McCabe walked upslope through the trees, the strap over his left shoulder, bag resting on his right hip. When he reached the top of the rise, level now with the farmhouse, he could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. He looked down the hill at the highway and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto get in the car, and take off just before two police cars arrived, lights flashing.
He walked out of the trees and saw laundry on a clothesline next to the house. He looked down the hill and saw four uniformed police getting out of the two cars, walking down the embankment to the rented Fiat, what was left of it, traffic heavy, congested, barely moving.
McCabe moved up to the top of a steep rock-strewn hill fifty yards to the right of the farmhouse, picking his way through brush and Mediterranean scrub. He stood on an outcropping of rock, breathing a little from the climb, and lifted the strap over his head, put the soccer bag on the ground and stretched. The view was something, green rolling hills extending to a dark ridge of mountains that rose in the distance.
Angela had obviously seen what was happening from the window of Palazzo dei Priori, and had taken off. If something went wrong, they had agreed to meet back at the villa. He turned and looked off across the hills, saw Lago di Vico to the south and the Marta and Leia, tributaries of the Tiber, winding through the landscape east of the lake. La Quercia was due west, and beyond it, Viterbo. He knew where he was, and where he had to go. He scanned the terrain and thought he saw Pietro's villa on a hilltop to the east.
Psuz moved through the trees: cork wood, white oak, sycamore and holly oak. He had grown up in Lazio, the village of Gallese on the other side of the Cimini Mountains. His father had taught him how to hunt, and how to track game. He knew the trees and the vegetation and the rocky terrain. He had moved up the hill at least one hundred meters when he heard the sirens. He glanced back through the trees and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto running to the car, getting in and driving away, leaving him. But now the American would also see them and not be expecting him.
Psuz saw McCabe come out of the trees and walk to the top of the hill and stand there looking down at the police, wondering what he would do, and then he disappeared, went over the hill and was gone. Psuz ran up and looked and saw the American moving down the slope and went after him, thinking if he could move fast enough he could circle around and get ahead of him, be waiting for McCabe at the bottom. Surprise.
Pietro's villa didn't look far, a few miles, but it took McCabe over an hour to get there, late October sun beating down on him. He hiked through the hills and crossed the main road, Viale Fiume, and walked through the trees along Strada Pian di Nero. When he got to the base of the hill, looking up at the villa, he decided to circle around and come up behind it.
There was a stone outbuilding that was built about fifty yards from the main house. It was the size of a three-car garage and had a couple bedrooms, a bathroom and kitchen for Pietro's cook and housekeeper. The villa was on the other side of the gravel apron where Pietro parked his cars, but there were no cars there now. McCabe scanned the windows across the backside of the villa, didn't see anything suspicious, didn't see anything at all. He moved to the door, opened it and went in the kitchen. Stood and listened but didn't hear anything. He put the soccer bag on the table. Went in the main room, opened the gun case and grabbed the barrel of a Perazzi twelve-gauge. He loaded it and took it into the kitchen and laid it on the table next to the bag.
He opened the refrigerator, took out a cold bottle of Pellegrino water and poured a glass. Drank it leaning against the counter, thinking about Angela again, wondering what happened to her. Picturing her face the last time they were together, seductive brown eyes looking up at him.
"I saw your car."
It was her voice. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but there she was, standing in the doorway that led to the main room.
She came toward him, tears in her eyes. "I thought you were dead."
McCabe said. "It takes more than getting shot at and rolled in a car to stop me."
"Always the tough guy, uh?"
"I'm kidding."
She gave him a dirty look and opened a drawer and took out a towel and went to the sink and wet it and dabbed his face and it stung. "Easy," McCabe said, pulling away from her.
"Oh, you do feel pain, uh?" She showed him the towel that was stained with blood.
"I'm okay," McCabe said.
She touched his cheek again with the cool cloth. "I was worried about you. Do you understand?"
He gave her a slight nod.
"That's the best you can do?"
He brought her to him and put his arms around her and held her close.
"That's better," she said. "I knew Joey was not going to give you the money."
"You called it," McCabe said.
"No, I saw it all happening from the window of the Palazzo, four of them surrounding you. " She looked up at him. "But you still have me. I'm your bargaining chip. You remember saying that?" She paused. "Listen, we can try again."
"We don't have to," McCabe said. He glanced at the soccer bag on the table. She went over and unzipped it, looked inside, turned to him and smiled.
"Were you going to tell me?"