Chapter 129: Hypocrite
The beaches of Marinduque were breathtaking, no matter where you found yourself on the island. We picked a spot in Buenavista, not too far from town, and it was every bit as beautiful as Pedro’s seaside residence.
I could imagine building a summer house there—maybe a hundred meters from the shore, where the ground wasn’t yet soft sand. A modest cottage closer to the water, a hammock strung between two trees. It wouldn’t be hard to acquire the land. Property here was cheap... especially considering the kind of wealth I now commanded.
But the view was ruined by the stench of blood and the noise of a gathered crowd.
I sat behind a table facing the waves, their gentle lapping lost beneath the murmurs, sobs, and shouts to my left. A rowdy group was penned in by Cristobal’s men—wives and sixteen-year-old-and-up sons of pulajan fighters, herded from their homes and the town square, dragged straight from the crowd. They were here to be questioned, their fates decided with help from my witnesses, to determine if they had taken part in the massacre of the principales weeks ago.
Two had already been executed, their defiance unshaken to the end. Blood pooled beneath them, trailing down the sand and disappearing into the sea.
"Did you take part in the killings done by your cult?" I asked the third in line. A young man—about the same age as the kadete. He trembled but tried to hide it, clenching his fists and growling under his breath.
"No..." he spat bitterly.
I turned to my line of witnesses: a few cazadores, Don Ernesto, and a handful of civilians he’d handpicked—locals he deemed trustworthy.
"Ese niño es culpable..." said Teniente Medina, pointing at the boy. "I know his face. He fought with the pulajanes. I saw him drop his weapon when things turned against them and slip into the crowd like a coward."