Fatal Error, page 5
She looked at him. “This afternoon?”
“Business.” He hung up his suit. “I’ll be back soon.”
Elena kissed him again, more thoroughly this time. “Be careful, okay.” She squeezed his arm. “We’re all looking forward to spending more time together.” She left the room, chasing the kids down to the pool.
Enzo took a new shirt and pair of jeans from a plastic bag at the back of his closet, and ripped off the tags. He checked his appearance in the mirror. The shirt was light brown, the jeans an average indigo. He donned a new pair of dark brown boots from a box. Satisfied his appearance wouldn’t draw any attention, he stuffed the plastic bag, the tags, and the wrapping paper into the box.
He opened a safe at the rear of his closet. Inside were guns, knives, and a few hundred rounds of ammunition. He snagged a small pill bottle. He turned it over in his hand before returning it to the safe. Cyanide was too quick for what he had in mind.
He selected a hunting knife with a serrated edge and a wicked curved end for gutting animals. From the guns, he took a mini-Uzi 9mm, checked the safety, and tucked the gun in his belt. Several rounds of ammunition, just in case he needed it. He didn’t expect to.
He printed two small pictures from his computer. One of the cartridges in his printer was low, so the pictures had a yellowish tint, but they were good enough. He trimmed around the edges, removing all the white paper.
From his desk, he selected a box of thumbtacks.
He headed downstairs to the kitchen, and filled a plastic bag with the remains of a bread loaf, half a pound of cheese, and a string bag of over-ripe cherry tomatoes.
From a drawer, he selected an eight-inch chef’s knife with a sheath. A German make. Sharp with a good handle.
He topped the bag with an orange, three bottles of water, and a single plastic sandwich bag, the type with a leak-proof seal.
Enzo loaded his supplies into an aging Fiat hatchback that had once been a light shade of blue. He donned aviator-style sunglasses and headed out of the villa.
Fifty minutes later, he pulled off the road at a rusting iron gate on an unmade path that led into a dense forest. The land had been purchased by his grandfather before Enzo was born. Fifty acres of rough ground, unsuitable for building.
Not that he had any intention of building on the land. Special rights for hunting had been granted in the mid-1600s by the somewhat bloodthirsty King Emmanuel II. A sign warned that the land was a private hunting ground. Enzo smiled at the thought. He had no interest in stalking his dinner, but the threat of being shot kept the merely inquisitive visitors away.
The gate creaked as he swung it open, and again as he closed it.
The Fiat bounced over ruts and potholes, and he made his way slowly along a lane deeper into the woods. Just as the tree’s canopy threatened to blot out all light, he emerged into a small clearing, and parked the car.
At the center of the clearing was a cabin.
Vines and brambles had long ago climbed its wooden exterior. The windows were painted black on the inside, and the door was sealed with a combination padlock.
He spun the padlock’s dial three times. Forward, backward, forward. Each time stopping at a carefully memorized prime number.
The lock sprang open.
Enzo entered the cabin and bolted the door out of habit. The bolt provided little extra security for the dilapidated structure. One good push and the entire building would fall over.
He lifted a trapdoor in the middle of the floor, switched on a light at the bottom of the shaft, and climbed down the ladder into the gloom.
The air below ground was cool and humid. The stink of ploughed earth permeated everything. He groped along the rocks until he found a light switch, and flipped it on. The bulbs cast small pools of yellow light on rough rock walls and an only-slightly-smoother floor that sloped down into the earth.
He walked along the slope to a section where the tunnel widened. A rough-hewn wooden table sat incongruously against one wall. A bundle of leather straps and a silver camping light were strewn on top. The camping light looked antique, but he flicked a switch and two banks of LEDs cast a pool of cold blue light around the table. Under the glare, he selected two leather straps, one with a metal hoop, and the other with a large buckle on the end.
Beneath the table was a stack of black plastic bags. The bags slipped from their neat stack as he turned up the corners, counting.
The industrial-sized bags were thicker and larger than household trash bags, but couldn’t hold an entire human body. Not one that was intact, anyway.
He shuffled the bags back into place. There were four. He patted the pile. More than enough.
He pointed the camping light down the tunnel. He heard scratching, scraping, and movement on the ground. He flicked the light back and forth. Some of the nocturnal residents were more than substantial enough to cause bites and diseases and other problems. Best to clear them the easy way, with the light instead of the gun.
A row of thick, dark doors hung open on the right side of the tunnel. Some scraped the ground, some were long separated from their hinges, but some were intact. Thick heavy wood, iron banding, and solid hinges, but they had stood the test of time.
There were five doors, ten feet apart, each with a one-inch spy hole bored through the ancient wood. Each was sealed by a heavy wooden bar running across the door’s width and resting in thick metal hooks on each side. Apart from the spy holes, which were added sometime later, the doors were as old as the tunnels. The miners who’d once plied their trade here would have recognized them.
He walked to the last door. It was his habit. Start at the farthest end. Which made sense if they were going to be filling up the rooms. But they never had. People were usually either sensible enough not to defy them, or worthless enough to die long before they reached that point.
He checked the spy hole in the last door by holding the camping light close.
A heavyset man huddled in the corner, cuffed to one of the many rusty metal spikes in the walls and floor. His bright green polo shirt contrasted with his soiled jeans. His thin hair stuck to his head, and several days’ stubble darkened his jaw. His head was angled down. He shuffled backward, pressing himself against the rock as if he believed it could swallow him whole.
Enzo pushed open the door. “Hello, Wilson.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Enzo stepped into the room, and dropped the plastic bag on the ground. “Food.”
Wilson’s gaze hovered over the bag before sinking back to the ground.
“I have news.”
Wilson grunted.
Enzo pinned the yellowed pictures to the back of the door. “You don’t want to hear?”
Wilson breathed hard. “What?”
“Your parents’ luggage made it across the Atlantic.”
Wilson looked sideways at him. “Leave them alone.”
“My, my. You do love them, don’t you?” Enzo’s sarcasm belied his smile. What a fool Grantly was. The last in a long line of fools Marek had chosen, thank god.
Wilson turned his face toward the light. “If you’ve hurt—”
Enzo’s laugh taunted. “The luggage? No.”
Wilson glowered from the tiny eyes in his doughy face.
“You mean mom and dad? Interesting you should ask.” Laughter faded from Enzo’s voice, replaced by annoyance and anger. “They didn’t arrive, you see. Just their luggage. Two suitcases. One each. With their names on them. But no money. And no sign of mommy and daddy. No sign anywhere. Strange that. Don’t you think?”
Wilson scowled even as he crabbed backward into the corner again.
“It leaves us with a situation.” Enzo dropped the leather straps on the ground. The hooks and loops landed with a satisfying thunk. “A difficult situation.”
Wilson stared at the straps, eyes wide. His mouth formed an “O” and his chin quivered.
“You see,” Enzo took an exaggeratedly deep breath and exhaled very, very slowly, “the luggage had no money in it.”
Wilson shuffled his knees up, shrinking farther into the shadows.
“Maybe they don’t think so much of you?” Enzo frowned. “A lot less than you gave them credit for, anyway.”
Wilson breathed in rapid, shallow gasps through clenched teeth.
“I thought they did. We talked. They seemed concerned. Cooperative, even.” Enzo bent to retrieve one of the straps and formed a loop. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I thought they understood. No money. No Wilson. Pretty simple concept, really.”
Wilson shook his head fast and whimpered as he dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself as far back as he could move before the cold earth blocked all retreat.
Before he could move again, Enzo snapped the loop tight around Wilson’s free hand and wrapped the strap over a metal spike on Wilson’s right side.
Wilson pulled his arm toward his chest. Enzo yanked the strap back. The spike’s extra leverage wrenched Wilson’s arm straight. Wilson squealed. Enzo doubled the strap’s loop around the spike before cinching the end.
Wilson’s eyes darted between the strap and Enzo.
“You understand that, don’t you?” Enzo didn’t smile. His voice was colder than Arctic air.
Wilson pulled at the strap.
“Not complicated at all.” Enzo shook his head with mock sorrow. “No money. No Wilson.”
Wilson kept up the tension on the strap.
“Very, very simple.”
Wilson hyperventilated. Enzo narrowed his eyes and gazed into the dark corner to be sure Wilson hadn’t passed out too soon.
“Simple…but they didn’t pay.”
Wilson’s mouth hung open. He breathed rapidly through the open maw. Gulping air.
“So, now…”
Wilson’s panting came faster. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “They have the money.”
Enzo nodded sorrowfully again. “So you said.”
“They do. They do.” Wilson’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I know for sure. I’ve seen it.”
Enzo scoffed. “Perhaps they don’t want to spend it on their son?”
Wilson’s eyes went wide. “They will. They will. They wouldn’t leave me. Really. They wouldn’t. Not—”
Enzo picked up the second strap. “But they have.”
Wilson swallowed. “No.”
Enzo slipped one end of the strap through a metal loop.
Wilson shook his head. “No.”
Enzo snapped the leather tight. “Yes.” He bent and whipped the leather loop around Wilson’s ankle. Wilson kicked, but the metal loop clamped down on the strap. Enzo wrapped the strap around a rung in the floor, pulling hard, stretching Wilson spread-eagle on the floor. He bucked, throwing his weight against the leather and chains. “No, no!”
Enzo slipped the free end of the strap through the loops, leaving Wilson’s own efforts to pull it tight.
Wilson froze. “A mistake.”
Enzo shook his head. “No mistake.”
“You must have got the wrong luggage.”
“It had their name on it.”
“It can’t—”
“I was there. Their luggage. No parents. No money.”
“But—”
“Someone thinks they can mess with me.”
“No, no.”
“I don’t like it when people think they can do that and get away with it.” Enzo slid the chef’s knife from his bag. “So, I wondered what to do.”
Wilson’s eyes stretched wider. “They have the money. They can get it.”
Enzo nodded. “I’m sure they can.”
“Yes, yes. They can. They can.”
“All they need is the correct motivation.”
“Let me talk to them. They’ll get the money.”
“I expect my instructions to be followed.”
“I know.”
“To the letter.”
“I know. They have the money. I can get it.”
“I told them what would happen if they did not follow instructions.” Enzo knelt down, putting a boot on Wilson’s hand, splaying it on the floor.
Wilson thrashed from side to side, pulling hard. “No, no. I can get it from them. They have it.”
Enzo shifted more weight to his boot. “We gave them instructions.”
Wilson panted. “I can get it.”
“They didn’t follow them.”
“Let me, let me talk to them. Let me talk to them.”
“So, we need to make sure they understand us.”
“I can—”
Enzo pressed the knife against Wilson’s knuckles. “One thumb, or two fingers?”
Wilson bucked side to side in his leather restraints. He curled his fingers a fraction. “No! No!”
Wilson’s terror was more valuable to Enzo than his fingers. On the farm, severed finger injuries were common. Not lethal. He wouldn’t die from severed fingers. But terror would make him and his foolish parents pay.
Enzo shifted more weight onto Wilson’s hand, and pressed the knife harder into the flesh.
Wilson’s fingers went white with strain. “NO, NO, NO.”
“It was simple. No money. No Wilson.”
Enzo cut skin.
Wilson threw his weight back and forth in the harnesses. “NO, NO. PLEASE. THEY HAVE THE MONEY. PLEASE. I BEG YOU. THEY HAVE THE MONEY. THEY HAVE IT.”
Blood oozed around the blade. “I know they have it.”
“IT WAS A MISTAKE. PLEASE. A MISTAKE. OLD PEOPLE. PLEASE GOD. PLEASE!”
Enzo leaned forward. “All they need is the correct motivation.” He shifted his weight to the knife. Gripping. Pushing. Sliding. There was little resistance. A softness. A hardness. A pop.
And blood.
Wilson screamed. His voice coarse and hard and spitting. The air tearing from his lungs, clawing at his throat. Anger and agony. Lots of agony. He snatched breaths, short and sharp, filling his lungs to do it again. Breath, breath, scream. Breath, breath, scream.
Blood poured. A momentary gush. Pressure being released. Wilson arched his back. His pain hauling him from the floor. His core pulling at his limbs, tearing at the straps and chains.
Enzo stepped back. The leather straps were stretched close to breaking. But Wilson broke first. He lurched. Twisting sideways. One arm flailing unnaturally. Dislocated.
Enzo plucked the severed finger from the warm liquid, and dropped it into the sandwich bag. He slid his fingers across the opening, sealing it.
He pulled on each strap in the opposite direction to Wilson’s agony-fueled straining, releasing the cinches, and un-looping the ends from Wilson’s limbs.
Wilson clutched at his bloodied hand with his free arm, and curled as far as the chains allowed. Fetal comfort to the shock gripping his body and soul.
Enzo closed the door and dropped the wooden bar into the iron clasps.
Wilson’s voice modulated between moaning, crying, and screaming.
He was weak.
Unlike his parents. Enzo respected them a bit more. They didn’t show up. They didn’t send money. That took nerve. He hadn’t expected the ancient couple to have more courage than their worthless son. But they did.
Enzo sighed. On the other hand, what they’d done was stupid. Testing him. Challenging him. Failing to pay the ransom was a gamble with their son’s life. A braver move than most would have made.
Yet their luggage had been on the flight, and the ROS were waiting at the airport. So how brave were they? Perhaps they’d foolishly believed the police could save them.
Idiots.
He walked up the incline, and dropped the leather straps on the coffee table.
And what of the young American woman? The one with the blonde curls? What was her part in all this?
Police chased her and she ran, so she wasn’t police herself.
Wilson had no sister. Perhaps a more distant family member? Would his parents have risked sending a woman?
He shook his head. Instinct told him she wasn’t sent by the parents.
Perhaps she had heard about their money? That they were carrying the cash in their luggage? If she knew, perhaps she was a thief.
But then, she was chasing the luggage. So she hadn’t stolen the money before the luggage was taken.
He shook his head again. It was a puzzle, to be sure.
He made his way back to the ladder and climbed up. Whatever her involvement, things were not as they seemed.
The luggage, the woman, and the ransom money were connected, to each other and to Luigi’s disappearance.
But how?
There were too many oddities. He needed more information.
He lowered the cover over the shaft, and clicked the padlock into place. He didn’t know how the woman was connected to the parents. Not yet. But when he did, he would have his money.
And Wilson, at least, would be dead. With a bit of luck, the woman and the parents, too.
CHAPTER NINE
Jess walked out of the Foto Oggi offices with the cover editor’s card in her hand. The man had been abrupt until she mentioned Taboo Magazine. Her worldwide publication held significant influence in certain circles, which was one of the many reasons Jess worked there.
He’d dispatched a junior staffer to run the facial recognition search on her video, attempting to match the man’s face to photos in Foto Oggi’s archives. Jess had her hopes up for a few minutes until he said it would take twenty-four hours to obtain the results. A lie. He planned to do his own research on the black-haired man and see what he could turn up.
She’d have argued, but there was little point. She could agree, and stand a chance of getting an answer, or argue and get none at all.
Romeo waited outside, guarding his bike from traffic wardens, thieves, and joy riders. “Success?”
She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but her phone rang. Morris’s number appeared on the display. Turning her back on Romeo, she answered the call.
“You still at your hotel?” Morris said.
“I’m…out and about.”
“You sent me a text. You heading over here?”
“I am. Now.”
There was a long silence. “What are you doing, Jess?”
