by LJ Ross
“He walks a circuit around the room every ten minutes,” Ryan said, and recognised the man from the security room that morning.
He checked his watch.
Eight thirty-seven.
“If he’s running to schedule, the guard will get up and walk around again at eight forty.”
Sure enough, three minutes later, the guard heaved himself up from his chair and began a slow walk around the event space, in an anti-clockwise direction.
“As soon as he gets up at eight-fifty, we’ll move across and I’ll slip inside,” Ryan decided. “Will you be okay waiting here? There’s a roomful of people, so it should be fine for fifteen minutes, max.”
“I’ll be fine,” Anna assured him. “If you wait much longer than that, the party might start to thin out and your absence will be noted.”
Ryan nodded.
“Where’s Armstrong now?”
They searched the sea of faces for any sign of his ostentatious gold and silver mask, then Anna clutched Ryan’s arm.
“Look!”
As Ryan’s head jerked around in the direction of the Vasari Corridor, he caught the tail end of a plumed gold and silver mask as it disappeared behind the doorway.
“I don’t believe it,” Ryan muttered, taking a step forward as if to follow him.
“Wait! You can’t go in there now. Not while he’s there too.”
“Anna, for all we know, he’s drugged someone and is taking them back to his apartment,” Ryan said. “I can’t sit back and wait for another person to die.”
“Call Ricci and tell him to get down here,” he said.
With that, he made for the doorway and, seconds later, he disappeared behind the wall.
* * *
“It’s like Beverly Hills, ’round here,” Phillips remarked, as the taxi began to climb the winding road upward along Viale Machiavelli.
“Hey, it’d be funny if Ryan’s family had one of those, wouldn’t it?” he laughed, pointing towards the Villa Lucia and nudging MacKenzie’s ribs as if to share the joke.
“Ah, Frank—”
The taxi slowed to make a left turn.
“Villa Lucia,” the driver pronounced. “Here we are.”
As the taxi swept into the driveway and came to a stop, Magda stepped outside to greet them. MacKenzie, fearful that Phillips might be suffering some sort of low-grade cardiac episode, hurriedly paid the driver and pushed him out of the car.
“Signorina,” Magda shook MacKenzie’s hand and looked over her shoulder to where Phillips was still standing on the driveway, staring goggle-eyed at the magnificent eighteenth-century villa. “Ah, does your fiancé need any help?”
“Aye, he does, but not in the way you mean,” MacKenzie said, and gestured for Phillips to pull himself together.
“C’mon Frank, the house won’t bite,” she said.
“It’s…it’s…very big.”
“Small wonder I fell for your charms, with poetry like that,” she quipped. “Come along now, it’s getting chilly out here.”
Phillips followed them inside the main entrance in a sort of trance.
“I spoke with Mrs Ryan soon after your telephone call,” Magda said, directing her remarks towards MacKenzie who she deemed—rightly, as it happened—to be the only one possessed of their full capacities at that moment. “She is expecting you.”
“And Ryan?”
Magda smiled.
“She told me to keep your arrival ‘tucked up my sleeve’, as a surprise.”
MacKenzie looked across to where Phillips was turning full circles in the marble entranceway, trying to take it all in.
“Probably for the best,” she said. “It’ll give Frank a chance to screw his head back on the right way.”
* * *
When Ryan stepped beyond the doorway of the Uffizi Gallery, he tugged off his mask and followed the short flight of stairs leading to the Vasari Corridor, which was in darkness save for the merest glimmer of light shining through a series of porthole-sized windows overlooking the streets below. He moved quietly and cautiously while his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, keeping to one side of the corridor. He could see the shadows and empty viewing boxes where artefacts and paintings had once hung but had been removed for safekeeping during the renovation works, and the detritus of paint cans and stepladders piled together further along. He was careful not to disturb any of it, treading softly as he moved further away from the distant sounds of party revellers towards the end of the long stretch that would lead him, eventually, to the Ponte Vecchio.
It was an eerie place, and Ryan found himself imagining the footsteps of so many others over the centuries since it had first been built. What had these walls seen and heard? How many others, like him, had found themselves here after dark?
How many had come back out again? his mind whispered.
Ryan shoved the thought aside and continued to move along the long corridor. He paused to look back and was surprised to see how far he had already come. The doorway leading back into the Uffizi seemed a long way away, now.
But he had come too far now to turn back.
There were other people to think of—and the possibility that, right now, somebody was suffering at Armstrong’s hands. Just thinking of it, Ryan’s pace quickened, and he moved swiftly along the corridor, his footsteps making little noise as he headed deeper into the shadows.
CHAPTER 28
Anna left the noise of the party and turned into one of the large, empty gallery rooms next door to place a call through to Inspector Ricci’s office. She swore softly as the number rang out, then stabbed ‘redial’ to try once more.
This time, on the final ring, somebody answered.
“Pronto?”
“Can I speak to Inspector Ricci, please?”
“Who is calling?”
“This is Anna Ryan,” she said. “My husband—”
“Ah, si, si. I am Sergeant Banotti,” she explained. “What has happened, signora?”
“We’re at the Uffizi Gallery, at a party for Nathan Armstrong. Ryan—that is, we think Armstrong has been using the Vasari Corridor to get around the city without being seen. We saw him—Armstrong—heading into the corridor and Ryan has followed him.”
“He has followed?” Banotti repeated, incredulously.
“Can’t you see? He’s worried there might be another victim!”
“Calmati, stay calm,” the sergeant replied. “You think your husband may be in danger?’
“Yes! Please, send somebody now,” Anna said, trying not to panic. “He’s in there alone with Armstrong.”
“I will come myself,” Banotti said. “Stay where you are, Mrs Ryan, and preferably amongst lots of people. Where are you now?”
Anna looked around the vast gallery room with its smooth marble effigies, then shivered. There were dark places here, shadowy corners where a person might hide.
“I’m—look, never mind about me! Just get here as quickly as you can.”
She ended the call and made quickly for the door that led back towards the party, her high heels clicking against the tiled floor in a staccato rhythm. She had almost crossed the room when the outline of a masked man appeared in the doorway.
Anna came to a shuddering halt.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Armstrong said softly. “The thing about old rooms like these is that voices tend to carry. Now, tell me, Mrs Ryan: if I’m supposed to be in the corridor with your husband, how is it that I’m standing here talking to you?”
* * *
Ryan reached the other end of the corridor without mishap, listening for any sight or sound to tell him that Armstrong might be near. But the only sound was the thud of his own racing heartbeat as it chased the blood around his body, thundering in his ears as he came to stand at the juncture where the corridor veered south over the Ponte Vecchio. The schematic drawings indicated an entrance to the Palazzo Russo must be roughly where he was standing, and he studied the empty wall on the north
side of the corridor for signs of a doorway.
Ryan blinked against the darkness, hardly able to distinguish light and shadow from a crack in the wall, so he resorted to using his fingertips instead. He ran his hand lightly over the wall, back and forth, covering section by section until his fingers brushed against a long indent in the plasterwork.
He curled his fingers around the edge of the handle and tugged hard.
It opened smoothly, on hinges that had recently been oiled.
Beyond the doorway was a small inner corridor built into the wall cavity and, beyond that, the door leading into Apartment 12 stood ajar.
* * *
Anna was frozen, staring at Armstrong’s masked face as though she had stepped back in time; back to Holy Island and the moment when a man wearing an animal mask had almost killed her three years before. The memory of it still plagued her nightmares, nipping at the edge of her daily life to remind her that, once, she had been so close to never seeing the dawn of a new day.
She grappled with the memories and he enjoyed watching her struggle, wondering what it might be like to feel so deeply. He looked at her as he might study a specimen he’d found in a garden pond, a jumble of flesh and bone that was his for the taking, if he wished.
Anna was angry with herself. She’d made a promise a long time ago never to allow another person ever to frighten her again but, here, she found she was only human, after all.
“It’s a foolish man who leaves a prize like you all alone,” he whispered. “Why don’t I keep you company for a while, hmm?”
Anna’s lip curled.
“Many people would give their right arm to spend an evening with me,” he continued. “Why don’t I give you a private tour? I can show you so many things.”
“None of which I want to see,” she snapped. “Excuse me.”
“If he comes back alive, tell your husband to drop the investigation,” Armstrong snarled, all the specious charm suddenly gone.
“Tell him yourself,” she said, and tried to brush past him.
His hand shot out to clamp around her wrist in a bruising grip and Anna didn’t think twice about driving the business end of her heel into the sensitive part of his foot.
“Bitch,” he rasped.
She took her chance, running back into the party to await the arrival of the police.
* * *
Ryan listened at the open doorway of Apartment 12 but heard nothing. He hesitated, wondering whether to make a safe retreat or press on to find out why Armstrong had left his own party.
There had to be a reason.
He pushed the door open slowly, edging into the room with extreme caution, watching and listening for any sound of life.
But the person who awaited him had spent much longer practising silence, long into the dark hours of the night as the rest of the world had slept, days that had soon stretched into years. Ryan stepped into the room like a cat burglar, pausing beside the hidden doorway that led into Armstrong’s sitting room, half concealed by a palm plant.
The figure slipped behind the door to the bedroom as Ryan’s footsteps sounded softly against the thick-pile carpet, making hardly a sound in the quiet evening, but it was enough to gauge his distance.
One…
Two…
Three.
* * *
Ryan heard the whoosh of air a millisecond before the cord wrapped around his throat.
He threw up his hands, managing to curl a single index finger beneath the thick, plastic-coated electrical wire as it tightened around his neck, cutting off the blood supply.
Acting on instinct, he threw his body backwards, slamming his assailant against the line of wardrobes in Armstrong’s bedroom with enough force to splinter the wood. He gasped for air, tugging against the cord with his finger, just enough to keep it from slicing into his neck.
At the same time, Ryan heaved his body backwards, trying and failing several times to crack his skull against his attacker’s nose, waiting to feel the cord loosen in shock.
But it never did.
He was beginning to see stars as his mouth opened wide, desperately drawing in choking breaths as his body struggled, still writhing to break free, his other hand clawing at the air to try to find the other person’s face but missing the mark.
In a monumental effort, Ryan used his body weight to fall forward, toppling them both to the ground and providing enough slack to draw in great gulps of air. He heard his own heaving breaths in the silent apartment, rivalled only by the surprised grunt of his attacker who was temporarily winded by the fall.
But not for long.
Ryan rolled away, the cord still wrapped around his neck, doubled over as he struggled to draw enough oxygen into his body.
Through his semi-conscious fog, he saw the shadow rise up again.
The fight had only just begun.
* * *
When Anna ran back into the party, she was met by a sea of strangers and, for a moment, the line between reality and unreality wavered. Their colourful masks, once so beautiful, melted like wax so that they appeared like mannequins, their fixed, glossy-eyed faces staring out at her from behind the façade.
With a sob, she searched for the doorway and the security guard sitting beside it, who looked the worse for wear after a long and tiring evening babysitting a group of fancy-dressed socialites.
“Please,” she said. “I need to open the door.”
She started to paw at the doorway, searching for a handle.
The man started to speak in rapid Italian, rising from his chair to block her path.
“I don’t have time to argue,” she almost shouted. “I need to go inside! There’s a man in danger!”
The security guard gave her a hard, disapproving stare and she realised that he might imagine she was drunk, or worse.
She tried once again, this time speaking slowly and clearly.
“I don’t want to argue,” she said. “I just want you to let me pass. The police are on their way,” she added.
When he said nothing, only continued to stare at her, she started to reach around for the door handle again. This time, he took hold of her arm—the second man to do so that evening—and sent her blood boiling.
“I said, I don’t want to argue,” she gritted out, and then took hold of his wrist, twisting it hard to release his grip on her sensitive flesh and he yelped at the unexpected shock of pain.
She had MacKenzie to thank for that particular move.
Still putting pressure on the guard’s wrist, Anna reached out to grasp the door handle and tugged it open before racing inside.
CHAPTER 29
Ryan staggered to his feet, aware of a rushing sound as the blood recirculated around his head and he almost fell again as the pressure rose too quickly. Clutching one hand to his head, he drew painful gasps of air into his starving lungs and watched as the figure moved towards him once again, warier the second time around now that the element of surprise had been lost.
Ryan opened his mouth to speak, to try to convince them to stop, but no sound came out except a rasp which degenerated into a wheezing fit.
He held a hand out, as if to stop the shadow from coming any closer and—just for a second—it seemed to work. The figure paused, as if unsure.
Then lunged forward again.
A pair of strong hands went for Ryan’s throat and he batted them away repeatedly, swinging out in the darkness to try to land a blow on their face or head, but still too weak to connect.
“Stop,” he managed, though the sound was barely audible.
Suddenly, strong hands were around Ryan’s throat, the fingers wrapping tightly around the cords of muscle and artery in his neck to finish the job.
* * *
“Ryan!”
Anna called out to her husband even as she heard thundering footsteps behind her, but didn’t stop to turn around, instead kicking off her heels and lifting the long skirt of her dress to run faster down the darkened corridor. Her foot c
ollided with something heavy and she almost fell as it clattered against the wall, but she recovered quickly and pushed herself onward.
“Signora!”
Voices rang out from the shadows but still she kept going, sprinting full pelt into the unknown until she reached the point where the corridor turned left to head south over the river. Panting a little, she scanned the wall for signs of an entrance and leapt forward when she spotted it, still half-open as Ryan had left it a few short minutes before.
She had hardly stepped inside the hollowed-out cavity when she heard the muffled sounds of a tussle from within.
* * *
Ryan had almost passed out, his lungs completely deprived of oxygen and, he was later to learn, if Anna had come even thirty seconds later he would have lost the fight.
But as soon as she ran into the sitting room, the pressure on his throat stopped completely as the strong hands snapped away and the figure stood up, moving quickly into position behind the bedroom door. Ryan watched as if in a dream, unable to think coherently, his brain having been deprived of oxygen, too.
The world was a haze of light and dark, of moving shadows and tears which fell like rain against his face. He smelled his wife’s scent, the unmistakable aroma of Anna as she bent down beside him, ready to administer CPR. Through hooded eyes, Ryan watched the shadow slip away again, as if it had never been there at all, and his finger raised to warn her.
“There! Look! Turn around!” he wanted to say.
But no sound emerged from his mouth and his chest heaved as he fought to regain consciousness.
Her lips on his, breathing life back into his body.
Her gentle hands, running over his face, checking his airways.
Suddenly, there were more voices in the room, more light as the overhead chandelier was turned on. The sudden glare blinded him, and Ryan closed his eyes against the force of it, willing himself to recover, for his muddled brain to react.
“Ryan?”
Anna’s voice crept inside his mind, urging him to float back to the surface.
“Ryan, please. Please, God…stay with me…”
Somebody tugged her away from him and Ryan’s head jerked in reaction, seeking her out even as his body wanted to collapse again.