by J. Palma
Nearly 6 p.m., she found the forest wondrous, a mixture of shadow and brightness. She could have easily mistaken her clandestine approach as a pleasant hike, until she heard the rattle of gunfire.
Diving into the dirt, with her pistol before her, she checked her surroundings. There was no one. The forest returned to stillness. But then, a few moments later, gunfire roared through the forest again. She didn't jump this time. Her eyes climbed the slope before her, tracing the origin of the gunfire from somewhere up there. With her senses sharpened, she crouched and slowly followed the sporadic noise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE COOK LINED up a bottle on the underside of the VW and before he returned to his place he announced that he had to take a shit. He staggered into the woods, reasonably drunk, found an area reasonably private, and leaned his Mossberg shotgun against a fat trunked oak tree. He removed a pack of Camels from his front shirt pocket, removed his walkie-talkie from his back pocket and tossed it near the shotgun. He removed his pistol, the sleek looking Walther PPK, from his belt and put it at his feet. He unbuckled his pants and proceeded to squat. He picked his nose. He stared at the ground. He fought an urge to be sick.
All day he had been eating salami and cheese and drinking wine and beer, and his shit stunk. Too drunk and lazy to walk the quarter mile back up the ridge to the cabin and shit in a toilet, he now regretted his decision as he reached for a handful of leaves. He judged the merits of his life to date and didn't like what he came up with. Women, it seemed, had muddled his professional and personal life. From his ex-wife to his micromanaging boss, Dot, and now Lucina, who he hated at first sight.
A noise to his right startled him. And when he turned, Lucina now stood where his Mossberg once was, the shotgun in her hands. How long had she been there? A pistol grip stuck out from the top of her leggings. Her eyes ran the length of the long-barreled shotgun.
"Did you know?" She stood a few feet away, her face cold. If his stench bothered her, she didn't exhibit any disgust.
"What are you talking about?" He didn't try to cover himself. "You going to let me finish shitting?"
Her voice deepened. "Throw me the cigarettes." She noticed the pistol in the leaves beside his foot.
His face didn't offer her much. He tossed the Camels at her feet, his eyes locked on hers. She aimed the shotgun at his chest and stooped low enough to scoop up the smokes. Tucked in the cellophane wrapper, was a green lighter. She cradled the gun and lit a cigarette, savoring the flavor.
"I thought you'd be in Canada by now,” he said.
"I didn't take Charles if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I didn't kidnap him. It's not true what Dot says."
"Can you let me finish?" His hand struck for his pistol, but he missed. With the shotgun barrel squarely at his chest, he had no chance.
She squeezed the trigger and a sharp metallic click rang out from the gun.
Startled, the driver fell backwards into his wet loose shit. She inspected the gun in her hands. Her lips curled into a short smile, pulling higher on one side than the other, revealing an above average canine.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not here to tell jokes," she said. She flicked the safety off with her thumb.
Again, his hand sprung for his pistol. His eyes met hers as he reached it. She hesitated.
He fired.
And a half second later, she squeezed the trigger and the shotgun roared, emitting a blossom of orange and red tongues. The force of the blast flung him backward, ejecting him out of his loafers.
Aware that she'd been shot, she staggered backwards, the cigarette dropping from her mouth. She'd been hit in the right side of her abdomen above her hip. She fell to her knees, then on all fours, the pain knocking the breath out of her. But despite her wound, she didn’t have much time before the others came and had to press on. She crawled to the cook’s body, avoiding his foul-smelling feces, and took his smart phone. She dragged the shotgun by the shoulder strap with one hand and his walkie-talkie with the other.
The oily gray smoke rising from the shotgun aroused a savage instinct in her and, despite her injury, she felt alive and capable.
Twenty yards away, separated by a tangle of evergreens and undergrowth, Albert shouted, "Remember the cabin rules. You only shoot in the range. The range, you drunk idiot."
Albert called for the cook. No response.
Lucina heard their panicked shouts through the woods.
"This isn't funny," Albert said.
The driver said, "I think I heard two shots. Two pops. Didn't you?"
Albert shouted for the cook and again only silence greeted his ears. "You better not be playing games."
Both Albert and the driver moved closer to the edge of the forest where the thick undergrowth began and Lucina overheard their conversation.
The driver said, "You think she's here?"
Albert said, "She's supposed to be in Canada. Dot said they put out an all-points bulletin for her."
The driver said, "Where are the police? Why aren't they involved?"
Albert yelled, "We're going to start shooting. You better give yourself up."
Pain lurked behind Lucina’s eyes as she retreated against the back of the nearby giant oak tree. Bullets whizzed by her head like an angry swarm of wasps. She listened. Were they approaching? No, the cowards fired blindly from where they stood, afraid to leave the safety of the clearing. Branches snapped and popped. Birds squawked and took to the sky. Over the gunfire, the men hollered words she barely understood. She checked the shotgun in her lap and found she only had a single round left. But she couldn't forget the pistol. She removed the heavy pistol from her waistband, and put it in her bag. Her jaw clenched tight with purpose and determination.
Listening for the men, she breathed the damp air. The forest canopy shielded the sun, but the heavy air still pressed at her body. Every minute sitting here, she feared for Charles' life. She inspected the walkie-talkie and fiddled with the knobs and volume. But all she heard was static. She would concentrate her efforts on the device later. The bullets continued to zip by. She shoved both the walkie-talkie and the phone in her shoulder bag and let the back of her head rest against the tree. Faced with impending death, she contemplated an event that occurred seven months earlier.
Lucina had gone to a small restaurant located on Piazza Seconda. The previous day, she had buried her grandmother, her nonna. Still in the same black dress from the funeral, she didn't see the point in changing, despite her wrinkled and sweaty appearance. That night Lucina could not sleep, remembering something the landlord had said. With the coffin just lowered into the ground, he asked pleasantly if the rent would be paid on time this month. Such an insult with no respect for the living or the dead, she wanted to kill him.
The restaurant was nearly empty. Seated with a view of the Piazza, the waiter brought her water and bread and took her order. Sitting alone, Lucina's life was at a crossroads. She contemplated what to do next and lost track of time. Then the waiter reappeared bearing a dish she did not order, for which she was not grateful.
The slim, handsome waiter placed before her a platter of overripe crimson tomatoes in a pool of olive oil and vinegar. Unappetizing milky mozzarella di bufala topped off the dish.
"I did not order this. There must be some kind of mistake."
"This is a house specialty. Please try."
"No thank you. You are very kind, but not today."
"Please miss, you must."
"I'm losing my temper. Why do you torture me? Why today? Please take this mess away. Thank you, but no thank you."
"Please. You will like."
Lucina raised her voice. "Are you deaf? Do you not understand? The tomatoes smell rotten and the mozzarella looks like semen. I will not eat this. It's disgusting. Mi fa cagare! Now take it away. Please."
A great laugh boomed from behind her and she turned and saw a fat, moon-faced man seated in a corner table. A beautiful blonde woman half his age and p
erhaps a third his weight accompanied him. The man summoned the waiter and the waiter and him spoke in a tense pantomime.
The waiter returned to Lucina's table, nervous. "Miss, the proprietor of the restaurant would like to speak with you. This is a house specialty, like I said, and perhaps you will change your mind. No?"
Two more waiters stood in the back, watching, anticipating.
She threw her napkin on the table and stood, her chair screeching across the floor. In a flash, she crossed the restaurant with her razor eyes set on him. From his lapel, a small white flower stared back at her.
Stunned, the proprietor said, "Gustavo says you no like my tomatoes. This recipe has been in my family for generations. You insult me. You insult my family. I must ask you, is this what you want? Is that what you intend to do? Insult me.“ He sucked on his teeth as he waited for her response.
"With respect Signore, I am not hungry. My grandmother has just passed and I'm in no mood to eat. And I'm certainly in no mood to be told to eat."
"You will not leave this restaurant without finishing your plate. A pretty girl without manners is nothing more than a common whore."
Why the tomatoes in particular? Lucina knew if she ate the tomatoes today, what would it be tomorrow? This was not about tomatoes. This was about her life subject to a corrupt system the State refused to address. Lucina roared, "The tomatoes smell like ripe garbage and the mozzarella looks like semen."
The proprietor laughed again, a throaty cackle like he had something trapped in his throat. He laughed like this for a long time with his hands holding his jiggling stomach, the laughter rising out of him, until they echoed in the empty restaurant, carrying with them his cruelty and arrogance. When he finished, he pawed tears from his eyes. He ordered Gustavo to bring him the dish in question. His voice transformed, now severe and ferocious.
“When you refuse my generosity, you not only insult me, you insult my honor, my family, my ancestors. Is that what you want?”
For a moment, Lucina did not know how to answer. She remained still, her lips set into a tight line.
The man spat into the dish then jammed his stubby index finger into the tomatoes and stirred in the saliva. After, he licked his finger clean.
In a grave tone, the he said to Lucina, "You will eat every last drop. Understand?"
Her stomach churned at his order.
Then her eyes darkened and she said in a gravely tone, "I'll burn this place to the ground with you in it. No one talks to me like that. I don't care who you are." Her anger flared, the only trait her mother passed to her. When she turned to leave, another waiter seized her by the arm. She pivoted in his grip and connected her knee with his groin. He exhaled hard like a deflating balloon. The serving tray clattered to the floor as both hands went to his groin.
If Lucina had read a paper recently or watched the news, she would have known that the owner, a senior member of the Lazzaroni clan, was a suspect in a string of brutal murders, was sometimes referred to as The Flower.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
AFTER WATCHING THE driver and Albert empty their rifles into the wood line, Vincenzo entered the clearing behind them, unnoticed. The men hurried reloading their weapons. Vincenzo stepped closer to the men. In his black leather gloved hands, he held the Sig Sauer 223 with Lucina's prints. First, Vincenzo shot the driver in the back of the head and watched the man crumple to the ground. Wings of blood and brain matter splattered the back of Albert’s head and neck, who only stood a few feet from the driver. Albert spun around, his hands rubbing his neck, confused. Vincenzo fired a single shot into Albert's open mouth.
Vincenzo stood in the clearing and listened, noting the overturned VW bus. The aroma of spent gunpowder filled his nostrils. He stooped and examined spent shells from a variety of firearms. He had heard the men shout for Lucina. Since the cook had yet to return, he assumed he'd find him dead beyond the clearing. Unsure of what to do next, Vincenzo hesitated in the clearing, studying the sky and approximating how much daylight remained. As it happened, his mind was made up for him. A voice came over the walkie-talkie. Rizzo.
Looking at the bodies, Vincenzo thought about his brother, his own life, and that there would be more dead bodies before this was over. Lousy with sickness, his temperature changed from fever to chills and back to fever. Still, he maintained the posture of a determined man, as he listened to his new orders issued from the walkie-talkie.
"Vin acknowledge, over." Vincenzo reached into his pocket, found the walkie-talkie and turned it off.
This order he could not obey. Vincenzo had no intention of driving the nanny out of the bush like a bird dog serving his master. Handicapped by illness but driven with a bloodlust revenge for his brother's death, he continued his pursuit. He crossed the clearing and headed in the direction where the men had fired blindly into the trees. A few steps into the forest, Vincenzo breathed in the earth, the humidity, the life-giving pollen, the decaying leaves, the pinesap, even the bark. He doubled over and coughed until he freed a knot of phlegm from his lungs and spat into the dirt. He took a deep breath, wiped his mouth and continued.
Vincenzo found the cook. He studied the damage inflicted at close range. The cook's eyes were trapped open, still looking to the right. The bottom jaw had been removed from the shotgun blast. In his right hand, the cook still gripped his PPK. Vincenzo yanked the pistol from the dead man's grip and brought it to his nose. The unmistakable bouquet of spent gunpowder confirmed the gun had been fired. He spun around, his attention lowered to the ground. He found a cigarette and blood splattered in the dried leaves. He dipped his fingertips in smeared blood on an oak tree trunk and pressed his fingertips together. Tacky and nearly black. She had to be close. He squinted in the diminished light of the forest, scanning from tree to tree, but saw no evidence of her.
Vincenzo swapped the pistol in his hand for the one in his holster, his preferred MK23. He screwed on the silencer and racked a bullet in the chamber. He had an idea of where he was in relation to the cabin and the roads, and figured Lucina was somewhere between the clearing and the main road at the bottom of the ridge.
He walked slowly, pausing every few minutes to listen. The trees were spread wide apart here. Old trees with thick trunks reaching high into the sky. He followed faint footprints pressed in the earth. Darkness would soon drape over the forest canopy like a sheet. It felt much later than the time on his wrist watch: 7:12 p.m.
Exhausted, Vincenzo lost her trail. Her footprints seemed to have just stopped. He wiped his brow and walked against the fall line. When he'd gone pretty far, he turned 180 degrees and did it again.
After finishing a bottle of Sambuca with Rizzo, Will decided to show him how the vacuum sealer in the kitchen worked. Sometime ago, Will explained, his brother Frank had installed an industrial sized vacuum sealer in the kitchen beside a deep basin sink. After the game animals were skinned outside, the slabs of meat were hung over the sink and cut into smaller shanks. The shanks were then vacuum-sealed and stored in a large freezer in the kitchen. Dot found the entire assembly distasteful and barbaric, and slated it foremost for removal with her future renovations.
Rizzo said, "Why you need something this big?"
"You'd have to ask Frank. But he liked to put five twenty-pound slabs of venison in there. I guess to save time? You know my brother. His way of always doing bigger and better. Like this place."
Will decided on demonstrating the device with an egg. He delicately placed a grade-AA egg in a clear 24-inch sleeve and lined it up on the seal bar inside a large chamber. He closed the chamber lid and pushed a button and the machine came to life. Emitting a loud, low frequency hum, Rizzo felt a deep throbbing in his head. Rizzo understood why Dot hated this thing. It belonged in a meat packing plant.
Almost yelling, Rizzo said, "What's the biggest thing you put in this thing?"
"I dunno. We put a pig side in there once. That was pretty big."
"No shit?"
"Yup. Smoked it three month
s later. Can you believe it? Still enjoyable."
"The vacuum sealer can do that?"
"I mean, you still have to freeze it."
"This was all Frank's doing?" He gestured to the basin and the vacuum sealer, meaning the utilitarian decor.
"Yeah. His idea. This entire place. I liked how it used to be. You know? It was a lot more charming. Simple. But he has all the bucks."
"You talk about him like he's still alive."
"I do that sometimes. But what an idiot. He didn't need this. This is like something you need if you're selling pork chops for a living. He was always showing off to his friends. That's what it was. Hell, that's what it was always about. He had to have the biggest one."
The machine stopped. Will opened the lid and removed the egg, now encased in a sealed clear plastic sleeve. Will handed it over to Rizzo.
"Neat." Rizzo tapped the vacuum-sealed bag, holding it in the light.
At that moment they heard Dot. She sounded inconvenienced and angry.
She marched into the kitchen with a roll of toilet paper in her hand and shouted, “I’ve been yelling for the last ten minutes over that damn racket. Who did this?" Will, nursing a Sambuca buzz, stared at her, unsure what to say. Rizzo, with the egg still in his hand, was equally speechless. Dot repeated her question and slammed the roll on the counter. Hands on her waist she said, "This makes me furious. I bet he did this on purpose. It's his way of getting at me. His passive aggressive way of doing things. He did it before with the coffee beans. I told him I only drink dark-roast Peruvian. And what does he do? He buys Columbia light roast and thinks I can't tell the difference. The coffee beans are forgivable. This is not."
