Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

“I’ll explain later,” she whispered.

“What are you doing in these woods?”

“You wear the Marsala Medal pinned to your vest. I salute your bravery, but you just shot at us.”

“And I didn’t shoot at you.” He held up a quivering hare, elongated, dripping blood.

Serafina motioned to Carlo and they stepped into the clearing. “My oldest son, Carlo.”

Abatti nodded in Carlo’s direction. He came closer.

“You live nearby?” Carlo asked.

The soldier shook his head and pointed in the direction of what she imagined was the edge of the forest. “The cart by the road belongs to you?”

She nodded. “We’re here to investigate the death of Ugo Pandolfina. Awarded the Marsala Medal, just like you. You knew him?”

“Him?” He spat.

“He was killed near here,” Serafina said.

He shrugged and turned to Carlo. “Ezzo Abatti at your service. Fought with Garibaldi and the thousand.”

Something about him. She’d seen him before, not just near the fountain last night. Then she noticed his unbuttoned cuff. A fox with chicken feathers stuck on his snout. “You didn’t like Ugo,” she said.

He shook his head.

Silence.

“Why?” Carlo asked.

“Many reasons.”

“Tell us one.”

The soldier stood there. Carlo opened his mouth but Serafina grabbed his arm and shook her head. She waited.

“The night before the big battle, I was late getting back to camp because of a woman. You know how it is.”

Carlo smiled.

“But Ugo had guard duty, so I wasn’t worried. Face it, King Bumma could thunder right past his nose and the flat-faced oaf would nod all polite like and let him pass. So I hid behind a prickly pear, waiting for my chance to sneak in. I’m waiting for Ugo’s back to turn, see, since the wind is blowing right at him and hoping pretty soon he’d have to take a leak or something. And while I’m waiting, what do I see? Two three guys, one after the other walk right past him. One guy even waved to him. So I decide to take my chance. But instead of walking in-’cause I know Ugo, he don’t like me-I snuck, quiet like, until I’m about up to the guard shack. Just as I’m about to pass it, I see him turn his back, hunker down on his knees. He’s got his pistol in his hand and what does he do? He turns his face away from his body, contorted like, a bandana between his teeth-to stop his own screams, the lousy bugger. He looks away and shoots himself in the foot. BAM! I see him writhing on the ground, his eyes, wild and he’s whimpering like a woman.”

Abatti wiped his mouth and adjusted himself. “Now there’s no guard. Makes it easy for me to walk inside as if it were noon. But guess what, I’m not the only one waiting to sneak in. Those cockroach spies of King Bumma must have slipped in, too.” He shook his head. “Went right past him.”

“So instead of surprising the Bourbons,” Carlo said, “eight-hundred Redshirts died the next day. The Battle of Milazzo was a slaughter. Oh, yes, Garibaldi won, but at a great price.”

“You know about the battle?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“My two brothers died because of that cur. And Palermo pinned on him the Marsala? Should die eight hundred deaths.”

Abatti stopped. His shoulders sagged.

Serafina motioned for Carlo to wait.

The soldier looked around, as if seeing his surroundings in a new light. “Deep shadows now. I’ll take you to your cart.”

Serafina and Carlo kept a few paces behind the soldier. She glanced at the stiletto gleaming from the side of his belt. Somewhere in a far tree, a bird called to its mate. She listened to it as their guide crushed leaves and branches ahead. “If Abatti didn’t kill Ugo, he knows who did,” she whispered. “We must take him in for questioning. He won’t come willingly, but I’ve got a plan. Make no move until I tell you.”

“Are you crazy? He’s armed. If he’s killed before, he’ll kill us in a second, quicker than you can blink.”

“Nonsense. You misjudge Abatti.”

“I forgot. You know him from someplace.”

“Trust your mother just this once.”

Carlo threw up his hands.

When their cart came into view, Abatti lifted his arm in farewell. His rings caught the late afternoon light.

Suddenly Serafina doubled over, holding her stomach. “Oh Madonna , the pain. Help!”

The soldier ran to her side and bent to help.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she began a wobbly rise.

Blurred, fast movement.

Her knee shot up, planted a hard jab to his groin.

Hunching over, he screamed.

“Hit him with your club.”

One blow to the back of the head and Abatti slumped to the ground.

While Carlo tied his feet and hands with the rope, Serafina slipped the stiletto out of his belt and picked up his rifle. Together they lifted him into the cart and covered him with the blanket.

“You drive. I’ll watch Abatti,” Carlo said. “If he stirs, I’ll knock him out again. We’ve got to get him to the Municipal Building. I want to find out the poisoner’s identity.”

“He’ll never tell.” Serafina snapped the reins and Largo moved. She heard the crunch of tall grass beneath the cart’s wheels, saw dust motes in streams of dying light. “What about Gloria?”

“Who?”

“Poor girl, forgotten already.”

The cart’s wheels dug into the earth. Slowly they climbed onto the gravel of the main road.

“Is Abatti left-handed?”

“Not sure, but this afternoon he used his left hand to wave goodbye. His stiletto was wedged into the right side of his belt, I suppose, for a quick cross draw.”

“He’s left-handed. And last night when you met him in the piazza?”

Hiding her surprise, she rubbed her forehead. “Carlo, I-”

“I saw you with someone at the fountain when I was coming home from Gloria’s. Didn’t know it was Abatti. No need to explain.”

“But I want to. I’d had…a disturbing afternoon. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk, sat near the fountain. Out of the blue, Abatti found me. He offered to walk me home.” That’s all she’d tell him, nothing about Loffredo. He must never know that.

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. If Papa were alive, he’d be upset, you know that.”

They were silent. She listened to the clop of Largo’s hooves.

Presently she straightened her cape. “And the reason Ugo’s house seemed so violated? No medal above the mantelpiece.”

“So they drank together, Ugo and his poisoner. Then the poisoner left,” Carlo said, “but returned for the medal, gave it to Abatti as payment for killing Ugo. No broken locks or windows because Ugo trusted his killer with the key.”

“Any squirms coming from the back?” Serafina asked.

Carlo lifted a corner of the blanket covering Abatti. “He sleeps.”

“We know Ugo met Abatti: ‘Midnight, m’dni, ea’ is ‘Midnight, Madonie, Ezzo Abatti.’ Ugo’s ledger bears the same script as the note, and I saw ‘ea’ scrawled in several places, so Abatti must have been one of Ugo’s suppliers.”

They were silent.

Carlo turned to Serafina. “Or… Abatti played both roles.”

“Could be, but I don’t think so. I think he was hired to do the job.”

“And the one who hired him?”

Serafina said nothing.

“That look on your face: you know his identity.”

She visored her hand against the setting sun.

Wednesday, February 13, 1867

Serafina felt a stiffness in her body as she strode across the piazza with Maria. No more riding all day in a wooden cart. She smelled citrus and fresh laundry. Sidestepping a clump of women gathered around the onion seller, she rushed to keep up with her daughter.