A Season for the Dead

Forty-Six

She walked out to the gate at seven and spoke to one of the cops. It was easy to get what you wanted with a smile. The man took her money, looked a little puzzled, and drove off to the nearby nursery. It wouldn’t be open yet but he was a cop. He’d bang on the door till they came.

Then she stayed near the lane, mutely watched by the other policemen, trying not to think, trying not to expect too much from the day to come, waiting. Half an hour later the cop returned with the plants nestled in a battered cardboard box. There were three sets, each wrapped in damp newspaper. She looked at the seedlings of cavolo nero, little taller than an index finger. It was hard to believe they would grow through the coming harshness of winter, thriving in the cold and damp, becoming stronger each day until, in spring, they would be ready for harvest.

Sara walked back to the house and found Marco and Bea on the porch drinking coffee. He sat happily in his wheelchair, Bea at his side. Marco finally looked at peace with himself. He’d lost the impatient energy, the need to make some kind of point at every opportunity which she had noticed since the moment she stepped into the farmhouse.

The internal, gnawing need to settle accounts had been resolved, for the time being at least. There had been a debt to be settled, she thought, and one he’d forgotten, which only made things worse. In a sense he looked older, wearier, more resigned. Perhaps these were steps along the way, stations of love, of insight, which needed to be passed. This was the luxury—and the agony—of a lingering death. It gave one the time to consider, to make decisions. It contained, too, sufficient space for both regret and, with a little luck, reconciliation.

Bea stood and took the box from her, smiling at the slender green forms that lay inside.

“You remembered?” Marco said, amazed.

“Of course.”

He laughed. “It was the wine. I didn’t mean you to do this. You can’t really want to get down on your hands and knees and plant these damned things. What for?”

Bea patted him on his gray head. “I thought we’d agreed. Because it’s a farm, silly man. Things should be growing here. It looks barren otherwise.”

He scanned the arid, yellow ground, then gazed at both of them.

“I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

“You’re a man,” Bea replied.

“Well, at least I won’t be grubbing around planting something no one’s going to look after come the winter.”

“They’ll grow,” Bea said. “I promise.”

He harrumphed, though there was still an amused satisfaction in his eye neither of them could miss. “What’s happening to my life?” he asked, then shot Sara a glance. “You heard from Nic?”

“He left early,” she said, not committing herself. She understood they knew where she had spent the night. Her time with him, in his arms, astride him, touching his hair, feeling him inside her, all this now seemed like a dream. They had parted on bad terms. It was her fault. She knew this and she regretted hurting him. Nevertheless there were boundaries that had to be established. She wondered whether she would ever see Nic Costa again. Whether he would even want to see her. The future rose ahead like a mist, full of so many formless possibilities.

“We should watch the news,” she told them, and saw the expression cross Marco Costa’s lined face, followed the way he looked at Bea.

It was something bad. It had to be.

“I did,” he said. “While you were down at the gate.”

“I need to know…”

“No, you don’t. Not right now. All that would mean is that we’d have to watch you go through the agonies again, Sara. This is not about you. These people aren’t your responsibility.”

“You know that?” she replied coldly.

“We know enough,” Marco answered.

“Tell me. Please.”

They glanced at each other. Bea nodded.

“He shot two cops dead last night,” Marco said grimly. “One of them was Luca Rossi, Nic’s partner.”

She closed her eyes.

“Then he killed someone else,” Marco continued. “Arturo Valena, the man from the TV. They’re saying…” He hesitated. “They’re saying all sorts of things, to tell you the truth. They’re saying this priest they’re looking for is the son of that cardinal the papers are writing about.”

“I need to see this…”

His hand went out and held her as she passed him. Marco was still strong. This surprised her.

“No,” he insisted. “It’s just there to drive you crazy. There is nothing you can do. Are you hearing me? Leave this to Nic and the rest of them. It’s their job. Not yours.”

“I have to know.”

His old face examined hers. He was a clever man. Nic must have found out at an early age what she knew now: It was impossible to keep a secret from him when those sharp, intelligent eyes turned on you.

“No, you don’t,” Marco said. She knew what he left unsaid: You don’t need to hear because you know already. It was, she admitted to herself, this that interested her: finding out how much they had discovered, using that information for her own ends.

Marco picked up one of the sets of plants and examined it, touching the stalk, feeling the tender young leaves in his fingers.

“These are good,” he said, looking at her. “They’re a little late but never mind. It’s just a matter of care and attention. Don’t plant them together too tightly. You’ll need to water them in well. Sara…”

She did what he wanted. She looked into his face.

“The tools are in the outhouse over there. You should dress down a little, both of you. I want this done with care. When you’re finished, then we let the rest of the world in here again. But not before, please.”

He knew everything, or thought he did. She could see this in his face.

“And when Nic calls? When he comes around?” she asked, aware that she was already thinking about how soon she could get away and make the phone call.

“I think Nic will be pretty busy today, to be honest with you.”

“And when he isn’t?”

Marco had the answer already: You won’t be here. She would never have to face the possibility.

“The ground needs a little preparation,” he said. “I’ll teach you how.”