McCabe went out and got in the Fiat and took the steep driveway down to a country road that wound around to the main road, Viale Fiume. The weather had changed, heavy dark clouds hung over the mountains as he drove through the hills, past sheep and horses grazing, passing through La Quercia, a village, arriving in Viterbo a few minutes later. He was surprised to see a modern mirrored-glass building on Via Cassia right outside the medieval city. He drove through Porta Romana, a giant archway built in the wall that surrounded the city, took a series of narrow one-way streets and parked on Via Roma in the center of the business district.
McCabe had seen photographs of Viterbo, but had never been there. He was surprised how big it was and how crowded. He walked downhill to Piazza del Plebiscito. Studied the two arcaded buildings that made up Palazzo dei Priori, built in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Stopped in the tourist office and picked up a street map of the city. He sat outside at a cafe in the square, ordered espresso and sipped it, studying the map, looking for a place to meet Mazara and make the exchange, Angela for the money.
He walked to Piazza del Gesu and north to Piazza San Lorenzo, the religious center. He went south to Piazza della Morte, Death Square, which somehow seemed appropriate, but was too small, too remote. From there he took a series of winding streets to Piazza San Pellegrino in the medieval quarter, and back to Piazza del Plebiscito.
He stood staring at the buildings and got an idea, decided what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. He’d meet Mazara and ask for the money. Mazara would hand him the soccer bag, and he would tell them where to find Angela. But where could he keep her that was out of sight, but still close by? The car was probably the only option. But she wasn't going to lie there quietly in the back, so where else could he hide her? It was a little more complicated than he thought. He considered calling Chip, ask for his help, but he didn't want to involve anyone else. It was his problem and he'd handle it.
Now he had to buy some food. It would be a couple days before he got everything organized. He found a butcher shop, a macellria, and bought slices of Cacciatora and Felino, and a whole chicken with its head still attached. Bought a loaf of ciabatta at a panetteria. Bought fresh mozzarella at a formaggeria and tomatoes at a vegetable stand in the market. He forgot the wine and went to an enoteca and bought a bottle of Chianti, and a Tuscan Chardonnay. He carried his packages to the car, opened the hatchback and put them in.
Angela thought she heard a car and looked out the window. McCabe's Fiat was moving down the hill toward the road that went one way to Viterbo, and the other way to a village called Bagnaia. Beyond the road she could see the muted rectangle shapes of houses across the valley, a smoky haze hanging low over the hills, the vista reminding her of the Tuscan countryside.
It was 1:30, only thirteen hours since he had taken her from the apartment, but seemed much longer, like days had passed, trapped in the room, her prison cell, pacing back and forth, ten feet from wall to wall, anxious, frustrated, going crazy.
She pictured McCabe sitting on the bed, waiting for her as she walked in the bedroom, taking her down, and taping her hands and feet. She'd had a panic attack wrapped in the tarp. She could not move and had trouble trying to breathe, heart pounding, overcome by anxiety. Thinking of her mother helped calm her as it always did, helped her through tense situations. Feeling her mother's gentle touch, hearing her soothing voice, like she was a little girl again.
Angela had been asleep when he slid her out of the car and carried her in the house, waking when he unwrapped the tarp, drenched in sweat as if she had stepped out of her bath. He kidnapped her and then apologized, saying he had no choice, no other way to get her out of the apartment. Thinking back she liked that and was surprised when he brought her a pillow and blanket. And he had continued to surprise her, this student who was not afraid to challenge a Mafia gang. She admired his toughness and determination, but what chance did he have of succeeding? None. What he was doing seemed foolish and naive. He had been lucky, but his luck was going to run out.
Her cousin Joey would be wondering what happened to her. He would say something to her father, and her father would say you can never count on Angela. She is always late. It was true. She had been late her whole life.
Mazara would have called looking for her by now, and had probably stopped by her apartment, and let himself in. She had given him a key, something she now regretted. He would make himself comfortable, drink beer and watch a football match on television. He would think she was in the city, shopping, or having lunch. It wouldn't be an issue until tonight or tomorrow when she still had not returned his calls or returned to the apartment.
Standing at the door, she moved the handle up and down. It was locked. Of course, it was locked, and the door was heavy and solid. She looked around the room for something to jam in the keyhole to try to unlock it. There was a brass doorstopper screwed into the baseboard molding. She unscrewed it and pulled the rubber cap off the end and tried to stick it in the keyhole, but it was too big.
Angela unfastened her belt, took it off and folded the buckle away from the clasp and stuck the clasp in the keyhole. She moved it around trying to find the pin. She tried for ten minutes and quit, frustrated, throwing her belt on the floor. She turned on the faucet and put her hand under it and scooped water up to her mouth, drank and turned off the water.
She looked out the window and saw a man walking along the road at least a hundred meters away. She opened the window as far as it would go and yelled, "Signore… can you hear me? Help!" She said it again, but he was too far. He continued on his way, never glancing in her direction.
She looked in the mirror, annoyed, irritated, angry at herself for letting this happen. She went over and picked up the belt, bent the buckle back and stuck the clasp in the keyhole again, moving it in a circular motion, doing this for almost fifteen more minutes, trying to find the pin until her hand ached, too tired to continue. She stretched her arms over her head and bent down and touched her t-s.
Angela was thinking about her nanny, Carmella whose father was a locksmith from Siena. He had taught Angela how to set a pin, saying, you reach in the lock with something long and sharp, a piece of metal, and find the pin that's binding the most and push it up until you feel it set. That's how you pick a lock. She had tried it the one time and was able to do it, but that was long ago.
She stuck her belt clasp in the lock again, moving it to the right edge and then the left. She pushed as hard as she could and thought she felt something move.