Midnight Angels (22 page)

T
HE RAVEN LOOKED AT THE WEARY YOUNG MAN STANDING AGAINST
the water-stained brick wall, the hard rushing currents of the Arno only a few feet away. The man was shirtless, his jeans torn and soiled; blood oozed out of his mouth and from a gash just above his right eye.

“You have failed me, Vittorio,” the Raven said. “That we both know. What I don’t know is whether you did so out of incompetence or greed.”

“I would not betray you, sir,” Vittorio stammered. “I would never do that.”

“So you failed me through negligence and stupidity,” the Raven said. “Am I supposed to derive some comfort from that sorry fact?”

“I didn’t fail you,” Vittorio said. “I hired the best available man I could find on such short notice and I followed your express wish to have as few people involved in the plan as possible.”

The Raven walked along the wet ground, thick patches of weeds and grass lining the wall and shoreline, the sounds of water rats scurrying about their nests blending in with the low rumble of the flowing river. “That man is now dead,” he said, “and the police are seeking his killer, which may well lead them to you. To me. And as bad as all that sounds, it is not the worst part of our sorry tale, is it?”

Vittorio stared wide-eyed at the Raven and managed to shake his head.

“No, our little saga ends with neither of us knowing the whereabouts of the three Angels plucked out of the corridor under our very gaze by two college students,” the Raven said, the anger in his voice unmistakable.
“And I have myself to blame for such a sad ending since I was the one foolish enough to hire you to complete what I perceived to be a simple task.”

“We knew they had a van,” Vittorio said, “and had hired a driver. We were told the driver was local and not someone who wanted anything more than easy money for a late night getaway. No one figured he would step in the way he did.”

“There is no ‘we,’” the Raven said. “There is only you, and here is a question for you to ponder—why wasn’t the driver handled first? He would have been, after all, a witness to a murder, and would have needed to be dealt with at some point, so why not make him disappear while the children were off collecting the Angels?”

Vittorio swallowed hard, aware no answer he could come up with would suffice. “I will find the Angels for you,” he said, reaching out for the only lifeline he could imagine. “Allow me that one final chance. Please.”

“Have you ever heard of lo squillo?” the Raven asked, ignoring the man’s plea.

Vittorio’s legs weakened and his hands clutched at the brick wall, his fingers scratching against the sharp edges, helping to steady a body that only wanted to surrender to fear. “Just rumors,” he managed to blurt out. “Never knew anyone who ever saw one.”

“They are truly fascinating creatures,” the Raven said. “They are a hybrid, a mixture of water rat, eel, beaver, and God only knows what else. It took centuries for them to evolve into their present state where they live in the shallow depths of the Arno and along its shore. They are more than mere rumor. They are very real indeed, as many as five hundred of them living in the river behind us and under the dark edges of the shrubbery along the shore. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Vittorio said. “Yes, I believe you.”

“I’m not so certain,” the Raven said. “I sense doubt.”

“I have no reason to doubt you,” Vittorio said, “none at all.”

“I have an idea,” the Raven said, turning his attention to the flowing river at his back. “Why not go in and see for yourself? Test the waters and see if any of the squilli rise to the occasion? What do you say?”

“I’m not much of a swimmer,” was all Vittorio could mutter.

“That shouldn’t be a deterrent,” the Raven said. “The current is so
strong, even the best swimmer would be tossed about. And not being able to swim will be useful if you do happen upon a squillo, since they’re very much like sharks and respond to movement rather than smell. But if they do happen to spot you, it would be best to remain as still as possible. They have very sharp front teeth and will look to wrap themselves around your lower limbs and then bite into the veins just below the back of your legs. And there they will stay until they have drained you of enough blood to satisfy their thirst.”

“You can’t do this,” Vittorio said, no longer able to keep his composure, tears flowing freely down the sides of his face. “You can’t.”

“I could stand here and slice you to pieces myself, if that’s your preference,” the Raven said. “But you don’t stand the slightest chance of survival if you choose that route. Going into the Arno, attracting little attention, letting the water take you as far as the current will allow, would seem to me to be the best available option. Other than the horrible pollutants you will swallow along the way, you might well survive the ordeal. That is, of course, unless one of the squillos manages to get a bite into you. That would, indeed, be a truly horrendous way to die. But I’ll leave the final decision to you.”

“I’ll find the Angels for you,” Vittorio begged. “I swear it.”

“Oh, the Angels will be found,” the Raven said. “It just won’t be you who finds them.”

Vittorio took quick looks to his left and right, the sun fading over the large shadow of the Duomo, and pushed himself away from the wall, standing on unsteady legs. The Raven came up behind him, moving with silent steps, and jolted him upright, gripping a hard hand around Vittorio’s throat, cutting off his air passage. “I would prefer to see you go into the river alive,” the Raven whispered. “But if you choose to float rather than attempt to swim, then I will do my best to accommodate you.”

Vittorio nodded, a stream of saliva forming at the corners of his mouth, and struggled to get his words out. “I’ll try to swim,” he said.

“Wise choice,” the Raven said. He released his grip and gently ushered the frightened young man toward the river’s edge.

There, the Raven tossed Vittorio to the ground, watching him land on the soft dirt of the shoreline, the foamy brown water brushing over his arms and hands. “Hurry it along,” he said. “The later it gets, the stronger the tide. If you hope to have any chance of survival, I would suggest you
not fight the current and let it be your guide. Or perhaps you’ll get lucky and a squillo will emerge and put you out of your misery.”

Vittorio was sobbing loudly now as he entered the murky water. The Raven reached down, grabbed the young man’s right ankle and held it in place. He pulled a switchblade out of the pocket of his dark brown jacket and snapped it open. He ran the sharp end of the knife across the lower end of Vittorio’s right calf, watching a thin line of blood emerge. He then let go of the calf and allowed the young man to float off to an uncertain future.

“The squilli are more likely to show themselves if they smell blood,” the Raven said as he snapped the blade back into its place.

He stood by the side of the Arno as the current swept Vittorio deeper into its center and closer to a painful encounter with a creature that only hours earlier had been nothing more than folklore. As soon as the young man was out of his line of sight, the Raven turned and walked slowly up the muddy banks of the Arno, back toward the center of the city.

CHAPTER
28

“Y
OU SHOULD REALLY GET THIS BICYCLE FIXED,” KATE SAID,
sitting uncomfortably on the thin handlebar just inches from the gears, careful not to brush against Marco’s hands, his knees occasionally jamming against her legs and back.

“What’s wrong with it?” Marco asked.

“The tires need air, for one thing,” she said. “The gears could use some oil, and the chains are so rusty they look like they could snap any second. Other than that, you are good to go.”

“Americans have zero appreciation for anything old,” Marco said.

He enjoyed this time with Kate on his bike, and knew, despite her constant harping, that she felt the same way. She had put both his status as a student and possibly his life in serious danger with her actions, and while he remained apprehensive about their relationship and where it would ultimately lead, he did find himself attracted to her. What he dare not ask, what he feared to know, was whether she felt the same about him. He wasn’t certain if he was merely a local friend she viewed as both good company and a trusted aide in her dangerous quest, or if there was a deeper meaning to her feelings.

When it came to women, Marco had often struggled with bouts of insecurity, conscious of his low standing within the clear class boundaries that remained strong but unspoken in Italian culture, and he didn’t know if those borders extended across an ocean and impacted Americans in the same way. Most especially, Americans with Kate’s academic and financial lineage, both of which he could not help but find daunting. Still, despite it all, he had developed strong feelings for her and knew he would be
crushed to discover that those passions were not mutual. So, in typical Florentine fashion, he kept them bottled up, at least for the time being. But, deep in his heart, he realized that in a short span of weeks, he was, for the very first time, in love.

“You’re flinging that accusation to a future Michelangelo scholar,” Kate said. “
I
appreciate the old in art and design and sculpture and architecture. I’m just not overly fond of it when it comes to rusty old bikes, especially when we’re traveling across cobblestone streets.”

“It’s still faster than walking,” Marco said.

“Not by much,” Kate said.

They were circling Piazza Santo Spirito, a quiet square crammed with the workshops of seasoned furniture restorers and dominated by Il Palazzo Guadagi on the corner abutting Via Mazzetta. Marco knew it was one of Kate’s favorite spots in the city, and he glided around the piazza several times, allowing her multiple views of the sixteenth century structure, with its teardrop-shaped window etchings.

On the start of his fourth turn around the square, as he eased his bike closer to the statue gracing the center, he felt a strong pair of hands reach for the rear of his bike and bring it to a grinding halt. The short stop forced Kate to jump off the bar and tumble to the pavement, her hands and knees taking the brunt of the fall. Marco let the bike clatter to the street, then stood facing a man several years older, with thick arms hidden under a torn blue sweater and tight jeans. He had a stern face highlighted by a four-inch jagged scar that covered the center of his nose like a thin bandage.

“Where are they?” the man asked, his voice coated with a heavy British accent.

“Where are what?” Marco asked, casting a quick glance at Kate, watching as she slowly rose to her feet.

“I don’t like bullshit,” the man said. “I like answers.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Kate said, standing now on unsteady legs behind the man.

The man turned away from Marco and cast a sideways glance at her. “I figured as much,” he said. “So know this. If you don’t start spewing out some answers, your friend here will be the one feeling the pain. Get it? You talk or he bleeds.”

Marco looked at Kate and slowly shook his head. She caught the look
but kept her attention focused on the man with his back to the statue. “You plan on doing that here? In a square filled with shops and people? Which village idiot sent you?”

“Smartass,” the man snickered, “just as I was told. I’m holding to my words and trust me on this—I will cut your friend in half as fast as you can blink. He’ll have bled out before any concerned citizen will know he’s hurting.”

Kate took a deep breath, saw the man’s right hand curled into a half fist, cupping the thin edge of a long blade. She looked at Marco and knew he would not be able to escape from a professional’s swift move. And then she took a furtive glance around the square, couples walking slowly by them, lost in their own conversations; shop owners finishing up the day’s assigned work, eager to please the customers milling about their goods.

“I’ll take you to them,” she told the man.

“How far?”

“That depends on you,” she said. “We’ll have to bike slowly since you will be following us on foot, so I’m guessing about ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

The man smiled. “You think you’ll be able to get away from me on that rickety old bike?” he asked. “Is that your plan? I can throw my knife even better than I can swing it. If you make that your play, your friend will die.”

“We won’t try to escape,” Kate said.

The man stood for several quiet moments, his right hand still curled over the blade, the heartbeat of the quaint square echoing on all sides. “Get on the bike, then,” he finally said. “And bring me to the Angels.”

Marco lifted his bike off its side, not exactly sure what Kate’s real intent was, not fully believing she would simply hand over the Midnight Angels without putting up some fight or devising an escape route. He sat on the bike, peddled over toward Kate, and waited as she jumped onto the thin bar. She squeezed in between the gears and him, his arms awkwardly placed around her as he gripped the two handles. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered.

“Let’s go,” Kate said to both Marco and the man, who was standing by the bike, gripping a handlebar with his free hand. “Head down Via San Martino and take the second left.”

“Keep it slow, simple, and smart,” the man said, his eyes flashing threat.

“Just keep up with us,” Kate said. “You found us in the square. You should be able to follow a bike through the streets.”

“Especially this bike,” Marco said.

They moved together in an uneasy formation down Via San Martino and through the narrow side streets branching off it, past open doorways to apartment buildings and small stores selling everything from leather-bound diaries to suits, fashionable evening wear, children’s books and toys. Throughout the early portion of the ride, Kate kept her gaze forward, not speaking, pointing out the turns she wanted Marco to make, the route he should follow.

They were about six minutes into the ride, the side streets getting narrower, with few cars and even fewer people. Marco knew their location but was not at all sure of their destination. As he made a right onto Via Barbadori, he could only guess Kate was leading them back toward the Ponte Vecchio, though he was unclear why. He could tell she was tense, her fingers gripping the steering shaft as if they were on a high-speed motorcycle ride through the Italian countryside. And he knew she was scared, her silence a clear indication of the concern that weighed on her mind.