castaños, le añadían un leve aire de demencia. No obstante, y pese a que Frank sabía que el médico llevaba como mínimo un ligero colocón, su tono alegre le resultó tranquilizador. No era de extrañar que tuviese un Mercedes.
—Bueno, ¿qué sabemos?
—Sabemos que está dormida —dijo Frank, y se sintió excepcionalmente estúpido.
—¡Ah, pero hay mucho más! Lo que he podido saber por las noticias es en esencia lo siguiente: los capullos son de un material fibroso que parece componerse de moco, saliva, cera de orejas y grandes cantidades de una proteína desconocida desprovista de ADN. ¿Cómo se produce? ¿De dónde procede? Lo ignoramos, y parecería imposible, dado que las extrusiones femeninas normales son mucho menos copiosas; dos cucharadas de sangre para un período menstrual corriente, por ejemplo, no más de una taza incluso en casos extremos. También sabemos que esos capullos parecen sustentar a las durmientes.
—Y se ponen como locas cuando se rompe el capullo —añadió Frank.
—Exacto. —Garth dispuso unos instrumentos sobre la mesita de centro: bisturí, tijeras y, extraído del estuche negro, un pequeño microscopio—. Empecemos por tomarle el pulso a su hija, ¿de acuerdo?
Frank dijo que le parecía bien.
Flickinger levantó cuidadosamente la muñeca envuelta de Nana y la sostuvo durante treinta segundos. Luego la bajó con el mismo cuidado.
—El ritmo cardíaco en reposo se percibe un poco amortiguado a través del tejido que forma la envoltura, pero está dentro de lo normal en una niña sana de su edad. Ahora, señor Geary...
—Frank.
—Bien. ¿Qué _no_ sabemos, Frank?
La respuesta era evidente.
—Por qué está ocurriendo esto.
— _Por qué._ —Flickinger dio una palmada—. Eso es. En la naturaleza todo tiene una finalidad. ¿Cuál es la finalidad de esto? ¿Qué propósito tiene este capullo? —Cogió las tijeras y abrió y cerró las hojas—. Interroguemos, pues.
2
Cuando Jeanette no tenía con quién hablar, a veces hablaba sola, o mejor dicho, con un interlocutor imaginario comprensivo. El doctor Norcross le había dicho que era perfectamente normal. Se conocía como «articulación» _._ Esa noche la interlocutora era Ree, a quien tuvo que imaginar. Porque la funcionaria Lampley la había matado. Puede que pronto intentara averiguar dónde la habían dejado para presentarle sus respetos, pero de momento le bastaba con quedarse allí, en la celda de ambas. De momento no necesitaba más.
—Te contaré qué pasó, Ree. Damian se hizo daño en la rodilla jugando al fútbol, eso pasó. Era una simple pachanga con unos cuantos chicos en el parque. Yo no estaba. Damian me dijo que ni siquiera lo tocaron; sencillamente apretó a correr, para bloquear al _quarterback_ , supongo, oyó un crujido, cayó en la hierba y se levantó cojeando. El ligamento cruzado anterior o el ligamento cruzado medial, nunca me acuerdo de cuál era, pero, en fin, uno de esos. La parte que hace de almohadilla entre los huesos.
Ree dijo: Ajá.
—Por aquel entonces nos iban bien las cosas, solo que no teníamos seguro médico. Yo trabajaba treinta y cuatro horas a la semana en un centro de atención diurna, y Damian tenía un chanchullo estable con un sueldazo. Veinte la hora o algo parecido. ¡Una pasta! Venía a ser una especie de ayudante de un pequeño contratista que hacía obras de carpintería para gente rica de Charleston, políticos, directores de empresa y cosas así. Peces gordos del carbón. Damian cargaba y descargaba, y tal. Nos iba de maravilla, y más para ser un par de críos que no habían acabado el instituto. Yo estaba orgullosa de mí misma.
Ree dijo: Tenías todo el derecho a estarlo.
—Conseguimos un piso, y estaba bien, con buenos muebles y todo, mejor que cualquiera de los sitios donde había vivido de niña. Él se compró una moto prácticamente nueva, y alquilamos un coche para que yo fuera de acá para allá con nuestro hijo Bobby. Fuimos a Disney. Montamos en la Montaña del Espacio, entramos en la Mansión Encantada, abrazamos a Goofy y toda la pesca. Le presté dinero a mi hermana para que fuera al dermatólogo. Le di un poco de dinero a mi madre para que arreglara el tejado. Pero no contratamos seguro médico. Y Damian se jodió la rodilla. La cirugía era la mejor opción, pero... Deberíamos habernos liado la manta a la cabeza y hacerlo. Deberíamos haber vendido la moto, prescindido del coche, habernos apretado el cinturón durante un año. Eso era lo que yo quería hacer. Te lo juro. Pero Damian no quiso. Se negó. Con eso poco podía hacer yo. Era su rodilla, así que lo dejé correr. Ya sabes cómo son los hombres. Nunca preguntan cómo llegar a un sitio, ni van al médico hasta que están a punto de morirse.
Ree dijo: En eso tienes toda la razón, compañera.
—«Bah», dice. «Me aguantaré.» Y debo reconocer que nos iba la juerga. Siempre estábamos de juerga. Cosas de jóvenes. Éxtasis. Hierba, cómo no. Coca, si alguien traía. Damian tenía calmantes escondidos. Empezó a tomarlos para sobrellevar el dolor de la rodilla. Automedicación, lo llama el doctor Norcross. ¿Y sabes mis jaquecas? ¿Mis malos rollos?
Ree dijo: Claro que sí.
—Ya. Pues una noche le digo a Damian que me está matando la cabeza, y él me da una pastilla. «Prueba una de estas», dice. «Ya verás qué alivio». Y así me enganché. Hasta el cuello. Así de fácil, ¿sabes?
Ree dijo: Lo sé.
3
Jared, desbordado ya por las noticias, cambió al canal de la televisión pública, donde una artesana sumamente entusiasta daba una clase de bordado con pedrería. Debía de ser un programa pregrabado. Si no, si esa era la actitud real en esos momentos de la artesana, Jared prefería no conocerla en un día normal. «¡Vamos a hacer una cosa _pre-ciosa_!», exclamó al tiempo que brincaba en un taburete delante de un telón de fondo gris.
La artesana era la única compañía de Jared. Molly se había quedado dormida.
A eso de la una, él se escapó al baño. Al regresar, tres minutos después, se había quedado traspuesta en el sofá. Aferrada aún a la lata de Mountain Dew que le había dado, tenía ya medio cubierta de telarañas su carita de niña.
Jared, a su vez, se quedó como un tronco durante un par de horas en el sillón de cuero. El agotamiento se había impuesto a la angustia.
Lo despertó un olor acre que penetraba por la puerta mosquitera, la alarma sensorial de un incendio lejano. Cerró las puertas balconeras y regresó al sillón. En la tele, la cámara enfocaba las manos de la artesana mientras desplazaba una aguja adentro y afuera, por arriba y por abajo.
Eran las 2.54 de la madrugada del viernes. Un nuevo día según el reloj, pero daba la impresión de que el anterior no iba a dejarlos marchar a corto plazo, si es que alguna vez los dejaba.
Jared se había aventurado a cruzar la calle para requisar el teléfono móvil del bolso de la señora Ransom. Envió a Mary un mensaje de texto:
Hola, soy Jared. ¿Estás bien?
Sí, pero ¿sabes si hay algún incendio?
Creo que sí, pero no sé dónde. ¿Cómo está tu madre? ¿Cómo está tu hermana? ¿Cómo estás tú?
Estamos todas bien. Tomando café y haciendo brownies. ¡Amanecer, allá vamos! ¿Cómo está Molly?
Jared echó una ojeada a la niña tendida en el sofá. La había tapado con una manta. La envoltura de su cabeza era redonda y blanca.
De maravilla. Dándole al Mountain Dew. El móvil que estoy usando es el de su abuela.
Mary dijo que no tardaría en escribirle otra vez. Jared volvió a fijar la atención en el televisor. La artesana era inagotable, por lo visto.
«Sé que algunos no verán bien lo que voy a decir, pero sencillamente no le tengo mucho aprecio al cristal. Se raya. Tengo la _firme convicción_ de que podéis arreglaros perfectamente con plástico.» La cámara enfocó muy de cerca una cuenta rosa que sostenía entre el pulgar y el índice. «¿Veis? Posiblemente ni siquiera un ojo experto notaría la diferencia.»
—Excelente —dijo Jared. Nunca había sido propenso a hablar solo, pero tampoco se había quedado nunca en casa sin más compañía que un cuerpo revestido de blanco mientras el bosque ardía. Y no podía negar que esa mierdecilla rosa parecía cristal—. Realmente excelente, señora.
—¿Jared? ¿Con quién hablas?
No había oído abrirse la puerta de la calle. Se levantó de un salto, renqueó cuatro o cinco pasos con la rodilla dolorida y se echó a los brazos de su padre.
Clint y Jared permanecieron inmóviles, abrazados entre la cocina y el salón. Lloraron los dos. Jared intentó explicar a su padre que solo se había ido un momento a mear, que no había podido evitar lo de Molly y que se sentía fatal, pero tarde o temprano tenía que ir al baño, maldita sea, y ella parecía estar bien, viéndola parlotear y tomarse su Mountain Dew, habría jurado que no le pasaría nada. No todo estaba bien, pero eso fue lo que Clint dijo. Lo repitió una y otra vez, y padre e hijo se estrecharon más y más, como si por pura fuerza de voluntad pudieran conseguir que así fuese, y quizá, quizá, durante un par de segundos lo lograron.
4
La porción de membrana que Flickinger había recortado en la zona de la mano de Nana semejaba, cuando Frank miró a través del objetivo del pequeño microscopio, un trozo de tela tejida con hilo fino. Las hebras contenían hebras y esas hebras contenían más hebras.
—Sin duda parece fibra vegetal —dictaminó el médico—. Al menos eso me parece a mí.
Frank se imaginó partiendo un tallo de apio, los jirones fibrosos que quedaban sueltos.
Garth apretó y enrolló el pedazo de fibra blanca entre las yemas de los dedos. Cuando las separó, la sustancia se extendió entre ellos como si fuese chicle.
—Adhesiva... y muy elástica... de rápido crecimiento... altera de algún modo la química del huésped... la altera _brutalmente_...
Mientras Garth proseguía, hablando más para sí que para Frank, este se detuvo a pensar en la reducción de su hija a la palabra «huésped». No le hizo ninguna gracia.
Garth rio entre dientes.
—No me gusta su comportamiento, señora Fibra. No me gusta nada. —Con una mueca, despachurró el tejido contra un portaobjetos.
—¿Se encuentra bien, doctor Flickinger? —Frank podía aceptar que el médico fuera un excéntrico y estuviera colocado, y hasta el momento parecía saber lo que se traía entre manos, pero el tipo tenía un montón de instrumentos afilados cerca de su hija incapacitada.
—Me encuentro de maravilla. Aunque no me importaría tomar una copa. —Flickinger volvió a sentarse en cuclillas al lado de la figura yacente de Nana. Se rascó bajo la aleta de la nariz con la punta de las tijeras—. Nuestra amiga, la señora Fibra aquí presente, es contradictoria. Debería ser un hongo, pero presenta mucha actividad y es muy agresiva, y al mismo tiempo solo muestra interés por el cromosoma XX. Luego, al separarla del resto de la masa, no es nada. Nada. Solo un pringue pegajoso.
Frank se marchó un momento, rebuscó en la cocina y tuvo que contentarse con la bazofia que encontró en el último estante, entre la levadura y la harina de maíz. Quedaba suficiente para servir un par de dedos por cabeza. Llevó los vasos al salón.
—Si la vista no me engaña, eso es jerez de guisar. En fin, nos las apañaremos, Frank. —Garth no parecía en absoluto decepcionado. Aceptó el vaso y, tras apurarlo, dejó escapar un suspiro de satisfacción—. Oye, ¿tienes cerillas? ¿Un mechero?
5
—Bueno, Ree, lo siguiente no te caerá de nuevo. El pequeño hábito pasó a ser un gran hábito, y los grandes hábitos salen caros. Damian robó en la casa de un tío rico y salió impune una vez, pero no la segunda. No lo detuvieron ni nada, pero lo pusieron de patitas en la calle.
Ree dijo: ¿Por qué no me sorprende?
—Ya. Después yo perdí el empleo en el centro de atención diurna. Era cuando la economía iba francamente mal, y la dueña del centro tuvo que hacer recortes. Lo curioso es que había allí un par de chicas con menos antigüedad que yo, sin tanta experiencia, y se las quedó a ellas. ¿A que no adivinas cuál era la diferencia entre aquellas chicas y yo?
Ree dijo: Ah, quizá sí lo adivinará, pero dímelo tú de todos modos.
—Eran blancas. Eh, no lo digo como excusa. De verdad que no, pero, ya ves, así fue. La cosa se jodió, y me deprimí un poco. Me deprimí mucho. Como le pasaría a cualquiera. Así que empecé a tomar pastillas incluso cuando no me dolía la cabeza. ¿Y sabes qué fue lo peor? Que era consciente de lo que pasaba. En plan: Ah, así que esta es la parte en la que me convierto en una yonqui tarada de mierda como esperaba todo el mundo. Me aborrecí por eso. Por cumplir con ese destino que los demás me asignaban por ser negra y criarme en la pobreza.
Ree dijo: Sí, un mal trago.
—Vale, veo que lo entiendes. Y la relación con Damian... en fin, probablemente no habría durado de todas formas. Eso lo sé. Teníamos la misma edad, pero por dentro él era mucho más joven. Con los tíos suele pasar, creo. Pero, en ese sentido, él era mucho más joven que la mayoría. Como, por ejemplo, aquel día que se fue a jugar al fútbol al parque cuando el bebé estaba enfermo en casa. A mí por entonces me parecía normal. Se largaba a todas horas así sin más. «Ya volveré», decía, o «Voy a pasarme por casa de Rick» o lo que fuera. Yo nunca puse reparos. No tenía la impresión de que estuviera permitido. Él se me habría camelado. Flores y lo que hiciera falta. Caramelos. Una blusa nueva del centro comercial. Cosas que están bien durante un segundo. Pero había una parte de él que supuestamente era divertida y en realidad no tenía ninguna gracia. Era pura desconsideración. Por ejemplo, paraba el coche al lado de una mujer que estaba paseando al perro y gritaba: «¡Parecéis gemelos!», o iba andando y, al pasar junto a un adolescente que iba en el sentido opuesto, hacía amago de darle un puñetazo y el chico se encogía. «Es broma», decía. Y la droga... eso le agrió el carácter. Seguía haciendo lo que daba la gana, pero aquello ya no era en plan vivalavirgen, la forma en que se tomaba las cosas. Y se desató su maldad, como un perro que se suelta de la cadena. «Mira qué colocón lleva esa golfa, Bobby», decía a nuestro hijo, y se reía como si le pareciera la monda. Como si yo fuera un payaso de circo. Esas cosas. Al final, un día, le solté una bofetada por eso, y él me dio un puñetazo. Otro día, cuando yo le pegué un puñetazo por eso mismo, él me rompió un cuenco en la cabeza.
Ree dijo: Eso tuvo que dolerte.
—No tanto como la sensación de que me lo merecía, recibir golpes en esa cara de yonqui mía a manos de mi marido yonqui. Me aborrezco por eso. Recuerdo que, tirada en el suelo, vi una moneda de cinco centavos en el polvo de debajo de la nevera y trozos de aquel cuenco azul por todas partes, y pensé que lo siguiente sería que los servicios sociales se llevaran a Bobby. Y, en efecto, así fue. Un poli vino a buscar a Bobby a casa, y mi niño me llamó a gritos, y debería haber sido lo más triste del mundo, solo que yo estaba tan grogui que no sentí nada.
Ree dijo: Eso es triste.
6
Habían transcurrido diez minutos, y Terry aún no había salido de la casa contigua a la de los Elway. _Zolnik_ , se leía en el buzón. Lila no sabía qué hacer.
Previamente habían entrado en casa de los Elway, habían trazado un amplio semicírculo en torno a la zona salpicada de sangre donde antes yacían los cadáveres y habían accedido por la puerta delantera. La niña, a quien el laboratorio de ideas Elway había llamado Platinum con la prudencia y discreción que los caracterizaba, estaba en su capazo, tan plácidamente como podía estar dentro del capullo con forma de alubia que se había formado en torno a ella. Lila, presionando el capullo, había palpado el contorno del cuerpo del bebé. La situación tuvo algo de cómico y horrendo; era como probar un colchón nuevo, tantear su firmeza. Pero la sonrisa se le heló en el rostro cuando Terry empezó a sollozar. Pasaban de las dos de la madrugada. Llevaban por tanto veinte horas sumidos en la crisis, poco más o menos, y hacía treinta y cinco horas que Lila no pegaba ojo. Ella estaba colocada, y su mejor ayudante, borracho y llorón.
En fin, lo hacían lo mejor que podían, ¿no? Y todavía estaba toda aquella arena para gatos desparramada en Mountain Rest Road.
—No, ya no está —se corrigió. De eso hacía meses. ¿Un año, quizá?
—¿Qué no está? —Ya fuera, iban camino del coche patrulla, aparcado delante de la casa de Roger.
Lila, que sostenía el capullo en brazos, miró a Terry parpadeando.
—¿Lo he dicho en voz alta?
—Sí —contestó Terry.
—Lo siento.
—Vaya mierda. —Se sorbió la nariz y se encaminó hacia la casa de los Zolnik.
Lila le preguntó adónde iba.
—La puerta está abierta —respondió él, y señaló en esa dirección—. Tienen la puerta abierta en plena noche. Hay que comprobarlo. Enseguida vuelvo.
Lila se acomodó en el asiento del acompañante del coche patrulla con el bebé. Daba la impresión de que no había pasado más que un momento, pero el reloj digital indicaba las 2.22. Creía recordar que marcaba las 2.11 cuando ella se había sentado. Veintidós y once no eran los mismos números. Pero once más once sumaban veintidós. Lo cual significaba...
El once se arremolinó entre sus pensamientos: once llaves, once dólares, once dedos, once deseos, once tiendas de campaña en once campamentos, once mujeres guapas en medio de la carretera a la espera de que las atropellaran, once pájaros en once ramas de once árboles... árboles corrientes, eso sí, no árboles imaginarios.
¿Qué _era_ ese árbol? Si las cosas seguían por esos derroteros, alguien acabaría colgando a la tal Evie de un árbol, Lila lo veía claro como el agua, porque todo había empezado con ella, de un modo u otro había empezado con ella y con el Árbol, Lila lo percibía tan nítidamente como el calor de la niña envuelta en un capullo sobre su regazo, la pequeña Plata. Once bebés en once capullos con forma de alubias.
—Platinum, Platinum —dijo sin proponérselo.
El absurdo nombre de la niña era Platinum, no Plata. Plata, Silver, era el nombre del juez. Si Lila había sabido alguna vez cómo se llamaba la gata muerta del juez, ya no lo sabía. La hija de Clint se llamaba Sheila Norcross. Él no lo había reconocido, claro. Vaya decepción, la peor decepción de todas, no reconocerlo siquiera, que Platinum era su hija. O que Sheila era su hija. Lila tenía los labios secos y sudaba pese a que en el coche se estaba fresco. La puerta de la casa de los Zolnik seguía abierta.
7
Terry no estaba seguro de si podía haber hecho algo por aquel tipo; en realidad, ni siquiera se le ocurrió intentarlo. Optó por sentarse en la cama, apoyar las manos en las rodillas y respirar hondo y despacio varias veces. Necesitaba recomponerse.
La durmiente estaba en el suelo. Las telarañas le cubrían la cabeza y las manos, así como la mitad inferior del cuerpo. En un rincón había un pantalón y unas bragas hechos un rebujo. Era una mujer menuda, de poco más de metro cincuenta. Por las fotos de la pared y la cómoda, aparentaba unos setenta años, quizá más.
Terry dedujo que el hombre que había intentado violarla la había tirado de la cama al quitarle el pantalón.
El violador yacía también en el suelo, a unos pasos. En realidad no parecía un hombre adulto; su delgadez era propia de la adolescencia. Llevaba los vaqueros enrollados en torno a los tobillos, justo por encima de unas zapatillas de deporte. CURT M, se leía en rotulador en el contorno de una de las suelas. Su rostro era un amasijo rojo. La respiración agitaba la saliva sanguinolenta en torno a su boca. La sangre seguía manando a borbotones de su entrepierna, sumándose al charco que ya se había formado en la alfombra. En la pared del fondo de la habitación se veía un manchurrón, y debajo, en el suelo, un pedazo de carne: la polla y los huevos de Curt M, supuso Terry.
Curt M debía de haber pensado que la mujer no se daría cuenta. A un hijo de puta como ese Aurora debía de habérsele antojado una oportunidad única en la vida, la mañana de Pascua en el cielo de un violador. Probablemente había muchos más como él, y vaya una desagradable sorpresa iban a llevarse.
Pero ¿cuánto tardaría en correr la voz? Si uno rompía la tela e intentaba cepillarse a la mujer, esta oponía resistencia; mataba. Cosa que a Terry le parecía totalmente justa. Pero a partir de ahí, por desgracia, era fácil imaginar que un mesías de tres al cuarto como aquel tarado de las noticias, el tal Compadre como se llamase, el que salía siempre despotricando y quejándose de los impuestos, concibiera un nuevo plan. Anunciaría que, en interés de todos, había que pegar un tiro en la cabeza a todas esas mujeres envueltas en capullos. Eran bombas de relojería, afirmaría. Había hombres por ahí a los que les encantaría la idea. Terry pensó en todos esos individuos que levaban años soñando con utilizar los ridículos arsenales para «defensa doméstica» que habían acumulado, pero jamás habrían osado apretar el gatillo contra una persona despierta, y menos si estaba armada y los tenía encañonados a ellos. Terry no creía que hubiese millones de hombres así, pero era policía desde hacía tiempo suficiente para sospechar que había miles.
¿En qué situación los dejaba eso? La mujer de Terry estaba dormida. ¿Podía velar él por su seguridad? ¿Qué iba a hacer, colocarla en el estante de un armario, guardarla como un tarro de conserva?
Y sabía que su hija no había llegado a despertar esa mañana. Daba igual que las líneas telefónicas estuviesen saturadas. Diane estaba en la universidad. Dormía siempre que podía. Además, les había enviado el horario de su semestre de primavera, y Terry estaba casi seguro de que no tenía clase los jueves por la mañana.
¿Cabía la posibilidad de que Roger —el muy muy muy estúpido de Roger— hubiese tomado una decisión sagaz al retirar esa tela de Jessica? Roger había puesto fin a todo antes de tener que ver a un ser querido tiroteado mientras dormía.
Debería suicidarme, pensó Terry.
Dejó la idea en el aire. Al comprobar que no cuajaba, se alarmó y se dijo que no debía precipitarse. Tenía que tomar una copa, o dos, dar vueltas a todo aquello. Pensaría con más claridad después de tomarse unas cuantas, como siempre.
En el suelo, Curt McLeod —el tercer mejor jugador del equipo de tenis amateur del instituto de Dooling, por detrás de Kent Daley y Eric Blass— emitía un sonido entrecortado. Había empezado la respiración de Cheyne-Stokes.
8
Lila apenas se sorprendió cuando Terry le pidió que lo dejara en el Squeaky Wheel. A esas alturas tenía tanto sentido como cualquier otra cosa.
—¿Qué has visto ahí dentro, Terry?
Instalado en el asiento del acompañante, sostenía a la niña envuelta en el capullo entre las palmas de las manos, muy abiertas, como si fuera una cazuela caliente.
—Un chico ha intentado... esto... _hacérselo_ con una mujer ahí dentro. ¿Sabes a qué me refiero?
—Sí.
—Eso la ha despertado. Cuando he entrado en la casa, ya estaba dormida de nuevo. Él estaba... prácticamente muerto. Ahora ya del todo muerto.
—Uf —dijo Lila.
Avanzaron por el pueblo a oscuras. El incendio que ardía en los montes presentaba un color rojo, y la nube de humo que se elevaba por encima era de un tono ligeramente más oscuro que la noche. Una mujer con un chándal rosa neón daba saltos de tijera en un jardín. Se veía a mucha gente —sobre todo mujeres— a través de los ventanales del Starbucks de Main Street, que había decidido seguir abierto hasta muy tarde de manera excepcional o (quizá más probablemente) se había visto obligado por la multitud. Eran las 2.44.
Lila nunca había visto tan lleno el aparcamiento de la parte de atrás del Squeaky. Había camiones, sedanes, motos, utilitarios, camionetas. Una nueva hilera de vehículos se formaba ya en el terraplén de hierba al fondo del aparcamiento.
Arrimó el coche patrulla a la puerta de atrás, que estaba entornada y dejaba salir luz, voces y la música a todo volumen de una gramola. La canción que sonaba en ese momento era un tema estridente de una banda de garaje que había oído un millón de veces pero cuyo título no habría sabido ni después de una noche entera de descanso.
La voz del cantante era hierro arrastrado por asfalto: «¡Cuando te despiertes, descubrirás que estás sola y no sabrás qué ha pasado!», gemía.
Una camarera se había quedado dormida junto a la puerta, sentada en una caja de reparto de leche. Sus botas camperas formaban una **V**. Terry se apeó, dejó a Platinum en el asiento y se inclinó hacia el interior del coche. El neón del anuncio de cerveza iluminaba el lado derecho de su rostro y le confería la tonalidad verde ácido de un cadáver de película. Señaló el bulto envuelto en un capullo.
—Jefa, quizá deberías esconder a esta niña en algún sitio.
—¿Cómo? —preguntó Lila.
—Piénsalo. Pronto empezarán a eliminar a las niñas y a las mujeres. Porque son peligrosas. Se levantan con el pie izquierdo, por así decirlo. —Se irguió—. Necesito tomar una copa. Buena suerte. —Su ayudante cerró la puerta con delicadeza, como si temiera despertar a la pequeña.
Lila observó a Terry entrar por la puerta trasera del bar. No echó un vistazo siquiera a la mujer que dormía encima de la caja de leche con los tacones de las botas hincados en la grava y las punteras orientadas hacia arriba.
9
Los funcionarios Lampley y Murphy habían despejado la larga mesa del cuarto de la limpieza para que el cadáver de Ree pudiera descansar en paz. Trasladarla al depósito del condado en plena noche quedaba descartado, y el St. Theresa seguía siendo una casa de locos. Al día siguiente, si las cosas se calmaban, uno de los funcionarios podría transportar sus restos a la funeraria Crowder de Kruger Street.
Claudia Stephenson, sentada al extremo de la mesa en una silla plegable, se sostenía una bolsa de hielo contra el cuello. Jeanette entró y se sentó en otra silla plegable, a la cabecera de la mesa.
—Yo solo buscaba alguien con quien hablar —dijo Claudia. Tenía la voz ronca, era apenas un susurro—. Ree siempre ha sabido escuchar.
—Lo sé —contestó Jeanette, pensando que en el caso de Ree era cierto incluso después de la muerte.
—Te acompaño en el sentimiento —dijo Van. Se hallaba en el umbral de la puerta abierta; su cuerpo musculoso aparecía visiblemente laxo a causa del cansancio y la aflicción.
—Debería haber utilizado la táser —reprochó Jeanette, pero fue incapaz de conferir a sus palabras un verdadero dejo de acusación. También ella estaba agotada.
—No he tenido tiempo —contestó Van.
—Iba a matarme, Jeanie. —El tono de Claudia era de disculpa—. Si quieres culpar a alguien, cúlpame a mí. He sido yo quien ha intentado quitarle las telarañas. —Repitió—: Yo solo buscaba alguien con quien hablar.
En reposo, el rostro al descubierto de Ree, aunque desencajado, parecía atónito: los párpados entornados, la boca abierta. Era la expresión intermedia —entre risas, entre sonrisas— que adoptabas en esas fotografías que después desechabas o borrabas del teléfono. Alguien le había limpiado la sangre de la frente, pero el orificio de bala era nítido y ofensivo. La membrana hecha jirones colgaba en torno a su cabello, lacia y marchita en lugar de ondeante y sedosa, tan muerta como la propia Ree. La sustancia había dejado de crecer en cuanto Ree dejó de vivir.
Cuando Jeanette intentó visualizar a Ree viva, lo único sólido que cobró forma en su cabeza fue un instante de esa mañana. «No puedes _no_ preocuparte por un recuadro de luz, te lo digo yo.»
Claudia suspiró o gimió o sollozó, o quizá las tres cosas simultáneamente.
—Dios —dijo con su ronquera ahogada—. Cuánto lo siento...
Jeanette cerró los párpados de Ree. Así estaba mejor. Rozó con un dedo una pequeña parte de su tejido cicatricial. ¿Quién te hizo eso, Ree? Espero que quienquiera que fuese se odie a sí mismo por ello, y se castigue. O que esté muerto, porque estoy casi segura de que _fue_ un hombre. En un noventa y nueve por ciento. La muchacha tenía los párpados más claros que el resto de la piel, dorada.
Jeanette se agachó y acercó los labios al oído de Ree.
—Nunca le he contado a nadie lo que te he contado a ti. Ni siquiera al doctor Norcross. Gracias por escucharme. Que duermas bien, cielo. Duerme bien, por favor.
10
El fragmento de tejido en llamas se elevó en el aire, trazó una espiral naranja y negra, y floreció. No brilló. _Florecer_ era la única palabra para describir cómo se abrió, pues el fuego se convirtió en algo mucho más grande que el propio combustible.
Garth Flickinger, que sostenía la cerilla encendida que había utilizado para poner a prueba el fragmento de tejido, retrocedió y chocó contra la mesita de centro. Su instrumental médico resbaló por la superficie y algunas piezas cayeron al suelo. Frank, que observaba desde cerca de la puerta, se puso en cuclillas y avanzó rápidamente hacia Nana para protegerla.
La llama formó un círculo en rotación.
Frank se apretó contra el cuerpo de su hija.
En la mano de Flickinger, el fuego de la cerilla le había llegado a las yemas de los dedos, pero no la soltó. Frank olió la piel chamuscada. Al resplandor del círculo ígneo que se hallaba suspendido en el aire del salón, las delicadas facciones del médico parecieron disgregarse, como si, comprensiblemente, desearan huir.
Porque el fuego no ardía así. El fuego no flotaba. El fuego no trazaba círculos.
El último experimento con el tejido proporcionaba una respuesta concluyente a la pregunta de «¿Por qué?», y esa respuesta era: porque lo que estaba ocurriendo no era de este mundo, y no podía tratarse con medicina, o al menos no con la medicina de este mundo. Cualquiera podría haber sacado esa conclusión del semblante de Flickinger. Frank supuso que era también su propia expresión.
El fuego cayó en forma de masa marrón ondulante y se desintegró en un centenar de pedazos. Una bandada de mariposas nocturnas se dispersó en el aire.
Ascendieron hacia el plafón; revolotearon hacia la pantalla de la lámpara, hacia los rincones del techo, por el umbral de la cocina; las mariposas danzaron hasta el grabado de Jesucristo caminando sobre las aguas que había colgado en la pared y se posaron en los bordes del marco; una cayó en picado y aterrizó en el suelo cerca de donde Frank cubría a Nana con su cuerpo. Flickinger, a gatas, se alejaba en dirección opuesta, hacia el recibidor, sin dejar de vociferar ( _gritar_ , __ en realidad), perdida toda compostura.
Frank no se movió. No apartó la vista de una única mariposa. Era de un color que nunca habría llamado la atención.
La mariposa se arrastró por el suelo. Frank sentía miedo, terror, de hecho, ante aquella diminuta criatura que pesaba, poco más o menos, lo mismo que una uña y era de una tonalidad apagada. ¿Qué le haría?
Cualquier cosa. Si quería, podía hacerle cualquier cosa, siempre y cuando no hiciera daño a Nana.
—No la toques —susurró Frank. Abrazado a su hija de aquel modo, percibía su pulso y su respiración. El mundo tendía a escaparse de las manos de Frank, a señalar sus errores o necedades cuando él solo quería hacer las cosas bien, correctamente, pero no era un cobarde. Estaba dispuesto a morir por su hija—. Si tienes que llevarte a alguien, llévame a mí.
Dos puntos negros sobre el galón marrón que presentaba el cuerpo de la mariposa, sus ojos, fijaron la mirada en los de Frank, y desde ahí penetraron en su cabeza. Notó que volaban dentro de su cráneo durante Dios sabía cuánto tiempo, se posaban en su cerebro, arrastraban sus patas puntiagudas por los canales de este como un niño que, subido a una roca en el centro de un arroyo, hundía un palo en el agua.
Y Frank estrechó aún más a su hija.
—Llévame a mí, por favor.
La mariposa se alejó como una exhalación.
11
Claudia, la del Cuerpo de Dinamita, se marchó. La funcionaria Lampley había ofrecido dejar a Jeanette un momento a solas. Esta tenía ante sí a la verdadera Ree para hablar con ella. Lo que quedaba de ella. Tuvo la sensación de que debería haber dicho a Ree todas aquellas cosas cuando aún vivía.
—Lo que pasó... no estoy segura de si era por la mañana, por la tarde o a primera hora de la noche, pero llevábamos días colgados. No salíamos. Lo encargábamos todo a domicilio. En cierto momento Damian me quemó con un cigarrillo. Estoy tendida en la cama, y los dos miramos mi brazo desnudo, y yo pregunto: «¿Qué haces?». El dolor estaba en otro espacio de mi mente. Ni siquiera moví el brazo. Damian dice: «Comprobar si eres real». Todavía tengo la cicatriz, del tamaño de una moneda de dólar de lo fuerte que apretó. «¿Satisfecho?», pregunté. «¿Crees que soy real?», y él dice: «Sí, pero te odio más por ser real. Si me hubieras dejado operarme la rodilla, no habría pasado nada de esto. Eres una zorra cruel. ¡Por fin te he calado!».
Ree dijo: Eso da mucho miedo.
—Sí. Me dio miedo. Porque Damian dijo todo eso con la misma expresión que si fuera una gran noticia y estuviera encantado de saberla y transmitirla. Es como si fuera el presentador de una tertulia nocturna de la radio, actuando para su público de chiflados insomnes. Estamos en el dormitorio, con las cortinas corridas, y no se ha limpiado nada desde hace días. No tenemos luz, porque no hemos pagado el recibo. Después, no sé cuánto tiempo ha pasado, descubro que estoy en la habitación de Bobby, sentada en el suelo. Su cama sigue ahí, pero el resto de los muebles, la mecedora y la cómoda, han desaparecido. Damian se los ha vendido a un tío por algo de dinero. Quizá por fin estaba entrándome el bajón, quizá por la quemadura del cigarrillo, pero me sentía tan triste y tan mal y tan... como si estuviera perdida, en un lugar desconocido, y no hubiera forma de volver a casa.
Ree dijo: Conozco esa sensación.
—Ahora el destornillador... el destornillador de estrella. El tío que compró la mecedora debió de usarlo para desmontar la base y se lo olvidó allí. Es la única conclusión a la que he llegado. Sé que el destornillador no era nuestro. Para entonces ya no teníamos ninguna herramienta. Damian las había vendido antes que los muebles. Pero ese destornillador está en la habitación de Bobby, tirado en el suelo, y lo cojo. Voy al salón, y Damian está sentado en la silla plegable, que es el único asiento que queda en la casa. Dice: «¿Has venido para rematar la faena? Bien, pues adelante. Pero será mejor que te des prisa, porque si no consigues matarme en los próximos segundos, me parece que voy a ahogarte hasta que te reviente esa puta cabeza». Lo dice con la misma voz de presentador de programa nocturno. Y tiene en la mano un frasco con las dos últimas pastillas que nos quedan, y de pronto lo agita, como para anunciar que llega su gran frase final, _¡tatatachán!_ Dice: «Justo aquí tienes un buen sitio, abundante carne», y me tira de la mano en la que tengo el destornillador hasta lo alto del muslo, y apoya la punta en los vaqueros y dice: «¿Y bien? Ahora o nunca, Jeanie, nena, ahora o nunca».
Ree dijo: Supongo que lo deseaba.
—Y lo consiguió. Se lo hundí hasta el mango. Damian no grita, solo suelta el aire en un gran suspiro y dice: «Mira lo que me has hecho», y sangra a chorro en la silla y en el suelo. Pero no mueve ni un dedo para salvarse. Dice: «Bien. Mira cómo muero. Disfrútalo».
Ree dijo: ¿Disfrutaste?
—No. _¡No!_ Me quedé acurrucada en el rincón. No sabría decir cuánto tiempo. Según la policía, doce o catorce horas. Vi que las sombras cambiaban, pero no sé cuánto tiempo pasó. Damian se quedó allí sentado y habló. Y habló. Estaba ya contenta. Había sido ese el plan desde el principio. Ah, y cómo había preparado el terreno en el parque para que él se lesionara la rodilla para empezar. Una treta magnífica, Jeanie, nena. Al final dejó de hablar. Pero lo veo... con toda claridad, lo veo, en este preciso momento. Antes soñaba que le decía a Damian que lo sentía, que le suplicaba perdón. En esos sueños, él estaba sentado en esa silla, mirándome y poniéndose azul. Los sueños de demasiado tarde, los llama el doctor Norcross. Demasiado tarde para lamentarse. Un punto para el doctor, ¿no, Ree? Los muertos no aceptan disculpas. Ni una sola vez en la historia del mundo.
Ree dijo: Ahí dio en el clavo.
—Pero, ay, cielo, ay, Ree. Qué no daría yo por cambiarlo todo esta única vez, porque tú eras demasiado buena para acabar así. Nunca mataste a nadie. Debería haberme tocado a mí. No a ti. A mí.
A esto Ree no dijo nada.
### 19
1
Clint encontró el número de móvil de Hicks en la agenda que tenía en el escritorio y llamó desde el teléfono fijo. El director en funciones se mostró desconcertantemente relajado. Tal vez se hubiera tomado un Valium o dos.
—Según parece, muchas mujeres han alcanzado un estado de... _aceptación_ , __ supongo que lo llamaría usted, doctor.
—Aceptar no es lo mismo que rendirse —contestó Clint.
—Llámelo como quiera, pero desde que usted se ha marchado han caído más de la mitad. —Lo dijo con satisfacción, pues advertía que la proporción de reclusas con respecto a funcionarios volvía a ser manejable. La situación seguiría siéndoles favorable incluso cuando perdieran a las funcionarias.
Así pensaba en la vida humana la gente en el poder, ¿no? Desde el punto de vista de los beneficios netos, los porcentajes y la manejabilidad. Clint nunca había deseado una posición de poder. Como pupilo del sistema de acogida, había sobrevivido, básicamente por gracia divina, a la dominación de innumerables tiranos domésticos; había elegido su especialidad en una clara reacción a esa experiencia, con la intención de ayudar a los desvalidos, a personas como el niño que él había sido, como Marcus, Jason y Shannon... y como su propia madre, aquel espectro pálido y preocupado del que apenas guardaba recuerdo.
Jared dio un apretón en el hombro a su padre. Había estado escuchando.
—Le anuncio que va a haber una de papeleo sin precedentes —prosiguió Hicks—. El estado no ve bien que se dispare a las reclusas.
Ree Dempster aún no se había enfriado del todo en el cuarto de la limpieza, y Hicks ya estaba pensando en el papeleo. Clint decidió cortar la comunicación antes de utilizar la expresión malsonante que hacía referencia a los hombres nacidos de mujeres de mala reputación.
Clint dijo que no tardaría en volver y puso fin a la llamada. Jared se ofreció a preparar unos bocadillos de salchicha de Bolonia frita.
—Debes de tener hambre.
—Gracias —dijo Clint—. Me parece una idea muy acertada.
El embutido crepitó y restalló en la sartén, y le llegó el olor. Le resultó tan grato que se le saltaron las lágrimas. O quizá ya las tuviera en los ojos.
«Tengo que hacerme con uno de esos.» Eso le había dicho Shannon la última vez al ver la foto de Jared recién nacido. Y por lo visto lo había conseguido.
Sheila, había dicho Lila que se llamaba la chica, Sheila Norcross.
En realidad era halagador, quizá lo más halagador que le había ocurrido en la vida, que Shannon le pusiera su apellido a su hija. Le causaba un problema, pero le halagaba de todas formas. Significaba que lo había querido. Bueno, también él había querido a Shannon. En cierto modo. Había cosas entre ellos que otras personas jamás entenderían.
Recordó aquella Nochevieja. Con los ojos húmedos, Shan le preguntó si iba todo bien. La música era atronadora. Olía a cerveza y a tabaco. Él se había inclinado hacia su oído para asegurarse de que lo oía...
Clint no consiguió tragar más de uno o dos bocados. Pese al delicioso olor, tenía una dura bola de goma por estómago. Pidió disculpas a su hijo.
—No es por la comida.
—Ya —dijo Jared—. Yo tampoco tengo mucho apetito. —Mordisqueaba el bocadillo que él mismo se había preparado.
La puerta de cristal se deslizó con un murmullo, y Lila entró con un bulto blanco en los brazos.
2
Después de matar a su madre, Don Peters hubo de esforzarse por seguir adelante.
El primer paso era evidente: limpiar. No obstante, eso iba a ser difícil, porque Don había optado por asesinar a su madre apoyando el cañón de una escopeta Remington contra la frente revestida de membrana y apretando después el gatillo. Eso había cumplido su función con aplomo (o quizá no fuera esa la palabra que buscaba), pero lo había dejado todo hecho una porquería, y a Don se le daba mejor ensuciar que limpiar. Era un detalle que su madre señalaba a menudo.
¡Y qué asquerosidad! Sangre, sesos y fragmentos de telaraña desparramados por la pared con la forma de un megáfono enorme y astroso.
En lugar de ocuparse de limpiar, Don se sentó en su butaca La-Z-Boy y se preguntó por qué, ya de entrada, había hecho aquello. ¿Era culpa de su madre que Jeanette Sorley hubiera meneado aquel firme culito suyo ante su cara? ¿Y luego se hubiera ido de la lengua cuando él, al fin y al cabo, no había hecho más que dejar que se la meneara? ¿Lo era? ¿O de que Janice Coates lo hubiera puesto de patitas en la calle? ¿O de que Norcross, ese loquero remilgado, le hubiera dado un puñetazo? No, su madre no tenía nada que ver con eso, y sin embargo Don había vuelto a casa, había visto que dormía, había ido a la furgoneta a por el arma, había vuelto a entrar y le había volado los sesos sumidos en sueños. Eso en el supuesto de que estuviera soñando... a saber.
Sí, le habían crispado los nervios. Sí, lo habían maltratado. Con todo, por más que se resistiera a admitirlo, por malo que fuera sentirse crispado y maltratado, uno no iba y mataba a su madre. Era una reacción exagerada.
Don se bebió una cerveza y lloró. No quería suicidarse ni ir a la cárcel.
Sentado en el sofá de su madre, ya más tranquilo con la cerveza en el estómago, se le ocurrió que limpiar, en realidad, quizá no presentase un problema tan grande. Las autoridades andaban muy ocupadas. Acciones de las que por lo general uno no quedaría impune —como un acto de piromanía— en ese momento probablemente no tendrían consecuencias, gracias a Aurora. El análisis forense de escenarios de delitos se había convertido de pronto en una especialidad más bien secundaria. Además, las que se dedicaban a todo ese rollo de los microscopios y los ordenadores eran tías. Al menos en la tele.
Amontonó unos periódicos sobre los fogones de la cocina y encendió un quemador. Mientras el papel prendía, roció de líquido inflamable las cortinas y los muebles, todo aquello que ardería más deprisa.
Cuando se alejaba en la furgoneta de la casa en llamas, Don cayó en la cuenta de que necesitaba hacer algo más. Esa parte era mucho más difícil que provocar un incendio, pero no menos importante: por una vez en su vida, Don podía soltarse de verdad.
Si bien era cierto que las relaciones de Don con las mujeres a veces habían sido tensas, también había que reconocer que la relación con su madre —su primera relación— era seguramente la causa de que hubiera empezado con mal pie. Hasta Norcross estaría de acuerdo con eso. Ella lo había criado sola, y Don consideraba que lo había hecho lo mejor que había podido, pero ¿de verdad lo había preparado para mujeres como Jeanette Sorley, Angel Fitzroy o Janice Coates? La madre de Don le hacía bocadillos de queso a la plancha y tartas de fresa individuales en forma de ovni. Le compraba ginger ale y cuidaba de él cuando tenía gripe. Cuando Don tenía diez años, ella le había confeccionado un disfraz de caballero negro con cartulina y tiras de fieltro que fue la envidia de todos los alumnos de cuarto, ¡de todo el colegio!
Todo eso resultaba entrañable, pero quizá su madre había sido _demasiado_ buena. ¿Acaso su propia tendencia a mostrarse conforme con todo y seguir la corriente no le había creado problemas más de una vez? Por ejemplo, cuando Sorley acudió a él. Don sabía de sobra que aquello estaba mal; sin embargo, había consentido que ella se aprovechara de él. Era débil. En lo tocante a las mujeres, todos los hombres lo eran. Y algunos —muchos, incluso— eran... eran...
¡Demasiado generosos!
¡Sí!
La generosidad era una bomba de relojería que su madre había puesto en sus manos y que había estallado en la cara de ella. Había cierta justicia en eso (una justicia en extremo cruel, desde luego), y aunque Don podía aceptarlo, juró que nunca le gustaría. Castigar la generosidad con la muerte era demasiado severo. Las verdaderas criminales eran las Janice Coates de este mundo. La muerte no sería un castigo demasiado severo para Janice Coates. En lugar de atiborrarla de pastillas, habría deseado tener ocasión de asfixiarla. O degollarla y contemplar cómo se _desangraba_.
—Te quiero, mamá —dijo a la cabina de su furgoneta. Era como si probase las palabras a ver si rebotaban. Don repitió la declaración un par de veces más. Luego añadió—: Te perdono, mamá.
Don Peters descubrió que no quería estar a solas con su voz. Era como... como si le sonara rara.
(«¿Seguro que eso es verdad, Donnie? —le preguntaba su madre de pequeño cuando sospechaba que mentía—. ¿Juras por Dios que solo has cogido una galleta del tarro, cielo?»)
(«Sí —decía él—, lo juro por Dios.» Pero no era verdad, y suponía que ella lo sabía, aunque lo dejaba correr, y esas eran las consecuencias. ¿Qué decía la Biblia? Quien siembra vientos recoge tempestades.)
3
Como el aparcamiento del Squeaky Wheel estaba hasta los topes, Don acabó aparcando en la calle junto al bordillo.
De camino a la puerta, pasó por delante de un corrillo de hombres que, desde la acera, con sus vasos de cerveza, admiraban el gran resplandor en los montes.
—Y ahí se ve otro... Creo que eso es en el pueblo —observó uno.
Probablemente sea la casa de mi madre, pensó Don. Quizá se lleve el barrio entero, y quién sabe a cuántas mujeres dormidas. Algunas buenas, lo cual era una lástima, pero la gran mayoría de ellas putas o frígidas.
En la barra se agenció un chupito y una cerveza, y luego encontró asiento al final de una mesa larga junto al ayudante del sheriff Terry Coombs y un negro cuyo rostro reconoció de otras noches en el Squeaky pero cuyo nombre no recordaba. Don se detuvo un momento a pensar si Terry se habría enterado de lo ocurrido en la cárcel, la falsa acusación, la trampa y demás. Pero si Coombs lo sabía, no estaba ni en condiciones ni de humor para hacer nada al respecto: el policía, con una jarra de tres cuartos vacía delante, parecía medio dormido.
—Chicos, ¿os importa que me siente? —Don tuvo que levantar la voz para hacerse oír por encima del bullicio del bar.
Los otros dos negaron con la cabeza.
Con capacidad para cien personas, el local, a las tres de la madrugada, presentaba aforo completo. Aunque había unas cuantas mujeres, casi todos los presentes eran hombres. Dadas las circunstancias, por lo visto, eran pocas las mujeres que querían ingerir depresores. Incomprensiblemente, había también unos cuantos adolescentes al acecho, con los rostros enrojecidos y expresiones de aturdimiento. Don sintió lástima por ellos, pero los niños de mamá de este mundo tendrían que madurar deprisa.
—Vaya día de mierda —comentó. Se sintió mejor en compañía.
El negro emitió un murmullo de conformidad. Era alto, ancho de espalda, cuarentón. Se hallaba muy erguido en su asiento.
—Estoy planteándome si suicidarme o no —dijo Terry.
Don dejó escapar una risita. Coombs tenía cara de póquer.
—¿Habéis visto a los del Servicio Secreto dar patadas en el culo a los manifestantes frente a la Casa Blanca? Para esos tíos, debe de haber sido una verdadera fiesta. Y Dios mío, mirad eso.
Terry y el tío negro se volvieron hacia uno de los televisores que colgaban de las paredes.
Eran imágenes de las cámaras de seguridad de un aparcamiento subterráneo. Una mujer, de edad y raza indeterminadas debido al ángulo de la cámara y la granulosidad de la grabación, aunque vestida sin duda con el uniforme de vigilante de aparcamiento, estaba encima de un hombre trajeado. Parecía clavarle algo en la cara. Un líquido negro se desparramaba por el pavimento, y hebras blancas brillantes pendían del rostro de la mujer. El noticiario nunca habría mostrado algo así antes de ese día, pero, por lo visto, Aurora había puesto fin al código deontológico del periodista, Principios y Prácticas —así era como lo llamaban, ¿no?—, en los medios.
—La habrá despertado para pedirle las llaves o algo así, ¿no? —reflexionó Don—. Esto viene a ser como el síndrome premenstrual a la máxima potencia, ¿me equivoco?
Ninguno de los otros dos hombres respondió.
Las imágenes dieron paso a la mesa del presentador, vacía. George Alderson, el viejo a quien Don había visto antes, ya no estaba. Un hombre más joven, con sudadera y auriculares, asomó la cabeza en el encuadre e hizo un severo gesto, que venía a significar _¡largo de aquí!_ La pantalla pasó al anuncio de una telecomedia.
—Eso ha sido poco profesional —afirmó Don.
Terry bebió directamente de su enorme jarra de cerveza. La espuma le resbaló por la barbilla.
4
Espacio para almacenar durmientes.
No era la única preocupación de Lila la madrugada de aquel viernes, pero ocupaba un lugar destacado. El sitio ideal sería un sótano o un túnel con una entrada oculta. Podía servir el pozo de una mina cerrada —sin duda en la zona abundaban—, pero no disponían de tiempo para buscar uno ni para prepararlo. Así que ¿qué les quedaba? Las viviendas. Pero si escuadrones de justicieros —chiflados, quienesquiera que fuesen— empezaban a ir de acá para allá matando a las mujeres dormidas, las casas serían el primer sitio al que acudirían. _¿Dónde está tu mujer? ¿Dónde está tu hija? Es por tu propia seguridad, por la seguridad de todos. No dejarías dinamita tirada por tu casa, ¿a que no?_
Pero ¿y en las casas deshabitadas, casas en las que nunca había vivido nadie? Había muchas casas así en esa misma calle, un poco más arriba: la otra mitad de la urbanización de Tremaine Street, las unidades que habían quedado sin vender. Fue la mejor opción que se le ocurrió a Lila.
En cuanto Lila se lo explicó a su hijo y a su marido, quedó extenuada. Se sentía enferma y abatida, como si fuese a contraer la gripe. ¿Acaso no la había prevenido un drogata, al que detuvo en una ocasión por allanamiento, acerca del dolor que acompañaba al descenso del efecto de las drogas? «Cualquier cosa, cualquier riesgo, con tal de evitar el bajón —había dicho—. El bajón es la perdición. La muerte de la felicidad.»
Clint y Jared guardaron silencio en un primer momento. Los tres estaban de pie en el salón.
—¿Es eso... un bebé? —preguntó Jared por fin.
Ella le entregó el capullo.
—Sí. Es la hija de Roger Elway.
Su hijo estrechó al bebé.
—Esto podría empeorar —dijo Jared—, pero no sé cómo.
Lila alargó el brazo y con los dedos siguió el contorno del cabello de la sien de su hijo. La diferencia entre la forma en que Terry había cogido al bebé —como si pudiera estallar o hacerse añicos— y la manera en que Jared lo sostenía le aceleró el corazón. Su hijo no se había rendido. Aún intentaba ser humano.
Clint corrió la puerta para que no entrara el olor a humo.
—Me gustaría decir que es una paranoia tuya esa idea de esconder a las mujeres dormidas... o almacenarlas, por usar la misma palabra que tú... pero quizá no andes desencaminada. Podríamos llevar a Molly, al bebé, a la señora Ransom y a cualquier otra mujer que encontremos a alguna de las casas vacías.
—En lo alto de la cuesta está la unidad piloto —añadió Jared—. Incluso está amueblada. —Y en respuesta a la mirada pensativa de su madre, añadió—: Frío. No he entrado, solo he mirado por la ventana del salón.
—Espero que sea una medida innecesaria —dijo Clint—, pero más vale prevenir que curar.
Ella asintió.
—Eso pienso yo. Porque al final tendrás que dejarme también a mí en una de esas casas. Eres consciente de eso, ¿no? —Lila no lo dijo para asustarlo ni para herirlo. Era sencillamente una realidad que debía plantearse, y en su estado de agotamiento no se veía con ánimos para dorar la píldora.
5
El hombre que estaba sentado en el inodoro del lavabo de mujeres del Squeaky Wheel era bizco y llevaba una camiseta roquera y un pantalón de vestir. Miraba boquiabierto a Michaela. Bueno, veámosle el lado positivo. Al menos tenía los pantalones puestos.
—Tío —dijo ella—, este es el baño de mujeres. Dentro de unos días será tuyo para toda la eternidad. Pero de momento, fuera.
PÁNICO GENERALIZADO, ponía en su camiseta, por supuesto.
—Lo siento, lo siento. Solo necesito un segundo. —Señaló un bolsito sin asas que tenía en el regazo—. Iba a fumarme unas piedras, pero el lavabo de hombres estaba hasta los topes. —Hizo una mueca—. Y el de hombres huele a mierda. Mierda _a lo grande_. Es desagradable. Si pudieras tener un poco de paciencia, te lo agradecería. —Bajó la voz—. Esta noche, hace un rato, he visto magia. No magia de Disney. Mala magia. Por norma soy una persona bastante formal, pero eso, digamos, me ha puesto los pelos de punta.
Michaela sacó la mano del bolso, donde hasta ese momento mantenía empuñada la pistola de Ursula.
—Mala magia, ¿eh? Eso sí suena inquietante. Pues yo he venido nada menos que desde Washington y al llegar aquí me he enterado de que mi madre ya estaba dormida. ¿Cómo te llamas?
—Garth. Te acompaño en el sentimiento.
—Gracias —dijo ella—. Mi madre era un coñazo, pero tenía muchas cosas por las que apreciarla. ¿Puedes darme un poco de ese crack?
—No es crack. Es meta. —Garth abrió la bolsita, sacó una pipa y se la entregó—. Pero claro que puedes tomar un poco si quieres. —A continuación extrajo una bolsa de plástico hermética que contenía varias piedras—. Eres clavada a la chica de las noticias, ¿lo sabías?
Michaela sonrió.
—Siempre me lo dicen.
6
El estado catastrófico del lavabo de hombres del Squeaky Wheel también había llevado a Frank Geary a acercarse al extremo del aparcamiento para vaciar la vejiga. Después de lo que había visto —mariposas nocturnas que surgían del fuego—, lo único que parecía tener sentido era ir a un bar y beber. Había visto con sus propios ojos algo inexplicable. El mundo tenía otro lado. Existía un estrato más profundo, totalmente invisible hasta esa madrugada. Sin embargo, ese mundo no se había puesto de manifiesto como prueba de la existencia del Dios de Elaine. Las mariposas habían surgido del fuego, y el fuego era lo que supuestamente los esperaba en el otro extremo del espectro espiritual.
Oyó crujir los matorrales a unos metros de distancia.
—Ese lavabo es un puto pozo de mierda... —Las palabras arrastradas del otro hombre se fueron apagando de manera gradual.
Frank distinguió una silueta estrecha con sombrero vaquero. Se subió la cremallera y se dio media vuelta para volver al bar. No sabía qué otra cosa podía hacer. Había dejado a Nana y a Elaine en casa, tendidas sobre toallas playeras en el sótano, y había echado el cerrojo a la puerta.
El hombre habló de nuevo.
—¿Quieres oír una locura? La mujer de mi colega, Millie, que trabaja en la cárcel, dice que allí hay... cómo era, alguna clase de fenómeno. Seguro que es una parida, esa es mi opinión, pero... —El chorro de orina salpicó la maleza—. Dice que hay una monada que duerme y no le pasa nada. Se despierta otra vez.
Frank se detuvo.
—¿Qué?
El hombre se volvía hacia uno y otro lado intencionadamente, trazando el arco de orina más amplio posible por pura diversión.
—Se duerme y se despierta como si nada. Se despierta bien. Eso dice la mujer de mi colega.
Una nube se desplazó en el cielo y la luna reveló el claro perfil de aquel infame maltratador de perros, Fritz Meshaum. Resultaban perfectamente visibles el mísero asomo de vello púbico que tenía por barba y la zona hundida debajo del pómulo derecho, donde Frank, mediante la culata del rifle, había alterado para siempre los contornos de la cara de aquel hombre.
—¿Con quién estoy hablando? —Fritz entornaba los ojos con expresión feroz—. ¿Eres tú, Kronsky? ¿Qué tal te funciona esa calibre 45, Johnny Lee? Es un arma excelente, ¿verdad que sí? No, no es Kronsky. Dios mío, no es que esté viendo doble; veo triple, joder.
—¿Se despierta? —preguntó Frank—. ¿Esa reclusa de la cárcel se despierta? ¿Sin capullo?
—Eso he oído, pero tómatelo como quieras. Oye, ¿yo te conozco?
Frank regresó al bar sin contestar. No tenía tiempo para Meshaum. Era esa mujer en quien pensaba, esa reclusa que podía dormir y despertar como si tal cosa.
7
Cuando Frank se reunió con Terry y Don Peters (seguido de Garth Flickinger, que regresó muy ufano del lavabo de mujeres, como un hombre nuevo), sus compañeros de copas se habían vuelto en el banco de la larga mesa. Un hombre con vaqueros, camisa de faena azul de cambray y gorra promocional de Case, de pie e inclinado al frente, gesticulaba con una jarra de cerveza a medias, y quienes lo rodeaban guardaban silencio y escuchaban respetuosamente. A Frank le sonaba de algo; debía de ser algún granjero de la zona o quizá un camionero de larga distancia. La barba le moteaba las mejillas y tenía los dientes manchados por el tabaco de mascar, pero exhibía la oratoria aplomada de un predicador, alzando y bajando la voz en cadencias que reclamaban en respuesta exclamaciones de _alabemos al Señor_. Sentado junto a él había un hombre a quien Frank reconoció sin lugar a dudas, porque lo había ayudado a elegir un perro en el refugio cuando el suyo murió. Howland, se llamaba. Profesor en la Universidad Pública de Maylock. Howland miraba al predicador con expresión divertida.
—¡Tendríamos que haberlo visto venir! —proclamó el camionero/predicador—. Las mujeres han volado demasiado alto, como ese tipo de las alas de cera, y se les han fundido las alas.
—Ícaro —apuntó Howland. Llevaba un viejo chaquetón de campo, holgado y con coderas. Las gafas le asomaban del bolsillo delantero.
— _Í-ca-ro_ , eso, ¡premio! ¿Queréis saber hasta dónde ha llegado el bello sexo? ¡Volvamos la vista cien años atrás! ¡No votaban! ¡Las faldas les llegaban a los tobillos! No tenían anticonceptivos, y si querían abortar, iban a hacerlo a un callejón, y si las pillaban, ¡acababan en la cárcel por _asesinaaato_! Ahora pueden hacerlo cuando quieran y donde quieran. Gracias a la puta Planificación Familiar, el aborto es más fácil que conseguir un cubo de pollo en el KFC y cuesta más o menos lo mismo. ¡Pueden presentarse a presidente! ¡Se alistan en los SEALS y los Rangers! ¡Pueden casarse con sus compinches bolleras! Si eso no es terrorismo, ya me diréis qué lo es.
Se oyó un murmullo de conformidad. Frank no se sumó. No creía que sus problemas con Elaine tuvieran nada que ver con el aborto o las lesbianas.
—¡Todo en solo cien años! —El camionero/predicador bajó la voz. Podía hacerlo y ser oído igualmente porque alguien había arrancado el enchufe de la gramola, liquidando a Travis Tritt en pleno gorgoteo agónico—. No solo han conseguido la igualdad, como decían que querían, _se han puesto por delante_. ¿Queréis saber dónde está la prueba de eso?
Ahí ya iba mejor encaminado, Frank tuvo que admitirlo. Elaine no le dejaba pasar ni una. Las cosas siempre debían hacerse a su manera, como ella decidiera. Cobrar conciencia de que empezaba a coincidir con la homilía de aquel paleto causó a Frank cierto malestar... pero no podía negarlo. Además, no era el único. Todos los presentes en el bar escuchaban con atención, boquiabiertos. Excepto Howland, que sonreía como quien ve a un mono bailar en una esquina.
—Pueden vestirse como los _hombres_ , esa es la prueba. Hace cien años una mujer no se habría puesto un pantalón por nada del mundo, a menos que fuera para montar a caballo, y ahora los llevan en todas partes.
—¿Qué tienes contra unas piernas largas en unos pantalones ajustados, gilipollas? —gritó una mujer, lo que provocó la carcajada general.
—¡Nada! —replicó el camionero/predicador—. Pero ¿creéis que un hombre... un hombre _auténtico_ , no uno de esos _travestis_ de Nueva York... se pondría por nada del mundo un _vestido_ en las calles de Dooling? ¡No! ¡Lo llamarían loco! ¡Se reirían de él! En cambio ahora las mujeres van de las dos maneras. Se olvidan de que la Biblia dice que la mujer debe seguir al marido en todo, y coser, y cocinar y cuidar de los críos, y no mostrarse en público con un _pantalón provocador_. Si hubieran conseguido la _igualdad_ con los hombres, ¡seguirían tan tranquilas! ¡Pero no tenían suficiente con eso! ¡Tenían que ponerse por _delante_! ¡Dejarnos a nosotros en _segundo lugar_! Han volado demasiado cerca del _sol_ , ¡y Dios _las ha puesto a dormir_!
Parpadeó y se frotó la barba con una mano, como si tomara conciencia de dónde estaba y qué hacía: pregonar sus pensamientos más íntimos en un bar lleno de gente que lo miraba.
—Í-ca-ro —repitió, y de repente se sentó.
—Gracias, señor Carson Struthers. —Ese era Pudge Marone, camarero y dueño del Squeaky, hablando a voz en grito desde detrás de la barra—. Nuestra propia celebridad local, amigos: Struthers, alias Recio. Atentos a ese gancho de derecha. Carson es mi excuñado. —Pudge era un aspirante a cómico de mejillas caídas a lo Rodney Dangerfield. No tenía mucha gracia, pero ayudaba a pasar el rato—. Desde luego da que pensar, Carson. Estoy deseando hablar del tema con mi hermana en la cena de Acción de Gracias.
Eso provocó más risas.
Antes de que se iniciara de nuevo la conversación general o antes de que alguien pudiera enchufar la gramola y reanimar al señor Tritt, Howland se puso en pie y alzó una mano.
Profesor de Historia, recordó Frank de pronto. Eso le dijo que era. Dijo que llamaría Tácito al nuevo perro, por su historiador romano preferido. Frank pensó que era demasiado nombre para un bichon frisé.
—Amigos míos —dijo el profesor con voz resonante—, después de todo lo que ha ocurrido hoy, es fácil entender por qué no hemos pensado todavía en mañana, y en todos los mañanas que vendrán. Dejemos de lado por un momento los principios morales y la moralidad y los pantalones provocadores y planteémonos los aspectos prácticos.
Dio una palmada a Carson Struthers, alias Recio, en el recio hombro.
—A este caballero no le falta razón; en efecto, las mujeres han superado a los hombres en determinados aspectos, al menos en las sociedades occidentales, y reconozco que lo han hecho en sentidos mucho más importantes que la libertad de comprar en el Walmart sin faja y con los rulos puestos. Supongamos que este... llamémoslo _peste_ , __ a falta de una palabra mejor... supongamos que esta peste nos hubiese afectado a la inversa, es decir, que fuésemos los _hombres_ quienes nos durmiéramos y no despertáramos.
Silencio absoluto en el Squeaky Wheel. Todas las miradas puestas en Howland, que parecía deleitarse con la atención. Su oratoria no era la de un paleto aporreador de Biblias, pero resultaba hipnótica: sin vacilaciones y con mucha práctica.
—Las mujeres podrían reiniciar la especie humana, ¿no? Claro que sí. Existen millones de donaciones de esperma, bebés en potencia congelados, almacenadas en bancos de todo este gran país nuestro. ¡Decenas y decenas de millones en todo el mundo! ¡El resultado serían bebés de _ambos_ sexos!
—Eso en el supuesto de que los nuevos bebés varones no desarrollaran también capullos en cuanto dejaran de llorar y se durmieran por primera vez —observó una joven muy guapa.
Había aparecido junto a Flickinger. Frank pensó que el camionero/predicador/exboxeador había olvidado un detalle en su soflama: el aspecto de las mujeres era por naturaleza mejor que el de los hombres. Más acabado, por así decirlo.
—Sí —convino Howland—, pero incluso si ese fuese el caso, las mujeres podrían seguir reproduciéndose durante generaciones, posiblemente hasta que Aurora se acabara. ¿Pueden hacer eso los hombres? Caballeros, ¿qué será de la especie humana dentro de cincuenta años si las mujeres no despiertan? ¿Qué será dentro de cien?
Esta vez rompió el silencio un hombre que prorrumpió en un parloteo estridente.
Howland no le prestó atención.
—Pero quizá la cuestión de las generaciones futuras sea irrelevante. —Levantó un dedo—. La historia nos transmite una idea sumamente incómoda sobre la naturaleza humana, amigos míos, una idea que quizá aclare por qué, como este caballero aquí presente ha explicado de manera tan apasionada, las mujeres se han _puesto por delante_. __ La idea, lisa y llanamente, es esta: las mujeres están cuerdas; los hombres, en cambio, están locos.
—¡Chorradas! —exclamó alguien—. ¡Putas chorradas!
Howland no se amilanó; de hecho, sonrió.
—Ah, ¿sí? ¿Quién forma las bandas de moteros? Los hombres. ¿Quién integra las bandas que han convertido ciudades como Chicago y Detroit en campos de tiro? Los chicos. ¿Quiénes son los que, desde el poder, declaran guerras y los que, a excepción de unas cuantas mujeres pilotos de helicóptero y demás, combaten en esas guerras? Los hombres. Ah, ¿y quiénes sufren los daños colaterales? Las mujeres y los niños en su mayor parte.
—Sí, ¿y quién las empuja cuando tienen que mover el culo? —preguntó Don Peters alzando la voz. Había enrojecido y las venas se le marcaban a los lados del cuello—. ¿Quién mueve los putos _hilos_ , señor lumbreras?
Se oyeron unos cuantos aplausos dispersos. Michaela alzó los ojos al techo y estuvo a punto de intervenir. Rebosante de meta, con la tensión arterial al límite, tenía la sensación de que podía tirar unas seis horas más, lo que duraba un sermón puritano. Pero, antes de que pudiera hablar, Howland prosiguió.
—Un planteamiento muy reflexivo, caballero, la aportación de todo un intelectual, y una convicción que defienden muchos hombres, por lo general aquellos con cierto complejo de inferioridad en lo que se refiere al bello s...
Don hizo ademán de levantarse.
—¿A quién estás tú llamando inferior, payaso?
Frank lo obligó a sentarse de un tirón, decidido a no perderlo de vista. Si Fritz Meshaum de verdad no iba desencaminado, necesitaba hablar con Don Peters al respecto. Porque estaba casi seguro de que Don trabajaba en la cárcel.
—Suéltame —gruñó Don.
Frank deslizó la mano hasta la axila de Don y apretó.
—Más vale que te calmes.
Don hizo una mueca, pero no dijo nada más.
—He aquí un dato interesante —continuó Howland—. En la segunda mitad del siglo XIX _,_ la mayoría de las minas bajo tierra, incluidas las de aquí de los Apalaches, contrataban a unos trabajadores llamados «culíes» _._ No, no peones chinos; había hombres jóvenes, a veces incluso niños de doce años, cuyo tarea consistía en quedarse junto a máquinas con tendencia a sobrecalentarse. Los culíes disponían de un barril de agua o de una tubería si había cerca un manantial. Su cometido era verter agua sobre las correas y los pistones para enfriarlos. De ahí su nombre, culíes, _coolies_ , que viene de _cool_ , «fresco». Me atrevería a decir que, históricamente, las mujeres han cumplido esa misma función, _contener_ a los hombres, al menos cuando era posible, para que no cometieran sus peores atrocidades.
Recorrió a su público con la mirada. Ya no sonreía.
—Pero, según parece, ahora los culíes han desaparecido, o están desapareciendo. ¿Cuánto tardarán los hombres, pronto el único sexo, en echarse unos sobre otros con sus armas, sus bombas y su armamento nuclear? ¿Cuánto tardará la máquina en sobrecalentarse y explotar?
Frank ya había oído suficiente. No era el futuro de toda la especie humana lo que le preocupaba. Si era posible salvarla, sería un efecto secundario. A él le preocupaba Nana. Quería darle un beso en su tierno rostro y disculparse por haber tirado de su camiseta preferida. Decirle que no volvería a hacerlo. No podía hacer nada de eso a menos que despertara.
—Vamos —dijo a Don—. Afuera. Quiero hablar contigo.
—¿De qué?
Frank se inclinó hacia el oído de Peters.
—¿De verdad hay en la cárcel una mujer que puede dormir sin que le salgan telarañas y luego despertar?
Don torció el cuello para mirar a Frank.
—Eh, tú eres el perrero del pueblo, ¿no?
—Exacto. —Frank pasó por alto la gilipollez de «perrero»—. Y tú eres Don él que trabaja en la cárcel.
—Sí —contestó Don—. El mismo. Hablemos.
8
Clint y Lila habían salido al porche trasero, cuya la lámpara los convirtió en actores en un escenario. Miraban la piscina, de la que Anton Dubcek había retirado bichos muertos hacía menos de veinticuatro horas. Clint se preguntó distraído dónde estaría Anton en ese momento. Durmiendo, muy probablemente. Soñando con mujeres jóvenes dadivosas en lugar de preparándose para una desagradable conversación con su mujer. Si era así, Clint lo envidiaba.
—Háblame de Sheila Norcross, cariño. La chica a la que viste en el partido de baloncesto.
Lila lo obsequió con una desagradable sonrisa de la que Clint no la habría considerado capaz. Enseñó todos los dientes. Por encima, sus ojos —muy hundidos en las cuencas ya, con semicírculos de color marrón oscuro debajo— resplandecieron.
—Como si no lo supieras. _Cariño._
Ponte en el papel de psicoterapeuta, se dijo Clint. Recuerda que va hasta las cejas y se mantiene en pie con energía prestada. Las personas extenuadas pueden incurrir fácilmente en la paranoia. Pero no era tan fácil. Él veía el esquema de la situación: Lila pensaba que una chica cuya existencia él ni siquiera conocía era hija suya y de Shan Parks. Pero eso era imposible, y cuando a uno su esposa lo acusaba de algo imposible, y todo lo demás en el mundo era, desde un punto de vista mínimamente racional, más importante e inmediato, resultaba muy muy difícil mantener el control.
—Dime qué sabes. Luego te diré qué sé _yo_. Pero empecemos por un hecho elemental. Esa chica no es mi hija, lleve mi apellido o no, y nunca he incumplido mis votos matrimoniales. —Ella se dio media vuelta para volver a entrar. Él la agarró por el brazo—. Por favor. Dímelo antes...
¿Antes de que te duermas y perdamos cualquier oportunidad que tengamos de aclarar esto?, pensó él.
—Antes de que esto se emponzoñe más de lo que ya está.
Lila se encogió de hombros.
—Con todo lo que está pasando, ¿tiene importancia siquiera?
Eso mismo había pensado él hacía un momento, pero podría haber dicho: «Para ti sí la tiene». No obstante, mantuvo la boca cerrada. Porque, a pesar de todo lo que estaba sucediendo en el mundo entero, también para él tenía importancia.
—En realidad yo ni siquiera quería esta piscina, ¿lo sabías? —le preguntó Lila.
—¿Qué? —Clint quedó desconcertado. ¿Qué tenía que ver la piscina con todo aquello?
—¿Mamá? ¿Papá? —Al otro lado de la puerta mosquitera, Jared estaba escuchándolos.
—Jared, vuelve adentro. Esto es entre tu madre y, y...
—No, deja que escuche —terció Lila—. Si insistes en pasar por esto, pasaremos. ¿No te parece que debería saber que tiene una hermanastra? —Se volvió hacia Jared—. Es un año menor que tú, rubia, una jugadora de baloncesto excelente y una preciosidad. Como lo serías tú si fueras chica. Porque, verás, _se_ _parece_ a ti, Jere.
—¿Papá? —Jared arrugó la frente—. ¿Qué está diciendo?
Clint se rindió. Ya era tarde para cualquier otra cosa.
—¿Por qué no se lo cuentas, Lila? Empieza desde el principio.
9
Lila lo explicó todo, empezando por el Comité Curricular y el comentario posterior de Dorothy Harper, al que no concedió demasiada importancia. Sin embargo, al día siguiente hizo una búsqueda en internet. La búsqueda la llevó al artículo, en el que se mencionaba a Shannon Parks, de quien Clint le había hablado una vez, e incluía una llamativa fotografía de Sheila Norcross.
—Casi podría haber sido tu hermana gemela, Jared.
Jared se volvió lentamente hacia su padre.
Estaban los tres sentados a la mesa de la cocina.
Clint negó con la cabeza, pero no pudo por menos de preguntarse qué traslucía su semblante. Porque se sentía culpable. Como si de verdad hubiera algo de lo que sentirse culpable. Era un fenómeno interesante. Aquella noche de 2002 lo que había susurrado al oído de Shannon fue: «Debes saber que siempre puedes contar conmigo si me necesitas». Cuando ella respondió, «¿Y si te necesitara esta noche?», Clint dijo que eso era lo único que no podía hacer. Si se hubiera acostado con ella, habría tenido un motivo para sentirse culpable, pero la rechazó, así que ahí acabó todo. ¿No?
Tal vez. Pero ¿por qué nunca había hablado a Lila de ese encuentro? No lo recordaba ni tenía por qué defenderse de algo que había ocurrido hacía quince años. Lila podría también exigir que le explicara por qué había dejado grogui a Jason en el jardín trasero de los Burtell solo por un batido de chocolate.
—¿Eso es todo? —preguntó Clint. No pudo resistirse a añadir—: Dime que eso no es todo, Lila.
—No, eso no es todo —contestó ella—. ¿Vas a decirme que no conocías a Shannon Parks?
—Sabes que la conocía —respondió Clint—. Estoy seguro de que he mencionado su nombre.
—De pasada —matizó Lila—. Pero fue algo más que una simple conocida, ¿no?
—Sí. Lo fue. Los dos nos vimos atrapados en el sistema de acogida. Durante un tiempo nos mantuvimos a flote el uno al otro. De lo contrario uno de nosotros, o los dos, se habría ahogado. Fue Shannon quien me llevó a dejar de luchar. Dijo que, si no, podía acabar matando a alguien. —Cogió las manos de Lila por encima de la mesa—. _Pero de eso hace años._
Lila apartó las manos.
—¿Cuándo la viste por última vez?
—¡Hace quince años! —exclamó Clint. Era ridículo.
—Sheila Norcross tiene quince años.
—Uno menos que yo... —precisó Jared. Si hubiese sido mayor, de dieciocho o diecinueve, habría nacido antes de la boda de sus padres. Pero siendo más joven...
—Y el nombre del padre es... —dijo Lila con la respiración agitada—. Clinton Norcross. Consta en la ficha de inscripción del instituto.
—¿Cómo conseguiste la ficha? —preguntó Clint—. No sabía que esos documentos estuvieran a disposición de los ciudadanos.
Por primera vez dio la impresión de que su mujer se sentía más incómoda que furiosa... y por tanto, en cierto modo, parecía menos una desconocida.
—Dicho así, queda como si hubiera hecho algo sucio. —Lila se había ruborizado—. Vale, quizá _fue_ sucio. Pero tenía que averiguar el nombre del padre. _Tu_ nombre, como se ha visto. Así que después fui a verla jugar. Ahí estuve anoche, en el gimnasio del instituto de Coughlin, en un partido de la liga amateur, viendo a tu hija jugar al baloncesto. Y no solo tiene tu cara y tu nombre.
10
Sonó la sirena, y el equipo de la liga amateur de los Tres Condados trotó hasta la línea de banda. Lila dejó de recorrer las gradas con la mirada en busca de Shannon.
Vio a Sheila Norcross dirigir un gesto de asentimiento a una de sus compañeras de equipo, una chica más alta. Intercambiaron un saludo elaborado: choque de puños, pulgares entrelazados y palmadas por encima de la cabeza.
Era el Saludo Guay.
Fue allí, fue entonces cuando a Lila se le partió el corazón. Cuando vio eso. Su marido era un hombre con una máscara cautivadora. De pronto todas sus dudas e insatisfacciones cobraron sentido.
El Saludo Guay. Había visto a Clint y a Jared saludarse así un centenar de veces. Un millar de veces. Choque, entrelazado, palmadas. Tenía en la cabeza una preciada colección de diapositivas de Jared, en la que él aparecía más alto con cada clic de la rueda, más robusto, con el cabello más oscuro, intercambiando el Saludo Guay con su padre. Clint se lo había enseñado a todos los niños del equipo infantil de Jared.
También se lo había enseñado a ella.
### 20
1
Alrededor de medianoche en el huso horario central, se desencadenó un altercado entre un pequeño grupo de Crips y un contingente mucho más numeroso de Bloods en un bar de Chicago llamado Stoney's Big Dipper. La reyerta se propagó por toda la ciudad hasta convertirse en una guerra de bandas que las páginas web de noticias describieron con diversos calificativos como «apocalíptica», «sin precedentes» y «de tres pares de cojones». Nadie llegaría a saber qué miembro de qué banda encendió realmente la cerilla que dio lugar a lo que pasó a conocerse como Segundo Gran Incendio de Chicago, pero se inició en West Englewood y se extendió desde allí. Al amanecer ya ardían grandes zonas de la ciudad. La respuesta de la policía y los bomberos fue casi inexistente. Los polis y los apagafuegos estaban casi todos en sus casas: unos trataban de mantener despiertas a sus mujeres e hijas; otros velaban ante sus cuerpos envueltos en capullos mientras dormían, esperando en la desesperanza.
2
—Dime qué viste —pidió Frank. Don Peters y él se hallaban en la parte de atrás del Squeaky Wheel, donde por fin las cosas empezaban a decaer, quizá porque el suministro de alcohol de Pudge Marone decrecía por momentos—. Qué viste _exactamente_.
—Yo estaba en la Garita, que es el centro neurálgico de la cárcel, ¿vale? En la cárcel hay cincuenta cámaras. Estaba mirando en la que llamamos «celda acolchada», que es donde han metido a la nueva. En la ficha aparece como Eve Black, aunque no sé si ese es su nombre verdadero o solo...
—Eso ahora da igual. ¿Qué _viste_?
—Bueno, llevaba una casaca roja, como todas las que acaban de ingresar, y empezaba a quedarse dormida. Me interesaba ver salir de su piel las telarañas, porque había oído hablar de eso pero no lo había visto. El caso es que no salieron. —Don agarró a Frank de la manga de la camisa—. ¿Oyes lo que digo? _Ni una sola telaraña._ Ni un solo hilo, y para entonces ya estaba dormida. Pero se despertó... de repente abrió los ojos como platos... y se quedó mirando fijamente a la cámara. Como si me mirara a _mí_. __ Creo que sí me miraba a mí. Ya sé que parece una locura, pero...
—Quizá en realidad no se había dormido. Quizá solo fingía.
—¿Con lo relajada y despatarrada que estaba? Imposible. Créeme.
—¿Cómo es que la han llevado allí? ¿Por qué no está en el calabozo de la oficina del sheriff?
—Porque está como una cabra, por eso. ¡Mató a un par de cocineros de meta con las putas manos!
—¿Tú por qué no estás en la cárcel esta noche?
—¡Porque un par de putas ratas me han tendido una trampa! —prorrumpió Don—. ¡Me han tendido una puta trampa y me han echado a la puta calle! ¡La directora Coates y su compinche el loquero, el marido de la sheriff! ¡Seguro que consiguió el trabajo en la cárcel porque estaba casado con ella! ¡Tiene que ser un puto chanchullo político, porque no sabe ni dónde tiene la mano izquierda!
Don contó con pelos y señales su inocente crucifixión, pero a Frank le traía sin cuidado de qué acusaran Coates y Norcross a Peters. En ese momento la mente de Frank saltaba de una idea a la siguiente como una rana sobre rocas calientes. Saltaba muy alto.
¿Una mujer inmune? ¿Allí mismo, en Dooling? Parecía imposible, pero dos personas le habían confirmado ya que despertaba. Si existía una Paciente Cero, tenía que estar _en algún sitio_ , ¿no? ¿Por qué no allí? Y a saber si no habría otras mujeres inmunes dispersas por el país y el mundo. Lo importante era que, en caso de ser verdad, esa tal Evie Black podía ofrecer una curación. Un médico (quizá incluso su nuevo colega Garth Flickinger, si Flickinger era capaz de mantenerse sobrio y despejado) tal vez lograra encontrar algo distinto en su sangre, y eso podía llevar a... bueno...
¡Una vacuna!
¡Una cura!
—¡... colocaron pruebas falsas! Como si yo fuese a tener algún interés en una mujer que asesinó a su marido y...
—Don, cállate un momento.
Milagrosamente, Don obedeció. Con los ojos brillantes por efecto de la bebida, alzó la vista para mirar a Frank, más alto que él.
—¿Cuántos guardias hay ahora mismo en la cárcel?
—Funcionarios, los llamamos, y no lo sé con seguridad. No muchos, con todo este lio. Además, depende de quién llegue y quién se vaya. —Hizo el cálculo con los ojos entornados: no fue una imagen grata—. Quizá siete. Ocho si contamos a Hicks, nueve si añadimos al mamón del loquero, pero esos dos no valen ni un pedo en medio de un vendaval.
—¿Y la directora?
Don apartó la mirada de los ojos de Frank.
—Se ha dormido.
—Bien, ¿y cuántos de los que hay de servicio son mujeres?
—Cuando me he ido, quedaban solo Van Lampley y Millie Olson. Ah, y puede que todavía esté allí Blanche McIntyre, pero ella es solo la secretaria de Coates, y debe de tener cien años.
—O sea, que son muy pocos, aun contando a Hicks y Norcross. ¿Y quieres que te diga otra cosa? La sheriff también es mujer, y me sorprendería que consiguiera mantener el orden otras tres horas. Me sorprendería incluso que siguiera despierta dentro de tres horas. —En estado de sobriedad, Frank se habría reservado esos pensamientos; o al menos no los habría compartido con un tarado excitable como Don Peters, eso desde luego.
Don, sumido en sus cálculos, se pasó la lengua por los labios. Esa fue otra imagen poco atractiva.
—¿En qué estás pensando?
—En que Dooling pronto va a necesitar un sheriff nuevo. Y el sheriff nuevo estaría perfectamente en su derecho de trasladar a una presa del Centro Penitenciario. En especial una que no ha sido procesada, y menos aún condenada.
—¿Crees que podrías solicitar el puesto? —preguntó Don.
Como para subrayar la pregunta, resonaron un par de disparos en la oscuridad, a cierta distancia. Y persistía en el aire aquel penetrante olor a humo. ¿Quién estaba ocupándose de eso? ¿Alguien?
—Casi seguro que Terry Coombs es el ayudante más veterano —comentó Frank.
En ese momento el ayudante más veterano se hallaba tan hundido en los vapores etílicos que estaba a punto de naufragar en ellos, pero Frank no lo dijo. Aunque estaba agotado y como una cuba, finalmente advirtió que debía cuidarse de lo que decía.
—Aunque va a necesitar ayuda para elegir al personal. Yo desde luego me ofrecería como ayudante si él lo necesitara.
—Me gusta la idea —dijo Don—. Puede que yo también me ofrezca. Según parece, voy a necesitar trabajo. Deberíamos convencerlo de que vaya allí y saque a esa mujer de inmediato, ¿no te parece?
—Sí —convino Frank. En un mundo ideal, seguramente no permitiría a Don Peters ni limpiar la jaula de un perro, pero, por su conocimiento de la cárcel, tal vez lo necesitaran—. Después de dormir todos la mona.
—Vale, te daré mi número de móvil —dijo Don—. Y ya me avisarás de qué planes tenéis Terry y tú. —Sacó el bolígrafo y el cuaderno que utilizaba para anotar el nombre de las putas que le causaban problemas y se ganaban un informe de mala conducta.
3
No mucho después de que corrieran las primeras noticias sobre Aurora, los índices de suicidio masculino se dispararon. Primero se duplicaron, más tarde se triplicaron y hasta se cuadriplicaron. Unos hombres se quitaban la vida de manera efectista, saltando de lo alto de un edificio o llevándose un arma a la boca; otros se quitaban la vida con discreción, tomando pastillas, encerrándose en un garaje y sentándose en su coche con el motor en marcha. Un maestro de escuela retirado que se llamaba Eliot Ainsley telefoneó a un programa de radio en Sidney, Australia, para explicar sus intenciones y sus pensamientos antes de cortarse las venas y volver a la cama para yacer junto a su esposa dormida. «Sencillamente no veo sentido a seguir adelante sin las chicas —informó el maestro jubilado al locutor—. Y se me ha ocurrido que quizá esto sea una prueba, de nuestro amor por ellas, de nuestra devoción por ellas. Ya me entiendes, ¿no, tío?» El locutor contestó que no lo entendía, que, en su opinión, Eliot Ainsley había «perdido la puta cabeza»; pero muchos hombres sí lo entendieron. Esos suicidios se conocieron por diversos nombres, pero el que pasó a utilizarse de manera generalizada se acuñó en Japón. Llamaron a esos hombres «maridos durmientes», aquellos que albergaban la esperanza de reunirse con sus mujeres e hijas dondequiera que estuviesen.
(Vana esperanza. Al otro lado del Árbol no se permitía la entrada a ningún hombre.)
4
Clint era consciente de que su mujer y su hijo lo miraban fijamente. Le resultaba doloroso mirar a Lila, y más aún a Jared, que tenía una expresión de absoluta perplejidad. Clint también vio miedo en el rostro de Jared. El matrimonio de sus padres, algo aparentemente tan estable que lo había dado por sentado, parecía desintegrarse ante sus ojos.
En el sofá descansaba una niña envuelta en un capullo de fibras lechosas. En el suelo, junto a esta, había un bebé, instalado en la cesta de la ropa sucia. El bebé de la cesta, no obstante, no parecía un bebé. Parecía algo que una araña hubiese envuelto para un futuro aperitivo.
—Choque, entrelazamiento, palmadas —dijo Lila, aunque ya no parecía concederle tanta importancia—. Se lo vi hacer a esa chica. Deja de fingir, Clint. Deja de _mentir_.
Necesitamos dormir un rato, pensó Clint; sobre todo Lila. Pero no antes de que esta escena de telecomedia se resuelva. Si es que podía resolverse, y quizá sí hubiese una manera. Pensó primero en su teléfono, pero la pantalla no tenía el tamaño necesario para lo que quería.
—Jared, internet todavía funciona, ¿no?
—La última vez que lo he comprobado, sí.
—Trae tu portátil.
—¿Por qué?
—Tú tráelo, ¿vale?
—¿De verdad tengo una hermana?
— _No._
Lila había empezado a dar una cabezada, pero se enderezó.
—Sí.
—Trae tu portátil.
Jared fue a buscarlo. A Lila se le caía otra vez la cabeza. Clint le dio una palmadita primero en una mejilla y luego en la otra.
—Lila. _¡Lila!_
Ella volvió a levantar la cabeza.
—Aquí estoy. No me toques.
—¿Tienes más de eso que habéis tomado Linny y tú?
Buscó a tientas en el bolsillo de la pechera y sacó un estuche de lentillas. Abrió uno de los compartimentos de plástico. Contenía un poco de polvo. Lanzó una mirada a Clint.
—Es potente —comentó—. Igual te saco los ojos. Con o sin capullo. Estoy triste, pero también muy cabreada.
—Me arriesgaré. Adelante.
Lila se inclinó, se tapó un orificio nasal y esnifó el polvo con el otro. A continuación se recostó contra el respaldo con los ojos muy abiertos.
—Dime, Clint, ¿era buena en la cama esa Shannon Parks? Pensaba que yo lo era, pero ella debía de serlo más, si tuviste que volver a su lado a la primera calentura cuando llevábamos casados menos de un año.
Jared regresó —su rostro hermético decía: «No he oído esa última parte»— y dejó el portátil delante de su padre. Al hacerlo, procuró mantener cierta distancia con respecto a Clint. _Et toi, Brute?_
Clint encendió el Mac de Jared, entró en Firefox y buscó «Sheila Norcross Coughlin baloncesto». Apareció el artículo. Y la imagen de la chica llamada Sheila Norcross. Era una excelente foto de medio cuerpo, que la mostraba con la camiseta de baloncesto. En su agraciado rostro se advertía la agitación de la reciente actividad en pista. Sonreía. Clint examinó la imagen durante casi treinta segundos. Luego, sin mediar palabra, volvió el portátil para que Jared la viera. Su hijo la miró con los labios apretados y los puños firmemente cerrados. Al cabo de un momento, poco a poco, se relajó. Miró a Lila, más perplejo que nunca.
—Mamá... si hay un parecido, yo no lo veo. No se parece en nada a mí. _Ni_ a papá.
Los ojos de Lila, ya muy abiertos por la reciente ingesta de polvos mágicos, se agrandaron aún más. Dejó escapar una carcajada, un áspero graznido.
—Jared, por favor, eso no. Eso no, y punto. No tienes ni idea de lo que dices.
Jared hizo una mueca, como si lo hubieran abofeteado, y durante un horrible momento Clint estuvo a punto de abalanzarse sobre la que era su esposa desde hacía diecisiete años. Se lo impidió solo otro vistazo a la foto de la chica sonriente. Porque si uno deseaba encontrarlo, _sí_ existía un ligero parecido, lo viera Jared o no: la mandíbula prominente, la frente ancha y los hoyuelos en las comisuras de la sonrisa. Ninguno de esos rasgos coincidía realmente con los de Clint, pero este percibió que en efecto había elementos para establecer una asociación entre las facciones de ambos.
«Adoro tus hoyuelos», __ decía a veces Lila a Clint cuando acababan de casarse. A menudo en la cama, después de hacer el amor. Tocándoselos con los dedos. «Todos los hombres deberían tener hoyuelos.»
Podría haberle dicho lo que pensaba en ese momento, porque creía entenderlo todo. Pero tal vez hubiese otra forma. Eran las cuatro de la mañana, una hora a la que normalmente casi todo el mundo en la zona de los Tres Condados dormía, pero esa no era una noche normal. Si su vieja amiga del sistema de acogida no estaba en un capullo, podría atender una llamada. La única pregunta era si él podía ponerse en contacto con ella o no. Se planteó utilizar el móvil, y luego se acercó al teléfono de la pared. Oyó el zumbido de la línea; de momento todo iba bien.
—Pero ¿qué haces? —preguntó Lila.
Él no respondió; se limitó a marcar el 0. Cuando el timbre sonó por sexta vez, Clint empezó a temerse que nadie contestara, lo cual no habría sido de extrañar, pero finalmente una cansada voz femenina dijo:
—¿Sí? ¿Qué?
Clint dudó mucho que esa fuera la manera en que Shenandoah Telecom indicaba a sus operadoras que atendieran las llamadas de los clientes, pero lo cierto es que agradeció oír una voz humana.
—Operadora, soy Clinton Norcross, llamo desde Dooling y necesito desesperadamente ayuda.
—¿Quiere que le diga una cosa? Me extraña —contestó ella con un dejo que bien podía ser de algún rincón perdido del condado de Bridger—. Esta noche son las mujeres quienes necesitan ayuda.
—Es con una mujer con quien necesito ponerme en contacto. En Coughlin. Se llama Shannon Parks. —Si es que su nombre aparecía en el listín. A menudo las mujeres solteras optaban por no facilitar su número de teléfono—. ¿Puede localizarla?
—Para esa información, debería llamar al seiscientos once. O buscarla en su puñetero ordenador.
—Ayúdeme si puede, por favor.
Siguió un largo silencio. La comunicación no se había cortado, pero ¿y si la operadora se quedaba dormida mientras él esperaba? Finalmente la mujer dijo:
—He encontrado una tal S. L. Parks en Maple Street, Coughlin. ¿Es la mujer a la que busca?
Casi con toda seguridad lo era. Clint cogió el lápiz colgado del tablero de anotaciones con tal fuerza que rompió el cordel.
—Gracias, operadora. Muchas gracias. ¿Puede darme el número?
La operadora se lo dio y cortó la comunicación.
—¡No la creeré aunque des con ella! —exclamó Lila—. ¡Mentirá por ti!
Clint marcó el número sin contestar, y no tuvo tiempo siquiera de contener la respiración. Descolgaron el teléfono antes de que sonara por primera vez.
—Estoy despierta, Amber —dijo Shannon Parks—. Gracias por llamar...
—No soy Amber, Shan —contestó Clint. De pronto le flojearon las piernas y se apoyó en el frigorífico—. Soy Clint Norcross.
5
Internet es una casa luminosa que se alza sobre un sótano oscuro con el suelo de tierra. En ese sótano brotan las falsedades como setas. Algunas son sabrosas; muchas son venenosas. La falsedad que se propaló en Cupertino —que se presentó como un hecho irrevocable— fue una de las últimas. En un post de Facebook titulado LA VERDAD DE AURORA, un hombre que aseguraba ser médico escribió lo siguiente:
AVISO SOBRE AURORA: ¡URGENTE!
Firmado por el doctor Philip P. Verdrusca
Un equipo de biólogos y epidemiólogos del Centro Médico Kaiser Permanente ha determinado que los capullos que envuelven a las mujeres aquejadas de la enfermedad del sueño de Aurora son los causantes de la propagación de esta. La respiración de las afectadas traspasa el capullo y se convierte en un vector de transmisión. **¡Ese vector es sumamente contagioso!**
**¡La única manera de impedir la propagación de Aurora es quemar los capullos y a las mujeres dormidas que contienen! ¡Háganlo inmediatamente! Proporcionarán a sus seres queridos el descanso que anhelan en su estado semiinconsciente y pondrán fin a la propagación de esta peste.**
**¡Háganlo por el bien de las mujeres que siguen despiertas!**
¡¡¡SÁLVENLAS!!!
No existía ningún médico llamado Philip Verdrusca en la plantilla del Kaiser Permanente ni en ninguno de los centros vinculados. Esta información se reprodujo rápidamente en la televisión y por internet, junto con los desmentidos de decenas de médicos acreditados y del Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades de Atlanta. El Bulo de Cupertino se convirtió en noticia de cabecera en los informativos mientras el sol se elevaba sobre la Costa Oeste de Estados Unidos. Pero el caballo ya había salido de la cuadra, y Lila Norcross podría haber vaticinado lo que ocurriría a continuación. De hecho, lo _había_ vaticinado. Aun cuando la gente pudiera esperar lo mejor, Lila, que vestía el uniforme azul desde hacía casi veinte años, sabía que a lo que daban crédito era a lo peor. En un mundo aterrorizado, las noticias falsas se imponían.
Para cuando amaneció en los estados del Medio Oeste, las Brigadas del Soplete deambulaban por las ciudades y los pueblos de todo Estados Unidos y del resto del mundo. Las mujeres envueltas en capullos fueron arrastradas a vertederos, campos y estadios, donde estallaron en gotas de fuego que se transformaron en nubes de mariposas tan grandes que cubrieron el cielo y ocultaron el sol naciente del segundo día de Aurora.
La obra de «Philip P. Verdrusca» ya había comenzado cuando Clint explicó a Shannon la situación en la que se encontraba la familia Norcross en ese momento y, acto seguido, tendió el auricular en silencio a su mujer.
6
Al principio Lila no dijo nada, se limitó a mirar con desconfianza a su marido. Él le dirigió un gesto de asentimiento como si ella hubiera hablado y cogió a su hijo del brazo con delicadeza.
—Vamos —instó—. Dejémosle un poco de intimidad.
En el televisor del salón, la mujer del canal público seguía haciendo labores con pedrería —y así seguiría, al parecer, hasta el fin del mundo—, pero afortunadamente el aparato estaba sin volumen.
—No eres el padre de esa chica, ¿verdad, papá?
—No —contestó Clint—. No lo soy.
—Pero ¿cómo podía ella conocer el Saludo Guay que usábamos en la liga infantil?
Clint se sentó en el sofá con un suspiro. Jared se acomodó a su lado.
—De tal palo tal astilla, dicen, y Shan Parks también jugaba al baloncesto, aunque nunca en el instituto ni en un equipo amateur. No participaba en nada donde uno tuviera que ponerse un número o pasar por aros de papel en las concentraciones previas a los partidos. No era su estilo. Lo suyo eran las pachangas en el patio. Chicos y chicas juntos.
Jared lo escuchaba fascinado.
—¿Tú jugabas?
—Un poco, por diversión, pero no era lo mío. Ella me daba sopas con honda en cualquier momento, llevaba el baloncesto en la sangre. Solo que no le hacía falta, porque nunca jugamos el uno contra el otro. Íbamos siempre en el mismo equipo. —En todos los sentidos, pensó. No era solo nuestra manera de jugar; era nuestra manera de sobrevivir. La supervivencia era el auténtico batido, aquel por el que los dos luchábamos—. El Saludo Guay lo _inventó_ Shan, Jere. Ella me lo enseñó a mí, y yo, a vosotros cuando os entrenaba.
—¿Esa chica que conocías se inventó el saludo? —preguntó Jared, pasmado, como si Shannon hubiese sido la pionera no de un saludo, sino de la biología molecular. Con esa expresión Jared parecía tremendamente joven. Lo cual era, por supuesto.
—Sí.
El resto prefería no contárselo a Jared, habría quedado en extremo presuntuoso, pero confiaba en que Shannon estuviese contándoselo a su mujer en ese momento. Suponía que sí lo haría, porque Shannon sabría que las dos podían desaparecer de la faz de la tierra en cuestión de días o incluso horas. En una situación así, decir la verdad era una necesidad imperiosa, aunque no forzosamente más fácil.
Shan había sido su mejor amiga, y habían sido amantes, pero solo durante unos meses. Ella se había enamorado de él... perdidamente. Esa era la verdad. En ese momento Clint lo sabía y sospechaba en lo más hondo de su corazón que lo había sabido ya por entonces, pero había preferido pasarlo por alto, porque él no sentía lo mismo, ni podía permitirse sentir lo mismo. Shannon le había proporcionado el estímulo que necesitaba, y siempre estaría en deuda con ella por eso, pero él no quería pasar toda la vida a su lado, nunca se lo planteó siquiera. Lo que había entre ellos era pura cuestión de supervivencia: la de él y la de ella. Shannon pertenecía a una vida en la que él había resultado herido y casi aniquilado. Shannon lo había convencido de que siguiera el buen camino. En cuanto Clint estuvo en él, necesitó continuar adelante. Ella tendría que encontrar a alguien que la ayudara, pero no sería él, ¿y era eso cruel? ¿Era egoísta? Sí, tanto una cosa como la otra.
Años después de separarse, ella había conocido a un hombre y se había quedado embarazada. Clint imaginaba que el padre de la hija de Shannon era un hombre que se parecía un poco al chico del que había estado enamorada en la adolescencia. Había dado a luz una niña que conservaba algo de esa fisonomía.
Lila entró en el salón con lentitud y se detuvo entre el sofá y el televisor. Miró alrededor como si no supiera bien dónde estaba.
—¿Cariño? —dijo Clint.
—¿Mamá? —dijo Jared al unísono.
Ella esbozó una débil sonrisa.
—Por lo visto, tengo que disculparme.
—Lo único por lo que tienes que disculparte es por no haberme planteado esto antes —respondió Clint—. Por dejarlo emponzoñarse. Me alegro de haberla localizado. ¿Sigue al teléfono? —Señaló con el mentón en dirección a la cocina.
—No —contestó Lila—. Ah, quería hablar contigo, pero le he colgado. No ha sido muy amable por mi parte, pero supongo que aún siento alguna vibración residual de mi vena celosa. Además, gran parte de esto es culpa suya. Ponerle a su hija tu apellido... —Meneó la cabeza—. Vaya idiotez. Dios, qué cansada estoy.
_Tú_ no tuviste inconveniente en adoptar mi apellido, ni en dárselo a tu hijo, pensó Clint, y no sin resentimiento.
—El padre verdadero fue un hombre que conoció en el bar donde trabajaba de camarera. Lo único que llegó a saber de él fue su nombre, y a saber si era su verdadero nombre. En la historia que Parks contó a la niña, el padre eras tú, solo que moriste en un accidente de coche durante el embarazo. Tampoco es que la chica vaya a conocer una versión distinta.
—¿Se ha dormido? —preguntó Jared.
—Hace dos horas —dijo Lila—. Parks solo sigue despierta gracias a su mejor amiga, una tal Amber no sé qué más. También es madre soltera. Por estos lares, prácticamente crecen en los árboles, ¿no? Aquí y en todas partes, supongo. Da igual. Dejadme acabar esta absurda historia, ¿vale? Se trasladó a Coughlin para empezar de cero poco después de que naciera la niña. Sostiene que no sabía que tú vivías en esta zona, cosa que no me creo ni por asomo. Mi nombre aparece en el _Herald_ todas las semanas y, como tú mismo has señalado, no hay ningún otro Norcross en la zona. Ella lo sabía, eso desde luego. Aún conserva la esperanza de que algún día encuentres una salida, me apuesto lo que sea. —Lila abrió la boca en un bostezo enorme.
Clint consideró aquello brutalmente injusto, y tuvo que recordarse que Lila —criada en un confortable hogar de clase media, con padres y hermanos muy alegres, como salidos de una vieja telecomedia de los años setenta— no podía comprender los nueve matices del infierno por el que Shannon y él habían pasado. Sí, el asunto del apellido reflejaba un comportamiento neurótico, de eso no había duda, pero había un detalle que Lila no veía o no quería ver: Shannon había estado viviendo a solo doscientos cincuenta kilómetros de allí y nunca había intentado ponerse en contacto con él. Podía decirse que era porque no sabía que vivía cerca, pero, como Lila había señalado, eso sería algo improbable.
—El saludo —dijo Lila—. ¿Y eso qué?
Clint se lo explicó.
—De acuerdo —aceptó Lila—. Caso cerrado. Voy a prepararme un café y luego volveré a la oficina. Dios santo, qué cansada estoy, joder.
7
Cuando Lila se tomó su café, abrazó a Jared y le dijo que cuidara de Molly y el bebé, y las escondiera bien. Él prometió que lo haría, y ella se apartó de él lo más deprisa posible. Si vacilaba, ya no sería capaz de abandonarlo.
Clint la siguió hasta el vestíbulo.
—Te quiero, Lila.
—Yo también te quiero, Clint. —Supuso que lo dijo sinceramente.
—No estoy enfadado —contestó él.
—Me alegro —dijo Lila, y se abstuvo de añadir «Yupi-oh».
—Debes saber —dijo Clint— que la última vez que vi a Shannon, hace años pero después de que nos casáramos, me pidió que me acostara con ella. Le dije que no.
El vestíbulo estaba a oscuras. La luz que entraba por la ventana de lo alto de la puerta se reflejó en las gafas de Clint. Chaquetas y sombreros colgaban de las perchas a sus espaldas, una hilera de espectadores avergonzados.
—Le dije que no —repitió Clint.
Ella no sabía qué quería él que dijera. ¿«Buen chico», quizá? No tenía la menor idea.
Lila lo besó. Él le devolvió el beso. Fue solo un contacto de labios, piel con piel.
Ella prometió llamarlo en cuanto llegara a la oficina. Bajó por los peldaños de la entrada, se detuvo y se volvió para mirarlo.
—No me informaste de lo de la piscina —comentó—. Llamaste a un contratista por las buenas. Un día volví y me encontré un agujero en el jardín. Feliz cumpleaños, y a joderse.
—Yo... —Se interrumpió. ¿Qué podía decir, en realidad? ¿Que pensó que a ella le gustaría cuando la verdad era que la quería él?
—Y cuando decidiste abandonar la consulta privada, ¿qué? Tampoco de eso hablamos nunca. Hiciste unas preguntas, pensé que tal vez estabas investigando para un artículo, o algo así, y de pronto, pum. Ya estaba hecho.
—Pensé que era yo quien debía decidirlo.
—Ya lo sé.
Le dirigió una vaga despedida y se encaminó hacia el coche patrulla.
8
—La funcionaria Lampley ha dicho que querías verme.
Evie se acercó de un salto a los barrotes de la celda con tal rapidez que el subdirector Hicks retrocedió dos pasos de inmediato. Evie le dedicó una sonrisa radiante, con el rostro encuadrado por el cabello negro.
—Lampley es la única funcionaria que queda despierta, ¿verdad?
—Ni mucho menos —contestó Hicks—. También está Millie. La funcionaria Olson, quiero decir.
—No, ella se ha dormido en la biblioteca de la cárcel. —Evie mantuvo su sonrisa de reina de la belleza. Y era una belleza, eso no podía negarse—. Con la cara encima de un ejemplar de _Seventeen_. Estaba mirando los vestidos de fiesta.
El subdirector ni siquiera se detuvo a pensar en la afirmación de Evie. Ella no podía saber una cosa así. Por guapa que fuese, estaba en el Cuarto de los Catetos, como a veces llamaban a la celda acolchada, y por una buena razón.
—Tienes la cabeza revuelta, reclusa. No lo digo para herir tus sentimientos; lo digo porque es la verdad. Quizá deberías dormirte, a ver si así te quitas las telarañas de la cabeza.
—He aquí un chisme interesante para usted, subdirector Hicks. A pesar de que la tierra ha dado poco menos de una vuelta desde que empezó lo que ustedes llaman Aurora, más de la mitad de las mujeres del mundo se han dormido. Casi el setenta por ciento ya. ¿Por qué tantas? Muchas no despertaron, claro. Ya estaban dormidas cuando empezó. Y luego otras muchas, por puro cansancio, se han adormilado pese a los esfuerzos para mantenerse despiertas. Pero ese no es el caso de todas. No, hay una porción significativa de la población femenina que sencillamente ha decidido irse al sobre. Porque, como sin duda sabe su doctor Norcross, temer lo inevitable es peor que lo inevitable en sí. Es más fácil dejarse llevar.
—Norcros es un loquero, no sabe de medicina general —dijo Hicks—. No me fiaría de él ni para que me tratara un uñero. Y si no tienes nada más que añadir, yo debo dirigir una cárcel y tú necesitas una siesta.
—Lo entiendo perfectamente. Vaya usted, pero déjeme su teléfono móvil.
Evie enseñaba todos los dientes. Su sonrisa parecía cada vez más ancha. Sus dientes eran muy blancos, y parecían muy fuertes. Los dientes de un animal, pensó Hicks, y desde luego era un animal. Tenía que serlo, si se paraba a pensar en lo que había hecho a los cocineros de meta.
—¿Para qué necesitas mi móvil, reclusa? ¿Por qué no usas tu propio móvil invisible? —Señaló el rincón vacío de la celda. Resultaba casi cómico, la mezcla de estupidez, locura y arrogancia que exhibía esa mujer—. Lo tienes ahí mismo, y con minutos ilimitados.
—Muy buena —comentó Evie—. Qué gracioso. Ahora deme el teléfono, por favor. Tengo que llamar al doctor Norcross.
—Ni hablar. Ha sido un placer. —Se volvió para irse.
—Yo no me marcharía tan pronto. Sus acompañantes no lo aprobarían. Mire al suelo.
Hicks así lo hizo, y vio que estaba rodeado de ratas. Había al menos una docena, y lo miraban con los ojos como canicas. Sintió que dentro de su pecho se elevaba un grito, pero lo ahogó. Gritar podía incitarlas, empujarlas a atacarlo.
Evie tendía una estilizada mano a través de los barrotes, con la palma hacia arriba, y Hicks, pese a hallarse al borde del pánico, advirtió un detalle horrendo: esa palma no tenía líneas. Era totalmente lisa.
—Está pensando en echar a correr —dijo Evie—. Puede hacerlo, por supuesto, pero, dado su estado adiposo, dudo que corra muy deprisa.
Las ratas se arremolinaban ya por encima de sus zapatos. Una cola rosa le acarició un tobillo a través del calcetín de cuadros, y Hicks sintió que el grito se elevaba de nuevo.
—Le morderán varias veces, y a saber qué infecciones pueden transmitir mis amiguitas. Deme su móvil.
—¿Cómo lo hace? —Hicks apenas oía sus propias palabras por encima del sonido de la sangre que su corazón bombeaba de forma impetuosa.
—Secreto profesional.
Con mano trémula, Hicks se desprendió el teléfono del cinturón y lo depositó en aquella horrenda palma sin líneas.
—Ya puede irse —indicó Evie.
Hicks vio que sus ojos habían adquirido un color ámbar vivo. Las pupilas eran diamantes negros, pupilas de gato.
Hicks caminó con cuidado, alzando las piernas entre las ratas que lo rodeaban, y cuando las dejó atrás, apretó a correr hacia Broadway y la seguridad de la Garita.
—Muy bien hecho, Madre —dijo Evie.
La rata más grande se irguió sobre las patas traseras y, contrayendo los bigotes, miró hacia arriba.
—Era débil. He olido la flaqueza de su corazón.
La rata se dejó caer al suelo y correteó por el pasillo hacia la puerta de acero de la ducha más cercana del módulo A. Las otras la siguieron en fila como niños en una excursión escolar. Había una abertura entre la pared y el suelo, un defecto en el cemento que las ratas habían ensanchado hasta convertirlo en una entrada. Desaparecieron en la oscuridad.
Hicks tenía el teléfono protegido con contraseña. Evie introdujo el código de cuatro dígitos sin vacilar y no se molestó en consultar los contactos antes de marcar el número de móvil de Clint. El doctor contestó de inmediato, y sin saludar.
—Un poco de calma, Lore. Enseguida voy para allá.
—No soy Lore Hicks, doctor Norcross; soy Evie Black.
Silencio al otro lado de la línea.
—¿En casa todo en orden, espero? ¿O al menos tan en orden como puede estarlo dadas las circunstancias?
—¿Cómo es que tiene el móvil de Hicks?
—Me lo ha dejado.
—¿Qué quiere?
—Primero, darle cierta información. La quema ha empezado. Los hombres están prendiendo fuego a las mujeres en sus capullos a miles. Pronto serán decenas de miles. Es lo que muchos hombres siempre han deseado.
—No sé cómo han sido sus experiencias con los hombres. Pésimas, supongo. Pero, al margen de lo que pueda pensar, la mayoría de los hombres no desean matar a las mujeres.
—Eso ya lo veremos, ¿no?
—Sí, supongo que sí. ¿Qué más quiere?
—Decirle que es usted el elegido. —Evie se echó a reír alegremente—. Que es usted _el_ Hombre.
—No la entiendo.
—Aquel que representa a todos los hombres. Como yo represento a todas las mujeres, las que duermen y las que están despiertas. Lamento que suene apocalíptico, pero en este caso no me queda más remedio. Es aquí donde se decidirá el destino del mundo. —Imitó el imponente redoble de tambor de un melodrama televisivo—. ¡Pum-pum- _PUM!_
—Señorita Black, es usted víctima de una fantasía.
—Ya le he dicho que puede llamarme Evie.
—Bien: Evie, eres víctima de una fantasía.
—Los hombres de tu pueblo vendrán a por mí. Me preguntarán si puedo resucitar a sus esposas y madres e hijas. Diré que ciertamente es posible, porque yo, como el joven George Washington, soy incapaz de mentir. Me exigirán que lo haga, y me negaré... como es mi obligación. Me torturarán, desgarrarán mi cuerpo, y seguiré negándome. Al final me matarán, Clint. ¿Puedo llamarte Clint? Sé que acabamos de empezar a trabajar juntos, y no quiero tomarme confianzas.
—Como quieras. —Se lo notaba aturdido.
—En cuanto yo muera, el portal entre este mundo y la tierra del sueño se cerrará. Al final todas las mujeres se irán a dormir; al final todos los hombres morirán, y este mundo atormentado exhalará un enorme suspiro de alivio perdurable. Las aves anidarán en la Torre Eiffel, los leones pasearán por las calles agrietadas de Ciudad del Cabo y las aguas cubrirán Nueva York. Los peces grandes dirán a los peces pequeños que sueñen sueños de peces grandes, porque Times Square estará abierta de par en par, y el que tenga fuerzas suficientes para nadar contra la corriente imperante allí podrá nadar contra ella en cualquier parte.
—Eso son alucinaciones.
—¿Es una alucinación lo que está pasando en todo el mundo?
Le dio un momento de silencio, pero él no lo aprovechó.
—Considéralo un cuento de hadas. Yo soy la hermosa doncella recluida en el torreón del castillo, retenida a perpetuidad. Tú eres mi príncipe, mi caballero de resplandeciente armadura. Debes defenderme. Estoy segura de que hay armas en la oficina del sheriff, pero encontrar hombres dispuestos a usarlas... quizá a morir defendiendo a la criatura que, según creen, ha causado todo esto... será más difícil. Aun así, confío en tus dotes de persuasión. Por eso... —Se echó a reír—. ¡ _Eres_ el Hombre! ¿Por qué no lo reconoces, Clint? Siempre has querido ser el Hombre.
Recordó de pronto esa mañana, su irritación al ver a Anton, la melancolía que había sentido al inspeccionarse el vientre colgante. Pese a lo agotado que estaba, el tono insinuante de ella lo llevó a desear propinar un puñetazo a algo.
—Tus sentimientos son normales, Clint. No te fustigues. —Adoptó un tono comprensivo, amable—. Todos los hombres quieren ser el Hombre. El que llega a caballo dice solo sí, no y desenfunda, limpia el pueblo y vuelve a marcharse a caballo. Después de acostarse con la muchacha más bonita de la cantina, claro. Pero eso no tiene en cuenta el problema central. Vosotros los hombres entrechocáis las cornamentas y el estrépito causa dolor de cabeza a todo el planeta.
—¿De verdad puedes poner fin a esto?
—¿Le has dado a tu mujer un beso de despedida?
—Sí —contestó Clint—. Hace un momento. Hemos tenido otros mejores, pero lo he intentado. Ella también. —Tomó aire—. No sé por qué te cuento todo esto.
—Porque me crees. Y de hecho ya sé que la has besado. Estaba mirando. Soy una mirona impenitente. Debería dejar de hacerlo, pero el romanticismo me pierde. Me alegra también que lo hayas resuelto todo esta noche, que lo hayas sacado todo. Lo que queda sin decir es lo que en realidad puede dañar a un matrimonio.
—Gracias, doctor Phil. Contesta a mi pregunta. ¿Puedes poner fin a esto?
—Sí. He aquí el trato. Mantenme viva hasta, veamos, el amanecer del próximo martes. O tal vez uno o dos días más, no puedo decírtelo con seguridad. Pero debe ser al amanecer.
—¿Qué pasa si no lo consi... si no lo _conseguimos_?
—Puede que sea capaz de arreglar las cosas. Siempre y cuando estén de acuerdo.
—Estén de acuerdo ¿quiénes?
—Las mujeres, tonto. Las mujeres de Dooling. Pero si muero, no importará ningún acuerdo al que puedan llegar. No puede ser lo uno o lo otro. Tienen que ser las dos cosas.
—¡No entiendo de qué estás hablando!
—Ya lo entenderás. Con el tiempo. Quizá nos veamos mañana. Y por cierto, ella tenía razón. Nunca le consultaste lo de la piscina. Aunque le enseñaste unas cuantas fotos. Pensaste, imagino, que con eso bastaba.
—Evie...
—Me alegro de que la hayas besado. Me alegro mucho. Tu mujer me gusta.
Evie cortó la comunicación y dejó el móvil de Hicks en el pequeño estante destinado a sus pertenencias personales, aunque no tenía ninguna. Luego se tendió en la cama, se volvió de lado y se quedó dormida en el acto.
9
Lila tenía toda la intención de ir directamente a la oficina del sheriff, pero cuando retrocedió por el camino de acceso y salió a la calle, los faros del coche patrulla enfocaron algo blanco que descansaba en una hamaca en la otra acera. La anciana señora Ransom. Lila no podía culpar a Jared por haberla dejado allí. Bastante tenía él con preocuparse por la niña, la que yacía arriba en el cuarto de invitados. ¿Holly? ¿Polly? No, Molly. Lloviznaba.
Se detuvo en el camino de acceso de la familia Ransom; luego se volvió y rebuscó entre los cachivaches del asiento trasero. Quería la gorra de béisbol de los Hound Dogs de Dooling, porque había empezado a llover con más intensidad. Tal vez así se apagaran los incendios, y eso era bueno. Probó la puerta delantera de la casa de la señora Ransom. No estaba cerrada con llave. Se acercó a la hamaca y cogió en brazos a la mujer envuelta en su capullo. Se había preparado para el esfuerzo, pero la señora Ransom no pesaba más de cuarenta kilos. Lila era capaz de levantar más de eso en el gimnasio. ¿Y qué más daba ya todo? De hecho, ¿por qué estaba haciendo aquello?
—Porque es lo decente —dijo—. Porque una mujer no es un adorno de jardín.
Mientras subía por los peldaños, vio que se desprendían unas finas hebras de la bola blanca que envolvía la cabeza de la señora Ransom. Ondeaban como movidas por la brisa, pero no había brisa. Se extendían hacia _ella_ , hacia el mar de sueño que aguardaba justo detrás de su frente. Las apartó de un soplido y, caminando de espaldas con dificultad, recorrió el pasillo hacia el salón de la casa de la anciana. En la alfombra había un libro de colorear abierto con rotuladores alrededor. ¿Cómo era que se llamaba la niña?
—Molly —dijo mientras dejaba en el sofá a la mujer en su envoltura—. Se llamaba Molly. —Guardó silencio un instante—. Se _llama_ Molly.
Lila colocó un cojín debajo de la cabeza de la señora Ransom y se marchó.
Después de echar el cerrojo a la puerta delantera, subió al coche patrulla y arrancó el motor. Tendió el brazo hacia el cambio de marchas, pero de pronto dejó caer la mano. De pronto ir a la oficina del sheriff le pareció absurdo. Además, tenía la impresión de que estaba al menos a cien kilómetros de allí. Probablemente sería capaz de llegar sin estrellarse contra un árbol (o sin arrollar a alguna mujer que hubiera salido a correr en un intento de ahuyentar el sueño), pero ¿qué sentido tenía?
—Si no voy a la oficina, ¿qué hago? —preguntó al coche—. ¿Qué hago?
Se sacó del bolsillo el estuche de lentillas. El otro receptáculo, el que aparecía identificado con una **L** , contenía otra dosis para mantenerse despierta, pero volvió a hacerse la pregunta: ¿qué sentido tenía combatir aquello? Tarde o temprano el sueño la vencería. Era inevitable, así que ¿por qué aplazarlo?
Según Shakespeare, el sueño devanaba una maraña de desvelos. Y al menos Clint y ella habían conseguido en cierto modo «pasar página», ese concepto mítico del que él siempre hablaba.
—He sido una idiota —confesó al interior del coche de policía—. Pero alego privación del sueño, su señoría.
Si al final todo se reducía a eso, ¿por qué no le había planteado antes el asunto a Clint? Con todo lo que estaba pasando, ese conflicto resultaba imperdonablemente menor. Era bochornoso.
—De acuerdo —dijo—, alego miedo, su señoría.
Pero ya no tenía miedo. Estaba demasiado agotada para tener miedo. Estaba demasiado agotada para todo.
Lila tiró del micro prendido de la horquilla. De hecho, el micro le pareció más pesado que la señora Ransom... eso sí que era raro.
—Unidad Uno a Base. ¿Sigues ahí, Linny?
—Aquí sigo, jefa.
Probablemente Linny había recurrido una vez más a las chucherías en polvo; se la oía tan briosa como una ardilla sentada sobre una pila de bellotas recién caídas. Además ella había dormido ocho horas seguidas la noche anterior, en lugar de recorrer todo el camino hasta Coughlin, en el condado de McDowell, y conducir luego sin rumbo casi hasta el amanecer, concibiendo malos pensamientos sobre un marido que, como se había demostrado finalmente, era fiel. Pero al fin y al cabo muchos no lo eran, ¿y eso era una razón o solo una excusa? ¿Era siquiera verdad? ¿Podían encontrarse en internet estadísticas sobre la fidelidad? ¿Serían precisas?
Shannon Parks había pedido a Clint que se acostara con ella, y él se había negado. Así de fiel era.
Pero... en principio esa era su obligación, ¿no? ¿Recibía uno medallas por cumplir sus promesas y estar a la altura de sus responsabilidades?
—¿Jefa? ¿Me recibe?
—Linny, no estaré disponible durante un rato. Necesito hacer una cosa.
—Entendido. ¿De qué se trata?
Lila prefirió no contestar a eso.
—Clint tiene que volver a la cárcel después de descansar un rato. Llámalo a eso de las ocho, ¿quieres? Asegúrate de que está en pie y pídele que, al salir, eche un vistazo a la señora Ransom. Es necesario que cuide de ella. Él ya lo entenderá.
—De acuerdo. El servicio despertador no es mi especialidad, pero no me importa diversificarme. Lila, ¿estás bi...?
—Unidad Uno, corto.
Lila colgó el micro. Por el este, había aparecido un leve trazo de luz matutina en el horizonte. Estaba a punto de empezar un nuevo viernes. Sería lluvioso, de esos en los que apetece una grata siesta al mediodía. En el asiento contiguo llevaba un revoltijo con las herramientas del oficio: cámara, tablilla portapapeles, radar Simmons, fajos de folletos sujetos con gomas elásticas y su bloc de citaciones. Cogió este último, arrancó la primera hoja y le dio la vuelta. Al dorso, en lo alto, escribió el nombre de su marido en grandes letras mayúsculas y, debajo, añadió: «Llévanos a Platinum, a la señora Ransom, a Dolly y a mí a una de las casas vacías. Mantennos a salvo. Puede que esto no tenga vuelta atrás, pero quizá sí». Se detuvo a pensar (le costaba pensar) y agregó: «Os quiero a los dos». Dibujó un corazón —una cursilada, pero ¿y qué?— y firmó con su nombre. Cogió un clip del receptáculo de plástico de la guantera y se prendió la nota al bolsillo del pecho. De niña, todos los lunes, su madre le prendía justo así a la camisa el dinero para la leche, metido en un sobre pequeño. Lila no se acordaba, pero su madre se lo había contado.
Resuelta esa tarea, se reclinó y cerró los ojos. El sueño la arrolló como una locomotora negra sin faro, y vaya si fue un alivio. Un bendito alivio.
Las primeras delicadas hebras brotaron del rostro de Lila y le acariciaron la piel.
_Da igual si me canso un poco,_
_ya dormiré cuando esté muerto._
«I'll Sleep When I'm Dead»,
WARREN ZEVON __
### __
__
__
_Las tablas del porche, viejas y reblandecidas, se comban y gimen bajo los zapatos de Lila. Una vigorosa brisa primaveral agita el campo de dientes de león que fuera el jardín delantero de su casa, y el sonido que emite parece un hermoso rugido. El fabuloso verde de los dientes de león pone la credulidad a prueba. Vuelve a mirar en la dirección de la que ha venido y ve que en el pavimento agrietado de Tremaine Street han brotado arbolitos. Se mecen en el viento como las manecillas de relojes confusos atrapadas entre las doce y la una. Un cielo azul cubre el mundo. En el camino de acceso de la casa de la señora Ransom, el coche patrulla, con la puerta izquierda entreabierta, presenta escamas de óxido. Tiene las cuatro ruedas deshinchadas._
_¿Cómo ha llegado hasta ahí?_
Da igual, _se dice._ Es un sueño. Dejémoslo en eso.
_Entra en casa y se para a observar lo que queda del comedor, que tan poco utilizaban: ventanas rotas, cortinas raídas enrollándose y desenrollándose con otra ráfaga de brisa, hojas de otoños y otoños acumuladas casi hasta lo alto de la mesa, manchada de moho. El olor a podredumbre lo impregna todo. Mientras recorre el pasillo, piensa que podría ser un sueño en el que viaja en el tiempo._
_Se han venido abajo fragmentos del techo del salón, que ahora parecen rocas lunares caídas en la moqueta. El televisor de pantalla plana sigue fijado a la pared, pero la pantalla se ha estropeado y ahora se ve alabeada e hinchada, como si la hubieran horneado._
_La tierra y el polvo han blanqueado las puertas correderas de cristal hasta hacerlas opacas. Lila tira de la puerta de la derecha, y esta se desplaza con un gemido por el riel de goma, deteriorado._
_—¿Jared? —llama—. ¿Clint?_
_Estaban aquí anoche, sentados a una mesa que ahora aparece volcada. Hierbajos amarillos se elevan en torno a los bordes de la terraza y asoman entre las tablas. La barbacoa, el centro de muchas cenas veraniegas, ha quedado totalmente invadida._
_En la piscina, donde el agua presenta el color salobre de una pecera después de un largo apagón, un lince se detiene en la pasarela central, hundido hasta el pecho. Lleva un pájaro atenazado entre los dientes._
_El lince tiene los ojos brillantes, los dientes grandes y gotas de agua en el pelaje. Se le ha adherido una pluma blanca al hocico, ancho y plano._
_Lila se hinca las uñas en la mejilla, siente el dolor y (a su pesar) decide que quizá en realidad no sea un sueño. Y si lo es, ¿cuánto tiempo lleva dormida?_
_Una buena temporada. O una mala._
_El animal parpadea y empieza a nadar hacia ella._
¿Dónde estoy?, _piensa, y luego piensa:_ Estoy en casa, _y luego piensa lo primero otra vez:_ ¿Dónde estoy?
### 1
1
A media tarde del viernes, bien entrado el segundo día de la catástrofe (al menos en Dooling; en algunas partes del mundo corría ya el tercer día de Aurora), Terry Coombs despertó al percibir el aroma a beicon crujiente y café recién hecho. El primer pensamiento coherente de Terry fue: ¿Queda algo en el Squeaky Wheel o me lo he bebido yo todo, hasta el agua de fregar? El segundo fue más elemental: Tengo que ir al baño. Eso hizo, y llegó justo a tiempo de vomitar de forma copiosa en el váter. Allí se quedó un par de minutos, esperando a que se detuviera el péndulo que hacía que el lavabo se balancease. Cuando paró, se obligó a erguirse, buscó unas aspirinas y se tomó tres con agua del grifo. Ya de regreso en el dormitorio, miró el lado izquierdo de la cama, donde recordó que antes yacía Rita, con la cabeza envuelta en un capullo, la tela blanca que cubría la boca expandiéndose y contrayéndose con la respiración.
¿Se había levantado su mujer? ¿Había acabado todo? Sintió en los ojos el escozor de las lágrimas y, tambaleante, en ropa interior, se dirigió a la cocina.
Frank Geary se hallaba sentado a la mesa, empequeñeciéndola con la mitad superior de su cuerpo, ancha. De algún modo la pesadumbre inherente a esa imagen —un hombre corpulento sentado a una mesa pequeña a la luz del día— fue todo lo que Terry necesitaba saber sin que se hubiera pronunciado una sola palabra. Intercambiaron miradas. Geary tenía un número de _National Geographic_ abierto. Lo dejó a un lado.
—Estaba leyendo sobre Micronesia —comentó Frank—. Un sitio interesante. Mucha fauna, demasiada en peligro de extinción. Probablemente esperabas ver a otra persona. No sé si te acuerdas, pero me he quedado a dormir. Trasladamos a tu mujer al sótano.
Ah, se acordó de pronto. Llevaron abajo a Rita, sujetándola cada uno por un extremo, como si fuera una alfombra, golpeándose los hombros contra las barandillas y las paredes mientras descendían. La dejaron en el sofá viejo, encima del edredón viejo que lo cubría para protegerlo del polvo. Sin duda Rita yacía allí, rodeada de otros muebles polvorientos que habían desechado a lo largo de los años y se proponían vender en el jardín pero nunca encontraban el momento: taburetes con asientos amarillos de vinilo, el vídeo, la cuna vieja de Diana.
Terry se sumió en el desaliento. Ni siquiera era capaz de mantener la cabeza en alto. El mentón le chocó contra el pecho.
En la mesa, delante de la silla vacía, había un plato con beicon y tostadas y, al lado, una taza de café solo y una botella de Beam. Terry respiró entrecortadamente y se sentó.
Ingirió un trozo de beicon y esperó a ver qué ocurría. Su estómago emitió ruidos y se revolvió un poco, pero no expulsó nada. Frank, sin hablar, añadió un chorro de whisky al café de Terry. Terry tomó un sorbo. Se le calmaron las manos, temblorosas hasta ese momento aunque no se hubiera dado cuenta.
—Lo necesitaba. Gracias. —Su voz fue un graznido.
Pese a que no eran íntimos amigos, Frank Geary y él habían compartido alguna que otra copa a lo largo de los años. Terry sabía que Frank se tomaba muy en serio su trabajo de agente de Control Animal del pueblo; sabía que Frank tenía una hija a la que consideraba una artista extraordinaria; recordaba que en una ocasión un borracho sugirió a Frank que dejara algo de su irritación en manos de Dios, y Frank contestó al borracho que cerrara el pico, y el borracho, pese a la cogorza que llevaba, percibió la advertencia en el tono de Frank y no volvió a decir ni pío en toda la noche. En otras palabras, Terry opinaba de Frank que era un hombre más que aceptable, pero al que no convenía tocar las pelotas. El hecho de que Frank fuese negro tal vez hubiese contribuido también a crear cierta sensación de distancia necesaria. Terry en realidad nunca se había planteado la posibilidad de ser amigo de un negro, aunque no tenía nada en contra si se paraba a pensarlo.
—No hay de qué —dijo Frank. Su actitud franca y serena resultaba tranquilizadora.
—Así que todo... —Terry tomó otro trago de café aderezado—. ¿Sigue igual?
—¿Igual que ayer? Sí. Lo que quiere decir que todo ha cambiado. Para empezar, eres el jefe de policía en funciones. Han llamado de la oficina del sheriff preguntando por ti hace unos minutos. La antigua jefa ha desaparecido.
El estómago de Terry envió a la garganta una burbuja de malestar.
—¿Lila ha desaparecido? Vaya.
—Enhorabuena, ¿eh? Todo un ascenso. Redoble de tambores.
Frank tenía la ceja derecha enarcada en un gesto irónico. Los dos prorrumpieron en risas, pero Terry enmudeció enseguida.
—Eh —dijo Frank. Alargó el brazo y dio un apretón a Terry en la mano—. No te desanimes, ¿vale?
—Vale. —Terry tragó saliva—. ¿Cuántas mujeres siguen despiertas?
—No lo sé. Las cosas pintan mal. Pero estoy convencido de que tú puedes manejar la situación.
Terry no estaba tan convencido. Dio un sorbo al café retocado. Masticó el beicon. Su compañero de mesa guardó silencio.
Frank bebió de su propio café y miró a Terry por encima del borde de la taza.
—¿ _Puedo_ manejar la situación? —preguntó Terry—. ¿De verdad?
—Sí. —La voz de Frank Geary no traslució el menor asomo de duda—. Pero necesitarás toda la ayuda que puedas reunir.
—¿Quieres que te nombre ayudante? —Terry consideró lógica la propuesta: aparte de Lila, habían perdido como mínimo a dos agentes.
Frank se encogió de hombros.
—Soy empleado municipal. Estoy aquí para arrimar el hombro. Si quieres darme una estrella, por mí bien.
Terry echó otro trago de café aliñado y se puso en pie.
—Vamos.
2
Aurora había incapacitado a una cuarta parte del departamento, pero Frank ayudó a Terry a elaborar una lista de ayudantes voluntarios ese viernes por la mañana y solicitó la colaboración del juez Silver para oír sus juramentos el viernes por la tarde. Don Peters era uno de los agentes recién contratados; otro era un alumno de último curso de instituto, un tal Eric Blass, joven pero entusiasta.
Siguiendo el consejo de Frank, Terry impuso el toque de queda a las nueve de la noche. En parejas, los hombres empezaron a recorrer los barrios de Dooling para colocar los avisos. También para tranquilizar a la gente, disuadir de toda forma de vandalismo y —otra idea de Frank— empezar a hacer una lista de los sitios donde estaban las durmientes. Frank Geary tal vez fuera el perrero antes de Aurora, pero resultó ser un agente de la ley magnífico, con un sentido de la organización extraordinario. Cuando Terry descubrió que podía apoyarse en él, se apoyó con ganas.
A lo largo del fin de semana, detuvieron a diez o doce saqueadores. En realidad no fue gran cosa como trabajo policial, porque pocos se molestaron en disimular lo que estaban haciendo. Debieron de pensar que las autoridades harían la vista gorda, pero enseguida descubrieron que no era así. Uno de esos maleantes era Roger Dunphy, el conserje ausente sin permiso del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. El domingo por la mañana, en la primera patrulla, Terry y Frank vieron al señor Dunphy acarrear a la vista de todos una bolsa de plástico transparente llena de anillos y collares que había afanado en las habitaciones de las mujeres que vivían en la residencia de ancianos Crestview, donde a veces trabajaba a modo de segundo empleo.
—Ellas ya no lo necesitan —había aducido Dunphy—. Vamos, agente Coombs, no la tome conmigo. Es un claro caso de objetos recuperados.
Frank agarró al conserje por la nariz y se la apretó de tal modo que el cartílago le crujió.
—«Jefe Coombs», de ahora en adelante lo llamarás «jefe Coombs».
—¡Vale! —exclamó Dunphy—. ¡Lo llamaré «presidente Coombs», si así me suelta la napia!
—Devuelve esas propiedades, y dejaremos correr el asunto —dijo Terry, y le complació ver el gesto de aprobación de Frank.
—¡Por descontado! ¡Delo por hecho!
—Es una orden, no se te ocurra pasártela por el forro, porque lo comprobaremos.
Lo bueno de Frank, descubrió Terry durante esos primeros tres días, era que entendía como nadie la enorme presión a la que él estaba sometido. Nunca lo apremiaba, pero siempre tenía alguna sugerencia y, casi igual de importante, llevaba aquella petaca de plata envuelta en cuero —de lo más molona, quizá una costumbre de negros—, siempre a punto para cuando Terry tenía un bajón, para cuando daba la impresión de que el día nunca terminaría y sus ruedas empezaban a girar en el barro surrealista y atroz de todo aquello. Permanecía junto a Terry en todo momento, incondicional a más no poder, y estaba con él el lunes, cinco días después de que Aurora se iniciara, frente a la verja del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
3
El jefe en funciones Coombs había intentado varias veces a lo largo del fin de semana convencer a Clint de que dejara a Eve Black bajo su custodia. Circulaban rumores sobre la mujer que había matado a los traficantes de meta: a diferencia de todas las demás, se decía, dormía y despertaba. En la oficina del sheriff, Linny Mars (aguantando todavía; bravo, chica) había recibido tantas llamadas al respecto que ya colgaba a todo aquel que le preguntaba. Frank dijo que _debían_ averiguar si los rumores eran ciertos; era una prioridad. Terry supuso que tenía razón, pero Norcross se obstinaba en oponerse, y a Terry le resultaba cada vez más difícil que ese hombre irritante se pusiera al teléfono siquiera.
Para el lunes, los incendios se habían apagado por sí solos, pero los campos cercanos a la cárcel todavía olían como un cenicero. El día era gris y húmedo, y volvía a caer la lluvia brumosa que venía cayendo desde primera hora del viernes. El jefe de policía en funciones Terry Coombs, con sensación de tener moho, se plantó ante el intercomunicador y el monitor de la verja del Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling.
Norcross seguía sin aceptar la orden de traslado que el juez Silver había firmado en relación con Eve Black. (Frank había colaborado en eso, explicando al juez que era posible que la mujer poseyera una inmunidad única al virus y convenciendo al viejo jurista de la necesidad de actuar deprisa y mantener la paz antes de que estallaran disturbios.)
—Oscar Silver no tiene competencias en el asunto, Terry. —La voz del médico salió a borbotones por el altavoz y sonó como si procediera del fondo de un pozo—. Sé que el juez autorizó su ingreso a petición de mi mujer, pero no puede autorizar su salida. Una vez remitida a mí para que la examine, ya no tiene autoridad sobre ella. Ahora necesitáis un juez del condado.
Terry no alcanzaba a entender por qué el marido de Lila, que siempre había parecido un hombre sensato, causaba tantos problemas.
—Ahora mismo no hay nadie más, Clint. Las juezas Wainer y Lewis están las dos dormidas. Tenemos la mala suerte de que los dos jueces asignados al condado sean mujeres.
—Muy bien, pues llama a Charleston y averigua a quiénes han nombrado como sustitutos —propuso Clint. Como si hubiesen llegado a un feliz acuerdo, como si hubiese cedido siquiera un puñetero centímetro—. Pero ¿para qué molestarse? Ahora Eve Black está dormida como todas las demás.
Al oír eso, Terry sintió una bola de plomo en el estómago. Debería haber tenido la sensatez de desoír aquel montón de habladurías. Para eso, lo mismo podía interrogar a su propia esposa, una momia en la oscuridad del sótano, tendida sobre el edredón gastado en el viejo sofá.
—Se durmió ayer por la tarde —prosiguió Norcross—. Solo quedan despiertas unas cuantas reclusas.
—Entonces ¿por qué no nos deja verla? —preguntó Frank, que había guardado silencio durante todo aquel intercambio.
Era una buena pregunta. Terry pulsó el botón de llamada y la formuló.
—Mira, haremos lo siguiente —dijo Clint—. Te mandaré una foto al móvil. Pero no puedo permitir entrar a nadie. Es el «protocolo de aislamiento». Tengo el libro de la directora justo delante. Te leeré lo que dice: «Las autoridades del estado _prevalecen_ sobre las del centro y pueden retirar la orden de aislamiento a su discreción». «Las autoridades del estado.»
—Pero...
—No me vengas con peros, Terry; yo no lo he escrito. Es el reglamento. Desde el viernes por la mañana, cuando Hicks se marchó, soy el único funcionario administrativo que queda en esta cárcel, el protocolo es lo único en que puedo basar mi actuación.
—Pe... —Empezaba a sonar como un motor de dos tiempos: _pe-pe-pe-pe_.
—He tenido que decretar el aislamiento. No me ha quedado alternativa. Tú has visto las mismas noticias que yo. Por ahí hay gente prendiendo fuego a las mujeres envueltas en capullos. Estarás de acuerdo conmigo en que la población reclusa de esta cárcel sería objetivo prioritario de esa clase de escuadrones de justicieros.
—Vamos, por favor. —Frank emitió un sonido sibilante y negó con la cabeza. Como no habían encontrado una camisa de uniforme de su talla, Frank llevaba la pechera abierta, con la camiseta—. A mí todo eso me suena a jerigonza burocrática. Terry, el jefe en funciones eres tú. Eso tiene que pesar más que la autoridad de un médico, y más tratándose de un psiquiatra.
Terry alzó la mano ante Frank.
—Acepto todo lo que dices, Clint. Entiendo tu preocupación. Pero tú me conoces, ¿no? He trabajado con Lila durante más de una década. Desde antes de que ella fuese sheriff. Tú has cenado en mi casa, y yo he cenado en la tuya. No voy a hacerle nada a ninguna de esas mujeres, así que no me vengas con esas.
—Estoy intentando...
—No te imaginas la de líos que he tenido que resolver en todo el pueblo durante el fin de semana. Una mujer dejó la estufa encendida y quemó media Greely Street. Al sur del pueblo han ardido cuarenta hectáreas de bosque. Tengo a un deportista del instituto muerto por intentar violar a una durmiente. Tengo a un tipo con la cabeza hecha papilla por una batidora. O sea, esto es una _estupidez_. Dejemos de lado el reglamento. Soy el jefe de policía en funciones. Somos amigos. Déjame ver que esa mujer duerme como las demás, y no te molestaré más.
La caseta de seguridad al otro lado de la valla, en la que debería haber habido un funcionario, estaba vacía. Más allá, detrás de la segunda valla y en el otro extremo del aparcamiento, la cárcel encorvaba sus hombros grises. No se veía movimiento a través de los cristales blindados de las puertas delanteras, ni presas corriendo en la pista de atletismo o trabajando en el huerto. A Terry le recordó los parques de atracciones a finales de otoño, el aspecto de abandono que tenían cuando las atracciones dejaban de girar y no había niños de acá para allá comiendo helado y riendo. Diana, su hija, ya era una adulta, pero de pequeña la había llevado no pocas veces de excursión a parques de atracciones. Entonces corrían buenos tiempos.
Dios, qué bien le iría un trago. Menos mal que Frank tenía a mano su petaca molona.
—Mira tu teléfono, Terry —indicó Clint a través del intercomunicador.
Sonó un silbato de tren, que era el tono de Terry. Sacó el móvil del bolsillo y miró la fotografía que Clint le había adjuntado a un mensaje.
Una mujer con una casaca roja yacía boca arriba en la cama de una celda. Llevaba un número de identificación por encima del bolsillo del pecho. Al lado del número le habían prendido una ficha, y en esta aparecía una fotografía de una mujer de cabello largo y negro, piel bronceada, amplia sonrisa y dientes blancos. El nombre que constaba era «Eve Black», y el número de identificación se correspondía con el de la casaca. Un capullo ocultaba su rostro.
Terry entregó el teléfono a Frank para que viera la imagen.
—¿Qué te parece? ¿Lo damos por bueno?
Terry cayó en la cuenta de que él —el jefe en funciones— buscaba una indicación de su nuevo ayudante, cuando supuestamente debía ser al contrario.
Frank examinó la foto y dijo:
—Esto no demuestra una mierda, porque no le ves los rasgos, sino solo el pantalón y la casaca roja. Norcross podría haber utilizado a cualquier durmiente y añadir la identificación de Black. —Frank devolvió el teléfono a Terry—. No tiene ningún sentido que se niegue a dejarnos entrar. Tú representas a las fuerzas del orden, Terry, y él es un puñetero psiquiatra de cárcel. Se lo nota más tranquilo que agua de pozo, eso lo reconozco, pero me huele mal. Creo que intenta ganar tiempo.
Frank tenía razón, por supuesto; esa foto no demostraba nada. ¿Por qué no permitirles entrar para _ver_ a la mujer de carne y hueso, tanto si estaba dormida como si no? El mundo estaba a punto de perder la mitad de su población. ¿Qué importancia tenía el reglamento de una directora?
—Pero ¿para qué ganar tiempo?
—No lo sé. —Frank sacó la petaca plana y se la ofreció. Terry le dio las gracias, dio un trago generoso al whisky e hizo ademán de devolverle la petaca. Frank negó con la cabeza—. Tenla a mano.
Terry se guardó la petaca en el bolsillo y pulsó el botón del intercomunicador.
—Tengo que verla, Clint. Déjame entrar, déjame verla, y cada cual podrá seguir con lo suyo. La gente está hablando de ella. Necesito atajar las habladurías. Si no podríamos encontrarnos con un problema que ya no sea posible controlar.
4
Desde su asiento en la Garita, Clint observó a los dos hombres en el monitor principal. La puerta de la Garita se hallaba abierta, cosa que nunca habría ocurrido en circunstancias normales, y el funcionario Tig Murphy estaba de pie en el umbral. Los funcionarios Quigley y Wettermore, justo detrás, escuchaban también. Scott Hughes, el otro único funcionario que les quedaba, estaba dando una cabezada en una celda vacía. Un par de horas después de disparar a Ree Dempster, Van Lampley se había marchado; Clint no había tenido valor de pedirle que se quedara. («Suerte, doctor», dijo al asomar la cabeza a la puerta de su despacho, vestida ya de paisano, con los ojos inyectados en sangre por el cansancio. Clint le había deseado lo mismo. Ella no le había dado las gracias.) De todos modos, incluso de seguir despierta, Clint dudaba que hubiese sido de gran utilidad.
Clint confiaba en poder mantener a Terry alejado al menos durante un tiempo. Lo que le preocupaba era el grandullón situado junto a Terry, que había entregado al jefe en funciones la petaca y lo asesoraba entre comunicación y comunicación. En cierto modo era como observar a un ventrílocuo con su muñeco parlante. Clint advirtió el modo en que el grandullón escrutaba a uno y otro lado en lugar de fijar la mirada en el altavoz del intercomunicador, como tendía a hacer la gente de manera instintiva. Era como si estuviese reconociendo el lugar.
Clint apretó el botón del intercomunicador y habló por el micrófono.
—Sinceramente, Terry, no es mi intención complicar las cosas. Esto me sienta fatal. No quiero ponerme pesado, pero te juro que tengo justo delante el reglamento de la directora. Está en letras mayúsculas al principio de «Ordenanzas relativas al aislamiento». —Golpeteó el panel de control electrónico, sobre el cual no descansaba libro alguno—. Yo no estoy preparado para esto, Terry, y el libro es lo único de lo que dispongo.
—Clint. —Oyó la exhalación de disgusto de Terry—. Pero qué demonios, tío. Pensaba que éramos amigos. ¿Voy a tener que echar abajo la verja? Esto es ridículo. Lila se sentiría... muy decepcionada. Muy decepcionada. No podría dar crédito a una cosa así.
—Entiendo tu frustración, y sé que no puedo formarme ni una vaga idea del estrés al que has estado sometido estos últimos dos o tres días, pero eres consciente de que te enfoca una cámara, ¿no? Acabo de verte echar un trago de una petaca, y los dos sabemos que no era un refresco. Con el debido respeto, yo conocía a Lila... —Al referirse a su mujer en pasado, cosa que advirtió en cuanto las palabras salieron de sus labios, le dio un vuelco el corazón. Para concederse un momento, se aclaró la garganta—. Conozco a Lila un poco mejor que tú, y eso es lo que creo que la decepcionaría, que su ayudante de confianza beba estando de servicio. Ponte en mi lugar. ¿Tú dejarías entrar en la cárcel a alguien sin competencias, o sin la documentación adecuada, y que además ha estado bebiendo?
Observaron a Terry alzar las manos, alejarse del intercomunicador y pasearse en círculo. El otro individuo le rodeó los hombros con el brazo y le habló.
Tig movió la cabeza y se rio entre dientes.
—No debería haber venido a trabajar a la cárcel, doctor. Se habría hecho rico vendiendo mierda por teletienda. Acaba de descolocar a ese tipo. Va a necesitar terapia.
Clint se giró en la silla hacia los tres funcionarios allí de pie.
—¿Alguien conoce al otro? ¿Al grande?
Billy Wettermore sí lo conocía.
—Es Frank Geary, el agente de Control Animal. Mi sobrina lo ayuda con los perros callejeros. Me ha contado que es buen hombre, pero un tanto impetuoso.
—Impetuoso ¿en qué sentido?
—No le gusta nada la gente que no cuida de sus animales, o que los maltrata. Corría el rumor de que le dio una paliza a un paleto que torturaba a un perro o un gato o algo así, pero yo no me atrevería a jurar que es verdad. La radio macuto del instituto nunca ha sido muy fiable.
Clint se disponía a pedir a Billy Wettermore que llamara a su sobrina cuando recordó que difícilmente seguiría despierta. La población de la cárcel había quedado reducida a un total de tres: Angel Fitzroy, Jeanette Sorley y Eve Black. La mujer a la que había fotografiado era una reclusa llamada Wanda Denker, de complexión similar a la de Evie. Denker llevaba dormida desde el viernes por la noche. En previsión, le habían puesto un uniforme con el número de identificación de Evie y la ficha de esta prendida de la casaca roja. Clint agradecía, no sin cierto asombro, que los cuatro funcionarios que quedaban se hubiesen prestado a participar en lo que se traía entre manos.
Había aducido que, como el hecho de que Evie se dormía y despertaba ya era de conocimiento público, inevitablemente alguien —seguramente la policía— iría a buscarla. No había intentado vender a Tig Murphy, Rand Quigley, Billy Wettermore y Scott Hughes la idea de que Evie era una especie de ser fantástico cuya seguridad, y por extensión la seguridad de todas las mujeres existentes, dependía de Clint. Confiaba mucho en su propia capacidad para llevar a una persona a ver las cosas desde una perspectiva distinta —se dedicaba a eso desde hacía casi dos décadas—, pero era una idea que ni él se atrevía a intentar defender. El enfoque que Clint había adoptado con los funcionarios que quedaban del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling era más sencillo: no podían entregar a Evie a la gente del pueblo. Además, no podían contarles la verdad, porque en cuanto supieran que Evie era distinta, su inquietud iría a más. Fueran cuales fuesen las circunstancias reales de Evie —fuera cual fuese la razón de su inmunidad—, debía ser estudiada por científicos serios del gobierno federal que sabían lo que se hacían. Poco importaba que la posibilidad de que las autoridades municipales tuvieran previsto un plan comparable: someterla a un reconocimiento médico, interrogarla sobre su historial y llevar a cabo todas las pruebas que pudieran llevarse a cabo en una persona que en apariencia poseía una biología única. Eso en principio estaba bien.
_Pero_ , __ como tal vez habría dicho Terry. _Pero._
Evie era demasiado valiosa para ponerla en peligro, ese era el pero. Si entregaban a Evie a las personas equivocadas y las cosas se torcían, si alguien perdía el control y la mataba —quizá por mera frustración, quizá porque necesitaban un chivo expiatorio—, ¿de que serviría ella a las madres, las esposas y las hijas de cualquiera?
Y había que descartar a Evie como objeto de un interrogatorio, explicó Clint a sus (muy) escasos hombres uniformados. No podía decir ni diría nada a nadie. No parecía tener la menor idea de qué tenía de especial su propia biología. Además, inmune o no, Eve Black era una psicópata que se había cargado a un par de cocineros de meta.
—Aun así, alguien podría... no sé, estudiar su cuerpo y su ADN y tal, ¿no? —había propuesto Rand Quigley, esperanzado—. ¿Aunque le volaran los sesos? —se apresuró a añadir—. Digo yo.
—Seguro que sí, Rand —contestó Clint—, pero ¿no cree que no es la solución óptima? Seguramente es mejor que conserve los sesos. Podrían ser útiles.
Rand le había dado la razón.
Entretanto, para respaldar ese argumento, Clint había llamado regularmente al Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades. Como en Atlanta no contestaban —lo intentaron repetidamente y no se oía más que un anuncio grabado o la misma señal de línea ocupada que el jueves, cuando la crisis se inició—, comentaba la situación con una delegación del Centro que casualmente tenía su sede en el primer piso de una casa vacía de Tremaine Street. Su número era el teléfono móvil de Lila, y Jared y Mary Pak eran los únicos científicos en plantilla.
—Aquí otra vez Norcross, del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, en Virginia Occidental. —Así empezaba la representación teatral que Clint interpretaba una y otra vez, con pequeñas variaciones, en atención a los oídos de los funcionarios.
—Su hijo está dormido, señor Norcross —fue la respuesta de Mary al principio de su última llamada—. ¿Puedo matarlo, por favor?
—Negativo —dijo Clint—. Black sigue durmiéndose y despertando. Sigue siendo en extremo peligrosa. Seguimos necesitando que vengan a llevársela.
La señora Pak y la hermana menor de Mary se habían dormido las dos el sábado por la mañana, y su padre, fuera del pueblo, continuaba intentando regresar desde Boston. Para no quedarse sola en casa, Mary había metido en la cama a su madre y a su hermana, y había ido a reunirse con Jared. Con los dos adolescentes, Clint había sido sincero... casi todo el tiempo. Había omitido algunos detalles. Les había dicho que en la cárcel había una mujer que se dormía y se despertaba, y les había pedido que participaran en la farsa del Centro de Control, porque, explicó, le preocupaba que el personal se rindiera y se marchara si no daba la impresión de que hablaba con alguien y de que la ayuda era inminente. Lo que había omitido tenía que ver con Evie: sus conocimientos inverosímiles y el trato que le había propuesto.
—Estoy orinando pura bebida energética Monster, señor Norcross. Cuando muevo los brazos deprisa, aparecen en el aire, no sé, como estelas... _las veo_. ¿Tiene sentido? Ya, probablemente no, pero en cualquier caso pienso que quizá sea la historia de mi origen como superheroína, y Jared está en su saco de dormir perdiéndose la emoción. Como tarde mucho en despertarse, voy a tener que escupirle en la oreja.
Esa era la parte en que Clint exhibía un enojo creciente.
—Me parece de lo más fascinante, y ciertamente espero que tomen todas las medidas oportunas, pero necesitamos que vengan y se lleven a esa mujer y empiecen a trabajar en lo que sea que la hace distinta. _Capisce?_ Avíseme en cuanto tengan un helicóptero en camino.
—Su mujer está bien —dijo Mary. De pronto su euforia se había venido abajo—. Bueno, sin cambios. Ya me entiende, igual. Descansando... hummm... descansando cómodamente.
—Gracias —contestó Clint.
La estructura lógica que había construido era tan precaria que se preguntaba hasta qué punto Billy, Rand, Tig y Scott se lo creían, y hasta qué punto aquello era solo fruto del anhelo de los funcionarios de tener algo a lo que dedicarse en medio de una emergencia tan amorfa como horrenda.
Y había en juego otra motivación, simple pero poderosa: el imperativo territorial. Desde el punto de vista del pequeño grupo de agentes de Clint, la cárcel era su espacio, y los vecinos del pueblo no tenían nada que hacer allí.
Estos factores les habían permitido, al menos durante unos días, seguir haciendo el trabajo al que estaban acostumbrados, aunque cada vez quedaban menos presas que requiriesen su atención. Los reconfortaba trabajar en un entorno conocido. Los cinco se turnaban para dormir en el sofá del cuarto de descanso de los funcionarios y para preparar las comidas en la cocina de la cárcel. Puede que también ayudara el hecho de que Billy, Rand y Scott fueran jóvenes y solteros, y Tig, el mayor del grupo por veinte años de diferencia, estuviera divorciado y no tuviera hijos. Incluso parecían haber cedido, después de refunfuñar un poco, ante la insistencia de Clint en que la seguridad de todos ellos dependía de que no se hicieran más llamadas personales. Consiguientemente, habían sido sus cómplices en la medida más ingrata que se había visto obligado a adoptar: con el pretexto de aplicar las «normas de seguridad para situaciones de emergencia», habían amputado con un abrelatas los auriculares de los tres teléfonos de pago disponibles para el uso de las presas, privándolas así, en los que acaso fueran sus últimos días, de toda oportunidad de comunicarse con sus seres queridos.
Esta precaución había originado el estallido de un pequeño motín el viernes por la tarde, cuando media docena de presas irrumpieron en la zona de administración. No había sido nada del otro mundo como motín; las mujeres estaban agotadas y, excepto por una reclusa que blandía un calcetín lleno de pilas gastadas, iban desarmadas. Los cuatro funcionarios redujeron rápidamente a las insurrectas. Clint no se sentía bien al respecto, pero el ataque posiblemente había servido, a lo sumo, para reforzar la determinación de los funcionarios.
Clint no podía aventurarse a adivinar durante cuánto tiempo conservarían la determinación esos hombres. Solo esperaba que accedieran a quedarse allí hasta que él consiguiera bien convencer a Evie para que cooperara de una manera lógica, bien que el sol saliera el martes o el miércoles o el jueves o cuando fuera, y se diera por satisfecha.
Si lo que ella afirmaba era cierto. Si no lo era...
Entonces daba igual. Pero hasta que dejara de dar igual, no daba igual.
Clint se sentía extrañamente revigorizado. Habían ocurrido muchas desgracias, pero al menos estaba haciendo algo. A diferencia de Lila, que se había rendido.
Jared la había encontrado en el camino de acceso de la casa de la señora Ransom. Se había abandonado al sueño en su coche de forma voluntaria. Clint se dijo que no la culpaba. ¿Cómo iba a culparla? Era médico. Entendía los límites del cuerpo. Cuando uno no dormía lo suficiente, se fragmentaba, perdía el sentido de lo que era importante y de lo que no, incluso perdía el sentido de la realidad, se perdía a sí mismo. Lila se había venido abajo, así de simple.
Pero él no podía venirse abajo. Tenía que actuar correctamente como había actuado con Lila antes de que Aurora se la llevara, manteniéndose firme y haciéndola entrar en razón. Había procurado resolver esa crisis, recuperar a su mujer, recuperarlas a todas. Intentarlo era lo único que le quedaba.
Quizá Evie fuera capaz de detener aquello. Quizá Evie fuera capaz de despertar a Lila. Quizá fuera capaz de despertarlas a todas. Tal vez Clint pudiera hacerla entrar en razón. Tal vez el mundo volviera a la normalidad. A pesar de todo lo que Clint sabía sobre la ciencia de la medicina —todo lo que indicaba que Evie Black no era más que una loca con delirios de grandeza—, eran muchas las cosas que habían ocurrido para desechar sin más sus afirmaciones. Loca o no, tenía poderes. Sus laceraciones se habían curado en menos de un día. Sabía cosas que era imposible que supiera. A diferencia de cualquier otra mujer del planeta, se dormía y despertaba.
El grandullón, Geary, introdujo los dedos a través de la alambrada de la verja y dio una sacudida para tantearla. A continuación, se cruzó de brazos y escrutó una cerradura electrónica del tamaño de un guante de boxeo.
Clint lo vio, advirtió que Terry se había retirado al arcén de la carretera, donde escarbaba en la tierra con la puntera del zapato y echaba un trago de la petaca, y llegó a la conclusión de que podían estar fraguándose graves problemas. Y quizá no tardaran en enfrentarse a ellos.
Pulsó el botón del intercomunicador.
—Eh, ahí fuera. ¿Todo aclarado, entonces? ¿Terry? ¿Y Frank? Usted se llama Frank, ¿no? Encantado de conocerlo. ¿Han recibido la foto?
En lugar de responder, el nuevo ayudante y el jefe en funciones regresaron al coche de policía, subieron y se marcharon. Frank Geary iba al volante.
5
A medio camino entre la cárcel y el pueblo, había un mirador junto a la carretera. Frank se detuvo allí y apagó el motor.
—¡Vaya vista! —comentó en voz baja y con tono de admiración—. Se diría que el mundo sigue igual que hace una semana.
Frank tenía razón, pensó Terry; era una vista magnífica. Se veía hasta el transbordador de Ball's Creek y más allá, pero no podía decirse que fuera momento de admirar el paisaje.
—Esto... ¿Frank? Creo que deberíamos...
—¿Hablar del asunto? —Frank movió la cabeza con un gesto categórico de asentimiento—. Eso mismo pensaba yo. Mi interpretación es muy sencilla. Norcross será psiquiatra y lo que tú quieras, pero debió de especializarse en chorradas. Se ha dedicado a lo que suele conocerse como marear la perdiz, y así seguirá hasta que nos neguemos a aceptarlo.
—Seguramente.
Terry pensaba en el comentario de Clint sobre beber estando de servicio. Quizá tuviera razón, y Terry habría admitido (aunque solo para sí) que en ese momento le faltaba poco para estar borracho. Pero sencillamente se sentía desbordado. El cargo de jefe no era lo suyo. En lo referente a fuerzas del orden, su lugar era ni más ni menos el de ayudante.
—Jefe Coombs, aquí lo que hace falta es pasar página. No solo por nosotros, sino por todo el mundo. Necesitamos acceder a la mujer de la foto que nos ha enviado; necesitamos cortar la tela que le cubre la cara y asegurarnos de que es la mujer de la foto de la ficha. Si es así, pasamos al plan B.
—¿Que es...?
Frank se llevó la mano al bolsillo, sacó un paquete de chicles y quitó el envoltorio de uno.
—Y yo qué coño sé.
—Cortar los capullos es peligroso —adujo Terry—. Ha muerto gente.
—Por lo que es una gran suerte que tengas en tu equipo a un especialista titulado en Control Animal. En mi trabajo, Terry, me las he visto con más de un perro malo, y una vez me llamaron para ocuparme de un oso muy encabronado que se había enredado en alambre de espino. Para tratar con la señorita Black, utilizaré el lazo para captura de perros más largo que tengo, el Tomahawk, con un mango de tres metros. Acero inoxidable. Cierre de resorte. Colocamos el lazo alrededor del cuello antes de cortar esa mierda que tiene en la cara. La sujetaré tan fuerte como haga falta cuando empiece a sacudirse y echar dentelladas. Puede que pierda el conocimiento, pero no morirá. Esa sustancia volverá a crecer, y entonces se dormirá otra vez. Nos basta con echar un vistazo. Solo eso. Un vistazo rápido.
—Si es ella, y resulta que todas las habladurías son falsas, la gente va a llevarse una gran decepción—dijo Terry—. Incluido yo.
—Y yo. —Frank pensaba en Nana, y en que aún le debía una disculpa por tirarle de su camiseta preferida—. Pero tenemos que saberlo. Te das cuenta de eso, ¿no?
Terry se daba cuenta.
—Sí —contestó.
—La cuestión es cómo conseguir que Norcross nos dé acceso. Podríamos reunir una partida, y es posible que tengamos que hacerlo, pero solo en último extremo, ¿no crees?
—Sí. —A Terry la idea de la partida le disgustaba casi hasta el punto de revolverle el estómago. En la situación actual, una partida bien podía degenerar en turbamulta.
—Podríamos utilizar a su mujer.
—¿Cómo? —Terry miró con asombro a Frank—. ¿A Lila? Pero ¿qué dices?
—Ofrecerle un intercambio —explicó Frank—. Tú nos das a Eve Black; nosotros te damos a tu mujer.
—¿Por qué iba a prestarse a eso? —preguntó Terry—. Sabe que nunca le haríamos daño. —Como Frank no le contestó, Terry lo agarró por el hombro—. Nunca le haríamos daño, Frank. Nunca. Lo has entendido, ¿verdad?
Frank se zafó con una sacudida.
—Claro que sí. —Dirigió una sonrisa a Terry—. Hablo de marcarnos un farol. Pero a lo mejor él se lo cree. En Charleston están quemando capullos. Gilipolleces que difunden las redes sociales por efecto del pánico, ya lo sé. Pero mucha gente se lo cree. Y tal vez Norcross se crea que _nosotros_ nos lo creemos. Además... tiene un hijo, ¿no?
—Sí. Jared. Un buen chico.
—Tal vez _él_ se lo crea. Podríamos convencerlo para que llame a su padre y le pida que entregue a esa tal Black.
—¿Por qué? ¿Porque lo amenazamos con quemar a su madre como a un mosquito en una lámpara matainsectos? —Terry no daba crédito a las palabras que se oía decir a sí mismo. No era raro que bebiese estando de servicio. Menuda clase de conversaciones se veía obligado a mantener.
Frank mascó el chicle.
—No me gusta —declaró Terry—. Eso de amenazar con quemar a la jefa. No me gusta un pelo.
—A mí tampoco —convino Frank, y era verdad—. Pero a veces los momentos desesperados exigen medidas desesperadas.
—No —insistió Terry, y entonces no se sintió ebrio en absoluto—. Incluso si la encontrara una de las patrullas, eso es un no rotundo. Y que sepamos, sigue despierta. Tomó el portante y se largó por el pueblo.
—¿Dejó a su marido y su hijo? ¿Dejó su _trabajo_ , con semejante caos? ¿Tú te lo crees?
—Más bien no —contestó Terry—. Tarde o temprano la encontrará alguna patrulla, pero en cuanto a utilizarla así, la respuesta sigue siendo no. Los polis no amenazan, y los polis no toman rehenes.
Frank se encogió de hombros.
—Mensaje recibido. Era solo una idea. —Se volvió a mirar a través del parabrisas, arrancó el motor de la Unidad Cuatro y, echando marcha atrás, se incorporó a la carretera—. Supongo que alguien ha ido a ver si está en casa de los Norcross, ¿no?
—Reed Barrows y Vern Rangle, ayer. Han desaparecido los dos, Jared y ella. La casa está vacía.
—El chico también —dijo Frank con aire pensativo—. ¿Cuida de ella en algún sitio, quizá? Podría haber sido idea del psiquiatra. Tonto no es, eso lo reconozco.
Terry no contestó. Parte de él pensó que echar otro trago era mala idea, pero otra parte de él pensó que uno más no le haría daño. Se sacó la petaca del bolsillo, desenroscó el tapón y se la ofreció primero a Frank, por educación, puesto que era suya.
Frank sonrió y negó con la cabeza.
—Conduciendo no, amigo.
Al cabo de cinco minutos, cuando pasaban por delante del Olympia Diner (el letrero de la entrada ya no tentaba a los transeúntes con la promesa del pastel de huevo; entonces se leía REZAD POR NUESTRAS MUJERES), Frank recordó algo que el psiquiatra había dicho por el intercomunicador. «Desde el viernes por la mañana, cuando Hicks se marchó, soy el único funcionario administrativo que queda en esta cárcel.»
Cerró con fuerza las grandes manos en torno al volante y el coche patrulla dio un viraje brusco. Terry, que estaba adormilado, despertó de golpe.
—¿Qué pasa?
—Nada —dijo Frank.
Pensaba en Hicks. Se preguntaba qué sabía Hicks. Se preguntaba qué había _visto_ Hicks. Pero de momento se guardaría esas preguntas para sí.
—Todo en orden, jefe. Todo en orden.
6
Lo que fastidiaba a Evie del videojuego eran las estrellas azules. En la pantalla llovían triángulos multicolores, estrellas y esferas en llamas. Necesitabas una serie de cuatro esferas en llamas para hacer estallar una titilante estrella azul. Otras figuras destellaban y desaparecían si las ensartabas, pero, por lo visto, las estrellas azules titilantes eran de un material casi indestructible que solo la fuerza incendiaria de las esferas en llamas podía hacer añicos. El nombre del juego era, por alguna razón que escapaba a la compresión de Evie, _Boom Town_.
Estaba en el nivel 15, al borde de la extinción. Apareció una estrella rosa, luego un triángulo amarillo, y a continuación —¡joder, gracias, ya era hora!— una esfera en llamas, que Evie intentó desplazar a la izquierda para sumarla a una columna de tres esferas en llamas que ya había reunido, junto con una estrella azul que obstruía esa zona de la pantalla. Pero entonces apareció un triángulo verde de la muerte, y ahí se acabó todo.
¡LO SIENTO! ¡HAS MUERTO!, anunció un mensaje intermitente.
Evie soltó un gemido y lanzó el teléfono de Hicks a la otra punta de la cama. Quería tener aquel objeto endemoniado a la mayor distancia posible. Al cabo de un rato, naturalmente, la atraería de nuevo. Evie había visto dinosaurios; había contemplado los grandes bosques de América desde los ojos de una paloma mensajera. Había entrado en el sarcófago de Cleopatra arrastrada por una corriente de arena del desierto y había acariciado el rostro muerto de la esplendorosa reina con las patas de un escarabajo. Un dramaturgo, un inglés sagaz, había escrito sobre Eva, aunque sus palabras no fueron del todo exactas. «La partera de las hadas. Su cuerpo es menudo cual piedra de ágata en el anillo de un regidor. Sobre la nariz de los durmientes, seres diminutos tiran de su carro...»
Como ser encantado, debería ser capaz de pasar del nivel 15 de _Boom Town_.
—¿Sabes, Jeanette? Dicen que el mundo natural es cruel y estúpido, pero esa maquinita... esa maquinita es en sí misma un excelente argumento de que la tecnología es mucho peor. La tecnología es, diría yo, el _verdadero_ _Boom Town_.
7
Jeanette estaba cerca, deambulando por el corto pasillo del módulo A. Al parecer, se había convertido en la presa jefa de confianza. También era la única presa de confianza, pero Jeanette, durante las sesiones de orientación laboral para después de la vida en prisión, había prestado atención: cuando se preparaba un currículum, correspondía a una presentar sus logros de la mejor manera posible, y dejar que la persona responsable de la contratación decidiera qué era significativo y que no. El cargo era suyo.
Mientras los cuatro funcionarios restantes recorrían los módulos B y C y permanecían atentos al perímetro de la cárcel, el doctor Norcross le había pedido que, si no le importaba, vigilara a las otras dos reclusas siempre que él tuviera que salir.
—Cómo no —dijo Jeanette—. No tengo gran cosa que hacer. Por lo visto, el taller de carpintería se ha cancelado.
Estaba bien tener una tarea; así mantenía la mente ocupada.
Lentamente, avanzó unos pasos. Ante ella la ventana de triple cristal y rejilla de alambre de la pared oeste mostraba una mañana gris. La pista de atletismo estaba encharcada, y los campos parecían empantanados.
—Nunca me han gustado los videojuegos —dijo Jeanette. Le había costado formular la respuesta para Evie. Llevaba noventa y seis horas despierta.
—Una prueba más de tu excelente carácter, querida —dijo Evie.
Angel, en la celda contigua, intervino de pronto en la conversación.
—¿Excelente carácter? _¿Jeanette?_ Y una mierda. Mató a su puto marido, ¿lo sabías? Lo apuñaló. Ni siquiera usó un cuchillo, como una persona normal. Lo hizo con un destornillador, ¿no es así, Jeanette?
Angel la rapera había desaparecido; había vuelto Angel la paleta. Jeanette imaginó que estaba demasiado cansada para componer rimas. Mejor así. En general, Angel la paleta era menos molesta y más (Jeanette se esforzó en dar con la palabra)... más auténtica.
—Lo sé, Angel. Y le reconozco el mérito.
—Ojalá me hubiera dejado matarte —dijo Angel—. Creo que te habría atacado la yugular con los dientes. Eso creo. —Emitió un murmullo—. Seguro que sí.
—¿Te gustaría tener un turno con el teléfono, Angel? Jeanette, si te doy el teléfono por la ranura de la bandeja, ¿se lo pasarás a Angel? —Evie habló con tono conciliador.
Corría el rumor de que la hermosa mujer de la celda acolchada era una hechicera o un demonio. Habían brotado mariposas de su boca; Jeanette las había visto. Al margen de lo que Evie fuese, no parecía inmune a las provocaciones de Angel.
—Me juego lo que quieras a que podría hacerte tragar ese teléfono —dijo Angel.
—Me juego lo que quieras a que no —contestó Evie.
—Sí que podría.
Jeanette se detuvo ante la ventana, puso la mano en el cristal y se permitió apoyarse allí. No quería fantasear con la idea de dormir, ni podía permitírselo.
Sin duda existían cárceles incluso en sueños; en numerosas ocasiones Jeanette había esperado a que la dejaran salir de una celda en un sueño, tan aburrida como siempre que en su vida real esperaba a que la dejaran salir de su celda real. Pero dormir era también una playa, y cada noche las olas la limpiaban, se llevaban todas las pisadas y las fogatas y los castillos de arena y las latas de cerveza y la basura; esas olas depuradoras arrastraban casi todo vestigio a las profundidades. Dormir era también Bobby. Se había reunido con ella en un bosque que había crecido sobre las ruinas del viejo y malo mundo, y allí todo era mejor.
¿Aparecería Ree en sus sueños? Damian estaba allí. ¿Por qué no Ree? ¿O acaso cuando dormías envuelta en un capullo no soñabas?
Jeanette recordó que algunos días, al despertar, se sentía muy joven, fuerte y sana. «Apalizaría a tantos pumas como kilos peso», decía a veces a Bobby cuando era pequeño. No podía imaginar sentirse así en ese momento, ni nunca más.
Cuando Bobby era un recién nacido, le dio alguna mala noche. «¿Qué quieres?», le preguntaba. Él no hacía más que llorar y llorar. Jeanette imaginaba que en realidad no sabía lo que quería, pero esperaba que su madre sí lo supiera y lo resolviera. Esa era la parte dolorosa de la maternidad, no ser capaz de resolver lo que una no entendía.
Jeanette se preguntó si _podría_ siquiera dormir. ¿Y si se le había roto el hueso del sueño? ¿El músculo del sueño? ¿El tendón del sueño? Se notaba los ojos extremadamente secos. Le daba la sensación de que tenía la lengua demasiado grande. ¿Por qué no se rendía?
Muy sencillo. Porque no quería.
Se había rendido con Damian y se había rendido con las drogas, y su vida se había desarrollado exactamente tal como todo el mundo había presagiado. Esa vez no pensaba rendirse. Eso no acabaría como los demás preveían que acabase.
Contó hasta sesenta, aunque se perdió al pasar de cuarenta, volvió al uno y la segunda vez logró llegar a cien. Y gol. ¡Pasemos al vídeo! __ ¿Cómo se llamaba aquel tío, el de «pasemos al vídeo»? El doctor Norcross se acordaría.
Jeanette estaba de cara a la pared este, donde la puerta metálica de la ducha daba a la cámara de despioje. Caminó hacia la puerta, derecha izquierda, derecha izquierda. Allí un hombre en cuclillas pellizcaba unos brotes en un papel de fumar. Detrás de Jeanette, Angel explicaba a Evie que la despellejaría, que le sacaría los ojos, que los freiría con puerros y se los comería, con sabor a puerro en cada puñetero bocado. Y a partir de ahí, más y más parloteo, tono y acento, ira-ira-ira, rural-rural-rural. En ese punto, a menos que Jeanette se concentrara de verdad, la conversación —prácticamente cualquier cosa que dijeran— era publicidad radiofónica a bajo volumen. Esperaba oír un número 800 de un momento a otro.
—¿Sabes, Angel? Creo que finalmente no voy a compartir mi videojuego _Boom Town_ contigo —dijo Evie, y Jeanette fue derecha izquierda, derecha izquierda, fijándose en los avisos de distintos colores dispuestos en el tablón de anuncios junto al dispensador de loción Kwell; veía las palabras tan borrosas que no era capaz de leerlas, pero sabía que se trataba de listas de oficios religiosos, reuniones de Alcohólicos Anónimos, clases de manualidades y recordatorios de las normas. En un papel, una joven elfa danzaba sobre las palabras ¡HE RECIBIDO UN INFORME DE BUENA CONDUCTA! Jeanette se detuvo y lanzó una mirada al punto donde antes estaba el hombre en cuclillas. No había nadie.
—¿Hola? ¡Eh! ¿Dónde te has metido?
—¿Jeanette? ¿Estás bien?
—Ajá. —Jeanette echó un vistazo hacia la puerta de la celda de Evie.
La extraña mujer se hallaba de pie tras los barrotes. Tenía una expresión melancólica, como si dijera «bueno, claro», una de esas expresiones que adoptabas cuando concebías una esperanza a sabiendas de que no era muy realista y, por supuesto, la vida hacía lo que hacía con las esperanzas poco realistas. Era la cara que los bebés ponían justo después de que un gato los arañara y antes de echarse a llorar.
—Es solo que me ha parecido... ver a alguien.
—Estás empezando a tener alucinaciones. Es lo que pasa cuando no duermes. Deberías acostarte, Jeanette. Cuando vengan los hombres, estarás más segura dormida.
Jeanette negó con la cabeza.
—No quiero morir.
—No morirás. Dormirás, y después despertarás en otro lugar. —El rostro de Evie se iluminó—. Y serás libre.
En lo que a Evie se refería, Jeanette era incapaz de pensar con claridad. Parecía loca, pero no como las locas a las que había conocido en el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. Algunos pirados estaban al borde del estallido, tanto que casi oías el tic-tac. Angel era así. Evie parecía distinta, y no solo por las mariposas nocturnas; Evie parecía inspirada.
—¿Qué sabes tú de la libertad?
—Lo sé todo de la libertad —contestó Evie—. ¿Te pongo un ejemplo?
—Si quieres. —Jeanette se arriesgó a echar otra ojeada al lugar donde había visto al hombre en cuclillas. Allí no había nadie. Nadie.
—En la oscuridad de la tierra, muy por debajo de los escombros de las montañas que los mineros del carbón han aplanado, encuentras criaturas, criaturas sin ojos, que son más libres de lo que tú has sido jamás. Porque viven como quieren vivir, Jeanette. Están satisfechas en su oscuridad. Son lo que quieren ser. —Evie repitió esa última frase con énfasis—. _Son lo que quieren ser._
Jeanette se imaginó a sí misma en una oscuridad cálida muy por debajo de la superficie terrestre. Alrededor los minerales resplandecían en forma de constelaciones. Se sentía pequeña y segura.
Algo le rozó la mejilla. Abrió los ojos, se apartó una hebra que había empezado a brotar de su piel. Se tambaleó. Ni siquiera se había dado cuenta de que había cerrado los ojos. Delante de ella, a menos de medio pasillo, se hallaba la pared: el tablón de anuncios, la puerta de la ducha, el dispensador de loción Kwell, bloques de cemento. Jeanette dio un paso, luego otro.
Ahí estaba el hombre. Había vuelto, y estaba fumándose el porro que se había liado. Jeanette no pensaba mirarlo. No iba a ceder. Iba a tocar la pared y luego iba a darse media vuelta y recorrer la distancia hasta la otra pared, y no cedería. Jeanette Sorley no estaba dispuesta a dejarse amortajar aún.
Puedo aguantar un rato, pensó. Puedo aguantar. Ya veréis.
8
Se habían llevado todos los coches patrulla, así que Don Peters y el chico que le habían asignado como compañero recorrían la cuadrícula de calles residenciales justo al sur del instituto en la Dodge Ram de Don. No tenía emblema oficial, lo cual era decepcionante (Don se proponía solucionarlo más tarde, quizá con unas letras adhesivas de la ferretería), pero había puesto una luz estroboscópica a pilas en el salpicadero, que giraba muy despacio, y vestía el uniforme de funcionario de prisiones. El chico no llevaba uniforme, naturalmente, sino una simple camisa azul con la placa prendida, pero la Glock al cinto aportaba toda la autoridad extra que necesitaba.
Eric Blass tenía solo diecisiete años, en rigor cuatro menos de los que se requerían para ingresar en las fuerzas del orden. Aun así, Don consideraba que tenía lo que había que tener. Había pertenecido al rango Vida de los _boy scouts_ y había obtenido una medalla al mérito en tiro al blanco antes de abandonar la asociación el año anterior. («Demasiadas nenazas», había dicho Blass, a lo que Don contestó: «Te entiendo, muchacho».) Además, el chico era divertido. Había inventado un juego para pasar las horas más fácilmente. Nenas Zombis, se llamaba. A Don le correspondía el lado izquierdo de la calle, porque iba al volante; a Eric, el derecho. Conseguían cinco puntos por las viejas, diez por las de mediana edad, quince por las jóvenes (de esas ya no quedaban casi el sábado, y para entonces, ninguna en absoluto), y veinte por las sexis. De momento Blass llevaba ventaja, ochenta a cincuenta y cinco, solo que cuando doblaron por St. George Street, eso estaba a punto de cambiar.
—Sexy a la izquierda, a las dos en punto —dijo Don—. Eso me pone en setenta y cinco. Ya te alcanzo, muchacho.
El chico, en el asiento del copiloto, se inclinó al frente para examinar a la mujer tirando a joven que, tambaleándose, avanzaba por la acera con un pantalón corto de licra y un sujetador de deporte. Tenía la cabeza gacha, y su cabello sudoroso oscilaba en mechones apelmazados. Quizá intentaba correr, pero lo más que conseguía era un patético trote en zigzag.
—Le cuelgan las tetas y el culo —dijo Eric—. Si a eso lo llamas sexy, te compadezco.
—Eh, caray, para el carro, quieres que me sienta culpable. —Don soltó una carcajada—. Bien, como no le vemos la cara, ¿qué tal si lo dejamos en quince?
—Por mí vale —convino Eric—. Dale un bocinazo.
Cuando pasaron lentamente junto a la mujer bamboleante, Don tocó el claxon. Ella alzó la cabeza con un respingo (de cara no estaba mal, de hecho, salvo por las enormes ojeras y los ojos hundidos) y tropezó. El pie izquierdo se le enredó en el tobillo derecho y cayó de bruces en la acera.
—¡Ha _caído_! —exclamó Eric—. ¡La nena ha _caído_! —Alargó el cuello para mirar por encima del hombro—. ¡Un momento, se levanta! ¡Ni siquiera espera la cuenta hasta ocho! —Juntando los labios, empezó a silbar el tema de _Rocky_.
Don echó un vistazo por el retrovisor y vio que la mujer conseguía a duras penas ponerse de pie. Tenías las rodillas raspadas e hilillos de sangre le resbalaban por las espinillas. Pensó que quizá les haría un corte de mangas —así había reaccionado la adolescente a la que le tocaron el claxon poco después del comienzo de su turno—, pero la nena zombi se limitó a seguir tambaleante hacia el centro del pueblo sin volver la cabeza siquiera.
—¿Has visto qué cara ha puesto? —preguntó.
—No tenía precio —dijo Eric, y levantó la palma de la mano.
Chocaron los cinco.
Disponían de una lista de calles por las que patrullar, metida en una libreta donde anotaban las direcciones de las casas en las que había durmientes, además de los nombres y algún tipo de identificación. Si las casas estaban cerradas con llave, se les permitía forzar la entrada, lo cual al principio fue divertido. Don también se lo pasó bien lavándose las manos con distintas clases de jabón en distintas clases de cuarto de baño, y la variedad de estilos y colores de bragas en los cajones de ropa interior de las mujeres de Dooling eran un asunto que llevaba tiempo deseando estudiar. Pero las emociones simples se agotaban enseguida. Aquello no era verdadera acción. Sin un culo que las llenara, las bragas no tardaron en perder interés. En resumidas cuentas, el muchacho y él eran poco más que encuestadores del censo.
—Esto _es_ Ellendale Street, ¿no? —preguntó Don al tiempo que acercaba la Ram al bordillo.
—Exacto, comandante. Las tres manzanas.
—Bien, demos un paseo, compañero. Veamos dónde están las zorras empaquetadas y anotemos los nombres.
Pero antes de que Don pudiese abrir su puerta, Eric lo agarró del brazo. El novato tenía fija la mirada en el descampado situado entre Ellendale y el instituto.
—Jefe, ¿quieres divertirte un poco?
—Para la diversión siempre estoy a punto —contestó Don—. Eso es lo mío. ¿Qué te ronda la cabeza?
—¿Has quemado ya alguno?
—¿Algún capullo? No.
Pero Don sí había visto imágenes en el móvil de un par de individuos con máscaras de hockey prendiendo fuego a uno. Los noticiarios llamaban a esos tipos Brigadas del Soplete. En el vídeo, el capullo había ardido como si hubiesen echado gasolina a una hoguera. _¡Zum!_
—¿Y tú?
—No —respondió Eric—, pero he oído que arden como una mala cosa.
—¿En qué estás pensando?
—Ahí cerca vive una sintecho. —Eric señaló con el dedo—. Si es que a eso se lo puede llamar vivir, claro. No sirve de nada a nadie, ni a sí misma. Podríamos lanzarle una cerilla. Para ver qué pasa, ¿sabes? Tampoco va a echarla en falta nadie. —De pronto Eric pareció un poco nervioso—. Aunque, claro, si tú no quieres...
—No sé si quiero o no —respondió Don. Era mentira. Sí quería, claro que sí. Solo de pensarlo se había puesto un poco cachondo—. Vamos a echarle un vistazo, y luego lo decidiremos. Ya nos ocuparemos después de Ellendale.
Salieron de la furgoneta y se encaminaron hacia la media hectárea de terreno donde se hallaba la guarida de la Vieja Essie. Don tenía un Zippo. Se lo sacó del bolsillo y empezó a abrirlo y cerrarlo.
### 2
1
Las mujeres comenzaron a llamarlo sencillamente «el sitio nuevo», porque en realidad ya no era Dooling, o al menos no el Dooling que habían conocido. Más adelante, cuando empezaron a darse cuenta de que aquello iba para largo, se convirtió en «Nuestro Sitio».
El nombre cuajó.
2
La carne sabía claramente al líquido inflamable con el que habían tenido que prender el carbón viejo del sótano de la señora Ransom, pero se comieron toda la pata que Lila había separado del cuerpo del lince, el que había abatido con el revólver reglamentario y había sacado de la piscina fétida.
—Somos cachorros enfermos —dijo Molly la primera noche mientras se lamía la grasa de los dedos y se servía otro trozo. Ser un cachorro enfermo, por lo visto, no le sentaba demasiado mal.
—En eso te doy la razón, cariño —coincidió su abuela—, pero no me dirás que esto no es una comida bastante aceptable. Deme otro trozo, señora jefa de policía.
Todas se habían refugiado en lo que quedaba de la casa de la señora Ransom, sin probar el contenido de ninguna de las latas polvorientas de la despensa porque Lila temía que pudieran contraer el botulismo. A lo largo de las dos semanas siguientes, subsistieron en esencia a base de bayas recolectadas de los arbustos de su antiguo barrio en las afueras y de pequeñas mazorcas de maíz silvestre, correosas y casi insípidas, pero al menos comestibles. En mayo aún era pronto para las bayas y el maíz, pero no disponían de otra cosa.
De ahí Lila extrajo una conclusión, al principio inconsistente pero cada vez más sólida: en la versión de Dooling en la que se encontraban, el tiempo no avanzaba al mismo ritmo que en el Dooling en el que vivían antes. El tiempo parecía idéntico, pero no lo era. La señora Ransom confirmó que había pasado sola varios días antes de que Molly apareciera. Las horas del sitio antiguo (¿antes?) equivalían a días en el nuevo (¿en la actualidad?). Quizá más que días.
Esta preocupación por la diferencia en el transcurso del tiempo solía asaltar a Lila en los minutos de relajación previos al sueño. Muchos de los lugares donde dormían estaban al raso —los árboles caídos habían abierto agujeros en algunos tejados, el viento había arrancado otros totalmente—, y Lila, parpadeando, contemplaba las estrellas mientras se adormecía. Las estrellas eran las mismas, pero emitían un resplandor asombroso. Eran chispas de soldador al rojo incandescente. ¿De verdad era real ese mundo sin hombres? ¿Era aquello el Cielo? ¿O el purgatorio? ¿O un universo alternativo con un paso del tiempo alternativo?
Fueron llegando más mujeres y niñas. La población empezó a crecer como una bola de nieve, y aunque Lila no deseaba el cargo, se encontró al frente de todas ellas. Por defecto, al parecer.
Dorothy Harper, del Comité Curricular, y sus amigas, tres alegres mujeres de pelo cano que superaban los setenta años y se presentaron como compañeras de un club de lectura, salieron de entre la maleza que había crecido en torno a un bloque de apartamentos. Hicieron grandes alharacas en torno a Molly, quien disfrutó con tanta atención. Janice Coates llegó parsimoniosamente por Main Street con una hoja de árbol prendida en lo que le quedaba de permanente, y la acompañaban tres mujeres con casacas rojas. Janice y las tres exreclusas —Kitty McDavid, Celia Frode y Nell Seeger— habían tenido que abrirse camino a través de la espesura para salir del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling.
—Buenas tardes, señoras —saludó Janice después de abrazar primero a Blanche McIntye y luego a Lila—. Perdonen nuestro aspecto. Acabamos de fugarnos de la cárcel. A ver, ¿quién de ustedes se pinchó el dedo en una rueca y armó este lío?
Algunas de las antiguas viviendas eran habitables y rescatables. Otras las había invadido por completo la maleza o estaban derruidas, o ambas cosas. En Main Street contemplaron boquiabiertas el instituto, que había sido un edificio anticuado incluso para el viejo Dooling. En ese nuevo Dooling se hallaba partido en dos literalmente, las mitades de la estructura apoyadas en lados opuestos, y el aire circulaba entre los bordes desiguales de ladrillo. Los pájaros se posaban en ambos precipicios, donde descollaba el linóleo de las aulas sobre el vacío. La casa consistorial, que incluía las oficinas municipales y el departamento de Policía, estaba medio desmoronada. En Malloy se había abierto un socavón. En el fondo había un coche, sumergido hasta el parabrisas en agua de color café.
Una tal Kayleigh Rawlings se unió a la colonia y ofreció voluntariamente su experiencia como electricista. A la exdirectora de la cárcel no la sorprendió, ya que sabía que Kayleigh había hecho algún curso de formación profesional para aprender sobre cables y voltios. El hecho de que Kayleigh y su oficio hubiesen salido del interior del Centro Penitenciario no representó el menor problema. Esa mujer no había cometido ningún delito en el sitio nuevo, bajo esas estrellas tan intensas.
Kayleigh consiguió resucitar un generador de energía solar acoplado a lo que en otro tiempo fuera la casa de un médico rico, y guisaron conejo en su cocina eléctrica y escucharon discos antiguos en su vieja gramola.
Por las noches charlaban. Muchas de las mujeres, como Lila en el coche patrulla estacionado delante de la casa de la señora Ransom, despertaron allí donde se habían dormido. En cambio, unas cuantas recordaban hallarse en medio de la oscuridad, oyendo solo el viento, el canto de los pájaros y, quizá, voces lejanas. Cuando salió el sol, esas mujeres se encaminaron hacia el oeste por el bosque y salieron a Ball's Hill Road o West Lavin. A ojos de Lila, la impresión que tenían en esos primeros momentos era la de un mundo en proceso de creación, como si el entorno de su existencia fuese un acto de imaginación colectiva. Eso, pensaba, era tan probable como cualquier otra cosa.
3
Los días y las noches se sucedieron. Nadie sabía con certeza cuántos días transcurrieron desde el primero, pero sin duda fueron semanas, y luego meses.
Se organizó un grupo de caza y recolección. Abundaban tanto los animales —ciervos y conejos, sobre todo— como la fruta y las hortalizas silvestres. Nunca corrieron el menor riesgo de inanición. Había un grupo de horticultura, uno de construcción, uno de sanidad y uno de educación para enseñar a la población infantil. Cada mañana una niña distinta se situaba frente a la pequeña escuela y hacía sonar un cencerro. El sonido se oía a kilómetros de distancia. Daban clase las mujeres, y también algunas chicas mayores.
No las afectaba ningún virus, aunque debían tratar muchos casos de urticaria y más aún de cortes y magulladuras, incluso fracturas de huesos debido a los peligros inherentes a la vida en edificios abandonados hacía mucho tiempo: bordes afilados, hierros retorcidos y trampas ocultas. Si ese mundo era fruto de la imaginación, pensaba Lila a veces, poco antes de sucumbir al sueño, era una imaginación muy poderosa, habida cuenta de que allí la gente podía sangrar.
En el sótano del instituto, donde el moho se había cebado en las actas del consejo escolar archivadas durante décadas, Lila desenterró un ciclostil que probablemente no se había utilizado desde mediados de los años sesenta. Estaba bien guardado en una caja de plástico. Algunas de las antiguas reclusas resultaron ser personas de una habilidad notable. Ayudaron a Molly Ransom a elaborar tinta a partir de grosellas, y la niña fundó un periódico de una sola hoja llamado _Los Hechos de Dooling._ El primer titular fue ¡LA ESCUELA REABRE SUS PUERTAS!, y en el texto se reproducía una declaración de Lila Norcross: «Nos gusta ver que las niñas vuelven a su rutina». Molly preguntó a Lila cuál era su cargo, si jefa de policía de Dooling o sheriff a secas. Lila contestó que la presentara simplemente como «una vecina del pueblo».
Y por otro lado estaban las Reuniones. Inicialmente se celebraban una vez por semana, después dos, y duraban una o dos horas. Si bien se convirtieron en algo de extrema importancia para la salud y el bienestar de las mujeres que vivían en Nuestro Sitio, surgieron casi por azar. Las primeras en asistir fueron las mujeres que en el mundo antiguo se habían hecho llamar Club de Lectura del Primer Jueves. En ese mundo nuevo se reunían en el supermercado Shopwell, que se había conservado bastante bien. Y tenían temas de conversación más que suficientes sin la necesidad de partir de un libro para empezar a hablar. Blanche, Dorothy, Margaret y la hermana de esta, Gail, se sentaban en sillas plegables en la parte delantera del local y comenzaban a charlar sobre todo aquello que echaban de menos. Eso incluía el café y el zumo de naranja recién hechos, el aire acondicionado, la televisión, la recogida de basuras, internet y la posibilidad de descolgar un auricular y llamar a un amigo sin más. Sin embargo —en eso hubo consenso—, echaban de menos sobre todo a los hombres. Empezaron a sumarse mujeres más jóvenes, y fueron bien recibidas. Hablaban sobre los vacíos en sus vidas, los espacios de ausencia que antes ocupaban sus hijos, sobrinos, padres, abuelos... y maridos.
—Os diré una cosa, chicas —dijo Rita Coombs en una Reunión a finales del primer verano; para entonces, asistían casi cincuenta mujeres—. Puede que a algunas os parezca un exceso de franqueza, pero me da igual. Yo echo de menos el buen polvo de la noche de los viernes. Al principio de la relación, Terry apretaba el gatillo demasiado rápido, pero cuando le enseñé, empezó a hacerlo mejor. Había noches que yo conseguía dos pequeños y uno grande antes de que él disparara. ¿Y después? ¡Me dormía como un bebé!
—¿No te sirven los dedos? —preguntó alguien, lo que provocó risas generalizadas.
—¡Pues claro! —replicó Rita. También ella se reía, con las mejillas como manzanas rojas—. ¡Pero _no_ es lo mismo, querida!
Esto fue acogido con una sincera salva de aplausos, aunque unas cuantas mujeres —entre ellas Candy, la retraída esposa de Fritz Meshaum— se abstuvieron.
Las dos preguntas más importantes se plantearon, naturalmente, de cientos de maneras distintas. En primer lugar, ¿cómo habían acabado allí, en Nuestro Sitio? ¿Y por qué?
¿Había sido magia? ¿Un experimento científico fallido? ¿La voluntad de Dios?
¿Era la continuación de su existencia una recompensa o un castigo?
¿Por qué ellas?
Kitty McDavid era una de las que intervenían con frecuencia cuando la conversación tomaba esos derroteros; su recuerdo de la pesadilla que había tenido la víspera de Aurora —de la figura oscura en la que por alguna razón había reconocido a una reina, y las telarañas que se desprendían del cabello de esa reina— permanecía vívido y aún la obsesionaba.
—No sé qué hacer, si rezar para pedir perdón o qué —dijo.
—Bah, a la mierda —aconsejó Janice Coates—. Puedes hacer lo que te dé la gana, porque el Papa no está aquí para imponer reglas, pero yo voy a seguir haciendo las cosas lo mejor que pueda. Sinceramente, aparte de eso, ¿qué podemos hacer, si no, con la certeza absoluta de que nuestros actos van a servir para mejorar la situación? —Eso también fue del agrado de las presentes.
Con todo, la pregunta —¿qué coño había pasado?— se repetía una y otra vez. Sin respuesta satisfactoria duradera.
En una Reunión (tuvo lugar como mínimo medio año después de lo que Janice Coates se complacía en llamar el Gran Desplazamiento), se incorporó una nueva asistente, que se acomodó en un saco de veinte kilos de fertilizante al fondo del local. Mantuvo la cabeza gacha durante la animada conversación sobre la vida tal como se vivía, y sobre la noticia de un prodigioso hallazgo en la oficina de UPS del pueblo: nueve cajas de Lunapads, compresas reutilizables.
—¡Ya no tendré que cortar camisetas para colocar los pedazos en la bragas esos días del mes! —exclamó exultante Nell Seeger—. ¡Aleluya!
Hacia el final de la Reunión, la conversación, como de costumbre, volvió a centrarse en todo aquello que echaban de menos. Esa parte casi siempre acababa en llanto por los niños y los hombres, pero las mujeres, en su mayoría, afirmaban que se sentían como si al menos temporalmente se hubieran quitado un peso de encima. Se sentían más ligeras.
—¿Hemos terminado, señoras? —preguntó Blanche ese día en particular—. ¿Alguien tiene un ardiente deseo que compartir antes de que volvamos al trabajo?
Se alzó una mano pequeña, con los dedos manchados de tiza de distintos colores.
—Sí, cielo —dijo Blanche—. Eres nueva, ¿no? ¡Y muy bajita! ¿Te importaría levantarte?
—Bienvenida —saludaron las presentes al unísono.
Nana Geary se puso en pie. Se limpió las manos en la pechera de la camiseta, ya muy gastada y con las mangas raídas... pero todavía su preferida.
—Mi madre no sabe que he venido —confesó—, así que espero que no se lo diga nadie.
—Cariño —intervino Dorothy Harper—, esto es como Las Vegas. Lo que pasa en la Hora de las Mujeres se queda en la Hora de las Mujeres.
Eso suscitó un murmullo de risas, pero la niña de la camiseta rosa desvaída ni siquiera sonrió.
—Echo de menos a mi papá. Entré en la farmacia Pearson y encontré un frasco de su loción para después del afeitado... Drakkar Noir, se llama... y la olí y me eché a llorar.
El espacio delantero del supermercado quedó sumido en un silencio sepulcral, salvo por algún que otro sorbetón. Más tarde se sabría que Nana no había sido la única que había visitado los estantes de lociones de la farmacia Pearson.
—Y nada más, me parece —concluyó Nana—. Solo... lo echo de menos y me gustaría volver a verlo.
La aplaudieron.
Nana se sentó y se cubrió la cara con las manos.
4
Nuestro Sitio no era ninguna utopía. Había lágrimas, no pocas discusiones, y durante el primer verano se produjo un asesinato con suicidio que las dejó consternadas a todas, más que nada por lo absurdo del caso. Maura Dunbarton, otra refugiada del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling en el mundo anterior, estranguló a Kayleigh Rawlings y luego se quitó la vida. Fue Coates quien acudió en busca de Lila para que lo viese.
Maura colgaba de un lazo atado al travesaño herrumbroso del balancín de un jardín trasero. Kayleigh había sido hallada en la habitación que ambas compartían, muerta en su saco de dormir, con el rostro gris y los ojos abiertos, dejando a la vista una filigrana de hemorragias en la esclerótica. Había sido estrangulada y después apuñalada al menos una docena de veces. Maura había dejado una nota, escrita a lápiz en un trozo de sobre.
**Este mundo es distinto, pero yo soy la misma. Estaréis mejor sin mí. He matado a Kayleigh sin razón alguna. No me ha ofendido ni me ha provocado. Aún la quería, como en la cárcel. Sé que era útil para vosotras. No he podido contenerme. Me han entrado ganas de matarla, y eso he hecho. Luego me he arrepentido.**
**M** AURA
—¿Qué piensas? —preguntó a Lila.
—Pienso que es un misterio, como todo lo demás aquí. Pienso que es una puñetera lástima que esa bruja loca, cuando le entraron ganas de matar a alguien, eligiera a la única de Nuestro Sitio capaz de cablear una instalación eléctrica y hacerla funcionar. Ahora sujétale las piernas mientras trepo ahí y corto la soga.
Coates se acercó y, sin ceremonias, rodeó con los brazos las piernas cortas de Maura Dunbarton. Miró a Lila.
—Adelante, pues, no me hagas esperar. Huele como si se hubiera cagado en los pantalones. Qué glamour tiene el suicidio.
Enterraron a las dos, la asesina y la desdichada víctima, junto a la alambrada medio caída que rodeaba la cárcel. Para entonces volvía a ser verano, luminoso y tórrido, y las niguas brincaban de acá para allá en la hierba. Coates pronunció unas palabras sobre la aportación de Kayleigh a la comunidad y el desconcertante homicidio de Maura. Un coro de niñas entonó «Gracia Prodigiosa». Al oír sus vocecillas infantiles, Lila sollozó.
Había rescatado unas cuantas fotografías de Jared y Clint de su casa, y a veces asistía a las Reuniones, pero con el paso del tiempo su hijo y su marido empezaron a parecerle menos reales. Esa noche, en su tienda —Lila prefería acampar mientras el tiempo lo permitiese— dio cuerda a su linterna de dinamo y observó sus rostros bajo el haz de luz. ¿En quién se convertiría Jared? En los contornos de su cara se percibía aún esa peculiar indefinición, incluso en las imágenes más recientes. Le dolía no saberlo.
Examinó la imagen de su marido, su sonrisa irónica y su pelo tirando a canoso, y lo echó de menos, aunque no tanto como a Jere. Sus sospechas acerca de Clint durante aquel horrendo último día y la posterior noche la abochornaban; se avergonzaba de sus propias mentiras y sus temores infundados. Pero Lila también advertía que, al ver a su marido a través de la lente de la memoria, tenía un concepto distinto de él. Pensó en el sumo cuidado con el que él había encubierto su pasado, la forma en que utilizaba su autoridad como médico para reafirmar esa ocultación y alejarla a ella. ¿Acaso Clint pensaba que solo él era capaz de manejar un dolor como ese? ¿Que era excesivo para que lo asimilaran la pequeña mente y el espíritu endeble de Lila? ¿O era una especie de egotismo disfrazado de fortaleza? Sabía que a los hombres se les enseñaba (principalmente se lo enseñaban otros hombres, por supuesto) a guardarse el dolor para sí, pero también sabía que en principio el matrimonio revertía parte de esas enseñanzas. Con Clint no había sido así.
Y estaba el asunto de la piscina. Eso aún la enfurecía. Así como el modo en que Clint había abandonado su trabajo sin previo aviso hacía ya muchos años. Y un millón de pequeñas decisiones entre una cosa y otra, que él había tomado y con las que ella había tenido que convivir. Todo eso la llevaba a sentirse como una esposa sumisa, pese a que su marido se hallaba en otro mundo.
Los búhos ululaban en la oscuridad y los perros, asilvestrados después de Dios sabía cuántas generaciones caninas, aullaban. Lila cerró la cremallera de la tienda. El resplandor azul de la luna traspasó la tela amarilla. Recordar todo ese culebrón doméstico la deprimió, el papel de ella y el papel de él, de acá para allá, el portazo de él, el portazo de ella. El histrionismo que ella siempre había visto con desdén en los matrimonios de otras personas. Condescendencia, tu nombre es Lila, pensó, y tuvo que reírse.
5
Los setos que tiempo atrás cercaban la cárcel habían crecido hasta convertirse en barricadas densas. Lila atravesó la brecha que Coates y las otras mujeres que habían despertado allí habían abierto en el follaje. A la cárcel propiamente dicha se accedía por una abertura en la fachada sur. Algo —Lila suponía que los fogones de gas industriales de la cocina— había estallado, derribando el hormigón con la misma facilidad con que un niño apagaría las velas en su cumpleaños. Cuando entró, esperaba en cierto modo aparecer en otro lugar —una playa blanca, una avenida adoquinada, la cumbre rocosa de una montaña, Oz—, pero una vez dentro vio que era solo un módulo de antiguas celdas. Los muros se hallaban medio derruidos, algunas puertas con barrotes se habían desprendido de los goznes. Pensó que la detonación debía de haber sido descomunal. Crecían hierbajos en el suelo, y el techo estaba cubierto de moho.
Recorrió el módulo ruinoso y salió al pasillo central de la cárcel, lo que Clint llamaba Broadway. Allí las cosas tenían mejor aspecto. Lila siguió la línea roja pintada en el centro del pasillo. Las sucesivas verjas y barreras se encontraban abiertas; las ventanas reforzadas con malla que daban a las dependencias interiores de la cárcel —comedor, biblioteca, la Garita— estaban oscurecidas. Allí donde Broadway llegaba a las puertas delanteras, se observaban también señales de una explosión: bloques de hormigón reventados, esquirlas de cristal polvorientas, la puerta de acero entre el vestíbulo de entrada y el resto de la cárcel combada hacia dentro. Lila bordeó los cascotes.
Más allá, pero todavía en Broadway, pasó por delante de la puerta abierta del salón de descanso del personal. Dentro brotaban hongos en la moqueta. El aire apestaba a vida vegetal en efervescencia.
Al final llegó al despacho de Clint. La ventana de la esquina estaba destrozada y unos exuberantes arbustos de flores blancas penetraban por ella. Una rata oronda revolvía en el relleno de un cojín de sofá rajado. Miró pasmada a Lila un momento y se escabulló como una flecha en busca de un lugar seguro a través de una pila de yeso desprendido.
Detrás del escritorio de su marido, colgaba la reproducción de Hockney, torcida, con los ángulos a las once y a las cinco. La enderezó. El cuadro mostraba un sobrio edificio de color rojizo con hileras de ventanas provistas de cortinas idénticas. En la planta baja, tenía dos puertas. Una era azul, la otra roja: ejemplos de los famosos colores de Hockney, intensos como los sentimientos que despertaban los buenos recuerdos, aun cuando los recuerdos en sí se hubiesen desdibujado... y las posibilidades interpretativas habían atraído a Lila. Se lo había regalado a Clint hacía muchos años, pensando que podía señalarlo y decir a sus pacientes: «¿Ve? No tiene usted ninguna opción cerrada. Hay puertas a una vida más sana y feliz».
La ironía era tan evidente como la propia metáfora. Clint estaba en otro mundo. Jared estaba en otro mundo. Que ella supiera, uno de ellos o los dos podían haber muerto. La reproducción de Hockney pertenecía a las ratas, al moho y a los hierbajos de ese mundo. Era un mundo roto, vaciado y olvidado, pero era el único que tenían. Era, Dios se apiade de nosotras, Nuestro Sitio. Lila abandonó el despacho y desanduvo el camino a través del mundo muerto de la cárcel, hasta la brecha en el follaje. Quería salir.
6
En el transcurso de esos meses, siguieron apareciendo más mujeres procedentes de lo que en otro tiempo James Brown había llamado «un mundo de hombres, hombres, hombres». Informaron de que en Dooling, cuando se habían quedado dormidas, la crisis de Aurora aún era reciente; allí solo habían pasado dos o tres días. La violencia, la confusión y la desesperación de las que hablaban parecían irreales a quienes habían llegado antes al nuevo lugar. Más aún: parecían casi intrascendentes. Las mujeres de ese mundo tenían sus propios problemas y preocupaciones. Uno de ellos era la meteorología. El verano declinaba. Después del otoño llegaría el invierno.
Con la ayuda de unos manuales de la biblioteca, y bajo la supervisión del extraño personaje de Magda Dubcek, viuda de un contratista (además de madre del chico de la piscina de Lila), lograron completar al menos parte del trabajo iniciado por Kayleigh antes de que fuera asesinada por su exnovia demente. A Magda su difunto marido le había enseñado bastante sobre el oficio de electricista. «Mi marido siempre me contaba lo que hacía a diario: "Mira, este es el cable vivo, Magda, y mira, esta es la toma de tierra, y tal y tal". Yo atendía. Él nunca se dio cuenta, pensaba que hablaba con una pared estúpida, pero yo atendía». Al contar esto, Magda se interrumpió para adoptar una expresión pícara que a Lila le recordó, conmovedoramente, a Anton. «Bueno, al menos atendí las primeras quinientas veces.»
Con la energía obtenida de unas cuantas placas solares que habían sobrevivido a los años de abandono, consiguieron crear una limitada red eléctrica para, como mínimo, unas cuantas casas de la parte alta del pueblo.
Los coches normales no servían de nada; era imposible determinar cuánto tiempo había permanecido desatendida esa versión de su mundo, pero el estado de los vehículos aparcados indicaba que había transcurrido tiempo suficiente para que el agua y la humedad penetraran en los motores. Un coche guardado en un garaje todavía en pie tal vez habría sido rescatable, solo que no quedaba en ningún sitio una sola gota de gasolina que no se hubiese desestabilizado o evaporado. Lo que las mujeres sí encontraron fue una pequeña flota de carritos de golf alimentados con energía solar bien conservados en el cobertizo del material del club de campo. En cuanto los recargaron, arrancaron perfectamente. Las mujeres los conducían de acá para allá por las calles ya despejadas de árboles y follaje.
Al igual que el supermercado Shopwell, el Olympia Diner había sobrellevado notablemente bien el paso del tiempo, y Rita Coombs, en otro tiempo esposa de Terry, volvió a abrirlo sobre la base del trueque.
«Siempre quise ver qué tal se me daba llevar un restaurante —explicó a Lila—, pero Terry no quería que trabajara. Decía que lo preocuparía. Terry no se hacía cargo de lo aburrido que era ser una pieza de porcelana en un aparador.»
Lo dijo con desenfado, pero desvió la mirada en un gesto que Lila interpretó como vergüenza: una vergüenza fruto de la felicidad por tener algo propio. Lila esperaba que Rita lo superase, y pensó que lo conseguiría, con el tiempo. Otras muchas se sentían cambiadas, pero de un modo que acaso contuviera también ese amago de vergüenza, como si hicieran novillos. Las mujeres como Magda y Rita, que de pronto se veían solicitadas y prosperaban a la luz de un nuevo mundo. A medida que pasaban esas semanas sin distinciones, hablaron no solo de lo que echaban de menos, sino también de algunas cosas que no echaban de menos.
Las hojas de los árboles cambiaban como en el viejo mundo, pero a Lila sus colores se le antojaban más vivos y duraderos.
Un día, en el jardín de la señora Ransom, acaso a finales de octubre, estaba recogiendo calabazas para que las niñas del colegio las tallaran. La Vieja Essie, sentada en un banco a la sombra, la observaba. Junto al banco había un carrito de la compra oxidado, a rebosar de todo aquello que Essie había reunido, como si intentara reabastecer su nueva vida con los recuerdos de la antigua: una radio, un móvil, una pila de ropa, un collar de perro, un calendario de 2007, una botella de algo sin etiqueta que en otro tiempo quizá fuera sirope de arce y tres muñecas. Le gustaba seguir a Lila cuando la veía empujar la carretilla llena de herramientas de jardinería, tocada con su enorme sombrero de paja.
Al principio la anciana guardaba silencio y se escabullía si alguien se acercaba a ella, pero con el transcurso de las semanas empezó a relajarse, al menos en presencia de Lila. A veces incluso hablaba, aunque Lila suponía que nunca había sido una gran conversadora, ni siquiera en la flor de la vida.
—Ahora va todo mejor —dijo Essie una vez—. Tengo mi propia casa. —Miró con expresión afectuosa a las muñecas en su regazo—. A mis niñas les gusta. Se llaman Jingle, Pingle y Ringle.
En esa ocasión Lila le preguntó cuál era su apellido.
—Antiguamente Wilcox —contestó Essie—, pero ahora Estabrook. He recuperado mi apellido de soltera, igual que esa Elaine. Este sitio es mejor que el otro, y no solo porque tengo mi apellido de soltera y mi propia casa. Huele mejor.
Ese día Essie parecía de nuevo un poco retraída. Cuando Lila intentó entablar conversación con ella, la mujer negó con la cabeza, realizó violentos gestos de rechazo en dirección a Lila y revolvió el contenido de su carrito de la compra oxidado. De dentro extrajo una antigua radio de mesa Philco y empezó a pasársela de una mano a la otra. A Lila la traía sin cuidado; por ella podía jugar a la patata caliente tanto como le viniera en gana si eso la tranquilizaba.
Cuando se disponía a hacer un descanso para comer, apareció Janice Coates en bicicleta.
—Jefa —dijo a Lila—. Una cosa.
—Ya no soy jefa, Janice. ¿Es que no lees _Los Hechos de_ _Dooling_? Soy solo una vecina más.
Coates no se inmutó.
—Muy bien, pero conviene que sepas que está desapareciendo gente. Ya van tres. Demasiadas para ser una coincidencia. Necesitamos que alguien investigue esta situación.
Lila examinó la calabaza que acababa de arrancar de la mata. Por arriba era de un vivo color naranja, pero por debajo estaba negra y podrida. La soltó, y cayó en la tierra labrada con un ruido sordo.
—Habla con el Comité de Reurbanización o plantea el tema en la próxima Reunión. Yo me he retirado.
—Vamos, Lila. —Coates, encaramada al sillín de la bicicleta, cruzó sus brazos huesudos—. No me vengas con esas chorradas. Tú no estás retirada; tú estás deprimida.
Sentimientos, pensó Lila. Los hombres casi nunca querían hablar de eso, las mujeres casi siempre. Podía resultar aburrido. Eso le causó sorpresa. Se le ocurrió que quizá tuviera que reevaluar parte de su resentimiento hacia Clint por su estoicismo.
—No puedo, Janice. —Lila recorrió la hilera de calabazas—. Lo siento.
—Yo también estoy deprimida —admitió Janice—. Puede que no vuelva a ver a mi hija. Pienso en ella nada más levantarme cada mañana y antes de dormirme cada noche. Cada puñetero día. Y echo de menos las llamadas a mis hermanos. Pero no voy a permitir que eso...
Detrás de ellas se oyó un ruido apagado y un grito débil. Lila se volvió para mirar. La radio se hallaba en la hierba, junto a Jingle, Pingle y Ringle. Las muñecas miraban el cielo despejado con sus expresiones beatificas y anodinas. Essie había desaparecido. En su lugar no quedaba más que una mariposa marrón. Revoloteó sin rumbo por un momento y luego se elevó y, dejando una ligera estela de olor a quemado, se alejó.
### 3
1
—¡Joder, la hostia! —exclamó Eric Blass. Sentado en el suelo, miraba hacia arriba—. ¿Has _visto_ eso?
—Todavía lo veo —contestó Don, contemplando la bandada de mariposas que volaba sobre las pistas de tenis, en dirección al instituto—. Y lo huelo.
Había dejado a Eric su mechero, puesto que la idea era suya (y, de paso, para poder responsabilizar al chico de manera semiverosímil si llegaba a enterarse alguien). Eric, en cuclillas, había encendido el Zippo y lo había acercado al borde del capullo en la desordenada guarida llena de basura. El capullo se había desvanecido en medio de un destello crepitante, como si contuviese pólvora en lugar de una sintecho loca. Al instante despidió un hedor a azufre. Fue como si el mismísimo Dios se hubiese tirado un pedo. La Vieja Essie se incorporó —aunque no se veía nada más que su silueta— y pareció volverse hacia ellos. Por un instante sus facciones cobraron nitidez, negras y plateadas como el negativo de una foto, y Don la vio contraer los labios en un gruñido. Al cabo de un segundo, no quedaba nada de ella.
La bola de fuego ascendió más de un metro, dando la impresión de que rotaba sobre su propio eje. De pronto se transformó en mariposas nocturnas, cientos de ellas. No quedó el menor rastro del capullo ni de un esqueleto, y la hierba en la que la Vieja Essie yacía poco antes ni siquiera estaba chamuscada.
No era esa clase de fuego, pensó Don. Si lo hubiera sido, nos habría asado.
Eric se puso en pie. Estaba muy pálido y su mirada era delirante.
—¿Qué ha _sido_ eso? ¿Qué ha pasado?
—Ni puta idea —contestó Don.
—Esas Brigadas del Soplete o como quiera que se llamen... ¿han informado ellos de que los capullos, cuando arden, se convierten en bichos voladores?
—No que yo sepa. Pero quizá no hayan querido informar.
—Sí, es posible. —Eric se humedeció los labios—. Sí, no hay ninguna razón para que tuviera que ser distinto con ella.
No, no había ninguna razón para que la Vieja Essie fuese distinta de todas las demás mujeres dormidas del mundo. Pero a Don se le ocurría una razón por la que tal vez en Dooling las cosas fuesen distintas. Allí las cosas acaso fueran distintas porque había una mujer especial, una en torno a la cual no se formaba un capullo cuando dormía. Y que volvía a despertar.
—Vamos —dijo Don—. Tenemos un trabajo pendiente en Ellendale Street. Zorras empaquetadas que contar. Nombres que anotar. Esto de aquí... no ha ocurrido. ¿De acuerdo, compañero?
—De acuerdo. Totalmente.
—No vas a hablar del asunto, ¿verdad?
—¡No, por Dios!
—Bien.
Pero _yo_ tal vez sí hable del tema, pensó Don. Aunque no a Terry Coombs. Don había necesitado solo un par de días para llegar a la conclusión de que ese hombre prácticamente no servía para nada. Era, cómo lo llamaban, un hombre de paja. Y parecía tener un problema con la bebida, lo cual resultaba francamente patético. A Don le asqueaba la gente incapaz de controlar sus impulsos. Ese Frank Geary, en cambio, el hombre al que Terry había nombrado subjefe... ese sí usaba la cabeza, y estaba muy interesado en la tal Evie Black. Tendría que sacarla de la cárcel pronto, o incluso ya mismo. Era con _él_ con quien había que hablar del asunto, si es que había que hablar con alguien.
Pero antes tenía que pensárselo.
Muy detenidamente.
—¿Don?
Volvían a estar en la furgoneta.
—Dime, chaval.
—¿Nos ha visto? Daba la impresión de que nos veía.
—No —respondió Don—. No veía nada, ha estallado sin más. No seas nenaza, muchacho.
2
Terry dijo que quería marcharse a casa y reflexionar sobre el paso siguiente. Frank, casi convencido de que el paso siguiente del jefe en funciones sería echarse a dormir la mona, contestó que le parecía buena idea. Acompañó a Terry hasta la puerta de su casa y después fue derecho a la oficina del sheriff. Allí encontró a Linny Mars paseándose en círculo con un portátil en las manos. Tenía una costra de polvo blanco en torno a los orificios nasales, las mejillas de un rojo vivo y los ojos llorosos y hundidos. Del ordenador surgían los sonidos ya tan familiares del caos.
—Hola, Pete.
Lo llamaba Pete desde esa mañana. Frank no se molestó en corregirla. Si lo hacía, ella recordaría que su nombre era Frank durante unos minutos, y después volvería a Pete. La pérdida de la memoria a corto plazo era común entre las mujeres que seguían despiertas. Sus lóbulos frontales se fundían como mantequilla en una sartén caliente.
—¿Qué estás viendo?
—Vídeos de YouTube —contestó ella, sin aminorar el paso en su recorrido por la oficina—. Podría verlos en el escritorio, ya lo sé, la pantalla del ordenador de sobremesa es mucho más grande, pero cada vez que me siento, empiezo a ir a la deriva. Es mejor caminar.
—Lo entiendo. ¿Qué miras? —Tampoco podía decirse que necesitara información actualizada. Frank sabía qué estaba ocurriendo: cosas malas.
—Vídeos de Al Jazeera. Todas las cadenas de noticias se han vuelto locas, pero los de Al Jazeera están que se cagan. Arde todo Oriente Medio. El petróleo, ya sabes. Los pozos de petróleo. Al menos todavía no hay misiles nucleares, pero alguien acabará lanzando uno, ¿no crees?
—No lo sé. Linny, me pregunto si podrías consultar algo por mí. Lo he probado con el teléfono y no he conseguido nada. Supongo que el personal de prisiones es muy reservado con su información personal.
Linny había empezado a andar más deprisa, sin apartar la mirada del portátil, que sostenía ante sí como un cáliz. Tropezó con una silla, estuvo a punto de caerse, se enderezó y siguió caminando.
—Los chiíes están luchando contra los suníes, y el ISIS lucha contra los dos. Al Jazeera ha organizado una mesa redonda, y los comentaristas, según parece, piensan que todo eso es porque las mujeres han desaparecido. Dicen que, sin mujeres que proteger... aunque desde luego yo no comparto su idea de protección... ha desaparecido cierto sostén psicológico central del judaísmo y el islam. Como si las dos cosas fueran lo mismo. En esencia siguen culpando a las mujeres, incluso ahora que están dormidas. Una locura, ¿no? En Inglaterra...
Ya bastaba de noticias internacionales, pensó Frank. Dio varias palmadas ante el rostro de Linny.
—Necesito que hagas tu trabajo un momento, encanto. ¿Podrías hacerme ese favor?
Ella centró de pronto la atención.
—¡Por supuesto, Pete! ¿Qué necesitas?
—Terry me ha pedido que le busque la dirección de Lawrence Hicks. Es el subdirector de la cárcel. ¿Puedes encontrármela?
—Coser y cantar, chupado, pan comido. Tengo los números de teléfono y las direcciones de todos ellos. Por si hay algún problema allí, ya me entiendes.
Pero finalmente no fue coser y cantar. No en el estado actual de Linny. Frank esperó pacientemente mientras ella, sentada a su escritorio, abría una carpeta y la cerraba, luego probaba con otra, y con una tercera, meneando la cabeza y maldiciendo el ordenador como hacía la gente incluso cuando la culpa era de ella. Cuando Linny dio una cabezada, Frank vio que le brotaba una fina hebra blanca de la oreja. Volvió a dar palmadas frente a su nariz.
—Concéntrate, Linny, ¿vale? Esto podría ser importante.
Ella levantó de inmediato la cabeza. La hebra se partió, flotó en el aire, desapareció. Linny le dirigió una sonrisa de loca.
—Entendido. Oye, ¿te acuerdas de aquella noche que fuimos a bailar danza en línea en el Halls of Ivy de Coughlin, y ponían una y otra vez «Boot-Scootin' Boogie»?
Frank no sabía de qué estaba hablando.
—Claro. Lawrence Hicks. La dirección.
Por fin la encontró. El número 64 de Clarence Court, en el lado sur del pueblo. Lo más lejos posible de la cárcel sin dejar de ser vecino de Dooling.
—Gracias, Linny. Mejor será que te tomes un café.
—Me parece que prefiero el polvo colombiano al tueste colombiano. Hace más efecto. Dios bendiga a los hermanos Griner.
Sonó el teléfono. Linny cogió el auricular.
—¡Policía!
Durante tres segundos escuchó, luego colgó.
—Siguen llamando para preguntar. «¿Es verdad que en la cárcel hay una mujer...?» _Bla, bla, bla_. ¿Acaso parezco el periódico? —Esbozó una sonrisa de desesperada insatisfacción—. No sé por qué me molesto en seguir despierta. No hago más que aplazar lo inevitable.
Él se inclinó y le frotó el hombro con las yemas de los dedos, no sabía que iba a hacerlo hasta que lo hizo.
—Tú aguanta. Puede que nos espere un milagro a la vuelta de la esquina. No lo sabrás hasta que estés allí.
Linny se echó a llorar.
—Gracias, Dave. Son unas palabras amables.
—Soy un hombre amable —dijo Frank, quien en efecto procuraba ser amable, pero descubría que no siempre era posible.
A la larga, sospechaba, la amabilidad no funcionaba. Eso a Frank no le gustaba. No le proporcionaba el menor placer. No estaba seguro de si alguna vez Elaine había llegado a entender que en realidad a él no le gustaba perder el control. Pero Frank veía cómo eran las cosas. Alguien tenía que tirar del carro, y en Dooling eso le tocaba a él.
Se marchó con la certeza de que cuando volviera a ver a Linny Mars estaría envuelta en un capullo. Algunos ayudantes habían empezado a llamarlas «zorras empaquetadas». Él no aprobaba el uso de esa expresión, pero no la prohibió. Eso era algo que le correspondía a Terry.
Al fin y al cabo, era el jefe.
3
Una vez más al volante de la Unidad Cuatro, Frank se puso en contacto por radio con Reed Barrows y Vern Rangle, que patrullaban en la Unidad Tres. Cuando Vern contestó, Frank le preguntó si continuaban en la zona de Tremaine Street.
—Sí —contestó Vern—, y llevamos el trabajo muy adelantado. En este barrio no hay muchas durmientes más allá de la casa de la jefa. Tendrías que ver la de carteles de «En Venta» que hay. Supongo que la supuesta recuperación económica no ha llegado aquí.
—Ajá. Escuchad, los dos. Dice Terry que quiere localizar a la jefa Norcross y a su hijo.
—Su casa está vacía —informó Vern—. Ya lo hemos comprobado. Se lo he _dicho_ a Terry. Me temo que él está... —Vern debió de caer de pronto en la cuenta de que otros oían sus palabras—. Está, ya me entiendes, un poco desbordado por el trabajo.
—No, eso ya lo sabe —dijo Frank—. Quiere que empecéis a inspeccionar también las casas vacías. Me parece recordar que, un poco más arriba, hay toda una calle sin salida que está inacabada. Si los encontráis, limitaos a saludarlos y seguid adelante. Pero luego poneos en contacto conmigo de inmediato, ¿entendido?
Reed cogió el micro.
—Creo que Lila no está despierta, Frank, y por tanto debe de estar en medio del bosque o algo así. De lo contrario estaría en casa en un capullo o en la oficina del sheriff.
—Oye, yo solo transmito las instrucciones de Terry.
Frank no tenía intención de decir a esos dos lo que a él le parecía evidente: Norcross iba un paso por delante. Si su mujer siguiera despierta, aún estaría al mando. Por tanto, el médico había llamado a su hijo y le había indicado que trasladase a Lila a un lugar más seguro. Era un indicio más de que se traía algo entre manos. Frank tenía la certeza de que Lila y su hijo no se hallaban lejos de su hogar.
—Por cierto, ¿dónde está Terry? —preguntó Reed.
—Lo he dejado en su casa —respondió Frank.
—Por Dios. —Reed parecía molesto—. Espero que dé la talla para este trabajo, Frank. De verdad que lo espero.
—Cuidado con esos comentarios —advirtió Frank—. Recuerda que nos oyen.
—Recibido —dijo Reed—. Empezaremos a inspeccionar las casas vacías de Tremaine para arriba. De todos modos, esa sección nos corresponde a nosotros.
—Estupendo. Unidad Cuatro de acuerdo.
Frank dejó el micro en la horquilla y se encaminó hacia Clarence Court. Quería a toda costa saber dónde estaban Lila Norcross y su hijo —podían ser las palancas que necesitaba para poner fin a esa situación de manera incruenta—, pero esa era su segunda prioridad. Había llegado el momento de obtener algunas respuestas acerca de la señorita Eve Black.
4
Jared contestó cuando el teléfono sonó por segunda vez.
—Aquí el Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades, delegación de Dooling, epidemiólogo Jared Norcross al habla.
—Ahora no es necesario, Jere —dijo Clint—. Estoy solo en mi despacho. ¿Mary sigue bien?
—Sí, de momento. Está dando vueltas por el jardín de atrás. Dice que el sol la espabila.
Una vaga sensación de alarma asaltó a Clint, y se dijo que, con esos miedos, parecía una ancianita. Vallas para preservar la intimidad, muchos árboles: allí detrás no corría peligro. A fin de cuentas, Terry y su nuevo lugarteniente tampoco podían enviar un dron o un helicóptero.
—No creo que aguante despierta mucho más, papá. No me explico cómo ha resistido tanto.
—Yo tampoco.
—Y además no sé muy bien por qué mamá quería que estuviéramos aquí arriba. Hay algunos muebles, pero el colchón de la cama es duro. —Se interrumpió—. Debo de parecer un quejica, ¿no? Con todo lo que está pasando...
—La gente suele centrarse en los detalles menores para evitar que la abrumen los problemas importantes —explicó Clint—. Y mamá tenía razón, Jere.
—No crees que en Dooling vaya a organizarse una Brigada del Soplete, ¿verdad?
Clint se acordó del título de una novela antigua: _Eso no puede pasar aquí_. La tesis era que cualquier cosa podía pasar en cualquier sitio. Pero no, no era la posibilidad de una Brigada del Soplete lo que le preocupaba en esos momentos.
—Hay cosas que tú no sabes —dijo Clint—, pero como otros sí las saben... o al menos las sospechan... te pondré al corriente esta noche. —Puede que después de eso ya no tenga muchas más oportunidades, pensó—. Os llevaré algo de cenar a Mary y a ti. ¿Una doble de hamburguesa y champiñones del Pizza Wagon te parece bien? En el supuesto de que siga abierto.
—Me parece genial —contestó Jared—. Y, de paso, ¿qué tal una camiseta limpia?
—Tendrá que ser una camisa azul de funcionario —respondió Clint—. No quiero pasar por casa.
Por un momento su hijo no contestó. Clint se disponía a preguntarle si seguía al aparato cuando Jared dijo:
—Dime, por favor, que esto solo es una paranoia tuya.
—Te lo explicaré todo cuando llegue ahí. Mantén a Mary despierta. Recuérdale que no podrá comer pizza a través de un capullo.
—Yo me encargo.
—Y Jared...
—¿Sí?
—La policía no me informa sobre su estrategia para hacer frente a la situación en el pueblo... ahora mismo no soy su preferido... pero yo que ellos peinaría el pueblo y elaboraría una lista de todas las mujeres dormidas, junto con su ubicación. Puede que Terry Coombs no tenga la inteligencia o el control necesarios para pensar en eso, pero creo que el hombre que trabaja con él, sí.
—Vale...
—Si se presentan donde estáis, no hagáis ruido y... ¿hay algún espacio de almacenamiento? ¿Aparte del sótano, quiero decir?
—No estoy seguro, no he inspeccionado la casa, que digamos, pero me parece que hay un desván.
—Si ves policías en la calle, llévalas a todas arriba.
—Vaya, ¿en serio? Me estás metiendo miedo, papá. No estoy seguro de entenderlo. ¿Por qué no debo permitir que la poli encuentre a mamá, a la señora Ransom y a Molly? No estarán quemando mujeres aquí, ¿verdad?
—No, pero podría ser peligroso igualmente, Jared. Para ti, para Mary, y sobre todo para tu madre. Como he dicho, ahora mismo la policía no está muy contenta conmigo. Tiene que ver con esa mujer de la que os he hablado, la que es distinta. No quiero entrar en detalles, pero debes creerme. ¿Puedes subirlas al desván o no?
—Sí. Espero no tener que hacerlo, pero sí.
—Bien. Te quiero, y no tardaré en llegar, con la pizza, espero.
Pero primero, pensó, voy a hacerle otra visita a Evie Black.
5
Cuando Clint llegó al módulo A con una silla plegable de la sala común, Jeanette, de pie junto a la puerta de la ducha y la cámara de despioje, estaba conversando con un individuo que no existía. Por lo visto, se trataba de un enrevesado trapicheo con drogas. Ella decía que quería de las buenas, las azules, porque dejaban a Damian como un guante. Evie, junto a los barrotes de su celda, observaba la escena con aparente lástima... aunque con los desequilibrados mentales nunca se sabía. Y hablando de desequilibrados mentales, Angel estaba sentada en la cama de una celda cercana con la cabeza apoyada en las manos y la cara oculta tras el pelo. Lanzó una breve mirada a Clint, dijo «Hola, soplapollas» y volvió a bajar la cabeza.
—Sé dónde la consigues —decía Jeanette al camello invisible— y sé que puedes conseguirla ya. Tampoco es que cierren a medianoche. Hazme un favor, anda. Te lo ruego. Te lo _ruego_. No quiero que Damian entre en uno de esos _estados_. Y encima a Bobby le están saliendo los dientes. La cabeza se me pone fatal.
—Jeanette —dijo Clint.
—¿Bobby? —Lo miró con un parpadeo—. Ah... doctor Norcross...
Su rostro parecía laxo, como si todos los músculos se hubiesen ido ya a dormir y simplemente esperaran a que el obstinado cerebro los siguiera. Eso recordó a Clint un chiste viejo. Un caballo entra en un bar y el camarero le pregunta: Eh, amigo, ¿a qué viene esa cara tan larga?
Clint deseaba explicarle por qué había ordenado a los funcionarios que inutilizaran los teléfonos públicos y disculparse por impedirle llamar a su hijo para asegurarse de que estaba bien. De todos modos, no tenía muy claro si a esas alturas Jeanette aún era capaz de comprenderlo ni si, en caso de que lo comprendiera, serviría de algo o solo le causaría mayor pesar. Las libertades que Clint se había tomado con las vidas de las mujeres de la cárcel, las vidas de sus _pacientes_ , eran deplorables. El hecho de que, a su juicio, no le hubiera quedado otra alternativa no las hacía menos deplorables o crueles. Y eso no lo abarcaba todo, ni de lejos. Era por Evie por lo que había tenido que actuar así, y de pronto cobró consciencia de que la odiaba por eso, por muy disparatado que fuera.
—Jeanette, con quienquiera que...
—Doctor, no me moleste, tengo que ocuparme de esto.
—Quiero que salgas al patio de ejercicio.
—¿Cómo? No puedo, al menos no sola; no puedo. Esto es una cárcel, ya lo sabe. —Le dio la espalda y escrutó dentro de la ducha—. Vaya, mire, el hombre se ha ido. Usted lo ha asustado. —Soltó un sollozo seco—. Y ahora ¿qué hago?
—No hay ninguna puerta cerrada, cariño. —Clint en la vida había hablado con tal familiaridad a una reclusa, pero en ese momento le salió de manera natural, sin pensarlo.
—¡Recibiré un informe de mala conducta!
—Está ida, doctor —aseguró Angel sin alzar la mirada.
—Vamos, Jeanette —dijo Evie—. Acércate al taller de carpintería, al otro lado del patio de ejercicio, donde está el huerto. Allí hay guisantes nuevos, dulces como la miel. Llénate los bolsillos y vuelve. Para entonces el doctor Norcross y yo ya habremos terminado, y podemos celebrar un picnic.
— _Pic-pic_ picnic —dijo Angel a través de la cortina de cabello, e hizo una mueca de desdén.
—Ve, ya —insistió Evie.
Jeanette la miró con cara de incertidumbre.
—A lo mejor el hombre está ahí fuera —adujo Evie para persuadirla—. En realidad estoy segura.
—O igual lo tienes metido en el puto culo —dijo Angel a través del pelo—. A lo mejor lo has escondido ahí. Ve a traerme una llave inglesa y te ayudaré a encontrarlo.
—Eres una malhablada, Angel —la reprendió Jeanette—. Una malhablada. —Enfiló el corto pasillo del módulo A; de pronto se detuvo y se quedó mirando fijamente un rectángulo oblicuo de sol en el suelo, como si estuviera hipnotizada.
—No puedes no preocuparte por un recuadro de luz, te lo digo yo —musitó Evie.
Jeanette se echó a reír y exclamó:
—¡Tienes razón, Ree! ¡Tienes razón! Todo es _Premio a la mentira_ , ¿no?
Siguió adelante, paso a paso, muy despacio, se desvió a la izquierda y corrigió el rumbo, se desvió a la derecha y corrigió el rumbo.
—¿Angel? —dijo Evie.
Habló con la misma voz baja y cortés, pero Angel alzó la mirada en el acto, al parecer totalmente despierta.
—El doctor Norcross y yo vamos a mantener una breve consulta. Puedes escuchar, pero procura no abrir la boca. Si no, te la taparé con una rata y se te comerá la lengua.
Angel la miró fijamente unos segundos, después volvió a apoyar la cabeza en las manos.
El funcionario Hughes apareció justo cuando Clint desplegaba la silla delante de la celda de Evie.
—Acaba de salir una reclusa —dijo—. Parece que iba hacia el huerto. ¿Algún problema?
—Ninguno, Scott. Pero no la pierda de vista, ¿quiere? Si se queda dormida ahí fuera, póngala a la sombra antes de que empiece a formarse el capullo. La traeremos adentro cuando esté del todo envuelta.
—De acuerdo, jefe. —Hughes amagó un saludo militar y se marchó.
Jefe, pensó Clint. Dio santo, _jefe_. No he sido designado, no he hecho campaña, y aun así he conseguido el cargo.
—Inquieta vive la cabeza que lleva una corona —citó Evie—. _Enrique IV_ , __ segunda parte. No es una de sus mejores obras, pero no está mal. Ya sabes que en aquellos tiempos los papeles femeninos los interpretaban chicos, ¿no?
No lee el pensamiento, se dijo Clint. Los hombres han venido, tal como ella predijo, pero yo también podría haberlo previsto. Es simple lógica. Tiene las dotes de una buena adivina de feria, pero _no_ lee el pensamiento.
Sí, y Clint podía seguir creyendo eso tanto como quisiera; era un país libre. Entretanto, ella lo miraba con curiosidad e interés, los ojos en alerta y totalmente despiertos. Probablemente era la única mujer viva que aún tenía ese aspecto.
—¿De qué hablamos, Clint? ¿De los dramas históricos de Shakespeare? ¿De béisbol? ¿De la última temporada de _Doctor_ _Who_? Lástima que terminase en suspense, ¿no? Me temo que en adelante solo habrá reposiciones. Sé de buena fuente que la compañera del doctor se durmió hace un par de días y ahora viaja en una Tardis por su propio espacio interior. Quizá puedan cambiar el reparto, y contratar solo hombres para todos los papeles la temporada próxima.
—No es mala idea —dijo Clint, adoptando automáticamente la actitud de psiquiatra.
—¿O nos centramos en algo más cercano a la situación actual? Yo propongo esto último, porque el tiempo apremia.
—Me interesa esa idea tuya sobre nosotros dos —dijo Clint—. Eso de que tú eres la Mujer, y yo, el Hombre. Figuras simbólicas. Arquetipos. Yin y yang. El rey a un lado del tablero, la reina al otro.
—Ah, no —rectificó ella, sonriente—. Estamos en el mismo lado, Clint. El rey blanco y la reina blanca. Al otro lado, en formación ante nosotros, hay todo un ejército de piezas negras. Todos los caballos del rey y todos los hombres del rey. Con especial hincapié en los hombres.
—Eso es interesante, que nos veas en el mismo lado. Antes no lo había entendido. ¿Y cuándo has empezado a darte cuenta de eso exactamente?
La sonrisa se desvaneció.
—No. No hagas eso.
—¿Que no haga qué?
—Volver al _Manual de Diagnóstico de los Trastornos Mentales_. Para hacer frente a esto, debes prescindir de determinados supuestos racionales y confiar en la intuición. Abandónate a tu lado femenino. Todos los hombres lo tienen. Piensa solo en todos los autores varones que se han travestido. Por ejemplo, James M. Cain en _Mildred_ _Pierce_. Es uno de mis favoritos.
—Muchas psiquiatras se opondrían a la idea de que...
—Cuando hablamos por teléfono, mientras tu mujer aún estaba despierta, creíste lo que te decía. Lo percibí en tu voz.
—Esa noche estaba en... un sitio extraño. Ocupándome de asuntos personales. Mira, no descarto tu influencia, tus poderes o como quieras describirlo. Supongamos que tienes el control. Al menos hoy.
—Sí, supongámoslo. Pero mañana pueden venir a por mí. Si no mañana, al día siguiente o al otro. No pasará mucho tiempo. Mientras que en el otro mundo, el que hay más allá del Árbol, el tiempo avanza mucho más rápido: allí los meses pasan en un soplo. Hay peligros, pero con cada uno que las mujeres superan, es menos probable que quieran regresar a este mundo.
—Digamos que lo entiendo y que creo incluso la mitad de lo que dices —contestó Clint—. ¿Quién te envía?
—El presidente Reginaldo K. Pendenbolas —soltó Angel sin levantar la cabeza—. Él o lord Burdo Palurdo. A lo mejor...
De pronto gritó. Clint se volvió justo a tiempo de ver una enorme rata marrón deslizarse a través de los barrotes de la celda de Angel. Subió los pies a la cama y volvió a gritar.
—¡Sácala! ¡Sácala! ¡ _No soporto_ las ratas!
—¿Vas a callarte, Angel? —preguntó Evie.
—¡Sí! ¡Sí! ¡Te lo prometo! ¡Sí!
Evie trazó un círculo con el dedo, como un árbitro que señala un _home run_. La rata dio media vuelta, salió de la celda de Angel y se quedó sentada en el pasillo, observándola con sus ojos redondos y brillantes.
Clint se volvió hacia Evie. De camino allí, le rondaban la cabeza varias preguntas, concebidas para obligarla a afrontar sus delirios, pero se desmoronaron de repente como un castillo de naipes azotado por un fuerte viento.
Soy _yo_ el que tiene delirios, pensó. Me aferro a ellos para no enloquecer por completo.
—No me envía nadie —respondió Evie—. He venido por iniciativa propia.
—¿Podemos llegar a un acuerdo? —preguntó Clint.
—Ya tenemos un acuerdo —recordó Evie—. Si sobrevivo, si me salvas, las mujeres podrán decidir libremente su propio camino. Pero te lo advierto: el grandullón, Geary, está decidido a atraparme. Piensa que puede controlar a los demás hombres y capturarme viva, pero seguramente a ese respecto se equivoca. Y si muero, se acabó.
—¿Qué eres? —preguntó Clint.
—Tú única esperanza. Te sugiero que no te preocupes más por mí y centres todas tus energías en los hombres que hay al otro lado de estas paredes. Son ellos quienes deben preocuparte. Si quieres a tu mujer y a tu hijo, Clint, debes actuar deprisa para tomar la delantera. Geary aún no se ha hecho con el control absoluto, pero pronto lo conseguirá. Es listo, está motivado y no confía en nadie más que en sí mismo.
—Lo he despistado. —Clint notó los labios adormecidos—. Sospecha algo, sí, pero no puede estar seguro.
—Lo estará en cuanto hable con Hicks, y ahora va de camino hacia allí.
Clint se echó atrás en la silla como si ella lo hubiera abofeteado a través de los barrotes. ¡Hicks! Se había olvidado por completo de Hicks. ¿Mantendría la boca cerrada si Frank Geary lo interrogaba sobre Eve Black? Ni de coña.
Evie se inclinó y fijó la mirada en la de Clint.
—Te he avisado sobre tu mujer y tu hijo, te he recordado que hay armas a las que quizá puedas acceder, y es más de lo que debería haber hecho, pero no preveía que fueras a caerme tan bien. Supongo que incluso podría sentirme _atraída_ por ti, de tan insensato como eres. Pareces un perro ladrando a la marea, doctor Norcross. No quiero desviarme del tema, pero este es otro aspecto del problema básico, la ecuación hombre-mujer que nunca se equilibra. En fin, da igual, es un tema para otra ocasión. Tienes que tomar una decisión: prepara tus defensas o márchate y deja que lleguen a mí.
—No voy a permitir que lleguen a ti —aseguró Clint.
—Grandes palabras. Muy hombre.
Su tono de desdén irritó a Clint.
—¿Sabe tu ojo omnisciente que he ordenado inutilizar los teléfonos públicos, Evie? ¿Que he impedido a las reclusas despedirse de su gente, incluso de sus hijos, porque no podíamos correr el riesgo de que tu existencia se diera a conocer? ¿Que probablemente mi propio hijo está también en peligro? Es un adolescente, y está asumiendo riesgos que yo le pido que asuma.
—Sé lo que has hecho, Clint. Pero yo no te he _obligado_ a nada.
De pronto Clint se enfureció con ella.
—Si eso es lo que crees, te engañas.
Evie cogió el teléfono móvil de Hicks del estante.
—Hemos terminado, doctor. Quiero echar unas partidas de _Boom Town_. —Le guiñó el ojo con la actitud de una adolescente coqueta—. Cada vez se me da mejor.
6
—Ya hemos llegado —anunció Garth Flickinger, y detuvo su maltrecho Mercedes frente a la caravana mucho más maltrecha del difunto Truman Mayweather.
Michaela la observó con semblante inexpresivo. Desde hacía unos días, se sentía como una mujer en un sueño, y la caravana herrumbrosa —sobre bloques de hormigón, rodeada de maleza y piezas desechadas de automóvil, la cinta del precinto policial caída en el suelo y ondeando lánguidamente— parecía solo un peculiar giro más de esos que toman los sueños.
Pero aquí sigo, se dijo. Mi piel sigue siendo mi piel. ¿No? Se frotó una mejilla y la frente con la mano. Sí. Todavía sin telarañas. Aquí sigo.
—Vamos, Mickey —dijo Garth al tiempo que salía del coche—. Si encuentro lo que estoy buscando, podrás tirar al menos uno o dos días más.
Ella intentó abrir la puerta, no encontró la manija y se limitó a quedarse allí sentada hasta que Garth rodeó el coche y se la abrió con una reverencia exagerada. Como un chico que llevase a su acompañante al baile de fin de curso, y no a una caravana de mierda en medio del bosque donde recientemente había tenido lugar un doble asesinato.
—Aúpa, para afuera —dijo Garth, la cogió del brazo y tiró de ella. Estaba alegre y animado. ¿Por qué no iba a estarlo? No era él quien llevaba más de cien horas despierto.
Desde la otra noche en el Squeaky Wheel, Garth y ella ya se habían hecho amigos. O compañeros en las drogas, al menos. Él tenía una bolsa grande de cristal —su alijo de emergencia, decía—, lo que había compensado más que de sobra las copas. Ella lo había acompañado gustosamente a su casa cuando el Wheel por fin se quedó sin bebida y cerró sus puertas. En otras circunstancias tal vez incluso se habría acostado con él; pese a lo poco que le iban los hombres, a veces la atraía la novedad, y bien sabía Dios que, tal como estaban las cosas, agradecía la compañía. Pero no en esas circunstancias. Si se acostaba con él, después se _dormiría_ , __ siempre le pasaba, y si lo hacía, adiós, se acabó la fiesta. Tampoco tenía la menor idea de si él estaría interesado siquiera; Garth Flickinger no parecía el más sexual de los seres, salvo en lo referente a las drogas, por las cuales sentía verdadera pasión.
El alijo de emergencia resultó ser bastante copioso, y alargaron la fiesta en casa de Garth durante prácticamente las cuarenta y ocho horas siguientes. Cuando por fin él durmió unas horas el domingo por la tarde, ella exploró el contenido del escritorio con persiana del médico. Como era de prever, contenía una pila de publicaciones médicas y varias pipas chamuscadas. Menos cabía esperar una foto arrugada de una niña envuelta en una manta rosa —«Cathy», llevaba escrito a lápiz detrás en trazo muy fino— y, en el armarito al fondo del escritorio, una caja enorme de suplementos vitamínicos para reptiles. Después se entretuvo con la gramola. No tenía más que _jam bands_ , por desgracia; no necesitaba oír a «Casey Jones»; ella misma iba camino de convertirse en Casey Jones. Michaela hizo zapping en el gigantesco televisor, que parecía sintonizar quinientos canales, deteniéndose solo a ver los publirreportajes cuyos presentadores, con voces estridentes y ofensivas, adoptaban ese tono de escúchame o muere. Le pareció recordar que había encargado una aspiradora Shark para que se la mandaran a su antigua dirección en Washington. Dudaba que le llegara; pese a que había atendido su llamada un hombre, Michaela estaba convencida de que eran mujeres las que en realidad expedían los paquetes. ¿No solían contratar a mujeres para esa clase de trabajos? ¿Los empleos basura?
Si ves una taza de inodoro sin incrustaciones, pensó, sabes que una mujer no anda lejos.
—Trume me contó que había conseguido la mejor mierda del mundo, y no mentía —explicó Garth cuando la conducía a la caravana—. O sea, no me malinterpretes; era un psicópata y mentía casi continuamente, pero esa fue una de las pocas veces que no mintió.
La caravana tenía en el costado un agujero rodeado de un círculo de lo que parecía sangre seca, pero seguramente en realidad eso no estaba ahí. Michaela debía de estar soñando despierta, cosa bastante habitual entre las personas privadas de sueño durante mucho tiempo, como explicó un autoproclamado experto a NewsAmerica en una de las noticias complementarias de un informativo que había visto antes de partir hacia los verdes montes de su pueblo natal, en la región de los Apalaches.
—No ves un agujero en el lateral de la caravana, ¿verdad que no? —preguntó ella. Incluso su voz sonaba como en un sueño. Parecía salir de un altavoz que llevara acoplado en lo alto de la cabeza.
—Sí, sí —contestó él—. Claro que está ahí. Escucha, Mickey, Trume llamaba a este nuevo material «relámpago púrpura», y conseguí una muestra antes de que esa loca apareciera y despachara a Trume y su colega. —Garth se quedó ensimismado un momento—. Ese tipo... tenía el tatuaje más ridículo que he visto. ¿Sabes el zurullo ese de _South Park_? ¿El que canta y demás? Lo llevaba en la nuez. A ver, dime, ¿quién se tatúa un zurullo en la nuez? Aunque sea un zurullo ingenioso que canta y baila, sigue siendo un zurullo. Todo el que te mire ve un zurullo. No es mi especialidad, pero lo he consultado, y no te imaginas lo que duele quitarse una cosa así.
—Garth. Para. Rebobina. La loca. ¿Es esa mujer de la que hablan en el pueblo? ¿La que está en la cárcel?
—Ajá. Una auténtica Hulk. Tuve suerte de escapar. Pero eso ya es agua pasada, orina tubería abajo, noticia de hace una semana, y tal y tal. No tiene importancia. Y deberíamos dar gracias por eso, créeme. Lo que sí importa es este cristal supremo. No lo cocinó el propio Trume; lo consiguió en Savannah o algún otro sitio. Pero _iba_ a cocinarlo, ¿entiendes? Analizarlo y después crear su propia versión. Tenía una bolsa de ocho litros de esa mierda, y está ahí dentro, en algún sitio. Voy a encontrarla.
Eso esperaba Michaela, porque tenían que reabastecerse. En los últimos días se habían fumado las reservas de Garth, incluso se habían fumado los restos encontrados en las alfombras y un par de fragmentos que encontraron debajo del sofá. Garth había insistido en que se cepillara los dientes después de cada sesión de pipa. «Porque a eso se debe que los adictos a la meta tengan tan mal la dentadura —había explicado—. Se colocan y olvidan la higiene básica.»
A Michaela le escocía la garganta por la droga, y si bien el efecto euforizante había pasado hacía rato, aún la mantenía despierta. Tenía la certeza casi absoluta de que se dormiría en el viaje hasta allí —se le había hecho interminable—, pero de algún modo había logrado permanecer despierta. ¿Y para qué? La caravana, ladeada sobre los bloques de cemento, no parecía precisamente la Fuente del Conocimiento. Solo podía rezar por que el relámpago púrpura no fuese una fantasía fruto del cerebro de Garth Flickinger, revuelto a causa de la droga.
—Ve —dijo ella—, pero conmigo no cuentes. Puede que haya fantasmas.
Él la miró con cara de desaprobación.
—Mickey, eres periodista. _Una_ _experta_ _en_ _información._ Sabes que los fantasmas no existen.
—Claro que lo sé —convino Michaela desde el altavoz instalado en lo alto de su cabeza—, pero en mi estado actual podría verlos igualmente.
—No me gusta la idea de dejarte sola. No podré abofetearte si te adormilas.
—Ya me abofetearé yo. Ve a buscarla. Pero procura no tardar.
Garth subió por los peldaños al trote, probó el picaporte y, al ver que la puerta no cedía, la empujó con el hombro. Se abrió de par en par, y Garth entró de golpe. Al cabo de un momento, asomó la cabeza por el agujero manchado de granate en el costado de la caravana con una amplia sonrisa.
—¡No te duermas, guapa! ¡Recuerda, un día de estos te retoco la nariz!
—Ni lo sueñes, colega —respondió ella, pero Garth ya había retirado la cabeza.
Michaela oyó el estrépito cuando empezó a buscar el escurridizo relámpago púrpura. Que probablemente los polis habían requisado y se hallaba en el depósito de pruebas de la oficina del sheriff, si es que no se lo habían llevado a casa para sus mujeres.
Michaela se acercó hasta los escombros del laboratorio de meta. Estaba rodeado de arbustos chamuscados y árboles ennegrecidos. Allí no cocinarían en el futuro, ni púrpura ni nada. Se preguntó si el cobertizo habría estallado solo, como ocurría a menudo con los laboratorios de meta, o si lo habría volado la mujer que había matado a los cocineros. Era una pregunta irrelevante a esas alturas, pero la mujer en sí le interesaba, le picaba la curiosidad natural que la había empujado a revolver entre la ropa de los cajones de la cómoda de Anton Dubcek cuando tenía ocho años y la había arrastrado con el tiempo hasta el periodismo, donde una tenía que hurgar en los cajones de _todo el mundo_ , __ tanto entre la ropa limpia como entre los trapos sucios. Esa parte de su cerebro seguía activa, y le rondaba la cabeza una idea que la mantenía despierta en igual medida que la metanfetamina de Flickinger. Tenía preguntas sin respuestas.
Preguntas como, por ejemplo, cuál había sido el origen de ese fenómeno, Aurora. Y por qué, en el supuesto de que hubiese un porqué. Preguntas sobre si las mujeres del mundo podían volver, como la Bella Durmiente. Además de las preguntas sobre la mujer que había matado a los traficantes de meta y cuyo nombre era, según algunas conversaciones que había oído en el Squeaky Wheel y el pueblo, Eve o Evelyn o Ethelyn Black, y que supuestamente podía dormirse y volver a despertar, lo que la convertía en una mujer única en el mundo, a menos que existiera otra en Tierra de Fuego o el Himalaya. Tal vez esa mujer fuera solo un rumor, pero Michaela tendía a creer que existía algo de verdad en eso. Cuando te llegaban rumores procedentes de distintas direcciones, lo sensato era prestar atención.
Si no estuviera viviendo a medio camino entre la realidad y los brazos de Morfeo, pensó Michaela a la vez que empezaba a subir por el sendero situado detrás del cobertizo de meta en ruinas, iría en el acto a la cárcel de mujeres e indagaría.
Otra pregunta: ¿quién estaba al frente de aquello, dado que su madre dormía? ¿Hicks? Su madre decía que Hicks tenía el cerebro de un jerbo y las agallas de una medusa. Si la memoria no la engañaba, Vanessa Lampley era la funcionaria de mayor antigüedad. Si Lampley ya no estaba, o si se había dormido, únicamente quedaba...
¿Sonaba ese zumbido solo en su cabeza? No podía estar del todo segura, pero no lo creía. Pensó que eran los cables de alta tensión que había tendidos cerca de allí. Nada fuera de lo común. Sin embargo, sus ojos le transmitían información que costaba más considerar normal. Manchas resplandecientes como huellas de manos en los troncos de algunos árboles a unos pasos del cobertizo volado. Manchas resplandecientes que parecían huellas de pies en el musgo y el mantillo, como si indicaran: «Por aquí, señora». Y cúmulos de mariposas nocturnas en muchas ramas, allí inmóviles, como si la observaran.
—¡Bu! —gritó a uno de esos cúmulos.
Las mariposas aletearon, pero no alzaron el vuelo. Michaela se abofeteó un lado de la cara y después el otro. Las mariposas seguían allí.
Despreocupadamente, Michaela se dio media vuelta y miró pendiente abajo, hacia el cobertizo y, más abajo, la caravana. Esperaba verse tendida en el suelo, envuelta en telarañas, prueba indiscutible de que se había desconectado de su cuerpo y convertido en espíritu. Pero no había nadie, excepto los escombros y los leves sonidos que producía Garth Flickinger, todavía enfrascado en su búsqueda del tesoro.
Volvió a mirar sendero arriba — _era_ un sendero, las huellas resplandecientes así lo indicaban— y vio un zorro sentado a treinta o cuarenta metros. Tenía la cola perfectamente enrollada alrededor de las patas. La observaba. Cuando dio tres pasos vacilantes hacia él, el zorro se alejó al trote sendero arriba, sin detenerse más que una vez para mirar atrás. Pareció dirigirle una sonrisa amigable.
«Por aquí, señora.»
Michaela lo siguió. Su faceta curiosa ya estaba totalmente despierta, y se sentía más alerta, más consciente, de lo que se había sentido desde hacía días. Después de recorrer otros cien metros, las mariposas posadas en los árboles eran tantas que revestían las ramas por completo. Debía de haber miles. Demonios, decenas de miles. Si la atacaban (acudió a su memoria la película de Hitchcock sobre pájaros vengativos), la asfixiarían. Pero Michaela no creía que eso fuese a ocurrir. Las mariposas eran observadoras, nada más. Centinelas. Precursoras. El zorro era el guía. Pero ¿adónde la guiaba?
Llevó a Michaela hasta lo alto de un promontorio, luego por una estrecha hondonada, de nuevo ladera arriba y después a través de un bosque de abedules y alisos cubierto de maleza. En los troncos había manchas de aquella blancura extraña. Frotó una con las manos. Le brillaron las yemas de los dedos, y al cabo de un instante el resplandor se desvaneció. ¿Había habido capullos allí? ¿Era ese su residuo? Más preguntas sin respuesta.
Cuando apartó la mirada de la mano, el zorro había desaparecido, pero el zumbido había cobrado intensidad. Ya no le parecía el sonido de cables de alta tensión. Era más potente, más vital. La tierra misma vibraba bajo sus pies. Se encaminó hacia el ruido y de pronto se detuvo, tan atónita como Lila Norcross se había quedado allí mismo hacía algo más de cuatro días.
Delante se extendía un claro. En el centro un árbol nudoso compuesto de muchos troncos entrelazados de color rojizo ascendía hacia el cielo. Hojas prehistóricas semejantes a helechos brotaban de sus ramas. Percibía su aroma a especia, un tanto parecido al de la nuez moscada, pero en esencia distinto de todo lo que había olido en su vida. Aves exóticas como para llenar un aviario silbaban, gorjeaban y trinaban en las ramas altas. Al pie, un pavo real del tamaño de un niño extendió en abanico su cola iridiscente para deleite de Michaela.
No estoy viendo esto, o si lo veo, también lo ven todas las mujeres dormidas. Porque ahora soy como ellas. Me he quedado dormida entre los escombros de ese cobertizo de meta, y en torno a mí se teje un capullo mientras admiro este pavo. Debo de haber pasado por alto mi propio estado en algún momento, así de simple.
Lo que la hizo cambiar de idea fue el tigre blanco. Primero apareció el zorro, como si lo guiara. Una serpiente roja colgaba del cuello del tigre cual joya barbárica. La serpiente asomó y agitó la lengua, como si saboreara el aire. Michaela veía sombras que crecían y menguaban en los músculos de los costados del tigre mientras avanzaba lentamente hacia ella. La miró con sus enormes ojos verdes. El zorro salió al trote y rozó la espinilla a Michaela con el hocico, frío y húmedo.
Diez minutos antes Michaela habría dicho que ya no era capaz de trotar, y menos aún de correr. Pero entonces se volvió y huyó por donde había llegado a grandes zancadas, apartando ramas; a su paso, nubes de mariposas marrones se elevaban en espiral hacia el cielo. Tropezó, cayó de rodillas, se levantó y siguió corriendo. No se dio la vuelta, porque temía que el tigre fuera pisándole los talones, abriendo las fauces de par en par para partirla en dos por la cintura de un bocado.
Salió del bosque por encima del cobertizo de meta y vio a Garth de pie junto al Mercedes, con una bolsa enorme llena de lo que parecían piedras preciosas de color púrpura.
—¡Soy mitad cirujano estético, mitad puto perro detector de drogas! —exclamó—. ¡No lo dudes! ¡Esta mierda estaba pegada con cinta adhesiva a un panel del techo! Nos... ¿Mickey? ¿Qué pasa?
Se volvió y miró atrás. El tigre había desaparecido, pero el zorro continuaba allí, con la cola perfectamente enrollada en torno a las patas.
—¿Has visto eso?
—¿Qué? ¿El zorro? Pues claro. —Su júbilo se esfumó—. Eh, no te habrá mordido, ¿verdad?
—No, no me ha mordido. Pero... acompáñame, Garth.
—¿Cómo? ¿Al bosque? No, gracias. Nunca fui _boy scout_. Basta con que mire la hiedra venenosa para tener urticaria. Lo mío era el club de química, ja, ja. Como cabría esperar.
—Tienes que venir. En serio. Es importante. Necesito... bueno... una verificación. No te preocupes por la urticaria. Hay un sendero.
La acompañó, pero sin el menor entusiasmo. Michaela lo llevó más allá del cobertizo en ruinas, hasta los árboles. Al principio el zorro solo trotó y luego, apretando a correr, zigzagueó entre los árboles hasta perderse de vista. También las mariposas habían desaparecido, pero...
—Ahí. —Señaló una de las huellas—. ¿Ves eso? Dime que sí, por favor.
—Eh —dijo Garth—. Mira por dónde.
Se guardó la preciada bolsa de relámpago púrpura bajo la camisa sin abotonar y se arrodilló para examinar la pisada luminosa. Valiéndose de la hoja de un árbol, la tocó con cuidado, olfateó el residuo y luego observó las manchas desvanecerse.
—¿Es el material del que están hechos los capullos? —preguntó Michaela—. Lo es, ¿verdad?
—Puede que en su momento lo fuese —contestó Garth—. O posiblemente una exudación de lo que sea que _causa_ los capullos. Son simples conjeturas, pero... —Se puso en pie. Parecía haber olvidado que habían ido allí en busca de más droga, y Michaela alcanzó a ver al médico inteligente y perspicaz que de vez en cuando se obligaba a levantarse de la amplia cama de meta que había dentro del cráneo de Garth—. Oye, has oído los rumores, ¿no? ¿Quizá cuando fuimos al centro a comprar más provisiones en el supermercado? —Escasas provisiones: cerveza, patatas fritas Ruffles, fideos Ramen y una tarrina de tamaño familiar de nata agria. El Shopwell estaba abierto, pero en esencia saqueado.
—Los rumores sobre la mujer —dijo ella—. Claro.
—Lo que no saben es que fue aquí donde apareció por primera vez —continuó Garth—. Puede que en realidad tengamos en Dooling a María la Tifosa. Sé que es poco probable; según todos los informes, Aurora empezó en la otra punta del mundo, pero...
—Yo creo que es posible —lo interrumpió Michaela. Toda su maquinaria volvía a funcionar, y a toda velocidad. La sensación era maravillosa. Tal vez no durara, pero mientras durase, se proponía dejarse llevar por ella como si de un toro mecánico se tratase. Yuju, vaquera—. Y hay algo más. Quizá haya descubierto de dónde salió. Ven, te lo enseñaré.
Al cabo de diez minutos se hallaban al borde del claro. El zorro había desaparecido. Igual que el tigre y el pavo real de la extraordinaria cola. Y también las aves exóticas multicolores. El árbol seguía allí, solo que...
—Bueno —dijo Garth, y ella prácticamente oyó decrecer su atención, el aire escapando de un flotador pinchado—, es un viejo roble magnífico, Mickey, eso lo admito, pero por lo demás no veo nada especial.
—No me lo he imaginado. Te digo que _no_. —Pero hasta ella empezaba a dudarlo. Quizá también había imaginado las mariposas.
—Aunque lo hayas imaginado, esas huellas resplandecientes de pies y manos son desde luego material de _Expediente X_. —Garth se animó—. Tengo todos los episodios grabados en disco, y resisten bien el paso del tiempo, aunque los teléfonos móviles que utilizan en las primeras dos o tres temporadas dan _risa_. Volvamos a casa y fumemos y veamos alguno, ¿qué te parece?
A Michaela no le apetecía ver _Expediente X_. __ Lo que quería era ir a la cárcel e intentar conseguir una entrevista con la mujer del momento. Se le antojaba un trabajo ímprobo, y le costaba imaginar que fuese posible convencer a alguien de que la dejara entrar con su aspecto actual (parecía la Bruja Mala del Oeste, solo que con vaqueros y blusa sin mangas de cuello barco), pero después de lo que habían visto allí, donde supuestamente había aparecido por primera vez la mujer...
—¿Y qué me dices de un episodio de _Expediente X_ en la vida real? —preguntó ella.
—¿Qué quieres decir?
—Demos un paseo en coche. Te lo contaré por el camino.
—¿Y si antes probamos este material? —Garth agitó la bolsa con expresión ilusionada.
—Pronto —respondió ella. Tendría que ser pronto, porque ya la invadía el cansancio. Era como estar metida en una asfixiante bolsa negra. Pero en esa había una pequeña raja, y esa raja era su curiosidad, por la que entraba un haz de luz intensa.
—Bueno... vale. Supongo.
Garth encabezó la marcha sendero abajo. Michaela se detuvo el tiempo suficiente para echar un vistazo atrás, con la esperanza de sorprender al asombroso árbol de nuevo en plena existencia. Pero era solo un roble, ancho y alto, pero ni mucho menos sobrenatural.
Aun así, la verdad está ahí fuera. Y quizá no estoy demasiado cansada para descubrirla.
7
Nadine Hicks era de la vieja escuela; en los días previos a Aurora acostumbraba presentarse como «señora de Lawrence Hicks», como si al casarse con su marido en cierta medida se hubiese convertido en parte de él. En ese momento estaba envuelta como un regalo de boda y reclinada ante la mesa del comedor. Tenía delante un plato vacío, un vaso vacío, servilleta y cubiertos. Después de dejar entrar a Frank en la casa, Hicks lo llevó al comedor, y el subdirector de la cárcel se sentó a la mesa de madera de cerezo delante de su mujer para terminar de desayunar.
—Le parecerá raro, imagino —comentó Hicks.
No, pensó Frank, no considero que sentar a su mujer envuelta en un capullo a la mesa del comedor como una muñeca momificada gigante sea raro en absoluto. Lo considero... esto, ¿cómo se dice? Ah, sí: _demencial_.
—No pienso juzgarlo —dijo Frank—. Esto ha supuesto una gran conmoción. Todos hacemos lo que podemos.
—Bien, agente, solo intento mantener una rutina. —Hicks vestía traje y se había afeitado, pero tenía grandes ojeras y el traje estaba arrugado. Naturalmente la ropa de todos se veía arrugada. ¿Cuántos hombres sabían planchar? ¿O doblar la ropa, si a eso íbamos? Frank sí sabía, pero no disponía de plancha desde la separación, llevaba la ropa a la tintorería de Dooling, y si necesitaba un pantalón con raya urgentemente, lo ponía debajo del colchón, se tendía durante veinte minutos poco más o menos, y se daba por contento.
Hicks desayunaba tostadas con buey ahumado en lonchas.
—Confío en que no le importe que coma. El típico buey de toda la vida. Mover a mi mujer de acá para allá me abre el apetito. Después de esto saldremos a sentarnos al jardín. —Hicks se volvió hacia su mujer—. ¿Verdad, Nadine?
Los dos esperaron un par de absurdos segundos, como si ella fuera a responder. Pero Nadine permaneció allí inmóvil, una extraña estatua detrás de su cubierto.
—Oiga, señor Hicks, no quiero robarle mucho tiempo.
—No se preocupe. —Hicks levantó la punta de la tostada y dio un bocado. Gotas de salsa blanca y carne le salpicaron la rodilla—. Maldita sea. —Ahogó una risa con la boca llena—. Se me está acabando la ropa limpia. Es Nadine quien se ocupa de la colada. Necesito que despiertes y te pongas con eso, Nadine. —Tragó el bocado y dirigió a Frank un parco y serio gesto de asentimiento—. Vacío el arenero y saco la basura los viernes por la mañana. Es equitativo. Una división justa del trabajo.
—Oiga, solo quiero preguntarle...
—Y le lleno el depósito a su coche. Ella detesta esos surtidores autoservicio. Yo le decía: «Si muero antes que tú, tendrás que aprender, cariño». Y ella decía...
—Quiero preguntarle qué está pasando en la cárcel. —Frank quería además alejarse de Lore Hicks lo antes posible—. Hay allí una mujer de la que la gente habla. Se llama Eve Black. ¿Qué puede decirme de ella?
Hicks examinó su plato.
—Yo la evitaría.
—Entonces ¿está despierta?
—Lo estaba cuando me marché. Pero sí, la evitaría.
—Dicen que se duerme y se despierta. ¿Es verdad?
—Esa impresión daba, pero... —Hicks, sin levantar la vista del plato, ladeó la cabeza, como si recelara de las tostadas con buey—. Sin ánimo de ponerme pesado, agente, insisto en que yo lo dejaría correr.
—¿Por qué lo dice? —Frank estaba recordando las mariposas que habían surgido de repente del trozo de tejido al que Garth Flickinger había prendido fuego, y la que parecía haber fijado la mirada en él.
—Me quitó el teléfono —contestó Hicks.
—¿Cómo dice? ¿Cómo se lo quitó?
—Me amenazó con unas ratas. Las ratas están de su parte. Se someten a su voluntad.
—Las ratas se someten a su voluntad.
—Ve lo que se desprende de eso, ¿no? En todas las cárceles, al igual que en todos los hoteles, hay roedores. Los recortes agravan el problema. Recuerdo que Coates se quejaba de haber tenido que cancelar el servicio de desratización. No cabía en el presupuesto. En la asamblea legislativa del estado no se plantean esas cosas, ¿verdad que no? «Es solo una cárcel. ¿A las reclusas qué más les dan unas cuantas ratas si ellas mismas son ratas?» Bueno, ¿y si una de las reclusas aprende a _controlar_ las ratas? Entonces ¿qué? —Hicks apartó el plato. Por lo visto, había perdido el apetito—. Una pregunta retórica, claro está. La asamblea legislativa no se plantea esas cuestiones.
Frank, en el umbral de la puerta del comedor de Hicks, contemplaba la posibilidad de que aquel hombre padeciese alucinaciones como consecuencia del estrés y la aflicción. Pero ¿y el fragmento de tejido que se había transformado en mariposas? Frank lo había visto con sus propios ojos. ¿Y acaso una mariposa no lo había mirado fijamente? Podía haber sido una alucinación (al fin y al cabo, él mismo había sufrido estrés y aflicción), pero Frank lo dudaba mucho. ¿Quién podía decir que el subdirector de la cárcel no había perdido por completo la chaveta? ¿Y quién podía decir que sus palabras no eran verdad?
Tal vez hubiera perdido la chaveta _porque_ decía la verdad. ¿Qué tal eso como desagradable posibilidad?
Hicks se puso en pie.
—Ya que está aquí, ¿tendría inconveniente en ayudarme a llevarla afuera? Me duele la espalda, y ya no soy precisamente joven.
Había pocas cosas que Frank deseara menos, pero accedió. Él sujetó las voluminosas piernas de Nadine Hicks, y su marido la agarró por debajo de las voluminosas axilas. Acarreando con cuidado a la mujer entre los dos, salieron por la puerta, bajaron los peldaños y rodearon la casa. El tejido crepitaba como papel de regalo.
—Enseguida llegamos, Nadine —dijo Hicks a la membrana blanca que envolvía el rostro de su mujer—. Vamos a acomodarte en la silla Adirondack. Para que te dé un poco el sol. Estoy seguro de que se filtra.
—Y ahora ¿quién se supone que está al frente? —preguntó Frank—. ¿En la cárcel?
—Nadie —contestó Hicks—. Ah, supongo que Van Lampley podría reclamar el puesto, si sigue en pie. Es la funcionaria de mayor antigüedad.
—El psiquiatra, el doctor Norcross, sostiene que el director en funciones es él —informó Frank.
—Tonterías.
Instalaron a la señora Hicks en una Adirondack de color amarillo vivo en el patio de piedra. No hacía sol, por supuesto. No aquel día. Seguía cayendo la misma llovizna. Las gotas, en lugar de embeberse en el capullo, perlaban su superficie, como ocurriría en la tela de una tienda de campaña impermeable. Hicks empezó a desplazar una sombrilla medio bamboleándola, medio arrastrándola. La base chirriaba contra la piedra.
—Debo tener cuidado. Con esa sustancia encima, no puedo ponerle protector solar, y se quema con facilidad.
—¿Norcross? ¿El psiquiatra?
Hicks se rio.
—Norcross es solo un empleado externo. No tiene ninguna autoridad. Nadie lo ha nombrado.
Eso no sorprendió a Frank. Ya sospechaba que la absurda versión de Norcross era solo eso: una versión. Sin embargo, lo cabreó. Había vidas en juego. Muchas, pero no pasaba nada porque pensase sobre todo en Nana, ya que ella representaba a todas los demás. Si lo miraba desde esa perspectiva, no había egoísmo en sus actos; visto desde ese prisma, ¡era altruista! Entretanto necesitaba conservar la calma.
—¿Qué clase de persona es? Me refiero al loquero.
Hicks consiguió colocar la sombrilla y la abrió sobre su mujer.
—Ya está. —Respiró hondo varias veces. El sudor y la lluvia le habían oscurecido el cuello de la camisa—. Es listo, eso lo reconozco. Demasiado listo, en realidad. No tendría por qué trabajar en una cárcel. Y piense una cosa: se le concede un salario a jornada completa, casi idéntico al mío, y sin embargo no podemos permitirnos el servicio de desratización. Esa es la política tal como la conocemos en el siglo XXI, agente Geary.
—¿Qué quiere decir con eso de que no tendría por qué trabajar en una cárcel?
—¿Por qué no se dedicó a la práctica privada? Lo he visto en su expediente. Tiene publicaciones, y todos los títulos necesarios. Siempre me ha dado la impresión de que esconde algo raro, con ese deseo de andar cerca de depravadas y drogadictas, pero no sabría decir de qué se trata. Si es algo sexual, ha sido sumamente cauto. Eso es lo primero que le viene a uno a la cabeza ante un hombre al que le gusta trabajar con mujeres delincuentes. Pero no creo que sea eso.
—¿Cómo trataría usted con él? ¿Es una persona razonable?
—Sin duda es razonable. Un hombre muy razonable que además, da la casualidad, es un blandengue políticamente correcto. Y por eso mismo no me gusta _tratar_ con él, como usted dice. Lo nuestro no es un centro de rehabilitación. La cárcel es un almacén para personas que no juegan conforme a las reglas y prefieren el engaño. Un cubo de basura, hablando claro, y nos pagan para sentarnos encima de la tapa. Coates se lo pasa en grande discutiendo con él, son tal para cual, pero a mí ese hombre me agota. Te saca de quicio a fuerza de razonamientos. —Hicks se sacó un pañuelo arrugado del bolsillo. Lo utilizó para enjugar unas gotas de agua de la mortaja de su mujer—. Le encanta el contacto visual. Acabas pensando que cree que estás chiflado.
Frank dio las gracias a Hicks por su ayuda y rodeó la casa para regresar a la parte delantera, donde había aparcado. ¿En qué estaba pensando Norcross? ¿Qué razones tenía para impedirles ver a la mujer? ¿Por qué no confiaba en ellos?
Los hechos solo parecían respaldar una conclusión, y era desagradable: por algún motivo, el médico actuaba en nombre de la mujer.
Hicks salió trotando detrás de él.
—¡Señor Geary! ¡Agente!
—Dígame.
La expresión del subdirector de la cárcel era tensa.
—Oiga, esa mujer... —Se frotó las manos. La llovizna le manchó los hombros de la chaqueta arrugada del traje—. Si habla con ella, con Eve Black, no quiero que le transmita la impresión de que deseo que me devuelva el teléfono, ¿entendido? Puede quedárselo. Usaré el de mi esposa si necesito hacer alguna llamada.
8
Cuando Jared salió a toda prisa a la parte de atrás de la casa piloto donde Mary y él estaban viviendo (si a eso podía llamársele vivir, pensó), Mary se encontraba apoyada en la cerca de estacas con la cabeza en los brazos. Finas hebras blancas surgían de su pelo.
Corrió hacia ella, casi tropezando con la primorosa caseta de perro (una réplica de la casa piloto, que reproducía en miniatura hasta los marcos azules de las ventanas), la agarró, la sacudió y le pellizcó los lóbulos de las orejas, tal como Mary le había indicado en el caso de que empezara a adormecerse. Dijo que había leído en internet que era la manera más rápida de despertar a alguien cuando se amodorraba. Por supuesto en internet había aparecido todo tipo de remedios para permanecer despierto, tantos como antes estrategias para dormirse.
Surtió efecto. Mary centró la mirada. Las hebras de tejido blanco se desprendieron y se desvanecieron a medida que se elevaban lánguidamente.
—Eh —protestó Mary, tocándose las orejas e intentando sonreír—. Pensaba que estaban haciéndome los agujeros de las orejas otra vez. Jere, tienes una mancha morada enorme flotando delante de la cara.
—Probablemente estabas mirando al sol. —La cogió del brazo—. Vamos. Tenemos que darnos prisa.
—¿Por qué?
Jared no contestó. Si su padre estaba paranoico, entonces era contagioso. En el salón, con sus muebles perfectamente conjuntados pero un tanto asépticos —incluso los cuadros de la pared iban a juego—, se detuvo a mirar por la ventana el coche de la oficina del sheriff aparcado calle abajo, a seis o siete casas de allí. Mientras observaba, salieron dos agentes de una de las viviendas. Su madre había invitado a todos sus ayudantes y sus mujeres a cenar alguna que otra vez a lo largo de los años, y Jared conocía a muchos de ellos. Esos dos eran Rangle y Barrows. Dado que todas las demás casas estaban sin amueblar, probablemente los policías se limitarían a echar un vistazo muy de pasada. No tardarían en llegar.
—¡Jared, deja de _tirar_!
Habían colocado a Platinum, Molly, la señora Ransom y Lila en el dormitorio principal. Mary quería dejarlas en la planta baja, aduciendo que difícilmente iba a importarles la decoración ni nada de eso. Jared, gracias a Dios, había insistido, pero ni siquiera el primer piso bastaba. Como la casa piloto estaba amueblada, cabía la posibilidad de que Rangle y Barrows decidieran registrarla más a fondo.
Llevó arriba a Mary, que no dejó de quejarse entre dientes por todo el camino. En el dormitorio cogió el canasto que contenía el pequeño cuerpo amortajado de Platinum y fue corriendo al pasillo, donde tiró de una argolla atornillada al techo. La escalera del desván descendió ruidosamente. Habría golpeado a Mary en la cabeza si no la hubiese apartado.
Jared trepó por ella, empujó el canasto del bebé hacia el interior del desván y bajó de nuevo. Haciendo caso omiso de las preguntas de Mary, corrió hasta el final del pasillo y miró hacia la calle. El coche patrulla avanzaba lentamente junto al bordillo. Ya solo quedaban cuatro casas. No, tres.
Regresó a toda prisa a donde estaba Mary, con los hombros encorvados y la cabeza gacha.
—Tenemos que subirlas ahí arriba. —Señaló la escalera del desván.
—Yo no puedo cargar con nadie —dijo ella como un niño quejica—. ¡Estoy _cansaaada_ , __ Jere!
—Ya lo sé. Pero puedes llevar a Molly, que pesa poco. Yo subiré a su abuela y a mi madre.
—¿Por qué? ¿Por qué tenemos que hacer eso?
—Porque es posible que la poli nos esté buscando. Me lo ha dicho mi padre.
Esperaba que ella le preguntase qué había de malo en que los ayudantes del sheriff los encontraran, pero calló. Jared la guio hasta el dormitorio: las mujeres yacían en la cama de matrimonio; Molly, en una toalla mullida en el baño contiguo. Cogió a Molly y la colocó en los brazos de Mary. Luego levantó a la señora Ransom, que parecía pesar más de lo que recordaba. Pero no _demasiado_ , pensó Jared, y acudió a su memoria una cantinela que su madre entonaba cuando era pequeño: Acentúa lo positivo, elimina lo negativo.
—Y desentiéndete del señor Entremedias —dijo, y sujetó más firmemente lo que quedaba de la anciana.
—¿Eh? ¿Qué?
—Da igual.
Con Molly en brazos, Mary empezó a subir peldaño a peldaño por la escalera. Jared (imaginando que el coche patrulla se detenía ya ante la casa y Rangle y Barrows miraban el letrero del jardín donde se leía ENTREN Y MIREN) empujó a Mary por el trasero con el hombro cuando esta se detuvo a medio camino del desván. Ella miró atrás.
—Te estás tomando muchas confianzas, Jared.
—Pues date prisa.
De algún modo Mary logró llegar a lo alto sin dejar caer su carga sobre la cabeza de Jared. Él la siguió, jadeando, e introdujo a la señora Ransom por la abertura. Mary había dejado el cuerpo pequeño de Molly en las tablas desnudas del desván. Aquel espacio se extendía a lo largo de toda la casa. El techo era bajo y hacía un calor sofocante.
—Enseguida vuelvo —dijo Jared.
—Vale, pero me cuesta mucho preocuparme por eso. Este calor me da dolor de cabeza.
Jared regresó a toda prisa al dormitorio principal. Deslizó los brazos en torno al cuerpo envuelto de Lila y sintió una punzada de aviso en la rodilla dolorida. Se había olvidado del uniforme de su madre, de los recios zapatos de faena y del cinturón reglamentario. ¿Cuántos kilos añadía eso al peso de una mujer saludable y bien alimentada? ¿Cuatro? ¿Ocho?
Consiguió llevarla hasta la escalera, contempló la empinada pendiente y pensó: No seré capaz de subirla. Imposible.
Sonó el timbre, cuatro alegres campanadas ascendentes, y Jared comenzó a trepar. Más que jadear ya, se ahogaba. Logró subir tres cuartos de escalera y le fallaron las fuerzas. Justo cuando empezaba a plantearse si lograría bajar a su madre sin que se le cayera, aparecieron dos brazos delgados, con las manos abiertas. Mary, gracias a Dios. Jared consiguió avanzar otros dos escalones, y Mary pudo agarrar a Lila.
Abajo, uno de los ayudantes dijo:
—Ni siquiera han cerrado la puerta. Está abierta de par en par. Vamos.
Jared empujó. Mary tiró. Juntos consiguieron subir a Lila por encima del nivel de la trampilla. Mary cayó de espaldas, arrastrando consigo a Lila hacia dentro. Jared agarró la escalera por arriba y tiró de ella. Ascendió a la vez que se plegaba, y él hizo fuerza en el último metro de su recorrido para que no se cerrara ruidosamente.
Abajo, el otro ayudante levantó la voz y dijo.
—Yujuuu, ¿hay alguien en casa?
—Como si alguna zorra empaquetada fuera a contestar —comentó el otro, y los dos se echaron a reír.
¿Zorras empaquetadas?, pensó Jared. ¿Así las llamaban? Si mi madre oyera salir algo así de vuestras bocas, os plantaría el culo en los omóplatos de una patada.
Los dos hombres seguían hablando, pero se dirigían hacia el lado de la casa donde estaba la cocina, y ya Jared no distinguía sus palabras. Pese a estar drogada, había contagiado su miedo a Mary, que lo rodeó con los brazos. Jared olió su sudor, y cuando apretó su mejilla contra la de él, la notó húmeda.
Se oyeron de nuevo las voces, y Jared mandó una orden a los polis de abajo con el pensamiento: ¡Marchaos! ¡Es evidente que este sitio está vacío! ¡Marchaos, pues!
Mary le susurró al oído.
—Hay comida en la nevera, Jere. También en la despensa. He tirado un envoltorio al cubo de la basura. Y si...
Ascendieron hacia el primer piso las sonoras pisadas de unos recios zapatos de policía. Eso era malo, pero no iban hablando de la comida de la nevera ni de basura reciente en el cubo, y ese era el lado bueno. (Acentúa lo positivo.) Estaban haciendo planes para el almuerzo.
Debajo de ellos y a la izquierda, uno de los polis —quizá Rangle— observó:
—A mí esta colcha me parece un tanto arrugada. ¿A ti no?
—Sí —contestó el otro—. No me extrañaría que hubiese entrado algún ocupa, pero lo más probable es que haya sido gente que ha venido a ver la casa, posibles compradores. Quizá a veces se sientan, ¿no? O incluso prueban la cama. Sería lo natural.
Más pisadas, de regreso al pasillo. Muy sonoras. De pronto se detuvieron, y esa vez las voces, cuando se oyeron, estaban justo debajo. Mary tensó los brazos en torno al cuello de Jared y susurró:
—Si nos encuentran aquí escondidos, nos detendrán, ¿no?
—Chis —contestó Jared, y pensó: Nos habrían arrestado aunque nos hubiesen encontrado abajo. Solo que entonces seguramente lo habrían llamado «custodia preventiva».
—Hay una trampilla en el techo —dijo el que debía de ser Barrows—. ¿Quieres subir al desván a echar un vistazo o lo hago yo?
Siguió a la pregunta un silencio que pareció prolongarse eternamente. Por fin el que debía de ser Rangle dijo:
—Puedes subir si quieres, pero si Lila y su hijo estuvieran en la casa, estarían abajo. Y yo tengo alergias, así que no pienso subir a respirar un montón de polvo.
—Aun así...
—Tú mismo, colega —dijo Rangle.
De pronto la escalera volvió a descender, y una débil luz bañó el desván. Si el cuerpo de Lila envuelto en un capullo hubiese estado solo quince centímetros más cerca de la trampilla, habría quedado a la vista.
—Y de paso disfruta del calor ahí arriba. Debe de estar a más de cuarenta grados.
—A la mierda —dijo Barrows—. A la mierda tú y tus _alergias_. Venga, salgamos de aquí.
La escalera subió de nuevo, y esa vez se cerró con estrépito, ante el que Jared se estremeció, pese a saber que se produciría. Las sonoras pisadas de los recios zapatos de poli descendieron de nuevo. Jared, conteniendo la respiración, escuchó atentamente cuando los agentes se detuvieron en el recibidor y volvieron a hablar. En voz baja. Imposible distinguir más de una palabra o frase. Algo sobre Terry Coombs; algo sobre un nuevo ayudante, un tal Geary; y algo sobre el almuerzo otra vez.
¡Marchaos!, deseó gritarles Jared. ¡Marchaos antes de que a Mary y a mí nos dé un puto golpe de calor!
Por fin se cerró la puerta de calle. Jared aguzó el oído en espera del sonido del coche patrulla al arrancar, pero no lo oyó. O había pasado demasiado tiempo escuchando música a todo volumen con los auriculares o el desván tenía un grueso aislamiento. Contó hasta cien y luego hacia atrás hasta cero. No podía esperar más. El calor lo estaba matando.
—Creo que se han ido —anunció.
Mary no contestó, y Jared cayó en la cuenta de que su abrazo en torno al cuello, antes tenso, se había relajado. Estaba tan concentrado que no lo había notado hasta ese momento. Cuando se volvió para mirarla, a ella le resbalaron los brazos, flácidos, y se desplomó en el suelo de madera.
—¡Mary! _¡Mary!_ ¡No te duermas!
No hubo respuesta. Jared abrió la trampilla de un empujón, indiferente al golpetazo de la escalera cuando la base topó con el parqué del suelo. Se había olvidado de los polis. Entonces era Mary lo que le importaba, lo único que le importaba. Quizá no fuera demasiado tarde.
Pero sí lo era. Sacudirla no sirvió de nada. Mary se había dormido mientras él permanecía atento para asegurarse de que los polis no volvían. Yacía junto a Lila, con sus delicadas facciones desdibujadas ya bajo las hebras blancas que, salidas de la nada, se entrecruzaban con presteza.
—No —susurró Jared—. Con el esfuerzo que ha hecho.
Se quedó sentado durante casi cinco minutos observando cómo se espesaba el capullo, cómo se tejía implacablemente, y después llamó a su padre.
Fue lo único que se le ocurrió.
### 4
1
En el mundo que las mujeres de algún modo habían abandonado, Candy Meshaum residía en una casa de West Lavin, en dirección a la cárcel. Lo cual tenía su lógica, porque su casa también era una cárcel. En ese nuevo mundo había optado por vivir con otras mujeres, todas asistentes asiduas a las Reuniones, en un guardamuebles reacondicionado. El guardamuebles, al igual que el supermercado Shopwell (y a diferencia de la gran mayoría de los edificios de la zona), había permanecido casi totalmente impermeabilizado a lo largo del número indeterminado de años de abandono. Era una estructura de dos plantas en forma de L, caja sobre caja, incrustada en el bosque circundante y asentada sobre una plataforma de cemento. De plástico duro y fibra de vidrio, los contenedores habían cumplido admirablemente la promesa de resistencia a las filtraciones que se leía en el anuncio descolorido del letrero de fuera. La hierba y los árboles habían envuelto la plataforma de cemento y las hojas habían atascado los canalones, pero cortar la vegetación invasiva y limpiar el sistema de desagüe había sido un proyecto sencillo, y los contenedores abiertos, una vez retiradas de dentro las cajas de pertenencias inútiles, resultaron ser excelentes como vivienda, pero no bonitos precisamente.
Aunque Candy Meshaum había hecho un esfuerzo entrañable para mejorar el suyo, eso desde luego, pensó Lila.
Rodeó el contenedor, inundado por la luz natural que entraba a través de la puerta. Ocupaba el centro de aquel espacio una cama bien hecha, cubierta con un edredón de color rojo vivo que reflejaba la luz del día. En la pared sin ventana colgaba una marina enmarcada: un cielo despejado y una extensión de costa rocosa. Tal vez procediera de las pertenencias almacenadas originalmente en el contenedor. En el rincón había una mecedora, y en el suelo, junto a esta, una cesta de madejas con dos agujas metálicas. Otra cesta cercana contenía calcetines de punto diestramente tejidos, ejemplo de sus labores.
—¿Qué opinas?
Coates se había quedado fuera del contenedor para fumar. (Los cigarrillos, envueltos en papel de aluminio y celofán, eran otra de las cosas que se habían conservado razonablemente bien.) La directora de la cárcel, ya exdirectora, se había dejado crecer el pelo y no se lo teñía. La forma en que le caía suelto sobre los hombros estrechos le concedía un aspecto de profeta, como si hubiese estado vagando por el desierto en busca de su tribu. Lila pensó que le quedaba bien.
—Me gusta lo que te has hecho con el pelo.
—Gracias, pero me refería a la mujer que debería estar aquí y de repente no está.
Candy Meshaum era una de las cuatro mujeres que habían desaparecido en los últimos tiempos, contando a Essie. Lila había interrogado a otras ocupantes de los contendores cercanos. Candy estaba meciéndose tan contenta en su silla, haciendo punto, y al cabo de diez minutos no estaba en ningún sitio. El contenedor se hallaba en la segunda planta del guardamuebles, casi en la zona central, y sin embargo ni una sola persona la había visto marcharse, pese a ser una mujer corpulenta con una marcada cojera. No era inconcebible que hubiese conseguido desaparecer así, pero era improbable.
Las vecinas describieron a Candy como una persona alegre y feliz. Una de ellas, que la conocía de antes, en el viejo mundo, utilizó la palabra «renacida». Estaba muy orgullosa de sus labores y del pequeño contenedor hermosamente decorado que había convertido en su hogar. Más de una persona mencionó que llamaba a esa casa, sin una pizca de ironía, «el apartamento de sus sueños».
—No veo nada concluyente. Nada que me planteara presentar como prueba ante un juez —comentó Lila. Conjeturó, no obstante, que le había ocurrido lo mismo que a Essie: estaba allí y de pronto ya no estaba. Puf. Abracadabra.
—Lo mismo, ¿no?
Janice, que había estado mirando a Essie en el momento exacto de su desaparición, declaró haber visto un leve destello, no mayor que la llama de un encendedor, y luego nada. El espacio que la mujer había ocupado se hallaba vacío. Los ojos de Janice no habían detectado la transformación, ni la desintegración, ni el fenómeno que se había producido, fuera cual fuese. Era demasiado rápido para la vista. Daba la impresión, dijo la directora, de que Essie se hubiese apagado como una bombilla, solo que ni un filamento se extinguía así de rápido.
—Podría ser —contestó Lila.
—Está muerta —dijo Janice—. En el otro mundo. ¿No crees?
En la pared, por encima de la mecedora, había una mariposa nocturna. Lila alargó la mano. La mariposa revoloteó hacia ella y se posó en la uña de su índice. Lila percibió un ligero olor a quemado.
—Podría ser —repitió. De momento lo único que se atrevía a decir era esa expresión tan propia de Clint—. Debemos volver para despedirnos de las señoras.
—Una idea absurda —comentó Janice entre dientes—. Bastante trabajo tenemos ya sin necesidad de explorar.
Lila sonrió.
—¿Significa eso que a ti también te gustaría ir?
Imitando a Lila, la exdirectora Coates dijo:
—Podría ser. Eso mismo dice siempre tu condenado marido.
Tocada y hundida, pensó Lila.
2
En Main Street, una patrulla se disponía a ponerse en marcha para echar un vistazo al mundo más allá de Dooling. Componían el grupo seis mujeres y habían cargado provisiones en dos carritos de golf. Millie Olson, una funcionaria de la cárcel, se había ofrecido voluntaria para ir en cabeza. Hasta el momento nadie se había aventurado mucho más allá de los límites del pueblo. No las había sobrevolado ningún avión ni helicóptero, ningún incendio ardía a lo lejos, ni había surgido voz alguna de las frecuencias de las radios de emergencia que habían sintonizado. Eso reforzó en Lila la sensación de falta de plenitud que había experimentado desde el principio. El mundo que habitaban semejaba una reproducción. Casi como una escena dentro de una esfera de nieve, solo que sin nieve.
Lila y Janice llegaron a tiempo de ver los últimos preparativos. Una exreclusa llamada Nell Seeger se encontraba en cuclillas junto a uno de los carritos de golf, tarareando para sí mientras comprobaba la presión de los neumáticos. Millie examinaba los paquetes cargados en un remolque enganchado detrás, en una última verificación de las provisiones: sacos de dormir, alimentos liofilizados, agua potable, ropa, un par de walkie-talkies de juguete que habían encontrado herméticamente envueltos en plástico y (más o menos) funcionaban, un par de rifles que la propia Lila había limpiado, botiquines. Reinaba un ambiente de excitación y buen humor; se oían risas y palmadas. Alguien preguntó a Millie Olson qué haría si se tropezaba con un oso.
—Adiestrarlo —contestó, imperturbable, sin apartar la vista de la bolsa en la que hurgaba. Eso arrancó una salva de risas entre las presentes.
—¿La conocías? —preguntó Lila a Janice—. ¿La conocías de antes? —Se hallaban bajo un toldo en la acera, hombro con hombro, envueltas en sus abrigos. Se les empañaba el aliento.
—Joder, yo era su puñetera jefa.
—No me refiero a Millie, sino a Candy Meshaum.
—No. ¿Y tú?
—Sí —dijo Lila.
—¿Y?
—Era víctima de violencia de género. Su marido le pegaba. Mucho. Por eso cojeaba. Él era un completo gilipollas, un supuesto mecánico que en realidad se dedicaba a la venta de armas. Durante un tiempo rondó con los Griner. O eso se rumoreaba... nunca conseguimos pillarlo por nada. Las herramientas las utilizaba con ella. Vivían en West Lavin, en una casa que se caía a pedazos. No me extraña que ella no intentara arreglarla; no tenía sentido. Los vecinos nos llamaron más de una vez, la oían gritar, pero ella no decía ni pío. Temía las represalias.
—Tuvo suerte de que no la matara.
—Me temo que seguramente sí la ha matado.
La directora miró a Lila con los ojos entrecerrados.
—¿Quieres decir lo que creo que quieres decir?
—Acompáñame.
Se pasearon entre los escombros de la acera, esquivando las grietas abiertas por la mala hierba y los pedazos de asfalto. El pequeño parque situado frente a las ruinas del edificio municipal había sido rescatado, podado y barrido. Allí la única señal del paso del tiempo era la estatua caída de un dignatario municipal fallecido hacía mucho tiempo. Una enorme rama de olmo —seguramente desprendida durante una tormenta— lo había derribado de su pedestal. La rama en cuestión la habían sacado a rastras y la habían cortado, pero el dignatario pesaba tanto que nadie había hecho nada al respecto aún. Formaba un ángulo agudo con el pedestal, con la chistera hundida en la tierra y las botas apuntando al cielo; Lila había visto a alguna que otra niña encaramarse a él y utilizar su espalda a modo de tobogán, desternillándose de risa.
—Crees que el marido, ese hijo de puta, le ha prendido fuego en el capullo —preguntó Janice.
Lila no contestó directamente.
—¿Alguien te ha comentado que sintiera mareos? ¿Náuseas? ¿Que vienen de repente y se pasan al cabo de un par de horas? —Lila se había sentido así un par de veces. Rita Coombs le había mencionado una experiencia similar, como la señora Ransom y Molly.
—Sí —dijo Janice—. Lo han comentado casi todas las personas que conozco. Como si les dieran vueltas, solo que no dan vueltas. No sé si conoces a Nadine Hicks, la mujer de mi compañero de la cárcel...
—Coincidí con ella en un par de cenas comunitarias —dijo Lila, y arrugó la nariz.
—Sí, no faltaba casi nunca. Y cuando faltaba, no se la echaba de menos, ya me entiendes. La cuestión es que, según cuenta, tiene esa sensación de vértigo casi a todas horas.
—Bien, pues tomemos ese dato por un lado. Ahora piensa en las quemas masivas. ¿Sabes algo de eso?
—Solo de forma indirecta. Yo estoy como tú, llegué relativamente pronto. Pero he oído decir a las recién llegadas que lo vieron en las noticias: hombres que quemaban a las mujeres en los capullos.
—Ahí lo tienes —dijo Lila.
—Ah —contestó Janice, viendo por dónde iban los tiros—. Mierda.
—«Mierda» describe bien la situación, desde luego. Al principio pensé... tenía la esperanza... de que quizá fuera un malentendido por parte de las recién llegadas. Habían estado privadas de sueño, claro, y angustiadas, y quizá vieron por televisión algo que _interpretaron_ como capullos quemados pero en realidad era otra cosa. —Lila aspiró profundamente el aire de finales del otoño. Era tan tonificante y limpio que una se sentía más alta. Allí no olía a gases de escape. Ni a camiones cargados de carbón—. Ese instinto, dudar de lo que las mujeres dicen, siempre está presente. Encontrar alguna razón para no aceptar sus palabras. Los hombres lo hacen... pero nosotras también. Yo misma lo hago.
—Te juzgas con demasiada severidad.
—Y lo vi venir. Hablé de eso con Terry Coombs no más de tres o cuatro horas antes de dormirme en el viejo mundo. Las mujeres reaccionaban cuando alguien rompía sus capullos. Eran peligrosas. Luchaban. Mataban. No me sorprende que muchos hombres pudieran ver esa situación como una oportunidad o un motivo para tomar medidas o la excusa que siempre habían buscado para prender fuego a unas cuantas personas.
Janice le dirigió una sonrisa sesgada.
—Y a mí me acusan de no tener un concepto precisamente optimista de la especie humana.
—Alguien quemó a Essie, Janice. Allá en nuestro mundo. A saber quién. Y alguien ha quemado a Candy Meshaum. ¿Habrá sido su maridito, molesto porque se ha dormido su saco de boxeo? Desde luego, si yo estuviese allí, sería el primero al que interrogaría.
Lila se sentó en la estatua caída.
—¿Y el mareo? Estoy casi segura de que eso también se debe a lo que pasa allí. Alguien nos mueve. Nos mueve de un lado a otra como si fuésemos muebles. Justo antes de que quemaran a Essie, ella andaba baja de ánimos. Deduzco que quizá alguien la movió un poco antes de prenderle fuego y se sentía abatida por el vértigo.
—Estoy casi segura de que has plantado el culo encima del primer alcalde de Dooling —comentó Janice.
—Puede soportarlo. Alguien le lavaba los calzoncillos. Este es nuestro nuevo banco honorario. —Lila tomó conciencia de su propia ira. ¿Qué habían hecho Essie o Candy Meshaum, aparte de encontrar por fin unos meses de felicidad en el conjunto de sus miserables vidas? Una felicidad cuyo precio no había sido más que unas cuantas muñecas y un contenedor reacondicionado sin ventanas.
Y los hombres las habían quemado. No le cabía duda. Así había terminado su historia. Cuando una moría allí, moría también ahí. Los hombres las habían eliminado del mundo... de los dos mundos. Los hombres. Por lo visto, no había forma de escapar de ellos.
Janice debía de haberle leído el pensamiento... o, más probablemente, la expresión del rostro.
—Mi marido, Archie, era un buen hombre. Me apoyaba en todo lo que hacía.
—Sí, pero murió joven. Puede que no opinaras lo mismo si hubiese seguido entre los vivos. —Era un comentario cruel, aunque Lila no se arrepintió. Por alguna razón, acudió a su mente un antiguo dicho amish: LOS BESOS NO DURAN; LOS GUISOS, SÍ. Podía afirmarse eso mismo de muchos aspectos de la vida de casada. La sinceridad. El respeto. Incluso la elemental amabilidad.
Coates no dio señales de ofenderse.
—¿Tan mal marido era Clint?
—Era mejor que el de Candy Meshaum.
—Un listón muy bajo —comentó Janice—. Da igual. Yo seguiré atesorando el cálido recuerdo de mi marido, que tuvo la delicadeza de estirar la pata antes de convertirse en un mierda.
Lila echó atrás la cabeza.
—Vale. En fin, quizá me lo merecía.
Volvía a brillar el sol, pero se veían nubarrones al norte, a kilómetros de allí.
—¿Y bien? ¿ _Era_ tan mal marido?
—No. Clint era un buen marido. Y un buen padre. Arrimaba el hombro. Me quería. Nunca lo dudé. Pero se calló muchas cosas sobre su vida. Y para averiguarlas tuve que recurrir a métodos que me llevaron a sentirme mal conmigo misma. Clint soltaba el rollo, sobre la franqueza y el apoyo mutuo, hablaba hasta ponerse de color azul, pero, cuando rascabas bajo la superficie, era el típico hombre Marlboro. Eso, en mi opinión, es peor que las mentiras. Una mentira indica cierto grado de respeto. Estoy segura de que cargaba con una cruz, una cruz muy pesada, y que pensaba que yo era demasiado delicada para ayudarlo a sobrellevar la carga. Yo habría preferido las mentiras a la condescendencia.
—Una cruz ¿en qué sentido?
—Tuvo una infancia difícil. Creo que se abrió camino luchando, literalmente, quiero decir. He visto cómo se frota los nudillos cuando está preocupado o alterado. Pero no habla del tema. Se lo preguntaba, y él salía con su pose de hombre Marlboro. —Lila lanzó una mirada a Coates y percibió cierta inquietud en su semblante—. Sabes a lo que me refiero, ¿no? Porque tratabas con él de cerca.
—Supongo que sí. Clint tiene... otra faceta. Una faceta más dura. Más iracunda. No se la había visto claramente hasta hace poco.
—Eso me cabrea. Pero ¿sabes qué es lo peor? Me he quedado con cierta sensación de... desaliento.
Janice, valiéndose de una ramita, retiraba restos de barro seco de la cara de la estatua.
—Comprendo que eso pueda causar desaliento a una persona.
Los carritos de golf se pusieron en marcha, seguidos de los pequeños remolques de provisiones, cubiertos con lona. La comitiva se perdió de vista y luego reapareció durante un par de minutos donde la carretera ascendía hasta una elevación en el terreno antes de desaparecer definitivamente.
Lila y Janice pasaron a otros temas: las reformas en curso de las casas de Smith Street; los dos hermosos caballos que habían encerrado en un corral y adiestrado —o quizá readiestrado— para montar; y el prodigio que, según Magda Dubcek y aquellas dos exreclusas, estaban a punto de llevar a término. Si podían obtener más energía, más paneles solares, el agua corriente limpia parecía una posibilidad previsible. Instalación de agua en las casas, el sueño americano.
Ya anochecía cuando acabaron de charlar, y ni una sola vez volvieron a surgir en la conversación Clint, Jared, Archie, el marido de Candy Meshaum, Jesucristo o ningún otro hombre.
3
No hablaron de Evie, pero Lila no la había olvidado. No había olvidado el significativo momento en que Eve Black apareció en Dooling, ni su misteriosa omnisciencia ni las huellas revestidas de telarañas en el bosque cerca de la caravana de Truman Mayweather. Tampoco había olvidado adónde la habían llevado aquellas huellas, al asombroso Árbol, que ascendía hacia el cielo sobre sus incontables raíces y troncos entrelazados. En cuanto a los animales que habían aparecido en torno al Árbol —el tigre blanco, la serpiente, el pavo real y el zorro—, Lila también los recordaba.
La imagen mental de las raíces en espiral del Árbol, como los cordones de las zapatillas de un gigante, la forma en que se trenzaban, era recurrente. Tan perfecto era, tan majestuoso, tan erguido...
¿Procedía Evie del Árbol? ¿O procedía el Árbol de Evie? ¿Y las mujeres de Nuestro Sitio? ¿Soñaban o eran ellas el sueño?
4
Un gélido aguacero azotó Nuestro Sitio durante cuarenta y ocho horas. Tronchó ramas de árboles, vertió porquería helada a través de las goteras, llenó las calzadas y las aceras de charcos turbios. Lila, tumbada en su tienda, de vez en cuando dejaba a un lado el libro que estaba leyendo y golpeaba las paredes para desprender el revestimiento helado que se formaba sobre el vinilo. Sonaba a cristales rotos.
Anteriormente, había pasado de los libros en papel al lector electrónico, sin sospechar que el mundo se desintegraría y esos objetos pasarían a quedar obsoletos. Pero en su casa aún había libros, y unos cuantos no se habían enmohecido. Cuando terminó el que estaba leyendo, se aventuró a salir de la tienda, plantada en el jardín delantero, para entrar en su casa, en ruinas. La casa en sí la deprimía —demasiadas reminiscencias de su hijo y su marido— y no se imaginaba viviendo allí dentro, pero tampoco había sido capaz de alejarse.
Las filtraciones de agua que resbalaban por las paredes interiores brillaron a la luz de su linterna de dinamo. La lluvia sonaba como un océano encrespado. De un estante al fondo del salón, sacó una novela de misterio húmeda y se dispuso a salir por donde había entrado. El haz iluminó un extraño papel de color pergamino, caído en el asiento podrido de un taburete junto a la encimera de la cocina. Lila lo cogió. Era una nota de Anton: los datos de contacto de su «experto en árboles», el que debía ocuparse de la grafiosis del olmo en el jardín trasero.
Examinó la nota durante largo rato, atónita por la repentina cercanía de esa otra vida —¿su vida real?, ¿su vida anterior?—, que asomaba de pronto como un niño que sale disparado a la calle entre los coches aparcados.
5
Hacía una semana que la partida de exploración se había marchado cuando Celia Frode regresó a pie, manchada de barro de arriba abajo. Volvía sola.
6
Celia contó que más allá del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, en dirección al pequeño pueblo vecino de Maylock, las carreteras eran intransitables; cada vez que apartaban un árbol de la calzada, solo conseguían avanzar unos metros hasta el siguiente. Fue más fácil abandonar los carritos de golf y caminar.
En Maylock, cuando llegaron, no había nadie, ni el menor rastro de vida reciente. Los edificios y las casas se hallaban como los de Dooling —invadidos por la hierba, en distintos grados de deterioro, algunos reducidos a cenizas por el fuego—, y la carretera más allá del Dorr's Hollow, que se había convertido en un río caudaloso con coches sumergidos a modo de bajíos, se había hundido. Probablemente deberían haber dado media vuelta en ese momento, admitió Celia. Habían reunido provisiones útiles de la tienda de alimentos y otros comercios de Maylock. Pero les dio por hablar del cine de la pequeña localidad de Eagle, que se hallaba a otros quince kilómetros, y de lo maravilloso que sería para las niñas si volvían con un proyector y bobinas. Magda les había asegurado que su gran generador estaría a la altura.
—Todavía pasaban aquella última entrega de _La guerra de las galaxias_ —dijo Celia, e irónicamente añadió—: Ya sabes, jefa, esa en la que el héroe es la chica.
Lila no corrigió lo de «jefa». Había resultado ser muy difícil dejar de ser poli.
—Continúa, Celia.
La partida de exploración cruzó el Dorr's Hollow por un puente que permanecía intacto y enfiló una carretera de montaña llamada Lion Head Way, aparentemente un atajo hasta Eagle. El mapa que habían estado utilizando —tomado prestado de los restos de la Biblioteca Pública de Dooling— mostraba una vieja pista sin nombre de la compañía minera que se desviaba tortuosamente cerca de lo alto de la montaña. La pista de la compañía podía llevarlas hasta la Interestatal, y desde allí el viaje sería fácil. Pero resultó que el mapa estaba desfasado. Lion Head Way había pasado a terminar en un altiplano, donde se alzaba aquel temible lugar destinado al encarcelamiento de hombres que se conocía como Presidio de Lion Head. La pista de la compañía que tenían la esperanza de encontrar había sido eliminada durante la construcción de la prisión.
Como el día ya estaba muy avanzado, en lugar de tratar de volver sobre sus pasos por la estrecha y quebrada pendiente de la montaña a oscuras, decidieron acampar en la cárcel y ponerse en marcha por la mañana, ya descansadas.
Lila conocía bien el Presidio de Lion Head; era el centro de máxima seguridad donde había previsto que los hermanos Griner pasaran los siguientes veinticinco años, poco más o menos.
Janice Coates, también presente durante la narración de Celia, expresó un parco veredicto sobre el presidio.
—Ese sitio. Un asco.
El Head, como lo llamaban los reclusos, había recibido la atención de los medios muy a menudo antes de Aurora, una rara historia de recuperación de la tierra con éxito en el antiguo yacimiento de una mina a cielo abierto. Ulysses Energy Solutions, después de deforestar y volar lo alto de la montaña para extraer el carbón de debajo, «restauró» la tierra transportando hasta lo alto los escombros y allanándola. La idea publicitada con frecuencia era que, en lugar de verse las cimas de las montañas como «destruidas», los ciudadanos debían verlas como si hubiesen sido «abiertas». La tierra recién aplanada era tierra nueva edificable. Si bien la mayor parte de la población del estado era partidaria de la industria carbonífera, casi todos se dieron cuenta de que aquella idea era absurda. Esos altiplanos nuevos y maravillosamente útiles por lo general se hallaban en medio de la nada y a menudo incluían embalses de residuos fangosos o balsas de vertidos químicos, que no era la clase de vecinos que nadie deseaba.
Pero una cárcel era idónea para presentarla como recuperación de tierras en un lugar remoto. Y a nadie le habían preocupado especialmente los posibles peligros medioambientales a los que acaso los residentes se enfrentaran. Así fue como el monte Lion Head se convirtió en el enclave de la prisión de máxima seguridad de Lion Head.
La verja del presidio, explicó Celia, estaba abierta, y la puerta de la entrada, también. Ella, Millie, Nell Seeger y las demás habían entrado. Casi todos los miembros de la partida de exploración salida de Nuestro Sitio eran reclusas recién liberadas y personal de la cárcel, y sentían curiosidad por saber cómo vivía la otra mitad. En general, resultaba bastante confortable. Pese a lo mucho que apestaba a cerrado y a las grietas en el suelo y las paredes, estaba libre de humedades; y el equipamiento de las celdas parecía nuevo.
—Sentimos cierto _déjà_ _vu_ —admitió Celia—, pero también tenía su lado divertido, ¿sabéis?
La última noche había sido tranquila. Por la mañana, Celia bajó un trecho por la montaña en busca de un sendero que pudiera ahorrarles parte de la caminata, evitándoles tener que desandar el largo y tortuoso camino hasta Eagle. Para sorpresa de Celia, recibió una llamada en su walkie-talkie de juguete.
—¡Celia! ¡Creo que vemos a alguien! —Era Nell.
—¿Cómo? —contestó Celia—. Repítelo.
—¡Estamos dentro! ¡Dentro de la cárcel! Las ventanas al final de su versión de Broadway están sucias, ¡pero hay una mujer en una de las celdas de confinamiento! ¡Está tumbada debajo de una manta amarilla! ¡Parece que se mueve! Millie está buscando la manera de abrir la puerta sin electricidad, para... —En ese momento se cortó la transmisión.
Sobresaltó a Celia un descomunal retumbo en la tierra. Abrió los brazos para evitar perder el equilibrio. El walkie-talkie de juguete salió volando de su mano y se hizo añicos contra el suelo.
Celia regresó a lo alto de la pista —le ardían los pulmones y le temblaban las piernas— y cruzó la verja de la cárcel. El polvo flotaba como nieve en el aire; tuvo que taparse la boca para no asfixiarse. Lo que vio era difícil de asimilar, y más difícil aún de aceptar. El terreno estaba destruido, surcado de grietas como después de un terremoto. La tierra desplazada permanecía suspendida en el aire. Celia, con los ojos entornados, reducidos prácticamente a rendijas, tropezó y cayó de rodillas varias veces. Buscó a tientas cualquier cosa sólida donde agarrarse. Gradualmente, cobró forma el contorno rectangular de la unidad de ingresos de Lion Head, de dos plantas de altura, y más allá, nada. No se veía tierra más allá de la unidad de ingresos, ni el resto de la prisión. El altiplano se había desintegrado y había cedido. El nuevo centro de máxima seguridad se había despeñado por la otra ladera de la montaña como un enorme niño de piedra por un tobogán. La unidad de ingresos parecía los decorados de un plató de cine, solo fachada sin nada detrás.
Celia no se atrevió a acercarse al borde para mirar abajo, pero alcanzó a ver restos del desastre: enormes bloques de cemento amontonados al pie, en medio de un pantano de partículas de polvo.
—Así que he vuelto sola —dijo Celia— lo más rápido que he podido.
Tomó aire y, rascándose, se desprendió barro de la mejilla. Las mujeres que la escuchaban, una docena que habían acudido apresuradamente a su lugar de encuentro en el supermercado Shopwell cuando corrió la voz de que Celia había vuelto, guardaron silencio. Las otras no regresarían.
—Recuerdo haber leído que existía cierta controversia sobre el relleno utilizado bajo esa cárcel descomunal —comentó Janice—. Algo así como que el terreno era demasiado blando para tanto peso. Según contaban, la compañía carbonífera no se tomó muchas molestias al apisonar la tierra. Los ingenieros del estado estaban estudiando la situación...
Celia soltó el aire, en un largo suspiro, y prosiguió distraídamente.
—Nell y yo siempre mantuvimos una relación informal. Yo no esperaba que durase fuera de la cárcel. —Se sorbió la nariz, solo una vez—. Así que seguramente no debería sentirme tan triste, pero ya veis: me muero de tristeza.
Siguió un silencio.
—Tengo que ir allí —dijo Lila finalmente.
—¿Quieres compañía? —Se ofreció Tiffany Jones.
7
Lo que estaban haciendo era una locura, dijo Coates.
—Una puta _locura_ , Lila. Marcharos para jugar en medio de una avalancha.
Había acompañado a Lila y a Tiffany Jones hasta Ball's Hill Road. Las dos expedicionarias tiraban de un par de caballos.
—No vamos a jugar en medio de una avalancha —contestó Lila—. Vamos a jugar entre los escombros de una avalancha.
—Y ver si ha sobrevivido alguien —añadió Tiffany.
—¿Es broma? —Janice tenía la nariz como un tomate a causa del frío. Eso le daba un aspecto aún más oracular: el cabello blanco flotando detrás de ella, las encendidas mejillas en carne viva, tan resplandecientes como bengalas. Solo le faltaba el báculo nudoso y un ave de presa posada en el hombro—. Se despeñaron por la ladera de una _montaña_ , y la cárcel les cayó _encima_. __ Están _muertas_. Y si vieron a una mujer dentro, también está muerta.
—Eso ya lo sé —respondió Lila—. Pero si vieron a una mujer en Lion Head, quiere decir que hay más mujeres fuera de Dooling. Saber que no estamos solas en este mundo... sería extraordinario.
—¡No muráis! —gritó la directora de la cárcel a sus espaldas mientras ascendían por Ball's Hill.
—Ese es el plan —contestó Lila.
Junto a ella, Tiffany agregó con tono más rotundo:
—No moriremos.
8
Tiffany había montado a caballo durante toda su infancia. Su familia tenía un manzanar con una zona de columpios, cabras que alimentar, un puesto de perritos calientes y ponis que alquilar.
—Yo montaba a todas horas, pero... en mi familia había también otras cosas... el lado negativo, podríamos decir. No todo eran ponis. Empecé a meterme en problemas y dejé de montar.
Esos problemas no eran un misterio para Lila, que había detenido personalmente a Tiff en más de una ocasión. Aquella Tiffany Jones guardaba asombrosamente poco parecido con esa otra. La mujer que montaba a horcajadas el enorme ruano junto a la yegua blanca de Lila, más pequeña, tenía el cabello castaño rojizo y el rostro redondo, y llevaba un sombrero vaquero blanco que no habría desentonado en un ranchero de una película de John Ford. Poseía un dominio de sí misma muy distinto del de la desdichada drogadicta a quien Truman Mayweather maltrataba en la caravana, cerca de su laboratorio de meta hacía ya mucho tiempo y en un lugar muy lejano.
Y estaba embarazada. Lila se lo había oído mencionar a Tiffany en una Reunión. A eso se debía, al menos en parte, su buen color, pensó Lila.
Anochecía. Pronto tendrían que parar. Maylock se hallaba a la vista: un despliegue de edificios oscuros y desdibujados en un valle a unos tres kilómetros de distancia. La partida de exploración había estado allí y no había encontrado a nadie, ni hombre ni mujer. Al parecer solo quedaba vida humana en Dooling. A menos que de verdad hubiese habido una mujer en la prisión de hombres.
—Parece que te va bastante bien —comentó Lila con cautela—. Ahora.
Tiffany dejó escapar una risa cordial.
—En el más allá se te aclaran las ideas. No quiero drogas, si te refieres a eso.
—¿Eso piensas? ¿Que esto es el más allá?
—En realidad, no —contestó Tiffany, y no volvió a sacar el tema hasta que estuvieron acostadas en los sacos de dormir bajo el armazón de una gasolinera que también había sido abandonada en el otro mundo.
—O sea —dijo Tiffany—, se supone que el más allá es el cielo o el infierno, ¿no?
A través del cristal laminado, veían a los caballos, amarrados a los viejos surtidores. Sus pelajes relucían en el claro de luna.
—Yo no soy creyente —dijo Lila.
—Yo tampoco —contestó Tiffany—. Bueno, no creo en ángeles ni demonios, así que saca tus propias conclusiones. Pero ¿no es esto algo así como un milagro?
Lila pensó en Jessica y en Roger Elway. Su hija, Platinum, crecía deprisa, gateaba por todas partes. (La hija de Elaine Nutting, Nana, había quedado prendada de Plat —un apodo feo, pero todas la llamaban así; probablemente algún día la pequeña las odiaría por ello— y la llevaba a todas partes en una sillita oxidada.) Lila se acordó de Essie y Candy. Se acordó de su marido y su hijo, y de toda su vida, que ya no era su vida.
—Algo así —convino Lila—. Supongo.
—Perdona. «Milagro» no es la palabra exacta. Lo único que digo es que no nos va mal, ¿no? Entonces no es el infierno, ¿no? Estoy limpia. Me siento bien. Tengo estos magníficos caballos, cosa que no había imaginado ni en mis sueños más delirantes. ¿Alguien como yo cuidando de animales como estos? Imposible —Tiffany arrugó la frente—. Estoy centrándolo todo en mí, ¿no? Sé que tú has perdido mucho. Sé que aquí la mayoría de las mujeres han perdido mucho, y yo simplemente no tenía nada que perder.
—Me alegro por ti. —Y así era. Tiffany Jones se había merecido algo mejor.
9
Bordearon Maylock y continuaron a caballo por las orillas del crecido río Dorr's Hollow. En el bosque, una jauría de perros se congregó en un montículo para observarlas cuando pasaban. Eran seis o siete, pastores alemanes y labradores, con la lengua fuera, el aliento empañado. Lila sacó la pistola. Debajo de ella, la yegua blanca sacudió la cabeza y cambió de paso.
—No, no —dijo Tiffany. Alargó una mano y acarició la oreja a la yegua. Habló con voz suave pero firme, sin arrullarla—. Lila no va a disparar esa pistola.
—Ah, ¿no? —Lila permaneció atenta al perro del medio.
El animal tenía el pelo erizado, gris y negro, los ojos disparejos, uno azul y otro amarillo, y su boca parecía especialmente grande. Lila, por norma, no era dada a dejar volar la imaginación, pero tuvo la impresión de que ese perro tenía la rabia.
—Seguro que no. Pretenden perseguirnos. Pero nosotras vamos a lo nuestro. No queremos jugar a que nos persigan. Simplemente seguimos por nuestro camino. —Tiffany mantenía un tono despreocupado y convencido.
Lila pensó que si Tiffany no sabía qué estaba haciendo, sí _creía_ saberlo. Continuaron avanzando a través de la maleza. Los perros no las siguieron.
—Tenías razón —dijo después Lila—. Gracias.
Tiffany dijo que no había de qué.
—No lo he hecho por ti. No te lo tomes a mal, pero no voy a permitir que asustes a mis caballos, jefa.
10
Cruzaron el río y evitaron la pista de montaña que habían tomado las otras para subir a lo alto. En lugar de eso, continuaron por el terreno bajo. Descendieron a un valle que formaba la brecha entre lo que quedaba de Lion Head, a la izquierda, y la pared de otro precipicio, a la derecha, pronunciada y escabrosa, con zonas de tierra ocre asomando entre marañas de matorrales y rocas. Se percibía un penetrante olor metálico que les producía un cosquilleo en la garganta. Terrones sueltos se desprendían, y las piedras incrustadas creaban un eco potente en la hondonada entre los dos precipicios.
Amarraron los caballos a unos doscientos metros de las ruinas de la cárcel y se acercaron a pie.
—Una mujer de otro sitio —dijo Tiffany—. ¿No sería extraordinario?
—Sí —coincidió Lila—. Pero encontrar a algunas de las nuestras aún vivas sería mejor todavía.
Fragmentos de mampostería, algunos tan altos y anchos como camionetas de mudanzas, permanecían empotrados a gran altura en la parte trasera de Lion Head, hundidos en la tierra como cenotafios enormes. Pese a lo sólidos que parecían, a Lila no le costó imaginar que se desprendían por efecto de su propio peso y se precipitaban al vacío para sumarse a los escombros del fondo.
La parte central de la cárcel había caído hasta abajo del todo y se había plegado sobre sí misma, formando una figura vagamente similar a una pirámide. Resultaba impresionante que se hubiese conservado una porción tan grande de la parte central del edificio después del corrimiento de tierras... y a la vez, en cierto modo, siniestro, por lo descifrable, como si se tratara de una casa de muñecas aplastada por un gamberro. Púas de acero desiguales sobresalían del hormigón y descomunales terrones surcados de raíces se habían amontonado sobre otras zonas de cascotes. En los contornos de esa nueva estructura no planificada, se veían brechas quebradas en el hormigón por las que se atisbaba el negro interior. Por todas partes había árboles tronchados, troncos de ocho o diez metros en pedazos.
Lila se puso una mascarilla quirúrgica que llevaba.
—Quédate aquí, Tiffany.
—Quiero ir contigo. No tengo miedo. Dame una. —Tendió la mano para que le entregara una mascarilla.
—Ya sé que no tienes miedo. Solo quiero que alguien pueda volver si esto se me cae en la cabeza, y tú eres la experta en caballos. Yo soy solo una expoli. Además, las dos sabemos que tú vives por dos.
En la abertura más cercana, Lila se detuvo para despedirse con un gesto. Tiffany no la vio; había vuelto con los caballos.
11
La luz se filtraba en el interior del presidio en forma de sables que horadaban el hormigón aplastado. Lila descubrió que estaba caminando por una pared, pisando las puertas de acero cerradas de las celdas. Todo se hallaba girado un cuarto. El techo quedaba a su derecha. Lo que habría sido la pared izquierda era el techo, y el suelo quedaba a su izquierda. Se vio obligada a agachar la cabeza para deslizarse por debajo de la puerta abierta de una celda, que colgaba como una trampilla. Oyó golpeteos, goteos. Bajo sus botas crujían la piedra y el cristal.
Un obstáculo compuesto de roca, tuberías destrozadas y fragmentos de material aislante le impidió seguir avanzando. Recorrió el entorno con el haz de la linterna. Por encima de su cabeza, vio el rótulo **Nivel A** estampado en pintura roja. Lila retrocedió hasta el lugar donde la puerta colgaba. Después de dar un salto y agarrarse al marco, se encaramó al interior de la celda. En la pared opuesta a la puerta colgante, se había abierto un agujero. Lila se acercó con cuidado a la brecha. Se encogió y la franqueó. Salientes de hormigón roto se le engancharon a la espalda de la camisa y se la rasgaron.
En su cabeza oyó la voz de Clint, que preguntaba si no creía acaso — _solo acaso_ , y no te tomes esto como una acusación— que en esas circunstancias era necesario reconsiderar el equilibrio entre el riesgo y la recompensa.
Hablemos claro, ¿quieres, Lila? El riesgo radica en que estás adentrándote en un edificio en ruinas sin afianzar al pie de una montaña sin afianzar. Además, ahí fuera hay unos condenados perros salvajes, desquiciados, a juzgar por su aspecto, y una drogadicta embarazada esperándote —o sin esperarte— con los caballos. Y tú tienes —tampoco es una crítica, solo señalo un hecho, cariño— cuarenta y cinco años. Todo el mundo sabe que la edad óptima para que una mujer ande a rastras por un edificio en ruinas inestable y sin afianzar oscila entre los poco menos de veinte y poco menos de treinta años. Estás fuera del grupo objetivo. Todo se suma para crear un riesgo de muerte significativo, una muerte horrible o una muerte inimaginablemente horrible.
En la celda contigua, Lila tuvo que subirse a un inodoro de acero maltrecho y después descolgarse por otra abertura en el suelo que antes fuera la pared derecha. Se le torció el tobillo de manera extraña al caer, y tuvo que agarrarse para no perder el equilibrio. Se cortó en la mano con algo metálico.
La herida en la palma era un tajo profundo y rojo. Seguramente necesitaría un par de puntos. Debería volver, aplicarse un poco de pomada y un vendaje adecuado del botiquín que llevaban.
Sin embargo, Lila optó por arrancar un jirón de su camisa y envolverse la mano. Con la linterna, iluminó otro rótulo en la pared: **Módulo de seguridad**. Iba bien encaminada. Parecía el lugar donde habían visto a la mujer en la celda. Lo malo era que el pasillo se encontraba por encima de su cabeza, un pozo ascendente. Pero lo peor era la pierna que vio en un rincón escorado, cercenada de manera irregular cinco centímetros por encima de la rodilla. Vestía pana verde. Nell Seeger llevaba un pantalón de pana verde cuando la expedición había partido rumbo a Eagle.
—Esto no voy a contárselo a Tiff —dijo Lila. Oír su propia voz la sobresaltó al tiempo que la reconfortaba—. No serviría de nada.
Lila apuntó hacia arriba con el haz. El módulo de seguridad de Lion Head se había convertido en una ancha chimenea. Enfocó con la luz a derecha e izquierda, en busca de un camino por donde seguir, y le pareció ver uno. El falso techo del módulo era de paneles abatibles, y todos los paneles se habían desprendido en el corrimiento de tierra, pero la retícula de acero permanecía en su sitio. Semejaba un enrejado. O los peldaños de una escalera de mano.
En cuanto a la recompensa, continuó Clint, quizá encuentres a alguien. Quizá. Pero sé sincera contigo misma. Sabes que estas ruinas están vacías, igual que el resto del mundo. Aquí no encontrarás nada más que los cadáveres de las mujeres que acompañaban a Nell. Que esa pierna seccionada las representa a todas. Si hubiera más mujeres en el mundo que llamáis Nuestro Sitio, a estas alturas ya habrían anunciado su existencia. Como mínimo habrían dejado algún rastro. ¿Qué crees que tienes que demostrar? ¿Que las mujeres también pueden ser hombres Marlboro?
Tuvo la impresión de que Clint, ni siquiera en su imaginación, era capaz de decir sin más que temía por ella. No podía dejar de tratarla como a una de sus pacientes encarceladas, de lanzarle preguntas orientativas como si fueran la pelota en el juego del balón prisionero.
—Márchate, Clint —dijo Lila, y asombrosamente él obedeció.
A sus pies había varios papeles, y unas cuantas fotografías de la pared de la celda de un recluso. Lila examinó una foto de un preso sonriente en compañía de su mujer y una niña de corta edad frente a un telón de fondo de Disneylandia. Cuidadosamente la dejó a un lado y utilizó papeles rasgados para confeccionarse una venda de cartón piedra con la que cubrirse la herida a fin de contener el sangrado.
Alzó los brazos y se agarró a la varilla inferior de la retícula del techo. Se combó, pero no se rompió. Le dolió la mano y sintió que la sangre escapaba por los bordes de la compresa de papel, pero siguió colgada y tiró hacia arriba, muy recta. Afianzó la bota en el travesaño y empujó. La varilla volvió a combarse... y aguantó. Lila alargó los brazos, tiró, se impulsó con los pies. Comenzó a ascender por los peldaños de la retícula. Cada vez que llegaba al nivel de la puerta de una celda, se sujetaba con la mano izquierda, ilesa, y, balanceándose en el aire, apuntaba la linterna con la mano derecha herida. No vio a ninguna mujer a través del cristal reforzado con malla de alambre de la parte superior de la primera puerta, a ninguna en la segunda, a ninguna en la tercera; lo único que vio fueron los armazones de las camas en lo que antes fueran los suelos. Le palpitaba la mano. La sangre le goteaba dentro de la manga. Nada en la cuarta celda, y tuvo que detenerse a descansar, pero no demasiado tiempo, y desde luego no podía mirar abajo en la oscuridad. ¿Existía algún truco para esa clase de esfuerzos? ¿Algo que Jared le había mencionado sobre las carreras campo a través, algo que una debía decirse? Ah, sí, de pronto se acordó. «Cuando empiezo a sentir una opresión en los pulmones —había explicado Jared—, hago como si hubiera chicas mirándome, y pienso que no puedo defraudarlas.»
A ella no le servía de gran cosa. Sencillamente tendría que seguir adelante.
Lila trepó. La quinta celda solo contenía una cama, un lavabo y un inodoro colgante. Nada más.
Había llegado a una **T**. A la izquierda, al otro lado del pozo, se extendía otro pasillo. A lo lejos, al final del pasillo, el haz de luz de la linterna enfocó lo que parecía una pila de ropa sucia: un cuerpo o varios, pensó, los restos de las otras exploradoras. ¿Era ese el anorak de Nell Seeger? Lila no estaba segura, pero, a pesar del frío, ya olía a descomposición. Habían sido zarandeadas hasta partirse y luego probablemente habían sido zarandeadas un poco más. Y no eran más que muñecas rotas, y no podía hacerse otra cosa que dejarlas allí.
Algo se movió en medio de la pila, y Lila oyó un chillido. Al parecer las ratas de la cárcel habían sobrevivido al tumulto.
Lila trepó un poco más. Cada varilla metálica de la retícula cedía más bajo su peso, crujía más tiempo y con un sonido más agudo cada vez que se impulsaba. La sexta celda estaba vacía, como también la séptima, la octava y la novena. Todo está siempre en el último sitio donde miras, ¿no? Siempre al fondo del último estante del armario. Siempre en la última carpeta de la pila. Siempre en el bolsillo más pequeño y menos usado de la mochila.
Si se caía entonces, al menos moriría en el acto.
Siempre —siempre, siempre, siempre— caías desde la varilla más alta de la retícula del techo que utilizabas a modo de escalera en el pasillo de la prisión de máxima seguridad, que se había venido abajo en un corrimiento de tierra junto con los inestables restos de una antigua montaña de carbón.
Pero decidió que no se rendiría. Había matado a Jessica Elway en defensa propia. Había sido la primera mujer jefa de policía de la historia del condado de Dooling. Había colocado unas esposas a los hermanos Griner, y cuando Low Griner la mandó a la mierda, ella se rio en su cara. Unos cuantos metros más no iban a detenerla.
Y no la detuvieron.
Se inclinó hacia la oscuridad, como si la soltara un compañero de baile, se balanceó y dirigió el haz de luz a través de la ventana de la puerta de la décima celda.
La muñeca hinchable había quedado con la cara contra el cristal. Sus labios de color rojo cereza, confeccionados para la felación, formaban un arco en una expresión de sorpresa; sus ojos eran de un azul ingenuo y seductor a lo Betty Boop. Por efecto de una corriente de aire procedente de algún sitio, movió su cabeza vacía en un gesto de asentimiento y encogió los hombros de color rosa. En una etiqueta pegada a su cabeza se leía: «¡Felices cuarenta, Larry!».
12
—Vamos, Lila —dijo Tiffany. Su voz se elevó desde el fondo del pozo—. Da un solo paso y ya te preocuparás después del siguiente.
—Vale —consiguió responder Lila.
Se alegraba de que Tiffany no le hubiese hecho caso. A decir verdad, no sabía si se había alegrado tanto de muchas más cosas en su vida. Tenía la garganta seca; le daba la impresión de que la piel le quedaba demasiado ajustada en torno al cuerpo; le ardía la mano. Sin embargo, la voz procedente de abajo era otra vida. Esa escalera oscura no tenía por qué ser el final.
—Muy bien. Ahora: un paso —dijo Tiffany—. Solo tienes que dar un paso. Por ahí se empieza.
13
—Una muñeca hinchable para follar —dijo Tiffany, maravillada, más tarde—. Vaya una gilipollez de regalo de cumpleaños. ¿Les dejaban tener mierdas como esa aquí dentro?
Lila se encogió de hombros.
—Yo solo sé lo que he visto. Seguramente detrás hay una historia, pero nunca la conoceremos.
Cabalgaron todo el día y durante la noche. Tiffany quería que una de las mujeres de Nuestro Sitio con experiencia en enfermería le limpiara cuanto antes la mano a Lila. Esta dijo que no le pasaría nada, pero Tiff insistió.
—Le he asegurado a esa bruja que dirigía la cárcel que no moriríamos. Eso significa _ninguna_ de las dos.
Habló a Lila del apartamento que tenía en Charlottesville antes de que la adicción a la meta arrasara poco más o menos su última década. Tenía un montón de helechos. Además, los muy cabrones habían crecido bien.
—Eso es vivir como es debido, tener plantas de interior grandes —dijo Tiffany.
Semidesplomada en la silla, con el agradable balanceo del caballo, Lila tuvo que esforzarse para no dormirse y posiblemente caerse.
—¿Cómo?
—Mis helechos —repitió Tiffany—. Te estoy obsequiando con la historia de mis helechos para que no te me desmayes.
Al oír esto, a Lila le entraron ganas de reír, pero lo único que salió de ella fue un gemido. Tiffany le dijo que no estuviera triste.
—Podemos conseguirte algunos. Hay helechos por todas partes, joder. Son muy comunes.
Más tarde, Lila preguntó a Tiffany si esperaba tener un niño o una niña.
—Me basta con que sea un crío sano —contestó Tiffany—. Lo mismo me da, siempre y cuando esté sano.
—¿Por qué no le pones «Helecho» si es niña?
Tiffany se echó a reír.
—¡Así me gusta!
Dooling apareció a la vista al amanecer, con los edificios flotando en una neblina azul. El humo se elevaba en espiral desde el aparcamiento situado detrás de los escombros del Squeaky Wheel. Allí tenían encendida una fogata comunal. La electricidad seguía siendo un bien escaso, así que cocinaban al aire libre siempre que era posible. (El Squeaky había resultado ser una excelente fuente de combustible. Estaban desmantelando poco a poco el tejado y las paredes.)
Tiffany las guio hacia el fuego. Había allí diez o doce mujeres, sin forma definida a causa de los gruesos abrigos, gorros y guantes. Dos grandes cafeteras hervían sobre la ancha fogata.
—Bienvenidas a casa. Tenemos café. —Coates se separó del grupo.
—A diferencia de nosotras, que no tenemos nada —contestó Lila—. Lo siento. En el módulo de seguridad solo había una muñeca follable tipo Farrah. Si vive alguien más en este mundo, sigue sin haber el menor rastro. Y las demás... —Movió la cabeza en un gesto de negación.
—¿Señora Norcross?
Todas se volvieron para mirar a la nueva, que había llegado el día anterior. Lila avanzó un paso hacia ella y se detuvo.
—¿Mary Pak? ¿Eres tú?
Mary se acercó a Lila y la abrazó.
—Hace un momento estaba con Jared, señora Norcross. He pensado que querría usted saberlo: está bien. O lo estaba la última vez que lo he visto. Eso ha sido en el desván de la casa piloto de su barrio, antes de dormirme.
### 5
1
Tig Murphy fue el funcionario a quien Clint se lo contó primero, la verdad sobre Evie y sobre lo que había dicho: que todo parecía depender de si Clint podía mantenerla con vida o no, pero que ella no saldría en su propia defensa más que Jesús cuando lo llevaron a rastras ante Poncio Pilato. Para acabar, Clint añadió:
—He mentido porque no me he visto capaz de contar la verdad. La verdad es tan grande que se me atragantaba.
—Ajá. ¿Sabe que yo daba clases de Historia en un instituto, doctor? —De hecho, Tig lo estaba mirando de una manera que a Clint le recordaba claramente al instituto. Era la mirada de alguien que dudaba de la veracidad de una autorización para salir de clase. Era la mirada de alguien que quería comprobar si se te dilataban las pupilas.
—Sí, ya lo sabía —dijo Clint. Se había llevado al funcionario a la lavandería para poder hablar en privado.
—Fui el primero de mi familia que acabó una carrera universitaria. Hacer pasar malos ratos a las presas en una cárcel de mujeres para mí no ha sido precisamente un ascenso en el escalafón. Pero debe saber que he visto la atención que dedica usted a esas chicas. Y sé que, aunque muchas han hecho cosas terribles, la mayoría de ellas no son del todo malas. Así que quiero ayudar... —El funcionario hizo una mueca y se pasó la mano por las entradas del pelo. Se veía en él al profesor que había sido; era fácil representárselo paseándose de acá para allá, hablando de la gran diferencia entre la leyenda de los Hatfield y los McCoy y los hechos históricos de la contienda, hundiéndose los dedos cada vez más en el pelo a medida que se emocionaba con el tema.
—Pues ayude —dijo Clint.
Si ninguno de los funcionarios accedía a quedarse, intentaría mantener la cárcel cerrada sin ellos, y no lo lograría. Terry Coombs y el nuevo disponían de lo que quedaba del cuerpo de policía. Podían reunir a más hombres si era necesario. Clint había visto que Frank Geary inspeccionaba las alambradas y las verjas en busca de puntos débiles.
—¿De verdad se lo cree? ¿Cree que esa mujer es... mágica? —Tig pronunció la palabra «mágica» __ tal como Jared pronunciaba la expresión «en serio» _,_ como en la frase «¿ _En serio_ quieres ver mis deberes?».
—Creo que tiene cierto poder sobre esto que está ocurriendo y, lo que es más importante, creo que los hombres que hay fuera de esta cárcel también lo creen.
—Cree que es mágica. —Tig le dirigió de nuevo esa mirada de profesor receloso: «Chico, ¿vas muy colocado?».
—La verdad es que sí —contestó Clint, y levantó la mano para impedir que Tig hablara, al menos de momento—. Pero, incluso si me equivoco, debemos defender esta cárcel. Es nuestra obligación. Tenemos que proteger a todas nuestras presas. No me fío de que Terry Coombs, borracho como está, se limite a _hablar_ con Eve Black, y lo mismo digo de Frank Geary o de cualquier otro. Usted ya la ha oído. Loca o no, tiene verdadero talento para sacar de quicio a la gente. Seguirá haciéndolo hasta que alguno pierda los papeles y la mate. Alguno o todos ellos. Quemarla en la hoguera no queda del todo descartado.
—Eso no lo dirá en serio.
—La verdad es que sí. ¿Le suenan de algo las Brigadas del Soplete?
Tig se apoyó en una de las lavadoras industriales.
—De acuerdo.
Clint de buena gana lo habría abrazado.
—Gracias.
—En fin, ese es mi trabajo, por absurdo que sea, usted ya lo sabe, pero bueno, de nada. ¿Cuánto tiempo cree que tendremos que aguantar?
—No mucho. Unos días a lo sumo. Al menos eso dice ella. —Cayó en la cuenta de que hablaba de Eve Black como un griego antiguo hablaría de una deidad colérica. Era descabellado, y sin embargo tenía la sensación de que no podía ser más cierto.
2
—Alto ahí, alto ahí, alto ahí —dijo Rand Quigley cuando Clint terminó de repetirlo todo por segunda vez—. ¿Esa mujer va a acabar con el mundo si la entregamos a la policía?
Era casi con toda exactitud lo que Clint creía, pero prefería plantearlo de manera un poco más sutil.
—Sencillamente no podemos permitir que la policía del pueblo se la lleve, Rand. La conclusión es esa.
Rand parpadeó, sus claros ojos castaños detrás de las gruesas lentes cuadradas, con las cejas, unidas en un único trazo, en el puente de las gafas, posadas como un gusano rollizo.
—¿Y qué pasa con el Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades? ¿No estaba usted en contacto con ellos?
Tig planteó esto último de forma abierta.
—Era mentira. El doctor se lo inventó para que nos quedáramos.
Aquí es donde perdemos a Rand, pensó Clint. Adiós, caballero, ha sido un placer, espero que encuentre su paraíso. Pero Rand se limitó a mirar a Clint y después otra vez a Tig.
—¿No ha llegado a ponerse en contacto con ellos?
—No —contestó Clint.
—¿Ni una sola vez?
—Bueno, me saltó un contestador un par de veces.
—Joder —dijo Rand—. Pues sí que estamos bien.
—Tú lo has dicho, colega —terció Tig—. ¿Aún podemos contar contigo? ¿Por si alguien quiere armar jaleo?
—Sí —contestó Rand, aparentemente ofendido—. Claro que sí. Ellos controlan el pueblo; nosotros controlamos la cárcel. Así tiene que ser.
El siguiente fue Wettermore. La situación en su conjunto le causó gracia, con cierta amargura pero no sin sinceridad.
—No me sorprendería lo más mínimo que la Guerrera Matadrogatas fuera mágica. No me extrañaría que conejos con relojes en el bolsillo empezaran a pasar brincando por aquí. Lo que me está contando es más delirante que Aurora. Para mí, no cambia nada. Yo me quedo aquí mientras esto dure.
Fue Scott Hughes, a sus diecinueve años el más joven del grupo, quien entregó las llaves, el arma, la táser y el resto del equipo. Si el Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades no iba a llevarse a Eve Black, él no se quedaba. No era el caballero blanco de nadie; era un cristiano normal y corriente bautizado en la iglesia luterana, allí mismo, en Dooling, y rara vez fallaba un domingo.
—Me caéis todos bien. No sois como Peters o alguno de los otros gilipollas que trabajan aquí. Y no me importa que Billy sea gay o que Rand sea medio retrasado. Son buena gente.
Clint y Tig lo habían seguido a través de la zona de ingresos hasta la puerta de entrada de la cárcel y el patio para intentar disuadirlo.
—Y Tig, tú siempre has sido buen tío. También tengo un buen concepto de usted, doctor Norcross. Pero no pienso morir aquí.
—¿Quién ha hablado de morir? —preguntó Clint.
El joven llegó a su furgoneta, provista de ruedas enormes.
—Sea realista. ¿A quién conoce en este pueblo que no tenga un arma? ¿A quién conoce en este pueblo que no tenga dos o tres?
Era verdad. En la región de los Apalaches, incluso en el extrarradio (y decir «extrarradio» podría ser un tanto exagerado; en Dooling había un Foot Locker y un Shopwell, pero el cine más cercano estaba en Eagle), casi todo el mundo tenía un arma.
—Y en serio, doctor Norcross, he estado en la oficina del sheriff. Tienen un armero lleno de M4. Además de otras cosas. Si los escuadrones de justicieros se presentan después de saquear el armero, no se ofenda, pero usted y Tig pueden coger esas Mossberg que tenemos aquí y metérselas por el culo.
Tig se hallaba junto al hombro de Clint.
—Así que ¿te marchas sin más?
—Sí —contestó Hughes—. Me marcho sin más. Alguien tiene que abrirme la verja.
—Mierda, Tig —dijo Clint, lo cual era la señal.
Tig suspiró, pidió disculpas a Scott Hughes —«Lo siento mucho, tío»— e inmovilizó a su colega con una descarga de táser. Era una posibilidad que habían analizado. Dejar marcharse a Scott Hughes planteaba serios problemas. No podían permitir que nadie contara a la gente del pueblo que disponían de efectivos tan escasos o describiera las limitaciones del armamento de la cárcel. Porque Scott tenía razón, el armero de la cárcel dejaba mucho que desear: una docena de escopetas Mossberg 590, perdigones para cargarlas y el arma de mano personal de cada funcionario, una pistola del calibre 45.
Los dos hombres permanecieron de pie junto a su colega, que se retorcía en el asfalto del aparcamiento.
Clint, incómodo, se acordó del jardín trasero de la casa de los Burtell, las Peleas de los Viernes por la Noche, Jason, su hermano de acogida, tendido en la tierra con el pecho desnudo junto a las zapatillas mugrientas de Clint. Jason tenía bajo el ojo una marca roja del tamaño de una moneda, dejada por el puño de Clint. Moqueando, masculló desde el suelo: «No pasa nada, Clint». Los adultos vitoreaban y reían desde sus tumbonas, brindando con sus latas de Falstaff. Aquella vez Clint se ganó el batido. ¿Qué había ganado esta vez?
—En fin, maldita sea, hecho está —dijo Tig.
Tres días atrás, cuando habían tenido que ocuparse de Peters, Tig parecía un hombre en plena reacción alérgica, a punto de expulsar marisco tóxico del estómago. En ese momento parecía que solo tuviese una pizca de acidez. Se arrodilló, dio la vuelta a Scott y le inmovilizó las muñecas a la espalda.
—¿Lo dejamos en el módulo B, doctor?
—De acuerdo, supongo que sí. —Clint ni siquiera se había planteado dónde dejar a Scott, lo cual no aumentó precisamente su confianza en su propia capacidad para hacer frente a la situación en curso. Se puso en cuclillas para agarrar a Hughes por las axilas y ayudar a Tig a levantarlo y llevarlo adentro.
—Caballeros —dijo una voz desde el otro lado de la verja. Era una voz femenina, rebosante de valor, de agotamiento... y de satisfacción—. ¿Pueden permanecer en esa postura? Quiero sacar una buena foto.
3
Los dos hombres alzaron la vista, y sus expresiones eran la viva imagen de la culpabilidad; podrían haber sido soldados de la mafia a punto de enterrar un cadáver. Michaela quedó incluso más complacida cuando echó un vistazo a su primera foto. La cámara que llevaba en el bolso era un Nikon muy básica, pero la imagen era nítida. Perfecta.
—¡Eh, piratas desastrados! —exclamó Garth Flickinger—. ¿Qué os traéis entre manos? Decid.
Michaela y él se habían detenido en un mirador cercano para probar el relámpago púrpura, y él estaba de lo más animado. También Mickey parecía haber hecho acopio de energía. Lo que a esas alturas era hacer mucho acopio.
—Mierda, doctor —dijo Tig—. Ahora sí que la hemos hecho buena.
Clint no contestó. Inmóvil, sostenía a Scott Hughes y miraba boquiabierto a los recién llegados, que se hallaban de pie ante un Mercedes maltrecho. Era como si, dentro de su cabeza, estuviera produciéndose un extraño corrimiento de tierras en sentido inverso, uno en el que las cosas se reagrupaban en lugar de desintegrarse. Quizá era así como la verdadera inspiración acudía a un gran científico o filósofo. Eso esperaba. Clint dejó caer a Scott, y el funcionario, desorientado, soltó un gemido de disgusto.
—¡Una más! —exclamó Michaela. Disparó—. ¡Y otra! ¡Bien! ¡Estupendo! Ahora, veamos, ¿qué estáis haciendo exactamente, chicos?
—¡Por la sangre de Cristo, esto es un motín! —exclamó Garth, en lo que acaso fuera una imitación del capitán Jack Sparrow en _Piratas del Caribe_ —. ¡Han dejado inconsciente al primer oficial, y pronto lo obligarán a recorrer la pasarela! ¡Arrr!
—Cállate —replicó Michaela. Agarró la verja, que por suerte para ella no estaba electrificada, y la sacudió—. ¿Tiene esto algo que ver con la mujer?
—Estamos jodidos. —Tig dejó caer el comentario como si estuviera impresionado.
—Abra la verja —dijo Clint.
—¿Qué...?
—Ábrala.
Tig se encaminó hacia el puesto de control de la entrada. En el camino se detuvo y, con expresión dubitativa, se volvió para mirar por encima del hombro a Clint, quien asintió y le indicó con un gesto que siguiera. Clint se acercó a la verja, indiferente a los incesantes chasquidos de la cámara. La joven tenía los ojos enrojecidos, como cabía esperar tras cuatro días y tres noches de vigilia, pero su acompañante los tenía igual de rojos. Clint sospechaba que posiblemente habían compartido estimulantes ilegales. En su trance de repentina inspiración, esa era la menor de sus preocupaciones.
—Usted es la hija de Janice —dijo—. La periodista.
—Exacto, Michaela Coates. Michaela Morgan, para los espectadores. Y según creo, usted es el doctor Clinton Norcross.
—¿Nos conocemos? —Clint no lo recordaba.
—Lo entrevisté para el periódico del instituto. Debe de hacer ocho o nueve años.
—¿Le caí bien? —preguntó él. Dios santo, qué viejo era; y envejecía más a cada minuto.
Michaela ladeó una mano a uno y otro lado.
—Me pareció un poco raro que le gustara tanto trabajar en una cárcel. _En una cárcel con mi madre._ Pero eso da igual. ¿Qué pasa con esa mujer? ¿Se llama Eve Black? ¿Es verdad que se duerme y vuelve a despertar? Porque es lo que he oído.
—Eve Black es el nombre con el que se presenta —contestó Clint—, y sí, efectivamente se duerme y despierta con toda normalidad, aunque nada más en ella parece normal ni por asomo. —Clint sentía vértigo, como un hombre que camina por la cuerda floja con los ojos vendados—. ¿Le gustaría entrevistarla?
—¿Usted qué cree? —Por un momento dio la impresión de que Michaela no estaba soñolienta en absoluto. Exhibía un entusiasmo febril.
Las verjas exterior e interior iniciaron su recorrido. Garth entrelazó su brazo con el de Michaela, y accedieron al espacio de seguridad intermedio, pero Clint alzó la mano.
—Hay condiciones.
—Dígalas —respondió Michaela, animosa—. Aunque, teniendo en cuenta las fotos que hay en mi cámara, quizá no le convenga ser demasiado codicioso.
—¿Han visto algún coche patrulla de la oficina del sheriff por aquí cerca?
Garth y Michaela negaron con la cabeza.
Ningún coche patrulla todavía. Nadie vigilaba la carretera de acceso procedente de West Lavin. Esa era una estratagema que Geary había pasado por alto, al menos de momento, y a Clint tampoco le sorprendía demasiado. Con Terry Coombs refugiándose en una petaca, su número dos, el tipo de Control Animal, debía de estar tanteando el terreno. Pero Clint dudaba que tardase mucho en caer en la cuenta. Tal vez ya hubiera alguien en camino. De hecho, debía dar por supuesto que era el caso, lo cual significaba que ir a buscar una pizza y comer con Jared quedaba descartado. Posiblemente a Geary no le gustaría la idea de que alguien entrase en la cárcel, pero desde luego no querría que nadie saliese. Por ejemplo, el problemático médico de la cabeza. Evie Black, acaso oculta en la parte de atrás de un furgón de la cárcel, era otro ejemplo.
—¿Cuáles son las condiciones? —preguntó Michaela.
—Tiene que ser breve —respondió Clint—. Y si oye lo que yo creo que va a oír y ve lo que yo creo que va a ver, debe ayudarme.
—Ayudarlo ¿con qué? —preguntó Tig cuando se reunió con ellos.
—Refuerzos —contestó Clint—. Armas. —Guardó silencio un momento—. Y mi hijo. Quiero aquí a mi hijo.
4
En el Olympia no había pastel. La mujer que preparaba los pasteles dormía envuelta en un capullo en la sala de descanso. Gus Vereen, que estaba tomando nota de los pedidos de los ayudantes del sheriff, dijo que andaba escaso de personal.
—He encontrado un trozo de tarta helada al fondo de la cámara frigorífica, pero no respondo de cómo esté. Lleva ahí desde hace un siglo.
—Yo la probaré —dijo Don, aunque le parecía un pobre sucedáneo (no había vergüenza mayor que un restaurante sin pasteles), pero como Frank Geary estaba al otro lado de la mesa, optó por portarse lo mejor posible.
En la mesa del fondo se hallaban los ayudantes Barrows, Rangle y Eric Blass, además de un viejo juez llamado Silver. Acababan de tomar un almuerzo asqueroso. Don había pedido el Haluski Special, que le había llegado flotando en un charco de grasa amarilla. Se lo había comido de todos modos, en parte por despecho, y algo le decía que se avecinaba un ataque de cagalera. Los demás comieron bocadillos y hamburguesas; ninguno pasó de la mitad. Prescindieron también del postre, lo cual tal vez fuera lo más inteligente. Frank había pasado media hora poniéndolos al corriente sobre lo que sabía de la situación en la cárcel.
—¿Crees que Norcross se la está tirando? —preguntó Don a bocajarro.
Frank entornó los párpados y lo fulminó con la mirada.
—Eso es improbable e intrascendente.
Don captó el mensaje y no pronunció otra palabra hasta que Gus Vereen se acercó a ver si necesitaban algo más.
En cuanto Gus se fue, tomó la palabra el juez Silver.
—¿Qué opciones crees que tenemos, Frank? ¿Cuál es la postura de Terry al respecto? —Su señoría presentaba un tono de piel preocupantemente gris. Hablaba con voz acuosa, como si masticara tabaco.
—Nuestras opciones son limitadas. Podríamos esperar a que Norcross salga, pero a saber cuánto tardará. Es muy probable que en la cárcel haya abundantes provisiones.
—Es verdad —intervino Don—. No tienen solomillo de primera ni nada por el estilo, pero disponen de alimentos deshidratados hasta el fin de los tiempos.
—Cuanto más esperemos —prosiguió Frank—, más se propagarán las habladurías. Muchos de por aquí podrían plantearse tomar la iniciativa. —Esperó a que alguien dijera: «¿Acaso no es eso lo que estás haciendo tú?». Pero nadie dijo nada.
—¿Y si no esperamos? —preguntó el juez.
—Norcross tiene un hijo, y naturalmente ya conoce usted a su esposa.
—Una buena policía —afirmó el juez—. Cauta, concienzuda. Esa mujer se atiene al reglamento.
Eric, multado dos veces por exceso de velocidad a manos de la jefa Norcross, hizo una mueca de rechazo.
—Y ojalá pudiéramos contar con ella ahora —dijo Geary. Eso Don no se lo creyó ni por un segundo. Desde el principio, cuando Geary había agarrado a Don por la axila y lo había tratado como a una marioneta, vio que no era la clase de individuo que aceptaría un papel secundario—. Pero está en paradero desconocido, lo mismo que su hijo. Si estuvieran aquí, sugeriría que intentáramos animarlos para que convencieran a Norcross de que ponga fin a lo que sea que se trae entre manos con esa tal Black.
El juez Silver chasqueó la lengua y fijó la mirada en su taza de café. No la había tocado. Llevaba una corbata con un estampado de limones de vivo color amarillo, y el contraste con su piel resaltaba su aspecto enfermizo. Una mariposa nocturna revoloteó alrededor de su cabeza. El juez la espantó, y la mariposa fue a posarse en uno de los globos de las lámparas colgadas del techo.
—Entonces... —empezó el juez Silver.
—Eso —dijo Don—. Entonces ¿qué hacemos?
Frank Geary meneó la cabeza y barrió de la mesa unas cuantas migas, que atrapó con la palma de la otra mano.
—Reunimos a un grupo de personas responsables. Quince o veinte hombres de fiar. Los equipamos. Debería haber chalecos antibalas suficientes en la comisaría. Y sabe Dios qué más. No es que hayamos tenido tiempo de hacer inventario.
—¿De verdad piensas...? —empezó a decir Reed Barrows con incertidumbre, pero Frank lo interrumpió.
—En todo caso hay cinco o seis fusiles de asalto. Deberían ponerse en manos de quienes sepan manejarlos. Todos los demás llevarán Winchester o sus armas reglamentarias, o lo uno y lo otro. Don nos facilitará un plano de la cárcel, cualquier detalle que pueda servirnos. Después haremos una demostración de fuerza y daremos a Norcross una oportunidad más para entregarla. Creo que cederá.
El juez preguntó lo evidente.
—¿Y si no cede?
—No creo que pueda detenernos.
—Eso me parece un tanto extremo, incluso dado lo extraordinario de las circunstancias —dictaminó el juez—. ¿Y qué hay de Terry?
—Terry está... —Frank echó las migas al suelo del restaurante.
—Está borracho, juez —contestó Reed Barrows.
Lo que ahorró a Frank tener que decirlo. Lo que dijo (adoptando una expresión lúgubre) fue:
—Hace lo que puede.
—Borracho es borracho —insistió Reed.
Vern Rangle opinó que era la pura verdad.
—Entonces... —El juez posó la palma en el ancho hombro de Frank y le dio un apretón—. Supongo que queda en tus manos, Frank.
Gus Vereen se acercó con el trozo de tarta helada de Don. El dueño del restaurante no parecía muy convencido. La porción estaba escarchada.
—¿Lo tienes claro, Don?
—¡Qué coño! —dijo Don.
Si las mujeres encargadas de hacer pasteles de ese mundo habían desaparecido, y a él seguía apeteciéndole algo dulce, iba a tener que arriesgarse más con lo que comía.
—¿Eh, Frank? —dijo Vern Rangle.
—¿Qué? —Sonó más a «¿Y ahora qué?».
—He pensado que quizá deberíamos mandar un coche patrulla a vigilar la cárcel. Por si el médico decide sacarla de allí y esconderla en algún sitio, ya me entendéis.
Frank se quedó mirándolo y de pronto se dio una palmada en la frente, un buen manotazo que sobresaltó a todos los demás.
—Dios santo. Tienes razón. Debería haberlo hecho ya.
—Yo iré —se ofreció Don, olvidándose de la tarta helada. Al levantarse apresuradamente, golpeó la mesa con los muslos, y las tazas repiquetearon en los platos. Le brillaban los ojos—. Eric y yo. Si alguien intenta entrar o salir, se lo impediremos.
Frank no sentía mucha simpatía por Don, y Blass era solo un crío, pero quizá diera igual. Al fin y al cabo, era una mera precaución. En realidad no creía que Norcross fuese a intentar sacar a la mujer de allí. Seguramente consideraba que estaba más a salvo donde se encontraba, tras los muros de la cárcel.
—De acuerdo —dijo—. Pero si sale alguien, solo tenéis que cortarle el paso. Nada de desenfundar las armas, ¿entendido? Nada de tiroteos. Si se niegan a parar, los seguís. Y avisadme por radio cuanto antes.
—¿No a Terry? —preguntó el juez.
—No. A mí. Aparcad en la entrada de la carretera de acceso a la cárcel, en el cruce con West Lavin. ¿Queda claro?
—¡Queda claro! —contestó Don, muy metido en el papel—. Venga, compañero. Vámonos.
Cuando salían, el juez musitó:
—Lo indescriptible en persecución de lo incomestible.
—¿Cómo dice, juez? —preguntó Vern Rangle.
Silver negó con la cabeza. Tenía aspecto cansado.
—No tiene importancia. Caballeros, debo decir que, en general, no acaba de gustarme el cariz que está tomando esto. Me pregunto...
—¿Qué, Oscar? —preguntó Frank—. ¿Qué se pregunta?
Pero el juez no respondió.
5
—¿Cómo lo sabías? —Era Angel—. ¿Lo del bebé?
La pregunta obligó a Evie a apartar la atención del Olympia Diner, donde, desde los ojos de la mariposa posada en el globo de la lámpara, había estado observando a los hombres hacer sus planes. Y para mayor diversión, ocurría otra cosa, mucho más cerca. Clint tenía visita. Pronto también ella tendría visita.
Evie se incorporó y aspiró el aire del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. El hedor de los productos de limpieza industriales era de una intensidad espantosa; preveía morir pronto, y eso la entristecía, pero ya había muerto antes. Nunca era agradable, pero nunca había sido el final... aunque esa vez podía ser distinto.
El lado positivo, se dijo, es que ya no tendré que oler este lugar, esta mezcla de productos de limpieza y desesperación.
Y ella que había pensado que Troya apestaba: las pilas de cadáveres, las hogueras, las tripas de pescado expuestas en considerada ofrenda a los dioses —joder, chicos, muchas gracias, nada nos apetecía más que eso—, y los estúpidos aqueos marchando de acá para allá por la playa, negándose a lavarse, dejando que la sangre se ennegreciera al sol y oxidara la junturas de sus armaduras. Eso no era nada en comparación con la pestilencia ineludible del mundo moderno. Evie era joven y muy impresionable por aquel entonces, en los tiempos anteriores al desinfectante y la lejía.
Entretanto Angel había formulado una pregunta del todo aceptable, y casi parecía cuerda. Al menos de momento.
—Sé lo de tu bebé, porque leo el pensamiento. No siempre. La mayor parte del tiempo. Se me da mejor leer el pensamiento de los hombres... son más simples... pero las mujeres tampoco se me dan mal.
—Entonces sabrás que... yo no quería.
—Sí, lo sé. Y he sido demasiado severa contigo. Antes. Lo siento. Había muchas cosas en marcha.
Angel no prestó atención a la disculpa. Se concentraba en recitar algo que era obvio que había memorizado, unas breves frases de consuelo que había creado para proyectar luz cuando la oscuridad era más profunda y no había nadie despierto con quien hablar y apartar la mente de sí misma y de todos sus actos.
—No me quedó más remedio. Todos los hombres a los que maté me hicieron daño o me habrían hecho daño si les hubiese dado ocasión. No quería desprenderme de aquella niña, pero no podía consentir que llevase esa vida.
En el suspiro que Evie exhaló en respuesta, se percibió el peso de las lágrimas reales. Angel decía la verdad, toda la verdad y nada más que la verdad, acerca de una existencia en un tiempo y un lugar en que las cosas sencillamente no habían salido bien. Desde luego las probabilidades de que le hubieran salido bien a Angel eran exiguas de todos modos: era mala y estaba loca. Aun así, era cierto: le habían hecho daño, y quizá, llegado el momento, habrían hecho daño a la niña. Aquellos hombres y todos los hombres que eran como ellos. La tierra los odiaba, pero adoraba el fertilizante que proporcionaban sus cuerpos homicidas.
—¿Por qué lloras, Evie?
—Porque lo percibo todo, y es doloroso. Ahora calla. Si se me permite citar de nuevo _Enrique IV_ , ha empezado la caza. Tengo cosas que hacer.
—¿Qué cosas?
Como en respuesta, de pronto se abrió la puerta del fondo del módulo A y se acercaron unas pisadas. Eran el doctor Norcross, los funcionarios Murphy y Quigley, y dos desconocidos.
—¿Dónde están sus pases? —preguntó Angel a voz en grito—. ¡Esos dos no tienen pases para estar aquí!
—He dicho que calles —atajó Evie—. O te haré callar yo. Estábamos disfrutando de un buen momento, Angel, no lo estropees.
Clint se detuvo delante de la celda de Evie. La mujer se abrió paso entre los demás para colocarse a su lado. Tenía unas ojeras moradas, pero la mirada radiante y alerta.
—Hola, Michaela Coates, también conocida como Michaela Morgan —saludó Evie—. Yo soy Eve Black. —Tendió la mano a través de los barrotes.
Instintivamente, Tig y Rand dieron un paso al frente, pero Clint extendió los brazos para detenerlos.
Michaela aceptó la mano que se le ofrecía sin vacilar.
—Debes de haberme visto en las noticias, supongo.
Evie le dirigió una sonrisa afectuosa.
—Sintiéndolo mucho, las noticias no son lo mío. Me deprimen.
—Entonces ¿cómo sabes...?
—¿Puedo llamarte Mickey, como tu amigo el doctor Flickinger?
Garth se sobresaltó.
—Lamento que no hayas llegado a tiempo de ver a tu madre —prosiguió Evie—. Era una buena directora.
—Y una mierda —masculló Angel. Cuando Evie carraspeó en señal de advertencia, añadió—: Vale, me callo, me callo.
—¿Cómo sabes...? —empezó Michaela.
—¿Que tu madre era la directora Coates? ¿Que adoptaste el apellido Morgan porque un estúpido profesor de periodismo, un soplapollas, te dijo que los espectadores de televisión suelen recordar mejor los nombres aliterados? Ay, Mickey, no deberías haberte acostado con él, pero me parece que ahora ya lo sabes. Al menos el aborto espontáneo te libró de tener que tomar una decisión horrible. —Evie chasqueó la lengua y negó con la cabeza, lo que hizo que oscilara su melena oscura.
Salvo por los ojos ribeteados de rojo, Michaela estaba blanca como el papel. Cuando Garth le rodeó los hombros con el brazo, ella se aferró a su mano como una mujer a punto de ahogarse se aferraría a un flotador.
—¿Cómo lo sabes? —musitó Michaela—. ¿Quién _eres_?
—Soy una mujer, escucha mi rugido —dijo Evie, y se echó a reír una vez más: un sonido alegre, como un campanilleo. Posó la atención en Garth—. En cuanto a usted, doctor Flickinger, un consejo amistoso: le conviene dejar las drogas, y pronto. Ya ha tenido una advertencia del cardiólogo. No habrá otra. Siga fumando esos cristales, y el infarto agudo le llegará dentro de... —Cerró los ojos como una vidente de feria y los abrió de repente—. Dentro de unos ocho meses. Nueve, quizá. Muy posiblemente mientras ve porno con el pantalón alrededor de los tobillos y un dosificador de Lubriderm a mano. Incluso antes de cumplir los cincuenta y tres.
—Hay maneras peores —respondió Garth, pero con voz apagada.
—Eso con suerte, claro. Si se queda aquí con Michaela y Clint, e intenta defenderme a mí, pobre indefensa, y al resto de las mujeres, seguramente morirá mucho antes.
—Tiene usted la cara más simétrica que he visto en la vida. —Garth se interrumpió y carraspeó—. ¿Y podría dejar ya de meterme miedo?
Evie, por lo visto, no podía.
—Es una lástima que su hija tenga hidrocefalia y deba pasar la vida en un centro especializado, pero eso no es excusa para causarle tales daños a un cuerpo y una mente antes admirables.
Los funcionarios se la comían con los ojos. Clint esperaba alguna prueba de que Evie fuera de otro mundo, pero eso excedía todo pronóstico. Como si lo hubiese dicho en voz alta, Evie se volvió hacia él... y le guiñó un ojo.
—¿Cómo sabe lo de Cathy? —preguntó Garth—. ¿Cómo es _posible_?
—Tengo agentes entre las criaturas de este mundo —dijo Evie, mirando a Michaela—. Me lo cuentan todo. Me ayudan. Es como en _La Cenicienta_ , pero distinto. Para empezar, a mí me gustan más como ratas que como cocheros.
—Evie... señorita Black... ¿es usted la responsable de que las mujeres estén dormidas? Y si es así, ¿hay alguna posibilidad de que las despierte?
—Clint, ¿está usted seguro de que esto es lo más sensato? —preguntó Rand—. ¿Permitir que esta mujer haga una entrevista en la cárcel? Dudo que la directora Coates hubiera...
Jeanette Sorley eligió ese momento para entrar a trompicones por el pasillo, creando una bolsa improvisada con el faldón delantero de la casaca.
—¿Quién quiere guisantes? —preguntó en voz alta—. ¿Quién quiere guisantes recién cogidos?
Evie, entretanto, parecía haber perdido el hilo. Se aferraba a los barrotes de la celda con tal fuerza que sus nudillos perdieron el color.
—¿Evie? —preguntó Clint—. ¿Estás bien?
—Sí. Y aunque agradezco tu presteza, Clint, esta tarde estoy en función multitarea. Tienes que esperar hasta que me ocupe de cierto asunto. —A continuación, más para sí misma que para la media docena de personas que se había congregado delante de su celda, añadió—: Siento hacer esto, pero en todo caso no le quedaba mucho tiempo. —Un silencio—. Y echa de menos a su gata.
6
El juez Silver, con sus pasos cortos, casi había llegado al aparcamiento del Olympia cuando Frank lo alcanzó. La llovizna perlaba los hombros encorvados del chaquetón del anciano.
Silver se volvió cuando Frank se acercaba —al parecer, no tenía problemas de oído— y le dedicó una sonrisa amable.
—Quiero darte otra vez las gracias por lo de Cocoa —dijo.
—No hay de qué —contestó Frank—. Solo hice mi trabajo.
—Sí, pero lo hiciste con verdadera compasión. Gracias a eso, para mí fue más llevadero.
—Me alegro. Juez, ahí dentro me ha dado la impresión de que se le ocurría a usted una idea. ¿Desea compartirla conmigo?
El juez Silver reflexionó.
—¿Puedo hablarte con franqueza?
El otro hombre sonrió.
—Dado que mi nombre en Frank, no esperaría menos.
Silver no le devolvió la sonrisa.
—Bien. Eres un buen hombre, y celebro que hayas cogido las riendas, dado que el ayudante Coombs está... digamos, _fuera de combate_... y se ve claramente que ninguno de los otros funcionarios quiere asumir la responsabilidad, pero tú no tienes experiencia en las fuerzas del orden, y esto es una situación delicada. Sumamente delicada. ¿Estás de acuerdo conmigo?
—Sí —respondió Frank—. En todos los sentidos.
—Me preocupa que se produzca un altercado. Que una partida se descontrole y se convierta en turbamulta. Lo he visto antes, durante las peores huelgas mineras de los años setenta, y no fue un espectáculo agradable. Edificios quemados, una explosión de dinamita, muertes.
—¿Se le ocurre una alternativa?
—Podría ser. He... ¡Largo de aquí, maldita sea! —El juez agitó una mano artrítica para espantar a la mariposa nocturna que revoloteaba en torno a su cabeza. Esta se alejó y fue a posarse en la antena de un coche, donde flexionó lentamente las alas bajo la leve llovizna—. Últimamente hay bichos de esos por todas partes.
—Ajá. ¿Qué estaba diciéndome?
—En Coughlin vive un tal Harry Rhinegold. Exagente del FBI, retirado desde hace dos años. Un buen hombre, un buen expediente, varias menciones honoríficas de su departamento... las he visto en la pared de su despacho. Estoy pensando que podría hablar con él, y ver si se apunta.
—¿En calidad de qué? ¿De ayudante?
—De asesor —contestó el juez, y cuando inspiró, el aire crepitó en su garganta—. Y posiblemente de negociador.
—Un negociador en una situación con rehenes, se refiere a eso.
—Sí.
El primer impulso de Frank, pueril pero intenso, fue negarse: allí mandaba él. Solo que, en rigor, no mandaba. Mandaba Terry Coombs, y siempre cabía la posibilidad de que apareciera, resacoso pero sobrio, y quisiera coger las riendas. Además, como no fuera recurriendo a la coerción física, ¿podía él, Frank, disuadir al juez? No podía. Aunque Silver era todo un caballero y jamás lo diría (a menos que fuera absolutamente necesario), él era funcionario judicial, y como tal poseía un rango superior al de un agente del orden autodesignado cuya especialidad residía en capturar perros callejeros y hacer anuncios para Adopte una Mascota en la televisión pública. Había una consideración más, la más importante: en realidad, la negociación en situaciones con rehenes no era mala idea. El Centro Penitenciario de Dooling parecía una fortificación. ¿Qué más daba quién sacara de allí a la mujer, siempre y cuando la misión se llevara a cabo? ¿Siempre y cuando fuera posible interrogarla? ¿Bajo coacción, de ser necesario, si llegaban a la conclusión de que podía detener Aurora realmente?
Entretanto el juez lo miraba, con las pobladas cejas enarcadas.
—Adelante —contestó Frank—. Se lo diré a Terry. Si ese Rhinegold accede, esta noche podemos organizar una sesión de estrategia aquí o en la oficina del sheriff.
—Así pues, ¿no...? —El juez se aclaró la garganta—. ¿No tomarás medidas inmediatas?
—Durante esta tarde y esta noche, me limitaré a mantener un coche apostado cerca de la cárcel. —Frank guardó silencio por un momento—. Más allá de eso, no prometo nada, e incluso eso depende de si Norcross intenta algo raro.
—Yo no creo...
—Pero yo sí. —Frank, muy serio, se apoyó un dedo en la sien como para indicar que ahí dentro se desarrollaban arduos procesos mentales—. En la posición en la que me encuentro ahora, no me queda más remedio. Ese hombre se cree muy listo, y esa clase de individuos puede ser un problema. Para los demás, y para sí mismos. Desde ese punto de vista, juez, su viaje a Coughlin tal vez sea una misión humanitaria. Así que conduzca con cuidado.
—A mi edad, siempre lo hago —respondió el juez Silver.
Verlo entrar en el Land Rover fue un proceso lento y doloroso. Frank se disponía a ayudarlo cuando por fin Silver consiguió sentarse al volante y cerrar la puerta. El motor cobró vida con un rugido, pues Silver lo revolucionó de forma descuidada, y a continuación los faros proyectaron conos de luz a través de la llovizna.
Exagente del FBI, y en Coughlin, pensó Frank con asombro. Los prodigios no cesaban. Quizá pudiera ponerse en contacto con su departamento y conseguir una orden federal para conminar a Norcross a que dejara salir a la mujer. Era poco probable, con el gobierno en pleno caos, pero no podía descartarse. Si Norcross los desafiaba entonces, nadie podría culparlos por recurrir a la fuerza.
Volvió a entrar para dar órdenes al resto de los ayudantes. Ya había decidido enviar a Barrows y a Rangle a relevar a Peters y al chico, el tal Blass. Pete Ordway y él podían empezar a confeccionar una lista de hombres, personas responsables, para formar una partida, por si era necesaria. No hacía falta regresar a la oficina, donde tal vez se presentase Terry; podían ocuparse de eso allí mismo, en el restaurante.
7
El juez Oscar Silver ya rara vez conducía, y cuando conducía nunca superaba los setenta kilómetros por hora, por larga que fuera la caravana que se formase detrás de él. Si empezaban a dar bocinazos y a acercarse demasiado por detrás, buscaba un sitio donde salir de la carretera y dejarlos pasar; después reanudaba su majestuosa marcha. Era consciente del declive tanto de sus reflejos como de su visión. Además, había padecido tres infartos, y sabía que el bypass al que habían sometido a su deficiente corazón en el St. Theresa hacía dos años postergaría el ataque definitivo solo durante un tiempo. Ya lo tenía asimilado, pero no deseaba morir al volante, donde podía llevarse a uno o más inocentes consigo en un último viraje. A no más de setenta (menos, dentro de los límites municipales), consideraba que tendría ocasión de frenar y dejar el coche en punto muerto antes de que las luces se apagaran para siempre.
No obstante, ese día era distinto. En cuanto dejó atrás el transbordador de Ball's Creek y la antigua carretera de Coughlin, aumentó la velocidad hasta que la aguja rondó los cien kilómetros por hora, territorio que no exploraba desde hacía al menos cinco años. Se había puesto en contacto con Rhinegold por el móvil, y Rhinegold estaba dispuesto a hablar (aunque el juez, hombre hábil, había preferido no tratar el tema de su confabulación por teléfono, una medida de precaución probablemente innecesaria, pero su lema siempre había sido la discreción), lo cual era positivo. El lado negativo: Silver descubrió de pronto que no confiaba en Frank Geary, quien hablaba sin ningún tapujo de reunir a una partida de hombres e irrumpir en la cárcel. En el Olympia su tono _parecía_ bastante razonable, pero la situación no lo era en absoluto. El juez no veía con buenos ojos que Frank presentara la maniobra como una solución práctica cuando debería haber sido en cualquier caso un último recurso.
El limpiaparabrisas, desplazándose a uno y otro lado con sus chasquidos, limpiaba la leve lluvia. Encendió la radio y sintonizó la emisora de Wheeling. «La mayor parte de los servicios municipales se han suspendido hasta próximo aviso —anunció el locutor—, y repito que el toque de queda de las nueve será de obligado cumplimiento.»
—Suerte con eso —musitó el juez.
«Repasemos ahora nuestra noticia de cabecera. Hemos sabido que las llamadas Brigadas del Soplete (alimentadas por el rumor infundado difundido por internet de que la respiración exhalada a través de las excrecencias, o _capullos_ , que rodean a las mujeres dormidas propaga la enfermedad de Aurora) están actuando en Charleston, Atlanta, Savannah, Dallas, Houston, Nueva Orleáns y Tampa. —El locutor se interrumpió y, cuando prosiguió, hablaba con un dejo más marcado. Más popular—. Vecinos, me enorgullece decir que esas turbas ignorantes no operan aquí en Wheeling. Todos tenemos mujeres a las que queremos con locura, y matarlas mientras duermen, por poco natural que sea ese sueño, sería una acción atroz.»
Pronunció __ «atroz» como _atrós_.
El Land Rover del juez Silver se acercaba al término municipal de Maylock, el pueblo vecino. La casa de Rhinegold en Coughlin se hallaba más allá, a otros veinte minutos aproximadamente.
«Se ha emplazado a la Guardia Nacional en todas las ciudades donde esas brigadas actúan, y tienen orden de disparar a matar si esos necios supersticiosos no cesan y desisten. Personalmente lo apruebo. El Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades ha insistido en que no es cierto en absoluto que...»
El parabrisas se estaba empañando. El juez Silver se inclinó a la derecha sin apartar la vista de la carretera y accionó el antivaho. El ventilador emitió un zumbido. En la corriente de aire, surgieron de las toberas nubes de pequeñas mariposas marrones que llenaron el habitáculo y envolvieron la cabeza del juez. Se posaron en su pelo y aletearon contra sus mejillas. Lo peor de todo, giraron ante sus ojos, y algo que una anciana tía le había dicho hacía mucho tiempo, cuando era solo un niño impresionable, volvió a su memoria con la nitidez de un hecho demostrado, como que arriba es arriba y abajo es abajo.
«No te frotes nunca los ojos después de tocar una mariposa nocturna, Oscar —le había dicho—. Te entrará el polvo de las alas y te quedarás ciego.»
— _¡Fuera de aquí!_ —exclamó el juez Silver. Apartó las manos del volante y se dio palmadas en la cara. Siguieron saliendo mariposas de las toberas, cientos, miles. El habitáculo del Land Rover se convirtió en una bruma marrón arremolinada—. _¡Fuera de aquí, fuera de aquí, fuera de...!_
Un peso enorme le oprimió el lado izquierdo del pecho. El dolor descendió a mazazos por el brazo como una descarga eléctrica. Abrió la boca para gritar y se le llenó de mariposas, que reptaron por su lengua y le provocaron un cosquilleo en la cara interna de las mejillas. Con su trabajoso aliento final, las arrastró garganta abajo, donde le obstruyeron la tráquea. El Land Rover viró a la izquierda; una furgoneta que se acercaba viró a la derecha justo a tiempo de esquivarlo y fue a parar a la cuneta, sin llegar a volcar. En el otro lado de la carretera, no había cuneta que evitar; solo el guardarraíl separaba el puente del Dorr's Hollow del vacío y el río que discurría por debajo. El vehículo de Silver rompió el guardarraíl y se precipitó. El Land Rover cayó del revés en el agua. El juez Silver, para entonces ya muerto, salió despedido a través del parabrisas hacia el cauce del Dorr's Hollow, afluente del Ball's Creek. Un mocasín se le desprendió y, flotando corriente abajo, acumuló agua hasta hundirse.
Las mariposas abandonaron el vehículo volcado, que burbujeaba ya hacia el fondo, y volaron de regreso a Dooling en bandada.
8
—No me ha gustado nada hacer eso —dijo Evie, hablando no para sus invitados, advirtió Clint, sino para sí. Se enjugó una única lágrima de la comisura del ojo izquierdo—. Cuanto más tiempo paso aquí, más humana me vuelvo. Me había olvidado de eso.
—¿De qué estás hablando, Evie? —preguntó Clint—. ¿Qué es lo que no te ha gustado?
—El juez Silver pretendía traer ayuda de fuera —repuso ella—. Tal vez no habría cambiado nada, pero no puedo correr riesgos.
—¿Lo has matado? —preguntó Angel con interés—. ¿Has utilizado tus poderes especiales y todo eso?
—No me ha quedado más remedio. De ahora en adelante lo que pase en Dooling tiene que quedarse en Dooling.
—Pero... —Michaela se frotó la cara con una mano—. Lo que está pasando en Dooling, está pasando _en todas partes_. Va a pasarme a mí.
—No durante un tiempo —aseguró Evie—. Y no vas a necesitar más estimulantes. —Sacó el brazo por entre los barrotes de la celda con el puño relajado, extendió un dedo y le indicó que se acercara—. Ven a mí.
—Yo no lo haría —advirtió Rand.
—No seas tonta, Mickey —dijo Garth al mismo tiempo, y la agarró por el antebrazo.
—¿ _Tú_ qué opinas, Clint? —preguntó Evie con una sonrisa.
Consciente de que cedía —no solo a eso, sino a todo—, Clint dijo:
—Suéltela.
Garth obedeció. Michaela, como hipnotizada, avanzó dos pasos. Evie apoyó el rostro en los barrotes, con los ojos fijos en los de Michaela. Separó los labios.
—¡Rollo lésbico! —graznó Angel—. ¡Encended las cámaras, frikis, que viene la lamida!
Michaela no prestó atención. Apretó los labios contra los de Evie. Se besaron con los duros barrotes de la celda acolchada de por medio, y Clint oyó un suspiro cuando Eve Black espiró el aire en la boca y los pulmones de Michaela. Al mismo tiempo notó que se le erizaba el vello de los brazos y el cuello. Se le arrasaron los ojos en lágrimas. En algún lugar Jeanette gritaba, y Angel se reía a carcajadas.
Finalmente Evie rompió el beso y retrocedió.
—Una boca dulce —dijo—. Una _chica_ dulce. ¿Cómo te sientes ahora?
—Estoy despierta —contestó Michaela. Tenía los ojos muy abiertos, le temblaban los labios—. ¡Estoy despierta de verdad!
Era indudable que lo estaba. Las ojeras habían desaparecido, pero eso era lo de menos; se le había tensado la piel sobre los huesos, y sus mejillas, antes pálidas, presentaban un brillo sonrosado. Se volvió hacia Garth, que la contemplaba boquiabierto.
—¡Estoy despierta de verdad, de verdad!
—La hostia —exclamó Garth—. Eso parece.
Clint dirigió de pronto los dedos extendidos hacia el rostro de Michaela. Ella echó atrás la cabeza con un respingo.
—Ha recuperado los reflejos —comentó él—. Hace cinco minutos no podría haber hecho eso.
—¿Cuánto tiempo puedo estar así? —Michaela se abrazó los hombros—. ¡Es _maravilloso_!
—Unos días —repitió Evie—. Después de eso el cansancio volverá, y con creces. Te dormirás hagas lo que hagas para luchar contra el sueño y te envolverá un capullo como a todas las demás. A menos, claro está...
—A menos que consigas lo que quieres —concluyó Clint.
—Lo que quiero yo ahora no tiene importancia —respondió Evie—. Pensaba que lo habías entendido. Lo que importa es lo que los hombres de este pueblo hagan conmigo. Y lo que decidan las mujeres al otro lado del Árbol.
—¿Qué...? —empezó a decir Garth, pero de pronto Jeanette lo embistió como un _tackle_ izquierdo resuelto a bloquear al _quarterback_ y lo empujó contra la puerta de la celda.
Acto seguido lo apartó de un golpe de hombro y, mirando a Evie, se agarró a los barrotes.
—¡Házmelo a _mí_! ¡Evie, házmelo a _mí_! ¡No quiero seguir luchando, no quiero ver más al hombre de los brotes! ¡Házmelo a _mí_!
Evie le cogió las manos y la miró con tristeza.
—No puedo, Jeanette. Deberías dejar de luchar y dormirte como todas las demás. Al otro lado les vendría bien contar con alguien tan valiente y fuerte como tú. Lo llaman Nuestro Sitio. También puede ser tu sitio.
—Por favor —susurró Jeanette, pero Evie le soltó las manos. Jeanette retrocedió a trompicones, pisando los guisantes desparramados, y lloró en silencio.
—No sé —dijo Angel con aire pensativo—. Quizá no te mate, Evie. Estoy pensando que quizá... la verdad es que no lo sé. Eres espiritual. Además, estás aún más loca que yo, y ya es decir.
Evie se dirigió de nuevo a Clint y a los demás:
—Vendrán hombres armados. Me quieren porque piensan que podría ser la causante de Aurora y, de ser así, también puedo ponerle fin. No es del todo cierto... es más complicado... El mero hecho de que yo sola haya iniciado algo no significa que yo sola pueda concluirlo... Pero ¿creéis que hombres furiosos y asustados van a aceptar eso?
—Ni por asomo —contestó Garth Flickinger. Detrás de él, Billie Wettermore emitió un gruñido de conformidad.
—Matarán a cualquiera que se interponga en su camino —afirmó Evie—, y cuando yo no sea capaz de despertar a sus bellas durmientes con un toque de mi varita mágica de hada madrina, me matarán. Después prenderán fuego a la cárcel y a todas las mujeres que hay dentro, por puro rencor.
Jeanette había entrado en la cámara de despioje para reanudar la conversación con el hombre de los brotes; Angel, en cambio, permaneció muy atenta. Clint casi la oía animarse, como un generador que primero cobrara vida con un tableteo y luego empezara a funcionar con un ronroneo.
—No pienso dejar que me maten. No sin luchar.
Por primera vez Evie la miró con curiosidad. Clint pensó que lo que había hecho para despertar a Mickey Coates, fuera lo que fuese, tal vez le había agotado las pilas.
—Angel, te arrollarán como una ola arrolla el castillo de arena de un niño.
—Puede ser, pero me llevaré a unos cuantos conmigo. —Angel ejecutó un par de movimientos torpes de kung-fu, y Clint experimentó una emoción que nunca había asociado a Angel Fitzroy: la lástima.
—¿Nos has traído hasta aquí? —preguntó Michaela. En su estado de fascinación, le brillaban los ojos—. ¿Nos has _atraído_ hasta aquí? ¿A Garth y a mí?
—No —contestó Evie—. No entendéis lo indefensa que estoy... poco menos que uno de los conejos que el hombre de las drogas tenía colgados de un tendedero, esperando a que los despellejaran o los liberaran. —Concentró la mirada en Clint—. ¿Tienes un plan? Creo que sí.
—Nada digno de ese nombre —contestó Clint—, aunque quizá pueda ganar un poco de tiempo. Aquí tenemos una posición fortificada, pero no nos vendrían mal unos cuantos hombres más...
—Lo que no nos vendría mal —lo interrumpió Tig— es un pelotón de marines.
Clint negó con la cabeza.
—A menos que Terry Coombs y ese tal Geary consigan ayuda exterior, creo que podemos defender la prisión con una docena de hombres, tal vez no más de diez. Ahora mismo solo somos cuatro. Cinco si logramos convencer a Scott Hughes, pero yo no me hago muchas ilusiones.
Clint prosiguió, dirigiéndose en esencia a Mickey y al médico que la acompañaba. No le gustaba la idea de enviar a Flickinger en una misión a vida o muerte —nada de lo que veía y olía contradecía la afirmación de Evie con respecto a su desmedido consumo de drogas—, pero Flickinger y la hija de Janice Coates eran lo único de lo que disponía.
—El verdadero problema son las armas, y la gran cuestión es quién les echa mano primero. Por mi mujer, sé que hay todo un arsenal en la oficina del sheriff. Desde el 11-S y todas las amenazas terroristas internas posteriores, lo tienen en la mayoría de los pueblos del tamaño de Dooling. En cuanto a armas cortas, disponen de la Glock 17 y, según creo que me dijo Lila, la Sig... no sé qué.
—Sig Sauer —completó Billy Wettermore—. Una buena arma.
—Tienen semiautomáticas M4, con esos cargadores enormes —prosiguió Clint—, y un par de Remington modelo 700. Además, si no recuerdo mal, Lila me contó que también hay un lanzagranadas de cuarenta milímetros.
—Armas. —Evie no habló a nadie en particular—. La solución perfecta para cualquier problema. Cuantas más tengáis, mejor resolvéis el problema.
—¿Me está tomando el pelo? —exclamó Michaela—. ¿Un _lanzagranadas_?
—Sí, pero no para explosivos. Lo usan con gas lacrimógeno.
—No olvidemos los chalecos antibalas —añadió Rand con tono sombrío—. Excepto a quemarropa, esos artefactos impiden el paso de una bala de Mossberg. Y las Mossberg son el armamento más pesado que tenemos.
—Esto parece inviable —comentó Tig.
—Yo desde luego no quiero matar a nadie si no es inevitable —declaró Billy Wettermore—. Por Dios, son amigos nuestros.
—Bien, que haya suerte —dijo Evie. Se retiró a su cama y encendió el teléfono del subdirector Hicks—. Voy a jugar unas partidas de _Boom Town_ y luego me echaré una siesta. —Sonrió a Michaela—. No aceptaré más preguntas de la prensa. Besas de maravilla, Mickey Coates, pero me has dejado agotada.
—Ándense con cuidado, no vaya a decidir echarles las ratas encima —advirtió Angel al grupo en general—. Hace lo que quiere. Así consiguió el móvil de Hicksie.
—Ratas —repitió Garth—. Esto se pone cada vez más interesante.
—Necesito que me acompañen —dijo Clint—. Tenemos que hablar, sin pérdida de tiempo. No tardarán en controlar los accesos a la cárcel.
Billy Wettermore señaló a Jeanette, que en ese momento se encontraba sentada en el plato de ducha de la cámara de despioje, hablando muy seria con alguien a quien no veía más que ella.
—¿Y qué hacemos con Sorley?
—No le pasará nada —contestó Clint—. Vamos. Duérmete, Jeanette. Descansa.
Sin mirarlo, Jeanette pronunció una sola palabra.
—No.
9
Para Clint, el despacho de la directora ofrecía un aspecto arqueológico, como si hubiese sido abandonado hacía años, y no hacía menos de una semana. Janice Coates yacía en el sofá, envuelta en su mortaja blanca. Michaela se acercó a ella y se arrodilló, como si rezara. Acarició el capullo con la mano. Este emitió un peculiar crujido que recordó a Clint el ruido del material de embalaje con que se envolvían los objetos frágiles para enviarlos por correo. Garth hizo ademán de aproximarse a ella, pero Clint lo sujetó del brazo.
—Dele un minuto, doctor Flickinger.
Pasaron más bien tres hasta que por fin Michaela se puso en pie y preguntó:
—¿Qué podemos hacer?
—¿Puede ser usted persistente y persuasiva? —preguntó Clint.
Michaela fijó en él unos ojos que ya no estaban inyectados en sangre.
—Entré en NewsAmerica como becaria sin remuneración a los veintitrés años. A los veintiséis, era corresponsal a jornada completa y hablaban de asignarme mi propio programa en horario nocturno. —Vio a Billy lanzar una mirada a Tig y a Rand, y les sonrió—. Ya saben lo que suele decirse, ¿no? Si es verdad, no hay alardeo. —Volvió a centrar la atención en Clint—. Esas son mis referencias. ¿Le bastan?
—Eso espero —contestó Clint—. Atienda.
Habló durante los cinco minutos siguientes. Hubo preguntas, aunque no muchas. Estaban en una posición precaria, y todos lo sabían.
### 6
1
Alexander Peter Bayer, el primer bebé nacido al otro lado del Árbol, respiró por primera vez una semana después de que Lila y Tiffany regresaran de las ruinas al pie de Lion Head. Pasaron unos pocos días más hasta que Lila lo conoció en una pequeña reunión en la vivienda reformada de Elaine Nutting Geary. No era un niño de un atractivo convencional; su considerable papada no recordaba tanto al bebé de la marca de alimentos Gerber como a un corredor de apuestas al que Lila había detenido tiempo atrás, conocido como Larry el Grande. Sin embargo, el pequeño Alexander tenía una manera irresistiblemente cómica de desplazar la mirada a un lado y al otro, como si, inquieto, intentara orientarse en medio de la congregación de caras femeninas que se cernían sobre él.
Las autoridades de ese estado de los Apalaches, en un gesto de un progresismo insólito, habían prohibido que las reclusas permanecieran inmovilizadas durante el parto, pero en el transcurso de la pequeña fiesta Linda Bayer, antes presa del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, habló de una conocida de otro estado que se había visto obligada a dar a luz encadenada.
—A mí eso no me habría gustado, os lo aseguro.
Este comentario se vio acogido con un número considerable de suspiros, gestos de asentimiento y alguna que otra inspiración profunda. Nadie en el salón, ni la antigua jefa de policía ni siquiera la expresidenta de la Asociación de Mujeres Republicanas, aprobaba que se esposara a las presas embarazadas. Al margen de lo que estuvieran construyendo en el nuevo mundo, Lila no concebía la posibilidad de que esa situación en concreto volviera a producirse allí.
Circuló un plato de bollos algo resecos (aunque bastante sabrosos). Entre episodios de aquel extraño vértigo que la aquejaba, Nadine Coombs los había preparado en un horno al aire libre. El horno había sido extraído recientemente de las ruinas del Lowe's de Maylock con ayuda de trineos y los caballos de Tiffany. A veces Lila se sorprendía ante el ritmo de los progresos que realizaban, la velocidad y la eficiencia con que los problemas se resolvían y se avanzaba.
En algún momento el bebé llegó a sus manos.
—¿Eres el último hombre de la tierra o el primero? —le preguntó.
Alexander Peter Bayer bostezó.
—Lo siento, Lila. No habla con polis. —Tiffany se había acercado a ella en el rincón del salón.
—Ah, ¿sí?
—Por aquí los aleccionamos desde muy pequeños —contestó Tiffany.
Desde su aventura habían entablado una peculiar amistad. A Lila le gustaba la forma en que Tiffany cabalgaba por el pueblo a lomos de sus caballos, tocada con el sombrero blanco de vaquero, animando a las niñas a que se aproximaran y acariciaran los cuellos de los animales, y vieran lo suaves y cálidos que eran.
2
Un día, sin nada mejor que hacer, Lila y Tiffany registraron el YMCA de Dooling. No sabían qué buscaban exactamente, sino solo que era uno de los pocos sitios que no se habían inspeccionado antes. Descubrieron muchas cosas, algunas interesantes, pero nada que necesitaran realmente. Había papel higiénico, aunque a ese respecto Shopwell seguía bien abastecido. Había también briks de caldo, si bien con los años el contenido se había solidificado, convirtiéndose en ladrillos de color rosa. La piscina se había secado; no quedaba más que un ligero olor astringente a cloro.
El vestuario de los hombres apestaba a humedad; por las paredes se propagaban exuberantes masas de moho: verde, negro, amarillo. Al fondo de la sala, yacía el cadáver momificado de una alimaña, con las patas yertas apuntando al aire, el rostro paralizado en una atroz mueca mortuoria de asombro, los labios tirantes, hileras de afilados dientes a la vista. Lila y Tiffany guardaron un momento de silencio mientras contemplaban el primer urinario de una fila de seis.
—En perfecto estado de conservación —comentó Lila.
Tiffany la miró con expresión de perplejidad.
—¿Eso? —Señaló la alimaña.
—No. Esto. —Lila dio unas palmaditas en lo alto del urinario, y su alianza de bodas tintineó contra la porcelana—. Nos interesa para nuestro museo. Podemos llamarlo el Museo de los Hombres Perdidos.
—Ja —respondió Tiffany—. Te diré una cosa: este sitio de mierda asusta. Y créeme, es mucho decir, porque he visitado más de una auténtica mazmorra. O sea, podría escribir una guía de todas las putas cuevas de meta de los Apalaches, lugares con corrientes de aire y olor a sudor, pero esto es francamente repulsivo. Sabía que los vestuarios de hombres eran sitios espeluznantes, pero este es peor de lo que podría haber imaginado.
—Probablemente tenía mejor aspecto cuando estaba más nuevo —dijo Lila, aunque tenía sus dudas.
Valiéndose de martillos y cinceles, rompieron las cerraduras de combinación de las taquillas. Lila encontró relojes parados, billeteros llenos de papel verde inútil y rectángulos de plástico inútiles, teléfonos inteligentes muertos y, por tanto, ya no tan inteligentes, llaveros, pantalones devorados por la polilla y un balón de baloncesto desinflado. El botín de Tiffany no fue mucho mejor: una caja prácticamente llena de caramelos Tic Tac y una fotografía descolorida de un hombre calvo de pelo en pecho, de pie en la playa, con su hija, de corta edad, riéndose sobre sus hombros.
—Florida, supongo —dijo Tiffany—. Ahí es a donde van si tienen pasta.
—Probablemente.
Al ver la foto, Lila pensó en su propio hijo, lo cual cada vez se le antojaba más contraproducente, por mucho que le fuera imposible dejar de hacerlo. Mary la había puesto al corriente sobre los planes de Clint, sus tácticas dilatorias para retener a los funcionarios en la cárcel, y los esfuerzos de Jared, que mantenía escondidos sus cuerpos (nuestros otros cuerpos, pensó __ Lila) en el desván de la casa piloto de la calle. ¿Volvería a saber de ellos? Después de Mary habían aparecido otras dos mujeres, pero ninguna sabía nada acerca de sus dos hombres, ¿y por qué habrían de saber nada? Jared y Clint viajaban en una nave espacial, y la nave espacial se alejaba cada vez más, a muchos años luz, hasta que finalmente abandonarían la galaxia, y ese sería el final. _Finito._ ¿Cuándo debía Lila empezar a llorar su pérdida? ¿Había empezado ya?
—Eh —dijo Tiffany—. Eso no.
—¿Qué?
Tiffany había interpretado de algún modo su expresión, había visto en su rostro la desesperanza y la confusión.
—No dejes que te afecte.
Devolvió la foto a la taquilla y la cerró.
Arriba, en el gimnasio, retó a Lila a un veintiuno. El premio era la caja casi llena de caramelos Tic Tac. Inflaron la pelota de baloncesto. Fue una guerra de desgaste; las dos jugaban mal y la pelota perdía aire. La hija de Clint, que casualmente no era su hija, las habría superado a las dos con facilidad. Tiffany tiraba al estilo abuela, desde abajo, cosa que Lila encontraba irritantemente femenina pero a la vez encantadora. Cuando Tiffany se quitó el abrigo, dejó a la vista la protuberancia de su vientre de embarazada, un bulbo en la cintura.
—¿Por qué Dooling? ¿Por qué nosotras? Esas son las preguntas, ¿no te parece? —Lila trotó detrás de la pelota. Tiffany la había lanzado a las gradas polvorientas a la derecha de la pista—. Tengo una teoría.
—Ah, ¿sí? Oigámosla.
Lila arrojó la pelota desde las gradas. Falló por una distancia equivalente al largo de dos coches, y la pelota botó hasta llegar a la segunda hilera de gradas del lado opuesto.
—Patético —dijo Tiffany.
—Mira quién fue a hablar.
—Yo lo reconozco.
—Tenemos un par de médicos y unas cuantas enfermeras. Tenemos una veterinaria. Tenemos un montón de maestras. Kayleigh sabía de circuitos eléctricos, y aunque ya no está, a Magda no se le dan mal. Tenemos una carpintera. Tenemos un par de músicas. Tenemos una socióloga que ya está escribiendo un libro sobre la nueva sociedad.
—Sí, y cuando lo termine, Molly puede imprimirlo con su tinta de grosellas —dijo Tiffany con tono burlón.
—Tenemos a una ingeniera, profesora universitaria jubilada. Tenemos un montón de costureras, jardineras y cocineras. Las del club de lectura dirigen un grupo de encuentro para que las mujeres puedan hablar de todo aquello que echan de menos y liberarse así de parte de la tristeza y el dolor. Incluso tenemos una mujer que susurra a los caballos. ¿Te das cuenta?
Tiffany recuperó la pelota.
—¿Si me doy cuenta de qué?
—Todas somos necesarias —contestó Lila. Había descendido de las gradas y se hallaba en la línea de fondo, cruzada de brazos—. Por eso hemos sido elegidas. Todas las habilidades básicas que necesitamos para sobrevivir están aquí.
—Vale. Puede ser. Podría ser. Me parece más o menos convincente. —Tiffany se quitó el sombrero de vaquero y se abanicó. Era evidente que se lo tomaba con humor—. Eres toda una poli. Siempre resolviendo misterios.
Pero Lila no había terminado.
—¿Cómo mantenemos las cosas en marcha, entonces? Ya tenemos a nuestro primer bebé. ¿Y cuántas mujeres embarazadas hay? ¿Una docena? ¿Ocho?
—Podrían ser hasta diez. ¿Tú crees que basta para empezar de cero en un nuevo mundo, cuando la mitad de los que nazcan probablemente sean niñas?
—No lo sé. —Ahora Lila improvisaba, y sentía calor en el rostro a medida que las ideas acudían a su mente—. Pero es un comienzo, y me apuesto lo que quieras a que hay cámaras frigoríficas con generadores que se programaron para funcionar y funcionar y siguen funcionando. Tendríamos que ir a una ciudad para encontrar una, supongo, pero seguro que la encontraríamos. Y ahí habría muestras de semen congeladas. Y con eso bastaría para poner en marcha un mundo, un mundo nuevo.
Tiffany se encasquetó el sombrero en la parte de atrás de la cabeza y botó el balón en el suelo un par de veces.
—Un mundo nuevo, ¿eh?
—Puede que ella lo planeara así. Esa mujer. Eve. Para que empezáramos de cero sin hombres, al menos al principio —prosiguió Lila.
—El Paraíso Terrenal sin Adán, ¿eh? Bien, jefa, déjame hacerte una pregunta.
—Adelante.
—¿Es un _buen_ plan? ¿El que esa mujer nos ha organizado?
Una buena pregunta, pensó Lila. Las habitantes de Nuestro Sitio habían hablado de Eve Black hasta la saciedad; los rumores que habían surgido en el viejo mundo se habían propagado al nuevo mundo; rara era la Reunión en que su nombre (si es que era realmente su nombre) no se mencionara. Ella era una prolongación, y una posible respuesta a las preguntas originales, el gran Cómo y el gran Porqué de su situación. Debatían sobre la posibilidad de que fuera algo más que una mujer —más que humana—, y existía cada vez mayor consenso en torno a la convicción de que era el origen de todo lo ocurrido.
Por un lado, Lila lamentaba la pérdida de vidas —Millie, Nell, Kayleigh, Jessica Elway antes que ellas, y cuántas otras—, así como las historias y existencias de las cuales se habían visto separadas aquellas que aún vivían. Sus maridos y sus hijos no estaban allí. Aun así, en su mayoría —Lila sin duda se contaba entre ellas—, no podían negar la regeneración que se había producido: Tiffany Jones con las mejillas carnosas y el pelo limpio y un segundo latido en su interior. En el viejo mundo había hombres que habían hecho daño a Tiff, y mucho. En el viejo mundo había hombres que quemaban a las mujeres, y con ello las incineraban en ambas realidades. Las Brigadas del Soplete, las llamaban, según Mary. Existían malas mujeres y malos hombres; si alguien estaba autorizado a hacer esa afirmación, era Lila, que había detenido a muchos tanto de unas como de otros. Pero los hombres se peleaban más; mataban más. En ese sentido los dos sexos nunca habían sido iguales; no eran igual de peligrosos.
Pues sí, Lila pensó que probablemente fuera un buen plan. Inclemente, pero muy bueno. Cabía la posibilidad de que un mundo reiniciado por mujeres fuera más seguro y más justo. Y sin embargo...
—No lo sé. —Lila no podía decir que una existencia sin su hijo fuese mejor. Podía conceptualizar la idea, pero no podía articularla sin sentir que traicionaba tanto a Jared como su antigua vida.
Tiffany asintió con la cabeza.
—¿Y qué te parece esto? ¿Sabes lanzar hacia atrás? —Se volvió de espaldas a la canasta, flexionó mucho las rodillas y arrojó la pelota por encima de la cabeza. El balón rebotó en el ángulo del recuadro, tocó el aro... y cayó fuera, botó, botó, botó. Por muy poco.
3
Un chorro ocre salió del grifo. Dos tuberías entrechocaron ruidosamente. El líquido parduzco salió a borbotones, se interrumpió y acto seguido, aleluya, empezó a manar agua limpia en el lavabo.
—Bueno —dijo Magda Dubcek al reducido grupo reunido en torno a la pila de trabajo adosada a la pared de la planta de tratamiento de aguas—. Ahí tenéis.
—Increíble —comentó Janice Coates.
—Qué va. Presión, gravedad, nada demasiado complejo. Nos andaremos con cuidado, daremos suministro barrio por barrio. Lento pero seguro, para ganar la carrera.
Lila, acordándose de la vieja nota del hijo de Magda, Anton, sin duda un zoquete y un mujeriego pero bastante sagaz en cuestiones de agua por derecho propio, abrazó de pronto a la anciana.
—Oh —dijo Magda—, vale. Gracias.
El agua resonó en la amplia planta del Distrito del Agua del condado de Dooling, haciéndolas callar a todas. En el silencio, las mujeres fueron pasando la mano por el chorro de agua fresca.
4
Una de las cosas que todo el mundo echaba de menos era la posibilidad de subirse a un coche sin más y viajar a algún sitio, en lugar de ir a pie y acabar con ampollas. Los coches seguían allí, algunos en bastante buen estado porque habían permanecido en garajes, y al menos algunas de las baterías que encontraron almacenadas conservaban aún la carga. El verdadero problema era la gasolina. Se había degradado hasta la última gota durante el período intermedio.
—Tendremos que refinar un poco —explicó la profesora de ingeniería jubilada en una reunión del comité.
A no más de doscientos cincuenta kilómetros de distancia, en Kentucky, había pozos de almacenamiento y refinerías que quizá, con mucho trabajo y suerte, pudieran reactivarse. De inmediato empezaron a planear otro viaje; asignaron tareas y seleccionaron voluntarias. Lila interrogó a las mujeres presentes en la sala buscando indicios de posibles recelos. No advirtió ninguno. Entre las caras de las asistentes, se fijó sobre todo en la de Celia Frode, la única superviviente de la partida de exploración. Celia asintió junto con todas las demás.
—Inclúyeme en la lista —dijo Celia—. Iré. Necesito calzarme las botas de marcha.
Entrañaría riesgos, pero esa vez se andarían con más cuidado. No se arredrarían.
5
Cuando llegaron a la planta superior de la casa piloto, Tiffany anunció que no estaba dispuesta a trepar por la escalera del desván.
—Esperaré aquí.
—Si no vas a subir, ¿para qué has venido? —preguntó Lila—. Tampoco estás tan embaraza.
—Tenía la esperanza de que me dieras algún caramelo Tic Tac, colega. Y estoy más que bastante embarazada, créeme. —Lila había ganado al veintiuno y se había quedado con los caramelos de menta.
—Ten. —Lanzó la caja a Tiffany y subió por la escalera.
Irónicamente, la casa piloto de Pine Hills resultó estar mejor construida que casi cualquiera de las otras de Tremaine, incluida la de la propia Lila. Aunque en penumbra —ventanas pequeñas y manchadas con el tiempo—, el desván no tenía humedades. Lila se paseó de un lado a otro, y sus pasos levantaron nubes de polvo en el suelo. Mary había dicho que era el lugar de allí donde estaban Lila, la señora Ransom y ella misma, dondequiera que fuese allí. Deseaba percibirse a sí misma, percibir a su hijo.
No percibió nada.
En un extremo del desván, una mariposa nocturna golpeaba una de las ventanas mugrientas. Lila se acercó para dejarla en libertad. La ventana estaba atascada. Lila oyó un crujido cuando, a sus espaldas, Tiffany subió por la escalera. Apartó a Lila, sacó una navaja, deslizó la punta por los contornos, y la ventana cedió. La mariposa escapó y se alejó.
Abajo, la nieve cubría los jardines invadidos por la maleza, la calle agrietada, el coche patrulla inutilizado en el camino de acceso de la señora Ransom. Los caballos de Tiffany hurgaban con el hocico aquí y allá, relinchaban a lo que fuera que relincharan los caballos, movían la cola. Lila veía, más allá, su propia casa, la piscina que nunca había deseado y que Anton había atendido, y el olmo sobre el cual este le había dejado una nota. Un animal de color anaranjado trotó desde el borde sombrío del pinar situado en el extremo del barrio. Era un zorro. Incluso de lejos se veía claramente el lustre de su pelaje invernal. ¿Cómo había llegado tan pronto el invierno?
Tiffany se irguió en medio del desván. No se notaba humedad, pero hacía frío, sobre todo con la ventana abierta. Tendió a Lila la caja de caramelos Tic Tac para devolvérsela.
—Quería comérmelos todos, pero no habría estado bien. He abandonado la vida criminal.
Lila sonrió y se los guardó en el bolsillo.
—Te declaro rehabilitada.
Las mujeres, a un paso la una de la otra, se miraban, exhalando vaho. Tiffany se quitó el sombrero y lo tiró al suelo.
—Si crees que estoy de broma, te equivocas. No quiero aceptar nada de ti, Lila. No quiero aceptar nada de nadie.
—¿Qué quieres? —preguntó Lila.
—Mi propia vida. El bebé, un sitio donde estar y esas cosas. Gente que me quiera.
Lila cerró los ojos. Ella había tenido todo eso. No percibía a Jared, no percibía a Clint, pero los recordaba, recordaba su propia vida. Le dolían, esos recuerdos. Creaban formas en la nieve, como los ángeles que modelaban de niñas, pero esas formas se desdibujaban cada día más. Dios, qué sola se sentía.
—Eso no es mucho —dijo Lila, y volvió a abrir los ojos.
—A mí sí me lo parece.
Tiffany alargó los brazos y atrajo el rostro de Lila hacia el suyo.
6
El zorro se alejó trotando de la urbanización Pine Hills, cruzó Tremaine Street y se adentró en el espeso trigal silvestre que había crecido al otro lado. Andaba a la caza de ardillas terrestres en hibernación. Al zorro le encantaban las ardillas terrestres —¡crujientes, jugosas!—, y a ese lado del Árbol, donde no acusaban la presión de los asentamientos humanos, se habían vuelto descuidadas.
Al cabo de media hora de búsqueda, descubrió una pequeña familia en un hueco excavado. No llegaron a despertar, ni siquiera cuando las trituraba entre los dientes.
—¡Qué sabrosas! —se dijo.
El zorro siguió adelante, entre la espesura, camino del Árbol. Se detuvo un momento a explorar una casa abandonada. Meó en unos libros desparramados por el suelo y olfateó en vano un armario lleno de ropa blanca deteriorada. En la cocina de la casa, la comida de la nevera despedía un delicioso aroma a rancio, pero, por más que lo intentó, no logró abrir la puerta.
—Déjame entrar —exigió el zorro a la nevera, por si solo fingía ser una cosa muerta.
La nevera, impasible, no reaccionó.
En el extremo opuesto de la cocina, una víbora cobriza salió de debajo de una estufa de leña.
—¿Por qué brillas? —preguntó la serpiente al zorro.
Otros animales le habían comentado ese fenómeno, y mostraban cautela. El propio zorro lo veía cuando contemplaba su reflejo en el agua quieta. Un brillo dorado se adhería a él. Era la marca de Ella.
—He tenido suerte —contestó el zorro.
La víbora cobriza movió la lengua en dirección a él.
—Ven aquí. Déjame morderte.
El zorro salió a toda prisa de la casa. Varios pájaros lo importunaron mientras corría bajo la maraña de ramas nudosas y deshojadas, pero sus pequeñas pullas no significaban nada para él, que tenía el estómago lleno y el pelaje espeso como el de un oso.
Cuando llegó al claro, allí estaba el Árbol, la pieza central de un oasis frondoso y humeante entre los campos nevados. Sus patas pasaron del terreno gélido a la marga rica y cálida del verano que era el lecho permanente del Árbol. Las ramas de este se distribuían en capas y se fundían en un sinfín de verdes, y junto al pasadizo del tronco, el tigre blanco, meneando la enorme cola, lo observó acercarse con ojos soñolientos.
—No te preocupes por mí —dijo el zorro—, solo estoy de paso.
Penetró como una exhalación en la abertura negra y salió por el otro lado.
### 7
1
Don Peters y Eric Blass aún no habían sido relevados del control de carretera de West Lavin cuando un Mercedes SL 600 maltrecho se acercó despacio a ellos procedente de la cárcel. Don Peters, de pie entre los matorrales, se la sacudía después de vaciar la vejiga. Se subió la cremallera apresuradamente y regresó a la furgoneta que hacía las veces de coche patrulla. Eric se hallaba en la carretera con el arma desenfundada.
—Guarda el cañón, muchacho —instó Don, y Eric enfundó la Glock.
El conductor del Mercedes, un hombre de cabello rizado y rostro rubicundo, se detuvo obedientemente cuando Don alzó la mano. Ocupaba el asiento contiguo una mujer atractiva. Para ser más exactos, _asombrosamente_ atractiva, y más después de todas las nenas zombis que Eric y él habían visto en los últimos días. Además, le sonaba de algo.
—Permiso y documentación del vehículo —dijo Don. No tenía órdenes de exigir a los conductores que se identificasen, pero era lo que la poli solía hacer cuando daba el alto. Tú observa, muchacho, pensó. Fíjate en cómo lo hace un hombre.
El conductor entregó su carnet; la mujer revolvió en la guantera y encontró los papeles. El hombre era Garth Flickinger, médico. De Dooling, con domicilio en Briar, el barrio más elegante del pueblo.
—¿Le importaría decirme qué hacía en la cárcel?
—Eso ha sido idea mía, agente —intervino la mujer. Dios, qué guapa era. Y _esa_ zorra no tenía ojeras. Don se preguntó qué habría tomado para mantenerse tan espabilada—. Soy Michaela Morgan. La de NewsAmerica, ¿sabe?
—¡Ya _sabía_ yo que la conocía de algo! —exclamó Eric.
A Don el nombre no le decía nada de nada, porque él no veía las noticias, y menos el palabrerío de mierda que ponían las veinticuatro horas del día en los canales por cable, pero recordó dónde la había visto.
—¡Ya! El Squeaky Wheel. ¡Estaba usted bebiendo allí!
Ella le dirigió una sonrisa radiante, toda dientes enfundados y pómulos prominentes.
—¡Exacto! Un hombre soltó un discurso sobre que Dios estaba castigando a las mujeres por llevar pantalones. Fue muy interesante.
—¿Me firmará un autógrafo? —preguntó Eric—. Será guay tenerlo cuando usted... —Confuso, se interrumpió.
—¿Cuando me duerma? —apuntó ella—. Sospecho que el mercado de los autógrafos se ha ido a pique, al menos de forma temporal, pero si Garth... el doctor Flickinger... tiene un bolígrafo en la guantera, no veo por qué n...
—Dejemos eso —intervino Don con aspereza, avergonzado por la falta de profesionalidad de su joven compañero—. Quiero saber qué hacían en la cárcel, y no van a moverse de aquí hasta que me lo digan.
—Por supuesto, agente. —Michaela volvió a deslumbrarlo con su sonrisa—. Pese a que mi apellido profesional es Morgan, en realidad me llamo Coates, y soy de este pueblo. De hecho, la directora de la cárcel es...
—¿Coates es su _madre_? —Don se sorprendió, pero si se descartaba la nariz, que era rectísima en tanto que Janice la tenía torcida, sí se advertía el parecido—. En fin, lamento comunicárselo, pero su madre ya no está entre nosotros.
—Lo sé. —Ahora sin sonrisa—. Me lo ha dicho el doctor Norcross. Hemos hablado por el intercomunicador.
—Menudo gilipollas está hecho ese hombre —soltó el tal Flickinger.
Don esbozó una sonrisa; sencillamente no pudo contenerse.
—En eso le doy toda la razón. —Devolvió los papeles.
—No la ha dejado entrar —declaró Flickinger con asombro—. No la ha dejado despedirse siquiera de su propia madre.
—Bueno —admitió Michaela—, la verdad es que esa no era la _única_ razón por la que he convencido a Garth de que me llevara allí. También quería entrevistar a una tal Eve Black. Seguramente han oído ustedes el rumor de que se duerme y despierta. Habría sido toda una primicia, como se imaginarán. Al mundo exterior no le interesan muchas cosas en estos momentos, pero eso sin duda interesaría. Solo que, según Norcross, esa mujer está en un capullo, como todas las demás reclusas.
Don se sintió obligado a corregir esa información. Las mujeres —incluso las periodistas, al parecer— podían llegar a ser lamentablemente crédulas.
—Mentira cochina, y todo el mundo lo sabe. Esa mujer es distinta, especial, y Norcross la retiene por sus propias absurdas razones. Pero eso va a cambiar. —Guiñó el ojo en un gesto lo bastante modoso para abarcar a Garth, que le devolvió el guiño—. Sea amable conmigo, y quizá le consiga esa entrevista en cuanto la saquemos de allí.
Michaela dejó escapar una risita.
—Mejor será que eche un vistazo al maletero, supongo —dijo Don—. Más que nada para poder decir que lo he hecho.
Garth se apeó y, a tirones, logró abrir el maletero, que se alzó con un cansino chirrido; Geary también le había atizado algún que otro golpe ahí. Esperaba que ese payaso no mirase debajo de la rueda de repuesto, que era donde había escondido la bolsa de relámpago púrpura. El payaso no se tomó la molestia; se limitó a echar una ojeada rápida y mover la cabeza en un gesto de asentimiento. Garth cerró el maletero. Esa vez el chirrido fue aún más agudo, el sonido de un gato al que pillan una pata con la puerta.
—¿Qué le ha pasado al coche? —preguntó Eric mientras Garth volvía a sentarse al volante.
Garth abrió la boca para decir al chico que un agente enloquecido de Control Animal la había emprendido con él, pero de pronto recordó que el agente enloquecido de Control Animal era en ese momento, según Norcross, el sheriff en funciones.
—Unos chavales —contestó—. Gamberros. Ven algo bonito y quieren destruirlo porque sí.
El payaso se inclinó para contemplar a la guapa mujer.
—Voy a pasarme por el Squeek cuando acabe mi turno. Si sigue despierta, la invitaré a una copa encantado.
—Eso estaría muy bien —respondió Michaela, como si lo dijera sinceramente.
—Conduzcan con prudencia y tengan una buena tarde —añadió el payaso.
Garth puso la marcha, pero antes de que pudiera incorporarse a la carretera, el chico exclamó:
—¡Espere!
Garth se detuvo. El chico se agachó y, apoyando las manos en las rodillas, miró a Michaela.
—¿Y el autógrafo?
Resultó que sí había un bolígrafo en la guantera, uno precioso con DR. GARTH FLICKINGER grabado en oro en el cuerpo central. Michaela garabateó «A Eric, con cariño» en el dorso de la tarjeta de visita de un representante farmacéutico y se la entregó. Garth se puso en marcha mientras el chico todavía le daba las gracias. A poco más de un kilómetro por la carretera Estatal 31, camino del pueblo, vieron un coche patrulla que avanzaba en su dirección a gran velocidad.
—Aminora —dijo Michaela.
En cuanto el coche patrulla desapareció tras el cambio de rasante a sus espaldas, le pidió que acelerara.
Garth así lo hizo.
2
Durante dos años Lila había insistido machaconamente a Clint en que añadiera sus contactos a los de ella, por si surgía algún problema en la cárcel. Por fin, seis meses atrás, él había accedido, sobre todo para quitársela de encima, y en ese momento dio gracias a Dios por la perseverancia de su esposa. Primero llamó a Jared y le dijo que no se moviera de donde estaba; si todo iba bien, aclaró a su hijo, alguien pasaría a recogerlo poco después de oscurecer. Posiblemente en una autocaravana. Luego cerró los ojos, rogó elocuencia mediante una breve plegaria y llamó al abogado que había facilitado el traslado de Eve Black a la cárcel.
Cuando el timbre sonaba ya por quinta vez y Clint se resignaba al buzón de voz, Barry Holden contestó.
—Aquí Holden. —Se lo notaba apático y exhausto.
—Le habla Clint Norcross, Barry. Desde la cárcel.
—Clint. —Solo eso.
—Necesito que me escuche. Muy atentamente.
No hubo respuesta por parte de Barry Holden.
—¿Sigue ahí?
Al cabo de un momento de silencio, Barry contestó con la misma apatía.
—Aquí sigo.
—¿Dónde están Clara y sus hijas? —Cuatro niñas, de edades comprendidas entre los tres y los doce años. Una circunstancia atroz para el padre, que las quería, pero quizá una buena oportunidad para Clint, por ingrato que fuese pensarlo; no tenía por qué hablar del destino del mundo, solo del destino de las rehenes de la fortuna de Barry.
—Arriba, durmiendo. —Barry se echó a reír. Pero no era una risa genuina, solo un ja ja ja, como el diálogo del globo de un cómic—. Bueno, ya sabe. Envueltas en... eso. Yo estoy en el salón, con una escopeta. Si alguien se presenta aquí, aunque solo sea con una cerilla encendida, le vuelo los sesos.
—Me parece que quizá haya una posibilidad de salvar a su familia. Creo que podrían despertar. ¿Le interesa la idea?
—¿Es la mujer? —Algo nuevo asomó a la voz de Barry. Algo vivo—. ¿Es verdad eso que dicen? ¿Que es capaz de dormirse y luego despertar? Si es solo un rumor, sea sincero conmigo. No puedo hacerme ilusiones a menos que haya una razón para ello.
—Es verdad. Ahora escuche. Van a ir a verlo dos personas. Una es un médico; la otra es la hija de la directora Coates.
—¿Michaela sigue despierta? ¿Después de tanto tiempo? —Barry había empezado a adoptar su tono de voz natural—. No es imposible, supongo... Gerda, mi hija mayor, aguantó hasta anoche... aun así, es increíble.
—No solo está despierta; está _totalmente_ despierta. A diferencia de todas las demás mujeres de la zona de los Tres Condados que todavía mantienen los ojos abiertos. Ha sido obra de la mujer que tenemos aquí en custodia. Le ha echado el aliento en la garganta y la ha despejado.
—Si esto es una broma, Norcross, es de muy mal gus...
—Lo verá con sus propios ojos. Ellos se lo contarán todo, y luego le pedirán que haga algo un tanto peligroso. No quiero decirle que es usted nuestra única esperanza, pero... —Clint cerró los ojos y se frotó las sienes con la mano libre—. Pero quizá lo sea. Y tenemos muy poco tiempo.
—Haría cualquier cosa por mi mujer y mis hijas —contestó Barry—. _Cualquier cosa_.
Clint se permitió una larga exhalación de alivio.
—Amigo mío, eso esperaba que dijera.
3
Barry Holden en efecto tenía una escopeta. No era nueva: se había transmitido de mano en mano durante tres generaciones de Holden. Pero la había limpiado y engrasado, y ofrecía un aspecto lo bastante letal. Escuchó a Garth y a Michaela con el arma de sobre los muslos. A su lado, en la mesa adornada con uno de los tapetes de encaje de Clara Holden, había una caja abierta de gruesos cartuchos rojos.
Hablando por turnos, Michaela y Garth contaron al abogado lo que Clint les había dicho: que la llegada de Eve Black coincidía poco más o menos con los primeros casos conocidos de Aurora; que la mujer había matado a dos hombres con sus propias manos; que se había sometido al arresto sin oponer resistencia, afirmando que era su deseo; que se había golpeado repetidamente la cara contra la rejilla de protección del coche patrulla de Lila; que las magulladuras se le habían curado a una velocidad mágica.
—Además de despejarme del todo, sabía cosas de mí que era imposible que supiera —contó Michaela—, y según dicen, es capaz de controlar a las ratas. Sé que es difícil de creer, pero...
Garth la interrumpió.
—Otra reclusa, Fitzroy, nos ha contado que utilizó a las ratas para hacerse con el móvil del subdirector de la cárcel. Y efectivamente tiene un móvil. Lo he visto.
—Hay más —añadió Michaela—. Sostiene que ha matado al juez Silver. Sostiene...
Guardó silencio un momento, reacia a continuar, pero Clint los había instado a contar la verdad, toda la verdad y nada más que la verdad. Recuerden que puede que esté abatido, había dicho Clint, pero, aun así es abogado, y muy bueno. Huele una mentira a cuarenta metros, incluso con el viento en contra.
—Sostiene que lo ha hecho con la ayuda de unas mariposas nocturnas. Porque Silver se proponía traer a alguien de fuera del pueblo, y eso no está permitido.
Michaela sabía que una semana antes, en ese punto de la conversación, Barry Holden habría concluido que o bien compartían un delirio pernicioso o bien llevaban un colocón de aúpa y pretendían colarle la peor broma del mundo, y los habría invitado a salir de su casa. Pero no era una semana antes. En lugar de decirles que se marcharan, Barry entregó a Michaela la escopeta de su abuelo.
—Sujete esto.
En la mesita de centro había un ordenador portátil. Barry se sentó en el sofá (también profusamente decorado con las labores de aguja de su mujer) y se puso a teclear. Al cabo de un momento alzó la vista.
—La policía del condado de Bridger informa de un accidente ocurrido en la antigua carretera de Coughlin. Una víctima mortal. Sin nombre, pero el vehículo era un Land Rover. El juez Silver tiene un Land Rover.
Observó a Michaela Coates. Lo que estaban diciéndole era, en esencia, que el destino de todas las mujeres del planeta Tierra dependía de lo que sucediera en Dooling en los días siguientes. Era una locura, pero la hija de la directora Coates, allí sentada en la mecedora de madera curva preferida de Clara, mirándolo muy seria, era el mejor argumento en favor de su veracidad. Posiblemente un argumento irrefutable. Según un noticiario de la CNN de esa mañana, se calculaba que menos del diez por ciento de las mujeres del mundo seguían despiertas el quinto día de Aurora. Barry no podía saberlo con certeza, pero habría apostado la escopeta del abuelo Holden a que ninguna presentaba el aspecto de Michaela.
—Esa mujer solo... ¿cómo? ¿La ha besado? ¿Como cuando el príncipe besó a la princesa Aurora en la película de dibujos animados?
—Sí —contestó Michaela—. Tal cual. Y me ha echado el aliento por la garganta. Me parece que esa ha sido en realidad la clave... el aliento.
Barry desvió la atención hacia Garth.
—¿Usted lo ha visto?
—Sí. Ha sido asombroso. Mickey parecía un vampiro después de una transfusión. —Y al advertir la expresión ceñuda de Michaela, añadió—: Perdona, cariño, quizá no sea la metáfora más afortunada.
—En realidad era un símil —corrigió ella con frialdad.
Barry aún intentaba asimilarlo.
—¿Y esa mujer dice que irán a por ella? ¿La policía? ¿Los vecinos del pueblo? ¿Y que Frank Geary está al frente?
—Sí. —Michaela había omitido el detalle de que, según Evie, las mujeres dormidas tendrían que decidir por sí mismas; incluso de ser verdad, esa parte no dependía de ellos.
—Conozco a Geary —dijo Barry—. Nunca lo he representado, pero ha comparecido ante el juzgado del distrito un par de veces. En uno de los casos, según recuerdo, una mujer lo denunció porque la había amenazado por no llevar sujeto con correa a su rottweiler. Padece lo que podríamos describir como episodios de ira.
—Que me lo digan a mí —susurró Garth.
Barry lo miró con las cejas enarcadas.
—Da igual —dijo Garth—. No tiene importancia.
Barry recuperó la escopeta.
—De acuerdo, cuenten conmigo. Para empezar, no tengo otra cosa que hacer ahora que Clara y las niñas no están. Y por otro lado... quiero ver a esa mujer misteriosa con mis propios ojos. ¿Qué espera Clint de mí?
—Ha dicho que tiene usted una autocaravana, una Winnebago —dijo Michaela—. Para ir de acampada con su mujer y sus hijas.
Barry sonrió.
—Una Winnebago, no, una Fiesta. Chupa combustible por un tubo, pero tiene cabida para seis personas. Aunque las niñas se pelean sin parar, hemos pasado buenos ratos en ese trasto viejo. —De pronto se le empañaron los ojos—. Muy muy buenos ratos.
4
La Fleetwood Fiesta de Barry Holden estaba en un pequeño aparcamiento detrás del anticuado bloque de granito donde tenía el bufete. La autocaravana era una monstruosidad pintada con rayas de cebra. Barry se sentó al volante, y Michaela subió al asiento contiguo. Esperaron a Garth, que había ido a la oficina del sheriff en misión de reconocimiento. La escopeta, la reliquia de la familia Holden, se hallaba en el suelo entre ellos.
—¿Cree que tenemos una mínima posibilidad? —preguntó Barry.
—No lo sé —contestó Michaela—. Eso espero, pero la verdad es que no lo sé.
—En fin, desde luego es un disparate, de eso no hay duda —dijo Barry—, pero es mejor que quedarse en casa sentado sumido en malos pensamientos.
—Tiene que ver a Evie Black para entenderlo realmente. Hablar con ella. Tiene que... —Buscó la palabra adecuada—. Tiene que _experimentarla_. __ Esa mujer...
Sonó el teléfono móvil de Michaela. Era Garth.
—Veo a un vejete barbudo sentado en uno de los bancos de enfrente bajo un paraguas, pero por lo demás no hay moros en la costa. Ni coches de policía en el aparcamiento. Solo algunos vehículos privados. Si vamos a actuar, mejor será que nos demos prisa. Esa autocaravana no es lo que yo describiría como discreta.
—Ya vamos —contestó Michaela. Cortó la comunicación.
El callejón entre el edificio de Barry y el bloque contiguo era estrecho —entre la inmanejable Fleetwood y las paredes no podían quedar más de quince centímetros por cada lado—, pero Barry lo recorrió de punta a punta con la desenvoltura de una larga experiencia acumulada. Se detuvo en el extremo del callejón, aunque Main Street estaba vacía. Casi podría pensarse que los hombres también han desaparecido, se dijo Michaela mientras Barry trazaba un amplio giro a la derecha y recorría las dos manzanas hasta la casa consistorial.
Estacionó la Fleetwood delante, ocupando tres plazas abarcadas por el rótulo SOLO ASUNTOS OFICIALES, EL RESTO DE LOS VEHÍCULOS SERÁN RETIRADOS POR LA GRÚA. Se apearon, y Garth se unió a ellos. El hombre de la barba, cubriéndose la cabeza con el paraguas, se levantó y se acercó parsimoniosamente. Del bolsillo superior de su peto, asomaba la boquilla de una pipa. Tendió la mano a Barry y dijo:
—Qué hay, abogado.
Barry se la estrechó.
—Eh, Willy. Encantado de verlo, pero ahora no tengo tiempo para charlas. Vamos con prisa, digamos. Un asunto urgente.
Willy asintió.
—Estoy esperando a Lila. Sé que es muy probable que esté dormida, pero confío en que no. Quiero hablar con ella. Volví a aquella caravana donde mataron a los adictos a la meta. Se percibe algo raro. Aparte de los pañuelos de hada. En los árboles hay muchísimas mariposas nocturnas. Quería comentárselo y quizá llevarla a verlo. Si no a ella, a quienquiera que esté al frente.
—Les presento a Willy Burke —dijo Barry a Garth y Michaela—. Departamento de Bomberos Voluntarios, Adopte una Carretera, entrena a un equipo de la liga juvenil Pop Warner, un buen tipo de la cabeza a los pies. Pero la verdad es que andamos fatal de tiempo, Willy, así que...
—Si es con Linny Mars con quien han venido a hablar, más vale que se den prisa. —Willy posó los ojos primero en Barry, luego en Garth y por último en Michaela. Los tenía muy hundidos, atrapados en redes de arrugas, pero su mirada era penetrante—. Seguía despierta la última vez que me he asomado, pero está apagándose por momentos.
—¿No hay ningún ayudante? —preguntó Garth.
—No, han salido todos a patrullar. Excepto Terry Coombs quizá. He oído decir que no anda muy fino. Borracho como una cuba, quién lo iba a decir.
Los tres empezaron a subir por la escalinata hacia la puerta triple.
—Entonces ¿no han visto a Lila? —les preguntó Willy, alzando la voz.
—No —respondió Barry.
—Bueno... tal vez espere un rato más. —Y Willy volvió tranquilamente a su banco—. Desde luego allí pasa algo raro. Todas esas mariposas. Y se nota una vibración.
5
Linny Mars, parte del diez por ciento de la población femenina de la Tierra que aquel lunes aún resistía, seguía paseándose con el portátil, pero ahora se movía despacio y de vez en cuando trastabillaba y se tropezaba con los muebles. A Michaela le pareció un juguete que estaba quedándose sin cuerda. Hace dos horas, así estaba yo, __ pensó.
Linny pasó por su lado, sin apartar del ordenador los ojos inyectados en sangre, y no pareció darse cuenta de su presencia hasta que Barry le tocó el hombro. Entonces se sobresaltó y levantó las manos. Garth atrapó el ordenador al vuelo antes de que se estrellara contra el suelo. La pantalla mostraba un vídeo de la Noria de Londres. En lento movimiento, se tambaleaba y rodaba hasta caer en el Támesis una y otra vez. Era difícil entender qué podía inducir a una persona a destruir la Noria de Londres, pero por lo visto alguien había sentido la necesidad de hacerlo.
—¡Barry! ¡Me ha dado un _susto_ de muerte!
—Lo siento —se disculpó él—. Me manda Terry a por parte del material del armero. Supongo que quiere llevarlas a la cárcel. ¿Puedes darme la llave, por favor?
—¿Terry? —Linny arrugó el entrecejo—. ¿Por qué iba él...? El sheriff es Lila, no Terry. _Usted_ ya lo sabe.
—Lila, sí, dijo Barry—. Es orden de Lila _a través_ de Terry.
Garth se acercó a la puerta y miró hacia fuera, convencido de que, de un instante a otro, aparecería un coche patrulla del departamento del sheriff. Quizá dos o tres. Los meterían en la cárcel, y esa aventura delirante terminaría incluso antes de empezar. Por el momento no había nadie más que el tipo de la barba sentado allí bajo su paraguas, como la estatua de un monumento a la Paciencia, pero eso no podía durar.
—¿Puedes ayudarme, Linny? ¿Por Lila?
—Claro. Me alegraré cuando vuelva —respondió Linny. Se acercó a su escritorio y dejó allí el ordenador. En la pantalla, la Noria de Londres caía y caía y volvía a caer—. Ese tal Dave está al frente hasta que ella regrese. O puede que se llame Pete. Resulta confuso tener aquí a dos Pete. En cualquier caso no sé qué pensar de él. Es muy serio.
Rebuscó en el amplio cajón superior y sacó un pesado llavero. Examinó las llaves. Se le cerraron los ojos. Inmediatamente surgieron hebras blancas de sus pestañas y ondearon en el aire.
—¡Linny! —exclamó Barry bruscamente—. ¡Despierta!
Ella abrió los ojos al instante, y las hebras desaparecieron.
— _Estoy_ despierta. No me grite. —Recorrió las llaves con un dedo haciéndolas tintinear—. Sé que es una de estas...
Barry las cogió.
—Ya la encontraré. Señorita Morgan, quizá prefiera volver a la autocaravana y esperar allí.
—No, gracias. Quiero ayudar. Así acabaremos antes.
Al fondo de la sala principal había una puerta metálica sin identificar de un tono verde especialmente anodino. Tenía dos cerraduras. Barry encontró la llave de la de arriba con relativa facilidad. La segunda, en cambio, estaba llevándole más tiempo. Michaela pensó que quizá Lila se hubiese guardado esa llave. Quizá la tuviera en el bolsillo, enterrada bajo uno de esos capullos blancos.
—¿Ves venir a alguien? —preguntó a Garth.
—Todavía no, pero hay que darse prisa. Con todo esto, me están entrando ganas de mear.
Quedaban solo tres llaves cuando Barry encontró la que accionaba la segunda cerradura. Abrió la puerta, y Michaela vio un cuarto pequeño del tamaño de un ropero con fusiles dispuestos en soportes y pistolas en receptáculos revestidos de espuma de poliestireno. Había cajas de munición apiladas en los estantes. En una pared, un póster mostraba a un ranger de Texas que llevaba un sombrero descomunal y apuntaba un revólver con un enorme cañón negro. LUCHÉ CONTRA LA LEY Y LA LEY GANÓ, rezaba la frase de debajo.
—Coja toda la munición posible —indicó Barry—. Yo cogeré los M4 y algunas Glock.
Michaela se acercó a los estantes de munición; de pronto cambió de idea y regresó a la zona de la centralita. Levantó la papelera de Linny y vertió el contenido, papeles arrugados y vasitos de café, en un montón. Linny ni siquiera se dio cuenta. Michaela cargó en la papelera tantas cajas de munición como creyó que podría acarrear y salió del armero con ella entre los brazos. Garth pasó rozándola para hacerse también con una brazada de armas. Barry había dejado una de las tres puertas de entrada abierta. Michaela descendió tambaleante por la ancha escalinata de piedra bajo la llovizna cada vez más intensa a tiempo de ver a Barry llegar a la Fleetwood. El hombre de la barba se levantó del banco, cubriéndose aún la cabeza con el paraguas. Dijo algo a Barry, el cual le contestó. A continuación el hombre de la barba, Willy, abrió la puerta trasera de la autocaravana para que Barry pudiera dejar las armas que llevaba en los brazos.
Michaela, jadeante, llegó junto a él. Barry le cogió la papelera y vació las cajas de munición encima de la pila de armas, como una montaña de palitos chinos. Volvieron a entrar juntos mientras Willy observaba bajo el paraguas. Garth salió con un segundo cargamento de armas, los pantalones deformados por el peso de las cajas de munición que se había metido en los bolsillos.
—¿Qué le ha dicho ese anciano? —preguntó Michaela.
—Quería saber si estamos haciendo algo que la sheriff Norcross aprobaría —contestó Barry—. Le he dicho que sí.
Regresaron al interior y entraron a toda prisa en el armero. Ya se habían llevado cerca de la mitad de las armas. Michaela descubrió algo que semejaba una metralleta aquejada de paperas.
—Eso decididamente nos lo llevamos. Me parece que es el artilugio para lanzar gas lacrimógeno. No sé si lo necesitamos, pero prefiero que no lo tengan otros.
Garth se reunió con ellos.
—Traigo malas noticias, abogado Holden. Acaba de parar detrás de su autocaravana una furgoneta con una luz estroboscópica en el salpicadero.
Corrieron a la puerta y escrutaron a través del cristal ahumado. De la furgoneta salían dos hombres, y Michaela los reconoció a ambos: el payaso y su compañero el cazaautógrafos.
—Vaya por Dios —dijo Barry—, ese es Don Peters, de la cárcel. ¿Qué pretende haciéndose pasar por poli? Ese hombre tiene el cerebro de un mosquito.
—A ese mosquito en particular lo hemos visto hace muy poco al frente de un control de carretera cerca de la cárcel —observó Garth—. El mismo mosquito, la misma furgoneta.
El hombre de la barba se acercó a los recién llegados, dijo algo y señaló Main Street arriba. Peters y su joven compañero volvieron corriendo a la furgoneta y montaron.
—¿Qué pasa? —preguntó Linny con la voz alterada—. ¿Qué coño pasa?
—Todo en orden —respondió Garth, y le dirigió una sonrisa—. No hay nada de qué preocuparse. —Volviéndose hacia Barry y Michaela, preguntó—: ¿Se me permite sugerir que nos vayamos ahora que aún llevamos ventaja?
—¿Qué pasa? —gimoteó Linny—. ¡Todo esto parece una pesadilla!
—Usted quédese ahí, señorita —indicó Garth—. Puede que la situación mejore.
Los tres se fueron, y en cuanto llegaron a la acera, echaron a correr. Michaela sostenía el lanzagranadas en una mano y una bolsa de botes de humo en la otra. Se sentía como Bonnie Parker. Willy permanecía junto a la Fleetwood.
—¿Cómo ha conseguido que esos tipos se marchen de aquí? —preguntó Barry.
—Les he dicho que he oído tiros en la ferretería. No tardarán en volver, así que será mejor que se larguen de aquí. —Willy cerró el paraguas—. Y será mejor que yo me largue con ustedes, creo. Esos dos no van a volver muy contentos.
—¿Por qué nos ayuda? —preguntó Garth.
—Bueno, corren tiempos extraños, y uno tiene que guiarse por la intuición. Yo siempre la he tenido bastante buena. Barry aquí presente ha sido amigo de Lila de toda la vida, a pesar de que en el juzgado batee con el equipo contrario, y he reconocido a esta chica de las noticias de la tele. —Observó a Garth—. Usted, con esa pinta, no me inspira mucha confianza, pero va con ellos, así que ¡qué demonios! Además, la suerte está echada, como suele decirse. ¿Adónde vamos?
—Primero a recoger al hijo de Lila —contestó Barry—, luego a la cárcel. ¿Qué le parecería participar en un asedio, Willy? Porque puede que sea eso lo que se avecina.
Willy sonrió, dejando a la vista unos dientes manchados de tabaco.
—Bueno, de niño tenía una gorra de piel de mapache, y siempre me han gustado las películas sobre El Álamo, así que ¿por qué no? Ayúdeme a subir los peldaños de este trasto, ¿quiere? Con esta condenada lluvia, el reuma me está matando.
6
Jared, que esperaba en la puerta de la casa piloto, se disponía a llamar a su padre de nuevo cuando una enorme autocaravana se detuvo enfrente. Reconoció al conductor; al igual que los ayudantes de su madre y otros muchos funcionarios municipales, Barry Holden había cenado en casa de los Norcross alguna que otra vez. Jared salió a recibirlo a los escalones de entrada.
—Vamos —dijo Barry—. Tenemos que irnos.
Jared vaciló.
—En el desván está mi madre, y hay otras tres más. Ahí arriba hacía mucho calor antes de que empezara a llover, y volverá a hacer calor mañana. Deberían ayudarme a bajarlas.
—Esta noche refrescará enseguida, Jared, y no tenemos tiempo.
Barry no sabía si las mujeres envueltas en capullos sentían el frío y el calor, pero sí sabía que el cerco se estrechaba rápidamente. Pensaba también que Lila y las otras tal vez correrían menos peligro en esa calle tranquila. Él había insistido en llevarse a su mujer y sus hijas a causa de la autocaravana. En Dooling, muchos la conocían, y temía posibles represalias.
—¿Podemos al menos pedir a alguien...?
—Esa decisión ya la tomará tu padre. Por favor, Jared.
Jared se dejó guiar hacia la Fleetwood, al ralentí. Se abrió la puerta de atrás, y su viejo entrenador de la liga de fútbol Pop Warner se apeó visiblemente dolorido. Jared sonrió a su pesar.
—¡Entrenador Burke!
—¡Mira a quién tenemos aquí! —exclamó Willy—. El único mocoso al que, cuando jugaba de _quarterback_ , no se le caía uno de cada dos pases. Sube aquí, hijo.
Pero lo primero que Jared vio fue el despliegue de armas y munición en el suelo.
—¡Joder! ¿Para qué es esto?
Justo al lado de la puerta, en el sofá de cuadros, había una mujer sentada. Era joven, guapísima, y le sonaba vagamente, pero lo más extraordinario era lo despierta que se la veía.
—Esperemos que solo sea un seguro —dijo ella.
Un hombre, de pie en el pasillo frente a la mujer, se rio.
—Yo no contaría con eso, Mickey. —Tendió la mano—. Garth Flickinger.
Detrás de Garth Flickinger, en un sofá idéntico, había dispuestos cinco cuerpos envueltos en capullos, cada uno más pequeño que el anterior, como un juego de muñecas rusas separadas.
—Esas son la mujer y las hijas del señor Holden, según me han dicho —explicó el entrenador Burke.
La autocaravana se puso en marcha. Jared se tambaleó. Willy Burke lo sujetó, y mientras Jared estrechaba la mano al señor Flickinger, pensó que tal vez todo aquello fuera un sueño. Incluso el nombre de aquel tipo parecía salido de un sueño: ¿quién, en el mundo real, se llamaba Garth Flickinger?
—Encantado de conocerlo —saludó. Con el rabillo del ojo, vio que las mujeres de la familia Holden rodaban y chocaban unas contra otras cuando la autocaravana dobló una esquina. Jared se dijo que no debía mirarlas, pero era imposible no mirarlas, allí reducidas a muñecas momificadas—. Yo soy... esto... Jared Norcross. —Y fuera un sueño o no, lo asaltó cierto resentimiento: bien habían tenido tiempo para que el señor Holden cargara a _su_ familia, ¿no? ¿Y eso por qué? ¿Porque era su autocaravana?
El teléfono de Jared sonó cuando Barry maniobraba en la rotonda del final de Tremaine Street. Estaban dejando abandonadas a su madre, Molly, Mary, el bebé y la señora Ransom. Le parecía mal. Pero todo le parecía mal, ¿qué había de nuevo en eso, entonces?
La llamada era de su padre. Intercambiaron unas palabras, y a continuación Clint le pidió que lo pusiera con Michaela. Cuando ella cogió el teléfono, Clint dijo:
—Esto es lo que tienen que hacer.
Ella escuchó con atención.
7
El ayudante Reed Barrows había aparcado la Unidad Tres de través justo al principio del desvío que conducía a la cárcel. Era un terreno elevado; Vern y él disponían de una vista despejada de como mínimo diez kilómetros de Estatal 31. Reed se temía una buena bronca por parte de Peters por relevarlos tan poco tiempo después de que ocupara su puesto, pero para su sorpresa Peters había accedido de buen grado. Seguramente estaba impaciente por iniciar cuanto antes las copas del día. Tal vez el chico también lo estuviera. Reed dudaba que esa semana en el Squeaky Wheel pidiesen los documentos de identidad, y por el momento los policías tenían mejores cosas que hacer que andar velando por el cumplimiento de las leyes contra el consumo de alcohol.
Peters notificó que solo habían dado el alto a un vehículo, una periodista que se había presentado en la cárcel con la esperanza de conseguir una entrevista, y la habían obligado a darse media vuelta. Reed y Vern no habían dado el alto a nadie. Incluso en la carretera principal, el tráfico era tan escaso que podía considerarse casi inexistente. El pueblo estaba de duelo por sus mujeres, pensó Reed. Demonios, el _mundo_ entero estaba de duelo.
Reed se volvió hacia su compañero, que leía algo en su Kindle y se hurgaba la nariz.
—No estarás enganchando los mocos bajo el asiento, ¿verdad?
—No, por Dios. No seas asqueroso. —Vern levantó el trasero, se sacó un pañuelo del bolsillo de atrás, se limpió un pequeño tesoro verde con él, y volvió a guardarlo—. Dime una cosa: ¿qué hacemos aquí exactamente? ¿De verdad creen que Norcross es tan tonto como para sacar a esa mujer al mundo ahora que la tiene entre rejas?
—No lo sé.
—Si pasa un camión de comida o algo así, ¿qué tenemos que hacer?
—Pararlo y pedir instrucciones por radio.
—Por radio ¿a quién? ¿A Terry o a Frank?
A ese respecto Reed ya no estaba tan seguro.
—Primero intentaría llamar al móvil de Terry, supongo. Si no contesta, dejaría un mensaje para cubrirnos las espaldas. ¿Y por qué no nos preocupamos de eso cuando llegue el momento?
—Cosa poco probable, teniendo en cuenta el caos que se ha armado.
—Sí. Las infraestructuras se han ido al garete.
—¿Qué son las infraestructuras?
—Búscalo en internet, ¿quieres?
Vern lo hizo.
—«Las estructuras físicas y organizativas básicas para el funcionamiento de una sociedad o una empresa.» Ah.
—¿Ah? ¿Qué quieres decir con «ah»?
—Que tienes razón. Se han ido al garete. Esta mañana he pasado por Shopwell antes de ir a la oficina. Daba la impresión de que hubiera caído allí una bomba.
Cuesta abajo, en la gris luz vespertina, vieron aproximarse un vehículo.
—¿Reed?
—¿Qué?
—Sin mujeres, no habrá bebés.
—Tienes una mente científica, eso desde luego —comentó Reed.
—Si esto no termina, ¿qué será de la especie humana dentro de sesenta o cien años?
Eso era algo en lo que Reed Barrows no deseaba pensar, y menos con su mujer en un capullo y su hijo de corta edad en las manos (probablemente inadecuadas) del vecino, el anciano señor Freeman. Ni necesitaba hacerlo. El vehículo ya se hallaba cerca, lo suficiente para distinguir que era una autocaravana descomunal con rayas de cebra, que reducía la velocidad como si su intención fuese desviarse por la carretera de la cárcel. Aunque en realidad no podía, con la Unidad Tres estacionada allí.
—Es la autocaravana de Holden —observó Vern—. El abogado. Mi hermano se encarga de hacerle el mantenimiento en Maylock.
La Fleetwood se detuvo. La puerta del conductor se abrió, y salió Barry Holden. Simultáneamente los agentes se apearon de la Unidad Tres.
Holden los saludó con una sonrisa.
—Caballeros, traigo buenas nuevas de lo más jubilosas.
Ni Reed ni Vern le devolvieron la sonrisa.
—Nadie puede visitar la cárcel, señor Holden —advirtió Reed—. Órdenes del sheriff.
—Veamos, dudo que eso sea estrictamente cierto —respondió Barry, todavía sonriente—. Tengo entendido que quien ha dado esa orden es un caballero llamado Frank Geary, que podríamos describir como autoridad «autoproclamada». ¿No es así?
Reed no sabía bien cómo responder a eso, así que permaneció en silencio.
—En cualquier caso —continuó Barry—, he recibido una llamada de Clint Norcross. Ha decidido que la manera correcta de proceder es entregar a esa mujer a las fuerzas del orden locales.
—¡Vaya, gracias a Dios! —exclamó Vern—. ¡Por fin ha entrado en razón!
—Quiere que yo esté presente en la cárcel para facilitar el trato y dejar constancia pública de por qué se ha apartado del protocolo. Una mera formalidad, en realidad.
Reed se disponía a decir: «¿No ha encontrado un vehículo más pequeño para venir hasta aquí? ¿Acaso no le arrancaba el coche?». Pero en ese instante sonó la radio de la Unidad Tres. Era Terry Coombs, y parecía alterado. «Unidad Tres, Unidad Tres, ¡responda! ¡Ahora mismo! _¡Ahora mismo!_ »
8
Justo cuando Reed y Vern veían aparecer la autocaravana de Barry Holden, Terry Coombs entró en el Olympia Diner y se aproximó al reservado que ocupaban Frank y el ayudante Pete Ordway. Frank no se alegró precisamente de ver a Coombs en danza, pero disimuló su disgusto lo mejor que pudo.
—Eh, Terry.
Terry los saludó a los dos con un gesto. Se había afeitado y cambiado de camisa. Se lo veía algo inestable, pero sobrio.
—Jack Albertson me ha dicho que estabais aquí. —Albertson era uno de los ayudantes retirados que dos días antes se habían visto obligados a reincorporarse al servicio activo—. Hace quince minutos he recibido una muy mala noticia desde el condado de Bridger.
Terry no despedía olor a alcohol. Frank confiaba en poder cambiar eso. No le gustaba la idea de incitar a un hombre que probablemente era un alcohólico en ciernes, pero resultaba más fácil trabajar con Coombs cuando había empinado el codo.
—¿Qué pasa en Bridger? —preguntó Pete.
—Un accidente de tráfico. El juez Silver ha caído al Dorr's Hollow. Ha muerto.
— _¿Cómo?_ —Frank levantó la voz de tal modo que Gus Vereen salió de la cocina.
—Es una verdadera lástima —dijo Terry—. Era un buen hombre. —Arrimó una silla—. ¿Tenéis idea de qué hacía allí?
—Iba a Coughlin para hablar con un exagente del FBI al que conocía sobre la posibilidad de que nos ayudara a hacer entrar en razón a Norcross —explicó Frank. Debía de haber sido un infarto. El juez tenía un aspecto horrendo, pálido y tembloroso—. Si ha muerto... eso queda descartado, supongo. —Con esfuerzo, recobró la compostura. Sentía aprecio por el juez Silver y había estado dispuesto a seguirle la corriente, hasta cierto punto. Ese punto acababa de borrarse—. Y esa mujer sigue en la cárcel. —Frank se inclinó hacia delante—. Despierta. Norcross mentía cuando nos ha dicho que dormía envuelta en un capullo. Hicks lo ha confirmado.
—Hicks no tiene buena fama —afirmó Terry.
Frank no lo escuchó.
—Y no es lo único raro que han observado en ella. Esa mujer es la clave.
—Si esa zorra empezó esto, sabrá cómo pararlo —intervino Pete.
Terry contrajo los labios.
—De eso no hay ninguna prueba, Pete. Y dado que Aurora empezó a medio mundo de aquí, resulta un tanto traído por los pelos. Me parece que todos necesitamos respirar hondo y sencillamente...
El walkie-talkie de Frank cobró vida. Era Don Peters.
—¡Frank! ¡Frank, contesta! ¡Necesito hablar contigo! Más vale que respondas por este trasto, porque esos cabrones...
Frank se llevó el walkie-talkie a los labios.
—Aquí Frank. Habla. Y cuidado con ese vocabulario, estamos en abierto...
— _¡Esos cabrones han robado las armas!_ —exclamó Don—. _¡Un viejo decrépito de mierda nos ha enredado, y entonces han robado las putas armas de la puta oficina del sheriff!_
Antes de que Frank pudiera contestar, Terry le arrancó el walkie-talkie de la mano.
—Aquí Coombs. ¿Quién ha sido?
—¡Barry Holden, en un pedazo de caravana mastodóntica! Dice tu operadora que lo acompañaban otros, pero está casi fuera de este mundo y no sabe quiénes eran.
—¿Todas las armas? —preguntó Terry, atónito—. ¿Se han llevado _todas_ las armas?
—No, no, no todas, imagino que no han tenido tiempo, ¡pero sí muchas! ¡Dios bendito, esa autocaravana era _enorme_!
Terry, paralizado, se quedó mirando el walkie-talkie que tenía en la mano. Frank se dijo que debía mantener la boca cerrada y dejar que Terry realizase sus propias cábalas... y sencillamente no pudo. Por lo visto, nunca podía una vez que montaba en cólera.
—¿Todavía piensas que solo necesitamos respirar hondo y esperar a que Norcross salga? Porque ya sabes adónde van con esas armas, ¿no?
Terry lo miró, apretando tanto los labios que casi le desapareció la boca.
—Puede que hayas olvidado quién manda aquí, Frank.
—Perdón, sheriff. —Por debajo de la mesa, tenía las manos entrelazadas con tal fuerza que le temblaban, y las uñas le grababan medias lunas en las palmas.
Terry no apartó la mirada de él.
—Dime que has apostado a alguien en la carretera que va a la cárcel.
Maldita sea, tú tendrías la culpa si no lo hubiera hecho, por borracho que estuvieras. Ah, pero ¿quién había estado sirviéndole la bebida?
—Sí. A Rangle y a Barrows.
—Bien. Eso está bien. ¿En qué unidad van?
Frank no lo sabía, pero Pete Ordway, sí.
—La Tres.
Don continuaba balbuceando, pero Terry lo interrumpió y pulsó TRANSMITIR.
—Unidad Tres, Unidad Tres, ¡responda! ¡Ahora mismo! _¡Ahora mismo!_
### 8
1
Cuando se oyó el graznido de la radio, Reed Barrows indicó a Barry que no se moviera de donde estaba.
—No se preocupe —dijo Barry.
Golpeó tres veces con los nudillos en el flanco de la Fleetwood, un mensaje para anunciar a Willy Burke —agachado detrás de la cortina que separaba la parte de delante de la autocaravana de la trasera— que pasaban al plan B. El plan B era muy sencillo: en marcha, mientras él proporcionaba toda la distracción posible. Era de vital importancia que las armas llegaran a la cárcel, y que sus hijas y su mujer estuvieran a salvo. Barry no tuvo que pensárselo dos veces. Lo detendrían, por supuesto, pero conocía a un abogado excelente.
Apoyó la mano en el hombro de Vern Rangle y lo apartó con delicadeza del morro de la autocaravana.
—Parece que en la oficina del sheriff alguien se ha ensuciado el pañal —comentó Rangle en tono jocoso mientras, sin darse cuenta, se dejaba guiar por el abogado—. ¿Adónde vamos?
A donde iban era a situarse a cierta distancia de la autocaravana a fin de que, primero, Rangle no viera a Willy Burke instalarse en el asiento del conductor y, segundo, la Fleetwood tuviera espacio para seguir adelante sin atropellar a nadie. Aunque eso Barry no podía explicárselo al agente. Un concepto que pretendía inculcar a sus hijas era que la ley era impersonal: no tenía que ver con los sentimientos, sino con los argumentos. Era preferible desligarse totalmente de las preferencias personales. En realidad convenía que uno se despojara de su propia piel y se pusiera en la de su cliente, a la vez que conservaba su propio cerebro.
(Gerda, a quien un chico del instituto había pedido para salir —solo de segundo, pero aun así demasiado mayor para ella—, había tratado recientemente de inducir a su padre a que la aceptara como cliente _pro bono_ para convencer a su madre de que ya tenía edad para ir al cine con ese chico. Ahí Gerda había demostrado una sagacidad excepcional, pero Barry rehusó la petición aduciendo la relación de parentesco. También porque, como padre suyo, no tenía intención de dejar que fuera a ninguna parte con un muchacho a punto de cumplir los quince años a quien seguramente se le empinaba cada vez que soplaba el viento. Si Cary Benson deseaba tanto pasar un rato con ella, había dicho Barry, podía invitarla a un helado con frutas y nueces en el Dairy Treet allí, en el propio pueblo. Y a plena luz del día.)
Lo que Barry había preferido no explicar a Gerda era la incómoda circunstancia de la culpabilidad absoluta. A veces uno se metía en la piel de su cliente y descubría que este — _uno mismo_ — era tan asombrosa, irremisible e indisimuladamente culpable como el pecado original. Cuando se daba esa situación, la única táctica sensata era distraer y perturbar, litigar sobre los detalles insignificantes, entorpecerlo todo y buscar la postergación. Con suerte, uno podía desgastar al contrario hasta que este le ofrecía un trato ventajoso para liberarse de él o, mejor aún, irritarlo o desorientarlo hasta inducirlo a echar a perder su caso por completo.
Con eso presente, improvisó la pregunta más desconcertante que se le ocurrió a corto plazo:
—Oiga, Vern. Quería llevármelo aparte para preguntarle una cosa.
—Vale...
Barry se inclinó hacia él como para hablarle en confianza.
—¿A usted le han hecho la circuncisión?
Gotas de lluvia salpicaban las lentes de las gafas de Vern Rangle y ocultaban sus ojos. Barry oyó que se encendía el motor de la autocaravana, oyó el sonido metálico del cambio cuando Willy puso la marcha, pero el policía no prestó atención. La pregunta de la circuncisión lo había llevado a un estado de bloqueo mental.
—Caray, señor Holden... —Vern desplegó distraídamente un pañuelo con una sacudida y empezó a plegarlo de nuevo—. Eso es un tanto personal, ¿no le parece?
A sus espaldas se oyó un golpetazo y un gemido de metal contra metal.
Entretanto Reed Barrows se había instalado en el asiento del conductor del coche patrulla para atender la llamada de Terry, pero el micro se le resbaló de la mano húmeda. Mientras se inclinaba para recogerlo del suelo y desenredar el cable, transcurrieron unos segundos vitales, porque ese fue el tiempo que Willy Burke necesitó para realizar la maniobra de arranque.
—Recibido, aquí Unidad Tres. Barrows al habla, corto —dijo Reed en cuanto recuperó el micro.
Por la ventanilla, vio la autocaravana virar en torno a la parte delantera del coche patrulla hacia el arcén de grava y el terraplén de hierba contiguos al carril dirección sur de la carretera. Reed, al ver eso, no se alarmó; se quedó perplejo. ¿Por qué movía Barry Holden la autocaravana? ¿O acaso la movía Vern para que pudiera pasar otro vehículo? No tenía ninguna lógica. Era necesario resolver el asunto del picapleitos y su Fleetwood antes de ocuparse de cualquier otra persona que quisiera pasar.
Terry Coombs habló a voz en cuello por la radio.
—¡Detened a Barry Holden y confiscad el vehículo! ¡Lleva un montón de armas robadas y va camino de la cárcel! ¿Me has oído...?
El morro de la autocaravana embistió el morro del coche patrulla, el micro se resbaló de la mano de Reed por segunda vez, y la vista al otro lado del parabrisas empezó a girar como si se hallara articulada mediante bisagras.
—¡Eh!
2
En la parte de atrás de la autocaravana, Jared perdió el equilibrio. Se cayó del sofá sobre las armas.
—¿Estás bien? —preguntó Garth. El médico había conseguido mantenerse en pie apoyándose firmemente de espaldas en la encimera de la cocina y agarrándose al fregadero.
—Sí.
—¡Gracias por interesarte por mí! —Michaela había logrado permanecer en el sofá, pero había caído de costado.
Garth tomó conciencia de que adoraba a Mickey. Tenía arrestos, como se decía antes. No cambiaría nada en ella. Su nariz y todo lo demás estaban tan cerca como podían estar de la perfección.
—No me hace falta, Mickey —contestó él—. Sé que estás bien, porque siempre estarás bien.
3
La autocaravana avanzó despacio, ciñéndose en ángulo a la cuneta en pendiente, a no más de veinticinco kilómetros por hora, y apartó el coche patrulla. Se oyó el chirrido de metal contra metal. Vern, boquiabierto, se volvió hacia Barry. El abogado se le había reído en la cara. En consecuencia Vern asestó un puñetazo a Barry en el ojo y lo tumbó de espaldas.
—¡Detén la autocaravana! —vociferó Reed a través de la puerta abierta del coche patrulla en movimiento—. ¡Dispara a los neumáticos!
Vern desenfundó el arma reglamentaria.
La autocaravana se soltó del coche patrulla y empezó a ganar velocidad. Se encontraba en un ángulo de treinta grados cuando abandonó el arcén y se dirigió hacia el centro de la calzada. Vern, apuntando a la rueda posterior derecha, se precipitó al apretar el gatillo. El disparo le salió alto y perforó la pared de la autocaravana. El vehículo se encontraba ya a unos cincuenta metros de distancia. En cuanto se situase en plena carretera, lo perderían. Vern tardó un momento en corregir la posición y apuntar de nuevo, esa vez debidamente, concentrándose en la rueda derecha posterior... y disparó al aire porque Barry Holden lo placó y lo derribó.
4
Jared, en el suelo, con las miras y los cañones de las armas hincándosele en media docena de puntos de la espalda, quedó ensordecido por la detonación. De algún modo percibió los gritos alrededor —¿la mujer, Michaela? ¿Flickinger?—, pero no los oyó. Sus ojos se posaron en un orificio en la pared: la bala había dejado una abertura semejante al extremo superior reventado de un petardo. En las palmas de sus manos, en contacto con el suelo de la autocaravana, sentía como se movían las ruedas, cada vez a mayor velocidad, zumbando sobre el asfalto.
Flickinger seguía de pie, apuntalado en la encimera de la cocina. No, no era Flickinger quien gritaba.
Jared miró hacia donde miraba el médico.
Las siluetas envueltas en capullos yacían en el sofá. Una cavidad sanguinolenta se había abierto en el esternón de la tercera de la fila, la mayor de las niñas, Gerda. Esta se levantó del sofá y avanzó tambaleante. Era ella quien gritaba. Jared vio que se movía hacia Michaela, acurrucada en el extremo del sofá paralelo. La niña tenía los brazos extendidos, libres ya del tejido que se los había mantenido firmemente unidos al torso, y se adivinaba con toda nitidez el contorno de la boca abierta y vociferante bajo la tela. Del orificio en el esternón brotaban mariposas.
Flickinger agarró a Gerda. Ella giró en redondo e hincó las manos en la garganta del médico cuando los dos se bambolearon en círculo. Tropezaron y cayeron al suelo, encima de las armas. Los dos cuerpos chocharon contra la puerta trasera. El pasador cedió, la puerta se abrió, y se precipitaron al exterior seguidos de un tumulto de mariposas y un aluvión de armas y balas.
5
Evie gimió.
—¿Qué? —preguntó Angel—. ¿Qué pasa?
—Ah —contestó Evie—. Nada.
—Mentirosa —repuso Jeanette. Seguía desplomada en el hueco de la ducha.
Angel debía reconocerlo: Jeanette era casi tan testaruda como ella misma.
—Ese es el sonido que haces cuando muere alguien. —Jeanette tomó aire. Ladeó la cabeza y se dirigió a una persona invisible—. Ese es el sonido que hace cuando muere alguien, Damian.
—Me parece que tienes razón, Jeanette —respondió Evie—. Me parece que es lo que hago.
—Eso he dicho. ¿No, Damian?
—No estás viendo una mierda, Jeanette —dijo Angel.
Jeanette siguió mirando la nada.
—Salen mariposas de su boca, Angel. Tiene mariposas dentro. Ahora déjame en paz: estoy intentando mantener una conversación con mi marido.
Evie se disculpó.
—Tengo que hacer una llamada.
6
Reed oyó el disparo de Vern al tiempo que se abalanzaba sobre la consola central del coche de policía y abría la puerta del acompañante. Alcanzó a ver la parte de atrás de la autocaravana cuando rebasaba trabajosamente la cuesta, y cómo batía la puerta posterior.
Dos cuerpos yacían en la carretera. Reed desenfundó el arma reglamentaria y corrió hacia ellos. Más allá de los cuerpos, había un reguero de tres o cuatro fusiles de asalto y, entre ellos, munición desparramada.
Cuando llegó a los cuerpos, se detuvo. Sangre y materia gris salpicaban el asfalto en torno al cráneo del hombre que yacía boca arriba, más cerca de él. Reed había visto no pocos cadáveres, pero los destrozos en ese eran considerables; posiblemente era el que se llevaba la palma. En la caída, se le habían desplazado las gafas hacia arriba y las tenía acomodadas en el nacimiento del cabello rizado. Aquella disposición le confería un aspecto perversamente amable y despreocupado, la apariencia de un profesor, mientras yacía muerto en la carretera con los sesos esparcidos por el asfalto.
Unos pasos más allá había una mujer tendida de costado en la posición que el propio Reed adoptaba cuando estaba en el sofá viendo la televisión. La máscara de tela se había desprendido por el rozamiento con la calzada, y la piel que quedaba estaba hecha jirones. Por lo que se veía de la cara y el cuerpo, Reed dedujo que era joven, pero poco más. Una bala le había abierto una amplia herida en el pecho. Un hilo de sangre resbalaba hacia el asfalto húmedo.
Reed oyó a su espalda el golpeteo de unas zapatillas de deporte.
—¡Gerda! —exclamó alguien—. ¡Gerda!
Reed se volvió. Barry Holden pasó apresuradamente junto a él y fue a arrodillarse al lado del cuerpo de su hija.
Vern Rangle, con la nariz ensangrentada, avanzó tambaleante por la carretera detrás de Holden, anunciando a gritos que iba a circuncidarlo él personalmente, al muy cabrón.
Vaya mierda: un tipo con la cabeza aplastada, una niña muerta, un abogado vociferante, Vern Rangle hecho una furia, armas y munición en la carretera. Reed sintió alivio al pensar que en esos momentos la jefa no era Lila Norcross, porque no habría querido siquiera intentar explicarle cómo había ocurrido aquello.
Reed alargó el brazo un segundo demasiado tarde y solo consiguió agarrar un trozo de tela del hombro de Vern. Este se zafó y asestó un culatazo en la nuca a Barry Holden. Se oyó un crujido desagradable, como el de una rama al troncharse, y brotó la sangre. Barry Holden cayó de bruces al suelo al lado de su hija. Vern se acuclilló junto al abogado inconsciente y lo golpeó una y otra vez con la empuñadura de su arma.
—¡Que te jodan, que te jodan, que te jodan! Me has roto la nariz, pedazo de ca...
La joven que debería haber estado muerta y no lo estaba agarró a Vern por la mandíbula, enroscó los dedos en torno a sus dientes inferiores y tiró de él obligándolo a bajar a su nivel. Levantó la cabeza, abrió la boca de par en par e hincó los dientes en el cuello de Vern. El compañero de Reed comenzó a aporrearla con la culata de la pistola. Ella ni se inmutó. En torno a sus labios manó sangre arterial.
Reed se acordó de su propia arma. La levantó y disparó. La bala penetró por el ojo izquierdo de la joven y su cuerpo quedó inerte, pero mantuvo la boca aferrada al cuello de Vern. Parecía estar bebiendo su sangre.
De rodillas, Reed hundió los dedos en el pringue caliente y resbaladizo donde los dientes de la joven permanecían clavados en el cuello de su compañero. Tiró, notando el contacto de la lengua y el esmalte dental. Vern la golpeó una vez más, inútilmente, y el arma se desprendió de su mano ya flácida y, rebotando en el suelo, se alejó. Acto seguido, Vern se desplomó.
7
El último de una caravana de tres coches patrulla, Frank viajaba solo. Todos tenían las sirenas encendidas. Ordway y Terry encabezaban la marcha, seguidos de Peters y el adlátere de este, Blass. Frank no buscaba la soledad, pero la soledad parecía encontrarlo a él. ¿Eso por qué? Elaine se había llevado a Nana y lo había dejado solo. Oscar Silver se había salido de la carretera y lo había dejado solo. Era descorazonador. Lo convertía en un hombre sin corazón. Pero a lo mejor era como tenían que ser las cosas —como tenía que ser él— para hacer lo que debía hacer.
Ahora bien, ¿podía hacer lo que debía hacer? La situación se estaba torciendo. Reed Barrows había informado por radio de un tiroteo y de una baja. Frank creía que estaba dispuesto a matar por su hija; tenía la certeza de que estaba dispuesto a morir por ella. No obstante, como ya comprendía, no era el único decidido a correr riesgos mortales. La gente de Norcross había robado armamento policial y se había saltado un control de carretera. Fueran cuales fuesen los motivos por los que actuaban de ese modo, su determinación era incuestionable. Ese grado de determinación preocupaba a Frank, como también que sus motivos fueran semejante enigma. ¿Qué los impulsaba? ¿Cuál era el vínculo entre Eve Black y Norcross?
Sonó el móvil. La caravana avanzaba rápidamente hacia el norte por Ball's Hill. Frank sacó el teléfono del bolsillo.
—Geary.
—Frank, soy Eve Black. —La mujer hablaba casi en un susurro, con una voz empañada, un tanto seductora.
—Es usted, ¿verdad? Encantado de conocerla.
—Lo llamo desde mi nuevo teléfono móvil. Yo no tenía, y Lore Hicks me regaló el suyo. ¿A que fue caballeroso por su parte? Por cierto, sería mejor que redujera la velocidad. No conviene que se arriesgue a tener un accidente. La autocaravana ha escapado. Solo quedan allí cuatro personas muertas y Reed Barrows.
—¿Cómo lo sabe?
—Créame, lo sé. A Clint le ha sorprendido que haya sido tan fácil dar el golpe. A mí también, para serle sincera. Nos hemos partido de risa. Pensaba que tenía las cosas un poco más controladas. Me equivocaba.
—Debería entregarse, señorita Black. —Frank se concentró en medir sus palabras, en mantener a raya ese enrojecimiento que pretendía adueñarse de su mente—. O debería poner fin a... esto. Lo que quiera que sea. Debería hacerlo antes de que alguien salga herido.
—Ah, ya hemos superado con creces la etapa de los heridos. El juez Silver, sin ir más lejos, ha acabado mucho más que herido. Como el doctor Flickinger, quien de hecho no era tan mala persona cuando tenía la cabeza despejada. Estamos en la etapa de la extinción en masa.
Frank se apretó el volante.
—¿Qué coño es _usted_?
—Yo podría hacerle la misma pregunta, pero ya sé lo que diría: «Soy el Buen Padre». Porque con usted todo se reduce a Nana Nana Nana, ¿no? El papá protector. ¿Ha pensado siquiera una vez en todas las demás mujeres y lo que podría estar usted haciéndoles? ¿En lo que podría estar poniendo en peligro?
—¿Cómo sabe que tengo una hija?
—Saber es mi obligación. Hay un viejo blues que dice: «Antes de acusarme, fíjate en ti». Necesita ampliar las miras, Frank.
Lo que necesito, pensó Frank Geary, es echarte las manos al cuello.
—¿Qué quiere?
—¡Quiero que se comporte como un hombre! ¡Quiero que se comporte como un puto hombre y haga esto interesante! Quiero que su preciada Nana pueda ir al colegio y decir: «Mi papá no es solo un funcionario que atrapa gatos salvajes, ni es solo un hombre que da puñetazos a las paredes o tira de mi camiseta preferida o grita a mi mamá cuando las cosas no salen como quiere. Es también el hombre que detuvo a aquella hada mala que durmió a todas las mujeres».
—Deja a mi hija fuera de esto, cabrona.
El tono provocador desapareció de la voz de Evie.
—Cuando la protegió usted en el hospital, fue un acto valiente. Eso lo admiré. Lo admiré a _usted_. Lo digo sinceramente. Sé que la quiere, y eso no es despreciable. Sé que, a su manera, lo único que desea es lo mejor para ella. Y eso me lleva a quererlo un poco pese a que es usted parte del problema.
Delante, los dos primeros vehículos se detenían ya junto al coche patrulla abollado de Reed Barrows. Frank vio que Barrows se acercaba a recibirlos. Más allá vio los cuerpos en la carretera.
—Ponga fin a esto —dijo Frank—. Libérelas. Libere a las mujeres. No solo a mi mujer y a mi hija, a todas.
—Primero tendrá que matarme —respondió Evie.
8
Angel preguntó quién era ese Frank con el que Evie había estado hablando.
—Es el matadragones —contestó Evie—. Solo necesitaba asegurarme de que no va a dejarse distraer por los unicornios.
—Estás como una puta regadera. —Angel silbó.
Evie no estaba loca, pero no era un asunto que fuera a tratar con Angel, quien, en todo caso, tenía derecho a su propia opinión.
### 9
1
_El zorro se acerca a Lila en un sueño. Ella sabe que es un sueño porque el zorro habla._
_—Eh, chica —saluda al entrar en el dormitorio de la casa de St. George Street que ahora Lila comparte con Tiffany, Janice Coates y dos de las médicas del Centro de Atención a la Mujer: Erin Eisenberg y Jolie Suratt. (Erin y Jolie están solteras. La tercera médica del Centro de Atención a la Mujer, Georgia Peekins, vive en la otra parte del pueblo, con dos hijas que echan muchísimo de menos a su hermano mayor.) Otra razón por la que sabe que es un sueño es que no hay nadie más en la habitación. La otra cama individual, donde duerme Tiffany, está vacía y bien hecha._
_El zorro apoya sus hábiles patas delanteras —blancas en lugar de rojas, como si hubiera caminado por pintura reciente para llegar allí— en el edredón que la cubre._
_—¿Qué quieres? —pregunta Lila._
_—Enseñarte el camino de regreso —contesta el zorro—. Pero solo si quieres ir._
__
__
_2_
Cuando Lila abrió los ojos, era de día. Tiffany ocupaba la otra cama, como correspondía, tapada solo hasta las rodillas, el vientre una media luna por encima de los calzoncillos tipo bóxer con los que dormía. Estaba ya de más de siete meses.
En lugar de ir a la cocina para preparar el repulsivo brebaje a base de chicoria que en esa versión de Dooling servían en lugar de café, Lila recorrió el pasillo y fue a abrir la puerta de la calle a una agradable mañana de primavera (allí el tiempo transcurría con una rapidez escurridiza; los relojes marcaban las horas con normalidad, pero no había nada de normal en el paso de las horas). Como preveía, allí estaba el zorro, sentado en el sendero de pizarra, invadido por la maleza, con la exuberante cola perfectamente dispuesta alrededor de las patas. Observaba a Lila con vivo interés.
—Eh, chico —dijo Lila.
El zorro ladeó la cabeza y pareció sonreír. Luego trotó por el sendero hasta la calle agrietada y se sentó de nuevo. La observó. Esperó.
Lila fue a despertar a Tiffany.
3
Al final fueron diecisiete las residentes de Nuestro Sitio que siguieron al zorro en seis carritos de golf propulsados con energía solar, una caravana que salió lentamente del pueblo y continuó por lo que fuera la Estatal 31 hacia Ball's Hill. Tiffany viajaba en el primero junto con Janice y Lila, y a lo largo del camino se quejó sin parar de que no la hubieran permitido ir a caballo. La prohibición había partido de Erin y Jolie, que estaban preocupadas por la intensidad de las contracciones cuando le faltaban aún entre seis y ocho semanas para salir de cuentas. Así se lo habían hecho saber a la futura mamá. Lo que no habían manifestado (aunque Lila y Janice lo sabían) eran sus preocupaciones por el bebé, concebido cuando Tiffany aún consumía drogas cada día, a veces cada hora.
Las acompañaban Mary Pak, Magda Dubcek, las cuatro miembros del Club de Lectura del Primer Jueves y cinco de las antiguas reclusas del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. También formaba parte de la comitiva Elaine Nutting, antes Geary. Esta iba en el mismo carrito que las dos médicas. Su hija había insistido en ir con ellas, pero Elaine se había negado y mantenido en sus trece pese al llanto de la niña. Nana se había quedado con la anciana señora Ransom y su nieta. Las dos pequeñas se habían hecho amigas enseguida, pero ni siquiera la perspectiva de pasar el día con Molly había animado a Nana. Ella quería seguir al zorro, porque, según dijo, parecía salido de un cuento de hadas. Quería dibujarlo.
—Quédate con tu hija si quieres —había dicho Lila a Elaine—. Ya somos muchas.
—Lo que _quiero_ es ver qué pretende ese bicho —había contestado Elaine. Aunque en realidad no sabía si quería verlo o no.
El zorro —entonces sentado ante los escombros de la barbería Pearson, esperando pacientemente a que las mujeres se congregaran y se pusieran en marcha— le inspiraba un mal presentimiento, difuso pero intenso.
—¡Vamos! —exclamó Tiffany, malhumorada—. ¡Antes de que necesite mear otra vez!
Y emprendieron el camino tras los pasos del zorro, que salió al trote del pueblo siguiendo la línea blanca descolorida del centro de la carretera, echando de vez en cuando la vista atrás para asegurarse de que su tropa continuaba allí. Parecía sonreír. Casi parecía decir: «Desde luego hoy hay mujeres muy atractivas entre el público».
Aquello era una excursión —extraña, sin duda, pero, aun así, un día de descanso de sus diversos trabajos y tareas—, y deberían haberse oído conversaciones y risas; sin embargo, las mujeres que componían la lenta fila de carritos de golf iban casi en silencio. Los faros de los carritos, situados en el techo, se encendían cuando estos estaban en movimiento, y al pasar por delante de la selva que fuera el almacén de madera de Adams, Lila pensó que parecían más un cortejo fúnebre que chicas de excursión.
Cuando el zorro abandonó la carretera y enfiló un camino invadido por la hierba a unos quinientos metros del almacén de madera, Tiffany se puso tensa y se llevó las manos al vientre en actitud protectora.
—No, no, no, parad aquí y dejadme bajar. No pienso volver a la caravana de Tru Mayweather, aunque no sea más que un montón de chatarra.
—No es ahí adonde vamos —dijo Lila.
—¿Cómo lo sabes?
—Espera y verás.
Como se vio, los restos de la caravana resultaban apenas visibles; arrancada de los bloques de la base por una tormenta, se hallaba volcada entre la maleza y las zarzas como un dinosaurio oxidado. A treinta o cuarenta metros, el zorro dobló a la izquierda y se adentró en el bosque. Las mujeres de los dos primeros carritos advirtieron el destello de su pelaje rojo anaranjado, que enseguida desapareció.
Lila desmontó y se acercó al punto por donde el animal se había adentrado en el bosque. Los matorrales cubrían por completo los restos del cobertizo cercano, pero incluso después de tanto tiempo flotaba en el aire un tenue olor químico. Puede que la meta ya no esté, pensó Lila, pero los recuerdos persisten. Incluso aquí, donde el tiempo parece galopar, detenerse a tomar aliento y volver a galopar.
Janice, Magda y Blanche McIntyre se reunieron con ella. Tiffany se quedó en el carrito abrazándose el vientre. Se la veía indispuesta.
—Hay una vereda formada por el paso de los animales —observó Lila al tiempo que la señalaba—. Podemos seguirla sin grandes dificultades.
—Tampoco pienso entrar en ese bosque —declaró Tiffany—. Por mí como si ese zorro baila claqué. Vuelvo a tener contracciones.
—No irías aunque no las tuvieras —dijo Erin—. Yo me quedo contigo. Jolie, ve tú, si quieres.
Jolie fue. Las quince mujeres avanzaron por la vereda en fila india, Lila en vanguardia y la antigua señora de Frank Geary en retaguardia. Cuando llevaban caminando casi diez minutos, Lila se detuvo y alzó los brazos para señalar con los dedos índices a izquierda y derecha, como un guardia de tráfico incapaz de decidirse.
—Joder —exclamó Celia Frode—. Nunca he visto nada parecido. _Nunca._
A ambos lados las ramas de los chopos, los abedules y los alisos estaban revestidas de mariposas nocturnas. Parecía haber millones.
—¿Y si nos atacan? —musitó Elaine, dando gracias a Dios por no haber cedido a los ruegos de Nana.
—No atacarán —aseguró Lila.
—¿Cómo lo sabes? —preguntó Elaine.
—Lo sé, sin más —contestó Lila—. Son como el zorro. —Titubeante, buscó la palabra adecuada—. Son emisarias.
—¿De quién? —preguntó Blanche—. ¿O de qué?
Esa fue otra pregunta a la que Lila prefirió no contestar pese a que podría haberlo hecho.
—Vamos —dijo—. Ya no falta mucho.
4
Quince mujeres, allí de pie, con la hierba hasta los muslos, contemplaban lo que en la cabeza de Lila se había convertido en el Árbol Asombroso. Hasta pasados quizá treinta segundos, nadie despegó los labios. Luego, con voz aguda y entrecortada, Jolie Suratt dijo:
—Dios bendito que está en los cielos.
El Árbol se alzaba bajo el sol como una torre de alta tensión viva, sus varios troncos trenzados, a veces captando haces de sol rebosantes de granos de polen, a veces creando cavidades oscuras. Aves tropicales retozaban en sus numerosas ramas y gorjeaban entre sus hojas, semejantes a helechos. Delante, el pavo real que Lila había visto anteriormente se paseaba de acá para allá como el portero más elegante del mundo. También estaba allí la serpiente roja, colgando de una rama, un trapecista reptiliano que oscilaba lánguidamente. Por debajo de la serpiente se abría una grieta oscura de donde parecían surgir los distintos troncos. Lila eso no lo recordaba, pero no la sorprendió. Como tampoco la sorprendió cuando el zorro asomó de esa grieta como un muñeco de resorte y, juguetonamente, lanzó una dentellada al pavo, que no le prestó atención.
Janice Coates cogió a Lila del brazo.
—¿Estamos viendo esto?
—Sí —contestó Lila.
Celia, Magda y Jolie prorrumpieron en un penetrante y armonioso grito a tres voces. El tigre blanco salía de la hendidura de aquel árbol de múltiples troncos. Examinó a las mujeres dispuestas al borde del claro con sus ojos verdes y a continuación se estiró cuan largo era y se agachó casi como si les hiciera una reverencia.
—¡Quietas! —exclamó Lila—. ¡Quietas, todas! ¡No os hará daño! —Esperaba con toda su alma que así fuera.
El tigre rozó con su hocico el del zorro. Luego se volvió de nuevo hacia las mujeres y aparentemente puso especial interés en Lila. Después rodeó el Árbol y se perdió de vista.
—Dios mío —dijo Kitty McDavid. Lloraba—. ¡Joder, Dios mío, qué bonito era! ¡Qué bonito era!
—Esto es un _swiety miejsce_ —intervino Magda Dubcek—, un lugar sagrado. —Y se santiguó.
Janice miraba a Lila.
—Explícate.
—Creo que es una salida —contestó Lila—. Un camino de regreso. Si queremos seguirlo.
Fue entonces cuando el walkie-talkie que llevaba al cinto cobró vida. Sonó una ráfaga de interferencia estática, y no hubo forma de distinguir las palabras. Pero Lila tuvo la impresión de que era Erin, y al parecer gritaba.
5
Tiffany se hallaba estirada en el asiento delantero del carrito de golf. En el suelo había una vieja camiseta de los Rams de St. Louis que había afanado de algún sitio. Sus pechos, antes poco más que nódulos, apuntaban hacia el cielo dentro de un sujetador de algodón con copa de talla D (los de licra ya no le servían). Erin estaba agachada entre sus piernas con las manos extendidas sobre la asombrosa prominencia del vientre. Cuando las mujeres se acercaron a todo correr, apartando ramitas y alguna que otra mariposa de su pelo, Erin presionó.
— _¡Para! ¡Por Dios, para!_ —exclamó __ Tiffany, y extendió las piernas formando una **V**.
—¿Qué haces? —preguntó Lila al tiempo que alargaba los brazos hacia ella, pero cuando bajó la vista, quedó claro qué hacía Erin y por qué.
Tiff tenía el vaquero desabrochado. Se veía una mancha en la tela azul y el algodón de las bragas se había teñido de rosa.
—El bebé ya llega, y tiene el trasero donde debería estar la cabeza —explicó Erin.
—Dios mío, ¿viene de nalgas? —preguntó Kitty.
—Tengo que darle la vuelta —afirmó Erin—. Llévanos al pueblo, Lila.
—Tendremos que sentarla —dijo Lila—. Si no, no puedo conducir.
Con la ayuda de Jolie y Blanche McIntyre, Lila consiguió colocar a Tiffany semisentada, y Erin se apretujó a su lado. Tiffany volvió a gritar.
— _¡Ay, qué dolor!_
Lila se sentó al volante del carrito, con el hombro derecho tenso contra el izquierdo de Tiffany. Erin iba casi de medio lado en el exiguo espacio que ocupaba.
—¿Qué velocidad alcanza esto? —preguntó.
—No lo sé, pero vamos a averiguarlo.
Lila pisó el pedal del acelerador e hizo una mueca al oír el aullido de dolor de Tiff cuando el carrito arrancó con una sacudida. Tiffany gritaba con cada bache, y los baches abundaban. En ese momento Lila Norcross no tenía nada más lejos de la mente que el Árbol Asombroso con su cargamento de aves exóticas.
No podía decirse lo mismo de la antes llamada Elaine Geary.
6
Pararon en el Olympia Diner. Tiffany sentía tal dolor que no podía ir más allá. Erin envió a Janice y a Magda al pueblo a por su maletín mientras Lila y otras tres mujeres introducían a Tiffany en el restaurante.
—Juntad un par de mesas —ordenó Erin—, y rápido. Necesito enderezar a este bebé ya mismo, y para eso la madre tiene que estar tendida.
Lila y Mary acercaron las mesas. Margaret y Gail levantaron en volandas a Tiffany para colocarla encima, haciendo muecas y volviendo la cara, como si ella les lanzara barro en lugar de gritos de protesta.
Erin, concentrándose de nuevo en el vientre de Tiffany, lo masajeó como si se tratara de masa de pan.
—Me parece que empieza a moverse, gracias a Dios. Vamos, chiquitín, ¿y si haces una pequeña voltereta para la doctora E.?
Erin presionó el vientre de Tiff con una mano mientras Jolie Suratt oprimía desde el lado.
— _¡Parad!_ —exclamó Tiffany—. _¡Parad, cabronas!_
—Está dándose la vuelta —anunció Erin, indiferente al improperio—. Está dándose la vuelta de verdad, gracias a Dios. Tira de los pantalones, Lila. Los pantalones y las bragas. Jolie, sigue presionando. No dejes que se dé la vuelta otra vez.
Lila agarró una pernera del vaquero de Tiffany; Celia Frode, la otra. Tiraron, y el viejo pantalón de mezclilla salió. Las bragas bajaron parcialmente, dejando en los muslos de Tiffany brochazos de sangre y líquido amniótico. Lila acabó de retirarlas. Las notó calientes, y estaban tan empapadas que pesaban. Sintió una arcada, pero se le pasó al cabo de un momento.
Tiffany había pasado a gritar sin cesar y sacudía la cabeza a un lado y al otro.
—No puedo esperar a tener el maletín —dijo Erin—. Este bebé va a llegar ya. Solo que... —Miró a su antigua compañera de consulta, quien asintió—. Que alguien le consiga un cuchillo a Jolie. Afilado. Tenemos que hacer una pequeña incisión.
—Tengo que empujar —dijo Tiffany entre jadeos.
—Ni hablar —contestó Jolie—. Todavía no. La puerta está abierta, pero tenemos que retirar las bisagras. Ensanchar un poco el hueco.
Lila encontró un cuchillo de trinchar y, en el cuarto de baño, una botella antigua de agua oxigenada. Roció la hoja, se detuvo a mirar el dispensador de gel desinfectante junto a la puerta y lo presionó. Nada. El jabón se había evaporado hacía mucho. Regresó a toda prisa. Las mujeres habían formado un semicírculo alrededor de Tiffany, Erin y Jolie. Todas estaban cogidas de las manos excepto Elaine Geary, que se rodeaba la cintura firmemente con los brazos. Posaba la mirada primero en la encimera, después en los reservados vacíos, después en la puerta. En cualquier parte menos en la mujer jadeante y vociferante tendida en la mesa de quirófano improvisada, desnuda ya como llegó al mundo, salvo por el viejo sujetador de algodón.
Jolie cogió el cuchillo.
—¿Lo has desinfectado con algo?
—Agua oxi...
—Servirá —dijo Erin—. Mary, trae un termo de poliestireno, si lo encuentras. Alguna de vosotras que busque paños. Seguro que hay alguno en la cocina. Ponedlos encima de los...
La interrumpió un patético grito de dolor de Tiffany cuando Jolie Suratt le practicó una episiotomía con un cuchillo de trinchar, _sin_ anestesia.
—Poned los paños encima de los carritos de golf —concluyó Erin.
—¡Ah, sí, las placas solares! —Esa era Kitty—. Para calentarlos, qué buena ide...
—Los queremos tibios pero no calientes —aclaró Erin—. No tengo intención de asar a nuestro ciudadano más flamante. Vamos.
Elaine se quedó donde estaba, dejando que las otras mujeres se deslizaran en torno a ella como agua alrededor de una roca, posando aún la mirada en cualquier cosa que no fuera Tiffany Jones. Los ojos, un poco desorbitados, le brillaban.
—¿Cuál es la dilatación? —preguntó Lila.
—Siete centímetros —contestó Jolie—. Estará en diez en menos de lo que tardas en decir Jack Robinson. El borramiento del cuello uterino es total... algo es algo. Empuja, empuja, Tiffany. Pero resérvate un poco para la siguiente contracción.
Tiffany empujó. Tiffany gritó. La vagina se dilató, luego se cerró, luego volvió a abrirse. Más sangre brotó entre sus piernas.
—No me gusta esa sangre. —Lila se lo oyó susurrar a Erin, quien se lo decía a Jolie con la comisura de los labios, como si pasara un soplo en una carrera de caballos—. Está sangrando demasiado. Dios, ojalá tuviera al menos el fetoscopio.
Mary regresó con un termo de plástico duro como los que Lila a menudo llevaba al lago Maylock cuando Clint, Jared y ella iban de picnic. En el costado se leía el rótulo: ¡BUDWEISER! ¡LA REINA DE LAS CERVEZAS!
—¿Servirá esto, doctora E.?
—Perfectamente —contestó Erin, pero no levantó la mirada—. Bien, Tiff, ahora un gran empujón.
—La espalda me está matando... —se quejó Tiffany, pero el «matando» se convirtió en un _matandooooooOOOOOO_ al tiempo que contraía el rostro y golpeaba con los puños la superficie de formica desportillada de la mesa.
—¡Veo la cabeza! —exclamó Lila—. Veo la ca... oh, Dios, Erin, ¿qué...?
Erin apartó a Jolie de un empujón y agarró al bebé por un hombro antes de que retrocediera, hundiendo las yemas de los dedos de tal modo que Lila se mareó. La cabeza del bebé asomó torcida en una posición forzada, como si intentara mirar atrás, en dirección al lugar del que procedía. Tenía los ojos cerrados y el rostro ceniciento. Enroscado alrededor del cuello, ascendiendo por la mejilla hacia la oreja —como el lazo de la soga de un ahorcado—, apareció el cordón umbilical manchado de sangre, lo que recordó a Lila la serpiente roja colgada del Árbol Asombroso. Del pecho para abajo, el niño seguía dentro de su madre, pero se había liberado un brazo, que colgaba flácido. Lila veía cada uno de los dedos perfectos, cada una de las uñas perfectas.
—Deja de empujar —indicó Erin—. Ya sé que quieres terminar, pero no empujes todavía.
—Necesito empujar —bramó Tiffany.
—Estrangularás al bebé si lo haces —advirtió Jolie, otra vez al lado de Erin, las dos hombro con hombro—. Espera. Déjame solo... solo un segundo...
Demasiado tarde, pensó Lila. Ya está estrangulado. Basta con mirar esa cara gris.
Jolie introdujo un dedo por debajo del cordón umbilical, luego otro. Flexionando los dedos en un gesto de llamada, primero separó el cordón del cuello del niño y después lo desprendió. Tiffany gritó, y se le marcaron todos los tendones del cuello en pronunciado relieve.
—¡Empuja! —ordenó Erin— ¡Con todas tus fuerzas! ¡A la de tres! ¡Jolie, no dejes que caiga de cara en este puto suelo mugriento cuando salga! ¡Tiff! ¡A la de una, a la de dos, a la de _tres_!
Tiffany empujó. El bebé pareció salir disparado a las manos de Jolie Suratt. Resbaladizo, precioso y muerto.
—¡Una pajita! —vociferó Jolie—. ¡Buscad una pajita! ¡Ya!
Elaine dio un paso al frente. Lila no la había visto moverse. Tenía una preparada, ya sin la funda de papel.
—Toma.
Erin cogió la pajita.
—Lila —dijo Erin—. Ábrele la boca al niño.
El _niño_. Hasta ese momento Lila no se había fijado en la pequeña coma gris que colgaba bajo el vientre del bebé.
—¡Ábrele la boca! —repitió Erin.
Con cuidado, Lila hizo lo que le indicaban utilizando dos dedos. Erin insertó un extremo de la pajita en su propia boca y el otro en la diminuta abertura que Lila había creado con los dedos.
—Ahora levántale la barbilla —ordenó Jolie—. Hay que crear succión.
¿Qué sentido tenía? Si estaba muerto, estaba muerto. Pero Lila obedeció una vez más y vio aparecer unas medias lunas sombrías en las mejillas de Erin Eisenberg cuando succionó por su extremo de la pajita. Se produjo un sonido audible: _flop_. Erin volvió la cabeza a un lado para escupir un cuajarón de flema. A continuación dirigió un gesto de asentimiento a Jolie, que levantó al bebé a la altura de su cara y le sopló con delicadeza en la boca.
El bebé siguió allí inmóvil sin más, la cabeza atrás, con gotas de sangre y espuma en la calva. Jolie volvió a soplar, y se obró el milagro. El diminuto pecho se hinchó; los ojos azules se abrieron de pronto sin ver. Empezó a lloriquear. Celia Frode inició el aplauso, y las demás se sumaron... excepto Elaine, que había retrocedido al lugar donde se hallaba al principio, los brazos otra vez firmemente entrelazados ante la cintura. El llanto del bebé era ya continuo. Cerró las manos en pequeños puños.
—Ese es mi niño —dijo Tiffany, y alzó los brazos—. Mi niño llora. Dámelo.
Jolie anudó el cordón umbilical con una goma y envolvió al bebé en lo primero que encontró: un delantal de camarera que alguien había cogido de un perchero. Entregó el bulto gemebundo a Tiffany, que lo miró a la cara, se rio y le besó una mejilla pegajosa.
—¿Dónde están esos paños? —preguntó Erin—. Traedlos ya.
—Aún no se habrán calentado —dijo Kitty.
—Traedlos.
Le llevaron los paños, y Mary revistió con ellos el termo de Budweiser. Mientras lo hacía, Lila vio manar más sangre entre las piernas de Tiffany. Mucha sangre. Litros, quizá.
—¿Eso es normal? —preguntó alguien.
—Totalmente. —Erin hablaba con voz firme y segura, el aplomo personificado: Aquí no hay el más mínimo problema. Fue entonces cuando Lila empezó a sospechar que era muy posible que Tiffany muriera—. Pero que alguien me traiga más paños.
Jolie Suratt hizo ademán de coger al bebé de los brazos de su madre para colocarlo en el moisés improvisado de Budweiser. Erin movió la cabeza en un gesto de negación.
—Deja que lo tenga un rato más.
Fue entonces cuando Lila lo supo con certeza.
7
Se ponía el sol en lo que antes fuera el pueblo de Dooling, Nuestro Sitio en ese momento.
Lila estaba sentada en los peldaños a la entrada de la casa de St. George Street con unas hojas grapadas entre las manos cuando Janice Coates enfiló el camino de acceso. Se sentó a su lado, y Lila percibió olor a enebro. Del bolsillo interior del chaleco acolchado, la exdirectora de la cárcel extrajo la fuente de ese aroma: una botella de ginebra Schenley's de medio litro. Se la ofreció a Lila. Lila la rechazó con un gesto.
—Ha retenido la placenta —informó Janice—. Eso me ha explicado Erin. No ha habido manera de desprenderla, al menos a tiempo de detener la hemorragia. Y no disponían de ese medicamento que usan.
—Pitocin —apuntó Lila—. Me lo administraron cuando Jared nació.
Permanecieron en silencio durante un rato, contemplando la luz de lo que había sido un día muy largo.
—He pensado que quizá querrías un poco de ayuda para recoger sus cosas —dijo por fin Janice.
—Ya lo he hecho. No tenía casi nada.
—Como todas nosotras. Lo cual es más bien un alivio, ¿no crees? En el colegio aprendimos un poema, algo así como que en el conseguir y el gastar se van todas nuestras fuerzas. Keats, tal vez.
Lila, que había aprendido el mismo poema, sabía que era de Wordsworth, pero calló. Janice volvió a guardarse la botella en el bolsillo del que había salido y sacó un pañuelo relativamente limpio. Lo utilizó para enjugar primero una de las mejillas de Lila, luego la otra, gesto que a esta le trajo a la memoria recuerdos dolorosamente dulces de su madre, que había hecho eso mismo en muchas ocasiones cuando su hija, tan poco femenina, se caía de la bicicleta o del monopatín de su hermano.
—He encontrado esto en la cómoda donde tenía guardadas las cosas del bebé —dijo Lila, y entregó a Janice el delgado fajo de hojas—. Debajo de unas camisitas y unos patucos.
En la portada, Tiffany había pegado una foto de una mamá risueña, con una permanente impecable, que sostenía a un bebé risueño bajo un haz de sol dorado. Janice estaba casi segura de que lo había recortado de un anuncio de alimentos para bebé Gerber de una antigua revista femenina, quizá _Good Housekeeping_. Debajo, Tiffany había escrito: LIBRO DE ANDREW JONES PARA UNA BUENA VIDA.
—Sabía que sería niño —dijo Lila—. Ignoro cómo lo sabía, pero lo sabía.
—Se lo dijo Magda. Un cuento de viejas sobre la forma de la barriga.
—Debió de trabajar en esto durante bastante tiempo, y yo nunca la vi. —Lila se preguntó si Tiffany se avergonzaba—. Mira en la primera página. Ahí es donde se me ha abierto el grifo de las lágrimas.
Janice desplegó el pequeño libro casero. Lila se inclinó hacia ella y lo leyeron juntas.
10 NORMAS PARA UNA BUENA VIDA
1. Trata bien a los demás, y ellos te tratarán bien a ti.
2. NUNCA consumas drogas por diversión.
3. Si te equivocas, pide disculpas.
4. Dios ve lo que haces mal, pero es bueno y te perdonará.
5. No digas mentiras, porque eso se convierte en hábito.
6. Nunca azotes a un caballo.
7. Tu cuerpo es tu templo, así que NO FUMES.
8. No hagas trampa, sé HONRADO con todo el mundo.
9. Ten cuidado con los amigos que eliges, yo no lo tuve.
10. Recuerda que tu madre siempre te querrá y todo irá BIEN.
—Ha sido la última la que de verdad me ha llegado al alma —dijo Lila—. Y todavía me afecta. Dame esa botella. Me parece que sí necesito un trago.
Janice se la entregó. Lila bebió, hizo una mueca y se la devolvió.
—¿Cómo está el bebé? ¿Bien?
—Teniendo en cuenta que ha nacido seis semanas antes de tiempo y que venía con el cordón umbilical a modo de collar, está muy bien —contestó Janice—. Gracias a Dios, teníamos a Erin y a Jolie, o los habríamos perdido a los dos. Está con Linda Bayer y el bebé de Linda. Linda dejó de amamantar a Alex no hace mucho, pero en cuanto ha oído llorar a Andy, le ha vuelto la leche. O eso dice. Mientras, tenemos otra tragedia entre manos.
Como si lo de Tiffany no fuera ya suficiente por un día, pensó Lila, e intentó poner cara de póquer.
—Cuenta.
—¿Sabes Gerda Holden? ¿La mayor de las cuatro hermanas Holden? Ha desaparecido.
Lo cual casi con toda seguridad significaba que le había ocurrido algo mortal en ese otro mundo. Todas lo aceptaban ya como un hecho.
—¿Cómo lo lleva Clara?
—Más o menos como cabría esperar —respondió Janice—. Está medio enloquecida. Ella y todas las niñas llevaban experimentando ese extraño vértigo desde hacía una semana o algo así...
—Es decir, que las están moviendo.
Janice se encogió de hombros.
—Quizá. Probablemente. En cualquier caso, Clara teme que otra de sus hijas vaya a esfumarse de un momento a otro. Tal vez las tres. Yo también tendría miedo. —Empezó a hojear el _Libro de Andrew Jones para una buena vida_. Las hojas siguientes contenían explicaciones de las diez normas.
—¿No deberíamos hablar del Árbol? —preguntó Lila.
Janice reflexionó y al cabo de un momento negó con la cabeza.
—Mañana, puede. Está noche solo quiero dormir.
Lila, que dudaba que fuera capaz de conciliar el sueño, cogió la mano de Janice y le dio un apretón.
8
Nana había preguntado a su madre si podía dormir con Molly en casa de la señora Ransom, y Elaine le dio permiso después de cerciorarse de que la anciana no tenía inconveniente.
—Claro que no es problema —contestó la señora Ransom—. Molly y yo adoramos a Nana.
Eso bastó a la antes llamada Elaine Geary, que por una vez se alegraba de no tener a su hija en casa. Nana era su ser más querido, su tesoro —un raro punto de concordia con el marido del que estaba separada, y que había mantenido el matrimonio unido más tiempo del que habría durado de otro modo—, pero esa noche Elaine tenía un recado importante que hacer. Un recado que era más en interés de Nana que en el suyo propio. En el de todas las mujeres de Dooling, de hecho. Algunas (Lila Norcross, por ejemplo) tal vez no lo entendieran por el momento, pero ya lo entenderían más adelante.
En caso, claro, de que decidiera llevarlo a cabo.
Todos los carritos de golf utilizados en la expedición a aquel extraño árbol del bosque se hallaban perfectamente estacionados en el aparcamiento de detrás de lo que quedaba de la casa consistorial. Algo bueno que podía decirse de las mujeres, pensó —entre otras _muchas_ cosas— era que por lo general dejaban las cosas en su sitio después de usarlas. Los hombres eran distintos. Lo dejaban todo patas arriba. ¿Cuántas veces había dicho a Frank que echara la ropa sucia al cesto? ¿No bastaba con que ella la lavara y la planchara, para tener que recogerla además? ¿Y cuántas veces seguía encontrándola en el cuarto de baño, junto a la ducha, o tirada por el dormitorio? ¿Y no podía molestarse en enjuagar un vaso o lavar un plato después de un tentempié ya entrada la noche? ¡No! Era como si los platos y los vasos pasaran a ser invisibles en cuanto habían cumplido su función. (El hecho de que su marido mantuviera inmaculado su despacho e impolutas sus jaulas hacía aún más irritante ese comportamiento desconsiderado.)
Detalles insignificantes, diríamos, ¿y quién podría discrepar? ¡Lo eran! Pero después de quince años esos detalles se convertían en la versión doméstica de una antigua tortura china sobre la que había leído en un libro de Time-Life encontrado en una caja donada en Goodwill. _La muerte de los mil cortes_ , se titulaba. Los arrebatos de mal genio de Frank solo habían sido los peores y más profundos de esos cortes. Sí, a veces le regalaba algo, o le daba un beso en la nuca con ternura o la invitaba a cenar en un restaurante (¡a la luz de las velas!), pero todo eso era solo la cobertura de un pastel rancio y difícil de masticar. ¡El Pastel del Matrimonio! No estaba en condiciones de afirmar que todos los hombres fueran iguales, pero la mayoría de ellos lo eran, porque los instintos formaban parte del lote. Junto con el pene. El hogar de un hombre era su castillo, según el dicho, y grabada en el cromosoma XY estaba la profunda convicción de que todo hombre era un rey, y toda mujer, su sirvienta.
Las llaves seguían en los carritos. Como era lógico: en Nuestro Sitio podía producirse algún que otro hurto menor, pero no había verdaderos robos, esa era una de las ventajas de aquel lugar. Eran muchas las ventajas, pero no todo el mundo se contentaba con esos detalles. Allí estaban, por ejemplo, el sinfín de lamentos y quejas que se oían en las Reuniones. Nana había asistido a algunas. Pensaba que Elaine no lo sabía, pero sí lo sabía. Una buena madre vigila a su hija y sabe cuándo está bajo la influencia de malas compañías con malas ideas.
Hacía dos días había sido Molly quien las había visitado a ellas, y las dos niñas se lo pasaron en grande, primero jugando fuera (a la rayuela y la comba), luego dentro (redecorando la gran casa de muñecas que Elaine se había considerado autorizada a extraer de la Dooling Mercantile), luego otra vez fuera hasta que se puso el sol. Habían disfrutado de una cena opulenta, tras la cual Molly había recorrido a pie las dos manzanas de regreso a su casa al anochecer. Ella sola. ¿Y por qué había podido hacerlo? Porque en ese mundo no había depredadores. No había pederastas.
Un día feliz. Y por esa razón Elaine se había sorprendido tanto (y se asustó un poco, por qué no reconocerlo) cuando se detuvo delante de la habitación de su hija de camino a la cama y la oyó llorar.
Elaine eligió un carrito de golf, giró la llave y pisó el pequeño pedal redondo del acelerador. Salió en silencio del aparcamiento y continuó por Main Street, dejando atrás las farolas apagadas y los escaparates a oscuras. A tres kilómetros del pueblo, llegó a un cuidado edificio blanco con dos surtidores de gasolina inservibles en la parte delantera. El letrero del techo anunciaba TIENDA DE LA VIDA CAMPESTRE DE DOOLING. El dueño, Kabir Patel, había desaparecido, naturalmente, al igual que sus tres hijos, chicos bien educados (al menos en público). Su mujer había ido a la India a visitar a su familia cuando estalló Aurora, y, cabía suponer, estaría envuelta en un capullo en Mumbai o Lucknow o uno de esos lugares.
El señor Patel vendía un poco de todo —era la única manera de competir con el supermercado—, pero a esas alturas ya no quedaba casi nada. Las bebidas alcohólicas fueron lo primero que voló, naturalmente; a las mujeres les gustaba beber, ¿y quién las había enseñado a disfrutar del alcohol? ¿Otras mujeres? Rara vez.
Sin detenerse a mirar en la tienda a oscuras, Elaine la rodeó con el carrito hasta la parte de atrás. Allí había un largo anexo metálico con un letrero en la parte delantera donde se leía ARTÍCULOS PARA AUTOMÓVIL DE LA TIENDA DE LA VIDA CAMPESTRE, ¡VENGA PRIMERO AQUÍ Y AHORRE! El señor Patel la había mantenido en orden, Elaine se lo reconocía. Su propio padre reparaba en su día pequeños motores para complementar sus ingresos como fontanero —eso había sido en Clarksburg—, y en los dos cobertizos de la parte de atrás, donde él trabajaba, había piezas desechadas, neumáticos desgastados e innumerables cortacéspedes y motocultores abandonados. Aquello hacía daño a la vista, se quejaba la madre de Elaine. Con eso se pagan tus visitas a la peluquería de los viernes, contestaba el rey del castillo, y por tanto el desorden continuaba.
Elaine tuvo que cargar todo su peso contra una de las puertas para deslizarla por el raíl sucio, pero al final consiguió desplazarla más o menos un metro y medio, y con eso le bastó.
—¿Qué te pasa, cielo? —había preguntado a su hija llorosa antes de conocer la existencia de ese condenado árbol, cuando pensaba que las lágrimas de Nana eran el único problema que tenía, y que terminarían tan pronto como un chaparrón de primavera—. ¿Te duele la tripita por la cena?
—No —contestó Nana—, y no hace falta que lo llames «tripita», mamá. No tengo _cinco_ años.
Ese tono de exasperación era nuevo, y desconcertó un poco a Elaine, que aun así siguió acariciando el pelo a Nana.
—¿Qué es, pues?
Nana tenía los labios apretados y le temblaban, y de repente estalló.
—¡Echo de menos a papá! ¡Echo de menos a Billy, a veces me cogía de la mano cuando íbamos al colegio, y eso me gustaba, _él_ me gustaba, pero sobre todo echo de menos a papá! ¡Quiero que se acaben estas vacaciones! ¡Quiero volver a _casa_!
En lugar de detenerse, como ocurre con los chaparrones de primavera, el llanto se convirtió en tormenta. Cuando Elaine intentó acariciarle la mejilla, Nana le apartó la mano con violencia y se incorporó en la cama con el pelo alborotado y electrizado en torno a la cara. En ese momento Elaine vio a Frank en ella. Lo vio tan claro que le causó desazón.
—¿No recuerdas cómo nos gritaba? —preguntó Elaine—. ¡Y aquella vez que pegó un puñetazo a la pared! Eso dio miedo, ¿no?
—¡Te gritaba a _ti_! —vociferó Nana—. A _ti_ , porque tú siempre querías que él hiciera algo... o consiguiera algo... o fuera distinto... no lo sé, ¡pero a _mí_ nunca me gritó!
—Pero te tiró de la camiseta —adujo Elaine. La desazón dio paso a algo próximo al horror. ¿Pensaba que Nana se había olvidado de Frank? ¿Que lo había relegado al montón de chatarra junto con su amiga invisible, la señora Humpty-Dump?—. Además era tu preferida.
—¡Porque le daba miedo el hombre del coche! ¡El que atropelló al gato! ¡Estaba cuidando de mí!
—¿Recuerdas cuando gritó a tu maestra, recuerdas lo mucho que te avergonzó?
—¡Me da igual! ¡Lo _necesito_!
—Nana, basta. Ya has dicho...
— _¡Necesito a papá!_
—Necesitas cerrar los ojos y dormirte y soñar...
— _¡NECESITO A PAPÁ!_
Elaine salió de la habitación y cerró la puerta con delicadeza. ¡Qué esfuerzo le supuso no rebajarse al nivel de la niña y cerrar de un portazo! Ni siquiera entonces, en el cobertizo del señor Patel, en medio de aquel olor a gasolina, reconocería lo cerca que había estado de gritar a su hija. O incluso (Dios santo, no, por favor) de pegarle. No fue por el tono estridente de Nana, tan distinto de su voz titubeante y baja de costumbre; no fue siquiera el parecido físico con Frank, lo cual por norma podía pasar por alto. Fue el hecho de que hablaba casi como él al plantear sus exigencias irracionales e inalcanzables. Fue casi como si Frank Geary hubiese traspasado el abismo que separaba aquel mundo violento de antes de ese otro nuevo y hubiese poseído a su hija.
Al día siguiente Nana parecía la de siempre, pero Elaine no había sido capaz de dejar de pensar en el llanto que había oído a través de la puerta, y la manera en que Nana le apartó la mano con la que solo pretendía ofrecerle consuelo, y aquella voz desapacible y chillona que salía de la boca infantil de Nana: _Necesito a papá_. Y eso no era todo. Había ido cogida de la mano del pequeño y feo Billy Beeson, que vivía en la misma manzana. Echaba de menos a su amiguito, quien probablemente habría deseado llevarla detrás de un arbusto para jugar a los médicos. Incluso resultaba fácil imaginar a Nana y al bruto de Billy a los dieciséis años, besuqueándose en la parte de atrás de la Club Cab de su padre. Morreándose mientras él la sometía a una audición para el cargo de Primera Cocinera y Limpiabotellas en su castillito de mierda. Déjate de dibujos, Nana, vete a la cocina y trastea con esos cazos y sartenes. Dóblame la ropa. Echemos un polvo, y luego eructaré y me daré la vuelta y me dormiré.
Elaine había llevado una linterna de dinamo, con la que iluminaba el interior del anexo dedicado al automóvil, que permanecía casi intacto. Sin combustible para hacer funcionar los vehículos de Dooling, no hacían falta correas de ventilador ni bujías. Así que lo que ella andaba buscando tal vez estuviera allí. En el taller de su padre había mucho de eso almacenado, y el olor a gasolina de ese otro era idéntico, lo que le trajo a la memoria con sorprendente nitidez recuerdos de la niña con coletas que había sido en su día (pero no con nostalgia, eso no). Entregaba a su padre piezas y herramientas cuando él se las pedía, alegrándose estúpidamente cuando él le daba las gracias y encogiéndose si la reñía por ser lenta o por equivocarse de objeto. Porque ella deseaba complacerlo. Era su padre, grande y fuerte, y deseaba complacerlo en todo.
Ese mundo era mucho mejor que el mundo dirigido por los hombres. Ahí nadie le gritaba ni gritaba a Nana. Nadie las trataba como ciudadanas de segunda clase. Ese era un mundo donde una niña de corta edad podía volver a casa sola, incluso ya de noche, y sentirse a salvo. Un mundo donde el talento de una niña podía crecer a la par que sus caderas y sus pechos. Nadie se lo arrancaría antes de que floreciera. Eso Nana no lo entendía, y no era la única; para darse cuenta, bastaba con escuchar atentamente en una de aquella absurdas Reuniones.
«Creo que es una salida», había dicho Lila mientras las mujeres, en medio de la hierba alta, contemplaban aquel extraño árbol. Y vaya si tenía razón.
Elaine se adentró más en el cobertizo de artículos para automóvil, enfocando el suelo con el haz de la linterna, porque era de hormigón, y el hormigón mantenía las cosas frescas. Y allí, en el rincón más alejado, estaba lo que ella esperaba encontrar: tres bidones de veinte litros con los tapones bien enroscados. Eran de metal corriente, sin letrero alguno, pero uno de ellos tenía alrededor una gruesa goma elástica roja, y los otros, dos gomas azules. Su padre identificaba los bidones de queroseno exactamente de la misma manera.
«Creo que es una salida. Un camino de regreso. Si queremos seguirlo.»
No cabía duda de que algunas querrían. Las mujeres asistentes a las Reuniones que no entendían lo bueno que era lo que tenían aquí. Lo excelente. Lo seguro. Esas eran las que, generación tras generación, se habían acostumbrado tanto a la servidumbre que estaban deseosas de volver cuanto antes a sus cadenas. Las de la cárcel, contra lo que cabría pensar, serían tal vez las primeras en desear volver, al viejo mundo que consideraban su hogar, derechas al trullo del que habían salido. Muchas de esas criaturas infantiles no podían, o no querían, darse cuenta de que casi siempre había un cómplice varón no condenado detrás de su encarcelamiento. Un hombre por el que se habían degradado. En sus años como voluntaria en el refugio de mujeres, Elaine lo había visto y oído todo un millón de veces. «Tiene buen corazón.» «No lo hace con mala intención.» «Promete que cambiará.» Dios santo, ella misma era vulnerable a eso. En medio de aquel interminable día y noche, antes de que se durmieran y fueran transportadas, casi se había convencido a sí misma, a pesar de todo lo que había experimentado con Frank en el pasado, de que él haría lo que ella le pidiese, de que conseguiría controlar el genio. Por supuesto no había sido capaz.
Elaine no creía que Frank _pudiera_ cambiar. Era su naturaleza masculina. Pero él sí la había cambiado a ella. A veces pensaba que Frank la había vuelto loca. Para él, ella era la gruñona, la tirana, el chirriante timbre que ponía fin al recreo cada día. La indiferencia de Frank al peso de la responsabilidad de ella la horrorizaba. ¿De verdad creía él que a ella le proporcionaba algún placer tener que recordarle que pagara las facturas, que recogiera sus cosas, que mantuviera bajo control su mal genio? Estaba convencida de que él sí lo creía. Elaine no estaba ciega: veía que su marido no era un hombre satisfecho. Pero él no la veía a ella en absoluto.
Tenía que actuar, por el bien de Nana y de todas las demás. Eso era lo que había comprendido esa misma tarde, mientras Tiffany Jones moría en ese restaurante, entregando los últimos momentos de su desdichada y miserable vida para que un niño pudiera venir al mundo.
Habría mujeres que desearían volver. No la mayoría. Elaine tenía que creer que gran parte de las mujeres que había allí no estaban locas ni eran masoquistas, pero ¿podía correr ese riesgo? ¿Podía, cuando su adorable Nana, que, encogida, había buscado protección en ella cada vez que su padre levantaba la voz...?
Deja de pensar en eso, se dijo. Concéntrate en tu misión.
La goma roja significaba queroseno barato, y probablemente no le sería más útil que la gasolina almacenada bajo las diversas estaciones de servicio del pueblo. Se podía apagar una cerilla encendida en el queroseno con goma roja cuando envejecía. Pero esas gomas azules significaban que se había añadido a la mezcla un estabilizador, y el queroseno de esa clase conservaba la volatilidad durante diez o más años.
Por asombroso que fuera el árbol que habían encontrado ese día, no dejaba de ser un árbol, y los árboles ardían. Debía tenerse en cuenta al tigre, por supuesto, pero Elaine llevaría un arma. Lo asustaría, le dispararía si era necesario. (Sabía disparar; la había enseñado su padre.) Parte de ella pensaba que eso tal vez fuera una precaución innecesaria. Según Lila, el tigre y el zorro eran emisarios, y Elaine intuía que era así. Sospechaba que el tigre no intentaría detenerla, que el Árbol en esencia no estaba vigilado.
Si era una puerta, había que cerrarla para siempre.
Algún día Nana lo entendería, y le daría las gracias por hacer lo correcto.
9
Al final Lila sí concilió el sueño, pero despertó poco después de las cinco, cuando el nuevo día era solo un tenue trazo de luz en el horizonte de levante. Se levantó e hizo pis en el orinal. (Dooling tenía agua corriente, pero aún no había llegado a la casa de St. George. «Una o dos semanas, tal vez», les había asegurado Magda.) Lila se planteó volver a la cama, pero sabía que no haría más que dar vueltas y pensar en que Tiffany —entonces ya de un gris ceniciento— había perdido el conocimiento por última vez con su hijo recién nacido todavía en los brazos. Andrew Jones, cuyo único legado serían unas cuantas hojas escritas a mano y grapadas.
Se vistió y salió de casa. No tenía previsto ir a ningún sitio en particular, pero no se sorprendió del todo cuando vio ante sí la mole ruinosa de la casa consistorial; había trabajado allí durante la mayor parte de su vida adulta. Era una especie de norte magnético, pese a que en realidad allí ya no quedaba nada que ver. Los daños se debían a un incendio de causas desconocidas... un rayo, quizá, o un cable defectuoso. El lado del edificio donde antes se hallaba el despacho de Lila había quedado reducido a escombros ennegrecidos, en tanto que las inclemencias del tiempo habían penetrado a través de las paredes derruidas y las ventanas rotas y hecho su trabajo en la otra mitad, reblandeciendo el yeso y propiciando así la aparición del moho, arrastrando hasta allí desechos, que se habían acumulado en capas sobre el suelo.
La sorprendió, pues, ver a alguien sentado en la escalinata de granito. La escalinata era prácticamente el único rasgo reconocible del antiguo edificio.
Cuando se encaminó hacia allí, la silueta se puso en pie y se acercó a ella.
—¿Lila? —Aunque empañada por el llanto reciente y marcada por un tono de incertidumbre, la voz le resultó familiar—. Lila, ¿eres tú?
Ya solo aparecían mujeres nuevas muy de vez en cuando, y si esa iba a ser la última, no podía haber ninguna mejor. Lila corrió hacia ella, la abrazó y la besó en las dos mejillas.
—¡Linny! ¡Dios mío, cuánto me alegro de verte!
Linny Mars le devolvió el abrazo con la fuerza del pánico y luego la apartó de sí para poder mirarla a la cara. Para asegurarse. Lila lo entendió perfectamente y se quedó quieta. Pero Linny sonreía, y las lágrimas que resbalaban por sus mejillas eran de las buenas. Lila tuvo la impresión de que una balanza divina se había equilibrado: la marcha de Tiffany en un lado, la llegada de Linny en el otro.
—¿Cuánto tiempo llevabas ahí sentada? —preguntó Lila por fin.
—No lo sé —contestó Linny—. Una hora, tal vez dos. He visto ponerse la luna. No... no sabía a qué otro sitio podía ir. Estaba en la oficina, mirando el portátil, y de pronto... ¿cómo he llegado aquí? ¿Dónde _estamos_?
—Es complicado —respondió Lila, y mientras llevaba a Linny de regreso a la escalinata, se le ocurrió pensar que eso era algo que las mujeres decían a menudo, y los hombres casi nunca—. En cierto modo, sigues en la oficina, solo que dentro de uno de esos capullos. O al menos eso pensamos.
—¿Estamos muertas? ¿Somos fantasmas? ¿Es lo que estás diciendo?
—No. Esto es un sitio real. —Al principio Lila tenía sus dudas al respecto, pero ya estaba del todo convencida. La familiaridad podía engendrar desdén o no, pero desde luego engendraba seguridad.
—¿Cuánto tiempo llevas aquí?
—Al menos ocho meses. Quizá más. El tiempo avanza más deprisa a este lado de... bueno, dondequiera que estemos. Diría que allí... en el lugar de donde has venido... no ha pasado ni una semana entera desde que empezó Aurora, ¿no?
—Cinco días. Creo. —Linny volvió a sentarse.
Lila se sentía como una mujer que ha pasado mucho tiempo en el extranjero y está impaciente por recibir noticias de casa.
—Cuéntame qué ocurre en Dooling.
Linny miró a Lila con los ojos entornados y luego abarcó la calle con un gesto.
—Pero esto _es_ Dooling, ¿no? Solo que parece algo deteriorado.
—Estamos trabajando en eso —aseguró Lila—. Cuéntame qué ocurría cuando te has marchado. ¿Tienes noticias de Clint? ¿Sabes algo de Jared? —Era poco probable, pero tenía que preguntarlo.
—No puedo contarte gran cosa —respondió Linny—, porque durante los últimos dos días solo podía centrar la atención en permanecer despierta. Seguí tomando aquellas drogas del depósito de pruebas, las de la redada a los hermanos Griner, pero al final ya no me hacían casi efecto. Y pasaban cosas raras. La gente iba y venía. Gritaba. Había asumido el mando alguien nuevo. Dave, creo que se llamaba.
—Dave ¿qué más? —Lila sentía tal impaciencia que habría agarrado a su operadora y la habría sacudido.
Linny se miró las manos con expresión ceñuda, concentrándose, intentando hacer memoria.
—No se llamaba Dave —dijo por fin—. Era Frank. Un hombre corpulento. Vestía uniforme, no uniforme de policía, aunque luego sí se lo cambió por un uniforme de policía. ¿Frank Gearhart, tal vez?
—¿Te refieres a Frank Geary? ¿El agente de Control Animal?
—Sí —contestó Linny—. Geary, eso es. Uf, un tipo impetuoso. Un hombre con una misión.
Lila no sabía cómo interpretar la noticia acerca de Geary. Recordaba que lo había entrevistado para la plaza que finalmente había concedido a Dan Treater. En persona, Geary causaba muy buena impresión —despierto, seguro de sí mismo—, pero su expediente en Control Animal le había despertado ciertas dudas. Se excedía con las citaciones y había sido objeto de demasiadas quejas: un subtexto de agresividad que no se correspondía con la clase de fuerza del orden que Lila deseaba en Dooling.
—¿Y Terry? Es el agente más veterano: debería haberme sustituido en el puesto.
—Borracho —dijo Linny—. Otros dos ayudantes se reían de eso.
—¿Y tú qué...?
Linny levantó la mano para interrumpirla.
—Pero justo antes de dormirme unos hombres entraron y dijeron que Terry quería las armas del armero por algo relacionado con una mujer que estaba en la cárcel. El que habló conmigo era aquel abogado de oficio, ese que dices que te recuerda a Will Gardner en _The Good Wife_.
—¿Barry Holden? —Lila no se lo explicaba. La mujer de la cárcel tenía que ser por fuerza Evie Black, y Barry había ayudado a Lila a meter a Evie en una celda del Centro Penitenciario, pero por qué habría de...
—Sí, ese mismo. Y lo acompañaban otros. Uno de ellos era una mujer. La hija de la directora de la cárcel, Coates, creo.
—Imposible —dijo Lila—. Trabaja en Washington.
—Pues quizá fuera otra persona. Para entonces yo me sentía como si estuviera en medio de una niebla espesa. Pero me acuerdo de Don Peters, porque el año pasado, por Nochevieja, intentó meterme mano en el Squeaky Wheel.
—¿Peters, el de la cárcel? ¿Estaba con Barry?
—No. Peters llegó después. Se puso como una fiera al enterarse de que los otros se habían llevado algunas armas. «Han cogido todas las buenas», dijo, eso lo recuerdo, y con él iba un chico, y el chico dijo... dijo... —Linny miró a Lila con unos ojos enormes—. Dijo: «¿Y si se las llevan a Norcross, a la cárcel? ¿Cómo sacaremos de allí a la zorra entonces?».
En su cabeza Lila se representó el juego de la soga, un tira y afloja, en el que Evie Black era el nudo central que daría la victoria a un bando o a otro.
—¿Qué más recuerdas? ¡Piensa, Linny, es importante! —Pero, aunque lo fuera, ¿qué podía hacer ella, Lila, al respecto?
—Nada —contestó Linny—. Cuando Peters y ese joven salieron corriendo, me quedé dormida. Y me he despertado aquí. —Miró alrededor con expresión de incertidumbre, sin saber aún con seguridad que había un «aquí»—. ¿Lila?
—¿Hummm?
—¿Hay algo para comer? Supongo que en realidad no debo de haberme muerto, porque estoy _famélica_. __
—Claro —respondió Lila, y la ayudó a levantarse—. Huevos revueltos y tostadas, ¿qué te parece eso?
—El cielo. Me siento como si pudiera comerme media docena de huevos y aún me quedara sitio para unas tortitas.
Pero, como se vio, Linnette Mars no llegó a desayunar; de hecho, había disfrutado de su última comida el día anterior (dos Pop-Tarts de cereza calentadas en el microondas de la sala de descanso de la oficina del sheriff). Cuando las dos mujeres doblaban por St. George Street, Lila sintió que la mano de Linny se fundía en la suya. Alcanzó a ver a Linny con el rabillo del ojo, al parecer sobresaltada. Luego no quedó más que una nube de mariposas nocturnas que se elevó hacia el cielo matutino.
### 10
1
Era imposible saber, acostumbraba decir Lowell Griner, padre, dónde empezaba una veta profunda de carbón. «A veces un único golpe de cincel es la diferencia entre la mierda y el millón», así lo expresaba él. Esta perla había salido de los labios del viejo cascarrabias, más o menos en la época en que muchos de los mejores mineros de la zona de los Tres Condados desfilaban por algún jodido rincón del sudeste asiático, contrayendo úlceras tropicales y fumando porros aliñados con heroína. Era un conflicto que el anciano Griner se había perdido, debido a que le faltaban dos dedos del pie derecho y uno de la mano izquierda.
Pocos hombres que han pisado este verde mundo han dicho más insensateces que el difunto Lowell Girner, padre; también creía en los ovnis y los espíritus vengativos del bosque, y había dado por buenas las promesas vacuas de las compañías carboníferas. Big Lowell Griner, lo llamaban, quizá en honor de aquella vieja canción de Jimmy Dean sobre Big John. Big Low descansaba plácidamente en su ataúd desde hacía ya veinte años, junto con una botella llena de bourbon Rebel Yell y un par de pulmones tan negros como el betún que extraía de la mina.
Su hijo Lowell (conocido lógicamente como Little Low) recordó las palabras de su padre con compungido humor cuando la sheriff Lila Norcross detuvo a su hermano mayor, Maynard, y a él con diez kilos de cocaína, speed como para llenar una farmacia y todas sus armas. Sin duda daba la impresión de que la veta de su suerte había tocado de repente a su fin, convirtiéndose el millón en mierda por arte de magia en cuanto el equipo de la sheriff aplicó el ariete del departamento a la puerta de la cocina de la vieja mansión familiar, una casa de labranza junto a un arroyo para la que el adjetivo «ruinoso» resultaba en exceso grandilocuente.
Aunque Little Low (quien en realidad medía uno ochenta y cinco y pesaba ciento diez kilos) no se arrepentía de ninguno de sus actos, sí lamentaba en extremo que todo aquello no hubiera durado más. En las semanas en que Maynard y él llevaban encerrados en la cárcel del condado de Coughlin en espera del traslado, había dedicado la mayor parte de su tiempo libre a soñar en lo mucho que se habían divertido: los coches deportivos que habían conducido en carreras de _dragsters_ , las elegantes casas en las que habían vivido, las chicas a las que se habían cepillado y los numerosos capullos a los que habían pisoteado, intrusos que habían tratado de colarse en su territorio y habían terminado bajo tierra en el monte. Durante casi cinco años habían sido pesos pesados a un lado y otro de la Cordillera Azul. Habían vivido a todo tren, pero por lo visto el tren se había parado.
De hecho, los habían jodido por todos los orificios. La poli tenía las drogas, tenía las armas, tenía a Kitty McDavid para testificar que había visto varias veces a Lowell intercambiar fajos de billetes por paquetes de coca con su enlace en el cártel, y que lo había visto matar a tiros a aquel cretino de Alabama que pretendió endosarles billetes falsos. La poli incluso tenía el C-4 que se reservaban para el Cuatro de Julio. (Su plan era colocarlo bajo un silo y ver si aquel cabrón se elevaba igual que uno de esos cohetes de Cabo Cañaveral.) Pese a lo buena que había sido esa vida, Lowell no sabía bien cuánto tiempo rememorar esos hechos le permitiría mantener el ánimo. Lo deprimía pensar que esos recuerdos se debilitarían y finalmente se desvanecerían.
Little Low estaba convencido de que, cuando se le agotaran, tendría que suicidarse. Esa perspectiva no le daba miedo. Lo que le daba miedo era asfixiarse de aburrimiento en una celda del mismo modo que Big Low, inmovilizado en una silla de ruedas chupando Yell y oxígeno embotellado durante los últimos años de su vida, había muerto asfixiado por sus propios mocos. Maynard, corto como era, probablemente sobrellevaría bien la cárcel durante unas décadas. Pero no era el caso de Little Lowell Griner. Él no estaba dispuesto a jugar una mala mano por el simple hecho de continuar en la partida.
De pronto, mientras esperaban las negociaciones previas al juicio, la mierda se convirtió otra vez en millón. Bendita fuese Aurora, el vehículo de su liberación.
Dicha liberación llegó la tarde del pasado jueves, el día que la enfermedad del sueño se propagó por la región de los Apalaches. Lowell y Maynard se hallaban encadenados a un banco delante de una sala de reuniones del juzgado de Coughlin. Tanto el fiscal como su abogado deberían haber llegado hacía una hora.
—¡Qué coño! —anunció el gilipollas del departamento de Policía de Coughlin que los tenía bajo vigilancia—. Esto es una estupidez. No cobro lo suficiente para pasarme el día haciendo de canguro de un par de paletos asesinos. Voy a ver qué quiere hacer la jueza.
A través del cristal blindado situado frente al banco, Lowell vio que la jueza Wainer, la única de las tres miembros del tribunal que había considerado oportuno presentarse a la vista, había agachado la cabeza entre los brazos y se había quedado traspuesta. En ese punto ninguno de los dos hermanos sabía nada de Aurora. Como tampoco el poli gilipollas.
—Ojalá le arranque la cabeza por despertarla —comentó Maynard.
No fue eso exactamente lo que ocurrió cuando el agente, horrorizado, retiró la máscara de telarañas que había crecido sobre el rostro de la honorable jueza Regina Alberta Wainer, pero no anduvo lejos, como solía decirse.
Lowell y Maynard, encadenados al banco, lo vieron todo a través del cristal blindado. Fue impresionante. La jueza, que no medía más de uno cincuenta y cinco con tacones, se irguió y clavó, aleluya, una estilográfica con plumín de oro en el pecho al policía. Ante eso, el muy cabrón se desplomó en la moqueta, y ella, aprovechando la ventaja, blandió su maza y le aporreó la cara, sin que él tuviera ocasión de tirarse un pedo o gritar «Su señoría, protesto». A continuación la jueza Wainer echó a un lado la maza ensangrentada, volvió a sentarse, bajó de nuevo la cabeza sobre los brazos cruzados y siguió con su siesta.
—Hermano, ¿has visto eso? —preguntó Maynard.
—Sí.
Maynard negó con la cabeza, y sus greñas sucias y largas se agitaron.
—Increíble. Alucino.
—Se suspende la puta sesión —convino Lowell.
Maynard —aunque primogénito, recibió el nombre de un tío suyo cuando sus padres tuvieron la certeza de que el bebé moriría antes de ponerse el sol en el día de su nacimiento— lucía una barba de cavernícola y tenía los ojos inexpresivos y muy separados. Incluso cuando daba de puñetazos a algún pobre hijo de puta, tendía a parecer pasmado.
—Y ahora ¿qué hacemos?
Lo que hicieron fue dar tirones hasta romper los brazos del banco al que estaban sujetas las esposas y entrar en la sala de negociación, dejando un rastro de astillas a su paso. Cuidándose mucho de perturbar el sueño de la jueza Wainer —la telaraña se tejía de nuevo, cada vez más espesa, en torno a su cabeza—, se hicieron con las llaves del poli y se quitaron las esposas. Los hermanos requisaron también el arma, la táser y las llaves de una furgoneta GMC del gilipollas muerto.
—Mira esa mierda de telaraña —susurró Maynard, y señaló la nueva envoltura de la jueza.
—No hay tiempo —dijo Little Low.
Al final del pasillo, una puerta —que se abrió con la tarjeta del gilipollas— les dio paso a un segundo pasillo. Cuando cruzaron la puerta abierta de una sala de personal, ni una sola de las diez o doce personas, hombres y mujeres, que allí se congregaban —polis, secretarias, abogados— les prestó la menor atención. Permanecían todos atentos a NewsAmerica, donde unas imágenes extrañas y horrorosas mostraban a una amish que estaba tendida en una mesa y de pronto se levantaba y le arrancaba la nariz de un mordisco al hombre que tenía al lado.
Ese segundo pasillo daba al aparcamiento. Lowell y Maynard salieron tranquilamente al intenso sol y el aire libre, como si tal cosa y tan contentos como chuchos de caza en un concurso de ladridos. La GMC del poli muerto estaba aparcada allí cerca, y la consola central ofrecía un buen surtido de música country. Los hermanos Griner coincidieron en poner Brooks and Dunn, seguidos de Alan Jackson, quien sin duda era de los buenos de siempre.
A toda prisa viajaron a un camping cercano y aparcaron la GMC detrás de un puesto de guardabosques clausurado años atrás en una ronda de recortes. La cerradura del puesto cedió al primer empujón. En el armario colgaba un uniforme de mujer. Por suerte, había sido corpulenta, y Maynard, a petición de Lowell, se lo embutió. Así vestido fue fácil convencer al conductor de una Chevrolet Silverado estacionada en el aparcamiento del camping para que se acercara a intercambiar unas palabras.
—¿Hay algún problema con mi permiso de acampada? —preguntó a Maynard el hombre de la Silverado—. Todas esas noticias sobre la enfermedad me tienen muy alterado, se lo aseguro. O sea, ¿cuándo se había oído una cosa así? —Después, lanzando un vistazo a la placa de identificación prendida del pecho de Maynard, añadió—: Oiga, ¿cómo es que se llama Susan?
Little Low dio a esta pregunta la respuesta que merecía. Saliendo de detrás de un árbol, partió el cráneo al hombre de la Silverado con un trozo de leña. Era aproximadamente del peso y la estatura de Lowell. Cuando Low se puso la ropa del hombre de la Silverado, los hermanos envolvieron el cadáver con una lona y lo metieron en la parte de atrás de su nuevo vehículo. Trasladaron la música del poli muerto de un automóvil al otro y viajaron hasta una cabaña que habían pertrechado mucho tiempo atrás en previsión de tiempos difíciles. En el camino, escucharon el resto de los CD, coincidiendo en que ese tal James McMurtry seguramente era comunista, pero Hank III era el no va más.
Ya en la cabaña, alternaron entre la radio y el escáner policial que guardaban allí, con la esperanza de captar información relacionada con la respuesta de la policía a su fuga.
Al principio a Lowell le pareció desconcertante la total indiferencia a dicha huida. Al segundo día, sin embargo, la bola de nieve de los acontecimientos derivados del fenómeno Aurora —fenómeno que explicaba el trato severo que la jueza había administrado al poli de Coughlin y el pringue que tenía en la cara— era tan grande y cataclísmica que los temores de Lowell se disiparon. ¿Quién tenía tiempo para dos forajidos de provincias en medio de disturbios multitudinarios, accidentes aéreos, fusiones accidentales del núcleo de reactores y gente que incineraba a las tías mientras dormían?
2
El lunes, mientras Frank Geary planeaba el asalto a la cárcel de mujeres, Lowell se hallaba reclinado en el sofá mohoso de la cabaña royendo cecina de ciervo y calculando sus siguientes pasos. Por más que en esos momentos las autoridades estuvieran en pleno caos, no tardarían mucho en restablecer el orden de un modo u otro. Además, si las cosas tomaban el rumbo que, según parecía, iban a tomar, esas autoridades probablemente se compondrían solo de hombres, lo que significaba que aquello se convertiría en el salvaje oeste: ahorcadlos ya, colgadlos bien alto, las preguntas después. Los hermanos Griner no quedarían en el olvido eternamente, y cuando se acordaran de ellos, las botas estarían lustradas, a punto para patear culos.
Las noticias de la radio al principio sumieron a Maynard en un estado de ánimo sombrío.
—¿Aquí se acaba el folleteo, Lowell? —preguntó.
Un poco triste ante la idea también él, Lowell contestó que ya se les ocurriría algo... como si pudiese haber alguna alternativa. Se acordó de una vieja canción que decía que los pájaros lo hacen, las abejas lo hacen, incluso las pulgas domesticadas lo hacen.
No obstante, su hermano mayor mejoró de ánimo al descubrir un rompecabezas en un armario. En ese momento Maynard, con su ropa interior de camuflaje, de rodillas junto a la mesita de centro, bebía una Schlitz mientras lo montaba. El rompecabezas mostraba a Krazy Kat con el dedo metido en una toma de corriente, electrocutándose. Maynard se divertía con los rompecabezas siempre y cuando no fueran muy difíciles. (Esa era otra de las razones por las que Lowell no temía por el futuro de su hermano en la cárcel.) La imagen de Krazy Kat, en el centro, estaba casi acabada, pero la pared de color verde claro que rodeaba la figura sacaba de quicio a May. Se quejaba de que todas las piezas parecían iguales, lo cual era trampa.
—Tenemos que hacer limpieza —anunció Lowell.
—Ya te lo dije —contestó Maynard—, metí la cabeza del viejo dentro de un tronco hueco y eché el resto a un hoyo. —(El hermano mayor de Low descuartizaba cadáveres tal como otros trinchaban pavos. Era una excentricidad, pero al parecer a May le proporcionaba satisfacción.)
—Eso es un comienzo, May, pero no basta. Necesitamos limpiar aún mejor mientras todavía esté todo patas arriba. Una limpieza a fondo, por así decirlo.
Maynard se terminó la cerveza y lanzó a lo lejos la lata.
—¿Y eso cómo lo hacemos?
—Para empezar, incendiamos la oficina del sheriff de Dooling. Así desaparecerán las pruebas —explicó Lowell—. Ese es el primer gran paso.
La expresión de perplejidad en el rostro laxo de su hermano indicó la necesidad de una aclaración.
—Nuestras drogas, May. En la redada se lo llevaron todo. Si quemamos eso, no tienen nada consistente. —Lowell ya estaba imaginándoselo: una maravilla. Nunca había sido consciente de lo mucho que deseaba destruir la oficina de un sheriff—. Después, solo para poner los puntos sobre las íes, visitamos la cárcel de allí y nos ocupamos de Kitty McDavid. —Low se deslizó el dedo por el cuello sin afeitar para mostrar a su hermano en qué consistía exactamente ocuparse de ella.
—Ah, seguro que está dormida.
Low había contemplado esa posibilidad.
—¿Y si los científicos descubren la manera de despertarlas a todas?
—A lo mejor, incluso si lo consiguen, se le ha borrado la memoria. Ya me entiendes, amnesia, como en _Days of our Lives_.
—¿Y si no, May? ¿Cuándo se arreglan las cosas de una manera tan cómoda? Esa puta, McDavid, puede mandarnos al trullo el resto de nuestras vidas. Y eso ni siquiera es lo más importante. Es una _soplona_ , eso es lo importante. Tiene que pagar por ello, despierta o dormida.
—¿De verdad crees que podemos llegar hasta ella? —preguntó Maynard.
Lo cierto era que Lowell no lo sabía, pero pensaba que existía una posibilidad. La suerte favorecía a los valientes; eso lo había visto en una película o tal vez en una serie de televisión. ¿Y qué mejor oportunidad tendrían? Prácticamente la mitad del mundo dormía, y el resto corría de acá para allá como pollo sin cabeza.
—Vamos. El tiempo apremia, May. No dejes para mañana lo que puedas hacer hoy. Además, pronto será de noche. Siempre es el mejor momento para moverse.
—¿Adónde vamos primero? —preguntó Maynard.
Lowell no vaciló.
—A ver a Fritz.
Fritz Meshaum había trabajado alguna que otra vez de mecánico y limpiacoches para Lowell Griner, y también había colocado un poco de coca. A cambio, Lowell había puesto en contacto al alemán con unos cuantos traficantes de armas. Fritz, además de ser un mecánico extraordinario y un excelente limpiacoches, se la tenía jurada al gobierno federal, así que siempre andaba en busca de oportunidades para ampliar su arsenal particular de armamento pesado. Cuando llegara inevitablemente el día que el FBI decidiera capturar a todos los mecánicos gilipollas del país que vivían en tugurios y mandarlos a Guantánamo, Fritz tendría que defenderse, y hasta la muerte si era necesario. Cada vez que Lowell veía a Fritzie, este le enseñaba un pistolón u otro, y alardeaba de la potencia del arma, capaz de pulverizar a una persona. (La parte cómica: corría el rumor de que un empleado de la perrera había dejado a Fritz al borde de la muerte de una paliza. Era un hombre duro, ese Fritz.) La última vez que Lowell lo vio, ese gnomo barbudo le mostró, jubiloso, su último juguete: un auténtico bazuca. Excedente del ejército ruso.
Low necesitaba entrar en la cárcel de mujeres para asesinar a una soplona. Esa era la clase de misión en la que una bazuca podía venir bien.
3
Jared y Gerda Holden no se conocían bien —Gerda estaba en primero de secundaria y Jared iba ya al instituto—, pero sí había coincidido con ella en las cenas en que se reunían las dos familias. A veces se entretenían con videojuegos en el sótano, y Jared siempre le dejaba ganar un par de partidas. Muchas desgracias habían ocurrido desde el inicio de Aurora, pero esa era la primera vez que Jared veía a una persona herida de bala.
—Debe de estar muerta, ¿no, papá? —Clint y él estaban en el cuarto de baño de la zona de administración. Parte de la sangre de Gerda había salpicado a Jared la cara y la camisa—. ¿Por la caída, además del disparo?
—No lo sé —contestó Clint, apoyado en la pared alicatada.
Su hijo, enjugándose el agua de la cara con una toalla de papel, miró a Clint a los ojos a través del espejo del lavabo.
—Es probable —admitió Clint—. Sí. Por lo que me has contado, casi con toda seguridad está muerta.
—¿Y ese hombre también? ¿El médico? ¿Flickinger?
—Sí. Él también, probablemente.
—¿Todo por esa mujer? ¿Esa Evie?
—Sí —respondió Clint—. Por ella. Tenemos que mantenerla a salvo. De la policía y de cualquier otra persona. Sé que parece una locura. Ella podría ser la clave para entender lo que ha ocurrido, la clave para dar la vuelta a esta situación y... tú confía en mí, ¿vale, Jared?
—Vale, papá. Pero uno de los celadores, ese Rand, ha dicho que es como... ¿mágica?
—No puedo explicarte qué es, Jared.
Aunque procuraba aparentar calma, Clint estaba furioso: consigo mismo, con Geary, con Evie. Esa bala podría haber alcanzado a Jared. Podría haberlo dejado ciego. En coma. Podría haberlo matado. Clint no había dado una paliza a su viejo amigo Jason en el jardín de los Burtell para que su propio hijo muriese antes que él; no había compartido cama con chicos que se orinaban encima por la noche para eso; no había dejado atrás a Marcus, a Shannon y a todos los demás para eso; y no había estudiado en la universidad y la facultad de Medicina con grandes esfuerzos para eso.
Shannon le había dicho, hacía ya muchos años, que si aguantaba y procuraba no matar a nadie, saldría adelante. Pero para salir de la actual situación, tal vez tuvieran que matar a alguien. Tal vez _él_ tuviera que matar a alguien. La idea no alteró a Clint tanto como habría imaginado. La situación cambió, y los premios cambiaron, pero quizá en el fondo el trato era el mismo: si uno quería el batido, más le valía estar dispuesto a pelear.
—¿Qué? —preguntó Jared.
Clint ladeó la cabeza.
—Se te ve... —observó su hijo— un tanto tenso.
—Es solo cansancio. —Tocó el hombro a Jared y le dijo que debía irse. Necesitaba asegurarse de que todos ocupaban sus puestos.
4
No hubo necesidad de decir: «Te lo dije».
Terry miró a Frank a los ojos cuando se alejaban del grupo reunido en torno a los cadáveres.
—Tenías razón —dijo Terry. Sacó la petaca. Frank se planteó impedírselo, pero se abstuvo. El sheriff en funciones tomó un trago generoso —. Tenías razón desde el principio. Hay que sacarla de ahí.
—¿Seguro? —preguntó Frank, como si él mismo no lo estuviera.
—¿Tú qué crees? ¡Mira qué desastre! Vern muerto, a manos de esa niña, también muerta a tiros. El abogado con el cráneo hundido. Puede que quizá haya vivido un rato, pero ahora desde luego ha muerto. El otro, según el carnet de conducir, es médico y se llama Flickinger...
—¿Él también? ¿De verdad? —Si era así, Frank lo lamentaba. Flickinger era una calamidad, pero le quedaba alma suficiente para intentar ayudar a Nana.
—Y eso no es lo peor. Norcross y la tal Black y los demás disponen ahora de un armamento considerable, en su mayor parte de largo alcance, que podríamos haber utilizado para someterlos.
—¿Sabemos quién iba con ellos? —preguntó Frank—. ¿Quién conducía la autocaravana cuando se han largado a toda leche de aquí?
Terry volvió a inclinar la petaca, pero dentro no quedaba nada. Maldijo y dio un puntapié a un trozo de asfalto desprendido.
Frank esperó. —Un viejo que se llama Willy Burke —respondió Terry Coombs entre dientes—. En los últimos quince o veinte años ha mantenido limpio su historial, hace mucho trabajo para la comunidad, pero sigue siendo un cazador furtivo. Antes, cuando era joven, también fabricaba alcohol ilegal. Quizá todavía lo haga. Es veterano. Sabe defenderse. Lila siempre hacía la vista gorda; consideraba que no merecía la pena intentar pillarlo en alguna de sus actividades. Y además le caía bien, imagino. —Tomó aire—. Yo opinaba lo mismo.
—De acuerdo.
Frank había decidido mantener en secreto la llamada de Black. De hecho, lo había enfurecido tanto que le habría costado reproducir los detalles de la conversación. Sin embargo, una parte se le había quedado grabada, y le volvía a la cabeza una y otra vez: el elogio de la mujer por proteger a su hija en el hospital. ¿Cómo lo sabía? Aquella mañana Eve Black estaba en la cárcel. La idea lo asaltaba repetidamente y procuraba apartarla. Como con las mariposas surgidas del fragmento en llamas del capullo de Nana, Frank no concebía una explicación. Solo veía que Eve Black pretendía provocarlo... y lo había conseguido. Pero no creía que ella comprendiese las consecuencias de provocarlo.
En todo caso Terry volvía a estar en el buen camino: no necesitaba más motivación.
—¿Quieres que empiece a organizar un grupo? Estoy dispuesto, si lo deseas.
Aunque sus deseos no tenían nada que ver con aquello, Terry secundó la propuesta.
5
Los defensores de la cárcel retiraron apresuradamente los neumáticos de los diversos coches y furgonetas del aparcamiento. Había unos cuarenta vehículos en total, contando los furgones de la prisión. Haciéndolos rodar, Billy Wettermore y Rand Quigley los llevaron a la zona intermedia entre la verja interior y la exterior, y allí los dispusieron en pirámides de tres; luego los rociaron con gasolina. El hedor a petróleo enseguida se impuso al olor a humedad y madera chamuscada del incendio todavía humeante del bosque. Dejaron los neumáticos de la furgoneta de Scott Hughes, pero la aparcaron de través justo detrás de la verja interior, como barricada suplementaria.
—A Scott le encanta esa furgoneta —dijo Rand a Tig.
—¿Quieres poner la tuya en su lugar? —preguntó Tig.
—No, por Dios —contestó Rand—. ¿Estás loco?
El único vehículo que dejaron intacto fue la autocaravana de Barry Holden, situada en el espacio para discapacitados junto al camino de cemento que llevaba a la entrada de Ingresos.
6
Excepto Vern Rangle, Roger Elway y las policías del departamento, todas ellas dormidas como habían confirmado durante la operación de recuento de Frank, quedaban siete ayudantes de la plantilla de la jefa Lila Norcross: Terry Coombs, Pete Ordway, Elmore Pearl, Dan Treat, alias Treater, Rupe Wittstock, Will Wittstock y Reed Barrows. En opinión de Terry, era un grupo sólido, todos veteranos de las fuerzas del orden con al menos un año de experiencia, y Pearl y Treater habían servido los dos en Afganistán.
Contando a los tres ayudantes jubilados —Jack Albertson, Mick Napolitano y Nate McGee—, sumaban diez.
Con Don Peters, Eric Blass y Frank Geary, ascendían al afortunado número de trece.
Frank emplazó rápidamente a otra media docena de voluntarios: J. T. Wittstock, padre de los ayudantes que llevaban su mismo apellido y entrenador defensivo del equipo de fútbol juvenil del instituto de Dooling; Pudge Marone, camarero del Squeaky Wheel, provisto de la escopeta Remington que normalmente guardaba tras la barra; Drew T. Barry, de la Aseguradora Drew T. Barry, estricto agente de seguros y cazador de ciervos galardonado; Carson Struthers, alias Recio, cuñado de Pudge, que había combatido en la competición amateur de boxeo un número récord de peleas antes de que su médico le dijera que debía abandonar mientras le quedara algo de cerebro; y dos concejales, Bert Miller y Steve Pickering, ambos, como Drew T. Barry, expertos en la caza del ciervo. Con eso eran diecinueve, y en cuanto se les comunicó que la mujer encerrada en la cárcel podía tener información relacionada con la enfermedad del sueño, o quizá incluso conocer una cura, todos estuvieron más que dispuestos a prestar servicio.
7
Terry se daba por satisfecho, pero quería que fueran veinte, un número redondo. La visión del rostro pálido y el cuello desgarrado de Vern Rangle era algo que jamás olvidaría. Lo percibía de la misma manera que percibía a Geary, silencioso como una sombra, atento a todo lo que él hacía, juzgando cada una de sus decisiones.
Pero daba igual. La única salida era hacia delante: pasando por encima de Norcross para llegar a Eve Black, y por encima de esa Black para poner fin a la pesadilla. Terry ignoraba qué ocurriría cuando llegara a ella, pero sabía que sería el final. En cuanto llegara el final, podría concentrarse en borrar de su memoria el recuerdo del rostro exangüe de Vern Rangle. Además de los rostros de su propia mujer y su propia hija, que ya no existían como tales. En otras palabras, beber copiosamente hasta someter el cerebro. Se daba cuenta de que Frank lo había inducido a recurrir a la bebida, ¿y qué? ¿Y qué, joder?
A Don Peters se le había encomendado que se pusiera en contacto con los funcionarios varones del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, y no tardó en deducir que Norcross contaba con cuatro funcionarios de servicio, como máximo. Uno de ellos, Wettermore, era marica, y otro, Murphy, había sido profesor de Historia. Si sumaban a ellos la tal Black y el viejo carcamal, Burke, más tal vez otros dos o tres de los que no sabían nada, siendo generosos, en total ascendían a menos de una docena. Pocos, y eso en el supuesto de que todos se mantuvieran firmes en caso de que la situación se complicara, por mucho armamento que hubiesen acumulado.
Terry y Frank pararon en la licorería de Main Street. Estaba abierta y concurrida.
—¡De todos modos no me quería! —anunció un cretino a toda la tienda a la vez que blandía una botella de ginebra. Apestaba como una mofeta.
Terry estuvo tentado de decirle que no podía reprochárselo a su mujer, pero le faltó la energía necesaria.
Los estantes estaban prácticamente vacíos, aunque Terry encontró dos botellas de medio litro de ginebra y pagó con dinero que pronto no serviría de nada, supuso, si aquella mierda proseguía. Llenó la petaca con una de las botellas, metió la otra en una bolsa de papel y fue con Frank a un callejón cercano. Daba a un patio atestado de bolsas de basura y cajas de cartón reblandecidas por la lluvia. Allí estaba la puerta arañada del apartamento de Johnny Lee Kronsky, la planta baja, entre dos ventanas con láminas de plástico en lugar de cristales.
Kronsky, una figura legendaria en esa zona de Virginia Occidental, abrió y vio la botella en la bolsa.
—Los que vienen con regalos pueden entrar —dijo, y cogió la botella.
En el salón había una sola silla. Kronsky se la apropió. Sin prestar atención a Terry ni a Frank, se bebió media botella de dos colosales tragos; su nuez se meció como el corcho del sedal de una caña de pescar. Un televisor colocado sobre un soporte, sin sonido, mostraba imágenes de varias mujeres envueltas en capullos flotando en la superficie del océano Atlántico. Semejaban extraños botes salvavidas.
¿Y si un tiburón decidía morder a alguna?, se preguntó Terry. Supuso que si eso ocurría, posiblemente el tiburón se llevaría una sorpresa.
¿Qué significaba todo eso? ¿Qué sentido tenía?
Terry llegó a la conclusión que el sentido podía ser la ginebra. Sacó la petaca de Frank y le dio un tiento.
—Esas mujeres viajaban en aquel avión enorme que cayó al mar —explicó John Lee—. Resulta interesante que floten así, ¿no? Ese material debe de ser muy ligero. Como el capoc o algo parecido.
—Miradlas —dijo Terry, maravillado.
—Sí, sí, todo un espectáculo. —Johnny Lee se relamió.
Tenía licencia de investigador privado, pero no era de esos detectives que andaban vigilando a cónyuges o resolviendo misterios. Hasta 2014 había trabajado para Ulysses Energy Solutions, la compañía carbonífera, yendo en moto de unos yacimientos a otros, donde se presentaba como minero, permanecía atento a cualquier rumor sobre posibles organizaciones sindicales y actuaba para debilitar a los líderes que parecían especialmente eficaces. En otras palabras, un sabueso al servicio de la empresa.
Un día llegaron los problemas. Problemas de envergadura, podría decirse. Se produjo un derrumbe. Kronsky era quien manejaba los explosivos. Los tres mineros que quedaron enterrados bajo las rocas habían estado hablando en voz alta sobre la convocatoria de una votación. Casi tan condenatorio fue el hecho de que uno llevaba una camiseta con la cara de Woody Guthrie. Los abogados contratados por Ulysses impidieron que se presentaran cargos —un trágico accidente, adujeron con éxito ante el gran jurado—, pero Kronsky se vio obligado a jubilarse.
Por eso Johnny Lee regresó a Dooling, el pueblo que lo vio nacer. Allí, en su apartamento situado en un lugar óptimo —justo a la vuelta de la esquina de la licorería—, iba camino de matarse a fuerza de beber. Cada mes llegaba un cheque de UES a través de Federal Express. Una empleada del banco, conocida de Terry, le dijo que el concepto que aparecía en el resguardo del talón siempre indicaba lo mismo: HONORARIOS. Fueran cuales fuesen esos HONORARIOS, no eran una fortuna, como demostraba el exiguo apartamento, pero Kronsky iba tirando. Terry conocía bien la historia, ya que raro era el mes que algún vecino no avisaba a la policía porque había oído ruido de cristales rotos en el apartamento de ese hombre: una piedra o un ladrillo arrojados contra una de las ventanas de Kronsky, sin lugar a dudas por miembros del sindicato. Johnny Lee nunca avisaba personalmente. Había dado a entender que no le preocupaba demasiado. A J. L. Kronsky el sindicato se la traía floja.
Una tarde, no mucho antes del estallido de Aurora, cuando Terry acompañaba a Lila en la Unidad Uno, la conversación se desvió hacia Kronsky. Ella dijo: «Al final un minero desafecto, probablemente un familiar de alguno de los hombres que Kronsky mató, va a volarle la cabeza, y seguro que ese miserable hijo de puta se alegrará de irse de este mundo».
8
—Se nos ha presentado una situación complicada en la cárcel —anunció Terry.
—Señor mío, la situación es complicada en todas partes. —Kronsky tenía el rostro magullado, demacrado y ojeroso, y los ojos sombríos.
—Olvidémonos de otras partes —intervino Frank—. Estamos aquí.
—Me la trae floja dónde estamos —repuso Johnny Lee, y se pulió la botella.
—Puede que necesitemos volar algo —dijo Terry.
Barry Holden y los otros asaltantes de la oficina del sheriff se habían llevado todo un arsenal, pero se habían dejado el paquete de C-4 de los hermanos Griner.
—Usted sabe manejar el explosivo plástico, ¿no?
—Podría ser —dijo Kronsky—. ¿Yo qué saco, señor mío?
Terry lo consideró.
—Le diré lo que haremos. Está de nuestro lado Pudge Marone, el del Squeaky, y creo que le permitirá beber a cuenta de la casa el resto de su vida. —Que, supuso Terry, no sería muy larga.
—Hummm —dijo Johnny Lee.
—Y por supuesto también tiene la oportunidad de hacer un gran servicio a su pueblo.
—Por mí, Dooling puede irse a la puta mierda —dijo Johnny Lee Kronsky—, pero igualmente... ¿por qué no? ¿Por qué no, joder?
Con eso eran ya veinte.
9
El Centro Penitenciario de Dooling no tenía torres de vigilancia. El tejado era una azotea revestida de tela asfáltica con respiraderos, conductos y salidas de humos. Apenas ofrecía protección, salvo por un murete de ladrillo de un palmo de altura. Después de examinar la azotea, Willy Burke dijo a Clint que le gustaba la perspectiva de trescientos sesenta grados de todo el perímetro que ofrecía, pero que sus huevos le gustaban aún más.
—Aquí arriba no hay nada que pueda parar una bala, ¿entiende? ¿Qué me dice de ese cobertizo de ahí?
El anciano señaló hacia abajo.
Aunque el rótulo en letra azul carcelaria rezaba CASETA DE MATERIAL, era el típico trastero, donde guardaban el tractor cortacésped que las reclusas (las de confianza) utilizaban para cuidar la hierba del campo de softball, además de herramientas de jardinería, equipo deportivo, pilas de periódicos y revistas enmohecidos atados con cordel. Lo más importante era que estaba construido con bloques de cemento.
Fueron a verlo de cerca. Clint llevó a rastras una silla a la parte de atrás del cobertizo, y Willy se sentó allí bajo el alero del tejado.
Desde esa posición, uno no sería visto desde la verja, pero sí desde los dos extremos de la línea de fuego trazada entre el cobertizo y la cárcel.
—Si se sitúan solo a un lado, no hay problema —dijo Willy—. Los veré de reojo y me pondré a cubierto.
—¿Y si vienen por los dos lados al mismo tiempo? —preguntó Clint.
—En ese caso, estaré perdido.
—Necesita ayuda. Respaldo.
—Cuando dice usted eso, doctor, lamento no haber ido más a la iglesia en mi juventud.
El anciano lo observó con expresión afable. Al llegar a la cárcel, solo había exigido a Clint una explicación: que le garantizara que el plan de resistencia que estaban adoptando era lo que Lila habría deseado. Clint le aseguró al instante que así era, aunque a esas alturas ya no tenía muy claro cuáles habrían sido los deseos de Lila. Daba la impresión de que la ausencia de Lila se prolongaba ya desde hacía años.
Clint trató de reflejar la misma actitud afable —un poco de desenfadado _savoir faire_ en presencia del enemigo—, pero, al parecer, lo que quedaba de su sentido del humor se había caído de la parte de atrás de la autocaravana de Barry Holden junto con Gerda Holden y Garth Flickinger.
—Usted estuvo en Vietnam, ¿no, Willy?
Willy alzó la mano izquierda. Tenía una marca de tejido cicatricial en la palma.
—Resulta que algún que otro trozo mío sigue allí.
—¿Cómo se sentía? —preguntó Clint—. ¿Cuando estaba allí? Debió de perder amigos.
—Oh, sí —contestó Willy—. Perdí amigos. En cuanto a cómo me sentía, la mayor parte del tiempo solo asustado. Confuso. Todo el tiempo. ¿Es así como se siente usted ahora?
—Así es —admitió Clint—. No se me ha preparado para esto.
Permanecieron allí en la luz lechosa de la tarde. Clint se preguntó si Willy percibía lo que en realidad sentía él: algo de miedo y confusión, era cierto, pero también excitación. Los preparativos se impregnaban de cierta euforia, la perspectiva de volcar en forma de acción la frustración y el desaliento y la pérdida y la imposibilidad de todo. Clint advertía que eso le ocurría a él mismo, una subida de adrenalina agresiva tan antigua como los simios.
Se dijo que no debía pensar de ese modo, y quizá no debía, pero le proporcionaba satisfacción. Era como si un hombre con el mismo aspecto que él, al volante de un cupé con la capota bajada, se hubiera detenido junto al antiguo Clint en un semáforo, le hubiese dirigido un gesto impasible de asentimiento al reconocerlo, y luego, al cambiar a verde, su doble hubiese pisado el acelerador y el antiguo Clint se hubiese quedado allí, viéndolo alejarse con un rugido. El nuevo Clint debía apresurarse, porque tenía una misión, y tener una misión era bueno.
Mientras se dirigían a la parte de atrás de la cárcel, Willy le habló de las mariposas nocturnas y las huellas de hada que había visto cerca de la caravana de Truman Mayweather. Millones de mariposas, al parecer, recubrían las ramas de los árboles y se arremolinaban en enjambres por encima de las copas.
—¿Eso lo dejó allí ella? —Al igual que todos los demás, Willy había oído los rumores—. ¿La mujer que tiene usted aquí?
—Sí —contestó Clint—. Y eso no es ni la mitad de la historia.
Willy dijo que no lo dudaba.
Arrastraron al exterior una segunda silla y asignaron una automática a Billy Wettermore. La habían convertido (si legalmente o no, Clint no lo sabía ni le importaba) en totalmente automática. Con eso quedaba un hombre apostado en cada extremo del cobertizo. No era perfecto, solo lo mejor que podían hacer.
10
Detrás del escritorio de recepción de la oficina del sheriff, el cuerpo de Linny Mars yacía en el suelo envuelto en un capullo con el ordenador portátil al lado, emitiendo todavía el Vine de la caída de la Noria de Londres. Terry dedujo que, cuando por fin la había vencido el sueño, había resbalado de la silla. Allí desmadejada, obstruía en parte el pasillo que llevaba a las zonas oficiales del edificio.
Kronsky pasó por encima de ella y recorrió el pasillo en busca del depósito de pruebas. A Terry eso no le gustó. Levantando la voz, le dijo:
—Eh, joder, ¿no ha visto que hay aquí una persona? ¿En el suelo?
—Tranquilo, Terry —lo interrumpió Frank—. Ya nos ocuparemos de ella tú y yo.
Llevaron a Linny a un calabozo y la depositaron con delicadeza en un colchón. No había sucumbido hacía mucho. Una fina capa de telarañas le recubría los ojos y la boca. Tenía los labios curvados en una expresión de felicidad delirante, a saber por qué, tal vez solo porque el esfuerzo de permanecer despierta había terminado.
Terry echó otro trago. Bajó la petaca, y la pared del calabozo se precipitó sobre él, que tendió la mano al frente para detenerla. Al cabo de un momento consiguió enderezarla de nuevo.
—Me tienes preocupado —comentó Frank—. Te estás... sobremedicando.
—Estoy perfectamente. —Terry dio un manotazo a una mariposa que lo importunaba cerca de la oreja—. ¿Te alegras de que estemos armándonos, Frank? Es lo que querías, ¿no?
Frank posó en Terry una larga mirada. Era totalmente inexpresiva, sin el menor asomo de amenaza. Observó a Terry como los niños fijaban la mirada en la pantalla del televisor, como si se hubieran salido de sus cuerpos.
—No —contestó por fin Frank—. Yo no diría que me alegro. Son cosas del trabajo, así de sencillo. La tarea que tenemos por delante.
—¿Siempre te dices eso antes de darle una patada en el culo a alguien? —preguntó Terry, sinceramente interesado, y le sorprendió cuando Frank dio un respingo, como si acabara de recibir una bofetada.
Kronsky estaba en la sala de espera cuando salieron. Había dado con el explosivo plástico, y también con un paquete de dinamita que alguien había encontrado en una gravera cerca de la finca de los Griner y había entregado para que se deshicieran de ella. Johnny Lee los miró con cara de desaprobación.
—Esa dinamita no tenía por qué estar ahí, amigos. Envejece y se vuelve inestable. En cambio el C-4... —Lo agitó, y Frank hizo una mueca—. Podría pisarlo un camión y no pasaría nada.
—¿Quiere dejar la dinamita, entonces? —preguntó Terry.
—No, por Dios. —Kronsky pareció ofendido—. Me encanta disponer de un poco de dina. Siempre me ha gustado. La dina es lo que podríamos llamar vieja escuela. Hay que envolverla con una manta, solo eso. O a lo mejor, esa Bella Durmiente tiene un suéter grueso en el armario. Ah, y necesitaré unas cuantas cosas de la ferretería. Confío en que el departamento de Policía tenga cuenta allí.
Antes de que Terry y Frank salieran, metieron en un petate las pistolas y la munición que no habían perdido en el saqueo y se llevaron todos los chalecos antibalas y los cascos que pudieron cargar. No era gran cosa, pero los miembros de la partida —en realidad no tenía sentido llamarlos de otra manera— traerían bastante armamento de casa.
Linny no había dejado un suéter en el armario, así que Johnny Lee envolvió la dinamita con un par de toallas del cuarto de baño. La sujetó contra el pecho como si llevara un bebé.
—Hoy ya empieza a hacerse tarde para iniciar el asalto —observó Frank—. Si es que llegamos a eso.
—Lo sé —convino Terry—. Llevaremos allí a los chicos esta noche, para asegurarnos de que todo el mundo sabe de qué va la cosa y quién está al mando. —Al decir esto, dirigió a Frank una elocuente mirada—. Requisaremos un par de autobuses escolares del parque móvil del municipio y los estacionaremos en el cruce de la Estatal 31 con West Lavin, donde estaba el control de carretera, así los hombres no tendrán que dormir al raso. Pondremos a seis u ocho de guardia formando un... ya sabes... —Dibujó un círculo en el aire.
—Un perímetro —lo ayudó Frank.
—Sí, eso. Si tenemos que entrar, lo haremos mañana a primera hora, desde el este. Necesitaremos un par de buldóceres para abrirnos paso. Manda a Pearl y a Treater a buscarlos al depósito de Obras Públicas. Las llaves están en el tráiler oficina que hay allí.
—Bien —dijo Frank, porque era buena idea. A él no se le habría ocurrido lo de los buldóceres.
—Mañana a primera hora echaremos abajo las vallas con los buldóceres y accederemos al edificio principal a través del aparcamiento. Así el sol les dará en los ojos. Primer paso: obligarlos a refugiarse muy adentro, lejos de las puertas y las ventanas. Segundo paso: Johnny Lee vuela la puerta principal y entramos. Les exigimos que depongan las armas. Llegados a ese punto, creo que lo harán. Mandamos a unos cuantos hombres a la parte de atrás para asegurarnos de que no puedan salir por piernas.
—Bien pensado —dijo Frank.
—Pero antes...
—¿Antes?
—Hablamos con Norcross. Esta noche. Cara a cara, si es lo bastante hombre. Le ofrecemos la oportunidad de entregar a la mujer antes de que pase algo para lo que ya no haya vuelta atrás.
Frank expresó con los ojos lo que opinaba.
—Sé lo que estás pensando, Frank, pero si Norcross es un hombre razonable, entenderá que es lo correcto. Al fin y al cabo, bajo su responsabilidad hay otras vidas aparte de la de esa mujer.
—¿Y si se niega de todos modos?
Terry se encogió de hombros.
—Entonces entramos y nos la llevamos.
—¿Caiga quien caiga?
—Así es, caiga quien caiga. —Salieron, y Terry cerró con llave las puertas de cristal de la oficina del sheriff.
11
Rand Quigley cogió su caja de herramientas y dedicó dos horas a desprender a golpes de escoplo y martillo la pequeña ventana reforzada con malla de alambre empotrada en el muro de hormigón de la sala de visitas.
Tig Murphy, sentado a corta distancia, se tomaba una Coca-Cola y fumaba un cigarrillo. Se había anulado la prohibición de fumar.
—Si fueras una reclusa, eso te supondría cinco años más de condena.
—Menos mal que no soy una reclusa, entonces, ¿no te parece?
Tig echó la ceniza al suelo y decidió callarse lo que pensaba: si estar encerrado allí equivalía a ser una reclusa, eso eran ellos en esos momentos.
—Tío, se esmeraron al construir esto, ¿eh?
—Ajá. Cualquiera diría que es una cárcel o algo así —comentó Rand.
—Jiu jiu jiu.
Cuando por fin se desprendió el cristal, Tig aplaudió.
—Gracias, señoras y señores —dijo Rand, imitando a Elvis—. Muchas gracias.
Una vez extraída la ventana, Rand podía subirse a la mesa que habían arrimado a la pared a modo de plataforma de tiro y asomar el arma a través de la abertura. Ese era su sitio, con una vista despejada del aparcamiento y la verja delantera.
—Se creen que somos unos caguetas —dijo Rand—. Pero se equivocan.
—Ahí has dado en el blanco, amigo Rand.
Clint asomó la cabeza.
—Tig. Acompáñeme.
Los dos subieron por la escalera a la planta superior del módulo B. Ese era el punto más elevado de la cárcel, la única primera planta de todo el edificio. Las ventanas de las celdas daban a West Lavin. Esas estaban aún más reforzadas que la de la sala de visitas: gruesas, resistentes y embutidas entre capas de hormigón. Costaba imaginar que Rand pudiera desprender una del muro solo con herramientas de mano.
—Esta parte no podemos defenderla —dijo Tig.
—No —coincidió Clint—, pero es un puesto de vigilancia excelente, y no necesitamos defenderlo, ¿no? No hay manera de entrar por aquí.
A Clint le parecía indiscutible, como también a Scott Hughes, que, muy relajado a unas cuantas celdas de allí, los escuchaba.
—Estoy seguro de que van ustedes a conseguir que los maten de una manera u otra, y cuando eso pase, no seré yo quien llore —exclamó—, pero el loquero tiene razón. Haría falta una bazuca para hacer un agujero en este muro.
12
El día que dos grupos enfrentados de hombres de Dooling se armaron, preparados para entrar en guerra, en la zona de los Tres Condados quedaban despiertas menos de cien mujeres. Una era Eve Black; otra era Angel Fitzroy, y otra era Jeanette Sorley.
Vanessa Lampley era la cuarta. Ese día, un rato antes, su marido había sucumbido por fin al sueño en su sillón, lo cual permitió a Van llevar a cabo lo que tenía decidido. Desde que había regresado a casa de la cárcel después de matar de un tiro a Ree Dempster, Tommy Lampley había intentado permanecer despierto con ella tanto tiempo como le fuera posible. Van había agradecido la compañía. Sin embargo, un concurso culinario había podido con él, arrullándolo hasta que un tutorial sobre gastronomía molecular lo transportó al mundo de los sueños. Van se aseguró de que dormía profundamente antes de marcharse. No estaba dispuesta a dejar a su marido, diez años mayor que ella, con caderas de titanio y aquejado de angina de pecho, encargado de la ingrata tarea de cuidar de algún modo del cuerpo de ella durante los años que le quedaran de vida. Tampoco tenía el menor interés en convertirse en el mueble más deprimente del mundo.
Pese al cansancio, seguía aún ligera de pies y salió sigilosamente del salón sin perturbar el sueño liviano de su marido. En el garaje, cogió el rifle de caza y lo cargó. Abrió la puerta de un tirón, arrancó el todoterreno y se puso en marcha.
Su plan era sencillo: atajar a través del bosque hasta los montes situados por encima de la carretera, respirar aire limpio, disfrutar de la vista, dejar una nota a su marido y colocarse la boca del cañón debajo de la barbilla. Buenas noches. Al menos no tenía hijos de los que preocuparse.
Avanzó despacio, porque, en su estado de fatiga, temía sufrir un accidente. Notaba en los gruesos brazos y hasta en los mismísimos huesos cada sacudida de las robustas ruedas del todoterreno al pisar raíces y rocas. A Van no le importaba. También le parecía bien la llovizna. A pesar del agotamiento —el cerebro le funcionaba despacio— era muy consciente de todas las sensaciones físicas. ¿Sería mejor morir sin saber que vas a morir, como Ree? Van pudo hacerse la pregunta, pero su cerebro no consiguió rumiarla lo suficiente para ofrecer una respuesta satisfactoria. Cada contestación se diluía antes de formarse. ¿Por qué se sentía tan mal por el hecho de haber disparado contra una reclusa que habría matado a otra si no hubiese intervenido? ¿Por qué se sentía tan mal solo por haber hecho su trabajo? Tampoco esas respuestas cobraron forma, ni siquiera mínimamente.
Van llegó a lo alto de la sierra. Apagó el motor del todoterreno y se apeó. A lo lejos, en dirección a la cárcel, una neblina negra flotaba sobre el día, ya en su ocaso, el residuo húmedo del incendio forestal que se había extinguido solo. Justo debajo, el terreno descendía en una pendiente gradual y prolongada. Al pie de la ladera discurría un riachuelo lodoso, crecido por efecto de la lluvia. Por encima del riachuelo, a algo más de cien metros, había una cabaña con musgo en el tejado. Volutas de humo se elevaban de la chimenea de la estufa.
Se palpó los bolsillos y descubrió que se había olvidado de coger papel y algo con lo que escribir. Le entraron ganas de reír —al fin y al cabo, el suicidio no era tan complicado, ¿no?—, pero solo le salió un suspiro.
Eso ya no tenía remedio, y sus razonamientos no deberían ser muy difíciles de interpretar. En el supuesto de que la encontraran, claro. Y de que a alguien le importara. Van se descolgó el rifle del hombro.
De pronto, justo cuando se colocaba la boca del cañón bajo la barbilla, se abrió la puerta de la cabaña.
—Mejor será que ese tío conserve el puto bazuca —dijo un hombre, llegando su voz clara y nítida—, o deseará que el de la perrera hubiese rematado la faena. Ah, y trae ese escáner. Quiero seguir de cerca los movimientos de la poli.
Van bajó el rifle y observó a los dos hombres mientras subían a una reluciente furgoneta Silverado y se marchaban. Estaba segura de que los conocía de algo y, por la pinta que tenían —un par de ratas de bosque desarrapadas—, no era de la ceremonia de entrega de premios de la Cámara de Comercio. Los nombres habrían acudido a su memoria de inmediato si no hubiese estado tan privada de sueño. Era como si tuviese la cabeza llena de barro. Sentía aún las sacudidas del todoterreno pese a que este ya no se movía. Puntos de luz fantasmas pasaban a toda velocidad por su campo de visión.
Cuando la furgoneta se marchó, Van decidió hacer una visita a la cabaña. Tal vez allí hubiera algo donde escribir, aunque fuera el dorso de un calendario de hacía años.
—Y necesito algo para prenderme la nota de la camisa —dijo.
Su voz le sonó empañada y ajena. La voz de otra persona. Y _había_ otra persona de pie junto a ella. Solo que cuando volvió la cabeza, esa persona ya no estaba. Le ocurría cada vez más: mirones la acechaban en el extremo de su campo visual. Alucinaciones. ¿Cuánto tiempo podía permanecer una despierta hasta que todo pensamiento racional se venía abajo y perdía por completo la razón?
Van volvió a subir al todoterreno y avanzó por la cumbre hasta donde la ladera descendía para tomar desde allí el camino lleno de baches que llevaba hasta la cabaña.
El interior olía a alubias, cerveza, carne de ciervo frita y pedos de hombre. La mesa estaba abarrotada de platos, el fregadero también, y había cazos con cuajarones de mugre en la cocina de leña. En la repisa de la chimenea vio una foto de un hombre con una sonrisa vehemente; llevaba un pico al hombro y un maltrecho y rústico sombrero de fieltro tan calado que el ala le doblaba las puntas de las orejas. Al contemplar esa foto en tono sepia, Vanessa cayó en la cuenta de quiénes eran exactamente los hombres a los que había visto, porque su propio padre le había señalado al individuo del retrato cuando ella no contaba más de doce años. Cuando se lo señaló, el hombre en cuestión entraba en el Squeaky Wheel.
«Ese es Big Lowell Griner —había dicho su padre—, y no quiero que te acerques a él, cariño. Si alguna vez te saluda, devuélvele el saludo, ¿verdad que hace buen día?, y sigue adelante sin pararte.»
Esos eran, pues, aquellos dos: los inútiles de los hijos de Big Lowell. Maynard y Little Low Griner, allí ante sus mismas narices y en una furgoneta nueva cuando debían estar entre rejas en Coughlin, en espera de juicio por, entre otras cosas, un asesinato que Kitty McDavid había presenciado y sobre el que había accedido a testificar.
En la pared revestida de pino del corto pasillo que debía de conducir a los dormitorios de la cabaña, Van vio un cuaderno manoseado que colgaba de un cordel. Una de las hojas le serviría para una nota de suicidio, pero de pronto decidió que quería seguir despierta y viva al menos un rato más.
Salió, alegrándose de escapar de aquella pestilencia, y se alejó de la cabaña en el todoterreno tan rápido como se atrevió a ir. Recorridos casi dos kilómetros, el camino desembocaba en una de las muchas carreteras de tierra del condado de Dooling. A la izquierda flotaba aún una nube de polvo, no mucho, por la llovizna, pero suficiente para indicarle qué dirección habían tomado los fugitivos. Le llevaban una ventaja considerable cuando llegó a la Estatal 7, pero allí el terreno descendía y estaba despejado, con lo que resultaba más fácil ver la furgoneta, empequeñecida por la distancia, pero a todas luces rumbo al pueblo.
Van se abofeteó enérgicamente las dos mejillas y los siguió. Para entonces estaba empapada, pero el frío la ayudaría a permanecer despierta un rato más. Si _ella_ se hubiese dado a la fuga acusada de asesinato, a esas alturas estaría ya a medio camino de Georgia. Esos dos no; se dirigían hacia el pueblo, sin duda con malas intenciones, como era su costumbre. Van quería saber de qué se trataba, y tal vez impedirlo.
La expiación por lo que le había hecho a Ree no quedaba descartada.
### 11
1
Fritz Meshaum no quería entregar su bazuca, al menos no de balde. Sin embargo, cuando May lo agarró firmemente por los hombros y Low le torció el brazo derecho casi hasta los omóplatos, cambió de idea y, abriendo la trampilla del suelo de su decrépita chabola, mostró el tesoro por el que los hermanos Griner estaban allí.
Little Low imaginaba que sería verde, como los de las películas de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, pero la bazuca de Fritz estaba pintado de un negro granulado; tenía a un lado un largo número de serie y, debajo, unos cuantos de esos raros caracteres rusos. Escamas de óxido orlaban la boca. A un lado del arma, un petate contenía una docena de obuses con más palabras en ruso. Había asimismo ocho o diez fusiles y al menos veinte armas cortas, la mayor parte semiautomáticas. Los hermanos se metieron un par bajo los cinturones. No había nada como una pistola al cinto para que un hombre considerara que tenía derecho de paso.
—¿Qué es eso? —preguntó May, señalando un resplandeciente recuadro negro de plástico por encima del guardamonte la bazuca.
—No lo sé —contestó Fritz, al tiempo que lo escrutaba—. Una etiqueta con fines administrativos, seguramente, el control de inventario o algo así.
—Tiene unas palabras en inglés —observó May.
Fritz se encogió de hombros.
—¿Y qué? Yo tengo una gorra de John Deere con gilipolleces en chino en la etiqueta. Todo el mundo le vende de todo a cualquiera. Gracias a los judíos, así funciona el mundo. Los judíos, esos...
—Déjate de putos judíos —lo interrumpió Little Low. Si permitía que Fritz se enrollara con los judíos, no tardaría en saltar al gobierno federal, y se quedarían atrapados en aquel agujero de mierda en el suelo el resto de la primavera—. Lo único que me interesa es saber si esto funciona. Si no, dímelo ya, no sea que volvamos y te arranquemos los huevos.
—Me parece que deberíamos arrancarle los huevos de todos modos, Low —propuso May—. Es mi opinión. Seguro que los tiene pequeños.
—Funciona, funciona —aseguró Fritz, cabía suponer que refiriéndose al bazuca más que a sus huevos—. Ahora soltadme, morralla.
—Vaya un bocas está hecho, ¿no te parece, hermano? —comentó Maynard.
—Sí —contestó Little Low—. Pues sí. Pero por esta vez se lo perdonaremos. Coge un par de esas pistolas lubricantes.
—Eso no son pistolas lubricantes —saltó Fritz, indignado—. Son armas totalmente automáticas del ejército...
—Estaría bien que te callaras —lo interrumpió Low—, y si eso es lo que me parece bien a mí, debería parecértelo a ti. Ahora nos vamos, pero si este bazuca tuyo no funciona, volveremos y te lo meteremos hasta el guardamonte por ese culo colgante que tienes.
—¡Eso, lo que acabas de oír! —exclamó May—. ¡Y procura cagar después de una carga como esa!
—¿Qué vais a hacer con mi bazuca?
Little Low Griner esbozó una sonrisa amable.
—Cállate ya —dijo—, y no te preocupes por lo que no es asunto tuyo.
2
Desde lo alto de un monte, a unos quinientos metros de distancia, Van Lampley observó la Silverado entrar en el sórdido patio de la chabola de Fritz Meshaum. Observó a los Griner apearse y volver a la furgoneta robada unos minutos después con algo a cuestas —sin duda más bienes robados—, que dejaron en la plataforma de la furgoneta. A continuación se pusieron otra vez en marcha, nuevamente en dirección a Dooling. Se planteó parar en casa de Meshaum cuando ellos se fueran, pero en su estado actual se sentía incapaz de hacer preguntas coherentes. Además, ¿realmente era necesario? En Dooling todos sabían que Fritz Meshaum era un entusiasta de todo aquello que tuviera gatillo y disparara. Los hermanos Griner habían pasado por allí para armarse. Claro como el agua.
Bueno, también ella tenía un arma, su fiable 30-06. Nada del otro mundo en comparación con lo que transportaba la plataforma de la furgoneta robada, pero ¿y qué? ¿De verdad tenía algo que perder que no hubiese previsto ya, hacía apenas una hora, entregar al universo?
—¿Queréis jugar conmigo, chicos? —dijo Van al tiempo que giraba la llave del todoterreno y revolucionaba el motor (un error, ya que no se había molestado en comprobar cuánta gasolina quedaba en el depósito del Suzuki antes de salir)—. Pues bien, veamos quién juega con quién.
3
Los Griner habían escuchado el escáner solo a ratos durante los días que pasaban en la cabaña, pero permanecieron atentos a él durante todo el viaje hasta el pueblo, porque la frecuencia de la policía había enloquecido. Las transmisiones y las comunicaciones cruzadas tenían poco sentido para Maynard, cuyo cerebro rara vez engranaba más allá de la primera marcha, pero Lowell sí captó el significado general.
Alguien —un grupo, en realidad— se había llevado un montón de armas del arsenal de la oficina de sheriff, y los polis estaban tan enloquecidos como si alguien hubiera alborotado un avispero. Al menos dos de los ladrones de armas habían resultado muertos, también un poli, y el resto de la banda había huido en una autocaravana enorme. Habían llevado las armas robadas a la cárcel de mujeres. La pasma hablaba también de una mujer a la que quería sacar del hotel del Estado, y aparentemente los ladrones de armas querían retenerla. Esa parte Low no la entendía. Tampoco le importaba mucho. Lo que sí le interesaba era el hecho de que la pasma hubiera organizado una partida y se preparara para una gran batalla, que tal vez comenzara a la mañana siguiente, y planeara reunirse en el cruce de la Estatal 31 con West Lavin Road. Eso implicaba que la oficina del sheriff quedaría desprotegida. Además, permitió a Lowell concebir una idea brillante para cargarse a Kitty McDavid.
—¿Low?
—¿Sí, hermano?
—En medio de todo ese palabrerío, no soy capaz de saber quién está al frente. Unos dicen que el ayudante Coombs ha sucedido a la zorra de Norcross, y otros que ha sido un tal Frank. ¿Quién es Frank?
—Ni lo sé ni me importa —contestó Little Low—. Pero cuando entremos en el pueblo, estate atento por si ves a un chico solo.
—¿Qué chico, hermano?
—Uno con edad suficiente para ir en bicicleta y transmitir un mensaje —explicó Low justo cuando la Silverado robada pasaba por delante del cartel donde se leía: BIENVENIDO A DOOLING, UN SITIO AGRADABLE DONDE FUNDAR UNA FAMILIA.
4
El todoterreno Suzuki alcanzaba los noventa kilómetros por hora en carretera, pero Van, con la noche ya encima y los reflejos mermados, no se atrevía a superar los sesenta. Para cuando pasó por delante del cartel de BIENVENIDO A DOOLING, la Silverado en la que los hermanos Griner viajaban había desaparecido. Tal vez los hubiera perdido, pero tal vez no. Main Street estaba casi vacía, y esperaba ver la furgoneta allí, o bien aparcada o bien circulando lentamente mientras esos dos chicos malos buscaban algo de lo que mereciera la pena apropiarse. Si no la veía, lo mejor que podía hacer, supuso, era presentarse en la oficina del sheriff y denunciar el hecho a quienquiera que estuviese de guardia. Eso sería en cierto modo decepcionante para una mujer que albergaba la esperanza de hacer algo para compensar una muerte por la que aún se sentía fatal, pero, como decía su padre, aunque a veces consigues lo que quieres, en general consigues lo que consigues.
El centro del pueblo propiamente dicho empezaba donde estaban, a un lado, la peluquería y salón de manicura Barb's, y al otro lado, la ferretería Ace (visitada recientemente por Johnny Lee Kronsky en busca de herramientas, cable y pilas). Fue entre esos dos excelentes establecimientos donde el todoterreno de Vanessa dio dos sacudidas, petardeó y murió. Echó un vistazo al indicador del combustible y vio que la aguja estaba abajo del todo. ¿No era el final perfecto para un día de mierda perfecto?
Una manzana más allá había un Zoney donde podía comprar unos cuantos litros de gasolina, en el supuesto de que alguien se hubiese quedado al frente del local. Pero oscurecía, esos malditos Griner podían estar en cualquier parte y, en su actual estado, recorrer a pie aunque fuera solo una manzana se le antojaba toda una caminata. Quizá fuese mejor seguir con su plan y acabar con todo, como tenía previsto antes... solo que no había llegado a ser campeona de pulsos a nivel estatal por rendirse a la mínima que se complicaban las cosas, ¿no? ¿Y no era eso lo que estaba planteándose? ¿Rendirse?
—No hasta que mi puta mano toque la puta mesa —dijo Van a su todoterreno varado, y se encaminó con paso cansino por la acera vacía hacia la oficina del sheriff.
5
El establecimiento situado justo enfrente de la oficina del sheriff era la Aseguradora Drew T. Barry, cuyo propietario se hallaba en esos momentos en West Lavin Road con el resto de la partida. Low aparcó la Silverado detrás, en una plaza señalada con el rótulo RESERVADO PARA EL PERSONAL DE BARRY, SE AVISARÁ A LA GRÚA PARA CUALQUIER OTRO VEHÍCULO. La puerta trasera estaba cerrada, pero eso May lo resolvió con un par de embestidas de su fornido hombro. Low entró después de él; llevaba a rastras al chico que habían encontrado en bicicleta delante de la bolera. El chico en cuestión era casualmente Kent Daley, miembro del equipo de tenis del instituto y buen amigo de Eric Blass. La bicicleta de Kent se hallaba en la plataforma de la Silverado. Kent gimoteaba, pese a no tener ya edad para un comportamiento así; en opinión de Low, ese gimoteo era aceptable en una adolescente, pero los chicos debían empezar a dejarlo a los diez años y haberlo abandonado del todo a eso de los doce. No obstante, estaba dispuesto a tolerárselo. Al fin y al cabo, seguramente pensaba que iban a violarlo y asesinarlo.
—Será mejor que te calles, chaval —dijo—. Si te comportas, no te pasará nada.
Hizo entrar por la fuerza a Kent en la amplia sala delantera, llena de escritorios y pósteres que explicaban cuál era la póliza de seguros adecuada para salvar a tu familia de una vida de miseria. En el escaparate, que daba a la zona comercial vacía, se veía el nombre de Drew T. Barry escrito del revés en elegantes letras de purpurina dorada. Mientras Low miraba hacia la calle, vio a una mujer que se acercaba lentamente por la acera opuesta. No muy guapa, robusta, corte de pelo de bollera, pero ese día ver a cualquier mujer era poco común. Ella lanzó una ojeada al local de Barry, pero como las luces estaban apagadas no vio nada más que el reflejo de las farolas, que acababan de encenderse. Subió por la escalinata de la oficina del sheriff y probó a abrir la puerta. Cerrada con llave. Muy propio de un departamento de policía de pueblo, pensó Low. Echar la llave una vez robadas las armas. A continuación la mujer llamó al interfono.
—¿Señor? —lloriqueó Kent—. Quiero irme a casa. Quédese mi bici, si quiere.
—Nos quedaremos lo que nos dé la gana, niñato pueblerino —contestó May.
Low le retorció la muñeca al chico, y este aulló de dolor.
—¿Qué parte de «cállate» no has entendido? Hermano, ve a buscar al Señor Bazuca. Y los obuses.
May salió. Low se volvió hacia el chico.
—Según el carnet que llevas en la cartera, te llamas Kent Daley y vives en el número quince de Juniper Street. ¿Es así?
—Sí, señor —contestó el chico, y con la base de la mano se arrastró los mocos de la nariz hacia la mejilla—. Kent Daley, y no busco problemas. Quiero ir a casa.
—Estás metido en un buen lío, Kent. Mi hermano es un enfermo de cuidado. Nada le gusta más que hacer picadillo a un ser humano. ¿Qué crees tú que has hecho para tener tan mala suerte?
Kent se pasó la lengua por los labios y lo miró con un rápido parpadeo. Abrió la boca y la cerró.
—Has hecho algo, eso seguro. —Low soltó una carcajada; la culpabilidad daba risa—. ¿Quién hay en tu casa?
—Mis padres. Solo que mi madre, ya sabe...
—Echándose un sueñecito, ¿eh? ¿O un sueñote?
—Sí, señor.
—Pero ¿tu padre está bien?
—Sí, señor.
—¿Te gustaría que fuera al número quince de Juniper Street y le volara los putos sesos a tu padre?
—No, señor —contestó Kent en un susurro. Las lágrimas le resbalaron por las pálidas mejillas.
—No, claro que no, pero lo haré, a no ser que tú hagas exactamente lo que voy a decirte. ¿Lo harás?
—Sí, señor. —Esta vez no fue siquiera un susurro, sino solo un aliento a través de sus labios.
—¿Cuántos años tienes, Kent?
—D-D-Diecisiete.
—Por Dios, casi tienes edad para votar y lloriqueas como un bebé. Basta.
Kent hizo lo posible.
—Con esa bici vas muy rápido, ¿verdad?
—Eso creo. Gané la cuarenta-k de la zona de los Tres Condados el año pasado.
Little Low no tenía ni la más remota idea de lo que era una cuarenta-k, ni le importaba.
—¿Sabes el cruce de la Estatal 31 con West Lavin Road? ¿La carretera que va a la cárcel?
Maynard había regresado con la bazuca y la caja de obuses. En la acera de enfrente, la mujer robusta había desistido de seguir llamando al interfono y volvía sobre sus pasos con la cabeza gacha. Por fin había cesado la llovizna.
Low dio una sacudida a Kent, que contemplaba la bazuca con horror y fascinación.
—Conoces esa carretera, ¿verdad?
—Sí, señor.
—Bien. Hay unos cuantos hombres allí, y voy a darte un mensaje para ellos. Se lo comunicarás al que se llama Terry o al que se llama Frank, o a los dos. Ahora atiende.
6
En ese momento Terry y Frank salían de la Unidad Cuatro y se acercaban a la doble verja del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, donde los esperaban Clint y otro hombre. Diez miembros de la partida permanecían en el cruce; los demás habían ocupado posiciones en torno a la cárcel en lo que Terry llamaba «Rosa de los Vientos»: norte, nordeste, este, sudeste, sur, sudoeste, oeste y noroeste. Había bosque, y estaba húmedo, pero a ninguno de los hombres, embriagados de excitación, pareció importarle.
Y así seguirán hasta que el primero reciba un balazo y empiece a gritar, pensó Terry.
Una furgoneta tuneada obstruía el paso tras la verja interior. Habían llenado el espacio intermedio de neumáticos. Empapados en gasolina, a juzgar por el olor. No era mala táctica. Terry la admiró. Enfocó con la linterna primero a Norcross y luego al hombre barbudo que lo acompañaba.
—Willy Burke —dijo Terry—. Lamento verlo aquí.
—Y yo lamento verlo a usted —respondió Willy—. Haciendo lo que no debería estar haciendo. O sea, abusar de su autoridad. Jugar a los escuadrones de justicieros. —Se sacó la pipa del bolsillo del peto y empezó a cebarla.
Terry nunca había sabido bien si Norcross, en situaciones formales, recibía tratamiento de doctor o solo de señor, así que se decidió por seguir tuteándolo y llamarlo por su nombre, como había hecho siempre.
—Clint, esto casi ha llegado a un punto en que no es posible el dialogo. Uno de mis ayudantes ha resultado muerto. Vern Rangle. Creo que lo conocías.
Clint dejó escapar un suspiro y meneó la cabeza.
—Lo conocía, y lo siento. Era buen hombre. Espero que tú lo sientas por Garth Flickinger y Gerda Holden tanto como yo por él.
—La muerte de esa niña, la Holden, ha sido en defensa propia —contestó Frank—. Estaba desgarrándole la garganta al ayudante Rangle.
—Quiero hablar con Barry Holden —dijo Clint.
—Ha muerto —respondió Frank—. Y la culpa la tienes tú.
Terry se volvió hacia Frank.
—Déjamelo a mí.
Frank levantó las manos y dio un paso atrás. Sabía que Coombs tenía razón —ahí asomaba su mal genio, sacando lo peor que había en él—, pero lo detestó igualmente por ello. Lo que deseaba era trepar a lo alto de esa verja, indiferente a las concertinas, y entrechocar las cabezas de aquellos dos hijos de puta tan engreídos. La voz jactanciosa de Evie Black aún resonaba en su cabeza.
—Clint, escúchame —dijo Terry—. Estoy dispuesto a aceptar que las dos partes son culpables y a garantizaros que no se presentarán cargos contra ninguno de los presentes si me permites tomar bajo custodia a la mujer ahora.
—¿De verdad ha muerto Barry? —preguntó Clint.
—Sí —contestó el jefe en funciones—. También él ha agredido a Vern.
Willy Burke alargó el brazo y agarró a Clint por el hombro.
—Hablemos de Evie —dijo Clint—. ¿Qué os proponéis hacer con ella exactamente? ¿Qué _podéis_ hacer?
Al parecer, Terry no sabía qué contestar, pero Frank, ya preparado, habló con aplomo.
—Vamos a llevarla a la oficina del sheriff. Mientras Terry la interroga, voy a traer a un equipo de médicos del hospital del estado a toda prisa. Entre los policías y los médicos, averiguaremos qué es, qué ha hecho a las mujeres y si puede arreglarlo o no.
—Esa mujer sostiene que no ha hecho nada —respondió Clint con la mirada fija a lo lejos—. Sostiene que es solo una emisaria.
Frank se volvió hacia Terry.
—¿Sabes qué te digo? Este tío es un embustero de mierda.
Terry le lanzó una mirada de reproche (aunque con los ojos un poco enrojecidos); Frank volvió a levantar las manos y retrocedió un paso.
—Ahí dentro no hay un solo médico —dijo Terry—, y no tienes ningún auxiliar sanitario a quien llamar, porque, creo recordar, las dos son mujeres y a estas alturas estarán ya envueltas en capullos. En resumidas cuentas, no estás examinándola; solo estás _reteniéndola_.
—Guardándosela —bramó Frank.
—... y escuchando lo que te dice.
—¡ _Tragándoselo_ , querrás decir! —vociferó Frank.
—Calma, Frank. —Terry habló sin levantar la voz, pero cuando se volvió hacia Clint y Willy, tenía las mejillas encendidas—. Pero lo que él dice es verdad. Te lo estás tragando. Tragándote la píldora, por así decirlo.
—Tú no lo entiendes —dijo Clint. Se lo notaba cansado—. No es siquiera una mujer, al menos no en el sentido habitual de la palabra. Creo que no es del todo humana. Posee ciertas facultades. Es capaz de llamar a las ratas, eso me consta. Las ratas la obedecen. Así consiguió el móvil de Hicks. Por otro lado, todas esas mariposas que la gente ha estado viendo por el pueblo tienen algo que ver con ella, y sabe cosas. Cosas que en principio no tendría por qué saber.
—¿Estás diciendo que es una bruja? —preguntó Terry. Sacó la petaca y tomó un sorbo. Probablemente no era la mejor manera de negociar, pero necesitaba algo, y de inmediato—. Vamos, Clint. Ya solo falta que me digas que puede andar por encima del agua.
Frank se acordó del remolino de fuego que se había formado en el aire de su salón y que después, con un estallido, se convirtió en una nube de mariposas; y de la llamada de teléfono, de Evie Black diciéndole que lo había visto proteger a Nana. Tensó los brazos ante el pecho, conteniendo su ira por la fuerza. ¿Qué más daba lo que Eve Black fuera? Lo importante era lo que había ocurrido, __ lo que _estaba_ ocurriendo y cómo arreglarlo.
—Abra los ojos, hijo —intervino Willy—. Fíjese en lo que ha pasado en el mundo en la última semana. Todas las mujeres dormidas y envueltas en capullos, ¿y usted sigue erre que erre con la idea de que esa Black puede ser algo sobrenatural? Tienen que esforzarse un poco más. Conviene que no metan más los dedos donde no deben y que dejen que la situación siga su curso tal como esa mujer quiere, según dice el doctor.
Como a Terry no se le ocurrió ninguna respuesta apropiada, echó otro trago. Vio la forma en que Clint lo miraba y tomó un tercero, por puro rencor contra aquel cabrón. ¿Quién era él para juzgarlo, escondido tras los muros de la cárcel mientras él intentaba evitar que el resto del mundo se viniera abajo?
—Esa mujer solo ha pedido unos días más —dijo Clint—. Y eso es lo que quiero que le concedas. —Fijó los ojos en los de Terry—. Ella prevé derramamiento de sangre, eso lo ha dejado claro. Porque cree que los hombres solo saben resolver sus problemas así. No confirmemos sus previsiones. Deponed vuestra actitud. Dejemos pasar setenta y dos horas. Pasado ese plazo revisaremos la situación.
—¿En serio? ¿Y qué crees que va a cambiar? —El alcohol no se había adueñado aún de la mente de Terry, de momento estaba solo de visita, y pensó, casi suplicó: Dame una respuesta a la que pueda dar crédito.
Pero Clint negó con la cabeza.
—No lo sé. Según esa mujer, la situación no depende totalmente de ella. Pero setenta y dos horas sin tiroteos serían el primer paso en la buena dirección, de eso estoy seguro. Ah, y dice que las mujeres tienen que votar.
Terry casi soltó una carcajada.
—¿Cómo coño van a votar si están dormidas?
—No lo sé —contestó Clint.
Pretende ganar tiempo, pensó Frank. No hace más que ensartar una tras otra toda invención que acude a su cerebro de __ loquero. Seguramente aún estás bastante sobrio para darte cuenta, ¿no, Terry?
—Necesito pensarlo —respondió Terry.
—Muy bien, pero necesitas pensarlo con claridad, así que hazte un favor y vacía el resto de esa petaca en el suelo. —Posó los ojos en Frank, y eran los ojos de expresión fría del huérfano que había peleado por un batido—. Frank piensa que él es la solución, pero a mí me parece que es el problema. Creo que ella sabía que habría un hombre como él. Creo que sabe que siempre lo hay.
Frank saltó al frente, atravesó la verja con los brazos, agarró a Norcross por el cuello, y se lo apretó hasta que los globos oculares primero sobresalieron y luego le quedaron colgando sobre las mejillas... pero solo en su imaginación. Esperó.
Terry reflexionó y luego escupió en la tierra.
—Vete a la mierda, Clint. Tú no eres un médico de verdad.
Y cuando levantó la petaca y echó otro trago largo y desafiante, Frank prorrumpió en vítores en su interior. A la mañana siguiente el sheriff en funciones Coombs estaría como una cuba. Entonces él, Frank, asumiría el control. No habría setenta y dos horas, y le traía sin cuidado si Eve Black era bruja, princesa de cuento de hadas o la Reina Roja del País de las Maravillas. Lo único que necesitaba saber sobre Eve Black estaba en esa breve llamada telefónica.
«Ponga fin a esto —había dicho, casi rogado, él cuando lo telefoneó con el móvil robado—. Libere a las mujeres.»
«Primero tendrá que matarme», había contestado la mujer.
Y eso era lo que Frank se proponía hacer. ¿Y si así conseguía que las mujeres volvieran? Final feliz. ¿Y si no? Sería la venganza por haberle arrebatado a la única persona que le importaba en esa vida. ¿En cualquier caso? Problema resuelto.
7
Justo cuando Van Lampley llegaba al todoterreno inmovilizado —sin saber qué hacer a continuación—, un chico pasó a toda velocidad con una bicicleta de manillar alto. Corría tanto que el cabello negro se le apartaba de la frente, y tenía los ojos desorbitados en una expresión de puro terror. Eso podía haberlo provocado una docena de situaciones, tal como estaba el mundo en esos momentos, pero Van supo con total seguridad qué era lo que había metido el miedo en el cuerpo al chico. No era una intuición; era una certidumbre sólida como una roca.
—¡Chico! —llamó ella—. Chico, ¿dónde están?
Kent Daley, sin hacerle caso, pedaleó aún más deprisa. Pensaba en la vieja sintecho con la que habían hecho el burro. No deberían haberlo hecho. Eso era obra de Dios, que había decidido hacérselo pagar. Hacérselo pagar a _él_. Pedaleó aún más deprisa.
8
Aunque Maynard Griner había abandonado los pasillos del mundo académico a los catorce años (y esos pasillos lo habían visto marcharse con verdadera satisfacción), se le daba bien la mecánica; cuando su hermano menor le entregó la bazuca y uno de los obuses, May los manipuló como si llevara toda la vida haciéndolo. Examinó la punta altamente explosiva del obús, el alambre que descendía a un lado y las aletas de la base. Gruñó, asintió y alineó las aletas con los surcos del alma del tubo. El obús se deslizó como si nada. May señaló una palanca situada por encima del gatillo y por debajo de la etiqueta de plástico negra de control de inventario.
—Tira de eso hacia atrás. Debería trabarlo.
Low obedeció, y oyó un chasquido.
—¿Así está bien, May?
—Debería estarlo, siempre y cuando Fritz haya puesto una pila nueva. Creo que es una carga eléctrica lo que dispara el proyectil.
—Si no la ha puesto, vuelvo y se lo meto por el culo —dijo Low. Le centelleaban los ojos cuando se colocó de cara al cristal laminado del escaparate de Drew T. Barry y se apoyó la bazuca en el hombro al mejor estilo de película bélica—. ¡Apártate, hermano!
Como se vio, la pila instalada en el guardamonte estaba en condiciones. Se produjo un zumbido hueco. Gases de escape salieron del tubo. El escaparate salió despedido hacia la calle, y ninguno de los dos había tenido tiempo siquiera de tomar aire cuando la fachada de la oficina del sheriff estalló. En la calle llovieron pedazos de ladrillo de color arena y esquirlas de cristal.
— _¡YuuuJUUUUUU!_ —May dio una palmada a su hermano en la espalda—. _¿Has visto eso, hermano?_
—Sí —contestó Low. Una alarma bramaba en algún lugar en el fondo de la oficina herida. Unos hombres se acercaron corriendo a mirar. La fachada del edificio se había convertido en una boca abierta llena de dientes rotos. Dentro veían llamas, y papeles que revoloteaban como pájaros chamuscados—. Vuelve a cargar.
May alineó las aletas de un segundo obús y lo encajó bien.
—¡Listo!
May daba brincos de entusiasmo. Eso era más divertido que cuando habían echado un paquete de dinamita al estanque de las truchas en Tupelo Crossing.
—¡A cubierto! —exclamó Low, y apretó el gatillo de la bazuca.
El obús atravesó la calle con una estela de humo. Los hombres que habían salido a mirar lo vieron, y se dieron media vuelta o se echaron cuerpo a tierra. La segunda explosión reventó el centro del edificio. Linny, envuelta en su capullo, había sobrevivido al primer estallido, pero no a ese segundo. Donde ella estaba apareció una nube de mariposas, que se prendieron con el fuego.
—¡Déjame probar! —May alargó las manos para coger la bazuca.
—No, ahora tenemos que salir de aquí —contestó Low—. Pero ya tendrás tu ocasión, hermano. Te lo prometo.
—¿Cuándo? ¿Dónde?
—En la cárcel.
9
Van Lampley, atónita, se quedó inmóvil junto al todoterreno. Había visto la primera estela cruzar Main Street, y supo lo que era incluso antes de la detonación. Los hermanos Griner, los muy hijos de puta, habían conseguido un lanzagranadas o algo por el estilo en casa de Fritz Meshaum. Cuando empezó a disiparse el humo de la segunda explosión, vio que asomaban llamas por los boquetes que antes eran ventanas. Una de las hojas de la puerta triple estaba caída en la calle, retorcida como un sacacorchos de acero cromado. Las otras no se veían por ningún lado.
Pobre de aquel que estuviera ahí dentro, pensó.
Red Platt, uno de los vendedores del concesionario de Kia en Dooling, se acercó a ella a trompicones y tambaleante. La sangre le corría por el lado derecho de la cara y el labio inferior no parecía ya del todo prendido, aunque, en medio de semejante hemorragia, era difícil saberlo.
—¿Qué ha sido eso? —gritó Red con la voz quebrada. Esquirlas de cristal destellaban entre su cabello ralo—. ¿Qué coño ha sido _eso_?
—La obra de dos capullos de cuidado que necesitan que les metan un palo de escoba por el culo antes de que hagan daño a alguien más —contestó Van—. Tiene que ir a que lo cosan, Red.
Se dirigió hacia la gasolinera de Shell, sintiéndose ella misma por primera vez desde hacía días. Sabía que no duraría, pero mientras durase, se proponía aprovechar la adrenalina. La gasolinera estaba abierta, pero no atendía nadie. Van encontró un bidón de cuarenta litros en el garaje, lo llenó en uno de los surtidores y dejó veinte dólares en el mostrador junto a la caja registradora. Quizá el mundo estuviera acabándose, pero a ella la habían enseñado a pagar sus facturas.
Acarreó el bidón hasta el todoterreno, llenó el depósito y salió del pueblo en la misma dirección que los hermanos Griner habían tomado.
10
Kent Daley estaba teniendo una muy mala noche, y aún no eran ni las ocho. Nada más desviarse por la Estatal 31 y acelerar en dirección a los autobuses que bloqueaban West Lavin Road, salió volando de la bici a causa de una cuerda atravesada de lado o lado y cayó al suelo. Se golpeó la cabeza con el asfalto y ante sus ojos destellaron unas luces intensas. Cuando estas desaparecieron, vio la boca de un fusil a ocho centímetros de su cara.
— _¡Mierda!_ —exclamó Reed Barrows, el ayudante que había derribado a Kent. Reed se hallaba apostado en la punta sudoeste de la Rosa de los Vientos de Terry. Bajó el arma y, agarrando a Kent por la pechera de la camiseta, lo levantó de un tirón—. Yo a ti te conozco, eres el que andaba metiendo petardos en los buzones el año pasado.
Otros hombres corrían hacia ellos desde el nuevo control de carretera mejorado, Frank Geary a la cabeza. Terry Coombs, en retaguardia, hacía discretas eses. Sabían lo que había ocurrido en el pueblo; habían recibido ya una docena de llamadas en una docena de teléfonos móviles, y desde aquella elevación veían claramente el incendio en el centro de Dooling. En su mayoría, querían volver a toda prisa, pero Terry, temiéndose que pudiera tratarse de una maniobra de distracción para sacar a la mujer de la cárcel, les ordenó que permanecieran en sus puestos.
—¿Qué haces aquí, Daley? —preguntó Reed—. Podrías haber recibido un tiro.
—Traigo un mensaje —dijo Kent frotándose la nuca. No le sangraba, pero empezaba a formarse un considerable chichón—. Es para Terry o Frank, o para los dos.
—¿Qué coño está pasando? —preguntó Don Peters. En algún momento se había puesto un casco de fútbol. Sus ojos, muy juntos, a la sombra de la visera, parecían los de un pájaro pequeño y voraz—. ¿Y este quién es?
Frank apartó a Don de un empujón e hincó una rodilla en el suelo junto al chico.
—Yo soy Frank —se presentó—. ¿Cuál es el mensaje?
Terry se arrodilló también. El aliento le olía a alcohol.
—Vamos, hijo. Respira hondo... respira hondo... y tranquilízate.
Kent hurgó entre sus pensamientos dispersos.
—Esa mujer de la cárcel, la especial, tiene amigos en el pueblo. Muchos. Dos de ellos me han agarrado. Me han encargado que les diga que interrumpan lo que están haciendo y se marchen o la oficina del sheriff será solo lo primero que vuele.
Frank ensanchó los labios en una sonrisa que no se reflejó ni remotamente en sus ojos. Se volvió hacia Terry.
—¿Y tú qué piensas, sheriff? ¿Vamos a ser buenos chicos y marcharnos?
Little Low no era precisamente un superdotado, pero poseía un grado de astucia que había mantenido las actividades de los Griner a flote durante casi seis años, hasta que su hermano y él por fin cayeron. (Low culpaba de ello a su generosidad natural; habían consentido que los rondara la puta de McDavid, que no podía decirse que fuera un diez, y ella se lo había devuelto convirtiéndose en soplona.) Tenía una comprensión instintiva de la psicología humana en general y de la masculina en particular. Cuando uno decía a un hombre lo que no debía hacer, eso era lo que hacía.
Terry no vaciló.
—No nos vamos. Entraremos al amanecer. Por mí que vuelen el pueblo entero, maldita sea.
Los hombres que se habían reunido prorrumpieron en vítores tan roncos y tan desenfrenados que Kent Daley se encogió. Lo que deseaba más que nada en el mundo era llevarse a casa su dolorida cabeza, cerrar bien todas las puertas y echarse a dormir.
11
De momento persistía la adrenalina; Van aporreó la puerta de la chabola de Fritz Meshaum con fuerza suficiente para que temblara en el marco. Una mano de dedos largos que parecía tener demasiados nudillos apartó una cortina mugrienta. Se asomó una cara sin afeitar. Al cabo de un momento la puerta se abrió. Fritz abrió la boca, pero Van lo agarró y empezó a sacudirlo como un terrier a una rata, sin darle tiempo a pronunciar una sola palabra.
—¿Qué les has vendido, pedazo de mierda seca? ¿Era un lanzagranadas? Era eso, ¿verdad? ¿Cuánto te han pagado esos tarados por poder hacer un agujero en medio del pueblo?
Para entonces Van arrastraba ya a Fritz por el desordenado salón. Él la golpeaba débilmente en un hombro con la mano izquierda; el otro brazo lo llevaba en un cabestrillo improvisado hecho aparentemente con un jirón de sábana.
—¡Para! —exclamó Fritz—. ¡Para, tía! ¡Ya me ha dislocado el brazo uno de esos dos cretinos!
Van, de un empujón, lo obligó a sentarse en un sillón mugriento junto al que se alzaba una pila de revistas porno viejas.
—Habla.
—No era un lanzagranadas, era una bazuca ruso antiguo. Podría haberlo vendido por seis o siete mil dólares en uno de esos mercadillos de armas que se organizan en los aparcamientos de Wheeling, y esos dos cabrones me lo han _robado_.
—Claro, ¿qué ibas a decir tú, si no? —Van jadeaba.
—Es la verdad. —Fritz, mirándola más detenidamente, la recorrió con los ojos desde la cara redonda hasta los grandes pechos y las anchas caderas, y luego otra vez hacia arriba—. Eres la primera mujer que veo desde hace dos días. ¿Cuánto tiempo llevas despierta?
—Desde el jueves por la mañana.
—La Virgen, eso debe de ser un récord.
—Ni de lejos. —Van lo había consultado en Google—. Dejémoslo. Ese par acaba de volar la oficina del sheriff.
—He oído una explosión del carajo —admitió Fritz—. Deduzco que la bazuca funciona bastante bien.
—Ha funcionado de maravilla, eso desde luego —contestó Van—. ¿No sabrás por casualidad adónde iban después?
—No, ni idea. —Fritz esbozó una sonrisa, dejando a la vista unos dientes que no habían pasado por las manos de un dentista en mucho tiempo, si es que habían pasado alguna vez—. Pero podría averiguarlo.
—¿Cómo?
—Esos imbéciles lo tenían delante de los ojos, y cuando les he dicho que era una etiqueta de control de inventario, ¡se lo han _tragado_! —Su risa sonó como la fricción de una lima en una bisagra oxidada.
—¿De qué me hablas?
—Del localizador GPS. Los pongo en mis piezas de gama alta, por si me las roban. Como ha sido el caso con ese bazuca. Puedo seguirle el rastro con el móvil.
—Que vas a darme a mí —dijo Van, y tendió la mano.
Fritz la miró, sus ojos de un azul ladino y acuoso bajo los párpados arrugados.
—Si recuperas mi bazuca, ¿me lo devolverás antes de dormirte?
—No —respondió Van—, pero no te romperé el otro brazo para que haga juego con el que te han dislocado. ¿Qué te parece eso?
El hombrecillo ahogó una risita.
—Vale —dijo—, pero solo porque siento debilidad por las mujeres anchas.
Si Van hubiese sido más la de siempre, tal vez lo habría molido a palos por un comentario como ese —no sería difícil y representaría un servicio público—, pero en su estado de agotamiento, apenas contempló la posibilidad.
—Venga, pues.
Fritz se levantó del sofá con esfuerzo.
—El teléfono está en la mesa de la cocina.
Van retrocedió sin dejar de apuntarlo con el rifle.
Él la guio por un pasillo corto y oscuro hasta la cocina. El hedor a ceniza era tal que Van sintió náuseas.
—¿Qué has estado cocinando?
—Candy —contestó Fritz. Se sentó bruscamente a una mesa con superficie de linóleo.
—¿Candy? ¿Caramelos? —Aquel olor no se parecía al de ningún caramelo que ella conociera. Vio esparcidos por el suelo jirones grises, como trozos de papel de periódico quemados.
—Candy es mi mujer —aclaró él—. Ya fallecida. Le he prendido fuego a esa vieja bocazas con una cerilla. Nunca me había dado cuenta de que tuviera tanta chispa. —Sus dientes negros y marrones quedaron al descubierto en una sonrisa feroz—. ¿Lo pillas? ¿Chispa?
Ya era inevitable. Cansada o no, Van iba a tener que hacer sufrir a ese miserable cabrón. Eso fue lo primero que pensó. Lo segundo fue que en la mesa de linóleo no había ningún móvil.
Se oyó la detonación de un arma, y el aire escapó de los pulmones de Van. Chocó con el frigorífico y cayó al suelo. La sangre le manó de una herida de bala en la cadera. Se le había escapado el rifle de las manos. Una voluta de humo se elevaba del borde de la mesa justo enfrente de ella. Entonces vio el cañón; la pistola que Meshaum había sujetado con cinta bajo la superficie de la mesa.
Fritz la desprendió, se levantó y rodeó la mesa.
—Toda precaución es poca. Tengo un arma cargada en cada habitación. —Se sentó en cuclillas junto a ella y apoyó el cañón de la pistola en su frente. El aliento le olía a tabaco y a carne—. Esta era de mi abuelo. ¿Qué te parece, vacaburra?
A ella no le pareció nada del otro mundo, ni falta que hacía. El brazo derecho de Van Lampley —el brazo que había derrotado a Hallie O'Meara alias la Desguazadora en el pulso por el título de 2010 de la División Femenina de Ohio Valley, categoría de edad 35-45, y que partió un ligamento del codo a Erin Makepeace en 2011 para repetir título— era como una trampa de resorte. Doblando la mano derecha, agarró la muñeca de Fritz Meshaum, se la estrujó con sus dedos de acero y le dio tal tirón que él se desplomó sobre ella. La pistola antigua se disparó, y la bala fue a dar al suelo entre el brazo y el costado de Van. La bilis le subió a la garganta cuando el peso de él le oprimió la herida, pero siguió retorciéndole la muñeca, y desde ese ángulo lo único que él pudo hacer fue volver a disparar contra el suelo antes de que el arma se le escurriera de la mano. Crujió algún hueso. Chasqueó algún ligamento. Fritz gritó. Mordió la mano a Van, pero ella se limitó a retorcerle la muñeca con más fuerza aún y empezó a asestarle puñetazos metódicamente en la parte de atrás de la cabeza con la mano izquierda, hincándole el diamante de su anillo de compromiso.
—¡Ya vale, ya vale! ¡Me rindo! ¡Me rindo, joder! ¡Basta! —gritó Fritz Meshaum—. ¡No más!
Pero Van no lo veía del mismo modo. Flexionó el bíceps y el tatuaje de la lápida —TU ORGULLO— se hinchó.
Siguió retorciéndole la muñeca con una mano y asestándole puñetazos con la otra.
### 12
1
La última noche en la cárcel, el cielo se despejó y un viento constante se llevó los nubarrones del día hacia el sur, dejando el cielo a las estrellas e invitando a los animales a asomar la cabeza, olfatear y conversar. Nada de setenta y dos horas. Nada de vacilaciones. Al día siguiente se produciría un cambio. Los animales lo presintieron, tal como presentían la inminencia de una tormenta.
2
Acurrucado junto a su compañero en el último asiento de uno de los autobuses escolares requisados para bloquear la Estatal 31, Eric Blass escuchaba los ronquidos de Don Peters. Cualquier vago remordimiento que hubiera albergado por quemar a la Vieja Essie se había disipado al declinar el día. Si nadie reparaba en su desaparición, ¿qué importancia tenía realmente esa mujer?
Rand Quigley, mucho más reflexivo de lo que creía la mayoría de la gente, estaba también acurrucado. Su lugar era una silla de plástico en la sala de visitas. En el regazo tenía, del revés, el coche de juguete para niños pequeños que antes estaba en la zona de la sala común destinada a las visitas en familia. Había sido fuente de decepción desde que Rand recordaba; los hijos de las reclusas se montaban en él y se impulsaban con los pies, pero sus deseos se frustraban porque no podían girar. El problema residía en un eje roto. Rand había ido a por un tubo de cola a su caja de herramientas y había pegado la parte rota, y en ese momento ataba los dos extremos con un cordel para que las piezas quedaran fijas. No escapaba al funcionario Quigley la posibilidad de que esas fuesen sus últimas horas. Lo reconfortaba realizar una tarea útil en el tiempo que pudiera quedarle.
En la loma boscosa situada por encima de la cárcel, Maynard Griner contemplaba las estrellas e imaginaba que les disparaba con la bazuca de Fritz. Si uno hiciera eso, ¿reventarían como bombillas? ¿Había alguien —quizá los científicos— abierto un agujero en el espacio? ¿Se planteaban los alienígenas de otros planetas disparar a las estrellas con bazucas o rayos de la muerte?
Lowell, recostado contra el tronco de un cedro, ordenó a su hermano, tendido cara arriba, que se limpiara la boca; la luz de las estrellas, emitida hacía millones de años, reverberaba en el hilo de baba de Maynard. Low estaba de malhumor. No le gustaba esperar, pero no les convenía usar la artillería hasta que la poli actuara. Se lo estaban comiendo los mosquitos y algún búho, más pesado que una hemorroide, llevaba ululando desde la puesta de sol. Un Valium le habría mejorado el ánimo notablemente. Incluso un poco de NiQuil lo habría ayudado. Si la tumba de Big Lowell hubiese estado cerca, Little Lowell no habría dudado en exhumar el cadáver putrefacto y despojarlo de aquella botella de Rebel Yell.
Abajo, el edificio en forma de T de la cárcel quedaba atrapado en el áspero resplandor de los focos de las torres de iluminación. El bosque delimitaba la hondonada donde se hallaba el recinto por tres lados. Al este había un terreno abierto, que se elevaba hasta la loma donde Low y May habían acampado. Aquel sitio era, pensó Low, un excelente campo de tiro. Nada se interpondría en la trayectoria de un obús de bazuca de gran potencia.
3
Había dos hombres agachados en el espacio entre el morro de la Fleetwood de Barry Holden y la puerta delantera de la cárcel.
—¿Quiere hacer los honores? —preguntó Tig a Clint.
Clint no tenía muy claro que se tratara de un honor, pero contestó afirmativamente y encendió la cerilla. La acercó al reguero de gasolina que previamente Tig y Rand habían preparado.
El reguero prendió, y las llamas zigzaguearon por el aparcamiento desde la puerta delantera y pasaron por debajo de la verja interior. En la zona de hierba que separaba esa verja de la otra, la exterior, las pilas de neumáticos rociados primero humearon y después empezaron a arder. Pronto la luz del fuego había disipado en gran medida la oscuridad del perímetro de la cárcel. Espirales de humo sucio se elevaron en el aire.
Clint y Tig volvieron a entrar.
4
En la sala de descanso para funcionarios, a oscuras, Michaela se valió de una linterna para revisar los cajones. Encontró una baraja de Bicycles y pidió a Jared que jugara a la Guerra con ella. Todos los demás, excepto las tres reclusas que quedaban despiertas, montaban guardia. Michaela necesitaba algo con lo que entretenerse. Rondaban las diez de la noche del lunes. La mañana del jueves anterior, se había levantado a las seis en punto y había salido a correr. Entonces se sentía con las pilas cargadas, se sentía a gusto.
—No puedo —contestó Jared.
—¿Cómo? —preguntó Michaela.
—Estoy agobiado —respondió él, y le dirigió una sonrisa—. Pensando en cosas que debería haber hecho y no hice. Y en que mis padres deberían haber dejado sus peleas para otro momento. También en cómo se durmió mi novia... en realidad no era mi novia, pero algo así... se quedó dormida mientras yo la abrazaba. —Repitió—: Agobiado.
Si Jared Norcross necesitaba mimos, Michaela no era la persona indicada. Desde el jueves el mundo estaba desquiciado, pero, en compañía de Garth Flickinger, Michaela había podido afrontarlo como una diversión, una juerga. No habría imaginado que lo echaría tanto de menos. Su buen humor de pleno colocón era lo único que había tenido sentido a partir del momento en que el mundo enloqueció.
—Yo también tengo miedo —dijo Michaela—. Estarías mal de la cabeza si no lo tuvieras.
—Yo solo... —Su voz se fue apagando de manera gradual.
Jared no lo entendía, lo que los demás en la cárcel contaban sobre la mujer, eso de que tenía _poderes_ , y de que Michaela, la hija periodista de la directora del centro, había recibido supuestamente un beso mágico de la presa especial que le había renovado la energía. No entendía qué se había adueñado de su padre. Lo único que entendía era que había empezado a morir gente.
Como Michaela había supuesto, Jared echaba de menos a su madre, pero no andaba buscando a una sustituta. Lila era irremplazable.
—Nosotros somos los buenos, ¿no? —preguntó Jared.
—No lo sé —reconoció Michaela—. Pero me consta que no somos los malos.
—Algo es algo —respondió Jared.
—Venga, juguemos a las cartas.
Jared se pasó una mano por encima de los ojos.
—Bueno, vale. Soy un hacha jugando a la Guerra. —Se acercó a la mesita de centro situada en medio de la sala de descanso.
—¿Te apetece una Coca-Cola o algo?
Jared asintió con la cabeza, pero ninguno de los dos tenía dinero suelto para la máquina. Fueron al despacho de la directora, vaciaron el enorme bolso de punto de Janice Coates y, en cuclillas, buscaron monedas entre los recibos, las notas y las barritas de cacao y el tabaco. Jared preguntó a Michaela por qué sonreía.
—Por el bolso de mi madre —contestó Michaela—. Es directora de una cárcel, y sin embargo va por ahí con esta... cómo llamarlo, esta monstruosidad de bolso hippy.
—Ah. —Jared dejó escapar una risa—. Pero ¿cómo se supone que ha de ser el bolso de la directora de una cárcel?
—Algo que se cierre con cadenas y esposas.
—¡A lo sado!
—No seas infantil, Jared.
Había monedas de sobra para dos Coca-Cola. Antes de volver a la sala de descanso, Michaela dio un beso al capullo que contenía a su madre.
El juego de la Guerra por lo general se alargaba eternamente, pero en la primera partida Michaela derrotó a Jared en menos de diez minutos.
—Mecachis. La Guerra es un horror —comentó él.
Jugaron otra vez y otra, y otra, sin apenas hablar, solo echando naipes en la oscuridad. Michaela siguió ganando.
5
Terry dormitaba en una silla plegable a unos metros por detrás del control de carretera. Soñaba con su mujer. Ella había abierto un restaurante. Servían platos vacíos. «Pero, Rita, esto no es nada», decía él, y le devolvía el plato. Rita se lo devolvía a su vez. Esta situación se prolongaba aparentemente durante años. El plato vacío circulaba de acá para allá. La frustración de Terry iba en aumento. Rita, sin hablar jamás, le sonreía como si tuviera un secreto. Frente a los ventanales del restaurante, las estaciones pasaban como fotografías en uno de aquellos visores antiguos: invierno, primavera, verano, otoño, invierno, primavera...
Abrió los ojos, y tenía delante a Bert Miller.
El primer pensamiento que acudió a su mente al despertar no guardó relación con el sueño, sino con esa noche unas horas antes, en el momento en que Clint Norcross, en la verja, lo había amonestado por la bebida, humillándolo delante de los otros dos. La irritación producida por el sueño se mezcló con la vergüenza, y Terry comprendió con toda claridad que él no era el hombre adecuado para el puesto de sheriff. Que lo ocupara Frank Geary si tanto lo deseaba. Y que Clint Norcross se las viera con Frank Geary si lo que quería era tratar con un hombre sobrio.
Se veían luces de acampada por todas partes. Hombres en corrillo, los fusiles colgados al hombro de las correas, se reían y fumaban, cenaban comida preparada que sacaban de bolsas de plástico arrugadas. Solo Dios sabía de dónde había salido. Unos cuantos tipos jugaban a los dados arrodillados en la calzada. Jack Albertson, provisto de un taladro, colocaba una placa de hierro en la ventana de uno de los buldóceres.
El concejal Bert Miller quería saber si disponían de un extintor.
—El entrenador Wittstock tiene asma, y el humo de los neumáticos incendiados de esos gilipollas llega hasta aquí.
—Claro —dijo Terry, y señaló un coche patrulla cercano—. En el maletero.
—Gracias, jefe. —El concejal se fue a buscar el extintor. Los hombres que jugaban a los dados prorrumpieron en vítores cuando alguien consiguió una buena jugada.
Terry, tambaleándose, se levantó de la silla plegable y se encaminó hacia los coches patrulla estacionados. Mientras avanzaba, se desabrochó el cinto del arma y lo dejó caer en la hierba. A la mierda este rollo, pensó. A la mierda, y punto.
En el bolsillo tenía las llaves de la Unidad Cuatro.
6
Desde el asiento del conductor de la furgoneta de Control Animal, Frank observó la muda dimisión del jefe en funciones.
_Eso es obra tuya, Frank_ , __ dijo Elaine junto a él. ¿Estás orgulloso?
—Es obra de él mismo —dijo Frank—. Yo no lo he atado ni le he puesto un embudo en la boca. Lo compadezco, porque no ha sido lo bastante hombre para el puesto, pero también lo envidio, porque lo abandona.
_Pero tú no_ , dijo Elaine.
—No —convino Frank—. Seguiré en esto hasta el final. Por Nana.
_Estás obsesionado con ella, Frank_. _Nana-Nana-Nana. Te has negado a oír lo que Norcross ha dicho porque no puedes pensar más que en ella. ¿No podrías esperar al menos un poco más?_
—No. —Porque los hombres se encontraban allí, y estaban motivados y prestos para la acción.
_¿Y si esa mujer te tiene agarrado por la nariz?_
Una gruesa mariposa nocturna se posó en las varillas del limpiaparabrisas de la furgoneta. Frank accionó la palanca para espantarla. Después arrancó el motor y se marchó, pero, a diferencia de Terry, se proponía regresar.
Primero paró en la casa de Smith Street para asegurarse de que Elaine y Nana permanecían a salvo en el sótano. Seguían tal como las había dejado, ocultas tras una estantería y cubiertas con sábanas. Dijo al cuerpo de Nana que la quería. Dijo al cuerpo de Elaine que lamentaba que, por lo visto, nunca pudieran ponerse de acuerdo. Además, era sincero, pese a que el hecho de que ella continuara reprendiéndolo, incluso sumida en su sueño antinatural, resultaba en extremo irritante.
Volvió a echar la llave a la puerta del sótano. En el camino de acceso, a la luz de los faros de la furgoneta, advirtió que se había formado un charco en el gran socavón que tenía previsto rellenar en breve. Sedimentos de colores verde, marrón, blanco y azul flotaban en el agua. Eran los restos del dibujo a tiza del árbol que Nana había hecho, borrado por la lluvia.
Cuando Frank llegó al centro de Dooling, el reloj del banco marcaba **00.04**. El martes había empezado.
Cuando pasó por el pequeño supermercado Zoney's, Frank se fijó en que alguien había destrozado los escaparates de cristal laminado.
La casa consistorial todavía humeaba. Le sorprendió que Norcross hubiese consentido que sus secuaces volaran el lugar de trabajo de su mujer. Pero al parecer los hombres habían cambiado, incluso los médicos como Norcross. Eran más como en otro tiempo, quizá.
En el parque, al otro lado de la calle, un hombre marcaba con un soplete, sin motivo aparente, el pantalón manchado de verdín de la estatua del primer alcalde, tocado con chistera. Saltaban chispas, que se reflejaban en la ranura tintada del casco de soldador del hombre. Más allá, otro hombre se colgaba de una farola a lo Gene Kelly en _Cantando bajo la lluvia_ , pero tenía la polla en la mano y meaba en la acera y entonaba a voz en cuello una puta canción de marinero: « _¡Muchachos, el capitán está en su camarote bebiendo cerveza y coñac! ¡Los marinos en el burdel, donde todas las furcias están a su disposición! ¡Arría, arría, todos arriamos, Joe!_ ».
El orden que antes existía, y que Frank y Terry habían intentado apuntalar durante esos últimos días caóticos, se venía abajo. Era, suponía, una especie de duelo brutal. Podía terminar o podía ir a más hasta degenerar en un cataclismo de alcance mundial. ¿Quién lo sabía?
_Es aquí donde deberías estar, Frank,_ dijo Elaine _._
—No —le contestó él.
Aparcó detrás de su oficina. Cada día reservaba media hora para pasar por allí. Daba de comer a los animales callejeros en las jaulas y dejaba un plato de pienso para su mascota especial, el perro de la oficina. Cada vez que iba se encontraba sucia la zona de retención, los animales inquietos, temblando y gimoteando y aullando, porque normalmente solo podía pasearlos una vez al día, a lo sumo, y de los ocho animales probablemente solo un par habían sido adiestrados para hacer sus necesidades fuera de casa.
Se planteó sacrificarlos. Si a él le pasaba algo, casi con toda seguridad morirían de hambre; era poco probable que un buen samaritano fuera a cuidar de ellos. La posibilidad de soltarlos sin más no se le pasó por la cabeza. Uno no dejaba hacer vida salvaje a los perros.
Una fantasía cobró forma en su imaginación: iba allí al día siguiente con Nana, la dejaba ayudarlo a dar de comer y pasear a los perros. Eso siempre le gustaba. Sabía que le encantaría el perro de la oficina, un cruce de beagle y cocker de ojos soñolientos y actitud estoica. Le encantaría la forma en que apoyaba la cabeza en las patas, como un niño dormido sobre un pupitre, obligado a escuchar una lección interminable en el colegio. A Elaine no le gustaban los perros, pero, pasara lo que pasase, eso ya daba igual. De un modo u otro, Elaine y él habían terminado, y si Nana quería un perro, podía quedarse con Frank.
Frank los paseó con correas triples. Cuando acabó, escribió una nota —POR FAVOR, ECHEN UN VISTAZO A LOS ANIMALES. ASEGÚRENSE DE QUE TIENEN COMIDA Y AGUA. EL CRUCE DE PITBULL BLANCO Y GRIS DE LA N.º 7 ES ASUSTADIZO: ACÉRQUENSE CON CUIDADO. POR FAVOR, NO ROBEN NADA, ESTO ES UN ESTABLECIMIENTO DEL ESTADO— y la pegó a la puerta de fuera con cinta adhesiva. Acarició durante un par de minutos al perro de la oficina.
—Mírate —dijo—. Tú mírate.
Cuando regresó a la furgoneta y se dirigió nuevamente al control de carretera, el reloj del banco indicaba la **1.11**. Empezaría a preparar a todo el mundo para el asalto a las cuatro y media. Amanecería dos horas después.
7
Más allá de los campos de deporte de la cárcel, al otro lado de la valla, dos hombres provistos de extintores y con pañuelos atados en torno a la boca apagaban los neumáticos incendiados. A través de la mira de visión nocturna, los chorros de espuma se veían fosforescentes y los hombres aparecían realzados en amarillo. Billy Wettermore no identificó al más corpulento, pero al de menor estatura sí lo conocía bien.
—Ese tarado del sombrero de paja es el concejal Miller. Bert Miller —dijo Billy a Willy Burke.
Existía ahí una irónica historia personal. Cuando Billy Wettermore estudiaba en el instituto de Dooling, como alumno becado por la National Honor Society, hizo unas prácticas en la oficina del concejal. Allí se vio obligado a escuchar en silencio las frecuentes reflexiones de Bert Miller sobre la homosexualidad.
«Es una mutación —explicaba el concejal Miller, y soñaba con ponerle fin—. Si fuera posible eliminar a todos los gais en un instante, Billy, quizá podría impedirse que la mutación se propagara, pero, claro, aunque preferiríamos no admitirlo, también son humanos, ¿no?»
En la década y pico transcurrida desde entonces, habían ocurrido muchas cosas. Billy era un chico de campo, muy testarudo, y cuando colgó los estudios universitarios, regresó a su pueblo de la región de los Apalaches, a pesar de las tendencias políticas predominantes en la zona. Allí, al parecer, su inclinación por los hombres era lo primero en que pensaba todo el mundo. Teniendo en cuenta que estaba ya avanzada la segunda década del siglo XXI, eso a Billy le resultaba francamente molesto, aunque no lo exteriorizaba, porque pondría a la gente en bandeja algo que no se merecía.
No obstante, la idea de disparar una bala al suelo justo delante de Bert Miller, para que el muy intolerante se cagara encima, era de los más atractiva.
—Voy a darle un susto, Willy, para apartarlo de nuestros neumáticos.
—No. —Eso no procedió de Willy Burke, sino de detrás de él.
Norcross había salido de pronto por la puerta entreabierta de la parte de atrás de la cárcel. En la penumbra, apenas se le veía la cara, salvo por el destello de la montura de las gafas.
—¿No? —dijo Billy.
—No. —Clint se frotaba los nudillos de la mano derecha con el pulgar de la izquierda—. Dele en la pierna. Túmbelo.
—¿En serio? —Billy había disparado contra animales en cacerías, pero nunca contra un hombre.
Willy Burke emitió una especie de zumbido por la nariz.
—Una bala en la pierna puede matar a un hombre, doctor.
Clint asintió con la cabeza para indicar que lo sabía.
—Tenemos que defender este lugar. Adelante, Billy. Dispárele a la pierna. Así habrá uno menos, y los demás verán que la cosa va en serio. Para que entiendan que no podrán vencernos sin pagar un precio.
—De acuerdo —contestó Billy.
Puso el ojo en la mira. El concejal Miller, grande como una valla publicitaria, dibujándose ante él la retícula de la doble alambrada, se abanicaba con el sombrero de paja, con el extintor en la hierba junto a él. Billy fijó el punto de mira en la rodilla izquierda de Miller. Billy se alegró de que su objetivo fuese semejante gilipollas, pero de todos modos no le gustaba la idea.
Apretó el gatillo.
8
Las normas de Evie eran:
1) ¡Quedarse a cubierto y no matar hasta que sea de día!
2) ¡Cortar los capullos que envuelven a Kayleigh y a Maura para abrirlos!
3) ¡Disfrutar de la vida!
—Sí, eso está bien —dijo Angel—. Pero ¿estás segura de que Maura y Kay no me matarán mientras disfruto de la vida?
—Bastante segura —contestó Evie.
—Pues vale —dijo Angel.
—Abrid la celda —ordenó Evie, y del agujero cercano al hueco de la ducha salió una hilera de ratas.
La primera se detuvo al pie de la puerta de la celda de Angel. La segunda se encaramó sobre la primera; la tercera, sobre la segunda. Se formó una torre, una rata gris encima de una rata gris como abominables cucharadas de helado. Evie ahogó una exclamación al percibir que la rata situada en la posición inferior se asfixiaba.
—Ay, madre —dijo—. No sabes cuánto lo siento.
—Vaya número circense, increíble. —Angel estaba fascinada—. Hermana, podrías sacarte un dinero con esta mierda, ¿sabes?
La rata en lo alto era la más pequeña, una cría todavía. Apretujándose, penetró en el ojo de la cerradura, y Evie, controlando sus diminutas patas y dotándolas de una fuerza que ninguna rata había poseído antes, manipuló los mecanismos. La puerta de la celda se abrió.
Angel fue a la ducha a buscar un par de toallas, las ahuecó, las extendió en la cama y colocó una manta encima. Cerró la puerta de la celda al salir. Si alguien miraba dentro, daría la impresión de que por fin había perdido la batalla y se había dormido.
Se encaminó por el pasillo hacia el módulo C, donde entonces residían la mayor parte de las durmientes en sus capullos.
—Adiós, Angel —se despidió Evie.
—Eso —contestó Angel—. Hasta pronto. —Con la mano ya en la puerta, vaciló—. ¿No oyes unos gritos a lo lejos?
Evie los oía. Era, como ella sabía, el concejal Bert Miller, quejándose del balazo en la pierna. Sus gemidos llegaban a la cárcel a través de los conductos de ventilación. No era asunto de Angel.
—Descuida —contestó Evie—. Es solo un hombre.
—Ah —dijo Angel, y salió.
9
Durante la conversación entre Angel y Evie, Jeanette, sentada en el suelo, apoyada en la pared frente a las celdas, había estado escuchando y observando. En ese momento se volvió hacia Damian, muerto desde hacía años y enterrado a casi doscientos kilómetros de allí, y aun así, sentado también a su lado. Tenía un destornillador de estrella en el muslo y se desangraba en el suelo, aunque Jeanette no percibía la sangre en modo alguno, ni siquiera su humedad. Cosa extraña, porque estaba sentada en un charco rojo.
—¿Has visto eso? —preguntó—. ¿Esas ratas?
—Sí —contestó Damian. Habló con una voz aguda y chillona, imitándola a ella—. _Veo esas ratitas, pequeña Jeanie._
Uf, pensó Jeanette. Al principio, cuando Damian había reaparecido en su vida, lo encontraba aceptable, pero ya empezaba a irritarse por cualquier cosa.
—Hay ratas como esas comiéndose mi cadáver por cómo me mataste, pequeña Jeanie.
—Lo siento. —Se tocó la cara. Le dio la sensación de que estaba llorando, pero tenía el rostro seco. Jeanette se arañó la frente, clavándose las uñas con ganas, en busca de dolor. La horrorizaba haber enloquecido.
—Venga. Compruébalo tú misma. —Damian acercó la cara a ella—. Se me comieron hasta la médula. —Sus ojos eran cuencas negras; las ratas le habían devorado los globos oculares. Jeanette no quiso mirar, quiso cerrar sus propios ojos, pero sabía que si lo hacía, la esperaba el sueño.
—¿Qué clase de madre permite que el padre de su hijo acabe así? ¿Lo mata y deja que las ratas se lo coman como si fuera una puta barrita de Twix?
—Jeanette —dijo Evie—. Eh. Ven aquí.
—Olvídate de esa zorra, Jeanie —ordenó Damian. Una cría de rata cayó de su boca mientras hablaba. Fue a parar al regazo de Jeanette. Ella lanzó un grito y le dio un manotazo, pero la rata ya no estaba—. Necesito tú atención. Mírame, tarada.
—Me alegro de que hayas seguido despierta, Jeanette —dijo Evie—. Me alegro de que no me hayas hecho caso. Al otro lado está pasando algo y... en fin, pensaba que sería de mi agrado, pero a lo mejor me estoy reblandeciendo con la edad. En el supuesto de que esto dure lo suficiente, me gustaría que allí tuvieran la posibilidad de elegir.
—¿De qué estás hablando? —A Jeanette le dolía la garganta. Le dolía todo.
—¿Quieres volver a ver a Bobby?
—Claro que quiero verlo —contestó Jeanette, indiferente a Damian, cosa que le resultaba cada vez más fácil—. Claro que quiero ver a mi hijo.
—Muy bien, pues. Escúchame con atención. Existen pasadizos secretos entre los dos mundos: túneles. Cada mujer que se duerme cruza uno de ellos, pero hay otro, uno muy especial, que parte de un árbol muy especial. Ese es el único que comunica en los dos sentidos. ¿Me entiendes?
—No.
—Ya me entenderás —aseguró Evie—. Al otro lado de ese túnel hay una mujer, y va a cerrarlo a menos que alguien se lo impida. Respeto su postura, la considero perfectamente válida; la especie masculina ha tenido una actuación desastrosa a este lado del Árbol, y por mucho que se pretenda subirles la nota, esa conclusión es inalterable, pero todo el mundo merece expresarse. Una mujer, un voto. No puede permitirse que Elaine Nutting decida por todas.
Evie tenía la cara contra los barrotes de la celda. Zarcillos verdeantes habían brotado en torno a sus sienes. Sus ojos eran de un color castaño rojizo, ojos de tigre. Mariposas nocturnas se habían acumulado en su pelo, unidas en una nube en continuo aleteo. Era un monstruo, pensó Jeanette, y hermosa.
—¿Qué tiene eso que ver con Bobby?
—Si el Árbol arde, el túnel se cierra. Nadie podrá volver jamás. Ni tú ni ninguna otra mujer, Jeanette. El final será inevitable.
—No, no, no. Ya es inevitable —intervino Damian—. Duérmete, Jeanie.
—¿Quieres callarte? ¡Estás muerto! —le dijo Jeanette a voz en cuello—. ¡Me arrepiento de haberte matado, y haría cualquier cosa por volver atrás, por cambiar esa situación, pero eras un cabrón de mierda, y lo hecho hecho está, así que cierra la boca!
Esa declaración reverberó en los estrechos confines del módulo A. Damian no estaba allí.
—Bien dicho —encomió Evie—. ¡Muy valiente! Ahora escúchame, Jeanette: quiero que cierres los ojos. Cruzarás el túnel, _tu_ túnel, pero no te acordarás.
Esa parte Jeanette creyó comprenderla.
—¿Porque estaré dormida?
—¡Exacto! En cuanto estés al otro lado, te sentirás mejor, como no te has sentido en mucho tiempo. Quiero que sigas al zorro. Él te llevará a donde necesitas ir. Acuérdate: Bobby y el Árbol. El uno depende del otro.
Jeanette cerró los ojos. Bobby, se recordó. Bobby y el Árbol y el túnel que comunicaba en los dos sentidos. El que una tal Elaine quería cerrar mediante un acto de piromanía. Sigue al zorro. Contó uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, y todo continuaba igual. Excepto Evie, que se había convertido en una Dama Verde. Como si ella misma fuera un árbol.
De pronto sintió un cosquilleó en la mejilla, un roce del más liviano encaje.
10
Después del disparo, oyeron bramar, gemir y seguir gimiendo a Bert Miller mientras su compañero se lo llevaba a rastras. Clint pidió el fusil a Wettermore para echar un vistazo por la mira telescópica. La figura vestida de amarillo caída en el suelo se aferraba el muslo, y el otro hombre, sujetándolo por las axilas, tiraba de él.
—Bien. Gracias. —Clint devolvió el fusil a Wettermore.
Willy Burke los observaba a los dos atentamente, en parte con admiración, en parte con cautela.
Clint regresó adentro. La puerta trasera, que conducía al pequeño gimnasio, permanecía abierta mediante un ladrillo.
Para que la visibilidad desde el exterior fuese menor, habían reducido la iluminación a las bombillas de emergencia, tintadas de rojo. Estas proyectaban pequeñas manchas de color escarlata sobre los contornos del suelo de parqué donde las reclusas jugaban al baloncesto en media cancha. Clint se detuvo bajo el aro y se apoyó en la pared acolchada. El corazón le latía con fuerza. No estaba asustado, no estaba contento, pero estaba _allí_.
Clint se previno con respecto a la euforia que sentía, pero eso no atenuó la grata vibración en brazos y piernas. Estaba bien aislándose de sí mismo, bien regresando a sí mismo. No sabía si lo uno o lo otro. Lo que sí sabía era que él tenía el batido, y Geary no iba a arrebatárselo. El hecho de que Geary estuviera equivocado prácticamente carecía de importancia.
Aurora no era un virus, era un hechizo, y Evie Black no se parecía en nada a ninguna mujer —a ningún humano— que hubiese existido jamás. Uno no podía arreglar a mazazos algo inasequible para el entendimiento humano, que era lo que pretendían Frank Geary, Terry Coombs y el resto de los hombres reunidos fuera de la cárcel. Aquello exigía un enfoque distinto. Para Clint, era evidente, y debería haberlo sido para ellos, porque no todos eran estúpidos, pero por alguna razón no les parecía evidente, y por consiguiente él tendría que utilizar su propio mazo para atajar los mazazos de ellos.
«¡Han empezado ellos!» __ ¡Qué infantil! ¡Y qué cierto!
El ciclo de esa lógica giraba sobre ruedas oxidadas y chirriantes. Clint dio varios puñetazos a la pared acolchada y deseó que esta fuera un hombre bajo sus nudillos. Pensó en la piroterapia: la cura de la fiebre. Durante una época, había sido un tratamiento puntero, salvo por el hecho de que inocular la malaria a los pacientes era una práctica médica brutal. A veces los salvaba, y a veces acababa con ellos. ¿Era Evie una piroterapeuta o la piroterapia? ¿Podía ser médico y tratamiento a la vez?
¿O acaso había sido él mismo, al ordenar a Billy Wettermore que disparara a la pierna del concejal Bert Miller, quien había administrado la primera dosis?
11
Se oyeron unos leves pasos procedentes del gimnasio. Angel acababa de salir de la Garita abandonada con un juego de llaves de las celdas. Las mantenía bien sujetas en la mano derecha, y la más larga sobresalía entre los nudillos de sus dedos índice y medio. Una vez, en un aparcamiento de Ohio, había clavado una llave afilada en la oreja a un viejo vaquero, un desharrapado. El vaquero no murió a causa de eso, pero desde luego tampoco le produjo un gran placer. Angel, en un gesto de bondad, se limitó a quitarle la cartera, una alianza de bodas barata, unos números de lotería y un cinturón con hebilla de plata; le permitió conservar la vida.
El doctor Norcross pasó junto a la pared de cristal de la Garita sin detenerse. Angel se planteó acercarse por detrás a aquel matasanos que tan poca confianza le merecía y hundirle la llave en la yugular. Le atrajo la idea. Por desgracia, había prometido a Evie no matar a nadie hasta que amaneciera, y Angel iba a cuidarse mucho de contrariar a la bruja.
Dejó pasar al médico.
Angel enfiló hacia el módulo C y la celda ocupada por Maura y Kayleigh. La silueta que era sin duda Maura, baja y robusta, yacía en el exterior de la cama de abajo, donde alguien la había colocado después de que se quedara frita en el módulo A. Kayleigh ocupaba el lado interior de esa misma cama. Angel no había entendido ni remotamente qué había querido decir Evie al afirmar que «sus almas estaban muertas», pero inducía a la cautela.
Valiéndose de la punta de una llave, cortó la tela que cubría el rostro de Maura. El tejido se rasgó con un susurro, y debajo aparecieron las facciones rechonchas y las mejillas rojas de Maura. Su rostro podría haber servido como modelo para la ilustración de la caja de algún producto «casero» vendido en pequeñas tiendas de zonas rurales: «Pan de Mamá Maura» o «Sirope balsámico Dunbarton». Angel salió de un brinco al pasillo, dispuesta a huir si Maura se abalanzaba hacia ella.
La mujer tendida en la cama se incorporó lentamente.
—¿Maura?
Maura Dunbarton parpadeó. Miró a Angel. Sus ojos eran todo pupilas. Sacó el brazo derecho del capullo, luego el izquierdo, y después juntó las manos en el regazo arrugado.
Cuando Maura llevaba así un par de minutos, Angel volvió a entrar en la celda.
—Mo-Mo, si te me echas encima, no solo te haré daño; te mataré.
La mujer permaneció sentada en silencio, con los ojos, negros, fijos en la pared.
Angel, usando la llave, cortó la tela que cubría el rostro de Kayleigh. Con igual rapidez que antes, salió al pasillo.
Se repitió el proceso: Kayleigh se despojó de la mitad superior del capullo como si de un vestido se tratara y miró con unos ojos totalmente negros. Hombro con hombro, las dos mujeres se quedaron sentadas, con los jirones de tela colgando del pelo, de la barbilla y del cuello. Parecían fantasmas de una cutre casa encantada de feria ambulante.
—¿Estáis bien, chicas? —preguntó Angel.
Ellas no contestaron. Aparentemente no respiraban.
—¿Sabéis qué se supone que debéis hacer? —preguntó Angel, ya menos nerviosa, pero ahora con curiosidad.
Ellas guardaron silencio. A sus ojos negros no asomó el menor atisbo de nada. Un ligero olor a tierra húmeda y revuelta emanaba de las dos mujeres. Angel pensó (y lamentó pensarlo): Así es como sudan los muertos.
—Bien. Vale. —O harían algo, o no lo harían—. Os dejo con lo vuestro. —Contempló la posibilidad de añadir unas palabras alentadoras, como «id a por ellos», __ pero se abstuvo.
Angel fue al taller de carpintería y, con las llaves, abrió el arcón de las herramientas. Se guardó un pequeño taladro manual bajo la cinturilla del pantalón, un escoplo en un calcetín y un destornillador en el otro.
A continuación se tendió boca arriba debajo de una mesa y observó una ventana oscura, atenta al primer asomo de luz. No tenía nada de sueño.
12
En torno al rostro de Jeanette, se tejieron y arremolinaron filamentos; a medida que se dividían, caían y se elevaban, iban ocultando sus rasgos. Clint, de rodillas a su lado, deseó sujetarle la mano, pero no se atrevió.
—Has sido una buena persona —le dijo—. Tu hijo te quería.
— _Es_ una buena persona. Su hijo la _quiere_. No está muerta, solo dormida.
Clint se acercó a los barrotes de la celda de Evie.
—Eso dices tú, Evie.
Ella se sentó en su cama.
—Parece que estés en tu segunda juventud, Clint.
Evie había adoptado una pose melancólica: el ángulo descendente de la cabeza, el cabello negro y lustroso cubriéndole parte de la cara.
—Todavía puedes entregarme. Pero ya no queda mucho tiempo.
—No —dijo él.
—¡Vaya gritos daba ese hombre al que Wettermore le ha disparado! Lo oía desde aquí.
Su tono no era de regodeo. Era reflexivo.
—A nadie le gusta que le peguen un tiro. Duele. Quizá no lo sepas.
—Anoche destruyeron la casa consistorial. Los responsables te echaron la culpa a ti. El sheriff Coombs se ha ido de paseo. Frank Geary traerá a su gente por la mañana. ¿Te sorprende algo de eso, Clint?
No lo sorprendía.
—Eres muy hábil para conseguir lo que quieres, Evie. Pero no voy a felicitarte.
—Ahora piensa en Lila y las demás en el mundo que hay más allá del Árbol. Créeme, te lo ruego: allí les va bien. Están construyendo algo nuevo, algo bueno. Y habrá hombres. Hombres mejores, criados desde pequeños por mujeres en una comunidad de mujeres, hombres a quienes se enseñará a conocerse a sí mismos y a conocer su mundo.
—Con el tiempo se impondrá su naturaleza esencial —aseguró Clint—. Su masculinidad. Uno levantará el puño contra otro. Créeme, Evie. Estás ante un hombre que lo sabe.
—Ciertamente —admitió Evie—. Pero esa agresión no es de carácter _sexual_ ; es de carácter _humano_. Si alguna vez dudas de la capacidad de agresión de las mujeres, pregunta a la funcionaria Lampley.
—A estas alturas ya estará dormida en algún sitio —dijo Clint.
Evie sonrió, como si supiera que no era así.
—No soy tan tonta como para prometerte que las mujeres al otro lado del Árbol han conseguido una utopía. Lo que tienen es un punto de partida mejor, y una buena oportunidad de terminar mejor. Tú te interpones en el camino de esa oportunidad. Precisamente tú y solo tú entre todos los hombres del mundo. Necesito que lo sepas. Si permites que yo muera, esas mujeres serán libres de vivir la vida que ellas elijan.
—La vida que _tú_ elijas, Evie. —A él mismo su voz le sonó reseca.
El ser al otro lado de la puerta de la celda tamborileó rítmicamente en el armazón de la cama con las yemas de los dedos.
—Linny Mars estaba en la comisaría cuando fue destruida. Se ha ido para siempre. Ella no ha tenido posibilidad de elegir.
—Tú se la has quitado —repuso Clint.
—Podríamos seguir así eternamente. Él ha dicho, ella ha dicho. La historia más antigua del universo. Ve a librar tu guerra, Clint. Eso es algo que los hombres saben hacer. Consigue que yo llegue a ver otra puesta de sol.
### 13
1
Cuando el contorno del sol apareció por encima del bosque, detrás del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, varios buldóceres, uno tras otro, avanzaban ruidosamente por West Lavin. Los tres eran Caterpillar; dos D-9 y un enorme D-11. La brigada de asalto la componían dieciocho hombres en total. Quince iban con los buldóceres, rumbo a la verja de entrada; tres se aproximaban a la alambrada de la cárcel por la parte de atrás. (Habían dejado al concejal Miller en el control de carretera con un frasco de Vicodin y la pierna vendada y apoyada en una silla plegable.)
Frank había organizado a la docena del grupo de cabeza —sus doce del patíbulo— en tres cuartetos. Cada cuarteto, con chalecos y máscaras, a cubierto detrás de un buldócer. En las ventanas y rejillas de los buldóceres habían colocado planchas de chatarra a modo de improvisados blindajes. Jack Albertson, ayudante del sheriff jubilado, conducía el primero de la fila; el entrenador J. T. Wittstock, el segundo, y Carson Struthers, expúgil del campeonato amateur de boxeo, el tercero. Frank ocupaba el asiento del acompañante en la cabina del buldócer de Albertson.
Los hombres apostados en el bosque eran el ayudante Elmore Pearl, el cazador de ciervos Drew T. Barry (su local reducido ya a escombros), y Don Peters.
2
Clint avistó los buldóceres desde la ventana de la planta superior del módulo B y corrió hacia la escalera al tiempo que se ponía el chaleco antibalas.
—Disfrútelo mientras lo joden, doctor —exclamó Scott Hughes, muy jovial, al verlo pasar.
—¿Se cree que van a hacer una salvedad con usted si entran? —preguntó Clint.
A Scott se le borró la sonrisa de la cara al oír eso.
Clint avanzó apresuradamente por Broadway y, ante la sala de visitas, se detuvo para asomar la cabeza.
—Rand, ya vienen. Eche el gas lacrimógeno.
—Vale —contestó Rand desde el espacio reservado a las familias al final de la sala, y se colocó tranquilamente la máscara antigás, que ya tenía a mano.
Clint siguió adelante hasta el puesto de seguridad de la puerta principal.
El puesto era en esencia una cabina de peaje con cristales blindados donde se exigía a los visitantes que se identificaran. El reducido espacio contaba con una ventanilla alargada y un cajón para entregar los documentos de identidad y los objetos de valor al funcionario de guardia. Contenía un panel de comunicaciones como los de la Garita y el puesto de control de la verja, con monitores que proporcionaban vistas de las diversas zonas interiores y exteriores de la cárcel. Tig permanecía ante el panel.
Clint llamó a la puerta, y Tig abrió.
—¿Qué muestran los monitores?
—El sol del amanecer ciega los objetivos de las cámaras. Si hay hombres detrás de los buldóceres, aún no los veo.
Disponían de ocho o nueve botes de gas para el lanzagranadas. En el monitor central, debajo de las espirales de resplandor, Clint vio que caían varios en el aparcamiento y despedían gases blancos, los cuales se mezclaban con el humo alquitranoso de los neumáticos. Indicó a Tig que siguiera atento y se fue corriendo.
Su siguiente destino era la sala de descanso. Jared y Michaela se hallaban sentados a una mesa con una baraja de cartas y una taza de café.
—Esfúmese, y tú también Jared. Esto va a empezar.
Michaela alzó la taza en dirección a él.
—Perdone, doctor. Ya tengo edad para votar y demás. Creo que me quedaré por aquí. ¿Quién sabe? A lo mejor me espera un Pulitzer en el futuro.
Jared estaba blanco como el papel. Miró alternativamente a Michaela y a su padre.
—Bien —contestó Clint—. Nada más lejos de mis intenciones que limitar la libertad de prensa. Jared, escóndete y no me digas dónde.
Se marchó al trote sin dar tiempo a su hijo a responder. Le faltaba el aliento cuando llegó a la puerta trasera cercana al cobertizo y los campos de deporte. La razón por la que, hasta la mañana de Aurora, nunca había propuesto a Lila salir juntos a correr era que no quería obligarla a reducir su ritmo por él; habría sido bochornoso. ¿Cuál era la raíz de eso, la vanidad o la pereza? Clint se prometió dedicar a esa duda hondas reflexiones cuando dispusiera de un segundo libre, y si tenía la suerte de sobrevivir a esa mañana, y volver a hablar con su mujer, posiblemente para repetir su propuesta de ir a correr juntos.
—Tres buldóceres en la carretera —anunció Clint nada más salir.
—Lo sabemos —dijo Willy Burke. Se acercó a Clint desde su puesto, detrás del cobertizo. El chaleco antibalas y los festivos tirantes rojos, que colgaban a modo de lazadas en sus caderas, ofrecían un extraño contaste—. Nos ha informado Tig por radio. Billy va a montar guardia aquí, vigilando el lado norte de la alambrada. Yo, arrimado a la pared, voy a acercarme sigilosamente a la esquina para ver si tengo algún blanco limpio desde allí. Acompáñeme si quiere, pero necesitará una de estas. —Entregó una máscara antigás a Clint y se puso la suya.
3
En el giro de noventa grados de la carretera hacia la verja, Frank aporreó la placa metálica fijada a la puerta, señal para que Albertson doblara a la derecha. Jack lo hizo, lenta y cuidadosamente. Los hombres se quedaron algo atrás, manteniendo la masa de metal ante ellos en todo momento mientras torcía. Frank llevaba un chaleco, y una Glock en la mano derecha. Veía que se propagaban nubes de humo más adelante. Era de prever. Había oído los estampidos de los botes de gas recién lanzados. No podían tener más que unos cuantos. En el arsenal de la oficina del sheriff, había muchas más máscaras que botes.
El primer buldócer acabó de ajustar su trayectoria, y los cuatro hombres se encaramaron a la parte de atrás, hombro con hombro sobre el escarificador.
En la cabina del buldócer, Jack Albertson permanecía a resguardo tras la pala de acero, elevada a su posición más alta, con lo que protegía el parabrisas. Pisó el acelerador al enfilar rumbo a la verja.
Frank habló por el walkie-talkie, pese a que no todos los miembros de su fuerza de ataque disponían de uno; aquello se había hecho precipitadamente.
—Preparaos, todos. Esto va a empezar.
Y por favor, pensó, con el menor derramamiento de sangre posible. Ya había perdido a dos hombres, y ni siquiera había comenzado el ataque.
4
—¿Qué opina? —preguntó Clint a Willy.
Al otro lado de la doble verja, el primer buldócer, pala en alto, avanzaba arrolladoramente. Durante una décima de segundo habían alcanzado a ver movimiento detrás de la máquina.
Willy no respondió. El viejo fabricante de alcohol ilegal rememoraba un anónimo metro cuadrado de infierno en el sudeste asiático allá por el año 68. Todo estaba quieto, agua de pantano hasta la nuez, el cielo oculto tras una capa de humo, él situado entre sus compañeros, todo muy quieto, y un ave, roja y azul y amarilla y enorme, del tamaño de un águila, apareció flotando junto a él, muerta, el ojo velado. La criatura constituía una imagen vívida y fuera de lugar bajo aquella extraña luz. Su magnífico plumaje rozó el hombro de Willy y la ligera corriente se la llevó, hasta que se perdió de vista entre el humo.
(En una ocasión se lo había contado a su hermana. «Nunca había visto un ave como esa. En todo el tiempo que pasé allí. Ni he vuelto a ver ninguna, claro está. A veces me pregunto si era la última de su especie.» Para entonces, el alzhéimer ya la había despojado de lo que hacía de ella la persona que era, pero aún quedaba una pequeña porción, y su hermana dijo: «Quizá era solo... sufrimiento, Willy». Y Willy le contestó: «Cómo te quiero, que lo sepas». Su hermana se ruborizó.)
La pala del buldócer golpeó la zona central de la verja con estrépito metálico. Los eslabones se combaron hacia dentro antes de que toda la sección se desprendiera de la tierra y cayera contra la segunda alambrada, al otro lado de la zona intermedia. Espectros de gas lacrimógeno se desplazaron por el aire por delante del buldócer mientras este avanzaba y embestía la segunda alambrada con el fragmento enmarañado de la primera. La alambrada interior se sacudió y se desplomó, y el buldócer pasó bamboleante por encima de los restos. Continuó avanzando por el aparcamiento envuelto en humo con un trozo de alambrada chirriante bajo el morro.
Los otros dos buldóceres siguieron al primero a través de la brecha.
Un zapato marrón, visible detrás del ángulo izquierdo del primer buldócer, apareció en la mira de Willy, que disparó. Un hombre profirió un alarido y cayó de detrás del buldócer, soltando una escopeta al doblar el brazo. Era un hombrecillo patizambo con máscara antigás y chaleco. (Willy no habría sabido que era Pudge Marone, dueño del Squeaky Wheel, aunque le hubiera visto la cara. Willy no bebía en los bares, no desde hacía años.) Si bien el hombre llevaba el torso protegido, no así las piernas y los brazos, y tanto mejor, porque Willy no quería matar a nadie si podía evitarlo. Volvió a disparar, no exactamente a donde quería, pero bastante cerca, y la bala del calibre 223, disparada por un fusil de asalto M4 propiedad del departamento del sheriff de Dooling hasta el día anterior, arrancó el pulgar a Pudge Marone.
Un brazo se extendió desde detrás del buldócer para auxiliar al hombre caído, un gesto comprensible y quizá encomiable, aunque decididamente imprudente. El brazo en cuestión pertenecía al ayudante del sheriff jubilado Nate McGee, quien, tras perder más de cien dólares jugando a los dados sobre el asfalto de la Estatal 31 la noche anterior, se había tranquilizado con un par de falsos pensamientos: primero, que si hubiera sabido con certeza que la señora McGee tal vez despertara algún día, no habría apostado; y segundo, que como mínimo había consumido ya toda su mala suerte esa semana. No era así. Willy disparó por tercera vez y la bala dio en el codo del brazo extendido. Se oyó otro grito, y McGee cayó de detrás del buldócer. Willy descerrajó cuatro tiros en ráfaga para poner a prueba la placa de acero montada sobre la rejilla del buldócer y oyó rebotar las balas inútilmente.
Frank se asomó desde la cabina del primer buldócer con una pistola y disparó en rápida sucesión. En 1968 Willy tal vez habría sido capaz de juzgar, por el ángulo del brazo de Geary, que sus disparos saldrían desviados, y por tanto habría mantenido la posición y abatido a Geary, pero desde 1968 habían transcurrido cincuenta años, y ser blanco de fuego enemigo era algo a lo que uno se desacostumbraba enseguida. Willy y Clint corrieron a ponerse a cubierto.
Mientras el buldócer de Jack Albertson avanzaba entre las nubes de gas lacrimógeno y humo negro, derecho hacia la autocaravana y la puerta delantera, entre el chirrido de los restos prendidos de su morro, el segundo buldócer, conducido por el entrenador Wittstock, atravesó el agujero en la alambrada.
Al igual que Albertson delante de él y Carson Struthers detrás, el entrenador Wittstock llevaba la pala en alto para protegerse. Oyó los disparos, oyó los gritos, pero no vio a Nate McGee sujetarse el codo en el suelo delante de él, y cuando el buldócer arrolló al hombre incapacitado, el entrenador Wittstock dio por supuesto que las orugas de la máquina pisaban uno de los neumáticos.
Profirió un hurra. Estaba avanzando tal como había enseñado a sus _linebackers_ , temerarios e implacables.
Desde su posición elevada en la ventana de la sala de visitas, Rand esperó a disparar a que el primer buldócer se hallara a medio camino entre el puesto de control de la entrada y la puerta delantera. Las balas alcanzaron las placas metálicas aquí y allá, y rebotaron sin efecto alguno.
Pete Ordway, los hijos de Wittstock y Dan Treat alias Treater, a cubierto tras el segundo buldócer, se encontraron con al cadáver aplastado de Nate McGee. La máscara antigás del muerto rebosaba sangre y el torso reventado se desparramaba en torno a las correas del chaleco. Un pringue viscoso se desprendía de las orugas; jirones de piel ondeaban como serpentinas. Rupe Wittstock gritó y saltó para alejarse de aquel horror, apartándose de las vísceras pero poniéndose en la línea de tiro de Rand.
El primer disparo de Rand no lo alcanzó en la cabeza por un par de centímetros, el segundo por un centímetro. Rand se maldijo y le acertó con el tercero en plena espalda. La bala se alojó en el chaleco que llevaba y lo impulsó al frente. El hombre alzó los brazos al cielo como un hincha que hiciera la ola en un estadio. Rand disparó por cuarta vez, a menos altura. Alcanzó al blanco en las nalgas, y el hombre cayó de bruces.
El ayudante Treat no se inmutó. Treater, licenciado hacía solo un año de la 82ª División Aerotransportada, aún conservaba la relativa familiaridad con el fuego enemigo que Willy Burke había perdido hacía mucho. Saltó del segundo buldócer sin pensárselo dos veces. (De hecho, para él fue un alivio pasar a actitud militar. La acción le brindó un descanso de la insoportable realidad de su hija, Alice, en ese momento desplomada en su mesa de juego en el apartamento, envuelta en fibras blancas, cuando debería haber estado preparándose para otro día en segundo de primaria. Y le brindó un descanso de la idea de que su hijo de un año estaba en ese momento bajo los cuidados poco fiables de una guardería a cargo de hombres.) Ya a descubierto, Treat devolvió el fuego con un M4 que había recuperado en la Estatal 31.
En la ventana, Rand se arrodilló en la mesa a la que se había subido. Fragmentos de hormigón le llovieron sobre el cuello y la espalda.
Treater cargó con Rupe Wittstock y lo llevó a lugar seguro, tras una pila de neumáticos humeantes.
El primer buldócer embistió la parte trasera de la autocaravana Fleetwood, empotrando el morro en la puerta de la cárcel en medio de un estallido de cristales.
5
Jared permanecía sentado en el suelo de la lavandería mientras Michaela apilaba sábanas en torno a él para construir un montículo que lo ocultara.
—Me siento como un tonto —comentó Jared.
—A mí no me pareces tonto —respondió Michaela, lo cual no era cierto. Extendió una sábana sobre su cabeza.
—Me siento como una nenaza.
Michaela detestaba esa palabra. Pese a estar oyendo las reverberaciones del tiroteo, le tocó una fibra sensible. Le disgustaba esa identificación de la feminidad con la cobardía, entre otras cosas porque ella no tenía nada de cobarde. Janice Coates no la había criado para ser una blandengue. Levantó la sábana y dio a Jared un fuerte bofetón —aunque tampoco demasiado fuerte— en la mejilla.
—¡Eh! —Jared se llevó la mano a la cara.
—No digas eso.
—Decir ¿qué?
—No digas nenaza en el sentido de «débil». Si tu madre no te lo enseñó, debería haberlo hecho.
Michaela dejó caer la sábana sobre su cara.
6
—Es un puto crimen que nadie esté filmando esto para un puto reality de la tele —comentó Low.
Con el ojo en la mira de la bazuca, había visto cómo aplastaba el segundo buldócer al pobre mamón que había caído ante las orugas y luego al Rambo que había saltado de detrás del segundo buldócer, empezado a disparar y rescatado al otro tipo. Después presenció —no sin una mezcla de asombro y júbilo— cómo el primer buldócer convertía la autocaravana en un acordeón contra la puerta de la cárcel. Era un conflicto estelar, y no haría más que mejorar en cuanto ellos sazonaran el caldo con tres o cuatro obuses de bazuca.
—¿Cuándo metemos baza? —preguntó May.
—En cuanto la poli se haya desgastado un poco más.
—¿Cómo sabremos con seguridad que nos hemos cargado a Kitty, Low? Eso debe de estar lleno de fulanas envueltas en capullos.
—Posiblemente no estaremos del todo seguros May, pero vamos a disparar todos estos obuses y volar ese puto sitio, así que nuestras probabilidades no están del todo mal. Hasta cierto punto, no nos quedará más remedio que esperar lo mejor, supongo. —Low no vio con buenos ojos ese pesimismo de su hermano en el último momento—. ¿Y ahora vamos a pasárnoslo bien con esto o no? ¿O prefieres que sea yo el único que dispare?
—Vamos, Low, yo no he dicho eso —protestó May—. Sé justo.
7
En el nivel 32 de _Boom Town_ , __ pequeñas arañas de color rosa empezaban a invadir el campo de estrellas, triángulos y esferas en llamas de Evie. Las arañas rociaban las esferas y las convertían en molestas estrellas azules chispeantes que bloqueaban toda la actividad. Mierda. En el módulo A, reverberaba el eco penetrante de las detonaciones. Evie permanecía impertérrita; había visto y oído a hombres matar en numerosas ocasiones. Pero las arañas rosa sí la molestaban.
—Qué malas son —dijo a nadie al tiempo que deslizaba de acá para allá las formas de vivos colores y buscaba conexiones. Evie estaba sumamente relajada; mientras jugaba con el teléfono, flotaba sobre la espalda a un par de centímetros por encima de la cama.
8
Al otro lado de la alambrada norte, se movieron los arbustos justo enfrente de la posición de Billy Wettermore, en el callejón situado detrás del cobertizo de herramientas. Descerrajó una docena de tiros hacia la masa de vegetación donde había detectado el movimiento. Los arbustos se sacudieron y temblaron.
Drew T. Barry, un artero agente de seguros que siempre optaba por la opción de menor riesgo, no estaba ni mucho menos cerca de la línea de fuego de Billy. Por el contrario, con la prudencia que lo convertía no solo en la primera opción de Dooling para toda necesidad de indemnización, sino también en un excelente cazador de ciervos, dispuesto a dedicar tiempo a encontrar la posición de tiro ideal, había apostado a los otros dos hombres —Pearl y Peters— en el bosque, por detrás del gimnasio de la cárcel. Peters le había dicho que la puerta trasera de la cárcel se hallaba en el muro oeste del gimnasio. La reacción provocada por la piedra que Drew había lanzado al matorral cerca de ese lugar les había proporcionado mucha información: sí, debía de haber una puerta, y sí, desde luego estaba defendida.
—¿Ayudante? —preguntó Drew T. Barry.
Se hallaban agachados detrás de un roble. A unos cinco metros por delante de ellos, flotaban aún en el aire trozos de hojas allí donde la ráfaga de balas las había arrancado. A juzgar por el sonido, el tirador se hallaba a unos treinta o cuarenta metros más allá de la alambrada interior, cerca del muro de la cárcel.
—¿Qué? —contestó Don Peters. El sudor le corría por la cara enrojecida. Había acarreado el petate con las máscaras y las cizallas.
—Usted no, el ayudante de verdad —respondió Drew T. Barry.
—¿Sí? —Pearl asintió con la cabeza en dirección a él.
—Si mato a ese hombre que está disparando, ¿no corro riesgo de que se presenten cargos contra mí? ¿Está usted seguro de que Geary y Coombs jurarán que actuamos en el cumplimiento legítimo de nuestros deberes?
—Sí. Palabra de honor. —Elmore Pearl levantó la mano en el saludo de su infancia en los _boy scouts_ , los tres dedos centrales en alto, el meñique y el pulgar abajo.
Peters escupió un poco de flema.
—¿Me necesita para que vuelva a toda prisa y le traiga un notario, Drew?
Drew T. Barry pasó por alto esa pulla tan poco ocurrente, les dijo que no se movieran de allí y, volviendo sobre sus pasos bosque adentro, subió por la pendiente norte a zancadas rápidas y quedas, con el rifle Weatherby colgado al hombro.
9
Con el buldócer detenido, Frank siguió apuntando su arma hacia el ángulo sudoccidental de la cárcel, dispuesto a eliminar al tirador que había apostado allí si se asomaba. Los disparos lo habían alterado; con ellos todo había cobrado un carácter real. Sintió náuseas por la sangre y los cadáveres caídos en el suelo, que las nubes de gas lacrimógeno ocultaban y revelaban al desplazarse movidas por el viento, pero conservaba una firme determinación. Sentía horror pero no remordimientos. Su vida era la vida de Nana, con lo cual el riesgo era aceptable. Eso se dijo a sí mismo.
Kronsky se reunió con él.
—Deprisa —dijo Frank—. Cuanto antes se acabe esto, tanto mejor.
—En eso le doy la razón, caballero —respondió Kronsky, arrodillado y con la mochila en el suelo. Abrió la cremallera de la mochila, sacó el paquete de dinamita y cortó tres cuartas partes de la mecha.
La puerta blindada del buldócer se abrió de par en par. Jack Albertson subió, portando su antigua arma reglamentaria, un revólver del calibre 38.
—Cúbranos de aquel inútil que hay allí —dijo Kronsky a Albertson, señalando hacia la posición de Willy Burke. Después se volvió hacia Frank—. Vamos, y más vale que apriete el paso.
Los dos avanzaron apresuradamente, arrimados a la pared noroeste de la cárcel y muy agachados. Debajo de la ventana retirada que era uno de los puntos de disparo de los defensores, Kronsky se detuvo. Tenía la dinamita en la mano derecha y un mechero de plástico en la otra. El cañón del fusil del defensor que estaba allí antes volvió a asomar.
—Agárrelo —indicó a Frank.
Frank, sin cuestionar la orden, alzó el brazo y cerró la mano izquierda en torno al tubo metálico. De un tirón, lo desprendió de las manos del hombre que había dentro. Oyó una maldición ahogada. Kronsky encendió el mechero, prendió la mecha recortada del paquete y, despreocupadamente, lo lanzó con un gancho a través de la abertura. Frank soltó el fusil y se echó cuerpo a tierra.
Al cabo de tres segundos, se produjo un estampido atronador. Humo y trozos de carne ensangrentada salieron por la ventana retirada.
10
La tierra tembló y emitió un rugido de indignación.
Clint, junto a Willy Burke en la pared oeste, vio que una oleada de gas lacrimógeno se arremolinaba en el aparcamiento, arrastrada por lo que fuera que acababa de estallar. En su cráneo resonaron alarmas, y le vibraron las articulaciones. Por debajo del ruido, solo pudo pensar que las cosas no iban tan bien como esperaba. Esos tipos iban a matar a Evie y a todos los demás. Por su culpa, su fracaso. La pistola que llevaba, de forma ridícula —en quince años de matrimonio, nunca había aceptado la invitación de Lila para ir al pabellón de tiro con ella—, había aparecido no obstante en su mano, suplicándole que la disparara.
Inclinándose junto a Willy Burke, se asomó, escrutó la colisión ocurrida frente a la puerta de entrada y fijó la mirada en la figura apostada detrás del primer buldócer. Ese hombre contemplaba la nube de polvo que surgía de la ventana de Rand Quigley, ventana que por efecto de la explosión —como todo lo demás esa mañana— había perdido su forma normal.
(Jack Albertson no esperaba la detonación. Lo sobresaltó y bajó la guardia para mirar. Si bien el caos no lo inquietó —como minero en su juventud, superviviente de muchos estruendos bajo tierra, tenía los nervios templados—, pero sí le causó perplejidad. ¿Qué le pasaba a esa gente, que prefería un tiroteo a poner a una puñetera loca en manos de la justicia? En su opinión, el mundo se desquiciaba más y más a cada año. Su Waterloo personal había sido la elección de Lila Norcross como jefa del departamento de Policía de Dooling. ¡Unas faldas en la oficina del jefe! No había cosas mucho más ridículas que esa. Jack Albertson había solicitado la jubilación en aquel mismo momento, y había vuelto a casa para disfrutar en paz de su vida de soltero.)
El brazo de Clint levantó la pistola, la mira localizó al hombre situado tras el buldócer, y el dedo de Clint apretó el gatillo. Al disparo siguió un carnoso _plop_ , el sonido de una bala al perforar la placa frontal de la máscara antigás de aquel hombre. Clint vio que la cabeza se sacudía hacia atrás y el cuerpo se desplomaba.
Dios santo, pensó. Seguramente era alguien a quien conocía.
—Vamos —exclamó Willy, y tiró de él hacia la puerta trasera.
Clint lo siguió, y sus piernas hicieron lo que debían. Matar a alguien había sido más fácil de lo que él suponía. Lo cual no hacía sino empeorar las cosas.
### 14
1
Cuando Jeanette abrió los ojos, había un zorro tumbado delante de la puerta de la celda de Evie. Apoyaba el hocico en el suelo agrietado de cemento, del que brotaban acumulaciones de musgo verde.
—Túnel —se dijo Jeanette. Algo sobre un túnel. Dirigiéndose al zorro, preguntó—: ¿He pasado por uno? Si es así, no lo recuerdo. ¿Eres de Evie?
El animal no contestó, contrariamente a lo que ella casi esperaba (en los sueños los animales hablaban, y aquello parecía un sueño... y sin embargo al mismo tiempo no lo parecía). El zorro se limitó a bostezar, la miró con expresión astuta y se levantó.
El módulo A estaba vacío, y había una brecha en la pared. Haces de sol matutino penetraban por ella. Se veía escarcha en los trozos de cemento roto, que se perlaba y licuaba a medida que la temperatura aumentaba.
Jeanette pensó: Me siento despierta. Creo que _estoy_ despierta.
El zorro emitió una especie de maullido y trotó hacia la brecha. Lanzó una mirada a Jeanette, maulló por segunda vez y la atravesó. La luz lo engulló.
2
Cruzó con cuidado la brecha, agachándose bajo los afilados bordes de cemento roto, y se encontró en un campo en el que la hierba y los girasoles muertos llegaban a la altura de la rodilla. Jeanette entrecerró los ojos a la luz de la mañana. La maleza helada crujió bajo sus pies y el aire fresco le puso carne de gallina bajo la fina tela del uniforme.
Las intensas sensaciones del aire fresco y la luz del sol la despertaron por completo. Su antiguo cuerpo, agotado por el trauma, el estrés y la falta de sueño, era una piel que había mudado. Jeanette se sentía nueva.
El zorro, atajando por la hierba con andar brioso, la llevó en dirección a la Estatal 31, más allá del lado este de la cárcel. Jeanette tuvo que apretar el paso para no rezagarse mientras la vista se le acostumbraba a la intensa luz del día. Lanzó una ojeada a la cárcel: zarzales deshojados revestían los muros; empotradas contra la parte delantera del edificio, también densamente cubierta de zarzales, vio la mole herrumbrosa de un buldócer y una autocaravana; exuberantes matas de hierba amarilla brotaban de las grietas y los socavones del suelo del aparcamiento; sobre el asfalto había más vehículos oxidados. Jeanette miró en el sentido opuesto. Las vallas estaban derribadas, y entre la maleza brillaba la alambrada allanada. Aunque Jeanette no podía explicarse el cómo ni el porqué, sí asimiló inmediatamente el qué: aquello era el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, pero el mundo había seguido girando, quizá durante años.
Su guía continuó avanzando desde la cuneta de la Estatal 31, cruzó la calzada agrietada y en proceso de desintegración, y se adentró en la oscuridad verde azulada de la ladera boscosa que ascendía al otro lado. Conforme el zorro subía, su cola anaranjada oscilaba y destellaba en la penumbra.
Jeanette atravesó corriendo la carretera, atenta a la cola en movimiento. Resbaló en una mancha de humedad y tuvo que agarrarse a una rama para no perder el equilibrio. La pureza del aire —sabia de árbol y hojas en descomposición y tierra húmeda— le abrasó la garganta y el pecho. Estaba fuera de la cárcel, y afloró a su memoria el recuerdo de cuando jugaba al Monopoly en su infancia: ¡Sal de la cárcel! Aquella prodigiosa realidad nueva arrancó el recuadro de bosque del mismísimo tiempo y lo convirtió en una isla inaccesible —para los detergente industriales, las órdenes, el tintineo de llaves, los ronquidos y los pedos de las compañeras de celda, el llanto de las compañeras de celda, el sexo de las compañeras de celda, los portazos en las celdas— donde ella era la única soberana; la reina Jeanette, por siempre jamás. Verse en libertad era un placer, un placer inmenso que no había concebido en sus fantasías.
Pero de pronto: «Bobby». Lo susurró para sí. Ese era el nombre que debía recordar, que debía llevar consigo, para no sentir la tentación de quedarse.
3
Para Jeanette, era difícil juzgar la distancia; estaba acostumbrada a la llana pista de caucho que rodeaba el patio del Centro Penitenciario, con cada vuelta de unos cuatrocientos metros. El ascenso continuado hacia el sudoeste era más agotador que eso, y tenía que alargar el paso, con lo que los músculos de los muslos le protestaban de un modo doloroso y a la vez muy grato. El zorro se detenía de vez en cuando para permitirle recortar la distancia y luego reanudaba el trote. A pesar del frío, Jeanette estaba sudando a mares. En el aire se percibía esa sensación propia de los días en los que empieza a flojear el invierno y se adivina ya la primavera. Unos cuantos brotes de puntas verdes relucían en el marrón grisáceo del bosque, y allí donde la tierra quedaba desnuda bajo el cielo, se formaba fango a causa del deshielo.
Habían recorrido tal vez tres kilómetros, acaso cuatro, cuando el zorro llevó a Jeanette alrededor de una caravana volcada y embarrancada en medio de un mar de maleza. Antigua cinta policial amarilla aleteaba sobre la tierra. Intuyó que ya se encontraba cerca. Oyó un tenue zumbido en el aire. El sol estaba más alto y se acercaba el mediodía. Empezaba a tener sed y hambre, y quizá en su destino hubiera algo que comer y beber. ¡Qué bien le vendría en ese momento un refresco frío! Pero daba igual, era en Bobby en lo que necesitaba pensar. En volver a ver a Bobby. Más adelante el zorro desapareció bajo un arco de árboles quebrados.
Jeanette se apresuró a seguirlo, dejando atrás una pila de escombros envueltos en hierba. Tal vez en otro tiempo fuera una pequeña cabaña o un cobertizo. Allí cubrían las ramas de los árboles mariposas nocturnas, sus incontables cuerpos de color parduzco apretujados de tal modo que semejaban extrañas lapas. A lo que de algún modo siguió la comprensión intuitiva, pensó Jeanette, de que el mundo en que se encontraba era distinto de todo lo que había conocido antes, como un paraje en el fondo del mar. Las mariposas parecían inmóviles, pero las oía crepitar ligeramente, como si hablaran.
_Bobby_ , __ parecían decir. _No es tarde para empezar de nuevo_ , parecían decir.
Por fin llegó a terreno llano. A través de la última franja de árboles, Jeanette vio al zorro de pie entre la hierba desvaída de un campo invernal. Respiró hondo. Un olor a queroseno, completamente inesperado y en apariencia desligado de todo lo demás, le produjo un cosquilleo en la nariz y la boca.
Jeanette salió al claro y vio algo que no podía ser. Algo que la llevó a la absoluta certeza de que ya no estaba en la región de los Apalaches que conocía desde siempre.
4
Era un tigre blanco, con el pelaje coronado de marcas negras en forma de aleta. Movió en círculo la cabeza y rugió; fue un sonido semejante al del león de la Metro. Detrás de él se alzaba un árbol —un Árbol— que surgía de la tierra en una maraña de un centenar de troncos entrelazados en un amplio e imponente surtidor de ramas, recubiertas de hojas colgantes y espirales de musgo, entre las cuales bullía una muchedumbre de cuerpos de aves tropicales. Una gigantesca serpiente roja, con un resplandor trémulo, ascendía por el centro.
El zorro trotó hasta una hendidura en el tronco, lanzó una mirada un tanto pícara a Jeanette y desapareció en las profundidades. Eso era, ese era el túnel que comunicaba en los dos sentidos. El túnel que la llevaría de regreso al mundo que había abandonado, el mundo donde Bobby la esperaba. Se encaminó hacia allí.
—Quieta ahí. Y arriba las manos.
Una mujer que vestía una camisa amarilla de cuadros con botones en el cuello y unos vaqueros, de pie entre la hierba que le llegaba hasta las rodillas, apuntaba a Jeanette con una pistola. Había salido de detrás del árbol, que era, en su base, poco más o menos del tamaño de un bloque de apartamentos. En la mano que no sostenía la pistola, sujetaba un bidón con una goma elástica azul en torno a la franja media.
—No te acerques. Eres nueva, ¿verdad? Y esa ropa indica que vienes de la cárcel. Debes de estar confusa. —Una peculiar sonrisa asomó a los labios de la mujer de la camisa amarilla, un vano intento de atenuar la rareza de la situación: el Árbol, el tigre, el arma—. Quiero ayudarte. Te ayudaré. Aquí todas somos amigas. Soy Elaine, ¿vale? Elaine Nutting. Tú déjame ocuparme de esto, y luego hablaremos.
—¿«De esto»? ¿De qué? —preguntó Jeanette, pese a que estaba casi segura de saber a qué se refería. ¿Por qué, si no, olía a queroseno? La mujer se disponía a prender fuego al Árbol Imposible. Si este ardía, ardería el camino de regreso a Bobby. Eso había dicho Evie. No podía permitirse, pero ¿cómo detener a esa mujer? Estaba al menos a seis metros, demasiado lejos para abalanzarse sobre ella.
Elaine hincó una rodilla en el suelo. Sin apartar la vista de Jeanette, dejó la pistola a un lado en la tierra (aunque a mano) y se apresuró a desenroscar el tapón del bidón de queroseno—. Ya he vaciado los dos primeros alrededor. Solo necesito cerrar el círculo. Para asegurarme de que prende.
Jeanette dio un par de pasos al frente. Elaine agarró el arma y se puso en pie.
—¡Atrás!
—No puedes hacer eso —dijo Jeanette—. No tienes derecho.
El tigre blanco estaba sentado cerca de la hendidura por la que se había esfumado el zorro. Meneaba la cola y observaba con los ojos entornados, unos ojos de un vivo color ambarino. Elaine roció el árbol con queroseno, y la madera manchada adquirió una tonalidad marrón más oscura.
— _Tengo_ que hacerlo. Es mejor así. Resuelve todos los problemas. ¿Cuántos hombres te han hecho daño? Muchos, imagino. Yo he trabajado con mujeres como tú durante toda mi vida adulta. Sé que no entraste en la cárcel por iniciativa propia. Un hombre te empujó.
—Señora —dijo Jeanette, ofendida por la idea de que bastara una mirada para saber todo lo importante sobre ella—. Usted no me conoce.
—Quizá no personalmente, pero ¿tengo razón o no? —Elaine vació el resto del queroseno en unas raíces y arrojó el bidón a un lado. Jeanette pensó: Elaine Nutting, estás mal de la cabeza.
—Un hombre me hizo daño, sí. Pero yo le hice más daño a él. —Jeanette dio un paso hacia Elaine. Ya se hallaba a unos cinco metros—. Lo maté.
—Bien hecho, pero no te acerques. —Elaine blandió la pistola a uno y otro lado, como si así pudiera ahuyentar a Jeanette. O hacerla desaparecer.
Jeanette dio otro paso.
—Algunos dicen que se lo merecía, incluso algunos que eran amigos suyos. Bien, puede que ellos lo crean. Pero el fiscal no lo creyó. Más importante aún, tampoco _yo_ lo creo, aunque es verdad que no estaba en mi sano juicio cuando eso pasó. Y es verdad que nadie me ayudó cuando necesitaba ayuda. Así que lo maté, y lamento haberlo hecho. Yo cargo con el peso, no él. He de convivir con eso. Y lo hago.
Otro paso, corto.
—Tengo fortaleza suficiente para sobrellevar mi parte de la culpa, ¿entiende? Pero tengo un hijo que me necesita. Necesita saber cómo crecer sin torcerse, y eso puedo enseñárselo. Me he cansado de que me manipulen, hombres o mujeres. La próxima vez que Don Peters intente obligarme a meneársela, no lo mataré, pero... le arrancaré los ojos con las uñas y, si me pega, seguiré arañándolo. Me he cansado de ser un saco de boxeo. Así que puede usted coger lo que cree que sabe de mí y metérselo por donde no brilla el sol.
—Me temo que has perdido la razón —dijo Elaine.
—¿No hay aquí mujeres que quieren volver?
—No lo sé. —Elaine desvió la mirada—. Es posible. Pero están equivocadas.
—¿Y usted va a tomar la decisión por ellas?
—Si nadie más tiene agallas, sí —contestó Elaine (sin darse cuenta en absoluto de que hablaba casi como su marido)—. En ese caso me corresponde a mí.
Del bolsillo de los vaqueros, se sacó un encendedor largo con gatillo, de esos que se usaban para prender el carbón en las barbacoas. El tigre blanco observaba y ronroneaba: un retumbo grave semejante al de un motor al ralentí. Jeanette tuvo la impresión de que por ese lado no podía esperar ayuda.
—Supongo que no tiene hijos, ¿verdad? —preguntó Jeanette.
La mujer pareció dolida.
—Tengo una hija. Es la luz de mi vida.
—¿Y está aquí?
—Claro que sí. Aquí vive a salvo. Y quiero que siga así.
—¿Qué dice ella al respecto?
—Lo que ella dice no tiene importancia. Es solo una niña.
—Bien, ¿y qué me dice de todas las mujeres que han tenido que dejar atrás a hijos varones? ¿No tienen ellas derecho a criar a sus hijos y mantenerlos a salvo? Incluso si les gusta esto, ¿no tienen esa _responsabilidad_?
—Mira —dijo Elaine con una sonrisa de superioridad—, eso que acabas de decir prueba por sí solo lo tonta que eres. Los _chicos_ crecen y se convierten en _hombres_. Y son los hombres los causantes de todos los problemas. Son ellos quienes derraman sangre y envenenan la tierra. Estamos mejor aquí. Aquí hay niños varones, sí, pero serán distintos. Les enseñaremos a ser distintos. —Respiró hondo. Su sonrisa se agrandó, como si la inflara con gas de la locura—. Este mundo será bueno.
—Déjeme preguntarle una cosa: ¿se propone cerrar la puerta a la vida que todas las demás mujeres han dejado atrás sin preguntárselo siquiera?
La sonrisa de Elaine vaciló.
—Puede que no lo entiendas, así que... estoy haciendo...
—¿Qué está haciendo, señora? ¿Además de provocar un desastre? —Jeanette se metió la mano en el bolsillo.
El zorro reapareció y se sentó al lado del tigre. La serpiente roja se deslizó pesadamente sobre una de las zapatillas de Jeanette, pero ella ni siquiera la miró. Esos animales no atacaban, comprendió; pertenecían a lo que cierto predicador, allá en los días sombríos de su optimista infancia cuando aún iba a la iglesia, llamaba el Reino Apacible.
Elaine pulsó el gatillo del encendedor. Una llama ondeó en la punta.
—¡Estoy tomando _una decisión ejecutiva_!
Jeanette se sacó la mano del bolsillo y arrojó un puñado de guisantes a la otra mujer. Elaine dio un respingo, levantó la mano con la que empuñaba el arma en un movimiento de defensa instintivo y retrocedió. Jeanette salvó la distancia que las separaba y la rodeó por la cintura. El arma escapó de la mano de Elaine y cayó al suelo. Aun así, Elaine se aferró al encendedor. Se estiró, y la llama de la punta se curvó hacia el nudo de raíces húmedas de queroseno. Jeanette se golpeó la muñeca contra el suelo. El encendedor le resbaló de la mano y se apagó, pero ya era tarde: vacilantes llamas azules se deslizaban por una de las raíces y ascendían hacia el tronco.
La serpiente roja reptó árbol arriba para alejarse del fuego. El tigre, perezosamente, se puso en pie, se acercó a la raíz encendida y plantó una pata encima. Una nube de humo se elevó en torno a la pata, y Jeanette percibió un olor a pelaje chamuscado, pero el tigre permaneció inmóvil. Cuando se apartó, las llamas azules habían desaparecido.
La mujer sollozaba cuando Jeanette se apartó de ella.
—Solo quiero que Nana esté a salvo... Solo quiero que crezca a salvo...
—Ya lo sé.
Jeanette no conocía a la hija de esa mujer, y seguramente nunca la conocería, pero reconoció el sonido del verdadero dolor, el dolor del espíritu. Ella misma lo había experimentado de sobra. Cogió el encendedor de barbacoa. Lo examinó. Una herramienta tan pequeña para cerrar la puerta entre dos mundos. Podría haber servido, a no ser por el tigre. ¿Era acaso lo que ese animal debía hacer?, se preguntó Jeanette. ¿O se había excedido en sus competencias? Y si era así, ¿sería castigado?
Tantas preguntas. Tan pocas respuestas. Daba igual. Trazó un círculo con el brazo y observó el encendedor de barbacoa alejarse girando por el aire. Elaine profirió un grito de desesperación cuando se perdió de vista entra la hierba a diez o quince metros de distancia. Jeanette se agachó y cogió la pistola, dispuesta a colocársela bajo el cinturón, pero lógicamente vestía el uniforme de reclusa, sin cinturón. Los cinturones estaban prohibidos. A veces las reclusas se ahorcaban con los cinturones, si los tenían. El pantalón, ceñido mediante un cordón, tenía bolsillo, pero era poco profundo y aún lo llevaba medio lleno de guisantes; el arma se le caería. ¿Qué hacer con ella? Tirarla a lo lejos parecía la solución más sensata.
Todavía no había tenido oportunidad de hacerlo cuando oyó a sus espaldas un susurro entre el follaje. Jeanette giró en redondo con la pistola en la mano.
—¡Eh! ¡Suéltala! ¡Suelta el arma!
En el linde del bosque acababa de aparecer otra mujer armada, que apuntaba con su pistola a Jeanette. A diferencia de Elaine, esta sostenía el arma con las dos manos y tenía las piernas separadas y bien apuntaladas, como si supiera lo que hacía. Jeanette, para quien las órdenes no eran nada nuevo, empezó a bajar el arma con la intención de dejarla en la hierba junto al árbol... pero a una distancia prudencial de la chiflada de Elaine, que quizá intentara recuperarla. Cuando se agachaba, la serpiente se deslizó susurrante por la rama situada encima de ella. Jeanette dio un respingo y levantó la mano con la que sostenía el arma para protegerse la cabeza de un objeto que caía y solo entrevió. Se oyó un crujido, luego un débil sonido metálico, el de dos tazas de café al entrechocar dentro de un armario, y le pareció oír a Evie: un grito inarticulado de dolor y sorpresa. Después de eso, el tiempo avanzó de un salto. Jeanette yacía en el suelo, el cielo eran solo hojas, y tenía sangre en la boca.
La mujer armada se acercó. El cañón humeaba, y Jeanette comprendió que, en realidad, aquello no había sido un salto en el tiempo. Había recibido un disparo.
—¡Déjala! —ordenó la mujer.
Jeanette abrió la mano, sin saber que aún sujetaba la pistola hasta que esta se desprendió de entre sus dedos.
—Yo a usted la conozco —susurró Jeanette. Sentía un peso grande y caliente en el pecho. Le costaba respirar, pero no le dolía—. Usted es la que trajo a Evie a la cárcel. La policía. La vi por la ventana.
—Eso huele a queroseno —dijo Lila. Cogió el bidón volcado, lo olfateó y lo dejó caer.
Al acabar la Reunión de esa mañana en Shopwell, alguien había mencionado que uno de los carritos de golf no estaba, y en el registro no constaba que nadie se lo hubiera llevado; una chica llamada Maisie Wettermore informó voluntariamente de que había visto a Elaine Nutting hacía solo unos minutos dirigirse en el carrito hacia el almacén de madera de Adams. Lila, en compañía de Janice Coates, intercambió una mirada con la exdirectora de la cárcel. Por entonces, en dirección al almacén de madera de Adams, había solo dos cosas: los escombros estériles de un laboratorio de meta y el Árbol. La idea de que Elaine Nutting fuese allí sola preocupó a las dos. Lila recordó las dudas de Elaine sobre los animales que había allí —en especial, el tigre—, y se le ocurrió que quizá intentara matarlo. Eso, Lila estaba segura, sería una imprudencia. Así que las dos habían cogido otro carrito de golf y la habían seguido.
Y Lila acababa de disparar contra una mujer que nunca antes había visto, y la mujer yacía sangrando en el suelo.
—¿Qué demonios ibas a hacer? —preguntó Lila.
—Yo no —contestó Jeanette, y miró a la mujer sollozante—. Ella. Ha sido ella. Su queroseno. Su arma. Yo se lo he impedido.
Jeanette supo que estaba a punto de morir, pero no le dolía exactamente. Ascendía por su cuerpo una frialdad como la del agua de un pozo, primero los dedos de los pies, luego los tobillos, luego las rodillas, en continuo ascenso hacia el corazón. Bobby, de pequeño, tenía miedo al agua.
Y Bobby temía que alguien le quitara la Coca-Cola y la gorra de Mickey Mouse. Ese era el momento plasmado en la foto del pequeño recuadro pintado en su celda. No, cielo, no, le había dicho ella. No te preocupes. Eso es tuyo. Tu madre no va a permitir que nadie te lo quite.
¿Y si Bobby estuviera allí ahora, preguntándole por esa agua? ¿Esa agua en la que su madre se estaba hundiendo? Ah, le diría, tampoco hay razón para preocuparse por eso. Al principio notas la impresión, pero luego te acostumbras.
Sin embargo, Jeanette no era una campeona de Premio a la Mentira. No era una concursante de ese nivel. Habría podido colarle una mentirijilla a Bobbie, pero no a Ree. Si Ree hubiese estado allí, habría tenido que reconocer que si bien el agua del pozo no dolía, tampoco producía una sensación de normalidad.
Oía la voz incorpórea del presentador: «Aquí se acabó el juego para Jeanette Sorley, me temo, pero vamos a mandarla a casa con unos preciosos regalos de despedida. ¡Háblale de ellos, Ken!». El presentador hablaba como Warner Wolf, nada menos que el hombre de «Pasemos al vídeo». Eh, si a una la mandaban a casa, no podía pedir mejor locutor.
La directora Coates, con el cabello ya tan blanco como el papel, tapó el cielo que Jeanette veía. Le quedaba bien, ese pelo. Aunque estaba muy delgada, con grandes huecos bajo los ojos, las mejillas chupadas. Encontró el encendedor de barbacoa.
—¿Sorley? —Coates se arrodilló y le cogió la mano—. ¿Jeanette?
—Mierda —dijo la policía—. Me parece que acabo de cometer un error gravísimo. —Se arrodilló y, apoyando las palmas de las manos contra la herida de Jeanette, hizo presión, consciente de que no servía de nada—. Yo solo quería herirla levemente, pero a esa distancia... y temía tanto por el Árbol. Lo siento.
Jeanette notó hilos de sangre que escapaban de las comisuras de sus labios. Empezó a jadear.
—Tengo un hijo... se llama Bobby... tengo un hijo...
Jeanette dirigió sus últimas palabras a Elaine, y lo último que vio fue la cara de esa mujer, sus ojos muy abiertos, temerosos.
—... Por favor... tengo un hijo...
### 15
_Más tarde, cuando el humo y el gas lacrimógeno se disipen, correrán decenas de historias sobre la batalla por el Centro de Penitenciario de Mujeres de Dooling, todas distintas, contradictorias en su mayoría, ciertas en algunos detalles y falsas en otros. Cuando se inicia un conflicto grave —una lucha a muerte—, la realidad objetiva se desvanece enseguida entre el humo y el ruido._
_Además, muchos de aquellos que podrían haber aportado sus versiones estaban muertos._
__
__
1
Mientras Van Lampley —herida en la cadera, sangrante, muerta de cansancio— avanzaba lentamente en su todoterreno por un camino de tierra que podía ser Allen Lane (costaba asegurarlo; un sinfín de caminos tortuosos surcaban aquellos montes), oyó una explosión lejana, procedente de la zona donde se hallaba la cárcel. Apartó la vista del móvil equipado con localizador que había confiscado a Fritz Meshaum. En la pantalla, el teléfono que tenía en su mano aparecía representado como un punto rojo. El emisor de señal GPS instalado en la bazuca era verde. En ese momento los dos puntos se hallaban muy cerca, y Van tenía la sensación de que ya había llegado en el todoterreno todo lo lejos que era posible llegar sin alertar a los Griner de su presencia.
Tal vez esa explosión fuera otro obús de bazuca lanzado por ellos. Cabía la posibilidad, pero Van, como mujer que se había criado en una zona minera al desapacible son de la dinamita, no lo creía. El estallido proveniente de la cárcel había sido más agudo y potente. Había sido dina, sin duda. Por lo visto, esa noche los hermanos Griner no eran los únicos granujas sueltos provistos de explosivos.
Aparcó, se apeó del todoterreno y siguió a pie con andar vacilante. Tenía la pernera izquierda empapada de sangre desde la cadera hasta la rodilla, y la adrenalina que la había llevado hasta allí empezaba a decaer. Le dolían todas las partes del cuerpo, pero la cadera, donde Meshaum le había disparado, era un suplicio. Ahí se le había roto algo, notaba que le rechinaban los huesos con cada paso, y sentía ya el mareo de la pérdida de sangre, unido a los días y días con sus noches de privación del sueño. Todas las partes de ella le pedían a gritos que se rindiera, que abandonara esa locura y se durmiera.
Y lo haré, pensó, agarrando el rifle y la pistola antigua que Meshaum había utilizado contra ella, pero todavía no. Quizá no sea capaz de hacer nada con respecto a lo que está pasando en la cárcel, pero sí puedo hacer sufrir a esos cabrones antes de que cometan alguna fechoría peor. Después ya podré irme a sobar.
Dos roderas invadidas por la hierba que quizá en otro tiempo fueran un sendero se desviaban del camino entre los árboles replantados y la maleza. Veinte metros más allá encontró la furgoneta que los Griner habían robado. Miró en su interior, no vio nada que le interesara y siguió adelante, arrastrando la pierna junto con el resto de su cuerpo. No necesitaba ya la aplicación de localización, porque sabía dónde estaba, si bien no había visitado esa zona desde que estaba en el instituto, cuando aquello era un lugar de magreo para los adolescentes no precisamente selecto. A unos quinientos metros, tal vez un poco más, el sendero invadido por la hierba terminaba en una loma donde había unas cuantas lápidas ladeadas: el cementerio de una familia que se había marchado hacía mucho tiempo, probablemente la familia Allen, si se trataba realmente de Allen Lane. En su día era la tercera o cuarta opción para los chicos salidos, porque la loma daba al Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, una vista no muy propicia para los idilios.
Puedo hacerlo, se dijo. Cincuenta metros más.
Recorrió los cincuenta metros, se dijo que podía andar otros cincuenta, y siguió así hasta que oyó voces más adelante. De pronto resonó un zumbido explosivo, seguido de los hurras y las palmadas en la espalda de Little Low Griner y su hermano.
—¡Tenía mis dudas sobre el alcance, hermano, pero fíjate! —exclamó uno de ellos.
La respuesta del otro fue un grito de rebeldía.
Van amartilló la pistola de Meshaum y avanzó hacia los sonidos de celebración de aquellos dos paletos.
2
Clint pensaba que la expresión «caerse el alma a los pies» no era más que una figura poética hasta que él mismo la experimentó. Sin darse cuenta de que ya no lo cubría el ángulo sudoccidental del edificio principal, se quedó mirando, boquiabierto, la lluvia de hormigón procedente del módulo C. ¿Cuántas de las mujeres dormidas en esa galería de celdas habrían muerto a causa de la explosión, calcinadas o echas trizas en sus capullos? Apenas oyó un zumbido junto a su oreja izquierda ni sintió el tirón cuando otra bala, esta disparada por Mick Napolitano desde detrás del segundo buldócer, le rasgó el bolsillo del pantalón y la calderilla se le cayó por dentro de la pernera.
Willy Burke lo agarró por los hombros y tiró de él con tal violencia que Clint estuvo a punto de caerse.
—¿Está loco, doctor? ¿Quiere que lo maten?
—Las mujeres —dijo Clint—. Ahí había mujeres. —Se enjugó los ojos, que le escocían a causa del gas acre y se le llenaban de lágrimas—. ¡Ese Geary, el muy hijo de puta, ha apostado un lanzagranadas o algo parecido en la loma donde está el pequeño cementerio!
—Ya no podemos hacer nada al respecto. —Willy se dobló por la cintura y se agarró las rodillas—. En todo caso ha eliminado a uno de esos cabrones, y ya es algo, para empezar. Tenemos que entrar. Vamos a la puerta de atrás; de paso nos llevaremos a Billy adentro.
Tenía razón. La parte delantera del edificio había quedado expuesta al fuego.
—Willy, ¿se encuentra bien?
Willy Burke se irguió y le dirigió una sonrisa tensa. Estaba pálido y tenía la frente perlada de sudor.
—En fin, caray. Puede que esté teniendo un ligero ataque al corazón. Después del último chequeo, el médico me aconsejó que dejara la pipa. Tendría que haberle hecho caso.
Oh, no, pensó Clint. Joder, oh, no.
Willy adivinó el pensamiento a Clint por su expresión —la vista no le fallaba— y le dio una palmada en el hombro.
—Aún no estoy acabado. Vamos.
3
Desde su posición frente a la sala de visitas, ya con toda seguridad destruida por la explosión de dinamita (junto con quienquiera que estuviese dentro), Frank vio a Jack Albertson caer con la máscara antigás torcida. Donde antes tenía la cara no quedaba más que sangre. Ni su madre lo habría reconocido, pensó Frank.
Levantó el walkie-talkie.
—¡Informad! ¡Informad todos!
Solo se comunicaron unos ocho, en su mayor parte aquellos que habían utilizado los buldóceres para cubrirse. No todos los hombres tenían walkie-talkies, era cierto, pero debería haber habido algunas respuestas más. El cálculo más optimista de Frank era que había perdido a cuatro hombres, incluido Jack, que por fuerza estaba muerto. En el fondo, se temía que podían ser cinco o seis, y los heridos necesitarían hospitalización. Quizá el chico, Blass, a quien habían dejado en el control de carretera con Miller, podía llevarlos al St. Theresa en uno de los autobuses, aunque a saber quién seguía allí de servicio. Si es que quedaba alguien. ¿Cómo habían llegado a ese punto? Contaban con los buldóceres, por Dios. ¡Con eso teóricamente todo tendría que haber terminado enseguida!
Johnny Lee Kronsky lo agarró por el hombro.
—Tenemos que entrar ahí, amigo. Acabar con ellos. Con esto. —Aún tenía la mochila abierta. Apartó la toalla con la que había envuelto la dinamita y enseñó a Frank el mazacote de C-4 de los hermanos Griner. Kronsky le había dado forma de algo parecido a un balón de futbol para niños. Llevaba un Android incrustado.
—Es mi teléfono —aclaró Kronsky—. Lo dono a la causa. De todos modos, era una mierda.
—¿Por dónde entramos? —preguntó Frank.
El viento se llevaba el gas lacrimógeno, pero tenía la sensación de que el humo le había invadido la cabeza, empañando todo pensamiento. Clareaba, un sol rojo asomaba ya.
—Yo iría derecho al meollo —contestó Kronsky, y señaló la autocaravana Fleetwood, medio aplastada. Estaba ladeada contra el edificio, pero había un mínimo espacio para pasar y llegar a la puerta principal, hundida hacia dentro y arrancada de las bisagras—. Struthers y esa gente del buldócer nos cubrirán. Nosotros entramos y avanzamos hasta llegar a donde está la zorra que ha provocado todo esto.
Frank ya no sabía muy bien cuál era la causa de todo aquello, ni quién estaba al mando, pero asintió. Al parecer, no tenía alternativa.
—He de poner el temporizador —anunció Kronsky, y encendió el teléfono incrustado en el C-4.
El móvil tenía un cable conectado en el puerto. El otro extremo comunicaba con varias pilas hincadas en el explosivo. Al mirarlo Frank se acordó de cuando Elaine preparaba las comidas de los domingos y, al sacar el asado del horno, clavaba un termómetro para carne.
Kronsky le dio una palmada en el hombro, y no con delicadeza.
—¿Cuánto tiempo, calcula usted? Y piénselo con cuidado, porque cuando la cuenta atrás llegue a un número de una sola cifra, voy a tirar esto, esté donde esté.
—Supongo... —Frank sacudió la cabeza en un intento de despejársela. Nunca había entrado en la cárcel, y confiaba en que Don Peters le proporcionara la descripción del espacio interior. No se había dado cuenta de lo inútil que era Peters. Cuando ya era demasiado tarde, eso se le antojaba un descuido clamoroso. ¿Cuántas más cosas habría pasado por alto?—. ¿Cuatro minutos?
—¿Me lo está preguntando o me está respondiendo? —dijo Kronsky en el mismo tono que un profesor de instituto malhumorado ante un alumno duro de mollera.
Oyeron disparos aislados, pero el ataque parecía haber amainado. Tal vez lo siguiente fuera que sus hombres decidieran retroceder. Eso no podía consentirse.
Nana, __ pensó Frank, y dijo:
—Cuatro minutos. Estoy seguro.
Frank pensó: Dentro de cuatro minutos estaré muerto o esto irá camino de terminarse.
Por supuesto cabía la posibilidad de que la mujer resultara muerta en el asalto final, pero era un riesgo que tendría que asumir. Eso lo llevó a pensar en sus perros callejeros enjaulados, en sus vidas a merced de fuerzas que no entendían.
Kronsky abrió una aplicación, pulsó en la pantalla y apareció un **4.00**. Volvió a pulsar y se inició la cuenta atrás. Frank observó, fascinado, mientras **3.59** daba paso a **3.58** y luego a **3.57**.
—¿Preparado, Geary? —preguntó Kronsky. En su sonrisa de psicópata relució un diente de oro.
(«¿Qué haces?», había preguntado a gritos el hijo de puta del agitador a Kronsky aquel día en la mina Graystone n.º 7 de Ulysses Energy. «No te rezagues.» El hijo de puta del agitador iba al menos veinte metros por delante en el túnel. En la profunda negrura subterránea, Kronsky no le había visto la cara a aquel cabrón descerebrado, y menos la camiseta de Woody Guthrie, sino solo la lámpara frontal. El poder está en el sindicato, se complacía en decir el hijo de puta del agitador. Más poder hay en un dólar, y el hombre de Ulysses Energy había dado a Johnny Lee Kronsky unos cuantos billetes nuevos y crujientes para que le resolviera el problema. «Os podéis ir a la mierda tú, el sindicato y la madre que os parió», había dicho Kronsky al hijo de puta del agitador antes de arrojar la dinamita y echarse a correr como alma que llevaba el diablo.)
—Creo que deberíamos... —empezó a decir Frank, y fue entonces cuando Lowell Griner disparó la bazuca por primera vez. Se oyó un zumbido casi por encima de sus cabezas. Alcanzó a ver la imagen borrosa de un objeto volador. Un proyectil.
—¡Cuerpo a tierra! —exclamó Kronsky, pero no dio a Frank opción a obedecer; sencillamente lo agarró del cuello y tiró de él hacia abajo.
El obús de la bazuca impactó en el módulo C y estalló. En el mundo más allá del Árbol, desaparecieron catorce antiguas reclusas del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling en medio de un fogonazo antes de que nubes de mariposas se dispersaran por el aire donde ellas habían estado.
4
Pese a que tenía un walkie-talkie, Drew T. Barry era uno de los que no había respondido a la orden de informar de Frank. Ni siquiera la había oído, porque tenía apagado al aparato. Había ascendido a la posición más elevada posible sin dejar de estar a cubierto, y allí se descolgó el Weatherby del hombro. El ángulo no era tan bueno como esperaba. Por la mira, vio un cobertizo de metal acanalado. La puerta trasera de la cárcel estaba abierta —ante ella se proyectaba un rectángulo de luz—, pero aquel individuo se ocultaba detrás del cobertizo, defendiendo esa entrada. Barry vio un codo... un hombro... parte de una cabeza, aunque desaparecieron rápidamente después de que el individuo echara un vistazo rápido al lugar donde Elmore Pearl y Don Peters seguían apostados. Drew T. Barry tenía que abatir a ese tipo y ardía en deseos de disparar —sí, el dedo del gatillo le ardía literalmente—, pero sabía que abstenerse de disparar era mejor que errar un tiro. Tenía que esperar. Si Pearl o Peters tiraban otra piedra, el tipo tal vez asomaría toda la cabeza para ver qué ocurría, pero Drew T. Barry no contaba con eso ni lo esperaba. Elmore Pearl era demasiado cauto, y el gordo de Peters era más tonto que hecho de encargo.
Muévete, mamón _,_ pensó Drew T. Barry. Dos pasos bastarían. Quizá solo uno.
Pero Billy Wettermore, pese a haberse acuclillado cuando estalló la dinamita, mantuvo la posición detrás del cobertizo. Hizo falta que estallara el obús de la bazuca para que se pusiera en pie. Abandonó la protección del cobertizo para mirar hacia el sonido, y en ese momento Drew T. Barry dispuso del blanco limpio que estaba esperando.
El humo flotaba por encima de la cárcel. La gente gritaba. Disparaba... sin duda a ciegas. Drew T. Barry no soportaba los tiros a ciegas. Contuvo la respiración y apretó el gatillo del rifle. El resultado fue plenamente satisfactorio. En la mira vio volar hacia delante al defensor, con la camisa hecha jirones.
—Dios, le he dado —exclamó Drew T. Barry, contemplando los restos de Billy Wettermore con compungida satisfacción—. Ha sido un buen tiro, si no está mal que yo lo...
Más abajo, entre los árboles, sonó otra detonación, seguida de la voz inconfundible del ayudante Elmore Pearl:
— _Eh_ , _pedazo de gilipollas, ¿qué has hecho? ¿QUÉ HAS HECHO?_
Drew T. Barry corrió hacia sus compañeros, agazapado, preguntándose qué habría salido mal.
5
Clint y Willy vieron a Billy Wettermore salir lanzado por los aires. Cuando cayó, ya estaba inerte. Uno de los zapatos voló de su pie, giró y rebotó en el borde del tejado del cobertizo. Clint hizo ademán de acercarse a él. La mano con que Willy Burke lo retuvo poseía una fuerza sorprendente.
—No, no —instó Willy—. Atrás, doctor. Ese camino ya no nos sirve.
Clint intentó pensar.
—Quizá podríamos entrar en mi despacho por la ventana. Tiene cristal reforzado, pero no barrotes.
—Yo me ocuparé de la ventana —dijo Willy—. Vamos. —Sin embargo, en lugar de moverse, volvió a doblarse por la cintura y se agarró las rodillas.
6
Don Peters apenas oyó los gritos de Elmore Pearl. Aturdido por la conmoción, de rodillas, contemplaba a su compañero de la Patrulla Zombi, caído en el suelo con los brazos y las piernas extendidos y sangre manando a borbotones de un agujero en la base del cuello. Eric Blass, de cuya garganta borbotaba la sangre, lo miraba.
—¡Compañero! —exclamó Don. El casco de fútbol le resbaló, tapándole los ojos, y se lo echó atrás con la palma de la mano—. ¡Compañero, no era mi intención!
Pearl lo obligó a levantarse de un tirón.
—Pedazo de gilipollas, ¿nadie te ha enseñado a mirar a qué disparas antes de apretar el gatillo?
Eric emitió un denso gorgoteo, tosió expulsando gotas de sangre y se palpó la garganta destrozada.
Don quiso explicarse. Primero el rugido de la dinamita, luego una segunda explosión, luego el murmullo entre los arbustos a su espalda. Estaba seguro de que era alguno de los hombres del puto loquero. ¿Cómo iba a imaginar que era Blass? Había disparado sin pensar, y menos aún apuntar. ¿Qué malévola manifestación de la providencia había querido que la bala alcanzara a Blass cuando salía de entre los árboles para reunirse con ellos?
—Yo... yo...
Apareció Drew T. Barry con el Weatherby colgado al hombro.
—¿Qué demonios...?
—Bill Hickok el Salvaje acaba de disparar contra uno de los nuestros —respondió Pearl. Asestó un puñetazo en el vientre a Don, que cayó junto a Eric—. El chico venía a ayudar, supongo.
—¡Pensaba que estaba en los autobuses! —se disculpó Don con la respiración entrecortada—. ¡Frank le había ordenado que se quedara allí por si había heridos, yo lo he oído! —Eso era verdad.
Drew T. Barry tiró de Don para obligarlo a ponerse en pie. Cuando Pearl cerró el puño para golpear de nuevo a aquel hombre pálido y sollozante, Barry lo sujetó.
—Péguele todo lo que quiera más tarde. Por lo que a mí respecta, péguele hasta cansarse. Pero de momento puede que lo necesitemos: él conoce el terreno, y nosotros, no.
—¿Le ha dado? —preguntó Pearl—. ¿Al tipo situado junto al cobertizo?
—Le he dado —contestó Drew T. Barry—, y si alguna vez esto termina en un juzgado, recuerde que usted me ha dado luz verde. Ahora terminemos con este asunto.
Vieron un intenso destello procedente de una loma situada frente a la cárcel y una estela de humo blanco. A esta siguió otra explosión en el otro extremo de la cárcel.
—¿Quién coño está disparando proyectiles desde aquel monte? —preguntó Pearl.
—Ni lo sé ni me importa —respondió Barry—. Estando aquí, detrás de la cárcel, hay unas mil toneladas de hormigón entre nosotros y ellos. —Señaló monte abajo y más allá de la pista de atletismo—. ¿Qué hay al otro lado de esa puerta?
—El gimnasio —contestó Don, deseoso de expiar lo que ya empezaba a creer que había sido un error justificable, una de esas cosas que le pasarían a cualquiera. Intentaba proteger a Pearl además de a mí, pensó, y cuando esta locura termine, Elmore se dará cuenta. Probablemente me dará las gracias y me invitará a una copa en el Squeaky. Y además solo era Blass, un chiflado, un delincuente donde los haya, que prendió fuego a aquella pobre sintecho antes de que Don pudiera impedírselo.
—Es donde esas putas juegan al baloncesto y al softball. El pasillo principal empieza al otro lado, lo que llamamos Broadway. La mujer está en una celda del módulo A, a la izquierda. No muy lejos.
—Pues vamos —instó Pearl—. Tú guías, pistolero. Tengo unas cizallas para la alambrada.
Don no deseaba guiarlos.
—Quizá debería quedarme aquí con Eric. Al fin y al cabo, era mi compañero.
—No hace falta —contestó Drew T. Barry—. Ha fallecido.
7
Un año antes de Aurora, cuando Michaela aún estaba relegada a las noticias de relleno en NewsAmerica —cosas como perros que sabían contar y hermanos gemelos que se reunían por azar después de cincuenta años de separación—, hizo un reportaje sobre la circunstancia de que las personas con grandes colecciones de libros pagaban menos de calefacción que quienes no leían, porque los libros eran un buen aislante. Con esto en mente, en cuanto empezó el tiroteo, se escabulló con la cabeza gacha y se refugió en la biblioteca de la cárcel. Descubrió que en las estanterías había en esencia libros de bolsillo manoseados, no precisamente el aislante en que ella pensaba, y cuando la dinamita estalló en la sala contigua y la pared se sacudió, llovieron sobre ella novelas de Nora Roberts y James Patterson.
Volvió corriendo a Broadway, esa vez sin molestarse en agachar la cabeza, pero sí se detuvo, horrorizada, a mirar en la sala de visitas, donde lo que quedaba de Rand Quigley formaba un charco en el suelo y goteaba del techo.
Se sentía totalmente desorientada, al borde del pánico, y cuando el obús de la bazuca alcanzó el módulo C y una nube de polvo avanzó hacia ella (recordándole imágenes que había visto después del hundimiento de las Torres Gemelas), se volvió para desandar el camino. No había dado ni tres pasos cuando un brazo fuerte le rodeó el cuello, y notó el frío del acero contra la sien.
—Eh, monada —dijo Angel Fitzroy. Al ver que Michaela no respondía de inmediato a su saludo, Angel apretó más con el escoplo que se había llevado prestado del taller de carpintería—. ¿Qué coño está pasando ahí fuera?
—El apocalipsis —consiguió responder Michaela con una voz ahogada que no se parecía nada a sus trinos televisivos—. Por favor, deja de apretarme el cuello.
Angel la soltó y obligó a Michaela a volverse de cara a ella. El humo que flotaba en el pasillo arrastraba el olor acre del gas lacrimógeno, y las dos tosieron, pero se veían perfectamente. La mujer del escoplo era guapa de una manera rectilínea, intensa y depredadora.
—Te noto distinta —observó Michaela. Posiblemente un comentario en extremo estúpido cuando la cárcel estaba bajo asedio y una presa blandía un escoplo antes sus ojos, pero no se le ocurrió otra cosa que decir—. Despierta. Despierta de verdad.
— _Ella_ me ha despertado —explicó Angel con orgullo—. Evie. Como hizo contigo. Porque tenía una misión que cumplir.
—¿Qué misión?
— _Ellas_ —contestó Angel, y señaló a dos mujeres que se acercaban lentamente por el pasillo, al parecer indiferentes al humo y los disparos.
A ojos de Michaela, los jirones de capullo que colgaban de Maura Dunbarton y Kayleigh Rawlings semejaban restos de mortaja podrida en una película de terror. Pasaron de largo sin mirar a Michaela ni a Angel.
—¿Cómo pueden...? —empezó Michaela, pero un segundo obús de bazuca estalló en la parte delantera sin darle tiempo a terminar la pregunta.
El suelo tembló y entró más humo, negro, con olor a gasoil.
—No sé cómo pueden hacer nada, ni me importa —respondió Angel—. Ellas tienen su tarea, y yo, la mía. Puedes echarme una mano o puedo clavarte este escoplo en la molleja. ¿Qué prefieres?
—Te echaré una mano —contestó Michaela. (Ética periodística al margen, sería difícil dar esa noticia más adelante si estaba, en fin, muerta.) Siguió a Angel, quien al menos parecía saber por dónde iba—. ¿Cuál es la tarea?
—Proteger a la bruja —contestó Angel—. O morir en el intento.
Antes de que Michaela pudiera responder, Jared Norcross salió de la cocina, contigua a la lavandería de la cárcel, donde Michaela lo había dejado. Angel levantó el escoplo. Michaela le agarró la muñeca.
—¡No! ¡Es de los nuestros!
Angel dirigió a Jared su mejor Mirada de la Muerte.
—¿Lo eres? ¿Eres de los nuestros? ¿Ayudarás a proteger a la bruja?
—Bueno —dijo Jared—, me proponía ir de discotecas y tomar un poco de éxtasis, pero supongo que puedo cambiar de planes.
—Le he dicho a Clint que te protegería —recordó Michaela con tono de reproche.
Angel blandió el escoplo y enseñó los dientes.
—Hoy nadie recibe protección más que la bruja. ¡Nadie recibe protección más que Evie!
—Bien —contestó Jared—. Si eso ayuda a mi padre y sirve para devolvernos a mi madre y a Mary, me apunto.
—¿Mary es tu novia? —preguntó Angel. Había bajado el escoplo.
—No lo sé. No exactamente.
—No exactamente. —Angel pareció reflexionar al respecto por un momento—. ¿La tratas bien? ¿No la empujas, no le pegas, no le gritas?
—Tenemos que salir de aquí, o nos asfixiaremos —instó Michaela.
—Sí, la trato bien.
—Más te vale —dijo Angel—. Venga, en marcha. Evie está en la celda acolchada del módulo A. Por acolchada que esté la celda, los barrotes son igual de duros que los de cualquier otra. Tenéis que colocaros delante. Así, todo aquel que quiera llegar a ella tendrá que pasar por encima de vosotros.
A Michaela eso le pareció un pésimo plan, lo que podía explicar por qué Angel decía «vosotros» en lugar de «nosotros».
—¿Tú dónde estarás?
—En misión comando —contestó Angel—. Quizá pueda liquidar a unos cuantos antes de que lleguen aquí. —Blandió el escoplo—. No tardaré en estar con vosotros, no temáis.
—Unas cuantas armas no vendrían mal, si de verdad te... —La voz de Jared quedó ahogada por una última explosión, aún más sonora.
Esta vez llovieron cascotes, en su mayor parte trozos de pared y techo. Cuando Michaela y Jared se irguieron, Angel ya no estaba.
8
—¿Qué coño ha sido _eso_? —preguntó Frank en los segundos posteriores al impacto del primer obús de bazuca en el módulo C. Se puso en pie y se sacudió el polvo, la tierra y unos cuantos trozos de cemento del pelo. No le zumbaban los oídos exactamente; lo que oía era el gemido acerado y agudo que a veces se le metía en la cabeza después de tomar demasiadas aspirinas.
—Están disparando con artillería desde aquella loma —dijo Kronsky—. Probablemente los mismos que se han cargado la oficina del sheriff. Vamos, señor Sheriff en Funciones. El tiempo apremia. —Una vez más enseñó los dientes en una sonrisa con un destello dorado tan alegre que resultaba surrealista. Señaló la pantalla del teléfono incrustado en el explosivo plástico. **3.07** dio paso a **3.06** y luego a **3.05**.
—Vale —dijo Frank.
—Recuerde, nada de vacilaciones. Al que vacila le dan por el culo.
Se encaminaron hacia las puertas delanteras derribadas. De reojo, Frank vio a los hombres que habían llegado hasta allí, a cubierto detrás de los buldóceres; los observaban. Ninguno parecía demasiado interesado en unirse a esa parte del asalto en particular, y Frank lo entendía. Seguramente algunos lamentaban no haberse marchado con Terry Coombs.
9
Mientras la batalla por el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling se acercaba a su clímax, Terry se hallaba en su garaje, dentro de su coche. El garaje era pequeño; la puerta estaba cerrada; tenía las ventanillas de la Unidad Cuatro abiertas y el potente motor de ocho válvulas al ralentí. Terry aspiraba los gases de escape en largas bocanadas para llenarse los pulmones. Al principio sabía mal, pero uno se acostumbraba deprisa.
_Todavía estás a tiempo de cambiar de idea_ , dijo Rita, a la vez que le cogía la mano. Su mujer ocupaba el asiento del acompañante, a su lado. _Aún podrías hacerte con el control ahí fuera. Imponer un poco de cordura._
—Ya es tarde para eso, cielo —dijo Terry. El aire del garaje presentaba ya un color azul por efecto de los gases tóxicos. Terry respiró hondo otra vez, contuvo la tos e inspiró de nuevo—. No sé cómo va a terminar esto, pero no concibo un final feliz. Esta es la mejor solución.
Rita le apretó la mano en actitud comprensiva.
—No dejo de pensar en todos los accidentes de carretera en los que he tenido que intervenir —continuó Terry—. Y en la cabeza de aquel tío, a través de la pared de la caravana del cocinero de meta.
Tenuemente, a kilómetros de distancia, se oía el sonido de las explosiones en la zona de la cárcel.
—Esta es la mejor solución —repitió Terry, y cerró los ojos. Aunque sabía que estaba solo en la Unidad Cuatro, sintió que su mujer le apretaba la mano mientras él se alejaba flotando de Dooling y de todo lo demás.
10
Frank y Johnny Lee Kronsky se deslizaban entre los restos de la autocaravana de Barry Holden y el muro de la cárcel. Se hallaban casi en la puerta principal aplastada cuando oyeron el segundo obús de la bazuca.
— _¡Que viene!_ —avisó Kronsky a voz en grito.
Frank miró por encima del hombro y vio algo asombroso: el obús cayó en el aparcamiento, golpeó el suelo con la aleta posterior, rebotó sin estallar y se desvió hacia el buldócer que antes conducía el difunto Jack Albertson. El fragor de la detonación fue ensordecedor. El asiento del conductor voló a través del fino cascarón del tejadillo del buldócer. Los fragmentos de las orugas en desintegración se elevaron en el aire como teclas de piano de acero. Y uno de los escudos de hierro instalados para proteger las puertas de la cabina saltó hacia fuera y traspasó la autocaravana como el corte del martillo de un gigante.
Frank tropezó con la base retorcida de una de las puertas principales y, gracias a eso, salvó la vida. Johnny Lee Kronsky, todavía en pie, no solo resultó decapitado por una cuña voladora arrancada de la carrocería de la Fleetwood; quedó dividido en dos partes a la altura de los hombros. Aun así, avanzó tambaleante dos o tres pasos más; su corazón bombeó el tiempo suficiente para que escaparan de él un par de vistosos chorros de sangre. Luego se desplomó. El balón de C-4 cayó de sus manos y rodó en una trayectoria irregular hacia el puesto de seguridad. Quedó inmóvil con el Android a la vista, y Frank vio que **1.49** daba paso a **1.48** y luego a **1.47**.
Se dirigió hacia él a rastras, parpadeando para deshacerse del polvo de hormigón de los ojos. Luego rodó a un lado para refugiarse tras el mostrador de recepción semidesplomado a la vez que Tig Murphy se apostaba de un salto tras el cristal blindado del puesto de seguridad y disparaba la pistola a través de la rendija por donde los visitantes entregaban sus teléfonos y documentos de identidad. Era un mal ángulo, y el tiro de Tig salió alto. Frank no corría peligro si permanecía tendido, pero si trataba de avanzar hacia la puerta que conducía a la cárcel propiamente dicha sería un blanco fácil. Si retrocedía, ídem de ídem.
El vestíbulo se llenaba de humo de gasoil procedente del buldócer en llamas. A esto se añadía el hedor penetrante y nauseabundo de la sangre de Kronsky: litros y litros, aparentemente. Frank tenía debajo una de las patas del mostrador de recepción, clavándosele el extremo astillado entre los omóplatos. Fuera del alcance de Frank por muy poco, se hallaba el C-4. **1.29** dio paso a **1.28** y luego a **1.27**.
—¡Hay hombres rodeando la cárcel! —advirtió Frank a voz en cuello—. ¡Desista, y no resultará herido!
—¡Y una mierda! ¡Esta es nuestra cárcel! ¡Están entrando sin permiso y no tienen autoridad alguna! —Tig volvió a disparar.
—¡Hay explosivo! ¡C-4! ¡Va usted a volar en pedazos!
—¡Ya, y yo soy el puto Luke Skywalker!
—¡Asómese! ¡Mire abajo! ¡Véalo usted mismo!
—¿Para que pueda pegarme un tiro en la tripa por la rendija? Creo que paso.
Frank, desesperado, miró en dirección a la puerta que acababa de cruzar, destruida parcialmente por los restos de la autocaravana.
— _¡Los que estáis ahí fuera!_ —exclamó—. _¡Necesito que me cubráis!_
Nadie lo cubrió. Tampoco llegaron refuerzos. Dos de los hombres —Steve Pickering y Will Wittstock— estaban en franca retirada, cargando entre los dos a Rupe Wittstock, herido.
En el suelo salpicado de escombros del vestíbulo, casi al pie del puesto de seguridad controlado por Tig Murphy, proseguía la cuenta atrás en el teléfono móvil.
11
Al ver a Billy Wettermore innegablemente muerto, Don Peters se sintió un poco mejor. Don había ido una vez a jugar a los bolos con él. La princesita había anotado un 252 y le había ganado veinte pavos a Don. Era evidente que había utilizado una bola amañada, pero Don lo dejó correr tal como dejaba correr tantas cosas, porque era un hombre de trato cordial. Bueno, a veces las cosas se decantaban del lado correcto, y eso era un hecho. Un maricón menos en el mundo, pensó, y todos gritamos hurra.
Avanzó apresuradamente hacia al gimnasio. Quizá sea yo quien llegue hasta ella, pensó. Quien meta una bala en la bocaza a Evie Black y ponga fin a esto para siempre. Así se olvidarán del error que he cometido con el muchacho, y no tendré que invitar a copas en el Squeaky durante el resto de mi vida.
Se acercó a la puerta, imaginando ya a Evie Black en la mira de su arma, pero Elmore Pearl lo apartó de un empujón.
—Tú detrás, pistolero.
—¡Eh! —se quejó Don—. ¡Tú no sabes adónde vamos!
Se dispuso a seguir adelante, pero Drew T. Barry lo agarró y negó con la cabeza. Tampoco era que Barry tuviera intención de ser el primero en entrar. No sin saber qué le esperaba. Posiblemente el hombre al que había abatido él era el único defensor en retaguardia, pero si _había_ alguien, Pearl tenía más posibilidades de eliminarlo que Peters, cuya única víctima esa mañana había sido uno de los suyos.
Pearl miraba por encima del hombro a Don y sonreía cuando entró en el gimnasio.
—Relájate y deja que un hombre encabece la...
Solo había llegado hasta ahí cuando Maura Dunbarton lo agarró con sus manos frías, una en el cuello y la otra en la nuca. Elmore Pearl miró esos ojos sin alma y se puso a chillar. No chilló mucho tiempo; el ser reanimado que había sido Maura le metió la mano en la boca, indiferente a sus mordiscos, y la hundió hacia abajo. El sonido de sus maxilares al desencajarse fue semejante al que producía el muslo del pavo de Acción de Gracias al arrancarlo.
12
—¡Vaya si somos un par de hijos de puta con suerte! —exclamó Maynard Griner, exultante—. Un poco más lejos, y los obuses explotarían en el aparcamiento. ¿Has visto cómo ha rebotado ese último, Low?
—Lo he visto —admitió Low—. Como una piedra en un estanque, y ha destrozado un buldócer. No está mal, pero yo puedo hacerlo mejor. Vuelve a cargar.
Abajo, brotaba humo de la brecha abierta en el muro oeste de la cárcel. Era una imagen magnifica, que recordaba la nube que salía de una mina después de una detonación, solo que eso era obviamente mucho mejor, porque no se dedicaban a resquebrajar rocas. Estaban resquebrajando un puto edificio del estado. Habría valido la pena aunque no hubiesen tenido necesidad de cerrarle la boca a la soplona de Kitty McDavid.
May se disponía a rebuscar en la bolsa de la munición cuando oyó que una rama se partía. Giró en redondo al tiempo que se llevaba la mano al arma que tenía en el cinto, en la espalda.
Van disparó la pistola con la que Fritz Meshaum había intentado matarla. La distancia era corta, pero ella estaba extenuada, y la bala, en lugar de alcanzar a Maynard en el pecho, le rozó el hombro. Él cayó sobre el petate de obuses, ya medio vacío. Su pistola, sin disparar, fue a caer entre unos arbustos, donde quedó prendida por el guardamonte.
—¡Hermano! —exclamó—. ¡Me ha disparado! ¡Esa mujer me ha disparado!
Low soltó la bazuca y agarró el fusil que tenía al lado. Con uno de los dos fuera de combate, Van pudo concentrarse en el que quedaba. Afianzó la empuñadura de la pistola en el centro de su busto, considerable, y apretó el gatillo. La boca de Little Low estalló, le salieron los sesos por detrás del cráneo, y con su último aliento aspiró sus propios dientes.
—¡Low! —exclamó Maynard—. ¡Hermano!
Agarró el arma, que colgaba entre los arbustos, pero antes de que pudiera empuñarla le aferró la muñeca algo más parecido a una esposa de hierro que a una mano humana.
—Deberías saber que no te conviene apuntar a una campeona de pulsos, ni siquiera cuando lleva sin dormir una semana —dijo Van con una voz extrañamente afable, y retorció la muñeca a May. En el interior de esta se oyó un ruido semejante al de unas ramas pequeñas al partirse.
May lanzó un alarido. El arma cayó de su mano, y Van la apartó con el pie.
—Le has pegado un tiro a Low —balbuceó Maynard—. ¡Lo has matado!
—Exacto. —A Van le zumbaba la cabeza; le palpitaba la cadera; se sentía como si se hallara de pie sobre una cubierta en aguas revueltas. Había llegado casi al final de su considerable resistencia, y lo sabía. Así y todo, el espectáculo había sido más provechoso que suicidarse, de eso no cabía duda. Pero ¿entonces qué?
May, por lo visto, se formulaba la misma pregunta.
—¿Qué vas a hacer conmigo?
No puedo atarlo, pensó Van. No tengo nada con que atarlo. ¿Voy a quedarme dormida y a dejarlo marchar sin más? ¿Probablemente después de pegarme varios tiros mientras formo el capullo?
Van miró hacia la cárcel, donde una autocaravana aplastada y un buldócer en llamas obstruían la puerta principal. Reflexionó acerca de la brecha que había abierto el primer obús en el módulo C, donde había docenas de mujeres dormidas, indefensas en sus capullos. ¿Cuántas habrían muerto a manos de aquellos dos gilipollas con el cerebro asado?
—¿Tú cuál eres? ¿Lowell o Maynard?
—Maynard, señora. —Intentó sonreír.
—¿Eres el tonto o el listo?
Él ensanchó la sonrisa.
—El tonto, sin duda. Dejé el colegio en séptimo. Siempre hago lo que Lowell me dice.
Van le devolvió la sonrisa.
—Bueno, me parece que te dejaré marchar, Maynard. Si no hay ofensa, no hay delito. Ahí abajo tienes una furgoneta. He echado un vistazo y las llaves están en el contacto. Creo que podrías haber llegado casi a Carolina del Sur a mediodía, si vas a buena marcha. ¿Por qué, entonces, no te pones en camino antes de que cambie de idea?
—Gracias, señora.
May echó a trotar entre las lápidas del pequeño cementerio. Van se planteó brevemente cumplir su promesa, pero casi con toda probabilidad él volvería sobre sus pasos y la encontraría dormida junto a su hermano muerto. Incluso si no lo hacía, poco antes los dos hermanos se reían a carcajadas de su miserable emboscada como niños que lanzaran pelotas de béisbol contra botellas de madera en una feria. No se atrevió a dejarlo ir muy lejos, porque no se fiaba ya de su puntería.
Al menos no se dará cuenta de lo que le ha pasado.
Van levantó la pistola de Meshaum y —no sin pesar— metió una bala en la espalda de May.
—Uf —fue la última palabra de Maynard en la madre tierra cuando cayó de bruces en una pila de hojas secas.
Van se sentó, se recostó contra una lápida inclinada —tan antigua que el nombre que tenía grabado casi había desaparecido por completo— y cerró los ojos. Se sentía mal por haber disparado contra un hombre por la espalda, pero una creciente oleada de sueño ahogó rápidamente ese sentimiento.
Qué grato fue rendirse.
Las hebras empezaron a brotar de su piel. Se agitaron hermosamente en la brisa matutina. Iba a ser otro precioso día en la montaña.
13
Supuestamente el cristal era blindado, pero los disparos a corta distancia del M4 de Willy desencajaron del marco la ventana del despacho de Clint. Clint se descolgó hasta el interior y aterrizó en su escritorio (tuvo la sensación de haber estado allí redactando informes y evaluaciones en otra vida). Oyó chillidos y voces procedentes del gimnasio, pero de momento no podía ocuparse de eso.
Se volvió para ayudar a Willy y vio al anciano apoyado en la pared del edificio con la cabeza gacha. Su respiración era ronca y rápida.
Willy levantó los brazos.
—Espero que tenga fuerzas para llevarme adentro, doctor, porque yo no voy a poder colaborar demasiado.
—Primero deme el arma.
Willy le entregó el M4. Clint lo dejó en su mesa junto con su propia arma, encima de una pila de formularios de informes de buena conducta. A continuación cogió a Willy de las manos y tiró. Al final, el anciano sí colaboró, apuntalando los zapatos de faena en el muro por debajo de la ventana e impulsándose, tanto que prácticamente entró volando. Clint cayó de espaldas. Willy aterrizó sobre él.
—Esto es lo que yo llamaría una situación condenadamente íntima —comentó Willy. Hablaba con voz forzada y su aspecto era aún peor que antes, pero sonreía.
—En ese caso, será mejor que me llame Clint. —Puso a Willy en pie, le entregó el M4 y cogió su arma—. Movamos el culo y vayamos a la celda de Evie.
—¿Qué vamos a hacer cuando lleguemos?
—Ni idea —contestó Clint.
14
Drew T. Barry no podía dar crédito a lo que veía: dos mujeres que parecían cadáveres y Elmore Pearl con la boca muy abierta, como una caverna. Daba la impresión de que la mandíbula le descansaba en el pecho.
Pearl, tambaleante, se apartó de la criatura que lo tenía sujeto. Dio casi una docena de pasos antes de que Maura lo agarrara por el cuello de la camisa, empapada de sudor. Ella lo atrajo hacia sí y le hundió el pulgar en el ojo derecho. Se oyó un chasquido, como el de una botella al descorcharse. Un líquido viscoso resbaló por la mejilla de Pearl, y su cuerpo quedó inerte.
Kayleigh se volvió hacia Don Peters con movimientos espasmódicos, como un juguete casi sin cuerda. Don supo que debía echar a correr, pero parecía haberse adueñado de él una extraordinaria lasitud. Me he dormido, razonó, y esta es la peor pesadilla del mundo. Tiene que serlo, porque esa es Kayleigh Rawlings. No hace ni un mes que presenté un informe de mala conducta de esa zorra. Dejaré que llegue hasta mí y entonces despertaré.
Drew T. Barry, cuyo trabajo de toda la vida conllevaba imaginar lo peor que podía ocurrirle a una persona, ni se planteó la clásica hipótesis «debo de estar soñando». Aquello estaba ocurriendo, por más que pareciera algo salido de esa serie en la que personas muertas y putrefactas volvían a la vida, y él tenía toda la intención de sobrevivir.
— _¡Agáchese!_ —ordenó a voz en grito.
Tal vez Don no habría seguido esa indicación si en ese preciso momento no hubiese detonado el explosivo plástico en el otro extremo de la cárcel. En realidad, más que agacharse se cayó, pero eso ya valió: Kayleigh, en lugar de hincarle los dedos en la carne blanda de la cara, dio un manotazo al duro caparazón de plástico del casco de fútbol. A eso siguió un disparo, amplificado a niveles colosales en el gimnasio vacío, y el balazo a quemarropa del Weatherby —arma capaz de detener a un elefante literalmente— surtió efecto en Kayleigh. Su garganta estalló, así sin más, y la cabeza le cayó hacia atrás, totalmente hacia atrás. Su cuerpo se desmoronó.
Maura arrojó a Elmore a un lado y se abalanzó hacia Don, una mujer del saco que abría y cerraba las manos, las abría y las cerraba.
—¡Dispárele! —gritó Don. Se le aflojó la vejiga y la orina caliente le corrió por las piernas y le empapó los calcetines.
Drew T. Barry se planteó no hacerlo. Peters era un idiota, un verdadero peligro, y las cosas les irían mejor sin él. En fin, pensó, de acuerdo. Pero después de esto, señor Celador de la Cárcel, apáñeselas usted solo.
Disparó a Maura Dunbarton en el pecho. Ella voló hasta la pista central y fue a caer junto al difunto Elmore Pearl. Permaneció allí tendida un momento y luego, tras levantarse con dificultad, se encaminó de nuevo hacia Don, pese a que sus mitades superior e inferior ya no parecían muy bien coordinadas.
— _¡Dispárele a la cabeza!_ —vociferó Don (por lo visto, había olvidado que él mismo disponía de un arma)—. _¡Dispárele a la cabeza como ha hecho con la otra!_
—Haga el favor de callarse —ordenó Drew T. Barry. Apuntó y abrió un agujero en la cabeza de Maura Dunbarton que desintegró el cuadrante superior izquierdo de su cráneo.
—Dios mío —exclamó Don con voz ahogada—. Dios mío, Dios mío, Dios mío. Salgamos de aquí. Volvamos al pueblo.
Por poca simpatía que ese excelador rechoncho le inspirase, Drew T. Barry entendió el impulso de Peters de poner tierra de por medio; incluso lo compartió en cierta medida. Pero no había llegado a ser el agente de seguros de más éxito en la zona de los Tres Condados por abandonar trabajos a medias. Agarró a Don por el brazo.
—¡Drew, estaban _muertas_! ¿Y si hay más?
—Yo no veo a ninguna otra, ¿y usted?
—Pero...
—Guíeme. Vamos a buscar a la mujer a por la que hemos venido. —Y de pronto acudió a la cabeza de Drew T. Barry, como salida de la nada, una frase en francés que aprendió en el instituto—. _Cherchez la femme._
_—Cheché ¿qué?_
_—_ Da igual. —Drew T. Barry señaló con el rifle de gran alcance. No exactamente a Don, pero más o menos en su dirección—. Usted primero. Unos diez metros por delante bastaría.
—¿Por qué?
—Porque creo en los seguros —contestó Drew T. Barry.
15
Mientras Vanessa Lampley liquidaba a Maynard Griner, y Elmore Pearl sufría una improvisada intervención odontológica a manos del cadáver reanimado de Maura Dunbarton, Frank Geeary permanecía bajo el mostrador de recepción medio volcado, observando el teléfono móvil mientras **0.46** daba paso a **0.45** y luego a **0.44**. No recibiría ayuda del exterior, eso ya lo sabía. Los hombres que quedaban allí fuera habían decidido no avanzar más o se habían marchado. Si quería superar el condenado puesto de seguridad y entrar en la cárcel propiamente dicha, tenía que actuar por su cuenta. La única alternativa era escabullirse a gatas por la puerta y confiar en que el tipo parapetado detrás del cristal blindado no le pegara un tiro en el trasero.
Deseó que nada de aquello hubiese ocurrido. Deseó estar recorriendo una de las agradables carreteras del condado de Dooling al volante de su pequeña furgoneta, buscando el mapache de compañía de alguien. Si un mapache domesticado tenía hambre, era posible atraerlo con un trozo de queso o de hamburguesa colocado en la punta de pértiga larga que Frank llamaba «el palo de las chuches» para atraparlo entonces con la red. Eso lo llevó a pensar en la pata rota del mostrador que se le clavaba en la espalda. Rodó a un lado, la agarró y la desplazó por el suelo. Tenía la longitud necesaria para llegar al balón de fútbol letal. Le complació ver por fin una esperanza.
—¿Qué hace? —preguntó Tig desde detrás del cristal.
Frank no se molestó en contestar. Si eso no daba resultado, era hombre muerto. Ensartó el balón con el extremo desigual de la pata del mostrador. Johnny Lee le había asegurado que ese material no estallaría ni siquiera arrollándolo con un camión, y el palo no lo activó. Levantó la pértiga improvisada y la apoyó justo por debajo de la ranura de la ventanilla por donde se entregaban los documentos de identidad. **0.17** dio paso a **0.16** y luego a **0.15**. Tig disparó una vez, y Frank notó pasar la bala justo por encima de los nudillos.
—Quienquiera que haya ahí, será mejor que se marche —advirtió Frank—. Hágalo ahora que aún tiene ocasión.
Siguiendo su propio consejo, Frank se arrojó hacia la puerta esperando recibir un balazo. Pero Tig no volvió a disparar.
Tig mantenía la mirada fija a través del cristal en el balón blanco ensartado en la punta de la pata del mostrador como un trozo enorme de chicle. Alcanzó a ver bien por primera vez el teléfono, en el que **0.04** dio paso a **0.03**. Entendió en ese instante qué era aquello y qué iba a ocurrir. Salió como una flecha en dirección a la puerta que daba al pasillo principal de la cárcel. Tenía la mano en el picaporte cuando el mundo se tornó blanco.
16
Al otro lado de la puerta principal, protegido del sol, cada vez más intenso, por la autocaravana Fleetwood —que nunca volvería a llevar de acampada a Barry Holden y a su familia—, Frank sintió el temblor causado por la última explosión en el edificio gravemente dañado. Los cristales que habían sobrevivido a los estallidos anteriores gracias al refuerzo de alambre volaron en esquirlas relucientes.
—¡Vamos! —ordenó Frank a gritos—. ¡Todos los que queden, vamos! _¡Vamos a llevárnosla ahora mismo!_
Por un momento no hubo respuesta. Luego cuatro hombres —Carson Struthers, el ayudante Treat, el ayudante Ordway y el ayudante Barrows— abandonaron sus posiciones a cubierto y corrieron hacia los restos de la puerta principal de la cárcel.
Se reunieron con Frank entre el humo.
17
—Joder... la hostia —dijo entre dientes Jared Norcross.
Michaela era incapaz de hablar en ese momento, pero inconscientemente deseó con toda su alma un equipo de rodaje. Solo que un equipo no serviría de nada, ¿no? Si llegara a emitirse lo que estaba viendo, la audiencia lo consideraría un montaje. Era necesario estar allí para creérselo. Era necesario ver a una mujer desnuda flotando a un palmo por encima de su cama con un móvil en las manos; era necesario ver las volutas verdes que se trenzaban en su pelo negro.
—¡Eh, hola! —saludó Evie alegremente, pero sin volver la cabeza. Tenía puesta casi toda la atención en el móvil—. Enseguida estoy con vosotros, pero ahora tengo un asunto importante que terminar.
Movía los dedos a tal velocidad sobre el teléfono que apenas se le veían.
—¿Jared? —Era Clint. Se lo veía asombrado y asustado—. ¿Qué haces _tú_ aquí?
18
Encabezando la marcha (por poco que le gustara), Don Peters había recorrido la mitad del pasillo que llevaba a Broadway cuando Norcross y un viejo con barba y tirantes rojos salieron de entre el humo. Norcross sostenía a su compañero. El de los tirantes rojos avanzaba encorvado, despacio. Don supuso que estaba herido de bala, aunque no veía sangre. Dentro de nada sí que estaréis los dos heridos de bala, pensó Don, y levantó su fusil.
A diez metros por detrás de él, Drew T. Barry alzó también su rifle, sin saber qué había visto Peters; el humo en movimiento era muy denso, y Peters se hallaba en medio. De pronto —cuando Clint y Willy dejaban atrás la Garita y seguían por el corto pasillo del módulo A que llevaba a la celda acolchada— dos brazos blancos y largos salieron de la enfermería y agarraron a Don por el cuello. Drew T. Barry observó, atónito, que Don desaparecía como por arte de magia. La puerta de la enfermería se cerró ruidosamente. Cuando Barry corrió hacia el lugar donde Peters se encontraba hacía solo un instante y trató de accionar el picaporte, descubrió que la puerta estaba cerrada por dentro. Escrutó por el cristal reforzado con malla de alambre y vio a una mujer —por su aspecto, acaso drogada— que sujetaba un escoplo contra la garganta de Peters. Lo había despojado del ridículo casco de fútbol, que se hallaba en el suelo, del revés, junto al arma de Peters. Este tenía el ralo cabello negro pegado al cráneo en mechones sudorosos.
La mujer —una reclusa con el uniforme de la cárcel— vio que Barry los miraba. Levantó el escoplo e hizo un gesto con él. La indicación era clara: Largo de aquí.
Drew T. Barry se planteó disparar a través del cristal, pero eso atraería a los defensores que quedaban. Recordó asimismo la promesa que se había hecho antes de disparar contra la segunda mujer del saco en el gimnasio: «Después de esto, señor Celador de la Cárcel, apáñeselas usted solo».
Dirigió a la reclusa con cara de loca un breve saludo militar y, para más seguridad, alzó el pulgar. Luego siguió avanzando por el pasillo. Pero con cautela. Peters, antes de que la mujer lo agarrara, había visto _algo_.
19
—Vaya, mira tú a quién he ido a encontrarme —dijo Angel—. Al que le gusta agarrar a las chicas de las tetas y retorcerles los pezones y frotarse contra sus traseros hasta correrse en los calzoncillos.
Cuando levantó la mano para indicar al agente de seguros que se marchara, Don se apartó, dejando un pequeño hueco entre ellos.
—Suelta ese escoplo, reclusa. Suéltalo ahora mismo y no tendré que presentar un informe.
—Esa mancha que veo en tus pantalones no es de correrte —observó Angel—. Ahí hay demasiado líquido, incluso para un salido como tú. Te has meado, ¿eh? A mamá no le gustaría eso, ¿verdad que no?
Ante la mención de su santa madre, Don abandonó toda cautela y se precipitó hacia Angel. Ella le lanzó una estocada, y podría haber puesto fin a todo en ese mismo instante, de no ser porque Don tropezó con el casco de fútbol; en lugar de rajarle la garganta, el escoplo le abrió un profundo tajo en la frente. La sangre manó en una cortina por el rostro de Peters al tiempo que este hincaba las rodillas en el suelo.
— _¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Para, eso duele!_
—Ah, ¿sí? Pues a ver qué te parece esto —dijo Angel, y le asestó un puntapié en el estómago.
Parpadeando para quitarse la sangre de los ojos, Don agarró a Angel por las piernas y la derribó. Ella se golpeó el codo en el suelo y el escoplo se le escapó de entre los dedos. Don se arrastró por encima del cuerpo de Angel y alargó las manos hacia su cuello.
—No voy a follarte después de muerta —dijo él—; eso es repulsivo. Solo te asfixiaré hasta que quedes inconsciente. No te mataré hasta que haya ter...
Angel cogió el casco, trazó un amplio arco con él y se lo estampó a Don en la frente sangrante. Él se apartó llevándose las manos a la cara.
— _¡Ay, no, para, reclusa!_
Los golpes con el casco también están muy sancionados en la liga de fútbol, pensó Angel, pero como esto no se ve por televisión, supongo que no perderé ninguna yarda.
Asestó otros dos golpes con el casco a Don, y con el segundo quizá le rompió la nariz. Desde luego la tenía muy torcida. Él consiguió darse la vuelta y levantarse hasta quedar de rodillas con el trasero en alto. Decía a gritos algo así como «Para, reclusa», pero no se lo entendía bien por cómo jadeaba, el muy cerdo. Además tenía los labios reventados y la boca llena de sangre. Salpicaba a cada palabra, y Angel recordó lo que decían de niñas cuando a alguien se le escapaba la saliva al hablar: «Vaya, vaya, si me mojas, me das una toalla».
—No más —dijo Don—. Por favor, no más. Me has roto la _cara_.
Angel tiró el casco a un lado y cogió el escoplo.
—¡Aquí tienes unas tetas con las que frotarte, funcionario Peters!
Le hundió el escoplo entre los omóplatos hasta el mango de madera.
—¡Mamá! —exclamó él.
—Vale, funcionario Peters... ¡Y aquí tienes otro para tu madre! —Arrancó el escoplo y se lo clavó en el cuello.
Don se desplomó.
Angel lo pateó unas cuantas veces. Después se sentó a horcajadas sobre él y empezó a apuñalarlo otra vez. Continuó hasta que ya no podía levantar el brazo.
### 16
1
Drew T. Barry llegó a la Garita y vio lo que había detenido a Peters antes de que la mujer lo agarrara: dos hombres, uno de ellos posiblemente Norcross, el cabrón arrogante que había instigado ese desastre. Rodeaba con el brazo al otro. Eso lo favorecía. No tenían ni idea de que él estaba allí, y probablemente se dirigían hacia la mujer. Para protegerla. Era una locura, teniendo en cuenta los efectivos que Geary había reunido, pero ahí estaban los daños que ya habían conseguido infligir. ¡Buenos vecinos del pueblo muertos o heridos! Merecían perder la vida por eso.
Y en ese momento salieron del humo otros dos: una mujer y un hombre más joven. Todos de espaldas a Drew T. Barry.
Aquello pintaba mejor cada vez.
2
—Dios santo —dijo Clint a su hijo—. Tendrías que estar escondido. —Lanzó una mirada de reproche a Michaela—. Usted debería haberse ocupado de eso.
—Ella ha hecho lo que tú le has dicho, pero yo no podía quedarme escondido —contestó Jared, adelantándose a Michaela—. Sencillamente no podía. No si hay una oportunidad de recuperar a mamá. Y a Mary. Y también a Molly. —Señaló a la mujer encerrada en la celda al final del pasillo—. ¡Mírala, papá! ¡Está _flotando_! ¿Qué es? ¿Es siquiera humana?
Antes de que Clint pudiera contestar, el teléfono de Hicks emitió una ráfaga musical seguida de un anuncio en una débil voz electrónica: «¡Enhorabuena, jugadora Evie! ¡Has sobrevivido! ¡Boom Town _es tuya_!».
Evie cayó a la cama, bajó las piernas al suelo y se acercó a los barrotes. Clint habría pensado que a esas alturas ya nada podía sorprenderlo, pero lo asombró ver que ella tenía el vello púbico prácticamente verde. De hecho no era vello, sino una especie de vegetación.
—¡He ganado! —exclamó, muy ufana—. ¡Y justo a tiempo! Me quedaba solo el dos por ciento de batería. ¡Ya puedo morir feliz!
—No vas a morir —aseguró Clint. Pero ya no lo creía. Sí iba a morir, y cuando los efectivos restantes de Geary llegaran allí, cosa que ocurriría de un momento a otro, muy posiblemente ellos morirían con ella. Habían matado a demasiada gente. Los hombres de Frank no se detendrían.
3
Drew T. Barry rodeó con sigilo la Garita, cada vez más complacido con lo que veía. A menos que algunos de los defensores siguieran ocultos en las celdas, el resto de los miembros del conciliábulo de Norcross estaban al final de ese pasillo, agrupados como bolos en una bolera. No tenían dónde esconderse ni por dónde huir. Excelente.
Alzó el Weatherby... y notó en la garganta la presión de un escoplo, justo por debajo del ángulo de la mandíbula.
—No, no, no —dijo Angel con la voz de una alegre maestra de primaria. Tenía la cara, la casaca y el holgado pantalón salpicados de sangre—. Muévete, y te corto la yugular. La hoja está apoyada justo en ella. La única razón por la que no te he matado ya es que me has dejado terminar lo mío con el funcionario Peters. Pon esa arma de cazar elefantes en el suelo. No te agaches, solo suéltala.
—Señora, es un arma muy valiosa —dijo Drew T. Barry.
—Pregúntame si me importa un carajo.
—Podría dispararse.
—Correré el riesgo.
Drew T. Barry soltó el rifle.
—Ahora dame la otra que llevas colgada al hombro. No intentes nada raro.
Desde detrás de ellos:
—Señora, sea lo que sea lo que tiene apoyado contra la garganta de ese hombre, apártelo.
Angel lanzó una ojeada por encima del hombro y vio que la apuntaban cuatro o cinco hombres con fusiles. Les sonrió.
—Podéis dispararme, pero este morirá conmigo. Eso os lo juro.
Frank se quedó indeciso. Drew T. Barry, con la esperanza de vivir un poco más, entregó el M4 de Don.
—Gracias —dijo Angel, y se colgó el arma al hombro. Dio un paso atrás, dejó caer el escoplo y levantó las manos a ambos lados de la cara para demostrar a Frank y los demás que las tenía vacías. Luego retrocedió lentamente por el corto pasillo hacia donde Clint sostenía aún a Willy con el brazo. Mantuvo las manos en alto en todo momento.
Drew T. Barry, sorprendido de estar vivo (pero agradecido), cogió su Weatherby. Sentía cierto mareo. Supuso que cualquiera se marearía después de pasar por la experiencia de que una reclusa loca le apoyara un escoplo en la garganta. Ella le había dicho que dejara el arma... después le había permitido recogerla. ¿Por qué? ¿Para poder estar en la zona de matanza con sus amigos? Parecía la única respuesta. Demencial, pero _esa mujer_ era una demente. Todos lo eran.
Drew T. Barry decidió que correspondía a Frank Geary dar el siguiente paso. Él había iniciado aquella cagada monumental; que encontrara también él la manera de limpiarla. Eso era lo mejor, porque ante el mundo exterior, las acciones que habían llevado a cabo en la última media hora se parecían mucho a la actuación de un escuadrón de justicieros. Y había elementos de todo aquello —los cadáveres andantes del gimnasio, por ejemplo, o la mujer verde desnuda que había visto de pie junto a los barrotes unos pasos por detrás de Norcross— que el mundo exterior sencillamente no creería, con o sin Aurora. Drew T. Barry se consideraba afortunado de estar vivo, y con mucho gusto se quedaría en segundo plano. Con suerte, tal vez el mundo nunca supiese siquiera que había estado allí.
—¿Qué coño...? —dijo Carson Struthers, que había visto a la mujer verde al final de pasillo—. Eso no es lógico ni normal. ¿Qué quiere hacer con ella, Geary?
—Nos la llevaremos, y nos la llevaremos viva —respondió Frank. No se había sentido tan cansado en la vida, pero llegaría al final de aquello—. Si esa mujer de verdad es la clave de Aurora, que los médicos lo averigüen. La llevaremos a Atlanta y la entregaremos.
Willy empezó a levantar su fusil, pero despacio, como si pesara quinientos kilos. Aunque en el módulo A no hacía calor, el sudor le humedecía la redonda cara y le oscurecía la barba. Clint le quitó el fusil. En el otro extremo del pasillo, Carson Struthers, Treater, Ordway y Barrows alzaron sus armas.
—¡Eso es! —exclamó Evie—. ¡Allá vamos! ¡Tiroteo en el OK Corral! ¡Bonnie y Clyde! __ ¡ _La jungla de cristal_ en una cárcel de mujeres! __
Pero antes de que el corto pasillo del módulo A pudiera convertirse en una zona de fuego cruzado, Clint dejó caer el fusil de Willy y arrebató a Angel el M4 que llevaba al hombro. Lo sostuvo por encima de la cabeza para que el grupo de Frank lo viera. Lentamente, y con cierta reticencia, los hombres que habían levantado sus armas las bajaron.
—No, no —dijo Evie—. La gente no pagará por ver un desenlace tan lamentable como este. Tenemos que reescribir el guion.
Clint no prestó atención; estaba pendiente de Frank.
—Señor Geary, no puedo permitir que se la lleve.
En una imitación inquietantemente fiel de John Wayne, Evie dijo:
—Si haces daño a la damisela, vas a tener que rendirme cuentas, alimaña.
Frank tampoco entonces le hizo el menor caso.
—Admiro su entrega, Norcross, pero le juro que no la entiendo.
—Quizá no quiere entenderla —dijo Clint.
—Bueno, me parece que sí me hago una idea —contestó Frank—. Es usted quien no ve claro.
—Demasiadas chorradas de loquero en la cabeza —intervino Struthers, y el comentario arrancó unos cuantos gruñidos de risa tensa.
Frank habló con paciencia, como si aleccionase a un alumno torpe.
—Por lo que sabemos hasta ahora, ella es la única mujer del mundo que puede dormirse y volver a despertar. Sea razonable. Quiero llevársela a unos médicos que puedan examinarla y quizá encontrar la manera de remediar lo ocurrido. Estos hombres quieren recuperar a sus mujeres y sus hijas.
Ante estas palabras los invasores reaccionaron con un murmullo de conformidad.
—Apártate, pues, novato —dijo Evie, imitando todavía al Duque—. Me figuro...
—Cállate ya —la interrumpió Michaela. Evie abrió mucho los ojos, como si la hubieran abofeteado de pronto. Michaela dio un paso al frente y fijó en Frank una mirada abrasadora—. ¿Le parezco yo soñolienta, señor Geary?
—Me da igual como esté usted —contestó Frank—. No hemos venido a por usted.
Esto suscitó otro coro de conformidad.
—No debería darle igual. Estoy totalmente despierta. También lo está Angel. _Ella_ nos ha despertado. Nos ha echado el aliento dentro y nos ha despertado.
—Que es lo que queremos para todas las mujeres —afirmó Frank, y eso provocó un coro de conformidad aún más sonoro. La impaciencia que Michaela advertía en los semblantes de los hombres reunidos ante ella rayaba en odio—. Si de verdad está despierta, debería entenderlo. No es ciencia aeroespacial.
—Es _usted_ quien no lo entiende, señor Geary. Ella ha podido hacerlo porque Angel y yo no estábamos envueltas en capullos. Sus mujeres e hijas _sí_ lo están. Tampoco eso es ciencia aeroespacial.
Silencio. Por fin Michaela había captado su atención, y Clint se permitió un rayo de esperanza. Carson Struthers pronunció una palabra muy clara:
—Chorradas.
Michaela movió la cabeza en un gesto de negación.
—Es usted estúpido y obstinado. Todos lo son, estúpidos y obstinados. Evie Black no es una mujer; es un ser sobrenatural. ¿Todavía no lo entienden? ¿Después de todo lo que ha pasado? ¿Creen que los médicos van a poder extraer el ADN de un ser sobrenatural? ¿Meterla en un tubo de resonancia magnética y descubrir cómo _funciona_? ¡Todos los hombres que han muerto aquí han muerto por nada!
Peter Ordway levantó un fusil Garand.
—Podría pegarle un tiro, señora, y cerrarle la boca. Estoy tentado.
—Bájalo, Pete —ordenó Frank. Percibía el precario equilibrio de la situación, al borde del descontrol. Eran hombres armados ante un problema aparentemente irresoluble. Para ellos, la manera más fácil de afrontarlo sería hacerlo trizas a tiros. Lo sabía porque también él se sentía así.
—¿Norcross? Ordene a los suyos que se aparten. Quiero echar un buen vistazo a esa mujer.
Clint retrocedió con un brazo alrededor de Willy Burke para sostenerlo y la otra mano entrelazada con la de Jared. Michaela flanqueaba a Jared por el otro lado. Angel se plantó desafiante ante la celda acolchada por un momento, protegiéndola con su cuerpo, pero cuando Michaela la cogió de la mano y tiró de ella con delicadeza, Angel cedió y se situó junto a ella.
—Más vale que no le hagan daño —advirtió Angel. Le temblaba la voz y tenía lágrimas en los ojos—. Más les vale, cabrones. Es una puta diosa.
Frank dio tres pasos al frente, sin saber ni preocuparle si sus hombres lo seguían. Observó a Evie durante tanto rato y con tal intensidad que Clint se volvió para mirar también.
La vegetación que antes se entretejía en su pelo había desaparecido. Su cuerpo desnudo era hermoso, pero en modo alguno extraordinario. Su vello púbico era un triángulo oscuro por encima del arranque de los muslos.
—Qué coño... —dijo Carson Struthers—. ¿No era... hace solo un momento... verde?
—Esto... encantado de conocerla por fin en persona, señora —saludó Frank.
—Gracias —contestó Evie. Al margen de su absoluta desnudez, parecía tan tímida como una colegiala. Mantenía la mirada baja—. ¿Te gusta, Frank, meter animales en jaulas?
—Solo meto en jaulas a los que lo necesitan —repuso Frank, y por primera vez desde hacía días sonrió de verdad. Si algo sabía bien, era que la vida salvaje podía verse desde dos ángulos: el peligro que un animal salvaje representaba para los demás y el peligro que los demás representaban para un animal salvaje. En general, le preocupaba más mantener a los animales a salvo de las personas—. Y he venido para sacarla a usted de su jaula. Quiero llevarla ante unos médicos que puedan examinarla. ¿Me lo permitiría?
—Me parece que no —contestó Evie—. No encontrarían nada ni cambiaría nada. ¿Te acuerdas del cuento de la gallina de los huevos de oro? Cuando los hombres la abren, dentro solo hay entrañas.
Frank exhaló un suspiró y meneó la cabeza.
No la cree porque no quiere creerla, pensó Clint. Porque no puede permitirse _creerla_. No después de todo lo que ha hecho.
—Señora...
—¿Por qué no me llamas Evie? —dijo ella—. No me gusta tanto formalismo. Cuando hablamos por teléfono, me pareció que nos entendíamos bien. —Pero aún mantenía la mirada baja.
Clint se preguntó qué había en sus ojos que deseaba esconder. ¿Dudas sobre su misión allí? Tal vez Clint solo se hacía vanas ilusiones, pero era una posibilidad. ¿Acaso el propio Jesucristo no había rogado al Padre que apartara de él ese cáliz? Del mismo modo, supuso Clint, que Frank deseaba que los científicos del Centro de Control y Prevención de Enfermedades apartaran de él ese otro cáliz. Que examinaran los escáneres y análisis de sangre y ADN de Evie y dijeran «Ajá».
—Evie, pues —dijo Frank—. Esta reclusa... —Ladeó la cabeza hacia Angel, que lo miraba con ira—. Dice que eres una diosa. ¿Es verdad?
—No —contestó Evie.
Al lado de Clint, Willy empezó a toser y se frotó el lado derecho del pecho.
—Esta otra mujer... —Esta vez inclinó la cabeza en dirección a Michaela—. _Ella_ dice que eres un ser sobrenatural. Y... —A Frank no le gustaba la idea de decirlo en voz alta, de acercarse a la furia que eso podía provocar, pero debía hacerlo—. Y sabías cosas sobre mí que no tenías forma de saber.
—¡Además flota! —prorrumpió Jared—. Puede que ya lo haya notado. ¡Levita! ¡Yo lo he visto! ¡Todos lo hemos visto!
Evie se volvió hacia Michaela.
—Te equivocas sobre mí, ¿sabes? Soy una mujer, y como cualquier otra en casi todos los sentidos. Como las mujeres a quienes estos hombres aman. Aunque la palabra «amor» es peligrosa en labios de los hombres. Muy a menudo no quieren decir lo mismo que las mujeres cuando la pronuncian. A veces quieren decir que matarán por ese amor. Otras veces, cuando la pronuncian, no quieren decir prácticamente nada. Cosa, claro, que la mayoría de las mujeres acaba descubriendo. Algunas con resignación, muchas con pesar.
—Cuando un hombre dice que te quiere, significa que desea meter el pito debajo de tus bragas —apuntó Angel servicialmente.
Evie volvió a centrar la atención en Frank y los hombres que se hallaban detrás de él.
—Las mujeres a las que os proponéis salvar viven en este mismo momento en otro lugar. Vidas en general felices, aunque por supuesto casi todas echan de menos a sus hijos y algunas echan de menos a sus maridos y padres. No diré que nunca se comporten mal, no son santas ni mucho menos, pero por lo regular viven en armonía. En ese mundo, Frank, nadie tira de la camiseta preferida de su hija ni le grita a la cara, ni la avergüenza ni la aterroriza traspasando la pared de un puñetazo.
—¿Están vivas? —preguntó Carson Struthers—. ¿Lo juras, mujer? ¿Lo juras por Dios?
—Sí —contestó Evie—. Lo juro por vuestro dios y por todos los dioses.
—Entonces ¿qué tenemos que hacer para recuperarlas?
—No palparme ni pincharme ni sacarme sangre. Nada de eso daría resultado aunque os lo permitiera.
—¿Y qué daría resultado?
Evie abrió los brazos. Sus ojos titilaron, sus pupilas se agrandaron hasta convertirse en diamantes negros, los iris pasaron de verde claro a ámbar resplandeciente, como los ojos de un gato.
—Matadme —contestó—. Matadme, y despertarán. Todas las mujeres de la tierra. Os lo juro.
Como un hombre en un sueño, Frank levantó su fusil.
4
Clint se colocó delante de Evie.
—¡No, papá, no! —exclamó Jared.
Clint no le hizo caso.
—Miente, Geary. Quiere que usted la mate. No toda ella... creo que parte de ella ha cambiado de idea... pero es lo que ha venido a hacer aquí. Lo que la han mandado a hacer aquí.
—Ya solo falta que diga que quiere que la crucifiquen —comentó Pete Ordway—. Apártese, doctor.
Clint no obedeció.
—Esto es una prueba. Si la superamos, tendremos una oportunidad. Si no, si hacen ustedes lo que ella prevé que hagan, la puerta se cierra. Este será un mundo de hombres hasta que todos los hombres hayan desaparecido.
Se acordó de las peleas que había tenido de niño, no los combates por batidos, no eso, sino las peleas por un poco de sol y espacio... un puto hueco donde _respirar_. Donde crecer. Se acordó de Shannon, su vieja amiga, que había contado con él para que la sacara de ese purgatorio en igual medida que él había contado con ella. Clint había hecho las cosas lo mejor que sabía, y ella se había acordado. ¿Por qué, si no, le había puesto su apellido a su hija? Pero él seguía estando en deuda. Con Shannon, por ser su amiga. Con Lila, por ser su amiga y su mujer y la madre de su hijo. ¿Y aquellos que se hallaban con él, allí frente a la celda de Evie? También tenían mujeres con las que estaban en deuda... Sí, incluso Angel. Había llegado el momento de saldar esa deuda.
La pelea que él buscaba había terminado. Clint comprendió que lo habían derribado y no había ganado nada.
Todavía no.
Tendió las manos a los lados, con las palmas hacia arriba, e hizo una seña. Los últimos defensores de Evie se acercaron y formaron una hilera frente a su celda, incluso Willy, que parecía a punto de desmayarse. Jared permaneció junto a Clint, y Clint apoyó una mano en el cuello de su hijo. Luego, muy despacio, cogió el M4. Se lo entregó a Michaela, cuya madre dormía en un capullo no muy lejos de donde se encontraban en ese momento.
—Escúcheme, Frank. Evie nos ha dicho que si no la matan, si la dejan ir sin más, existe una posibilidad de que las mujeres vuelvan.
—Miente —dijo Evie, pero Frank no la veía y percibió algo en su voz que le dio que pensar. Parecía angustia.
—Basta ya de chorradas —dijo Pete Ordway, y escupió en el suelo—. Hemos perdido a muchos buenos hombres para llegar hasta aquí. Llevémonosla, y punto. Ya decidiremos después el siguiente paso.
Clint levantó el fusil de Willy. Lo hizo a su pesar, pero lo hizo.
Michaela se volvió hacia Evie.
—Quienquiera que te haya enviado aquí piensa que así es como resuelven los hombres sus problemas. ¿Me equivoco?
Evie no contestó. Michaela intuyó que la extraordinaria criatura encerrada en la celda acolchada se debatía de un modo que ella misma no había previsto al aparecer en el bosque por encima de aquella caravana oxidada. Porque allí era donde había empezado aquello. Michaela había estado allí y no le cabía la menor duda.
Se volvió de nuevo hacia los hombres armados, que habían recorrido ya medio pasillo. Los encañonaban con sus armas. A esa distancia destrozarían con sus balas al pequeño grupo plantado ante la extraña mujer.
Michaela alzó el arma.
—No tiene por qué ocurrir así. Demuéstrenle que no tiene por qué.
—¿Y para eso qué tenemos que hacer? —preguntó Frank.
—Dejar que vaya al sitio de donde ha venido —contestó Clint.
—Por nada del mundo —intervino Drew T. Barry, y fue entonces cuando a Willy Burke le fallaron las rodillas y se desplomó, ya sin respiración.
5
Frank entregó su fusil a Ordway.
—Necesita reanimación cardiopulmonar. Hice el curso el verano pasado...
Clint apuntó a Frank al pecho con su fusil.
—No.
Frank lo miró atónito.
—Oiga, ¿está usted loco?
—Atrás —dijo Michaela, encañonando a Frank con su arma. Ignoraba qué se proponía Clint, pero sospechaba que estaba jugando la última baza de su mano. De _nuestra_ mano, pensó.
—Matémoslos a todos —propuso Carson Struthers. Parecía al borde la histeria—. A esa mujer demonio también.
— _Quietos_ —ordenó Frank. Volviéndose hacia Clint, preguntó—: ¿Va a dejarlo morir? ¿Eso qué demostraría?
—Evie puede salvarlo —dijo Clint—. ¿No, Evie?
La mujer de la celda guardó silencio. Tenía la cabeza gacha y el pelo le ocultaba el rostro.
—Geary... si lo salva, ¿la dejará ir?
—¡Ese viejo soplapollas está fingiendo! —exclamó Carson Struthers—. ¡Esto es un montaje que han planeado!
—¿Puedo solo comprobar si...? —empezó Frank.
—De acuerdo, sí —dijo Clint—. Pero deprisa. Los daños cerebrales se producen al cabo de tres minutos, y no creo que ni siquiera un ser sobrenatural pueda invertir eso.
Frank se acercó apresuradamente a Willy, apoyó una rodilla en el suelo y palpó la garganta del viejo con los dedos. Miró a Clint.
—Se le ha parado el reloj. Debería iniciar ya mismo la maniobra de reanimación.
—Hace un minuto estabas dispuesto a matarlo —gruñó Reed Barrows.
El agente Treat, que creía haberlo visto todo en Afganistán, soltó un gemido.
—No entiendo nada de esto. Díganme qué hace falta para recuperar a mis hijas y lo haré. —No estaba claro a quién exactamente había dirigido esas palabras.
—Nada de maniobra de reanimación. —Clint se volvió hacia Evie, que permanecía con la cabeza gacha. Lo cual, pensó, era bueno, porque así no podía evitar ver al hombre caído en el suelo—. Este es Willy Burke. Su país le exigió que sirviera, y sirvió. Hoy día sale con el departamento de Bomberos Voluntarios a combatir los incendios en la maleza en primavera. Lo hacen sin remuneración. Ayuda en todas las cenas que Ladies Aid organiza para familias indigentes sin ningún apoyo público por la tacañería del estado. Entrena al equipo de la liga juvenil Pop Warner en otoño.
—Además era un buen entrenador —aseguró Jared con la voz empañada por el llanto.
Clint prosiguió.
—Cuidó de su hermana durante diez años cuando le diagnosticaron un alzhéimer precoz. Le daba de comer, iba a buscarla cuando a ella le entraba la necesidad de vagar por ahí, le cambiaba los pañales sucios. Vino aquí a defenderte porque quería hacer lo correcto por ti y por su conciencia. Nunca ha hecho daño a una mujer en su vida. Ahora se está muriendo. Puede que permitas que eso ocurra. Al fin y al cabo, solo es un hombre más, ¿no?
Alguien tosía a causa del humo procedente de Broadway. Por un momento no se oyó nada, y de pronto Evie Black chilló. Las bombillas reventaron tras las rejillas de las lámparas del techo. Las puertas de las celdas que estaban cerradas se abrieron de repente y se cerraron con un sonido semejante a los aplausos de un montón de manos de hierro. Varios de los hombres del grupo de Frank gritaron, uno de ellos con el timbre tan agudo que podría haber sido la voz de una niña de seis o siete años.
Ordway se dio media vuelta y echó a correr. Sus pisadas resonaron en los pasillos de hormigón.
—Levantadlo —dijo Evie.
La puerta de su celda se había abierto junto con las demás. Es decir, si había estado cerrada en algún momento. Clint no tenía la menor duda de que podría haberse marchado cuando hubiese querido durante la última semana. Las ratas habían sido parte de su teatro.
Clint y Jared Norcross incorporaron la figura inerte de Willy. Pesaba mucho, pero Evie lo sujetó como si no fuera más que una bolsa de plumas de oca.
—Has apelado a mi corazón —dijo a Clint—. Eso es una crueldad, doctor Norcross. —Habló con voz solemne, pero a Clint le pareció ver un asomo de humor en su mirada. Quizá incluso de alegría. Rodeó la considerable cintura de Willy con el brazo izquierdo y le colocó la mano derecha en el cabello empapado de sudor y apelmazado de la nuca. A continuación apretó su boca contra la de él.
Willy se estremeció de arriba abajo. Alzó los brazos y rodeó la espalda de Evie. Por un momento el viejo y la joven permanecieron unidos en un estrecho abrazo. Luego ella lo soltó y retrocedió.
—¿Cómo te encuentras, Willy?
—Estupendamente —contestó Willy Burke. Se irguió.
—Dios mío —dijo Reed Barrows—. Parece veinte años más joven.
—No me besaban así desde el instituto —comentó Willy—, si es que alguna vez me han besado así. Señora, creo que me ha salvado la vida. Le doy las gracias por eso, pero me parece que el beso ha sido aún mejor.
Evie empezó a sonreír.
—Me alegro de que lo hayas disfrutado. A mí también me ha gustado, aunque no tanto como ganar al _Boom Town_.
A Clint ya no le hervía la sangre; el agotamiento y el último milagro de Evie se la habían enfriado. Vio la ira que sentía hacía solo un momento como quien ve a un intruso que ha irrumpido en su casa y ha desordenado la cocina al prepararse un desayuno desmesurado y opíparo. Se sintió triste y pesaroso y muy cansado. Solo deseaba poder marcharse a casa, sentarse al lado de su mujer, compartir el espacio con ella y no tener que pronunciar una sola palabra.
—Geary —dijo Clint.
Frank tardó un momento en volverse para mirarlo, como un hombre que se sacude de encima el aturdimiento.
—Déjela ir. Es la única posibilidad.
—Puede ser, pero ni siquiera eso es seguro, ¿verdad?
—No —confirmó Clint—. ¿Qué lo es en esta puta vida?
En ese momento intervino Angel.
—Malos tiempos y buenos tiempos —dijo—. Malos tiempos y buenos. Todo lo demás no es más que mierda de caballo en el establo.
—Pensaba que esto se alargaría al menos hasta el jueves, pero... —Evie se echó a reír, un sonido semejante a un campanilleo—. Me olvidaba de lo deprisa que pueden moverse los hombres cuando se obsesionan con algo.
—Desde luego —convino Michaela—. Solo hay que pensar en el Proyecto Manhattan.
6
A las ocho y diez de esa magnífica mañana, una fila de seis vehículos avanzaba por West Lavin Road mientras, detrás de ellos, la cárcel humeaba como la colilla de un puro abandonada en un cenicero. Doblaron por Ball's Hill Road. Encabezaba la marcha la Unidad Dos, con las luces de emergencia girando lentamente. Frank iba al volante. Clint ocupaba el asiento de al lado. Detrás viajaba Evie Black, allí donde estaba después de que Lila la detuviera. Entonces iba medio desnuda. En ese viaje de regreso vestía un uniforme rojo del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling.
—No sé cómo vamos a explicar esto a la policía del estado —comentó Frank—. Muchos muertos, muchos heridos.
—Ahora mismo todo el mundo está desbordado por Aurora —dijo Clint—, y probablemente la mitad de los policías ni siquiera se presentan a sus trabajos. Cuando vuelvan todas las mujeres... _si_ es que vuelven... esto no le importará a nadie.
Detrás de ellos, Evie habló en voz baja.
—Les importará a las madres. A las esposas. A las hijas. ¿Quiénes creéis que limpian el campo de batalla cuando cesa el fuego?
7
La Unidad Dos se detuvo en el camino que conducía a la caravana de Truman Mayweather, donde todavía ondeaba la cinta amarilla con el rótulo ESCENARIO DE UN CRIMEN. Los otros vehículos —dos coches patrulla, dos automóviles civiles y la furgoneta de Carson Struthers— pararon detrás de ellos.
—¿Ahora qué? —preguntó Clint.
—Ya veremos —dijo Evie—. En el supuesto de que alguno de estos hombres no cambie de idea y acabe matándome, claro.
—Eso no ocurrirá —contestó Clint, no tan convencido como aparentaba.
Se oyeron portazos. Por el momento el conductor y los dos pasajeros de la Unidad Dos permanecieron en sus sitios.
—Dime una cosa, Evie —dijo Frank—. Si eres solo la emisaria, ¿quién está al frente de este rodeo? ¿Alguna... no sé... _fuerza vital_? ¿La Gran Madre Tierra, tal vez, pulsando el botón de reinicio?
—¿Te refieres a la Gran Lesbiana del cielo? —preguntó Evie—. ¿Una deidad baja y obesa con pantalón malva y zapatos cómodos? ¿No es esa la imagen que se forman la mayoría de los hombres cuando creen que una mujer intenta gobernar sus vidas?
—No lo sé. —Frank se sentía apático, extenuado. Echaba de menos a su hija. Incluso echaba de menos a Elaine. Ignoraba en qué había quedado su ira. Era como si se le hubiese roto el bolsillo y se le hubiera caído algo en el camino—. ¿Y a ti qué te viene a la cabeza cuando piensas en los hombres, listilla?
—Armas —contestó ella—. Arrogancia. Anteojeras. Vergüenza y desvergüenza. Y más armas. Clint, parece que estás puertas no tienen tiradores.
—No permitas que eso sea un obstáculo para ti —respondió él.
No lo permitió. Una de las puertas traseras se abrió, y Evie Black se apeó. Clint y Frank la siguieron, uno a cada lado, y Clint se acordó de las clases de catequesis a las que lo habían obligado a asistir en algún hogar de acogida: Jesús en la cruz, con el hombre malo sin fe a un lado y el buen ladrón al otro, el que según el mesías moribundo no tardaría en reunirse con él en el paraíso. Clint recordó haber pensado que aquel pobre desdichado posiblemente se habría conformado con la libertad condicional y una cena a base de pollo.
—Desconozco qué fuerza me ha enviado aquí —dijo Evie—. Solo sé que fui emplazada, y...
—Viniste —concluyó Clint.
—Sí. Y ahora volveré.
—Y _nosotros_ ¿qué hacemos? —preguntó Frank.
Evie se volvió hacia él, y ya no sonreía.
—Haréis la tarea normalmente reservada a las mujeres. Esperaréis. —Respiró hondo—. ¡Qué limpio huele el aire después de esa cárcel!
Pasó por delante del grupo de hombres como si no estuvieran allí y cogió a Angel por los hombros. Angel la miró con un brillo en los ojos.
—Lo has hecho bien —dijo Evie—, y te lo agradezco de todo corazón.
—¡Te quiero, Evie! —prorrumpió Angel.
—Yo también te quiero —contestó Evie, y la besó en los labios.
Evie se encaminó hacia las ruinas del cobertizo de meta. Más allá estaba sentado el zorro, con la cola enroscada en torno a las patas, jadeando y mirándola con los ojos relucientes. Ella lo siguió, y después los hombres la siguieron a ella.
8
—Papá —dijo Jared en voz muy baja, poco más que un susurro—. ¿Lo ves? Dime que lo ves.
—Dios mío —exclamó el ayudante Treat—. ¿Y _eso_ qué es?
Miraban asombrados el árbol, con sus numerosos troncos trenzados y sus bandadas de aves exóticas. Alcanzaba tal altura que no se veía la copa. Clint percibió una fuerza que irradiaba de él como una potente corriente eléctrica. El pavo real desplegó la cola para admiración de todos ellos, y cuando el tigre apareció por el otro lado, rozando con el vientre la hierba alta, varios levantaron sus armas.
— _¡Bajad esas armas!_ —ordenó Frank a voz en grito.
El tigre se tendió y los escrutó a través de la hierba con sus extraordinarios ojos. Los hombres bajaron las armas. Todos menos uno.
—Esperad aquí —dijo Evie.
—Si vuelven las mujeres de Dooling, ¿volverán todas las mujeres de la tierra? —preguntó Clint—. ¿Así funciona?
—Sí. Las mujeres de este pueblo representan a todas las mujeres, y deben volver todas vuestras mujeres. Por ahí. —Señaló una hendidura en el Árbol—. Si una sola se niega... —No tuvo que terminar. Unas mariposas se acercaron y aletearon en torno a su cabeza formando una especie de diadema.
—¿Por qué habrían de querer quedarse? —preguntó Reed Barrows, al parecer sinceramente perplejo.
La carcajada de Angel sonó tan áspera como el graznido de un cuervo.
—Yo tengo una pregunta mejor: si han construido algo bueno, como dice Evie, ¿por qué habrían de querer marcharse?
Evie se dirigió hacia el Árbol, se oía el roce de la hierba alta contra su pantalón rojo, pero se detuvo al percibir un chasquido cuando alguien insertó un cartucho en la recámara de un rifle. Un Weatherby, como se vio. Drew T. Barry era el único hombre que no había bajado su arma cuando Frank lo ordenó, pero no apuntaba a Evie. Apuntaba a Michaela.
—Usted vaya con ella —indicó.
—Bájela, Drew —ordenó Frank.
—No.
Michaela miró a Evie.
—¿ _Puedo_ acompañarte a dondequiera que sea? ¿Sin estar en uno de esos capullos?
—Por supuesto —contestó Evie.
Michaela se volvió hacia Barry. Ya se la veía asustada; fruncía la frente en una expresión de perplejidad.
—Pero ¿por qué?
—Llamémoslo seguro —contestó Drew T. Barry—. Si está diciendo la verdad, a lo mejor usted puede convencer a su madre, y quizá su madre pueda convencer a las demás. Creo firmemente en los seguros.
Clint vio que Frank levantaba una pistola. Barry tenía la atención puesta en las mujeres, y habría sido un disparo fácil, pero Clint negó con la cabeza.
—Ya ha habido bastantes muertes —dijo en voz baja.
Además, pensó, posiblemente el señor Doble Indemnización está en lo cierto.
Evie y Michaela pasaron junto al tigre blanco hacia la hendidura del Árbol, donde el zorro las esperaba sentado. Evie entró sin vacilar y se perdió de vista. Michaela sí vaciló, y luego la siguió.
Los supervivientes del grupo que había atacado la cárcel y los supervivientes del grupo que la había defendido se dispusieron a esperar. Al principio se pasearon de acá para allá, pero al cabo de un rato, al ver que no ocurría nada, casi todos se sentaron entre la hierba alta.
No así Angel. Ella iba de un lado a otro, como si no pudiera llegar a cansarse de estar fuera de los confines de su celda, y del taller de carpintería, y la Garita, y Broadway. El tigre dormitaba. En cierto momento Angel se acercó a él, y Clint contuvo la respiración. Estaba realmente loca.
El animal levantó la cabeza cuando Angel osó acariciarle el lomo, pero a continuación aquella cabeza enorme volvió a posarse en las patas, y aquellos ojos prodigiosos se cerraron.
— _¡Ronronea!_ —los informó ella alzando la voz en un tono que parecía exultante.
El sol ascendió hasta lo alto de la bóveda celeste, y dio la impresión de que se detenía allí.
—Dudo que eso llegue a pasar —dijo Frank—. Y si no pasa, lamentaré durante el resto de mi vida no haberla matado.
—No creo que la cuestión se haya decidido todavía.
—Ah, ¿no? ¿Cómo lo sabe?
Fue Jared quien contestó. Señaló el Árbol.
—Porque _eso_ sigue ahí. Si desaparece, o se convierte en un roble o un sauce llorón, _entonces_ sí puede desistir.
Esperaron.
### 17
1
En el supermercado Shopwell, donde se celebraban tradicionalmente las Reuniones, Evie habló ante una numerosa concurrencia de aquellas que consideraban Nuestro Sitio su hogar. No tardó en pronunciar su alocución, que se reducía a lo siguiente: la decisión estaba en manos de ellas.
—Si os quedáis aquí, todas las mujeres, desde Dooling hasta Marrakech, aparecerán en este mundo, en el lugar donde se quedaron dormidas. Libres para empezar de nuevo. Libres para criar a sus hijos como quieran. Libres para crear la paz. Es una buena opción, o esa impresión tengo yo. Pero podéis marcharos. Y si os vais, todas las mujeres despertarán allí donde se durmieron en el mundo de los hombres. Pero debéis iros todas.
—¿Tú qué eres? —Janice Coates, estrechando a Michaela contra sí, habló a Evie por encima del hombro de su hija—. ¿Quién te ha conferido este poder?
Evie sonrió. Una luz verde la envolvió.
—Soy solo una vieja que de momento parece joven. Y no tengo ningún poder. Al igual que el zorro, soy solo una emisaria. Sois vosotras, todas vosotras, quienes tenéis el poder.
—Bueno —dijo Blanche McIntyre—, hablemos del tema. Como un jurado. Porque supongo que eso es lo que somos.
—Sí —contestó Lila—. Pero no aquí.
2
No lograron reunir a todas las habitantes del nuevo mundo hasta esa tarde. Enviaron mensajeras a todos los rincones del pueblo para emplazar a las mujeres que no habían acudido al supermercado.
Partieron desde Main Street formando una columna silenciosa y subieron por Ball's Hill. A Blanche McIntyre le dolían los pies, por lo que Mary Pak la llevó en uno de los carritos de golf. Blanche, con Andy Jones, el bebé huérfano, en brazos envuelto en una manta azul, contó al pequeño una brevísima historia: «Érase una vez un hombrecito que iba de acá para allá y al que todas las mujeres del lugar querían».
Brotaban matas verdes. Hacía frío, pero estaba a punto de empezar la primavera. Casi había llegado la época del año que era en el viejo mundo cuando se marcharon de allí. Blanche se sorprendió al cobrar conciencia de ese hecho. Tenía la sensación de que había transcurrido mucho más tiempo.
Cuando abandonaron la carretera e iniciaron el ascenso por el sendero revestido de mariposas a través del bosque, apareció el zorro para guiarlas el resto del camino.
3
Una vez explicadas las condiciones de Evie a aquellas que necesitaban ponerse al corriente, Michaela Coates se subió a una caja de reparto de leche, adoptó su actitud de periodista (quizá por última vez) y contó a todas lo que había ocurrido fuera de allí.
—El doctor Norcross convenció al escuadrón de justicieros de que depusiera su actitud —dijo—. Varios hombres dieron la vida antes de que se impusiera la razón.
—¿Quiénes murieron? —preguntó una mujer levantando la voz—. ¡Dime que Micah no era uno de ellos, te lo ruego!
—¿Y Lawrence Hicks? —preguntó otra.
Siguió un barullo de voces interrogativas.
Lila alzó las manos.
—¡Señoras, señoras!
—Yo no soy una señora —refunfuñó una exreclusa llamada Freida Elkins—. Habla por ti misma, jefa.
—No puedo deciros quiénes han muerto —prosiguió Michaela—, porque durante la mayor parte del enfrentamiento yo estaba aislada dentro de la cárcel. Sé que ha muerto Garth Flickinger, y... —Estuvo a un tris de mencionar a Barry Holden, pero vio que su mujer y sus otras hijas la miraban expectantes y le faltó el valor—. Y en esencia eso es todo lo que sé. Pero sí puedo deciros que todos los niños y los bebés de Dooling están perfectamente. —Rogó con toda su alma que eso fuera cierto.
La concurrencia prorrumpió en vítores, hurras y aplausos.
Cuando Michaela terminó, Janice Coates ocupó su lugar para explicar que todas darían a conocer su decisión por turno.
—Personalmente —dijo—, voto con cierto pesar que volvamos. Este lugar es mucho mejor que el que abandonamos, y creo que nuestras posibilidades aquí son ilimitadas. Sin los hombres, las decisiones que tomamos son más justas, y llegamos a ellas con menos alboroto. Compartimos recursos sin tantas disputas. Apenas se dan situaciones de violencia entre los miembros de nuestra comunidad. Las mujeres me han irritado toda la vida, pero no tienen nada contra los hombres. —No mencionó lo irónico de su caso en particular, el hecho de que su propio marido, el pobre Archie, que había abandonado repentinamente esa vida a causa de un infarto prematuro, fuese un hombre muy ecuánime y sensato. Las excepciones no eran lo importante. Lo importante era la generalidad. Lo importante era la historia.
Allí donde antes las facciones de Janice eran enjutas, se veían consumidas hasta el hueso. El cabello blanco le caía por la espalda. Sus ojos, muy hundidos en las cuencas, presentaban un brillo lejano. Michaela cayó en la cuenta de que su madre, por erguida que se mantuviese y por más que hablara con toda claridad, había enfermado. Necesitas un médico, mamá _._
—Sin embargo —continuó Janice—, también me siento obligada a volver por el doctor Norcross. Ha arriesgado la vida, como los otros han arriesgado las suyas, por las mujeres de la cárcel, y dudo que otros muchos lo hubieran hecho. En relación con esto, quiero anunciaros a las mujeres que fuisteis reclusas en la cárcel que haré cuanto esté a mi alcance para que os conmuten las penas, o al menos las reduzcan. Y si queréis marcharos al monte enseguida, informaré a las autoridades de Charleston y Wheeling de que casi con toda seguridad resultasteis muertas en el ataque.
Las expresas dieron un paso al frente en bloque. Había doce menos que esa mañana. Entre ellas había desaparecido sin dejar rastro (excepto por un breve remolino de mariposas) Kitty McDavid. Ya no quedaba duda de lo que eso significaba: esas mujeres estaban muertas en los dos mundos. Los hombres las habían matado.
Sin embargo, todas las reclusas votaron en favor del regreso. Eso acaso habría sorprendido a un hombre, pero no sorprendió a la directora de la cárcel, Janice Coates, quien conocía un dato estadístico revelador: cuando las mujeres se fugaban de la cárcel, en su mayoría volvían a ser capturadas casi de inmediato, porque normalmente no se echaban enseguida al monte, como acostumbraban hacer los hombres. Las mujeres volvían a casa. Lo primero en que pensaron las exreclusas al tomar la palabra en esa última Reunión fueron los niños varones que habían quedado en ese otro mundo.
Por ejemplo, Celia Frode: Celia dijo que los hijos de Nell necesitarían los cuidados de una madre, y aunque Celia tuviera que volver a prisión, podía contarse con que la hermana de Nell se ocupara de ellos.
—Pero la hermana de Nell no servirá de gran ayuda si está dormida, ¿no?
Claudia Stephenson habló a las presentes en voz tan baja que le pidieron que lo repitiera.
—Yo no quiero retener a nadie aquí abajo —dijo por segunda vez—. Me amoldaré a lo que la mayoría decida.
Las miembros del Primer Jueves votaron también en favor del regreso.
—Aquí se está mejor —declaró Gail en nombre de todas—; a ese respecto, Janice tiene razón. Pero en realidad no es Nuestro Sitio. Es otro sitio. Y quién sabe, quizá todo lo que aparentemente ha ocurrido allí mejore también ese lugar.
Michaela pensó que seguramente tenía razón, pero que con toda probabilidad eso no duraría. Los hombres prometían no levantar nunca la mano a sus mujeres e hijos con mucha frecuencia, y en un primer momento hablaban sinceramente, pero solo eran capaces de mantener sus promesas durante uno o dos meses, como mucho. La ira se reproducía, como un brote de malaria recurrente. ¿Por qué habría de ser distinto ahora?
Vigorosas ráfagas de aire frío agitaban la hierba alta. Bandadas de patos en formación de cuña, volviendo del sur deshabitado, cruzaban la bóveda azul por encima de la multitud.
Esto parece un funeral, pensó Mary Pak. Era tan innegable como la propia muerte, cuyo brillo cegaba, cuyo frío traspasaba el abrigo y el jersey, y ponía carne de gallina.
Cuando le tocó el turno a ella, dijo:
—Yo quiero averiguar qué se siente cuando una se enamora de verdad de un chico. —Esta confesión sin duda habría roto el corazón de Jared Norcross si hubiera estado presente—. Sé que el mundo es más fácil para los hombres, y que es un asco, y que hay desigualdades, pero quiero tener la oportunidad de llevar una vida normal como esperaba, y quizá eso sea egoísta, pero es lo que quiero, ¿vale? Puede que incluso quiera tener un bebé. Y... eso es todo. —Estas últimas palabras las pronunció entre sollozos, y bajó de la caja. A quienes acudieron a reconfortarla les indicó que se apartaran.
Magda Dubcek dijo que por supuesto ella tenía que volver. «Anton me necesita.» Su sonrisa, en su inocencia, horrorizaba. Evie vio esa sonrisa y se le partió el corazón.
(Desde un lugar a unos metros de distancia, a la vez que se rascaba el lomo contra un roble, el zorro observaba el fardo azul que era Andy Jones, arrebujado en la parte de atrás del carrito de golf. El bebé dormía profundamente, sin vigilancia de nadie. Ahí estaba, el mayor sueño de todos. Ni las gallinas, ni el puto gallinero entero, ni todos los gallineros del mundo. El bocado más delicioso: un bebé humano. ¿Se atrevía? Por desgracia no. Solo podía fantasear, pero ¡ay, qué fantasía! ¡Rosado y aromático, una carne que se deshacía como la mantequilla!)
Una mujer habló de su marido. Era un buen hombre, de verdad, de verdad lo era, hacía su parte del trabajo, la respaldaba, todo eso. Otra mujer dijo que su pareja componía canciones. No podía decirse que la relación fuera como la seda, pero había entre ellos un vínculo, una sintonía. Él era la letra; ella era la música.
Algunas simplemente añoraban su casa.
Carol Leighton, profesora de Educación Cívica en el instituto, dijo que deseaba comerse un KitKat que no estuviese rancio y sentarse en su sofá a ver una película por Netflix y cuidar de su gato.
—Mis experiencias con los hombres han sido pésimas en un cien por cien, pero no estoy hecha para empezar de cero en un mundo nuevo. A lo mejor soy una cobarde por eso, pero no puedo fingir lo que no soy.
No era la única que anhelaba las comodidades corrientes que habían dejado atrás.
Por lo general, no obstante, fueron los hijos varones lo que las atraía. Un nuevo comienzo para todas las mujeres en el mundo equivalía a una despedida para siempre de sus preciados hijos, y eso no podían soportarlo. También eso partió el corazón a Evie. Los hijos mataban a los hijos. Los hijos mataban a las hijas. Los hijos dejaban armas donde otros hijos podían encontrarlas y disparar accidentalmente contra sí mismos o contra sus hermanas. Los hijos quemaban bosques y los hijos vertían sustancias en la tierra en cuanto los inspectores de la Agencia de Protección del Medioambiente se iban. Los hijos no telefoneaban el día del cumpleaños. Los hijos no eran aficionados a compartir. Los hijos pegaban a los niños, estrangulaban a las novias. Los hijos tomaban conciencia de que ellos eran más grandes y nunca lo olvidaban. Los hijos hacían daño a una si se negaba a decir que creía sus mentiras. A los hijos les traía sin cuidado el mundo que dejaban a sus hijos o a sus hijas, por más que afirmaran que sí les preocupaba cuando llegaba el momento de hacer campaña.
La serpiente se deslizó Árbol abajo y quedó suspendida en la negrura, meciéndose ante Evie.
—He visto lo que has hecho —le dijo ella—. He visto cómo has distraído a Jeanette. Y te odio por ello.
La serpiente no respondió. Las serpientes no necesitan justificar su comportamiento.
Elaine Nutting permanecía al lado de su hija, pero no estaba presente, en realidad no lo estaba. Aún veía los ojos húmedos de la mujer muerta. Eran casi dorados, esos ojos, y muy profundos. Su expresión no era iracunda, solo insistente. Elaine no podía negar la existencia de esos ojos. Un hijo, esa mujer tenía un hijo, yo tengo un hijo.
—¿Elaine? —preguntó alguien. Le había llegado el momento de tomar una decisión.
—Debo hacer ciertas cosas —dijo Elaine. Rodeó a Nana con el brazo—. Y mi hija quiere a su padre.
Nana le devolvió el abrazo.
—¿Lila? —preguntó Janice—. ¿Y tú?
Todas se volvieron hacia ella, y Lila comprendió que podía disuadirlas si quería. Podía garantizar la seguridad de ese nuevo mundo y destruir el viejo. Le bastaría con unas palabras. Podía decir: «Os quiero, y me gusta lo que hemos hecho aquí. No lo perdamos». Podía decir: «Voy a perder a mi marido, por heroico que haya intentado ser, y no quiero perder esto». Podía decir: «Vosotras, mujeres, ya nunca seréis lo que erais, ni lo que ellos esperan, porque una parte de vosotras estará siempre aquí, donde erais de verdad libres. De ahora en adelante llevaréis Nuestro Sitio con vosotras, y por eso siempre los desconcertaréis».
Solo que, a decir verdad, ¿cuándo no habían desconcertado las mujeres a los hombres? Eran la magia con que los hombres soñaban, y a veces sus sueños eran pesadillas.
El intenso azul del cielo se había apagado. Las últimas vetas de luz eran manchas de magnesio por encima de los montes. Evie observaba a Lila, consciente de que todo estaba en sus manos.
—Sí —dijo—. Sí. Volvamos y metamos en vereda a esos tíos.
La ovacionaron.
Evie lloró.
4
De dos en dos, se pusieron en marcha, como si salieran del Arca de Noé varada en el monte Ararat. Blanche y el pequeño Andy, Claudia y Celia, Elaine y Nana, la señora Ransom y Platinum Elway. Cogidas de la mano, rebasaban con cuidado el gigantesco escalón formado por una raíz nudosa y se adentraban en la profunda noche del interior del Árbol. En el espacio intermedio, se producía un destello, pero era difuso, como si la fuente de luz se hallara al otro lado de un recodo... pero ¿un recodo de qué? Intensificaba las tinieblas sin revelar nada. Lo que recordaban las viajeras era ruido y una sensación de calor. Dentro del pasadizo exiguamente iluminado se producía una reverberación crepitante, una sensación de hormigueo en la piel, como el roce de unas alas de mariposa...
... y de pronto despertaban al otro lado del Árbol, en el mundo de los hombres, a la vez que se fundían los capullos... pero no había mariposas. Esta vez no.
Magda Dubcek se incorporó en la habitación de hospital adonde la policía había trasladado su cuerpo tras descubrirla dormida en la habitación junto al cadáver de su hijo. Se limpió las telarañas de los ojos, asombrada de ver a todas las mujeres de la sala levantarse de sus camas, despojarse de los jirones de sus capullos en una orgía de resurrección.
5
Lila vio desprenderse las lustrosas hojas del Árbol, como si este llorase. Caían al suelo y formaban montículos relucientes. Cordones de musgo resbalaban, precipitándose desde las ramas con un zumbido. Vio una cacatúa, sus maravillosas alas verdes surcadas de marcas plateadas, elevarse del Árbol y perforar el cielo; la vio penetrar en la oscuridad y dejar de existir. Torbellinos de motas, no muy distintas de la grafiosis del olmo sobre la que Anton la había prevenido, se propagaron rápidamente por las raíces del Árbol. En el aire se percibió un olor a enfermedad, como a podredumbre. Supo que el Árbol estaba infestado, que algo lo devoraba por dentro mientras moría por fuera.
—Nos vemos allí, señora Norcross —dijo Mary Pak, y se despidió con una mano mientras llevaba a Molly de la otra.
—Llámame Lila —respondió Lila, pero Mary ya había cruzado.
El zorro trotaba detrás de ellas.
Al final quedaron Janice, Michaela, Lila y el cadáver de Jeanette. Janice cogió una pala de uno de los carritos de golf. La tumba que cavaron no tenía más de un metro de profundidad, pero Lila dudaba que importara. Ese mundo dejaría de existir en cuanto ellas se fuesen; ningún animal intentaría llegar hasta el cuerpo. Envolvieron a Jeanette con unos abrigos y le cubrieron la cara con una manta sobrante del bebé.
—Fue un accidente —dijo Janice.
Lila se agachó, cogió un puñado de tierra y lo echó sobre la figura amortajada en el hoyo.
—Eso es lo que siempre dice la poli después de disparar contra un pobre negro, una mujer o un niño.
—Iba armada.
—No tenía intención de usar el arma. Vino para salvar el Árbol.
—Lo sé —contestó Janice. Dio una palmada en el hombro a Lila—. Pero tú no lo sabías. Recuérdalo.
Una gruesa rama del Árbol gimió y se partió. Se estrelló contra el suelo en medio de un estallido de hojas.
—Daría cualquier cosa por llevármela —dijo Lila. No lloraba. De momento el llanto no estaba a su alcance—. Daría el alma.
—Creo que es hora de marcharse —instó Michaela—. Ahora que todavía podemos. —Cogió a su madre de la mano y tiró de ella hacia el Árbol.
6
Durante unos minutos Lila fue la última mujer en Nuestro Sitio. Aun así, no reflexionó sobre ese prodigio. Se había propuesto actuar con sentido práctico a partir de ese mismo momento. Centró la atención en la tierra, en la pala y en llenar la fosa. Solo después de terminar su trabajo, se internó en la oscuridad del Árbol y cruzó al otro lado. Se marchó sin mirar atrás. Si lo hacía, pensó, se le rompería el frágil corazón.
La doncella no ha muerto; está dormida.
Evangelio según San Mateo, 9, 24
###
1
En las semanas posteriores al despertar de las mujeres, la gente, en general, veía el mundo como un deprimente juego de mesa comprado en una tienda de segunda mano: faltaban piezas, no necesariamente las importantes, pero desde luego algunas que uno habría deseado tener. Uno tenía la sensación de que, como mínimo, determinadas cartas que acaso le habrían servido para obtener la victoria no estaban.
El dolor se percibía por todas partes, como una desfiguración. Pero ¿qué hacía uno cuando perdía a su mujer, o a una hija o a su marido? A menos que fuera como Terry Coombs —y algunos lo eran—, vivía con la pérdida y seguía con la partida.
Pudge Marone, camarero y propietario del Squeaky, había perdido un trozo de sí mismo y aprendió a vivir con ello. Su pulgar derecho terminaba por debajo del nudillo. Tardó un tiempo en perder la costumbre de tender esa mano hacia el grifo de la cerveza, pero se las arregló. Más adelante recibió una oferta por el edificio de un tipo que quería abrir una franquicia de TGI Friday's. Pudge se dijo que en todo caso el Squeaky Wheel nunca se habría recobrado de Aurora, y el precio no era malo.
A ciertas personas —Don Peters, por ejemplo— no se las echó mucho de menos. Cayeron en el olvido tan absolutamente que fue como si nunca hubieran existido. Las ruinas de la vivienda de los Peters se vendieron en subasta.
Las escasas pertenencias de Johnny Lee Kronsky acabaron en una bolsa de basura, pero su sombrío apartamento sigue desocupado a día de hoy.
Van había dejado la puerta abierta al salir de la casa de Fritz Meshaum aquel último día de Aurora, y cuando él llevaba muerto uno o dos días, los buitres entraron y se sirvieron en el bufé libre. Aves menores se acercaron a llevarse los gruesos pelos de la barba roja de Fritz como material para sus nidos. Finalmente, un oso emprendedor sacó de allí los restos. A su debido tiempo, los insectos limpiaron el esqueleto y el sol blanqueó el peto. La naturaleza lo aprovechó y, como solía, logró hacer de él algo hermoso: una escultura de hueso.
Cuando Magda Dubcek descubrió lo ocurrido a Anton —la mancha de sangre en la alfombra del dormitorio lo decía casi todo—, lamentó amargamente haber votado en favor del regreso. «Qué error he cometido», se dijo demasiadas veces para contarlas, ante demasiados cubalibres para contarlos. Para Magda, su Anton no era una pieza, ni dos ni tres; para ella, era todo el juego. Blanche McIntyre intentó animar a Magda para que se implicara en el trabajo voluntario —eran muchos los niños que habían perdido a un progenitor y necesitaban ayuda— y la invitó a unirse al club de lectura, pero Magda no estaba interesada. «Aquí no hay final feliz para mí», dijo. En las largas noches de insomnio bebía y veía _Boardwalk Empire_. Cuando terminó esa serie, pasó a _Los Soprano_. Llenó sus horas vacías con las historias de hombres malvados que cometían acciones malvadas.
2
Para Blanche, sí hubo final feliz.
Despertó en el apartamento de Dorothy, en el suelo, donde se había quedado dormida hacía unos días, y se despojó de los restos del capullo en descomposición. Sus amigas estaban también allí, recuperando el conocimiento y liberándose de la tela al igual que ella. Pero un cambio sí se había producido: Andy Jones. El bebé no estaba en los brazos de Blanche, como cuando había entrado en el Árbol. Dormía cerca de ella en una tosca cuna construida de ramas entrelazadas.
—Joder —dijo Dorothy—. ¡El niño! ¡Yupi!
Blanche lo interpretó como una señal. En el solar donde había ardido una casa durante Aurora, se construyó la guardería Tiffany Jones. El proyecto se financió con el dinero del plan de jubilación de Blanche, con el de su nuevo novio (que, en el caso de Willy Burke, había estado acumulándose sin intereses bajo el forro de su amarillento colchón desde 1973) y con muchas donaciones de la comunidad. Después de Aurora, por lo visto eran muchas más las personas predispuestas a la caridad. La familia Norcross fue especialmente generosa a pesar de sus dificultades. En el letrero exterior, bajo el nombre de Tiffany, se incluyó una imagen de una cuna hecha de ramas entrelazadas.
Blanche y su personal aceptaban a todos los niños de edades comprendidas entre un mes y cuatro años, fueran cuales fuesen las posibilidades económicas de los progenitores (o progenitor). Tras Aurora fueron las pequeñas empresas comunitarias como la de Blanche, financiadas y atendidas en gran parte por hombres, las que iniciaron el movimiento que condujo a la creación de un programa universal de asistencia a la infancia. Al parecer, muchos hombres comprendieron la necesidad de buscar un nuevo equilibrio.
Al fin y al cabo, habían recibido una advertencia.
Blanche pensó una o dos veces en la novela que las había llevado a reunirse aquella última noche antes de que todo cambiara: el relato de una muchacha cuya mentira alteró muchas vidas. A menudo Blanche reflexionaba sobre la penitencia que se convirtió en tan pesada carga en la vida de esa muchacha. Ella, Blanche, no tenía la sensación de merecer una penitencia así. Era una persona decente, lo había sido siempre, muy trabajadora y buena amiga. Siempre había tratado bien a las reclusas en la cárcel. La guardería no tenía nada que ver con la expiación. Tenía que ver con la decencia. Era algo natural, evidente y esencial. Si faltaban piezas en el juego, a veces —incluso a menudo— era posible confeccionar nuevas.
Blanche conoció a Willy cuando este se presentó a la puerta de la guardería, por entonces todavía en obras, con un fajo de billetes de cincuenta dólares.
—¿Y esto qué es? —preguntó ella.
—Mi parte —respondió él.
Solo que no lo era. El simple dinero no bastaba. Si quería participar, tendría que _hacer_ su parte.
—Los niños se ensucian mucho —dijo Willy a Blanche una noche cuando llevaban ya un tiempo de cortejo.
Ella estaba de pie junto a su Prius, esperando a que él terminara de arrastrar dos bolsas pesadas y transparentes de pañales usados hasta la plataforma de su furgoneta. Los llevaban a la lavandería Tiny Tot de Maylock. Blanche no tenía intención de llenar de pañales usados un vertedero. Willy había perdido peso y se había comprado tirantes nuevos. Blanche lo consideraba una monada ya antes, pero entonces, después de recortarse la barba (y aquellas cejas rebeldes), estaba directamente apuesto.
—Si te mueres antes que yo, Willy —dijo Blanche—, vamos a divertirnos con la necrológica. «Willy Burke murió haciendo lo que le gustaba. Acarreando pañales con caca a través de un aparcamiento.» —Le lanzó un beso.
3
Jared Norcross se ofreció voluntario para trabajar en la guardería de Tiffany Jones el verano siguiente, y a tiempo parcial durante su último curso en el instituto. Le gustaba ayudar. Los niños eran una especie de dementes —hacían castillos de tierra y lamían las paredes y se revolcaban en charcos, y precisamente entonces eran felices—, pero siempre lo fascinaba, como a muchos otros antes que él, ver con qué facilidad jugaban juntos niños y niñas. ¿Qué cambiaba, pues, más adelante? ¿Por qué un buen día se dividían en grupos de juego en esencia separados casi tan pronto como empezaban a estudiar en la escuela? ¿Era una cuestión química? ¿Genética? Jared no aceptaba esa explicación. Las personas eran más complejas; las personas tenían sistemas de raíces, y sus sistemas de raíces tenían a su vez sistemas de raíces. Presentía que en la universidad quizá deseara estudiar el comportamiento infantil y llegar con el tiempo a ser psiquiatra, como su padre.
Esas reflexiones reconfortaban a Jared y lo distraían cuando necesitaba distraerse, que era, durante esa etapa de su vida, casi todo el tiempo. El matrimonio de sus padres se venía abajo, y Mary salía con un primo mayor de Molly Ransom, una estrella del lacrosse en el instituto del condado contiguo. Los había visto juntos una vez, a Mary y a su novio. Estaban sentados a una mesa de picnic delante de una heladería, ofreciéndose sus respectivos helados. Solo habría sido más espantoso si los hubiese sorprendido en plena actividad sexual.
Molly lo abordó una vez cuando él salía de casa.
—¿Qué hay, tío? Mary y Jeff vendrán luego por aquí. ¿Te apuntas tú también? —La niña había pasado a llevar aparato y daba la impresión de que había crecido unos dos metros. Pronto los chicos que no querían jugar con ella después de clase estarían persiguiéndola quizá solo por un beso.
—Ojalá pudiera —contestó Jared.
—¿Y por qué no puedes? —preguntó Molly.
—Tengo el corazón roto —contestó Jared, y le guiñó el ojo—. Sé que nunca me amarás, Molly.
—Anda ya, por favor... Supéralo —respondió ella, y alzó la vista al cielo.
A veces sus pasos lo llevaban hasta la casa vacía donde había escondido a Mary, Molly y su madre. Mary y él habían formado un equipo entrañable, pensaba, pero ella había dejado atrás todo eso resueltamente.
—Este es ahora un mundo muy distinto, ¿sabes? —Le había dicho Mary, como si eso le sirviera de consuelo o explicara algo.
Jared se dijo que ella no tenía ni idea de qué echaba de menos, aunque tal vez no echara de menos nada, reconoció sombríamente.
4
Los capullos, como se vio, flotaban.
Tres mujeres, pasajeras del vuelo que se había estrellado en el océano Atlántico, despertaron envueltas en sus telas en una playa rocosa de Nueva Escocia. Los capullos estaban mojados, pero ellas, dentro, seguían secas. Fueron a pie hasta un puesto de salvamento vacío y llamaron al servicio de información telefónica para solicitar ayuda.
La noticia se relegó a las últimas páginas de los periódicos y las publicaciones electrónicas, si es que se dio a conocer. A la sombra del gran milagro de aquel año, esos otros menores casi carecían de interés.
5
Encontrarse a su marido muerto en un garaje lleno de gases de escape era una manera horrenda de volver a casa.
Rita Coombs pasó algunos momentos difíciles después de eso: desesperación, terror ante la vida en soledad, y por supuesto sus propias noches de insomnio, en las que parecía que el día siguiente nunca llegaría. Terry había sido un hombre estable, inteligente y afable. El hecho de que se hubiera sumido en una depresión atroz y absoluta hasta el punto de quitarse la vida era difícil de armonizar con su experiencia al lado de quien había sido su compañero y padre de su hija. Lloró hasta que tuvo la certeza de que no le quedaban lágrimas... y entonces llegaron más lágrimas.
Una tarde la visitó un tal Geary para darle el pésame. Rita sabía —pese a que corrían historias contradictorias, y el deseo de proteger a todos los implicados había envuelto en silencio los detalles del suceso— que era Geary quien había dirigido el asalto contra la prisión, pero era un hombre amable y bien hablado. Insistió en que lo llamara Frank.
—¿Qué le pasó a mi marido, Frank?
Frank Geary contestó que, a su juicio, Terry sencillamente no había podido soportarlo.
—Todo se nos fue de las manos, y él lo sabía. Pero no podía poner fin a ese descontrol. A lo único que puso fin fue a su vida.
Ella se serenó y le planteó una de las preguntas que la atormentaban en sus noches de insomnio.
—Señor Geary... mi marido... tenía cierto problema con la bebida. ¿Acaso... estaba...?
—Sobrio en todo momento —contestó Frank. Levantó la mano izquierda, sin ningún anillo—. Le doy mi palabra. Lo juro por Dios.
6
Los multitudinarios estallidos de violencia y los daños causados por Aurora, más la desaparición de muchísimas mujeres, dieron lugar a una reestructuración generalizada del sector de los seguros a nivel nacional y mundial. Drew T. Barry, y el equipo de la Aseguradora Drew T. Barry, capeó el temporal tan bien como cualquier otra compañía en Estados Unidos y logró facilitar los pagos de las indemnizaciones de los seguros de vida tanto a la viuda de Nate McGee como a los padres de Eric Blass. Dado que los dos habían muerto durante un asalto no autorizado contra un centro penitenciario, no fue una hazaña pequeña, pero Drew T. Barry no era un agente de seguros mezquino.
Más fácil fue conseguir compensaciones para los parientes, cercanos y lejanos, del honorable Oscar Silver, Barry y Gerda Holden, Linny Mars, el agente Vern Rangle, el doctor Garth Flickinger, y los funcionarios Rand Quigley, Tig Murphy y Billy Wettermore, todos los cuales, podía afirmarse legítimamente, habían muerto en circunstancias cubiertas por sus respectivas pólizas. No por ello las diversas resoluciones dejaron de ser procesos largos y enrevesados. Fue un trabajo de años, trabajo a lo largo del cual el cabello de Drew T. Barry encaneció y su piel se tornó gris, y en medio de todo eso, a fuerza de contestar emails por la mañana temprano y archivar documentos ya entrada la noche, Drew T. Barry perdió el gusto por la caza. Se le antojó un pasatiempo decadente en contraposición con la seriedad de su trabajo en representación de los abandonados y los afligidos. Sentado en su puesto de observación, veía, al otro lado de su mira telescópica, un ciervo con una cornamenta de diez puntas deambular entre la niebla y pensaba: Seguro contra caso fortuito. ¿Tiene ese macho un seguro contra caso fortuito? Porque para un ciervo a eso debe de equivaler recibir un disparo, ¿no? ¿Serán atendidas sus crías? ¿Puede un macho muerto con un buen seguro generar un poco de pasta? Claro que no, la idea era incluso más ridícula que el chiste. Así que vendió su Weatherby e intentó hacerse vegetariano, aunque no lo consiguió del todo. A veces, después de un día de brega existencial en el sector de los seguros, un hombre necesitaba una chuleta de cerdo.
La pérdida lo cambia todo. A veces eso es malo. A veces es bueno. Tanto en un caso como en otro, uno se come su maldita chuleta de cerdo y sigue adelante.
7
Debido a la falta de documentos de identidad, Lowell y Maynard Griner fueron enterrados en tumbas anónimas. Mucho más tarde, cuando el delirio de Aurora empezó a remitir (si bien nunca despareció del todo), sus huellas dactilares se correlacionaron con los amplios historiales delictivos y se declaró muertos oficialmente a los dos hermanos. No obstante, muchos lo dudaron, sobre todo aquellos que vivían al margen de la ley. Abundaban los rumores de que Little Low y Maynard se habían instalado en el pozo de una mina abandonada, que dirigían Acapulco Gold más al sur con nombres falsos, que conducían por los montes en un Ford F150 trucado de color negro como la noche con una cabeza de jabalí encadenada a la calandra y música de Hank Williams Jr. a todo volumen en el estéreo. Un escritor galardonado que de joven había vivido en la región de los Apalaches y había huido de allí en cuanto cumplió los dieciocho, oyó algunas de esas leyendas de labios de sus parientes y las utilizó como base para un libro de cuentos infantiles ilustrado que se tituló _Los hermanos tontos y malos_. En el libro, terminaron como miserables sapos en el Pantano de la Caca.
8
El riachuelo que los Dorados habían represado cerca de su complejo en Hatch, Nuevo México, se desbordó, y las aguas arrancaron los edificios de la comunidad de sus cimientos. Cuando las aguas volvieron a su cauce, aquello quedó desertizado; la arena cubrió unas cuantas armas desechadas que los federales habían pasado por alto; unas cuantas hojas de la Constitución de su nueva nación, que declaraba su control sobre los terrenos y los cauces de agua de los que se habían apropiado y su derecho a portar armas y negaba al gobierno federal de Estados Unidos la prerrogativa de exigirles el pago de impuestos, quedaron ensartadas en las espinas de los cactus. Una estudiante universitaria de Botánica, de excursión por la zona para recoger especímenes de plantas autóctonas del desierto, descubrió varias de esas hojas allí clavadas.
—¡Gracias, Dios mío! —exclamó, y las desprendió del cactus.
La estudiante tenía molestias de estómago. Se apartó del sendero, defecó y utilizó los providenciales papeles para limpiarse.
9
Para proseguir la andadura hacia su pensión por treinta años de servicio, Van Lampley aceptó un empleo en la cárcel de mujeres de Curly, que fue a donde se trasladó a la gran mayoría de las presas supervivientes de Dooling. Celia Frode acabó allí, aunque por poco tiempo (libertad condicional), como también Claudia Stephenson.
En conjunto, las reclusas del Centro Penitenciario de Curly eran un grupo intratable —muchas chicas excitables, muchas reincidentes de armas tomar—, pero Van dio la talla. Un día una joven blanca con dentadura postiza de similor, trenzas africanas y un tatuaje en la frente (decía VACÍO en letras sangrantes) preguntó a Van a qué se debía su cojera. La sonrisa burlona de la reclusa era porcina y jovial a la vez.
—Pateé más culos de la cuenta —contestó Van, una mentira inocente.
Había pateado la cantidad justa de culos exactamente. La funcionaria se remangó para enseñar el tatuaje en su poderoso bíceps izquierdo: TU ORGULLO, grabado en la lápida de una tumba con el brazo laxo. Se volvió del otro lado y se subió la otra manga. En su bíceps derecho, igualmente impresionante, tenía dibujada a tinta otra lápida. En esta se había grabado TODO TU PUTO ORGULLO.
—Vale —dijo la chica dura, ya sin sonrisa burlona—. Eres guay.
—Más te vale creerlo —contestó Van—. Y ahora andando.
A veces Van rezaba con Claudia, ordenada entonces reverenda Stephenson. Rezaban por el perdón de sus pecados. Rezaban por el alma de Ree. Rezaban por el alma de Jeanette. Rezaban por los bebés y las madres. Rezaban por todo aquello por lo que hiciera falta rezar.
—¿Qué era esa mujer, Claudia? —preguntó Van una vez.
—Aquí no se trata de qué era ella, Vanessa —respondió la reverenda Stephenson—. Se trata de qué somos nosotras.
—¿Y qué somos?
La reverenda era severa, muy distinta de la antigua Claudia, que no mataba ni una mosca.
—Personas decididas a ser mejores. Decididas a ser más fuertes. Dispuestas a hacer lo que tengamos que hacer.
10
El cáncer cervical que había estado desarrollándose dentro de Janice Coates habría acabado matándola, pero de algún modo el reloj al otro lado del Árbol había ralentizado su crecimiento. Además, al otro lado del Árbol, su hija se había percatado de su enfermedad. Michaela llevó a su madre a un oncólogo a los dos días de que las mujeres se despertaran, y dos días después de eso la directora de la cárcel inició un tratamiento de quimioterapia. Cuando Michaela pidió a Janice que abandonara de inmediato su trabajo, ella accedió, y permitió a su hija que lo organizara todo, cuidara de ella, la mandara al médico, a la cama y a tomar sus medicamentos con regularidad. Michaela se aseguró también de que su madre dejaba de fumar.
En la modesta opinión de Michaela, el cáncer era una mierda. Había perdido a su padre siendo este aún muy joven, y todavía intentaba superar parte de la mierda emocional que eso le había provocado. Pero la mierda abundaba. La mierda era algo que una tenía que apartar a paladas casi incesantemente si era mujer, y si era mujer en la televisión, tenía que palear el doble de deprisa. Michaela era capaz de palear el triple de rápido. No había vuelto a casa desde Washington, volcado la máquina antigua de un motero malo, permanecido despierta días y días fumando meta con Garth Flickinger y sobrevivido a un cruento conflicto armado para sucumbir luego a ningún género de mierda, ni siquiera si esa mierda era una enfermedad que en realidad afectaba a su madre.
En el transcurso de la quimio, cuando llegó el resultado de la prueba que reveló que el cáncer de Janice estaba en remisión, Michaela dijo a su madre:
—Muy bien. ¿Y qué vas a hacer ahora? Tienes que permanecer activa.
Janice contestó a Mickey que tenía toda la razón. Su primer plan: llevar a Michaela en coche a Washington. Su hija tenía que volver a trabajar.
—¿Alguna vez intentarás informar de lo ocurrido? —preguntó Janice a su hija—. ¿Una de esas cosas tipo experiencia personal?
—Lo he pensado, pero...
—¿Pero...?
Había problemas, ese era el pero. En primer lugar, la mayoría de la gente diría que las aventuras de las mujeres al otro lado del Árbol eran una gilipollez. En segundo lugar, diría que una criatura sobrenatural como Evie Black no había existido, y que Aurora se había debido a causas perfectamente naturales (aún por descubrir). En tercer lugar, si determinadas autoridades decidían que Michaela _no_ estaba ensartando una gilipollez tras otra, surgirían preguntas para las que las autoridades de Dooling —en particular, la exjefa Lila Norcross— no tendrían respuesta.
Durante un par de días, Janice se quedó con su hija en la capital. Las flores de los cerezos habían desparecido hacía tiempo. A pesar del calor, pasearon mucho. En Pennsylvania Avenue vieron el convoy del presidente, una caravana de lustrosos todoterrenos y limusinas negros. Pasó de largo sin detenerse.
—Mira. —Michaela señaló con el dedo.
—¿A quién le importa un carajo? —dijo Janice—. Es un fantoche más.
11
En Akron, Ohio, en el apartamento donde vivía con su tía Nancy, empezaron a llegar cheques a nombre de Robert Sorley. Las cantidades nunca eran grandes —veinte dólares por aquí, dieciséis dólares por allá—, pero iban acumulándose. Esos cheques procedían de la cuenta de una tal Elaine Nutting. En las tarjetas y cartas que acompañaban los cheques, Elaine escribía a Bobby sobre su difunta madre, Jeanette, sobre la vida de bondad, generosidad y logros que había imaginado para él.
Aunque Bobby no la había conocido tan bien como habría deseado, y como consecuencia de su delito nunca había podido confiar del todo en ella mientras vivió, el niño quería a su madre. La impresión que, por lo visto, Jeanette había causado en Elaine Nutting convenció al niño de que su madre había sido buena.
La hija de Elaine, Nana, incluía dibujos en algunas de las cartas de su madre. Poseía verdadero talento. Bobby le pidió que, por favor, dibujara una montaña para que él pudiera mirarla y pensar en el mundo más allá de Akron, que no era un mal sitio pero era, a fin de cuentas, Akron.
Ella lo hizo. Era una montaña hermosa: arroyos, un monasterio enclavado en un valle, pájaros alrededor, nubes iluminadas desde lo alto, un sendero tortuoso que conducía hacia la ladera opuesta invisible.
«Porque lo pediste por favor», escribió Nana.
«¿Cómo no iba a pedirlo por favor? —preguntó él en su carta de respuesta—. ¿Quién no pide las cosas por favor?»
En su carta siguiente, Nana escribió: «Conozco a muchos chicos que no piden nada por favor. En esta hoja no tengo sitio para escribir los nombres de todos los chicos que conozco que no piden nada por favor».
En su contestación él escribió: «No soy uno de esos chicos».
Se convirtieron en corresponsales asiduos, y al final planearon quedar.
Y quedaron.
12
Clint nunca preguntó a Lila si había tenido una amante durante el tiempo que pasó al otro lado del Árbol. Era como si dentro de su marido existiera un universo, un despliegue de planetas meticulosamente elaborados y bien diseñados colgados de alambres. Los planetas eran ideas y personas. Los exploraba y los estudiaba y acababa por conocerlos. Solo que no se movían, no rotaban, no cambiaban con el paso del tiempo, a diferencia de los cuerpos reales, los celestes y los de toda índole. Lila medio comprendió que eso, aun a sabiendas de que él en otro tiempo había llevado una vida en la que no había más que movimiento e incertidumbre, no significaba que a ella tuviera que gustarle. O que tuviera que aceptarlo.
¿Y qué sentía por haber matado a Jeanette Sorley, fuese un hecho accidental o no? Eso era algo que él nunca entendería, y las pocas veces que lo intentó, ella se alejó rápidamente, con los puños cerrados, llena de odio. No sabía exactamente qué era lo que quería, pero no era la comprensión de nadie.
Aquella primera tarde después de despertar, Lila fue en su coche patrulla directamente desde el camino de acceso de la casa de la señora Ransom hasta la cárcel humeante. Tenía aún adheridos a la piel restos de tela del capullo a medio disolverse. Organizó el levantamiento de los cadáveres de los atacantes y la recogida y eliminación de las armas y el equipamiento policial. Las ayudantes a sus órdenes en esa tarea fueron, principalmente, las reclusas del Centro Penitenciario de Dooling. Esas mujeres, presidiarias que habían renunciado a su libertad —casi todas ellas supervivientes de la violencia de género, o supervivientes de la adicción, o supervivientes de la pobreza, o supervivientes de las enfermedades mentales, o de alguna combinación de las cuatro—, estaban acostumbradas a los trabajos desagradables. Hacían lo que hubiera que hacer. Evie les había dado a elegir y ellas habían decidido.
Cuando las autoridades del estado centraron por fin la atención en el Centro Penitenciario de Dooling, la versión de los hechos se había difundido y codificado ya entre los vecinos del pueblo y la gente de la cárcel. Unos merodeadores —una Brigada del Soplete fuertemente armada— había sitiado el recinto, y el doctor Clinton Norcross y sus funcionarios habían defendido su posición de forma heroica, con ayuda de la policía y de voluntarios como Barry Holden, Eric Blass, Jack Albertson y Nate McGee. Dado el carácter generalizado e inexplicable del fenómeno Aurora, esa noticia tuvo algo menos de interés que la de las mujeres flotantes que las olas habían arrastrado hasta Nueva Escocia.
Al fin y al cabo, se trataba solo de la región de los Apalaches.
13
—Se llama Andy. Su madre murió —dijo Lila.
Andy lloraba cuando se lo presentó a Clint. Lo había rescatado de Blanche McIntyre. Tenía el rostro enrojecido y estaba famélico.
—Voy a decir que es mío, que lo he traído yo al mundo. Así será más sencillo. Mi amiga Jolie es médico. Ya ha rellenado los papeles.
—Cariño, la gente sabrá que no has estado embarazada. No se lo creerá.
—La mayoría sí —contestó ella—, porque allí el tiempo era distinto. En cuanto al resto... me da igual.
Como Clint vio que ella hablaba en serio, alargó los brazos y aceptó al niño llorón. Meció a Andy. El llanto del pequeño se convirtió en berridos.
—Creo que le caigo bien —comentó Clint.
Lila no sonrió.
—Está estreñido.
Clint no quería un niño. Quería una siesta. Quería olvidarse de todo, la sangre y la muerte y Evie, especialmente de Evie, que había trastocado el mundo, que lo había trastocado a él. Pero la cinta de vídeo permanecía en su cabeza; siempre que quería hacer de Warner Wolf y pasar a él, las imágenes se reproducían en bucle.
Se acordó de que Lila, aquella noche atroz en que el mundo ardía, de pronto lo informó de que nunca había deseado la piscina.
—¿Tengo voz en esto? —preguntó.
—No —contestó Lila—. Lo siento.
—No parece que lo sientas. —Lo cual era cierto.
14
A veces —normalmente por la noche, cuando yacía en vela, pero a veces incluso en las tardes más luminosas— desfilaban nombres por la cabeza de Lila. Eran los nombres de agentes de policía blancos (como ella) que habían disparado contra civiles negros inocentes (como Jeanette Sorley). Pensó en Richard Haste, que disparó contra Ramarley Graham, de dieciocho años, en el cuarto de baño del apartamento del joven en el Bronx. Pensó en Betty Shelby, que mató a Terence Crutcher en Tulsa. Sobre todo pensó en Alfred Olango, muerto a tiros a manos del agente Richard Gonsalves cuando Olango, a modo de juego, lo apuntó con un vaporizador.
Janice Coates y otras mujeres de Nuestro Sitio habían intentado convencerla de que existían razones perfectamente válidas para lo que había hecho. Esas exhortaciones podían ser ciertas o no; en cualquier caso, no servían de gran ayuda. Había una pregunta que se repetía como una cantinela enloquecedora: ¿habría dado más tiempo a una mujer blanca? Se temía muy mucho que conocía la respuesta a eso... pero era consciente de que nunca en la vida lo sabría con certeza.
Lila permaneció en el cargo hasta que se aclaró la situación con respecto a la cárcel, y luego presentó la dimisión. Llevó a Andy a la guardería Tiffany Jones y se quedó allí para ayudar.
Clint se trasladaba a diario a Curly, una hora más de viaje. Estaba obsesionado con sus pacientes, sobre todo con las reclusas trasladadas desde Dooling que habían cruzado al otro lado, porque él era la única persona con quien podían hablar de lo que habían visto y experimentado sin temor a que las tachara de locas.
«¿Lamentas tu decisión?», les preguntaba.
Todas contestaban que no.
Su desinteresada actitud asombraba a Clint, lo acomplejaba, le quitaba el sueño y permanecía sentado en su sillón en la penumbra del amanecer. Había arriesgado la vida, sí, pero las reclusas habían entregado las suyas. Las habían obsequiado. ¿Qué grupo de hombres habría realizado un sacrificio tan unánime? Ningún grupo de hombres, esa era la respuesta, y si uno reconocía esa circunstancia, ¿no podía concluirse, Dios santo, que las mujeres habían cometido un error garrafal?
Comía en autoservicios al principio y al final del día, y el reblandecimiento que lo preocupaba esa primavera se convirtió en un saludable porche delantero en el otoño siguiente. Jared era un fantasma melancólico que rondaba en la periferia de su percepción, yendo y viniendo, a veces dirigiéndole un parco saludo o un «eh, papá» _._ Los sueños eróticos con Evie pulverizaban cualquier serenidad real que Clint pudiera haber encontrado. Lo capturaba entre enredaderas y hacía correr el viento por su cuerpo desnudo. ¿Y el cuerpo de ella? Era una pérgola donde él creía que sería capaz de descansar, pero nunca llegaba a ella antes de despertar.
Cuando estaba en la misma habitación que el bebé, este le sonreía, como si quisiera entablar amistad. Clint le devolvía la sonrisa y luego se descubría llorando en el coche de camino al trabajo.
Una noche, incapaz de conciliar el sueño, buscó en Google el nombre de su primer paciente, Paul Montpelier, el de la «ambición sexual». Apareció una necrológica. Paul Montpelier había fallecido hacía cinco años, después de una larga lucha contra el cáncer. No se mencionaba mujer ni hijos. ¿Qué fruto habría obtenido de aquella «ambición sexual» suya? Una necrológica muy breve y triste, por lo visto. Clint también lloró por él. Entendía que ese era un conocido fenómeno psicológico llamado _transferencia_ , y no le importaba.
Una noche lluviosa, no mucho después de leer la necrológica de Montpelier, agotado de todo un día de reuniones en grupo y consultas individuales, paró en un motel de la pequeña localidad de Eagle, donde el radiador hacía ruidos y en el televisor todos salían de color verde. Tres noches más tarde, cuando Lila lo llamó al teléfono móvil para preguntarle si volvería a casa, seguía en la misma habitación. No se la notaba especialmente preocupada por la respuesta.
—Creo que estoy roto, Lila —contestó él.
Lila interpretó el significado, la amplia y envolvente derrota que transmitían sus palabras.
—Eres un buen hombre —dijo. Eso era mucho darle en ese momento. El bebé apenas dormía. Ella misma estaba rota—. Mejor que la mayoría.
Clint no pudo evitar reírse.
—Creo que a eso se lo conoce como maldecir con un ligero elogio.
—Te quiero de verdad —aseguró ella—. Sencillamente ha sido demasiado. ¿No?
Así había sido. Vaya si había sido demasiado.
15
El director de la cárcel de Curly dijo a Clint que bajo ningún concepto quería verle la cara durante el puente de Acción de Gracias.
—Cúrese usted, doctor —recomendó el director—. Coma verdura, al menos. Algo aparte de Big Macs y panqueques de chocolate y malvavisco.
De repente decidió viajar a Coughlin para ver a Shannon, pero acabó aparcado frente a la casa de ella, incapaz de entrar. A través de las vaporosas cortinas de la vivienda unifamiliar, observó moverse las sombras de siluetas femeninas. La calidez de las luces era alegre e invitadora; había empezado a nevar en grandes copos. Se planteó llamar a la puerta. Se planteó decir: «Eh, Shan, tú fuiste el batido que se me escapó». Rio al imaginar un batido corriendo con las torneadas piernas de Shannon, y seguía riendo cuando se alejó de allí en el coche.
Terminó en una taberna llamada O'Byrne con nieve derretida en el suelo, los Dubliners en la gramola y un camarero de cabeza canosa y ojos soñolientos que se movía a cámara lenta entre los dispensadores y los vasos, como si, en lugar de servir cervezas, manejara isótopos radiactivos. Ese buen hombre se dirigió a Clint.
—¿Una Guinness, hijo? Sabe bien en una noche como esta.
—Que sea una Bud.
La canción de los Dubliners que sonaba en ese momento era «The Auld Triangle». Clint la conocía, y en cierto modo le gustaba, a su pesar. La canción tenía un elemento romántico que no se parecía en nada a su propia experiencia de la cárcel, pero, al unirse esas voces, le llegaba a uno. Aun así, pensó, alguien debería añadir otra estrofa. Se mencionaba al director, al celador y al preso de confianza. Pero ¿dónde estaba el loquero?
Se disponía a llevarse la cerveza a un rincón oscuro cuando alguien le tocó el hombro con el dedo.
—¿Clint?
16
La clave fue el abrazo.
Cuando Frank y su hija se reencontraron, ella no solo lo abrazó; hincó sus manos infantiles en los brazos de su padre de tal modo que él sintió sus uñas a través de la camisa. Después de todo lo que había ocurrido, de todo lo que Frank había hecho, tenía claro que necesitaba hacer algo —¡cualquier cosa!— consigo mismo, pero fue ese abrazo lo que volcó todas las piezas de dominó. La última vez que la había visto despierta, casi le había arrancado del cuerpo su camiseta preferida. A pesar de eso su hija lo quería. Él no lo merecía, pero lo deseaba.
El programa de gestión de la ira se impartía tres días por semana. En la primera reunión en el sótano del Centro de Veteranos de Guerras en el Extranjero, Frank y la psicoterapeuta estaban solos.
Ella se llamaba Viswanathan. Llevaba unas gafas grandes de lentes redondas y parecía tan joven que seguramente, calculó Frank, no recordaba las casetes. Le preguntó para qué había ido allí.
—Porque asusto a mi hija y me asusto a mí mismo. Además, he echado a perder mi matrimonio, pero eso es solo un efecto secundario.
La terapeuta tomó notas mientras él explicaba sus sentimientos y compulsiones. A Frank le resultó más fácil de lo que preveía, más o menos como sacar el pus de una herida infectada. En muchos sentidos era como hablar sobre otra persona, porque tenía la sensación de que ese empleado de perrera cabreado no era él. El empleado de perrera cabreado era alguien que se presentaba y se hacía con el control cuando a Frank no le gustaba lo que estaba ocurriendo, cuando él sencillamente no podía afrontar una situación. Le contó que metía a los animales en jaulas. Volvía una y otra vez a ese tema.
—Amigo mío —dijo la doctora Viswanathan, esa chica de veinticuatro años con unas gafas del color de un refresco—, ¿ha oído hablar alguna vez de un fármaco que se llama Zoloft?
—¿Eso es condescendencia? —Frank quería recomponerse, no que se divirtieran a su costa.
La terapeuta negó con la cabeza y sonrió.
—No, es desenfado. Y lo de usted es valentía.
Ella le presentó a un psicofarmacólogo, y el psicofarmacólogo le extendió una receta. Tomó la dosis prescrita sin notar especiales cambios y continuó yendo a las reuniones. Corrió la voz, y empezaron a asistir más hombres, hasta que ocuparon la mitad de las sillas en el sótano del Centro de Veteranos. Decían que «querían cambiar algo». Decían que «querían un reajuste». Decían que «no querían estar tan puñeteramente enfadados a todas horas».
Ni toda la terapia del mundo ni las pastillas de la felicidad podían cambiar el hecho de que el matrimonio de Frank había fracasado. Había roto la confianza de Elaine demasiadas veces (además de la pared de la cocina). Pero quizá esa parte no estaba tan mal. Descubrió que en realidad ella no le caía muy bien. Lo mejor fue dejarla ir. Le concedió la custodia completa, y le dio las gracias por sus dos fines de semana al mes con su hija. A su debido tiempo, si las cosas iban bien, serían más.
A su hija le dijo:
—He estado pensando en un perro.
17
—¿Cómo le va? —preguntó Frank a Clint mientras los Dubliners tocaban y cantaban.
Frank iba camino de Virginia para celebrar Acción de Gracias con sus exsuegros. El Zoloft y las reuniones lo ayudaban a controlar el mal genio, pero los suegros seguían siendo los suegros, tanto más cuando su hija se había divorciado de uno. Había hecho un alto en O'Byrne's para posponer la ejecución durante media hora.
—Tirando. —Clint se frotó los ojos—. Necesito perder un poco de peso, pero sí, vamos tirando.
Se sentaron en un reservado de un rincón oscuro.
Frank dijo:
—Está usted bebiendo en un barucho irlandés en Acción de Gracias. ¿Esa es su idea de ir tirando?
—No he dicho que estuviera de maravilla. Además, usted también está aquí.
Frank pensó qué demonios y lo soltó sin más.
—Me alegro de que no nos matáramos.
Clint levantó su vaso.
—Brindo por eso.
Entrechocaron los vasos. Clint no sentía la menor ira hacia Frank. No sentía ira hacia nadie. Sentía una gran decepción consigo mismo. No esperaba salvar a su familia solo para después perderla. No era esa su idea de un final feliz. Era su idea de la típica cagada americana.
Geary y él hablaron de sus hijos. La hija de Frank estaba enamorada de un chico de Ohio. A él le preocupaba un poco la posibilidad de ser abuelo a los cuarenta y cinco, pero se lo tomaba con calma. Clint contó que de un tiempo a esa parte su hijo estaba de lo más callado, quizá impaciente por largarse del pueblo, ir a la universidad, ver cómo era el mundo más allá de una zona rural minera.
—¿Y su mujer?
Clint hizo una seña al camarero para que sirviera otra ronda.
Frank negó con la cabeza.
—Gracias, pero para mí no. El alcohol y el Zoloft no combinan demasiado bien. Debería abrirme ya. Los suegros me esperan. —De pronto se le iluminó el rostro—. Eh, ¿por qué no me acompaña? Le presentaré a los padres de Elaine. Tengo que mantener la buena relación con ellos; al fin y al cabo, son los abuelos de mi hija. Visitarlos viene a ser como ir al infierno, solo que la comida es un poco mejor.
Clint le dio las gracias, pero rehusó el ofrecimiento.
Frank hizo ademán de levantarse, aunque se acomodó de nuevo.
—Oiga, aquel día en el Árbol...
—¿Qué?
—¿Recuerda cuando empezaron a sonar las campanas de la iglesia?
Clint dijo que nunca lo olvidaría. Las campanadas empezaron cuando las mujeres comenzaron a despertar.
—Sí —dijo Frank—. Más o menos en ese momento miré alrededor buscando a aquella loca y vi que se había ido. Angel, creo que se llamaba.
Clint sonrió.
—Angel Fitzroy.
—¿Tiene idea de qué ha sido de ella?
—Ni la más remota. En Curly no está, eso sí lo sé.
—¿Sabe el tal Barry, el de los seguros? Me contó que estaba casi convencido de que ella mató a Peters.
Clint asintió.
—A mí me contó lo mismo.
—Ah, ¿sí? ¿Y usted qué le dijo?
—Él se lo buscó. Eso le dije. Porque Don Peters era el problema, en locas palabras. —Hizo una pausa—. _Pocas._ Eso quería decir. _Pocas_ palabras.
—Amigo mío, me parece que debería marcharse a casa.
—Buena idea —dijo Clint—. ¿Dónde está eso?
18
Dos meses después de lo que pasó a conocerse como el Gran Despertar, un ranchero de Montana vio a una mujer que hacía autostop en la Interestatal 2, justo al este de Chinook, y paró.
—Suba, joven —dijo—. ¿Adónde va?
—No estoy segura —contestó ella—. De entrada, a Idaho. A lo mejor después a California.
Él le tendió la mano.
—Ross Albright. Tengo unas tierras dos condados más allá. ¿Cómo se llama?
—Angel Fitzroy. —En otro tiempo se habría negado a estrecharle la mano, habría utilizado un alias y habría mantenido a mano el cuchillo que siempre llevaba en el bolsillo del abrigo. Ya no usaba cuchillo ni alias. No necesitaba lo uno ni lo otro.
—Un nombre bonito, Angel —comentó él, y puso la tercera con una sacudida—. Yo me llamo Christian, y ferviente cristiano soy.
—Bien —dijo Angel, y sin el menor asomo de sarcasmo.
—¿De dónde es, Angel?
—De un pueblo que se llama Dooling.
—¿Es ahí donde despertó?
En otro tiempo Angel habría mentido y dicho que sí, porque era lo más fácil y además mentir le salía de manera natural. En ella era un auténtico don. Solo que eso era su nueva vida, y había tomado la firme determinación de decir la verdad en la medida de sus posibilidades a pesar de las complicaciones.
—Fui una de las pocas que no llegaron a dormirse —contestó.
—¡Uau! ¡Eso sí es suerte! ¡Y fortaleza!
—Más bien fue una bendición —respondió Angel. También eso era verdad, al menos tal como ella lo entendía.
—Solo oírselo decir es una bendición —dijo el ranchero, y con mucha convicción—. Y ahora ¿qué, Angel?, si no es indiscreción. ¿Qué piensa hacer cuando por fin decida colgar el sombrero?
Angel contempló las magníficas montañas y el interminable cielo de poniente. Finalmente dijo:
—Lo correcto. Eso pienso hacer, señor Albright. Lo correcto.
Él apartó los ojos de la carretera lo suficiente para sonreírle y decir:
—Amén, hermana. Amén a eso.
19
El Centro Penitenciario de Mujeres fue cercado y declarado ruinoso. Colocaron carteles para disuadir de entrar a los intrusos y dejaron que se desmoronara mientras el gobierno asignaba fondos a obras públicas más urgentes. La nueva valla era robusta, y su base estaba hincada en la tierra a gran profundidad. El zorro tuvo que cavar de manera intermitente a lo largo varias semanas y agotar todas sus reservas de paciencia para abrir un túnel por debajo.
Una vez lograda esa hazaña de ingeniería, entró al trote en el edificio a través de la enorme brecha abierta en la pared y se dispuso a construir su nueva madriguera en una celda cercana. Percibía allí el olor de su dueña, débil pero dulce y penetrante.
Llegó una emisaria de las ratas.
—Este es nuestro castillo —dijo la rata—. ¿Cuáles son tus intenciones, zorro?
El zorro agradeció la franqueza de la rata. Era un zorro, pero se hacía viejo. Quizá había llegado el momento de dejarse de tretas y riesgos, encontrar una pareja y quedarse cerca de su manada.
—Mis intenciones son modestas, te lo aseguro.
—¿Y cuáles son? —insistió la rata.
—Dudo si expresarlas en voz alta —contestó el zorro—. Resulta un poco bochornoso.
—Habla —dijo la rata.
—De acuerdo —contestó el zorro. Ladeó tímidamente la cabeza—. Lo diré en un susurro. Acércate a mí y te lo susurraré.
La rata se acercó. El zorro podría haberle arrancado la cabeza de un mordisco —ese era su don, todas la criaturas de Dios poseían al menos uno—, pero no lo hizo.
—Quiero vivir en paz —dijo.
###
_La mañana después de Acción de Gracias Lila va en coche al ensanchamiento de grava de Ball's Hill y aparca. Coloca a Andy, arrebujado en su buzo, en una mochila portabebés. Empieza a caminar._
_Quizá podrían recomponer su matrimonio roto, reflexiona Lila. Quizá, si ella lo desea, Clint podría quererla otra vez. Pero ¿es eso lo que desea? En el alma de Lila hay una marca, el nombre de la marca es Jeanette Sorley, y no sabe cómo borrarla. Ni si quiere borrarla._
_Andy emite leves sonidos de júbilo mientras avanzan. Lila siente pena por Tiffany. La injusticia y la aleatoriedad forman parte del tejido de todas las cosas, y eso la sobrecoge al tiempo que le inspira resentimiento. Se oyen los crujidos y chasquidos del bosque helado. Cuando llega a la caravana de Truman Mayweather, la encuentra cubierta de nieve. Le lanza una ojeada y sigue adelante. No le queda mucho camino por recorrer._
_Sale al claro. El Árbol Asombroso no está ahí. La tumba de Jeanette no está ahí. Solo hay hierba invernal y un roble ajado y deshojado. La hierba oscila, una forma anaranjada asoma, desaparece, y la hierba vuelve a quedar inmóvil. Se le condensa el aliento. El bebé murmura y expresa lo que parece una pregunta._
_—¿Evie? —Lila se mueve en círculo, buscando, en el bosque, la tierra, la hierba, el aire, el sol lechoso, pero no hay nadie—. Evie, ¿estás ahí?_
_Anhela una señal, cualquier señal._
_Una mariposa nocturna vuela desde la rama del viejo roble y se posa en su mano._
Una fábula del siglo XXI sobre la posibilidad de un mundo exclusivamente femenino más pacífico y más justo que resulta especialmente relevante hoy en día
En esta espectacular colaboración entre padre e hijo, Stephen King y Owen King nos ofrecen la historia más arriesgada de cuantas han contado hasta ahora: ¿qué pasaría si las mujeres abandonaran este mundo?
En un futuro tan real y cercano que podría ser hoy, cuando las mujeres se duermen, brota de su cuerpo una especie de capullo que las aísla del exterior. Si las despiertan, las molestan o tocan el capullo que las envuelve, reaccionan con una violencia extrema. Y durante el sueño se evaden a otro mundo. Los hombres, por su parte, quedan abandonados a sus instintos primarios.
La misteriosa Evie, sin embargo, es inmune a esta bendición o castigo del trastorno del sueño. ¿Se trata de una anomalía médica que hay que estudiar? O ¿es un demonio al que hay que liquidar?
**Stephen King** es el maestro indiscutible de la narrativa de terror contemporánea, con más de cincuenta libros publicados. En 2003 fue galardonado con la Medalla de la National Book Foundation por su contribución a las letras estadounidenses, y en 2007 recibió el Grand Master Award que otorga la asociación Mystery Writers of America. Entre sus títulos más célebres cabe destacar _El misterio de Salem's Lot_ , _El resplandor_ , _La zona muerta_ , _Ojos de fuego_ , _It_ , _Maleficio_ , _La milla verde_ y las siete novelas que componen el ciclo «La Torre Oscura». DeBolsillo ha publicado, entre muchos otros, _Blaze_ , _El ciclo del hombre lobo_ y _La cúpula_. Sus últimos libros publicados en nuestro idioma son _Mr. Mercedes_ , _Doctor Sueño_ , _Joyland_ y _22/11/63_.
**Owen King** es autor de _Double Feature_ y _We're All in This Together_ y coeditor de _Who Can Save Us Now? Brand-New Superheroes and Their Amazing (Short) Stories_.
Título original: _Sleeping Beauties_
Edición en formato digital: febrero de 2018
© 2017, Stephen King y Owen King
Publicado por acuerdo con Stephen King (The Lotts Agency, Ltd.) y con Owen King (Jenny Meyer Literary Agency, Inc.)
© 2018, Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial, S. A. U.
Travessera de Gràcia, 47-49. 08021 Barcelona
© 2018, Carlos Milla Soler, por la traducción
Adaptación del diseño original de © Vasava studio: Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial / Gemma Martínez
Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial apoya la protección del _copyright._ El _copyright_ estimula la creatividad, defiende la diversidad en el ámbito de las ideas y el conocimiento, promueve la libre expresión y favorece una cultura viva. Gracias por comprar una edición autorizada de este libro y por respetar las leyes del _copyright_ al no reproducir ni distribuir ninguna parte de esta obra por ningún medio sin permiso. Al hacerlo está respaldando a los autores y permitiendo que PRHGE continúe publicando libros para todos los lectores. Diríjase a CEDRO (Centro Español de Derechos Reprográficos, <http://www.cedro.org>) si necesita reproducir algún fragmento de esta obra.
ISBN: 978-84-01-02045-2
Composición digital: M.I. Maquetación, S.L.
www.megustaleer.com
Índice
Bellas durmientes
Personajes
Primera parte. Ese viejo triángulo
Capítulo 1
Capítulo 2
Capítulo 3
Capítulo 4
Capítulo 5
Capítulo 6
Capítulo 7
Capítulo 8
Capítulo 9
Capítulo 10
Capítulo 11
Capítulo 12
Capítulo 13
Capítulo 14
Capítulo 15
Capítulo 16
Capítulo 17
Capítulo 18
Capítulo 19
Capítulo 20
Segunda parte. Dormiré cuando esté muerto
Capítulo 1
Capítulo 2
Capítulo 3
Capítulo 4
Capítulo 5
Capítulo 6
Capítulo 7
Capítulo 8
Capítulo 9
Capítulo 10
Capítulo 11
Capítulo 12
Capítulo 13
Capítulo 14
Capítulo 15
Capítulo 16
Capítulo 17
Tercera parte. Por la mañana
Sobre este libro
Sobre Stephen King y Owen King
Créditos
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Books3 |
Q:
Origin of "Rose tinted glasses"?
On another SE site I frequent, in a question a non-native English speaker used "pink glasses" where they clearly meant the idiom "rose tinted" or "rose coloured" glasses.
The meaning of "looking through rose tinted glasses" is to see only good things, only the best parts of the view, only the positive attributes etc., as supported by this www.thefreedictionary.com definition:
rose-tinted glasses
(British, American & Australian) also rose-tinted spectacles (British)
if someone looks at something through rose-tinted glasses, they see only the pleasant parts of it She has always looked at life through rose-tinted glasses.
However I started wondering how this idiom came to be. Certainly, to some dispositions, seeing the world with a soft pink glow (though not all roses are pink, to be sure), might count as comforting and "nice".
Google did not provide anything other that definitions of the phrase and looking for "rose-tinted glasses" in etymonline resulted in a most curious selection of results (possibly NSFW depending on your text filtering)
How (and when) did this come to be a widely accepted idiom for "only seeing the positive", with shades or subtext of naiveté?
A:
To complement the other answers, I would like to point out the use of tinted lenses (of various colours) for therapeutic purposes. Since the 18th century, tinted lenses became more widespread, following some early birds (cf. the Samuel Pepys entry).
While it may be difficult to assess the efficacy of the practice, it seems that tinted glasses were commonly stipulated and even believed to be efficient against a number of maladies (such as jaundice, apparently). With hopefully fuller understanding, they still are.
This link to Axon Optics suggests rose-tinted glasses do have therapeutic effect against migraine. Quote:
A study performed by researchers at the University of Birmingham, England tested a group of migraine sufferers by having them wear glasses with a rose colored tint called FL-41. The tint preferentially blocks blue-green light and was originally developed to reduce sensitivity to fluorescent lighting, but has been shown effective in mitigating the frequency and severity of migraine, blepharospasm, and other light-sensitive conditions. Participants experienced a reduction in the number of migraines, from 6.2 episodes per month to 1.6 episodes per month. Dr Katz and researchers at the University of Utah continue to study and work to optimize tinted lenses for light sensitive patients.
(emphasis mine, references omitted)
This might be one explanation of the rose-tinted effect: a relief, which may border on euphoria.
I originally became interested in this post because, for Czechs, rose-tinted glasses are a notorious idiom, often (and probably erroneously) associated with Comenius' Labyrinth of the World and Paradise of the Heart. Therein, the pilgrim is accompanied in his wanderings by a Mr. Delusion, who presents him with a pair of glasses "ground from assumption and habit", which distort the pilgrim's perception considerably.
A:
A Google Books search finds four instances of "rose-colored glasses" from the years before 1850. From Mary Boddington, Slight Reminiscences of the Rhine, Switzerland, and a Corner of Italy (1834):
O the joy of blossoming life! What a delicious thing it is to be young, and to see everything through rose-coloured glasses ; but with a wish to be pleased, and a certain sunniness of mind, more in our power than we imagine, we may look through them a long time. When the sun shines, and the earth holds a bright holiday, I still feel as if life and hope were all before me, and yet the story i told out and out as far as belongs to dreams and fancies ; and yet I dream on, and love flowers, and air, and sunshine, as if I was but just beginning life.
From Mary Davenant, "The Ideal and the Real," in Godey's Lady's Book (October 1843):
"A man in love is easily deceived. I have seen more of life than you have, my dear, simply because I look at people with my own eyes, instead of through rose-coloured glasses as you do, and I never see a woman who appears so very soft and gentle that she cannot raise her voice much above a whisper, and whose every word and look betrays a studied forethought of the effect they are to produce, that I do not mistrust her sadly. Half of them re shrews, and the other half obstinate intriguers‚I am much mistaken if Mrs. St. Clair is not a little of both."
From "Elliotson's Principles and Practice of Medicine," The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal (December 13, 1843):
The gentleman last named in the above somewhat extended overture to the work before us, is an old and valued personal friend of the writer of this brief notice. We have studied with him, ausculted with him, travelled with him, and in all these relations he has been among our most esteemed associates. If there were some good reason for valuing his talents and acquirements in the days of our personal intercourse, there is the same reason for hoping that he would not have published a book without merit, and that his friend need not be obliged to look at his labors through the rose-colored glasses of personal kindness to see them under a favorable aspect.
From W.A., Fewell: A Series of Essays of Opinion for Churchmen (1846):
But, however, looking at the position of the clergyman under this system, it is manifestly a temptation of that position to strive after popularity ; to be easy and compliant ; to inquire but little; and to permit the decencies, and suitabilities, and respectabilities of society to take the place of discipline—in short to see every thing rose-color; and if rose-color be not there, to put upon his nose rose-colored glasses.
These four instances show the range of attitudes that can be encompassed by the phrase. In Boddington's travel memoir, rose-coloured glasses are a kind of natural sunniness of outlook that goes some way toward transforming the world into the optimistic image of it that the young person has. In Davenant's story, the glasses are a source of deception for the wearer, who leaves common sense behind when he puts them on. In the review of "Elliotson's Principles," the glasses are a form of intentional self-delusion, committed out of sentiment or personal friendship, that prevents an honest critical appraisal. And in W.A.'s essay for churchmen, wearing rose-colored glasses entails denying or ignoring unpleasant truths in order to be liked.
Yet another attitude appears in "Quackery," in The St. James's Medley (May 1865):
A lover of fiction, and of vivid fancy, he [the auctioneer] flourishes his hammer, and by its transmuting touch converts a tumble-down cottage in a swamp into an elegant and commodious villa on the bank of a beautiful river. He considers it his duty to make the best of everything, viewing it through rose-coloured glasses; and if he does represent this or that article to be in better condition, or more valuable than it is, he does but exercise a legitimate trickery, which he considers to be the high art of his profession.
Here the rose-coloured glasses are, in effect, shared by the huckster with his audience of potential rubes: He wears them to describe the imaginary beauties of the things he is trying to sell, and the audience wears them to imagine that what he says is true.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
There is good reason why President Obama avoids using the word ‘genocide’ to describe the killing of one-and-a-half million Armenians in the Ottoman Empire.
This is because if you scratch almost any methodical mass killing in modern times, you are almost certain to find Liberals and Leftists pulling the strings. So it was with the first major holocaust of the twentieth century, the massacre of the Armenians and other Christian minorities that started about one hundred years ago today.
This prolonged atrocity, which included countless acts of rape, torture, and even crucifixion, and which saw tens of thousands taken out into the Black Sea and drowned, while many more were marched out into the deserts to die of starvation and disease, was carried out by the Ottoman Empire. This superficial fact conjures up an image of Oriental despotism of the sort we normally associate with the likes of Tamerlane or even Ivan the Terrible.
In other words, the implicit image of these massacres that exists in the popular mind is of dark deeds carried out at the behest of an absolute monarch, embodying the forces of traditionalism, conservatism, and even ethnic nationalism. But nothing could be further from the truth. By the time of the genocide, the Ottoman Empire of popular imagination had ceased to exist. The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire at the time of the genocide was Mehmed V, a gentle and ineffectual man, who has been described as follows:
The very appearance of Mehmed V suggests nonentity. Small and bent, with sunken eyes and deeply lined face, an obesity savoring of disease, and a yellow, oily complexion, it certainly is not prepossessing. There is little or no intelligence in his countenance, and he never lost a haunted, frightening look, as if dreading to find an assassin lurking in some dark corner ready to strike and kill him. The Near East from Within
By 1913, he had been reduced to a mere figurehead and pawn by a series of coup d’états, which had placed the leaders of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) in absolute power.
The CUP became better known by its nickname, “The Young Turks,” because of the youthfulness of it three leaders, Enver Pasha, Talaat Pasha, and Djemal Pasha, who were also known as “The Three Pashas.” Enver Pasha , the youngest, was only 32 years old, in 1913. This was the ruling triumvirate that oversaw Turkey’s disastrous alliance with Germany, the genocide of the Armenians, and the country’s final defeat.
Dominated by Enver, the Three Pashas were thoroughly modern types, inimical to traditional Islam, until they realized its military and political utility as a trans-nationalist force that could strengthen the state.
Those on the Left, keen to distance themselves from the brutality and failure of the CUP, prefer to describe it as “nationalist” and even “proto-fascist,” but, within the context of Turkish politics, it was clearly a left-leaning anti-nationalist organization whose slogan — “Hürriyet, Müsavaat, Adalet” (Liberty, Equality, Justice) — would do justice to any liberal party in the modern West.
The Young Turks favoured a constitutional monarchy and the modernization of the country in ways that would eradicate the ethnic divisions that had always formed the texture of the ethnic patchwork that was the Ottoman Empire. They defined themselves politically against reactionary conservative, monarchist, and Islamist elements that wished to restore the power of the Sultan.
Due to its progressivism, the CUP had the support of most of the Empire’s minorities, including ironically and tragically the Armenians themselves, many of whom celebrated its seizure of power. Also important in the movement were the Dönme crypto-Jews, especially those from the town of Salonika, which passed into Greek hands following the Balkan War of 1912.
The most significant Dönme was Mehmet Cavit Bey, editor of the CUP’s newspaper and later finance minister in the government. Other important Dönme figures were the feminist Sabiha Sertel, Doctor Nâzım Bey, one of the chief architects of the genocidal policy, and Munis Tekinalp, also known as Moiz Cohen, one of the main intellectuals behind Turanism and Pan-Turkism, the form that Turkish “nationalism” later took.
All four of these figures had close links to the town of Salonika, as did Kemal Atatürk, the later founder of the Turkish Republic. It is often rumoured that Atatürk was also a member of this crypto-Jewish community, although his Albanian forbearers are better documented and more evident in his physical appearance.
But the most interesting thing about the supposed Turkish nationalism of both the Young Turks and later the Kemalists, is how un-Turkish it actually was.
This was the effect of IQ differences between the European, crypto-Jewish, and Asiatic elements in the Ottoman Empire, with the former naturally rising to the top of any movement or organization. It was also the result of the need to literally create the idea of “the Turk” in order to unify what was in effect an ethnically diverse area.
While, generally speaking, society is more often a racial construct, the Turk is one of the few instances where race can be said to be a social construct. The Turk was certainly not a clearly defined racial entity with unique features. The original Turanian blood of the original Turkish nomads from central Asia had long ago been lost in an ethnic mix with Byzantine Greeks, Armenians, and the various ethnicities of Anatolia. Atatürk later proclaimed the ancient Hittites to have been his people’s true ancestors, but the Hittites were not Turanians (they were Indo-Europeans), and none of the Turkish people could claim anything greater than 25 percent Turanian blood, least of all Atatürk himself with his strong Albanian heritage.
Not only was Atatürk (literally “Father of the Turks”) a very un-Turkish Turk, so were at least two of the Three Pashas. Enver was also of Albanian origin on his mother’s side, while Talaat was a member of the Pomak ethnicity — a group of Bulgarian-speaking Muslims.
Even if you accept the mongrelized Turk as a distinct hybrid race that originated after the conquest of Anatolia by the original Turanian people in the 11th century, the main leaders of Turkish nationalism were a separate racial cadre with greatly disproportionate Albanian, Pomak, and crypto-Jewish elements.
The Young Turks and later the Kemalite state did not therefore represent an authentic nationalism, expressing the true character of the Turkish people. Instead, like the later Baathist regimes in Syria and Iraq, they represented a kind or ersatz statist nationalism, imposed by tightly networked hidden minorities on the wider population, a “nationalism” that served the generic statist interests of the modernizing and centralizing civic entity.
As with Assyrian Christians in Baathist Syria and Iraq, the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire initially stood to gain from the new order. But their specific ethno-religious character as Christians and ethno-political character as an ancient kingdom with a long history that predated the Ottoman Empire — and even its predecessor, the Byzantine — made them an awkward fit in the new ersatz nationalist civic state that the progressivist CUP were working towards. This inherent conflict was additionally exacerbated by their concentration near the frontline with the Russian Empire, which offered a competing pole of loyalty, especially as many Armenians also lived on the Russian side of the border.
Another factor in the genocide was the characteristic mix of totalitarianism and incompetence that typifies Leftist regimes.
Although technically in favour of constitutional government and democracy, the leaders of the CUP, faced strong resistance and an unsympathetic populace, predisposing them to a “temporary” suspension of their progressivist principles.
This pattern is often repeated among Liberal and Leftist ruling elites: the pursuit of idealistic policies that don’t conform to realities invariably leads to problems, which, in turn, unleashes dictatorial and totalitarian tendencies. Liberals and Leftists have an built-in tendency to veer towards a “dictatorship of the proletariat” mentality — the desire to take power on behalf on the “less fortunate” and “less enlightened,” in order to make the radical changes they feel are necessary.
By 1912, the CUP had completely rigged the electoral system in the Election of the Clubs, and were in the process of sweeping away the past. Part of this included turning its back on the Ottoman Empire’s traditional ally, Great Britain, and its pragmatic and moderating influence, and aligning instead with the strident modernism and assertive militarism of Wilhelmine Germany. This strengthened the tendency towards radical solutions and political ruthlessness within Turkey; this was intensified by the war situation that arose following Turkey’s entry into World War I in October 1914.
Added to these pressures and tendencies, we have the psychological aspect of the leaders, especially Enver Pasha, who like many Liberals and Leftists, was a vainglorious and emotionally brittle individual. In the winter of 1914, he had led an ambitious offensive against the Russians in Eastern Anatolia, which aimed to crush the Russian armies. Faced by General Yudenich, later a hero of the White Russian forces in the Russian Civil War, his army was disastrously defeated at the Battle of Sarikamish. This was another example of the Liberal tendency to get swept away by big ideas and visions, only later to come crashing into realities.
Rather than admit his own incompetence, Enver shifted the blame to the Armenian communities living in the region, and started to see them — and portray them — as traitors and a fifth column for the Russians. Thus the Armenians were demonized as a people that did not fit into the exigencies of the state-of-war mentality which was being promoted by the Liberal dynamic of centralization and standardization. These tendencies were intensified by the pressures of war. The prelude to the actual genocide was Enver’s order to disarm all Armenian soldiers in the Ottoman armies and to transfer them to the labour battalions; in addition there was a sketchy plan to relocate the Armenian population.
The Armenian genocide had two aspects, both of them deadly. On the one hand there were direct attempts at simple extirpation of the Armenians. Many of these efforts were driven by a mixture of human passions, including greed, cruelty, envy, lust, religious hatred, and a displaced desire for revenge. Many of the most violent agents of the genocide were people like the Dönme crypto-Jew Doctor Nâzım Bey, who had been displaced by the Balkan War of 1912 and whose families had suffered.
But there was also a more cold and callous aspect that involved badly thought-out and ill-prepared attempts to relocate the Armenians to less militarily sensitive areas, just as there was in the USA with regard to Japanese Americans following Pearl Harbor. But unlike America, where the camps that held the Japanese were commodious and well-provisioned, little was provided in the way of provisions, accommodation, or protection, with the result that many Armenian deaths simply occurred through neglect and the unsupervised abuse by guards. A large part of the loss of life can be attributed to the inefficiency of the process of relocation and a lack of proper organization. This again is a trademark of the Liberal Left (and a hallmark of ethnic policy in the USSR under Stalin), namely the implementation of big plans that haven’t been properly thought through, and in which glaring flaws, weaknesses, and horrific consequences are callously ignored.
But the final proof that the perpetrators of this horrific act of genocide were on the Left rather than on the Right can be found in the aftermath. With military defeat and the collapse of the Ottoman state, no attempt was made, as in 1945, to arrest and try the perpetrators of genocide. The Three Pashas were allowed to escape and go into exile. Luckily two of them fell at the hands of Armenian assassins. But the worst of the three, Enver Pasha, escaped this fate. Instead he fled to Germany, where he made contact with German communists. He then moved on to Soviet Russia, where he managed to win the trust of Lenin, before his Pan-Turkist tendencies led to a falling out and his death at the hands of a detachment of Soviet cavalry. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
When news Roger Federer would be skipping Roland Garros first broke out, a worldwide wave of concern regarding his health was set off. After all, he missed the 2016 French Open due to injury. The man with the most consecutive Grand Slam appearances doesn’t willingly bypass such events, right? Now that he holds the mental edge over Rafael Nadal, doesn’t a huge upset over the Spaniard on court Philippe Chatrier sound enticing enough?
Apparently not.
The French Tennis Federation and most fans received a major blow. With the reigning finalists Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray both going through severe crises, we are poised to witness the most watered down men’s French Open in years. Might as well hand Nadal his tenth Coupe des Mousquetaires.
But the Swiss Maestro and his team know what they are doing. They have never hidden winning at Wimbledon is their utmost priority. By skipping the clay swing altogether, Federer gets a one-month head start of practice on grass.
That last sentence sounds unbelievably scary for his fellow ATP peers not named Evgeny Donskoy.
Grass legend + extended practice = recipe for success?
While the top dogs of the circuit mercilessly battle it out for hours on the dirt, Federer will be smoothly gearing up for his favorite part of the season.
He who owns a not so shabby 86.9 career win percentage on grass gets to play on the surface for an extra four weeks.
The man who has taken the tour by storm in 2017, as his 19-1 record attests, will have a massive adaptation advantage.
Someone who was two games away from reaching the 2016 Wimbledon final while basically on only one functional leg will be training at full strength in order to assault a record-setting eighth crown at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club.
No matter how you look at it, Federer’s practice edge is borderline unfair. Provided he is healthy, it is complicated to envision him not dominating the grass tour.
Even if he stinks up the joint in Dubai, Switzerland, or wherever he decides to settle down in May, the 18-time Grand Slam champion gets two mulligans in the Stuttgart and Halle warm-up events.
For some obscure reason, bookies still favor Murray and Djokovic over Federer as the players most likely to lift the Wimbledon trophy.
Forget it. I’m all in on Federer. 2017 will go down as the year of the sweeps. Nadal will win it all on clay. So will Fedeer on grass. At this point, it would require a major shocker to prevent that from happening.
Winning at Indian Wells, a positive precedent
For the record, ever year Federer has won at Indian Wells (2004, 2005, 2006, 2012) he’s also won at Wimbledon. Unless my memory is betraying me big time (and it isn’t), the Basel native did not lose a set en route to his fifth title at the California desert back in March.
Be skeptical of Federer’s chances at your own peril.
Main Photo: | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Q:
Magento2 CSS applied late
Here We've used LESS and problem is when page load it's shows like above screenshot and CSS applied but after 10-15 Sec.
Currently site is in Production Mode and cache enabled. No any other caching mechanism used.
CSS are loaded in <head> tag.
So what should I do to load page properly with design?
A:
Me too experience the same problem, the solution would be
change client side less compilation to server side less compilation
Store -> Configuration -> Advanced -> Developer -> Fornt-end developement workflow -> Workflow type -> server side less compilation.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Turkey , intelligence report
This report will present and examine the significance of major security incidents that occurred in Turkey from Monday October 2nd, 2017 to Monday October 16th, 2017. The incidents are arranged in the following categories: Terrorism (PKK, Islamic State, FETÖ, Extreme Left Organizations), Narcotics, Murders, Illegal Migration and Military.
Key Findings:
The Gülen movement will turn to more traditional methods of covert communication if Turkey criminalize the use of encrypted messaging applications
Turkey’s large urban centers are hideouts for senior Islamic State militants who seek to evade detection by security agencies
The undisrupted drug trafficking routes in central Turkey creates local economic dependence on drugs and increase of violence
Turkey might be called to confront multiple rivals in northern Syria after its forces deployed in Idlib Province
Introduction
3156 operations were carried out by the Gendarmerie Special Operations (JÖH), Police Special Operations (PÖH), Gendarmerie Commando Units, air and ground units of the Turkish Armed Forces. A total of 9301 people were detained: 2225 for terrorism offences (PKK / KCK 341, IS 101, FETÖ 1756, extreme left 36), 6798 for drug offences and Illicit trafficking crimes, 725 for cybercrime, and 269 for human trafficking.
The Turkish Armed Forces continued ground and air operations against PKK positions in Southeast Turkey. Drones, Attack Helicopters and F-16 Fighter Jets hit PKK targets resulting in many PKK casualties. Turkish soldiers found and seized weapons, explosives and IEDs, as well as other supplies, hidden underground and in caves. Major counter terrorism operations were carried out by Turkish Special Forces during the curfews declared in Elazığ and Bitlis, with aerial and ground means, against PKK hideouts. A number of PKK members and supporters were arrested in major cities of Turkey’s Eastern side. PKK insurgents attacked either with heavy guns against security/monitoring posts or detonated roadside placed IEDs during the passages of foot patrols and military vehicles and killed security personnel and soldiers.
PKK Major Incidents
(Click on above image to expand)
341 people accused of belonging to and collaborating with PKK/KCK were detained, 17 surrendered and 22 PKK insurgents were killed during the operations. The PKK insurgents were killed, captured or surrendered at the following locations:
(Click on above image to expand)
ISLAMIC TERRORIST GROUPS
Islamic State
Summary
Turkish counter terrorism operations against Islamic State militants based in Turkey led to a total of 101 IS suspects detained across Turkey. Syrian and Iraqi nationals were caught accused of recruiting members for the Islamic State, plotting against Turkey and for providing logistical and operational support to IS operatives. Guns and organizational documents were found at the locations the IS militants were arrested.
Islamic State Incidents
(Click on above image to expand)
Notable Incidents
A. 03/10/2017. Senior IS official caught in Ankara – Haydar Kerim, code-named ‘Ebu Yusuf’, a senior IS official, thought to have died in Iraq, was arrested in Ankara. 40 false identifications were found at his house during the operation.
COMMENT – The case of Haydar Kerim reveals a relatively frequently used tactic of IS and other terrorist organizations to redirect the focus security authorities have on specific militants. The organization announces the militant’s supposed death after an attack, or they stage an attack using civilians as victims, supposingly them being the targets. The real targets, having actually survived the attack, remain hidden for a period of time and when they are certain that security agencies are no longer after them they relocate, use false documents to mislead the authorities, change their appearance drastically and adopt a new identity to remain undetected. Terrorists choose to relocate to another country so they become less identifiable and establish a ‘shadow’ network, meaning that its members operate under a central command that is not traceable – COMMENT ENDS
FETÖ
The crackdown on suspected FETÖ members continues with arrest warrants continuously issued for businessmen, teachers, active and retired military personnel, university students, and even for an employee of the US Consulate in Istanbul, incident which led to the deterioration of US-Turkey relations. The majority of the 1756 people detained are accused of using the encrypted messaging app ByLock, an application considered as the main means of communication between FETÖ members.
Major FETÖ Arrests
(Click on above image to expand)
COMMENT – During the interrogation of the 50 students detained in Konya it was announced by the authorities that the students were using an encrypted communication programme similar to the ByLock programme. As expected, FETÖ members have changed means of communication since the previously used ByLock app is now the major incriminating evidence for suspected FETÖ members. The authorities did not mention which app the students were using. There are many available options of encrypted messaging and file exchange apps, such as Telegram or Signal, that Turkish authorities have no access to. If the Turkish Courts criminalize the use of publicly available encrypted communication apps, FETÖ members will most likely abandon them and turn to more traditional methods of covert communication. That would initially limit their capabilities until they receive the training required to operate in such way. When that knowledge is acquired and applied amongst the Gülen movement members, Turkey will have to deal with an organization closely resembling a foreign intelligence agency operating on Turkish soil – COMMENT ENDS
EXTREME LEFT TERRORIST GROUPS
Summary
36 people in contact with or linked to extreme left-wing terrorist organizations were taken into custody.
NARCOTICS
Summary
The Turkish Counter Narcotics Police Units carried out a high number of operations against drug dealers in major cities, such as Istanbul and Bursa, and at rural areas of southeastern Turkey. They intercepted three trucks carrying heavy loads of heroin in Tekirdağ, Silvan/Diyarbakir and Edremit/Van, and found and destroyed more than a ton of cannabis and 7500 cannabis plants in Diyarbakir’s Kocaköy district.
COMMENT – The incidents recorded in the Intelligence Fusion’s Database since 01/08/2017 show that large quantities of heroin were found loaded in trucks in Ağrı and Van, close to the Turkish-Iranian border and in Adana, with the Port of Mersin most likely being the point of entry. In central Van three major incidents are recorded showing the province’s drug trafficking networks and role as a transit area for incoming drugs. Trucks loaded with heroin are then intercepted in the wider Istanbul area and in areas close to the Greek borders with the latest incident recorded in Tekirdağ, 70 km far from the Greek-Turkish border, when a truck loaded with 152 kg of heroin was stopped at a police road check. The lack of recorded incidents in central Turkey means that the heroin loaded trucks which are not intercepted in the southeastern areas have no difficulty in reaching the western exit points to the Balkans. That shows that the Turkish authorities mainly direct their counter narcotics operations on the points of entry and exit either because they lack technical and human resources to monitor the vast areas of central Turkey or because it is operationally easier -and probably more efficient- to establish monitor posts at the exit points that the drugs are supposed to pass through. The routes of drugs running through central Turkey create local economic dependency based on drug use and trafficking, which generate further increase of other forms of criminal activity- COMMENT ENDS
MURDERS
Murders and Small Arms Fire Incidents
(Click on above image to expand)
COMMENT – Guns are fired on a daily basis in Turkey when disputes are escalated to armed fights. It is mostly hunting rifles and pistols fired on the victims. The incidents range from domestic violence, passion crimes, debt and land differences, to revenge attacks, business related hostilities and social occasions such as marriages. People fall victims of armed violence even during disputes for issues of minor importance such as the price and quality of vegetable/market goods. Knives are also used during the above escalated disputes resulting to people seriously injured or killed. Setting aside the possession of arms by organized crime members and their premeditated murders, it is common for people to either carry a gun or a knife which they will not hesitate to use if they get involved in a situation that they feel undermined, insulted, offended or provoked. The widespread trend of firing a gun as a means to resolve disputes cost the lives of hundreds of people in Turkey, directly or indirectly involved with the shooter/incident, and adds on at a social environment tending towards lawlessness – COMMENT ENDS
ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION
Summary
Large numbers of immigrants, mostly from Pakistan and Afghanistan, were caught in buses en route to Istanbul. The buses were stopped and searched at the northern provinces of Turkey. It was reported that two of the buses had as departure point the city of Ağrı, close to the Iranian border. During another police road check a minibus carrying 54 immigrants was stopped and searched in Van close to the Iranian border as well.
Major Human Trafficking Incidents
The Turkish Interior Ministry has announced that 9455 illegal immigrants were detained, 1171 of them on boats at the Aegean Sea attempting to cross the border to Greece, and that 269 human smugglers were arrested.
MILITARY
IDLIB OPERATION
On October 7th President Erdogan stated during his speech to the AK Party that “There’s a serious operation in Syria’s Idlib today and it will continue”, signaling the beginning of operations in Idlib/Syria for the establishment of the de-escalation zone agreed by Turkey, Russia and Iran in Astana, Kazakhstan earlier in September. Until that day Turkish tanks and armored reconnaissance vehicles, artillery, and other armored vehicles and Turkish troops have been amassing at the Turkish-Syrian borderline between the Hatay and Idlib Provinces.
Turkish armored vehicles at the Turkish/Syrian border in Cilvegözü/Reyhanlı/Hatay
From October 8th to October 11th, Turkish army reconnaissance teams entered Idlib and traveled under Hayat Tahrir al-Sham’s (HTS) escort scouting the area for secure and strategic locations. It was reported by local sources that HTS and the Turkish teams were negotiating the terms of the agreement for the deployment of Turkish Army in Idlib. Meanwhile, additional armored vehicles and soldiers were amassing at the Turkish-Syrian border.
On October 12th Turkish soldiers and a convoy of about 30 military vehicles cross into Syria from the Bab al-Hawa Border Crossing and headed to Sheikh Barakat Mountain.
On October 14th The Syrian Foreign Ministry released a statement on state media saying that the entry of Turkish military vehicles into rebel-held northwest Syria through the Bab al-Hawa crossing was a violation of international law and demanded that Turkish troops leave immediately.
As of October 15th, nearly 200 troops are stationed in Idlib (Source: FSA militant). At least four convoys carrying scores of armoured vehicles and equipment have been stationed in several locations and the setup of observation posts at strategical positions is continuous.
Turkish Observation Posts and Area of Control in Idlib Province/Syria- As of October 15th 2017 – Open Sources
IDLIB OPERATION TIMELINE
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COMMENT – In early May 2017 Idlib’s dominant jihadist militant group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) threatened to attack any power involved in the talks held in Astana/Kazakhstan (Iran, Russia, Turkey those are), or other groups that seek to protect them, which would attempt to enter Idlib/Syria. At that time Turkey denied any Turkish military plans of an upcoming operation in Idlib. Since late August 2017 Turkey has been gradually increasing its military presence at its border with Idlib with armored vehicles deployed at the border. On September 15th a final agreement between Russia, Turkey and Iran was reached for the establishment of a de escalation zone in Idlib. On October 7th, when President Erdogan stated that ‘There’s a serious operation in Syria’s Idlib’ HTS released a statement accusing other rebel groups of corruption, working with Russia against “Syrian Jihad”, and threatened any group which would enter Idlib to be prepared to engage in fierce fights – but Turkey was not mentioned at all. The obvious agreement on the Idlib Operation between Turkey (backing Free Syrian Army (FSA) rebels and supported by Russia and Iran) and HTS militants (sworn enemies of Russia, FSA and Turkey through associated alliance) serves two goals: a) Turkey gains control of strategic areas facing Kurdish occupied territories and b) HTS do not engage in armed conflicts either with the YPG or Turkey. HTS’s disadvantageous position is shown in a HTS statement for the Idlib Operation saying that ‘…. that is because of the state of necessity the mujahedin are passing and how their enemies have converged on them’. In the internal political front, Turkey displays a unity over the Idlib operation and a decisive independence when it comes to Turkey’s rights to defend its ‘backyard’. Turkish politicians of the highest ranks expressed their intentions over the Idlib Operation. Turkey’s Defense Minister vaguely stated that ‘Turkey must be in Syria’s Idlib until the threat is over’, without clarifying the threat or the means it will use to counter it. President’s Erdogan’s statement that ‘Turkey shares a border with Idlib. Thus, we should take our own measures’ is another indicator of the distance Turkey has taken away from the collective decision making processes of NATO and its Western allies, and its shift towards regional alliances. The Turkish Prime Minister Yildirim said that ‘the aim of activities in Syria’s Idlib is to prevent migration wave into Turkey’, reminding EU officials Turkey’s leverage on them. The majority of the political opposition expressed their wide support for Idlib operation and emphasized on the cross-border terrorist risks. Turkey has deeply interfered in the Syrian civil war with its troops establishing military posts in Idlib. The initially claimed conflict-preventive objectives of the operation can swiftly alter to offencive ones and drag Turkey into clashes with HTS, the US backed YPG, or with a wider front of rebel-jihadi groups united against the Idlib ‘occupiers’ – COMMENT ENDS | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Coated abrasive articles generally contain an abrasive material, typically in the form of abrasive particles, bonded to a previously made backing by means of one or more adhesive layers. The adhesive layers and abrasive particles are conventionally applied to the backing in separate step(s) after the backing has been formed. Such articles usually take the form of sheets, discs, belts, bands, and the like, which can be adapted to be mounted on pulleys, wheels, or drums. Abrasive articles can be used for sanding, grinding or polishing various surfaces of, for example, steel and other metals, wood, wood-like laminates, plastic, fiberglass, leather, or ceramics.
The backings or substrates used in coated abrasive articles are typically made of paper, polymeric materials, cloth, non-woven materials, vulcanized rubber, or combinations of these materials. Many of these materials provide unacceptable backings for certain applications because they are not of sufficient strength, flexibility, or impact-resistance. In addition, some of these materials age too rapidly which is unacceptable. Furthermore, some of the materials are sensitive to liquids that are used as coolants and cutting fluids. Accordingly, early failure and poor functioning can occur in certain applications.
In a typical manufacturing process, a coated abrasive article is made by feeding a preformed backing in a continuous web form through a series of coating and curing steps wherein binder layers and abrasive particles are applied. The coated web is then converted into a desired construction, such as a sheet, disc, belt or the like. One of the most useful constructions of a coated abrasive article is an endless coated abrasive belt, i.e., a continuous loop of coated abrasive material. In order to form such an endless belt, the web form is typically cut into an elongate strip of a desired width and length. The ends of the elongate strip are then joined together to create a "joint" or a "splice".
Two types of splices are common in endless abrasive belts. These are the "lap" splice and the "butt" splice. For the lap splice, the ends of the elongate strip are doubled such that the top surface with the abrasive coating and the bottom surface of the backing fit together without a significant change in the overall thickness of the belt. This is typically done by removing abrasive particles from the abrasive surface of the strip at one of the ends, and by removing part of the material from the backing of the elongate strip at the other end. The doubled ends are then overlapped and joined adhesively. For the butt splice, the bottom surface of the backing at each end of the elongate strip is coated with an adhesive end overlaid with a strong, thin, tear-resistant, splicing media. Each end for either of these splices may be cut straight or have mating curves of various configurations. Although endless coated abrasive belts containing a splice in the backing are widely used in industry today, these products suffer from some disadvantages which can be attributed to the splice.
For example, the splice is generally thicker than the rest of the coated abrasive belt, even though the methods of splicing generally used involve attempts to minimize this variation in the thickness along the length of the belt. This can lead to a region on the workpiece with a "coarser" surface finish than the remainder of the workpiece, which is highly undesirable, especially in high precision grinding applications. For example, wood with areas having a coarser surface finish will stain darker than the remainder of the wood. Also, the splice can be the weakest area or link in the coated abrasive belt. In extreme cases the splice may break prematurely before full utilization of the coated abrasive belt, which leads not only to waste, but potential hazard. Belts have therefore often been made with laminated liners or backings to give added strength and support. Such belts can be relatively expensive and, under certain conditions, can be subject to separation of the laminated layers.
In addition, abrading machines that utilize a coated abrasive belt can have difficulty properly tracking and aligning the belt because the splice creates a discontinuity in the coated abrasive belt. Furthermore, the spliced area can be undesirably more stiff than the remainder of the belt, and belts including a splice may put undesirable "chatter" marks on the workpiece. Finally, the splice in the belt backing adds considerable expense in the manufacturing process of coated abrasive belts.
Prior references have shown methods for producing endless, seamless abrasive belts. For example, Ball (U.S. Pat. No. 2,404,207) discloses belts produced by a method that utilizes a carrier belt that is rotated around support rolls. A comb removes a carded membrane from a stripper roll to thereby deposit the carded membrane upon the rotating carrier belt. Accordingly, layers of carded membrane are incrementally deposited around a peripheral surface of the carrier belt as the carrier belt is rotated around the support rolls. The carded membrane can be comprised of fibrous materials such that layers of fibrous materials form a web about the carrier belt. A pressure roll is used to compact the web and impregnate the web with an adhesive binder material. Abrasive particles can also be distributed upon the carrier belt through two different control hoppers.
A variation of a butt splice is presented in Dyer (U.S. Pat. No. 4,018,574). Dyer discloses a process for manufacturing an endless coated abrasive article. The process involves inserting a strip of coated abrasive material inside an open-ended cylindrical mold with the abrasive coated surface adjacent to and in contact with an inner peripheral surface of the mold. The strip of coated abrasive material is cut in a shape such that longitudinal edges of the abrasive material abut to form a helical butt joint. A resin composition including a suitable reinforcing material is introduced to the mold after the mold is set in rotation. The rotation of the mold creates centrifugal force which causes the resinous mixture to flow outwardly to thereby distribute the resinous composition uniformly upon the back of the abrasive material. The resin material is then cured to form a layer on the inner periphery of the finished coated abrasive belt. The process results in an endless coated abrasive article that has a helical-shaped seam or splice extending throughout the abrasive material.
PCT International Publication No. WO 93/12911, published Jul. 8, 1993, discloses fiber reinforced polymeric backings and coated abrasives employing same. In producing the backing, the fibers are engulfed by a polymer and the polymer is then solidified or cured, depending on the polymer's chemistry. Abrasive particles are then adhered to the backing by a subsequent resin coating applied to the backing (sometimes referred to as a "make" coating), typically a resole phenolic resin. The abrasive articles and methods of making same described in WO 93/12911 thus require a separate make coating step. Further, the procedures for making the fiber reinforced backings are essentially batch procedures.
It would be advantageous if fiber reinforced coated abrasive articles could be made by eliminating the step of applying a separate make coating to a preformed backing, and if the process of making a coated abrasive having a fiber reinforced backing could be either a batch process or a continuous web process. This could result in significant cost savings. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | USPTO Backgrounds |
Background {#Sec1}
==========
Epidermal growth factor receptor (*EGFR*)-mutant non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) is a distinct molecular subtype with sensitivity to EGFR-selective tyrosine kinase inhibitors (TKIs) \[[@CR1]--[@CR4]\]. However, tumors invariably develop resistance to these EGFR TKIs, mediated by on-target genetic alterations within the *EGFR* tyrosine kinase domain, *EGFR*-independent mechanisms, or small cell transformation \[[@CR5], [@CR6]\]. In initial reports of acquired resistance to first-generation EGFR TKIs erlotinib and gefitinib, 50--60% of cases harbored an *EGFR* T790M gatekeeper mutation \[[@CR5], [@CR6]\]. Osimertinib, an irreversible, third-generation EGFR inhibitor, was developed to target T790M mutation-positive, first-generation TKI-refractory tumors and demonstrated robust efficacy with objective response rates of 61--71% among T790M-positive NSCLC patients \[[@CR7]--[@CR9]\]. More recently, osimertinib became the new standard initial therapy in advanced *EGFR*-mutant NSCLC \[[@CR10]\]. Despite its efficacy, patients acquire resistance to osimertinib through various mechanisms including *EGFR* C797S mutations which eliminate the covalent bonding site for osimertinib, and amplification of *MET* or *ERBB2* (HER2), among others \[[@CR11]--[@CR13]\]. The prevalence of C797S mutations may differ depending on the clinical setting and is more common in patients with a pre-existing T790M mutation \[[@CR14], [@CR15]\]. Serial assessment of the molecular characteristics of *EGFR*-mutant NSCLC with each line of therapy will assist in understanding the evolution of on- and off-target mechanisms of resistance and can help guide the development of new therapeutic strategies for patients with resistant disease.
Historically, tumor tissue biopsies have been standard for detection of resistance mechanisms. However, tissue biopsies are inevitably limited by their invasive procedural risk, high cost, treatment delays related to procedure and processing, and inability to capture spatial tumor heterogeneity. In contrast, plasma cell-free DNA (cfDNA) next-generation sequencing (NGS) from peripheral blood allows for safe, global, and repeated longitudinal assessment of mutation dynamics throughout the course of disease and treatment. Therefore, this approach has the potential to accelerate our understanding of TKI resistance.
Here, we report the detection of *EGFR* L792 resistance mutations via cfDNA sequencing in a patient progressing on osimertinib, their prevalence in a large clinically tested NSCLC cfDNA cohort, and in vitro functional characterization.
Case report {#Sec2}
===========
A 68-year-old male former smoker with *EGFR* L858R-mutant metastatic NSCLC presented after progression on multiple lines of therapy, including first-line erlotinib, carboplatin/pemetrexed, docetaxel, followed by afatinib. cfDNA droplet digital PCR identified the *EGFR* T790M resistance mutation (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}a). After a short course of cetuximab + afatinib, the patient began osimertinib with disease control; 7 months later, imaging demonstrated progressive disease (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}b, c). At this time, cfDNA profiling was performed using Guardant360, a highly sensitive and ultra-specific 70-gene NGS panel, which interrogated the entire *EGFR* coding sequence for SNVs, indels, and gene amplification (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Figure S1) \[[@CR16]\]. Twelve somatic alterations were identified, including seven alterations in *EGFR* (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Table S1). The original L858R activating *EGFR* mutation was present at a variant allele fraction (VAF) of 16.9%, and the T790M mutation was present at a VAF of 8.4%. In addition, this analysis revealed *EGFR* C797S (4.6%) and L718Q (0.7%) mutations, both of which have been previously reported as osimertinib resistance mechanisms \[[@CR11], [@CR12], [@CR17], [@CR18]\]. Interestingly, three additional tyrosine kinase domain mutations were identified: L792H (1.4%), F795C (0.4%), and L792F (0.1%) (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}d). While *EGFR* L792 mutations have recently been reported as resistance mechanisms to osimertinib \[[@CR19], [@CR20]\], at the time of this patient's clinical presentation these were novel findings which spurred further investigation.Fig. 1Identification of *EGFR* L792F and L792H mutations by cfDNA sequencing in osimertinib-resistant NSCLC. Somatic cfDNA profiling of a patient progressing on osimertinib revealed the known resistance mutation C797S, as well as novel *EGFR* mutations L792F, L792H, and F795C. **a** Patient treatment history. **b** Abdominal CT 2 months after initiation of osimertinib, showing stable hepatic metastases. **c** Abdominal CT 7 months after initiation on osimertinib, showing multifocal progression throughout the liver. **d** Schema of somatic *EGFR* mutations identified by cfDNA NGS and corresponding predicted amino acid alterations. **e** Presumptive evolutionary history inferred by dollo parsimony analysis of phased mutations. *G* germline, *Af* afatinib, *Osi* osimertinib. **f** The structural location of L792H mutation (magenta) in EGFR relative to T790M (red) and bound TKI (yellow). **g** The structural location of L792F mutation (purple) in EGFR relative to T790M (red) and bound TKI (yellow)
Given their genomic proximity, the T790M and C797S mutations were phased to determine allelic origin and found to be in *cis*, and the F795C mutation appeared on that allele. In contrast, the L792H and L792F variants were in *cis* to T790M but arose in *trans* to C797S and to each other. While multiple tissue biopsies over time were not available to determine the temporal sequence of mutational emergence, when mapped against the patient's treatment history the clonal phylogeny of these *EGFR* alleles suggested that at least the L792H and L792F mutations arose during osimertinib treatment at the same branch point as the known osimertinib resistance mutation C797S (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}e). Moreover, structural modeling indicated that each mutation affects a residue that impinges on the ATP-binding pocket (Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}f, g).
Prevalence in a large cfDNA cohort {#Sec3}
==================================
Given the evidence linking L792H and L792F mutations to osimertinib resistance, the Guardant360 clinical genomic cfDNA database of *EGFR*-mutant lung cancer samples from 10/14/2015 through 2/4/2019 was retrospectively analyzed to investigate the prevalence of these alterations. 1851 patients were identified whose samples contained *EGFR* T790M mutations. While detailed clinical information including treatment history is unavailable for this cohort, somatic *EGFR* T790M mutations are rare outside of the setting of resistance to early-generation TKIs \[[@CR21]\]. Of these patients, 22 (1.2%) also had at least one nonsynonymous *EGFR* L792 alteration identified (Table [1](#Tab1){ref-type="table"}, Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Table S2). Of these L792-positive patients, 11 (50%) also had at least one *EGFR* C797S clone identified. Notably, of the overall cohort of *EGFR* T790M-positive lung cancer patients, 151 (8.2%) had *EGFR* C797S identified in their clinical cfDNA testing, considerably more frequent versus the 1.2% prevalence of L792 variants.Table 1Nonsynonymous *EGFR* L792 alterations co-occurring with *EGFR* T790M mutations identified in the Guardant360 database of patients with lung cancerAlteration(s)Number of patientsL792H9L792F6L792P2L792R1L792H and L792V2L792V and L792F1L792H and L792F1^aa^Initial patient whose case is described in detail
Besides the initial case described above, only one other patient was found to have a nonsynonymous *EGFR* F795 alteration in conjunction with an L792 mutation; this patient's sample had 14 nonsynonymous *EGFR* alterations (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Table S2). One additional patient's sample harbored an *EGFR* L792R alteration in the absence of a co-occurring *EGFR* T790M mutation; six other nonsynonymous *EGFR* alterations were detected in this sample (L717V, L718Q, G796S, C797S, G796R, and S1036R).
Phasing analysis was performed on 27 samples from the 22 unique patients containing an L792F/H/V/P/R or F795C/L mutation. As in the initial case described above, the L792 F/H/V/P/R and F795C/L alterations were invariably present subclonal to and frequently in *cis* with *EGFR* T790M, but independent of one another, C797S, and other osimertinib resistance alterations (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Table S3). The recurrence of these mutations across multiple patients supports the hypothesis that these variants confer a selective advantage compatible with osimertinib resistance. However, the relatively low frequency with which these variants are observed and lower VAFs at which they occur suggest that this advantage may be less potent than that conferred by C797S.
Functional studies {#Sec4}
==================
To test the hypothesis that the L792F/H mutations confer resistance to osimertinib, we characterized the oncogenic activity of the mutants using a high-throughput functional in vitro assay \[[@CR22]\]. Cells were transfected with *EGFR* expression constructs encoding an L858R sensitizing mutation, T790M resistance mutation, and one additional putative resistance mutation. Downstream signaling pathway activation---namely, MAPK/ERK and JAK-STAT---was assessed by measuring nuclear translocation of two reporters (ERK2 and STAT3) which shuttle from the cytoplasm to the nucleus upon pathway activation \[[@CR22]\]. As expected, L858R/T790M induced activation of both MAPK/ERK and JAK-STAT pathways, which was inhibited by osimertinib in a dose-dependent manner (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}b, c). In contrast, L858R/T790M/C797S demonstrated resistance to osimertinib at all doses (p = 0.004 for the MAPK pathway and p = 0.004 for the JAK\\STAT pathway, students t = test), compatible with irreversible loss of the osimertinib binding site. Importantly, the addition of L792H (p = 0.086 for the MAPK pathway, students t = test) and, to a lesser degree, L792F (p = 0.085 for the MAPK pathway, students t = test) to L858R/T790M induced intermediate levels of resistance that were overcome by increasing levels of osimertinib. This can be also seen in a 2-times higher AUC value as compared to L858R alone (Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}d).Fig. 2Functional assessment of L792F/H *EGFR* mutations and sensitivity to osimertinib. Functional evaluation of the L792F/H mutations was performed using an in vitro assay which uses high-content microscopy to assess activation of oncogenic signaling pathways represented by the nuclear-to cytoplasmic ratio (NCR) of signaling pathway reporters. Activity was assessed for the MAP Kinase pathway (ERK2-reporter) and JAK-STAT pathway (STAT3-reporter). **a** Baseline functional activity of *EGFR* mutations compared to wild-type *EGFR*. Values are average NCR for each condition, \*p \< 0.05 (students *T* test) with bracket indicating that the difference in activation between WT *EGFR* and each of the four mutations is significant. Presented is a representative experiment of 3 repeats. **b**, **c** Sensitivity to osimertinib was measured in escalating nMol concentrations. Values are the mean percentage (%) activation of ΔNCR (*MTtx* *−* *WTut*)/(*MTut* *−* *WTut*) normalized for each condition. 100% is the over-activation due to MT construct activity and 0% represent wild-type untreated activity at baseline. Means represented calculated from 7 independent repeats (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Figures S2, S3). *MT* mutant construct. *WT* wild-type construct, *tx* drug treated, *ut* untreated. **d** Total area under the curve (AUC) calculations for the MAP kinase pathway calculated using Graph Pad Prism. Also presented is the ratio of the AUC calculation of the tested EGFR L792 mutations and C797S-positive control versus T790M-negative control
Discussion {#Sec5}
==========
In this report, through clinical cfDNA NGS we identify *EGFR* L792 mutations in 22 of 1851 (1.2%) NSCLC patient cases with an *EGFR* T790M mutation. These L792 mutations appear to be a non-covalent mechanism of osimertinib resistance in which alterations in the EGFR ATP binding pocket diminish, but do not entirely prevent, osimertinib binding. In vitro assays suggest that increasing doses of osimertinib may overcome this resistance and inhibit EGFR activity, compatible with steric hindrance of drug binding or altered affinity to the drug or ATP rather than elimination of the binding site.
These results are consistent with recent reports of *EGFR* L792 mutations. Chen et al. \[[@CR19]\] reported L792 mutations identified through cfDNA testing of plasma or pleural effusion in three patients with NSCLC progressing on osimertinib, with a follow-up study from the same group \[[@CR20]\] identifying mutations at this residue in 11/93 (12%) of Chinese patients with osimertinib-resistant lung cancer.
There are inherent limitations to examining the prevalence of *EGFR* L792 mutations in the context of co-occurring T790M mutations. This approach was used due to the unavailability of treatment history details for genomic data from a commercial laboratory. With the recent approval of osimertinib for first-line use, this genomic context may not apply moving forward. Nishino et al. \[[@CR23]\] found that *EGFR* L792 mutations in combination with L858R but in the absence of T790M conferred moderate resistance to osimertinib in vitro. Future studies examining the prevalence and functional effect of *EGFR* L792 mutations in the absence of T790M may clarify how broadly this data may be extrapolated in the dynamic landscape of drug approvals and treatment sequences.
Notably, the case described in detail above was found to have multiple *EGFR* mutations on cfDNA NGS, as did many other cases subsequently identified in the cohort prevalence analysis (Additional file [1](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}: Table S2). The emergence of multiple alterations across the course of disease and treatment makes it increasingly difficult to delineate the isolated impact of any individual mutation in the acquired resistance process; this limitation of traditional analysis heightens the need for repeated comprehensive genomic profiling in the setting of clinical progression to capture the full context of changes under treatment pressure. The evolution of multiple on-target alterations underscores the complexity of the genomic landscape that can emerge in the setting of TKI resistance and highlights the importance of repeat genomic analysis, and in particular cfDNA NGS to non-invasively capture heterogeneous resistance, in detecting potentially targetable genomic alterations over the disease course.
Supplementary information
=========================
{#Sec6}
**Additional file 1.** Supplementary figures and tables.
**Publisher\'s Note**
Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
Stephen R. Fairclough and Lesli A. Kiedrowski contributed equally to this work
Supplementary information
=========================
**Supplementary information** accompanies this paper at 10.1186/s40164-019-0148-7.
Not applicable.
SRF and LAK: data acquisition/analysis for patient case and cfDNA cohort, manuscript drafting. JJL, ATS, and TES: data acquisition/analysis for patient cases. OZ and GT: functional studies. JO, RBL, and RJN: data acquisition/analysis for the cfDNA cohort. All authors contributed to the conception and design of the work and edited the final manuscript. All authors read and approved the final manuscript.
The authors have no funding sources to disclose.
The datasets generated and analyzed during the current study are not publicly available due to constraints given the origin of the genomic data from a clinical testing laboratory.
This study has obtained appropriate institutional review board approval for analysis of deidentified and limited data sets which waived the need for individual patient informed consent.
Not applicable.
SRF, AK, RBL, and RJN are employees and shareholders of Guardant Health, Inc. OZ and GT are employees of NovellusDx. JJL received honoraria from or served as a consultant for Chugai and Boehringer-Ingelheim and received institutional research funding from Loxo Oncology. ATS has served as a compensated consultant or received honoraria from Pfizer, Novartis, Genentech/Roche, Ariad/Takeda, Ignyta, LOXO, Bayer, Chugai, Blueprint Medicines, KSQ Therapeutics, Daiichi Sankyo, EMD Serono, Taiho Pharmaceutical, TP Therapeutics, Foundation Medicine, Guardant, Natera, Servier, and Syros; has received institutional research funding from Pfizer, Novartis, Roche/Genentech, Ariad, Ignyta, and TP Therapeutics; and has received travel support from Pfizer and Roche/Genentech. The remaining authors do not report relevant competing interests.
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
Huhm. Hello there. I go by a lot of names. But yeah. I know this one girl on here, she writes an amazing fic and she might be sort of my girlfriend now. It's, like, 5:00 AM over here so this is just gonna be mindless shit. TAKE ME NOW AND FUCK ME LATER AND SING IT THE TUNE OF FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT- hold on. What? | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Q:
Setting %nullind rpg using one line
Is there a way in RPG to assign a boolean value in one line without a if statement?
for example in C# you can do:
bool x = (some condition = true);
is there a way to do something like this in rpg:
%nullind(FIELD) = (FIELD=="");
Is this the right way (only way):
*in01 = (Somevalue=AnotherValue);
%nullind(field) = *in01;
Also,
when I initially turn ON the nullind do I have to turn it off in order to get the field to update to a non-null value?
A:
Yes, make the assignment to an indicator type variable (type N).
*in01 = (somevalue = anothervalue);
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
###### Key questions
What is already known?
======================
- While life skills programming has been identified as a promising intervention strategy to prevent gender-based violence in low-income and middle-income countries, it is currently unknown whether this strategy's potential extends to humanitarian settings.
What are the new findings?
==========================
- While we found no evidence that the Creating Opportunities through Mentorship, Parental Involvement, and Safe Spaces intervention reduced girls' exposure to sexual violence within the 12-month timeframe measured, findings indicate positive impact of the intervention on attitudes around rites of passage and social support indicators.
- Findings also showed a decrease in reports of child marriage among girls in the intervention who reported being married or living with a man at baseline.
What do the new findings imply?
===============================
- Given the complexities of running randomised controlled trials in humanitarian contexts, outcome measures may need to be tailored to align with realistic timelines and the realities of programming in emergency settings.
Introduction {#s1}
============
Throughout adolescence, individuals face unique and critical threats to health, well-being and security.[@R1] Globally, adolescence marks the period of greatest risk of interpersonal violence victimisation for girls.[@R2] Girls reaching reproductive age are vulnerable to multiple forms of violence, including child maltreatment, intimate partner violence (IPV), child marriage, sexual abuse and exploitation and female genital mutilation/cutting.[@R4] Additionally, adolescent girls' low position in many societies may exacerbate risks of victimisation and impede service access and utilisation. These risks may be amplified by frequently occurring political and social upheaval during emergencies.[@R6]
Experiencing violence during childhood and adolescence can disrupt development trajectories, with greater impact than exposure at other periods in the life course.[@R8] Indeed, multiple forms of gender-based violence (GBV) experienced during childhood and adolescence are associated with long-term health consequences for females, including poor sexual and reproductive health, increased risk of HIV, physical injury and disability, poor mental well-being and suicidal ideation.[@R11] Given that suicide and depressive disorders are the leading global causes of mortality and years lost to disability, respectively, for adolescent girls ages 15--19 years, reducing exposure to violence and promoting positive development may decrease the burden of mental ill-health and improve general health and well-being for adolescent girls.[@R16]
Life skills and education interventions have demonstrated promising changes in adolescent girls' violence-related attitudes and behaviours in developing settings.[@R18] These interventions have identified social norms related to gender and violence, adolescent girl empowerment and social networks, as pathways for reducing risk of GBV. Interventions have included safe spaces and combinations of life skills training, awareness-raising around girls' rights and violence and social network building.[@R20] A few interventions have also included influential adults in girls' lives, such as caregivers, or facilitated access to a young female mentor.[@R19]
To date, programming to prevent violence against adolescent girls in humanitarian settings has been limited. A recent systematic review of approaches to reducing GBV against adolescent girls in humanitarian settings found only three evaluations in the academic literature, all of which used weak pretest and post-test designs.[@R22] Additionally, none of the 38 adolescent IPV prevention interventions identified in a recent Cochrane review were implemented in humanitarian settings.[@R23] As suggested by these reviews, significant knowledge gaps persist around effective strategies for reducing experiences of violence and promoting positive development for adolescent girls in humanitarian settings.
To address this gap in evidence and practice, Columbia University and the International Rescue Committee (IRC) investigated the efficacy of the Creating Opportunities through Mentorship, Parental Involvement, and Safe Spaces (COMPASS) adolescent life skills and safe spaces programme for refugee adolescent girls. To our knowledge, this study contributes the first rigorous scientific learning of an intervention to reduce GBV and support empowerment of adolescent girls in a humanitarian setting. This study presents the results of a cluster randomised controlled trial to determine the impact of the COMPASS programme on experiencing interpersonal violence, social support and psychosocial outcomes for refugee adolescent girls living in Ethiopia.
Methods {#s2}
=======
Study design and participants {#s2-1}
-----------------------------
COMPASS is a programme implemented with refugees living in camps on the Sudan/Ethiopia border, conflict-affected communities in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and displaced populations in northeast Pakistan. Columbia University evaluated COMPASS in all three locations, each of which had a different research objective and design. In Ethiopia, the impact evaluation studied whether the core programme components had an impact on girls' experiences of violence and social outcomes. The DRC study measured the incremental impact of a caregiver curriculum on girls' experiences of violence and social outcomes, along with attitudes and characteristics of participating caregivers. In Pakistan, the evaluation assessed the acceptability of the programme to adolescent girls and parents/caregivers in their context and measured changes in girls' social and health outcomes over the course of the programme.[@R24] This article presents findings from the evaluation implemented in Ethiopia.
In this wait-list, cluster randomised controlled trial (see online [supplementary file -- CONSORT cluster trials checklist](#SP1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}), adolescent girls ages 13--19 years were recruited from three refugee camps in the Benishangul-Gumuz regional state of Ethiopia. Ethiopia is a top asylum destination for refugees fleeing protracted conflicts in nearby countries, and Benishangul-Gumuz camps host tens of thousands of refugees from Sudan and South Sudan. Adolescent refugees from Sudan have been repeatedly found to exhibit elevated rates of depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress.[@R25] Additionally, a recent study from other Ethiopian refugee camps revealed that adolescent refugee girls are at risk of physical, emotional and sexual violence victimisation in this setting.[@R26]
10.1136/bmjgh-2018-000825.supp1
Adolescents who met inclusion criteria were enrolled in the study from 29 July 2015 to 4 September 2016. Girls were excluded if they lacked verbal proficiency in Funj, Regarig, Engesena, or Maban. Language exclusion criteria were based on the primary languages spoken by girls in the research camps and data collectors' language abilities. Individuals with significant cognitive impairments or physical disabilities that would prevent independent completion of interviews using Audio Computer-Assisted Self-Interview (ACASI) were excluded for ethical reasons. All study procedures were approved by the Institutional Review Board of the Columbia University Medical Center (Protocol \#AAAP6855; see online [supplementary file -- IRB protocol](#SP2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}), the Administration for Refugee and Returnee Affairs in Ethiopia and the IRC's internal review board (Protocol \# WPE 1.00.003).
10.1136/bmjgh-2018-000825.supp2
Study procedures {#s2-2}
----------------
IRC staff introduced the intervention to adolescent girls and their caregivers through home visits and existing programming at IRC's Women and Girls Wellness Centers. Girls who registered for the intervention were invited to participate in the study by data collectors who were not affiliated with the IRC programme and who were managed by Columbia University. Data collection trainers were all affiliated with the Care and Protection of Children Learning Network, and training included special attention to data collection with young people derived from a series of guidance materials.[@R27] All research staff participated in a training focused on ensuring privacy and confidentiality and understanding the basic elements of GBV as outlined in the WHO's guidelines on violence against women research. Data collectors signed confidentiality agreements and developed protocols for data breaches.[@R30] In accordance with ethical protocols for research in non-written languages, data collectors obtained verbal consent in confidential spaces from guardians, adolescent girls over age 18 years, and married girls below age 18 years, and assent for unmarried girls age 13--17 years. Adolescents self-administered the survey, using ACASI programming in a private location.[@R30] Data collectors remained outside confidential spaces to respond to questions and to troubleshoot any technological difficulties. Following the interview, participants were provided with information on how to access violence and psychosocial support services, and referrals were made to service providers as needed.
Given that girls received the COMPASS intervention in small programme groups, we used these groups to cluster treatment assignments. Following completion of baseline data collection, adolescents were divided into 62 programme clusters of 10--20 girls based on household proximity, age (13--14 years or 15--19 years) and primary language. Columbia University randomised clusters to the treatment or wait-list control arm using a uniform distribution in R. To reduce contamination potential, siblings were randomised to the same treatment arm. Given the nature of programming received in the intervention arm, randomisation was blinded to data collectors but not blinded for participants.
Participants in both treatment arms were tracked and retained through strategies such as brief home visits occurring 6 months after baseline data collection and a visit 1 month prior to endline survey administration. To ensure the girls completing the endline surveys were the same as those from baseline, identifying information was first checked against a master list from baseline. Girls were then asked a series of questions about their baseline interview, such as what materials were used and where interviews were held. Adolescents completed the endline survey approximately 1 year after completion of the baseline survey (July--September 2016). Nested qualitative data were also collected and are presented elsewhere.[@R32] All data collection took place in empty classrooms in local schools.
COMPASS intervention {#s2-3}
--------------------
Previous IRC learning on programming for children and adolescent girls informed intervention development. Intervention components included weekly adolescent girl life skills sessions in safe spaces, with 45--60 min of facilitated content and 30 min of unstructured time. Adolescents in clusters randomised to the treatment arm received a total of 30 in-person group sessions. Each girl's life skills session focused on topics related to improving key skills such as communication, friendship building, and awareness of GBV and sexual and reproductive health (see online [supplementary appendix A](#SP3){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. Girls' sessions were delivered by trained female refugee mentors aged 18--30 years, who spoke the same languages as participants. Groups were led by either one mentor or a team of two or three mentors.
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The intervention also included 8 monthly discussion groups for enrolled girls' caregivers, which covered topics such as communication skills, supporting adolescent girls and understanding violence and abuse. Caregiver content was delivered by IRC staff with assistance from translators. Safe spaces were accessible to all women and girls living in the camps for unstructured activities in between COMPASS sessions.[@R30]
The COMPASS theory of change hypothesised that weekly discussion sessions for adolescent girls, access to a trusted female mentor and provision of safe single-gender space would increase girls' human, social, physical and financial assets to protect themselves from a range of potential risks, including IPV, community violence and transactional sex, as well as respond to threats or incidents of such violence (see [figure 1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}). Building on previous experience with the Parents Make a Difference programme with younger children, it was also theorised that including caregivers could increase their protective role in girls' lives both within and outside the home, by raising their awareness about the risks of GBV faced by adolescent girls in their care and the importance of connecting girls with GBV response and health services.[@R28]
{#F1}
Measures {#s2-4}
--------
### Primary outcomes {#s2-4-1}
The primary outcome of interest was a binary composite representing any form of sexual violence in the previous 12 months, which included self-reported forced sex, unwanted sexual touching or coerced sex.
### Secondary outcomes {#s2-4-2}
Secondary outcomes included binary self-reported 12-month exposure to forced sex (having sex unwillingly), unwanted sexual touching and coerced sex in the previous 12 months. These measures are the disaggregated components of the primary outcome and were adapted from previously validated questionnaires.[@R34] Other secondary outcomes included binary self-reported 12-month exposure to physical violence, emotional violence, transactional sex, child marriage and feelings of safety. Physical violence was operationalised as being hit or beaten. Emotional violence was defined as being screamed at loudly or aggressively. Engagement in transactional sex was operationalised as exchanging sex for money, food or gifts. Child marriage was defined as marrying or living with someone as if married prior to 18 years of age. Adolescents similarly provided binary responses on their feelings of safety in their homes, schools, friend's homes and neighbour's homes. Each of these variables on self-reported safety was operationalised as answering 'yes' to questions such as '*Do you feel safe at home*?' and '*Do you feel safe at school?*' and in a range of other settings where the IRC thought feelings of safety might be increased as a result of programming.
### Key causal pathway markers {#s2-4-3}
Key markers thought to influence girls' risk of experiencing interpersonal violence included social support and attitudes regarding rites of passage. Perceived social support was captured through dichotomous self-report of having female friends of a similar age outside the family and reports of having a trusted non-family female adult in whom they could confide. Rites of passage included adolescents' beliefs about the highest grade girls should complete in school, acceptability for girls to work outside the home after marriage, appropriate age of marriage and appropriate age of having one's first child. Continuous measures for appropriate age of marriage and age of first child were dichotomised as either under age 18 years or age 18 years and above. Adolescents also self-reported access to a safe place to spend time with other girls.
### Demographic variables {#s2-4-4}
Age and years of completed education were continuous variables. Cohabitation with biological parents was operationalised as a categorical variable: presence of only the father, only the mother, both parents, or neither parent in the home. Cohabitation with an intimate partner was defined as living with a husband or living with someone as if married.
Statistical analysis {#s2-5}
--------------------
The target sample size was originally calculated assuming 20 girls in each cluster; however, programme realities in the field led to fewer girls being assigned to each group and thus necessitated a recalculation of our sample size. We assumed 30% incidence of past-year sexual violence among the population at baseline and that this incidence was likely to remain constant among the control group. To calculate the target sample size, we assumed statistical power of 80% and a two-sided alpha of 0.05 to detect a 35% reduction in the incidence of past-year sexual violence in the intervention arm compared with the waitlist arm. We estimated that each cluster would comprise approximately 15 girls. We assumed an intraclass correlation coefficient (ICC) of 0.06 to account for clustering. We could not find a previous study that measured sexual violence among female adolescents in a sub-Saharan African site. However, a study that assessed IPV perpetrated against females ages 15--49 years across multiple sites, including Ethiopia, reported all ICCs were less than 0.06.[@R35] We required 62 clusters, 31 groups in each treatment arm. We expected a 10% loss to follow-up, necessitating a final sample size of at least 896 girls.
Ranges, frequencies, means and SD were assessed for all predictors and outcomes (see online [supplementary file -- statistical analysis plan](#SP4){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). t-Tests and Pearson χ^2^ tests were used to examine the independence of continuous and dichotomous baseline characteristics, respectively, between treatment arms and between those who were and were not lost to follow-up. Intent-to-treat analysis was conducted on all individuals surveyed at baseline. Per-protocol analysis is not presented due to the fact that more than 95% of girls and 91% of caregivers followed protocol, defined as attending at least 75% of programme sessions. The intervention's effects on binary primary and secondary outcomes at endline were assessed through mixed effects logistic regressions with random intercepts to account for clustering; the intervention's effect on a continuous secondary outcome was assessed using a linear mixed model. After estimating the first-order effect of the intervention on these outcomes, models were adjusted for baseline age, previous engagement in a romantic relationship and presence of mother, father or both parents in the home. These demographic characteristics were previously found to be associated with experiences of violence in baseline results of this study sample.[@R36]
10.1136/bmjgh-2018-000825.supp4
Given attrition between baseline and follow-up and the self-reported and sensitive nature of many of the questions, outcomes were missing for approximately 10%--20% of girls. Pearson χ^2^ tests were used to assess whether missingness was associated with treatment assignment. We also carried out a sensitivity analysis by performing the analysis described above on imputed data. To account for the missing predictors and outcomes, we used a multiple imputation approach. A set of five imputations was generated in Stata with 'mi impute', after which the average values represented a close estimate of a full dataset. All analyses were completed using Stata V.14.
Results {#s3}
=======
Of the 986 adolescent girls approached between 29 July 2015 and 4 September 2015, 919 girls completed the baseline survey (see [figure 2](#F2){ref-type="fig"}). Adolescents were divided into clusters based on age, common language and geographic location, with an average of 15 girls per cluster. Thirty-one clusters were randomised to the intervention (n=457) and 31 clusters were randomised to the waitlist arm (n=462). Of these, 812 (88·36%) participants completed the endline survey between 25 July 2016 and 2 September 2016, and all 62 clusters were included in the analysis. The most frequently cited reason for non-completion of an endline survey was relocation out of the camps (n=37). Additionally, 34 girls from the control group mistakenly joined the intervention and, due to an error in the field, endline data were not collected for these girls.
{#F2}
The average participant was approximately 14.5 years and had 2 years of schooling. At baseline, adolescents in the intervention group were more likely to live with their mother but not father and less likely to live with neither parent at baseline, as compared with the control group ([table 1](#T1){ref-type="table"}). Information on perpetrators of violence at baseline has been reported separately.[@R36] The proportion of adolescents speaking the four different languages also differed between the intervention and control groups, which was an expected effect of randomising siblings to the same treatment condition. Adolescents in the intervention and control groups did not differ on any other measured demographic characteristics or primary or secondary violence outcomes.
######
Baseline characteristics of girls in the treatment and waitlist arms
Characteristics Waitlist (n=462) Treatment (n=457) Missing
------------------------------------ ------------------ ------------------- ---------
Demographics
Age 14.56 (1.50) 14.65 (1.51) 0
Language 0
Engesena 41 (9) 52 (11)
Funj 282 (61) 327 (72)
Maban 86 (19) 68 (15)
Regarig 53 (11) 10 (2)
Camp 0
Bambasi 143 (31) 193 (42)
Tongo 166 (36) 117 (26)
Sherkole 153 (33) 147 (32)
Parents in household 39
Father only 94 (21) 79 (18)
Mother only 105 (24) 135 (31)
Both parents 199 (45) 196 (45)
Neither parent 46 (10) 26 (6)
Ever had a boyfriend 139 (26) 142 (34) 81
Relationship status 93
Single 269 (64) 258 (64)
Married, living with husband 76 (18) 73 (18)
Married, not living with husband 44 (10) 53 (13)
Living with man as if married 34 (8) 19 (5)
Years of schooling 2.00 (2.04) 2.00 (2.09) 41
Data are mean \[SD\] or number (%). Some percentages do not add up to 100 because of rounding.
Baseline data revealed high levels of exposure to any form of past-year sexual violence: 28% of girls in the intervention arm and 30% of girls in the control arm reported experiencing any form of sexual violence in the past year. [Table 2](#T2){ref-type="table"} summarises primary and secondary outcomes by treatment arm and time period of data collection and treatment. There were no differences in primary or secondary outcomes between the treatment and wait-list control groups at baseline. Additionally, girls were no more or less likely to have missing outcome data at endline based on treatment arm.
######
Descriptive statistics for outcomes by time period and treatment arm
Baseline Follow-up
-------------------------------------------------- ----------- ----------- ----- ----------- ----------- -----
Primary outcome
Any form of sexual violence, last 12 months 104 (28) 111 (30) 179 88 (23) 83 (23) 179
Secondary outcomes
Unwanted sexual touching, last 12 months 48 (12) 60 (14) 91 38 (10) 39 (10) 138
Coerced sex, last 12 months 51 (12) 45 (11) 98 37 (9) 28 (8) 154
Forced sex, last 12 months 64 (16) 64 (15) 103 50 (13) 51 (13) 152
Physical violence, last 12 months 127 (31) 132 (30) 69 99 (24) 77 (20) 128
Emotional violence, last 12 months 152 (36) 151 (36) 80 84 (21) 93 (25) 146
Transactional sex, last 12 months 35 (8) 27 (7) 100 19 (5) 27 (7) 141
Child marriage, last 12 months 141 (35) 150 (35) 93 126 (32) 138 (37) 150
Perceived feelings of safety
Home 297 (71) 308 (72) 74 298 (74) 256 (67) 135
School 261 (84) 248 (79) 296 254 (85) 218 (82) 353
Friend\'s house 230 (55) 225 (54) 84 171 (44) 169 (44) 143
Neighbour\'s house 245 (58) 240 (56) 71 204 (52) 202 (53) 141
Have safe place to spend time with other girls 312 (74) 292 (71) 82 314 (79) 272 (71) 141
Attitudes around rites of passage
Grade to complete in school 4.3 (3.3) 4.2 (3.2) 36 5.3 (3.5) 4.3 (3.0) 123
Age of marriage, at least 18 246 (57) 233 (53) 46 298 (74) 234 (60) 128
Age of first child, at least 18 227 (53) 214 (49) 55 282 (70) 216 (56) 132
Working outside home after marriage 246 (58) 243 (58) 74 190 (47) 172 (46) 136
Social supports
Has friends 288 (69) 269 (64) 81 303 (75) 243 (64) 137
Has trusted non-family female adult 231 (57) 239 (58) 98 231 (60) 166 (440 155
Data are mean \[SD\] or number (%). Some percentages do not add up to 100 because of rounding.
Due to unforeseen challenges associated with programme adaptation and implementation, the COMPASS intervention roll-out was delayed, and the reference period for the primary outcome thus extends to the beginning of the programme. As such, the secondary outcomes presented may be more relevant and appropriate, given the condensed timeline. While a third round of data collection was sought to assess longer term changes in violence reduction, this additional round of data collection was ultimately not possible due to funding limitations.
Analyses showed no significant effect of the intervention on reports of sexual violence (adjusted OR (aOR)=0.96, 95% CI 0.59 to 1.57) in the previous 12 months, when adjusting for other covariates (see [table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"}). The ICC for sexual violence in our sample was 0.009. Analyses also showed no significant effect of the intervention on reports of specific forms of sexual violence, physical violence, emotional violence or transactional sex in the previous 12 months, as well as no effect on perceived feelings of safety (see [table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"}). While there was no difference in child marriage across treatment arms at endline, exploratory analyses revealed the intervention had an effect on child marriage for the subgroup of girls already married at baseline; among those married or living with someone as if married at baseline, girls in the treatment arm had lower odds (OR 0.57; 95% CI 0.34 to 0.95), p=0.032) of being married at endline as compared with those in the control arm (results not presented in [table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"}).
######
Estimate of intervention effects
OR 95% CI Observations aOR 95% CI Observations
--------------------------------------------- ------------ -------------- -------------- ------------ --------------- --------------
Primary outcome
Any form of sexual violence 1.04 0.65 to 1.66 740 0.96 0.59 to 1.57 663
Secondary outcomes
Unwanted sexual touching 0.93 0.52 to 1.65 781 0.86 0.48to 1.54 695
Coerced sex 1.31 0.75 to 2.29 765 1.20 0.66 to 2.19 680
Forced sex 1.00 0.55 to 1.79 767 1.03 0.58 to 1.84 681
Physical violence 1.30 0.81 to 2.09 791 1.17 0.73 to 1.89 699
Emotional violence 0.82 0.58 to 1.16 773 0.88 0.60 to 1.29 688
Transactional sex 0.65 0.35 to 1.23 778 0.66 0.33 to 1.32 690
Child marriage 0.79 0.50 to 1.24 769 0.72 0.46 to 1.15 683
Perceived feelings of safety
Home 1.55 0.91 to 2.62 784 1.57 0.96 to 2.57 694
School 1.24 0.71 to 2.18 566 1.37 0.75 to 2.49 507
Friend\'s house 1.09 0.58 to 2.05 776 1.06 0.57 to 2.00 690
Neighbour\'s house 0.99 0.60 to 1.64 778 1.04 0.62 to 1.73 688
Safe place to spend time with other girls 1.57 0.96 to 2.56 778 1.52 0.97 to 2.39 688
Attitudes around rites of passage
Grade to complete in school (β (95% CI)) 0.93\*\* 0.31 to 1.56 796 1.08\*\* 0.44 to 1.761 702
Age of marriage 2.00\* 1.16 to 3.46 791 1.88\* 1.07 to 3.28 699
Age of first child 1.94\* 1.16 to 3.27 787 2.04\*\* 1.25 to 3.34 694
Working outside the home after marriage 1.08 0.74 to 1.56 783 1.18 0.82 to 1.69 692
Social supports
Have friends 1.83\*\* 1.20,2 to 78 782 1.71\*\* 1.18 to2.49 694
Have trusted non-family female adult 1.89\*\*\* 1.38 to 2.57 764 2.00\*\*\* 1.44 to 2.76 681
No allowance for multiplicity was made in the analyses. Adjusted models control for having ever had a boyfriend, a four-level categorical variable indicating biological parents living in the home and age. All results are ORs or aORs, except for 'grade to complete in school'. ORs are statistically significant.at \*P \<0.05, \*\*P \<0.01, \*\*\*P \<0.001.
aOR, adjusted OR.
Adolescents in the intervention reported that they believed girls should complete one additional year of schooling as compared with those in the control group (β=1.08, 95% CI 0.44 to 1.761), p=0.001). Girls in the treatment arm also had greater odds than girls in the control arm of believing a girl should get married (aOR=1.88, 95% CI 1.07 to 3.28, p=0.027), and have her first child after age 18 (aOR=2.04, 95% CI 1.25 to 3.34, p=0.005). Finally, girls in the intervention had 1.71 greater odds (95% CI (1.18 to 2.49, p=0.005) of reporting having friends their own age and 1.997 greater odds (95% CI 1.44 to 2.76, p\<0.001) of having a trusted non-family female adult in their life, when adjusting for other covariates. All findings are robust to sensitivity analyses (see online [supplementary appendix B](#SP3){ref-type="supplementary-material"}).
Discussion {#s4}
==========
The COMPASS intervention's theory of change, built on learnings from The Parents Make a Difference programme and other studies, hypothesised that increasing girls' knowledge of violence risk factors, reshaping attitudes about gender roles, expanding social networks and improving decision-making and negotiation skills would ultimately equip girls to protect themselves against and respond to violence.[@R30] While self-reported exposure to the primary outcome of sexual violence did decrease in both the control and intervention groups, we find no evidence that this decline was due to the intervention. However, although the programme did not impact girls' likelihood of experiencing sexual, physical or emotional violence, or transactional sex within the timeframe measured, our results suggest that the intervention did affect changes in gender attitudes and social support networks, which lie earlier along the causal pathway.
These results may reflect a need for a longer period of follow-up to document changes in violence, or may reflect a limited ability of the intervention to impact violence outcomes. It may be unreasonable to expect these standalone interventions to impact outcomes at every stage of the causal pathway, especially in a 12-month period, when there are many other structural factors that influence a girl's risk of experiencing violence. Leveraging opportunities for policy change through work with local leaders and other implementing organisations may expand the intervention's effectiveness.[@R29] Since caregivers and girls' intimate partners are frequent perpetrators of violence, including gender-transformative programming that targets these two groups may also improve reach of the intervention. Indeed, research indicates positive effects of community-level advocacy and social norms interventions on preventing IPV among women and parenting interventions targeting fathers on violence against children; similar programme adaptations and expansions for adolescent girls may strengthen positive outcomes of life skills programming like COMPASS.[@R37] Furthermore, given that the inclusion of activities to target broader social norms in the community may promote positive and sustainable outcomes for girls and families, future evaluations of such programme should consider including measures of change at the community level, rather than just at the level of the girl participants.
Additionally, future programme might benefit from targeting social norms and behaviours among men in the community. Qualitative research activities conducted at baseline, including a participatory mapping exercise in which female adolescents were asked to draw their communities and identify 'safe' and 'unsafe' spaces, revealed the perceived threat of spaces that are dominated by male presence.[@R32] Furthermore, girls agreed that most places are not inherently dangerous, but rather they pose a threat to girls' safety when occupied by men. However, this activity masked the incidence of caregiver and domestic violence in the private sphere as revealed through quantitative data collection, speaking to the importance of mixed methods in understanding the complexities of girls' experiences in these settings.[@R40] Similar qualitative research should be conducted ahead of future programme in order to elucidate a topology of unsafe spaces as well as girls' perceived and real risks. Qualitative scenarios delivered through in-depth interviews are also recommended.[@R33]
Additional exploratory analyses of these data showed that the intervention was associated with a reduction in child marriage among girls who were married or living with someone as if married prior to age 18 years at baseline. These findings may indicate actual changes in adolescent girls' marital status due to increased awareness about the harms of child marriage or that social desirability bias made girls less likely to report being married at endline. Anecdotal validation from IRC staff confirmed that many girls who were living with partners as if married left these relationships over the course of the intervention period, underscoring that programme like COMPASS may offer greater benefits to some girls than others and such subgroup analyses are important in recognition that adolescent girls' experiences in humanitarian settings are not uniform.
A previous *Lancet* review of interventions to reduce violence against women and girls found insufficient evidence to advocate for empowerment interventions similar to COMPASS in high-income countries; however, the review found these strategies to be promising in low-income and middle-income countries.[@R31] Our findings suggest that additional investigation is needed to explore the evidence for these strategies in humanitarian settings. Further research into the moderating and mediating role of prior exposure to outcome variables at baseline may illuminate mixed results on programme impact for girls with different vulnerabilities. Additionally, future analyses may consider factors associated with positive outcomes, such as improvements in social support, to discern associations between prior exposure to violence and feelings of social support after programme participation. Finally, previous research posits that a range of safety and coping strategies may support girls' adaptive resilience in settings where violence remains a salient threat.[@R30]More realistic targets, given the theory of change, might have included reducing the frequency of violence victimisation or addressing girls' resilience in the face of violence, rather than primary prevention outright.
Despite the lack of evidence supporting the intervention's impact on violence outcome for girls, the programme's effects on other aspects of well-being and the high rates of programme adherence demonstrate the potential for implementing similar programme in humanitarian settings. Although there were few competing activities providing support for adolescent girls in the refugee camps, diligent outreach activities by programme staff contributed to nearly all girl and caregiver participants attending at least 75% of programme sessions. Additionally, future programme in these settings might consider adopting COMPASS' strategic approach to programme scheduling in order to maximise participation. For example, in the study setting, school sessions are divided, with approximately half of girls attending school in the morning and half attending in the afternoon; COMPASS staff worked with women and girls to ensure programme sessions and safe spaces were accessible at convenient times.
This study has a few limitations worth noting. First, all outcomes are self-reported and thus subject to disclosure bias. For example, we observe inconsistencies in reports of *ever* having had consensual or non-consensual sex between baseline and endline. However, these inconsistencies were not associated with treatment status and thus we do not believe they biased estimates of programme impacts. Contextual insights provided by COMPASS programme staff suggest presence of maturity bias, as willingness to share intimate details decreases as girls age in this setting. While we acknowledge potential bias in reporting on the study's outcomes, we believe utilisation of ACASI, which has been shown to increase the disclosure of responses to questions on sexual behaviours and violence, helped to minimise such biases.[@R41] Second, as mentioned above, realities in the field associated with implementing an RCT in a humanitarian setting led to programme delays, resulting in overlap between the reference period for the primary outcome and the period of intervention delivery. A longer follow-up period may more clearly illuminate any changes in violence reduction. Third, although we measure severity of sexual violence by assessing various types of violence from sexual touching to forced sex, a measure of frequency would have been useful in evaluating the programme's impact in line with the theory of change. Finally, while groups were randomised in separate geographic zones of three camps, we cannot completely rule out potential spillover or contamination between treatment and control girls. Such contamination may partially explain the overall decline in self-reported past-year sexual violence in the full sample, and, if contamination did produce these reductions, it may have masked the overall effectiveness of the intervention. Despite these limitations, this study demonstrates that programming and rigorous research can successfully be conducted with adolescent girls in a refugee setting, particularly given the limited attrition rate, and contributes to the limited evidence base for adolescent girls in humanitarian settings.
Conclusion {#s5}
==========
To our knowledge, this is the first study to assess the impact of a life skills and safe spaces intervention for adolescent girls in a refugee setting, where physical, sexual, and emotional violence, transactional sex and child marriage are salient threats to well-being. Experiencing these events during adolescence disrupts physical and mental development and contributes to long-term health problems, and intervention at this stage in the life course remains critical.[@R8] Findings suggest life skills programming can influence secondary outcomes that promote healthy transitions to adulthood, while further research and programmatic adaptations may be needed to fully realise changes in risk of violence.
The authors would like to thank the adolescent girls who participated in the study, for their willingness to share their time and experiences with us.
**Handling editor:** Seye Abimbola
**Contributors:** LS is principal investigator and led manuscript development. KA led data analysis, supported manuscript development and data collection. IS supported data analysis, interpretation and manuscript development. Coinvestigators KF and LW supported conceptual development and study implementation. TTG managed oversight of data collection. AN and LW are responsible for assisting in tool adaptation and study implementation. All authors reviewed and approved the final manuscript prior to submission.
**Funding:** The study was funded by the UK Department for International Development (grant \#40080602). The funders played no role in the study design; in the collection, analysis and interpretation of data; in the writing of the report; and in the decision to submit the article for publication. All authors had full access to all of the data (including statistical reports and tables) in the study and can take responsibility for the integrity of the data and the accuracy of the data analysis. The sponsor of the study had no role in study design, data collection, data analysis, data interpretation, or writing of the report. The corresponding author had full access to all the data in the study and had final responsibility for the decision to submit for publication.
**Competing interests:** None declared.
**Patient consent:** Not required.
**Ethics approval:** Columbia University Medical Center IRB; Administration for Refugee and Returnee Affairs in Ethiopia; International Rescue Committee Internal Review Board.
**Provenance and peer review:** Not commissioned; externally peer reviewed.
**Data sharing statement:** Due to legal restrictions, data cannot be made publicly available. Data are owned by the International Rescue Committee (IRC). For more information about IRC data, please visit the following URL: <http://www.whatworks.co.za/about/about-what-works>. For data related inquiries please contact Kathryn Falb (<Kathryn.Falb@rescue.org>).
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | PubMed Central |
New Netflix Instant Releases: February 2016
With each new month, the list of new titles on Netflix is more and more about the list of new titles from Netflix. In February, Netflix has a brand-new sequel to the martial-arts classic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (titled Sword of Destiny), plus a standup special from Hannibal Buress, the new series Love from producer Judd Apatow, and the revived version of Full House, Fuller House, which may or may not star a ghost dog.
Here’s the full lineup of everything new on Netflix in February, the good (Talladega Nights!), the bad (Johnny English?), and the ugly (Star Trek V!).
February 1
A Picture of You (2014): Estranged siblings travel to rural Pennsylvania to close the home of their recently deceased college professor mother and discover a shocking secret.
Armageddon (1998): As a massive asteroid hurtles toward Earth, NASA's head honcho hatches a plan to split the deadly rock in two before it annihilates the entire planet, calling on the world's finest oil driller to head up the mission.
Charlie's Angels (2000): Three beautiful women who take on top-secret assignments for a never-seen boss use their looks, charm and martial-arts training to kick butt on the trail of stolen software in this flashy reboot of the classic 1970s television series.
Collateral Damage (2002): Firefighter Gordon Brewer's family is the "collateral damage" of a terrorist bombing in Los Angeles. When the U.S. government turns to peace talks with the perpetrators instead of justice for his family, Brewer heads to Colombia intent on payback.
Cruel Intentions (1999): Quenching a thirst for dangerous games, promiscuous Kathryn Merteuil challenges her stepbrother to deflower their headmaster's daughter before summer ends. If he succeeds, he gets to bed Kathryn. If he fails, she'll win his most prized possession.
A Faster Horse (2015): To celebrate the Ford Mustang’s 5th anniversary, an automotive engineer takes the beloved muscle car into the future while preserving its legacy.
Full Metal Jacket (1987): Vietnam-era Marine recruits endure the grueling ordeal of basic training and later face the unrelenting Viet Cong during the 1968 Tet Offensive in this grim Stanley Kubrick drama based on a novel by Gustav Hasford.
Game Face (2015): This documentary follows the struggle of transgender MMA fighter Fallon Fox and gay basketball player Terrence Clemens for acceptance by their sports.
Jennifer 8 (1992): A serial killer is targeting blind women, and a detective works to uncover the mystery with the help of a blind woman who’s the next possible victim.
Johnny English (2003): There's a Frenchman after the crown jewels and the throne itself -- but not to worry, Johnny English (Rowan Atkinson) is on the case. Well, actually ... maybe a little worrying isn't out of order, considering how clumsy Johnny can be! Luckily, his zeal more than makes up for his bumbling manner. Let's hope that can help solve the crime of the century; if not, love in the form of double agent Lorna Campbell (Natalie Imbruglia) might.
The Little Engine That Could (2011): A timeless children's classic comes roaring to life in this star-studded animated tale of a train who overcomes every obstacle by repeating the words "I think I can, I think I can." Along the way, he climbs new heights and finds new friends.
The Lizzie Borden Chronicles Season 1: Expanding on the bloody and still-fascinating saga of Lizzie Borden, this fictionalized miniseries depicts the accused ax-murderer's life in the years after her exoneration in the killings of her father and stepmother.
Losing Isaiah (1995): After leaving her baby outside a crack house, a drug-addicted woman presumes him to be dead. Devastated, she enters rehab and cleans up her act. When three years later she learns he's alive and has been adopted, she sets out to get him back.
Masha’s Tales Season 1: Fairy tales get a funny twist when Masha retells them, because she tends to get the details just a little jumbled up in this animated kid’s series.
My Side of the Mountain (1969): Embracing the spirit of 19th-century poet and philosopher Henry David Thoreau, 13-year-old Sam strikes out into a forested wilderness on his own. After finding the right sanctuary and building a shelter, Sam learns to embrace nature on its own terms.
Para Elisa (2012): A recent graduate tries to earn money babysitting, but gets hired by a strange old lady to care for a deranged woman who sees her as a toy.
Pokemon the Movie: Diancie and the Cocoon of Destruction (2014): When Diancie a Pokémon said to create diamond travels to find Xerneas to help her make a heart diamond to save her home, Ash, Serena, Clemont and Bonnie help her to be safe on the way from thieves.
Pokemon: XY Season 1: Join Ash Ketchum, Pikachu, and all his Pokemon pals travel to Kalos to expand the local league to make new friends and evade the clutches of the Gym Leaders.
Scooby-Doo (2002): In this live-action feature, Scooby, Shaggy, Daphne, Fred and Velma journey to Spooky Island, where a magical force is awakened that could spell doom for the human race. But the Mystery Inc. gang remains skeptical that there are any ghosts at work.
Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed (2004): In this live-action adventure, friends Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy and their canine buddy Scooby vow to put an end to a menacing scoundrel who plans to turn their town of Coolsville into the complete opposite.
Sin City (2005): In these intertwined tales, an ex-con avenges a hooker’s death, a gumshoe gets mixed up with dangerous vixens, and a cop saves a dancer from a rapist.
Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (1989): Captain Kirk (William Shatner) leads his crew on a mission to free kidnapped diplomats. Arriving at the planet Nimbus III, Kirk and crew come face-to-face with the captor: a smiling Vulcan named Sybok (Laurence Luckinbill) who's Mr. Spock's half-brother. Obsessively searching for God, Sybok hijacks the Enterprise and sets a course for the center of the galaxy. The film marks Shatner's directorial debut.
Stardust (2007): To win his true love's heart, wide-eyed Tristan Thorn journeys to a forbidden realm to retrieve a fallen star that has taken human form. But the star is being pursued by an evil witch and others looking to possess her celestial powers.
Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby (2006): Lifelong friends Ricky and Cal have earned their NASCAR stripes with their uncanny knack of finishing races in the first and second slots, respectively. But when a rival challenges their records, they'll have to floor it to retain their status.
Teen Witch (1989): Awkward teen Louise Miller dreams of a date with the school football hero but is too shy to do anything about it -- until she learns she's descended from witches and uses her powers to become the most desirable girl at school.
Tin Man: “Search for the Emerald” (2007): In this dark adaptation of L. Frank Baum's classic, Midwestern waitress Dorothy is catapulted into the dangerous territory of O.Z., where she joins a band of misfits seeking to overthrow an evil sorceress and reinstate the land's rightful ruler.
The Year Dolly Parton Was My Mom (2011): Convinced that her birth mother is none other than country singing sensation Dolly Parton, spirited 11-year-old adoptee Elizabeth Gray rides away from home on her bike, hoping to get the truth from the Nashville superstar herself.
February 2
Land Before Time: XIV: Journey of the Brave (2016): When Littlefoot’s father doesn’t return from a trip, the brave dinosaur and his pals set off on a rescue mission through strange new lands.
February 3
I Love You Phillip Morris (2009): When Texas cop Steven Russell realizes he's gay, he changes his life and pulls con jobs that land him jail, where he meets his one true love. When the man is transferred to another prison, lovesick Steven mounts a series of jailbreaks.
February 4
Love (2015): A man in an unsatisfying marriage recalls the details of an intense past relationship with an ex-girlfriend when he gets word that she may be missing.
February 5
Care Bears & Cousins Season 2: The whole huggable gang is back, bringing tales of caring and sharing to a new generation. And now the Care Bear Cousins are here to join the fun!
Mad Men Season 7, Part 2: Set in 1960s New York City, this award-winning series takes a peek inside an ad agency during an era when the cutthroat business had a glamorous lure.
Turbo: F.A.S.T. Season 3: Join Turbo and his posse, the Fast Action Stunt Team. Filled with comedy, action and fun, this series amps it up to the extreme.
February 6
Lila & Eve (2015): Two mothers each lost a child to a murderer on the same day. After meeting at a support group, the women join forces to conduct their own investigation of the crimes when law enforcement authorities fail to vigorously pursue either case.
February 10
Dope (2015): In the tough neighborhood of the Bottoms, high school senior Malcolm sports his own funky style while working hard to gain admission to a top college. But his clean-cut perspective take an unexpected turn when a local drug dealer befriends him.
The Girl in the Book (2015): As 29-year-old Alice Harvey is working hard to find herself as a writer, a secret she's kept buried in the past resurfaces in the form of aging novelist Milan Daneker -- who seduced Alice 15 years earlier.
February 13
The Face of Love (2013): Years after the death of her husband, Garrett, Nikki begins a romance with Tom, a great guy who looks almost exactly like Garrett. As their relationship unfolds, fate seems to be delivering Nikki both a new start and a second chance.
February 15
Open Season (2006): After saving a mule deer from a hunter's clutches, a domesticated grizzly finds himself relocated to the wild -- and unprepared for the real world. Can the furry pals make it to safety before open season starts?
XXY (2007): Inés Efron plays Alex, an intersexed 15-year-old, in this compelling tale. Though she's living as a girl, Alex and her family begin to wonder whether she's emotionally a boy when another teenager's sexual advances bring the issue to a head. As Alex faces a final decision regarding her gender, she meets both hostility and compassion. Director Lucía Puenzo's sensitive drama co-stars Valeria Bertuccelli, Martín Piroyansky and Ricardo Darín.
February 16
Asthma (2015): Trying to find meaning in his life, a despondent young drug addict steals a car and takes his tattoo artist love interest on a roadtrip.
Atonement (2007): When 13-year-old Briony discovers a lustful letter and witnesses a sexual encounter between her older sister and a servant's son, her confusion prompts her to finger the young man for a violent crime. Her half-truth changes their lives forever.
February 17
The Returned Season 2: On returning home and finding they're believed to be dead, a collection of near-strangers from the same village try to find a reason for their plight.
Love Season 1: They've had plenty of romantic misses. But when a jaded Angeleno meets a nerdy guy, they may figure out this "love" thing. Co-created by Judd Apatow.
February 22
3rd World Cops 2 (2015): The lives of Freire and Salinas police are again wrapped problems. This time, they will be accused of a crime they did not comment and will become the most wanted men in the country.
Fuller House Season 1: The Full House adventures continue as D.J. Tanner-Fuller calls upon her sister Stephanie and friend Kimmy to move in and help raise her three boys.
Theo Von (2016): Known for always saying the unexpected and telling it like it is, even at the expense of offending, Louisiana comedian Theo Von returns home to film his first stand-up comedy special for Netflix at the Civic Theater in New Orleans.
February 27
Finding Vivian Maier (2013): When longtime nanny Vivian Maier died in 2009, she left behind thousands of photo negatives that she'd produced over the years. But the now-famous shutterbug's unique body of work lay in storage until an amateur historian uncovered the trove.
February 29
Ashes and Embers (1982): A disillusioned, African-American Vietnam vet (Anderson) travels from Washington to Los Angeles to his grandmother’s farm in search of a better life—but is there a place for him? Ethiopian-American filmmaker (and LA Rebellion movement instigator) Haile Gerima’s Afrocentric survey of the American sociopolitical landscape is a potent mix of documentary realism, dreamlike narrative, and Godardian agit-prop. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Fast Facts Newsletter
Fast Facts
Monday, December 16
Tension grows within Machinists' union as some members call for vote on latest contract offer
TOP STORIESTension grows within Machinists’ union as some members call for vote on latest contract offerSome members of the Puget Sound Machinists’ union are rallying this week in an attempt to force a vote on a new contract offer from Boeing. The on-again-off-again negotiations, which could decide where the company builds the next generation 777 airliner, resumed briefly last week, but quickly collapsed once again when union leaders rejected a sweetened deal, saying it was too similar to an earlier proposal. Gov. Jay Inslee quickly called for a rank-and-file vote despite the union leadership’s action, and now some Machinists said they will ask the National Labor Relations Board to help force a vote on the deal. Meanwhile, the company is evaluating proposals from 22 states to build the 777X and its high-tech composite wing. Boeing also announced Thursday that up to 1,200 technology research jobs would be leaving Washington for new sites in Alabama, Missouri and South Carolina – all states contending to build the 777X.
A hand recount confirmed the narrow passage of SeaTac’s $15 minimum wage measure last week, but the battle continues in the courts over whether a city initiative can trump state and federal laws regulating airlines and ports. Still, the vote has galvanized a growing nationwide push for a $15 minimum wage. Economics warn, however, than sudden dramatic jumps in pay rates for low-skill and entry-level workers can backfire and harm the very workers they are intended to help. Indeed, America’s current fixation on economic inequality should shift to a focus on increasing economic mobility, Richard Davis of the Washington Research Council writes in The Herald (tiered paywall): “The first step out of poverty entails landing a good job, a starter job with starter pay. A $15 minimum wage will put that job out of reach for the least educated and experienced workers.”
Sen. Murray, Rep. Paul Ryan announce budget deal
Two months after a government shutdown and near-default, Sen. Patty Murray, D-Wash., and Rep. Paul Ryan, R-Wis., announced a bipartisan budget deal to reverse some automatic cuts and make a modest dent in the federal deficit. The deal quickly passed the U.S. House 332-94, and is expected to receive Senate approval and a presidential signature. Murray expressed hope (Seattle Times/tiered paywall) that the deal could lead to further bipartisan compromises on important issues. The deal “is grounded in political and financial reality” and represents an important move away from dysfunction in Congress, The Seattle Times editorialized. It’s also “arguably the biggest triumph of Murray’s 20-year Senate career,” McClatchy newspapers wrote.
No consensus as Climate Legislative Executive Workgroup prepares for final vote
The Climate Legislative and Executive Workgroup will wrap up its work Wednesday, but bipartisan consensus is unlikely, The News Tribune reports (tiered paywall). Democrats continue to call for carbon limits, while Republicans want to be sure the costs and economic impacts are fully understood first. Those sharp divisions emerged Friday during the committee’s third and last public hearing, The Seattle Times reports (tiered paywall). AWB Government Affairs Director Brandon Houskeeper led a panel of business representatives (TVW video), noting that Washington is already one of the greenest, lowest carbon-emitting states in the nation.
Costs of fish consumption issue highlighted after joint report
The costs to businesses, municipalities and consumers of new regulations linked to dramatically higher fish consumption rates, laid out in a report co-sponsored by AWB, emphasize the fact that state regulators haven’t produced their own cost-benefit study – and they aren’t likely to. That’s one assessment from the Washington State Wire, which examined a new report from HDR Engineering commissioned by AWB, the Association of Washington Cities and the Washington State Association of Counties. The report finds that there are no technologies available to meet the standards Washington is examining. Ironically, the standards could even hurt the environment.
AWB files “friend of the court” brief in important employment law matter
AWB filed an amicus curiae (“friend of the court”) Friday in an important case before the Washington Supreme Court, “Becerra v. Expert Janitorial, LLC and Fred Meyer.” Inthis case, Fred Meyer contracted with Expert Janitorial to provide cleaning services in its stores. Expert subcontracted some of the work to other firms. A group of janitors sued their specific employers as well as Expert, and Fred Meyer, for wage and hour violations. The janitors alleged Expert and Fred Meyer were “joint employers” along with the subcontracting firms, of the janitors, and thus liable for their wage and hour compliance. After Fred Meyer and Expert were dismissed from the case at the Superior Court level, the Washington Court of Appeals reversed the ruling. The companies are now asking the Supreme Court to take their appeal and clarify that “joint employment” liability does not extend to these routine subcontracting relationships. For more information or a copy of the brief, contact Kris Tefft.
AWB holiday closures, final Fast Facts of 2013
Please note that AWB is closed Friday through Christmas Day and Jan. 1 so our employees can enjoy this season of celebration with their families. As a result, this is the last edition of Fast Facts for 2013. Fast Facts will return Monday, Jan. 6. Stay up to speed during the break by visiting the AWB website at www.awb.org, our blog, Olympia Business Watch, and by following us on Twitter (@awbolympia) and Facebook.
Mark your calendars for the 2014 Environmental Affairs Council meeting, which will be held Tuesday, Jan. 7, at 10 a.m. at AWB. Staff members from the Department of Ecology will provide updates to members on legislative priorities and rulemaking. Please contact Brandon Houskeeper or Mike Ennis with any issues you’d like Ecology to address.
Plan now for meetings of AWB Health Care and Education/Workforce Training committees
The AWB Health Care Committee meeting is set for Jan. 7, from 1:30-3:30 p.m. and the Education/Workforce Training Committee meeting will be held Jan. 9, from 9:30-11:30 a.m. Agendas will be sent out closer to the meeting dates. To learn more, contact AWB’s Sheri Nelson. For call-in options, contact Connie Grande.
OTHER NEWS More legislative appointments and candidates announced in Tacoma, Everett and Spokane
Tacoma restaurant owner Monique Trudnowski announced (The News Tribune/tiered paywall) Thursday her candidacy as a Republican for the open House seat in the 28th District. Trudnowski co-owns the Adriatic Grill restaurant and is chairwoman of the Tacoma Regional Convention & Visitors Bureau. She plans to run as an advocate for small business owners facing increasing regulations. In Everett, June Robinson was the Democratic party’s preference (The Herald/tiered paywall) to fill the 38th District seat recently vacated by John McCoy. Spokane Republicans have chosen a list of three candidates to replace the retiring Rep. Larry Crouse.
Judge rules charter schools can move forward; first charters to open in fall of 2014
A judge ruled Thursday that Washington’s charter school initiative can move forward, upholding most of the 2012 voter initiative. Although the judge did toss out one provision of the law that designated charter schools as a “common school,” charter school supporters called that a technicality. The ruling will allow the state’s first charter schools to open in fall 2014. “The court has upheld the vast majority of the charter schools initiative constitutional, and the state will continue to implement the law,” said Attorney General Bob Ferguson.
Senate Majority Coalition Caucus reviews its first year and plans for 2014
The bipartisan Senate Majority Coalition Caucus celebrated its one-year birthday last week with a press conference saying they plan to spend the 2014 legislative session reforming basic education and workers’ compensation. The Republicans-plus-two-Democrats caucus was never expected to survive, but in fact has increased its majority with the election of Sen. Jan. Angel and now has a 26-23 majority in the Senate.
State attorney general announces 2014 legislative agenda
Washington Attorney General Bob Ferguson wants lawmakers to pass four bills next year dealing with military veterans, open government, sexually violent predators and the Consumer Protection Act. The bills would: Grant certain legal protection to military members who are called to active duty by the governor, matching the protections provided under federal rules; require public officials to undergo training on open government laws; require sexually violent predators at McNeil Island to participate in an annual review to assess their psychiatric state; and drop the requirement that the state pay attorney’s fees when it loses a consumer protection case.
Inslee named finance chair for Democratic Governors Association
Gov. Jay Inslee, named the new finance chair for the Democratic Governors Association last Monday, will help raise money for Democratic gubernatorial candidates across the country, The Seattle Times reports (tiered paywall). This means he’ll be able to repay his fellow Democrats for pouring nearly $5 million into negative TV ads against his Republican rival, Rob McKenna, during the 2012 race, the Times notes.
Companies honored for industrial energy efficiency
Four AWB members were among the five industrial companies earning honors last Monday at the second annual Washington Industrial Energy Leaders awards ceremony in Olympia. Gov. Jay Inslee presented awards to Georgia-Pacific LLC in Camas for Leadership in Energy Performance and to Cardinal Glass in Tumwater for Leadership in Innovation. He gave honorable mentions to ConAgra Foods Lamb Weston in Paterson for Leadership in Energy Performance and to Nippon Paper Industries in Port Angeles for Leadership in Innovation. Along with the governor’s awards, sponsor’s awards were also given to Microsoft, Sonoco Products Co., Cardinal Glass and Foster Farms.
A growing skills gap could be reduced by an increased focus on work-based learning and Common Core Standards, according to a new report issued last Thursday by America’s Edge. The report (PDF) reaffirms the struggle felt by many Washington private employers to find qualified applicants for position openings. “Students will need to develop both technical skills and work skills – such as effective collaboration, critical thinking, and problem-solving – in addition to mastering the core academic content of reading and math,” said incoming AWB President Kris Johnson. One highlight: Washington state has several “career academies” that focus on STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) skills and other high-demand fields. The report was released Thursday in a press conference at AWB in Olympia. Read more at Olympia Business Watch and the Tacoma Daily Index.
Push for paid family leave, stalled at state level, moves to U.S. Congress
Lawmakers in Congress introduced legislation (PDF) last week that seeks to do something state lawmakers have been trying — and mostly failing — to accomplish for years: Implement mandatory paid family medical leave. Washington state lawmakers succeeded in passing a law in 2007 calling for paid medical leave, but the law has yet to be implemented because no one can figure out how to pay for it. The federal proposal, dubbed the Family And Medical Insurance Leave Act, would provide workers 66 percent of their monthly wages for up to 12 weeks when they take leave for health conditions, the birth or adoption of a child, or to care for an ill family member. It’s sponsored by U.S. Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand, D-N.Y., and U.S. Rep. Rosa DeLauro, D, Conn.
Passages: Retired state Supreme Court Justice Tom Chambers dies
Tom Chambers, a successful trial attorney first elected to the Washington Supreme Court in 2000, died Wednesday following a battle with throat and mouth cancer. He was 70. Chambers, who grew up in humble circumstances in Wapato, built a successful law practice in Seattle handling personal injury cases, according to the Associated Press and The Seattle Times (tiered subscription). He served as president of both the Washington Trial Lawyer Association and Washington State Bar Association before winning election to the state Supreme Court. He retired from the court last year amid his battle with cancer.
AWB EVENTS & RESOURCESEnd your tax year with a charitable donation to the Don Brunell Scholarship
If you’re looking to end 2013 with a tax-deductible investment in the future of private enterprise, consider donating to the Don Brunell Scholarship Fund, which supports higher education and students in business-related fields. Contact Mike Hudson of the AWB Institute for donation information. Celebrate Brunell’s 28-year AWB career with a donation to this worthwhile cause.
Employer FAQ on Sec. 503 Rules Now Available
The U.S. Department of Labor's new section 503 rules affecting the hiring process for federal contractors and subcontracts has generated many questions. A list of those most frequently asked by employers can be found at AWB Institute's website: WA HireAbility Employer Hiring/Retention Guide.
Legislative Summit Feb. 5-6 will offer chance to mix with lawmakers
Register now for the 2014 AWB Legislative Summit, which has been redesigned to give more time for the Legislative Reception, issue panels and AWB board meeting. The event kicks off with a reception the evening of Feb. 5 that has been designed to help attendees get to know their legislators in an informal setting. The next morning the day begins with a board meeting followed by legislative issue panels and policy analysis by AWB’s government affairs directors. The summit concludes the afternoon of Feb. 6 with the Better Workplace Awards. Gov. Jay Inslee will give the keynote luncheon address. Register online now and reserve a room at the Red Lion Hotel. For event sponsorship information, contact Anne Haller at AnneH@awb.org or 800.521.9325.
Beware of high-cost scams as you update mandatory workplace posters for 2014
Be aware that, although Washington employers are required to post updated labor and wage information posters by Jan. 1, you do not need to spend $295 to do so. The Department of Labor & Industries is warning about a misleading letter being sent to Washington businesses that appears to require payment for a $295 “fee.” In fact, L&I offers free downloadable updates for your workplace posters. For the convenience of our members, AWB also has full-size, laminated state and federal posting sets for $39.99 per set, or $19.99 for a single poster, plus local tax and shipping. Contact Karlee Keith at 800.521.9325 to order or for more information.
Learn to train for safe forklift operations at Jan. 8 workshop
Don’t let your company endanger its workers and fall afoul of increasingly stringent safety laws for forklifts and other power industrial trucks. AWB is offering forklift safety training from 8 a.m. to noon on Jan. 18 at the AWB office in Olympia. We will teach current operators how to conduct safety training for their employees. Attendees will receive a certificate of completion, a CD with a PowerPoint presentation and a PDF manual they can reproduce to train their own employees on proper forklift safety. Register now or contact Karlee Keith by email or at 800.521.9325 with questions.
At the Speed of Now: Crisis Communications in a 24/7 World webinar Jan. 15, 10:30 a.m. - noon
When and how should you respond to a reporter’s questions? What should you do when a television crew shows up at your facility? Find out answers to these questions and more during a Jan. 15th webinar featuring strategic communication veterans Randy Pepple and Jennifer West. Members: $49, Non-members: $79. Register online or contact AWB’s Karlee Keith for more information.
THEY SAID IT
“We pride ourselves on doing things well, we pride ourselves on doing things right, we pride ourselves on doing things the American way. Not instant gratification, 24 hour shopping on Thanksgiving type of American way but family and country type of American way. The way our grandparents did things type of American way.” ~ Ryan Clark, co-founder of Liberty Bottleworks, defending his employees in a passionate Facebook post that has gone viral. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
At the Gables Wine Country Inn you'll find an excellent romantic experience waiting for you! From intimate wine-tasting excursions, to beautiful and cozy guest rooms, share an amazing time with your significant other in this Wine Country haven!... more
The calming waters of Lake Berryessa are sure to set the mood for your romantic California vacation. At Pleasure Cove Marina, you and your sweetheart can enjoy a unique stay in one of their luxury houseboats. Relax together in your home-away-from-home or indulge in a little adventure. The surrounding area offers great hiking opportunities while the... more | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
Published by Rum Shop Boy
Rum Ambassador | Reviews | Opinions | Consultant.
A lover of rums, especially British-style from countries such as Jamaica and Barbados.
Rum ambassador. Reviews. Rum opinions. Rum advice. Rum news. Rum chat. Rum discussion.
My first rum was Appleton and that is generally the benchmark I use for comparing rums along with Foursquare.
I am an advocate of the Gargano rum re-categorisation.
As well as rum, I am a big Liverpool fan (and season ticket holder) and love Pet Shop Boys (hence the blog name) as well as having a cute cocker spaniel. I also work as a Spirit Ambassador for English Spirit, the first scratch distiller of rum in the UK.
I have a level 1 WSET qualification in Spirits (currently studying for level 2).
View all posts by Rum Shop Boy | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
The following background information may present examples of specific aspects of the prior art (e.g., approaches, facts, or common wisdom) that, while expected to be helpful to further educate the reader as to additional aspects of the prior art, is not to be construed as limiting the present invention, or any embodiments thereof, to anything stated or implied.
By way of educational background, some aspects of the prior art generally useful to be aware of are that techniques built into smart devices to provide security may include, for example, a biometric sensor built into a smart card; a smart device application program can encrypt the message content from the smart device to its controlling institution; and certain applications can be accessed by PINs (Personal Identification Numbers).
Another aspect of the prior art generally useful to be aware of is that some prior art may use key ring devices for assorted security or operational requirements, for example, a key ring device that computes a onetime password synchronized with a central site computer, and a key ring device used to convert wireless transmission to a second type of signal.
Mobile communication devices increasingly are used for performing operations associated with privileged access, such as financial transfers of funds. A lost, stolen, and/or compromised unsecured mobile communication device may result in significant harm to users and/or institutions. If the device is lost or stolen, the security device may be successfully manipulated by a thief, the communications may be overheard by unwanted people, and fraudulent downloads may be made.
In view of the foregoing, it is clear that these traditional techniques are not perfect and leave room for more optimal approaches. | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | USPTO Backgrounds |
Needs to transfer gas from one motorcycle to another Sucks out gasoline with a tube. Spit it into a bucket and let the gasoline separate from the spit. Transfers it to other motorcycle.
185 shares | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | OpenWebText2 |
Q:
Is it common to shorten "the Shanghai Composite Index gauge" to "the Shanghai gauge" in the stock market domain?
The Shanghai gauge dropped 1.1 percent to 2,651.79 at the close, below its January 2016 closing low. Back then, officials had just introduced and then hastily scrapped a disastrous circuit-breaker program as they grappled with one of the market’s worst-ever routs.
I think "The Shanghai gauge" is referring to "the Shanghai Composite Index gauge". (Assume my understanding is correct) Is that abbreviation common in the language of stock market?
The full source.
A:
Bloomberg:
"China’s sinking stock market reached an unwelcome milestone, with the
Shanghai Composite Index closing at the lowest level since 2014,
erasing the last traces of its recovery from a boom that turned into a
$5 trillion bust.
The Shanghai gauge dropped 1.1 percent to 2,651.79, below its January
2016 bottom. Back then, officials had just introduced and then hastily
scrapped a disastrous circuit-breaker program as they grappled with
one of the market’s worst-ever routs."
Bloomberg
They use gauge to avoid repeating the term index or. Acceptable terminology is: Shanghai Composite Index, the Shanghai index or the Shanghai gauge. A gauge means something that measures something. But you would not append gauge to: the Shanghai Composite Index.
Here is another example used for the New York Stock Exchange (another gauge):
TITLE in USA Today: Dow's biggest 2-day drop since 2016 puts
investors on edge as stock gauge briefly falls 400 points
gauge
Any measure of marketplace activity where shares or other financial instruments are traded on an exchange, including commodities, can be termed a gauge, meaning measure of the average daily volume of trading (purchase and sale of financial instruments).
| tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | StackExchange |
Email clients have made it easier for users to simply hit the ‘spam’ or ‘junk’ button, rather than fishing around for your tiny unsubscribe link at the bottom of your message.
They simply hit this
Burying the unsubscribe link is not a valid strategy and can actually backfire. Now more than ever, every single send cumulatively creates your sender reputation.
Introducing the ‘engagement ratio’
ISPs look at the engagement for a specific email send, often sampling a send initially, reviewing the engagement of the sample, and using that data to determine how to deliver the rest of the mailing. This is the engagement ratio. The lower your engagement (i.e., the more often your email is marked as ‘spam’ or ‘junk’), the less likely your send will make it to the inbox.
Sender domain is pivotal
‘Hiding’ in an IP pool of good senders is a thing of the past. Today, ISPs require and track your individual sender domain – the specific email address you are sending from. Since the reputation of your sender domain is affected by the engagement of your past sends, two senders that are fully authenticated using the same platform and the same IP address can have radically different results.
Further, the algorithms used by different email providers to determine your sender domain reputation vary, and no one knows exactly what data points count. The only way you can be sure you’re protecting your domain is by employing good sending practices every time.
So, what’s a marketer to do?
However, putting good sending practices in place is critical to success. This includes:
Sending relevant emails
Using an appropriate cadence
Ensuring emails display properly on a variety of devices.
Personalizing your messages
A key reason you NEED marketing automation
If that sounds daunting, don’t worry. Your marketing automation platform gives you to the tools to fully authenticate your messages and execute on these imperatives. Note that these features are not available in a typical email service provider.
Marketing automation gives you the power to send triggered messages instantly, capitalizing on engagement. It also provides “after-the-click” tracking, so you see complete information on a visitor’s activity after he clicks through from an email. You’ll know every page visit, form fill-out, webinar sign-up, and white paper download so you can ensure your future emails are always on target.
Use dynamic email to send personalized messages.
Swap out entire phrases, images and offers – all based on what you know about your contacts – to give your messages a highly customized look and feel. Personalized email marketing shows your leads that you understand what they want – a sure way to stay in their good graces.
Marketing automation allows you to create dynamic emails. Look for a provider that provides this feature without the need to write code. You’ll easily leverage valuable lead data to send personalized messages that resonate.
Build dynamic landing pages to create personalized experiences.
Personalized landing pages and landing page funnels provide customized experiences that transform visitors into leads and leads into sales. The content changes based on visitors’ interests and attributes.
Look for a marketing automation platform that includes a landing page builder for creating dynamic, personalized landing pages. You should be able to leverage beautiful, pre-built templates or build your own with a simple interface – no coding required.
Design responsive emails.
Use responsive templates, and pre-test your emails to ensure they render properly on all device types.
Your marketing automation platform should include dozens of templates that look great on any device, including smartphones, desktops, laptops and tablets.
You are ‘the master of your domain.’
I couldn’t resist the Seinfeld reference, but take heed: marketers have the power to improve deliverability with every send. Use good sending practices and leverage your marketing automation platform to make each one successful.
Previously, Lindsey played an integral role in the digital marketing teams at reputable marketing agencies. In her current role, she is responsible for marketing SharpSpring to an online audience. Overseeing and implementing PPC, display and social media advertising, she is adept at identifying unique selling points and industry specific challenges (as well as solutions) for a variety of markets.read more...
AUTHOR
Rick Carlson
Rick is founder and CEO of SharpSpring. He started with the goal of bringing marketing analytics and automation tools to small and medium businesses on an affordable and easy-to-use SaaS platform. Rick has more than 15 years of executive management experience in the technology sector, holding president, CEO, general manager, and board positions at several successful Internet security companies. When Rick is not working on SharpSpring, he is busy with his second, and far more complex start-up – his two sons. Sometimes, Rick still gets to play beach volleyball, and occasionally, his wife politely laughs at his jokes.read more... | tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small | Pile-CC |
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