by TJ O'Connor
“Angel, it’s going to be okay.”
She carefully hefted the bag. “Tuck, I’m scared.”
“Tuck again? Stop that.” Tuscani pointed his gun at her and then gestured at the ground. “Lay it there, on the ground. Get back—step away.”
“Lucca,” she said, easing toward the stairs with the sack clutched toward him. “Why did you kill Tuck—why my husband?”
“Put them down and back away. Do it.” When she hesitated, he lunged and grabbed the burlap bag from her grasp. He raised the gun to strike her, but when she withdrew, he stopped and set the bag on the floor at his feet. “I had nothing to do with your husband. It’s Nicholas I came for.”
Angel inched toward the stairs. “All right, Lucca. You have Amy now.”
He knelt down beside the burlap bag of bones. He was lost in memories, back in another time—a time when Amy and Caroline were alive and caring for him. His face softened. His arm dropped to his side, the gun resting on his knee. He started to smile.
Now.
I reached up and grabbed the overhead light’s bare wire dangling above my head. The surge was instant. Current filled me—invigorated me—burned through me like fire chasing a gunpowder fuse. It burst up my fingers into my entire being. It raged and built, spreading through me like a wildfire. Its power exploded in my head and I knew it was time to end this.
“Now, Angel!”
Angel crashed into Tuscani, shoving him off balance. She struck a violent kick at his groin. She missed, but the blow smashed his thigh and sent him backward with a sharp cry. As he tumbled back, she grabbed the burlap bag at her feet. With every ounce of strength, she swung it in a wide arc and smashed it into his head. He faltered sideways and crumbled onto the ground.
“Go,” I yelled and she bolted for the stairs. “Run!”
Tuscani recovered too quickly and raised his gun, leveling it the instant she hit the first stair. His finger descended on the trigger.
“No, no.” I grabbed the electric wire again. The lightning surged. “Come on, tough guy, shoot me.”
He was on one knee. His gun arm was outstretched, tracing Angel’s path. His head turned toward the light swinging overhead, but his eyes were riveted on me. Lucca Tuscani was staring right at me and he remembered. Terror exploded in his eyes. The familiar face of a man who struck him—a dead man—from a high school parking lot fighting him in the rain.
“What the hell …” his voice cracked but his eyes were steady and staring. “You … Jesus Christ …”
“No, just me—boo.”
Angel’s feet echoed off the hardwood above us and I knew she was widening her escape. “Go, baby, go.”
Tuscani turned the gun on me now. With uncertain, shaky movements, he stood and backed away until he was flat against the cellar wall. As the lightning faded inside me, I saw him straining to find me in the dim cellar light. I hadn’t moved, but he could no longer see me. He searched the cellar, one squinting eyeful at a time—trying to convince himself that I was there; praying, no doubt, that I wasn’t.
He never fired a shot.
sixty-three
“Tuck?” Angel’s voice was a whisper, but that’s all it took for me
to find her. “Please, come to me.”
“I’m here, babe.”
She was crouched behind an antique armoire in a second floor room that overlooked the rear courtyard. While making herself the smallest target she could, she scanned the courtyard through the window in short, seconds-long glances from concealment. On her third snapshot, she recoiled.
“He’s back there.”
Tuscani had done as she hoped—run from the basement and out of the house. He’d assumed she was making her escape, trying to get as far from the house as possible. She hadn’t, and instead took refuge on the second floor.
“Stay hidden. I’ll watch him and when he’s a safe distance away, you run. ”
The courtyard separated the farmhouse’s rear veranda from the servant’s cottage and Tuscani was weaving and bobbing through it, searching for Angel. His gun was out and ready for the kill. He stopped beside the stone wall that encircled the courtyard and crouched low, listening and watching the servant’s cottage for any sign Angel was inside. He moved like a well-seasoned assassin—methodical, confident, and focused.
I watched him. “If he goes inside the cottage, get out the front. He won’t hear you and you’ll have a couple minutes. Try for the car.”
“I don’t know …” Angel was pale and her eyes big and panicked. She clutched herself in a death-like hug. “Tuck, I can’t make it. He’ll kill me. Can’t you …”
“No, I overdid it in the cellar. I’m spent. If I try again, I’m afraid of what’ll happen and you might be on your own. You have to do this.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, fighting back tears and terror. “Okay.”
“Get ready.” I watched out the window. “You can do this.”
Tuscani was in front of the cottage. He crouched low amidst overgrown shrubs and weeds and peeked into a window. Twice he called out her name, quieted to listen, and called her again. In a sudden assault, he charged into the house and disappeared.
“He’s inside.” I said. “Go, Angel.”
She jumped up but didn’t run. “Look.”
A vehicle rolled into view behind the house and surprised us both. A long, black Suburban stopped beside the courtyard wall. The vehicle sat just below us, parked partially obscured around the side of the house. We could only see part of the vehicle, but it was enough. The driver got out and stood in the open, facing the cottage. He was a big, powerful man of considerable girth. His back was toward us and we couldn’t see his face. He gestured to someone still in the vehicle to stay put.
I didn’t need to see the passenger. I knew who was inside.
“Angel, here’s your chance.”
No, it was too late.
Tuscani erupted in a dead run through the cottage’s side door. He fired three rapid shots, screaming a war cry as he charged the Suburban. “Bastard. Bastard … you bastard.”
The driver staggered and tried to raise a weapon as Tuscani fired again.
The driver went down—hit by three of four shots. The fourth cracked the Suburban’s side window and splayed a macramé of fractures across it. The passenger’s door flung open and a shot rang out—two, three.
Tuscani staggered. His charge slowed to lethargic steps. He fired a fifth time.
Another shot from the Suburban.
A surprised, maniacal grimace spread across the assassin’s face. His legs couldn’t carry him and he stopped, unable to steady himself. Tuscani faltered, wavered for balance. Defiance made his gun rise again.
A final shot toppled him backward onto the courtyard stone.
“Tuck, oh, my God. We’re safe …”
“No, Angel, wait.”
I wanted to go to the courtyard alone. I wanted to see Tuscani dead and know it was safe. Angel wouldn’t have it. Instead, I led her downstairs, staying close as she picked her steps and eased across creaky hardwood. At the rear veranda, she took a long, heavy breath and slipped behind an aged oak tree that obscured her from the Suburban’s view.
“Wait. Let’s see what he does.”
I knew who killed Lucca Tuscani. He was kneeling over the body now, staring down at his cousin with troubled, old eyes. One hand clutched his gun. His other hand lay on the assassin’s shoulder, giving it a familiar, reminiscent squeeze. Anger. Pain. Anguish—resolve.
Poor Nicholas Bartalotta stood up. Reverently, he touched his forehead, chest, and each shoulder. As he stood, he whispered contrition over the dead man. Then he turned and looked back at the Suburban.
Tommy lay face down and unmoving.
Poor Nic turned back and cursed the man he’d just prayed for.
sixty-four
What made him look for us behind the big oak I don’t know.
Poor Nic took two careful, slow steps away from Tuscani as though afraid to wake him. He raised his gun, staring straight at the oak. Then he moved sideways to see around the tree. He smiled, lowering his weapon, and walked toward us—a half-frown, half-smile on his face. I didn’t know which was for Angel.
“My dear, Angela. I pray you’re unhurt.”
“Tuck,” she whispered. “What do I do?”
“I think you’re okay.”
“Yes, Nicholas. I’m fine. What are you going to do now?”
The old gangster stopped twenty feet from us. He motioned for her to come closer and gave a convincing nod. There was something about him—something I hadn’t seen before—something very … sad. Poor Nic was a man who knew violence, had inflicted pain. Now, he seemed to have no taste for it.
“Do now? Why, nothing, Angel, don’t be afraid. Please, come here.”
She stepped from behind the oak and eased toward him. She picked her steps as though she might choose wrong and fall through the stone walk into some unseen abyss. I don’t think she breathed until she stopped ten feet from him.
“What about me?” Her voice trembled. “You know I saw you kill him.”
“Yes, of course you did.” Poor Nic cocked his head and his face broke out in a tentative smile. “He shot Tommy and then came at me. You saw that, too. I defended myself, Angela. Certainly you know that.”
“Man’s got a point,” I said, standing beside him where I tried a ghost mindreading trick. I got nothing. “It was self-defense.”
“Maybe.” Angel was trying to appear unafraid and confident. She failed miserably. “Tuscani told me you killed Amy and Caroline. Am I …”
“My Amy? That lying bastard. It’s been …”
“More than forty years.”
Poor Nic lowered his head and turned again toward Tuscani. He raised his gun and for a moment, I thought he’d shoot the dead man once more. He didn’t. Instead, he turned back to Angel and held the weapon out, butt first. Tears welled in his eyes.
Angel stayed silent, looking at his offering.
“Freeze,” a voice barked from behind us. “Bartalotta, drop the gun and step back. Angel, move away. Come here.”
Bear was crouching beside the farmhouse, just behind the courtyard wall. He had his gun extended in a two-handed shooter’s grip. His sights rested on Poor Nic; his finger already on the trigger.
“Now, Nic.” Bear’s voice was calm and determined. He was ready to kill. There was something there, too—he wanted to kill. “Drop the gun, Nic, and step away.”
“Stop, Bear.” Angel snatched Nic’s pistol from his outstretched hand. “I’m okay. Tuscani tried to kill me. Nicholas stopped him. He saved my life.”
Something tugged on my brain—something warm and vibrant like a first lover’s kiss. I looked at Poor Nic and knew his innocence. There was pain and anger in him. Pain for Amy’s loss, for Caroline, and now for Tommy. Poor Nic loved Amy. He didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill Caroline, either. There was violence in the man, for certain, but none of it had ever touched them.
I knew, but I didn’t understand.
“Angel,” I said. “Nic didn’t kill the girls. He’s aching inside. He’s innocent.” Someone’s words tugged at me again and I added, “He didn’t murder any of us.”
Poor Nic’s eyes stayed fixed on Bear. Self-defense or not, there were two dead men, one a killer and the other a gangster’s bodyguard. It wouldn’t take much to cause Bear to shoot. The old gangster knew, too, that Bear was simmering, ready for it.
“Detective, I saved Angela’s life.” He stayed emotionless, his face unrevealing. “Lucca was hunting her. My men were watching Angela’s home when he abducted her earlier. Tommy and I came here to intervene. He killed Tommy—I killed him. It is that simple.”
Bear came closer and stood beside Angel. He lowered his gun but didn’t holster it. “I’m listening, Nic. What’s Tuscani got to do with you?”
“He was my cousin. And his family sent him to kill me.”
sixty-five
Poor Nic’s revelation split the air like lightning on a dark night.
“Your cousin came to kill you?” Bear glanced at Tuscani’s body as though expecting a rebuttal. “Why?”
“Yes, Detective, he came to assassinate me. All over a forty-year-old vendetta that was ill-conceived.”
“Get to the facts. All I have are bodies and unsolved murders. And Nic, your name’s on them.”
“Ah, then I’d better explain, Detective.” Poor Nic drew a long, heavy breath. With an approving nod from Bear, he went to the courtyard wall and sat down. “Back in the sixties, I spent summers at this farm. My Uncle Nicholas Voccelli owned it; well, he was not really my uncle, mind you, but I gave him the respect of one. Our families were, shall I say, business partners.”
“That means mob, Angel.”
“Our families arranged for me to marry Nicholas’s daughter, Amy. That is why I spent time here.”
Bear held up a hand. “Arranged? Like you were promised to each other?”
“Of course.” Poor Nic laughed. “Ours was a very, very strict Italian family. My father was from the old country. Her father and mine were cousins and they chose me before I was even a teenager. She was younger than me and we had to wait for her to finish high school before we married.”
“Get to the point, Nic.” Bear never had patience. “Fast.”
Poor Nic wasn’t going to be hurried. “It was nineteen sixty-eight, and like many, I was headed to Vietnam. Before I went off to war, there was trouble.”
Angel asked, “With the law? Your family?”
“No, Angela. It was Amy.” Poor Nic looked down. He seemed sad again, perhaps recalling the pain that was now causing his voice to soften and falter. “While I was away at boot camp, Amy had a secret affair. In the old country, her lover would have been killed.”
“Nice custom,” Bear snipped. “But I’m not seeing the point.”
Poor Nic’s voice was ice. “No, that’s the problem. You haven’t seen the point from the beginning.” He cleared his throat. “Lucca knew she’d become involved while I was away, but wouldn’t tell me who it was. He was young and adored Amy. Despite the situation, I wanted to take her to New York when I returned from the war. It took days, and many arguments, but we reconciled one night.”
“You got engaged?” Angel asked.
Poor Nic shook his head. “No, we never did. At the end-of-summer dance, I gave her a bracelet and matching necklace—the one you have, Angela. I planned on giving her my grandmother’s engagement ring when I returned, if she would have me.”
“Would she?” Angel’s voice was soft, sorrowful.
He was silent a long time and the answer glistened in his eyes. “Yes. She left the dance to tell her father. She never arrived. I always hoped she’d changed her mind and ran away with her lover.”
Bear asked, “You hoped she ran away?”
“The alternative was unthinkable.”
Yes, murder was unthinkable. “Angel, I believe him.”
“Get to Tuscani, Nic. And get to Salazar and the rest. Get there fast.” Bear’s patience was gone. “I don’t care about arranged marriages or vendettas.”
“Detective, it’s all one and the same.” Poor Nic walked over and leaned on the Suburban’s fender. “Caroline was a sweet, beautiful girl. But Caroline’s father was a violent man. He beat her—even raped her once. My uncle took her in and protected her from the monster. She had been Amy’s best friend and confidant since childhood. They were inseparable.”
Angel asked, “What happened to her?”
“Amy and she never arrived home that evening. They just disappeared. Uncle Nicholas believed I killed them both—jealousy. I hoped they simply ran away. My
heart knew better.”
“And the police?” Bear asked.
Poor Nic laughed. “Police? No, Detective. This was a family matter. Our families, well, our families would receive no assistance from the police.”
“So Amy and Caroline were gone. Her family thought you killed them,” Angel said. “Then how did you know …”
“The coins,” Poor Nic said. “You see, the night Amy disappeared, so did Uncle Nicholas’s coin collection. Several Civil War and Crimean War coins. They were very valuable. I have some of my own pieces at home. I hoped Amy took the collection to make a fresh start—that is, if she truly ran away.”
Angel asked, “What changed your mind?” She already knew the answer.
“The truth was dug up, here, at Kelly’s Dig.” Poor Nic walked over to Tuscani’s body, bent down, and took something from his pants pocket. He wiped his eyes and returned to us, holding up the bracelet and necklace that had nearly killed Angel. “When her jewelry and the coins were found, I knew Amy and Caroline had been killed as well.”
Angel reached out and touched Poor Nic’s arm, resting her hand there to comfort an old man aching from a lifetime of regret.
“Nicholas, do you know who did kill them? Was it Lucca?”
He shook his head. “Lucca was far too young. He adored them. No, it had to be her lover.”
“Okay, Nic. Amy and Caroline were buried here somewhere?” Bear’s voice was skeptical. “And you’re sure because of the jewelry and coins?”
“Yes, of course.” Poor Nic’s face was stone. “A few weeks ago, those coins were sold on the Internet. Liam McCorkle traced them to young Raymundo Salazar and later showed him the sketches. He acknowledged he had the bracelet but declined to sell it. I knew then that Amy and Caroline’s resting place was Kelly’s Dig.”
Angel’s voice was solemn. “There’s a burlap bag of bones in the cellar that came from Kelly’s Dig. The Diggin’ Man paid Salazar and Iggi Suarez to move them before the construction project started. He knew about the bones so he had to have killed the girls.”
Bear said, “But the bones were from the Civil War.”
