Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Coming out here was a mistake. Why would Victoria be out on the grounds in conditions like this? She’d better return to the house. But where was it?

  A thick swirl of mist made her eyes sting. Jude said the fog was comprised of acidic droplets, and she could certainly feel it. As she inched her way across the lawn, suddenly she felt a fine mist from the fountain. That would put her halfway out, in the middle of the lawn. She kept walking on a straight course, looking for the structure. From there, she could orient herself to get back to the house.

  The stone fountain suddenly loomed out of the fog. The granite tower was magnificent. It was a gigantic monument, the kind of centerpiece that could be found in many town squares in Europe.

  It stood about thirty feet high with a round basin that was as large as a swimming pool. Three carved sea naiads cavorted in the middle, spouting water jets. She took a moment to bend down and dip her handkerchief into the basin to wipe her irritated eyes.

  Just as she stood up, a man came toward her out of the mist. He was startling in appearance, slightly deformed with white hair that stood up on end.

  This was the man who had broken into her townhouse in London!

  She had identified him from police photos after the incident. He was a Camorra gangster and worked closely with Salvatore Mondragone. He lifted a gun and pointed it at her! It was like a nightmare. Was he going to shoot her?

  Her eyes were drawn to the weapon. It didn’t look like a real pistol, more like a ray gun in a sci-fi movie. Was it a stun gun, like a Taser? She had no idea.

  Her eyes shifted back to the man’s face. His crooked yellow teeth were bared in a slight smile. This was almost too nightmarish to comprehend.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Step back toward the fountain.”

  She understood immediately. He clearly had plans to shoot her or kill her and push her in.

  “But I don’t even know you,” Cordelia said reasonably. “Why would you want to hurt me?”

  He looked at her with flat, dead eyes.

  “You identified me to the police.”

  She had no reply. As they stood looking at one another, her mind leapt to a variety of escape plans. If that were a real gun, he’d certainly be able to shoot her.

  “Go over to the fountain,” he commanded again, holding out the stubby weapon.

  She backed up to the rim of the basin, her knees shaking. A plan was formed, but she’d have to act quickly. There was no time to debate.

  She sat down slowly and took a deep breath of air, steeling herself for the effort. She shut her eyes and fell backward into the water with a splash. It was something she had done a thousand times, the same way she would push off a boat on a scuba entry. The splash was huge as she tumbled backward.

  She was in! The temperature was freezing!

  Her hair flowed across her face like seaweed, and she pushed it back, kicking deeper to the bottom. Hugging the basin wall, she felt around with her hands on the slimy bottom, looking for something to hold on to. She needed to keep herself weighted down. Feeling around, she came into contact with some large rocks and she clung to one with her fingers.

  After orienting herself, she set off again, swimming rapidly, keeping one hand in contact with the marble wall to guide her around the bottom of the basin to the other side.

  In her years of diving she had spent plenty of time in low-visibility conditions. The water was murky, and she could see nothing. But guiding herself by feel, she followed the long underwater curve of the fountain, flutter-kicking her way with great speed as she remained submerged.

  She kept up a slow, steady exhale to reduce her buoyancy, as she often did during a scuba dive. Surprisingly, there was no fear. Her life had been spent in the water diving, and she felt more in her element here than anywhere else. She could function without panic. Survival came down to simple skill.

  At about 180 degrees from the start of her dive, she let herself slowly rise up until she just broke the surface of the water. Then she took in air cautiously and poked her head out, above the waterline. As her eyes cleared, she could see there was white fog all around, and the splash of fountain jets had covered any sound she had made as she came up. The sea nymph statues in the middle concealed the gunman. She inched her way around, until she could just see the Camorra gangster on the other side.

  Straining through the mist, she saw the faint outline of the figure, now a good twenty feet away. He was staring down into the water at the same point where she went in, trying to locate her.

  It would be simple to climb out and run away. Yet that would leave a dangerous killer on the loose at Cliffmere. He had to be stopped.

  Near her feet at the bottom of the pool she could feel loose stones. Some were square and others round. She took a breath and went under again. There was a sizeable rock at the bottom that she was able to heft with both hands. Curling her fingers underneath, she found it was very heavy, so she pulled hard, lifting it up.

  Her hands were strong from hoisting fifty-five-pound scuba tanks, and this rock was comparatively light. She surfaced, hair streaming into her eyes. With a heave, she tossed the stone into the grass outside the rim of the fountain. It landed with a soft thud, and she climbed out after it.

  Now crouching on the ground, low behind the basin, she took the rock in both hands. For a moment, she wondered if this was the right choice of action. She could end up in a deadly confrontation. But there were the others to consider: Charles and Victoria, Clothilde, Marian, and Luca would not be able to defend themselves against these killers. The consequences of inaction seemed worse.

  Crouching low, she cradled the rock as she circled back behind the gunman. He was partially obscured by mist, but she could just see him peering over the edge of the fountain, leaning on the basin rim, totally absorbed with trying to locate her in the water.

  Cordelia quietly approached from behind, lifting the small boulder with both hands. He must have sensed her presence, because at the exact moment she raised the rock above her head, he turned. The gun was pointing at her, painting her chest with a laser.

  She flung the boulder toward him with all her might. It was heavier than she calculated, and she didn’t get quite the loft she had wanted. She had aimed for his head, but the stone struck him squarely in the chest.

  He let out a loud “umph” as the heavy projectile connected. He toppled backward over the rim of the fountain into the water. There was a huge splash and a flash of blue, like lightning. Then silence.

  Cautiously, Cordelia approached to see if he would resurface. The dark water was still, a few bubbles rising.

  Then the lifeless body bobbed up, floating face down. He was either dead or unconscious. The face was still submerged, but the man floated around, his shirt nearly transparent, white hair flowing like seaweed, hand still gripping his weapon. From above, a sea naiad merrily sprayed his back with a jet of water.

  Cordelia knocked on the library door.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked, muffled by the thick oak.

  “It’s Delia.”

  The door opened, and Jude’s face appeared, gaunt with worry.

  “I’m back,” she announced through chattering teeth.

  She walked into the library, her clothes sodden, shoes squelching.

  “What happened?” Jude asked, aghast.

  “I killed him,” she said, her lips stiff with cold.

  “Mondragone?” Charles asked from the couch where he lay.

  “No,” she answered, looking over at him. “His partner, I think. The guy who broke into the townhouse in London. He was trying to shoot me, so I threw a rock at him, and he fell into the fountain with his stun gun. I think he was electrocuted.”

  “Holy smokes,” Jude said, impressed.

  Charles smiled weakly. “Remind me not to ever cross you.”

  His face was ghastly white, eyes enormous.

  “Charles you look terrible,” Cordelia said.

  His phys
ical condition was deteriorating rapidly.

  “I beg your pardon?” he joked, summoning his old humor. “I look terrible? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?”

  She managed a weak chuckle, then scanned around the library.

  “Where’s Marian?”

  Jude came back with a wool tartan blanket and wrapped it around her.

  “We can’t find Marian or Victoria. Brindy has not turned up either. And Luca is still missing as well.”

  Cordelia froze.

  “Where’s Sinclair?”

  “He’s still outside, looking for everyone.”

  FRONT DRIVE, CLIFFMERE

  Victoria slipped out the front door of the house and ran lightly across the drive, carrying the rifle. She flew across the courtyard, her rapid footsteps audible on the gravel. One of the hunting dogs spotted her and ran to greet her, wagging its tail. It sniffed her skirt, recognizing her as a friend.

  She told it to sit. Superbly trained, the dog obeyed.

  “Come,” she said. “Heel.”

  The setter trotted obediently behind her as she headed to the alley of trees. Thick elms were planted at regular intervals along the drive for at least a mile, and a row of trunks stood like soldiers all the way out to the main road.

  Victoria lowered herself into a prone position next to one of the trees. She was right next to the trunk, well hidden from the house. The grass was damp and filled with ash. She settled in and flattened out, well out of sight.

  The police would have to come this way when they entered the estate. Here would be the perfect vantage point to intercept them and explain the situation. And if the killer tried to leave, she’d be in the ideal position for stopping him dead with a single shot.

  The Gordon Setter lay down next to her, staying close. She kept a hand on his neck to keep him quiet. The fur was silky and warm under her fingers. The dog understood what she was doing; they were hunting. He crouched low, ready to fetch a game bird as it fell from the sky.

  Mondragone came out of the front courtyard and scanned the lawn. He felt for the necklace in his pocket, grasping it tightly: It was a multimillion-dollar ticket to a new life. Now he stopped to examine the stones, which seemed duller, as if they were coated with something. Yet the heft of it was the same. He spit on his thumb and rubbed one of the gems, and a substance came off. The necklace was real.

  Mondragone put it back in his pocket and looked around. The best way would be to leave via the main drive where Tito and the chauffeur were still waiting. The mist was dense now, and he could taste the faint chemical residue in the back of his throat. Visibility was poor. Nothing was discernable beyond the trees.

  Suddenly, off to the right, he heard a dog growl. The sound was muffled, the direction indeterminate, but it was nearby. For some reason that perfectly ordinary sound alerted him to danger. His survival skills went into high alert. Someone was out there waiting for him.

  Victoria saw the man emerge from the mist. He was a worker wearing green Cliffmere overalls. Finally some of the farmhands had returned from the fields!

  She started to stand up and call to him, but the dog growled and the low warning made her hesitate. Why would a dog growl at a worker who came here every day?

  This was strange. The dog had greeted her without hesitation just now. And she had been here only a few days. This person must be a stranger. It would be prudent to wait and see who he was.

  She settled back down, closing her hand over the dog’s muzzle. The dog understood immediately. This was their target.

  The man walked by, looking around to see whether anyone was observing him. He was large and powerfully built and would be a frightening adversary.

  Victoria stayed perfectly still. With her pale skirt and hair, she was well camouflaged. Ash was falling steadily now, and it was covering her up, like fine-grained sand.

  She could see the man’s tracks on the road. His footsteps were as clear as if he had trod across a beach. He stopped, not more than three feet away. Victoria tried to quell her breathing.

  There was something odd about him. His overalls were stained and spattered, like those of a fieldworker, but his shoes were laced-up dress brogues, the kind English bankers wore. Her instincts were right. Clearly this was no farmhand.

  The man glanced around and then took something out of his pocket and held it up, examining it carefully. The dog growled.

  It was her necklace!

  A sick feeling came over her. This man had come to steal her sapphires. Brindy had told her all about Sinclair’s confrontation with Salvatore Mondragone at the dockyard in Naples. Clearly the gangster had not been killed. He had returned to get revenge on Sinclair and steal the jewels.

  So this was the notorious Cyclops. Her mouth went dry. She was no match for such a trained killer, yet her duty was clear.

  She had to kill him.

  The thought made her dizzy, but there was no time to lose. Victoria was aware that her hands were moist on the stock of the rifle. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and readied herself to take a shot.

  In all those years of biathlon practice, she had never aimed at a human. It was harder than it looked. And for a moment, she didn’t think she could do it. Her pulse soared, and her hand trembled.

  Victoria reached up and found the gold Vesuvius charm around her neck, clasping it for luck. Then she sharpened her mind, put her hand back on the trigger, and slowly exhaled to steady her aim.

  Just then, another man approached out of the mist. He was dressed in a dark suit with a peaked cap, like a chauffeur.

  “Why didn’t you stay at the car?” Mondragone asked him.

  “I can’t find Tito. He wandered off. I think he got lost.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He went to the house. I’m gonna go look for him.”

  Mondragone glanced over his shoulder at the house.

  “To hell with him, let’s go,” he snarled.

  The man stood his ground. “You can’t just leave him here. The guy’s crippled. They’ll catch him right away, and then he’ll talk.”

  “Fine, give me the keys, so I can get in the car. I’m waiting ten minutes, and if you two are not back, I’m leaving.”

  “OK, boss.”

  The chauffeur tossed Mondragone the key ring. They were going to split up and go in different directions.

  Victoria aimed the crosshairs of the rifle on Mondragone’s temple, but then shifted to the other man. She had to decide which one of them she should target.

  The chauffeur now seemed a biggest menace to the others, because he was headed toward the house. But if she shot him, she’d have to follow up quickly with another shot at Mondragone. That would be two successive kills, with no margin for error.

  She shut her eyes for a long second and opened them again. There was no time to wait. It would have to be now, before they both disappeared in the mist.

  Again, she cleared her mind of all extraneous information and sighted the crosshairs carefully on the chauffeur. Steeling herself, she exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.

  The man fell, face down, his skull split open by her bullet. The impact blasted a spray of red into the air. The chauffeur’s cap flew off onto the driveway and landed a few yards away.

  He fell, clearly dead. His feet were twisted, pigeon-toed. His body was splayed in the driveway, completely inert. Mondragone whirled, reaching for his pistol, and looked in her direction.

  John Sinclair emerged from the house, his footsteps crunching across the gravel of the courtyard. Victoria was still missing. He had searched every room in the house, even her bedroom, where the suitcase had been ransacked. Mondragone had been there and must have taken the necklace.

  His thoughts were frantic, trying to calculate where to look next. He’d checked the greenhouse, and the barn with its dead farmworker and pool of blood. The West Garden and the maze were unlikely spots, but he tried anyway, stumbling his way through the grounds in the fog. He�
��d even walked all the way down to the neoclassical folly. Victoria seemed to be gone.

  As he searched, his mind went back to the Maybach car parked by the gate. It must belong to Mondragone. Who else would have such an expensive vehicle? Perhaps he had kidnapped the princess. It was worth checking to see if it was still there. At the very least, he could disable the car by puncturing the tires, eliminating an escape route for the mobster.

  Sinclair started down the long line of elms, using the tree trunks to guide him. Suddenly, there was a single rifle shot. He stopped. In this fog it was impossible to tell how near it was. It seemed to come from in front of him, so he started to run along the drive in the direction of the sound.

  Victoria lay still with her hands shaking and her heart pounding. She’d killed the chauffeur. At least one of the Camorra gangsters was dead, sprawled in the driveway not ten feet away. Now she had to target Mondragone.

  She tried to aim the rifle again, but her hands were shaking. As Mondragone approached, the dog whimpered at her side, crouching in a defensive position. A low growl came from its throat. Mondragone was standing not three feet away, pointing a pistol at her head.

  Luca Brindisi rode the horse through the mist. Somehow he had gotten off course. The animal knew the route back to the barn, and he was letting it find the way. For a while, his mount seemed confused by the muffled sounds and the swirling fog, but suddenly they were cantering down a double line of trees flanking the main drive.

  Lifting its head, the horse broke into a gallop, tearing toward the main house. Luca relaxed the reins and gave the horse its head. They would be at the stables soon.

  A loud explosion seemed to come from behind one of the trees. It spooked the horse violently. The animal bucked, stumbled, and nearly fell, neighing with a high-pitched scream.