Impulse (5 page)

The two Dutchmen were running, screaming, but Marcus didn’t fire at them. He watched Merkel take both of them down, slamming Koerbogh in the jaw and Van Wessel in his fat stomach. The helicopter pilot, no fool, lifted off. Marcus raised his automatic rifle and carefully aimed. He stopped.

He heard Dominick call out to him, “Bring him down, Marcus.”

But he shook his head. Slowly Marcus lowered the rifle. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bring down the helicopter and kill the pilot. It wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t a dispassionate, cold-blooded killer, not like Dominick Giovanni.

He hurried back to Dominick. He was smiling, his hand still pressing over the wound in his upper arm. Had Marcus imagined his order?

“Thank you, Marcus,” Dominick said in his aloof, polite voice. “I wasn’t too worried, well, not until the very end there. The bitch was going to kill me,” he added, amazement in his voice. “And I don’t even know why. You’d think she would have told me, wouldn’t you?”

“What the hell happened?” As he spoke, Marcus
pulled Dominick’s hand from his arm. He ripped open the sleeve and looked at the wound. “The bullet went through, thank God. I think I can handle this. We don’t need to call in Haymes.”

Dominick nodded, and Marcus, for the first time, saw the strain on his face. He watched Dominick pull himself together. “The servants are all locked in the cellar. Coco is tied to a chair in the cabana. Our twelve men, every last one of them, are unconscious in the dining room. Koerbogh gassed them. Quite efficiently, I might add—knocked them out within seconds. I’m familiar with the stuff they used. Invented by the Chinese. The men will be coming out of it in about four hours.”

“And Paula had already left for the resort?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell me more about it later. Come in now and lie down. I’ll see to things.” He called over to Merkel, who was standing over the two unconscious Dutchmen, “Tie up those hyenas and we’ll question them in a little while.”

“Right,” Merkel called back, and picked up the two men, one under each arm, and half-dragged them toward what was called the tool shed but was in reality a place to store people also.

“Marcus! Watch out!”

Marcus whirled about to see the woman, Tulp, come up on her side, blood streaming out of her chest and mouth, the 9-mm automatic raised in her wounded hand and pointed at him. Everything stopped. He wanted to duck, to leap out of the way, but it was too late.

He heard Dominick yell.

Then he heard a shot and then another.

A cold numbing pain sliced through his shoulder. And he thought: This is damned unfair and I don’t want to die.

Brammerton, Massachusetts
February 2001

Rafaella was dreaming about Freddy Pithoe, and then, quite suddenly, she jerked awake, eyes wide and ears fully tuned. It was quiet as a tomb, not a sound, just echoes of the shots she’d heard in her dreams. She started to get out of bed, when she felt a pain in the left side of her body. She rubbed her shoulder and her arm. An odd pain, as if she’d been struck, hard.

It was weird, no doubt about it. Maybe she needed a vacation. She was letting Freddy Pithoe get to her. She stuck her feet into her decade-old Mickey Mouse slippers and pulled on a ratty pink robe. She went into the living room and flicked back the curtain. The street below was quiet, as usual, and the newly fallen snow undisturbed. There were no backfiring cars, no irate old men yelling at each other, and no testy retired ladies twittering at their poodles, nothing to account for the shouts and the gunshots she’d heard so clearly.

Rafaella went into her kitchen, saw it was near dawn, and made some coffee. As she waited, she rubbed her shoulder and her arm. They felt numb now. It was weird.

Those wretched shots. Dreams had to come from something. Rafaella shook her head. Of course, she’d been thinking violent thoughts. She’d simply translated the awful ax murders into gunshots because the other was too horrible for her to handle, even her subconscious.

She poured herself a cup of the fresh Kona coffee and sat at her small pine kitchen table. Forget the stupid dream, she told herself. She thought instead of her run-in with Lieutenant Masterson that afternoon. Sure he owed Al a favor, but it was obvious that he was thinking the favor had been paid, in full. He had a big beefy face, a paunch, and he sweated a lot. He’d
stopped Rafaella on her way in, demanding, “You want to see the nut case again?”

“Yes, I would. I sure do appreciate it, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve already seen him twice. Twice! You wanna see me go down? What are you doing? Writing his biography?”

She wondered if he was serious. She had written a biography of the dashing French resistance leader Louis Rameau, DeGaulle’s right hand. “No,” she said, keeping her voice pitched low, very respectful and deferential. Louis Rameau had also been quite the ladies’ man, unlike Benny Masterson here.

“One more time, kid, and that’s it. You got it? You tell Al that he’s pushed me too much on this one. And you keep your trap shut. No one’s to know, no one’s to find out.”

“I’ll tell him, Lieutenant. No one will find out, I swear. Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

As he walked away, he turned back, saying, “Oh, yeah, kid, you come up with anything, you tell me, you got that?”

“Certainly, Lieutenant. I’ll come to you right away.”

He’d given her a sour look, then shrugged. “There’s nothing to find, but just in case you think you have something, you call me, or I’ll have your head.”

But Freddy had refused to see her. The guard told her that he’d vomited up his guts just an hour ago. The food probably, he’d added, the franks and beans had looked sickening enough.

Tomorrow, she’d thought, first thing tomorrow morning. It will be all over.

Rafaella drank the rest of her coffee and took herself to the shower. Today was the day. It was very early, but she didn’t care. She was too keyed up now. She bundled up against the twenty-degree weather and reached the Metro station at just after eight in the morning. The dream had faded now, even though her left side still ached a bit.

Thank God Freddy had agreed to see her. Thank God Masterson hadn’t told the people not to let her in again.

He looked worse today, his shoulders slumped forward like a hunchback’s. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pasty.

“Good morning, Mr. Pithoe. I hope you’re feeling better today?”

He nodded and slipped into the chair opposite her, behind the wire mesh.

“Listen to me, Mr. Pithoe—Freddy. You remember you said it was okay for me to call you Freddy. Well, I spoke to Mrs. Roselli. She’s the old lady who lives behind you. Do you know her?”

He looked suddenly very afraid. He wrenched out of his chair.

“Sit down, Freddy,” she said, her best nun’s voice, kind but implacable. “It’s going to come out, you know, all of it. Sit down.”

He sat. “She’s a lying old bitch.”

“Perhaps, but not about this. Where’s Joey?”

Silence.

“You do know where he’s hiding, don’t you, Freddy?”

“Go away, ma’am. I don’t wanna see you again. You’re just like the rest of them.”

“No, I won’t leave. And I’m not like the others. You don’t belong in here. Mrs. Roselli told me how you always protected your little brother, taking blows for him from both your uncle and your father, but mainly from your father. She told me how she heard your father shout and yell at your mother that he’d found out that Joey wasn’t his kid, that he was a damned little bastard, and he was going to kill both of them. He was going to cut them into little pieces.”

“No, ma’am, that ain’t true. It ain’t!”

“Yes, it is. Was your father right? Was Joey his kid or not?”

His face turned even more pasty.

“Please, Freddy, you can’t go on like this. You can’t go on lying.”

“Joey didn’t mean to do it!”

Rafaella held herself perfectly still and waited.

It was as if the dam had finally burst. Freddy lowered his face into his hands and wailed with pain and release.

Rafaella waited.

Finally she said, “Your father had you buy the ax so he could kill your mother, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and Uncle Kipper too.”

“And he did, didn’t he?”

Freddy nodded. He looked incredibly weary.

“And Joey saw him do it. He tried to stop your father—tried to protect your mother?”

“Yeah, the little guy tried. Pa smacked Joey aside the head, then kilt them. He turned to Joey—he was gonna chop him too—but Joey got away from him. He threw a lamp at Pa, and when Pa fell, Joey grabbed the ax and swung it at him. He didn’t mean to kill him, ma’am, he didn’t, he just wanted to stop him ’cause he’d gone crazy.”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t do anything on purpose. It’s over now, Freddy, all over. Tell me where I can find Joey. He needs some kind people to take care of him, you know. He must be very frightened. He must miss you a whole lot.”

“My Uncle Kipper were his father, and that’s why Pa decided to kill Ma and his brother.”

“And you came home and found them. And you decided to take the blame—and you sent Joey where?”

“Down to that big warehouse on Pier Forty-one.”

“Thank you, Freddy. It’s over now. I promise you no one will hurt Joey.”

Lieutenant Masterson allowed her to come along with him to get Joey. The kid was a wreck. His clothes were covered with dried blood, he was thin as a scarecrow,
his eyes were dead, his mind too dull to make him afraid anymore. Lieutenant Masterson said to her as she was leaving to return to the paper, “I don’t know how you did that, kid, but I don’t like it. Freddy should have spit it out to us.”

You wouldn’t listen. All you did was call him a fucking liar.
It was difficult, but Rafaella kept her mouth shut.

“Just lucky, I guess,” she said finally, and got out of the lieutenant’s sight as quickly as possible.

The story broke in the
Tribune
’s evening edition, and Rafaella got the byline, lots of congratulations, and Gene Mallory looked as if he’d swallowed a prune. The headline editor had outdone herself. Two-inch letters plastered across the entire width of the paper:
BOY AXES FATHER IN SELF-DEFENSE
.

Al just smiled when she told him about Mrs. Roselli, and when she accused him of holding out on her, he said, “Well, kiddo, I didn’t think you liked things handed to you. Remember, you didn’t tell a soul that your stepfather was Charles Winston Rutledge III.”

Rafaella told him that he was a pig, she’d read it in the women’s room, and kissed his cheek.

And that night, at ten minutes after midnight, Rafaella’s phone rang.

Giovanni’s Island
February 2001

Marcus took the bullet in his back, just above his right shoulder blade. The pain was instant and blinding, and he staggered; the pain turned into frozen cold, so cold that it burned him. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Merkel spun about and kicked out, his Gucci loafer clipping the 9-mm, sending it flying from Tulp’s hand. His next kick smashed cleanly into her nose, sending it into her brain. Dominick Giovanni hadn’t moved. He winced at the crunching sound of shattered bone, then walked slowly over and dropped to his knees beside the woman. Her eyes were staring; she was quite dead.

Merkel looked from Dominick to Marcus. Dominick waved him away. Merkel leaned over Marcus. He ripped away the shirt to bare the wound. “He’s alive, Mr. Giovanni, but he needs a doctor. The bullet’s still in him.”

Dominick pursed his lips. “Carry him upstairs and get him into bed. I’ll get hold of Dr. Haymes at the resort. Then you’d best lock up these goons. Oh, and, Merkel, have the woman buried.”

There was blood all over Merkel’s beautiful white suit, and it was the first thing Marcus saw when he opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach. Merkel
was sitting on a cane chair beside the bed, reading
GQ
, his favorite magazine. “Do you know you’d look like Santa Claus if you only had a white beard?”

Merkel folded down the page he was reading and set the magazine facedown on the night table. “Yeah, it’s your blood, at least most of it is. You can buy me a new suit. You feel alive?”

“More so than otherwise. It hurts like hell and the drug Haymes shot me up with is making me feel like my brain is cotton candy. What happened? How’s Dominick? How are—?”

Merkel held up his hand. “I’ll get Mr. Giovanni. He can tell you all he wants to.” Merkel rose and nodded down at Marcus. “You know how he is,” he added, and Marcus closed his eyes. He knew exactly how Dominick Giovanni was. He probably knew as much about Dominick Giovanni as any other living person. He had a cold, perfect memory of that day in October, two and a half years ago, when he had finally engineered that meeting with Giovanni, under the auspices of the U.S. Customs Service, and his immediate contact, Ross Hurley. He’d never felt so scared in his life, or so determined. Dominick had seemed so human, so civilized, as he’d spoken of the resort Porto Bianco. He’d been a gentleman of wit, of education, which he still was. He was also deadly.

Marcus didn’t see Dominick then. As much as he tried to fight it, he dozed off again, not waking until it was dark. He was thirsty and his back thudded with waves of pain. He cursed, but it didn’t help. He heard a small clucking sound and realized that Paula was now beside him, holding a glass of water. “Here,” she said, “drink this.”

He did, gratefully, thinking that perhaps Paula wasn’t such a bad sort after all.

He quickly changed his mind when she said after a moment, “Enough now, Marcus. Dr. Haymes told me water was the first thing you’d want. Now I suppose
you have to use the urine bottle. He said to keep you in bed or you’d open the wound and start bleeding again.”

He watched her, without words, as she handed him the clear bottle that looked for all the world like an empty wine carafe. He stared at it and then back up at her.

Paula merely smiled down at him and pulled back the sheet, and he felt her hand lightly sweep down to his lower back, then smooth over his buttocks.

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. “Paula, please, don’t. I do want to use that bottle. Call Merkel for me. I won’t be able to do a thing with you standing there.”