Unforgotten (16 page)

A stick jabs into my calf, but I don’t move. I sense more than hear something behind me, jerk my head and cry out. Marco spins. Two shots ring out. The man falls with a staccato blast as the long gun drops from his hands. He writhes, then lies still. I press my hands to my face, then pull my fingers away, not wanting to look, but unable to stop myself.

Marco grips my shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Unable to speak, I shake my head. But even as I do, my skin burns with a dozen stings, and I see flecks of blood on my hands.

He raises my chin. “Don’t rub. It’s glass.” He picks three slivers from my face, then pulls me to my feet. Noting the shard-strewn seat, he says, “Can you stand?”

I can stand; I can move; I can breathe—unlike the person behind me. Holding his gun out before him, Marco walks to the man, crouches, and presses his fingers for a pulse—as he had for Nonno’s.

I suck in a sob.

He rises and looks up the slope toward the road to another corpse bloodying the ground. This isn’t real. People don’t do this, don’t … I thought Marco would check the other man, but he must know he’s dead already, and I don’t want to think how.

I peel my lips apart. “What do we do now?”

Marco smiles, just a pulling at his lips and a softening of his eyes. “Attagirl.” He raises my face. “You got the goods, babe, and I ain’t beating my gums.”

The breath returns to my lungs, then escapes with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes take on a definite sparkle. “You are one darb dame.”

“How can you tease at a time like this?” But that’s exactly what he’s doing, either to shake me or himself out of it. “What are we going to do?”

He pockets the gun. “Get the glass off that seat.” He strides into the scrub, stomps a branch, and breaks off the leafy end.

I shake my skirt and realize my stockings are torn and fine lines of blood lace my legs, from when I climbed out, I guess.

Marco goes to work with the branch, brushing the glass to the floor, then as much as he can to the ground. “Watch where you step.”

“Will the car run?”

“Most of the bullets went high since we were sitting in the hole. I don’t think the engine’s damaged, but we’ll know soon enough.”

“Marco …”

He turns at my tone.

“What about them?”

“I’ll place a call when we’re far enough away.”

“To the authorities?”

He nods.

“Will they help us?”

He pulls my door open with a tinkling of glass. “Climb in.” He holds my elbow. “Try not to rub your skin; you’re covered in slivers.”

By the glitter of his hair, he is too.

“We’ll wash off when we get somewhere.”

I climb gingerly onto the seat, thankful now for his car, for him. And then it strikes me that he has killed two people. It was selfdefense, but still he’s done it. My stomach heaves with the smell of blood, the shock of seeing men fall, even violent men who want me dead.

My limbs chill. It could have been me, bleeding in the dirt. My life slipping away. If Marco had not—Who is Marco? Why does he have a gun and know how to use it?

As though reading my thoughts, he takes the weapon from his coat and hands it to me. “Load this, will you? The cartridges are under the seat.”

With shaking hands, I get the box of cartridges, but I have no idea how to put them in. He instructs me as he drives, and I do what he says.

I set the loaded gun gingerly on the seat between us. “But they’re gone now, right?”

“Better not be caught off guard.”

“There could be more?”

He hesitates, then, “There could.”

“Why do you have a gun? How do you know—”

“For protection.” And protect me he had.

“They had machine guns.”

“Tommies. Make a man lazy. You get to spraying bullets everywhere when all it takes is one good shot.” He replaces the loaded revolver inside his coat.

“Marco …”

“I handle a lot of jack for important people. Have to know how to defend myself. And you.” His sideways glance. “I told you I’d keep you safe.”

“I don’t understand. What’s happening?”

He is silent long enough to let the question climb in between us.

“Your father got mixed up in something over his head, I guess.”

Tears sting. “That doesn’t make sense. Papa wouldn’t—”

“Stop fooling yourself. You saw it before I came. You said it that first day on the porch.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did, cara mia. Deny it now, and you can tell it to Sweeney.” He slows for an intersection, then hits the gas. “I’m sorry about your pop.” His voice thickens, as though he does care. “Listen, babe. It happens all the time. Guy thinks he’s got it under control, but he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. Or who.”

I picture Arthur Jackson, leaning against his car, his face illuminated by match light. “Papa wasn’t stupid.”
So why, why, why?

“I don’t believe he was.”

Tears fill my eyes. “He wouldn’t risk—” My voice catches.

“He knew the risk. Why else tell me where to find you?”

Sobs rise and tears run down my cheeks, stinging the cuts. I shake my head. “I don’t believe it.”

Marco says, “I’m sorry about your nonno too.”

————

From what she could tell by Lance’s side of the conversation, the family lawyer was confirming his inability to access the safe deposit box without Antonia and seemed dubious of her limited communication. Having dealt with her father’s affairs, Rese had her doubts, as well, but Lance insisted Antonia’s intent was obvious, as though convincing the lawyer would make it so.

Lance stuck his hand in his hair as he talked, gripping as though he might pull it out. She knew his need to make things right when he thought he’d messed up. She’d experienced it in the painstaking recipe cards and instructions he’d sent so she could make the inn’s breakfasts without him.

He was just as determined now, but the doctor had insisted Antonia stay quiet and undisturbed for the next few days. Lance might convince the whole neighborhood it would work, but he couldn’t take his grandmother anywhere until she was strong enough. Of course, that didn’t mean he would stay still. As soon as he hung up, he took her by the elbow and wiggled that ominous set of keys at Rico.

“Be good to it.” Rico twirled and caught a brush over his head.

“I’ll even gas it,” Lance called back.

She was not going to argue. If Lance thought Rico’s bike was safe, fine. He could not afford more guilt, and she assumed her death would cause a twinge. She didn’t feel quite as brave when he wheeled it out again. Had it looked that bad yesterday?

“I’m sorry I don’t have leathers.” He handed her the helmet.

“No problem.” She pulled it onto her head.

He stood a moment looking at the bike. “Wish I had my Harley.”

Rese waved her hand over the Kawasaki. “And miss out on this dream machine?”

“I liked you better kicking and screaming.”

“I bet.” His parents’ vignette had been informative. She resists; he insists. It lowered Lance’s octane to have her willing. She straightened. “Ready?”

She was prepared for yesterday’s speed and terror, but his route this time took them down into the city, and they crept along in traffic for much of it. With the choking fumes and Lance’s constant revving to keep the engine alive, she almost preferred the death-defying speed of the open road.

He wasn’t acting on impulse this time; he was grimly determined, and she guessed their destination before the rectangular crater came into sight. She had known they would visit this place sooner or later. Yesterday was escape; this trip, immersion. Since he couldn’t fix it, Lance wanted to wallow in everything that was wrong in his life.

He found a parking place on the street, a feat he seemed to accept as his due, as though God dared not deny him. But he deflated as they walked up to the chain-link fence and looked through while people milled around them. She concentrated on the scene, wanting to see it first without Lance’s grief casting a wash over her own impressions.

A gap in the towering buildings, space in a city that had none. Concrete ramps and platforms in place of the rubble that had been imprinted when images of disaster were played and replayed. Where was the devastation? Somehow she’d still expected smoke. This looked clean and orderly and planned. It looked intentional.

“What is all this?” She recognized the inner workings of massive construction but hadn’t kept abreast of plans.

“The new complex. Five buildings. Over there”—he pointed to a spot in the construction—“the Freedom Tower will soar 1,776 feet, with a glass spire pointing to heaven. You can see the master plan in the World Financial Building.”

She stared at the subterranean levels and layers before her. “It’s not what I expected.”

“People who come here now see hope, determination. Even triumph.” He stared into the hole. “I just see Tony.”

She raised her eyes past the hole to an ornate stone building with its fa
ade chunked and blasted, its windows blown out. Next to it stood another tower draped in black netting. All around them, cars drove, pedestrians passed, business happened. The city would never forget. Those with lost loved ones would never forget. But time was moving forward; life continued. She turned. “You have to move on sometime, Lance.”

His eyes narrowed. “Has Gina moved on? Her sons?”

“Will you blame her if she does?”

He stared into the hole a long time. “No.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

He glanced sideways. “For what?”

“For living your life when Tony can’t.”

He hung his fingers from the chain link. “Maybe if Pop didn’t look so disappointed every time I walked in, as though he’s still hoping it’ll be Tony instead.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Think about it. Did he say one word to me last night?”

She replayed the dinner. He must have. There’d been no animosity between them, no friction. Had there? But she couldn’t recall anything said. For Lance, with all his words, that silence must be deafening.

He swallowed. “The thing is, it should be Tony. Rese, he had three kids, a wife. People depended on him, not just at home. He was decorated for exemplary service to the city of New York. He could have done so much.”

“So God messed up?”

He frowned. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He sagged a shoulder to the fence, seeing, she guessed, the nightmare that was personal to him in a way it would never be for her.

“It’s renovation, Lance. Not new construction.”

He stared a long time at the concrete edge below them, studded with steel at regular intervals. Then he said, “I know that. But I also know evil is not indiscriminate. People like to think so, but it’s not. He prowls the earth like a roaring lion. He looks for the brightest and the best. And God says, ‘Consider my servant Job.’ ” She didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was an edge to his voice. “You think God singled Tony out?”

Lance cocked his jaw. “I think we’re pawns in a match we can’t see. The moves are made and pieces sacrificed. We can hate God and despair. Or love God regardless.”

She touched his arm. “Which do you choose?”

He answered without looking. “You know which.”

“Say it.”

He swallowed. “I choose to love and serve God.”

“Then you can’t despair. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Maybe.” He gripped the fence and stared a long time. “But here is a world where heroes die and screw-ups are left to pick up the pieces.”

The foolish things to confound the wise, the weak to shame the strong. She would tell him what Chaz had said, but Lance didn’t seem to be talking to her anymore.

“Either I accept that this was His purpose, that He intended to take Tony and leave me and somehow it was right and perfect, or I despair and curse Him.” His knuckles whitened. “I resist; I doubt, but without the guts to turn away, because I’d rather love a cruel God than have no God at all.”

He didn’t say it to shock her. He was professing a loyalty and love for one who seemed undeserving, yet whose service he could not resist. It ought to terrify her, but it didn’t. She drew back her shoulders. “So what’s next?”

They left Ground Zero but not the city. Gaping up from the bike, Rese relived her dream—only she was in the maze, not Mom. The effect of the towering buildings was stunning and unnerving. And there didn’t seem to be room to breathe, every inch of space in use. She was glad Lance suggested the Staten Island ferry just so she could stretch her arms.

As they circled the Statue of Liberty, with the marine-scented breeze in her face, she said, “I did a report on that statue in sixth grade, all about its shipment in pieces that had to be assembled, and the strengths and weaknesses of copper as a construction material.”

Leaning on the rail, Lance slid her a look.

“The teacher wondered if I couldn’t have focused more appropriately on the statue’s symbolism as it related to American history.”

He half smiled.

Back in South Ferry, they disembarked and headed up to Greenwich, where Lance and Rico had sung on the sidewalks until they’d been discovered and booked into the clubs. He motioned toward a doorway as they puttered past, the haze of their own exhaust engulfing them. “That’s where we had our break.”