Death Brings Gold - Nicola Rocca

NICOLA ROCCA

DEATH

BRINGS GOLD

Translated from Italian by M.N. Dee

Facebook Page:

- Nicola Rocca ‘Author Page’

- Nicola Rocca

enneerreautore@outlook.it

Cover Illustration Copyright: © Alessandro Gardenti (Thorny Editing).

Cover design by: © Nicola Rocca and Alessandro Gardenti

Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Literary and artistic rights reserved.

All rights reserved.

2015

For Daniel,

to give him courage

and to tell him that I am here

whenever he needs me!

… And that tomorrow will always be a better day!

Mankind invented the atomic bomb,

but no mouse would ever construct

a mousetrap.

Albert Einstein

(1879-1955)

Serendipity is looking in a

haystack for a needle

and discovering a farmer’s

daughter.

Julius H. Cooe

(1911-1984)

PROLOGUE

A deep breath. The man wakes up.

Something is not right. He feels week, numb. His head is spinning, as if waking from a massive hangover.

Actually, it hurts. At the back, right above his neck.

By instinct he tries to lift one hand to reach the tender spot, in an effort to massage it. But he can’t, his hand is locked. A metallic sound reaches his ears. He pulls harder.

What on earth…?

His eyes widen in fear. Sweat begins covering his forehead.

He is sitting on the floor of his living room. He recognizes his home, his furniture, and his curtains. He looks around, trying to forget that his hands are handcuffed to the heater.

He gives another tug, but all he gets is the clinking of a chain and a sharp pain in his wrists.

His sweat now leads to anguish.

Before his mouth lets out a cry, a voice materializes.

“Welcome back, Alberto.”

These words are followed by the sound of muffled footsteps.

“What the fuck…”

His curse dies on his lips as he sees a man standing before him. He has never seen this thickly bearded face before.

“Finally you’re with us,” the man says.

His voice is kind and polite - almost caring - and this is what churns Alberto’s gut with terror.

A choked sound emanates from the prisoner’s mouth. He gives another tug with his arms trying to set himself free, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain.

“It’s no use,” the man calmly points out, caressing his beard. “Those chains can’t be broken.”

Alberto tries to shout, but his voice comes out like a hoarse whisper.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The man narrows his eyes, as if boring into the soul of the one before him.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. But what I am doing here.”

Alberto knows that he can’t dictate the rules of this encounter, but he tries to hide his desperation.

“Listen, friend… I don’t know what you want from me. You’ve got the wrong person.”

The man answers with an amused grin.

“Quite the contrary” the man with the beard says. His tone of voice is now cold as ice. “You are exactly who I was looking for. You really don’t remember me? Don’t worry, you’ll get your memory back. Soon.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Or what you’re doing here,” the prisoner gasps, still straining against the chains. Another dizzy spell forces him to close his eyes. Exhausted, he leans back against his prison.

Ignoring the words, the other man moves one step closer and stares right into the eyes of his prey.

“I’ll give you a little clue …” he says.

And finally – the words that had waited silently for decades in his heart –were spoken.

“Morning brings gold…”

The phrase remained there, hanging in the air. Then, like a sharp blade, it plunges into the captive man’s mind, telling him that in this game he is the victim; the other man executioner.

He pretends not to understand. With difficulty he opens his eyes and his voice, now accompanied by tears, has become a wheeze…

“I don’t know what the stupid phrase means.”

The killer unfastens, one by one, the buttons of his raincoat, takes it off and places it neatly on the back of a chair.

The victim recognizes the suit the man is wearing. And he feels the fear growing inside him.

“There must be some mistake,” he says, whimpering. “You really have the wrong person …”

The killer doesn’t pay any attention to the pathetic plea.

He strokes his beard and takes a step towards the victim.

“They say that revenge is a dish best served cold,” he declares. “Well, I’ve never believed it …” he pauses, hesitant, “… but I had no other choice than to wait. And with each passing year, my anger, instead of disappearing, increased. It is now time to unleash it.”

The victim feels his heart tightening up.

“I have nothing to do with it,” he moans, his cheeks damp with terror and desperation.

The killer takes another step towards the broken man. He stands there observing him, like a scientist would do with a laboratory animal.

The victim recognizes in those eyes a look he has seen before –older now, but identical to the one he had seen many years before. He would like to ask for mercy and forgiveness, but the words stick in his throat with fear.

The killer speaks again.

“You’re a dead man.” He smiles, his face lined with fine wrinkles. The kind that pain carves into your face while you’re still young and vulnerable. “Just a stupid dead man.”

The words seem to float around the room indefinitely.

The killer moves closer still, ignoring the prisoner’s groans. Barely breathing, he reaches into his pocket and slowly slips out the weapon that will kill him.

CHAPTER 1

Umberto Visconti stood there and stared at the casket being lowered into the ground. His face was wracked with grief. The only loved one he’d had left was leaving like this.

David Walker was watching him cry. He stood still and stared at the line of people queuing to show their affection to their tearful friend. Then, when the man was alone, Walker approached him.

“My condolences, Umberto,” he said, taking and squeezing his cold hands.

Visconti forced himself to smile. He blinked his eyes a couple of times in an attempt to clear the tears that were clouding his vision. Losing a parent, even if they have reached the farthest edge of old age, always breaks your heart. Umberto knew that pain; he had already experienced it.

“Thank you very much, David,” he said, hugging him.

David never liked these moments of sadness, but he didn’t want to be the first to separate from the embrace. He was hoping Umberto would do it. While waiting for that gesture that never seemed to come, he stood still and felt sorry for the other man’s sobs. Because Umberto Visconti, as well as being the medical examiner that worked with him, in time had also become a valuable friend. And for David, a friend’s pain was also his pain.

Finally, David felt Umberto detach from their embrace -his lips moving close to his ear. His breath was warm and his skin smelled like aftershave.

“Thanks again for coming, my friend.”

In the last weeks they hadn’t met or called each other much. Visconti was often unreachable because he had to look after his mother during the last stage of her life; Walker, on the other hand, was busy hunting down a guy who liked to rape, rob and kill high-class prostitutes. In the end he managed to catch him and close the case, even though a bullet cost him a couple of days in hospital. At least, he had arrived on time at the funeral. His shoulder was hurting like fuck, but he was there.

“I had to, Umberto,” he replied, in the most comforting voice he could offer.

The two men stood staring at each other.

“I’m really sorry, Umby,” he said, regretting almost immediately the banality of those words.

The other man stared at him, and Walker had never seen such a sad look on his friend’s face. He was nodding his head and looked like he was suffering from one of those awful tics that come with old age.

“She was a good woman,” he said. “I’m not saying it because she was my mother. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

David nodded repeatedly, and for a moment it looked like the other man had passed that annoying nervous tic onto him...

“I’m sure,” he replied. Not that he had ever met Umberto’s mother – he had seen her only once – but he was convinced it was true. He had been working with Umberto Visconti for some time and over the years he had found in him a good person. Polite, refined, and professional. The kind of person that must have been brought up in a respectable, principled family.

“She suffered so much …” Umberto said, muffling the phrase with an expression of anguish.

“I’m sorry,” the other repeated, almost under his breath.

“She didn’t deserve all that suffering, David.”

This time the Inspector didn’t reply. He thought that no one deserved such a terrible ordeal of pain. No one. He kept the thought to himself.

“She was torn apart by that terrible disease, David. It was as if… as if someone had decided to measure out her pain little by little. To eradicate her from this life with brief painful jabs.”

The man paused, then he continued with a voice-which although calm, also carried an edge of anger.

“I hope I won’t go like she did. I hope that one day I won’t end up like my mother. A slow agony. I hope that when my time comes, it will be something quick, fast, and painless. I couldn’t bear to be trapped inside the prison of a long illness. Because being ill is like being in jail.. The fact that you are bedridden, that you are not self sufficient anymore, that you have to depend on others … That is, all of this is the same as serving a life sentence for a crime committed. Actually, it’s worse, far worse …”

He stopped. He took a breath and stared in the direction of the ground under which his mother had just been buried. A tear ran down his cheek.

“… Because the only crime attributable to my mother is that she was victim of that damned cancer. That’s why I hope that when my time comes …”

“Don’t think about it now, Umberto,” the Inspector said, bringing the other’s words to an end. “You’ve got an entire life ahead of you. You must think about overcoming this test. The love for your job will save you, you’ll see. It was the same for me, too.”

David thought he had been convincing, but his friend replied with bitter resignation.

“Do you think so?”

The question hung between them, illuminated by the headstones candles. David didn’t bother replying. And what could he have said to his friend to console him? More pointless words?

“I think not,” continued Visconti. “Now I am alone. My life will never be the same again.”

David understood that the recent loss of a loved one takes away one’s will to go on, to pick yourself up again, to move forward. To live. He had known it too. But he also knew that time would set things right again. In these circumstances, the passing of time is the only remedy to heal the wounds that everyone carries in their hearts.

“Be strong, Umberto,” he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll see, it’ll get better. I, too, have gone through this.”

Visconti gave a hint of a smile; in an attempt to reassure his friend-who was trying to comfort him-that his words were appreciated.

But inside he knew now that his mother was dead, depriving him of the last love he had left, his life was going to change radically.

David did get one thing right, though, when he said: the love for his job was going to save him.

That was true. Even if Walker and Visconti didn’t see it the same way.

CHAPTER 2

He was pleased with himself for deciding not to drive his car to the church. First of all because, due to the traffic, he never would have made it on time to the service; and then because he also would have had to do some walking. He kept seeing Umberto’s dismayed face and it reminded him of his own similar pain. He, too, had lost both his parents. And although his mother had been gone now for five years, her memory was more vivid than ever.

This thought veiled his eyes with melancholy, while the stinging cold continued to vehemently stab his face. He slowed his pace to a halt and the echoing of his footsteps seemed to continue for another second before stopping. He slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, searching for the package.

When he found it, he opened it and extracted a Marlboro. He brought it to his lips and rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. He returned the package to his pocket and resumed walking, taking deep draws from the still unlit cigarette. He had always liked smoking. His only vice, and he clung to it dearly.

Then, his mother’s face instantly appeared.

It was the face of a woman with only a few days left to live. Ashen, framed by dishevelled hair that time and illness had turned grey. Her eyes were lifeless, sad, and were struggling to see.

Alzheimer’s and a metastatic carcinoma were taking her away. That poor woman had been unable to utter a word for days and, according to the doctors, her brain couldn’t understand what was going on around her anymore.

The day before she was gone forever, she made a sort of recovery; a moment of clarity. She had her eyes wide open and was trying to keep her head – which until then had been a weight dangling from side to side - still.

“Mum?” he called in disbelief.

Then he turned to check if Carolina, the nurse that was looking after his mother, was still there. She wasn’t.

His mother had lifted one arm, trying to extend it towards him and that gesture was draining her of all the energy she had left. He had welcomed her hand between his and stood there staring at her, confident that something extraordinary was going to happen.

The woman blinked her eyes several times, trying to focus on the images in front of her. Her mouth opened in a grin and her hand started to tremble, while her breathless voice was coming through with difficulty.

“David, m-mhy d-d-hear…”

Distorted words were coming from her twisted lips.