Midnight Harvest (72 page)

“I think it’s likely,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “Deal with the deputy as you think best, but make sure he comes out here, and that he doesn’t come alone.”

“All right,” said Rogerio, opening the trunk of the Duesenberg and pulling out an oblong leather duffel. “Your revolver,” he said as he opened the case and drew out two holstered .38s.

“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, taking one from him. “Cartridges?”

Rogerio pulled out a small box of them. “Here. You may need these more than I.”

A shout from the knoll beyond the winery yard brought both Saint-Germain and Rogerio into the yard. “The pickers are coming!”

Howe emerged from the trees. “Six men, in a single truck.”

“Let them come,” said Saint-Germain. “But watch the gate. One of us is going out.” He gestured to Rogerio. “Opportunity knocks, old friend.”

Rogerio managed an encouraging look. “I won’t be long.”

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and moved away as Rogerio got into his Auburn and started the engine. As soon as Rogerio had pulled away, Saint-Germain hurried to join Pietragnelli, and found him in the barn, handing out the last of his shotguns and rifles. “The workers are coming in with the last of the day’s picking.”

“Then we must prepare,” said Pietragnelli. “Come, my men. Tonight you fight for your dinner. If you succeed you will have more than the harvest to celebrate. We go to join the guards. Let them order you.” He paused to look at Rowena. “Are you sure you want that shotgun, signora?”

“Much more than I want to be without it,” she said, hefting the weapon.

“Then God protect you, and the Saints preserve you from harm,” said Pietragnelli with an expression of concern.

“And you, Signor Pietragnelli,” said Rowena before she turned and started back for the house.

“Nothing must happen to her,” Pietragnelli declared softly. Then he shook off his mood, and motioned to those around him to follow him. “We go toward the front of the vineyard, the main gate. That is the way they must come.”

The men formed a ragged line behind Pietragnelli and trudged out along the drive, many of them sweating, and not entirely from heat. As they came over the rise, the two guards from the front of the property rushed up to them. “There are seventeen men at the Yoshimura farm, and they’ve started this way in four trucks.”

“How do we deploy?” asked Warton. “Where do you want us to stand, or lie?”

“There are three clusters of brush,” said Pietragnelli. “We can hide in them.”

“Brush can’t stop many bullets,” the guard warned. “I could go get Howe and Beckworth, and a truck.”

“No time,” said Saint-Germain, shading his eyes and pointing in the direction of the Yoshimura farm to the rising dust. “They’re coming.”

“Get behind something—anything. They mustn’t see us,” said Pietragnelli, choosing a clump of berry vines near the fence and bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. “Don’t shoot until I tell you to.”

The workers scrambled to obey him, but the guards hesitated. “Where’s Beckworth and Howe?” one asked.

“On duty. Watching the side gate,” said Saint-Germain. “As they should be. There could be a second attack coming. If this is a diversionary tactic, we must be prepared to fight a second skirmish.”

“Right,” said the guard, and went back to his post.

Saint-Germain dropped down behind a tussock, thinking of the many times over the centuries that he had faced enemy forces; from the days of his living youth to the Medes and Hitties, to the Greeks, the Huns, the Moors, the Mongols, the Turks, the Germans. More recently he had faced the Russian Army and the army in Spain; for the last thirty-five-hundred years he had striven to end the conflicts around him, abashed by what he had done in the first five centuries of vampiric life. This encounter struck him as no stranger than most of the battles he had survived, and he feared it would not be the last one he would fight. He held his revolver at the ready and watched as the line of trucks turned onto the county road and headed for the gate to the Pietragnelli Winery, the men in the trucks already brandishing their weapons as the first of the four trucks roared onto the entry road.

One of the men in the trucks fired a volley of shots toward the winery gates and a minute later the lead truck smashed through it, the men riding in its bed shouldering their weapons, getting ready to fire.

“Now!”
Pietragnelli shouted, and his men began to shoot.

Saint-Germain aimed for the tires and was able to flatten the front tire of the lead truck before one of Pietragnelli’s men screamed and broke out of cover, blood pumping from a wound in his neck; in the next instant, confusion turned to chaos as the lead truck slewed off the drive and lurched onto its side and the other trucks were forced to stop, becoming easier targets.

One of Pietragnelli’s men broke from cover and ran, throwing his shotgun away as he ran.

“
Cerdo! Coward! Execrato!
” Pietragnelli shouted after him. “Let him go,” Saint-Germain called out. “We have—”

“Shoot them!
Fuore! Fuore!
” Pietragnelli shouted to his men. “No quarter!”

A few of his men answered his orders, rising up in their positions, guns at the ready. Two of the men actually fired, and one of the bullets struck the front right tire of the second truck. The vehicle swerved and lurched, throwing the men in the back off their feet; a rifle fired as the man holding it fell.

More shots spattered, and another of Pietragnelli’s men broke and ran.

“Get between the trucks!” Pietragnelli shouted, and rushed to occupy the breach. “Shoot out the tires! Now!”

Six men answered his cry and rushed out onto the road, firing toward the tires, most of them yelling as they shot.

Then, very faintly, came the shriek of a siren, then two, then three. The last truck began to back up, but was halted as one of the guards shot its tires flat. Three men jumped out of the vehicle and began to run as five sheriff’s cars came racing down the road, Rogerio’s Auburn bringing up the rear.

“Stop! Stop!” Pietragnelli bellowed, springing out from behind his berrypatch. “No more shooting. Basta!”

One of the men in the second truck, halted now on the side of the road, took aim at Pietragnelli, and would have shot him, but was stopped by his nearest companion, who shoved the gun-barrel upward.

Warton had gone to the wounded man and was attempting to administer first aid, but most of the men stayed in their protected spots, unwilling to expose themselves to danger.

The first sheriff’s car swung into the drive, bumping across the ruined gate, and moments later a bullhorn blared, “Put down your weapons! All of you! Put them down! Now!”

A few of the men on the trucks obeyed, setting their guns aside and raising their hands, although five of them seemed prepared to fire on the deputies.

“Down!” the bullhorn screeched, and was punctuated by a single shot fired into the air.

“Shit,” said one of the drivers as he climbed out of the truck cab, lifting his hands. This seemed to be a signal, for all the rest lost their bravado and obeyed the bullhorn’s imperative.

Pietragnelli surged toward the deputy, calling on God to thank him. “Come, my workers. My guards. It is over. At last.” He looked over at Saint-Germain. “We’ve prevailed.”

A deputy strode around the front of his Ford, snapping his fingers to the men with him. “Get the guns and lock them in the trunk. They’re evidence.” He glanced toward Pietragnelli. “Looks like you got ’em dead to rights this time.”

“And so the judge will know,” said Pietragnelli, a fierce grin masking his genial features.

Saint-Germain got to his feet, brushing himself off and holstering his revolver. “Yes; luckily we have,” he said, and mentally added
for now
as he went to join the men gathering around the police cars.

The deputy in charge was unknown to Saint-Germain, a big man with a meaty, flushed face and a receding hairline under his peaked cap. He glowered at the well-dressed stranger, then looked directly at Carlo Pietragnelli. “You gonna press charges?”

“Most certainly,” said Pietragnelli, wiping his brow with a huge, blue handkerchief. “There was an agreement. They signed it.”

“These men?” The deputy cocked his jaw in the direction of the men the other deputies were rounding up.

“Perhaps not them specifically,” said Pietragnelli as he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “But their superiors, most certainly. And these men are bound by the terms, no matter what they may think.” He turned away and shouted to his men, “Tell the police what they need to know and get back to work if you are unhurt!”

“The attack is unjustifiable, in any case,” Saint-Germain added as Pietragnelli bustled away.

“Yeah,” said the deputy. “That’s so.” He drew a battered notebook and stubby pencil from his breast-pocket “So tell me what this is all about.”

“I’d ask a man named Virgil Barringstone that question,” said Saint-Germain. “I believe he has more to do with it than he cares to admit.”

The deputy wrote down the name, but his expression was skeptical. “What makes you think the fellow has anything to do with this?”

“He was behaving oddly earlier today, shortly before the attack,” said Saint-Germain. “I noticed him because he and one young worker were holding themselves apart from the rest, having conversation that was certainly private.”

“There might be any number of reasons for that,” said the deputy, looking a bit bored and preparing to walk away.

“Then speak to Mrs. Barringstone,” Saint-Germain recommended. “She is the cook here, and she may not like speaking against her husband, but she will if she thinks he is in violation of the mediation of the courts of this county.”

The deputy paused. “Sounds damned peculiar, Mr.—?”

“Ferenc Ragoczy,” he answered, holding out his hand. “I’m one of Carlo Pietragnelli’s investors. I came to see this year’s harvest.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the deputy, and scribbled a note to himself.

Saint-Germain sighed. “If you take the time to check with the court in Santa Rosa, you’ll soon discover—”

“I know about the White Legion,” said the deputy. “Everyone from Eureka to Salinas knows about them.”

“Then this should be a simple matter for you,” said Saint-Germain, self-possessed and calm. “Speak to Judge Cavendish in Santa Rosa about this incident, and you’ll find that there is an agreement on file that this assault clearly violates.”

“The agreement the Dago mentioned?” the deputy asked.

Saint-Germain took a deep bream. “Yes. Judge Cavendish will explain it”

“Cavendish?” said the deputy, interested for the first time.

“Yes; and Deputy Will Sutton,” said Saint-Germain. “He has a number of reports that are likely to be useful to you.”

“I’ll ask Pietragnelli about this,” said the deputy.

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and stood aside as the deputy lumbered off toward Carlo Pietragnelli, his notebook and pencil at the ready.

Rogerio came up to Saint-Germain, saying, “What do you think Oscar King will make of this?”

“He’ll tear into it with dogged determination,” said Saint-Germain with visible relief. “And he’ll keep at it until it’s ended.” He gave a one-sided smile. “To protect my investment.”

“Of course,” said Rogerio.

Saint-Germain nodded. “Let’s return to the house. This is going to take a long time, and Mrs. Barringstone will be worried.”

“And Virgil Barringstone may attempt to leave,” Rogerio added.

“Exactly,” said Saint-Germain, and began to walk up the dusty road toward the winery.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
D
RUZE
S
VINY IN
W
INNIPEG
, M
ANITOBA
, C
ANADA, TO
F
ERENC
R
AGOCZY IN
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
.

13-251 Churchill Road

Winnipeg, Manitoba

28 September, 1937

Ferenc Ragoczy

c/o Oscar King

King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost

630 Kearny Street

San Francisco, California, USA

Dear Mr. Ragoczy,

I was delighted to hear from you after so much change in both of our lives. It relieved me to learn that you are well and still doing business through Eclipse Shipping. So many other industrialists from Spain are not so fortunate, as I am sure you know.

Of course I’ll make the arrangements you request; in fact, I wish there were more I could do. But since this is all you ask me to do, you may rest assured that I will attend to this promptly. I will obtain schedules tomorrow and plan from there. To make sure I understand your intention, I gather that you and your associate wish to take a train from Calgary to Montreal, stopping here in Winnipeg for a day or so before going on. And the two of you want to fly to Amsterdam from Montreal, stopping in Iceland for two days en route. I will make the appropriate reservations by the day after tomorrow, and, as you request, I will send you a telegram with the information on what and when for your journey. You tell me that you will drive to Calgary from California, weather permitting, and that you will arrive there on or before October 25, which will mean that you would want to travel no earlier than the 26th. If any of this is incorrect, please let me know as soon as possible. If I hear nothing from you in ten days, I will assume this is your wish, and I will finalize the reservations with the recommended deposits on sleeping compartments and space in the baggage car.

You are kind to ask: of course I am pleased to be here at Manitoba Chemical, Ltd. The company is a growing one, the staff has welcomed me graciously, and my salary is very, very generous. I have a nice home with more room than I’ve ever had to myself before, and I’ve been asked to do occasional lecturing at the local university on mathematics, which I am told will not conflict with my work here. I have two dogs and a cat, and I can even afford a maid once a week! Who would have thought that the daughter of a butcher would come so far in the world? I have money in a time when many do not, I have a nice place to live, and I am allowed to do the work I like best I think myself most fortunate.