Chapter Twenty-Five
Gabriela wheeled her hard-side, carry-on spinner out of the Verona airport terminal with Rafer a step behind her.
Marcella had managed to score them two seats on a six forty-five red-eye from Miami to Verona.
It was a twelve-hour flight, getting Gabriela and Rafer into Verona at one o’clock Wednesday afternoon.
Gabriela had used the gap day to shop for travel essentials in Selpan’s high-end outdoor mall.
Skinny stretch jeans, a Polo hoodie, an Hermès equestrian jacket in washed deerskin, an Hermès wrap bracelet, Akris techno stretch pants and matching knit top.
Plus, a Prada tote to accommodate the additional clothes.
Rafer had spent his gap day on the beach, since he didn’t feel a compulsion to add to the clothes he already carried in a tired Yeti Crossroads backpack.
Gabriela scanned the parking lot across from the service road and spotted Jacko waving at them.
“That’s Jacko?” Rafer asked. “He looks like an extra in an Italian heist movie.”
Jacko was forty years old, five feet ten inches, with slicked-back black hair, olive skin, and a slim body. He was wearing a cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up, skinny jeans, and Ferragamo moccasins.
“He’s not an actor,” Gabriela said. “He’s a fixer. He mostly works in Milan. Sometimes in Como. He provides logistical support for out-of-country filmmakers and fashion designers.”
“What kind of logistical support?”
“Getting permits, talent, equipment, and crews. Helping with housing and transportation. Giving advice on local customs.”
Jacko rushed across the street and gave Gabriela a kiss on both cheeks. “Ciao. Bentornato.” He looked over at Rafer. “And who do we have here?”
“Rafer,” Gabriela said.
“Is he gay?”
“Not even a little,” Rafer said.
“Too bad,” Jacko said to Rafer. “I was hoping to have Gabriela all to myself.”
“He’s my ex-husband,” Gabriela said.
Jacko went wide-eyed. “Get the fuck out.”
“Really,” Gabriela said.
“You crazy Americans,” Jacko said.
“You sound American,” Rafer said.
“My mama is American. My papa is Italian. He was attached to the Italian consulate in Washington, DC, off and on through my childhood, so I went to mostly American schools. Then when I graduated my girlfriend went to college in New Jersey. Rutgers. So, I followed her.”
“How’d that work out?” Rafer asked.
“She flunked out freshman year, got a job at Hooters, and married a busboy. I got a worthless degree in art history, came back to Italy, and here I am working as a fixer. It’s my perfect job because I speak American, and I have very few scruples.
I’m also lazy, and I don’t like to work all the time. ”
“Are you still driving the Fiat Panda?” Gabriela asked.
“Of course. It’s the quintessential Italian car. It’s not made especially well, but it’s affordable, and when it gets smashed in traffic it is easily replaced with yet another Fiat Panda.”
They followed Jacko to his white Fiat and folded themselves into it.
“We’re going to see Castello Blanco, correct?” Jacko asked. “Can I ask why? It’s not a desirable tourist stop.”
“I’m in search of some stolen art,” Gabriela said.
“It’s not a likely place for stolen art,” Jacko said. “It’s difficult to approach and the owner is known to be odd and reclusive.”
“Do you know the owner?” Gabriela asked.
“No. There are rumors about an old man living there. It’s said that he never cuts his fingernails and that he has a sacrificial altar for baby goats.
And that he drinks their blood while their heart is still beating.
I’ve never been in the castle, but I once spoke to someone who had been in the kitchen.
He said that the castle had plumbing and electricity and that the kitchen had modern appliances.
He was there to fix a leaking sink. He didn’t see beyond that. ”
“Did he see the owner?” Gabriela asked.
“He saw no one. He found the kitchen, repaired the sink, and left.”
“Was he paid in goat chops?” Rafer asked.
“Damn,” Jacko said. “I didn’t think to ask.” Jacko pulled out of airport parking and headed north. “Have you ever been to Valgenico?” he asked.
Rafer and Gabriela both answered, “Nope.”
“It’s an easy trip on mostly highway. About ninety minutes.
We’ll drive by some towns and lots of vineyards.
It’s very scenic. I like Valgenico. It gets enough tourist traffic to make it interesting.
There are some decent restaurants and some good bars.
And it’s famous for its spa. The mineral waters are supposed to be healing.
I’m not a fan, but enough people like it to keep it going.
I bring clients there sometimes when they aren’t working.
And I have a cousin there, so I have someplace to crash. ”
“Is Castello Blanco in town?” Gabriela asked.
“It’s in the area but at a higher altitude than the town. We’ll bypass town and take the mountain road. I’ve been on it twice before with my cousin when we were scouting an overlook for a travel show. The overlook is about five miles past the turnoff to the castle.”
“Can you see the castle from the road?” Gabriela asked.
“No,” Jacko said. “You can only see the private road that takes you to the castle. It isn’t marked but my cousin knew about it. All the locals know about it. No one will go near it.”
“Except us,” Rafer said. “And the sink fixer.”
After an hour on the highway, Jacko turned onto a secondary road that bypassed Valgenico and began a steady climb through a deciduous forest. The gentle curves turned to switchbacks, and the forest turned to spruce and pine.
Halfway up a long switchback Jacko slowed to a crawl and turned onto a single-lane road. “This is it,” he said. “It’s not marked by a sign, but it’s the only side road with rhododendron growing at the entrance. At least that’s what my cousin tells me.”
The road was hard-packed gravel for a half mile. Thickets of overgrown rhododendron, backed up to gray rock walls of varying heights. The sharp spires that were characteristic of the Dolomites slanted skyward from the rock walls.
“It looks like they carved this driveway out of the mountain,” Rafer said.
“Possibly,” Jacko said. “Sometimes these canyons occur naturally, although this one looks at least partially man-made.”
The gravel road turned into rutted dirt, the rock walls hugged the road, and the road went into a steep decline.
Jacko stomped on the brake and everyone leaned forward, looking over the hood at the road to disaster.
“It’s not so bad,” Gabriela finally said. “Just take it slow.”
“It’s not so bad if you’re a goat,” Rafer said. He looked at Jacko. “Are you sure this is the right road?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Jacko said. “Maybe I should turn around. I don’t see the Fiat making it to the bottom of this hill in one piece.”
Everyone looked around. No place to turn. Rock walls close in on both sides.
“You’re going to have to back all the way out,” Rafer said.
“It looks like the path widens a bit in about fifty feet,” Gabriela said. “You might be able to turn if you ease your way down to it.”
Jacko made the sign of the cross, gripped the wheel, and inched forward. The Fiat held the road and tipped into the slope.
“Nice,” Gabriela said. “Piece of cake.”
“This is really steep,” Jacko said.
Gabriela had her eyes trained on the road. “You’re almost there. Slow down a little.”
“I can’t slow down!”
“Brake!”
“I’m on the brake! It isn’t holding. We’re sliding!”
The Fiat slid past the turning point and picked up speed.
It hit a bump and went airborne, landing hard enough to knock the wind out of everyone.
It careened off one of the rock walls, losing a side mirror, leaving white paint on the rock surface.
It bounced over ruts and ricocheted off walls until it finally reached the bottom of the hill, did a 180-degree spin, and came to rest in the high grass of a wide meadow.
Everyone sat speechless and frozen in place for a full minute.
Gabriela was the first to find her voice. “Like I said, piece of cake. Here we are at the bottom.”
Rafer grinned. “Easy peasy.”
Jacko was still clutching the wheel. “I might have wet myself.”
Rafer clapped him on the shoulder. “You just haven’t spent enough time with Gabs. This stuff happens all the time with her. You get used to it. Let’s see if you can get this buggy turned around and back on the road.”
Jacko maneuvered the car through the grass until it was facing into the middle of the meadow. “There’s no road. There’s just grass… and a castle.”
Gabriela estimated the meadow to be twenty to thirty acres.
It gently sloped away from them and was bordered on all sides by forest. The castle was placed at the far end of the meadow.
It was a large rectangular stone structure with round towers at its four corners.
No moat. No ancient exterior walls to protect from marauding hordes.
No huts for peasant habitation. No sign of deer frolicking in a castle game preserve, but a few dozen goats wandered the unfenced grounds.
“It’s not exactly Hogwarts,” Rafer said.
Gabriela agreed. She thought it looked more like a prison than a castle. And as castles went, this one seemed small. She could see multiple doors that looked sturdy enough but not grand enough to be a formal entrance. There was also an outbuilding that might have been a goat shed.
“I’m guessing this is the back,” Gabriela said to Jacko. “Let’s get a closer look.”
Jacko drove through the knee-high grass and stopped short of the goat shed. The grass had been trampled by the goats but there was no other sign of activity.
“Drive around to the front,” Gabriela said. “Stay at this distance.”
The Fiat bumped along, churning through the grass. As they turned a corner, a rush of birds flew out of their hidey-holes in the guano-covered castle wall.
“Whoa!” Rafer said. “Not good. This is freaking rank.”
Gabriela’s eyes were burning, and she had her hand over her nose and mouth.