He yawned and closed his eyes, but couldn't sleep and laid there in the dark, mind racing, thinking about Sharon. At midnight he got up, went in the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, and brushed his teeth. He put on a black sweater and black jeans and a dark-blue jacket. He put the two extra magazines in his jacket pockets and slid the SIG Sauer in his jeans behind his back.
He walked down two flights of stairs, went through the lobby, and handed his key to the night clerk. He went outside and got in his car and drove back toward Don Gennaro's villa, 3.7 kilometers from Mentana. He'd clocked it coming and going the first time. When he'd gone 3.5 kilometers he slowed down and looked for a place to pull in the woods and did, backing in so he had a clear view of the road, and a fast way out. He heard a car approaching, and saw the flash of headlights as it zoomed past him.
He looked at the clock on the dash. It was 12:27 a.m. He took off the jacket, folded it on the passenger seat. Gripped the SIG Sauer, got out of the car and waited for his eyes to adjust. It was difficult to see in dense woods under an overcast sky, strangely quiet too, not a sound. He used a compass to guide him through the woods and got to the villa fifteen minutes later, hanging back in the tree line, watching the front of the place that was dark, all the lights off. He was about to come out of the woods and cross the twenty-yard expanse of grass to the villa, but saw something move, a shadow near the entrance, and a man appeared, coming out of the darkness with a dog, looked like a German shepherd, on a leash, lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his direction. He didn't like the idea of a dog.
That changed everything. They'd obviously screwed things down. Security was a lot tighter after his visit that afternoon.
Ray went around the side of the villa where woods met olive grove and moved through the trees close to the veranda. Two more men with shotguns were standing on the upper level, smoking. One was holding a dog on a leash. Ray moved back through the grove to the far side of the villa and noticed two first-floor windows open a couple inches. The bottom of the window was five feet off the ground. He reached up, opened both sides and slipped the gun in his waist behind his back and hoisted himself up and in. He stepped down onto the kitchen floor next to an industrial stove, stood and listened, heard a clock ticking. He pulled the windows closed, moved into the dining room with its tile floor and long wooden table, moved through an archway into a room the size of a hotel lobby, with a fireplace you could walk into and furniture groupings, with framed paintings on the walls, with statuary and antiquity around the perimeter, moved through an archway into an elegant smaller room with a grand piano, and moved through a final archway into the foyer. There was a spiral staircase with an ornate railing that curved up to the second level.
Ray climbed the stairs and walked down a long hallway with bedrooms on both sides. He went all the way to the end and opened the door. There was a four-post antique bed with a canopy over it, and Don Gennaro in the middle of it, snoring away.
The model was in the next room on the right. He could see her left shoulder and part of her back, sleeping naked in a bed similar to the don's. There was no one in the next three rooms.
The beds were made and the closets were empty. There was no one in the sixth bedroom, either, but there was a framed photograph of Joey on the desk, Joey in a tux, grinning, a champagne glass in his hand.
There were clothes hanging in the closet, shirts, pants and a couple sport coats. He found receipts in two of the shirt pockets, and slipped them in his jeans. He didn't see any women's clothes, nothing of Sharon's, no sign of her. Maybe they were traveling. He looked out the window, the clouds had scattered and he could see a half moon now, illuminating the veranda, the guards still standing there with the dog. He wasn't sure what to do. He walked out of the room, looked down the hall and saw someone at the top of the stairs, coming toward him.
Mauro had not slept for twenty hours, and yet he was not tired. He had walked around the villa every hour, checking with the guards. They had not seen or heard anything suspicious, although one of the dogs was barking at a deer that wandered out of the woods, but deer were common enough. He thought about what happened earlier and admitted to himself that it was possible no one had been in the grove.
There was also the business with Roberto Mazara. That too was on his mind. Mazara had stood in front of Don Gennaro and said he would bring him the money he owed within forty-eight hours, and then had disappeared. Only that morning Mauro had visited the man's apartment in Trastevere. He was not there and no one in the other apartments knew anything about him.
He had walked from the don's office into the foyer, listening to the silence and thought he heard something upstairs — a door closing? He was not sure and went up to check.
There were sconces on the walls on both sides of the hallway, lights set to dim, but giving illumination. He saw the dark shape of a man come out of Joey's room and reached for the knife.
Ray saw him take something out of his pocket and heard the metallic snap, and saw the flash of the blade. Even in the subdued light Ray recognized him as the skinny Sicilian that had chased him earlier that afternoon, and recognized the knife as a stiletto. Ray could draw the SIG Sauer and blow him away, but that would attract attention and things would get crazy. He wanted to get in, find Sharon and get out without any trouble. That wasn't going to be possible now.
The Sicilian came at him, circling to the right, right arm extended, fist gripping the handle, blade angled forward, pointing at him. Ray raised his arms in a karate stance as the Sicilian moved toward him, faking right, going left, slashing air.
Ray stepped back, watching his feet. He was quick, moving like a boxer. Punched with the blade, like he was throwing a jab, connected and Ray felt the sting as it went through his forearm, and knew he was in trouble. The Sicilian stepped right, jabbed and missed, but kept coming. Jabbed again, and this time Ray timed it, grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and threw him over his hip into the wall. He bounced off and Ray chopped him on the back of the neck and he went down and didn't move.
Ray ran for the stairs and retraced his steps back to the kitchen. His arm was throbbing, sleeve soaked with blood. He pulled it up and looked. Enough light from the moon now to see a deep puncture wound that looked like it went through his left forearm, blood streaming out, rolling down his arm. He scanned the kitchen and saw an apron and ripped off a strip of fabric, and wrapped it tight around the wound, tied it and pulled the bloodstained sleeve down over it.
Ray pushed the window open and went through it, and dropped to the ground. He crouched next to the wall of the villa, listening, but didn't hear anything and took off, running through the grove to the woods. He'd gone a couple hundred yards when he heard the dogs. The pain in his arm was getting sharper, more severe. He switched the SIG Sauer from his left hand to his right. Figured he was halfway to the car, and took off again. There was enough moonlight to see where he was going, running, slipping between trees and moving around them.
He saw light ahead where the forest ended. Heard the dogs, saw the Fiat, dogs closing in, got to it and opened the door, got in and closed it as they hit, two German shepherds banging into the side of the car, jumping at the window, jaws snapping, trying to get him through the glass.
He started the Fiat and floored it out of the woods, dogs chasing him down the road for thirty, forty yards then giving up. He drove back to Mentana. Found a first-aid kit in the armrest between the rear seats and took it with him in the hotel, bloody arm covered by the jacket, stopping at the front desk to get his key, and taking the elevator to his room.
He went in the bathroom, turned on the light and took off his jacket and sweater. He cut off the blood-soaked cloth with a scissors in the first-aid kit, and examined the wound. He was cut deep and needed stitches. But where was he going to get stitches in the middle of the night in Mentana, Italy? He squeezed disinfectant into the cut and wrapped his arm with gauze and surgical tape from the first-aid kit, and took four Motrin for the pain.
Ray heard his BlackBerry beeping in the bedroom. It was a text message from Teegarden saying Sharon had checked into the Hotel d'Inghilterra on Via Bocca di Leone 14, two days ago. That might explain why she wasn't at Carlo Gennaro's villa and why Joey wasn't there either. He was probably with her.
Ray looked at his watch. It was 2:40 a.m. His arm throbbed. He could see a spot of blood blotting the bandage, getting bigger. He was tired but the news about Sharon energized him. He'd drive back to Rome, get some sleep and surprise her in the morning.
