It was dark when Soneri returned to the piazza. The crescent moon, its outline blurry in the mist, was rising over Montelupo. The commissario’s stomach was protesting, demanding nourishment. Delrio was standing outside the Rivara, smoking a cigarette. “What was it like when the Woodsman shot the carabiniere? They told me you were there,” he said.
“I was too far away. Volpi had a better view through his binoculars.”
“He’s dead. The bullet shattered his ribs and tore away half his lungs. There’s a hole the size of a water pipe in his back.”
“Large calibre bullets, for boar hunting. You must know the sort of thing,” Soneri said.
Delrio nodded. “The Woodsman doesn’t fool about. If you ask me, he won’t stop at one carabiniere.”
Rivara came over and Soneri ordered dinner. “Have you anything with mushrooms?”
“It’s been a bad year. All you can find are ‘trumpets of death’,” Rivara said, touching himself between the legs in a superstitious gesture which annoyed the commissario. He opted for tortelli di patate and while he was waiting, Rivara brought him a plate of cooked pears and chestnuts. He remembered that autumnal dish, when the two fruits were put in the one pot and left to boil together.
“How are the other two?” Rivara asked Delrio.
“They’ll be O.K., but if I were them I would go and light a candle to San Martino.”
“They obviously didn’t expect to find him lying in wait for them, otherwise they’d never have gone strolling like daytrippers over the stony ground where there was no cover,” Rivara said from behind the bar, but it was clear he had overheard someone else make that comment, because Delrio gave him a look of indifference before replying, “Ah well.”
Soneri thought of the Woodsman in Badignana, hiding in one of those summer cabins reopened off-season, or sheltering for the night in some paddock, reflecting on life as it slipped away from him. Perhaps he was focusing on the last days in which he would really feel alive, up there, fighting them off, gun in hand. The commissario made every effort to get under the Woodsman’s skin, but concluded that perhaps he neither reflected deeply nor tormented himself enough. Perhaps he was a man who simply took destiny and its judgments as they come.
As his main course, he had some very ordinary roast beef and began to feel nostalgic for Ida’s cooking, but that was now a thing of the past. He got up and decided to go and keep the moon company. Rivara and Delrio watched him go out, but neither addressed him.
Dolly welcomed him, jumping up and putting her paws all over his duffel coat. He stroked her head and brought his face close to hers. They had an important matter to attend to. He wandered through the village with no fixed destination in mind. His route took him past the carcass of the burned-out car, and his nostrils were once more filled with the stench of melted plastic. He stopped to look down at the new town in the lower valley and at the headlights on the road leading to the Pass. As he walked back, he bumped into the man in the wheelchair, pushed as ever by his imperturbably zealous wife. Soneri was tempted to turn away, but the man had spotted him and even from some way off began talking. As he had done before, he babbled on about his adventures with Palmiro, until his wife made a sharp turn and took him in another direction. The commissario watched him vanish into the uncertain light under the lamp-posts, and thought wryly of yet another life descending into dementia.
He left the village and walked in the direction of Villa del Greppo, but turned off the road at a point where he knew he could pick up the path. As soon as they were near it, Dolly began wagging her tail and raced off in the direction of Croce so rapidly that the commissario had scarcely time to call her back. She seemed to be falling into a well-established routine. He made her sit, stroking her gently and speaking to her quietly in an effort to calm her. Dolly eventually settled, even if she was provoked by the many scents surrounding her. They did not move for some time. Soneri watched the moon move slowly across the sky, while the freezing cold embalmed the woods and fields in hoar frost. To keep Dolly calm, he placed his hand inside her collar. Every so often, the dog would give a shudder, and sit bolt upright, causing Soneri some alarm. An animal passed a very short distance from them, making the lower branches sway, but Dolly had already smelled it from a distance before it came within range of her hearing.
More time went by before Dolly began once again to show signs of agitation, but on this occasion she appeared unworried. Her tail began to beat against the commissario like a whip, and he had to hold her to prevent her making any noise. After a few seconds, a terrier appeared before them. The dog, attracted by Dolly, sniffed her from a distance and began to bark. Dolly did the same and Soneri withdrew behind a bush just in time to make out a hooded figure walking smartly towards Croce. He allowed him to draw close, but not before checking he had his pistol with him.
When he stepped out of the trees, he noted to his surprise that he was completely calm, perhaps because at that point he knew who he was dealing with. It was the other man who became alarmed and let out a shriek which caused the two dogs to bark in chorus. He made as if to run off, but Soneri stood blocking his way on the valley side, and flight through the Croce woods was obviously not an inviting prospect. Judging by his actions, he was already in a state of terror.
“It’s an unusual time to be out for a stroll,” Soneri said. “And you don’t appear much at your ease in the dark.”
The Philippino from the Rodolfi house mumbled something which the commissario did not pick up. He was wearing a heavy, corduroy overcoat with a hood which came down over his forehead, partially hiding his face.
“I walk dog,” he managed to say.
Soneri laughed and the Philippino appeared disconcerted.
“I’ve never met anyone who walks his dogs at night.”
“Signor Palmiro, yes. He come back late.”
“Of course he did. He was out poaching. So where is your gun?”
The Philippino ingenuously turned out his pockets, and Soneri almost felt sorry for him, a poor soul sent out into the woods at night and perhaps not even paid as well as the other Rodolfi employees
“Why does she send you here?” Soneri asked peremptorily.
The Philippino bowed his head and did not speak for a few moments, then, having no answer to give, turned and made to run off. Soneri grabbed hold of him. He was so light he had no difficulty in pulling him back. He seemed to have got one sleeve caught in a tree.
“There’s no point in running away,” he said calmly. “I know where to find you. If you run home and tell your employer everything, you know what’ll happen? She’ll tell you to disappear, and you’re out with no bonus and no salary.”
The man was plainly terrified at that prospect but something still prevented him from speaking. Dolly and the terrier were sitting facing each other, giving the impression of being keen to help along a conversation which had not quite taken off.
“Me time only for dogs,” he whined, his head bowed. “Search always Dolly who run away.”
Soneri shook his head at these implausible excuses. He could feel his temper rising and had to make an effort not to let it get the better of him. However, in that silence and in the faint light of the new moon, various thoughts milled about in his head before gelling into one insight which linked Dolly’s loud barking in the gorge before the meeting with Baldi and her familiarity with the path. Perhaps he should have allowed her to lead him on, for he now believed it would not have been a waste of time. And then there was the Philippino: he knew he was not there by chance.
As he mulled these matters over, he dropped his guard and relaxed. For a single second he looked up at the sky at the lights of an aeroplane flying low overhead, and in that second he lost control of the situation. With his clenched fist, the Philippino landed him a blow in the solar plexus and pushed him aside. The commissario stumbled off the path and slipped backwards, grabbing at branches to keep his balance and arousing the dogs who began barking wildly at this brawl. The Philippino took full advantage of the turmoil to free himself and run off down the road to Greppo. By the time Soneri struggled to his feet, the Philippino had a full twenty metres start on him, making it impossible to catch him. Soneri decided to let him go. The terrier went after him, while Dolly repressed her wish to do the same and watched them into the distance.
On another occasion, Soneri would in all probability have been furious with himself, but this time he remained calm. Putting pressure on that pathetic creature was not unduly important. His presence on this road at night time was more eloquent than any information he might have been willing to give, and his evident discomfort was confirmation enough of a hypothesis that was forming in Soneri’s mind. He walked back towards the village and when he bent to pass under a barrier of branches, he felt a stab of pain at the place where the Philippino had struck him. A quarter of an hour later, he came out on the main road, and became aware of the nails in Dolly’s paws clicking on the hard surface. It was only then he realised that she had been at his side all the time. He stopped and gave her a hug, thinking as he did so that a bond of affection had now been formed between him and the dog.
There was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing outside the police station, while in the piazza itself the blue cars of the carabinieri were parked with their front wheels on the pavement. It looked like a meeting that had been called by the prefect, and reminded him of interminable, tedious afternoons in the questura. He ducked round the corner into the side streets with Dolly, who every so often raised her head and sniffed the air. Soneri had placed his hopes on such scents and on faint traces left by those who had recently been on Montelupo.
When he reached the Scoiattolo, all the lights had been switched off, even the sign outside. The place seemed dead, but he noticed a reddish light shining under a shutter on the ground floor. He put the key in the lock and went in, but the moment he switched on the light in the hall, a door opened and an elderly man made a timid appearance at the doorway.
“You must be the commissario?”
“Yes, Soneri,” he replied
“Ida sends her apologies, but she won’t be able to make your meals at this time,” he said, stretching out his hand. “I’m her brother, Fulvio.” The commissario shook his hand. “Anyway, you have your own keys, don’t you? You’re the only guest.”
There was something disobliging in his tone, as though he had been hoping that Soneri too would have left, allowing him to close everything down and have no further responsibility for the place. The commissario looked around at the greying walls, the unfashionable furniture, the curtains fading through over-washing, and it occurred to him that he would indeed be the last guest, the last to stay there and the last to pay a bill.
“I’ll not be staying long,” he said, without looking at Fulvio, who made no reply.
“And the dog?”
“She’ll be staying with me tonight.”
On hearing these words, the man turned away, shrugged and as he went back into his room, could be heard muttering, “Well, at this point…”
The commissario slept fitfully. Dolly too was aroused every now and again at something that she alone could hear. Around 5.00, Soneri awoke, thinking he had heard a loud noise outside. Dolly was extremely restless and this seemed confirmation that there was someone moving about. The commissario threw open the shutters and peered into the darkness of the yard, but there was nothing to be seen. In spite of that, shortly afterwards he heard the sound of a car engine being revved up, and wondered if someone had come to look for something in the environs of the hotel. Since Dolly was so troubled, he supposed it might have been her they had come looking for. After all, his own suspicions had made him bring her up to his room in the first place.
As he thought the matter over, the alarm clock told him it was almost six o’clock. He opened the shutters again and was greeted by a gust of brutally cold air. He got ready and made his way out past closed doors behind which he imagined unmade beds, empty cupboards and curtains colonised by bugs. In the dining room, the tablecloths had been removed and the seats turned upside down. What he had previously seen as a sign of familiarity now seemed to him an omen of decay. He closed the door behind him and moved off.
He breakfasted in the Rivara. The village seen through the window overlooking the piazza seemed as calm as on a Sunday morning. “They were working late,” the barman advised him, indicating the police station.
“Any idea if they came to any conclusions?”
Rivara shook his head. “None at all. Nobody knows anything. Crisafulli and the local lot haven’t been seen.”
It was at that moment that he heard the ignition being turned in the first truck as it set off for Montelupo. A line of vehicles, their headlights reflected on the thick layer of ground frost, drove past. The half-asleep carabinieri inside them were jolted at every bump in the road.
“They’re not giving up, are they? They haven’t had enough yet,” Rivara said.
The commissario looked attentively at all the trucks as they went by, but he did not see Bovolenta. “Have they fired him?” he thought aloud.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise. With all that’s been going on, they could well have accused him of sending them out to be picked off.”
Soneri drank his caffelatte while Dolly, sitting outside the window, looked on. Dawn was breaking, but light was struggling to break through the damp mist of the valley. He ordered bread, some slivers of parmesan and a hundred grams of culaccia. He fed the fat of the ham to Dolly, and set off for Greppo where the night before he had met the Philippino. As soon as he was away from the shelter of the piazza, he felt the full force of the freezing wind like a slap in the face. The cold had grown yet more intense, and was coming, like the sun, from the east. When he reached the plain, he stopped to get his breath back. The dry air gave him a parched throat. He saw the carabinieri line up above Boldara to advance through the woods, and he wondered about the criteria they were using for deployment in the God-forsaken donkey’s back that was Montelupo. They were being divided into two groups, perhaps with the plan of encircling the Woodsman. He heard the sound of other trucks on the mountainside and realised that reinforcements were arriving already.
He set off once more for Croce, with Dolly running ahead, darting in and out of the undergrowth. The commissario walked behind with a more measured pace, but as he proceeded he felt a growing sense of anxiety. When he heard shouts from lower down the valley, he understood the risks he was running. All it needed was one carabiniere to get him in his gun sights. He knew only too well that in those circumstances, they would not be required to take precautions. Montelupo was now a free-fire zone for the police forces, and there were simply no codes in place.
As he climbed higher, the sun lit up the mountain, increasing the chances that he would end up in some sniper’s sights. There was a new danger at every corner, so he kept in the shadows or took shelter in gulleys or thickets where it was still freezing and where the wild boar ran. He left the path, walking parallel to it through the trees. The morning was silent and the light strong, but there was tension in the air. He still had some way to go along a route which took him past the bright trunks of the beech trees before he finally arrived at an almost sheer wall of crumbling sandstone. Looking up, he could see the path twist and turn as it ran alongside a crag where no plants grew. There was a crevice in the cliff which narrowed into a chimney leading over the summit and down the opposite side. Only at that point did he realise he was next to the gorge where Dolly had attempted to entice him down to the bottom the previous day.
He looked for the dog as he crossed over the muddy surface solidified by the freezing frost. He was familiar with that type of swampy terrain where it was possible to walk only in winter. He remembered an occasion when a hunter had sunk in it up to his waist, and when he was pulled out, he left behind his boots and trousers. The freezing conditions had made everything hard. Small pieces of rock broke away from the cliff higher up, causing the sandstone below to crumble like dry bread. Dolly was seated at the foot of the slope in the last of the undergrowth which closed off the gorge. In front of her there were signs of something having been dragged through the mud before the freeze. Soneri bent over, and it was then he noticed the butt of a rifle sticking a few centimetres out of the ground.
It had been driven in, barrels down, like a biscuit ready to sink to the bottom in a glass of milk. The commissario looked up. About twenty metres up the slope from where he was standing, the path ran along the cliffside. He then understood: the rifle must have fallen from there and the barrels had sunk in the mud, but all this had taken place before the freeze, in the soft dampness of the season of mists.
He pulled at the gun, but it was impossible to move. It was as if it had been set in cement. He attempted to dig it out with stones, branches and with his bare hands, knowing that if he managed to crack the frozen surface, the weapon would come away easily. He worked at it for some time, heedless of everything else around him. Montelupo continued to be enveloped in a silence undisturbed by the cawing of crows, the tap-tap of woodpeckers or the strident screech of vultures. The woods and the skies were shrouded in lethargic stillness.
Finally with one energy-sapping tug, he pulled the rifle free. It was encased in a sleeve of grey mud, like a cocoon, and patiently he began to scrape the mud away with a piece of wood, cutting from the top down as though he were slicing ham. After a time, he was successful and this made it possible to make out the shape of the barrels and handle, but the time it had spent under the mud had probably compromised the trigger and firing mechanisms. He retraced his steps, trying to get out of that morass of solid mud, but only when he felt the springy crackle of beech leaves under his feet did he allow himself to think of what was to be done next. But at that moment the battle broke out with renewed violence, not far above the path.
The carabinieri opened fire first, followed immediately by the more sonorous sound of the Woodsman’s rifle as he returned fire from somewhere on the mountainside. Other weapons were discharged across a wide range, bullets whistled through the woods, criss-crossing each other and ending their flight with a bang as they exploded into wood or with a dull thud as they hit the ground. The commissario crouched down behind a beech tree whose roots had pushed through the soil to create a kind of rampart. The air carried the smell of gunshot towards him, while broken branches fell like rain onto the rotting wood beneath the trees. Soneri felt real fear when he heard the carabinieri running towards the pathway, but once they approached the foot of the gorge, a shot from the Woodsman exploded before them, throwing earth and leaves from the undergrowth up into the air. He was firing in the hope of bouncing his shot off a stone, knowing that if he struck a rock, the ricochet was certain to bring someone down. The carabinieri halted and then doubled back into the thick woods. Soneri took advantage of the pause to drag himself and Dolly along the gulley, and to dive behind the cement columns under a little bridge over a path in the woods. Dolly was reluctant to follow him but Soneri grabbed her by the collar and hauled her in.
They stayed in there, huddled against each other. Every so often Dolly would turn to him, giving the idea that she was obeying although she did not understand. The commissario for his part was besieged by images from long ago. He felt again like a boy in a cabin, as he recalled the resentful solitude of his teenage years as well as various stories told to him by his father. He seemed to hear his voice as he recounted the events of July ’44, the S.S. round-ups, the three days spent hiding in a hole in the ground and the return to the light of day to find a landscape of death and fire. It was a miracle they had not killed him, and it was a miracle for Soneri that he had been born and was there.
He shook his head at that thought and Dolly, who took the gesture as an invitation, licked his hand. He was surprised at these mysterious associations which carried him back to relive episodes from the past, but these were all swept aside a few moments later by the heavy marching steps of the carabinieri. They were moving at a steady pace towards the spot from which the Woodsman had been firing. He heard the radios crackling and one voice communicating the direction they were to take. He assumed they were trying to surround the Woodsman, forcing him to higher ground where there was less shelter and less space for manoeuvre. From the sound of their footsteps, he calculated that there must be about fifteen of them. He had been hiding to avoid being shot by mistake, but even if he was now at liberty to come out and give himself up, he put his hand into Dolly’s collar to keep her calm, and stayed where he was. He had no wish to expose himself to the carabinieri as he crawled out of his hole like a beetle. In there, he felt like a real man of the mountains, or like an animal in its den. He was different from those untrained, frightened and shivering policemen.
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.
“He didn’t wait for me the last time,” the commissario said.
“He’s got his own times. He’s up before dawn, and these days he doesn’t even sleep much.”
Soneri nodded to let it be known he had understood, and watched the man move off slowly, disappearing into the night. The commissario took Dolly to the Scoiattolo and then, feeling the first pangs of hunger, turned back to where he had been. When he arrived at the Olmo, Crisafulli hurried out.
Soneri stopped to light a cigar before the maresciallo started talking. He invited him to walk with him along the street, since he preferred not to speak within earshot of the group of village elders. They walked some way without addressing each other. Crisafulli turned up the collar of his uniform and kept his hands in his pockets, but he seemed to be turning blue with the cold. He pulled up short, almost barring the commissario’s path. “Commissario, I have to tell you all the rifles are in the right place.” There was a shiver in his voice as he spoke.
“So you’ve been up at the villa?”
“I went there immediately after our conversation.”
“Was the daughter-in-law there?”
“Yes, and the Philippino.”
“And they let you see the weapons?”
“Yes, all three of them, as per the licence. Two double-barrelled guns and one sporting rifle for deer-hunting.”
“Where were they?”
“In a locked cabinet.”
The commissario inhaled his cigar as he reflected on this information. “You also went to the house in the woods, Paride’s house?”
“Of course,” the maresciallo said, slightly piqued. “But the two weapons for which a licence had been issued were there, and they didn’t look to have been used recently.”
The commissario stood in silence. The matter now seemed more complex than he had expected, but he was still of the view that the rifle explained everything. “Are we talking about recent models, or ones a couple of years old?”
Crisafulli was hopping from foot to foot in the cold. “The licences were issued some years ago.”
“The forensic squad have examined the rifle we found?”
“They’re still working on it, but they’ll get back to me tomorrow.”
“If I were you, I’d send someone along to do a check on the gun shops around here,” Soneri said, choosing his words with care. “It’s just possible somebody’s made some purchases in the not too distant past.”
Crisafulli looked at him quizzically, but his expression turned more defiant. “Commissario, do you really think that each and every one of us in the carabinieri is a complete idiot? I’ve already given orders to the men to carry out investigations. And I’ve started to put the screw on that Romanian we’ve got under arrest because of those fifty grams of some substance found in his house by our colleagues from the Santo Stefano division.”
“And has he been any use to you?” Soneri said mildly, ignoring the maresciallo’s petulance.
“If you ask me, he knows more than he’s letting on, but I want to talk to him when I’ve got more information, that is, as soon as the forensic people pass on to me what they’ve found. These foreigners try to make a fool of you, unless you’ve got them with their backs to the wall,” Crisafulli said, in a crescendo of anger.
The commissario looked him straight in the face, then waved the hand holding the cigar. “I was not doubting your ability. It’s just that two heads are better than one, and I was only thinking aloud.”
The maresciallo gave him a pat on the elbow as he turned to go. “Tomorrow, I’ll share everything with you,” he promised, moving off with those distinctive little steps of his, and letting it be understood he could no longer put up with the cold.
Before he reached the piazza, Dolly appeared at his side, leaping happily up at him. He wondered how she had managed to jump over the wall at the Scoiattolo and, especially, to leave a dish of offal. He stroked her to calm her down, while she gazed at him as though her entire world was contained within the confines of his duffel coat. He took out his mobile and phoned Angela. “I have to communicate to you that we have a new member of the family.”
“It’s usually women who make that kind of announcement,” she said. “Or have you found a babe in the woods?”
“No, I’ve decided to keep Dolly.”
“Really. It took me longer to convince you to keep me.”
“So, you agree?”
“I’ve always believed that a dog is the ideal companion for introverted, taciturn types like you. Faithful and reliable, something that can make itself understood with signs, who has no need of words, and who’ll never interrupt your train of thought.”
Soneri felt, not for the first time, that yet again Angela had got it exactly right. His mind filled with memories of those silent afternoons in the woods gathering chestnuts, firewood or mushrooms with his father, and of the perfect understanding achieved between them with glances or gestures. This was now an obsession with him.
“Dolly has solved the case,” he said.
“She’s certainly got a better nose than you.”
“Well, it was a question of a nose.”
“What did she sniff out?”
“A rifle which had ended up in the mud, and if it hadn’t been for the freezing weather, not even Dolly would’ve found it.”
“Are you talking about the weapon that killed Paride?”
“I think so, but the carabinieri are still investigating.”
He was still speaking when he saw a carabiniere uniform march across the piazza in his direction. As it came closer, he recognised Bovolenta. He quickly said goodbye to Angela and put the mobile back in his pocket. When they came face to face, he saw how exhausted and dejected the captain looked. The cold made the wrinkles under his nose seem even deeper, and his eyes were bloodshot. Soneri held out his hand to shake Bovolenta’s, but the captain awkwardly stretched out his left hand.
“What’s happened to you?” the commissario said, only then noting a plaster cast protruding from the right sleeve.
“Nothing, just a bit of a shrapnel which got me side on.”
“I told you. It was never going to be easy trying to bring Gualerzi in.”
“He’s nearly killed another four men. He’s mad.”
“Any more wounded?”
“Five. He’s firing dum-dum bullets which become grenades the moment they hit a rock.”
“There’s no point in going after him any more. He’s not got long to go. You should never have…”
Bovolenta glowered at him, struggling not to lose his temper. He calmed himself down and spoke in a deliberately measured tone. “Crisafulli spoke to me about the rifle. Was it you who found it?”
“Why do you ask me that question?”
“I know the maresciallo. He couldn’t walk for more than twenty minutes at a stretch.”
“There are other people who could do the walking.”
“No-one in this village would lift a finger in this business. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? They don’t speak to each other, they look daggers at one another, they burn down barns, they set fire to cars and houses, they stab each other in the back.”
“That rifle will tell you many things, above all that the Woodsman has nothing to do with it.”
The captain looked down, considering this remark. “It has already started telling its tale. The registration number has been partially scored out.”
“Has it been used to shoot recently?”
“It seems so, but we need to do further tests. The weapon is not in the best condition because of the mud.”
“How long will it be before you get the full results?”
“Tomorrow.” The captain’s reply was hissed out, with an edge of impatience, but from the dark expression on his face, Soneri deduced that this was due to a stab of pain in his arm. “What I really wanted to ask you to do was to mediate with the Woodsman.”
“Gualerzi is not the type who welcomes mediation, as you will have noticed.”
“I know, but up there, on his own, running short of ammunition, hungry… and in addition, I understand he’s seriously ill.”
“He’s on his way out.”
“Exactly. There’s no point in him carrying on with this resistance. He’d never surrender to us, but you’re from here, and then there’s your father…”
“Have you seen the documents?” the commissario asked anxiously.
“Yes, I have, but they don’t say very much. At least they don’t resolve the doubt that’s been gnawing at you.”
Soneri’s expression darkened.
“I believe the Woodsman disposed of most of the papers,” the captain continued. “Or perhaps he’s hidden them somewhere.”
The commissario imagined Gualerzi making off with all he could carry to prevent the past from being exhumed, but once again Bovolenta’s words took him by surprise. “I’m asking you to go, as much because of your personal interest as anything else.”
Soneri needed only a few seconds to think it over before replying, “I will go.”