The Book of the Dead (66 page)

But once again a coldness descended over her. Slowly she lay back on the bed and stared upward into the darkness, remembering every exquisite and painful detail.

He had murmured lines of poetry in her ear as his passion mounted. They had been in Italian:

Ei s’immerge ne la notte,
        Ei s’aderge in vèr’ le stelle.

He plunges into the night,
        
He reaches for the stars.

She knew that the poem was by Carducci, but she had never made a careful study of it. Perhaps it was time that she did.

She sat up too quickly and winced from a sudden throbbing in her ear. She went back into the bathroom and went to work on the injury, cleaning it thoroughly, covering it with antibiotic ointment, and then bandaging it as unobtrusively as possible. When she was done, she undressed, took a quick bath, washed her hair, put on fresh clothes. Next, she stuffed the washcloth, towel, and bloody clothes into a garbage bag she found stored in the back of the room’s armoire. She gathered up her toiletries and returned them to her suitcase. Pulling out a fresh scarf, she wrapped it carefully around her face.

She closed the suitcase, buckled and strapped it. Then she took the garbage bag and descended to the greeting room of the convent. The sister was still there, and she looked almost frightened by this sudden reappearance.

“Signora, is there something not to your liking?”

Constance opened her wallet.
“Quanto costa?
How much?”

“Signora, if there is a problem with your room, surely we can accommodate you.”

She pulled out a rumpled hundred-euro bill, placed it on the counter.

“That is too much for not even one night…”

But Constance had already vanished into the cold, rainy dark.

T
wo days later, Diogenes Pendergast stood on the port rail of the
traghetto
as it plowed through the heaving blue waters of the southern Mediterranean. The boat was passing the rocky headland of Capo di Milazzo, crowned by a lighthouse and a ruined castle; behind him, sinking into the haze, stood the great hump of Sicily, the blue outline of Mount Etna thrusting into the sky, a plume of smoke trailing off. To his right lay the dark spine of the Calabrian coast. Ahead lay his destination, far, far out to sea.

The great eye of the setting sun had just dipped behind the cape, casting long shadows over the water, limning the ancient castle in gold. The boat was heading north, toward the Aeolian islands, the most remote of all the Mediterranean islands—the dwelling place, or so the ancients believed, of the Four Winds.

Soon he would be home.

Home
. He rolled the bittersweet word around in his mind, wondering just what it meant. A refuge; a place of retreat, of peace. He removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, took shelter in the lee of the deck cabin, and lit one, inhaling deeply. He had not smoked in more than a year—not since he had last returned home—and the nicotine helped calm his agitated mind.

He thought back to the two days of hectic traveling he had just completed: Florence, Milan, Lucerne—where he’d had his wound stitched at a free clinic—Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Brussels, Amsterdam, Berlin, Warsaw, Vienna, Ljubljana, Venice, Pescara, Foggia, Naples, Reggio di Calabria, Messina, and finally Milazzo. A forty-eight-hour ordeal of train travel that had left him weak, sore, and exhausted.

But now, as he watched the sun dying in the west, he felt strength and presence of mind returning. He had shaken her in Florence; she had not,
could
not have, followed him. From there, he had changed identities several times, confused his trail to such an extent that neither she nor anyone else could hope to untangle it. The open borders of the EU, combined with the crossing into Switzerland and re-entry into the EU under a different identity, would confound even the most persistent and subtle pursuer.

She would not find him. Nor would his brother. Five years, ten years, twenty—he had all the time in the world to plan his next—his final—move.

He stood at the rail, inhaling the breath of the sea, feeling a modicum of peace steal over him. And for the first time in months, the interminable, dry, mocking voice in his head fell to a susurrus, almost inaudible amid the sound of the bow plowing the sea:

Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight.

S
pecial Agent Aloysius Pendergast got off the bus at Viale Giannotti and walked through a small park of sycamore trees past a shabby merry-go-round. He was dressed as himself—now that he was safely out of the United States, there was no need for disguise. At Via di Ripoli, he took a left, pausing before the huge iron gates that led into the convent of the Sisters of San Giovanni Battista. A small sign identified it only as
Villa Merlo Bianco
. Beyond the gates, he could hear the mingled cries of schoolchildren at recess.

He pressed the buzzer and, after a moment, the gates opened automatically, leading into a graveled courtyard before a large ocher villa. The side door was open, and a small sign identified it as guest reception.

“Good morning,” he said in Italian to the small, plump nun at the desk. “Are you the Suor Claudia I spoke to?”

“Yes, I am.”

Pendergast shook her hand. “Pleased to know you. As I mentioned over the phone, the guest we spoke of—Miss Mary Ulciscor—is my niece. She has run away from home, and the family is extremely worried about her.”

The plump nun was almost breathless. “Yes, signore, in fact I could see she was a very troubled young lady. When she arrived, she had the most haunted look in her face. And then she didn’t even stay the night—arrived in the morning, then returned that evening and insisted on leaving—”

“By car?”

“No, she came and left on foot. She must have taken the bus, because taxis always come in through the gates.”

“What time would that have been?”

“She returned about eight o’clock, signore. Soaking wet and cold. I think she might have been sick.”

“Sick?” Pendergast asked sharply.

“I couldn’t be sure, but she was hunched over a bit, and her face was covered.”

“Covered? With what?”

“A dark blue woolen scarf. And then not two hours later, she came down with her luggage, paid too much money for a room she hadn’t even slept in, and left.”

“Dressed the same?”

“She’d changed her clothes, had on a red woolen scarf this time. I tried to stop her, I really did.”

“You did all you could, Suora. Now, may I see the room? You needn’t bother coming—I’ll take the key myself.”

“The room’s been cleaned, and there’s nothing to see.”

“I would prefer to check it myself, if you don’t mind. One never knows. Has anyone else stayed there?”

“Not yet, but tomorrow a German couple…”

“The key, if you would be so kind.”

The nun handed him the key. Pendergast thanked her, then walked briskly through the piano nobile of the villa and mounted the stair.

He found the room at the end of a long hall. It was small and simple. He closed the door behind him, then immediately dropped to his knees. He examined the floor, searched under the bed, searched the bathroom. To his great disappointment, the room had been fanatically cleaned. He stood up, looked around thoughtfully for a minute. Then he opened the armoire. It was empty—but a careful look revealed a small, dark stain in the far corner. He dropped to his knees again, reached in, and touched it, scratching a bit up with his fingernail. Blood—dry now, but still relatively fresh.

Back in the reception room, the nun was still deeply concerned.

“She seemed troubled, and I can’t imagine where she went at ten o’clock at night. I tried to talk to her, signore, but she—”

“I’m sure you did all you possibly could,” Pendergast repeated. “Thank you again for your help.”

He exited the villa onto Via di Ripoli, deep in thought. She had left at night, in the rain… but for where?

He entered a small café at the corner of Viale Giannotti, ordered an espresso at the bar, still pondering. She had encountered Diogenes in Florence, that much was certain. They had fought; she had been wounded. It seemed incredible that she was only hurt, for normally, those who came within Diogenes’s orbit did not leave it alive. Clearly, Diogenes had underestimated Constance. Just as he himself had done. She was a woman of vast, unexpected depths.