Ring of Fire (21 page)

“Sure, why not?” grumbles Harvey.

Elettra throws the top, which starts to spin and then takes tiny little hops across the map. In the end, it stops on a house in the Coppedè district.

“Once again, a total mystery,” remarks Elettra, confused.

Harvey cackles. “Two good tries and two useless ones.”

The look on Sheng’s face is indecipherable. “What does ‘Coppedè’ mean?”

Ermete shrugs. “It’s the name of the half-crazy architect who designed that part of town.”

“What kind of a place is it?”

“A residential area, but really bizarre. There are lots of strange houses. I’ve heard they’ve even filmed a few horror movies there.”

Elettra and Sheng exchange nervous glances. “Cheerful little place,” Sheng says. “Is it dangerous, do you think?”

“Why don’t we ask the last top?” Harvey suggests provokingly. “This is the one that shows us where the danger is, right?” And, without waiting for an answer, he picks up the top of the whirlpool and throws it onto the map.

The top spins around like crazy for a few short moments.

Then it stops on the very same house in the Coppedè district, right beside the top of the guard dog.

M
ISTRAL OPENS HER EYES AND FINDS HERSELF STARING AT A LIGHT
blue ceiling.

Where am I?
she wonders, sitting up in the bed.

She’s in a little bedroom. A wardrobe, a rug, a beige leather armchair. Streaks of light stream in through the slats of the closed shutters of the room’s only window.

It’s daytime, then … But what happened?

The last thing she remembers seeing is the floor of the professor’s apartment bucking like a wild horse, then turning into a massive pit. She remembers Elettra, a few steps away from her, shouting out something about the red circles on the floor and then … then nothing.

With great effort, Mistral gets up off the bed. Her whole body aches, her head feels heavy and her legs are stiff. She looks around. Whoever put her to bed also changed her into pajamas. Her clothes are folded and lying at the foot of the bed.

Mistral takes a few moments to peek through the shutters, trying to figure out where she is. Outside the window is a sort of
medieval castle with crenellated rooftops. And a garden with dark trees, the corner of a fountain, a yellow house whose walls are decorated with bold floral patterns …

If she’s in Rome, it sure doesn’t look like Rome. Mistral grabs her sweater and slacks and begins to slip them on directly over the pajamas. Then she spins around.

Someone’s opening the door.

It’s a man. A man Mistral recognizes instantly.

She lets her sweater drop to the floor.

And she screams.

Jacob Mahler utters a single word. “Stop.”

Mistral’s scream dies in her throat and she backs up toward the empty space between the bed and the nightstand, shaking her head.
This is a bad dream
, she thinks.
It’s just a bad dream
.

Mahler stands there in the doorway, stock-still, an icy stare on his face and a large bandage just below his hairline.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.

Mistral feels the wall pressed up against her back. “Who are you?”

“I’m the person who saved your life.”

The girl shakes her head in disbelief.

“I pulled you out of the building just as it was collapsing,” continues Mahler. “And I brought you here so you could rest.”

“You’re one of them …,” hisses Mistral. Her hands grope the wall nervously, searching for something, anything.

“I’m well aware that you don’t like me. And I don’t care. But I suggest you trust me. What’s your name?”

“Mistral.”

Jacob Mahler takes a few steps into the room, just reaching the bed.

“Very well, then, Mistral. I’m Jacob.”

The killer reaches out his hand. It’s long, slender and covered with tiny scratches. It remains there, suspended in the air, but the girl never reaches out to shake it. After a few seconds, the man lets his arm fall back down to his side.

“As you wish. But I’m warning you: you’re making a mistake.”

“You’re one of them,” the girl insists.

Mahler laughs. “And you? Who are you? Or who do you think you are?”

Mistral feels a lump in her throat, but she forces herself to overcome her fear.

“If you keep this up, I won’t be able to help you,” Jacob continues.

The girl nervously runs her hand through her hair. “Help me … how?”

“To get back home, for example. Where do you live?”

“Paris.”

“Hmm … That’s awfully far from here, isn’t that right?”

“That depends. Where are we?”

Mahler raises an eyebrow. “Nice try. You’re bright.”

“And I’m sure you don’t really want to help me.”

“Well, just realize that I don’t want to hurt you. All I want is one thing. And you know what that is.”

“No, I don’t,” the girl replies stubbornly.

“Mistral …,” Mahler says insistently, pointing to the open
door behind him. “Do you want to tell me what you did with that briefcase … or do I have to go get my instrument?”

The memory of the violin’s hypnotic notes hits Mistral like a punch. At the very thought of hearing that music once again, her eyes open wide with fear.

“Well?”

“You said you dragged me out of the building when it was collapsing. …”

“That’s right.”

“What happened to the others?”

“What? There were others?” asks Mahler, pretending to be shocked.

“You know perfectly well there were.”

“I have no idea how many of them there were. Won’t you tell me?”

Mistral shakes her head.

Mahler leans against the bed. “In any case, I don’t think anyone could’ve saved themselves. The whole floor collapsed. Boom! And it swallowed up Little Linch along with your friends.”

Mistral feels tears well up in her eyes.

“That’s the law of nature. Some die. Some live. You’re alive, Mistral, thanks to me. Don’t you think you owe me at least a little favor?”

Mistral shakes her head slowly. “I don’t help people like you.”

Mahler walks over to the window and peeks outside. “Ah, kids today …,” he murmurs to himself. “They want to play the heroes, but instead they’ve simply watched too much TV. Do you watch TV shows, Mistral?” He opens the window, letting in
the cold air and the noise of traffic. “You don’t? That’s too bad. I love them, because they last twenty minutes at the most. Twenty minutes. And when they’re over you can forget about them, at least until the following week. Isn’t that wonderful? Wouldn’t it be perfect if life were broken down into twenty-minute episodes that you could forget about afterward?” His face whirls around to look at Mistral. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” he repeats.

Although she doesn’t understand what he’s getting at, she nods her head.

“There now, you’ve started to think clearly. Well, I’d like for this little show of ours to be over soon. I’d like for you to go back home to your mother and forget all about this, just like you would do with a bad TV show.”

“Until next week,” replies Mistral.

“Exactly. Don’t you want to give your mother the chance to see the next episode of the show about Mistral?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” replies Mahler, slamming the window shut, “that either you tell me what you’ve done with that briefcase … or I’ll have your little show end right here, right now. Forever.”

Mistral doesn’t doubt it for a second. The man’s serious. She tries to keep her knees straight, although she feels her head reeling from fear.

“That briefcase, Mistral,” Jacob Mahler continues, “is mine. And I’m very angry that you stole it from me.”

“We didn’t steal it. …”

“Very angry.”

“We didn’t even want to take it. … He gave it to us.”

“Keep going.”

“When we met Professor Van Der Berger on the bridge, he was running away from them … from you. He said that something had begun and that we had to take care of the briefcase for him. But we—”

“What did you do with it?”

“We … we threw it into the river.” Mistral struggles to keep her head held high, but her eyes are no match for the intensity of Jacob Mahler’s stare.

The killer raises his right hand and slowly starts to count down the seconds until her show comes to an end. “Five … four … three … two … one …”

“It’s in the basement!” Mistral cries out just before he gets to zero. “We … we left it in the basement.”

“The basement of the Domus Quintilia?”

Mistral bites her lip, not answering.

“There’s a good girl.” Jacob Mahler smiles. “I’m going over to get it. And then I’ll take you back to your mother. Agreed?” Without waiting for an answer, the gray-haired man walks brusquely out of the room and shuts the door behind him. The key turns in the lock.

Beatrice is outside.

“Keep her quiet,” Mahler orders, handing her the keys. “And don’t let her out for any reason. Any reason at all. I’m going over to get the briefcase.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“She’s seen me. She could identify me.”

“So what? She’s only a girl. You don’t mean to—”

“I don’t kill children,” Mahler cuts her off. He thrusts a hand into his pocket and pulls out a slender, shiny gun. “I have others take care of that, when need be.”

Beatrice stares at the killer’s hand, horrified. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. If she tries to escape and you can’t stop her any other way … shoot her.”

He hands the gun to Beatrice.

Mahler walks briskly down the stairs of the house. “I know you’re a bright young woman. Don’t disappoint me.”

Lingering in the air is the faint smell of violets.

The front door opens and shuts. From the window, Beatrice watches the oval shape of her yellow Mini cross the square. Then she looks down at the gun she’s holding, torn apart by conflicting thoughts. Jacob Mahler asked her not to disappoint him, but she’s not willing to go to such extremes.

It’s one thing to go pick him up from the airport, naively thinking she’s taking part in a classy operation, like the ones in spy movies where they exchange briefcases. It’s another thing to witness a man being murdered on the banks of the Tiber and then discover that the briefcase is in the hands of a group of kids, who are going to be killed for no better reason than that.

She’s not sure she’s doing the right thing. She’s not at all sure.

She heads toward the room where Mistral is locked up.

She presses her ear up against the door and hears her crying, “Mom, where are you?”

Beatrice’s female heart shrinks down to the size of a little speck.
I’m not your mother
, she thinks.
But I could be your sister
.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Beatrice whispers to the closed door. “And he isn’t going to hurt you, either.”

She has the gun in her pocket.

“Trust me, sweetheart. Trust Beatrice.”