She’d spent the whole time concentrating on not feeling the itch, not feeling the pain. She was weak, and all the muscles she was able to move were hurting badly. What’s more, she could feel her buttocks, her hands, and her feet all tingling as if they’d gone to sleep. Her blood wasn’t circulating properly.
A week is the longest you can go without water. How long can you survive bound and hooded? Six days? Five? The orange cat. Where is that orange cat with the bell on its collar? If there’s an orange cat with a bell on its collar, then there has to be another house nearby.
Sure, but they can’t hear you.
She’d screamed until she’d gone completely hoarse and had spat a reddish phlegm. She’d injured her throat, and had nothing to show for it. No one had heard her at all.
It might just be a stray cat. They only have stray cats in the city. So that means I must be near a city.
Who told you such a thing? Cats are everywhere. Even in the countryside. And who says you’re in Aosta? You could be anywhere.
“Where are you? Where are you? Why don’t you come? Why?”
Where is whoever tied me up here? Where has he gone? Why doesn’t he come back to give me something to drink? I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty and I’m hungry.
The old wooden door shivered in response to some sudden impact. Chiara’s heart stopped pumping, her blood chilled and curdled, and her stomach shrank tight until it was smaller than a peanut.
There they are now. They’re here!
Two more loud bangs. She expected to see the chain slide through the hole and the door swing open, and maybe a man wearing a ski mask might come in with food and water.
My God! If they come in right now they’ll see me without the hood on my head! And if my kidnappers come in without ski masks, I’ll see their faces, and they’ll have to kill me!
“My eyes are closed! My eyes are closed!” she shouted with what little voice remained to her. “I don’t have the bag on my head anymore, but my eyes are closed. I can’t see anything, I swear to you!”
She sat waiting. Her eyelids squeezed tight. She waited for the sound of the chain sliding, the door opening.
But nothing happened.
The seconds ticked past. She opened her eyes again.
“Is . . . is anyone there? Please, just answer me!”
The judge had moved very quickly. Not even half an hour later, Rocco’s fax machine had spat out a page full of information about the infants’ and children’s clothing shop. As Rocco was reading it, Italo Pierron sat waiting. Caterina was no longer in the room. She’d gone home early because she’d felt the fever rise throughout her body.
“The shop is named HeyDiddleLiddles. It belongs to a certain Carlo Cutrì. He’s a resident of Lugano. He has a partner, from Valle d’Aosta, called Michele Diemoz.” Schiavone laid the sheet of paper down on the desk. “I think we should go pay a call. What time is it?”
“Six fifteen.”
“Let’s get moving.”
“Rocco, I’m so sleepy I’m dying on my feet. Do you remember? We’ve been on the go since two in the morning.”
“All right then, head on home. And tell Scipioni to go home too. Is he still on Berguet’s tail?”
“Yes. He called in. Berguet went home at about five thirty and hasn’t been seen since. His wife and his brother are still there too. But I was on the tail of that other guy, Cerruti. He has an Audi TT, and if you ask me, he has a second line of work picking up girls at discotheques.”
“What did he do?”
“He went to see a notary, here, this is the address.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and left it on the desk. “Dottor Enrico Maria Charbonnier. He’s on Rue Piave, three numbers up from your place.”
“Got it. Memorized. Excellent. Italo, you go ahead and get some sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll go ahead to the store on my own.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow?”
“Usual time.”
“Nine in the morning?”
“Is there a store that sells Clarks shoes here in Aosta? The place I used to go went out of business.”
“Are you out of shoes?”
Schiavone nodded.
“Eleven pairs?” Schiavone nodded again.
“But why don’t you buy some other kind of shoes?”
“But why don’t you mind your own fucking business? So is there or isn’t there?”
“Uh uh, I don’t think there is. . . .”
“If you happen to hear of one, can you buy me a pair? Men’s size 10.”
“Message received. . . .”
Rocco stood up from his chair. “I’d better go, or they’ll close. Any news from the De Rege brothers?”
“D’Intino and Deruta?” asked Italo as he got to his feet. “Nothing so far. They’re MIA.”
Schiavone nodded and, saying nothing, left the office.
It was almost dark outside and the last glow of the day was barely lapping at the shadows in the room.
It was just the wind that had slammed the old weatherbeaten door against the jamb. Chiara started shivering with the cold. The rain hadn’t stopped for an instant, and the dank chill of the cellar room was starting to creep into her bones. Soon it would be pitch dark out, and inside, too. Then her brain would start zigzagging freely, without a destination, with no landmarks to go by.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it. In the dark you see things that aren’t there. You see the gray shadows of rats, you see giant spiders. And the darkness has a respiration all its own . . . like an enormous body, hiding and breathing. It draws near, it moves away. It squats quietly in a corner, and then, as soon as you fall asleep . . .
Twelve hours of darkness. Twelve hours of presences, shapes, nightmares, and obscurity.
I’m not going to be able to hold out. I hurt all over. My head . . . is hammering. Down below, it’s like a wave. My legs. My arms. All over. Nails? Staplers? Pliers? Flames? Blades? I’ve got it all working on me . . .
Try smashing your head against the column. That way you could knock yourself out and at least you’d get some sleep, the little voice suggested to her.
Chiara did her best not to listen.
What would it take? One sharp bang and you’re done! You get a nice long nap!
If I tug on my wrists, in the end I can get them loose. I’ll cut them, but I’ll get them loose. If I wait I’ll just get weaker and weaker. The sooner I try it, the better for me.
Try with your legs. Your legs are stronger.
My legs?
Your legs.
This time, the little voice had a point. Your legs are always stronger. Especially her legs, since at age twelve she was thought to have had a future as a competitive skier. Her calves and her quadriceps were powerful. She had to give it a try. Maybe she could do it.
If only I had a drop of water.
Oh, yack and yack and yack and instead of doing you just talk and cry. You talk and you cry. Come on!
She started pushing her legs forward. They were tethered to the chair at her ankles.
If it’s a chain, you can tug for the rest of your life, and it’ll never break.
“If it is a chain, you asshole. But it doesn’t make any noise, does it? So it’s not a chain. It’s duct tape!”
She shut her eyes and rocked forward and back, forward and back. It was no good. The grip didn’t loosen, didn’t yield. She reinforced each lunge by hopping a little in the chair. Her buttocks were tingling and beginning to ache. So were her quadriceps and the muscles in her arms. But Chiara wouldn’t give up. She was clenching her legs, then spreading them wide, jerking them forward, yanking them back. Her ankles were fastened tight to the chair. She kicked again, once, then twice. She heard a sudden crack, the sound of rotten wood shattering, then the chair beneath her collapsed. She tipped to one side, hit the floor, smacking her head as she did so. A blazing blade of pain stabbed into her thigh.
She screamed with all the breath she had in her lungs. She stretched out her legs, now f
ree to move. A section of chair leg was still fastened to her right ankle. Behind her left leg, a few inches below her buttocks, a wooden dagger had been driven into her flesh. The intolerable pain was paralyzing her.
What is it . . . ? What is it . . . ? A . . . piece of wood? A big splinter? It’s in my leg. It’s inside. God, how it hurts. It burns. God, it burns!
The shattered chair leg had plunged straight into her biceps femoris. The dark stain of the wound kept spreading.
Blood? I’m losing lots of blood.
Her muscles were trembling like jello. Chiara narrowed her eyes and got a glimpse of herself, sprawled on the floor on her side, left leg wounded and bleeding, right leg bent back, hands still strapped to the backrest of the chair, face pressed against the chilly floor. And pain amplifying by the minute.
If I stay still, it’ll calm down. If I stay still, it’ll calm down. I’ll stay still, and I won’t move, and it’ll all get better.
Good girl. Stay still. That way you’re bound to lose every last drop of blood in your body. Then you’ll die.
It had stopped raining. The streets were awash, and everywhere you turned there were puddles, worse than a minefield. Rocco was careful not to step in one as he walked. His phone rang.
It was Furio, from Rome. Rocco’s heart started flapping its wings.
“Hey old friend, how are you doing?”
“I’m good, Rocco, I’m good. What do you say?”
“What do I say? Same old bullshit as always.”
“Listen, let me just take a minute of your time.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“It’s about Adele.”
“Has she dumped Seba again?” Rocco asked, already out of patience.
“No. But she’s planning to. That guy is an asshole.”
“It’s what I’ve always said.”
“So me and her came up with an idea. She drops out of circulation for a while. He gets all jealous and he comes looking for her, and then she has the proof she needs.”
Rocco thought it over. “Yeah, that strikes me as a pretty good idea. But where is she going to hide out, though? Seba never has any trouble tracking her down.”
“We thought it over and came up with a flash of genius.”
“Let’s hear it. But step it up, because I’m in the middle of a nasty case.”
“Simple as could be,” said Furio. “She’ll come and stay with you.”
Rocco stopped. “With me? What do you mean, with me?”
“It would never occur to Seba that she’s staying with you.”
“But . . . where would she stay?”
“At your place, no?”
“But have you ever been up to my place in Aosta? I only have one bed.”
“Well, don’t you have a pullout couch or something?”
“Sure, but Adele. . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s just for a couple of days. Then she’d go back to Rome.”
“If you ask me, you’re both crazy. But still . . . okay . . . tell her to call me when she makes up her mind.”
“Sure, will do. Oh, good luck on that, and I’ll get off the line now.”
“Look, I’m expecting you up here, you know?”
“Sure, now that it’s getting warm, I’ll come up. That’s a promise.”
“And I believe you. Take care of yourself, Furio.”
Adele in his apartment. That was a strange, deranged thing. For two reasons. First of all, because it sort of seemed like he was playing an unfair trick on Seba. Even if, when you stopped to consider, he was doing it for the man’s own good. The second reason was Adele. A friend, Sebastiano’s woman—and to Rocco any friend’s woman automatically became a man. But to have her in his home, maybe right there, first thing in the morning, as he was waking up . . . well, he’d have to use all his willpower not to behave like a complete asshole.
What about Marina? What would she have to say about it? She’d always been such an intensely private person. She wouldn’t want to have Adele sharing their private space. She’d probably put up a fuss.
Maybe he needed to find her a hotel. For that matter, no one had ever set foot in his place. And no one ever should.
Rocco turned the corner. At the end of the street the signs of HeyDiddleLiddles glowed. The street was dark and deserted, and if it hadn’t been for the shop’s neon signs he would certainly have put his foot squarely in the stream of water running like a mountain torrent along the curb toward the center of the city. Cautiously he approached the plate-glass window. He leaned toward it and peered inside. The shop was empty of customers. The overhead spotlights turned on full inside gave the place the clinical appearance of a hospital. A sales clerk, a young woman in her early thirties, short and stout, was at the cash register. She was punching the keys, tearing off receipts, pushing the cash drawer shut, and repeating the operation. She did it at least six times. When Rocco entered the store, she was so startled she almost jumped off her chair. She stared ashen-faced at the deputy chief and said: “Good evening. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for some terrycloth onesies. Like the ones you have in the front window.”
The shop was hot, like a greenhouse, and an odor of plastic reigned over all.
“That’s fine!” and the young woman came out from behind the counter. “If you’d care to show me. . . .”
Rocco pointed to them. “There, those two. One’s yellow, the other’s green.”
They were terrycloth onesies for newborns. The price was exorbitant, and nothing else had occurred to Rocco.
“Hmmm . . .” the girl was thinking. “How old is the baby? Two? Three?”
“Three? More like four months.”
“Ah, right, of course . . . that’s true. Those onesies, after they turn one. . . .”
“. . . are useless. Unless the baby is having some serious growth issues,” Rocco finished her sentence for her.
“All right, there ought to be some . . . hold on . . .” and she walked over to a shelf piled high with boxes. “There ought to be some. . . .” She studied the boxes, with the tip of her finger in her mouth. She climbed the stepladder, which creaked under her weight. Rocco got ready to launch a lunging rescue in case the ladder collapsed.
“No, they don’t seem to be here. Hold on a minute,” and she went over to a cabinet full of drawers. She started opening and closing them compulsively. “No good, they aren’t here either. I’m really sorry. But I haven’t been working here long. Maybe in the back?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No, I was just thinking that maybe they’re in the back. One moment, please.”
She opened a small door wedged beneath the shelves and vanished from sight. Rocco stepped closer to the cash register. The young woman had left the drawer wide open. It was empty. Not so much as a single banknote. Just a few coins and a couple of metal paperclips. The receipts the young woman had just rung up were on the counter, neatly stacked. The last one showed a total of 320 euros. He heard a commotion and quickly returned to his place at the center of the store. The young woman emerged from the doorway. She had a box in one hand. “Here, I found one. It’s red. Is that okay?”
“Could you show it to me?”
The young woman brought the box to the counter. She opened it. She removed the tissue paper and showed off the onesie. There was the face of Elmo of the Muppets stitched onto it. “How much does it cost?”
“Hold on . . .” she looked on the box. No sign of the price. Then she went to the front window. She came back: “It’s seventy euros!”
“Good lord!” said Rocco. “All right then, I’ll take it. Even though I had planned to get two, but at these prices.”
“It ought to be very good fabric, you know?”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The deputy chief pulled out his wallet and his credit card. The young woman looked at the magnetic card as if it were some exotic specimen of black widow spider. “No!�
� she said, clearly frightened. “No. No credit cards or debit cards, either. Only cash, please.”
“I don’t have cash.”
“But the credit card terminal is out of order.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said the young woman.
“What do you say I come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, that might be good. It strikes me as a very nice idea.”
“All right then, I’ll come back tomorrow. So, will you set it aside for me?”
“Of course, of course.” The shop clerk put the onesie back into the box.
“I’d recommend you lower the temperature a little. It’s stifling in here.”
“I wish I could, but I don’t know how to do it.”
“There must be a thermostat around here somewhere, don’t you think?”
“You think so? Let me take a look.”
Rocco nodded and went back to the front door of the shop, which was all fogged up now from the difference in temperature with the exterior.
“It’s been a pleasure.”
“Same for me. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow . . . what’s your name?”
“Carmelina. Melina, to my friends.”
“See you tomorrow, Melina.”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
My dear Melina, Rocco thought to himself, of course I’ll come back. But not tomorrow. Much, much sooner.
Heading home. Drizzly sky. Low clouds, temperature dropping. He felt a shiver run through him, beneath the thin cloth of his loden overcoat. It would certainly start raining again soon. The stores were closing up for the night but he was still in time to pick up dinner at the pizzeria. The wet asphalt reflected the colorful lights of the shop signs and the shadows of the passersby. The plate glass windows of the pubs and cafés were all fogged up. And so was the window of the by-the-slice pizzeria. He was just a few steps short of the pizzeria when he saw Anna. Rocco stopped in the middle of the street. He bowed his head and headed over to the sheltering shadow of the dark stretch of street at the foot of the building, far from the streetlamp. He saw Anna step down from the sidewalk and head straight for her house. She hadn’t seen him, or else she’d pretended not to. For that matter, she’d made it perfectly clear when they’d talked on the phone. He waited until the woman vanished into her building, then he continued at a brisk pace toward the pizzeria. He was tired, his bones ached. All he wanted was to go home and get a few hours of sleep.
Out of Season Page 12
