From a Dead Sleep (36 page)
I glance back at the house, where the lights are still visible between the silhouettes of timber and brush. It occurs to me that all of Moretti’s men are in the woods. With two to the west and someone to the east, that leaves only Moretti and Arianna. With both cars out front and the chances of Moretti huffing and puffing his way across the terrain alongside his crew being slim to none, it’s a safe bet that they and they alone are inside the house right now.
I eye Alvar’s Buick that’s parked behind the Cadillac and picture myself with Arianna by my side in it, racing wildly down that dirt road. If I only have Moretti to contend with, this is doable. Arianna and I can leave together tonight—not three months from now. Not everything’s ready. Not everything’s prepared. But if I don’t leave with her right now, I may never be able to.
By the time the rest of them figure out what’s happening, we’ll be halfway to town. If someone does get in our way, we’ll just stay low and hope the bullets miss.
I cautiously make my way back toward the house, hoping the sound of my heavy breathing is inaudible due to the wind. I stop when I reach a lonely fence post beside the driveway. Most of the drapes inside the windows are open, but from my angle I can only see light fixtures and the top of a floor lamp. No movement. Behind me, I see the hurried flicker of the flashlight again and decide that it’s not moving any closer—at least not yet.
I exhale and dash across the dirt path to the Buick’s driver’s side door that’s parked just outside of the lamp light’s range above the garage. I know better than to risk opening it before assessing my chances at success. Alvar’s self-installed alarm has a hair-trigger, so I poke my head up along the window to check if it’s unlocked. I breathe when I see that it is. I peer deeper into the interior, searching for his keys in the ignition and I find them there. Thank God.
There’s still no movement from the house but the flashlight in the forest seems to have changed direction and I think it’s now getting closer. It’s not approaching at a pace that makes me worry I’ve been seen, but I fear whoever’s behind it is slowly returning to the house.
I’ve known for years that Alvar keeps a piece in his trunk, hidden under the spare tire. I’ll use it to snatch Arianna from Moretti. I’ve already killed tonight. If Moretti makes me pull the trigger, I will. Even if he doesn’t make me, pulling the trigger may be the only way of ensuring he’ll never come after us.
I’m aware that there’s no bulb in the trunk of Alvar’s car, just like there’s no dome light. Both were disabled to avoid attention during late night transactions back in Vegas. If I commit myself, I’m sure I can pull this off.
Carefully, I raise the handle and let the driver’s door glide open for just a few inches before I reach in and flip the trunk lever. I feel a release of tension along the floorboard and close the door as carefully as I can muster, fluctuating my attention between the blustering foyer of the building and the slowly approaching flashlight.
I crawl to the rear of the vehicle and feed the house another glance before I prop up the trunk door with my trembling arm. Inside, the night-visions expose a reflective, dark material that looks like satin. It’s draped over the top of something lying along the floorboard. I try to brush the clump aside but there’s substantial weight under it. Possibly logs for the fireplace. Earlier in the day, Moretti had talked about starting a fire tonight for Arianna. He said it would be romantic.
When I feel dampness along my wrist, I hold out my hand in front of the lens and see that blood is oozing from the towel wrapped around it. I was sure that I had stopped bleeding, but evidently not.
Before another thought is allowed to cross my mind, something grabs me firmly by the wrist and my body buckles in panic. The back of my head smacks against the edge of the trunk door. I bite my tongue and instinctively yank my hand free. As I do, the momentary, green-tinted image of a delicate, feminine hand decorated with sparkling jewelry freezes in my mind like a still-life picture. My attention snaps to the corner of the trunk where Arianna’s sick and frightened eyes are staring back at mine. I gasp at the sight and the blood rushing from my face nearly forces me to faint. Her eyes are filled with confusion and desperation and fine streams of blood are trickling down both sides of her opened mouth. The blood on my hand is not mine. It’s hers.
My mortified gaze drops to her chest just below her exposed cleavage where her snug evening dress is soaked. Blood is flowing from a tear in her material and it’s draining into a pool below her body.
Oh God . . .
It doesn’t take a doctor to tell me that she’s been shot or stabbed and that so much blood is present that she hasn’t a chance. He’s killed my Arianna.
Her hands and head alone are moving, and it’s as if she’s floating limply on her back in the ocean. I cup the palm of my hand under her head and prop it up slightly as tears freely stream into the eye cups of the goggles strapped to my head. My mouth is gaping open, but I can’t manage any words.
She squints her eyes as if a sliver of pain just jolted up her back and her lips move in some sort of intended dialogue, but I can’t read what she’s saying. I haven’t a clue if she knows who I am behind the goggles or if she can even see me at all in the nearly pitch darkness of the trunk.
“Honey . . . Baby,” I whisper as I lean forward and peer into her confused eyes.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, her skull goes limp under my outstretched hand. Her yellowish, feline eyes that look almost clear under the tint of my sights come to a sudden stop after her eyelids flutter one last time. They lay trained on me, and I feel as though they’re either assigning me blame for my inability to help her or succumbing to her first vision of the afterlife.
Time stands still for a few moments before an uncontrollable trembling overtakes me and my body feels loose and off balance. A strong gust of wind presses the trunk door down across my shoulders, urging me to snap out of my glaze and recall where I am.
With my eyes flooded from tears, I lower Arianna’s head to the floor and crane my neck outside of the trunk. I see that the flashlight, now steady in its luminance, is getting close, but my attention is quickly drawn to a shadow that emerges along the driveway beside me. I lift my head to check the house.
The front window is no longer bare. The thick silhouette of a stout figure inside is standing at its center. Moretti. His immaculately kept strands of hair, normally slicked back in uniform alignment, are now a frazzled mess as he runs his chubby fingers through them.
My clenched hands shake in rhythm and I can barely catch my breath. All that matters in my mind in that moment is that he has to die.
Moretti turns his head to the side and a lamp in the room exposes that he’s visibly agitated—downright irate and screaming under his thick mustache. His other hand is holding a walkie-talkie to his ear so tightly that you’d think he’s trying to plug a leak in the portside of a ship. It’s one of the same transmitters that Alvar had been fooling with earlier. Moretti’s collar under his sports coat is drenched with sweat, as are the sides of his flushed face. He’s paying no attention to the scene outside.
My face burns with unbridled hate as I lift back up the trunk door and slide my arm under Arianna’s wet, still warm body to feel for the outline of the lid that covers the spare tire. I find it and pull up on it, but it bends from Arianna’s weight. I quickly check the forest to find that the proximity of the wandering flashlight has grown closer. I flash Moretti another glance to make certain he’s still preoccupied. He is, but only for another second. My heart stops when his rant suddenly halts. The frame of his body snaps to attention and his thick eyebrows are angled upwards as if he’s heard a loud noise or had an epiphany.
“What do you mean
right outside
?” I manage to read across his lips.
Without any further contemplation, he whips his head to the window. The transmitter falls from his hand, and he presses his curled fingers up against the window to squelch the obscuring glare from inside. He stares outside.
I don’t wait for our eyes to meet. I lift the trunk door up as far as it will go before doing the same to the spare’s cover. Arianna’s limp body morbidly tumbles forward. My hand is spinning the metal wing nut that secures the tire when a bright flash of light explodes beside me, intensified by the sights of my goggles. I twist my head to see the flashlight in the forest bobbing from side to side. He’s running toward me. A sharp flash emits from directly in front of him. He’s shooting at me.
I fear I’ll be dead before I can get to Alvar’s gun, so I turn and sprint into the forest. I dodge between trees and through limbs, taking only a second to twist my head to see the flashlight still in pursuit. Whoever it is must have seen me from the woods and alerted Moretti on the radio.
Dancing sparks bounce off the side of a large, weather-scarred rock beside me right as I weave around it. Within seconds, they’ll all be after me.
I
t had to have been Frank who shot at me. Alvar wouldn’t have missed.
Oh, Arianna . . . How did it happen? Did he not believe your
denials, or did you outright admit it to spite him?
It’s got to be the former. She wouldn’t have come clean. Yet, it’s clear now that Moretti bought Valentino’s story.
By now, they’ve surely congregated back at the house and are organizing to come after me. A modern day lynch mob. I bet Alvar’s licking his chops.
I wonder if they even know who they’re chasing. Do they think it’s me or Valentino? I’m covered up pretty well so I doubt anyone got a great look. I’m not sure it matters, though. They know one of us is out here, and they’ve probably figured out that I’m not armed. They’ll be coming after me quickly.
If I ever get that close to Moretti again, I swear to God he’s dead. How could it have been so easy for him to kill her?
The trees I’m scrambling through with broken breath are gradually thinning out, and I worry that I’ll turn into a sitting duck without any places to hide or physical barriers to put between my body and a bullet. When a vast meadow opens up before me, that worry turns to horror. It spreads down a mild slope of short grass for what seems like the length of a football field before leading to another patch of forest.
The trees are still dense to the west, even though that direction leads me further from the road and town. I feel I have no choice, so I scurry back into the woods. The timing is none too soon as at least two beams of flashlights become visible behind me, cutting their way through the night. Town will have to wait. Right now, it’s about just staying alive.
My shoes weren’t meant for this. I feel every sharp corner of stone and rounded branch with any size beneath them. I keep my legs moving. With the denser timber comes even drier, dead wood along the ground. It’s surely crackling as I stomp through it. I do my best to dance around the big stuff, but it’s impossible to completely avoid without slowing to a crawl.
I take a crumb of comfort in the knowledge that the others can’t keep up with my pace. I’ve gotten myself in good shape over the past couple of years. Whoever knew that taking up jogging at the urging of my wife would have paid off at a time like this? Frank’s gotten slow with age, and Alvar isn’t built for speed. Tony’s pretty spry, but he doesn’t have the balls to lead out too far in front of the pack.
The wind’s dying down and what little cloud cover I can see above the thick trees appears to be lifting. Though I can’t see it through the walls of the forest, my bet is that it’s the glow of a full moon that’s illuminating the landscape more than what’s comfortable.
I’m keeping well ahead of the flashlights, but they’re not deterred. They know which way I’m headed.
The terrain takes a sharp decline and it forces me to be more deliberate in my footing. Before I know it, gravel is shuffling below my heels and the slope turns into a wicked descent. I have no choice but to hustle my way down through the large slabs of rock, gripping my hands along the coarse edges of boulders to keep from losing it. This only works for so long before my momentum won’t let me regain control. I slip to my back and slide down the steep embankment, riding unsettled rock as if I were a single grain from a handful of sand being poured down a funnel. The goggles slide down to my mouth and the darkness that surrounds me keeps me from processing the best way to brace myself from an inevitable collision with a solid object. My body goes weightless for a quick eternity but the helpless flaying of my arms and legs are whipped into conformity when I’m yanked to a sudden halt. My chest feels tight, and I realize that the strap of my brief bag has latched me onto something. I taste dirt and grime in my mouth, and am unable to better digest my predicament before the tautness gives way and I tumble forward another ten feet or so before landing awkwardly on a knee and the back of my opposite leg in a collection of rocks and other rubble. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck, but I fear I’ve pulled something in my leg or hyper extended it. The pain is manageable, but I feel an unnatural give when I bend my knee. My hand is throbbing and the sting along my laceration is intense. I’m sure I’ve reopened it.
I raise the goggles back to my eyes and find that I’ve dropped down into a craggy ravine where there are no trees and only frail shrubs. I smell water only a moment before I turn and behold that I’m at the precipitous shore of a raging river erupting through the gulch with breathtaking ferocity. Its spray whips against my face like I’m standing along the bow of a boat in the ocean. It’s the river I’d heard about—the one that marked the boundary of the property.
The shore on the other side is probably only twenty-five feet away, but it might as well be a mile because there’s no crossing it. The churning, white rapids would sweep me away in a heartbeat if I tried. If I could have heard the roar of the water I never would have come down this way. It’s too late to do anything about that, which is made clear when thin beams of light spread out over the granite wall above me. I clench my teeth and lunge down to the amassment of serrated rocks that line the shore and crawl with my elbows digging into the rubble until I reach a nest of three large boulders. I cower behind them, certain by the randomness of the gliding beams that I haven’t been spotted. My shoes are partially sunken in a small, shallow pool of overflow from the river. The water is biting cold.
