Read The Return for Free Online Page A

started watching the dogs, who weren’t sleeping,
either, but running from one end of the yard to the other. The wooden fence was
broken in places; someone would have to fix it some day, but it wasn’t going to
be me. Day began to dawn on the other side of the mountains. The dogs came up
onto the porch looking for a pat, probably tired after a long night of playing. Just the usual two. I whistled for the other one, but he didn’t come. The
revelation struck me with the first shiver of cold. The dead man was no killer. We’d been tricked by the real killer, hidden somewhere far away, or, more
likely, by fate. Bedloe didn’t want to kill anyone—he was just looking for
his dog. Poor bastard, I thought. The dogs went back to chasing each other
around the yard. I opened the door and looked at the women, unable to bring
myself to go into the living room. Bedloe’s body was clothed again. Better
dressed than before. I was going to say something, but there was no point, so I
went back to the porch. One of the women followed me out. Now we have to get rid
of the body, she said behind me. Yes, I said. Later I helped to put Bedloe into
the back of the pickup. We drove into the mountains. Life is meaningless, said
the older woman. I didn’t answer; I dug a grave. When we got back, while they
were taking a shower, I washed the pickup and got my stuff together. What will
you do now? they asked while we were having breakfast on the porch, watching the
clouds. I’ll go back to the city, I said, and I’ll pick up the investigation
exactly where I got off track.
    And the end of the story, as Pancho Monge tells it, is that six months
later William Burns was killed by unidentified assailants.

Detectives
    What kind of weapons do you like?”
    “Any kind, except for blades.”
    “You mean knives, razors, daggers,
corvos
, switchblades,
penknives, that sort of thing?”
    “Yeah, more or less.”
    “What do you mean, more or less?”
    “It’s just a figure of speech, asshole. I don’t like any of that
stuff.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure.”
    “But how can you not like
corvos
?”
    “I just don’t, that’s all.”
    “But you’re talking about our national weapon.”
    “So the
corvo
is Chile’s national weapon?”
    “Knives in general, I mean.”
    “Come off it, compadre.”
    “I swear to God, I read it in an article the other day. Chileans don’t
like firearms, it must be because of the noise; we’re silent by nature.”
    “That must be because of the sea.”
    “How do you mean? What sea?”
    “The Pacific, of course.”
    “Oh, you mean the
ocean
. And what’s the Pacific Ocean got to
do with silence?”
    “They say it absorbs noises, useless noises, I mean. I don’t know
whether there’s anything to it.”
    “So what about the Argentineans?”
    “What have they got to do with the Pacific?”
    “Well, they’ve got the Atlantic and they’re pretty noisy.”
    “But there’s no comparison.”
    “You’re right about that, there’s no comparison—but Argentineans like
knives as well.”
    “That’s exactly why I don’t. Even if they’re the national weapon. I
could make an exception, maybe, for penknives, especially Swiss Army knives, but
the rest are just a curse.”
    “And why’s that, compadre? Come on, explain.”
    “I don’t have an explanation, compadre, sorry. That’s just how it is,
period; it’s a gut feeling.”
    “OK, I see where you’re going with this.”
    “Do you? Better tell me then, because I don’t know myself.”
    “Well, I know, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
    “Mind you, the knife thing does have its advantages.”
    “Like what, for example?”
    “Well, imagine a gang of thieves armed with automatic rifles. Just an
example. Or pimps with Uzis.”
    “OK, I’m following you.”
    “So you see the advantage?”
    “Absolutely, for us. But that’s an insult to Chile, you know,
that argument.”
    “An insult to Chile! What?”
    “It’s an