All He Saw Was the Girl (30 page)

    He
pulled the handle up but the door wouldn't open, wouldn't budge. He used his
arms to pull himself up and slid over on the passenger seat. He went head first
through the open window, holding on to the doorsill, flipping his body around,
going down on his knees, looking through the empty window frames. They were out
of the car, four abreast, starting down the embankment.

    Cars
were slowing down, people trying to see what was happening. Behind him was the
tree line, a narrow wooded area he'd seen from the road that went uphill a
hundred yards to a stone house and outbuildings on the other side of the trees.

    He
picked up the bag, put the strap over his shoulder and went into the woods
about fifty feet, stopped and saw them standing around the Fiat, and McCabe
started to run.

    Joey
said, "Jesus Christ, you believe this fucking guy?" The Romans were
looking in the car windows. "You going to stand there, pull pud, or go
find him?"

    These
guys were so fucking lame it hurt.

    Mazara
said something in Italian and the three of them moved into the trees, Joey
behind them, holding the Beretta down his leg. He didn't think these bozos
would try to take him out but you never knew. He could hear the hum of traffic
behind them as he followed the Romans into the woods.

    They'd
sure as hell better find him and do it fast. There was considerable personal
gain at stake here too, beyond just the money. Joey saw himself giving McCabe
to his uncle, saying, you want the guy kidnapped Angela? Here he is. My
pleasure. You don't have to thank me. Just give me my own territory, I'll show
you how it's done.

    Joey
saw himself making the rounds, persuading the Roman shopkeepers they needed
protection. It wasn't hard. They didn't want to pay him he'd pull out the
Closer, a twenty- nine-ounce white ash Louisville Slugger. His advice to young
racketeers: choose a bat you could control, never pick up more wood than you
could swing. Joey with his height and weight could handle a thirty-ouncer
without any problem, but he liked the twenty-nine better. He knew it didn't
make any sense, but one ounce made a difference.

    The
other piece of advice he'd give about hitting: loosen up a little before you
swing for the fence. Stretch your muscles. Joey preferred a Louisville Slugger
model C271 pro stock, but on occasion used his Pete Rose autograph with the
man's signature on the barrel of the bat, and the words
Hit King
under
it, and 4,256, his record number of major-league hits. It was a little corny
but he liked it 'cause he liked Pete Rose, admired him, and having the man's
autograph on the bat gave him confidence. He was thinking about the bat,
watching Mazara and, the other two clowns walk through the woods when he heard
a siren in the distance, the sound like a siren in a Second World War movie.
The three Romans stopped, turned and looked at him, and they all started moving
back to the car, Joey thinking, Jesus, that's all he needed - get arrested in
fucking Italy.

    When
Mazara walked out of the office looking for the kidnappers, Angela had run down
the hall and down the stairs. Instead of going into Piazza del Plebiscito she
entered the courtyard between Palazzo dei Priori and Palazzo del Podesta. She
had joined a tour group of Dutch students that had stopped to study the
Etruscan sarcophagus lids on display.

    The
tour guide explained the historical significance of the ancient coffin lids,
but Angela wasn't listening. She was glancing behind her through the students,
looking for Roberto.

    She
stayed hidden in the group until they moved into Piazza del Plebiscito. She
didn't see McCabe or Joey or any of them and started across the square. She
heard the distant discharges of a shotgun, and then panic, people running
toward her. Angela was concerned about McCabe, hoping Joey and Mazara didn't do
something crazy. Two Polizia sedans sped past her down Via San Lorenzo, lights
flashing, sirens yelping. She had seen a taxi queue on Via Roma, and ran there
and got in the rear seat of a yellow Fiat sedan and told the driver she was in
a hurry. Drive toward Bagnaia, I will direct you. She could see his face in the
rearview mirror, dark eyes studying her. He looked Tunisian or Moroccan. She
took a fifty-euro note out of her purse, leaned forward and handed it to him.
He nodded and started the car.

    "Subito,
signorina."

    They
drove out of Viterbo and through La Quercia, zipping along, Angela thinking
about McCabe again and realizing she had not stopped thinking about him. McCabe
was tough, but there were five armed men after him. There was nothing she could
do. No way to contact Joey or Mazara. And even if she could, what would she say
to them? She was staring out at the countryside and felt the taxi slow down, and
looked through the windshield and saw brake lights ahead. Cars traveling in
both directions were stopping now.

    The
driver glanced at her, his solemn eyes in the rearview, and said, "I don't
know."

    It
could have been anything, a collision, sheep crossing the road, a farmer
driving a tractor slowing traffic. After a few minutes they started moving
slowly, creeping along, Angela nervous, worried, looking out the window. She
hit the button and the window went down and she lit a cigarette. She saw the
driver's eyes looking at her in the mirror again but not saying anything to his
fifty-euro customer. She blew smoke out the window and watched it disappear.

    She
could see flashing lights up ahead, two police cars parked on the side of the
road. As they approached Angela looked down the embankment and saw four Polizia
de Stato standing next to a dark-blue Fiat. It was McCabe's car, there was no
doubt in her mind. The top was crushed, sides dented. Was he in the car? Was he
hurt? If he was hurt they would have called an ambulance. So where was he? And
where were Joey and Mazara?

    McCabe
walked upslope through the trees, the strap over his left shoulder, bag resting
on his right hip. When he reached the top of the rise, level now with the
farmhouse, he could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. He looked down
the hill at the highway and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto get in the car, and take
off just before two police cars arrived, lights flashing.

    He
walked out of the trees and saw laundry on a clothesline next to the house. He
looked down the hill and saw four uniformed police getting out of the two cars,
walking down the embankment to the rented Fiat, what was left of it, traffic
heavy, congested, barely moving.

    McCabe
moved up to the top of a steep rock-strewn hill fifty yards to the right of the
farmhouse, picking his way through brush and Mediterranean scrub. He stood on
an outcropping of rock, breathing a little from the climb, and lifted the strap
over his head, put the soccer bag on the ground and stretched. The view was
something, green rolling hills extending to a dark ridge of mountains that rose
in the distance.

    Angela
had obviously seen what was happening from the window of Palazzo dei Priori,
and had taken off. If something went wrong, they had agreed to meet back at the
villa. He turned and looked off across the hills, saw Lago di Vico to the south
and the Marta and Leia, tributaries of the Tiber, winding through the landscape
east of the lake. La Quercia was due west, and beyond it, Viterbo. He knew
where he was, and where he had to go. He scanned the terrain and thought he saw
Pietro's villa on a hilltop to the east.

    Psuz
moved through the trees: cork wood, white oak, sycamore and holly oak. He had
grown up in Lazio, the village of Gallese on the other side of the Cimini
Mountains. His father had taught him how to hunt, and how to track game. He
knew the trees and the vegetation and the rocky terrain. He had moved up the
hill at least one hundred meters when he heard the sirens. He glanced back
through the trees and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto running to the car, getting in
and driving away, leaving him. But now the American would also see them and not
be expecting him.

    Psuz
saw McCabe come out of the trees and walk to the top of the hill and stand
there looking down at the police, wondering what he would do, and then he disappeared,
went over the hill and was gone. Psuz ran up and looked and saw the American
moving down the slope and went after him, thinking if he could move fast enough
he could circle around and get ahead of him, be waiting for McCabe at the
bottom. Surprise.

    Pietro's
villa didn't look far, a few miles, but it took McCabe over an hour to get
there, late October sun beating down on him. He hiked through the hills and
crossed the main road, Viale Fiume, and walked through the trees along Strada
Pian di Nero. When he got to the base of the hill, looking up at the villa, he
decided to circle around and come up behind it.

    There
was a stone outbuilding that was built about fifty yards from the main house.
It was the size of a three-car garage and had a couple bedrooms, a bathroom and
kitchen for Pietro's cook and housekeeper. The villa was on the other side of
the gravel apron where Pietro parked his cars, but there were no cars there
now. McCabe scanned the windows across the backside of the villa, didn't see
anything suspicious, didn't see anything at all. He moved to the door, opened
it and went in the kitchen. Stood and listened but didn't hear anything. He put
the soccer bag on the table. Went in the main room, opened the gun case and grabbed
the barrel of a Perazzi twelve-gauge. He loaded it and took it into the kitchen
and laid it on the table next to the bag.

    He
opened the refrigerator, took out a cold bottle of Pellegrino water and poured
a glass. Drank it leaning against the counter, thinking about Angela again,
wondering what happened to her. Picturing her face the last time they were
together, seductive brown eyes looking up at him.

    "I
saw your car."

    It
was her voice. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but there she was,
standing in the doorway that led to the main room.

    She
came toward him, tears in her eyes. "I thought you were dead."

    McCabe
said. "It takes more than getting shot at and rolled in a car to stop
me."

    "Always
the tough guy, uh?"

    "I'm
kidding."

    She
gave him a dirty look and opened a drawer and took out a towel and went to the
sink and wet it and dabbed his face and it stung. "Easy," McCabe
said, pulling away from her.

    "Oh,
you do feel pain, uh?" She showed him the towel that was stained with
blood.

    "I'm
okay," McCabe said.

    She
touched his cheek again with the cool cloth. "I was worried about you. Do
you understand?"

    He
gave her a slight nod.

    "That's
the best you can do?"

    He
brought her to him and put his arms around her and held her close.

    "That's
better," she said. "I knew Joey was not going to give you the
money."

    "You
called it," McCabe said.

    "No,
I saw it all happening from the window of the Palazzo, four of them surrounding
you. " She looked up at him. "But you still have me. I'm your
bargaining chip. You remember saying that?" She paused. "Listen, we
can try again."

    "We
don't have to," McCabe said. He glanced at the soccer bag on the table.
She went over and unzipped it, looked inside, turned to him and smiled.

    "Were
you going to tell me?"

    He
sipped the coffee and studied a map of Rome and Lazio. He found Mentana and
circled it with a yellow marker. When he was finished with breakfast he asked
for the check and left a five-euro note on the table. He walked into the square
and took the first right, a narrow street that wound around to Via del Corso.
He was carrying a black computer bag with a strap over his shoulder. It held
binoculars, a flashlight, the SIG Sauer and the two twelve-shot magazines.