FInto the storm
December, 18th
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Each of the locks opened with relative ease except the last which required a number combination, I can hear the piano’s music filtering through the door just before it opens. Inside the small room the windows have been shut and the drapes nailed to the floor, only a series of candles lights the dim room.
The walls are painted slate black a black piano forced to the farthest corner of the room. Apart from a modest bed and chair the room is empty.
The woman behind the piano continues to play, unaffected by my unusual presence. Perhaps she was frightened, although she did have every right to be.
“I have bought you something, Ms. DeLune”, I spoke softly to her.
She stops playing at the sound of my voice but remains with her back to me. By her music alone she appears lonely, tired and docile.
Cautiously I enter the room setting a small majolica planter on top of the piano, the green plants now held the most color in the room.
“They are clovers”, I explain to her.
I pick one of the plants and sit next to her at the piano. She takes the plant into her thumb and fore finger slightly twirling it, her face still covered by a curtain of black hair.
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A perfect four leaf clover.
Turning abruptly she throws the plants on the floor and digs her nails into my shirt sleeves, piecing my skin, her face is expressionless, worn and tired but there is passion in her voice.
“Let me out of here”, she begs me, "please”
I try to have few regrets, I should have never spoken to her of course it was too late to turn back now.
“You will not think like that. "
Ms. DeLune’s pleas lead to a physical struggle between the two of us, the piano bench falls over and splinters into two pieces. I struggled under her desperation as she tries to reach the door.
I allow her to fight for a while but void of sleep and good nutrition she soon gives in, and falls onto the floor.
Her eyes are darkening and even if she could make it to the door she would never make it out the house.
“That was a foolish thing you did”, I scolded her for earlier, “Someone could have seen you at the window. You know what will happen.”
“Shut up”
“I am going into town—“
“Why are you telling me? ”
“Ms.. .”, I began but cannot finish.
She picks herself off the floor and drags the spare chair from the far side of the room to the piano, spreading the dirt across the floor, and resumes playing.
I listen for a while before closing the door behind me and placing each key into each lock.
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+++
“Where to, Sir ?”, Mr. Ciani ,wakes from his early evening nap, and calls across the garage, his cap in hand, “Been looking forward to taking the Continental out.”
“I see”, I considered the vehicle in question, “You may leave early, Mr. Ciani. There is a storm coming.”
“Heard about that. . .You going far in this weather, Mr.
Fierro ?”, he insists on friendly conversation.
“Just to town”, I offer, taking the keys.
How long had it been since I had driven a vehicle? I had observed Mr. Ciani expert handling of the vehicles, either way I would not allow the mechanics to bother me.
The garage opens to a fine mist of December rain and a dark sky, the headlights cut through the darkness easily and I began my journey away from the house. Silence consumes me as I speed down the 10 mile road toward civilization.
I continue at an increasing speed, the rain continues to pour, I can hardly see where I am going.
Suddenly I’m forced to hit the brakes.
A figure stands in the middle of the road, the car stops just inches from what appears to be a child, I have little regard for children, least one alone in the rain.
Still . . .
Maybe it was a strange instance of compassion or the thought of a woman who would no doubt stop, that I released the window.
The child had a baseball cap on to shield him from the rain, he kept his eyes down but looked in my direction.
“Are you far from home ?”, I called to him
“The home”, he said, “St. Marks home for boys. . .it’s not far from here.”
This child was carefree, without worries or fears and apparently without a family. I knew of the home and it was far from here, but once again of little concern to me.
“Well then . . .stay out of the road.”
He nodded and I continued my journey uninterrupted, I sped over the bascule bridge and soon street lights of lake cottages dotted the night. The homes continued for several streets till I found the one I was looking for.
Cardall Farm’s Bed and Breakfast.
Inside the modest house they boosted one of the most exquisite restaurants in Southern Chautauqua Lake County.
It was near closing and I suffered few stares and simple minded gapes from wait staff and late drinkers. Surely a man with my pallid complexion and taste in vehicles was not common in this modest part of the county.
The dining room was nearly empty, wilted poinsettias pass their season decorated the table. I approached the reserved table, as always, cautiously.
“Emile”, I greeted my good friend.
“Fierro”, his mood matched the weather, “Have you seen this ?”
He turned his small phone towards me, a lighted picture of Ms. DeLune showed followed by dark text spelling out ‘Reaches Two Million Dollar Reward.”
“Yes, her father came to me for a ...contribution.”, I informed him
“It’s been almost 3 months Do you think they will stop looking for her ?”, he asks
“No”
“It seems you already have... so quickly to lose another love.”
“You supposed I loved her?”
“I suppose”, he was confident.
“What else do you suppose, Emile?”
“I suppose that you called me here for a reason, what is it ?”
I remained silent as a glum waiter and requested a ’78 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and declined an offer for a menu.
“I know where she is”,
“Dear God, are you mad ?”, he believes me so quickly, ”Was this your plan for revenge ? Where have you put her?”
Emile has so many questions, none of which I felt obliged to answer.
“Ms. DeLune has been a prisoner for quite sometime. Stay, have a drink then judge me.”