Frank steered her into the room. Joe was lying on the metal cot with an IV in his arm and a sheet draped over his body. He looked alarmingly pale but quite alert, the kind of awareness that comes from being in extensive pain. “Welcome back,” Joe said.
“What happened?”
“To me, or in general?” Joe chuckled. “You missed some excitement, Frank. I guess with Silva gone they had no reason to be civil. They turned on each other almost immediately. Like wild dogs.”
“And yet you’re still alive,” Bella said cruelly. “Where is he?”
“You would’ve passed him on the way in. They buried him last night.”
Bella whimpered like she had been kicked. Frank couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Even Joe had to feel something for her then, being a woman notwithstanding. “Who did it?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“Who do you think?” Joe said coldly. “Malkolm.”
“Why don’t we get some sleep, Bell?” he suggested. She’d been driving for over six hours straight, and with her emotions from Silva’s death still running high, she looked like she was about to snap. “We’ll see the grave in the morning.”
“I want to see it tonight.” She marched away without asking directions.
“No one else is here?” Frank asked as he watched Bella disappear down the hallway. The house was unsettlingly quiet.
“Just the doctor. Lucky you.”
As if he were the one immobilized in bed. “Where did they bury him?”
“Are you going to get your foot checked out?”
He sighed. He wanted nothing more. “Later.”
“Follow the blood. It’s about a mile out. You’ll find it.”
“The blood?”
Joe glanced down at the sheet.
“They did this out there?” Frank asked. He had assumed that Joe got hurt while helping them get away.
“Once Silva was in the ground,” Joe sighed. “Malkolm and his groupies. Everyone else was dead or gone. They’re looking for you. Not just for Bella.”
Frank dismissed the threat. It was no more than he would expect from them. “Is it bad?”
“I wasn’t exactly in great shape before,” Joe laughed. “They weren’t trying to kill me. Just to make it hurt.”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said.
“You’d better catch up with her. I’m not going anywhere.”
Frank nodded to him, and limped after his sister. He wasn’t sure how badly Joe was injured, but the fact that he had to follow wheel marks from the gurney to Silva's grave, rather than the substantial amount of blood that was hardly visible in the darkness, was a pretty clear indication that Joe hadn't been able to walk back.
Bella had found the grave all on her own and she stood sobbing before the barely disturbed ground. “Do you think it’s deep enough?”
“Malkolm would have done it right. He respected him.”
She cried harder. He knew what she wanted. Those shoes were not made for digging. “Could you at least go get the shovel?”
She nodded, her whole face a crumpled mess of emotions. He sat on Silva’s grave once he could no longer hear her sniffling. “I hate you for this,” he said. When Frank had been released from the institution, his first request was to see her grave; his mother, who was murdered by their landlord when Frank was twelve years old. He’d used the same metal pipe to bash the man’s head in, his skull changing shape like clay, forming around the blows. And Frank had not stopped there, had not let the man succumb to his injuries before he started to chop him up.
That had been the beginning of his insanity, rage that settled into numbness, silence that lasted two years. The time was lost to him still, stories Charlie told becoming the truth. Stories that changed for the old man’s convenience.
Charlie had never told Frank that his mother lived past the date of his arrest. He never told him that she’d survived for two days in a coma, alone in a hospital bed. When Frank saw her grave, an alias written on her tombstone, he saw the date and thought it was all a lie. For just a moment his childhood was within reach and he could feel his life again, feel the warmth in his blood. She was alive! She must have been alive! There was a stranger buried before him, a woman with a name his mother had used to rent a room.
He’d never mourned her. He had remained numb even as he came to his senses. But when Charlie explained it to him, took her from him just as she was returned, his mourning began. And it had not ended.
Bella approached, dragging a shovel behind her. In her other hand she carried a bottle of scotch and an uprooted fern that had blood on its leaves. She’d changed her dress and had a blanket draped across her shoulders. “Should we say something?”
He got to his feet, taking the shovel from her and wrapping the blanket tighter around her. He took several swallows from the bottle of scotch, feeling utterly disconsolate. “Je suis désolé,” he said remorsefully.
“What’s that mean?”
He paused briefly, then responded, “I’ll miss you.”
“Ju swee desolay,” she repeated. Frank smiled to himself. It wasn’t every day he got Bella to say she was sorry, and she certainly had plenty to apologize for. “Goodbye,” she squeaked, and she began to cry again, trembling underneath the blanket.
Frank handed her back the scotch and kissed her forehead. He could have been in bed with Vincent at that moment, but he understood her need for closure. He started digging.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The doctor washed his hands, slapping on latex gloves like he was fucking enjoying himself. “I’m afraid I’m quite low on supplies at the moment. They have stolen nearly everything. Criminals, the lot of them,” he laughed.
Bella would’ve shot him if he wasn’t needed. “Just fucking fix it,” she growled, handing Frank another bottle of whisky. He’d finished the first one after reburying Silva for her. She loved him more today than she’d loved him in years.
Malkolm hadn’t fucked it up, but she and Frank picked a better spot for him. Silva had been wrapped in a shroud so he wouldn’t get dirty, and he wore his best suit. They’d cleaned up his head. He looked peaceful and that made her feel peaceful. The whisky helped. If that bairn thought she would make it through Silva's funeral without drinking she had some pills it could swallow. “You okay, Frankie?”
“No,” he grumbled. He drank down half the bottle and slumped backwards onto the gurney, since Joe Russell was hogging the operating table.
Joe gave her a dirty look, which she gave right fucking back. He turned away from them.
Bella fluffed her blue Stella McCartney dress. It was filthy. Her shoes were worse. Not as bad as Frankie’s shoe. Casey’s. “Do you remember the Doc Martens I bought you?” Frankie used to look like such a thug she couldn't help dressing him that way. It took him some time to figure out he could dress himself. Took her more time to let him.
Frank mumbled something unintelligible. It was a good thing she spoke whisky. She smiled. “I know I told you they were Scottish.” He mumbled something else. “And that BMW’s were French. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Nothing. “I think he’s ready,” she told the doctor, then pointed at his foot.
Feet were funny things. She held her stomach, wondering what the baby’s feet looked like. Probably nothing now. How big would the baby be? Smaller than Frankie’s foot, even before it got shot. The size of a bullet?
“Do you share blood types?” the doctor asked.
“Whisky?”
“I’ll work faster,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
He carefully unwrapped the packaging, as if the masterpiece below wasn’t already damaged beyond repair. What Casey saw inside was not a Degas. Not merely a Degas. He should’ve unwrapped it from the front. Then he wouldn’t have been so surprised.
Set evenly against the back of the wooden shipping container were bundles of colorful euros. No wonder it was so heavy. Then he saw the pages. There was a note addressed to him, precise handwri
ting like calligraphy, and below it were pencil sketches he recognized instantly as his own, of an old man who’d once posed for him in Prague. Silva.
He’d been on spring break with his friend Lucian, a poet from Belgium. He remembered the man approaching him, his gait calling attention, commanding respect. Silva commissioned him for a portrait, came right up to him while he was sitting at Lucian’s feet, sketching pigeons on the Charles Bridge.
Lucian was a romantic, if a bit morbid, and demanded he come along to supervise as if his lover would go missing at the hands of this strange old man. The funny thing was, Casey remembered being thankful for it, not because he feared for his safety, but because the man had intimidated him.
He’d served them garnet colored wine they weren’t old or civilized enough to fully appreciate, and asked them about their travels. Asked Casey about his travels, and about his home. Looking back, Casey understood now, the seemingly vague inquiries that paved way for dangerously specific information if he were only willing to give it.
Silva’s flat had the feeling of age that came with Europe, antique furniture, used books, but even at the time Casey had a sense that the man hadn’t lived there long. He hadn’t lived there at all. And then something had happened, some business called away Silva’s attention, and the portrait Casey had been paid for was never started. Preliminary sketches were all that were left; sketches Silva forbid him from taking, promising one day to call on him again to complete the job.
He’d lay in bed with Lucian that night, unable to sleep, feeling as if his life had been altered, that somehow this man had seen inside him, had pried away information Casey knew hadn’t been spoken. They’d left Prague the following morning, and he’d never returned.
Casey picked up Silva’s note, his hands shaking.
I shall begin this letter with an apology to your family. If there had been another way to carry out my final request, your family would never have been involved.
I once had the pleasure of judging your character, and you did not disappoint me. Bella Moncrief is a very special woman; she requested that I send you this painting, which has brought me so much pleasure. I have included, by my own accord, what may be considered her dowry. I feel certain that you will do right by her, just as you have done by her brother.
Please help Bella to understand, and to forgive Frank. He was merely doing what was expected of him. Perhaps someday Frank can forgive himself.
With Regard,
Angelo Silva
“Where’d that come from?”
Casey jumped, nearly tearing the note he’d been holding so tightly. “Fuck, Vin.”
“Sorry.”
“Bella’s dowry,” he said, nodding toward the money that Vincent was gaping at.
“And Deaglan had to carry it,” Vincent said with a laugh, sitting on the bed and helping himself to the cash. Then he saw the sketches and gasped. “Frank is gonna shit.”
“Yeah.”
“When did you do those?”
“About seven years ago.”
“Jesus.” Vincent picked the sketches up the way he always did with Casey’s art or Frank’s books, like he was about to have his hands slapped. “He didn’t look like this anymore. He was all skinny and pale.”
“He was sick.” Casey handed Vincent the note. The only part of it that Casey understood was that he was supposed to marry Bella, and even that he was unsure of. Bella would probably be offended by the dowry, if he ever found the courage to ask her. But the prospect of designer wedding dresses might atone for Silva’s old-fashioned gesture. Hopefully Vin could make more sense out of the rest of the note.
“There was never a hit on Gideon. Silva sent Bella here himself, knowing Frank would stop her before she actually killed Gideon. And Frank killed Silva even though he said that I could do it, but now he promised I could—Nevermind.”
“That’s…good.” Casey nodded to confirm. No hit. Good. Breaking the news to Bella, who obviously didn’t know, and to his mom and Gideon…not so good. “Merde.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll tell Bella. Frank should probably be the one to tell mom.”
Vincent’s expression changed suddenly, high alert seconds before Casey heard the dogs himself. Someone was here. “It’s Frank!” Vincent exclaimed, flying down the stairs faster than Casey could follow, pushing through the canine horde and yanking open the door to reveal Alan Barker.
The disappointment was so apparent on his face that anyone but Alan may have taken offense. Vincent was standing before him, an expression like he’d just found out Santa Claus wasn’t real and he was still getting coal for Christmas. “I am so incredibly angry with you right now,” Alan said before Casey could say bonjour.
“For what?” he asked, setting his hands on Vincent’s bony shoulders to steer him away before his disappointment became fury.
“I found your sketchbook under the coat rack at my gallery. Casey, that is no way to treat your art. What if someone else had found it? They could’ve blackmailed you to get it back. Or heaven forbid sold it and made my profit for themselves!”
“You found it?” he asked excitedly, relief filling his mind. Of course! It must’ve fallen out when he grabbed for his cell phone. He hadn’t thought of that. The creepy old man had startled him, and he’d jumped to conclusions.
“As if you couldn’t have called for that,” Vincent muttered bitterly.
“Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of Frank this morning,” Alan said. Vincent was free from Casey’s grasp in a flash, no longer the sweet, innocent looking kid but truly Frank’s protégé. If Casey’s parents hadn’t happened by in that moment and helped him pull them apart, Alan may have lost his life.
“My God!” Alan gasped from the ground, clutching his torn collar. Gideon forcibly removed Vincent from the room, and Maggie grabbed the dogs, hauling them away from a fight they were baying to be part of. Alan’s lip was bleeding blue, his left eye watering and already swollen. Vincent’s thin fingers were imprinted rosily around Alan’s throat.
“Bad timing, Alan.” Casey helped him back to his feet. Alan leaned against him in a near swoon, panting hysterically as Casey got him to his car. “Sit here a sec, I’ll bring you some ice.”
“No, no, I have to go home. Please take me home.”
Casey knew that Frank didn’t like having cabs come to the house, and Vincent wouldn’t be able to pick him up in Paris even after Alan calmed down. Not to mention that neither his mom nor Gideon could drive en français. Casey scratched his head for a second, then scooted Alan over and got in the car. He’d figure it out later.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his injured foot elevated on a pillow, Frank nursed the whisky bottle, now filled only with water. He rhythmically rolled his other foot back and forth, watching the glitter of Casey’s boot sparkle under the light while he waited for Bella to finish packing. Even Malkolm, his rage unleashed with the death of Silva, could not come close to destroying all of Bella’s clothes. After Frank had reburied their beloved father figure for her, the least she could do was pack up Silva’s books for him.
They would be taking separate cars. It wouldn’t all fit in Vincent’s Ferrari. Bella had another Maserati that they'd been able to get started despite the external damage. Frank had not yet told her that they wouldn’t be leaving together at all.
Joe was in terrible condition. Malkolm had shot him in the knee and through the side. He couldn’t get up, and Frank was not about to leave him like that after everything Joe had done for them. If someone came back to the house, the doctor would never be able to defend him.
The doctor said that Joe would be on his feet in about a week, or at least as much as he’d ever be again. Frank’s prognosis was brighter. It had actually not been a bad shot, despite Casey’s obvious efforts to the contrary. There were a few cracked bones, but he was mobile and all he needed were oral antibiotics for the infection.
&nbs
p; “How’s the kid?” Joe asked from his cot.
Frank abruptly stopped his foot. He was slightly hung over from the whisky, and already homesick. He and Vincent hadn’t been apart for more than twenty-four hours since the first time they’d spoken to each other, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be returning home with Bella was more painful than his foot. “Vincent is not a kid. Yours or otherwise. And he’s nice to every man over the age of thirty, so don’t take it personally,” he grumbled.
Joe laughed. “Maybe I wasn’t referring to Vincent.”
Frank glared at him. He was in no mood for games.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
He noticed everything. Joe was obviously lying, but Frank was still quite curious. “Noticed what?”
“If you were sociable every once in awhile then perhaps we could have a conversation like real people,” Joe scolded.
Frank set down the bottle so he would not be tempted to throw it. Adding another injury would only lengthen their stay. “Vincent is fine,” he said through gritted teeth.
“See? That wasn’t so hard. I’m glad he’s okay.” Joe picked up a book—one of Frank’s books—to end their conversation.
Just as Frank was reaching again for the bottle, Bella came into the room carrying the last of her shopping bags. Her eyes were the color of her coat and swollen from crying. It was the red coat he had mended for her all those years ago, and Frank knew it meant peace between them. At least until she realized that she’d be leaving alone. She snatched the book from Joe’s hand and tossed it into her bag. “You ready, Frankie?” she sniffled.
Frank was far from eager to stay, but the truth was that Vincent did like Joe, and Frank owed the man. Plus Joe had a secret that Frank would get out of him if it was the last thing he did. “I’ll catch up with you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Joe’s the only reason we got out of here, Bella. He helped us.” Frank struggled to his feet, knowing from experience that goodbyes, even temporary ones, tended to cause a violent reaction in Bella.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 32