Fanatics (22 page)

“How you can eat that glop is a mystery to me,” I greeted him.

He lowered the paper and folded it, putting it aside. “Like most things nowadays, it’s a lost art.”

“Hah.”

“Porridge is the food of the gods. It sticks to your ribs.”

“And the pot, your spoon, and anything else it comes into contact with.”

“Did I tell you the joke about the Englishman and the Scotsman arguing over the benefits of oatmeal?”

“Not this week. Interested in a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“No, thanks. By the way, my customer was very pleased with the job you did on that pine table.”

“I’m glad,” I said, searching the fridge for a block of cheddar.

“And there was a young couple in the store looking over the walnut cabinet you made. Spent twenty minutes there. They said they’d be back.”

“Let’s hope,” I replied. “I could use the money.”

I turned on the broiler and grated cheese onto two buttered baguette halves, sprinkled them with pepper, and
popped them onto the broiling pan. Sitting down opposite my father, I nodded toward the newspaper.

“Anything in there about that dead guy they found up the shore a few days ago?”

Dad shook his head, then got up and topped up his coffee and tilted his head in the direction of Mom’s study. “I think she’s given up on the Herat assignment,” he said, taking his seat again.

“Really? That’s great.”

“She hasn’t actually said so, but she’s working away on something big. She told me last night. It’s very hush-hush. It could be huge—international, even. She didn’t even
mention
Afghanistan.”

“That’s a relief,” I replied, keeping up the pretense that I knew nothing about it. I got up and turned off the broiler, then slid my breakfast onto a plate.

“So what’s on your agenda today?” Dad asked.

“Back to the estate, I guess. More inventory to do.”

He checked the clock on the wall above the sink. “Well, I’d better skedaddle. See you later, alligator,” he said, pulling open the back door.

“Skedaddle?” I could almost hear Raphaella ask.

I
HAD RUMMAGED THROUGH
my brain and couldn’t come up with a good reason why Mom or I should hang on
to paintballer’s cellphone. Mom had copied all the data from the cell’s memory card and backed it up, so she had call lists, messages, the whole works. We had the information. The device itself was a liability.

Being the son of a journalist I was familiar with a few cases over the past couple of years where vindictive cops had hassled uncooperative reporters with search-and-seizures, carrying off files, computers, cellphones, and anything else they thought would cause grief to men or women forced to stand by while the law combed through their lives. The spies, as Mom called the Mounties’ security branch and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service types, were worse. I wasn’t sure what progress Mom was making with her investigation or with her lawyer, but I decided on my own to get rid of the evidence, as they say in the crime movies.

But first the little electronic instrument needed to be sanitized. Wearing rubber dishwashing gloves, I took it apart and wiped down every component—battery, data card, the casing—with a mild cleaning solvent, then reassembled it before dropping it into a fresh sealable plastic bag.

I had concluded that the cell belonged to the drowned man, and that nobody in the paintballer crowd knew about it. Mom had agreed with my deduction. But just in case, why not put it back where I’d found it? Mom had thought about turning it on and waiting to find out if anyone called, but she decided that would not be wise. Phone signals could be traced or monitored. Why invite cops or spies or criminals to our house? No, if the phone was dropped back into the hole under the juniper, we’d be free of it.

I got into my jacket and helmet and fired up the Hawk, already nagged by second thoughts.

B
UMPING ALONG
the Swift Rapids Road—if a narrow, rock-strewn track can be called that—I followed the dust cloud thrown up by two
ATV
s, grateful for the rise and fall of their engine noise, like two furious bees in a can, which would make the Hawk’s low rumble less conspicuous on an otherwise quiet sunny afternoon.

After I parted with the
ATV
s I rode into the cool green woods and turned off on the leaf-covered path, torn up now by my panicky escape last time, and stopped a hundred metres or so from the end, just in case the paintballers had a lookout posted there. Struggling against the Hawk’s dead weight, I pushed it backwards into a patch of saplings alongside the path. I remembered to save the location on my
GPS
, then took off my helmet. Before calling up the waypoint for my destination I stood motionless for a short while, listening for any sign of the boys in camo, but heard only bird-song and the wind in the treetops.

It was rough going and I made slow progress, but I reached the rock outcropping after twenty minutes or so. I scanned the little clearing from the safety of the trees before I ventured into the open, then climbed onto the granite cap, followed the fissure to the juniper, and took the bagged cell from my pocket. To avoid any possibility of fingerprints—Mom’s caution about the cops hassling her had sunk in—I had wrapped it in a supermarket sack. Careful to touch only the sack, I dropped the sealed cell into the hole, exactly where I’d found it a few days before. I rolled up the sack and stuffed it into my pocket. Mission accomplished. I slipped back into the trees, eager to return to my motorcycle.

But once again curiosity inspired the impulsive angel on my right shoulder to nudge into my consciousness. “Why not just take a quick look at the cabin?” it whispered innocently. “Just to see if anything’s changed. Come on. It’s not far.”

True, I told myself. And I could take more photos for Mom. The more info, the more she’d be hooked by this camo-boy story.

With my stomach doing the jitters, my ears tuned to pick up the slightest human sound besides mine, every nerve tingling, I crept toward the cabin until I could make out the open space through the foliage, flooded with morning sunlight. The pile of cordwood along the cabin wall was lower now. Three three-man tents—I guessed that the leader slept apart in the cabin—stood in their places, their flies undulating in the fitful breeze that swept the clearing, the weather flaps on the front entrances tied closed. Good, I thought. The paintballers have gone off somewhere. Fire rings, one for each tent, had been set at a safe distance, each with a grate laid across the stones and a blackened tripod over it for cooking.

I got out my cell, checked that the ringer and camera flash were disabled, and snapped a couple of photos. I kept to the cover of the trees and crept farther around the perimeter of the clearing until I had a clear view of the cabin’s front, with its verandah and cracked window. The door was padlocked, the weathered frame and wall stained by fresh paintball hits. The boys had been making pretend attacks again. I shot a few more pictures.

Aware that I was pressing my luck, I made my way toward the place off to the side of the cabin where the chewed-up ground indicated they parked their
ATV
s. It was empty. Or so I thought at first glance. Streaked with dried
mud that blended perfectly with its camo finish, one
ATV
stood nose-in to the trees. And I could just barely make out the little licence plate. I took a picture of the machine, zoomed in, and captured the plate. I pocketed my cell.

And froze when I heard the sound of water striking dry leaves.

I held my breath, scanned the trees around the
ATV
for movement. I finally saw it. Sparkling with captured sunlight, a stream of water arched from the leafy ground to the camo trousers of a figure standing near the
ATV
, legs splayed, hands at his crotch. A two-way radio hung from his belt. Little wires connected his ears to the lump in his shirt pocket, and his head bobbed as he played the stream of water back and forth on the ground.

“Can you write your name in the dirt?” I almost shouted. If this character was the camo-boys’ idea of a sentry I figured I didn’t have much to worry about. But then I remembered the chase a few days before, when I could taste my fear at the back of my throat. I began to retrace my steps, stopping every few metres to look back and listen. When I was fairly sure I’d gotten away unnoticed I walked more confidently, sweeping the forest with my eyes as I walked as silently as I could. The sentry’s presence proved the paintballers were out and about, and I couldn’t let down my guard.

Time to boogie.

S
OMETIMES
I
WONDERED
if Mrs. Stoppini ever left her kitchen for anything other than writing letters or sleeping. When I got back to the mansion, she was making fettuccini noodles.

“Mrs. Stoppini, I need to have an important conversation with you,” I announced as soon as I had come in the door.

She turned and regarded me with a mixture of severity and curiosity.

“Indeed? And what is it about?”

“I guess it’s about my job here. And our contract.”

She searched my face for a moment, her dark brows forming a V, her mouth pursed, and seemed to come to a decision. Brushing flour from her hands and pulling her apron strings, she replied, “If this is to be a business meeting, perhaps we should hold it in the parlour. I shall join you presently.”

I walked through to the formally furnished parlour and dropped into an armchair. Sheer curtains on the north window muted the light, making the room feel cool, although a thermometer might say otherwise. There were paintings on the walls—landscapes with rolling hills, stone villas, and spear-like cypresses pinning the earth to clear blue skies.

I psyched myself up for my task. I had confidently persuaded Raphaella that I should do this on my own, but now I didn’t feel so sure. The stork-like Mrs. Stoppini could be intimidating at times. Because I wasn’t sure how much she knew, I was worried about upsetting her. I might blunder into territory that was none of my business, or trample on her grief.

She glided into the room with a silver tray holding a bottle of clear liquid and two small stemmed glasses. For a split second she reminded me of the spectre, the way her dark form seemed to cover ground without touching it.

“We shall talk over a glass of grappa,” she said in her don’t-contradict-me tone, setting down the tray and pouring from the bottle. “It was the late professor’s favourite aperitif.” She sat, perching her angular frame in the centre of the green leather couch opposite me.

“Now, Mr. Havelock, it appears you have something significant to impart. Please go ahead.”

I did my best to use a businesslike tone. “Mrs. Stoppini, the lease I signed for the workshop required that I do a full inventory of the library.”

Her eyes squinted slightly. Her posture straightened a little, if that was possible. What are you up to? her body language demanded.

“And, um, I would feel better if I was confident that you are aware of … well, everything.”

“Everything?” she repeated in a wintery voice.

“Not long ago I showed you a hidden cupboard—no, please let me go on,” I said hastily when she showed signs of bolting, “so skilfully built into the bookshelf that it was invisible. The workmanship was top-notch.”

“The late professor never did things by halves,” she stated, reluctantly staying put.

“I want you to know, Mrs. Stoppini, that I discovered it without intending to. I was taking out the things in the, er, visible cupboard when one of the vellum sheets caught on the edge of the recess where the release catch is.”

“You haven’t touched your aperitif.”

I lifted the little glass to my mouth and barely allowed it to touch my lips. An unusual fragrance, an unexpected taste.

“Once I found the cupboard and saw what was inside, I tried to show you. But I failed. I think it’s important that you know about the … er, contents. Or are you already familiar with the items? No?” I asked when she didn’t respond. “Then I think I ought to tell you. Raphaella agrees,” I quickly added, hoping that would persuade her. “Okay?”

She nodded and finished off her drink without confirming or denying that she knew about the exotic objects in the professor’s secret cupboard.

“There are some very old manuscripts on vellum,” I began. “I can’t read them, so I can’t tell you what they are. There is a small handmade wooden box containing a medal with Girolamo Savonarola’s image on it.”

Her frown deepened.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Every Florentine has heard of him,” she replied, shakily refilling her glass and clutching it in both hands, as if afraid it would fly away.

“There is a large cross of gold with gems set into it. I don’t know anything about jewellery, so I can’t say what they are. They might even be glass, but I doubt it.”

I had decided to leave out the glass dome and the atlas for the time being.

“Mrs. Stoppini, that cross might be a priceless antique.”

“Good gracious,” she murmured—to herself, not to me. “I didn’t realize.”

“There’s something else.”

The intense woman sitting across the room from me began slowly to come apart. Her severe expression ebbed away as signs of grief—a softening of her brow and the set of her mouth—crept in. The rigidity of her back and shoulders gave way, and she gradually settled into her chair. Her chin quivered.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, regretting my decision to press her. But she surprised me.

“Please continue, Mr. Havelock.”

I swallowed a bit of grappa. “There is a complete typed book-length manuscript. Written by Professor Eduardo Corbizzi.”

She gaped as her thick brows rose in surprise. “Did you say ‘complete’?”

I nodded.

She began to cry silently.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoppini,” I said again.

“Tell me about it,” she said, pulling a lace hanky from her sleeve and dabbing at her streaming eyes.

“The title is
Fanatics
. Professor Corbizzi had been editing it when he … when he stopped.” I hesitated. “Raphaella has read it.”