He was on the floor. Each time he moved he hurt himself. He had found a chair and lifted himself up but the chair had turned over under his weight and he had cracked his head. He had groped to the side of the container, close to the sink. He had taken hold of it and was dragging himself up, but his hands had shifted and one had landed on the soap – scented stuff that Teresa had bought. He had toppled, twisting his knee.
He could make no sound other than a croak. His sense of combat was gone because he couldn’t imagine which enemy faced him. He felt abandoned. He did not know where Mamma, Stefano and Giulietta were. He wallowed in self-pity and the darkness wrapped around him. He hurt himself each time he tried to move. He lay still, his strength dribbling away. He waited, as the child in the cave had waited. Everything that Bernardo was, all that he had achieved in power and wealth, was off the back of that child who had been in darkness.
No one came.
The Palace of Justice was lit. Floodlights bathed the high walls. More shone over the wide car park. But it was evening and the majority of those who worked in the justice system had gone home or to restaurants. Two SUVs in army camouflage stood in one corner and a knot of troops huddled close to them, automatic weapons slung on their chests or handguns in holsters.
Walking forward briskly, Giulietta held the Beretta close to her thigh. She hadn’t fired at a man before. She was accurate in target practice – against bottles, cans or a ripe melon – which would explode dramatically. She had followed the car into the parking area and it suited her that he had stopped in shadow. There were trees among the marked parking spaces that provided good cover. She had seen him get out of the car, not bothering to flash his keys at it. Then he had wavered and lit a cigarette. That he had brought her there confirmed her father’s suspicion. Beyond him men lounged at the main doors. She sensed they had been alerted and were there to meet a new prize. He would soon, a few more paces, be within their orbit. She closed on him.
She had left her keys in the HiLux and the engine idled softly behind her.
He was under trees, about to enter a row of empty bays where the light fell brightly. Giulietta did not dither: a job to be done. She lifted her headscarf to cover her nose, mouth and chin. She called his name softly. ‘Father Demetrio, a moment, please.’
He stopped. Turned. She saw his ravaged features. He might have forgotten himself and noted that, at a Calvary moment, he could see a familiar face, which smiled warmth at him. He gave her enough time. A full second, two seconds, no more. Realisation was coming but his brain worked faster than his limbs. She had the pistol up. He had two options: he could spin and run for his life or charge her, arms swinging, and try to knock the pistol aside. She saw only something craven. It was just a few days since he had been an honoured guest at her mother’s birthday celebration, the lone outsider. She loved her father, mourned his ageing, but believed in his judgement. The man before her had headed from the cathedral to the Palace of Justice, and was expected. He was statue still, and seemed to plead with his eyes.
As Stefano had taught her, Giulietta did the Isosceles stance. She knew the Weaver stance and the Chapman, but had always preferred Isosceles. Feet apart, knees fractionally bent, weight forward, her arms were outstretched, her right hand held the butt and her index finger was beside the trigger’s guard. Her left fist was locked across the right and held it steady. One in the breach and safety off.
She had known Father Demetrio all of her life. He had lectured her on the Church’s teachings, had heard her teenage confessions, and she had walked behind him in saints’ days’ processions through the village. It was thought he favoured her because of his friendship with her father. Old friendships, past kindnesses were of little value. Her finger groped for, then found, the trigger.
She thought, in the last moment of his life, that he still did not believe what confronted him. His chin shook and his throat wobbled, as if words were blocked there. The men behind him at the door had looked around but not seen him. They were beside the main entrance to the parking area.
She fired.
Better, of course, if the weapon had been fitted with a silencer, but it was not. The second shot was immediate. Not chest shots, when a man might be saved by the immediate skill of a surgeon practised in dealing with bullet wounds, but the head. There would be several medics at the Ospedale Riuniti in the city who were used to handling gunshot injuries. Two shots to the head, so fast that it barely had time to sag and she had not needed to adjust her aim. The recoil was hard on her rigid arms and spent itself in her shoulders. The smell was in her nostrils. He slumped.