Before he left the restaurant, he dialed Kincaid’s home phone number from the pay phone. Nate answered on the second ring.
“Nate, this is Jett. Anything new?”
“Glad you called, Jett. Thanks for the FAX on the DeMarco family. Listen, I didn’t get too much outta that screwball, Gene. He knows a lot more then he’s saying. He’s pretty scared. I can tell you that.”
“If you get any stolen vehicle reports, call me Nate, no matter how late it is. I have a feeling something’s gonna break.” On the ride over to the cabin Jett mentally added the last item to his list, No. 6—Gene.
* * * *
Mac left the cliff top house about 9:00 P.M. on Saturday. They’d set up an escape plan in case anyone showed up, and he’d cautioned Rosie to keep the curtains drawn. Now he wasn’t taking any chances. The steady rain made the night cold and foggy, but Mac made good time. He figured the low water bridge would be flooded out, so he crossed the river downstream. He left the old boat he had “borrowed” tied to a tree. The owner would find it if he started searching soon.
Looking back at the river, Mac realized how lucky he’d been to make it across. The brown, rushing water was spilling over the banks. If he hadn’t known to cross at the bend, where the current ran near the shore, he’d never have made it. Hell, he’d be on his way to the Potomac! The problem was that he had to get to Great Cacapon, get his business over with Gene, grab a vehicle, and get back for Rosie very quickly. Gusting wind was driving the rain in cold sheets. He decided he had better pick up a 4-wheel drive. He’d probably have to take the back road over the mountain, and it was sure to be washed out and treacherous tonight. Damn Gene! Mac knew the sneaky bastard probably wouldn’t be much help anyway.
* * * *
Gene fiddled nervously with the TV antenna, twirling the pole back and forth in his short, stubby fingers. He was already drenched. After each new location, he’d yell in through the trailer window, “Georgia, can’t you see nothing yet?”
The wind had picked up, so Gene braced his feet and rotated the antenna again. When he looked up, he was face to face with Mac. The look in Mac’s eyes unnerved him. “What the hell you want, McCabe? I’m tired of you bastards sneaking up on me.”
“Why, Gene, you don’t sound too glad to see me. Couldn’t help me out with the run to D.C. the other day, could you?” Mac moved closer. “Matter of fact, Gene, I need a little help now. Guess you heard about Tanky?”
Gene staggered back a few steps, slipping in the mud. “Tanky, yeah. Poor sonnavabitch. The cops was here today. Your relation, Jett, as a matter of fact. Hauled me inta the station, but I wasn’t no help to them. I don’t know nothing. You know who did it?”
“Same guys I delivered the Porsche to. The Mafia. Now they’re after me.”
Gene backed toward the trailer door. “Look, Mac, somebody might have followed you here. I got a family to look after.”
Mac’s arm shot out and held the door. He stepped nearer to Gene. “The way I see it, Gene, you owe me. What I need is a 4-wheel drive vehicle and some cash.”
“Cash! I ain’t got no cash.” He measured the look on Mac’s face, now inches from his own. “Take my brother-in-law’s pickup. It’s next door.” Gene waved his arm. “I got the key, even. I was supposed to fix his headlight tomorrow. Ain’t nothing wrong with the engine.”
By the time Mac had pulled off in the old pickup, Gene was already at the phone. “Yessir, Mr. DeMarco, I told your man I’d let you know. He just left in a l985 Chevy truck—black. I got the license number. Yessir, when you get me the cash. He didn’t say where he was headed, but he wanted a 4-wheel drive. No Sir, I done my best. Well, I tried, Mr. DeMarco, but he’s a crazy sonnavabitch. I tell ya, if it was me, I’d be getting the hell outta here.” When Gene hung up the phone, he yelled to Georgia over the blaring TV, “Done stuck it to that cocky bastard, McCabe. Picked us up a nice piece of change. Whadda think of your ol’ man now?” Silently, he added that Georgia didn’t need to know it was Mob money. Money was money. Besides, he’d also settled a long-standing score with his brother-in-law. Not a bad night’s work.
* * * *
By the time Jett tried to get some sleep, the steady rain had turned into a downpour. Thunder crashed, echoing off the hillsides. He couldn’t sleep and started pacing the small rooms. The electric flicked off and on, not as bright as the blue-white flashes of lightning. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d make the rounds of all Mac’s old haunts. He’d turn up. Then the phone rang. Checking his watch, Jett realized it was almost midnight.
“Jett,” Nate Kincaid’s voice sounded hollow through the crackling wire. “Crazy thing. Gene Gray’s brother-in-law, lives right next to Gene, just reported that his pickup was stolen in the last hour. He had run out to check whether his shed roof was leaking and saw his pickup was gone. It’s a ’85 Chevy, black, 4-wheel drive. He suspects Gene. See, Gene had the key.” Jett wasn’t listening.
“Yeah, thanks, Nate. Listen…” The line went dead. He banged down the phone.
Jett couldn’t sleep; he kept trying to put things together. Tonight, Mac had heisted a truck in Great Cacapon. He had to be hiding out somewhere nearby. Even with Mac, there was a limit to how far he could travel on foot in this weather. He wouldn’t have been able to take the girl with him. He would have left her in a summer cottage somewhere near where the last one hundred dollar bill was found. So they had to be near Briary Bottom, which was only a few miles from Great Cacapon. If the truck had been stolen between 10:00 and 11:00 o’clock, it was doubtful Mac would have been able to return across the low water bridge—water too high. He’d have taken the mountain road back for the girl and this would slow him down. Nate had said that the stolen vehicle had been a 4-wheel drive, which made sense. That area was pretty rough, isolated country, especially on a night like this, with one storm front rolling in after another.
* * * *
SUNDAY, MAY 8th: Jett couldn’t sleep. He had a feeling Rosa would show up for Mass in the morning. Finally, at about 3:00 A.M. he got up and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt. Rain wasn’t drumming loudly on the roof anymore, so why wait for morning and take a chance of missing them? He strapped on his police service holster, with its service issue 9-millimeter automatic, grabbed his jacket, and went out the door. Steering the Bronco down the long, twisting driveway toward the main road, Jett realized just how much damage the storm had done. Tree limbs were down everywhere. The headlights picked up rivers of muddy water racing down the gullies alongside the road. Suddenly, he had to jolt the Bronco to a stop. A huge tree trunk barred the road ahead. “Shit!” Jett shouted as he got out of the truck and slipped in the deep mud.
Bending over, he examined the position of the massive trunk. “Nobody’s gonna get by this for a while,” he muttered. The blow to the back of his head caught him completely by surprise. Instinctively, he rolled over in the mud and tried to get to his feet, but cold steel pushed into the back of his neck.
“Get up, country boy,” a deep voice ordered.
Slightly dazed, Jett struggled to his feet, trying to back away. But a hard, muscled arm grabbed him. Looking at the man, he saw just how big he was—a big, surly hit man in a muddy three-piece suit. “Let go of me, you fatass bastard!”
The grip tightened. “Shuddup. We’d have grabbed you earlier if this tree hadn’t blocked the road. Where’s Mac and the girl, the Italian girl?”
“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” Jett winced at the pressure on his arm.
“Sure you know, McCabe. That hick kid is related to you. You’re probably hiding the two of them. Where?” The voice was close to his ear.
I told you I don’t know. I ain’t seen that no-good kid in weeks. But look, I can take you to where I think they may be hiding. It’s a long shot.”
“You better not be messing with me. This shitty weather and these shitty roads have been working on my nerves. Capisci?”
Jett was lockstep marched to a dark-colored Lincoln waiting at the
end of the drive. His captor frisked him and grunted with satisfaction when he found the service automatic. “You’re a cop, ain’t you?” He shoved Jett into the back seat, then climbed in beside him. “Hey, Vince, this guy’s a cop, got his service piece.”
The man behind the wheel snorted. “So what? Let’s get this over with.” He gunned the engine and the car shot forward.
“Now, country boy,” his surly companion growled, “where to?”
“Turn left on Route 9, toward Great ’Capon.” He tried to get a look at the driver. From what he could see, he didn’t recognize either hood. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been in the “DeMarco family file.” Jett wondered if Jimmy DeMarco was bringing in talent from out of town? It was possible. If so, DeMarco really wanted the girl bad. Damn, stupid kids.
“Yeah, ‘Great’ Cacapon. We been there,” Jett’s captor snorted. “Great place isn’t it, Vince? Gotta be at least two dozen hicks live there and one general store. Great big place, eh?” The driver grunted in reply.
Twenty minutes later, the Lincoln was climbing up the mountain road that led in the back way to Briary Bottom. “Goddamn car’s wider than the road,” Vince muttered.
As they neared the crest of the hill, Vince cursed, as he had to gear down again. “You better really slow down here,” Jett warned. “There’s a sheer drop down to the river on the right. See, the storm’s washed the posts out. Lose a few cars over this cliff each year—don’t find them until winter when the leaves are off the trees.”
“Shuddup,” the man next to him said.
As the Lincoln labored on, Jett shouted, “Ahead, watch out! Road washed out ahead!” The driver slammed on the brakes, Jett jerked the door open, flung himself out onto the road, and rolled over the side of the cliff.
Hellava stupid thing to do, Jett thought as he hurtled downward through the mud and underbrush. Sharp, jagged rocks gouged at his body and tore at his clothes. Finally, he landed in a thorny briar thicket, bruised, shaken, but alive. It was then that he heard the Lincoln’s wheels spinning and the men cursing. He could just make out the headlights far above him. He was damn lucky, he realized, as he dragged himself into a sitting position and checked for serious injuries. Then he pulled himself up and moved off along the side of the mountain. “Dumbass hoods, try to find this country boy now,” he shouted.
* * * *
Jett had struggled into Great Cacapon about 5:00 A.M., gotten to a phone and called Nate Kincaid. Nate had picked him up, brought him clothes, and was now driving him to Berkeley Springs. Rubbing his bruised neck, Jett tried to find a comfortable position in the police car. He ached everywhere. Glancing over at Kincaid, he guessed he’d have to revamp his opinion of old Nate. He hoped they would make it to the Catholic Church on time.
* * * *
Rosie and Mac left the cliff top house early on Sunday morning. The storm had finally worn itself out, but had left destruction in its wake. The old pickup crashed through deep ruts. Clutching the seat, Rosie whispered prayers in Italian. At least twice, they hit washouts.
Mac kept going over his run-in with Gene. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about Gene had bothered him. Even for a sneaky sonnavabitch, Gene had been more nervous than usual. What had he known that Mac had not?
Glancing over at Rosie, he noted the tightness around her mouth, her wide-eyed stare. The poor girl had been through a lot and never complained. “Don’t worry, Rosie. Once we leave Berkeley Springs, we’ll be in Martinsburg in about half an hour. Then we’ll hit the Interstate and head for Canada.”
Instead of showing signs of relief, Rosie started sobbing, “Dio mio, Dio mio, what of the gift?” We won’t know where to find the convent in Canada.”
“Chrissakes,” Mac shouted as the truck plunged into another washout. “Rosie, you need to give as much thought to the living as the dead. I told you I’d help you and I will, but right now we’re in a hell of a mess. The Mafia’s out there somewhere looking for us.”
“I know, Mac, but I can’t give up now. The Mafia will never look for us in a church. I will be forever grateful, Mac.” She had stopped crying.
Mac’s mind raced to at least ten hopeful conclusions, but he said matter-of-factly, “We’ll stop at the Catholic church in Berkeley Springs. It’s on the way. Will the priest have some kind of book of convents, or something?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a start.” Rosie brightened. “I will ask to speak to the priest. He will know about the convent. It’s Sunday. Maybe I can even go to Mass. You see, there is much I must confess…light candles for.” She looked down.
Puzzled, Mac didn’t see what she could possibly have to confess. Before they pulled onto Route 9, he stopped and switched the license plate. He had kept the plate he’d found at Tanky’s garage, figuring it would come in handy. When they pulled up in front of St. Vincent’s, it was almost time for early Mass. Mac checked up and down the deserted street. He considered telling Rosie that this was crazy. But she was already getting out of the truck.
The interior of the church was dark and foreboding. The bleeding Christ gazed down accusingly from the crucifix. Mac shifted from one foot to another, then finally sat down in a pew. He had never been at ease in church, and long accustomed feelings of guilt swept over him. Not even the Catholics could match local evangelicals for laying on feelings of guilt and damnation. This was the first time he had even stepped inside a church in the ten years since his mother had died. The banked flowers on the alter brought the funeral back to him. His mother had been buried from a simple Protestant church, which had overflowed with McCabes and their kin. At thirteen, Mac had been abandoned to his alcoholic father. He had known that his life had been changed forever, and this prediction had come true. He had become none of the things his mother had wanted for him. She had been the last person to see any good in him—until he had met Rosie. He watched her now as she lit a candle in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. He knew he couldn’t wipe out the mistakes of the last ten years, but could he start again? God, just being inside a church spooked him. He was beginning to think like a preacher. What he needed was a smoke.
Mac watched a priest enter the area in front of the altar and busy himself at something. He was a stooped, old man and moved slowly. Now the priest’s head jerked up and he squinted over his shoulder toward the door. Mac had also heard the door open. He knew that two men had entered. Listening, he knew that one of them was walking with a very slight limp. Although he had expected other worshipers, Mac had been prepared for the hesitant steps of the sinful or the shuffling of the aged, not these decisive footfalls. Continuing to stare straight ahead, he felt the first sparks of apprehension. The old priest froze in the act of pouring wine as he listened to the approaching men. Only Rosie appeared unconcerned as she knelt at the shrine. The student backpack she wore made her look very young and innocent, encircled in the soft glow of the candlelight.
Tensing, Mac realized that the two men had separated, each continuing down a side aisle. The one with the limp slid into a seat behind him and to the right, but the man didn’t kneel to pray. Suddenly, the silver cup fell out of the old priest’s hands and clattered to the floor. Bright red wine sparkled in puddles around his black robes. Clumsily, the priest started his rituals again. His high, thin voice echoed hollowly through the silent church. Mac had already gauged the distance to the door and to the area behind the altar. He should have never let himself get separated from Rosie. His mind raced. These men were Catholics too. Would they tear up a church when a priest was saying Mass? They could wait; after all, they had time on their side.
The footsteps were so light that at first Mac didn’t realize the second man on the far side of the church was moving forward. He cursed himself for a fool; Tanky’s gun was hidden in the truck. Straining to listen, Mac knew the second man was advancing, but his steps were now tentative. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man approaching the altar. His powerful hands were folded in prayer. He was big, at least 250 p
ounds, Mac estimated. Big to walk so softly. The dark suit strained over his hulking frame. A small gold earring and several gold chains caught the candlelight. Easing himself into a kneeling position at the altar rail, he bowed his head. Mac noticed that his pants’ cuffs were caked with mud.
“Well, if this don’t beat all,” Mac muttered to himself. “He’s gonna take the bread and wine before he does us in.”
Suddenly, the church door was thrown open. Mac turned to see a group of elderly women surging down the aisle toward the altar. They bristled with large pocketbooks and umbrellas, charging like an armed military group. Some were looking for seats; others were bowing their heads and heading toward the altar. Jumping up, he vaulted over the seats in front of him and ran toward Rosie. She looked terrified but grabbed his hand, and together they raced toward the left side of the altar. Frantic screams and the curses of the two men followed them. Finding a door open, they ran down a passageway and through a side door to the street. As they took off in the old black truck, the two hoods erupted out of the of the church door. Mac heard the thunks the bullets made as they drove into the truck bed. “Keep down, Rosie,” he yelled. “Keep down!” He turned onto a side street, tires squealing. After all, this was his home ground; he knew where he was going. They could kiss his butt, if they could find him!
* * * *
The old Chevy truck skidded around corners and roared up narrow back streets. In minutes, Rosie and Mac were clear of the town and thundering down country roads. “Can’t beat a Chevy,” Mac yelled over at Rosie. “Look at this old lady go. Probably the only thing I’ll ever have to thank Gene for.”
“We could have been killed in there,” Rosie whispered.
Mac swerved off onto a dirt road that headed toward the mountain. “Don’t worry, Rosie, we’re gonna make it now. This is a great shortcut. It’ll soon turn into a logging track, but it’ll get us over the mountain. We’ll come out just a few miles from the Interstate.” His eyes glittered a deep blue. The adrenalin was pumping and he felt great. “We’ve seen the last of them crazy hoods, Rosie. I told you I’d look out for you.”
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 12
