The sounds grew closer, then seemed to pass. Vittorio looked around the corner of the cottage and saw a uniformed security guard ambling away into the darkness. He noted that the man was armed with a Glock in a holster on his belt and that he carried a can of pepper spray and handcuffs there, too.
Vittorio then moved quickly. Assuming there would be no more than the one security guard, he ran lightly alongside the path, making no noise, until he came to an overlook of the sea, then made his way toward Pine Cottage.
The cottage was dark, with only a glow from a small window that must be the bathroom. It had a night-light, like his own. He went to the window and looked through the slatted blinds into the bathroom, seeing only the floor. Empty. He walked around the cottage to the front door and found the porch light on. He ducked back into the shadows, took a pair of latex gloves from a pocket and pulled them on. That done, he checked again for security guards or guests, then walked to the front porch and unscrewed the light bulb until it went out. He put an ear to the front door and listened for a moment. No TV or music. Nothing.
He slowly turned the front door knob, but it held firm. He could breach that, he knew, but it might make noise. Instead, he walked around the cottage to the seaward side, to the terrace off the bedroom that was a feature of every cottage at the resort. He was pleased to see that the French doors to the bedroom stood open. Apparently, Barbara liked the night air.
A cloud drifted over the sliver of a moon, and he saw his chance. He vaulted lightly over the balustrade that separated the terrace from the gardens, then stopped and listened for a moment as he pulled the ski cap over his face. He had cut holes for his eyes.
BARBARA HEARD A TINY scraping sound from outside her front door. She opened her eyes and listened hard. Then came a sound, perhaps a footstep, from her terrace. She lifted her head and thought she saw a black shape standing in the open door.
VITTORIO MOVED FORWARD and stepped into the bedroom. As he did so, he heard a sharp pfffttt! sound, and felt a searing pain in his right side. He did not hesitate; he turned and ran, leaping over the terrace balustrade and running across the grass toward the next cottage, his right forearm clamped to his side. Not until he had the next cottage between himself and Barbara did he slow down and think. Much to his astonishment, he had been shot, and with a silenced weapon! He had underestimated her.
He sprinted for his cottage, wanting desperately to reach it before she raised the alarm. He leaped onto his bedroom terrace and ducked inside, listening. Nothing, no alarm.
He went into the bathroom and set down his briefcase, then stripped off his black knit shirt. Standing next to the night-light, which was incorporated into a shaving mirror, he looked at his side. A small groove about two inches long was bleeding freely, and there were three or four of what appeared to be pellet holes in his skin. He grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed them to the wound, while he went through his shaving kit. He found some antibiotic cream and several bottles of pills.
He applied the cream to the wound, which was bleeding more slowly now, then he flushed the bloody tissues down the toilet, folded a clean washcloth, pressed it to the wound and clamped it there with his forearm, while he ripped off a piece of duct tape from the roll in his briefcase. He taped the washcloth in place and turned his attention to the pill bottles. Holding each up to the night-light, he found some naproxen, an anti-inflammatory and painkiller, and some amoxicillin, an antibiotic, left over from a trip to the dentist. He washed down two of the naproxen and two of the amoxicillin, then he rinsed the blood from his knit shirt and stuffed it into a laundry bag from his dressing room. He got out of his clothes into some pajamas and into bed, still breathing hard.
When they came to his cabin, he wanted to be calm and free of sweat.
Barbara sat in a chair for a long time, holding the pistol and thinking. Who was the intruder? Her first thought was of Vittorio, but that was impossible, since he had no idea where she was. She dismissed Cupie as a possibility; it just wasn't his style. Finally, she concluded that she had fired at a would-be burglar or rapist who, now that he knew she was armed, would not be back.
She thought of alerting the management, but that would only result in a visit from the police, and she did not wish to explain herself and her pistol to them. Finally, calmer, she went back to bed and got some sleep, the pistol in her hand.
Fifty
VITTORIO JERKED AWAKE; THERE WAS SOMEBODY AT HIS front door. He turned and looked at his bedside clock: nine o'clock. He got out of bed, wincing at the pain in his side, and went to the door. Birgit stood there, smiling, her folding table slung over one shoulder, her huge handbag over the other.
"Good morning," she said. "We have a nine o'clock appointment. Am I waking you?"
"Yes, I overslept. Please come in and get set up. I'll be right with you." He went into the bathroom and swallowed two naproxen and an amoxicillin, then brushed his teeth and went back into the bedroom.
Birgit patted the table. "Up," she said.
Vittorio stripped off his pajamas and started to get onto the table.
"Wait," she commanded. "What is this?" She took hold of a corner of the duct tape and ripped it off.
Vittorio gritted his teeth but managed not to scream. "Just a nick," he said through gritted teeth.
"Lie down," she ordered. "On your back." She was already digging into her big handbag. "What kind of wound is this?" she asked. "I've not seen anything like."
"You've seen a lot of wounds?" he asked, avoiding a straight answer.
"I am trained as a nurse," she said. "You need sewing."
"I don't have the time to go to a doctor," he replied. "You can put another bandage on, if you have one."
"I have one; I also have the needle. What I don't have is the local anesthetic. Can you stand some pain?"
He started to tell her that he was Apache, but he didn't want to explain. "Yes," he said.
She went into the bathroom and came back with two facecloths, then dug a bottle of peroxide out of her bag, held one cloth below the wound and poured the foaming liquid on the flesh, catching the excess with the cloth. Then she produced a small, plastic box, a curved needle, forceps and thread. "Don't worry, is sterile," she said.
"I believe you."
She folded the second facecloth and held it to his lips. "Bite," she said.
He bit down on the cotton terry, and she went to work. When she was done she took some long, slender tweezers from her kit.
"Now I must dig," she said.
He nodded, and bit down again for what seemed an interminable time.
"Good," she said, finally holding out her hand to show him four tiny pellets. "What is this?"
Vittorio shrugged and took the facecloth out of his mouth. "Don't know."
She looked at him skeptically, then she bathed the area in more peroxide and bandaged it. "Now you need antibiotic," she said. "I don't have."
"I've already taken antibiotics," he replied.
"Okay," she said, "on your belly."
Vittorio turned over gingerly, but the naproxen was working now, and there wasn't much pain.
Birgit began working on his neck and shoulders. "You are tense from my medicine," she said.
"Can you blame me?" he asked. "Next time get some lidocaine for your kit."
"Good idea," she said, "but I don't do many gunshot wounds since I worked in emergency room in Stockholm. Not many then, either."
Vittorio said nothing.
She continued her work. "I am wondering how you got gunshot wound since last night," she said.
"Let's just say there was an intruder," he replied, "and let it go at that."