Blood Wine

by John Moss

  They would hack open a tin of Libby’s pork and beans and warm them in the can with a small fire on the cave floor, then eat them with their fingers, and they would wipe their hands off on their clothes and share a tin of Allen’s apple juice down to the dregs. Miranda would imagine that the great caverns and catacombs she had seen in National Geographic could not have been more thrilling than this shallow cave overlooking the Grand River and the fairway of the golf course on the far side.

  Not long after her father died, she came here with her friend Celia, who stole a full package of cigarettes from her mother, and they smoked the whole pack in an afternoon. Celia was fine, but Miranda threw up on the way home and never had another cigarette, ever.

  Now, as she gazed up at the opening of the cave, she shifted her attention back to the matter of their survival. There was a rope hanging down from a bent cedar on the ledge above; kids had obviously found a new way in from the top. She clambered partway up the rock, then carefully backed down until she was standing beside Frankie again.

  “We’ve got a choice,” Miranda explained. “Those guys are coming, there’s nowhere to go except up or across.” She motioned toward the river. It was churning, murky and ominously wide. Miranda shrugged. “I’d opt for the river, but if they see us, we’re sitting ducks. They can run along faster than the current and pick us off from the top of the cliff. I’d say we’re better here.” She tilted her head back, looking up at the mouth of the cave.

  “How deep is it? Won’t they find us?”

  “Yes, they will,” said Miranda. “Sooner than they think. We can’t hide in there, but we can catch them by surprise. If they check it out, they’ll assume we’re in deep. We’ll get them on the way up.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “Guaranteed.”

  “Good,” said Frankie.

  “Let’s climb.”

  The cave was only twenty feet from the rubble at the base, but it afforded a spectacular view of the river valley. A couple of golfers stopped their cart on the fairway opposite and waved excitedly across to them.

  “What the hell,” said Miranda, and waved back. “I guess we won’t count on not being found.”

  Frankie waved as well. “They’re women,” she said. “They must identify with us as intrepid spelunkers or something. They certainly are making sure we see them. Maybe our friends won’t risk killing us in front of witnesses.”

  “Don’t count on that,” said Miranda, leaning out to spy along the trail running the base of the cliff. “Here they come.”

  “Miranda,” said Frankie. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry about Tony,” said Miranda as she reached around and dislodged a chunk of limestone the size of a stack of dinner plates.

  “He was a good boy,” said Frankie. “Vittorio loved him like a son. Maybe more. Me, I’m a mother, a stepmother, I liked him almost as much. So, what do you want me to do?”

  Miranda reached out and grasped the thick rope dangling in front of the cave. She pulled on it, testing its strength. Then she pushed a short length of it into a crevasse so that it caught where she could reach it. She looked at the other woman and could not help but admire what dignity she had, even in these circumstances, covered in the fine dust from the cave floor that had caked them as they clambered inside.

  “Morgan, you know,” she began. “He, he thinks you’re special.”

  “Funny thing,” said Frankie, “He thinks you’re special — in a different way, I’m sure.”

  “So Morgan, morituri te salutamus.”

  “Grade ten Latin. You don’t sound like you were any better at it than I was.”

  “‘We who are about to die, salute you.’ I might have the cases wrong? Yeah, it’s nice when a good man thinks you’re special, whatever it means.”

  “Yeah, so what do we do?”

  “Grab hold of that other slab. Okay, we crouch low. When the first one pokes his head over the top we stand and we throw. Don’t use it as a club. Bash his head in from where you are or you’ll go over the edge. And don’t hold back.”

  “Gotcha.”

  They squatted low in the shadows to the side and waited. After a few minutes they could hear shuffling among the boulders below and low voices. Then there was silence and they knew at least one of the men was climbing up. Briefly they could see a flash of dark hair. It disappeared, then suddenly he surged upright with his gun pointed into the cave. Simultaneously, they rose, screaming, and heaved their slabs of limestone at his head. His revolver went off as his skull split open and the bullet ricocheted around them as he fell straight out away from the cliff.

  “That’s one,” Miranda whispered.

  Frankie smiled.

  “A qualified triumph,” Miranda said. “There’s still one to go. He’s not about to give up.”

  They crawled around in the thick dust and charcoal detritus on the floor, trying to pry loose more rocks. Nothing yielded so they leaned back into the shadows.

  “My dad and I, we used to come here,” said Miranda. “There was an old guy, before my dad was a kid, who lived in this cave. Foxy Smith. He was a dangerous bank robber.”

  Frankie looked at her in amazement. She could not imagine a past rich in memories like that with her own father.

  “Okay, he’s coming. Now here’s what I want you to do. Stay perfectly still. You’re going to be all right, I promise you, Frankie.”

  Miranda reached over and dislodged the rope very gently so that someone looking up would not notice it moving. She grasped it firmly in one hand and slowly moved back into the shadows.

  “Frankie,” she whispered. “When you see him, nod.”

  They both stayed absolutely still — then Frankie nodded, Miranda exploded from her crouching position, leapt forward, swinging out on the rope over the man’s head, then she relaxed her grip and let the rope burn through her hands as she dropped on top of him, sending him spiralling down onto the boulder rubble, his gun clattering away. Miranda dangled for a moment but her burned hands would not hold and she dropped, hit boulders, and rolled to the side.

  Frankie screamed as she stared down at Miranda, who was splayed between the man with his skull split open and the other man, who was moaning but not moving. Miranda opened her eyes, gazed up at Frankie, and winked.

  “Oh my God, you’re okay,” shouted Frankie. She scrambled down the rock face. “My God, my God, do you want me to kill him?”

  Miranda struggled to her feet and lurched toward Frankie, who was raising a boulder over the groaning man’s head.

  “No, Frankie.”

  Frankie held the boulder poised and gazed into Miranda’s eyes. She wanted to smash in his skull for Tony and Vittorio, for Carlo and Linda, maybe even for Gianni, the kid who sold out.

  “No,” Miranda repeated emphatically. “We’re being observed.” She said this as if otherwise it might have been acceptable. She was looking across the river and Frankie followed her gaze. There were three golf carts now and a cluster of people all watching them. A couple of elderly men were playing through, obviously annoyed by the distraction.

  “We should tie this guy up,” she said.

  “Around the neck with a noose.”

  “All in due course,” said Miranda and surprised herself by wincing in pain. She looked down at her hands. The flesh of her palms and the insides of her fingers was burned raw from the rope. She had not noticed until now. Her back hurt and her ribs ached but as she ran a quick inventory of her various pains and contusions, she decided nothing was broken.

  Stones dropped onto the rubble beside them. There was shouting from across the river. Both women looked up and could see a man leaning over. He fired a shot but they were in too close to the rock face and it went wide. He fired another and then slipped out of sight. On the far shore, several people were shouting and gesticulating wildly.

  Miranda turned directly to them. She raised her arms and swung them down in a spontaneous attempt at semaphore. The wild gestures stopped. Th
en a woman stepped forward out of the crowd. She turned and yelled something at the others. Then signalling Miranda, she pointed to the clifftop and slowly moved her arm, marking the third man’s progress. Damn, Miranda wondered, how could we have missed him? He was in the back seat. We missed him.

  The woman across the river dropped her arm sharply, raised both her arms high, and swung them downwards. The man was descending the cleft. Miranda looked upriver and down. In the direction the man was coming from, the cliff base widened out into a field in the distance, but they could never get by him. In the other direction it narrowed to nothing. Water swirled and eddied against the rock.

  “Where’s the gun, Frankie, do you see the guy’s gun?” she demanded.

  “It went down between the rocks. I can see it.” Frankie sprawled across the boulders and tried to reach into the crevasse.

  “Not even close!”

  “Then it’s the water,” said Miranda. “Let’s go!”

  “Miranda.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We didn’t have swimming pools in my part of Cabbagetown.”

  Miranda stared at her incredulously.

  “You got it,” said Francine. “I can’t swim.”

  Miranda looked across at the woman on the far shore. She was flapping her arms to signal flight. Or perhaps just telegraphing her own fear.

  “Well, you’re going to learn.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” said Miranda and grasping her arms around the other woman, hauled her to the edge and heaved both of them into the turgid water.

  Francine sputtered and thrashed. When they came to the surface the current thrust them apart. Miranda moved close as Frankie went under. When Frankie came up, Miranda swung out with her fist against the other woman’s jaw as hard as she could. Frankie swirled away and sank back. Miranda grabbed her hair. If she lost her grip, she would never find her in the dark muddy water. Frankie came to the surface gagging and swinging at Miranda, trying to sock her in the face. Damn, thought Miranda, she’s a fighter. We’re gonna make it.

  The power in Frankie’s muscles dissipated and Miranda rolled her onto her back, then, getting a grip under her chin, started kicking toward the far shore as the current swept them out of their assailant’s range. Several times Frankie wrenched herself free and Miranda went under but she never released her grip and gradually Frankie relaxed, finding she was floating above Miranda’s legs kicking vigorously beneath her.

  When hands grabbed her by the shoulders, Miranda gasped in shock and went under. Half a dozen men and women had waded out downriver and extended themselves in a human chain into the current. They had to pry her hands free from Frankie. They hauled and then carried the two women up onto the shore. They were a long way from the golf course, almost within what used to be the city limits of Galt. The man on the far shore had disappeared.

  Morgan caught the train south from Royston. Elke thought it would be better to stay away from the Cambridge train station, just in case. She borrowed Professor Sayyed’s car and drove him over. Morgan was anxious to talk and fill in the details, but Elke was quiet. She assured him she would come back to Toronto to assist in drawing their various investigations to a satisfactory conclusion, but he knew she would not.

  “Where are you going from here?” he asked as they pulled into Royston Station.

  “After I leave Cambridge? Back to Israel, I expect. Maybe to Sweden. I’ll let you know.”

  “Will you?”

  She smiled enigmatically. “I must reinvent myself, Morgan. I’ve reached the end of my usefulness to Mossad.”

  “Maybe you’ll retire to a kibbutz and grow old and grey, surrounded by grandchildren.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or build a cabin by a crystal lake in northern Sweden and live out your life in solitude, writing poems about pine trees and peace.”

  “People like me do not live to be old.”

  “That’s ambiguous, Elke. You do not live in order to become old or you do not survive to old age?”

  “Both, I think.”

  She waited on the platform with him. Her blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. Her eyes were the blue of the afternoon sky. He felt empty, sure he would never see her again, and yet relieved. She was a dangerously complicated person to know.

  “In Toronto,” he said tentatively, “are there many in your line of work?”

  “Mossad? Other agencies? Yes, of course. On all sides, it is a very cosmopolitan city. Many are part- timers. They are the eyes and ears, and professionals, people like me, we are the legs.”

  “And the brains. Mossad in Toronto?”

  “Morgan, you didn’t really think I begged money on the street to get back to New York?”

  “When you skipped out? Yes, I did, it seemed possible you could do something like that.”

  “Well, maybe I did. Here’s your train. And here’s the ten pounds I owe you. I owe you a lot.”

  She reached up and kissed him passionately, then suddenly turned away and strode off to the car. By the time he looked out the window of the train, she was pulling out of the parking lot, up onto the road back to Cambridge.

  In London, Morgan contemplated picking up his few things at the Vanity Fair, but he was travelling light. He had all his papers with him and there was nothing he was not prepared to abandon. It wasn’t like leaving things in foreign territory. London was not like that; it was home and yet not quite familiar, like home in a dream.

  He took an indirect route to Heathrow, stopping in at The Bunch of Grapes for a farewell pint of Guinness. He dawdled until the last minute then left in a hurry, with a couple of inches still in his glass. On his way out he strode by a bulletin board and had he not delayed so long in tearing himself away, he might have noticed a folded slip of paper with his name on it pinned to the cork. The bar woman remembered a lady with copper-red hair posting it earlier in the day, but she did not connect that woman with the rumpled American who gazed morosely into his Guinness for an hour and then bolted.

  The Cambridge Police were very accommodating when Miranda explained who she was. Since the events along the river road from Waldron to Galt and at the Devil’s Cave fell under the jurisdiction of the Ontario Provincial Police, they arranged for her to meet with the OPP after her hands were treated at the Waterloo Memorial Hospital adjacent to the golf course.

  The only anomaly in the story Frankie and Miranda told the investigating officers was their inability to account for the bullet through the skull of the man at the base of the cliff who, when last they had seen him, was moaning but alive. The third man had obviously executed him at such close range the victim’s brains had muffled the shot, then fled in the car, which he had probably dumped back in Toronto by the time the two women and a small squad of OPP forensics people got to the scene.

  Miranda did not attempt to make a connection for the OPP between what had happened here and the mayhem at Bonnydoon Winery, which was being investigated by another detachment. Nor did she explain that Tony Di Michele was a gangster from New Jersey or that Frankie was the widow of Vittorio Ciccone. All that would come out, but for the time being it was easier to gloss over complexities. She wanted to get back to Toronto. She still had business to take care of, especially now. Mr. Savage was going down.

  Standing at the top of the cliff, where she had directed the crime scene investigators to the Devil’s Cave, Miranda looked over to the golf fairway, where play had resumed, even though the more curious slowed in their game to observe the police activity across the river and to gossip. She glanced at Frankie’s bruised jaw and moved close enough to feel the other woman’s warmth. They had been through a lot together, but Frankie’s thoughts were entirely her own, probably circling around her grief and the loss of Tony as well as Vittorio. For Miranda, time briefly collapsed and she thought she could hear her father’s voice. She glanced sideways at her friend, expecting for a moment to see Celia, smoking, with a conspiratorial grin. Instead, it was Frankie Ciccone, wearing
a borrowed windbreaker from the Cambridge Police Department and looking thoroughly bedraggled but somehow poised. She’s a survivor, thought Miranda. We’re survivors.

  When Morgan’s flight arrived in the late evening, he felt disoriented. It was different than jet lag on the way over. When you fly opposite the earth’s rotation, you’re thrust into the future, he thought. A little faster and you could land before you left.

  When he reached home he called Miranda.

  “Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “You know,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s good to be home.”

  “How was England? Did you bring Elke back?”

  “No, I saw her. She sent her love.”

  “I’ll bet she did. Did you give her mine?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not what she appears.”

  “None of us are.”

  “No, I mean, really.”

  “So do I.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “I spent some time with your old friend Frankie Ciccone.”

  “Frankie? You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You know, this and that.”

  “With Frankie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m on my way into a nice hot tub.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten, maybe.”

  “My body is totally confused. I don’t know whether it’s much later or much earlier than ...”

  “Than what?”

  “Than it is. My head, too.”

  “That doesn’t leave much.”

  “What?”

  “That isn’t confused. Your body, your head, what’s left? I don’t want to know.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember the Rubik’s cube?”

  “Which one? Yes, of course. I was good at it.”