Jacob nodded, almost as if he knew what Paul was thinking. “You need to overcome that fear and unlock the rest of what happened. On that subject, let’s pick up where we left off yesterday.”
He stood, moved to the big bay window, and gestured for Paul to join him.
“What’s up?” Paul asked, standing next to him, hoping this wouldn’t turn into a scene from the movie Gigli. That was two hours of his life he’d never get back.
Jacob put an arm on his shoulder and pointed into the distance with his other hand. Storm clouds stretched as far as the eye could see. Snow fell heavier than even an hour ago, and Paul guessed six inches sat on the ground. A bus filled with students lumbered out of the driveway. Three more buses and a few airport shuttles stood ready to leave.
“Look out the window,” he said.
Trees covered in snow swayed back and forth in the wind. They stretched toward the mountains in the distance.
“Now, think of the most beautiful sunrise you’ve ever seen.” Jacob took his hand off Paul’s shoulder, but continued speaking. “Let your mind drift back to that calm. The peace of a sun rising into the morning sky.”
He softened his voice so it took on a hypnotic quality. As Paul stared out the window at the snowfall, the scene gradually shifted to a sunrise. A calm descended on him, the same peace he felt every time he saw a sunrise.
Then he imagined Erin standing next to him, her hand in his as the sun splayed its colors across the sky. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but he heard Jacob whispering softly, “Remember. Remember.”
In any other context, he’d think it was corny. But in his mind, he just accepted it as Jacob trying to help. The edges of his vision started to turn dark. Darkness marched inward, covering the mental image of Erin and him staring at the sunrise.
The black void swallowed him whole.
Chapter Fifty-Six
***
Seawater drenched him.
“Tell us where the money is,” Papa Grimaldi screamed, slamming his club into Paul’s thigh.
Paul glanced at Eric. He endured the emotional and physical pain and focused on a way to get them out of this.
Papa swung his club high in the air but stopped. He stayed in that position for several heartbeats. “Fine,” he said, then gestured at Giovanni. “Bring the battery. We’ll see if he talks when we torture the other one.”
As Giovanni wheeled in a portable battery and connected a set of jumper cables to them, Portia took the other end of the cables and clamped the red prong over Eric’s right forefinger, and the black prong over his left.
“No,” Paul said. “I’ll tell you.” He had to make up something fast. He had no clue where the diamonds were, only Eric did. But they didn’t know that. He needed to create a lie believable enough to get one or two of them to leave and search for it, while making it just implausible enough so they had to keep he and Eric alive until they found out if he was telling the truth.
Papa Grimaldi swung his golf club as he walked toward him, a not-so-gentle reminder that the torture could continue with any answer he didn’t like. “He kept saying ‘bookish’ and ‘women.’ We know he stashed it with some whore in a bookstore, so don’t try to fool us.”
Giovanni flipped the switch again and Eric screamed in pain.
Paul’s mind spun. He thought about what they already knew, what they could believe, and what they thought was possible.
He stared into Papa’s face and contrived his most defeated look.
“Grande Libro. In Reggio Calabria.”
It was a bookstore he’d read about. It was at least an hour away. Logically, Eric should have had the money close by, but he knew how cautious he was, and hiding it that far away, and having a female bookish contact bring it to him when he was ready, was just his style.
They all looked at each other, each wondering if the other had heard of it or believed him. He had to sell it.
“He always seduces bookish women. He thinks they keep secrets better than other women. He uses them as a drop box.”
More looks. They seemed interested.
“Which woman?”
He thought partial honesty made the best lie. “I don’t know. She has dark hair.”
Dark-haired woman were literally everywhere in Italy. It also meant they couldn’t call ahead to the bookstore and check.
They glanced at each other again. Finally, Papa Grimaldi said, “Go. Find the money. If you get it quickly, we can still pay the financier and salvage this.”
Giovanni gestured to Portia, who blew Paul a kiss and said, “Thank you, lover.” Giovanni laughed as he wrapped his arm around her waist and practically carried her outside.
Papa whipped out a cell phone. “I’m going to try and delay our cousin. Watch them.”
Antonio nodded.
As soon as Papa was outside, Antonio moved close to Paul and said, “You saved my life once, and I pay my debts. I’ll give you a chance if you tell me what I want to know.”
Paul’s mind was fuzzy from the torture. He wondered if this was a trick. Antonio must have sensed his reluctance, because he said, “The money for your life.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Decide quickly.”
Paul knew Antoinio believed in the old mafia code: don’t hurt women or children and pay your debts. But he thought it could be a trick. If he confirmed it was at the bookstore, Antonio might kill him now. If he told him it was somewhere else, he might torture him or Eric to be sure he wasn’t lying again.
He pointed to the dock just outside the office. “If you and your friend dive into the water, you can escape. The current will carry you down to the port.”
Paul glanced at Eric. If he didn’t get medical attention soon, he might die. “Untie me, and I’ll tell you.”
Antonio hesitated, evidently wondering if he could trust Paul, then whipped out a knife and cut the bonds from his hands.
They were close to each other, almost touching. He knelt down and cut the ropes that bound his legs. As he did so, he turned his neck and looked over his shoulder, presumably to see what his father was doing.
His left arm was weak, so he coiled all his strength into his right arm and, as Antionio turned back to look at him, Paul punched him in the throat. He reflexively dropped the knife and clutched his neck.
He kept hitting him. The nose. The face. The eye. Antonio fell to the ground and tried to fight him, but Paul punched him in the throat again. Antonio struggled for breath. Paul grabbed his knife, but had gripped it upside down. No time to switch it up, so he slammed it hilt first into Antonio’s head and he fell limp.
Glancing out the window, Paul noticed Papa at the other dock pacing back and forth while talking on a cell phone. He crawled over to Eric and sliced through his ropes. He mumbled, “Cloe.”
“Quiet,” he said, gripping the knife with his left hand and shoving his right arm under Eric’s shoulder. They stumbled to the office door. Papa had his back turned to him. No time for caution. They needed speed. Paul yanked open the office door. It squeaked. Eric mumbled, “Cloe,” again.
Papa turned and saw them.
They had seconds. Paul hauled Eric toward the end of the dock. The water was five yards away. Fifteen feet. As he struggled forward, it seemed like a mile. Papa dashed toward them, swinging his golf club and screaming profanities.
When the water was two yards away, the front door of the boathouse swung open. Franco glimpsed them and charged.
Papa Grimaldi swung at him but missed. His momentum caused him to overbalance, and he slammed into them. They all tumbled to the floor. Eric landed at the edge of the dock. Papa had dropped his golf club and now battered Paul with both fists. Paul put up his right hand to block the punches and tried to roll toward the water.
Paul glimpsed Franco barreling toward them.
As he rolled over Papa, he heard a sharp exhale of breath. As he rolled away, Papa clasped the knife in his abdomen. Blood fountained on his white shirt.
“No!” Franco
screamed, grabbing his gun.
Paul grabbed Eric and used what little strength he had left to roll them off the end of the dock. Franco’s weapon erupted as they splashed into the dark water.
***
Paul’s mind left the dark water in Italy and came back to Hillcrest. He was still standing at the bay window, staring into the horizon. Snow fell harder and the sky had darkened.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Five thirty.”
“I didn’t think that much time had passed.”
Jacob looked eager to talk about it. “What did you remember?”
Paul told him the details.
“That’s fantastic,” he said.
Paul didn’t share his enthusiasm. Eric might still have betrayed him, or maybe he betrayed Eric. And he still didn’t know where the money was.
He darted to his chair, picked up his notepad, and started scribbling.
“I thought we agreed no notes,” he said, sitting on the couch.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Not writing anything about you or what you remembered. Merely noting the procedure that helped you overcome your mental block.”
“For the paper you’re working on?”
“Yes, regression therapy with a mnemonic trigger. It’s an area of psychology with very little research. I think your case will be a defining one.”
“You mean I’m a guinea pig?” he said it half-heartedly. Jacob had mentioned his reason for taking his case in their first session. And it had helped.
“I prefer research subject,” he said.
Paul glimpsed the Post-it board and thought about writing down what he’d just seen, but realized he didn’t need to. He remembered it clearly and felt the outlines of what happened next, much like you’d guess the next scene in a TV show.
Jacob finished scribbling and his alarm went off.
He glanced outside. The campus was covered with a blanket of white. One car was stuck at the side of the road, as if it had slid off the pavement. “Can you even get out?”
“I’ve got snow tires and I’ve driven in the mountains of Canada. I should be fine if I leave now,” he said packing. “And don’t you have a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we should walk out together, it will be quicker.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
As Paul and Jacob entered the main hallway, Chuck said, “Hey man.”
Paul nearly missed a step.
Jacob whispered, “We’ll continue our sessions as soon as they clear the roads,” and quickly left.
Chuck ambled toward Paul. “Who was that?”
Again, he thought how easy it would be to lie. But that was his former life. “He’s helping me with a problem I have. One that I’ll have to deal with in January.”
“Serious?”
He wanted to respond, but to protect Chuck, he couldn’t.
Chuck must have taken his silence as confirmation. “Well, you know I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks, man.” Through the glass windows on the front doors, he noticed more than two feet of snow on the ground. The wind had strengthened and it blew frozen particles in all directions. It was like staring into a snow globe. “How long’s the storm gonna last?”
He shrugged his shoulder. “Weathermen say tomorrow around mid-day. Ralph Chapel says it’ll be gone by mornin’. Everybody who can has left, even our fearless leader Haverford is hunkered down in his lodge.”
“What about David? Did he get out?”
“No, his flight was cancelled, as was Kevin’s. By the way, when are you leaving?”
“Don’t know if I will. Shelly’s invited me to stay with her family over the break, but I haven’t heard from her. Her text said she should have been here by now.”
“The storm probably delayed her.” He glanced outside again. “I doubt she’ll be able to get up the mountain, though. You probably won’t see her ‘til tomorrow.”
“That’s probably good. I made the date with Erin before Shelly invited me to stay with her.”
He raised his eyebrows in a leering gesture. “So…what are you and Erin doing tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you’ve got a woman that fine on the hook, you don’t leave nothin’ to chance. You need a plan, son.”
“We’re at a school, what can we even do?”
“If you have to ask that, you’ve got bigger issues than I thought.” He shook his head like a father scolding a child. “Tell you what. I’ve got a mini-stove, liquor, and I think I can scrounge up a few other things. Use my room for your date. You do know how to cook, right?”
“I can manage.”
“Good. I’ll keep the students down in the rec room. It may not be much, but at least it’ll keep them out of your hair.”
“Thanks, Chuck. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Now, text Erin you’re still on and go get ready.”
He fished out his phone. “Dammit, no reception.”
“Cell towers will be out for good then.” He gestured with his hand. “Go find her. Tell her to meet you in my room in an hour. Wait, make it two. I need to finagle a few things.”
Fifty-Eight
Franco spied the blue lights as they whirled and flashed through dark sheets of snow. A man in a heavy dark coat and wide-brimmed hat got out of the vehicle. He waved a blue flashlight.
Antonio, Giovanni, and Portia had flown into Montreal International under false passports. Franco had picked them up, crossed the border illegally through a sheepherder’s field, and driven south down Vermont ahead of the snowstorm. It had blown in from the west, which had allowed them to escape it until forty miles outside of Hillcrest.
“Policeman blocking the road,” Franco said over his shoulder.
“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t,” Antonio said from the passenger seat. “If you kill a policeman in the U.S., you get every law official from miles around flooding the area.”
“Only if they catch us,” Portia said. She pointed out the window. “Look at the storm. No one will know he’s dead for hours. Maybe not even ‘til morning. We’ll be gone by then.” She looked at Giovanni and snuggled next to him in the back seat. “Killing him is the best way.”
“No, it’s the easiest way,” Antonio replied. “And look around. This storm is much worse than the meteorologists predicted. Even though it’s coming in from the west, and Canada is only fifty miles away, it could take several hours in this weather, if we can get out at all.”
“You all bicker like children,” Franco replied, stopping the car ten feet from the police vehicle. He eyed the officer as he approached their car.
“Enough,” Giovanni said, leaning forward. “Antonio, you have the best English, so you talk to him. Franco, if I give the word, kill him.”
The officer stood next to the car. He put his hand on the holster at his right hip and motioned for Franco to roll down the window with the other.
“Evening folks, where you headed in this terrible weather?”
Antonio leaned over the center console and said, “Heading to Hillcrest Academy to pick up our nephew. Is there a problem?”
“Sorry to tell you folks, but the road to the school is closed. You’ll have to stay at one of the inns in town until the weather improves.”
“Isn’t there any way we can get up there tonight?” he asked.
The officer tilted his head to the side. “Folks, you really don’t want to do that. The storm is getting worse. We’re advising everyone to stay indoors. If you’d like, I could call into town and see about rooms at the Northern Lights Lodge or, my favorite, the Green Mountain.”
“No,” Antonio said quickly, “that’s all right. We really need to get up to Hillcrest tonight. Could we rent snowmobiles?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed as he said, “I’m sorry, folks, but I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you
stay off that road. We’re spread very thin, and if you get into trouble, I don’t know if we’ll be able to help in time.”
Portia snuggled close and whispered in Giovanni’s ear.
“Kill him,” Giovanni said to Franco.
Antonio shook his head as Franco whipped out his pistol and shot the officer in the face.
“Franco, hide the body,” Giovanni said.
“I know how to cover my tracks,” Franco replied.
“Antonio, see what you can find in the officer’s vehicle. Maybe he has a directory that shows a rental place. We need snowmobiles.”
Antonio zipped up his coat and pulled down his hat. He pulled the handle on the door. “It’s a resort town, they’ll have them. If one isn’t close, I’m sure we can steal one or two from the surrounding houses. Snowmobiles are like cars in towns like this.”
“Good,” Giovanni said. “The sooner we get up there, the quicker Paul dies.”
“And no witnesses,” Portia added.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Paul had come to Chuck’s room early. Chuck had ushered him in and showed him his setup. He had a small gas hibachi grill along with various cooking supplies like oils, pans, and cutlery.
The refrigerator held steak, mushrooms, sweet potatoes, and broccoli. He’d procured other odds and ends, including candles and a big box of matches. He even had two bottles of wine.
“Where’d you get all this stuff?” Paul asked.
“It’s all in who ya know. I’ll keep the kids down in the rec room. Make sure you have some priiiiiiiivacy.” He smiled lasciviously as he left.
While Paul waited for Erin to arrive, he salted and peppered the steaks and opened a bottle of red wine. His mind drifted back to today’s session with Jacob.
He knew what happened after they crashed into the water was critical, the last part of a puzzle that could save him or doom him. Jacob’s ideas were still plausible; Paul might never have known where the money was, or Eric might have constructed an elaborate plot to betray him. Paul didn’t know how that last part could happen, but he recalled his previous dream where Eric had drawn his gun on him, and the times in Italy where he’d apparently tried to kill him.
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