Ettore sat beside him, unable to control his breathing. He looked at Dominic’s side. “You’re hurt.”
Dominic just shook his head, unable to stop crying. Ettore got up and walked over to Bonazzi. “Is he dead?” he asked, trying to take his mind from his heartbreak.
Dominic wiped his eyes and stood up. “No, he’s just unconscious.”
Ettore came back to him. He switched on his flashlight. “Your eye. What happened?”
“He thumbed it. It’ll be all right later on.”
“Let’s see that side.”
“It’s nothing, Papa. We’d better do what we have to and get out of here.” He walked over to Bonazzi, took cords from his pocket, and tied his hands and feet. Ettore slapped his face until he stirred. He was soon back to full consciousness. Ettore grasped a handful of hair and dragged him into the moonlight in the middle of the road. “Can you understand me, Bonazzi?” he asked roughly. Bonazzi’s eyes were white with terror. He nodded his head. “Why did you kill my daughter?”
Bonazzi turned his face to the dirt and began weeping. Dominic was beside him in an instant. He grabbed his hair and forced his face up to look into his own. “Bonazzi,” he hissed. “I burned the balls off Bucci. It will give me a thousand times the satisfaction doing it to you. So you’d better answer my father or I’ll get right to work.”
A calm suddenly descended on Bonazzi, the serenity of one who accepts his fate. He stopped crying. He breathed deeply two or three times before he could speak. “Mr. DiStephano,” he said, his voice quavering, still not under control. “Your daughter was the finest girl I knew.” He bit his lip to steady himself. “We had been seeing each other for over two months. I thought of asking her to marry me. But I knew I could never do that, because I sometimes go insane. I do things I don’t know I’m doing. I wish to Blessed Mary I had died or been put into an insane asylum before I met her.” He closed his eyes, wearily. “I killed Maria,” he whispered through tightly pressed teeth. He began crying again. “I killed the only girl I ever really loved.”
Ettore and Dominic sank to the ground, sadness casting its pall over their faces. They sat quiet, looking down at the man weeping in the middle of the road. Bonazzi wiped his eyes against his bare shoulder.
Ettore cleared his throat. “That man at the card game, the one who was supposed to be honest. Why did he swear you were there?”
“He has a son at college. My father’s men were with him all the time. He knew his son would be killed if he didn’t do as we asked.” He looked up at Ettore. “I’m sorry, Mr. DiStephano. I’m as sorry as I can be. I know you’re going to kill me, but you shouldn’t let it weigh on your soul.” He turned his head towards Dominic. “You’re Dominic. Maria spoke of you all the time. She said you were the one she loved the most.” His eyes clouded over and he bit his lip again to keep his voice steady. “Will you do me a favor, Dominic?”
Dominic wiped the tears from his own eyes. “Maybe.”
“Untie my hands and give me your shotgun.”
Dominic stared long and hard at him, then he took out his switchblade and cut the cords. He handed over the shotgun.
Without a word, Bonazzi placed the muzzle into his mouth, then with a toe, he pressed the trigger. Bone and brains flew over the road.
CHAPTER 14
Dominic lifted Michael tenderly in his arms and carried him towards the boat. Halfway there, he fell to his knees, almost dropping the body. His side was aching and burning. Ettore’s compress hadn’t stopped the bleeding. His father took Michael from him and carried him the remaining distance. Once in the canoe, Dominic lay back as Ettore paddled it across the lake.
Vincent was waiting for them. His eyes filled with the terrible sadness he had known for his mother, then his wife and sons, then Maria, then Junior, and now his brother.
“I’ll take Mike, Papa,” he said softly. He lifted his brother over his good shoulder. Dominic and Ettore dropped their guns into the canoe, picked it up, and they started off. Dawn was breaking and they were all staggering badly when they reached the car. Ettore got into the rear seat. Vincent placed Michael there, his head resting on his father’s lap. Dominic helped Vincent lash the canoe to the car rack, then stood quietly as Vincent tightened the compress on his side. “I’ll drive,” said Vincent. The two climbed into the car. “Before we go, tell me what happened back there.”
Dominic explained all that had transpired up to the gunfight with Bonazzi, then Ettore took over. He and Michael were standing in the hall when Bonazzi fired his gun and yelled for Franko. The shot woke up the others. Ettore stepped into the room and ordered the two men not to move, but they went for their guns, so Ettore killed them. He ran back into the hallway. Michael had traded shots with Franko, who had reacted instantly and aggressively to Bonazzi’s shout. His second shot had killed the gunman. He had then stepped back into the hallway.
The door, flung open desperately by Bonazzi, had struck Michael squarely, knocking him to the floor. As Bonazzi ran out, he collided with Ettore. With extreme alertness, he struck Ettore on the head with his revolver, dazing him, then turned and fired at Michael, hitting him with the fatal shot.
Vincent listened carefully. “Did you bring all your weapons?” Dominic nodded. “How about fingerprints?”
Dominic shook his head. “None. We kept our gloves on and took everything. But there will be footprints, signs that someone came over in a boat, the toilet paper. How do you read that, Vince?”
Vincent sat pondering before turning around to Ettore. “Papa, Mike will have to take the blame. Is that okay?” Ettore nodded, too overwhelmed with grief to speak. “Here’s the way I see it then. The Canadian police will not charge anyone without sufficient evidence to make a case. Therefore, we’ll have to make the case for them - to our advantage. The story will be that you, Dom, and Mike came here to relax, and perhaps do some target practice.” He started the car and drove off. “We’d better get away from here. Someone could just come by. Anyhow, you and Mike bought the guns and rented the canoe with the intention of looking about for a place to practice shooting. Last night both of you met two French Canadians in a bar. You can’t remember which. You had a few drinks together. Then Mike bought a bottle, and the four of you took a ride in the countryside. You and Mike had an argument. Think up a reason. Maybe because Mike was drinking too much and acting like an ass. You got out of the car, told them all to go to hell, then started walking back. You fell asleep along the road, and woke up at dawn. All you remember is that Mike and the Canadians took off with the car, canoe and weapons. While walking back to town, somebody shot you from the woods. You ran away. Now, Dom, this is very important. The story isn’t worth very much as it stands, but it will be meaningless unless you get that bullet out of your side and destroyed before you are questioned. Otherwise the police will tie it in with Mike and Bonazzi.” He glanced back at Ettore. “Papa, keep your gloves on. Take out Mike’s wallet and give the money to Dom. Now, wipe that rifle carefully. Get rid of every fingerprint. Put Mike’s prints on it. Don’t forget the trigger. We must make the police believe that Mike paid the two Canadians to help him fight Bonazzi’s party, that Mike was killed during the shootout, and that the two Canadians brought him back to this side and took the rest of his money. Those footprints you spoke of, Dom, won’t be a problem. The ground is too dry to determine weight and all that. Most of all, you’ll have to get back to the United States and drop out of sight until we see which way this case is going.”
“Won’t they be right after me?”
“They’ll certainly go all out for you here, probably by an all points bulletin, to hold you for questioning. You’ll be their prime suspect. Once they believe or learn you’ve crossed into the United States, they’ll send a request to our central information system to hold you if ever you’re picked up for an offense. But the American police will not make an active search for you. As for you and me, Papa, we came here to do some fishing with Dom and Mike. I have the best excuse pos
sible - I’ve been fishing at Lac Laval for twenty years. Last night Mike and Dom said they wanted to make the rounds, so they took off and we haven’t seen them since. The big problem is where did we spend the night. The hotel will surely know we did not sleep in our rooms.”
There was silence as they thought. “Hey,” said Dominic. “Where do you stay when you go to Lac Laval?”
“I own a cabin about half an hour away.”
“Is it empty now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the key?”
“There’s one stashed under an eave of the roof.”
“Can we drive there without being seen?”
“That might be difficult - there are always people moving about. But once off the main road, it’s quite deserted.” He had caught on to the idea the moment Dominic mentioned it, but now the details came into focus. “Come to think of it, it can be done. But we’ll need another car.”
“There’s a garage right in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré that rents cars.”
Vincent saw the main road up ahead. He pulled over to the side. “Dom, change shirts with me. You can’t go around with that bloody thing on, and I’m going to need you.”
Once they changed, Vincent drove into Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, dropped Dominic off at a restaurant near the garage which rented cars, then took off. Dominic, his side paining severely, waited in the restaurant over a breakfast plate until the garage opened, then walked to it. Twenty minutes later he came out with a late model Ford.
He drove back on the lonely road until he reached the Dodge parked in a small clearing. Vincent and Ettore were waiting beside it. The three DiStephanos stood looking at Michael’s body in silence, then they climbed into the Ford and left.
They drove through Quebec to the road leading north to Lac Laval. At a public phone booth, Dominic got out and called the police, speaking French with as heavy a Canadian accent as possible to report having seen a dead man in car on the road leading out of Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. Then he hung up.
“Don’t want to leave Mike out there too long,” he explained as he started off again.
When they reached the rolling countryside where Vincent had spent his fishing vacations these many years, he and Ettore crouched low in the car to avoid being seen while Dominic sped to the narrow road leading to the cabin. Soon they were there.
“We’ll tell the police you and Mike left us here last night,” said Vincent. “That you were to pick us up, but when you didn’t show up, we slept here.”
“Exactly,” said Dominic.
Vincent and Ettore handed over most of their money to Dominic. “You have the hard job now, Dom,” said Vincent. “How you are going to get back to the States and keep out of sight is beyond me. There are several roads without border guards into Maine and New Hampshire. Try to make contact with a wood cutter or farmer.” He embraced his brother with moisture in his eyes, and kissed him as men of the blood will kiss. “Thank you, Dom.”
“Okay, Vince.” He turned to his father. “Goodbye, Papa.”
Ettore wrapped his arms around his brown son, tears streaming down his face as he kissed him. “Take care of yourself, Dom.”
“I will, Papa.”
“Come home when you can. And let me know where I can send you money.”
“Okay, Papa.”
He stepped into the Ford and drove off.
They watched it until it was out of sight. “He won’t be able to come home again, Papa,” said Vincent.
Ettore wiped his face. “I know.”
CHAPTER 15
Ettore and Vincent got back to Chicago in time for Michael’s funeral. They had had a devil of a time with the Quebec police, but had not been placed under arrest or even held as material witnesses. Their story had been accepted, although with a certain degree of skepticism. What the police pressed them tenaciously for was the present whereabouts of Dominic as they felt in their bones that the father and brother knew where he had disappeared to. The DiStephanos said that Dominic had driven them to the cabin the night before in the Dodge, complaining bitterly that his brother, Mike, had made friends with two Canadians whom he didn’t care for, and that he was going to cut out on his own the moment he got the car back to them. Who were the men? They didn’t know. What bar did they meet in? Dominic hadn’t said. Did they know any of the four men killed at the lodge? Oh, they did know of a Mr. Bonazzi in Chicago, but had never met the son.
Everyone at home was shattered. Carol was under heavy sedation, Eleanor nigh inconsolable. Anthony took a train back to Chicago, stunned beyond speech. Paul made the funeral by minutes only, helped along by Vito’s plane waiting in California and by customs and immigration officials prepared to give him immediate service.
The word was out now. It was no longer merely the shade of a whisper. The DiStephanos had caught up with the suspected murderer of Maria and blown off his face and head. The funeral director in Quebec, who had prepared the body for shipment to the United States, made little effort to repair the horrible damage. Carlo had flown up, taken one look at his son, then had fallen into a faint.
It was justice, retribution. The police of Chicago quietly moved the file in the ‘active’ drawer to the rear of the cabinet. For all intents and purposes, the search for Maria’s murderer was discontinued.
The funeral services for Michael was of a magnitude that far surpassed Maria’s and Junior’s. Almost four hundred mourners came. Half of them knew him personally or professionally, and they wept for the waste. The other half hailed him as a hero, as a man willing to exchange a beautiful, wealthy, loving wife, a sweet faced daughter, an extraordinary skill that few possessed, and a manner of life which most men envied, for a dark, eternal casket to affirm his belief that the worn, stale clichés of protecting his family with his own hands was still valid. Even the curiosity seekers and sensation hunters stopped a moment in thought.
It was a stony-faced family who attended the mass and listened to the priest deliver the eulogy while deliberately skirting the main issue. Michael, he said, had wielded a sharp blade to bring hope, comfort, and the easing of pain to so many. He left unsaid that the dead man had wielded another type weapon in response to the God-ordained command of an eye for an eye.
They laid Michael to rest on the other side of the spot reserved for Ettore, by his right hand, and when Ettore turned to lead the family from the cemetery, all saw the grief in his heart.
The house was opened to everyone who wanted to enter, and half of those who attended the funeral waited in line to come through the door to wish the family peace. There was wine for all who wished to drink, food for those who wished to eat, and almost all took a sip or ate a morsel as their offering. Through it all, the family mingled freely, nodding their thanks for the sympathies being presented and hiding the misery in their souls.
When all had gone, the family assembled at the kitchen table. Here Ettore placed his head on the table and wept with deep, heartbroken sobs that shook the family. Rose finally got up and motioned for Mario to help her take her father upstairs. It was many minutes before she returned.
“I’ve given Papa a sedative. Today was just too much for him.”
“I’ve never seen him so broken up,” remarked Vincent.
Rose turned to Carol. “What do you intend to do now, Carol? Settle back in Chicago?”
Carol shrugged, her red rimmed eyes dulled with depression. “I suppose so. We have many friends there, but this is still our home. Eleanor will enter school here. Maybe we’ll stay with Papa until we decide what to do.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Rose, taking her hand. “He would be so happy to have you.”
“What’s the news about Dom?” asked Paul.
“I have him,” said Vito. “He made his way down to Montpelier and collapsed in a motel. Fortunately, he had enough presence of mind to contact Bonny, who had just gone back to Boston from Virginia. She phoned me immediately, and I had my people go directly there to get him. He was in bad shape, his si
de infected, a fever of a hundred and five. He’s now in a private clinic in Manchester. The doctors say he’ll be all right, but it’s going to be a long trip back.”
“Is Bonny with him?” asked Carol.
Vito nodded. “Yes.”
Paul leaned back into his chair, drained by a fatigue he had not felt for a very long time. The trip home had been a hectic one. Shortly before receiving notification of Michael’s death, he had been reassigned to CONUS and was going through the details of turning over command, packing, saying goodbye to everyone. The sudden need to expedite matters had required an around-the-clock effort. He hadn’t yet told the family he was being posted to the War Plans Division at the Pentagon, nor of the notice he received the day he left Viet Nam that his promotion to brigadier general was in the mill and should be along in a couple of weeks.
His new tactic had worked out so well in the sweep that he had gotten a top level commendation. In addition, the technique was now being used by several other units. All this should have brought him a full measure of pride, for it was the acme of twenty years of labor. But somehow it didn’t seem as important as it did a month ago, or even a week ago.
“What is old man Bonazzi going to do about the killing of his son?” he asked. He saw from Vincent’s surprised expression that he hadn’t thought of that.
“I don’t really know,” said Vincent reflectively. “I suppose he’s as ready as we are to close the book.”
Paul shook his head in exasperation. “Vito told me about the fuss he made in Papa’s office. That doesn’t sound like a person who is going to call things quit. If he was ready to attack you people to protect his son I hate to imagine what he will do now.”
Vincent’s face was a study of sudden realization, then he nodded. “I hadn’t thought that out, Paul. Our loss was so great with Mike gone that I assumed everyone was prepared to stop this terrible fight. Now I’m not so sure.”
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 26
