Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Ten

“God’s will has been done,” said the caller.

Feeling triumphant and reassured that fate was on their side, Il Segreto calmly replied, “Our will has been done. Our destiny has been satisfied.”

“I have one piece of bad news. Wilde checked out of the hospital.”

Il Segreto did not like surprises. “He should have been immobilized for three days. Where is he?”

“At his home I assume. What should we do next?”

Il Segreto paused to think. Wilde could not stand in their way. “He’ll know for sure that Spaventa was right. We must go after Alice.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

Il Segreto twisted the phone in his hand. “Killing him is more dangerous. Alice is his Achilles heel. You watch Estelle and Dorian and leave Alice to me.”

“As you say,” said the caller and hung up.

Il Segreto dialed Talarico.

“Antonio! Listen carefully and do as I say.”

Il Segreto gave Talarico instructions and then made a second call. Alice Rowe was in for the night of her life.
After talking to her new friend Antonio, Alice mixed a can of tuna into a bowl of green salad. Carb-conscious, she allowed herself one piece of rye bread, no butter. Television bored her except for Law and Order. She’d watched every episode at least twice. She liked nights where she could sit around in her panties, no bra and an old tee shirt. Lounging around late at night, dressed down on her sofa without the lights on reminded her of college days and a time of emotional release, discovery and the frightening adrenalin rush that a group of dedicated people could change the world. Is that the feeling that motivates Camorra and the Philadelphes and the terrorists to plot and kill fight the larger and more powerful established, legitimate order?

She snuggled into the sofa and a quick nap. The insistent blare of her cell phone roused her. The caller ID surprised her.

“Hello Marian,” said Alice.

“Sorry to call you but this is important. Are you sitting down?”

Her first thought was that Dorian had taken a turn for the worse. She sprang upright and squeezed the phone. “What’s up?”

“Lincoln Miles is dead. Apparently, Estelle shot him in a jealous rage.”

Alice nearly lost her breath. “Oh my God!! When?”

“An hour ago. The police are holding her at the Round House. Worse, the Press just got wind of the murder. The news should hit the TV any minute. Estelle has been asking for you. She is mumbling about some conspiracy. I will send a car to pick you up.”

Alice’s mind whirled. Poor Estelle. Did she actually kill Lincoln? Would Alice have to give testimony “I don’t need a driver. I have a car.”

“My driver will escort you through the rear door. You can avoid the Press and deflect any conflict of interest given your friendship with her. Get the truth and then get out of there. I’ll assign someone else to the case. The car will be at your door in five minutes. Report to me later. I will handle the Press. Got it?”

Stunned but invigorated, Alice ran a hand over her face as if to prove to herself that the phone call was real and not some bad dream. “Got it!”

“Oh, one more thing! Do not contact Dorian until I tell you to do so. He is a non sequitur in this situation.”

That’s what you think! “I will not call him,” said Alice.

She dressed quickly. Slacks and a fresh blouse and a blazer would have to do. She ran a brush through her hair. The doorbell rang. A uniformed policeman shuffled his feet as he stood outside. His hat was pulled down to the bridge of his nose. He probably thinks he’s Clint Eastwood. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

She turned on the TV to channel six. “This just in,” said the anchorwoman. “Shocking news! The mayor has been shot. Police have a suspect that is believed to Estelle Betts Miles, the Mayor’s wife. We have an Action Cam on the way to Police Headquarters. We will keep it right here.”

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!”

She unbolted the door and was about to activate the security system when the cold tip of a revolver chilled her to her toes.

“Buona notte,” said the familiar voice. “Step inside. That is good. Now do not fear. Go to your bar over there.”

The door shut behind her. The dead bolt snapped into place with finality as if to lock her into a jail cell. The man with the violet eyes carried a briefcase.

“Antonio! What is the meaning of this? Why are you here?” she asked.

Antonio waved her toward the bar at the far end of the living room.

“Pour a glass of wine,” he said. “Red wine is better for one’s health than white wine.”

She obeyed fearful that he was engaging in some kind of ritual.

“Excellent!” he said. He dropped what looked like two aspirins in the wine. “Drink it, Bella Mia. It is not poison. It is a rophie for my trophy. Hah! You make a poet out of me.”

“No! Look you better leave. The police are on the way. Leave!”

He pressed the gun to her temple. The purple eyes turned black. She’d seen that same look in the eyes of the murderer Moon. This man would surely kill her if she resisted.

“Drink it!”

She gulped down the wine.

“Sit on the sofa. Relax but do not move.”

He opened the briefcase and removed a portable cam recorder. Alice wanted to attack him or to scream but Dorian had sound proofed the home to protect against electronic eavesdropping. Helplessness washed over her as the drug took effect. Her mouth sagged at the edges. Her shoulders slumped. Her body felt as though she’d been soaking in a warm tub. With her last vestige of control, she curled a fist in a wavering desire to strike the man Antonio. Dorian should have been here to protect her from the leering eyes and the gun and the crushing vulnerability of a woman about to be raped on film.

The double dose of Rohypnol and the wine triggered a chain reaction. Her clothes slipped away from her body. He lifted her and carried her to her bed where he laid her face down. He was on top of her, laughing wildly as the room spun and the lights bathed her in sunlight. The eye of the camera leered like a peeping Tom. He penetrated her, thrusting hard and relentless against her, inside her. Spent, he rolled her over.

Panting, he jeered at her. “Bravo! Cara mio, Bella”

The phone rang and the answering machine clicked on. Marian’s raspy voice roared in anger but the words were barely intelligible. “Driver stopped You … not there. Where are you?”

She tried to rise but her groggy mind reeled off a kaleidoscope of film. The image of her first love, a skinny Irishman named Jimmy who she dated in freshman year at Penn elapsed into a fog to make way for the ghost of Tom Nutter from Princeton, and his rough, blonde beard and the cold bed in his one room apartment in Lawrenceville and the quickies in the back seat of his van and the time she first tried oral sex.

She heard herself moan but the guttural tone echoed like the haunting sound that resounds at the beginning of Law and Order. Then a vision of Dorian handsome and alluring in a swimsuit at the Jersey shore only the beach sand was coarser like the beaches in Bermuda erupted in a roiling blaze that soon faded into a rhythmic dance as the laughing man with flowery eyes sang to her “Bella Mia, Bella Mia”. He was on top of her again. Nausea floated over her like a warm, sickening queasiness. Her breasts heaved as he arched his back and exploded inside her. The camera beamed brightly as though it was laughing at her.

He washed her body with a warm washcloth, kissing her as he swabbed her from head to toe. She tried to get up but a hard smack to the side of her head set the ceiling spinning.

“I am not done with you,” he said.

He pinned her arms to the bed stand and tied her wrists. He glowered over her like a devil she’d seen in a painting in the Art Museum. She tried to close her legs but a second blow obliterated her will. She cried out, “No!”

Then all went blank and dark.
Dorian watched the news until well past three before he attempted to sleep. He did not particularly like Lincoln but no man deserves to be murdered. The stock film clips of Lincoln and Estelle’s wedding day and the victory celebration where he and Estelle flashed the V for victory sign especially unnerved him. They were not only two people sharing happy moments. They were the first family of the City, as JFK’s family was once the first family until his assassination. The initial reports that Estelle acted alone smelled as rife as the single bullet theory in Kennedy’s murder. He’d called Alice twice but had gotten the answering machine.

At six am, he showered, dressed quickly in old, baggy pants and a flannel shirt under a navy pea coat and walked to Alice’s house. The brisk morning air quickened his step. “You can run Rowe but you can’t hide,” he’d tell her.

The thought of the child budding in her body crowded out the pain as he limped down Third Street to Pine Street and turned left. The blinding sunlight bounced off the river and the park cars. He put on his dark glasses. He needed to talk to her so badly that he felt ashamed by his weakness of spirit.

I guess I am not the first man to miss a woman.

As he approached the townhouse, Alice’s front door swung open. In anticipation, he waved but when a man emerged carrying a case, his heart dropped. Suddenly drained and breathless, he leaned against an elm tree. His sore knee buckled and he went limp. The man whistled as he walked toward Dorian. The case was a camcorder exactly like the one used on surveillance. Dorian wanted to lash out but the sight of the self-contented man sickened him to the pit of his empty stomach. Feeling weightless, he slid down the tree trunk into a sitting position.

“Are you ill?” asked the man.

Dorian nodded but did not look up. His body ached but he dared not try to rise. “I am okay.”

The man crumpled a dollar bill and tossed it at Dorian’s feet. “Mangia signore!”

The bill landed by his sore leg. The Italian accent stung him into a sudden panic.

Slowly he lifted his eyes to the telltale hue of Talarico’s eyes. Fear clawed at his throat. He tried to get up but his legs failed him.

“Imbriago!” said Talarico as he swaggered unhurriedly across the street.

Dorian braced his pain-wracked body against the elm for support. He forged ahead to her door fearful about what he’d find inside. The scent of incense flooded his nostrils. Several candles were lit in a neat line across the bar. An empty wine bottle and two glasses lay on their on the carpet. The lilt of a Sinatra’s “I get a kick out of you” spliced the silence.

“Alice!” he called. No answer.

He edged to the steps and half crawled up the steps. She lay naked on her bed. Her arms were folded across her breasts as though she was praying. The low snore and gently heaving breasts assured him she was alive. He covered her with a sheet flung to the floor. “They got to you,” he said.

He eased out of his coat and lay beside her. Pain split his head in two. But the anger in his heart dulled the stinging in his leg and head. She lay still as he stroked hair. Her feverish body looked swollen. Her usually thin lips swelled as though she’d been kissed by an ape. Soiled towels lay in a heap beside the bed. The hyenas were laughing at her and at him, at the City.

On the nightstand, there lay a cassette and a DVD player with a note. “In this movie, you are exposed to all the world at any time we so desire. Obey our commands when we call you. You are in our debt and you will serve us.”

Dorian put the cassette in the DVD player. He watched for ten seconds and flipped it off. She looked so helpless lying on the bed. They’d desecrated her and the child. “They think they’ve won. We will fight them. We will beat them, so help me God! I swear on the soul of our unborn child, we will crush them.”

Alice stirred, moaning softly, “No more! Please no more. I have a baby inside. Please stop!”

Dorian choked away his tears. She needed strength not sympathy. Her eyes opened into a bleary stare. She blinked until a spark of recognition but then a sigh of sorrow collapsed her visage into a simpering wail of anguish. “Dorian?”

She reached for him. He lifted her against his chest and held her. She cried. “I am so ashamed. I remember him against me, inside me. But you’ve found me. I am safe from him aren’t I?”

Dorian rocked her in his arms. “I am here. I will always be here. Together, Alice. We are together.”

The alarm clock radio blurted on. “This is KYW News Radio. You give us twenty-two minutes and we will give you the world. It is six thirty and tragedy has struck the City of Philadelphia. Our Mayor is dead and his wife is in police custody charged with his murder.”

Dorian turned off the radio. “It was Talarico who surprised you last night. You are lucky to be alive.”

Alice rubbed her arms with both hands. Dazed, she struggled to focus but the effects of the drugs clung to her mind like three-inch thick cobwebs.

“I don’t feel lucky. I feel like I’ve been used. Oh, Dorrie. Did you say Talarico? Oh my good God. I met him by chance. Marian sent him here I remember now. Why did they do this to me? Why? Why?”

The phone rang but Dorian let it go to voice mail. “Alice this is Marian. I called earlier. Where are you? Call me. I hope you are not on a jag. If so, you are fired. Good-bye!”

“I don’t understand,” said Alice.

“They filmed the rape and made it look as though you wanted it. They plan to blackmail us to do their bidding. The bastards!”

Dorian wrapped his face in his hands. As a boy, a bigger kid de-panted him in front of the whole neighborhood and spanked him with a ruler. He had never felt shame again until now. He vowed revenge but never got it. The older boy moved away. The boy’s laughter still echoed in his mind.

“I’ll get them, Alice. I’ll get them.”

Alice laid her head against his chest. “Help me walk to the bathroom, please. I need to pee and take a shower.”

Dorian guided her to the shower, ran the water to the temperature she liked and helped her into the glass enclosed stall. She stood for a second then sat beneath the cleansing water. “Leave me alone. I need to be alone,” she said.

Dorian backed away. She’d fight back. No one, not even he, made Alice Rowe a victim.
Talarico glanced back at the disheveled man resting against the tree. The baggy, cheap clothes reminded him of his father, drunk and beaten into submission by the passa navente, the established order that ground down the common man. Poverty was Antonio’s true father. In his youth, hunger drove him to despair and shame. The desire to rid himself of feeling unworthy ate at his psyche like a pebble in his shoe he could not remove. Fear of it made him work for Il Segreto. What man turns down his savior?

He hailed a taxi. “Drive up Broad Street and around City Hall. Leave me at Seventeenth and Market,” he told the driver. The aged white man was more asleep than awake and would scarcely remember him. There were a dozen hotels in that part of town so anyone tracing his movements would find it a difficult task. “Hide beneath their noses,” taught Il Segreto.

The City had changed since his first visit years ago. He’d killed then as he may kill again. Surely he was brought here to do more than enjoy filming a beautiful woman in bed with him. He’d savored the sex at first as a man tastes fruit on a hot day or sweet wine after dinner. But he knew that a woman of her stature would spurn him in the real world. He remembered a day he sat on the steps of the Academia in Naples. He worked part time sweeping the Museum steps and plaza. Tired, he needed a rest from the heat and the demeaning broom he’d left standing by a bronze statue of Dante a few steps away. It was summer and a young girl sat near him eating a pear. Her golden hair flared in the Neapolitan sun like the wheat field ablaze in a Van Gogh painting he’d seen.

“Buon giorno,” she said in a clipped English accent.

”Buon giorno, Bella Donna,” he replied.

Their eyes met. She edged closer to him. For a moment he forgot his poverty and his lack of education and his sick father and hopeless future. He felt connected to this angelic vision. They were not separated by money or class some artificial barrier. The moment was pure and timeless and futile. Then a shadow covered the two of them.

“Come along, Emily. No need to mix with the locals,” said the tall man dressed in a white linen suit.

The girl rose slowly, “Yes, Father,” she said.

Talarico watched her leave hand in hand with her father. The girl glanced back and smiled. He’d touched the untouchable. Someday he’d possess such a woman but for now, there was only a ragged, straw broom beckoning him to finish his day’s work.

“Here we are,” said the cabbie. “Four dollars American.”

Talarico fumed like Vesuvius “What did you expect me to pay you with? Pesos? Lira? Or some other inferior currency? I am no peasant!”

The cabbie scowled. “Just pay me.”

Talarico flung a twenty at him. “Buy your self a shave,” he said. The second he reacted he realized that he’d let his anger compromise his cover. He headed quickly up Market Street and circled the block to conceal his mistake.

After a quick breakfast, Talarico packed his bags. The bill and checkout were arranged. He hailed a cab outside and politely asked the driver to take him to the Marriott hotel near the airport. The hotel had an Internet café. He needed sleep but not until he emailed Dorian Wilde a film clip of Alice Rowe in his arms. The simple message Il Segreto prepared would read, “In Philadelphia, nearly everyone will read this bulletin unless you do as we say. Stay well, Dorian.”

The airport offered a quick getaway route.

He paid the cabbie and turned his bags over to the doorman, a tall black man dressed in a red suit adorned with brass buttons and gold braid at the shoulders, a captain’s hat and a sad look.

“Welcome to the Philadelphia Airport Marriott,” said the man.

“It is a sad day,” said Talarico.

The doorman grimaced. “Damn sad. I feel like I lost my brother.”

Talarico handed him a five-dollar bill. “The City will never be the same,” he said, laughing to himself for now he felt that he owned a piece of the city as if it were a giant pizza ready made for him and the Philadelphes.