In his hands, p.1
In His Hands, page 1
In His Hands
Phil Locascio
© Phil Locascio 2013
Phil Locascio has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Prologue
November 13, 1928
The Yugoslav/Romanian Border
The wind had found its voice, skipping through the thorny shrubs and shivering the nearly naked branches with its low moan. The whirl funneled through the woods scattering leaves along a downtrodden path leading to a weathered, rickety wagon. Along its side, the words read “Zarpello the Great”. The two black mules, whose job it was to pull the rig, stood tied to the limb of a withered oak that shielded them from the autumn breeze. An impending rain storm rolled forward in the distance. The animals snorted and bobbed their heads in foreboding. It was not the advancing clouds that stirred them, but a rustling in the brush.
Something was not right.
Whispers signaled danger to the mules. The noise, dancing on the edge of the wind, was imperceptible to their master, the not-so-great Zarpello. Shielded by the sound of the swaying limbs, a branch snapped, leaves crunched under a boot and a hush quieted an unruly voice.
In the wagon the big-bellied Zarpello rested in his cot shuddering at the enormity of his discovery. His beleaguered thoughts would not allow him to sleep.
Virgillio Zarpello came from a long line of gypsies who made their living on the fringe of legitimacy. Deception, fraud, misrepresentation, and slight of hand had served him well through the years. However, unlike some of the former family members who had handed over the trade to him, Zarpello actually had a heart buried deep beneath his barreled chest. He viewed the filling of elixir bottles with stream water and selling it as a panacea for everything from baldness to sterility as an innocent malfeasance. In fact, he had many times witnessed the sure belief of a cure that his bottles promised providing that exact result through the power of suggestion. The shell game he had become so adept at, he viewed as a lesson to those who thought gambling was a viable pursuit. He used his so-called fortune telling skills, provided at a modest fee, for a variety of benevolent purposes: easing the mind of a wife troubled by her husband’s infidelity, relieving the anxiety of girls fearful that the right man would never come along or pacifying a grieving parent that their recently departed child had found peace in the loving hands of God.
His broached ethics never caused him any concern. But now?
Zarpello threw back another swallow of his Chianti and stared at the wooden box where the subject of his fears resided. The vision of the old gypsy woman who had given it to him crystallized in Zarpello’s mind: the wrinkled lines on her brown face; the thin, bent frame; the scraggly, dark rags that draped her body. She had said that all she wanted was her son returned to health. As was his custom, he sold her a bottle of snake oil and promised her the potion would deliver her son from the brink of death.
It was all she wanted, she had said. Miraculously, somehow, the child regained his health.
And it seems when her son recovered, the gratitude she felt found its release in the gift she had provided Zarpello.
Zarpello remembered her words when she had returned the next day with that dark sack in her hand, the pouch that leaked odd sparkles of light.
“Now you can have whatever you desire.” But most unsettling was the glare in her eyes when she placed her gnarled hand on his arm and spoke: “It will grant one good thing, one worthy demand. And then no more. But be warned for a granted wish, a price is paid. For good, good: for evil, evil. You must not let greed or jealousy shape your request. It must be a selfless desire you choose, a noble cause, virtuous and worthy, one not made in sin or selfishness. For those will warrant recompense too. You will reap what is sown. Be mindful then ... of unrighteous wants. For it takes in measure what it gives.”
Zarpello leaned forward toward the box, his hands shaking in anticipation of something he could not quite understand. The thing in the black sack that leaked rays of colored light out along the seams had been so mesmerizing, so hypnotizing that he had tried to deaden its allure by putting it in a wooden box. But still it drew him like a magnet, the way sin nags the mind of even the most virtuous of monks. He had only looked at it for a short time, but the way his thoughts had twisted both frightened and tempted him. Urges he had never felt had arisen in his brain. Impulses imploded in his mind. Devious, dark thoughts not only arose in his consciousness, but an overwhelming desire for those things began churning into plans and designs that seemingly only needed his consent to crystallize. He had slammed the cover on the box with the last effort of his conscious will before submission occurred.
But now the temptation was drawing him again.
In all of his travels, Zarpello had witnessed many curiosities and through purchase, chicanery, trickery and bartering had acquired a great many of them, all now part and parcel of his traveling road show: mummified remains from ancient Egypt, deformities floating in glass jars, a two-headed snake, jewelry with supposed mystical powers, shrunken heads, relics of saints, medicinal herbs and more. But nothing carried with it the aura of wonderment and awe as did this oddity.
“Eee-awww”
Outside one of the mules stamped its foot and bobbed his head. Whispering came from the side of the wagon.
“Who is that?” Zarpello asked.
A voice spoke just low enough for him to be unable to discern the words.
“I warn you to answer!”
Suddenly someone pulled the back tail of the wagon down. Two men stood in the dim light, their faces obscured by handkerchiefs. Immediately Zarpello realized their intent. Quickly he reached behind him and grabbed the hatchet he kept for just such purposes as one of the men giggled and began climbing into the bed of the wagon.
“He’s got an ax, Yanko!”
Yanko had pulled himself up into a standing position hanging on to the back trying to solidify his balance when Zarpello swung the weapon at his thigh. The weight of the hatchet’s head buried itself into the man’s leg.
“Ahhhhhh,” he screamed. His grip faltered and as he clutched his thigh now spouting blood he fell off the edge of the ramp. Zarpello lost his grip on the weapon as the second man crawled in and grabbed him by the collar. The man wrestled Zarpello up and flung him out of the wagon. As he did, Zarpello’s foot caught the edge of the wooden box and accidentally kicked it off the edge of the shelf. The thief jumped down on the big man and they began wrestling in the dirt. The stench of the vagabond’s clothes and body nearly overpowered Zarpello as he tried to use his massive weight to pin his rival down.
The robber squeezed out from under the big man’s grasp and leveraged the advantage. With his knee buried in Zarpello’s chest, he raised his dagger high above his head and plunged it down.
The boy turned his face away from the smoke. Plumes drifted up from the heap of burning embers that consumed the trash he and his father had accumulated from their two-room shack. Behind the boy on the edge of the woods the dwelling leaned up against the side of a hill. The fifteen year old shuffled back a few feet and rubbed his eyes when he heard a half scream, half-shout emanate from deep in the trees off to his right. A quiet pause followed and then the thumping of slammed wood. The youngster turned his head toward the house where he and his father lived. His father had been lying in bed an hour before when he had screamed at his son to get to the chore of burning the trash. The man would no doubt be fast asleep now, nearly unconscious as usual from the wine he had consumed. He would not be pleased to be awakened because of idle, nonsensical noises drifting through the trees.
The boy disregarded the sounds and went back to raking the papers and refuse into the flames.
Again an odd noise pierced the darkness and seemed to ride the swell of the breeze off into the distance. A kind of rustling screech and moaning followed and then a muffled shriek and the banging of wood once again. An animal screeched.
And then silence.
The boy stood staring into the darkness down the wagon path that many travelers used to negotiate the hilly forests. Leaves skittered across the trail, crackling in their dryness. The scent of the coming rain tickled at his nose.
An animal whinnied in the darkness. An agitated donkey perhaps?
Earlier in the day, he had seen the fat man with the curious wagon roll past the house and plod the rig’s grinding wheels down into the hollow beyond. Had he bedded down for the night beyond the sloping tree line?
Once again the
Chapter 1
October 2, 1984
A fine mist hung low over West View Cemetery. The only sound was the lull of traffic from Parkridge Highway that filtered down along the winding frontage road. An occasional car sped down the pot-holed country blacktop bordering the graveyard.
Andre Haskim sat quietly in his parked car and gulped down the last swallow of his beer. As happened at times, his misshapen lips caused some of the alcohol to trickle down the side of his chin forcing him to use his sleeve as a napkin. Haskim could not have been in a place more acclimated to one whose features so resembled a decaying corpse. He had been there earlier in the day, moving mysteriously, hiding his distorted face, searching through the headstones until he found the right grave. It had taken him some time to locate it because he could not risk asking information from anyone who worked there. The following day there would be an investigation of a macabre event and someone who looked as he did would have immediately been put under scrutiny.
What he had decided to do did not in any way offend his sense of decency, because he had no such sense left. One thing did bother him though. The gravesite was just a short way down a curving lane to where a dilapidated house sat on the property. The home belonged to the cemetery’s caretaker, a crusted-over, gray-haired ancient who may very well have looked more at home in a cemetery than even Haskim. Haskim would have to be as quiet as possible in carrying out his task. There was too much at stake.
The night was cool and damp, the graves themselves seemingly seeping fog from some unholy place. Not even a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the trees interspersed in the graveyard. It was 1:22 am and all was still. Morning would not come for at least four more hours. Hopefully, he would be long gone before the pale light of dawn revealed his hellish deed.
When he pushed the button that popped the trunk, the noise seemed to scream across the expanse of pavement and race through the graveyard to summon the dead. Dressed all in black, Haskim got out and retrieved the shovel he had brought with him. In his other hand he carried two cans of beer still secured to their six-pack plastic holder. He would need some refreshment to help him through this night.
In the distance two headlights warned of an approaching vehicle. He scampered across the asphalt and nearly tripped in the gravel shoulder where it sloped drastically down into a shallow ravine bordering the black rail fence that ran along the perimeter of the cemetery. Haskim stayed low in the grass and waited until the car went by. In the driver’s seat of the passing vehicle, a stone-faced gray haired woman stared straight ahead oblivious to the grotesque figure peeking out through the tall weeds. Satisfied the coast was clear, the thief pitched his shovel over the fence. A brick pillar gave him sufficient foothold to mount the barrier and within moments he was traipsing through the graveyard trying to orient himself to his destination.
In his black garb, Haskim was like a shadow drifting in the dark. Only an occasional flash of moonshine lit his silhouette as he darted through the head stones lurching along in that hobbling limp his condition demanded.
In the dim light, the marble stones glowed chalky white. Farther ahead the tall mausoleum Haskim was searching for stood tall against the sky.
The would-be-thief found the grave he was looking for and set up his flashlight so it pointed directly on the area where he would be digging.
Fear began to well up inside him. For some reason the past flashed through Haskim’s mind, all the things that he had been through, and now this, the plundering of a grave. But it would all be worth it if he found what he sought. Haskim put on the heavy gardening gloves he had brought with him for protection. No doubt the amount of shoveling he would need to do would tear at the thin skin covering his deformed hands.
Down the curving lane sat the caretaker’s house, a sloping cabin with a short porch surrounded by a dilapidated picket fence. The shack stood bracing a hillside as smoke trailed from the crumbling brick chimney that rose from the roof. All the lights were out except for one dim bulb illuminating a curtained room. Suddenly a German Shepherd came racing around from the back of the house and began barking in the intruder’s direction. Haskim quickly sat down and waited for the dog to quit. A sharp voice from inside the house turned the dog’s attention for a moment. The animal got the message that he was to stop, but his gaze remained fixed toward Haskim, his frustration revealed by a low growl.
Haskim fretted over what to do. It appeared that the slightest irregular noise would be detected by the dog and its incessant vigilance would soon reveal Haskim’s presence. A sudden gust of wind approached from the west and spread across the grounds like a wave. The breeze filtered through the trees before the intensity waned.
As quietly as he could, Haskim rose and began digging. Unfortunately the dirt forced him to thrust hard with the shovel head to break the ground. It only took two jabs against the earth to arouse the dog once again. The German Shepherd resumed its loud barking forcing Haskim to hide behind a tree. Perhaps he would have to abandon his effort that night and return the next day with a poison steak because he would not be able to carry out his task with so vigilant a sentry on duty. The dog raced along the fence line barking as he went.
“Willy, shut the hell up!” a voice from inside the shack yelled.
But this time Willy would not be silenced. His barking continued as ferociously as ever.
Panic began to engulf Haskim. Just as he was about to withdraw, a man came out from the house shouting once again at the dog. He came to the fence and grabbed Willy by the collar bringing the dog up short before staring out over the graveyard toward the area where Haskim remained hidden. For a few moments the man held his gaze trying to detect what had frenzied his dog into such a state. Haskim peeked from the side of the tree and held his breath. The dog’s owner was dressed in shorts and was not wearing any shoes. Haskim reasoned that the man would not be interested in traipsing through the graveyard barefooted looking for a rabbit or deer whose presence so infuriated the animal.
The caretaker mumbled something unintelligible and then pulled Willy with him back to the house. To Haskim’s relief, the man forced the dog inside and shut the door.
Haskim went back to work. The top layer of the ground was easy to remove due to the heavy rains of the previous days. After the first foot or so however, he met with more thick, pasty clay. Every scoopful required heavy exertion. By the time he had dug down two feet, he had to stop and catch his breath. He leaned against a nearby headstone and popped open a beer.
Haskim’s hands ached terribly. The flesh was especially susceptible to tearing at the creases due to the lack of its elasticity. At the base of his thumb the skin was already bleeding from a seam that had opened up. Haskim gave himself a few moments of rest beneath a tree.
The idleness, he soon discovered, allowed macabre thoughts to enter his head. What could he expect to find in the casket? What does a body look like after such a long time? What was the stench going to be like? But most of all he wondered whether the thing he was after would really be there. He admitted to himself that he did not have much to go on, only a vague suggestion.
Well, what did he care? If it wasn’t there, it wasn’t there. After all he’d been through, digging up a corpse was a relative picnic. He could do that.
He was prepared to do a lot worse.
Haskim finished his beer and returned to his task. His nervousness and the alcohol running through his veins fueled him on. Scoopful after scoopful the hole widened. His hands and shoulders began to ache more than ever and he needed to take another break. Every once in a while he heard the muffled barks of the German Shepherd from inside the caretaker’s house. The dog refused to give up. As he progressed deeper and deeper into the pit, the hole he found himself enclosed in made him more and more panicky. Haskim’s bravado faltered. He trembled as much from the exertion as the dread running through his head. The one saving grace of being in the pit was that the walls of the enclosure deadened any noise he made.
