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Heidi exits and comes down the steps to take the basket.
At the front door, my mother turns around. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I have business to take care of. I’ll be home for lunch.”
She nods and disappears into the house.
My grip on the roof of the car is hard. I feel like punching something. Someone. I loosen my fingers one by one and get back into the car.
The new man runs up. He takes off his cap and clutches it in his hands. “Do you want me to park the car, sir?”
“No.” I study him through the window, lowering it a crack. “It’s Cusso, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll probably need a wash when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.”
He steps back when I pull off. I don’t close the window. I open it all the way, letting the cold air clear my head. Anger has a way of messing with my mind. I don’t see things straight when fury obscures my reason.
Even though I haven’t been there, I don’t need to put the location where I’m headed into the GPS. I know this island like the back of my hand. I know the roads and where they lead, even the ones I’ve never travelled on.
While I drive, I activate my phone via voice command. Our lawyer left a message to say he’ll pick up the contract Edwards signed in the afternoon. He’ll ensure that copies are made and validated with a police affidavit before the original is locked in the safe. That’s good to know, but it’s not the message I’m interested in. There’s still nothing from Sabella. Roch sent me a text yesterday to let me know he replaced the phone Sabella threw into the sea.
If she thinks she can get rid of me that easily, she’s got me figured out all wrong.
My thoughts alternate between Sabella’s visit at the golf estate and what this morning’s events mean until, a good two hours later, I take a dirt road that snakes into a crevice between two hills. It’s only a little over a hundred kilometers from our house, but the narrow, treacherous mountain roads make driving slow.
A layer of snow covers the ground. The white is a dirty brown at the bottom of the gorge where it’s been trampled to slush. A few tents and shacks stand haphazardly around a big fire pit near a frozen stream. It’s neither a village, nor a farm. It can’t even be called a settlement. A funnel of smoke rises from the dying embers in the pit, dispersing into the air. Even the sky looks grayer here, like a scene belonging in a black-and-white picture.
I don’t dare drive all the way to the bottom. The tires will get stuck in the mush. I pull off where the road widens, not that I expect other traffic here, and get out.
A few kids come running at the sight of my car. They’re black-haired and snot-nosed with weather-hardened skins.
“You want weed?” the oldest of the lot asks.
Freckles dust his nose. On closer inspection, I notice that his skin isn’t as freckled as it’s dirty. Their clothes are tattered. Roughly knit jerseys of mixed colors and threads hang on their frames. Their toes stick through the holes in their shoes. One kid’s shoes are stuffed with crumpled newspaper to fill up those gaps.
“You want fucking weed or not?” the kid says, taking a flip knife from his pocket and showing me the blade.
My tone is emotionless. I’m still processing the sight, not sure what to make of it. “No.”
He swings the knife in my direction. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Yeah.” A younger kid wipes snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “What’s your business here?”
“Where are your parents?”
The oldest who’s obviously in charge shrugs. “Who knows?”
A tiny one with a musical voice says, “They haven’t been home in a long time.”
The voice belongs to a girl. Her hair is cropped short, and her tiny frame is wrapped in dirty rags. At first sight, I mistook her for a boy.
“Grandpa is home,” she says, pointing with a dirty fingernail at one of the shacks.
I make my way down the slippery path with the oldest boy following closely on my heels and the other kids making a raucous noise.
A stooped old man exits from the shanty the girl indicated. A pipe hangs from the corner of his mouth, and in his hands, he carries a shotgun.
“What’ll be your business?” he shouts before I reach him.
“I’m Angelo Russo.”
He scrunches up his face. “Who?”
“Teresa’s son.”
His bushy eyebrows draw together, and then he laughs so hard the pipe falls from his mouth.
I stop in front of him, waiting until he’s wiped the tears from his eyes with a grimy hand. He shoves the shotgun into the oldest boy’s arms who returns the gun to the shack.
