He heard the screaming before he really registered it and, by the time he clutched for his rifle, it had ceased and all that could be heard was a snapping of poles and thatch crunching and the hoarse shouts of the men who had preceded him through the door of the cantina. He staggered out into the night and saw people running toward the ruins of a hut across the way. He followed them and then realized that the ruined hut was the same one toward which Cerruti and the woman had been heading.
He sprinted to the hut, thrust people aside, and saw Cerruti, naked, smeared with blood, sitting against the remnants of a wall, head in hands. Some of the thatch lay across the pallet where Cerruti and the woman had been, and was soaking in a puddle of dark arterial blood. Rosacher knelt and Cerruti glanced up, wild-eyed, strings of mucous hanging from his nose. He tried to speak, but only a bubble of spit came forth. The villagers behind Rosacher babbled and someone let out a wail.
“He plucked her right off me.” Cerruti appeared to be speaking to someone hovering above his head. “I’s giving her a ride and Frederick…” His breath caught in his throat and he started sobbing.
“Shh! It’s all right!” Rosacher held his head, hoping to silence him before he gave away their part in this butchery.
“His face…” Cerruti’s voice was partially muffled by Rosacher’s chest. “I never seen Frederick like that before.”
“Get a hold of yourself, man!” Rosacher pulled Cerruti more tightly to him and whispered in his ear, “People are listening!”
“He didn’t act like he knew me!”
“Here! Help me with him,” Rosacher said to the villagers. “Get him a blanket!”
As he walked Cerruti over to the cantina, Rosacher caught snatches of conversation: “What will Adelia do now? Yasmin was her sole support.” “Give me something to wipe off the blood.” “He said, ‘Frederick’. Who is Frederick?” “Alonso, bring a cup of water!”
Once Cerruti was seated in the cantina, he grew unresponsive to questions and stared into space, his lips moving silently. Relieved to see this, yet concerned for his well-being, Rosacher helped to clean the blood away and forced him to drink a glass of rum. Several of the men talked about forming a party to go after Frederick and the woman, Yasmin, but Rosacher dissuaded them, relating his “experiences” of the previous night and telling them that the creature was too fast and powerful for them to go off half-cocked. The headman of the village dispatched a rider to Alta Miron so as to inform the king and Rosacher made no attempt to interfere with this. He had abandoned his misgivings about killing Carlos, feeling that the die was cast, and thought that if the king could be brought to Becan, it would not only make their task easier, it would be proof that Griaule’s will was at work here.
After the furor had subsided and many anecdotes had been told about where this and that person was and what they had been doing when Yasmin was taken, Rosacher led Cerruti to the longhouse and helped him into a hammock. Though the night was humid, almost as warm as the day, Cerruti shivered and complained feebly of the cold. Clearly, he was in shock. Having no medicine, all Rosacher could do was keep him warm and talk to him. The headman had set guards with torches and machetes about the village in case Frederick returned, some of them standing watch beside the longhouse, and he was thus forced to keep his voice low, but he enjoined Cerruti to hang on, saying he needed him in order to direct Frederick, and finally managed to elicit some coherent responses.
“It’s my fault for lying with her,” said Cerruti at one point. “I wouldn’t have done, if I’d thought Frederick was about.”
His sweaty face, a pale orange in the dim, flickering light, was a mask of anxiety and anguish.
“He can’t abide women around me,” said Cerruti. “Or maybe it’s just women and I got nothing to do with it.”
Rosacher cautioned him once again to lower his voice. “Can you tell if he’s still out there?”
“Oh, he’s out there. He never goes far.”
“Will he do the job for us? Can you still control him?”
Cerruti nodded, or it might have been a shiver. Rosacher asked the question again.
“He’ll do your killing.” Sweat beaded on Cerruti’s brow. His skin was ghastly pale and the shadows in his eyes looked moist and feverish. “He’ll do your killing and more, don’t you worry.”
+
Cerruti’s fever abated during the night, his temperature went down and his heartbeat grew regular. He slept late in the morning and was able to eat a breakfast of tortillas, rice and beans in the cantina. The villagers had cleared away the wreckage of the hut, restoring a semblance of normalcy to their home. Chickens and pigs foraged in the dirt, grubby children sucked on mango pulp, and hobbled beside a banana tree, a donkey that Frederick had passed over in favor of Yasmin stood placidly, chewing on a stalk of sugar cane.
+
After breakfast, Rosacher cautioned Cerruti against speaking about Frederick and retired to his hammock, hoping to sleep for an hour or two; but his mind was agitated and sleep would not come. Having to care for Cerruti had suppressed his anxieties and, relieved of that duty, he thought of all that could go wrong. He wondered if Frederick, as Alonso had suggested, had been responsible for the death of the mother and child in Dulce Nombre—it did not seem so implausible now. And what did that say about Cerruti’s ability to control his pet? Rosacher suspected that Cerruti’s control was subject to Frederick’s inclination and doubted that the task before them could be accomplished with anything approaching ease. Would Frederick go after any woman who came close to Cerruti…and what if the king had women in his retinue, a distinct possibility. These and other related concerns pressed in on him until at last he sank under their weight and lapsed into a sleep troubled by dreams in which he lay awake, worrying about this and that.
A clamor of voices, of horses neighing and being steadied, woke him. He lay still for a minute or thereabouts, unable to bring these sounds into focus. His head throbbed and his heart fluttered. A few minutes more elapsed and he sat up. In front of the cantina were a group of brown-skinned men wearing royal livery, perhaps ten or twelve, and an equal number of horses. The villagers crowded around them, all speaking at once. Rosacher swung his legs out of the hammock, blinking against the morning light, and went to the door. The man central to this hubbub was not in the least imposing: he had a pale complexion and was of average height, with neatly trimmed brown hair and a Vandyke. Handsome, but not remarkably so. Clad in a red doublet trimmed with gold and khaki riding trousers. Had it not been for the beard, which was meticulously barbered, a foppish accessory shaved into points along his jaw, Rosacher might not have recognized him; but recognize him he did. This very man had come to the House of Griaule not two years before, in the company of a half-dozen other men, seeking information about a young woman who had been employed there. A cousin, as Rosacher recalled. The man had traveled under an assumed name, but it was evident by the attentiveness of his retinue that this was Carlos. Stunned by the fact that he had previously had dealings with the king, Rosacher retreated into the shade of the longhouse, debating how best to handle the situation, whether to dissemble and hope that Carlos would not recognize him or to put on a bold face and own up to the fact that he and the king had met before. After smoothing down his hair, deciding to trust his instincts on how he should proceed, Rosacher walked out into the light and was quickly pushed forward into the king’s presence by the villagers, who claimed him to be someone with intimate knowledge of the monster.