“Signor Bronson,” Bianchi snapped, “kindly remember where you are. Do not try to touch the corpse.”
Bronson looked at him levelly. “Her skin’s very pale,” he said. “Was she killed like the others? Her blood drained from that wound in the side of her throat? Is that why you’ve put that dressing there?” He pointed at the bandage the attendant was still repositioning around her neck.
Bianchi stared at him in a hostile manner. “What are you talking about?”
“I was the man who found the three bodies dumped together in the tomb on the Isola di San Michele, the corpses you were sent out there to investigate,” Bronson replied. “I’m a policeman, and when I smelled rotting flesh, I took a photograph through the hole in the slab covering the tomb. When I looked at the picture afterward, I could clearly see a mark just like that”—he pointed down at the sheeted corpse—“on the neck of each of those girls. And I saw the same thing on the body
of the other girl your men found out on San Michele. I didn’t find her, but I was out there, watching, when her body was removed from the scene.”
Bronson paused, looked again at the corpse on the trolley, then back to Bianchi.
“What you’ve got going on here, right now, in Venice, is the work of a serial killer.” Then he shook his head. “No. In fact it’s much more complicated than that. I think there’s a gang of people who are snatching girls off the streets, sucking the blood from their necks, and then dumping the bodies.”
By now Bianchi had recovered his composure. “What you just said is a complete fantasy, a fabrication, Signor Bronson. We have had some missing girls, it’s true, and we have unfortunately discovered some bodies, but all this stuff about bloodsucking is complete nonsense.”
The mortuary attendant reached out and started to pull the sheet over the dead girl’s face once more, but again Bronson stopped him.
“Then take off that bandage so we can all see this girl’s neck,” he snapped. “If I’m making all this up, then you’ll be able to tell me exactly what she died from, and you’ll be able to show me that her neck is unmarked.”
“I don’t have to show you anything, Signor Bronson,” Bianchi responded sharply. “I asked you here because I thought this body might be that of your missing partner. I’m relieved for you that it’s not her, obviously, but I still have to try to identify this young woman and break the news to her family. I’m certainly not prepared to discuss
how she died with you or with any other civilian. And here in Venice, that’s what you are, Signor Bronson, just a civilian, a tourist. I suggest you remember that.”
“I know exactly what my status is in Italy,” Bronson said. “But I also know that if this poor girl didn’t have a gaping wound on her neck, you’d be only too pleased to show me, just to prove me wrong.” He pointed at the sheeted figure. “I saw her wound; I know that she died at the hands of these lunatics. And that makes at least five victims who have all been killed in the same way: massive blood loss from some sort of incisions made in the side of their necks, just like the sort of wounds supposedly inflicted by the vampires of fiction.”
Bianchi raised a warning finger. “Signor Bronson, I suggest you refrain from repeating anything you’ve said here to anyone in Venice. If the newspapers start printing lurid stories, I’ll know exactly where they got the information from, and I’ll take great pleasure in arresting you.”
“On what charge?” Bronson asked mildly.
“I’ll think of something. Now, I suggest you get out of here, before you say anything else you might regret.”
An hour later, Bronson was back in his hotel room. The diary Angela had taken was the key to her abduction, he was certain, and he was keen to get back to it. Locking the door firmly behind him, he switched on Angela’s computer again, and opened up the scanned image of the final section of the book, the part that obviously hadn’t
been written in diary format. Then he opened Angela’s translation of the first part of the text, and read it again. He remembered that one word seemed to be repeated over and over again, a word Angela had rendered as the “answer.” That seemed to sit rather oddly in some of the sentences that she’d already translated into English.
But she’d obviously done more work on the book the previous evening, and had transcribed more of the Latin text, although none of this seemed particularly helpful. She’d also revised the translations that mentioned the “twin angels” tomb, and had clearly decided that a more accurate meaning of the “answer” would be the “source.”
Bronson again read the passages Angela had translated. The text was specific about only one thing: that the tomb of the twin angels, the grave they thought they might have located in the cemetery on the Isola di San Michele, held the “answer” or the “source” or whatever the Latin word actually meant to the woman who’d written the diary.
It was odd, Bronson thought, the way the Island of the Dead seemed so intimately connected with the events they’d become involved with in Venice. The shattered tomb and the mutilated corpse had started the puzzle, and the cemetery had also been chosen as a dumping ground for the bodies of the girls once the group of killers had finished with them. And, of course, the vampire’s diary itself had come from the first tomb, and contained references to at least one other burial on San Michele.
One way or another, the island and its ancient graveyard
were inextricably linked to the events of the present day. Maybe, Bronson thought, he should go back there, take another look at that tomb of the twin angels, and see if he could work out anything useful from the inscriptions on the old stone. It wasn’t much of a plan, and he wasn’t sure it was even worth doing, but it was, he reflected, probably better than sitting in the hotel room trying to translate an old Latin text.
He shut down the computer, checked he had his camera and his binoculars, took his leather jacket out of the wardrobe, and walked down to the reception desk.
Half an hour later he was again sitting at the controls of his small red boat, and steering the small vessel northeast across the choppy waters of the Venetian lagoon.
Apart from a few visits to the restroom, each time accompanied by one of her silent and unsmiling guards to the door of a ground-floor lavatory—which had a barred window and no internal lock or bolt—Angela hadn’t left the elegant room in the house since she’d arrived. Early in the evening, a tray of food had been put in front of her, and around midnight she’d eventually tried to get some sleep on the wide sofa in front of the fireplace.
But she hadn’t been idle that evening. The suave but indescribably menacing man had seen to that. He had finally introduced himself as “Marco,” but she had no idea if that was what he was actually called or just a convenient name he’d pulled out of the air.
As soon as he’d shown her the appalling collection of “souvenirs,” Angela had realized that cooperation with her captors was hardly a choice: it was an absolute necessity if she was to avoid the agonizing mutilation that the
group was so obviously capable of inflicting. So when Marco had asked if she was prepared to complete the translation, she’d simply nodded her agreement.
She’d been led across to a large oak desk set in one corner, and been told to sit on a leather swivel chair right in front of it, an incongruously modern piece of furniture in the elegant and old-fashioned room. Even those few steps across the polished wooden floor left her feeling as weak as a kitten; presumably she’d been pumped full of a cocktail of drugs to keep her quiet while they transported her to the house—wherever it was—and her body was still feeling the aftereffects. She knew that trying to fight her captors or run out of the room would be completely futile. Before she could do anything to try to escape, she would have to wait until she’d regained her strength. And she also needed to find out a lot more about the house in which she was being held prisoner, and its location. And especially what lay outside the windows.
On the desk was a selection of reference books of various types, the majority clearly written in English, about half a dozen pencils, roughly half a ream of white paper, the battered leather-bound diary itself, and two separate piles of pages, which she saw immediately were photocopies of the diary entries.
Marco had pointed to those two sets of pages. “Ignore the one on the left,” he said. “Those are just records of Carmelita’s life: interesting but not important for us. The other section is the one we’re interested in. You can start translating that right now.”
Angela shook her head. “I’ll need a Latin dictionary,” she said. “I don’t have the vocabulary to translate this. Can you find one on the Internet for me?”
Marco laughed shortly. “We’re not going to let you anywhere near a computer,” he said. Then he searched quickly through the pile of books at the back of the desk and selected a Latin-Italian dictionary.
Angela opened her mouth to point out that she didn’t speak Italian, but before she could say anything, he had found another dictionary, this time a Latin-English version, and the words of protest died in her throat.
“And when I’ve finished?” Angela had asked. “What then? You’ll shoot me? Is that it?”
Marco had shaken his head. “I think we can find a more interesting way to usher you into the next life,” he’d said. “But I do have some good news for you.”
“What?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll still be alive tomorrow. But after that, I can’t promise you anything. And before you start work, let me point out that we’ve already translated some of the text ourselves, so we’ll know if your version is accurate.”
“If you’ve done that, then why do you need me at all?” Angela had asked.
“You English have an expression about a gift horse. If we don’t need you to do the translation, then we don’t need you at all, so just be grateful. But it’s not just translating the Latin. There are some unusual aspects of the
text that we haven’t been able to make sense of. That’s the real reason why we want you to work on it.”
Without another word Angela had pulled the dictionary in front of her, picked up a pencil and looked at the first sentence.
Sometime that morning—Marietta had no idea exactly when—the upper door to the cellar rumbled open and the light snapped on.
A few moments later, the guard appeared in the room, carrying a tray of food exactly as he’d done on previous occasions, and a plastic bag that contained her clothes. He walked across to Marietta, tossed the bag onto the mattress, placed the tray on the floor in front of her, and turned to leave.
“Please,” Marietta pleaded with him. “Please leave the lights on. And what happened to Benedetta? Where is she? And who was that man—the one with those horrible teeth?”
“So many questions,” the guard said mockingly. “But you needn’t worry about Benedetta. We got what we wanted from her.”
“So where is she now? Did you let her go?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose we did. We sent her to San Michele,” he added.
For a moment, Marietta didn’t understand the expression. Then it dawned on her that he meant the “Island of the Dead,” and the confirmation of what she’d feared hit her hard.
“You killed her,” she said flatly. “That foul ritual last night. You raped her and bled her to death. You bastards.”
“You catch on quick,” the guard said. “But at least she died for a good reason. There was a point to her death, just as there’ll be a point to yours.”
“What point could there possibly be in snatching girls like me off the streets of Venice and then killing us?”
The guard looked at her carefully for a few moments. “You’re not just any girl,” he said. “You and Benedetta were both special. That’s why you were chosen. We’ve traced your bloodline.”
“My bloodline?”
“You and Benedetta are descended from someone who is vitally important to our society.”
“And you’re going to kill me because of one of my ancestors? That makes no sense at all.”
“It does to us,” the guard said simply. “You’ll have company soon.”
“Who?” Marietta asked, though she dreaded hearing the answer.
“Another girl. We’ve got her in the house at the moment, but she’ll be brought down here soon enough. But she won’t be able to talk to you. No girly chatter with that one.”
“Why?” Marietta demanded. “What have you done to her?”
The guard smiled slightly. “Nothing at all,” he said. “It’s just that she doesn’t speak a word of Italian. But don’t worry. You won’t be on your own for too long. Soon you’ll be reunited with your friend.”
For a moment Marietta sat in silence, eyes downcast, guessing what he meant but hardly daring to ask the question that would confirm her fears. Then she looked at him directly.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You’ll be back with Benedetta,” the guard replied. “It’s your turn on the table tonight.”
Bronson maneuvered the boat through the water along the northwest side of the Isola di San Michele, past a tall greenish sculpture, probably made of copper, which depicted two figures standing on a small boat that rose from the waters a short distance from the Cimitero vaporetto stop. That side of the island was delineated by impressive walls formed from white stone and brown brick, with a large gateway in the center and smaller towers spaced at intervals on either side of it.
He continued around the northern edge of the island to where his map showed a small inlet, lined with jetties.
He’d hardly even been aware of how the boat handled on his short trip to and from the police station in the San Marco district, but he’d gotten the feel of the craft on the journey out to the Isola di San Michele, and it had proved quite easy to control. Not quite as simple as driving a car, but not that difficult either. As he entered the inlet he
pulled the throttle back, slowing the boat to little more than walking pace.
There were perhaps a dozen similar boats already moored at various points on the jetties, but there was still plenty of space left for him to use. He swung the boat in a half circle, so that the bow pointed back out toward the lagoon, then eased it into a stop beside the jetty. He stopped the engine, climbed out of the vessel and secured both the bow and the stern mooring lines. A few moments later, he was making his way toward the center of the old graveyard.