The Green Rolling Hills

by V. J. Banis

  Sunday, May 8

  Jett had a feeling Rosa would show up for Mass in the morning. Finally, at about 3:00 A.M. he gave up trying to get any sleep and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt. Rain wasn’t drumming loudly on the roof anymore, so why wait for morning and take a chance of missing them?

  He strapped on his police service holster, with its service issue nine-millimeter automatic, grabbed his jacket, and went out the door. Steering the Bronco down the long, twisting driveway toward the main road, he saw just how much damage the storm had done. Tree limbs were down everywhere. The headlights picked up rivers of muddy water racing down the gullies alongside the road.

  Suddenly, he had to jolt the Bronco to a stop. A huge tree trunk barred the road ahead. “Shit!” Jett shouted as he got out of the truck and slipped in the deep mud.

  Bending over, he examined the position of the massive trunk. “Nobody’s gonna get by this for a while,” he muttered, and swore aloud. “Of all the....”

  The blow to the back of his head caught him completely by surprise. Instinctively, he rolled over in the mud and tried to get to his feet, but cold steel pushed into the back of his neck.

  “Get up, country boy,” a deep voice ordered.

  Slightly dazed, Jett struggled to his feet, trying to back away. But a hard, muscled arm grabbed him from behind. Another big, surly man in a muddy three-piece suit stepped in front of him.

  “Let go of me, you fat-ass bastard!” Jett demanded.

  The grip tightened. “Shuddup. We’d have grabbed you earlier if this tree hadn’t blocked the road. Where’s Mac and the girl, the Italian girl?”

  “Don’t know who you’re talking about.” Jett winced at the pressure on his arm.

  “Sure you know, McCabe. That hick kid is related to you. You’re probably hiding the two of them. Where?” The voice was close to his ear.

  “I told you I don’t know. I ain’t seen that no-good kid in weeks. But look, I can take you to where I think they may be hiding. It’s a long shot.”

  “You better not be messing with me. This shitty weather and these shitty roads have been working on my nerves. Capisci?”

  Jett found himself being lockstep-marched to a dark-colored Lincoln waiting at the end of the drive. His captor frisked him and grunted with satisfaction when he found the service automatic.

  “You’re a cop, ain’t you?” He shoved Jett into the back seat and climbed in beside him. “Hey, Vince, this guy’s a cop, got his service piece.

  The man behind the wheel snorted, “So what? Let’s get this over with.” He gunned the engine and the car shot forward.

  “Now, country boy,” his surly companion growled, “where to?”

  “Turn left on Route 9, toward Great ‘Capon’.” He tried to get a look at the driver. From what he could see, he didn’t recognize either hood. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been in the “De Marco family file.” Jett wondered if Jimmy De Marco was bringing in talent from out of town? It was possible. If so, De Marco really wanted the girl bad. Damn, stupid kids.

  “Yeah, ‘Great’ Cacapon. We been there,” Jett’s captor snorted. “Great place isn’t it, Vince? Gotta be at least two dozen hicks live there and one general store. Great big place, eh?” The driver grunted in reply.

  Twenty minutes later, the Lincoln was climbing up the mountain road that led in the back way to Briary Bottom. “Goddamn car’s wider than the road,” Vince muttered.

  As they neared the crest of the hill, Vince had to gear down again. He cursed loudly.

  “You better really slow down here,” Jett warned. “There’s a sheer drop down to the river on the right. See, the storm’s washed the posts out. Lose a few cars over this cliff each year. Don’t find them until winter when the leaves are off the trees.”

  “Shuddup,” the man next to him said.

  As the Lincoln labored on, Jett shouted, “Ahead, watch out! Road washed out ahead!” The driver slammed on the brakes. Jett jerked the door open, flung himself out onto the road, and rolled over the side of the cliff.

  Hellava stupid thing to do, Jett thought as he hurtled downward through the mud and underbrush. Sharp, jagged rocks gouged at his body and tore at his clothes. Finally, he landed in a thorny briar thicket, bruised, shaken, but alive.

  He heard the Lincoln’s wheels spinning and the men cursing. He could just make out the headlights far above him. He was damn lucky, he realized, as he dragged himself into a sitting position and checked for serious injuries. Then he pulled himself up and moved off along the side of the mountain. “Dumb-ass hoods, try to find this country boy now,” he shouted.

  * * * *

  Jett struggled into Great Cacapon about 5:00 A.M., got to a phone and called Nate Kincaid.

  Nate picked him up in less than an hour, bringing a change of clothes with him. They were on their way now to Berkeley Springs and the Catholic church there.

  Jett rubbed his bruised neck and tried to find a comfortable position in the police car. He ached everywhere. He glanced over at Kincaid. Looked like he’d have to revamp his opinion of Nate. Now if old Nate would just get him to the church on time.

  * * * *

  Rosie and Mac left the cliff-top house early on Sunday morning. The storm had finally worn itself out, but had left destruction in its wake. The old pickup crashed through deep ruts. Clutching the seat, Rosie whispered prayers in Italian. At least twice, they hit washouts.

  Mac kept going over his run-in with Gene. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about Gene had bothered him. Even for a sneaky sonnavabitch, Gene had been more nervous than usual. What had he known that Mac had not?

  He glanced over at Rosie. Her lips were tightly pursed and she stared wide-eyed through the truck’s windshield. The poor girl had been through a lot—and she had never said a word of complaint, either. The kid had more gumption than a lot of guys he knew, that was for sure.

  “Don’t worry, Rosie,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Once we leave Berkeley Springs, we’ll be in Martinsburg in about half an hour. Then we’ll hit the Interstate and head for Canada.”

  Instead of showing signs of relief, Rosie started sobbing, “Dio mio, Dio mio, what of the gift? We won’t know where to find the convent in Canada.”

  “Chrissakes,” Mac shouted as the truck plunged into another washout. “Rosie, you need to give as much thought to the living as the dead. I told you I’d help you and I will, but right now we’re in a hell of a mess. The Mafia’s out there somewhere looking for us.”

  “I know, Mac, but I can’t give up now. The Mafia will never look for us in a church. I will be forever grateful, Mac.” She had stopped crying.

  Mac’s mind raced to at least ten hopeful conclusions, but he said matter-of-factly, “We’ll stop at the Catholic church in Berkeley Springs. It’s on the way. Will the priest have some kind of book of convents, or something?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a start.” Rosie brightened. “I will ask to speak to the priest. He will know about the convent. It’s Sunday. Maybe I can even go to Mass. You see, there is much I must confess...light candles for.” She looked down.

  Puzzled, Mac didn’t see what she could possibly have to confess. Before they pulled onto Route 9, he stopped and switched the license plate. He had kept the plate he’d found at Tanky’s garage, figuring it would come in handy. Good thing he’d thought ahead.

  When they pulled up in front of St. Vincent’s, it was almost time for early Mass. Mac checked up and down the deserted street. He considered telling Rosie that this was crazy, but she was already getting out of the truck.

  The interior of the church was dark and foreboding. The bleeding Christ gazed down accusingly from the crucifix. Mac shifted from one foot to another, and finally sat down in a pew.

  He had never been at ease in church, and long accustomed feelings of guilt swept over him. Not even the Catholics could match local evangelicals when it came to laying on feelings of guilt and damnation.

&nb
sp; This was the first time he had even stepped inside a church in the ten years since his mother had died. The banked flowers on the altar brought the funeral back to him. His mother had been buried from a simple Protestant church, which had overflowed with McCabes and their kin.

  At thirteen, Mac had been abandoned to his alcoholic father. He had known that his life had been changed forever, and this prediction had come true. He had become none of the things his mother had wanted for him. She had been the last person to see any good in him...until he had met Rosie.

  He watched her now as she lit a candle in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. He knew he couldn’t wipe out the mistakes of the last ten years, but could he start again? God, just being inside a church spooked him. He was beginning to think like a preacher. What he needed was a smoke.

  Mac watched a priest enter the area in front of the altar and busy himself at something. He was a stooped, old man and moved slowly. Suddenly the priest’s head jerked up and he squinted over his shoulder toward the door.

  Mac had also heard the door open. Two men had entered. Listening, he knew that one of them was walking with a very slight limp. Although he had expected other worshipers, Mac had been prepared for the hesitant steps of the sinful or the shuffling of the aged, not these decisive footfalls. Continuing to stare straight ahead, he felt the first sparks of apprehension. The old priest froze in the act of pouring wine and watched the approaching men. Only Rosie appeared unconcerned as she knelt at the shrine. The student backpack she wore made her look very young and innocent, encircled in the soft glow of the candlelight.

  Tensing, Mac realized that the two men had separated, each continuing down a side aisle. The one with the limp slid into a seat behind him and to the right, but he didn’t kneel to pray. Mac bowed his head as if in prayer.

  The old priest dropped the silver cup. It clattered to the floor and bright red wine formed puddles around his black robes.

  Clumsily, the priest started his rituals again. His high, thin voice echoed hollowly through the silent church.

  Mac had already gauged the distance to the door and to the area behind the altar. He should have never let himself get separated from Rosie. His mind raced. These men were Catholics too, or they wouldn’t be here. Would they tear up a church when a priest was saying Mass?

  Course, they could afford to wait. They had time on their side.

  The man on the far side of the church was moving forward, toward the altar. Mac cursed himself for a fool. Tanky’s gun was hidden in the truck.

  Mac kept his head down and lifted his eyes. The man at the altar railing knelt and bowed his head, his meaty hands folded in prayer. He was big, at least 250 pounds. The dark suit strained over his hulking frame. A small gold earring and several gold chains caught the candlelight. Mac noticed that his pants’ cuffs were caked with mud.

  Well, if this don’t beat all, Mac thought, he’s gonna take the bread and wine before he does us in.

  Suddenly, the church door was thrown open. Mac turned to see a group of elderly women surging down the aisle. They bristled with large pocketbooks and umbrellas, charging like an armed military group. Some were looking for seats; others bowed their heads and went straight for the altar.

  Mac took advantage of the diversion. He jumped up and vaulted over the seats in front of him and ran toward Rosie. She looked terrified but he grabbed her hand, and together they raced toward the left side of the altar. Frantic screams and the curses of the two men followed them.

  Finding a door open, they ran down a passageway and through a side door to the street. They jumped into the old black truck and took off with a squeal of rubber just as the two hoods erupted out of the church door.

  A hail of bullets hit the truck bed. “Keep down, Rosie,” Mac yelled. “Keep down!”

  He turned onto a side street, the truck swaying and rocking on two wheels. Despite the danger, he gave a little chortle. This was his home ground. He knew where he was going. They could kiss his butt, if they thought they could find him!

  * * * *

  The old Chevy truck skidded around corners and roared up narrow back streets, engine whining. In minutes, Rosie and Mac were clear of the town and thundering down country roads.

  “Can’t beat a Chevy,” Mac yelled over at Rosie. “Look at this old lady go. Probably the only thing I’ll ever have to thank Gene for.”

  “We could have been killed in there,” Rosie whispered.

  Mac swerved off onto a dirt road that headed toward the mountain. “Don’t worry, Rosie, we’re gonna make it now. This is a great shortcut. It’ll soon turn into a logging track, but it’ll get us over the mountain. We’ll come out just a few miles from the Interstate.” His eyes glittered a deep blue. The adrenalin was pumping and he felt great. “We’ve seen the last of them crazy hoods, Rosie. I told you I’d look out for you.”

  The truck bounced over the rough road, meant to be used by heavy-duty logging equipment in low gear. As the grade increased, the going got tougher. The old Chevy engine coughed and sputtered as the truck strained, crawling upward. No matter, he knew they’d make it. “Look at this view, Rosie. Is this here beautiful, or what?”

  Rosie looked down at the sheer drop below, and her eyes rolled. The truck’s tires looked to be only inches from the edge. “Dio mio, per favore,” she said softly.

  “Don’t worry, Rosie, I done this before when I was dead drunk, and in the middle of the night. No problem.” Mac glanced down at the rolling blue slopes. This might be the last time he’d ever see this place.

  “Chrissakes,” he whistled between his teeth. It couldn’t be—but it was. He saw a blue and tan state police car laboring up the logging road not too far below them. He knew the souped-up engines favored by the troopers. The old Chevy didn’t stand a chance. Without hope, he floored the accelerator. How in hell could this have happened?

  “Jett,” he muttered. “He’s the only sonnavabitch would think of this shortcut, showed it to me himself. Jett musta gotten hooked up with the State boys. Probably pissed as hell about the stuff we borrowed from his cabin.”

  Rosie didn’t answer, but she looked more scared than ever.

  * * * *

  Jett leaned out the window of the police car, yelling like crazy at the Chevy truck. “You stupid bastard, you stop right where you are.”

  “Cool off, they can’t hear you,” Nate said.

  “I’d forgotten all about this road. Only a damn fool would attempt it.”

  “Yeah, well too bad we missed them at the church. We were only minutes behind them, too.”

  Nate shifted into a lower gear. “Bet that’s the most exciting Mass they ever had at St. Vincent’s. A couple of minutes earlier and we’d have grabbed those hoods in the Lincoln.”

  “I’m just hoping the APB you put out will haul them in. At least they’re not on Mac’s tail anymore.”

  “Well, we sure as hell are,” Nate said, grinning happily. “We got them now.”

  * * * *

  The pickup crested the top of the mountain and started rolling downward, bouncing off fallen rocks and debris. “Whoa,” Mac shouted. “Maybe we can outrun them suckers. Just need a little luck.”

  “Yes, you can do it, Mac.” Rosie was calm now. “It’s better to have the American police chase us than the Mafia.”

  They rounded a hairpin turn and Lady Luck rushed up to meet them in the form of a gully-sized washout in the middle of the road. Mac floored the gas pedal. The old truck took off and actually sailed across, landing with a grinding jolt on the other side, but still moving.

  “We done it, Rosie, we done it!” Mac grabbed her arm and pulled her close. His left arm steadied the steering wheel around the turns. “Keep checking out the rear window and let me know when them dumb-ass cops land in that washout. No way they’re gonna make it across.”

  A few minutes later, the crash of metal and roar of the police car’s engine told the story. “We done it, Baby. We’re on our way to Canada!” Mac and Ros
ie were both hollering their heads off.

  The Chevy truck bumped and jolted its way down the mountain, finally running into a secondary road that intersected the Interstate. Nobody was following them now.

  * * * *

  The police radio crackled with an unintelligible reply. “I told you, get a car up here on the double,” Nate yelled. “Yeah, send a four-wheel drive. And be sure you get the description of the Chevy truck out right away. Check on the Interstate. That’s where they’re headed.” He slammed down the receiver.

  * * * *

  Barreling up the Interstate, Rosie and Mac were jubilant. She was still sitting close to him, and every so often Mac would give her hand a squeeze and lean down to kiss her hair.

  Out of nowhere, a dark Lincoln passed them, it must have been traveling at least one hundred miles an hour. It slowed down, holding up the heavy traffic and changed lanes to swerve in behind them, hugging the truck’s bumper.

  “Will you look at that,” Mac said. “It’s the same two guys. They’re trying to force us to the side of the road. How in the hell did they find us?”

  Seeing his chance, he switched to the left lane, jerked the steering wheel violently, and the truck jolted over the median strip to the southbound lanes. Horns honked angrily. Caught in traffic in the wrong lane, the Lincoln couldn’t follow.

  In a couple of miles, Mac crossed the median again and headed north. He spotted a Rest Stop sign and turned into the parking area. Time to pick up another vehicle, and what better place? He cut across the landscaped grounds to the back of the facility. Leaving the truck under cover of trees, Rosie and Mac dragged their gear toward the group of buildings.

  * * * *

  The West Virginia State Police car slowed as it approached a dark Lincoln sedan pulled over on the shoulder of Northbound I-81. Location, a mile south of the Rest Stop. It matched the description on a recently posted APB. The trooper read out the license plate number over the radio and got a negative. But still, what was the car doing there? There were two men in the front, one talking into a cell phone.