The testament, p.7
The Testament, page 7
Exiting via the side entrance, he walked a dozen blocks, turning at length onto P Street where, a block further on, he came upon Trefoil Opticians. The owner's name-Terrence Markand-was stenciled in discreet gold letters on the window. It was a clean, well-lighted store in an old brownstone Federalist building. While the man behind the counter adjusted a pair of sunglasses on a woman, Bravo perused the displays of high-tech, fashionable frames with heart-stopping prices. Behind him, the woman walked out of the store. The man at the counter was tall and gaunt, with sunken cheeks and the complexion of an avocado. He gave Bravo a narrow smile along with his attention.
"How can I help you, sir?"
"Are you Mr. Markand?"
"I am, indeed." The smile stretched a bit.
"My name is Braverman Shaw," Bravo said, holding out the glasses. "I found these among my late father's effects. Your name is on them so I assume you made them for him."
"You're Dexter Shaw's son?" Markand said with an odd brittleness. "I read about his untimely death. I'm so sorry for your loss." He seemed on the verge of saying something more, then thought better of it, biting his lip.
Bravo nodded his thanks. "I wonder if you could tell me anything about the glasses."
"What would you like to know?"
"The prescription, for instance."
Markand didn't bother to examine the lenses. "I can't, because I didn't grind them. Mr. Shaw's arrangement was with the technician who did grind them."
Bravo took back the glasses. "I'd like to speak to him."
"Her," he corrected. "I'm afraid she no longer works here."
"I see. And why is that? An altercation of some kind?"
"Not at all." Markand peered at Bravo for a moment, his lips pursed. "She just up and quit, without any notice, mind you. Young people, no manners at all, wouldn't you say?" He shook his head ruefully. "Damn shame, too, she was the best tech I'd ever had, and I've been in business almost thirty years. Take those glasses, for instance, the lenses are ground using a technique I couldn't even begin to guess at."
"When did she leave?" Bravo asked.
"Ten days ago, precisely. She walked out of here and didn't even bother to collect her back pay, either."
Ten days ago, Bravo thought. The day after my father died.
Markand frowned. "But she did leave me an envelope, said it was for you." His rather delicate hands rested on the glass countertop. "No offense, but would you mind showing me a picture ID? Just so I can be absolutely sure, you understand."
Bravo dug out his US driver's license. The optician nodded, then reached under the counter, unlocked a drawer and extracted a heavy vellum envelope, archaically sealed with red wax.
Opening the envelope, Bravo discovered a slip of paper on which was written an address in a clean feminine hand. He looked up to see the cadaverous optician regarding him with a tense smile.
"Good news, I trust?"
"That has yet to be determined," Bravo said as he folded away the paper.
The optician nodded. "Then there is nothing left, Mr. Shaw, but to wish you a good day."
The moment Bravo left his shop, Markand turned, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, went back into his office. It was opposite the grinding lab and smelled of heated sand and plastic, and now something more. Donatella lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk, her wide lips forming a half smile that spoke of the kind of mystery that put dread into Markand's painfully thudding heart.
"You did well," she said. "He came just as you said he would."
"My granddaughter," the optometrist said. "I want her back."
"In time." Donatella sat up.
"If you've harmed her-"
"What?" Donatella's eyes grew flinty as she pushed the chair back and came around the side of the desk. "What will you do, Markand?" She laughed unkindly as she patted his cheek.
He couldn't help himself, but involuntarily tried to recoil. In a terrifyingly quick movement, she grabbed the back of his head.
"I would tell you not to worry, but, actually, you have a great deal to worry about, Markand. We haven't finished with you."
He closed his eyes and whimpered like a child.
Donatella, her face very close to his, shook him like a rag doll until his eyes popped open, wide and staring. She could see the whites all the way around, and this pleased her enormously. "You understand, don't you, that Angela's life is in your hands."
He shuddered, almost overwhelmed with nausea. There was something unspeakably offensive-evil, even-hearing his only granddaughter's name spoken by this creature. For that was how Markand had come to think of her-considerably less than human-a nightmare beast who, with her male counterpart, had stolen into his life and now held it hostage. His training meant nothing now; only Angela mattered. He would endure any humiliation or deprivation, he would sell the soul of everyone around him in order to ensure her safety.
"What do you want me to do now?" he said hoarsely.
Donatella placed a clamshell cell phone into his trembling hand and said, "Call him."
Markand opened the phone and dialed a local number. "He just left," he said when he heard Rossi's voice. "Of course I know where he's going, I already told you. Yes, I'm sure." He could feel the creature's eyes on him like the breath of a fanged beast, jaws gaping, and his bowels loosened.
Plunged in contemplation, Bravo walked back to the Four Seasons where he picked up a taxi. He told the driver to take him across the Potomac to Falls Church, Virginia. The address on the slip of paper was an old stone house with a steep slate-gray shingled roof on a quiet, tree-lined street. A surf of pink climbing roses decorated the white picket fence that enclosed the front yard, which was shaded by a Bradford pear tree on one side and a cut-leaf Japanese maple on the other. A thick four-foot privet hedge was planted up against the foundation. Between neat rows of sheared azalea, a moss-edged flagstone path led to a door lacquered blood-red.
The door opened even before he had a chance to ring the bell, revealing a slim, lovely young woman with cinnamon hair pulled back in a ponytail from her wide forehead and large gray eyes, slightly upturned at their outer corners. "Yes?" she said in a tense voice.
"I'm Bravo Shaw."
"What took you so long?" she said, making room for him to step inside.
The expected welcome draft of cool air did not come. In fact, despite the stone walls the interior of the house was quite warm, seemingly without any air stirring at all. He saw a polished wood floor, devoid of any carpets, a sofa of a nubbly umber fabric and two matching chairs, a glass coffee table with curved bronze legs, an oversized stone fireplace one might expect to find in a hunting lodge. Against one wall was an antique walnut breakfront, displaying plates and bowls behind diamond panes of glass, and on the other a large painting-a portrait in dark, brooding hues of a seated woman, young and arresting, her hands held loosely in her lap, her head thrown back almost in defiance, pale eyes regarding the viewer with a peculiar intensity; there was about her the intent of motion, as if she were an arrow in a drawn bow, about to catapult across the room.
"Are you-?"
"Jenny Logan. I made those glasses to your father's specifications." Her gleaming oyster-gray sleeveless blouse and hip-hugging jeans revealed her fitness as well as showed off her shapely legs. Her shoulders were square, her arms sun-browned and firmly muscled, her neck long and elegant. She gave the impression of scrutinizing everyone and everything she came upon.
"Why?" Bravo said. "And why did my father want me to meet you?"
She was about to answer, when her head swiveled. Her entire body tensed. Bravo, concentrating, heard it, too, and he was already moving toward the front door. But she stopped him, pointing to a pair of men emerging from a dark sedan, running full-tilt toward the house. At that moment, a thunderous crash reverberated through the house as the back door yielded to a handheld battering ram.
Chapter 4
Jenny grabbed Bravo's hand, pulling him through the living room, seemingly toward the back of the house. But in the hallway, she flipped up a patterned runner, revealing a trapdoor. As they heard voices shouting, the panting of determined men, she lifted the door.
Voices came to them, harsh and urgent; curt orders were given, and then they heard the pounding of heavy feet. The house was completely surrounded. By whom? Bravo had no idea, and now was definitely not a good time to ask Jenny.
Down he went, missing the first three rungs of a vertical iron ladder, wrenching his right shoulder. With a soft grunt he balanced himself as she came down after him. Glancing up, he saw her pause to pull the runner back over the trapdoor as she silently lowered it and threw a thick steel bolt, locking them in.
Rossi, loaded Glock at the ready, followed the two men into Jenny Logan's house. At once, he signed to them and they dropped the battering ram, drawing their weapons and sprinting down the hall. For his own part, Rossi leapt up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He went methodically through the second story, checking the two bedrooms and closets. He was a master of precision, not someone who fired a gun wildly, spraying the vicinity in the vain hope of hitting his target.
He hated this assignment and, in particular, he hated being in America. He longed to be back in Rome with its sundrenched streets, the excited jabber of friends and neighbors, the grit of centuries long past under his fingernails. Here, everything was bright and shiny, gobbled down fast-food style in insatiable amounts, ugly in its aggressive newness. As he went through closet after closet, he reflected sourly that for America nothing was ever enough, no matter how much it had or would ever have. He saw with Old World sensibilities a kind of hysteria that lived beneath the skin of every American, that brooked no recourse, no negotiation, no… what was it the Americans liked to say? It's my way or the highway. Oh, to be back on Via dell' Orso with the earthy smells of brick and fresh-baked bread, slyly eyeing the young women with wide hips, thrusting breasts and flashing eyes!
By the time he reached the bathrooms, he was joined by the two men who'd used the battering ram. They shook their heads in the negative. He ripped down the shower curtains, stomped on the tile floors, hammered against the walls in search of hidden trapdoors to hidey-holes. He had no illusions about this being a normal house. The occupant was no normal female; she would have spent months in the preparation for just such an invasion.
"Well, they're here somewhere, either in the attic or the basement," Rossi said as he led them out of the second bathroom. "You two find the attic and get in. I'll take the others into the basement."
For a few moments, they were in utter darkness. Bravo could hear her breathing, smell his scent and hers mingling as she stepped off the ladder in close quarters. All at once, louder sounds-muffled through the floorboards-came to them as the house was fully occupied. How many men? Bravo asked himself. Two in the front, the same number in back? More?
He very badly wanted to talk to Jenny, but now she was taking his hand again, leading him across the basement, which smelled of stone, old wood and paint. She had no trouble negotiating the space in the darkness, which led him to believe she'd performed this drill many times before. Why? Had she been expecting this attack? It was becoming clear to Bravo that his father had been involved in something secret, something deeply hidden, even from his family. Why had he kept his secret life from them? Why had he deceived them for so many years? What kind of person could do that?
Thoughts stuck in his mind like thorns he couldn't reach. They had stopped in front of what seemed to be a solid stone wall. He reached out, confirmed his supposition. All at once, he heard an explosion, and he winced, sweating freely, memories of the other, larger explosion that had caught him vivid in his memory and now the heart-stopping moment of impact brought immediately and terrifyingly into the present. The basement door had been shattered by a gunshot and now came the quick and ominous scrape of shoe soles against concrete.
Then he felt her hand on his shoulder, pressing firmly, and he crouched down beside her. He heard her scramble forward and followed her into what at first appeared to be a recess in the wall. But once inside, he felt a draft of sodden heat and, glancing up, saw the gauze of pale sky contained in a black frame, an abstract image of the world outside. This was the chimney or, since no flue was visible, a space hidden behind the chimney. In the dim light, he could see Jenny pushing down on a square section of the stone wall-a door, he saw now, set on rollers, that fit precisely and securely into the space through which they had entered the chimney. When the door was in place, the wall appeared seamless.
Jenny turned in the cramped space and, picking up a paint can she must have grabbed in the basement, began to climb up a series of metal rungs set at regular intervals into the brickwork. Without hesitation, he followed her.
With a soft grunt, Rossi blew apart the lock on the door to the basement. As he raced down the stairs, his two men close behind him, he felt the familiar swirl of venom in the pit of his stomach. There was something about blood, the rising of it in his own body, the heat it produced rushing into his palms, fingers and toes, the copper taste of it as if he had bitten clear through a metal bar, that made him feel elemental, larger than life, immortal.
His nostrils flared like a wolf on the hunt. They were down here, their scents like a fading vapor trail in the sky. He lifted his left arm and the two men switched on battery-powered floodlights. At once everything was thrown into stark relief. There was no place to hide, no nooks or crannies, no shadows save their own, trailing obediently after them.
He directed them to the walls first. They pounded on the concrete with the butts of their semiautomatic rifles, pulled cartons and boxes away to peer behind them. Rossi knew that there must be a way out of the basement. The woman would not have taken Shaw down here without one. It was simply a matter of finding it.
While the men systematically stabbed at the walls and floor, he checked everything else. There wasn't much that could be of use to them: a boiler, a hot water heater, the solid brick rectangle of the chimney, no central air or vacuum. The boiler and heater stood away from the wall. Nothing there for him, so he turned his back and went over to the brick chimney. He walked all the way around it, then stood staring at it, wondering why it went all the way down to the basement. There was no opening that he could see, no reason for it to be here.
He put the flat of his hand on the brick, closed his eyes. One of his men said something to him.
"Shut up!" he snapped.
Dead air silence. And then…
He felt-or thought he felt-a trickle of vibration transmitted through the brick, coming to him from inside the chimney.
What if there was an opening in it that led upward?
Rossi called softly and his men began to move.
The occupation of the basement came to them through sound and vibration. Bravo tried not to think of the pursuit as he continued after Jenny, climbing until surely they were past the first floor. He saw no opening to the fireplace and realized that the shaft they were ascending was built behind the bricked-off real chimney.
Just above him, Jenny kept up a steady pace. He estimated that they were now above the second floor, the attic, the roofline. All the while, the air inside the chimney grew hotter and wetter, the patch of sky expanding until momentarily it grew dark as Jenny's body eclipsed the sunlight. Then she was out and he could see her face peering down at him. "Come on," she mouthed urgently. "Come on!" He emerged into the blazing sunshine. He squinted as he joined Jenny, who was sprawled on her belly across the slate roof tiles. The roof pitched downward so that as he crawled forward to lie shoulder to shoulder with her he could see the street at the front of the house. A black Lincoln Aviator was parked at an angle, blocking the street, its curb-side doors open. A man sat smoking in the driver's seat. One hand was draped across the wheel, gripping a gun. Another man leaned against the Aviator's front fender. He was staring fixedly at the front door. If he was armed, he was hiding it well.
Bravo felt Jenny touch his arm. Her scent came to him, lavender and lime. Her hair shone copper in the hazy sunlight. She was pointing to herself, making a gesture. He was about to ask her what she meant when she began to slither away. He moved after her, but she frowned, holding him in place.
"Stay here," she mouthed. "Wait for me."
He nodded, watched her crawl to the side of the roof. There, she pried open the lid of the paint can, set it at the edge of the tiles. Then, turning briefly onto one hip, she took out a lighter, flicked it on. In one practiced motion, she lit the contents of the paint can and shoved it over the side. As she came back toward him, there came a crash, then, an instant later, a shout and a chorus of raised voices as a plume of oily smoke rose up, followed by the first ruddy lick of flame.
By this time, Jenny was at his side, and together they moved to the edge of the roof. Below them, the Aviator stood deserted, its driver and companion having run toward the commotion at the side of the house. Jenny went over the edge, landing in the thick privet hedge. Bravo dropped down after her. Branches cracked beneath his weight and he felt his shirt tear in several places, bright pinpricks of pain across his shoulders and back.
Then she was hauling him out of the hedge, and they ran across the sidewalk to the Aviator. Pushing him in, she climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition, no doubt to better facilitate a quick getaway should the need arise.
