One of the men in the trucks fired a volley of shots toward the winery gates and a minute later the lead truck smashed through it, the men riding in its bed shouldering their weapons, getting ready to fire.
“Now!” Pietragnelli shouted, and his men began to shoot.
Saint-Germain aimed for the tires and was able to flatten the front tire of the lead truck before one of Pietragnelli’s men screamed and broke out of cover, blood pumping from a wound in his neck; in the next instant, confusion turned to chaos as the lead truck slewed off the drive and lurched onto its side and the other trucks were forced to stop, becoming easier targets.
One of Pietragnelli’s men broke from cover and ran, throwing his shotgun away as he ran.
“Cerdo! Coward! Execrato!” Pietragnelli shouted after him. “Let him go,” Saint-Germain called out. “We have—”
“Shoot them! Fuore! Fuore!” Pietragnelli shouted to his men. “No quarter!”
A few of his men answered his orders, rising up in their positions, guns at the ready. Two of the men actually fired, and one of the bullets struck the front right tire of the second truck. The vehicle swerved and lurched, throwing the men in the back off their feet; a rifle fired as the man holding it fell.
More shots spattered, and another of Pietragnelli’s men broke and ran.
“Get between the trucks!” Pietragnelli shouted, and rushed to occupy the breach. “Shoot out the tires! Now!”
Six men answered his cry and rushed out onto the road, firing toward the tires, most of them yelling as they shot.
Then, very faintly, came the shriek of a siren, then two, then three. The last truck began to back up, but was halted as one of the guards shot its tires flat. Three men jumped out of the vehicle and began to run as five sheriff’s cars came racing down the road, Rogerio’s Auburn bringing up the rear.
“Stop! Stop!” Pietragnelli bellowed, springing out from behind his berrypatch. “No more shooting. Basta!”
One of the men in the second truck, halted now on the side of the road, took aim at Pietragnelli, and would have shot him, but was stopped by his nearest companion, who shoved the gun-barrel upward.
Warton had gone to the wounded man and was attempting to administer first aid, but most of the men stayed in their protected spots, unwilling to expose themselves to danger.
The first sheriff’s car swung into the drive, bumping across the ruined gate, and moments later a bullhorn blared, “Put down your weapons! All of you! Put them down! Now!”
A few of the men on the trucks obeyed, setting their guns aside and raising their hands, although five of them seemed prepared to fire on the deputies.
“Down!” the bullhorn screeched, and was punctuated by a single shot fired into the air.
“Shit,” said one of the drivers as he climbed out of the truck cab, lifting his hands. This seemed to be a signal, for all the rest lost their bravado and obeyed the bullhorn’s imperative.
Pietragnelli surged toward the deputy, calling on God to thank him. “Come, my workers. My guards. It is over. At last.” He looked over at Saint-Germain. “We’ve prevailed.”
A deputy strode around the front of his Ford, snapping his fingers to the men with him. “Get the guns and lock them in the trunk. They’re evidence.” He glanced toward Pietragnelli. “Looks like you got ’em dead to rights this time.”
“And so the judge will know,” said Pietragnelli, a fierce grin masking his genial features.
Saint-Germain got to his feet, brushing himself off and holstering his revolver. “Yes; luckily we have,” he said, and mentally added for now as he went to join the men gathering around the police cars.
The deputy in charge was unknown to Saint-Germain, a big man with a meaty, flushed face and a receding hairline under his peaked cap. He glowered at the well-dressed stranger, then looked directly at Carlo Pietragnelli. “You gonna press charges?”
“Most certainly,” said Pietragnelli, wiping his brow with a huge, blue handkerchief. “There was an agreement. They signed it.”
“These men?” The deputy cocked his jaw in the direction of the men the other deputies were rounding up.
“Perhaps not them specifically,” said Pietragnelli as he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “But their superiors, most certainly. And these men are bound by the terms, no matter what they may think.” He turned away and shouted to his men, “Tell the police what they need to know and get back to work if you are unhurt!”
“The attack is unjustifiable, in any case,” Saint-Germain added as Pietragnelli bustled away.
“Yeah,” said the deputy. “That’s so.” He drew a battered notebook and stubby pencil from his breast-pocket “So tell me what this is all about.”
“I’d ask a man named Virgil Barringstone that question,” said Saint-Germain. “I believe he has more to do with it than he cares to admit.”
The deputy wrote down the name, but his expression was skeptical. “What makes you think the fellow has anything to do with this?”
“He was behaving oddly earlier today, shortly before the attack,” said Saint-Germain. “I noticed him because he and one young worker were holding themselves apart from the rest, having conversation that was certainly private.”
“There might be any number of reasons for that,” said the deputy, looking a bit bored and preparing to walk away.
“Then speak to Mrs. Barringstone,” Saint-Germain recommended. “She is the cook here, and she may not like speaking against her husband, but she will if she thinks he is in violation of the mediation of the courts of this county.”
The deputy paused. “Sounds damned peculiar, Mr.—?”
“Ferenc Ragoczy,” he answered, holding out his hand. “I’m one of Carlo Pietragnelli’s investors. I came to see this year’s harvest.”
“Oh, yeah,” said the deputy, and scribbled a note to himself.
Saint-Germain sighed. “If you take the time to check with the court in Santa Rosa, you’ll soon discover—”
“I know about the White Legion,” said the deputy. “Everyone from Eureka to Salinas knows about them.”
“Then this should be a simple matter for you,” said Saint-Germain, self-possessed and calm. “Speak to Judge Cavendish in Santa Rosa about this incident, and you’ll find that there is an agreement on file that this assault clearly violates.”
“The agreement the Dago mentioned?” the deputy asked.
Saint-Germain took a deep bream. “Yes. Judge Cavendish will explain it”
“Cavendish?” said the deputy, interested for the first time.
“Yes; and Deputy Will Sutton,” said Saint-Germain. “He has a number of reports that are likely to be useful to you.”
“I’ll ask Pietragnelli about this,” said the deputy.
“Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and stood aside as the deputy lumbered off toward Carlo Pietragnelli, his notebook and pencil at the ready.
Rogerio came up to Saint-Germain, saying, “What do you think Oscar King will make of this?”
“He’ll tear into it with dogged determination,” said Saint-Germain with visible relief. “And he’ll keep at it until it’s ended.” He gave a one-sided smile. “To protect my investment.”
“Of course,” said Rogerio.
Saint-Germain nodded. “Let’s return to the house. This is going to take a long time, and Mrs. Barringstone will be worried.”
“And Virgil Barringstone may attempt to leave,” Rogerio added.
“Exactly,” said Saint-Germain, and began to walk up the dusty road toward the winery.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM DRUZE SVINY IN WINNIPEG, MANITOBA, CANADA, TO FERENC RAGOCZY IN SAN FRANCISCO.
13-251 Churchill Road
Winnipeg, Manitoba
28 September, 1937
Ferenc Ragoczy
c/o Oscar King
King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost
630 Kearny Street
San Francisco, California, USA
Dear Mr. Ragoczy,
I was delighted to hear from you after so much change in both of our lives. It relieved me to learn that you are well and still doing business through Eclipse Shipping. So many other industrialists from Spain are not so fortunate, as I am sure you know.
Of course I’ll make the arrangements you request; in fact, I wish there were more I could do. But since this is all you ask me to do, you may rest assured that I will attend to this promptly. I will obtain schedules tomorrow and plan from there. To make sure I understand your intention, I gather that you and your associate wish to take a train from Calgary to Montreal, stopping here in Winnipeg for a day or so before going on. And the two of you want to fly to Amsterdam from Montreal, stopping in Iceland for two days en route. I will make the appropriate reservations by the day after tomorrow, and, as you request, I will send you a telegram with the information on what and when for your journey. You tell me that you will drive to Calgary from California, weather permitting, and that you will arrive there on or before October 25, which will mean that you would want to travel no earlier than the 26th. If any of this is incorrect, please let me know as soon as possible. If I hear nothing from you in ten days, I will assume this is your wish, and I will finalize the reservations with the recommended deposits on sleeping compartments and space in the baggage car.
You are kind to ask: of course I am pleased to be here at Manitoba Chemical, Ltd. The company is a growing one, the staff has welcomed me graciously, and my salary is very, very generous. I have a nice home with more room than I’ve ever had to myself before, and I’ve been asked to do occasional lecturing at the local university on mathematics, which I am told will not conflict with my work here. I have two dogs and a cat, and I can even afford a maid once a week! Who would have thought that the daughter of a butcher would come so far in the world? I have money in a time when many do not, I have a nice place to live, and I am allowed to do the work I like best I think myself most fortunate.
There is one cloud on the horizon, and that is news I have had from home. I have very few relatives left, as you know. The Great War demanded a high price of my family. And now I learn that my second cousin, Corel, who was studying in Berlin, is missing, and no one seems to know where he is. I wrote to his landlord, who has informed me that Corel went out one evening and never returned. For some reason, the landlord is reluctant to report him missing, though he has been a tenant for more than six years and has always been reliable. Had I not been strenuously advised against it, I might go to Berlin to look for him, but from what I have learned from newly arrived Europeans, asking such questions can be very dangerous. I have decided to insert an advertisement in the papers of Berlin asking for information about my second cousin, and see what I can learn that way. If I discover nothing, then I may have to reassess my plans. I have been promised that there is a place for me with this company if I wish to take a leave of absence to look for Corel, and that strengthens me.
I am so looking forward to seeing you again. I will pick you up at the station, of course. I have an automobile of my own, and I anticipate entertaining you to the limits you will allow. I cannot tell you how touched I am that you will allow me to do this for you, and I once again extend my regards to you.
Most truly,
Druze Sviny
chapter nine
Rowena tossed the last of the Holland covers over her dining table, fussed with it enough to square it; she tugged on the securing cord, tied it in a bow-knot, then turned away. “That’s it, then, at least for now,” she said a bit distractedly and hugged her arms, holding the sleeves of her jacket tightly enough to crush the heavy silk fabric. Her elegant ensemble—a narrow-skirted suit with a nip-waisted jacket in a clear cobalt blue over a blouse of amber lace—seemed out of place amid the covered furniture, as if she were an interloper. At three-fifteen it was still warm, but the first snout of fog was poking through the Golden Gate, all but obliterating the splendid bridge and sapping the warmth from the setting sun.
Around them, the house was chilly, a reminder from mercurial October that winter was coming. With all the furniture shrouded, it made the place appear haunted by objects. In the fading light the vacant walls where pictures had hung looked like blank windows
“Is there anything else to do? What chores are left? I’m almost done here, so what would you like me to do?” Saint-Germain asked from the entry-hall, where he was completing the task of removing all the chalk marks the police had left behind; most of it was gone, but little bits remained in the grain of the wood on the stairs, and he worked at these with a soft cloth soaked in linseed oil, removing every trace of it. He finished this pursuit and tossed the rag into a woven waste-paper basket near the telephone.
“I have to make sure all the windows are closed, and that the back door is securely locked,” she said, a bit of tension coming into her voice. “The Realtor is coming tomorrow, and I want it to be ready to sell.”
“You might find a tenant more readily than a buyer, especially now, with the country in such economic straits,” he pointed out. His charcoal suit and black roll-top pullover were elegant but subtly disquieting, making him one with the deepening shadows, his features seeming paler by contrast, the injury from his dreadful accident still apparent on the left side of his face, like a malign shadow; his small, beautiful hands as disembodied as a magician’s. “That way, you wouldn’t have to give it up entirely.”
“But I want to be rid of it,” she said with sudden intensity. “How can I ever feel safe here again?”
“You might, in time,” he said, concern softening his tone. “Or you may decide that you want to deal with what happened here, after a while. If you still have the house, you’ll find it easier to return to it.”
“I can see the advantage,” she conceded. “But not enough to make me want to hang on to this house. It might as well be haunted, with a ghost that can’t be exorcized.” She looked up at the ceiling. “It served me quite well, but no more.”
Saint-Germain came up to her in the dining room and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Are you truly certain you want to sell it?”
“I’m certain,” she said firmly. “I would want to in any case, but since you’re letting me have your house, I’m anxious to move. I don’t need the reminder of that night—I remember well enough without the house.” Turning around, she looked directly into his eyes. “I meant it: I won’t feel safe here.”
“Do you think that may change? not now, but in the future?” he ventured, thinking of the many places he had given up in the past, convinced he would never want them again, and now would have liked to own.
“It might, but I doubt it. I don’t want any reminders,” she repeated, more emphatically than before. “It’s hard enough being here.”
“Rowena,” he said, with such sadness that she could not bring herself to speak for several seconds.
“Don’t do that,” she said, turning away from him.
“Do what?” There was no challenge in the question, only concern.
“Soften the blow,” she accused.
“I hadn’t intended to; that would not be true consideration of you,” he told her.
“But you think I’m wrong,” she pursued.
He shook his head. “No, not wrong; I know what seems certain now will change over time, and you will see it in another light.”
“When I have lived four thousand years as you have, perhaps. For now, and for the decades to come that I am here, in this city, I want no part of this house. It’s too fresh, the attack. It’s salt in a wound.” She shook her head. “Try to understand—I’m not able to step back from the assault and I may never be. I’m not as resilient as I thought I was, and that’s as hard to accept as anything.” Her voice was small and tight and she pulled a short bit away from him, enough to put a little distance between them, but not out of reach. “You are philosophical, and that’s admirable, but I haven’t achieved your perspective.”
“It took me centuries to come to it,” Sain
t-Germain said in a voice that caressed her as surely as his hands touched her neck.
“So you can understand why I am not ready to keep this house,” she said.
“Of course,” he responded. “I wish it were otherwise, for your sake; it would mean that you had begun to heal.”
“There is something else,” she admitted. “With you gone, I’d like to have a link with you. Living in your house would provide that.”
“You have it already,” he promised her as he turned her toward him. “And it is more than wood and plaster.” His dark eyes held her gaze for a short while.
“The Blood Bond?” she asked just above a whisper.
“That will endure as long as you are alive in your life or mine.” He traced the line of her jaw with a single finger. “Only the True Death will end it.”
“Sustained on memories,” she said, not quite mordantly.
“On intimacy,” he corrected her, as conciliating as possible.
“Yes; on intimacy.”
She frowned. “Is that enough?”
“It is all I have, my dear,” he said, thinking back to Berlin, a decade ago, and Madelaine de Montalia. “I have found that it suffices.” His wry smile came and went quickly.
“Say what you will,” she murmured. “You’re leaving.”
“Not just at once,” he reminded her.
“No, but in a week or a month, you’ll be gone.”
“As you knew I would,” he said, his tone musical and plaintive.
“All right, I knew. And I don’t want to harp on things. From the first, I understood this was only a brief stopover in your travels, and I know there’s no point in arguing about it. According to you, all stopovers are brief, whether they last two days or two decades,” she said, and put her arms around his waist. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or that I comprehend it all yet.”
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