The Butterfly Effect

by Luis A. Santamaría

  It can’t be... she thought in horror, rather than whispered, for she couldn’t generate a single sound.

  In the crowd by the front door a middle-aged man, thin and tall, who almost hit his head on the doorway, watched her over the other guests with unusual attention. Their gazes crossed, and then she could detect a slight smile on his face. She rose from the stool as he approached, but soon saw she had nowhere to escape. On one side the bar surrounded her, and there were too many people around her to vanish in a few seconds. What the hell could she do? When the pursuer came closer and she looked him up and down, Sara began to gasp for air. It had to be a hallucination.

  Charley... she repeated mentally to herself as she struggled to overcome her panic.

  The beer mug was dismissed due to an involuntary gesture that the girl gave as she tried to escape, and it crashed into the wooden floor of the Turf Tavern.

  Chapter 3

  "What do you know about love, Morgan?"

  "It's that uncomfortable butterfly feeling that forms in your stomach and steals your appetite, it’s all a nuisance.”

  "The problem is not about having butterflies in your stomach, but not knowing how to put them into combat training.”

  "Did you manage your army of butterflies, Doctor?"

  “Not by a long shot.”

  Tuesday, November 7, 2006

  A lanky blond boy who worked at the Turf as a waiter to finance his university came out of the bar with a broom and a mop. After giving Sara a look of reproach, he began to clean the spilled beer. The clientele that concentrated around the small incident shrugged, and then each followed his own. Except for Sara, who was immersed in her own nightmare. Charley had already reached her position and cornered her against the wood. What do I do? She repeated to herself. What...? Panic-stricken, she wanted to shriek and scream like a lunatic. Literally, run out. She did not do it, for the man's right hand grasped her arm firmly. The right hand...

  Sara was so stunned, her sight so uncertain and fuzzy, that it took several seconds to notice that her stalker held both arms. She focused her attention on her extremity and nearly lost her balance. Her legs were failing her as she lacked strength. Nothing seemed to make sense! So blocked, she didn’t think of the knife she'd always had in her purse ever since she'd been attacked by Charley. Then the man bent to hold her and looked at her in a way that slowed her heart rate by the minute.

  "Charley..." she moaned.

  The man replied with a friendly gesture, as if he expected that reaction and knew that the next step would be to comfort her.

  Sara studied his features. The eyes were perfectly normal (no trace of unequal pupils), and blinked to a natural rhythm. He gave off a pleasant fragrance, like fresh cologne, and wore a white shirt inside blue linen trousers This guy didn’t seem to attract any bad attention, except for one important detail: he was identical to her aggressor.

  If this man wasn’t Charley, who the hell was he?

  That same day, in Torrelavega, the investigation on the double Rubial-Morales case was resumed, when Judge Callejo summoned the police to a meeting in his office. He looked at the two members of the police who were seated in front of him. It did not please him to see the composition of the pair.

  The youngest of them didn’t seem at all to be an officer. Either he had just been transferred to the police station, or he was a rookie. He decided on the second option by observing his soft features and seeing that he was the youngest agent he had seen in a long time. Marcos Tena had a subtle and intelligent sense of humor that Callejo would soon discover and appreciate during the course of the meeting. It still remained to check his competence in resolving a case.

  His superior was Commissary Julian Barreneche, a forty-six-year-old veteran who had been in the Crime Scene Investigation office for eighteen years. Barreneche was the cause of Callejo’s displeasure. To compensate for his long experience and research to solve unusual investigations, Barreneche was well known in the world as an egocentric, sarcastic and with a morbid sense of humor that, especially bothered Callejo a lot. His way of being, as well as his way of resolving conflicts, were details that simply did not please the judge. But he had to recognize one thing: when the screws were tightened and he concentrated on his work, he was an excellent researcher. In addition, the rookie Tena could use an intensive training method with Barreneche. They could be an interesting couple.

  The meeting had also called for an officer of the Civil Guard and his burly companion, to report first hand what happened at Dr. Mora's house the afternoon Carlos Rubial was about to rape her. They were both exhausted and wanted to go home as soon as possible.

  After twenty minutes recalling the facts, everyone had refreshed the case and again became clear how events unfolded. Callejo made a summary:

  “This is what we know so far: the renowned Dr. Rafael Salas, using his falsified influence...” he paused to rectify, “sorry, he exchanged the medical diagnoses of the two members of the marriage Morales, Alfonso and Verónica, making believe that she suffered from a deadly brain tumor, when in reality it was her husband who was dying.”

  "Sir, don’t forget to mention the important fact that the woman was your daughter, and therefore the corpse, your son-in-law," said the senior civil guard.

  "Thank you, Agent.” The judge gave him a look full of irony to imply that this detail was more than dispensable. “I thought that was clear.”

  The civilian cursed silently at himself and lowered his head, blushing. Callejo continued:

  “Alfonso Morales died on the sandy beach of Ámber on October the 12th. On the other hand, four days earlier, Carlos Rubial, from now on Charley, was intercepted and arrested for the assault and attempted rape of Sara Mora in her own house. Mora was the doctor who took the whole case of Alfonso and Verónica Morales and, of course, who was also fooled by Dr. Salas, who, by the way, had been her mentor a few years ago.”

  Marcos Tena raised his eyebrows, but didn’t ask for more details about that curious relationship, which was what he was dying to know. The judge addressed the couple of civilians:

  "You received the notice of the rape attempt on Zafiro Street. Do you know who made that call?”

  They both shook their heads.

  "We traced the call, but it was done from a phone booth. All we know is that, because of the tone of voice, it was a woman,” said the superior. The younger, on the other hand, didn’t participate in any of the conversation.

  "All right," agreed the judge, who easily led the meeting. “And finally, the same day that Alfonso Morales disappears from this world, Charley gets out of the middle by throwing himself into the sea from the cliff. Any comments?”

  Tena took a step forward and spoke for the first time:

  "I'd say Rubial took his own life because he knew he was going to jail, your Honor," he said hesitantly.

  Barreneche and Callejo exchanged glances. The chief of police took the floor before his young companion was humiliated by his obvious conclusion. No one but he had the right to punish him.

  "Did you forget a detail?" Barreneche asked the magistrate.

  “What detail?”

  "Carlos Rubial was disabled," the policeman said.

  "Hell ya, I know he was disabled. Remember, I questioned him myself?”

  Barreneche chewed the judge's sullenness like stale gum, and smiled.

  "Don’t take me for stupid and think back," he said intriguingly. “The disabled guy lost his arm in a car accident in which he was traveling with Alfonso Morales himself. It happened in 1983.”

  He smiled even more.

  In his thoughts José Miguel Callejo cursed the commissar, although he didn’t show the slightest change in his face. Once again, this cocky bastard was always one step ahead.

  "Besides, Rubial was the stepbrother of Verónica Salas," added the chief of police, although he knew that they all knew this information, including the civil guards.

  "Mmm... coincidence?" Callejo asked for an opinion. />
  "It may be, but I'll bet not," Barreneche said. “Without wanting to get into family crap, I suspect that this guy Charley had something to do with the old man's plan.”

  The oldest of the civil guards spoke again, this time to recall an important fact:

  "We mustn’t overlook the photos we found scattered on the doctor’s floor the day we stopped Rubial. That scum himself had them in his wallet, and Verónica appeared in them in a compromising position, let’s say, very intimate.”

  "Hell, it's true. The damn pictures,” spit Callejo, annoyed.

  A brief silence settled around the desk. They had reached a tricky point. Rafael Salas had been tried and Rubial was dead. There is an unacknowledged fear in the legal world regarding investigations: no police, judge or prosecutor wants to delve into the actions of a deceased, much less if it has to do with his past. And the reason was simple: a dead man cannot be interrogated.

  Callejo wanted to cover up the subject, but something told him that there was more underneath to scratch. Besides, he had to admit that the case fascinated him.

  "What are the orders?" Asked Marcos Tena.

  He referred to the investigation but at the same time he made clear his desire to work immediately in a real and complex case like that.

  Both Barreneche and Callejo shook their heads, the first in denial, and the second nodding. The judge liked that kid.

  “Agree. Tena: “You're going to work on the case. Barreneche, you, of course, will accompany him. You'll be the commanding officer. You will take care of Charley's social life. I want you to investigate where he lived, in what circles he moved and with whom he was dealing, ask any family member, friend or foe. As for the two of you," he gestured at the two civilians, "good work. You can leave.”

  Julian Barreneche’s mouth snapped open.

  “What? But this isn’t even an investigation!” He growled, his voice increasing. “I’m an expert at catching scum, and you know I’m the best. But don’t ask me to make a compilation of that man's life. What do you want, do you want me to write his biography?”

  "No more talk," said the magistrate. “I just want you to ask a little bit about his private life, it shouldn’t take you more than a few days. We will meet again this week.”

  Inside the Turf Tavern, cornered against the bar, Sara Mora was about to listen with amazement at the first words that the phony Charley was going to pronounce as a question.

  "Sara Mora? Is it really you?”

  The greeting did not seem to the young foreigner as disturbing as the serene tone with which the arrival had expressed himself. As quickly as possible, somehow, the man had made it clear that he was as far removed for him to be Carlos Rubial; the amputee would never have manifested himself in such a way.

  "Do I... do I know you?" The doctor had assumed she was not going to be able to flee, so she tried to get some information.

  "No, but unfortunately you did know my brother.” Sara paled, and he sped to mend the misfortune with an explanation: "Don’t be afraid! We look alike, but I have nothing to do with him,” he explained, almost between entreaties. “No longer anything to do with him.”

  She thought quickly. By appearance, without a doubt opposite her was a man reasonably attractive, yes, and in comparison with that worm, he was light years away! But oblivious of Charley's stump, laziness, and extraterrestrial gaze, it was clear they shared genes. Besides, she had realized that he had no English accent; he spoke in perfect Castilian. If he's really Charley's brother, will he know about his suicide? And more importantly, how and why did he find me? Sara was submerged in her own thoughts when the words, “let me explain everything while having coffee," landed in her ears as an alarm that warned her that her time for a decision had expired.

  She needed to act. The Sara of a few months ago would have accepted the offer without hesitation. Of course, she would have sat down with that perfect stranger, letting herself get carried away, and would have revealed every little detail of her private life. But the naive girl had suffered an attempted rape and a professional humiliation in no time. It could be said she had learned from her mistakes or not? The truth was that she had no intention of sitting down and talking to the man who claimed to have a first-class family relationship with the person who had taken her innocence. But what other choice was there? She had no escape, and, after all, she couldn’t be raped or attacked inside the bar, there were too many witnesses.

  On the other hand, her conscience insisted more and more forcefully that she needed to know the history of the man.

  She agreed.

  They both walked to one of the few free tables left in the room, though she resisted sitting down.

  "I won’t take another step until you tell me your first and last name," she sharply stated.

  "Miguel Lennard," said the newly presented, as if waiting for an ultimatum. “Although almost everyone here knows me as Mike, of course. Except my colleagues in the ballroom club, who call me Mickey, and my mother, may she rest in peace, that used to call me Miguelito.”

  "Lennard?" Curiosity for his surname change to an Anglo-Saxon one caused in Sara the same surprise as discovering that this man danced the tango in his free time.

  "I changed my surname once I reached England," he mused. “Let me explain everything.”

  Then he gestured with his hand for her to sit at the table. Sara blinked a couple of times and nodded unconvinced. He placed his jacket on the back of a chair and settled down, so they faced each other. He ordered an espresso macchiato for him and a café latte for her. The doctor’s hands were trembling so much that she couldn’t help jiggling the cup when she brought it to her mouth. She supposed that Mike had noticed her nervousness, because he decided to get to the point:

  "I know what my brother did to you," he said.

  Sara felt something in her stomach contract, making her want to vomit. She had never heard her tragedy from the mouth of another, and the wound was not yet closed.

  "You... you know that?"

  "Yes, and I want you to know that I feel it in my soul. My brother was a monster, but I'm not like him. I promise you that.”

  Sara hesitated, and took a moment to examine the man in front of her. Surprising, as it may seem, he was moderately attractive. The brown hair, combed in bangs and with the side part to the side, made him seem unmanly at first, although she realized an idea that Sara had always maintained: the haircut in a man is fundamental to give a good (or bad) look. In this view, the good brother beat his relative by a vast difference. Modern black-eyed glasses occupied a large part of his face. A face that, and here there was another great difference of hygiene between the two, was shaved. The body posture was correct, and his skin gave off a pleasant aroma of a man’s cologne at the table area. It was as if Charley had taken all the destructive genes, leaving the good ones to his placenta mate. Because, if there was something that left no room for interpretation, it was that both were twins.

  "I don’t want our resemblance to make you have a premeditated opinion of me," he continued, interrupting Sara's analysis.

  "Okay," she said at last, almost surrendering. “Even though it's still hard for me to look you in the eye, I suppose it's not fair that I hate you. But, see, how do you know who I am?”

  "I saw your picture in an article in the newspaper the other day. It has been an incredible coincidence that we met accidently here.”

  She shook her head uncomprehendingly. She dismissed the second comment and focused on the first one:

  “The newspaper? That’s not possible. Why did you, a citizen of Oxford, read the website of a local newspaper in Cantabria?” She formulated the question, narrowing her eyes, convinced that he was taking her for a fool.

  "Well, when they found my brother's body the Spanish police called me as the closest living blood relative," Mike said without hesitation. “I must admit the news shocked me. But I didn’t go to the funeral, if in case there was one. The truth is that long ago I stopped considering him my
brother.” Ashamed, he made a grimace that he tried to pass as a smile. “However, since then I have been reading the newspapers in case I see anything. I guess out of simple curiosity, nothing more.”

  "And then you saw my picture in the news."

  “Exactly. Finally, they published a great article. And not only about Charley's death, but also about your... well, about what he did to you," he rectified, "and everything about his step-sister's family. When I read that I only thought: what mad absurdity have they put that poor doctor through! Ironies of life, now the poor doctor is here, having coffee with me.”

  Mike smiled sweetly.

  "Well yes, they really deceived us."

  Sara looked at the wooden table. She didn’t feel comfortable talking about it with a stranger. That story was something that belonged only to her and to her past.

  "What happened to the woman?" He wanted to know. “I mean the widow. How is it going? I suppose it was a huge blow to her as well. Given her pregnancy, I mean.”

  "Verónica's pregnancy is going well.” Sara sighed in pity. “But I don’t think she ever forgave her father.”

  A short silence took over the table. Mike excused himself to go to the bathroom, and Sara was left alone. She had not been able to get her heart beating at a normal speed throughout the conversation. Why was it so hard to relax? She didn’t want to examine her own feelings for fear of an unsatisfactory answer. Then she noticed that Mike had had the carelessness of leaving his jacket on the chair, with all his belongings protruding through his pocket: the wallet, a bunch of keys and his cell phone. The doctor had the urge to reach out and take the wallet. She opened it trembling and, along with credit cards, bus passes and a couple of ten-pound notes, she found a driver's license. "Bingo!" She turned for a second to turn her gaze to the service door to check that there was still time: the coast was clear. She examined the document.