by Ray Celestin
He awoke to shouts and a bustle of activity.
‘Fucking storm,’ he heard one of the piccioti say.
‘Where’s the fuse box, old man?’
Luca could see the room had been thrown into darkness – a power cut. He got to his feet, felt his way across to the window and peered out. The lights of the surrounding apartments were still working.
‘It’s not the storm!’ he shouted, but he was too late.
One of the front windows smashed open and drops of glass and rain sprayed into the room. The blind flapped madly in the roaring wind and Luca saw a shadow in the confusion as the men began shouting. He backed up against the wall, squinting against the darkness, trying to get a picture of what was going on. He heard furniture thumping onto the floor and then a scream.
‘He’s in here!’ someone shouted and the room flashed bright. The men began letting off shots, panicked in the darkness.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Luca screamed over the roar, worried the men were going to kill each other. He slid down the wall onto the floor, hoping to be out of the way of stray bullets. Flashes of gunshots popped about him and the smell of burnt gunpowder mixed with the smell of floodwater coming in through the smashed window. Luca heard another scream and saw a silhouette of a man turning, heavy-shouldered in a long coat. The shooting stopped and something fluttered at the window, then the room became still except for the wind and the blind flapping against the smashed pane.
Luca rose and felt his way to the cabinet. He’d seen a lamp there. Matches. A few seconds later the lamp flickered into life and he swung it round to survey the damage. The picciotti were dead on the floor, slumped over the furniture, some of them hacked by an axe, most of them shot by their colleagues’ bullets. Sandoval was lying face-down on the carpet. Luca rolled him over – a bullet had caught him in the side of the face. Luca stared at him for a moment, then he sighed, shook his head and crossed himself. He looked over to where Bianchi had been sitting. He was still in the armchair, but a slice of his head was gone. In his lap was a tarot card. In the flicker of the lamplight Luca caught a glimpse of the figure on the card, a winged being with a horned head, gripping a thick, flaming torch.
Luca ran to the window and scanned the street below. He saw a figure at the bottom of the fire escape, squirming, his coat caught on something, struggling to get free. Luca grabbed a gun from one of the dead men, checked it for bullets, and jumped out onto the fire escape. The clang of his feet made the killer look up. Luca ran down the stairs, his head swooning, his ribs hurting with every heavy step. The killer yanked his coat away and broke free, jumping into the water below and running up the street.
By the time Luca reached the bottom of the fire escape, he was already halfway to the corner. Luca jumped off, stumbled, and ran after Baudet through the dark, flooding city.
55
Ida awoke punch-drunk and nauseous, a cement floor pressing coldly against her cheek. She sat up and rubbed her face, and noticed dried blood flaking onto her fingers. She saw Lewis lying next to her, passed out, a bruise rising up on his brow. She shook him awake and looked around her. It was a working room, huge and factory-like, and one she had seen before. Rows of coats hung along rails that receded into the distance like an army on parade. Boxes and pelts littered the floor in the center of the room, and a harsh bare light-bulb cast everything into bleak illumination.
‘What happened?’ Lewis asked, his voice weak.
‘I dunno,’ said Ida. ‘Let’s get the hell outta here.’
They stood and looked about the room. On a work-table by a mound of pelts Ida saw a trapping knife. She hesitated a moment then picked it up. It felt heavier than she expected it to, alien somehow. She slid it into her pocket, just to be on the safe side. Lewis turned to her and was about to say something when his eyes rolled upwards and he dropped to the floor with a thump.
‘Lewis!’ Ida shouted, running to his side.
‘Feel sick,’ said Lewis, clutching his forehead, his breathing shallow.
‘You reckon you can walk?’
But before Lewis could answer, the door on the far side of the room opened and two roughnecks stamped in, gray-suited and surly, one a good foot taller than the other. They stared at Lewis and Ida for a moment, then the taller one turned to the other.
‘Tell the boss they’re awake,’ he said, in a nasal pinch of a voice.
The shorter one nodded and left, and the taller one eyed them with a guard-dog glare. A few seconds later Morval stepped into the room. Despite his age, Ida could see he was well-maintained, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, his hair glossy in the harsh electric light. He stared at them blankly, a slight inquisitiveness to the tilt of his head, the way a dog might look at its master. He took off his jacket and hung it on one of the rails, and Ida noticed the muscles in his arms bulging underneath the silk of his shirt. He straightened his waistcoat, turned to face them, and nodded at the two men.
‘Bring ’em over to the table,’ he said.
In the corner of the room was a round table with a green baize covering, playing cards and ashtrays scattered across it. The men hauled Ida and Lewis up by their elbows, marched them across to the table, and pushed them onto a pair of chairs. Morval approached and picked up a whiskey bottle from the table. He poured out a glass and handed it to Lewis.
‘Looks like you could use it, son,’ he said, his voice fatherly and warm.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Lewis, taking a sip. Morval poured a glass for himself, sat down at the table, and lit a cigar, staring at them both. There was something dead about his small brown eyes, a detachment, a lack of humanity, that unsettled Ida. When the cigar was fully lit, he drew some smoke into his mouth and smiled at them.
‘What were you doing in my house?’ he asked, no hint of threat whatsoever in his tone.
‘Nothing, sir,’ said Ida, her voice sweet. ‘We broke in to stay the night. We live on the street and wanted to get away from the flood. We didn’t mean any wrong.’
‘Well, ain’t you the best dressed street-girl I ever saw,’ Morval said sarcastically. ‘If you were getting out of the storm, why was you in the basement going through my papers?’
He spoke in a casual way, as if his questions were part of some inconsequential game.
‘We was looking for kindling to start a fire with. It was getting cold,’ Ida said in desperation, smiling as best she could.
Morval grinned and shook his head slowly. He took something from his pocket and threw it onto the table – the black book Ida had stashed in her coat.
‘Were you going to start the fire in your pocket?’ He puffed on the cigar, rolling the smoke around his mouth. ‘If we thought you were housebreakers, you’d be dead by now. Like your friend in the expensive suit,’ he said, and with a shock of fear and guilt, the image of Buddy sitting on the sofa flashed into Ida’s mind.
‘The only thing keeping you alive,’ Morval continued, ‘is the fact I wanna know exactly what your interest in my affairs is. You gonna tell me who you work for?’
‘We don’t work for nobody, sir,’ said Ida.
Morval sighed and shook his head. He stood and stretched his back out, the fabric of his waistcoat straining against his chest. He strode over to the nearest clothing rail and unwound a length of rope from a pulley hook hanging from the ceiling.
‘Tie her up,’ he ordered, tossing the rope at the shorter of the two roughnecks. The man grabbed the rope and moved behind Ida. She suddenly felt claustrophobic, panic stabbing at her heart as the man grabbed her hands and tied them up. She thought of Leeta and all the warnings they had had about Morval, and she felt a wave of fear and shame at her own foolishness wash over her. She wondered if she should struggle against the ropes, or if that would only make things worse. Then a nightmarish paralysis came over her, a freezing of her muscles, and she found herself sitting still, acquiescing, as the rough twine of the rope tightened against her wrists. Morval watched the man tie her up with a slight grin on his lips, and when the ma
n had finished, he nodded.
‘Take the coon outside and let some daylight through him,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the girl.’
Ida screamed and Lewis stared at her in desperate panic. The smaller thug took a cosh from his jacket and cracked it over Lewis’s head.
He came to with a feeling of weight in his shoulders – the men were dragging him somewhere, their hands locked under his armpits. He looked about him and saw he was in a dank corridor, headed towards a set of dead-bolt doors. One of the men kicked the bolt and the doors flew open. The storm roared into the corridor and spits of rain sprayed onto Lewis before the door slammed shut again under the pressure of the wind.
‘Goddamn it!’ One of the men pushed the door open again with his shoulder and the wind roared into their ears once more. They dragged Lewis out into the storm, onto a jetty that overhung the river. The wind was whipping up the water below them, sending waves crashing onto the jetty, causing it to rock in stomach-churning arcs. The men dumped Lewis onto the wooden planks and the shorter thug then pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it at him.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted the tall one over the roar of the storm.
‘Whadda ya’ think?’
‘Move him to the end for Chrissakes.’
Lewis felt himself being picked up again and dragged along the wooden planks. He saw the angry river underneath him, and to his right, something moving towards him, a wall of foam, white and roiling, and growing larger. The men screamed as it hit, fifteen feet of Mississippi water crashing into the side of the jetty. There was a sound like an explosion and the wood all around them seemed to split and fly skywards, and the next thing Lewis knew, he was underwater.
The currents pulled him about like a ragdoll, swirling him through the silent darkness until he felt himself smack against something hard and upright and he burst back above the surface. He grabbed hold of whatever it was he’d hit and looked about him. Where the jetty had once stood there was now only a row of stumps sticking out of the water, and all about him were the remains of wooden planks, rendered into a thousand shards that floated on the surface like a blanket of jagged, angry seaweed.
Lewis realized he was holding onto one of the stumps, and by reaching from one stump to the next he made his way back to the dockside. He found footholds embedded in the brickwork of the embankment wall and hauled himself out of the river. He lay on the deck a moment getting his breath back and then he stood. He looked around for any signs of the two men, and seeing none, he guessed they’d been pulled under by the waves. He took another breath and stumbled back towards the factory, praying he wasn’t too late.
56
Michael was already starting up the Chevrolet when he saw Hatener running out of the hospital. The old man waved him down and opened the passenger-side door.
‘You’re gonna need help,’ Hatener said, as he slid inside. Michael stared at him for a moment then turned his attention to the car’s controls; he wasn’t certain he could get the thing going. He pulled up the brake and churned the car into gear and they jerked forward and off down the path towards the hospital exit.
They drove in silence, Michael fixing on the road, Hatener staring out of the side window. As they approached the city, the roads got wetter, making the engine strain and the tires slide, but Michael kept the car’s speed up as best he could. He prayed the four policemen who were guarding his house had not been caught unawares, or worse yet, were in the pay of Carolla.
A few blocks from his house they came upon a police cordon. Michael stopped the car and a patrolman in waterproofs approached and signaled for them to wind down the window. He peered into the car and recognized the two detectives.
‘These roads are closed, sir,’ he said to Michael. ‘Storm’s caused flooding right through. We’re evacuating—’
But before he could finish, Michael put the car into reverse and sped backwards. He swung around and took a turn off a side road. Hatener stared at him.
‘This road leads to high ground,’ Michael said.
Five minutes later they were on a ridge that overlooked Michael’s street. They got out of the car and Hatener beckoned for Michael to unlock the trunk. Inside were three Chesterfield shotguns and a few boxes of cartridges that had spilled loose during the ride over.
They took one each, checked the barrels, and crammed fistfuls of spare rounds into their pockets. Then they set off down the street, Michael making double time on Hatener, who stumbled along after him. They ran as best they could, trying not to slip up on the slick dark current cascading down the sidewalk. When they were nearly at Michael’s house, Hatener motioned towards a car on the opposite side of the road – the unmarked black landaulet occupied by two of the four policemen. They approached and peered into the car – the men were slumped in their seats, garrote wires around their necks, their faces turning a mottled green.
‘No gunshots,’ Hatener whispered, and Michael nodded, understanding his meaning – if there hadn’t been a gunfight, chances were the two men at the back of the house had also been caught unawares.
‘You gonna wait for my boys to arrive?’ Hatener asked.
Michael stared at him, turned around, and ran towards the house. Hatener watched him for a moment, then he double-checked his shotgun and followed. They crossed the rain-slicked street and passed in front of the house. As they reached the front steps, shots rang out behind them. They dashed up the porch and dropped behind the waist-high brick wall that ran along the front of the building. Bullets burst into the brickwork and into the wooden wall behind them, which splintered and cracked. As the volley continued, Michael and Hatener looked at each other to check they were both OK, then they glanced over the top of the wall – orange blooms of muzzle-fire spat at them from a car across the street.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Hatener said.
Michael nodded at him, and Hatener pumped his shotgun and started shooting back over the wall. Michael turned around, pushed the front door open with the butt of his gun and crawled into the house. He continued along the corridor until he was out of range of the bullets thundering into the front wall, then he stood and padded quickly towards the living room. When he reached the connecting door, he stood by it, listening for noises. Nothing. He took a deep breath, and gently pushed the door open. The lights were still on, but the living room was empty. He stepped into the kitchen, scanning his surroundings as he went. Annette had left something cooking on the stove, the pot bubbling, releasing plumes of steam into the deserted room. When he reached the stove he turned it off and peered into the backyard. The bodies of the second pair of policemen lay slumped over each other on the back step.
He moved away from the window and tried to clear his head. Everything was silent in the house, the only noises were coming from outside – the rain and the wind and the gunshots in the street. Then he heard a noise behind him and swung round, his gun frantically fanning the room.
Everything was silent and still. But he knew he had heard a creak – a foot on a floorboard, maybe, or a cupboard door opening. He scanned the room once more, trying to gauge where someone might be hiding, and then he heard the noise again. At the far end of the kitchen was a cupboard space inset in the wall. The door to the space slowly swung open, and Michael saw Thomas and Mae hidden underneath the sacking at the bottom, their faces tearstained and numb with horror. Michael lifted his finger to his lips and they responded in kind, and he stepped over to the cupboard.
‘You OK?’ he whispered, kneeling down next to them.
They both nodded and he noticed Thomas had his arm around Mae, protecting his little sister. The gesture made Michael proud, and he rubbed his son’s head.
‘You’re going to be alright,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘Momma heard the noise in the street and hid us in here. Then there was another noise and we heard Momma crying. But . . . but she told us not to come out.’
Thomas began to sob, which set off Mae as well. Michael hugged them bo
th.
‘Listen. You two are safe here, OK?’ he said. ‘But you gotta be quiet. I’m gonna go find Momma, OK?’
The children nodded.
‘But you gotta be quiet,’ he repeated urgently, ‘and you don’t come out of there until I tell you to. You got it?’
They nodded again and Michael smiled. He stood and Thomas closed the cupboard door from the inside. Michael tried to imagine what had happened. Carolla and his men must have arrived and taken out the policemen, then they had come inside for him. But where had they taken Annette? It didn’t make sense for them to go to all this trouble just to leave when they found he wasn’t home. They must still be in the house – waiting to ambush him.
Michael crept back over to the kitchen counter and slowly eased up the window frame. Rain began smattering into the room and onto his hands. He got the window halfway up and levered himself through it, careful not to make any sounds. He dropped down onto the paving stones of the backyard. The rain and cold hit him, and he noticed that he couldn’t hear Hatener and the others shooting in the road in front anymore. He scanned the side of the house and saw a light spilling from the window of his bedroom.
He crept along the back wall and reached the bodies of the two dead policemen. One of them had his hands around his neck, as if still trying to pull off the garrote. He reached down and closed their eyes, crossed himself, then carried on edging along the wall until he reached the bedroom window.
He turned and peered into the bedroom. He couldn’t see Annette, but he could see Carolla and another man – a small, young-looking man in a cloth-cap and peacoat. Both of them were standing by the closed door, nickel-plated Colts in their hands. He guessed they had heard the shooting out front and were debating what to do.
Then he noticed Annette. They had tied her hands and laid her down on the floor at the foot of the bed. He turned away from the window and breathed a sigh of relief, and then he tried to formulate a plan. He looked about him and saw the rusting metal garden table that had been in their backyard since before they moved in, and he made a quick calculation of its weight and exactly how much strength he had left in his arms.
