Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (26 page)

“We want to free him too.” Romano replied, just as resolute and harsh. “And we're professionals. You need to remember that; you all need to remember that.”

Palma reinforced Romano's words: “That's right. Stick to our instructions and let us know the instant anything new comes up.
Buonanotte
.”

Aragona got up from the sofa he'd been sprawled out on. “We'll leave you to your nice family reunion,” he said. “We hope we find you all alive next time, seeing how much you love one another.”

 

Before getting back in the car they all stopped to catch their breath. “My God,” Palma said, “that's some atmosphere. You could slice through the air with a knife in there. Let's just hope they don't do anything stupid.”

Romano was stunned: “It seems impossible to me that there could be so much resentment among people who once cared for one another. All of them feeding on their anger and hatred toward the others; none of them thinking about what's best for the child. I'm worried about the father, Cerchia: He really looked desperate to me. He hates the old man and Scarano so much that I don't know what he might be capable of doing.”

Aragona's hands were in his pockets and he was rocking back and forth on his heels. “They all strike me as fairly worthless; the only smart one is Borrelli. The old man's going to pay the ransom, that's for sure, and I'm just as sure that he won't tell us he's done it. He's convinced he has the situation under control. We just have to hope that, given the state he's in, he puts his trust in the right people. Otherwise, so long, money and so long, kid.”

Palma and Romano looked at him in disgust: “How on earth can you be so cynical?”

Aragona looked surprised. “Why, what did I say?”

Palma tried to bring things down a notch: “All right then. Let's assign an unmarked car to the area, just in case anyone comes along to deliver a message. Go get some sleep; tomorrow I want you in the office bright and early.”

H
is fever's very high. I went in without making any noise and I heard him snoring, so I touched his forehead.”

“I believe it. That room is drafty as hell. It's terribly hot during the day, but at night the temperature drops sharply. Pass me the wine.”

“Well, what were we supposed to do, get a hotel room? I didn't know any other places. This is where I always worked, since I first came to this city, until they shut the place down.”

“We need to give him some antibiotics. I can get them.”

“I'm worried. He needs to give me the instructions tomorrow. I might have to go somewhere and maybe the police will be there waiting for me.”

“No, what are you saying? He can't run the risk of them catching you. Don't worry; if you're not safe, he's not safe.”

“Eh, easy for you to say. After all, the guy who has to show up to get the money is me.”

“That's bullshit, I'm in more danger than you are. Remember, the boy knows who I am. I'm going to have to disappear, change my name, cut my hair. And you can rest assured he won't leave you alone for more than a second. He can't run the risk of you running away with the loot.”

“With the money we're going to earn on this job you'll be able to pay a plastic surgeon in Brazil to make you look just like Jennifer Lopez. Even though I like you the way are now, with blond hair.”

“Don't be an asshole. This is no time to think about things like that. But listen, what do we do next? What's the schedule?”

“He'll call me on the cell phone he gave me, which I'm never supposed to use. He manages every last detail: He didn't even want to know where we are to avoid running the risk of giving himself away.”

“And what's he going to tell you?”

“What you're supposed to write on the note, because you know the stupid language they speak around here, and then how and where I'm supposed to turn him over. Then he'll call me again to tell me where he's going to come pick up the boy and his share of the ransom.”

“That makes it sound easy. When's he supposed to call?”

“It could be anytime. We just have to wait.”

“Then let's wait. After all, you have a point; we can have a little fun while we're waiting. Give me some more wine.”

O
ttavia had a dog.

To tell the truth, the dog belonged to Riccardo, she would never have gotten one on her own. In an apartment in the city a dog sheds and drools everywhere, and it's hard enough keeping an apartment clean in the first place. But one of the many doctors they'd consulted concerning their son's incurable condition had suggested that a pet might help sharpen his focus, and that was all it had taken to get her active, precise, punctual, tireless, and intolerable husband's attention. He'd immediately begun researching the matter on the Internet, at the library, in pet stores, to figure out the best breed.

The result was a calm and highly affectionate canine specimen, an oversized golden retriever who sat awaiting her return every night, anxious to slap his big old paws on her shoulders and run a quarter pound of rough dog tongue over her face. Dogs, it's said, choose a master for themselves from among the members of a family, and Sid—the name had been taken from a cartoon that Riccardo especially loved—hadn't hesitated. Even though she'd been the only one who opposed the dog's presence, even though Riccardo was supposed to be Sid's responsibility, and even though Gaetano took much better care of him, even as a puppy Sid had displayed an absolute, unconditional love for her. And Ottavia, after an obstinate initial silence, which had been followed by the occasional grudging pat on the head, had finally made up her mind to give in to Sid's advances.

One pleasant side effect was that it had become her job to take the dog out before going to bed and sometimes, when she got back from the walk, she'd find her husband fast asleep, his glasses perched on his nose and his book lying on his chest. That meant she didn't have to invent some absurd excuse to put him off. Again.

May, she thought as she strolled along the finally empty street. May nights. One more reason to feel fresh air on her skin after a day spent shut up in the office, in the subway, in the pool where she took Riccardo for his swim lessons. Air certainly wasn't what you breathed in those in-between moments, while you ran from one place to another, surrounded by exhaust fumes, the acrid smell of the crowd.

But this was. This was the fresh air of a night in May.

Sid sniffed at a light pole and, after thinking it over for a moment, lifted his leg. The city didn't seem the same anymore at that time of night.

Ottavia wondered how Palma and Romano and Aragona's visit to old Borrelli's place had gone. Something about that whole story didn't add up. There was an element of disorder, a disturbance she couldn't identify and which annoyed her, a persistent irritation, a joint ache too minor to treat but still a source of discomfort.

Distractedly, she scratched Sid behind the ear and he swept the air happily with his tail. To leave the apartment she'd had to pry Riccardo off of her; he'd hung on to the sleeve of her jacket and refused to let go. He could be difficult, certain days more than others. Her thirteen-year-old son, locked in his world, didn't want to interact with her, didn't want to play with her, wasn't seeking her attention: He just wanted her to be there, and nothing more. Ottavia had to stay there, and he had to know she was there.

Like being in prison. No better and no worse.

What wasn't right about the whole Dodo Borrelli case? What kept bothering her?

She'd researched everyone involved in the case on the Internet. Everyone except for the kidnappers, obviously, she didn't know anything about them . . . But did she really know nothing about them?

Sid started sniffing in a circle, loudly, and she got her plastic bag and scooper ready. She hoped the boys had made some progress, over at the Borrellis'. And that the sensation that was tormenting her finally made up its mind to emerge, to reveal something to her.

She would have liked to go to the old man's place with them. In general, she would have liked to participate in on-the-ground investigations, in stakeouts, interrogations, confrontations. She'd have liked to rack up miles, in other words, rather than being relegated to the office. Instead, she felt like little more than a glorified old-fashioned secretary, whose only job was doing online research and prying into people's Facebook pages, as she'd done with Peluso.

More than anything else, though, she wanted to be sure she wasn't being given special consideration. She wouldn't have wanted anyone—wouldn't have wanted Palma—to think that her situation, that of a woman over forty with a seriously autistic son, was a hindrance to her work as a policewoman. But perhaps, after all, it was enough that the precinct hadn't been shut down after everything that had happened, and that major investigations were shared, so that everyone felt useful and busy.

Sid showed a regal indifference to a stray cat that stood on a low wall a few yards away, arching its back and raising its fur. Good boy, thought Ottavia: Don't talk to strangers.

Just what kind of a stranger was the commissario, to her? What did the new pleasure she felt in going to work in the morning mean? How could she, in her situation, be so reckless and foolish that she felt something quiver in her belly every time he came near her?

Sid, she asked in a low voice, in the night, you tell me what's going on. You're the only one who knows how I feel, I'm sure of it, because for the past month, as soon as I get home, you're right there next to me, you don't budge an inch, and at night when I watch TV, you watch
me
, as if I were a movie. Tell me what you're thinking, tell me whether I'm just acting like a teenager, whether I should just try to remember who I really am.

As if he'd heard the question, the dog turned his attention away from a piece of newspaper fluttering by in the breeze, fixed his intelligent brown eyes on Ottavia, and bumped her leg lightly with his nose. She patted him again and then whispered: While we're on the subject, do you happen to know what it is about this kidnapping that I keep turning over in my mind, that I can't quite seem to pin down? If so, help me out, because it's driving me crazy.

 

About fifty yards away, in a parked car with the lights off and the engine stopped, a man watched the woman walking her dog. She was putting on a spectacular show, he thought, the best he could ask for.

The man was Commissario Luigi Palma.

He'd gotten into the habit, when he left the office to head back to the studio apartment that was so perfect for a divorced, childless man, of letting the car go where it wanted; and the car always seemed to head over to a building that matched the address that appeared on the personnel folder of a certain deputy sergeant. Maybe his car just liked that quiet, tree-lined, residential street.

He told himself he was an idiot: Who was he trying to fool? The truth was that he couldn't stop thinking about that face, that supple figure, the line of that body that he could see every time she walked past his office door. And certain evenings, when mankind's miseries were thrown into particularly stark relief, like in the depressing human comedy he'd beheld at Borrelli's home, he thought about her even more. He'd never run into her before, on these nighttime jaunts, and he wouldn't even have wanted to. It was enough for him to breathe the same air, to imagine her with her happy family, filled with love as she certainly was for her unfortunate son and for her husband with whom she shared so much. That night, however, he'd spotted her from a distance and he'd pulled over immediately. It had been an instinctive act, impossible to justify; in fact, completely unjustifiable. But after a day like the one he'd just had, his heart filled with mute sorrow for a child held prisoner who knew where and by who knew whom, he didn't want to go to bed with the sad spectacle of a family in complete disarray still before his eyes.

So she had a dog. He hadn't known that. A nice big blond dog, long-haired and soft, elegant. Just like Ottavia, in fact; she was also soft and elegant.

He watched as she leaned over to pet the animal. From a distance she actually seemed to be talking to it; Palma had had a dog of his own, when he was a boy, and when no one was around he'd always talked to him, though it had always made him feel a little stupid. From a distance, in the dark, he blew her a kiss.

He watched her go back toward the entrance of her apartment building, open it, and walk in, not in any hurry, the same way she left the office at night after smiling and telling him:
Buonasera
, boss, I'm going home, now you take care of yourself. She said that because more than once she'd been the first one in to work in the morning and found him fast asleep on his office couch, having stayed up too late the night before working on files to want to go back to that tiny apartment that always struck him as so depressing.

He waited a few more minutes. The May night was enveloping the street in an exotic perfume, and it almost seemed to him that the sweetness in the air was blurring his vision.

But no, it was a veil of tears and sadness.

D
arkness.

In the middle of the night, there's darkness.

It doesn't last long, fortunately. Perhaps five minutes, time enough for some heavy breathing and a little terror, as you look down into the abyss.

It doesn't last long but it can leave its mark if it draws itself out just a little bit further, if it manages to reach its fingers out through the loneliness.

The darkness.

 

You're cold, as you struggle along in your dream.

You see the road leading up into the mountains. You're on your papà's shoulders; Mamma holds your hand so you have to lean over to one side because your papà is tall, but your mamma isn't.