“We were waiting while they put the kids in a room, figuring we could move more easily that way.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Seven. It looked like a kindergarten. They’re all okay. We killed one of the men, and another surrendered. You shot the third guy. That pretty much covers it. Now can I call someone to give me a hand?”
When the inspector regained consciousness, he was inside a car with Gallo at the wheel. Fazio was behind him with his arms around him, as the car bounced high along a road full of holes. They had removed his sweater and improvised a temporary bandage over the wound. He felt no pain from it; perhaps that would come later. He tried to speak, but on first try nothing came out, because his lips were too dry.
“. . . Livia . . .’s flying in . . . this morning . . . Punta Raisi.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Fazio. “One of us will go pick her up, you can count on it.”
“Where are you . . . taking me?”
“To Montechiaro hospital. It’s the closest.”
Then something happened that Fazio found frightening. He realized that the noise coming from Montalbano was not a cough or him clearing his throat. The inspector was laughing. What was there to laugh about in this situation?
“What’s so funny, Chief?” he asked, concerned.
“I wanted to screw . . . my guardian angel . . . by not going to the doctor . . . But he . . . screwed me . . . by sending me to the hospital.”
Hearing this answer, Fazio got really scared. The inspector was apparently delirious. More terrifying still was the injured Montalbano’s sudden yell.
“Stop the car!”
Gallo slammed on the brakes; the car skidded.
“Up there . . . is that . . . the fork in the road?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Take the road to Tricase.”
“But, Chief . . .” Fazio cut in.
“I said take the road to Tricase.”
Gallo started out slowly, turned right, and then almost at once Montalbano ordered him to stop.
“Put on your brights.”
Gallo obeyed, and the inspector leaned out the car window. The mound of gravel was no longer there. It had been used to level the road.
“It’s better this way.”
Suddenly, the wound began to hurt him terribly.
“Let’s go to the hospital,” he said.
They drove off.
“Oh, Fazio, another thing . . . ,” he continued with great effort, running a dry tongue over his parched lips, “don’t forget . . . don’t forget . . . to tell Pontius Pilate . . . he’s at the Hotel Regina.”
“Of course we’ll tell him, Chief, of course. Just stay calm. I’ll do it myself, first thing.”
It was too much of an effort to talk, to explain. Montalbano let himself go, falling into a half swoon. Fazio, all sweaty from the fright these meaningless words were giving him, leaned forward and whispered to Gallo:
“Come on, for Chrissakes, step on it! Can’t you see the Chief’s not right in the head?”
Author’s Note
The names, characters, and situations represented in this novel are, of course, wholly invented.
The statistics on the illegal immigration of minors into Italy, on the other hand, are drawn from an investigation by Carmelo Abbate and Paolo Ciccioli, published in the September 19, 2002, edition of
Notes
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