Chapter 6 - The Sleet on the Stone
The old mill down the creek road was a skeleton of timber and rusted iron gears that had been abandoned since the Great Depression. The water below the wheel was black, choked with dead branches and frozen slush that cracked like bone when the current pushed it against the stones.
Richard sat in the front seat of the Dodge, the heater blowing a thin stream of lukewarm air that smelled of old tobacco and damp carpets. His face was gray, the skin beneath his eyes dark and puffy from three days of black coffee and amphetamines he’d taken to stay awake on the drive from Queens.
His badge was in his pocket, but it felt light now—useless against the cold that had settled into his joints.
“I know you’re up there, you little bitch,” he muttered, his fingers tightening around the checkered stock of the Remington rifle on the passenger seat. “I know you’re living in that stone house with that Italian trash. I saw the cars. I saw the plates.”
A shadow appeared at the window of his car.
Richard didn't hear the door open—he only felt the sudden rush of freezing air and the smell of sandalwood and smoke before a massive hand closed around the collar of his coat and hauled him out into the sleet.
He hit the wet gravel hard, his knees scraping against the ice as his rifle clattered into the black water of the creek. Before he could reach for the backup pistol in his ankle holster, a heavy boot came down on his wrist, pinning his hand to the stone with enough force to split the skin.
Matteo Vitali stood over him, holding a long black umbrella in his left hand, his cashmere coat completely dry despite the storm. Marco and two other men stood behind him, their hands tucked into their coat pockets, their faces unreadable beneath the brim of their wool caps.
“You’re a long way from the precinct, Detective,” Matteo said, his voice a low, rhythmic purr against the roar of the creek.
“You’re dead, Vitali!” Richard shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to lift his head from the mud. “The state police know I’m here! My captain has this coordinates! If I don't check in by midnight, they’re going to bring fifty cars down this valley!”
Matteo knelt down, his umbrella shifting slightly to keep the sleet off Richard’s face—not out of kindness, but so he could see the expression in his eyes.
“Your captain is currently sitting in a private dining room at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan,” Matteo said softly. “He is eating an eight-ounce filet mignon that was paid for by a corporate account belonging to the Vitali Shipping Company. He doesn't know your coordinates, Richard. He doesn't even remember your name. He signed your retirement papers two hours ago due to 'psychological instability brought on by domestic stress.'”
Richard’s mouth opened, but no sound came out except a dry, rattling gasp. The reality of his isolation was hitting him like the ice water that was soaking through his coat.
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“You can’t do this,” he whispered, his eyes darting toward the black water of the creek. “I’m a cop.”
“You were a cop,” Matteo corrected him, standing up and stepping back onto the dry gravel. “Now, you’re just a man who had an accident on an icy road fifty miles from home. Marco, clear the car.”
