“I smashed it trying not to run over yours.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. I keep screwing up. I’m just trying to protect Beth. Maybe Mr. Harold is right about me.”
The babbling was hurting Tom’s head more than his broken nose, but he needed any help he could get. “Wyatt, Tony Sartorelli is here. His plane just landed, and his brother Marvin didn’t drown. They’re ahead of us in a big Suburban.”
“Uh-oh. I was told Tony was coming, but are you sure about Marv?”
“Yes, we’ve got to get to that cabin. We have to take both of the brothers down.
Beth
may be in big trouble; Gary too.” Tom’s nose felt like an elephant had stomped on it.
“Beth and Gary are probably in jail, Tom. He drove his Thunderbird into a police car when he made me go into the mud.”
Tom’s jaw fell open and it made his nose hurt more. Great. If Dani was missing in action, and Gary and Beth were in the clink, they were on their way to confront two murderous gangsters alone. As they approached an intersection, another large dark car turned onto their road not a hundred feet in front of them. Even in the fog, Tom recognized Aunt Mildred’s Chrysler. “Wyatt, that big car belongs to Beth’s great aunt.”
“An old lady? What’s she doing?”
“Let’s hope she bailed Gary and Beth out and she’s taking them to the cabin.”
****
Harold had almost cut and run when he’d seen Marv meet Tony in the airport. But a foolish young Tom Hawk had followed them out alone. Once they dispatched Hawk they would find him and he would be next. Like it or not, he had to save the Marine. He drove too fast for the fog. Trying to beat Tony and Marv to the cabin was going to kill him before they could. He had passed two big vehicles and a tiny one in visibility so bad he had no idea what type of car they were. Where was Wyatt, the useless twit?
A vehicle ahead of him was barely crawling. He hunched toward the windshield and made out the tail lights of Marv’s monster Suburban. As the fog increased, Marv had slowed down. He had slowed down a lot. A total city boy, he had probably never driven through the woods in the dark. At his current speed, he might not get to the cabin until morning. Harold had to be there first, waiting and prepared.
They were, if he remembered rightly, coming to a rare straight stretch of the road. It was now or never. He fought back panic as he made his fourth near-blind passing maneuver, this time around Marv and Tony. Their horn blared angrily at him but their headlights receded from view immediately.
The starter’s pistol was heavy in his pocket. How was he going to deal with the two of them while armed with a toy gun? Answer me that, oh you cruel gods. There was one hope. If the cops he saw yesterday were somehow at the cabin, he would get them to arrest the Sartorelli brothers. Of course, he still had to get there first.
Good heavens, you really couldn’t see! He drove on recklessly for a mile, a second, and a third. Only a grand and solitary white pine crowding the shoulder told him where the cabin driveway was, and at that he was afraid to go down it at more than ten miles an hour. But, hallelujah, a light was on in the cabin and a couple cars were parked in front. Maybe the police were still there. Or maybe it was someone else who could summon them. It was so hard to see!
As he came close to the gate in the fence he saw how narrow the opening was. Sure, at least two other cars had gotten through, but the Cadillac was ridiculously wide. He stopped thirty feet before the opening, put the car in park, tucked the starter’s pistol in his pants, and got out. He walked to the gate and studied the widths of the gate and the Cadillac. The opening was wide enough; he had perhaps eighteen inches to spare. He’d just have to drive through slowly. He couldn’t make out any police equipment or markings on the vehicles in front of the cabin. That was troubling.
Harold took one step back toward his car and a deafening blast blew him onto his back. His ears were in torment and he screamed in pain. When he raised his head his Cadillac was lying on its roof. Unbelievable! He lay trembling uncontrollably for a minute or more. The noise and the flash of light had been tremendous, but no policemen had rushed out of the cabin to see what had happened.
He started to get up and a figure with a shotgun towered over him. Danielle, Tony’s missing queen-size girlfriend.
“Don’t shoot.”
“Only if you make me. Stop that shaking. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m shaking because my car exploded…Wait, my gas tank didn’t blow up. You had a bomb planted here. You tried to kill me!”
She sounded embarrassed. “I wasn’t after you. It was self-defense. My ex is coming here to waste me. He always drives Cadillacs.”
“I know. Tony Sartorelli is trying to kill me too. I’m his cousin.”
He had shocked her. Still, she argued, “I don’t believe you.”
He told her what he knew about Tony, the twins, Hawk, even Wyatt and the Kessler woman. “I’ll be damned,” she said. “And Marv is alive?”
“Sadly, he is. They’ll be here in minutes. Can we go in that cabin and make it a little more challenging for them to murder us?”
“I guess. Give me that gun you’ve got under your shirt. Do it carefully.”
He handed it to her. “It’s a starter’s pistol that shoots blanks for boat races. It’s all I could find in this one-horse town.” He peered apprehensively up the driveway. The Cadillac headlights were still on—tough cars, those Cadillacs.
She looked at the fake gun, snorted in derision and gave it back to him. They made their way thought the mist to the cabin. The two cars parked there were a new Chevy Monte Carlo and a station wagon. Once inside the cabin kitchen she said, “How far are they behind you?”
“Marv is creeping along in the fog, but I’d still say less than five minutes, unless they get lost.”
She shook her head. “They won’t get lost. Marv is a pokey driver, but he’s like a homing pigeon. But together maybe we can beat them.”
“With a crappy shotgun and a toy pistol? They probably have cannons.” He took a closer look at the cabin. “We’ll be sitting ducks in this place.”
“Right. So we’ll do it Tony’s way. He likes to run people over with cars, right?”
“There were four that I know of.”
“I only knew of two. Anyway, we won’t use the cabin. We’ll take these two cars out the gate and up the hill. When they see what’s left of your car they’ll stop at the driveway gate and get out to look at it. If I can get them with the shotgun I will. If not, we run them over with the cars.”
“You got to be kidding. You can’t see anything out there.”
“They’ll be visible because there’s a light on the gate post.” She turned a switch near the door, and the gate and the two tons of scrap that had been a new Cadillac were illuminated. “Come, on, we’ve got to get those cars in position. You take the station wagon.”
“Why do I get the old car?”
“The Monte Carlo is mine, dipshit. Take the wagon or we can stand here and draw straws.”
“All right, all right. It’d better have an automatic transmission.”
“It does. Once we’re outside the gate, you go up the slope to the left. Park by the trees, turn it around and watch the gate. When they get out of their car, if I can’t shoot them, you come at them from your side and I come at them from mine.” She picked up two carving knives from the kitchen table and handed him one. “If they still resist, we slit their throats.”
One had to admire her confidence. He fingered the knife she had given him. Dull. As they walked to the cars, he worried, “What if they get back in their car before we can run them over?”
“Oh, I’ll have something to distract them.”
“What?”
“You’ll hear it. Let’s go.”
Harold started the wagon and cautiously followed her through the gate. He bumped his way over rough terrain up to the tree line, listening to scraping, bending, and tearing noises, and was grateful the car was not his. Then he remembered that his rental Cadillac was not in returnable condition either. He pointed the wagon at the gate and turned out the headlights.
Engine at idle, he triple-checked his lap and shoulder belts and sat peering at what he thought was the driveway and scanning for car lights. Run them down with a car? Take them down with a dull kitchen knife when they might have a gun? How could that work? It was a stupid plan. How could he trust the judgment of a woman who had spent five months living with Tony Sartorelli?
****
Tom and Wyatt reached the cabin driveway. Coming out of the trees after the second turn, Tom cut his headlights. A powerful yard light illuminated the gate and he could make out a big sedan on its roof. Damn Gary. He’d rigged a bomb in the driveway after all. The upside-down car’s lights were still on, and the tall, narrow taillights were those of a Cadillac. It was probably the car that had passed him when his brakes had failed. Another bad guy?
Wyatt clutched Tom’s forearm. “Ohmigod. Is that the aunt’s Chrysler upside down?”
“No, it’s a Caddy. It had passed me on the road when I nearly hit you.”
The fog was thinner closer to the lake and Tom could see the cabin straight ahead, its porch lights trying to pierce the gloom. Well off to the side he identified the outline of a huge vehicle. He nudged Wyatt. “There’s the Suburban, but it’s just sitting there. At least it seems they’re not attacking the cabin yet.”
“Whose car is next to the cabin?”
“Danny’s Monte Carlo and Beth’s wagon should both be there.”
“No, neither one is. There’s only one, another big car.”
Tom forced his attention away from the capsized Cadillac and saw that Wyatt was right. Feebly illuminated by the porch lights was a long sedan. “Wyatt, that’s Mildred’s Chrysler. We have to go to down there right now.”
“Oh boy. Good enough, I’m ready. Do you have an extra gun, Tom?”
“I have no gun. I gave it to Gary. There should be a shotgun in the cabin and I hope Beth has it. I’ve got a baseball bat and a tire iron. Which do you want?”
“Not the bat. I went out for little league, but I could never figure out where the pitcher was going to throw the ball and…”
“The tire iron is under your seat. Take it.”
****
Harold longed to turn on the station wagon radio as a distraction but didn’t dare. What was taking Marv and Tony so long? Why was it so cold in the car? Why hadn’t Renada had a gun for him? Was he going to live to sit with her on the balcony of the Harold House B&B waving benignly at his distinguished guests? Could the Reverend Timmy-Bob still get him into heaven if he died here rather than in California? He looked at the dull knife and starter’s pistol on the floor between his feet. Worthless pieces of crap.
His driver’s door was abruptly yanked open and there was the cold touch of a blade at his throat, but it wasn’t Dani’s knife. Marv Sartorelli’s gravelly voice rasped, “Not a peep, asshole. You’re coming with me to our car.”
“Sure. Don’t cut me. The fog, how did you find me?”
“You had your foot on the brake pedal, moron. Why are you here?”
“Me? I’m looking for a vacation place to rent and got lost in the fog.”
“Bullshit.” Marv moved his knife fractionally, breaking Harold’s skin. “What happened to that car that’s on its roof down there?”
“It’s my car. The gang down there blew it up with a land mine.”
“People got no respect for property any more. How many are in my cabin?”
“There are three big guys from the Detroit mob and all of them have guns.”
“Yeah, right. It’s Hawk and those other kids. My frigging gun is at the bottom of a frigging lake.”
“Aw, that’s too bad, Marv.”
“I can tell you’re crushed. Come on. Tony’s waiting for us in my Suburban.”
Harold tried to see the Monte Carlo and couldn’t. The fog was too thick for Dani to get anyone with the shotgun unless she was within thirty feet. He was
so
screwed.
Chapter Twenty-One
An over-amplified voice split the foggy night. Tom recognized Tony’s voice, stilted but clear enough. He could have been standing beside them. “This here is Tony Sartorelli’s autobiography, the story of my life. They say life is what you make it. That’s bull. The Family took my life, cheated me of my own destiny. Who knows what I might of done? Probably I could of sung opera.”
A second voice interrupted Tony, Dani’s voice. “Aw, listen to poor little Tony on my tape player. What crap that was. Here we got a cheap French-Swede mobster passing for a wop, making himself out to be the victim, a man who can’t button his shirt straight, who needed the Mafia to become anybody at all, and he’s an embarrassment to them.”
“What’s Dani doing?” Wyatt demanded.
“She’s putting Tony off balance with an incriminating tape he made. She’s hit pay dirt.”
“Is that coming from the cabin?”
“I can’t tell where she is. She could be anywhere in this pea soup.”
Dani’s voice came back. “I love this part. Just listen to this moron.”
Tony’s tape resumed, “I always felt I provided like essential services to society, like relief from the troubles of the day, things like a nice high for the little people, and companionship for lonely guys. I didn’t have to do all that. I could of been a great chef.”
Dani interrupted again. “You sure would know about lonely guys, Tony. Nobody likes you. Your mother doesn’t like you. And chef my ass, the only thing you ever cooked without burning it was that poor little horse jockey Tom Hawk found in your pizza oven.”
The form that had to be the green Suburban roared to life. They heard the splintering of fence rails and saw it hurdle toward the cabin. “That truck. It’s going to ram the cottage,” shouted Wyatt. “Why would they do that? Why would they drive into the side of the building?”
The deafening sound of Tony crashing into the cabin delayed Tom’s answer for a moment. Then, as it shifted into reverse and backed away, he said, “They’re doing it to hurt Beth and anyone else inside. They’re homicidal and out of control.”
“Why don’t they just go in shooting?”
Why indeed? The answer came to Tom, and it was the best news in a while. “Wyatt, it’s got to be because they don’t have any guns either. If we can disable their truck we can stop them.”