“No, it is’nae,” McGowan’s voice had come back to him. “No half the fire, nor half the heat. And Ah suppose that sometimes it’s just no worth it tae keep it lit.” But despite the “sentiment” in the words, there’d been no remorse, compassion or emotion at all.
Then the whine of the saw had changed to a biting whirrr, and Ragusa had sat at the table, thinking how despite the fact that he didn’t much care for McGowan, still he had to acknowledge the little man’s flair. And his generosity, of course …
So, then: in Ragusa’s eyes, McGowan was still a runt but something less of a yokel. All those years working on his own had made him independent; perhaps when the Francezci met him again he would consider him too independent! There was this sense of authority, self-confidence, in him that would better befit the Wamphyri themselves.
And sitting in McGowan’s old Beetle, the Sicilian thought maybe that was it. It was what he didn’t like about the little man: his knowledge and his authority. Perhaps McGowan had been the Francezcis’ “man” in these parts—left to his own resources—for far too long. Until (was it possible?) he’d begun to think of himself as a chief in his own right. No simple thrall this McGowan, nor even a simple lieutenant. But a wrinkled old man like this, Wamphyri? It seemed absurd. Did he aspire? Was it possible he might even ascend?
“This is Inverdruie,” McGowan grunted, turning his rheumy eyes on his passenger. “Oh, and what are ye scowlin’ about?”
“This car,” Ragusa answered, but that was only part of it, of course. “How am I to fool anyone I’m a movie tycoon driving around in this wreck? In Sicily, we consign shit like this to the scrap heap!”
“This is a recce run,” McGowan answered. “‘Recce’—that’s reconnaisance. It’s so Ah can show ye what Ah’ve learned, so’s if anything shid happen tae me ye’ll be fully in the know. But did Ah no tell ye that already? Or maybe ye did’nae understand me, eh?”
“It’s a wonder I’ve understood any fucking thing!” Ragusa scowled again, then grinned sarcastically, and in what he patently considered a fair imitation of Rex Harrison, said, “Why can’t the English learn how to speak?”
McGowan’s turn to scowl. “Aye laddie, but Ah’m no English. And if wit was shit, ye’d have diarrhoea!”
It was early morning and as yet there was only light traffic: fit young fanatics who had struggled out of their holiday beds in neighbouring towns and hamlets, strapped their skis to their roof-racks, and were now making for Aviemore’s slopes.
“This ‘laddie’ crap … !” Ragusa’s lips drew back from eyeteeth as curved and sharp as fangs. “It stops right now!”
At which McGowan seemed to swell up in his seat, yanked on the wheel and aimed his Beetle straight at an oncoming car! It took very little effort; the second-class road was barely wide enough for two vehicles abreast, and heaped snow had frozen to solid walls on both sides. Ragusa’s jaws flew open; he gasped, “What the fuck—?” and threw up a hand before his face.
But at the last moment McGowan yanked on the wheel again, swung left, and cut through an opening in the banked snow onto a service track. As he brought the Beetle to a halt, the other car went careering by on the far side of the snow wall. Ragusa caught a momentary glimpse of the driver shaking a furious fist through his open window. Then, leaving a settling cloud of blue exhaust smoke, the skiers were gone …
Ragusa found his voice at last, and said, “What in the—? Are you a complete, raving maniac!?”
But the little man wasn’t listening to him or even looking at him. Instead he used his sleeve to clear the lightly misted windscreen, and stared ahead down the track. And his eyes were red as finally he glanced at Ragusa, a mere glance, and said: “D’ye see the smoke, the chimney behind they trees there? The wee house?”
“Uh?” Ragusa looked, scowled, and nodded his head. He was still a little shaken. “The house? Yes. So what?”
McGowan’s eyes were rheumy again as he said, “The dweller is a man called John Guiney, or Auld John as he’s known locally. He’s a gillie, and he’s been here forever.”
“Eh? A gillie?”
“A tracker, gamekeeper, woodsman … and he’s one o’ Radu Lykan’s thralls, Ah fancy.”
Ragusa’s attention now centred on the house in the trees. He was still angry—even furious—but this gave his anger a direction, a target. “What makes you think so?”
“That time Ah saw Bonnie Jean Mirlu and her man takin’ out they Drakuls, it was Auld John’s car she was drivin’. But later that same day, he had it back again. So if John Guiney’s no the dog-Lord’s thrall, he’s certainly a friend o’ B.J.’s.”
“I don’t see any car,” Ragusa squinted ahead.
“Behind the house, Ah shid think.”
“I want to see it. Then I’ll know it, too.”
“A quick look, then,” the little man answered, slipping his car in gear. “But this is just a recce, remember? So don’t you go forgettin’ who’s givin’ the orders around here …” As if he deliberately calculated to irritate Ragusa more yet—which in fact he did.
As quietly as possible, in a low gear, McGowan drove over a thin layer of crunching, glistening snow, away from the main road to Aviemore, until he picked up a track through the naked trees that skirted the picture-postcard house. On the far side, mostly obscured by trees, he stopped the engine and wound down his window. There was only a wintry silence, and the sun a desultory grey blob in the sky far down the valley.
“There’s Auld John’s car,” the little man grunted. “Back o’ the house, as ye see.”
“And does this guy know you?” Ragusa rasped. “And if not, why all this creeping around? I mean, what is he … some kind of threat? One old man, living alone, waiting for this fucking dog-Lord to come down off his mountain?” He started to get out of the car. But McGowan cautioned him:
“Where d‘ye think ye’re goin? Have’nae Ah told ye often enough a’ready that this is only a recce!”
“Fuck recce!” the other snapped. Opening his jacket, he showed McGowan his under-arm holster and gun. “Me, I check the old guy out. I can’t recruit him if he’s a—what?—a ‘moon child?’ In which case I ask him a question or two. He’s just a thrall, after all. In fact he’s less than a thrall, not even a vampire. This way we save a lot of time … for Francesco, you understand? So, if the old guy answers my questions—all well and good and we get to know something. If he doesn’t, likewise good, except he gets dead sooner. We’ll dump his body where it won’t be found, and he’s one less to worry about.”
“And Vincent Ragusa gets all the credit, right?” McGowan hissed.
“Is that what’s pissing you?” Ragusa snarled. “You shrivelled little fuck? So why don’t you come and help out?”
But: “No!” McGowan scowled. “Go yeresel’—glory boy! Mah orders are clear enough tae me.”
“Right,” Ragusa grinned viciously. “It’s why you’re still a follower, Angus, and why you always will be. But give me ten minutes and I guarantee I’ll know more about what’s going down here than you’ve learned in ten years!”
He started away through the trees, a flowing grey shadow among lesser shadows. And McGowan thought: Smooth as a badger’s arse, that yin! More than Ah’ve learned in ten years, eh? Well, one thing Ah’ve learned in the last few months is the name o’ a certain silversmith in Inverness—the one who makes the shot for John Guiney’s cartridges, aye!
Ragusa was skirting a hedge of dense holly bushes. In a moment he’d be at the door of the cottage. McGowan turned the key in the ignition, put her in gear and found a space to reverse, then turned about and headed for the open road. Drawing level with the rear of the cottage, he stopped again but left the engine running. He at least had some experience of Radu’s allies. He’d seen them in action—the results of that action, certainly.
At the door Ragusa straightened his tie, took his automatic from its holster, tucked it in his trouser-band, where it was covered by the flap of his jacket. Then h
e knocked—and waited …
Inside, at the side of the house and upstairs, Auld John peered through a tiny window down on McGowan’s car. An old V.W. Beetle, which was fairly rare up here. He wouldn’t forget what it looked like, even if he couldn’t read the number plate. And as for the driver: had he seen him before? Well perhaps he had at that. But from what he could see of him now … B.J.’s watcher? He fitted the description, anyway.
And again the knock at the back door, but more insistent now. “Ah’m comin’, aye.” Auld John called out, in a thin, trembly voice. “Gi’ me a minute, can ye no?” And so down the stairs in an easy lope—pausing briefly in his front room—then on to the door. “Who is it?”
“Er, you don’t know me,” Ragusa’s voice, his foreign accent. But having watched him coming through the trees, his furtive approach, Auld John knew exactly what he looked like. Knew it, and didn’t like what he’d seen.
“Man Ah wiz on the toilet,” he called out. “Ah surely hope this is verra important and no just someone wantin’ directions? Let me just fix mahsel’ up …”
“Sure, take your time. But you can bet it’s important. I’m here to make you an offer. Big money, Mr. Guiney. I mean, it is John Guiney, isn’t it?” Ragusa grinned viciously and tested his draw: thrust his hand under the flap of his jacket, gripped the butt of his gun. Yeah, it was fine.
“Aye, it is that,” John answered, thinking: And you know too damn much about me—mah oh so sharp-lookin’ young friend! Then he shrank down into himself, lowered one shoulder, became even more the old man. There! And now—
—He unlatched and half-opened the door.
Ragusa knew him at once; and face to face, Auld John knew Ragusa! Moon-child that John was, forewarned and forearmed, he let instinct take over. For if this yin was‘nae Ferenczy, then he was’nae here! But he was, and he was.
“Mr. Guiney, we’re … we’re g-going to be sh-shooting a film …” Ragusa had commenced to stammer the first words that came to mind. But now—as his intended victim came from his hunched-up, rheumatic-old-man pose to the full, lean height of a sniffing, hound-eyed hunter, and growled:
“Oh? Shooting, is it?”—so Ragusa drew back a pack and reached for his gun! And: “Aye, so it is!” Auld John said, and brought his right arm and hand out from behind the door.
Twin barrels stared Ragusa in the face, and his hand still hadn’t cleared the loosely flapping material of his jacket. But then, in the next moment, he found his gun … an entire moment too late. “Oh, dearie me!” said John, and squeezed one trigger.
The blast tore the cold silence, set birds fluttering and flapping in the trees, and at point-blank range blew all of the flesh off Ragusa’s face and drove his ruined eyes deep into his skull. Performing an amazing backwards bound, the Sicilian formed a mid-air crucifix before his patent leather heels hit the ground and slammed him onto his back on the frozen earth.
Auld John loped after him, still aiming his shotgun at him but glancing left at McGowan in his car. Then, however briefly, their eyes met, exchanging looks that were sheer poison. But as John swung his shotgun to the left McGowan released the clutch, revved up, and rolled the car out of sight towards the front of the house. It was gone in a puff of exhaust smoke.
John loped to the corner of the house, saw the car accelerating towards the gap in the wall of snow. But the distance was too great; the spread of the shot would be too wide; John could only watch as the little man in his little car skidded out onto the road and drove away …
Then John went back to Ragusa’s body—which was twitching and trying to sit up! A lieutenant, this one, aye! “Well, fuck ye!” Auld John said, and thrust the barrels of his gun into the gory hole that had been a mouth. “Cuttin’ ye’re head off is’nae the only way, eh? Ah can just as easily blow it off, right?”
And he proceeded to do just that.
Later, blue wood-smoke—and more than wood-smoke—rose up in a near-vertical column from behind John’s house. He was burning all the dead wood come down from the trees in the autumn, stuff that wasn’t big enough for firewood. As for the shots that he had fired off: his nearest neighbour lived a good quarter-mile away and wouldn’t be bothered anyway. John was a gillie, after all … there were rabbits about, and pigeons for his table.
And Auld John himself warmed his hands by the blaze in a corner of the sprawling area he called his garden. There hadn’t been much of a commotion, he thought; next to nothin’, in fact. That yin had’nae been much o’ a one tae send against the likes o’ Radu and his folk! Well maybe it would warn the rest o’ the bastards off. But as he inhaled heartily on the smoke from the fire, John doubted it.
Later still, in the house, he went through Ragusa’s expensive clothing to see if he could find out just exactly who this Ferenczy had been. Information for B.J., who was still the “Wee Mistress …”
… For the time being, anyway.
That same afternoon McGowan moved from Carrbridge to Aviemore, and according to instructions received earlier booked rooms at the Ski Lodge for Francesco and his team. Then, in the evening, he spoke to the Francezci on the telephone in his room and told him of Vincent Ragusa’s regrettable demise. He told it more or less as it had happened, leaving out only the fact that he was mainly responsible for goading the younger man to his death.
And when he was finished:
“Angus, listen—you can tell me,” the Francezci had told him. “I mean, I warned you that you would have to keep an eye on Vincent, at least until I could find a fitting solution. So … did you perhaps take him out?”
“It was the way Ah told it, Francesco,” McGowan answered. “The man was a bleddy hothead if ever Ah saw one!”
“You know, old friend, that it would make no difference?” The Francezci could be persuasive. But so could McGowan be obstinate. He had lied—to a degree—and now the lie must stand forever. But he could perhaps embellish it a little.
“Francesco, the man was intent on bein’ boss,” he insisted. “Mah boss, Ah mean. And one day—maybe everybody’s boss? Orders meant nothin’ tae that yin. Ah’m sorry tae have tae say it, but it’s mah personal opinion ye’re well rid o’ him.”
“Mine, too …” (The Francezci’s softly grunted agreement.) “Just as long as nothing comes of it.”
“Auld John Guiney is‘nae about tae scream polis, if that’s what ye mean,” McGowan said. “And Ah certainly won’t be reportin’ Ragusa missin’!”
“Very well, then. What of our rooms?”
“All taken care of. Ye can move into Aviemore just as soon as ye like. They’ll even mark out a helipad for Luigi. It’ll be ready tomorrow mornin’. Oh, they quite like the idea that we’re scoutin’ locations for a film!”
“Good! I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then,” Francesco answered, and that was that …
At about the same time as McGowan was talking to the Francezci, Bonnie Jean Mirlu was talking to John Guiney. Some sixth sense, or female—or Wamphyri?—intuition had warned her that things weren’t all they might be in Auld John’s neck of the woods. And John had told her about his visitors.
Like Francesco Francezci, she was at first concerned that John’s action might precipitate things, but he soon assured her that such wasn’t the case. “It was‘nae me but the dog-Lord they were after, lass,” he said. (And B.J. wondered, Lass? What had got into John? He’d never called her that before!—perhaps it was just the excitement.) And, as if sensing her surprise, the fact that she’d been taken aback: “Beggin’ yere pardon, Bonnie, but if Ah had‘nae been the winner, why, we might all have ended up losers! The little man—yere watcher—was in charge. If he had got a hold o’ me … maybe he could have made me guide them tae Radu himsel’ in his high place!”
“They must know it won’t be long now,” she nodded, biting her lip with anxiety. “And yet—I don’t know—they seem to be acting far in advance of anything I had expected. And John, they also know where you are now. They know for sure!”
&nbs
p; “Aye,” John’s voice was stronger than she’d ever heard it. “And they know somethin’ of what they’re up against! Maybe they were—Ah dinnae ken—testin’ the water, as it were? Well if so, they would‘nae find it much to their likin’. A wee bit too hot, if ye take mah meanin’.”
“Ferenczys,” she shivered. “And we don’t know how many of them. In fact we don’t know a damn thing about them!” B.J. sensed panic setting in again. Auld John was a brave old lad, but he was a brave old fool, too.
“Ah, but we do know somethin’ about them!” He cut into her thoughts, actually seeming to relish this entire mess. “For Ah turned out this bleddy foreigner’s pockets, and there were one or two verra interestin’ items in them, be sure.”
“Well, then—go on!” B.J. snapped. And immediately softened a little. “John, I’m sure you don’t really understand the danger here.”
“Oh, but Ah do, Bonnie Jean, Ah do. Verra well, now listen. There were cards in his wallet, credit cards and such. And even money. Mainly American dollars, but some small change, too—in lira!”
“Lira?”
“Aye. And the plastic is Italian, or rather Sicilian. Also, there’s a wee personal card wi’ names, an address, and a telephone number. The card’s in Italian, but even an auld fool like me can read it easy enough. It says ‘V. Ragusa: Personal Assistant to A. and F. Francezci, Le Manse Madonie.’”
“Le Manse Madonie!” B.J. gasped out loud as her mind began to whirl. A long time ago she had tracked the ancient Ferenczy bloodline to Sicily, where the trail had appeared to peter out. And now … now it seemed that they’d been there all the time!
Harry Keogh was at the window of their small room, looking out disinterestedly into the darkness of evening at the rear of their country inn hideaway. At least, B.J. hadn’t suspected his interest. In fact with every passing moment, Harry seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper inside himself. Just what was happening in his head—if anything at all was happening in there—she wouldn’t even hazard a guess. But now, startling her: