Footsteps

by Susan Fanetti

  Sabina didn’t share that—that hope. When she’d come out of the church this morning and had seen, again, the white Escalade parked on the street, the same white Escalade she’d seen when she’d gone the night before to get her Chinese take-out, both times with a driver behind the wheel, she’d added another piece of evidence to the growing case that her remaining days were few. Perhaps the man in the white Escalade was the one who’d been given the job.

  James had never before had her followed, as far as she knew. He kept tabs on her—he often called the place she was supposed to be and made sure she was there, and he always knew her schedule for every day in its entirety, including her meals—but he had not gone quite so far as to put a tail on her. Still, she was perfectly certain that the white Escalade was there because her husband wanted it to be.

  James himself had been, so far, eerily quiet. She’d been away almost twenty-four hours, and he’d texted her only twice. No calls at all. She’d texted when she’d arrived yesterday, and he’d sent back Excellent, darling. I hope you have a good week. No instructions, no reminders, no information. Odd in itself. Then, this morning, as she’d been dressing for Mass, she’d received, Good morning, darling. James was not one to send romantic messages. His texts always had a purpose. So Sabina added them to the evidence pile—building his alibi, his story of devotion.

  Her clinical detachment from the developing reality that James had nefarious plans for her continued. She honestly did not much care. But when she’d seen the Escalade outside the church, as she walked away from Carlo and his family, she’d felt a small frisson of fear.

  It wasn’t guilt—she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary when she’d stopped and spoken to Carlo and met his family. Even that she’d been to church at all didn’t scare her. James would be deeply displeased and, if she ever saw him again, he would take his displeasure out in the way he saw fit, but she was used to that.

  The little twitch of fear she’d felt, she thought, was about the reason the Escalade was there. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as ready to die as she’d thought.

  And that, she knew, was because of Carlo Pagano. She was incensed with herself. After the life she’d had since she’d met James Auberon, she, more than most, should have been well trained to stay away from men who made her heart flutter. To turn her attention, and perhaps her affection, onto a man she’d only just met, and to let her mind take hold of him? In her circumstances? It was folly.

  But he’d touched her last night with such gentle kindness that she’d wept. What he’d been doing should have hurt, even through no fault of his, but he’d been so tender with her that he hadn’t hurt her at all. In her entire adult life, she had never been touched by a man so tenderly, and with no purpose but to give her balm.

  It had taken her breath away. And, apparently, her sense had left with her breath.

  But, a wee voice in her head whispered, if James is going to kill you, what harm could it do? To know tenderness before you die?

  As she’d lain in bed last night, she’d tried to focus her mind away from the memory of Carlo’s touch on her by listing the ways pursuing this folly could cause harm, and not to herself only. To Carlo, too. Yes, he was a Pagano. But James was the Auberon. And if James felt something of his had been taken or tainted, he would salt the earth.

  That white Escalade made it clear that whatever happened in this week, James would know about it. For all Sabina knew, Carlo was already in danger, because he’d walked her home and had come into James’s house. Because she’d invited him in.

  As that thought finally became full, Sabina closed her book. If James knew that Carlo had come into the house late last night…it wouldn’t matter that James no longer wanted her, or that Carlo’s intentions were good. She had to warn him. But how?

  Sitting on the veranda as the afternoon aged into its warmest hour and the sun moved behind the house, making long shadows over the dunes, Sabina considered her options. She didn’t know his phone number, and he lived in Providence, not here. She didn’t know where his father lived. She knew where his sister lived, but going to her house, or their father’s for that matter, would probably only compound the problem.

  Finally, she went into the house and opened a drawer in a shabby-chic chest in the living room. She pulled out the area phone book. She could have used her phone or her laptop to look up a phone number, but James tracked her usage, and she never felt comfortable with the notion that she could sufficiently erase her tracks. So she leafed through the paper phone book to the Ps, not sure she’d find anything, but without another option she could see.

  Carlo Pagano, Sr. was listed. He had a house on Caravel Road. She lifted the receiver on the landline phone—her knowledge of technology was only adequate for her own use, but she thought that a landline would be safer—and dialed the number. Still, what if James had the line tapped as a matter of course? The phone was ringing, though, so she put that worry aside. That was too paranoid. Wasn’t it?

  A young, feminine voice answered, “Hello?”

  Sabina felt her tongue clinging to the bottom of her mouth, but she forced words out. “Yes, good afternoon. I am not bothering you, please, but I may speak with Carlo? Sorry, Carlo Jr.? He is there, please?”

  She could hear the words coming out oddly, the syntax wrong for English and not entirely right for Spanish, either, some bizarre syntactical hybrid, but she was nervous, and that happened more when she was.

  A few seconds of quiet greeted her request. “Um…who should I say is calling?”

  “This is Sabina? We met this morning, yes? You are…Rosa?” She took a guess; Carmen lived elsewhere.

  “Yes. Hi. Um. He’s here. Just a sec.”

  In the ensuing pause, Sabina almost hung up. Was this a thing that could be said through plastic in someone’s ear? Indecision tore at her. But then his voice was there, deep and reassuring. And a little confused.

  “Hello? Bina?”

  “Yes. Carlo. Hello. I…I…” Refusing to let words fail her now, she took a breath and started again. “I need to speak with you. The phone maybe is wrong for this. I would like to meet. Will you? For a few minutes only?”

  “Bina, are you all right?”

  She wasn’t asked that question often, because there weren’t people in her life who had that kind of concern for her. But Carlo had asked it before anything else. She should say yes. Yes, I’m fine was the correct answer. But it was not a true answer, and it wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Finally, she simply reiterated her question. “Will you meet? Is there someplace?”

  After a pause, Carlo answered, “Yes. Of course. Do you know Quinn’s? It’s a pub on Gannet Street. It’s not fancy at all, but there’s a patio out back. I can meet you there in…half an hour?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you. I’ll not be long with you.”

  “It’s all right, Bina, if you need help. I’ll see you there.”

  He hung up before she could say more.

  ~oOo~

  She didn’t change her clothes to go to this Quinn’s pub; she thought it would be better if she looked like she’d gone out to run errands, in case the Escalade was still nearby. She left her sweater and shorts on and put her sore feet into a pair of no-show sport socks and her white Keds. Those felt much better than the boots she’d worn to Mass. Dressed this way, and with the cover-up makeup she’d used on her wrists this morning worn away, all of her recent hurts showed—her wrapped ankle, her scabbed knees, her bruised wrists. She thought long and hard about changing into clothes that made her less…exposed, but in the end held to her idea that she should not look as if she expected to meet anyone who would remark on her condition.

  And the Escalade was, in fact, parked just around the corner from her house. Still the large man behind the wheel. Either he was not very adept at surveillance, or James wanted her to know he was watching. James would never hire anyone who wasn’t the best in his profession. So she was supposed to notice the Escalade. Why? To keep her in line? Th
at was too passive for a man like her husband.

  He wanted her to be afraid.

  And then the next thought chilled her. James wanted her to call him about it. He wanted a record that someone was following her, and that she had called him to get his help. He was setting the stage for her demise and for his alibi. He would probably make some show about asking someone to check in on her.

  Thinking it through, she actually smiled. He was brilliant. Truly brilliant.

  What would he do, though, if she didn’t call him? If she pretended she hadn’t noticed? She thought it would be interesting to find out.

  ~oOo~

  Quinn’s was in the middle of a block, right down in the main part of the Quiet Cove shopping and entertainment district—such as it was. She was pleased, though, to see that the entrance was down a little colonnade and not visible from the street. The driver of the Escalade would not be sure, from his seat behind the wheel, into which business she’d gone.

  Sabina passed it and parked in the lot at the end of the block, then walked back and turned down the colonnade. She pulled open a padded red vinyl door beside which the name QUINN’S glowed in neon, and she went into her first pub.

  Dark, low-ceilinged, and dingy, it was not a place Sabina would ever have gone into had she not been invited there. It seemed uniquely designed for men—and men of a certain type. All over the walls were framed photographs of boxers and race car drivers and boxers and more boxers. Lots of old fight posters, too. There were three large televisions anchored near the ceiling in corners of the room. All were muted and each was playing a different sporting event.

  At this hour on a Sunday, before dusk, there were a few people there, enough to fill about a quarter of the booths and low tables, and three people at the bar. The old jukebox—the kind with the colored liquid bubbling through it—played a song she knew, and she tried to place it. She’d liked it when she was young. By Bon Jovi, maybe? She listened more closely and made out a few lines and thought yes, that was Bon Jovi. The song had been popular the summer she’d been brought to the States to live with Tia Valeria. She’d been eight years old. Mother Mary, she hadn’t thought of music like this in forever. Or anything else about those years.

  Sabina scanned the bar but did not see Carlo. She felt awkward and out of place here, and it was making her anxious. However, the bartender, a brawny man about forty years old, with brown hair, a full beard, and tattoos covering his arms, waved her to the bar.

  “You’re too damn beautiful to be in here without a good reason, darlin’. You looking for Carlo?”

  Sabina nodded. “Yes. Yes, please.”

  “He’s out back—down that little hall and through the door at the end. Past the johns. I’m Hugh. You need a drink to take back with you?”

  “No, thank you…Hugh.” She smiled.

  He slapped his hand, its knuckles big and scarred, over his heart. “Damn. An accent, too. You need anything, you let me know.”

  She nodded and followed his directions out to the patio.

  The patio was much nicer than the bar. The seating was picnic tables painted a bright, cheery green and topped with assorted sun umbrellas advertising beer and liquor. White mini-lights were strung all along the tall wood fence that made the perimeter. They glowed weakly in the waning daylight.

  A few of the tables were occupied. Sitting alone at one of them was Carlo.

  When he saw her, he stood. This evening, he was dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt, its tails left loose. The top two buttons were undone, and she could see dark hair on his chest. She’d noticed that last night, too—not too much hair, but not scraggly, either. The right amount. His hair had that same wild, swept-back look; it was becoming obvious that there was nothing more to be done with that mop. But she liked it. Neither too long nor too short, not so wild as to appear unkempt, it suited him. He smiled broadly as she approached. That suited him, too. He smiled all the way to his light brown eyes.

  But then he took her appearance in, and the smile faded when he got to her legs. “Bina. You’re so hurt.”

  “No. Not so much hurt. May we sit?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He turned and gestured to the seat opposite where he’d been sitting. After she sat, he did. There was a half-finished beer in a glass near his place. “I’m sorry. I needed a drink. I would have ordered you something, but I wasn’t sure…”

  Sabina didn’t drink. James did not allow her to take anything that might alter her mind in any way. When she’d had surgery, he’d taken her pain meds away at his earliest opportunity.

  “That is beer?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  “I will take one. Thank you.”

  With a series of gestures made to someone behind Sabina’s back, Carlo conveyed that she would like one of what he was having, and that he would like another. Then he focused on her. “What did you need to talk about?”

  How did she explain to him that he might be in trouble, perhaps even danger, because he had been kind to her? How to make him understand? She had no idea.

  Sabina had not had a confidant since she was eighteen years old, when her aunt died. But all she could think now was to confide in Carlo. A little bit. Enough so he would know to stay away, and that she was sorry.

  A cute waitress in a small denim skirt and a tight, red t-shirt with the name QUINN’S in bold yellow letters across the chest brought her a beer and Carlo another. Carlo nodded his thanks, and she left.

  “Bina?”

  To hear him use that name did something strange inside her chest. She’d told him to call her that, of course. Last night. She didn’t know why. Only one other person in the world had ever called her Bina. James. She’d hated it when he’d first started, and she’d even, very early on, asked him not to. He’d only smiled and said he enjoyed having a name for her that was his only. At the time, she’d found it romantically possessive. She’d quickly, but yet too late, learned better.

  When Carlo spoke that name, though, the feeling it gave her was not distaste. Far from it. The sound pleased her. As she considered it now, she understood. It was like he was overtaking James’s hold on the name.

  It was dangerous, the feeling she had around this man. Everything about him was dangerous, although he’d been kind only, although she felt sure he was kind truly.

  She took a sip of her beer. It was nice. Much better than she’d expected. She took another, deeper drink. “I’m trying to understand how to say this. I want you to know that I am grateful for your kindness. So grateful.”

  “It was nothing special.”

  “It was. You don’t understand. You could not.”

  “I’d like to try to understand.”

  She sighed, still not sure how to proceed. After more beer, she followed her instinct and said the words that came to her. “You know my husband.”

  “I know who he is. Of course.” He looked like he meant to say more, but he stopped.

  “He is not a man who…who accepts things to go another way. Another way than his way.”

  “That’s his reputation, yes.”

  “I think that his reputation has the soft focus. You understand?”

  “You’re saying that he’s worse than people know?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprising her, Carlo reached across the table and took her hand. He turned it and brushed his thumb over the inside of her wrist, where the bruising was deepest. His touch was gentle, as always, and it made her feel a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. She closed her eyes.

  “Bina. Why do you stay?”

  His hand around hers felt too good, and she pulled away. With her eyes on his again, she said, “James is not a man so easy to leave. He has many people. He keeps track of me.” There. That was the way toward the thing she needed to say. “I’m sorry, Carlo. I think he is having someone watch me now. Following me. He might know that you helped me. I think it is likely that he does.”