Death by Denim (11 page)

“Mi dispiace,”
the conductor said. “I am sorry, but this ticket goes to Varese.”

“Yes,” I said, not comprehending. “That’s where I’m going.”

“But this train come
from
Varese. We stop next in Vergiate.”

“No.” I felt like I’d just been dropped into a bad dream. Air rushed in my ears. I could barely feel my hand clutching the ticket. “But the sign said—”

“Mi dispiace,”
he repeated. “But no worry. There will be a train in Vergiate to take you to Varese.”

I thanked him and slouched down in my seat, fighting back tears of frustration. How could I have done something so idiotic? Now there was no way I’d make it to Varese by eight A.M. as The Mole demanded. I stared out the window at the scenery—like a movie set rolling past—my stomach cranking tighter and tighter with every turn of the wheel until I thought I was going to be sick.

When we stopped in Vergiate, I slogged off the train and then watched in miserable frustration as it screeched and shuddered and rolled away from the station. The schedule board showed two trains headed to Varese—one in ten minutes and one in an hour.

I ran inside and bought a ticket from the machine to cover the ride from Vergiate to Cassano Magnago. From there, I could use my original ticket to get to Varese. I felt supremely stupid that I had to get myself back to where I had started from before I could move forward. By now it was already after seven. Because of my stupid mistake, I would never reach Varese on time. I don’t know what The Mole planned to do if Seth and I weren’t “delivered” by his eight A.M. deadline, but based on his track record, I didn’t want to find out. Of course, I didn’t exactly want to find out what he would do if he got a hold of us, either.

I paced, checking my watch every two minutes, and tried to formulate some kind of plan of action for when I caught up with the Mulos at the address Caraday had given me. The whole idea was to ensnare The Mole. Maybe if we led them on a chase to Milan . . . And then it hit me. Milan. Ryan would never dare show up there without me. He knew me. As soon as I stepped off that train, he had to know what I was planning to do. The first chance he got, I had no doubt Ryan would sound the alarm and come after me. By going on to Varese, I was essentially forcing their hand. Regardless of what my mom wanted, we would carry on with the operation as planned. At least that’s what I hoped would happen.

There was one small hitch in my imagined scenario: Ryan could not have known that I would have gotten on a train headed in the opposite direction. They would have no idea where I was or when I was arriving in Varese. Or if I
was
arriving in Varese. My heart sank. I might have to go it alone after all.

Finally, an announcement echoed through the passenger concourse. I couldn’t quite hear all the words, but I think it was saying that my train had just arrived. I rushed out to the platform. The train was there, but so were a whole lot of people, lined up at each car, waiting to board. Rush hour. I joined the queue at one of the back cars—I had bought an unreserved seat again, in case a name or identification was required to make a reservation. Suddenly, I wished that I had taken the chance and selected a seat.

By the time I entered the car, it was almost completely full. Ours was not the first stop on the line, and the train must have already been crowded. I scanned the seats as I wandered through the car, but I wasn’t able to find one to myself. Worse, all the aisle seats had been taken so I’d be boxed in, no matter where I sat.

I ended up choosing a seat near the rear of the car so that if I had to leave in a hurry, at least I’d be near an exit. On the downside, my seatmate, a burly guy with oiled hair and several heavy gold chains around his neck, seemed to be watching me, waiting for me to meet his gaze. I turned as far from him as I could without being blatantly rude. No need to give him a reason to remember me. One of the advantages of the window seat, I supposed, was that I could pretend to be engrossed in the scenery—even if we were just sitting at the station.

As it was, sitting at the station gave me too much time to think. And my thoughts kept slipping back to Ryan, no matter how I tried to divert them. Two opposing images flashed through my head. The first was Ryan, shielding me by the tree, handing me his jacket, brushing the hair from my face when he thought I was asleep. But then there was the other image—Ryan outside the shed, pressing the cell phone to his ear, telling the Agency how he was going to trick me into going to Milan. I didn’t know how both images could be the same person.

Meanwhile, more than an hour away, Seth and his parents were in danger and if the stupid train didn’t start moving soon, I was going to be too late to do anything about it.

Finally, we dragged slowly and sluggishly forward before picking up speed and leaving the station behind. Outside, the early-morning sun had painted the sky a salmon pink and gilded the clouds left over from the night’s rain. The train wound its way around a blue-gray lake, the waves blushing in reflection of the sky. If the circumstances had been different, I might have appreciated the beauty of it. As it was, the lake stood in the way of Seth, and all I wanted was to put it behind me.

T
he train sighed into Varese just after eight in the morning. A full hour later than I planned to have met the Mulos. In the vestibule, I danced from foot to foot and waited for the doors to release. The second they hissed open, I jumped forward like a sprinter out of the gate.

I ran, weaving through commuters and tourists, students and working men. The acoustics of the tile floors and the granite walls of the passenger concourse magnified and jumbled their voices until it sounded like a loud, echoing henhouse.

At each turn, I half expected Ryan to step out and demand to know what I was doing. When I didn’t see him, I was at once relieved and disappointed. But I didn’t have time to worry about him. I had to get to the Mulos’ apartment.

In the front of the station, a group of cabbies clustered together, smoking and laughing. One of them—a stout man in a leather vest and matching ivy-style cap, glanced over at me as I rushed outside. He threw his cigarette down and ground it out with the toe of his boot.

“Taxi, signorina?”
he asked.

“Sì, grazie!”
To my ears, my voice came out high-pitched and shrill. I took a deep breath before giving him the address.
“Ho fretta,”
I added. I’m in a hurry.

He hurried to open the door of his boxy white car and bustled me into the back. I had barely gotten both legs inside when he slammed the door behind me.

Jumping into the driver’s seat, he set the meter running, then shot away from the curb so fast that the force of it threw me backward. I sprawled across the seat, gripping the door handle as we whipped through the winding streets. All I saw of the city was a blur of white buildings with terra-cotta roofs, deep green vegetation, bright flowers in window boxes, and laundry waving on the lines overhead.

Finally, the taxi screeched to a stop and the driver announced we had arrived. I peered out the window at a three-story apartment building, square and squat with a shallow, hipped roof.

“Grazie,”
I said shakily. I handed him a twenty-euro bill for a six-fifty fare, but I wasn’t about to hang around for the change. I jumped from the cab and ran for the entrance.

Unfortunately, the entry to this building, like the apartment back in Paris, was controlled by a panel of buttons, each labeled with a surname, presumably of the person or family who lived in the apartment. No numbers. How was anyone supposed to find a specific apartment that way? I ran my finger down the list of names. Not that I had imagined I would see the name Mulo, but I had hoped for something overly common like Smith, or, since we were in Italy, Rossi. No such luck.

The only thing I could think of to do was to buzz each apartment in turn until I hit the right one. With luck, there wouldn’t be anything like a three-tries-you’re-out feature in the control box.

I buzzed the first one. No response, so I buzzed the next button down. The intercom at the base of the box crackled.

A woman’s voice demanded to know who was there.

“Elena?” I asked.

She snapped that I had the wrong house.

I hit button number three. Again, no response. Just as I was about to buzz the next one down, a lanky guy in too-tight spandex shorts pushed out the door, shouldering a sleek racing bicycle.
“Permesso,”
he said. Excuse me.

“Non importa,”
I assured him, and stepped aside, holding the door for him. And then I let myself into the building.

As soon as he left, I tore up the stairs to the second floor and searched the numbers on the doors until I came to 2C. When I saw it, my heart twisted in my chest. The door to the apartment stood partially open.

A cold sense of foreboding slithered down my back and I flattened myself against the wall. I’m not sure how long I stood there, holding my breath, listening for sounds from inside the apartment, but it felt like a long, long time. Only when I didn’t hear anything did I dare to slide cautiously toward the door.

With the toe of my shoe, I pushed the door open just a little bit farther and peeked inside. I didn’t see any movement.

“Hello?” I called softly.

No answer. I pushed the door open even wider and took a tentative step inside. And then I knew. The Mulos had already gone. It looked like they left in a hurry, too. In the small kitchenette to my right, dishes still sat in the sink. Some of the drawers were pulled partially open. To my left, a magazine lay open on a glass-topped coffee table in front of a sleek leather couch, a half-empty glass of water on a coaster beside it.

Tears blurred my vision and I wiped them away with the back of my hand. I was too late. The knowledge left me dead and hollow inside. I turned to leave the apartment when I caught a flash of silver on the floor next to the couch. I bent to pick it up. A knot tightened in my throat as it dangled from my fingers. I recognized it at once; it was the chain I had worn to hold Seth’s ring. The clasp had broken. I wondered when that had happened. How it had happened.

“Ferma!”
A deep voice behind me ordered. Halt.

I jumped and spun around. A tall man in a dark wool suit and narrow tie stood in the doorway, his black eyes fixed on me as if he’d just found a cockroach skittering along the floor.
“Cosa sta facendo?”
he demanded. What are you doing?

My mind raced. What could I say? Definitely not that I knew the people who had lived in the apartment. Then he might ask me who they were.
“Mi scusi,”
I apologized.
“Ho visto la porta aperta. . . .”
The door was open. . . .

He strode forward so that he hovered over me, his expression, if possible, soured even more than before. “You are American?”

I nodded, mouth too dry to speak.

He fished a leather wallet decorated with a brass shield from his pocket and waved it at me. “I am police. You cannot be here.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” I tried to move past him, but he blocked my way.

“No. You are looting. For this, I must arrest you.”

My eyes grew wide as I followed his pointed glare to the chain I held in my hand. “Oh, no! I wasn’t stealing this. It’s—”

“I advise you to say nothing further. You may call your consulate from the station. They will arrange the lawyer.”

I shook my head. That was one thing I couldn’t do. Not unless I wanted the consulate to find out that the person on my passport didn’t exist. “Look, I seriously was not loo—”

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Turn around.”

I shrank back. No. This was all wrong. “Could I please see that badge again?”

“Turn around. Now.” He pushed back his suit coat enough that I could see a pistol in the holster at his belt.

I stared at the gun. I wasn’t exactly familiar with the Italian police procedure, but the arrest scenario didn’t feel right. Something was definitely off. I didn’t believe for a moment that he was a real policeman. But that only made things worse for me. It meant that he wouldn’t have to play by the rules. I turned slowly, keeping my hands where he could see them. He already looked pretty agitated and I didn’t want to give him any reason to reach for that gun. He yanked first one hand and then the other behind my back and snapped the cold, metal cuffs onto my wrists, squeezing them so that they clicked small enough to pinch. I bit my lips to keep from crying out. But when he yanked the chain from my hand, I couldn’t help it.

“Save your breath,
signorina
,” he said, and grabbed my arm to spin me around. “We go now.”

I could hear doors open and caught a few curious neighbors gawking from their
appartamenti
as he marched me down the stairs and through the tiled entry. I kept my head down as we went, not out of shame, but to hide my face so that the black-eyed “policeman” wouldn’t see how my eyes darted from door to door, searching for a familiar face, for an escape route, for anything that would get me out of the mess I had gotten myself into.