Chapter 42
Naomi cringed as Tag coughed harshly on the room’s sofa. Her friend lay curled on his side, wracked in a tight spasm. Sweat pebbled his brow. His inhaler was empty, but he still clutched it like a lifeline.
Naomi paced the room, looking past the chalet’s balcony to the mountains beyond.
She wished the others were still here. Tag had taken a turn for the worse an hour ago, complaining of a crippling headache that left him sprawled across the sofa.
He had warned her that abruptly stopping his Zanaflex and its sudden withdrawal would hit him hard.
But I never expected it to be this bad.
She weighed the risk of attempting to refill his meds, knowing it might expose them if his real name popped up on a database. But seeing him suffer now, she questioned if such caution was necessary.
Is he suffering for no reason?
She crossed to him and dropped to her knee. “Is there anything I can do? Get you? Something over the counter?”
With a trembling arm, he wiped a drape of drool from his lips. His expression was pained, looking as much embarrassed as agonized. “Pain relievers . . . sometimes they take the edge off.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe Archie left some ibuprofen. But naproxen usually works better. Even soaking in a hot bath with Epsom salts relieves some of the pain. But we don’t have either.”
She turned to the French doors off the balcony, picturing the small village beyond. “When we got into town, I spotted a pharmacy a few blocks off. I should be able to pick stuff up there.”
“We’re not supposed to leave the hotel,” he reminded her.
“Then I’ll have it delivered.”
“Not without a credit card.”
She cursed under her breath.
He’s right. And we only have a little cash left.
“Actually,” Tag gasped out, “what works best is marijuana.”
She raised a brow toward him. “Weed? You? Mr. Holistic?”
He smiled wanly. “It’s herbal and medicinal. Right up my alley.”
“That’s true.”
He swallowed, which clearly took great effort. “The cannabinoids in marijuana have efficacy in both relieving pain and relaxing muscle spasms.”
She frowned at him. “You don’t have to get all scientific to explain why you want to get high.”
He started to laugh but curled into a hard jag of coughing. When he could finally breathe, tears coursed from his eyes.
Screw this . . .
She headed toward the door, grabbing her jacket.
Tag grunted at her in concern. “Naomi . . .”
“Weed is illegal to buy in Italy,” she said. “So, no prescription is needed, making it technically over the counter. And this town is full of shiftless ski bums, waiting for the season to start. Someone out there has to be holding.”
He called after her. “If you can score some Valium, I wouldn’t object.”
She turned to him.
He forced a painful shrug. “Sometimes Western medicine has its advantages, too.”
You got it.
Naomi headed out, hurried down the stairs to the lobby, and made a discreet inquiry with the woman who had been their server earlier. Twenty minutes later, she found herself crossing into an icy park.
She kept bundled, not just from the cold, but to keep her features hidden. She wore a cap with its bill tugged low and a scarf covering her nose and mouth. She searched the neighboring streets but spotted no one staring suspiciously at her.
Satisfied, she crossed through the park to a fountain. Its basin had been drained for the season. The statue of an angel rose at the center, encrusted with ice and crowned by snow.
Off to the side, a pair of figures lounged on a nearby bench.
Just like the waitress told me to expect.
Naomi looked around once more, unable to suppress a tremble of unease, this being her first drug deal.
As she approached, one of the pair stood and confronted her.
He wore a puffy Moncler parka and boots, topped by a Bogner cap, all expensive gear.
It seemed drug dealing must be very profitable in this ski town, or this was some rich kid slumming it for extra change.
“Cosa vuoi?” he challenged her brusquely.
She hoped he spoke English. “I . . . I’m looking to buy some weed.”
He smoothly switched to match her. “Are you a cop?”
She fought not to roll her eyes. Guy’s definitely an amateur. Or stupid. Or likely both. Despite what was portrayed in procedurals on TV, the police didn’t have to admit to being a cop when confronted.
“I’m not. I have a friend who’s hurting.”
The dealer’s outthrust chest relaxed. “Okay. How much do you want?”
“A couple grams.”
“That all?” He cast his gaze up and down her in a dismissive manner.
“Funds are limited. I could also use a few tabs of Valium if you have any.”
The dealer shrugged and waved to his partner. As the figure stood, Naomi saw it was an older woman, as heavily bundled as herself. If nothing else, it was nice to contribute her Euros to a female-run business.
As the negotiation started, Naomi noted a chain round the woman’s neck. A clear vial, full of a crystalline powder, hung from it. Naomi suspected it was not a drug on display, but instead served as an amulet of some sort.
Naomi pointed at it, guessing its contents. “Is that salt in there?”
The woman clutched the vial. “Sì. Sale. You know?”
“I do. It’s to ward off evil.”
The woman nodded, her cold demeanor softening. According to tradition, a malevolent spirit could not attack someone until they finished counting every grain of salt in a protective charm.
Naomi was not overly surprised to find such an ornament on this woman.
She had recently read a journal article on the high prevalence of superstitious beliefs among criminal elements.
Hispanic gangs would never steal from a church, believing it would curse them.
As contradictory as it might seem, mafia members adhered to the religious practices of the Catholic faith with a fervency that surpassed most of the devoted.
The thesis of the article was that criminals knew they were doing wrong and sought a higher means of absolution and protection.
“You know the stregheria ways?” the woman asked.
“I’m acquainted,” Naomi admitted, recognizing the archaic term for an Italian form of witchcraft.
“Then I will make you a good deal, sì?” She nudged her large companion. “Antonio, show her our best.”
Naomi didn’t know if she was being conned.
Maybe this was a faked camaraderie to make her drop her guard.
Still, after some back and forth, she completed the transaction.
She had to settle for a single gram of cannabis and three tabs of Valium.
She hoped it would be enough to stem Tag’s agony—at least long enough for the others to get back, which likely wouldn’t be until tomorrow.
She said her goodbyes and crossed out of the park.
As she headed for their tiny hotel, she fought to walk nonchalantly, which only made her gait more stilted.
She also looked around far too often, even for a tourist. Recognizing this, she tried to use reflections in passing windows to watch if anyone suddenly turned and stepped after her.
No one did.
Then up ahead, a sleek black car topped by a bar of blue lights turned a corner and passed slowly down the street.
Emblazoned on its side in silver letters was the word Carabinieri.
She tripped a step, recognizing the more militarized version of the Italian police.
She quickly turned toward a ski shop and pretended to show keen interest in a display of snowboards.
Reflected in the glass, the vehicle slowly idled past—then continued on.
She let out the breath she had been holding, hunched her shoulders, and headed again down the street, her pace quicker now.
As she reached the hotel, she glanced back. A few blocks away, the brake lights of the Carabinieri sedan flared brighter. She cringed and waited until it turned a corner and vanished.
She must have looked suspicious at that moment, drawing the eyes of a couple bystanders across the street. Or maybe they were simply inspecting the hotel’s chalkboard, which displayed the restaurant’s specials.
Enough of this . . .
She headed inside.
I’m just being paranoid . . . and I’ve not even partaken of the wares I just bought.
As she headed across the lobby, the waitress from earlier gave her an inquiring look. Naomi answered with a thumb’s up, then hurried to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. She crossed to her room, unlocked it, and ducked inside.
Tag coughed, then croaked to her. “How was—”
“Got everything,” she gasped out, relieved to be back.
She paused at the closed door, resting her forehead against it.
She flipped the deadbolt. As an extra measure, she fumbled the privacy chain across the frame.
She trembled there, her heart pounding, not fully trusting that she hadn’t exposed herself.
She pictured the flash of the brake lights, the faces staring toward her.
From here on out, she decided to proceed with more caution and adhere to the wisdom she had once read:
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.