Chapter 11

“I’ll drink the moonlight from your hands.

I’ll swim an ocean filled with sorrow.

No, lover, please don’t go.

We can crucify tomorrow.

Let the sunlight feed the air.

Let it fill our lungs with lies.

We’ll be memorialized by shadows,

but our loneliness will survive.”

-The Swans, “Will We Survive“

Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez listened to the distant chatter of the reporters gathered behind the press line in front of the hospital. All other movable patients at Byroni Medina Memorial Emergency Medical Center had been evacuated to nearby facilities when they got word that La Contessa’s helicopter was coming in, and the Ultimados had secured most of the building, but the administrator refused to shut down the emergency clinic, even for La Contessa.

The throng of reporters and cameramen were now in danger of impeding ambulance passage, and the administrator demanded the Generalissimo say something to make them go away or he’d have La Policia remove them.

An aide brought him a clean uniform; and, without questioning the unusual request, a carton of La Contessa’s brand of cigarettes. The hospital had let Ramirez use a shower, but the day had still taken its toll on him as he found himself unable to do anything but sit and wait for Maisson’s reports on her condition. Ortega had reported that Lady Maria... no, she was Contessa Maria now; had started seeing advisers and would call him for a meeting soon.

The Generalissimo tapped the little stack of four 3x5 cards containing the information he had to give the press. He looked out the glass doors at the podium that had been set up for him in front of the hospital entrance. The setting sun off to the side gave it a long shadow that caused him to picture the scene as a waiting gallows with a microphone where the noose should be.

The reporters stopped chattering as he walked out the sliding glass doors of the entrance. When the Generalissimo stood at the podium, he saw the setting sun as a brightness out of the corner of his right eye. He’d left his cover and sunglasses back inside, and his eye was now reminding him of the purpose of those two objects. Looking down at his cards helped, though.

“The hospital has informed me that your presence is interfering with the Emergency Center’s other patients, and I am expecting to be called to a meeting at any moment, so this will be brief; and then you must leave,” he said to the cameras and faces; a few in the crowd still holding notebooks and pencils, bless them. He continued.

“I will read the doctors’ statements; about which, I am not qualified to answer questions, and believe I have time enough to take two questions on matters unrelated to La Contessa’s condition.” He tapped the cards into alignment and read from them.

“Contessa Helena de San Finzione was admitted at 12:45 Hours with multiple stab wounds in the right abdominal region. She had additional wounds to the right side of her chest and a cut on the left side of her neck.

“The cut on her neck was deemed superficial, having been stopped by this necklace, a birthday gift from the late Count Vincenzo de San Finzione, forever does he reign in our hearts.”

The last part, he uttered sotto voce. Many of those in the crowd near Hernando’s own age murmured back the devotion. In the last five years, it had become a mark of his generation. Those who’d been born in the latter half of Good Count Vincenzo’s reign and who’d seen him as their leader all their lives; guiding San Finzione through times of war and peace; of strife and prosperity.

The generation whose family tables had become battlegrounds seven years ago over whether that Yanqui harlot was just after all the gold in the sweet old gentleman’s crown and teeth; or that pretty, young, American girl had stolen nothing from their beloved Count but his heart and made the still-virile old man smile in a way that they hadn’t seen him smile since Contessa Sofia was taken from us all too soon.

After Vincenzo’s passing, the devotion came about amongst those to whom he’d always been “Their Count.” Tone of voice was the difference in meaning it as eternal respect for Count Vincenzo or contempt for the so-called Contessa “American Jezebel Who Sexed Him to Death.” Ramirez’s had been the former, as had most of the responders.

The Generalissimo held up The Count’s broken, but life-saving, gift to La Contessa; now in one of La Policia’s evidence bags. Older pictures of the same necklace intact had become part of the clip rotation since the second hour of ongoing ‘round-the-clock’ coverage, when the media ran out of facts and started commenting on La Contessa’s outfit at the time, instead. The image of Ramirez holding the bag with the broken necklace would soon follow it into the rotation. The clip would be in black and white and he would raise the bag in slow-motion.

Ramirez flipped his next card over and continued.

“She was admitted to surgery immediately, where she remains at this time. Doctors have reported intestinal damage; which they believe to be under control; and multiple lacerations to La Contessa’s liver, which they are still working to save. A donor organ is on standby as a precaution. Her condition is still being described as critical.” He struggled to keep himself from angrily hissing out the word “still.”

As the sun’s rays were fading, flashes from cameras began to burst from the crowd. Generalissimo Ramirez mused that this was the second time today that he was facing a crowd with flashing cameras. He turned to the next card.

“The wound to La Contessa’s... er... breast... did not pierce any vital organs; however, she did sustain hairline fractures in her left arm and shoulder from impact with the marble floor of the room.” He swallowed before finishing. “During her struggle with the assassin.”

As he turned to the last card, the scene played out in his head again. La Contessa stepping forward, the cart crashing into the support column, a flash brighter than any of the camera flashes, everyone turning.

Except him. The assassin. Everyone else heard what sounded like firecrackers going off, then he seemed to run at her in slow-motion. And the two Ultimados had come running to the scene because they’d heard the noise from a distance too far away to hear La Contessa’s command. The thoughts coalesced as he read the last card.

“Lady Maria de San Finzione has been officially appointed Contessa-in-Reggenza until such time as Contessa Helena is able to resume her duties. She has been meeting with advisors in a secure location and is expected to call a cabinet meeting within the hour; which I must leave for soon, so I will take the first question.”

He selected a reporter that he recognized. Ramirez already knew what the first question would be, whomever he’d picked. It was one of several on his growing mental list of “Questions La Contessa May One Day Force Me To Answer;” which he practiced responses to in a mirror or on occasion, compared notes with Capitan Ortega’s own list.

“Generalissimo,” the reporter spoke up. “You were standing right next to La Contessa during the attack. You had your weapon in your holster. Why did you not act?” Murmurs of agreement and “I was going to ask that” came from the throng assembled.

The word “act” caused the thought in Ramirez’s mind to complete: Not act, RE-act. The assassin hadn’t reacted to the noise because the man couldn’t hear it! If the assassin had no sense of hearing, it would explain everything. He had something now, he just had to get through the next couple minutes. He got back to the question.

“The Bystander Effect is a known psychological phenomenon, as is the Mass Hysteria that causes it to sweep through a crowd. The training of La Squadra de Ultimados; which it was my proud honor to once lead and to now command, is the best mental and physical discipline that San Finzione’s Armed Forces have to offer. However, any man who would stand before you and proclaim himself entirely immune to known psychological effects would be a liar or a fool. It can happen; it happened to me at the worst possible moment; and for my shame, I shall seek to atone by continuing to serve San Finzione and La Contessa until she deems otherwise. Next question. Yes, you.”

The reporter he selected stepped up slowly. More details of the memory were coming in to Ramirez’s brain. There’d been a shuffle to the man’s step as he’d charged. The Assassin didn’t SEEM to charge La Contessa in slow-motion because Ramirez could not stop what was unfolding in front of him, he WAS moving slower, and she was still so stunned that her power did not work that he was able to reach her and force her to the ground.

Ramirez thought “Difficulty moving the right side of his body... an injury, perhaps?” And he held the knife in his left hand. A deaf, left-handed assassin who chooses to work with a knife despite being handicapped? Interpol should not have too many of them on file.

“Generalissimo, do you think that Lady Maria will be able to fulfil the role of Contessa?”

The question shook him out of his train of thought. He replayed the question in his head to make sure he’d heard correctly. He fixed the reporter with a serious stare before answering.