Francesca replied that she wasn’t afraid, but he could see she was terrified. Fabrizio held her close and kissed her, then gave Angelo a pat and was off.
He made his way back to the main hall, looking carefully in every direction before starting up the spiral staircase. At each floor he was greeted by a spectacle similar to or worse than the one before: long rows of stuffed animals of every description – vultures and wide-winged condors, cats, skunks and weasels with sharp little teeth glinting in the pale beam of the torch, martens and wolves, dogs and foxes and even snakes, huge pythons, boas and anacondas, gape-jawed cobras immobilized in the act of pouncing on imaginary, unsuspecting victims.
He climbed the last ramp to the top-floor landing, opened the little door that led to the attic and shone the light inside. His heart jumped into his throat at the nightmare scene in front of his eyes: there were human beings in the attic, stuffed like the exotic animals downstairs. Tribal peoples from distant lands, nude males and females gripping spears, frozen in obscene expressions and wizened smirks. Fabrizio backed up and pulled the door shut, but then decided that he had to overcome his repugnance at that infernal vision and push on. He took a long, deep breath to restore a normal beat to the heart leaping about inside his chest, then opened the door and walked into that forest of mummies. Many had been gnawed at by rodents and their bones were showing. They all had glass eyes, like the foxes and vultures below.
He inspected the roof thoroughly without finding any exit – not a skylight, dormer or window of any sort. Between one beam and the next, the ceiling was completely lined with lead sheeting and he was unsurprised to realize that he couldn’t get a phone signal up there either. The place was sealed shut. The whole huge building was as airtight as an intact tomb. When he returned to the cellar to give them the bad news he was wheezing and covered with cobwebs.
‘You look terrible,’ said Francesca. ‘What else did you see up there?’
Fabrizio did not answer. He knelt next to the child and grasped him by the shoulders. ‘Listen carefully, Angelo. Are you sure there is no other way out? I remember clearly that I saw you going into that little door at the front.’
‘I watched where she put the key and when she didn’t leave it, I got in and out that way, like today,’ he said, pointing at the closed grating.
‘What can we do?’ asked Francesca. ‘Unfortunately, no one even knows we’re in here.’
‘We’ll wait until dawn and start yelling.’
‘If there’s anyone out there to hear us.’
‘Right. Someone has to hear us.’
‘Wait! Maybe I have a better idea.’ Francesca switched on her computer again and started hitting the keys.
‘What are you trying to do?’ asked Fabrizio.
‘I just remembered that there’s an email I downloaded a couple of days ago but never got around to reading. It might be the updated map of underground Volterra incorporating the eighteenth-century Malavolti survey information. The topographical centre has been working on it for some time and they usually send me an update at the end of the month. So, let’s take a look . . . See, here, if we’re lucky . . .’
Fabrizio had turned off the torch and the only light in the underground chamber came from the glow of the computer screen, where Francesca had found what she wanted and was now exploring patiently, searching for an escape route.
Fabrizio turned to the child, who was trembling with cold and fear. He chatted quietly in an attempt to distract him: ‘When I saw you slipping through that door the other day, I couldn’t help but wonder why you were here, what you could be doing in a big old empty place like this all on your own. So, will you tell me now?’
‘I come to see my father.’
‘Where is your father?’
The child motioned upwards with his eyes.
The painting?’
Angelo nodded.
‘You’re Jacopo Ghirardini’s son?’
The little boy nodded again.
‘Are you sure?’
Angelo began speaking in a strange little voice. ‘My father is in here, I know he is. I come to visit him whenever I can. Without letting my stepmother know, or she beats me.’
‘How do you get around in the dark?’
‘With a torch.’
‘A torch like this one?’
Another nod.
‘You’ve got one in here?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So what were you waiting for to tell me? We need a torch badly.’
‘If I give it to you I can’t see my father any more. I’m out of candles and I don’t have money for batteries. I stole the ones I’m using.’
Fabrizio touched his cheek. ‘I’ll buy you all the batteries you want. But please, let us use the one you have now . . .’
Francesca’s voice interrupted him: ‘Found it!’
‘Found what?’
‘The way out. Look. Here in the cellar, in the south-west corner.’
‘We’ve already looked,’ objected Fabrizio. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Because the west wall shifts eastward in relation to the north wall and creates a kind of illusion so that it looks like a closed corner. In reality, there should be a passageway that leads to a tunnel that emerges above ground . . . in the Etruscan cistern on the Salvetti farm! Come on. Let’s go and look.’
‘If Angelo lets us use his torch,’ said Fabrizio.
The boy took a few steps, rummaged in the dark under some stones and came back with a torch in his hand.
Francesca switched off the computer, got up and followed Fabrizio, who was carrying the bronze slab and heading towards the south-west corner of the cellar. She’d been right: there was a gap between the two walls hiding the entrance to a narrow passageway.
‘So we walk out,’ commented Fabrizio, drawing a long breath. ‘If the tunnel is usable that is. If the walls haven’t collapsed and—’
‘We’ll never know if we don’t try,’ said Francesca. ‘Ready for an adventure, Angelo?’
The boy nodded and wordlessly handed Francesca the torch as she squeezed herself into the passage. They forged ahead without meeting any obstacles. The tunnel was cut into the tufa and after a narrow start opened up enough to allow all three of them to walk along comfortably. They would stop now and then so that Fabrizio could set down the slab a moment and rest his arms, before continuing again.
After a level stretch, the tunnel started to slope downwards, confirming what Francesca had seen on her computer map.
‘Do you suppose Malavolti explored the entire length of this tunnel, then?’ asked Fabrizio during one of their rest stops.
‘That’s what his notes say. He was a very serious researcher. I’d say we can trust him.’
Fabrizio shook his head. ‘And to think how incredulous I was when Signora Pina told me there was a secret passage from this building to Lord knows which monastery.’
There’s always a kernel of truth in any old wives’ tale. You should know that. I’m curious as to how the Etruscans could have created an underground connection between two places proceeding blindly and without instruments.’
‘I imagine they did go on blindly, one stretch at a time at least, and then, when they emerged above ground, marked the spot with some sort of construction that wouldn’t draw attention to the passageway below: a small sanctuary, perhaps, or a farmhouse.’
‘You really think so? Look at the way this tunnel proceeds. Does it seem casual? Like it’s proceeding blindly, any which way? I think the Etruscans had refined such a strong sense of orientation that they could perceive magnetic fields.’
‘Like migrating birds?’ asked Fabrizio.
‘Well, yes, more or less.’
‘And you accuse me of letting my imagination run away with me!’
The width of the tunnel – and the sensation that they were distancing themselves from the bowels of that creepy, labyrinthine building – helped to slowly alleviate the hysteria that had gripped them when they realized they were trapped inside. The tunnel widened enough for them to walk abreast of each other and Angelo took Fabrizio’s hand. They continued until they found themselves at a fork. A couple of steps in the stone raised the floor by about thirty centimetres.
‘Which way now?’ asked Fabrizio. ‘I don’t remember seeing this in your map.’
‘No, me neither,’ replied Francesca, ‘and I don’t think there’s enough power left to consult it again. So let’s say we go straight. It should lead us out somewhere. If it doesn’t we’ll come back to this point and try the other direction. Anyway, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but it seems to me there’s a breeze, which must mean this leads out to the open air. I just hope the exit is big enough for us to get out of . . .’
‘By this time Massaro will have noticed I’m not in the house and have informed Reggiani,’ Fabrizio mused.
‘And Reggiani will have unleashed his forces to discover where you are and what you’re up to . . . He hates not being in control. He’ll have tried me first, but my mobile’s not picking up and my answering machine’s on at home.’
‘First he’ll get angry as hell, then he’ll start thinking it through. That’s the part that worries me,’ said Fabrizio. ‘So let’s put ourselves in his shoes and figure out what he’ll do next.’
‘We have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing,’ shot back Francesca. ‘How could he?’
‘OK, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m worried Reggiani will call an early start to the operation, hoping to catch us in his net before something else gets us—’
Francesca stopped suddenly. ‘Shh! Did you hear that?’ she said in alarm.
Fabrizio stopped as well and strained to hear. Angelo squeezed his hand more tightly: he’d heard as well.
It was a clear, distinct sound, distorted and amplified by the tunnel walls: the beast’s snarl, its gnashing teeth, its hoarse, hissing breath. The entire length of the underground chamber was saturated with its presence and the stench was unbearable. The beam of the torch in Francesca’s trembling hands pierced the darkness and shone straight into the monster’s eyes.
‘Oh, my God! My God! My God!’ screamed Francesca in the throes of panic. ‘Run! Get away!’
Fabrizio dropped the slab and all three took off in the opposite direction, racing back to the palace, well aware they had no chance. They could hear the panting of the animal, feel the hot huffing, knew he could spring from one moment to the next. As they reached the widening in the first part of the tunnel, Francesca tripped on the steps and sprawled to the ground. Fabrizio grabbed her arm and yanked her up. He flattened himself against the wall, instinctively covering the girl and the child.
The torch had fallen to the ground and lit the animal from below, making it look even more terrifying, if that was possible. It was approaching more slowly now, seeming to test the ground with its paws. Its enormous blood-drenched fangs were bared, its snout was wrinkled into deep furrows and the black hairs on its back were as bristly as the quills of a porcupine. It had evidently killed for the fifth time and was still on the prowl. Fabrizio gripped Francesca’s hand, as if trying to communicate a last message before they died, but as the monster was about to lunge, the boy wriggled forward and placed himself squarely between his friends and the animal, shouting, ‘No!’
Fabrizio and Francesca were incapable of moving a muscle. Paralysed by their terror, they could only watch as the little boy confronted the beast. Slender and defenceless, he was shaking, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes were filled with tears, but he stood his ground. His courage seemed absolutely superhuman. And the miracle accordingly took place: the monster slowed its charge, cut short its leap and took a few steps towards the child, whimpering as if in pain. Then it backed off, raised its head again, stretched its jowls and let out a piercing howl, a cry of impotent ferocity and infinite suffering. It finally bounded into the side tunnel and disappeared from sight.
Fabrizio had reached the child and was hugging him. Francesca embraced the two of them at once as she burst into strangled weeping.
‘It’s over,’ said Fabrizio. ‘It’s over now. Come on. Let’s get going again. Someone else has lost their life and Reggiani will be doing everything he can to get his operation under way.’
A few minutes later, they stumbled on the bronze slab that Fabrizio had dropped and he picked it up again. They walked for nearly an hour until they could see the pale light of the moon filtering through a crack at the end of the tunnel. They’d reached the old cistern at the Salvetti farm.
Fabrizio squeezed out first, then helped Angelo and Francesca through. He held them close with tears in his eyes and led them around the ruined cistern, holding on to wild grape vines for support until they were above ground. The Tuscan hills loomed all around, veiled by an opaline mist pierced here and there by the sharp tips of the cypress trees. They breathed a long sigh of relief and set off in the direction of the regional road.
Fabrizio turned to Francesca and said, ‘You know, when I found myself face to face with that thing, I was about to tell you something.’
‘What?’
‘That I love you, Dr Dionisi.’
‘That’s a strange way of telling me. But I’m glad.’ She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Fabrizio switched on his mobile phone and dialled Reggiani’s number.
‘Is that you?’ answered the officer. ‘Where the hell did you disappear to, damn you? As if I didn’t already have enough trouble and as if I weren’t pissed off enough on my own without you adding to it!’
‘I know. It killed again.’
‘Two this time. A young guy, a drug addict, and his father, who was trying to defend him. But how did you know that?’
Fabrizio ignored his question and went on, ‘I have the missing fragment of the slab of Volterra. Come and get me, please. We’re on the regional road near the Salvetti farm.’
‘Who else is with you?’
‘Francesca and a little . . . angel.’
‘Don’t move,’ warned the officer. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes with a couple of my men.’
A
NGELO WAS
curled up on the couch, under a flannel blanket, sunk in the deepest sleep. Every now and then he’d let out a little moan or a suffocated yelp, or he would shudder under his blanket as if in the grip of a nightmare. Francesca was making coffee for the four men sitting at the table.