Peter Leonard - All He Saw Was the Girl

The Fiat landed right side up, but was still moving, slamming head-on into a tree with impact. McCabe was conscious of the airbag blowing in a split second, hitting him in the face, knocking him back against the headrest, nose and forehead stinging. Conscious, too, of the dull pain in his arms and shoulders from holding the steering wheel so tight.

McCabe was dazed from the collision. The windshield was gone, roof caved in, hood buckled, and he could hear a hissing sound from the radiator that must have been punctured, steam escaping under pressure. He looked out the driver's side window and saw the Opel on top of the embankment, backing up fast. He was woozy but knew he had to move. It was difficult with the airbag pressing against him. He pushed the seat back as far as it would go, unhooked his belt, brushed glass off the soccer bag, and pushed it out the passenger side window. He glanced back toward the road and saw the Opel in profile on top of the embankment, skidding to a stop in reverse seventy yards away.

He pulled the handle up but the door wouldn't open, wouldn't budge. He used his arms to pull himself up and slid over on the passenger seat. He went head first through the open window, holding on to the doorsill, flipping his body around, going down on his knees, looking through the empty window frames. They were out of the car, four abreast, starting down the embankment.

Cars were slowing down, people trying to see what was happening. Behind him was the tree line, a narrow wooded area he'd seen from the road that went uphill a hundred yards to a stone house and outbuildings on the other side of the trees.

He picked up the bag, put the strap over his shoulder and went into the woods about fifty feet, stopped and saw them standing around the Fiat, and McCabe started to run.

Joey said, "Jesus Christ, you believe this fucking guy?" The Romans were looking in the car windows. "You going to stand there, pull pud, or go find him?"

These guys were so fucking lame it hurt.

Mazara said something in Italian and the three of them moved into the trees, Joey behind them, holding the Beretta down his leg. He didn't think these bozos would try to take him out but you never knew. He could hear the hum of traffic behind them as he followed the Romans into the woods.

They'd sure as hell better find him and do it fast. There was considerable personal gain at stake here too, beyond just the money. Joey saw himself giving McCabe to his uncle, saying, you want the guy kidnapped Angela? Here he is. My pleasure. You don't have to thank me. Just give me my own territory, I'll show you how it's done.

Joey saw himself making the rounds, persuading the Roman shopkeepers they needed protection. It wasn't hard. They didn't want to pay him he'd pull out the Closer, a twenty- nine-ounce white ash Louisville Slugger. His advice to young racketeers: choose a bat you could control, never pick up more wood than you could swing. Joey with his height and weight could handle a thirty-ouncer without any problem, but he liked the twenty-nine better. He knew it didn't make any sense, but one ounce made a difference.

The other piece of advice he'd give about hitting: loosen up a little before you swing for the fence. Stretch your muscles. Joey preferred a Louisville Slugger model C271 pro stock, but on occasion used his Pete Rose autograph with the man's signature on the barrel of the bat, and the words Hit King under it, and 4,256, his record number of major-league hits. It was a little corny but he liked it 'cause he liked Pete Rose, admired him, and having the man's autograph on the bat gave him confidence. He was thinking about the bat, watching Mazara and, the other two clowns walk through the woods when he heard a siren in the distance, the sound like a siren in a Second World War movie. The three Romans stopped, turned and looked at him, and they all started moving back to the car, Joey thinking, Jesus, that's all he needed — get arrested in fucking Italy.

When Mazara walked out of the office looking for the kidnappers, Angela had run down the hall and down the stairs. Instead of going into Piazza del Plebiscito she entered the courtyard between Palazzo dei Priori and Palazzo del Podesta. She had joined a tour group of Dutch students that had stopped to study the Etruscan sarcophagus lids on display.

The tour guide explained the historical significance of the ancient coffin lids, but Angela wasn't listening. She was glancing behind her through the students, looking for Roberto.

She stayed hidden in the group until they moved into Piazza del Plebiscito. She didn't see McCabe or Joey or any of them and started across the square. She heard the distant discharges of a shotgun, and then panic, people running toward her. Angela was concerned about McCabe, hoping Joey and Mazara didn't do something crazy. Two Polizia sedans sped past her down Via San Lorenzo, lights flashing, sirens yelping. She had seen a taxi queue on Via Roma, and ran there and got in the rear seat of a yellow Fiat sedan and told the driver she was in a hurry. Drive toward Bagnaia, I will direct you. She could see his face in the rearview mirror, dark eyes studying her. He looked Tunisian or Moroccan. She took a fifty-euro note out of her purse, leaned forward and handed it to him. He nodded and started the car.

"Subito, signorina."

They drove out of Viterbo and through La Quercia, zipping along, Angela thinking about McCabe again and realizing she had not stopped thinking about him. McCabe was tough, but there were five armed men after him. There was nothing she could do. No way to contact Joey or Mazara. And even if she could, what would she say to them? She was staring out at the countryside and felt the taxi slow down, and looked through the windshield and saw brake lights ahead. Cars traveling in both directions were stopping now.

The driver glanced at her, his solemn eyes in the rearview, and said, "I don't know."

It could have been anything, a collision, sheep crossing the road, a farmer driving a tractor slowing traffic. After a few minutes they started moving slowly, creeping along, Angela nervous, worried, looking out the window. She hit the button and the window went down and she lit a cigarette. She saw the driver's eyes looking at her in the mirror again but not saying anything to his fifty-euro customer. She blew smoke out the window and watched it disappear.

She could see flashing lights up ahead, two police cars parked on the side of the road. As they approached Angela looked down the embankment and saw four Polizia de Stato standing next to a dark-blue Fiat. It was McCabe's car, there was no doubt in her mind. The top was crushed, sides dented. Was he in the car? Was he hurt? If he was hurt they would have called an ambulance. So where was he? And where were Joey and Mazara?

McCabe walked upslope through the trees, the strap over his left shoulder, bag resting on his right hip. When he reached the top of the rise, level now with the farmhouse, he could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. He looked down the hill at the highway and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto get in the car, and take off just before two police cars arrived, lights flashing.

He walked out of the trees and saw laundry on a clothesline next to the house. He looked down the hill and saw four uniformed police getting out of the two cars, walking down the embankment to the rented Fiat, what was left of it, traffic heavy, congested, barely moving.

McCabe moved up to the top of a steep rock-strewn hill fifty yards to the right of the farmhouse, picking his way through brush and Mediterranean scrub. He stood on an outcropping of rock, breathing a little from the climb, and lifted the strap over his head, put the soccer bag on the ground and stretched. The view was something, green rolling hills extending to a dark ridge of mountains that rose in the distance.