The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (26 page)

He waited until the marching, the shouts and the confusion had passed. When he came out into the sunlight, he thought once more of his father and of how he must have felt himself a survivor. There were so many things he did not know about him, but there was at least one memory which could be rescued from the oblivion into which his life had almost completely fallen, provided, of course, that Soneri could reach the Woodsman in time.

This thought drove him on. He called to Dolly and started down the valley. Time had flown, as he understood from the sun which seemed even brighter in the freezing wind from the north-east. He stopped at a sheltered spot near some rocks and since his stomach had been rumbling for about half an hour, he decided to have something to eat. He was certain they would not be able to capture the Woodsman as long as his cancer left him even a little strength, but he was equally certain that he himself would have little chance of meeting up with him in that rocky landscape, unless he chose to let himself be found.

With these thoughts in his mind, he set off again. He walked along the final stretch of the path until he felt himself out of danger. He heard one isolated shot fired by the Woodsman further up the Macchiaferro valley, but it wasn’t at a great distance. Perhaps the gun had gone off by accident. When he reached Greppo, he took out his mobile, dialled the number of the police station and asked the officer on duty if Crisafulli was there.

“I’ll put you through,” was the reply. “Can I say who’s calling?”

“Just put me through to Crisafulli.”

As Soneri was wondering how Crisafulli had managed to dodge heavy duty yet again, he heard his voice. “What’s the matter, Commissario?”

“Come up to Greppo. I’ve something interesting to show you.”

“What’ve you found? A dozen huge ceps?”

“A really superior type of mushroom. Get up here and see for yourself.”

He switched off his mobile, convinced he had done the right thing in calling the maresciallo rather than bringing the rifle down to the police station, since everybody in the village would have seen him. The case now seemed to him closed. There was only one further check to be made, but he could not do it himself, which was why he had called in Crisafulli.

He finished his meagre meal while Dolly chewed at the rind which she gripped between her paws. He lit his cigar and looked contentedly at the old village with its houses covered by slates of Montelupo stone darkened by moss. About ten minutes later he saw the carabiniere cap with the tongues of fire on the front, as Crisafulli himself walked towards him with his trademark, springy step. Soneri got to his feet as he drew near, and gave him time to get his breath back before he spoke.

“I wanted to give you this myself,” he said, handing over the mud-encrusted rifle.

The maresciallo started back as though he was afraid of soiling his uniform. He took a good look at the weapon without touching it, until the commissario handed it firmly to him, leaving Crisafulli with no choice but to get his hands dirty.

“Where did you find this?”

“Along the Croce path.”

The maresciallo’s eyes lit up briefly. “You believe that…” he tried to say, before losing himself in a tangle of thoughts.

“I think the whole lot of you have made a mess of the entire business.”

“Bovolenta is in charge of the enquiry,” Crisafulli said, too emphatically for Soneri’s taste.

“Palmiro didn’t get lost that night,” the commissario said.

“Obviously not. Now that we have this rifle, things which at first appeared absurd fall into place.”

“Oh, there’s still no shortage of absurd things. Life is full of them,” Soneri said, with a bitter laugh.

The maresciallo looked hard at him without appreciating his meaning, while the commissario, turning serious, put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Crisafulli, you go back to the police station and hand this rifle over to the forensic people. Then go up to the Rodolfi villa and do a house search. Before you do that, have a look at the weapons licensed to Palmiro. If even one is missing in the villa … all the rest will come out in the report, won’t it?”

The maresciallo looked at him like a schoolboy gazing at his teacher. “I will report that it was you who found the rifle.”

Soneri shook his head energetically. “I don’t give a damn about the case. I’m here on holiday. There are other matters which do interest me.”

“I’ll have to give some explanation of how I found it.”

“Say that you had an anonymous tip-off, or that you followed your own line of enquiry. I didn’t tell the officer on duty who I was.”

The maresciallo’s face lit up. “You are a saint and a bearer of grace.”

Soneri shrugged.

“I’ll let you know when I have the report. And I’ll go to the villa as soon as I have put this weapon in safe custody.”

“Thanks, even if I’m already sure how the whole thing went. I don’t need to deal with magistrates. It’s you who needs incontrovertible proof. I have the luxury of being able to follow my instincts.”

“A terrible business,” Crisafulli murmured.

“The world
is
terrible. Don’t you find it disgusts you?” Soneri felt anger swelling inside him, or perhaps it was the pain of living which he had attempted in vain to dispel by coming to the one place where he should have been able to feel at home. “And there is no escape,” he said, as though talking to himself.

The maresciallo listened with an expression of appropriate gravity, but it was clear he had not grasped the meaning of what Soneri was saying. “So what’s going to happen when they realise the Woodsman had nothing to do with it?”

“They’ll have to keep on searching for him. He has, after all, killed one of your colleagues.”

“And he died for nothing,” the maresciallo said. “I told Bovolenta to proceed cautiously. It wasn’t certain it was the Woodsman, but the captain’s not one for subtleties. He’s a dangerous man.”

“Have you got a towel?” Soneri said. “You’d better not let anyone see you with a muddy hunting rifle.”

“You’re right. I’ve got a blanket in the car.” He stood there for a moment, looking quite sheepish, until he saw the commissario giving him a curious look. He stirred himself into action. “You’re right. It does disgust me.”

Soneri waited a moment or two, then whistled for Dolly and moved off.

Along the valley, in the shadow of the mountains, the light was fading rapidly, while on higher ground the sunlight was still falling on the copper-coloured leaves of the beech trees.
A freezing wind blew onto the piazza from the narrow streets where it met no obstacle. Delrio, Maini and Volpi turned up their collars to give themselves some protection.

Volpi had his binoculars trained on the near slope of Montelupo, now only half in sunlight. “They’re still climbing up from both sides.”

“Have they got him surrounded?” Delrio said.

“They’ll have a hard time of it surrounding the Woodsman.”

At that moment, a shot rang out along the valley.

“That’s him,” Volpi said.

Almost simultaneously the rifles, with their sharper report, returned fire. Rivara stepped out of the bar, slipping his coat over his apron. People in the houses opened their shutters and stood behind the windows listening. From the outset, the Montelupo war was one that could only be listened to. It had been so from the first shot fired days previously in the mist, followed by the other mysterious shots in the twilight or in the depths of the woods.

“They’ve definitely intercepted him, but they’ll never take him,” Volpi said.

There was no let-up in the heavy fire from the rifles, but the Woodsman’s hunting rifle boomed out again, three shots discharged one after the other, then a pause, then another three shots, all clearly heard above the police weapons.

“They’d nearly trapped him in a pincer movement, but he slipped away before the circle closed,” Volpi said, peering through his binoculars without turning round.

“Not one of them has one hundredth of the Woodsman’s guts. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets another one,” Delrio said.

“Now they’re firing upwards, and that means he’s escaped from the trap. When he’s in danger, Gualerzi always makes for the high ground, like a hare.”

A volley of shots rang out, the sound carried across the valley by the freezing east wind, the shots coming so closely one after the other as to seem like machine-gun fire. The Woodsman replied with three single shots, fired at regular intervals, followed by another two.

Something caused Volpi to grimace in seeming disappointment. “He’d got off the hook but now they’re back on top of him,” he mumbled, as though there was some flaw in the narrative. The Woodsman must have done something unexpected.

“Gualerzi’s an old man. He’s been on the run for days with no rest,” Rivara said.

As though in reply, the Woodsman’s rifle thundered out, the bullets skimming across the tops of the trees like a scythe. The sun was almost set and only the peak of Montelupo, bathed in a dark grey, aluminium colour, was still in light. The darkness was rising gradually up the mountainside, like water in a tub. In the semi-darkness, the battle continued, but the combatants were now firing at random, more out of fear than with any specific aim. The wind carried some stray yells down the valley, but there was no telling where they originated from.

“They’re running up the slope. They look as though they’d been bitten by a tarantula,” Volpi said, with some apprehension in his voice.

“They haven’t wounded him, have they?” Maini asked.

Delrio shrugged as if to say that was not possible. “If anything, it’ll be the other way about.”

A new salvo was discharged, and it seemed to contain all the rage of the men who were pulling the triggers. The Woodsman, holed up in some inaccessible cave, seemed almost to be willing them to do their worst. He returned fire only when their shots were less frequent, but his rifle no longer had the same resonance.

“He’s made a change. He’s down to small bore fire,” Volpi said.

“He won’t scare them with that,” Maini said.

“That means he’s running out of ammunition,” Delrio said.

Silence fell over the Montelupo woods.

“Yes,” Volpi said. “Gualerzi must be low on bullets, but they’ll not get him this evening, because it’s already too dark to pursue him. He knows every last bush and tree.”

The lights went on in the piazza, revealing the men’s breath hanging in the air. Volpi replaced the binoculars, which he could no longer use, in their case. Shortly afterwards, they saw the first headlights shine out around the reservoir. The engines started up even before some squads were out the woods.

To get out of the cold, the group took refuge in the bar. The puddles were already covered by a layer of ice, and the wind blew the smoke from the chimneys this way and that. The commissario waited for the carabinieri to return. He followed the headlights as they bumped about in the darkness, slowly probing the compact mass of the trees. The procession reached a side road and stopped there. Two vehicles continued towards the main road, while the remainder turned in the direction of the village, arriving in the piazza a few minutes later. The carabinieri appeared exhausted. Some of their uniforms were filthy, and some were torn. They looked like an army in retreat.

Other trucks came slowly down the road towards Boldara. Soneri, who intended to leave Dolly at the
Scoiattolo
and then eat at Rivara’s, moved off. The village had once more sunk into its shell of distrust and rancour. Shafts of light filtered from kitchens, while the sound of children crying or old men complaining could be heard through half-open shutters. Before Soneri got to the
pensione,
Dolly stopped in front of him and stood staring, barking into the darkness ahead of her.
The commissario saw a man emerge from the shadows, walking under the light of the lamps.

When they were only a few metres apart, Soneri recognised him as the shepherd he had met pasturing his flock up at Badignana. He had the usual roll-up cigarette between his fingers, one end wet with saliva and the lighted end with scarcely any ash. He smoked on the tip of his tongue, as though he were tasting the cigarette. Soneri stopped but said nothing. The other man stopped too, but seemed embarrassed, as though wishing to give the impression that he just happened to be there, or else was not at his ease away from the woods.

“Have you been here long?” the commissario said, to open the conversation.

The other man shrugged, but made no answer. Discussion must have seemed a superfluous luxury to someone accustomed to days of solitude following his flock from one field to another, or simply sitting on a rock waiting for evening.

“It’s hell up there now,” Soneri said.

Once again the man shrugged. “I came down a couple of days ago.”

His voice and his attitude conveyed both a resignation which had been centuries in the making, and an acceptance of the reality, whatever that reality might be, to which it was necessary to adapt in order to survive in the mountains.

“You haven’t set eyes on Gualerzi again, have you?”

The man made a clucking noise as if to say no, but after a few seconds he raised his eyes. “If you go up to the mountain bar very early, you might meet up with him.”

“Did he tell you to tell me that?”

The man shook his head. “I met his daughter.”

“He’s being hunted down, and can’t hold out much longer,” the commissario said.

The man sniggered. “If it was just the carabinieri…” he
replied with a gesture of indifference. “He’s got other things hunting him down.”

Soneri assumed he was referring to the cancer.

“Is he starting to feel pain?”

“He’s been in pain since San Martino.”

“He would be better coming down and getting himself treated.”

“He’s not the sort of man who’s prepared to go to a hospital to die. He couldn’t stand being in closed spaces, hospitals, police stations, prisons, whatever. He sleeps with the windows open even in winter.”

As he listened to the shepherd, the commissario became aware of how a sense of the arcane and primitive was gathering around the figure of the Woodsman, and of how his legend was growing day by day.