The Dance of the Seagull (6 page)

“But what can we do, in your opinion?”

“As soon as we’ve taken care of this cadaver, I want you to get in the car, go straight to the commissioner, and tell him everything. We have to organize a large search party.”

“All right. And what about you?”

“Me and Gallo, together with Galluzzo and Lamarca, are going to start looking around.”

“Okay.”

The traveling circus that normally came together whenever there was a killing took two hours to arrive on the scene from Montelusa. The first to straggle in were the Forensics team, who began taking a few of the thousands of photographs, most of them useless, that they usually took on these occasions. This time they concentrated on the rim of the well and environs. Since Vanni Arquà, the chief of Forensics whom Montalbano didn’t like one bit, wasn’t present, the inspector went up to the guy who was giving orders and told him that it might be a good idea to inspect the drinking trough very carefully, as there could be blood stains on it.

“But how do you know they held him in the trough before throwing him into the well?” the man asked with a suspicious glint in his eye.

Shit, the guy was right! Montalbano had made a colossal mistake, confusing Fazio with the corpse in the well! He was completely fried, his head wasn’t working anymore.

“Just do as I said!” he said sternly.

The guy replied that he would get to it as soon as he was done with the corpse.

Then Dr. Pasquano arrived with the ambulance and stretcher bearers and immediately began to bellyache:

“What are you thinking? That I’m going to go down into the well to examine the corpse? Just pull him out for me, for the love of God!”

“We have to wait for Prosecutor Tommaseo to get here.”

“For heaven’s sake, the guy drives so slow the snails pass him on the highway! Next time don’t call me until he’s already here!”

It wasn’t true. Prosecutor Tommaseo did not go so slowly that the snails passed him on the highway. The reality, known to one and all, was that he drove like a drunken dog. And, in fact, when he arrived on the scene, he said that it had taken him three hours to get there from Montelusa because he’d run off the road twice and a third time had crashed into a tree. He added that in running into the tree, he’d hit his forehead and therefore felt a little confused.

“Is it a man or a woman?” he asked the fire chief.

“Man.”

Immediately Tommaseo lost all interest in the case. All he cared about were corpses of the female variety, preferably naked, and crimes of passion.

“Okay, okay. Pull him up. Good day.”

And he turned his back, got into his car, and drove off. Probably towards another tree. Everyone present, without exception, wished him Godspeed to you-know-where.

This time they added a second sling to the windlass, a large piece of oilcloth with many ropes hanging from its sides. Montalbano felt sorry for the fireman, whose work was not going to be easy or pleasant. It was a job for a gravedigger. And as he was thinking this, the cars, the men, and the landscape started spinning all around him. He lost his balance, and to avoid falling to the ground like an empty sack, he grabbed Mimì’s arm.

“Salvo, get out of here and go home. I’ll stay and take care of things. You should see your face,” said Mimì.

“No.”

“You can’t even stand up!” Zito cut in. “Do me a favor and go sit in the car at least.”

“No.”

If he sat down, he would be out like a light in seconds.

At last, after many attempts and failures, the corpse appeared at the top of the well, wrapped like a mummy in the oilcloth and bound by the ropes, and was set down on the ground and untied.

Everybody drew near to look, covering their noses and mouths with their handkerchiefs. From what they could tell, it was a man just under sixty years old, completely naked, and in a rather bad state. His face was a pulp of flesh and bone. The fireman went back down into the well.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to go get the blanket that was under the body.”

Pasquano, meanwhile, had a quick look at the dead man.

“I can’t do anything here,” he said. “Bring it to the lab for me.”

“How did he die, Doctor?”

“What’s wrong with you, Montalbano? Has old age made you blind? Can’t you see they emptied at least an entire cartridge of bullets in his face?”

The Free Channel team arrived just in the nick of time to film the scene.

When they were done, Zito approached Montalbano, gave him a big hug, and left with his colleagues.

As the Forensics team was also leaving, fire chief Mallia came up to the inspector.

“It might have been better for them to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because if we’re unlucky enough to find some remains in the last well, we’ll have to call them all back.”

“What a tragedy! Listen, please don’t waste any time.”

Mallia gave an order, and the truck started on towards the third well.

“Get in the car,” Mimì said to him.

“No, I’ll walk.”

They didn’t seem to realize that if he sat down, he was finished.

When he got to the well, he was drenched in sweat. Lighting a cigarette, he noticed that his hand was trembling. There was nothing to be done about it.

What was keeping him on his feet was his anticipation of the fireman’s response after he went down into the well.

How fucking long were they going to take to strap him in?

“Can’t they move a little faster?” he said in frustration.

“Calm down, Salvo. They’re moving as fast as they can.”

At last they began to lower the fireman into the hole.
Matre santa
, how slow they were doing it! Just taking their merry old time! What, were they doing it just to drive him crazy? He couldn’t stand waiting any longer. Taking a few steps back, he bent down, picked up a rock and threw it against a piece of scrap iron.

He missed by a good ten feet. He threw another rock and missed again. And again and again . . . After an eternity, he could tell by the sound of the crane that the fireman was coming back up to the surface.

But when the man got to the rim of the well, he didn’t come all the way out. Only his head was visible. The fire chief drew near and whispered something in his ear. What the hell was this? And at that moment the inspector intercepted a glance between the fire chief and Mimì Augello. It was a matter of a split second, the batting of an eyelash. But enough for him to understand the meaning of it, as though the two had actually spoken.

“You’ve found him! He’s in the well!”

He leapt forward, but was blocked by Mimì, who grabbed him and held on tight. Gallo, Galluzzo, and Lamarca, as if by prior arrangement, encircled the two.

“Come on, Salvo, stop this nonsense,” said Mimì. “Just calm down, for Chrissakes!”

“Anyway, Chief, we don’t know yet whose body that is,” Gallo interjected.

“Lamarca, do me a favor and call them all back here: Forensics, the prosecutor, the—” Augello began to say.

“No!”

Montalbano shouted so loudly that even the firemen turned around.

“I’ll tell you when to call them. Got that?” he said, shoving Augello aside.

Everybody looked at him in bewilderment. Suddenly he no longer felt tired. Now he was standing firm and steady, hands no longer trembling.

“But why not? We’ll all save time that way,” said Augello.

“I don’t want any outsiders to see him, all right? I don’t want it! We’ll cry over him first ourselves, and then we can call the others.”

6

Walking with a decisive step, Montalbano went right up to the edge of the well so that he would be the first to see him. Dead silence fell over the scene, so dense that it weighed tons. The noise made by the crane sounded like a drill.

The inspector then bent his whole body forward, came back up, turned towards his men, and said:

“It’s not him.”

Then his legs gave out, and he dropped slowly to his knees. Augello was quick to catch him before he fell on his face.

Montalbano then confusedly saw someone seize hold of him and put him in the squad car. He saw them lay him down on the backseat. And this was the last thing he saw, because he immediately fell asleep, or lost consciousness, he couldn’t tell which. Gallo drove off like a rocket.

After he didn’t know how long, he was woken up by a sudden braking that spilled him onto the floor of the car. He cursed the saints. Then he heard Gallo’s voice, also cursing.

“Motherfucking dog!”

To his surprise, he realized he felt rested. As if he’d had a whole night’s sleep.

“How long have we been on the road?”

“About an hour, Chief.”

“So we’re near Montereale?”

“That’s right, Chief.”

“Have we already passed the Bar Reale?”

“We’re just coming up to it.”

“Good. Stop there.”

“But, Chief, you need to rest and—”

“Stop at the bar. I’ve had my rest, don’t you worry.”

He downed two coffees, gave himself a thorough washing in the bathroom, then got back into the car.

“Let’s go back.”

“But, Chief . . .”

“No arguments. Ring Augello’s cell phone and find out where things stand.”

After talking, Gallo gave him a report.

“Forensics are still at the scene, but they’re almost finished. Tommaseo and Pasquano have already left.”

“All right. Tell Augello to wait for us at the drinking trough.”

“Forensics found two empty shells” was the first thing Mimì said to him.

“Where?”

“Right beside the well. Nobody saw them earlier because they were hidden by all the pump equipment.”

“So Forensics has them?”

“Yes. But I was able to have a look at them and compare them with the one in my pocket that I found at the slips. At a glance, they look the same to me.”

“Who was the dead guy?”

“He didn’t have any papers on him. No name, about thirty.”

“How’d he die?”

“He fell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. He died falling into the well. The damn thing’s a hundred feet deep, for crying out loud.”

“How long ago did he die?”

“About ten hours ago, max, according to Pasquano.”

“Are we sure there were no bullet wounds on the body?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

“Tell us what you want us to do.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s wait a little longer before informing the commissioner. First let’s have a look around ourselves.”

“Fine, I agree. But do you have any sense of what might have happened?”

“Look, guys, what I think happened is this: At some point Fazio, realizing they were going to throw him into the well, must have reacted wildly, so that one of the thugs holding him prisoner ended up falling into the well instead of him. And then he ran away, but the other guy started shooting, forcing him to stop.”

“But if that’s how it went, then why, once the guy caught him again, didn’t he just shoot him and throw him into the well as they’d planned to do from the start?”

“That’s a good point, but the fact is that he’s not in the well. So we have to look for him elsewhere, but still in the general vicinity.”

“Where should we start?”

“Over by Monte Scibetta. See that little house down there, near the high-tension pylon? Go there in the car, search the house, and if you don’t find anything in it, take the little dirt road that’s behind it—it’s the only one there—and take it up to the top. The mountain is full of caves and crags. Call out his name from time to time. Maybe he can’t move. We’ll stay in touch with each other via cell phone.”

“All right. And what about you?”

“I’ve got a little idea of my own. We’ll talk again in an hour.”

“Where do you wanna go?” asked Gallo.

“Into the tunnel that runs through the mountain.”

“I think I heard that you can’t go in. It’s closed.”

“Let’s go and have a look anyway.”

The tunnel entrance was sealed by a palisade of dank, rotten boards. Cars, of course, could not pass through, but people certainly could.

In fact, to the right, two of the planks had been smashed, making it possible to walk straight in. Apparently the tunnel served as a nocturnal shelter for vagabonds, or as a safe place for taking drugs.

“We have to go in with the car,” said Montalbano.

“Why?”

“It’s pitch black in there. We need the headlights.”

“I’ll go and have a look,” said Gallo, getting out of the car.

The inspector watched him go up to the makeshift fencing. Gallo then took a step back, raised his right leg, and dealt a forceful kick to one of the planks. Which gave way like tissue paper.

“Get out of the car,” Gallo said to the inspector, getting back into the driver’s seat.

Montalbano obeyed. Gallo started it back up and approached the barrier ever so slowly, and when the car’s front bumper touched the wood, he continued going forward, applying more and more pressure. In a second, half the palisade fell apart, creating an opening a truck could have passed through.

Montalbano returned to the car and got inside. The high beam lit up the tunnel brightly. To the right, they immediately noticed what looked like a man lying down. They got a better look. It was a pile of clothes and blankets riddled with holes.

Bothered by the light, a cat dashed out from under the rags and ran away.

“That cat doesn’t have it so bad,” said Montalbano, “with all the mice there must be in here.”

“Chief, that wasn’t a cat, but a rat,” said Gallo. “We’ll have to be careful if we get out of the car. They might eat us alive.”

They’d gone another fifty yards or so when a shot suddenly struck the windshield square in the middle.

They leapt completely out of the car, both at the same time, Montalbano to the right and Gallo to the left, and remained sprawled out on the ground. Then, after a brief pause, Gallo started sliding backwards and, leaning on his elbows, passed behind the car and around, until he was beside the inspector.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. You?”

“Me neither.”

They spoke softly, into each other’s ear. The car’s engine was still running, the high beams still on, lighting up a long stretch of tunnel. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Where had the shot come from?

“You armed, Chief?” asked Gallo.

“No.”

“I am.”

“If he’s smart, he should shoot out the headlights. Why isn’t he?”

“Maybe because he doesn’t want us to know where he is, or because he hasn’t got many bullets left.”

“Look. I think I see a sort of white streak along the wall, over there on the right—it sort of zigzags and then stops, about ten yards up.”

“You’re right. It must be a recess in the tunnel wall, a kind of parking area.”

“Then he’s there.”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s holding Fazio. He must have recognized the police car.”

“What should we do?”

“We have to do something immediately. I’m afraid he’s going to get some brilliant idea.”

“What can he do?”

“Well, if he comes out in the open holding a gun to Fazio’s head, all we can do is stand aside and let him leave, probably in our car!”

“And so?”

“Listen. Let’s get back in the car, really quietly, without closing the doors. Then we’ll start slowly backing up.”

“Okay.”

“Stay as low as you can, because once the guy hears us leaving, he’s going to start shooting again.”

They moved very carefully, climbed into the car, expecting at any moment to be shot at. But nothing happened. The windshield had a round hole in it, with a spider web of cracks all around it. But they could still see perfectly well through it.

“What should I do now?” Gallo asked when, still in reverse, they were almost at the tunnel entrance.

“All right, listen closely. Now we’re going to take off forward at high speed with the siren on, and—”

“Why the siren?”

“Because it should make a tremendous noise in here, which will confuse him. When we reach the recess in the wall, you’re going to brake and swerve so that the space will be lit up by the headlights. Give me your gun.”

Gallo handed it to him. Montalbano braced himself with his one hand clutching the dashboard from underneath, then leaned out the open door with three-fourths of his body, pointing the weapon forward, ready to shoot.

“Now be sure to make the car turn so that it lights up the recess. I can’t do anything until I know exactly where Fazio is. I don’t want to shoot him by accident.”

“No problem, Chief.”

“Go!”

Gallo outdid himself. The moment he reached the recess, the nose of the car spun to the right, as if it wanted to enter it and then suddenly stopped. In the recess they saw a man dazzled by the headlights and disoriented by the siren, sticking his arm out and firing one shot blindly, left forearm covering his eyes. He didn’t have time to do anything else. Already out of the car before it had stopped, Montalbano dealt him a swift kick in the stomach. The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain, and let go of his pistol. Montalbano bent down to look at him. He paled. It wasn’t Fazio’s captor. It was Fazio.

It was more than obvious that he hadn’t recognized them and continued not to recognize them. His head wound wasn’t deep, but must have been deep enough to make him lose his memory. As they were putting him in the car, he tried to escape, swinging at Montalbano’s face, though the inspector miraculously managed to dodge the punch.

“Handcuff ’im.”

“Handcuff Fazio?!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Gallo. Don’t you see he can’t tell his friends from his enemies? He must have a pretty high fever.”

“Should we take him to the hospital?”

“Of course. And in a hurry. We’ll go to the one in Fiacca.”