Dina Santorelli (6 page)

"Just
think," snickered Hank, the sentry outside Gino's cell. "In two days' time,
this will all be over."

Gino
smiled and said nothing.

"Rise and shine, Dimples."

Jamie
felt hard slaps on the sides of her face and opened her eyes. She was lying on
the floor of the limousine. The doors were open on both sides, and a strong,
fresh breeze swept through the car interior like a wind tunnel. Horizontal
sunlight streamed across her, although it did nothing to cure her shivering.
Her body ached, and the bald guy was hitting her.

"Give
it a rest, Leo," said the man who'd grabbed her. "She's awake." He looked at
Jamie. "C'mon, honey, let's go."

Jamie
emerged from the parked car on all fours. Her head was cloudy, and her cheeks
stung. The red haze of dusk coated her surroundings so much that it was
difficult for her to see exactly where she was. She pushed herself up and saw
the bald guy, Leo, standing behind the car next to the driver, his arm around
the shoulder of the kid in the jeans.

With
the sun behind her, Jamie faced east as her head cleared and her brain made
sense of the puzzle pieces coming in through her senses: Trees. Crickets. A
wood-burning stove. They were in the woods. Somewhere upstate, she guessed. In
front of her was a beautiful three-level log cabin, but other than that there
was nothing else within view except for natural landscape as far as the eye
could see. The sounds of running water hummed in the background, and Jamie
thought she could see low mountains behind the cabin, which appeared to be on a
hill. If there was anywhere to run, Jamie couldn't find it. She swatted her
left forearm, squashing a mosquito, which left a small trace of blood.

The
man in black was standing on the deck of the cabin, flipping through mail, his
elbow leaning on one of those rural mailboxes whose little door was hanging
open like a tongue. The name on the mailbox, written in big, gold capital
letters, was "Bailino."

"Don,"
the driver called, walking toward him.

Don
Bailino.

"Whatcha
lookin' at, Dimples?" asked Leo, standing in her line of sight.

Jamie
looked away, but Leo followed her gaze.

"Peekaboo,"
he said, popping again into view.

Leo
was shorter than Jamie had first surmised in the limo. He probably only had a
few inches on her, but he had considerable bulk. His eyes were deeply set into
his round face, which had a line of pockmarks along the cheekbones, and he had
plucked his eyebrows so thin that his features appeared bloated and
exaggerated. He was about to say something else, but stopped when Don Bailino
came toward them.

"Okay,
here we are," Bailino said to Jamie. "You're here because of me, and I can just
as easily get rid of you. As far as you're concerned, you do as I say, and
things will go a lot smoother. Understand?"

Jamie
nodded obediently, dizzied by the closeness of Don Bailino, whose size and
presence was just as foreboding as she had remembered. A tiny voice inside
beseeched her to run, anywhere, told her that if she entered that house he
would never let her out. And although she believed it, she didn't move.

The
sun vanished under the horizon, taking with it the last vestiges of light and
heat, and Jamie's shiver became a tremble. Bailino took off his suit jacket and
placed it over her shoulders.

"Okay
then, let's go." He took her hand in his, a large, calloused knob, and led her toward
the house like a parent bringing a reluctant child to her first day of school.
As they walked, the three other men followed behind.

The
inside of the log cabin was even grander than the outside. The entrance led
into a generously proportioned space that was anchored on the right by a
state-of-the-art open kitchen featuring stainless-steel appliances and a wide,
two-tiered kitchen island flanked on one side by four bar stools. A stack of
dirty dishes was piled in the sink as well as on the table of a breakfast nook
situated in the rear. Across from the kitchen, a leather sofa and loveseat
faced a stone fireplace that also served a small, but stately dining room. On
the back wall, large glass sliding patio doors, which seemed to divide the
house in half, were closed. To Jamie's immediate left were a bedroom and bath,
the only enclosed rooms on the floor. The smell of wood, which had been so
strong when they first entered the home, was now mixed with the stench of
cabbage and nacho cheese—and urine.

Bailino
stopped and looked around. Then he led Jamie through the kitchen and made a
sharp right and pulled her down a set of stairs that led into a basement.
Although the lights were off, twilight trickled into the small windows that
were high on the wall, revealing more bedrooms and a laundry room with
appliances that still had the sticker prices on them. At the far end was a rec
room with a pool table and dartboard, a plasma television on the wall, and a
large sectional. Under any other circumstances, the home would have been the
perfect vacation home.
Or hideaway
, Jamie thought.

Bailino
led the group toward a room on the far right, one that was closed off from the
rest of the open space and looked as if it didn't belong. There were panels of
Sheetrock and insulation material lying against the walls, and a hammer and
nails were scattered along the floor. The door was closed, and as they got
closer, Jamie could hear a string of muffled noises coming from inside. She
braced herself. Even muted, the sounds were oddly familiar, and just as Bailino
opened the door, she realized what it was. A baby was crying.

Bob sat in the usual evening
rush-hour crawl on the Long Island Expressway, hoping, pointlessly, that
traffic might let up. He opened his car window, clicked to the '90s station on
his satellite radio, and adjusted himself in the still-crisp leather seat of
his new PT Cruiser. He looked at his watch.

"Shit,"
he muttered.

Bob
flipped down his visor and looked at himself in the small mirror. Even he had
to admit, he looked damn good. He moved his face from side to side, then up and
down, and reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small bag. He
took out tweezers and plucked a stray hair above the bridge of his nose.

"Gotcha,
you devil," he said, flicking the hair out the window.

Something
caught his attention on the road up ahead: a glimpse of blinking red lights
around the bend.
Thank God, an accident
, he thought, again looking at
his watch. Once he passed it, he put his foot on the gas pedal, merged into the
left lane and sped east.

His
cell phone rang.

"Hello,"
he said into his headset without checking the caller ID.

"Hey,
Bob, it's Edward."

Bob
felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. "Edward? Um..."

"Listen,"
Edward continued without waiting. "I was just wondering if Jamie was with you."

"Jamie?"

"I
didn't think she would be, but we haven't heard from her since this afternoon,
and she's not picking up her cell."

"No,"
Bob said. "I haven't seen her since yesterday. Since..."

"Yeah,
I know, but I thought maybe there was additional paperwork or something that
maybe... I don't know. It was just a thought."

"Sorry,"
Bob said. "I'm sure she'll turn up. Cell's probably dead. You know Jamie."

"Yes,"
Edward said. "I do."

The
call clicked off without a good-bye, but Bob pressed the
call end
button
on his cell anyway. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call from Edward
looking for Jamie, and, despite his hopes, he was sure it wouldn't be the last.
The previous day had gone as smoothly as possible, considering... Divorce is
never easy, but he and Jamie had worked out an amicable agreement. He got the
condo, she got the car, and they'd split everything else down the middle. It
was a generous divvy, as far as he was concerned, since his salary as a lawyer
far exceeded Jamie's as a freelance writer. Since Jamie didn't want
alimony—which was fine by him, let her mooch off Edward—the whole thing had
taken only a couple of hours.

Traffic
was slowing down again, and Bob put his foot on the brake.
Fuck.
His
thoughts turned to Brenda—tall, slender, not-interested-in-anything-serious
Brenda—who was making dinner and who-knew-what-else for him that moment. Bob
leaned back on the headrest. It had been a long time since he could daydream
about sex after a long day at work and there actually be a chance of having
some. A flashy Camaro zipped past him in the middle lane, driven by a kid with
his arm hanging out the window. Faced with a wall of brake lights up ahead, the
Camaro scooted in front of him, switched to the shoulder, and, with a roar of
its engine, zoomed past the crawling cars until it reentered traffic about a
quarter mile down.

There
was a time when Bob would have done the same thing, thrown caution to the wind—
risking a ticket for reckless driving, points on his license, absurd Nassau
County penalty fees—all for just that feeling of derring-do and the
indignation, or jealousy, of the other drivers. And, for a moment, Bob gripped
the steering wheel, but, at age thirty-five, he had learned that the highway
wasn't the place for aggression or admiration. What's the sense in riling up a
bunch of strangers? He had learned to make his mark in the places that
mattered: The classroom. The boardroom. The courtroom. The bedroom.

He
winced when thinking of that last one, but then sat a little taller in his
seat. Today was a new day, he thought, and he felt different. Freer. The guilt
was gone. The constant, never-ending, suffocating guilt, the clouds that once
followed him, had dissipated. He smiled. It was good to be single again.

"What happened to you?" Pedro
asked.

"I
fell."

Reynaldo
wheeled his bicycle into the service-station office, parked it in the back
room, and then took his place behind the counter. He ignored his brother's
stare, although he felt oddly exposed—as if the blood on his face revealed a
personal, secret aspect of his life that was now visible for others to see and
read. He preferred being a closed book.

"
Hermano
,
you should buy yourself a real car—and I don't mean that old can of sardines
you call an Escort." Pedro took the pencil out from behind his ear and
scribbled some notes onto a clipboard. "No wonder you don't go out with girls.
Where would you put them?"

"I
can think of a few places," said Ricardo, who was lying on the cushioned wooden
bench. A newspaper covered his head.

"
Sí
,
they can ride on the handlebars." Pedro sat on the counter, rocking back and
forth, mimicking the motion of a bicycle. "
Pero
you won't be able to
date any
burritos
grande
."

"
¡Qué
lástima!
" chuckled Ricardo.

Reynaldo
paid no attention to his brothers and opened the cash register to examine the
credit-card receipts that had accrued while he was gone. The day's take was on
the low side, but, overall, the garage was still doing considerable business
despite the downturn in the economy. People were looking to hang onto their
cars now more than ever instead of buying something new. That, coupled with the
reputation Santiago's Garage had for honest labor in an industry filled with
greed and deceit, generated enough income to let his father retire to Florida
at age sixty last year and to keep his brothers from having to grow up at all.

Across
the small office, Ricardo was reaching for a container of power-steering fluid
and threatening to douse Pedro, who had left the counter and was whacking him
with the rolled up newspaper.

"¿
Dònde
Nada, Ricardo?" Reynaldo shouted over the squeals.

"
No
sé
," Ricardo yelled as he pushed his brother onto the floor and pretended
to pour the fluid on him.

"
Está
tarde
."

Ricardo
stepped behind the counter. "
Es cuatro y media
."

"
Sí
,
I want to close up soon."

"She'll
be here. Don't worry,
jefe
."

The
front door opened, jingling a small bell, and a tall, broad-shouldered woman
wearing a long black dress entered the office. "
Buenas tardes
, Rey."

"Good
afternoon, Mrs. Lapinski."

"Please,
I told you. Call me, Racquel,
Rey."

"
Sí
,
sí
. Racquel. You
have an appointment?" Reynaldo furrowed his brow. He searched the list on the
wall, but Mrs. Lapinski was not on the schedule.

"No,
I was hoping you could squeeze me in for an oil change." Mrs. Lapinski threw
her keys onto the counter and pulled her hair back behind her ears. "My
goodness, that's a nasty scrape you've got there." She reached over to touch
it, but Reynaldo backed away.

"I'm
all right,
gracias
."

"He
fell," Ricardo whispered. He and Pedro stood at the counter, shaking their
heads and tsk-tsking.

"Oh,"
Mrs. Lapinski said. "Poor bambino."

Reynaldo
punched the keyboard. "Mrs. Lapin... er, Racquel. It says here you just got the
oil changed on the twenty-third."

"You
must log a lot of miles, yes?" Ricardo said.

Reynaldo
shot Ricardo a hard look.

"I've
been traveling. I sell cosmetics." Mrs. Lapinski told him, returning her
attention to Reynaldo. "Do you think you can do me in an hour? I have to get
back on the road."

"Uh,
I don't know,
señora
. We were about to close and..."

"Please?"
She reached down and lifted her skirt up to scratch an itch on her lower thigh.
"
Por favor
?"

"Okay,"
Reynaldo said, glancing at Ricardo, who was making kissy-faces behind Mrs.
Lapinski's back. "I'll work on it myself."