I
T WAS POURING
and every now and then a flash of lightning lit up the countryside like daylight. Further west, towards the sea, lightning bolts were streaking the sky, but the continuous rumble of thunder was muted by the distance. There was practically no one out at this time of night, in such weather, and Fabrizio fingered the tape he had in his pocket, thinking of the message it contained. Words from a long-ago era, words that formed a dreadful message, to judge from the director’s self-imposed isolation and the extreme reaction he’d had that day Fabrizio had told him about the Phersu.
He turned down the Val d’Era road and had soon arrived at his house on the Semprini farm. The front courtyard and backyard were illuminated by the outdoor lights and the old bricks in the low walls gleamed in the rain. He stayed just long enough to safely deposit the tape Francesca had given him and to take his rifle from the rack, then he got back into the car and drove off in the opposite direction.
At that same moment, Lieutenant Reggiani was stretched out in an easy chair in his apartment, watching an Almodovar film on TV and drinking a whisky on the rocks. He was relatively relaxed, given the circumstances, and jumped when the phone on the side table rang.
It was Sergeant Massaro. ‘He got home ten minutes ago, went inside for a moment and then drove off again.’
‘You’re following him, aren’t you?’
‘He’s just half a kilometre ahead of me.’
‘Well done, Massaro. Don’t lose him. If there’s any reason for alarm, call me and call the squad car.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But where’s he headed at this time of night in this storm?’
‘No idea, sir. He’s actually just turned right towards La Casaccia, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Right. I think I know what he’s thinking, then. Anyway, you stay on him, understand?’
‘Roger that, sir,’ said Massaro, switching off the speaker-phone in his Fiat Uno.
Fabrizio pulled off the side of the road, got out his topographical map, examined it under the dashboard lights and then picked up his binoculars. He pointed them in the direction of the open countryside to his right. La Casaccia, about 300 metres away, was an old country estate connected to the local road by a lane full of potholes that had filled with water during the storm. At the end of this path was a courtyard surrounded by the main house, which was old and dilapidated, another building, where the tenant farmer must have lived, a shed with a collapsing roof and a stable with a hayloft, also in a state of disrepair. The overwhelming impression was of neglect and disuse, and the houses would have appeared uninhabited had it not been for a couple of lit bulbs dangling on the outside walls and for the light filtering out from a window on the ground floor of the tenant’s house. Fabrizio was close enough to see the inside of the room and the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a man of about fifty inside, sitting at a table with a plastic tablecloth, a flask of wine and a half-empty glass in front of him.
Fabrizio heard a dog barking and the sound of a chain running back and forth over a wire strung between the two buildings. A car was driving up and the dog was letting his master know. Who could it be so late at night in such an isolated place?
The vehicle looked like an old van. It stopped in the middle of the courtyard and a woman got out. At first, Fabrizio could not make out her features, but then the door opened and lit up her face. It was the woman from behind the bar at the Le Macine tavern!
Fabrizio realized immediately that a lot of his questions were about to be answered but unless he got closer he would miss whatever happened. He searched through his pockets and backpack for something he could pacify the dog with, but found nothing, not even a crust of bread. He aimed his binoculars and found himself witnessing – although he could not hear a word – an argument that soon degenerated into a violent quarrel. The woman stormed out, slamming the door behind her, got back into her van and drove off.
Strangely, during the whole time that the woman was inside, maybe ten minutes or so, the dog had never stopped barking. On the contrary, his yapping had become so fierce and insistent that Fabrizio could hear him distinctly, even at this distance. The dog continued to bark for a couple of minutes after the vehicle had disappeared, then stopped. Fabrizio could hear the chain sliding back and forth for a while, then nothing.
He decided to pluck up his courage and approach the man inside the house. He started up the car and drove it down the little lane with only his parking lights on. He stopped at the edge of the courtyard and got out as the dog started barking again and running up and down the muddy yard. Almost immediately the door opened and the man appeared as a dark shadow in the doorway.
‘Are you back?’ he shouted. ‘Get out, I told you! Get the hell out of here!’
‘My name is Fabrizio Castellani,’ was his answer. ‘You don’t know me, but—’
He was not given the opportunity to finish.
‘Get out!’ repeated the man, and this time it was clear that the order was directed at him.
‘I’m not a thief or a prankster,’ started up Fabrizio again, ‘and I need to talk to you, Mr . . . Montanari.’
‘I know full well who you are,’ responded the man. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Get out. Leave here. Get as far away as you can, if you don’t want to come to a nasty end. A horrible end.’
Fabrizio felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Hearing the same threat twice in the same day from two people, under such disturbing circumstances . . . that phrase suddenly struck home with all its ominous implications. He felt alone and defenceless, the potential victim of a mess of his own making. He struggled to control himself and, after a moment of hesitation, took a few steps forward. The chained dog instantly charged at him, barking furiously, but when it was almost upon him, it stopped in its tracks and began to yelp as though it recognized him. Fabrizio, prey to so many conflicting emotions, managed nonetheless to stay calm and not take to his heels.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said in a firm voice. So firm, in fact, that he even convinced himself.
The man approached and looked him over from head to toe. He turned to the dog, which was still whimpering softly, as if waiting to be petted, and then back to the young man. He shook his head and said, ‘You’re crazy, all right . . . but, if you have to, come in.’
Fabrizio followed the man inside the house and found himself in a bare room with peeling, mouldy plaster. A light bulb hung from an enamelled iron plate in the middle of the room. On one of the walls was an image of the Immaculate Heart of Mary printed on a piece of cardboard that was curling at the edges with the damp. On the other walls were more sacred images, a little incongruous under the circumstances: St Rocco with a dog licking his wounds, and St Anthony the Abbot, with a horse, rooster and pig. Opposite the door stood a small cupboard topped by a glass case. Sitting on the cupboard top was an old phone, greasy and dirty. A table with two straw-bottomed chairs and nothing else. A strong odour of mildew saturated the room, a wretched place that reeked of abandonment.
Fabrizio’s gaze was drawn instinctively to the glass case and on the shelf directly over the telephone he noticed several fragments of archaeological objects, in particular some bucchero pottery with traces of a painted swastika motif, the same as he had found near the tomb of the Phersu.
‘You’re a tomb robber,’ said Fabrizio, looking straight into the man’s eyes with an affirmative rather than interrogative tone, and deliberately addressing him with the familiar
‘tu.
‘In a certain sense.’
‘You’re the one who found the slab with the inscription.’
‘I did.’
‘And you turned it over to the NAS. Why? For the money?’
‘It’ll make a nice nest egg.’
‘But you won’t be getting any of it until you say where the missing piece is.’
‘So they say.’
The man filled his glass and gestured at his guest to offer him some as well. Fabrizio declined politely with a shake of his head.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
The man gulped down the wine in a single go and poured himself some more. Fabrizio was close enough to smell his sour breath.
‘You think I’d tell you?’ asked the man with a smirk. But behind his bravado, Fabrizio thought he could see a desperate need to talk to someone. To relieve himself, perhaps, of an intolerable burden.
‘Probably not,’ replied Fabrizio calmly. ‘But I can tell you that you’re the one who tipped off the police about the Phersu tomb. You were almost certainly there at the site with those poor wretches who ended up with their throats ripped out. But you slipped away before the Finanza team got there.’
The man suddenly leaned in closer. ‘Then it’s true that you’re dangerous!’ he said, gulping down more wine.
‘Who told you that? The woman from the Le Macine tavern?’
‘You know her? But how . . .’
‘Yeah, I know her. And so do you, I see.’
The man was increasingly surprised and confounded by Fabrizio’s words. He lowered his head, letting out a long breath.
‘I wish I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I’d be better off if I’d never met her.’
‘Same here. But why did she come here to see you in the middle of the night?’
The man sighed again. ‘Nightmares also come to visit in the middle of the night,’ he replied. ‘Since I found that inscription, she’s changed completely. She’s turned into another person.’
‘She’s the one who told you where the inscription was, isn’t she?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Was it her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she has kept one of the pieces after she got you to break up the slab?’
The man nodded.
‘So she instructed you to notify the National Antiquities Service.’
‘That’s my own fucking business!’ the man responded with a flash of pride. ‘They were supposed to give me a pile of money. And I was having problems making ends meet . . . I was in prison.’
‘She’s also the one who told you where you’d find the tomb.’
The man nodded, submissive again.
‘And she’ll tell you where the seventh fragment of the inscription is . . . when she decides.’
‘No. She’s already told me.’
‘Tonight?’
The man nodded again.
‘Why were you arguing?’
‘Because . . . I’ve had enough. I can’t take it any more. I won’t .
Fabrizio looked at him closely. His face was sallow, his brow damp with sweat. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. He was a sick man.
‘Tell me where it is,’ tried Fabrizio in a commanding tone.
But the man just shook his head convulsively, as if he were the prisoner of a force that dominated him completely.
‘Tell me!’ insisted Fabrizio, grabbing him by the shirt. ‘You absolutely must tell me! Many human lives may still be destroyed unless you do. Can’t you understand?’
The man yanked free, took a long breath and seemed to be about to say something when a long howl echoed, frighteningly close, followed by a deep snarling growl. The two men looked at each other with sudden, acute distress.
‘My God,’ said Fabrizio.
11
F
ABRIZIO SEARCHED
the other man’s face but found only bewilderment and a touch of madness.
‘Do you have a weapon?’ he asked.
The man lowered his head. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘This time it’s come for me. I should never have refused.’
Fabrizio grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘A man like you must have a gun somewhere, damn it! Get it and defend yourself. It’s only an animal. Ghosts don’t rip people apart the way he does.’
But as he spoke he felt like his voice was coming from someone else’s mouth, as if those weren’t his own words. This feeling of alienation made him profoundly uneasy.
‘You must have a weapon,’ he insisted, trying hard to pull himself together. ‘Get it and cover me while I try to reach my car. My rifle’s inside and it’s locked and loaded.’
As he spoke he could see the soft reflection of the burnished barrel in the darkness, smell the glycerine oil mixed with the persistent scent of gunpowder. All his senses were enhanced as he sought a point of focus.
The other man finally shook himself out of his trance. He got up, went towards the glass case and tried to control the trembling of his hands as he opened it. At that same moment the howl of the beast sounded even closer and was joined by the hoarse, furious barking of the dog outside. They heard the chain snapping back and forth, back and forth along the wire, followed by a fierce snarl and an immediately suffocated yelp. Then silence.
The man covered his mouth with his hand in a gesture of despair. ‘He killed my dog,’ he said softly. ‘He’s already here.’ Then, with a sudden flash of conscience, he pushed Fabrizio towards a door at the back of the kitchen. ‘You can get out this way. The regional road is just 100 metres away. There’s always a car passing. Run.’ He searched Fabrizio’s face fleetingly, but then his eyes turned blank. He walked mechanically to the door that led to the courtyard and was outside before Fabrizio could stop him.
Fabrizio heard a shriek of terror, followed by the same growl he’d heard a few nights before, suffocated as the animal sank his snout into flesh and blood. He ran through the kitchen, down the hall and out the back door. He could see his car out of the corner of his eye; he knew he could make it. But as he was about to make a dash for it, he saw two headlights flare at the far end the courtyard and Francesca’s little Jeep pulled up. He heard her voice calling, ‘Fabrizio! Fabrizio, are you there?’
Fabrizio felt his blood turn to water and, gripped by panic, he shouted out at the top of his voice, ‘Francesca! Francesca, no! Lock yourself in! Don’t move!’
And he sprinted towards his own car, partially illuminated now by Francesca’s headlights. But the beast instantly looked up from its victim and lunged after him. Fabrizio could feel its hot panting at his back, but he was sure he could make it. The car was there and Francesca was alive, though he could hear her terrified screaming. He opened the door, grabbed the gun, spun around and pulled the trigger. In the beam of the Jeep’s headlights he saw the creature’s terrifying bulk, its hackles raised, its bared bloodied fangs, and he understood he had failed in the same instant in which horror nailed him fast to the ground, slowed, almost paralysed his movements but left his mind free to race at an insane speed towards his own death.