“Your mom’s condition still the same?”
Rafaella nodded, tears closing in her throat. Now her frantic machinations over Freddie Pithoe seemed mundane compared to what she planned to do.
Al patted her shoulder. “Get out of here. I’ve got my hands on Larry Bifford—he’ll be taking over your assignments until you get back.”
She felt a spurt of paranoia mixed with a good dose of insecurity. “He’s pretty good,” was what came out of her mouth.
“Yep, the best,” Al said cheerfully. “Take your time, kiddo.”
She watched him amble away, graceful despite his bulk as he wove his way through the closely placed desks to his office. He seemed oblivious of the continuous noise in the newsroom, oblivious of the young sports reporter who tossed a football to the entertainment editor. It sailed by Al’s ear, missing him by two inches.
“You’re too smart, Al,” she said under her breath. She managed to get out of the Tribune office with a minimum of words to Gene. He gave her a stiff goodbye, and she gave him an easy see-you-around.
Brammerton, Massachusetts
March 1, 2001
Logan roamed through Rafaella’s living room and followed her into the kitchen, not volunteering to help, just watching her and fidgeting with a can opener.
“All right, Logan, what is it?” she asked finally, slapping down the hot pad and looking away from the warmed-up tuna casserole. “You’ve been acting strange. I’m tired, not in such a good mood, and I’m worried about my mother. Now, what gives with you?”
That gave him pause. Logan, another ultra-WASP, she realized, studying him. Blond, blue-eyed, tall, lanky, a passable lover, a sense of humor, and now—now she just wished he’d spit out what was bothering him. She was tired, frantic with worry for her mother, and scared of what she knew lay ahead.
“Pithoe,” he said, as if that said it all.
Rafaella served the casserole onto paper plates. They had to eat it fast or it would soak through. She set a bottle of white wine on the table and pulled out several day-old bagels. “Sit and let’s eat before it gets cold.”
They sat and ate. “Pithoe,” Logan said again after two bites of casserole.
“What about it? Them? Freddy or Joey?”
“Them. Both of them.”
He took another bite. Rafaella looked at him. “You gave me a hello kiss like you wanted to bite my tongue off. What’s wrong, Logan? Is it because I’m leaving?” From the look of surprise on his face, she realized it hadn’t really clicked with him that she was leaving.
“Where are you going?”
“Away. I need a rest.” Their last vacation, they’d gone together, to Athens, then on to Santorini.
“I see,” Logan said. “All right, Rafaella, what you did was crummy. It was unprofessional. It wasn’t fair to anyone. I hope you never pull anything like that again.”
“Do what again? What are you babbling about?”
“Pithoe. You circumvented the police, you didn’t say a word to me, to anyone in the D.A.’s office. Nothing. You behaved irresponsibly, unprofessionally. You acted like the little detective of the cosmos, and everyone’s quite annoyed. You jeopardized the D.A.’s case, you could have destroyed Pithoe’s defense, prejudicing every possible juror beforehand. You could have ruined everything.”
“I see,” she said, and she did. She smiled at him. “I truly do see now, Logan. Forgive me. It’s certainly obvious to me now that the police weren’t completely satisfied with their investigation—oh, no, far from it. They were just taking a breather after getting Freddy’s confession. Of course they were busting their butts to find Joey Pithoe. Can you believe all the manpower they had on the case?
“As for the D.A.’s office, they really weren’t all that anxious to toss Freddy in the state hospital for three lifetimes. They weren’t all that satisfied that the massacre had been so cut-and-dried, and—”
“Enough sarcasm, Rafaella. You know very well what you did was wrong and stupid, and you just wanted the limelight all for yourself. I could have used a bit of your inside information, you know. You could have called me, you could have told me what you were doing, what you’d discovered, and I’d have gone about getting things taken care of. In the proper way, through the proper channels, protecting everyone and—”
Rafaella rose from the table. She said very slowly, “You and I, Logan, have known each other for over two years. We’ve had fun for the most part, we’ve respected each other’s careers. At least that’s what I’ve always thought. Now I want to take a shower.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she forestalled him, her hand raised. “The police dropped the ball on this one; the D.A.’s office never picked up the ball. The media were thrilled to have gore for their pathetic newscasts. But bottom-line, nobody gave a good damn. Nobody cared if that pitiful Freddy Pithoe was getting a raw deal. Nobody cared if an eleven-year-old boy ever turned up. Nobody. You’re a prig, Logan, and a hypocrite, and jealous because you didn’t do what had to be done and I just happened to be the one who did. Just get out of my apartment and my life.”
“You find another guy who appeals to you more?”
The conceit of men, Rafaella thought, marveling at his logic. He hadn’t listened, hadn’t heard a word she’d said. No, it had to be another man. So be it.
Logan saw her smiling and knew he’d better leave or he’d be tempted to say things that would alienate her irrevocably. He didn’t want to make an enemy of her. That wouldn’t be good for a man who wanted to be Boston’s D.A. But he just couldn’t hold it in.
“Bitch,” he said, threw his napkin down to the floor, grabbed his coat from the back of a chair, and slammed his way out the front door.
“I do believe,” Rafaella said, staring around at the shambles in her kitchen, “that I’ve just severed the last of my connections.”
At eight o’clock the following morning she was on an American flight to Miami.
She was excited and she was afraid.
And she found herself wondering again how it was possible that a man, any man, wouldn’t care enough to find out the name of his own child. But he hadn’t cared enough to discover that his name, Dominick Giovanni, wasn’t listed as the girl-child’s father on the birth certificate. He hadn’t cared enough to discover that Margaret hadn’t used her real name with him.
Well, it just made it easier for her. Lies were difficult. At least she didn’t have to worry about using her real name.
Her curiosity about her father had begun to consume her, and that bothered her because she didn’t want her hatred for him diluted in any way; she didn’t want to lose her focus; she didn’t want to lose her edge. He didn’t deserve her respect, he didn’t deserve anything at all from her, but she had to see him, to really look at him, to study him. To see herself in him? To learn for herself whether he was really corrupt to his soul or if there was something good in him? She had to know.
Five
Giovanni’s Island
March 2001
Marcus worked out steadily, without pause, until Melissa Kay Roanoke, better known as Punk, the weight room’s assistant manager, grabbed his arm and said, “Enough, Superman.”
He looked up at her baby face, topped by a tangle of pink curls, and grinned painfully. Punk was all of twenty-three years old, tall, fine-boned and big-breasted, and had a karate black belt.
“I’ve got to get the rotation back in my shoulder, Punk. When did you add that yellow stripe?” He stared up at the half-inch-wide stripe that went from just over her right eye back to the last curl at her neck.
“You don’t have to do it all in a week. Give it a rest now. Orders from Dr. Haymes. He warned me you’d probably try to be a stupid macho about this. What happened, anyway? You get a knife in your back? I had Sissy add the yellow stripe. She said it would be bad.”
“It is bad, real bad. Just what did Haymes say to you?”
Punk shrugged, her eye roving to a thirtyish affluent banker from Ch
icago who’d just stretched out on his back to do some bench presses. He wasn’t in bad shape. “Just that you’d hurt yourself using some kind of machinery over at Mr. Giovanni’s compound and you’d try to kill yourself again getting back in shape. So stop it. I’d better go see to Mr. Scanlan. He’s not as yummy as you, boss, but he’ll do. Do you think he’s got all his rotation?”
“All the rotation you could take,” Marcus said, and watched Punk swing over, her very sleek body leotarded all in black, with hot-pink leg warmers, her hips so squeezable-looking that occasionally even Marcus was tempted. The banker didn’t have a chance, despite the yellow stripe, unless he was married, which he wasn’t, or Punk wouldn’t be so blatant about going after him. The guy was going to have a wonderful vacation. Since Punk didn’t enjoy gambling, the rich young banker would probably save himself a bundle by staying in bed and away from the casino.
Marcus sighed and slowly worked his shoulder. It was better, but Punk was right: he’d overdone it today. He showered and dressed in his manager’s clothes: white slacks, a pale blue Armani shirt, styled to show off his physique, open at the collar to show off the hair on his chest. His orders from Dominick two and a half years ago had been to look expensive, act charming, and be efficient. “You’re to look like you’re every woman’s fantasy lover, act like you’re a down-and-dirty macho with all the men; and you’re to manage the resort and casino like it’s a combination nirvana-crapshoot, the only one on the planet, and you’re a five-percent owner,” which was true.
Marcus stepped out the back door of the gym into the lush tangle of hibiscus, bougainvillea, frangipani and orchids that blossomed in profusion along each side of the path. Clashing sweet scents filled the heavy air. Although every damned growing thing in the resort grounds was trimmed on a schedule set by Kinobi, and carried through by his two score gardeners, it still seemed that if you didn’t pay attention you’d get a good slap in the face by a thick green arm.
He was tired. He’d been back only three days from the compound, and things were piled up, everyone had a problem, his secretary, Callie, was in a snit for some reason he couldn’t fathom, a Mrs. Maynard from Atlanta, Georgia, was due to arrive in her own private Cessna, and expected him to greet her personally. Mrs. Cecily Maynard had tried to get in his pants during her last visit six months before. He devoutly prayed she wouldn’t try this time. He thought of Hank, one of the casino guards-studs. Hank would be more than pleased to pick up a few extra bucks.
He’d agreed to manage Porto Bianco just to get close to Dominick Giovanni, to become part of his organization. Nearly two and a half years now of his life: How close was he? He knew Dominick was one of the most powerful international weapons dealers. So did the U.S. Customs Service. He didn’t have enough proof yet to convince a grand jury, but neither did any other agent in the U.S. Customs Service. He’d been close a number of times to nailing Giovanni, and the U.S. Customs Service hadn’t. Well, he’d saved his life. He’d done it deliberately, knowing that his deal with Hurley and the feds was to get evidence on Giovanni, irrefutable evidence so they could lock him up for the rest of his miserable life. The feds wanted him in prison, not shot dead by an assassin’s bullet. Marcus too had wanted justice—most of the time. But the hell of it was that with Dominick dead, the organization would continue with DeLorio at the helm. At least that seemed the likely outcome.
Odd how the two Dutchmen had poisoned themselves. Even more odd was the fact that Dominick had avoided speaking of the consequences of what had happened. He’d spoken about none of it to Marcus and he’d left, finally, frustrated and weak and irritable. He knew no more than he had before. What was the meaning of Bathsheba? An organization? A woman from the Bible? He’d left immediately after a breakfast at which Paula had very calmly run her fingers up his thigh and told a joke while she fondled him beneath the table, with her husband, DeLorio, sitting next to her.
“Marcus, hurry, Mrs. Maynard’s on the way from the airstrip!”
“All right,” he said, and speeded up. “I’m coming, Callie.” He’d collar Hank, who was at present recovering from a sexual marathon with Glenn, a very hungry lady from San Antonio.
Six hours later, at ten o’clock in the evening, Marcus fell into his bed. He didn’t care if the women thought he was a jerk for leaving them, if the men thought he was a wimp for ignoring the heavyweight fight from Las Vegas on the giant-screen TV. He was so bloody exhausted he could scarcely walk. As for Hank, he imagined that young man was far from sleeping. Cecily had approved of him.
Marcus’s sleep wasn’t restful. He dreamed the dream that had haunted him for twenty years now, on and off.
The dream had changed over the years. It was still the boy’s and yet it was tainted by the man’s experiences. The dream unrolled like a film, a nice easy start, scenes really, like soft paintings, flowing in front of him, setting the ambiance, easing him back to Chicago, back to his old neighborhood, in that long-ago summer. A boy, thin, lanky, guileless, and outgoing, who trusted everyone. A nice kid, that’s what those soft scenes showed. An only kid with two loving parents, a paper route, good grades, sports, an all-American boy. A naive shithead.
Now the film speeded up, events ran a crazy race, became tangled, lurched out of sequence, but remained bright and urgent and terrifying.
His father, Ryan “Chomper” O’Sullivan, a newspaperman, who was an intellectual, a narrow-shouldered man fanatically devoted to truth. He was visible now, shoving up his glasses that were always slipping down his narrow nose, and his mother, Molly, big-boned, tall, stronger than her husband, laughing as she leaned over her husband to push up his glasses and nip the end of his nose with her white teeth. He was called Chomper because he didn’t let up.
Once Chomper was onto something, he rooted around like a damned bulldog, didn’t ease off, ever. He’d interview the devil if he had to, to get to the truth, then to print the truth.
The eleven-year-old Marcus had been impatient with his old man. He couldn’t throw a football worth a damn. He could help with math, but he was normally too busy. Molly was a loss at anything that had an X or a Y stuck in it. But he loved his pa; his pa knew the history of every pro baseball player in the world.
More scenes, brighter now, the blood redder and deeper, spreading, oozing over everything, in his eyes, flowing into his nose, his mouth, choking him, all the red, so much of it, all of his father’s blood—
Marcus moaned, then yelled, jerking up in bed, choking and wheezing. Sweat flowed down his neck, under his armpits. God, would it never ease off? He was having trouble breathing. His shoulder throbbed. Fear clogged his throat. The room was cold, with the air conditioner on high.
He shivered and jerked the covers over him, burrowing beneath them.
Wouldn’t it ever stop?
He knew the answer to that; yes, he did. He managed to slow his breathing, telling himself over and over that he wasn’t a freaked-out eleven-year-old kid anymore. He was an adult, and thank God he’d gotten up before the dream had continued to its familiar conclusion.
But he was afraid to go back to sleep. He looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Five A.M. He didn’t hesitate, but got up and went into his bathroom. He stayed under the hot shower spray until his skin tingled.
Then he went running.
It was just past dawn, pinks and pale grays slashing through the morning sky, mixing with the blues of the Caribbean, gleaming off the white sand on the beach. It was a beautiful sight, and so quiet he could hear his heart beating. His pace was steady as he evenly inhaled and exhaled the sweet clean air. He wondered how it had been here several hundred years before, when the hills and central mountains had been covered with sugarcane fields extending from the highest points nearly to the sea, black slaves brought over by the Portuguese bending over the stalks, tending them, sweating under the hot Caribbean sun. The fields had been gone since before the turn of the last century; the four or five owners had left, selling their land until just one man, a
rich American Yankee merchant who’d wanted to impress a French aristocratic wife with his wealth, had bought the entire island. Of the few natives that had been born on the island, most had drifted away, making their homes on the other islands, primarily Antigua and St. Kitts. There was little native culture now, hadn’t been for years and years; no written lore, no rites or rituals remained. But then again, there was no poverty either, not on Giovanni’s Island. All natives who remained were employed and paid well and given housing.
Marcus held his hand under his elbow to keep stress off his injured shoulder. He looked up and saw a woman ahead of him, her pace steady and smooth. He frowned, wishing that for just once he could be alone, just once not have to make inane conversation with a guest. He slowed just a bit. The woman had long legs; he’d let her get far ahead. She disappeared around a curve about a hundred yards ahead.
When he rounded the curve, he looked around instinctively. He didn’t see her. Had she speeded up and already run through the jungle paths back to her villa?
He hoped so. He continued, his breathing steady, his heart rate even, sweat soaking his hair. Still he found himself looking for her. Could something have happened? She hadn’t been running that fast. Then he stopped short.
The woman was seated between some large rocks near the shoreline, her legs drawn up to her chest, her head buried in her hands. There was some sort of book lying on a rock beside her. She had red hair—no, actually more auburn, with some brown and blond in it—drawn back in a ponytail, a red stretch sweat-band around her forehead. She was wearing red shorts and a baggy cotton top.
She was crying. Low, deep sobs that sounded like they came from her gut, like she couldn’t bear it. Wrenching sobs—soul sobs his mother, Molly, would have called them.
Well, shit. She hadn’t heard him. He considered leaving her be. Then he knew he couldn’t. He stopped and approached her quietly.
He dropped to his haunches in front of her.
“Are you all right?”
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