no.”
Marzilla managed to answer only after he’d swallowed and run his tongue over his lips.
“Yes.”
“Good. When you got to San Gregorio Hospital, you were supposed to drop the woman and her kids off in front of the emergency room door, without accompanying them inside. You were even lucky enough to get an urgent call to go to Scroglitti, which gave you a good excuse for acting the way you did. Answer.”
“Yes.”
“Was the ambulance driver your accomplice?”
“Yes. I slip him a hundred euros each time.”
“How many times have you done this?”
“Twice.”
“And were there children with the adults both times?”
Marzilla swallowed two or three times before answering.
“Yes.”
“Where do you sit during these runs?”
“It depends. Sometimes in front with the driver, sometimes in back, with the people we’re carrying.”
“And during the run I’m investigating, where did you sit?”
“For a while, in front.”
“Then you went in back?”
Marzilla was sweating. He was in trouble.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Could I have some water?”
“No.”
Marzilla gave him a frightened look.
“If you won’t tell me yourself, I’ll tell you. You had to go in back because one of the kids, the oldest, the six- year-old, wanted at all costs to get out of the car, he wanted to escape. Am I right?”
Marzilla nodded yes.
“What did you do then?”
The medic said something so softly that the inspector didn’t so much hear it as intuit it.
“Gave him a shot? To put him to sleep?”
“No. A sedative.”
“Who held the kid down?”
“His mother. Or whoever she was.”
“And what were the other kids doing?”
“Crying.”
“Was the kid you gave the shot to also crying?”
“No.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was biting his lips. Till they bled.”
Montalbano stood up slowly. He felt a kind of tingling in his legs.
“Please look at me.”
The medic raised his head and looked at him. The first slap, to the left cheek, was so fierce that it turned the man’s head almost completely around; the second caught him just as he was turning back around and cuffed his nose, triggering a stream of blood. The man didn’t even try to wipe it off, letting the blood stain his shirt and jacket. Montalbano sat back down.
“You’re getting my floor all dirty. The bathroom’s down the hall on the right. Go clean yourself up. The kitchen’s across the hall. There should be some ice in the freezer. You know what to do, being a nurse when you’re not torturing small children.”
The whole time the man was fussing about in the bathroom and kitchen, Montalbano tried hard not to think about the scene Marzilla had just described to him, that hell shrunken down to the little space inside the ambulance, the terror in those eyes open wide on the violence . . .
And it was he who had taken that child by the hand and turned him over to the horror. He couldn’t forgive himself . . . It was no use repeating to himself that he’d thought he was doing the right thing . . . He mustn’t think about it, mustn’t give into the rage, if he wanted to continue the interrogation. Marzilla returned. He’d made an ice pack with his handkerchief and held this over his nose with one hand, his head bent slightly backwards. He sat down in front of the inspector without a word.
