Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (36 page)

The old man only has one weakness. For my little boy.

He's my weakness, too, you know. Wasn't it for him that I was trying to get back on my feet? Isn't it him, his estate, his future that I was trying to rescue? I'm his hero, you know. His great hero. We always say to each other that I'm his giant, and he's my little king.

It seemed fair for him to pitch in. For him to do his part. It wouldn't last long, just a couple of days at the most. I got in touch with his old babysitter, a smart girl, smart and tough. I explained, I told her what I needed; there was a guy, a man from back home, who could help her. I promised her money, airplane tickets, new IDs, a new life. Aren't we all looking for that, for a new life? Don't we all want a chance to start over? Maybe that's what the economic crisis really means. A change. Not enough money, and the need for a change.

I told him, I told Dodo. I told him Lena would come by to pick him up, and that he should go with her. He was to tell no one, before or after, otherwise they'd get mad at me, at his papà. My little man knows how to keep a secret, you know. He's a smart boy. Then I promised him that right afterward I'd come get him. It was going to be a way to get him to come stay with me for good. No one would be able to separate us again after that.

I prepared for it. I planned it out. I knew our assets would be immediately frozen: It wouldn't seem strange that I was unable to pay the ransom. I also knew that when they froze our accounts, they wouldn't check into the size of them, so no one would notice that there was nothing in there to freeze, neither in my personal nor in my corporate accounts.

I decided that it wouldn't seem so strange if they demanded a ransom from the old man. He's still famous in this fucked-up city, fucked-up person that he is. I planned it out. I prepared for it.

I gave Lena a phone and a piece of paper with what needed to be said in the phone calls. I told her she shouldn't do the talking, that someone might recognize her voice; to pretend that she'd been kidnapped with Dodo, so he wouldn't be afraid. I think about him, you know, about my son. I'm his father, I have to think about him.

We came up with a schedule, Lena's guy and me. A big brainless beast of a man. I was supposed to call him at preestablished intervals to make sure everything was going according to plan.

I fucked up, though: The phone I gave Lena, the one I was calling them on, is in my company's name. So when you told me about the wiretaps I lost it.

You see, I'm not a fool. I know perfectly well that you don't have anything solid on me. Just a few postdated checks, a series of clues that, unless you catch Lena, you can't prove. It wouldn't have made any sense for me to spill everything. I'm not a fool.

It's just that, listen, I have a problem. A problem that I'm sure you can help me solve.

They're not answering their phone anymore. I'm a day behind according to the schedule we'd agreed on, and I called the minute I saw you arrive, from behind the shutter. I understood that it didn't make sense to worry about wiretaps anymore. I wanted to tell them to run away and just leave Dodo there so I could go and get him: I promised him I'd come.

But now they're not answering anymore, and I don't know why.

And I need to know where the fuck they're holding Dodo. Because just to be safe, I made sure they never told me: You never know, I might have blurted something out by mistake.

So, please, can you help me?

Can you take me to my little boy?

F
ast.

They'd have to move fast, and get nothing wrong.

This is sheer madness, thought Palma, for days all we've been doing is waiting around, waiting for a phone call or a message, and now we're in a frenzied race against time.

At first, the three policemen had stood there silently listening to Cerchia's confession, practically hypnotized by the man's flat, drunken tone of voice, wrecked as he was by lack of sleep, too much alcohol, and the ravages of guilt. It was a curious coincidence, the commissario had thought to himself, that the three of them, who were childless, had been the ones to witness the abyss of darkness that this father's soul had become.

Then they'd reacted differently. Romano had shaken himself out of his trance and, with a roar, had lunged at him, bellowing in blind rage and shaking Cerchia like a rag doll. The man hadn't even changed expression; he just kept weeping and telling them to bring him his son. Aragona and Palma had struggled to pry him out of Romano's hands.

Palma got on his cell phone and called Laura. He needed a cell phone locator, and he needed it as quickly as possible. It was no simple matter: The device was an expensive one and it was always either out of order or being used by the intelligence services.

Piras, who was at the precinct awaiting news, sprung into action: In less than fifteen minutes, an operator and the machine, a sort of portable computer, arrived aboard a light-blue van.

Palma, Romano, and Aragona climbed aboard, dragging along a sack-like Alberto Cerchia; they ordered the driver to go as fast as possible, and had the squad car that had just pulled up go ahead of them, to clear the road. The operator had briefly explained that the location device could trace a phone only if it was being used, which meant that at one-minute intervals it was necessary to call the number they were looking for and let it ring.

Romano, his expression grim, told Cerchia that he'd better be praying that the kidnappers' cell phone battery wasn't dead.

Aragona made it his job to push the redial button so that the location device could do its work. Palma was constantly updating Piras, whose anxiety was spreading through the entire communal office.

They sailed through the city, sirens wailing, trailed by the resentful glances of pedestrians who had been forced out of the way. Downtown. The outskirts. A small town. Another one.

“Where the fuck are they?” Romano was asking through clenched teeth.

“Of course!” Aragona exclaimed. “Intrasit. The abandoned Intrasit plant. Isn't that where the asshole used to work?”

Palma was ever more impressed with how shrewd the young officer was demonstrating himself to be, and he told the driver to go even faster and to head for the industrial district. The operator confirmed that that was in fact the right area.

In time, Palma prayed, addressing a god he'd until then completely forgotten. Let us get there in time. He's so small, he's only ten years old. Let us get there in time. Dodo's face appeared before his eyes, in black and white, turned up to look at the security camera. Let us get there in time, Palma prayed.

Aragona kept on calling, but there was still no reply. The operator on the computer said: “We're there, it's right around here. Within four hundred yards.”

In front of them was a sign, which had been damaged in a hailstorm of stones thrown by newly unemployed workers after they'd been laid off a year earlier: “Intrasit.”

P
iras, on the phone, was saying nothing.

Her face was white; the extreme stress had hardened her lovely features; her lips were pressed tight. At regular intervals she repeated: “Well? Well?”

The bullpen was immersed in a despairing silence. From time to time a jumble of sounds from the city below came in through the half-open window. A car horn, a siren. A song sung in a loud voice by who knew who.

Ottavia was weeping tearlessly. She was weeping for lost love, for damned souls, for blameless children. She was weeping for Dodo, she was weeping for herself.

Pisanelli had covered his face with his hands, as if he couldn't stand to look. Alex was standing, arms folded over her chest, eyes on the window; she was turning her back on it all, giving up.

Lojacono, his heart in his mouth, hadn't taken his eyes off Piras's face, hoping it would spread into a smile. He couldn't remember ever having wanted to see a smile so badly.

Behind him, just outside the door, Guida stood motionless; his eyelids refused to blink, his lips murmured an age-old prayer over and over.

Let him be safe. Only You can help him.

 

Guns drawn, they burst into the old factory that had been plundered by thieves and vandals, their eyes darting into shadowy corners.

Silence. A couple of cats took to their heels, abandoning the scraps of a torn paper bag containing some leftover food.

Romano was holding Cerchia by the arm. Aragona pushed the redial button one last time, and from some point inside a low building they heard a ringing in response.

They rushed into the building, abandoning all caution. Palma's heart was in his throat; anxiety swelled in his chest with every step. He and Aragona found themselves in a room that had once been an office.

A table, two chairs. An electric heater, a gas hot plate. A blanket, two dirty plates, utensils. At the center of the table, a cell phone was vibrating and ringing.

They stood there motionless, their guns in their hands, their arms hanging at their sides.

From the side opposite from where they'd entered came a scream. Palma would long remember, in sleepless nights, the irrevocable heartbreak that pierced him at the sound. There would be no more life, after that scream. No more hope.

A door opened out onto a good-sized storeroom with a sheet-metal wall, shrouded in darkness. A profound darkness, a bottomless darkness. Darkness.

Cerchia lay curled up on the floor; Romano stood a few feet away, ashen-faced.

Dodo's father was clutching a blanket and sobbing: He had something in his hand.

Palma took a step closer, just one step, because he knew he couldn't go any further into the abyss; he let his eyes get accustomed to the lack of light, and then he saw what it was.

An action figure.

A dirty superhero, with a torn cape.

Just a plastic action figure.

 

Batman. Batman.

I'm so sorry, Batman. I promised you I'd never leave you behind.

That we'd never be separated.

But I have to do it, because when my papà sees you, he'll understand.

He'll understand that I'm waiting for him, and he'll come looking for me, and he'll find me.

You can tell him so, Batman, you can explain it to him.

Say hi to him and give him a hug for me, tell him I love him more than the moon and the stars, that I'm counting on him. That I know he'll come get me, and that then we'll be together, forever.

Because he's the only one who's my giant.

And I'm his little king.

The Bastards, as you know, are a team. No one comes first, and no one comes last. That's the way a team works; that's the way a team has to work.

And so there are three teams that the Bastards must thank for this story about them.

The first is the team that fights crime every day, in this strange, absurd, beautiful city. Dottoressa Simona Di Monte, magistrate; my friend Luigi Merolla, chief of police. And Fabiola Mancone, Valeria Moffa, Gigi Bonagura, and Stefano Napolitano, on the street and in the labs, in the offices and at the computers, fighting for all those who wish to live honest lives.

The second team is made up of those who work on the stories and the pages, pouring in their hearts and souls: Severino Cesari, Francesco Colombo, Valentina Pattavina, Paolo Repetti, and Paola Novarese, in my words and in each character much more than you'd ever imagine.

Last of all, the team that's closest to my heart: the Corpi Freddi. To invent this and other stories, as if they were true.

Even more than if they were true.

Maurizio de Giovanni's Commissario Ricciardi books are bestsellers across Europe, with sales of the series approaching 1 million copies. He is also the author of the contemporary Neapolitan crime series, of which
Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone
is the third installment.

He lives in Naples with his family.