All He Saw Was the Girl (19 page)

    Now
he had to get her out of the apartment without anyone seeing them. He walked
across the apartment and looked out an east-side window down at Via del Monte
Oppio. It was 1:15 a.m. He looked in both directions. The street was deserted.

    He
found her keys and cell phone on a table near the front door. He put the phone
in his shirt pocket and took the keys. There were two of them. He opened the
door and tried the keys and found the one that worked. The second key had to
open the door to the building.

    The
stairs were made of white marble and very narrow and there was a small elevator
that ran through the center of the apartment building. He went down and got the
car and parked in front with the hatchback open. Now he went back upstairs and
wrapped her in the tarp, and carried her over his shoulder, down a flight of
stairs to the car. She fought him the whole way, squirming, moving, trying to
make noise. He opened the hatchback and slid her in and closed it. He hadn't
seen anyone and hoped no one had seen him.

    He
went back to her apartment and got his backpack and her clothes. He filled two
bags with food from her kitchen and took the stairs again, down to the car. He
drove through the city and got on the autostrada, heading north to Viterbo, a
fifty-minute drive at 1:30 in the morning with no traffic, following Pietro's
directions to the house called Casale Vecchio, his summer home, McCabe
replaying their conversation at the restaurant.

    "I
met a girl," he'd said.

    Pietro
had given him a sly grin. "A girl, eh? This is sounding good. An Italian
girl?"

    "A
good-looking Italian girl."

    "It
is sounding better. And what, you want to bring her here for dinner?"

    "You
told me I should visit your house in Lazio. Now I have a reason."

    He
gave McCabe the keys and drew him a map.

    It
was originally a hunting lodge — the walls were made out of perperino, volcanic
stones. It had a tile roof and was built in 1782 on a hill overlooking the lush
green countryside of Lazio. He could see Viterbo to the north, the clock tower,
Palazzo del Podesta sticking up over the rooftops of the city.

    He
pulled up the steep drive and parked and carried Angela inside and unwrapped
the tarp on a rug in the main room. She was soaked with sweat and he could see
fear or anger in her eyes, or both. He couldn't blame her, wrapped in a tarp
for an hour. He felt bad about it. But he couldn't think of another way to get
her out of the apartment without being seen.

    He
pulled the strip of tape from her mouth. She didn't say anything, just looked
up at him. Her robe had come apart down the middle where the sash had loosened,
exposing the soft curve of her breasts, her flat stomach and the thin dark
strip of hair between her legs. He knelt next to her and pulled it closed.

    "Don't
touch me," she said.

    McCabe
was thinking, okay, you don't care if your robe's open, I don't either.

    She
said, "Where are we?"

    "In
the country," McCabe said.

    "I
have to use the toilet."

    McCabe
took the Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and pulled a blade open and cut the
duct tape binding her hands and feet. Now he helped her up and gave her the
paper bag with her clothes, and took her to the bathroom. It had a ten-
by-ten-inch window that looked down a steep hill to a valley, and beyond it
rolling hills extending to a dark ridge of mountains in the distance. The room
had a toilet and a sink, a mirror and stone walls and no way out except the
door. He closed it and waited.

    Ten
minutes later she came out wearing a pair of jeans and a white blouse,
barefoot, red t—nails on the gray tile floor. The clothes seemed to change her
attitude.

    She said,
"Listen, take me back to the city. I will talk to them. I will see what I
can do about getting your money."

    "Is
that right?"

    "I
will talk to Mazara," she said. "I will make sure you get some of it
back."

    Like
that was it. It was over. She was ready to go home now. McCabe said, "I
don't want some of it. I want it all." He'd put the bags of groceries on a
coffee table in the center of a furniture grouping. He was hungry and reached
in a bag, grabbed a loaf of ciabatta and a wedge of pecorino romano. He said,
"You want something to eat?" Looked up, and she was gone. He moved
toward the front of the house, down a hallway into the salon. Checked the front
door. It was locked. Behind him stairs led to the second level. The stairs,
like everything else, were made of stone. He ran up and stood at the top. There
was a bathroom straight ahead and bedrooms on both sides, moonlight coming
through the upstairs windows casting light across the floor.

    He
went right into a dark bedroom. The side window was open and he could see her
on the roof, moving to the top of the pitch and then climbing over onto the
other side, bare feet sliding on the curved tiles. He ran down the stairs into
the main room, picked up the roll of duct tape, went into the kitchen and out
the back door. A tile slid down the roof, hit gravel and broke in half.

    He
waited under the overhang. Heard the low hum of the wind and felt a cold breeze
come up the hill past the house. Heard her on the flat roof above him. He
stepped out in the yard now and said, "How're you going to get down?"

    She
had a roof tile in her hand and flung it at him. He stepped aside and it hit
the ground. She said, "You're never going to get the money."

    Now a
bat flew over the roof and dove at her.

    McCabe
said, "Know what that is?"

    She
tried to swat it and missed.

    "It's
a bat," McCabe said. "Don't let it get tangled in your hair. It'll
bite you and bats have rabies."

    The
bat came at her again and she screamed, and moved to the edge of the roof and
got down on her hands and knees. She lowered her body over the edge and hung
there still five feet from the ground. McCabe reached up, grabbed her and
brought her down, and carried her inside. He took her to the bathroom and
locked her in with a key that was sticking out of the lock. He went upstairs,
got a blanket and pillow off one of the beds and brought them down and unlocked
the bathroom door and threw them in.

    "I
won't sleep in here."

    "You
don't have a choice." He closed the door and locked it.

    She
pounded on it for a while, and yelled some things in Italian he'd never heard
before. She wasn't making it easy, but why did that surprise him? He took the
bags of groceries in the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine and poured some in
a glass. He cut a couple slices of cheese and ripped off a chunk of bread and
went outside. Light was breaking over the hills. He'd get some sleep and see
what Mazara had to say. See if he wanted his girlfriend back.

    McCabe
opened his eyes, looking up at the beamed ceiling and stone walls of Casale
Vecchia, and for a split second forgot where he was. He got up and went outside
and took a leak in the bushes next to the house. It was a bright clear day, a
cool breeze blowing up the hill. He looked out across the lush green
countryside and saw the dark shapes and angles of Viterbo about five kilometers
away.

    He
went back inside, splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth at the
kitchen sink. He was tired, groggy. There was a clock on the wall. It was 9:30.
He'd slept maybe three hours. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched, trying
to wake up.

    He'd
brought eggs, pancetta and bread from Angela's apartment. He found coffee in
the freezer, and put it in the coffee maker on the counter and made a pot. He
fried the pancetta in a skillet on the stovetop. Cracked six eggs in a bowl and
found a whisk in a drawer and beat them. The ciabatta was hard so he put it in
the oven to soften it. He scrambled the eggs and sprinkled in grated cheese.
Drained the pancetta on a paper towel to get rid of the grease. Took the bread
out of the oven and buttered it. He put the eggs, pancetta and bread on heavy
white plates and poured coffee in two mugs, put everything on a tray and took
it to the dining table in the main room.

    He
knocked on the bathroom door and said, "Want something to eat?"

    She
didn't answer. He put the key in the lock and opened the door. She was
stretched out on the floor, blanket under her, looking up at him, yawning.

    "Come
out if you're hungry." He closed the door and went to the table and waited
for a couple minutes, and when she still wasn't out he scooped up a forkful of
eggs and put it in his mouth. He ate the scrambled eggs and pancetta, and when
he was finished, wiped the plate clean with a piece of stale bread.

    Ten
minutes later, the door opened and she appeared, hair pulled back in a ponytail,
crossed the room and sat at the table across from McCabe but didn't look at
him. She stared at the plate of food, picked up her fork and took a bite of
eggs and made a face.

    "It's
cold," she said.

    "That's
what happens when hot food sits too long," McCabe said. "You don't
come right away."

    She
picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, eyes looking over the rim at him. She
took a bite of her cold eggs and ate them and went back for more. She ate like
she was hungry, and drank the coffee and ignored him. He watched her thinking
how good she looked first thing in the morning. He said, "How do you like
it?"

    She
didn't say anything, just kept eating.

    He
waited till she laid her fork on the empty plate and said, "How do I get
in touch with Roberto Mazara?"

    She
glanced at him and said, "I don't know."

    "You
like it in there," he said indicating the bathroom.

    "Because
that's where you're going to be spending most of your time."

    "Believe
me," she said. "He's not going to give you the money."

    McCabe
said, "Want to bet? I got something of his and he's going to want it
back."

    "I
don't belong to Roberto," she said, "If that's what you are
saying."

    "As
long as he thinks you do," McCabe said.

    "He
is going to come after you," Angela said. "And he is not going to
stop."

    "That's
okay," McCabe said. "But he better bring the money. All of it."

    "I
don't think he has all of it," she said. "I'm sure the money has been
divided among his men."

    McCabe
said. "Where's your share? We can start there."

    Angela
said, "He has not given it to me."

    "You're
either lying or you're being scammed."

    "Who
are you, you think you can take on this armed gang?"

    "I'm
not Chip Tallenger from Greenwich, Connecticut. I'll tell you that. My dad's a
retired ironworker living on a pension."

    "The
story in the newspaper said you were rich."

    "I'm
not," McCabe said.

    "The
amount of the ransom seemed insignificant," she said, "to someone so
wealthy."

    "Did
you hear what I said?"

    Angela
said, "Why do you think I am going to help you?"

    "You
like sleeping next to the toilet?" McCabe said. He slid a pen and piece of
paper across the table to her. "Write down his number."

    She
crumpled the paper in a ball, threw it at him and missed. He got up and went
around the table at her, but she was already on her feet, holding the fork in
her fist, arm raised, ready to fight him.

    "Put
it down." He moved toward her and she tried to stab him. He stepped back,
and she came at him, swung again and he blocked her arm and took the fork out
of her hand, and dropped it on the floor.

    She
made a run for the kitchen and he caught her before she got to the doorway,
standing behind her, holding her arms. She tried to free herself, tried to kick
him. He bent her back and dragged her to the bathroom, pushed her in, and
locked the door. She was pounding on the hardwood, yelling in Italian.