The Green Rolling Hills

by V. J. Banis

  Rosie emerged from the woods, carrying an armful of redbud blossoms. She was smiling. Mac stopped and stared at her. “Thank God you’re safe.” He didn’t want to alarm her, but he had to get her away.

  “These are my regalo, my gift to Uncle Vito.” She laid the flowers under a huge oak tree, then crossed herself.

  “There’s been a problem with the truck,” Mac said. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, we gotta get outta here and quick.”

  They gathered up the rest of Jett’s canned food, a couple of flashlights, and two sleeping bags from the bedroom. Rosie was calm; she didn’t ask any questions.

  Mac fashioned two packs out of the sleeping bags and they started off through the woods. He had the satisfaction of picturing the look on Jett’s face when he finally showed up at the cabin. He’d be some kinda pissed.

  He did feel a stab of guilt when they passed the spot where he’d taken his first buck at the age of twelve. Jett had been with him, his teacher, his friend. Well, Jett had changed. He was a cop now.

  It was tough going for the first ten or fifteen minutes. When they finally reached a stretch of level ground, they stopped to catch their breaths. Rosie looked so scared that Mac was concerned. “We’ll have to rough it for a while, Rosie. But don’t worry, we’ll make it to your convent. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  A look of astonishment flashed over Rosie’s face. She struggled out of her pack, threw her arms around Mac, and kissed him. “You are wonderful, Mac, wonderful. Grazie!” The rest of her words came out in rapid-fire Italian. She grabbed his hand. “We can do it, Mac. You are a good man!”

  “Yeah, well...,” Mac stammered, embarrassed. Nobody had ever called him a good man before. Probably, he thought, that was just her gratitude talking.

  The sun was directly overhead when Rosie and Mac reached the Cacapon River. They had followed an old game trail, which made the going easy. Mac had had time to think. Actually, he felt great. Maybe if he helped Rosie with this crazy scheme, just maybe, she’d really think he was a decent guy.

  But he had no idea how they were going to pull it off. They had no vehicle, little money, and no idea of their destination. Plus, the Mob was on their tail. Mac looked around at the rugged sandstone cliffs and the rushing spring flood river, and he knew no one would ever find them here. They were safe for now, at least.

  By evening, Mac had thrown together a lean-to of pine branches and had gotten a fire going. Rosie had helped gather branches and driftwood. When they had finished and were heating cans of macaroni for dinner, Mac filled her in on what had happened to Tanky.

  “Dio mio, that poor man. I will pray for him along with Uncle Vito.” Rosie looked like she was ready to burst into tears. “I’m so scared, Mac. We can’t let them find us.” She sat, staring into the fire.

  “I been thinking, Rosie, we should really get outta the country—Canada, Mexico. I ain’t got no goodbyes to say here. Whadaya think?”

  “Yes. I know the Mafia better than you do, and I say yes. As long as we can get to an Ursuline Convent. That I have to do.” Her small mouth set in a determined line.

  “Yeah, the convent. That there is a problem.”

  * * * *

  The two State Troopers had been at the Minns’ home for at least two hours. The younger officer gestured toward a chair. “Mrs. Minns, you gotta sit down.” He stood by helplessly as Naoma shrieked and wailed. All he wanted to do was complete her statement and get the hell out of there. The team that had dealt with the stiff in the garage had had it easy. They hadn’t had to put up with this crazy woman.

  “Don’t tell me whata do. Where was you when poor Tanky was killed? Murdered in cold blood. Where was the cops then?” Naoma lunged at the officer and started shaking him. “You’re about as worthless as they get. What are you good for?”

  It took both the trooper and his partner to detach Naoma and lead her to a chair. One of them brought her a coke. “When did you return home, Mrs. Minns?”

  “I done told you fools once. On Thursday mornings I always take Mother Minns for her treatment down to Martinsburg. The kids all go along to K-Mart. We never get home till evening. That’s when I found poor Tanky.” She shrieked again and started to sob.

  “Did Mr. Minns have any known enemies?” The second trooper spoke loudly.

  “Known enemies! Try that there sonnavabitch Mac McCabe. He done threatened Tanky with a ball peen hammer just Tuesday night. You look into what Mac was up to this morning.”

  The troopers looked at each other. “Do you have any idea how much cash Mr. Minns kept here?”

  “Cash,” Naoma screamed. “Hell, how should I know?” She paused and her eyes narrowed. “But anything you find is mine, hear.”

  “Could you tell us who your husband’s business contacts were?”

  “Husband! Tanky ain’t never been my husband. That was Elmer Minns, rest his soul, who built up this here garage.” Naoma blew her nose loudly. “No, Tanky was only my brother-in-law.”

  “Yes Ma’am, but you being close to him and all, you must have known who he did business with.”

  “I don’t know nothing, nothing. I need a drink and a cigarette. Just you look for that bastard, Mac McCabe, I tell you. He’s a maniac.” She turned and left the room.

  The troopers watched her stomp away, then turned back to their notes. “Sure looks like a professional job, but that don’t seem possible up here in Morgan County,” the younger trooper looked puzzled. “And which one of them damn McCabes is this Mac?”

  “Not sure, but we better call in Sgt. Kincaid. Nate grew up around here. He knows all these twisted family relationships. Besides, he has contacts down in Washington, D.C.”

  * * * *

  Nate Kincaid’s contact down in D.C., Jett McCabe, sat in his office in front of the computer screen. By now, he’d fleshed out many of the twisted family relationships of the De Marco crime family. At the moment, he was going over the homicide report on De Marco’s latest hit, a small time auto parts butcher named Vito DeLucca. Taking a break, he lit a cigarette. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d be up in West Virginia and away from this mess.

  The phone rang. “This had better not screw up my weekend,” he thought, reaching for the receiver.

  Friday, May 6

  The next morning dawned cold and damp at the campsite along the river. Mac knew there would be rain before noon. Time to pull out. He had another spot in mind.

  After an hour of dragging their gear through rough country, they found a place where the river formed a deep pool behind the old power dam. There were several cottages clustered around the pool.

  “This here is Briary Bottom,” Mac gestured toward the cottages. “These folks all have young kids in school, so they never show up through the week ’cept in summer. We pretty much got our pick of places.” He pointed to the old, rambling cottage closest to the woods. “Let’s take that one.”

  The cottage was shut down for the season, which meant that the plumbing was off. Mac would have to get the water on first thing. He looked around for tools.

  Rosie had headed straight for the kitchen. “Mac, Mac,” she yelled, “I’ve found everything here to make spaghetti sauce. I’ll make you a real Italian dish. Look, red wine. I even found wineglasses. Bene, bene!”

  Later, as they ate dinner, Mac noticed that Rosie had decorated with some white emergency candles and a large water glass of wild flowers. When this was over, he’d buy her a room full of flowers. Mac fingered the stem of his wineglass. This was all great, but right now he’d sure as hell rather have a cold beer with steak and home fries. But it made him feel good that she’d gone to all this trouble for him. He did all right with women, but he’d never had one pamper him like this.

  “Best damn spaghetti I ever ate,” he said aloud. “Love it.”

  Rosie grinned. “What kind of food did you eat at home, Mac, when you were a kid?”

  “When Mom was still alive, we ate good. Lots of game, fish, stuff from the gard
en. That woman was a worker.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She was on second shift over at the sewing factory, but she still took time to make life good. After she died, things was different.”

  “Different?”

  “Yeah, well me and Dad managed best we could. I started cooking about that time. Ever had chicken fried squirrel and gravy?”

  “You’re kidding.” Rosie grimaced.

  “Not a whit. Gotta eat what’s around. ‘Why go to the store?’ my ol’ man always said. ‘Just you run down to the river, boy, and get us some fish.’”

  “Where is your papa now?”

  “Dead too, most likely. Fact is, I don’t know. Been on my own since I was seventeen. Stayed off and on with Jett, that’s my cousin. But then his kid died in an accident and his woman left him, so he started to drink. He wasn’t all that bad to be around then, but when he finally got sober again he turned into a real tight-ass. Moved down to the city. He shoulda stayed here where he belonged. That’s his problem, not the booze.” He lifted his wineglass. “Nothing wrong with a little drink. To the chef, to Rosie.” He smiled at her. Glancing out the window, he saw a light rain falling. But here in the candlelight, it was fine. He relaxed and pulled out a smoke.

  * * * *

  “Well, if this just don’t beat all,” Jett McCabe bellowed as he surveyed his cabin on Friday evening. “Toted off my food, stole my sleeping bags, and my flashlights.” He stomped around the small rooms. “All I’m left with is a wilted bunch of redbud blossoms. Takes a damn nerve!” He flung the flowers out the window. “I bet I have that sonnuvabitch Mac to thank for this,” he muttered. “Try to do the kid a favor and this is how he pays me back.”

  It took Jett a while to spot the three one hundred dollar bills lying on the table near the empty vase. “Well, will you look at this? Sure lets out Mac. Cheap bastard never had no three hundred dollars, and flowers just ain’t his style.” He was still fingering the bills when the phone rang. Picking it up, he wondered who the hell even knew he was here on a Friday.

  “Jett, this is Nate Kincaid. You got a minute?”

  Jett groaned. Nate Kincaid was a plodding, methodical bastard who’d always rubbed him the wrong way. They had been rookies together years ago. “I guess so,” he said without enthusiasm.

  Nate seemed not to notice the lack of enthusiasm. “This here’s the thing, Jett. We got a problem murder case. You remember Tanky Minns?”

  “Tanky Minns. Sure I remember him. You telling me Tanky’s dead?”

  “As a doornail. Somebody slit his throat. Could you meet me at Tanky’s place at seven thirty tomorrow morning? I could really use your help.”

  Jett sighed. “Sure, I’ll be there, Nate,” he said, and hung up. This weekend truly wasn’t going the way he had planned.

  Saturday, May 7

  Mac woke suddenly. The glare of headlights flashed through the window into the room. A car drove slowly by and stopped.

  Mac glanced at the clock by the bed. It was not quite three in the morning. Alert now, he rolled off the couch and, crouching, moved to the window. “What the hell,” he mumbled.

  A station wagon loaded with teenagers had pulled in next door. They were unloading six-packs of beer amid loud laughter and shouting. A fat kid tugged at the canoe on the car-top carrier.

  “Holy shit! They’re here to party.” Mac turned to find Rosie at his side.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Damn kids. They’re just out raising hell, partying all night. Oughta be home in bed.” He realized Rosie was shivering and put an arm around her. “Look, we gotta get outta here. Them crazy kids could take it into their heads to crash in here. They’re all about half loaded.” The funny thing was, he thought, a couple of years ago he’d have been out there with them. Things were different now, though. A couple of years ago, he hadn’t been on the run, with a sweet little girl to look after.

  In a half an hour Rosie and Mac had gathered their belongings and slipped out the side door into the woods. The rain had turned to mist and a full moon was trying to break through the clouds. The going was a little rough until they cleared the cottage area; then they used the flashlights.

  “I know a real isolated place not far away,” Mac grinned encouragingly at Rosie. “Should have remembered it before. I done some carpentry work for the owner last year. He’ll still be in Florida now. It’s perfect.”

  The house was set high above the Cacapon River. They reached it just as the sun was rising. The river was framed on this side by imposing sandstone cliffs. From the deck they gazed down at white, swirling water, overhung by the new green of willows.

  “This is so beautiful. It’s like a scene from a painting,” Rosie said.

  “It should be safe here,” Mac said, trying to sound confident. He glanced at the towering cliffs and the twisting river below. God, I hope so, he thought. He knew they had to try to get clean away, and soon. For now, though, Rosie looked like she was about to drop from exhaustion.

  They slept away most of the morning. About eleven o’clock Mac awoke and started hunting around the place for fishing gear. He’d seen rods and lures here last year.

  He headed down a steep, overgrown path to the river. Casting into the clear, green water, he began to relax. This was like second nature to him. He looked up. Rain clouds were reforming, but what the hell. At this moment, sitting by the water, waiting for the trout he knew would come, life was good.

  They cooked the trout over a charcoal grill on the deck. The warm May afternoon foretold rain, and the scent of lilacs hung heavy in the air. Rosie had found the delicate purple flowers growing near the back door and pinned one in her hair.

  It was real cute, the way she did things like this. The girls he usually ran around with would have thought this was corny. Funny, there’d been a long string of them, starting with when he was fourteen years old, and right now, he couldn’t even remember any of their names.

  He was watching Rosie. She had found a couple of wooden deck chairs and was dragging them over to the railing. He watched the way her body moved in the tight jeans. They had found some boy’s clothes in one of the bedrooms. At first, she hadn’t wanted to take anything, even though her short skirt was hardly good for hiking. But finally she had agreed.

  Well, the jeans made her look different. American. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her.

  Seemingly unaware of his interest in her, Rose looked over the railing at the racing water below. “The river looks dangerous.”

  “No, not really dangerous. It’s a rough ride though. Run these rapids many a time.” Mac gestured downward. “My ol’ man had a beaten up John boat. Leaked like hell.” He grinned at her. “You know, that’s the way life oughtta be, just one hellava river trip...not this nine-to-five shit. I just ain’t cut out for that kinda life.”

  She sat down. “So, Mac, in West Virginia life is just one long river trip?”

  “No, I guess I gave you the wrong idea, but it should be. It sure as hell should be. What do you want outta life anyway, Rosie?”

  “Now? Now I just want to live. But later...yes, in Canada, I want to have children, and a nice home for them. I like kids, you see. I learned to look after small ones at the convent school.” She smiled up at him, her large, dark eyes innocent and friendly.

  Kids? Well, Mac guessed this was a good sign. But it didn’t sound like the free, wild ride through life he had in mind.

  “So, Mac, what kind of job do you want in Canada?”

  He shifted uncomfortably against the deck railing. He’d never liked thinking about a regular job, the kind of thing other guys did. But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  “I can do whatever I need to do to get by, carpentry, mechanic work, drive a truck...whatever,” he told Rosie, and lit his last cigarette. It started to rain again.

  * * * *

  Jett arrived at Minns’ garage a little before seven thirty in the morning. He hadn’t decided whether to mention his own robbery to Nate yet. He
was surprised to see Mac’s old truck sitting on its rims in the parking lot. What in hell could Mac have been doing here? What had happened to the truck? And where was the kid?

  Nate was waiting for him. “What you got?” Jett asked.

  “Got a Mob style hit. That’s why I called you in. I know it don’t seem likely here in the hills, but it sure as hell looks like it.”

  Jett listened with growing apprehension, thinking of the increasing Mafia activity in his D.C. precinct. But it would be tough for the Mob to operate up here. This wasn’t their home ground.

  Nate finally completed his long, blow-by-blow account, from the missing cash box money and the disappearance of Tanky’s handgun to the discovery of the hot Porsche. “Damn if the Porsche hadn’t been heisted up here, from some tourist. Found it in the woods, not a mile from here. Strange thing was, somebody had beat in one fender. Crazy, huh? And there’s no sense talking to Mrs. Minns. She’s a lunatic.”

  “Yeah, always was. Well, I’ll see what I can get together down in D.C. that could be helpful. I’ll fax it up to you, Nate.”

  Both men were silent for a while. “Eh, one more thing, Jett,” Nate said, sounding embarrassed. “This Mrs. Minns. She keeps accusing your cousin, Mac. And his truck is sitting out there in the lot, all four tires slashed. The investigating officers decided the killers thought it was Tanky’s truck and were making another statement. But I don’t buy that dumb-ass idea. Now I know he ain’t much account, but I can’t believe Mac’s involved in this mess.”

  “Mac’s an asshole. But he ain’t dumb enough to get mixed up with the Mafia. When I get a holda him, I’ll find out what’s up.” Jett reached for his keys. He’d had enough of Nate Kincaid. “I’m gonna find out what Mac’s truck is doing here. You got any other suspects?”

  “We don’t have no suspects right now. Tanky Minns was too smooth to go around making enemies close to home. I don’t know, though, Morgan County ain’t like it used to be. Time was when you knew all the crooks. Hell, probably related to half of them.” Nate followed Jett toward the garage door. “Nowadays, you just don’t know. Bunch of new people moving up here from the city. Most of them crazier than hoots. Just yesterday, a guy went up to his summer place in Briary Bottom. Called in and said the cottage had been broken into, but he claims some damn fool left a water glass full of flowers and a one hundred dollar bill. That’s no local job, I’ll guarantee it.”