by Jonas Saul
Finally, standing in a referee touchdown pose, arms raised above his head, still buried in dirt, his right hand broke the surface first. He felt emptiness and wondered for a crazy second if he’d hit some kind of air pocket, but realized that his hand had dug up past the surface.
Pain wracked his body. He paused and breathed inside the shirt-mask as he did a mental inventory of the pain. His forehead wound ached the most. Second were his hands. He was sure he’d lost at least two fingernails as he had dug frantically. Scrapes and cuts littered his body. His shirt still sat above his head, the sleeves still tied, but below his neck, he was exposed. The nerdy shorts he wore only came to just above his knees. Below that, his shins were also cut and scraped.
Dizziness set in.
Air. I need air. I’m almost out.
He dug, but soon realized that he didn’t have anywhere to displace the dirt. Both hands broke the surface and started to toss dirt left and right, but it wasn’t quick enough.
His head remained buried approximately a foot below the surface of the earth, which might as well be quicksand. The dirt was so heavy around him that none of his body parts could move too well. His shoulders ached from the strain to the point where they felt like they’d been pulled out of their sockets.
He hadn’t lost his will now that he’d gotten so close. It was his strength he’d lost.
In the time that he stopped to catch his breath, there wasn’t any air left.
I need to break … the surface. Air … or die …
He struggled, his eyes closed, focused on the ground above him, but it was no use.
It wasn’t going to happen. Gambino would get his wish. And when they came in the morning and saw his hands sticking out, they would know he was a fighter.
In his oxygen-deprived brain, one last conscious thought hit him. The sides of the coffin were wood. They were strong and now supported by dirt on either side.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He allowed it in. All the years of hating the dark. All the rage he felt when confronted with a phobia. He called upon that dark place inside him and used every ounce of strength he had left to lift his right leg onto the right side of the coffin wall. Dirt shuffled and moved as most of it was relatively looser down there, having been recently relocated.
Once his right foot was centered on the edge of the coffin wall, he placed his left foot on the opposite wall. He felt like an open-legged frog about to do some kind of funky dance.
He brought his hands back under the surface of the earth, placing them right above his head. Then he counted to three and pushed with his legs, with all the anger he could muster.
He used his hands to dig at the fastest rate they could.
With the added height of the coffin’s walls, Darwin’s head burst through the topsoil and into open air.
The dirt came to his chin. He quickly grabbed the T-shirt and ripped it off his head, breathing in the sweet air. He breathed in so fast, he became dizzy as the glorious oxygen filled his lungs.
He didn’t move for at least ten minutes until he got his breathing back under control. He stood under the ground, buried to his neck in dirt, surrounded by headstones, and breathed.
His thoughts cleared. His muscles felt less fatigued. After a moment he began to dig himself out. Piece by piece, he picked dirt up and tossed it away. Then more dirt.
The whole time he chanted his wife’s name under his breath.
To get halfway out of the hole, he figured it had taken an hour. He kept digging. He wanted to go after Gambino before the sun came up.
He had a plan. One that he knew would work. Gambino would never expect it.
“I’m coming for you, Gambino. I’m back from the dead and I’m fucking pissed.”
Chapter 12
Carson and Greg stood in the headlights of Carson’s car. They sipped two large coffees as they watched Bob Freska’s body be removed from the hood of his car.
“I want this kid, Darwin,” Carson said. “He’ll have to answer for what he’s done.”
Greg stepped back and sat on the hood of Carson’s car. He took another sip of his coffee. “What makes you certain this is Darwin’s handiwork?”
Carson glared at him. “I read the kid’s file. I know him.”
Greg shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
Carson set his coffee down on the hood and dropped his arms to his side. “You’ve got some nerve.”
“I know Darwin better than any agent at the Bureau. I helped him with the Vincenzo fiasco. I was in Rome with him at the end and I was there for the Toronto attacks. That’s where I got these scars.” He pointed at his arms. “We were in an accident on Toronto’s main highway. So, I know Darwin better than anybody and especially better than someone who read his file.”
“Is this a competition?”
“Clearly it is for you.”
Carson studied him for a minute in the light of the headlights, Greg’s face slightly lit from the backwash.
“What about that cop who got killed in Rome? The report said time of death was estimated within an hour of the Harvester of Sorrow’s time of death. This nonviolent little boy can waltz into the Fuccini building, kill all the Fuccini hit men and the Harvester, but he can’t save a cop. Something’s fishy.”
“Maybe he got there too late.”
“What about the security cameras showing him leaving the airport in Rome and walking into one of Fuccini’s vans?”
“What about it?”
Carson stepped back and took a longer look at Greg. “Are you fooled by all this too?”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. The Fuccinis hunted him. They followed Darwin to Rome because he accidentally killed Vincenzo and the Fuccinis wanted revenge.”
“I don’t buy that the Vincenzo thing was purely accidental. Fuccini wouldn’t travel the globe looking to kill one man. Too stupid and too risky.”
“He did though. Maybe that’s why he’s dead.”
“I still think Darwin is connected somehow and it’s above my pay grade to get all the answers. But that doesn’t matter anymore. When you kill feds in my jurisdiction, you go down for it.”
“We still don’t know if he killed feds or if he was acting in self-defense. As far as Bob here goes, anyone could’ve done this. What I’m trying to figure out is who would target Darwin now that Fuccini is dead.”
“None of that matters to me,” Carson said as he picked up his coffee cup. “I’m not the jury or the judge. My job is to arrest people and let the courts figure it out. I hope he gets a good lawyer and if he’s innocent, he’ll go free, but I don’t think that’ll happen. Too much dirt on this guy’s hands for him to be clean. Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
Freska’s body had been removed from the car. Men stood around the vehicle with small brushes, examining it under floodlights. Carson saw Rudy talking to the coroner and waved him over.
“Have they found anything?” Carson asked.
“Nothing whatsoever. His wallet and badge are missing. The car looks clean. This was a professional hit. If Darwin did this, he’s getting tips from Gambino.”
“Everything points to Darwin. He was the last person seen with Bob at the motel.”
Greg pushed off the car and walked around Carson. “What was that about Gambino? Why use that name?”
“Gambino has a vacation home in the area,” Rudy said. “Lately he’s been spending a lot of time down here as his family does their business in Toronto. It keeps him isolated to be this far south.”
Greg looked really pissed. He kicked his foot into the gravel and stepped away, slamming a fist into the palm of his other hand.
“What got into him?” Rudy asked.
“Who knows? He’s been a dick ever since I picked him up at the airport.”
Greg turned back to face them from five feet away. “Are you two clowns saying that Gambino, as in Frankie Gambino, reputed Canadian mob boss, has a residence in this area?”
Carson put up a hand. “Watch how you’re talking. You can’t come down here to collect your boy and trash-talk us. I’m not a fucking clown.”
“Just answer the fucking question. Does Gambino have a local residence?”
Rudy stepped forward. “Yeah. It’s about a ten-minute drive from here.”
Greg tossed his coffee cup into the brush on his right and headed for the car. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Carson asked.
Greg got to the passenger side door and opened it. He stood holding the door. “You serious?”
“Yeah, we can’t just barge into Gambino’s residence. Too much security. We can’t assume just because he has a vacation home in the area that he has anything to do with what’s happening today.”
“You do know the famous shootout at the abandoned hangar in Toronto was reportedly orchestrated by the Gambino Family?”
Carson nodded. “I’ve heard that.”
“They missed Vincenzo that night. Darwin killed him by accident. Fuccini went after Darwin and he paid the ultimate price for that. Wouldn’t you think Gambino wants to know who Darwin is and who he works for? That’s how these assholes think. Fuck, you even think Darwin isn’t on the up and up.”
Greg dropped into the car.
Carson turned to Rudy. “Did he just call us assholes too?”
Rudy shrugged. “Not sure, but probably not.”
“Hey,” Greg shouted. “Whose bright idea was it to set up a safe house for a Mafia killer like Darwin only a short drive from Gambino’s vacation home? There are hundreds of places the Kostas could’ve gone. Wait, don’t tell me. Nick Johnson and Lee Michaels, right?”
Carson nodded. Maybe Greg is on to something.
Greg waved at Bob Freska’s car. “Gambino did this. It’s a message. Darwin doesn’t do this kind of shit. The mob does. Gambino’s too stupid to know we’ll see through it. Bob picked up the Kostas at the Sleep On Inn, and he delivered them to Gambino. Then Frankie did this to make it look like Darwin’s work.” Greg slapped the roof of the car. “Come on. Let’s go pick up Darwin and his wife before they’re killed. If Gambino has them, they’re either already dead or will be shortly.”
Chapter 13
Darwin lifted one leg out of the hole, followed by the other, thoroughly exhausted by the effort. He lay on his back and stared at the stars, thanking them for being lucky and thanking God.
He waited until he got his breathing under control and his body had a short rest. Rosina was still Gambino’s prisoner, and every second counted. He hoped he would make it back in time.
He got to his feet, slipped his T-shirt on, and stumbled away from the unmarked grave.
How could someone do that to another human being?
He rubbed the dirt off his face as best as he could and walked toward the road.
What he had done in the past haunted him. Nightmares were a regular visitor in the night. He had killed people. He’d done it out of anger, but it was always in self-defense. If only he could be left alone, he wouldn’t have to kill, but they kept coming. They came with an unjust belief or notion of who he was or what he had done. They thought he was part of a Mafia group or family. They thought he had ties to organized crime. They even thought he was a hired assassin. But they were all wrong. He was a kind man who only wanted to be left alone to enjoy his new marriage and possibly have kids one day.
Today was the day he would kill again, so the people after him would stop their pursuit. Once Gambino was gone, Darwin couldn’t think of another family boss that even knew his name.
He made it to the darkened road and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. He knees were weak, exhausted after the arduous climb out of the pine box. Rosina was all that kept him upright. Without her, he was dead anyway.
Nothing moved on the other side of the road. He couldn’t see security detail anywhere.
Keeping to the darkened shadows of the trees on the side, Darwin walked parallel to the road, guessing how far to the warehouse where Gambino kept his prized World War II collection of airplanes and artillery.
It was dark. The full dark of at least two or three in the morning, and it didn’t bother him as much as it normally would.
Am I healing? Can a phobia go away? Maybe being in the coffin flooded it.
He seemed to remember a doctor telling him something about flooding years ago, but forgot the exact details. He was past caring. At the precise moment he’d woken up in a coffin six feet underground and had discovered he had been buried alive, he understood just how horrible the world had become. How many people before him had died at the hands of a man like Gambino? How many families had been killed like the people on his giant checkerboard by the pool? People like Frank Gambino shouldn’t be allowed to live, yet he operated above the law.
As far as Darwin was concerned, he died in that grave. The old Darwin, the idealistic one who assumed that there was goodness in everyone, passed away.
Being absolutely consumed with fear, stuck in a small box in a grave with no light, made the darkness under stars bright enough to endure, but dark enough to remain hidden. The dark had become his ally, no longer his foe.
And the blade will become my ally.
He still had an irrational response to things that were sharp or pointy, but that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
The road turned to the right. He stayed ten feet back, deep in the dark shadows of the trees. It was time to start looking for a separate road that would lead to the warehouse. He hoped Gambino frequented the warehouse from a different access point and not just from the main house. What Darwin had planned wouldn’t work if he had to walk by the main house.
He edged to the side of the road and closed his eyes to listen. Nothing moved. The only sounds were the crickets.
He opened his eyes and stepped out of the trees. No one attacked him and no alarms sounded.
He made it to the other side of the road and dropped down to the cover of trees and darkness again where he waited a heartbeat and listened.
His guesstimate of just over a hundred yards had worked. Ten yards in front of him, light glistened off a chain-link fence. Staying in the shadows, he walked around the fence and climbed over a small stone barrier until he landed on Gambino’s warehouse property.
At this point, he expected to see security guards or even dogs, but no one approached.
He kept moving, walking from tree to tree not five feet from the edge of the small gravel road.
The wall of a building came up quick. In the dark he hadn’t been able to see it. Four feet separated him from the corrugated steel wall.
All he needed now was a door and he would be almost there.
He hopped over a fallen tree, landed hard and slipped to the side, falling into dead leaves. He clamped his lips down hard to quell the grunt that escaped him. He waited on the ground to see if anyone heard him and responded.
From inside the warehouse, the rhythmic sound of boots thumped as someone walked not five feet from him on the other side of the wall. He lay flat out on the damp ground and waited until silence returned. Then he slowly got up and continued along the wall in search of an access point.
A twig scraped along his cheek but he held the groan in. The trees thickened at the corner of the building. He needed to walk over a dozen feet away from the wall to get around them. At the edge of the tree line, there was an opening. To his right, an access door.
Something clicked and the door shot open. He stopped and stood still beside a tree, remaining hidden.
A guard held the backdoor to the warehouse open while he puffed on a cigarette. The lights on the inside of the warehouse shone brightly, illuminating the trees Darwin stood behind. The density of the trees blocked the light from getting more than four feet past them.
That was too fucking close. I could have stepped out when the door opened.
He waited, barely breathing, until the man butted his cigarette and stepped back inside.
&
nbsp; When the door clicked shut, Darwin bolted from his hiding place and ran for the door. He gripped the handle and turned it, expecting resistance. But the door knob was unlocked.
Of course. Who would attack a known mobster’s house that’s guarded by armed men with the only objective to kill on sight? Then why am I here? Because I’m already dead and the rest of these maggots can go to hell.
