Imola

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  The sun made its last call when the Ford came by again, its headlights gaining boldness in the sinking light. The car slowed but didn’t pull over. By Agnes’s estimation, it was about an hour and a half between checks.

  Plenty of time. We know where the money is. We can be in and out in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten.

  Not tonight, Agnes thought. Not while the couple was home. She was tired. She needed sleep. She needed to stop crying. And she didn’t want to leave two more corpses.

  She waited, ready to argue her case, but the voice was silent. In her world, silence was as good as agreement. She felt around the base of the plant and smoothed out the leaf litter that was mounded against the stem of the hydrangea. She pulled it into a C-shaped pile and curled around the stem, settling into the crunchy mattress. She shivered against the cold and pulled her torso into a tighter arc. The chill was bearable for now.

  Agnes shivered awake, but not due to the air temperature. It seemed as if it had warmed overnight. It was the dream that sent her muscles into spasm. She’d hoped it would have been the one about the gliding seagulls. That it somehow had been a premonition, now a confirmation, of her escape from Imola—her return to freedom. Instead, she got the highway turnout and ice cream vendor dream again. What did that foretell? Her shivers intensified.

  She forced the dream out of her mind just in time to see the Ford cruise past.

  A muted glow from behind the house reminded her of how the sun always brought the overhead black to a hopeful shade of indigo, nowhere near the sky-blue of daylight, but with a distant promise of another clear day. But the sun’s light preceded its warmth, and she noticed that she had shifted during the night, her body no longer wrapped around the hydrangea stem. A tight fetal ball—her knees pulled up into the honor student’s sweatshirt, her hands pulled well inside the sleeve openings.

  She stretched her legs and leaned on an elbow to watch the Ford drive down the street. It flipped around and came back again, this time faster, then disappeared.

  It’s time we got ready. They’ll probably leave soon.

  Agnes had heard that the coldest time of the morningwas when the sun made its first showing and heated the air next to the ground, which rose, replaced by more dense, cold air. Pinned under the shrub, she felt the lesson’s substance. The chill combined with nervousness produced an uncontrollable shake. The shake brought another sensation: she had to pee. And she hadn’t eaten since … when?

  She duck-walked to an adjacent bush, an azalea, and unfastened the belt, letting the pants fall from her hips. She squatted expertly, and steam rose from the wetted leaves.

  She couldn’t refasten the belt. The new, makeshift hole was small and tight, and the shake of her hands couldn’t bring the movement of buckle and belt into synchrony. She was about to give up when she heard a familiar noise: the whir of the automatic garage door opener. In her distraction, the blade of the buckle found the hole. She jumped to her feet, in a crouch, and crept to the corner of the house.

  The blue Nissan backed down the long driveway and bounced when the rear wheels fell down the curb. The car accelerated backward on the street, rocked to a stop, and shot forward, leaving a cloud of mist to gradually settle on the cold pavement. Were there two people in the car? It looked like there might be.

  There were two. Let’s go. To the back door.

  Agnes moved to the back corner of the house and continued along the backyard fence, pushing on eachslat as she went. One-third of the way to the back, two adjacent panels gave, each hinged near the top with a single, half-in nail. She pushed them aside and climbed through. How did she know about them?

  We know, don’t we?

  The backyard looked like it always had. The tenants had kept all of the plants trimmed, neat. The grass was short and even.

  She tiptoed across the wet grass and jumped the last three feet, landing on the bottom step of the back porch. She skipped the second step. Presumably, it still had its high-pitched squeak. The third was solid and led to the landing and the cover of the porch half-walls. To her right, the flowerpot still stood. Bowers of the rosemary still cascaded down both sides of the wall. She lifted the pot from its saucer-like base. The key was still there. But had the tenants changed the locks?

  She gripped the doorknob with the palm and fingers of her left hand, resting her right hand on the wrist to stabilize the half-chilled, half-frightened shake. Once the grip was secure, she brought the key up to the lock. It quivered and missed its mark, missed again, then found the slot. It pushed in without resistance. She turned the key, and the doorknob moved. An exhalation bathed the doorknob in a stream of mist.

  With little effort, she pushed the door open. The rhythmic chime hit its second, then third beep before shefocused on the sticker pasted just above the doorknob: “Alarm Monitored by ADT.” She froze.

  We can still do it. We just have to be quick. No time to check the place first.

  The beeping wasn’t loud, but it was irritating. It seemed to speed up, gain volume, as she moved through the kitchen. She thought about smashing the keypad, but that wouldn’t stop the alarm, only the beeping.

  We’d better grab a knife. Do it.

  Agnes went to the place on the counter where she had kept the knives, but a coffeemaker occupied the space. She twisted her head around, spinning her body in place. The beeping timed her movements, making fun of them.

  No knives were on the counter. She started opening drawers—near the stove first, then near the sink. Now the beeps sounded like numbers to her, in a final countdown. Nine … eight … seven …

  She yanked a drawer near the far wall, and it nearly slid out beyond the worn stop. Several knives nearly jumped from the drawer. Five … four … three …

  Take the big one. With the fat blade.

  She grabbed the knife and sprinted through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. On the far wall, the stained wood of the small, square door, of the dumbwaiter contrasted with the off-white walls. No. Yellow. They must have painted.

  She stubbed her toe on a chair—not where it used to be—and the knife fell from her hand. It hit the floor at the same moment the alarm horn went off—loud, obnoxious, sending her into a curled hunch. Making her feel like she was shrinking.

  Get up. We have to get it.

  She left the knife and ran for the dumbwaiter.

  No. Go back and get the knife first.

  Everything was happening too fast. Everything was confusing. The alarm hurt her ears. The light coming through the windows seemed too bright for this time of day. The door to the dumbwaiter stuck. She yanked it open.

  Her hands shook again. She wanted to put them over her ears so she could concentrate. Was it to the right or the left? The noise wouldn’t let her concentrate.

  The left. Pull up on the rope. Get the tray out of the way.

  She grabbed the rope and pulled. The tray slid up, past the top of the door. She reached for the wood panel to the left.

  The phone rang. That would probably be the alarm company. If no one answered, the police would be called. She heard three, maybe four rings. She grabbed at the knobs at the top of the panel, but it didn’t move. She strained. It held fast.

  The phone stopped ringing, but the alarm continued to blare.

  Agnes pulled her hands to her ears and hunched over. Tears fell from her eyes. She wanted to scream for quiet.

  Get control. We can do this. Pull up and out. We can do it.

  Agnes reached into the shaft again and gripped the knobs. She lunged forward, shoving her hands upward as she pulled. She felt it give. The panel hinged down and came loose. She let it go and reached into the dark. Nothing. She reached in farther. Where was it? The police were on the way. Where was it?

  Her hand brushed a solid object. A small metal box. That was it. Gert and Ella’s money box. She pulled it to the edge of the hole and slipped her other hand under it. But it wasn’t heavy.

  She thought she heard the roar o
f an engine over the alarm horn, so she tucked the box under her arm and ran for the kitchen door.

  No. Get the knife. We need the knife. It’s too late to run.

  Agnes stopped. She couldn’t think. Should she run? Should she pick up the knife? Where was it?

  By the chair. Get it. Hurry.

  Agnes leaped to the chair and bent down. There it was. She reached, and the box slipped from her arm. It hit the hardwood, but didn’t open. She scooped it up along with the knife, and straightened. Someone knocked on the front door. The doorknob rattled above the alarm horn. The door shook and then went quiet.

  Go to the back door. Behind it.

  She pushed through the swinging door and toe-walked across the kitchen. Just inside the back door, the wall indented for the small eating alcove. She placed the box on the adjacent counter and squeezed around the corner. The doorknob turned and gave. The door pushed inward. Slowly. The high-pitched squeak of the hinges argued with the horn in a cacophonous scream.

  Too many things were happening at once. The noise. The swinging door. The voice—a man’s voice.

  “Police. Anyone in there? I’m coming in. I have a gun.”

  Tears blurred Agnes’s eyes. Her fingernails dug into the knife handle. She wanted to drop it. To surrender. But her fist held firm.

  Stay together. We can do this.

  Agnes’s eyes dropped to the level of the doorknob. She saw movement. The barrel of a gun. Fingers wrapped around the handle. An overlapping thumb.

  Get ready.

  She could see the forearm. The elbow.

  Not yet.

  The short sleeve of the blue uniform moved into view and stopped.

  “Police. Come out with your hands up. I have a gun.”

  Not yet.

  The arm moved inward again. She saw a shoulder, his chest. He moved slowly. His head rounded the door. Agnes leaned back.

  Let him get inside.

  He moved in and turned toward the alcove. The gun swung around with him.

  Ready.

  He shuffled forward another step.

  Now. Go for the wrist.

  The knife came down just behind the gun. She heard a scream and a clunk on the floor.

  Now the neck. Slice across. Feel it. Feel. It.

  The knife flew through the air without resistance. The initial incision. Sharp steel through clean flesh. It was just surgery. Just like on television.

  CHAPTER 19

  Jason ran up the steps to Donnie’s apartment, skipping every other one. The fifth step was missing the overhanging lip, and he’d nearly lost his balance on it a month ago.

  He’d never heard his big brother sound so scared. No, panicked. Donnie was flaky, but he wasn’t a wimp.

  The door opened before he could knock. Donnie turned and paced to the far wall, then back. He couldn’t hold still. “It was her.” He held out the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle. An old edition. Agnes’s picture was near the bottom. “I just found this. I thought she looked familiar.”

  Jason stood just inside the door and kicked it shut. A step farther and he would be in Donnie’s taxiway. “What did she want?”

  “A new identity.”

  “Did she try anything?”

  Donnie pivoted and kept walking. “I’ll tell you one thing—she’s as ballsy as a crocus. She was coming on to me until I asked for a reference. She seemed confused, but then she said your name. I had to think of something fast, to get her out of here. I told her I had to hock some of my equipment so I couldn’t do the job. I referred her to a colleague in San Francisco in the Tenderloin District. She seemed to like that.”

  Jason stepped into Donnie’s path. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

  Donnie stopped and looked down at his crotch. “Yeah. I almost lost Captain America.”

  “And about 90 percent of your blood volume.”

  Donnie chuckled nervously. “It isn’t that big.”

  “From a slit throat, jerk-off.” Jason shifted his weight to his right leg. “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know. I smoked three straight and then called you. It must have been around an hour, but time is going sideways for me right now.”

  “She’s in the city by now. It’s easy to disappear in the Tenderloin.”

  Another nervous chuckle. “Yeah. I’m thinking of moving there.”

  Jason stopped his older brother when he walked past. Donnie reeked of pot. “How do you do it?”

  Donnie pushed past him. “Do what?”

  “Give someone an identity.”

  “There are as many ways as there are people doing it.”

  Jason raised his voice. “How do you do it?”

  Donnie stopped. “Don’t ask a magician to give away his secrets.” He started pacing again on a new path.

  “How about a hypothetical?”

  “Okay. For a woman, I might start with a credit report. I’d get it from someone with a low to moderate income. Maybe a teacher. And from someone far from here. So I’d find … say … a teacher from Bowling Green, Ohio. Teachers are good because they tend to be conscientious. They also have to rely heavily on credit. Probably even missed a payment here or there. I don’t want a spotless record.”

  “You steal an identity?”

  “No. I lift the credit report for a cut-and-paste job. And it gives the client a previous home: Bowling Green, in this case.

  Jason lowered himself into the chair and dodged the wayward spring. “What’s next?”

  “A social security number.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Never mind how. But I like to go with the ten-year plan.”

  “The what?”

  Donnie stopped again. His hands picked up the motionfor his now-still legs. “Ten-year plan. I find a little girl around five years old—in this case, from Ohio—and lift her number. Chances are she won’t do anything with the number until she’s at least fifteen. So I tell the client she’ll have to redo the whole thing in about ten years.”

  “Is that how other people do it?”

  Donnie started walking again. “Probably not. That’s one of my approaches. One guy took names off of milk cartons. I cut all ties with that bastard. That’s fucked up. As bad as during the Vietnam War. I hear some pervert used the numbers of MIAs. They used to stamp their names and social security numbers on those copper bracelets the hippies wore. That guy got stomped.”

  “Honor among thieves?”

  Donnie grabbed his chest. “Ouch, little brother. We provide a service. If the people use it to do something bad, that’s on them.”

  “Guns don’t kill—people kill. Right?”

  “Did you major in psychology or clichés?”

  Jason shook his head. “So you referred Agnes to a colleague. Do you know what technique he uses?”

  “He’s really good, so he probably uses several. I know he uses foreigners sometimes.”

  “Illegals or visitors?”

  “Foreign-born naturalized citizens.”

  “He isn’t worried about language problems?”

  “Lots of people from other countries speak good English. They have to take it in school.”

  Jason rubbed his forehead. “Right. I did a story on it once. Other countries are way ahead of Americans on that. In my mind, two things explain why so few Americans are bilingual: laziness and arrogance.”

  “Pablo esta bien, pero Louisa tiene catarro.”

  “What? Paul is fine, but Louise …”

  Donnie giggled. “Has a cold.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I took one semester of Spanish at the community college. That’s all I remember, except for the dirty words.”

  “Congratulations. You’re bilingual.” It was Jason’s turn to chuckle. “That means two-tongued. The girls would love that.”

  Donnie’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling. “The teacher was really pretty. Blonde, but not a real one. Roots. Dark eyebrows. I sat in front. Every day she
nearly tripped on my feet. She’d always say the same thing: grandes pies. Damn. I wonder if she was making a connection. Maybe she was telling me something. She was a former stewardess, you know.”

  “They don’t call themselves that anymore.”

  “Sorry. She was a former air mattress.”

  “Flight attendant, jerk-off.”

  He blinked and made eye contact. “Don’t go all PC on me, little brother. I’ll have to disown you.” His eyes drifted again. “Maybe I should have put a move on thelittle air mattress. But her left hand had a diamond the size of a Chiclet. Probably from a pilot.” He formed a circle with the fingers and thumb of his right hand and moved it up and down in front of his crotch. “I know who I’ll be with tonight. It’ll bring back old fantasies.”

  Jason nodded at the hand. “If the two of you can hold off, I have another question.”

  Donnie kissed his hand. “Later, darling.” He looked up. “What do you want?”

  “Where can I find this person you referred Agnes to?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t find him unless he wants to be found. And he never wants to be found when he’s doing a job. He only does one at a time.”

  “Shit.”

  Donnie spun around and took a step toward Jason. “What about me now? Am I in on her slice list?”

  “I don’t know. My guess is she’s done with you. But can you disappear for awhile?”

  “Not without some money.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Jason shook his head. “I’ll give you three hundred.”

  Donnie’s laugh echoed in the small apartment. “Two would’ve done me, but thanks for the three.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Agnes looked around the small, scruffy room. Despite the brightness of day, a flickering light caught her attention in the late afternoon shadows just outside the single, square window. A vertical sign at the corner of the building was missing two middle letters, so it read, “Ho l.” Below it, a fluorescent “no” winked on and off to tease the following solid glow of “vacancy.”