Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  And from as close as she could get, the faces in the painting in front of her were no more certain than the blurred images in the X-ray photos of the painting that were in the folders laid out neatly on every chair in the room.

  It was a room filled with evidence and experts. But no answers.

  None of that mattered to Lucia. Strangely, now that it was about to be declared a true Caravaggio, the painting itself had faded in importance. Te-Te’s reputation was safe. And Lucia had the answers that mattered to her.

  She had two images that would stay with her and challenge her for the rest of her life.

  One was the image of Te-Te’s face, enormous and ravaged, streaked with blood, looking down at her as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the darkness.

  And the other was the image of her mother, Lucia’s beautiful young mother, her face a savage mask of rage as she launched herself at Te-Te, her nails clawing for his eyes, leaving the scars that would mark him for the rest of his life. It was Lucia’s final image of motherly love. Bitterness and revenge were her blessing, a mother’s gift of infinite savage love.

  Lucia was shoved and she stumbled. The expert beside her, using the leverage of his weight and the righteousness of his résumé, elbowed past her to the front of the pack.

  She looked around for Moto, but he had disappeared. She saw Professor Richman fading back into the crowd, refusing to join the pushing and shoving.

  Meanwhile, Professor Massimiliano Antonelli was still talking.

  “I also call your attention to the small companion next to our honored ‘guest.’”

  Lucia peered through the mob and saw that there was a frame standing on a small easel next to the painting. The frame enclosed a single sheet of parchment covered with faded script.

  “That companion,” continued the professor, the lights gleaming off his bald scalp, “is a message, a secret message, if you will, that was concealed beneath the—”

  His next words were lost as the room was rocked by a violent explosion.

  For an instant, Lucia thought she was back in Palazzo Barberini in front of Judith Beheading Holofernes and that when she looked around, everyone would still be chatting and working their way closer to the painting. But—and Lucia actually felt a moment of relief that she was not losing her mind—the room was instantly plunged into panic.

  The ringing in her ears was replaced by the screams and shrieks from the crowd. She was knocked forward, then back, then tossed sideways by people surging in all directions, no one knowing which way to flee.

  It took a moment for her to realize that the explosion had not been in the room. It was outside the building. But very close.

  The two guards were heading toward the door to the outside.

  In the swirling panic, a clear path to the painting opened up, and without a thought, Lucia sprinted toward it. She was almost there when the crowd surged and her path was blocked. She kept fighting, but the fleeing mob pulled her even farther away.

  Then the room was shaken by a second explosion outside, followed by a rattle of gunfire. Everything was frozen. No one seemed certain which way to run.

  And in that instant, a short, thin figure, dressed in a loose gray tunic, burst out of the crowd and grabbed Lucia, pinning her arms to her sides and dragging her toward the painting. She fought to get free of his grip, and as she thrashed and tried to batter him with her fists, she felt something bulky and hard strapped around his waist, protecting his midsection. And in a moment of inexplicable clarity, she knew that what she felt strapped to this maniac wasn’t protection. It was an explosive belt. The weapon of a suicide bomber.

  She fought back wildly. He was smaller than she was, but he seemed filled with a superhuman strength, his scrawny arms carved from hickory. He pulled her inexorably closer to the painting.

  The death she had waited for last night was here now.

  For an instant his grip loosened and she thought she could break free, and then she was yanked back toward him by something cold and metallic around her wrist. Somehow, in that moment, he had managed to handcuff her to him.

  She started to scream and felt a sharp knifepoint dig into her throat.

  “I’ll kill you.” His voice was a growl in her ear.

  Then he shouted, “Stand back!” His voice was surprisingly deep and powerful for a man so slight.

  “He’s got a knife!” someone shouted, and a space opened around them. Now everyone knew what they were fleeing. The maniac with the knife. They didn’t know about the bomb under his tunic.

  The arm with the handcuff wrapped around her waist, the knife still pressed against her throat, he dragged her toward the painting. She tried to resist his pull and felt the fierce point of the knife puncture her skin. A trickle of blood ran down her neck.

  “I’ll kill you,” he growled again.

  But if it was a bomb strapped to his waist, why should she worry that he might cut her throat first?

  She lunged away from him, and in a blinding flash of pain, the edge of the knife slashed across her throat. Now the blood came in a rush, not a trickle.

  The handcuff stopped her short at arm’s length—there was no escape—but for a moment, he was caught off-balance. As he staggered, a figure lunged out of the crowd, swinging a black silver-tipped cane. The cane smashed savagely against the extended arm that was handcuffed to Lucia. The cane shattered, and perhaps the arm did too. Even in her haze of pain and the gush of blood down the front of her dress, Lucia could feel a sudden slack in his urgent pull.

  But there was no cry of pain from the gray-clad figure. He lunged toward the man who now held only the shattered stub of the cane in his hand, and like the trained comandante militare he had declared himself to be, the little man plunged the long knife through the finely tailored pinstripe suit, between two ribs and deep into Professor A. R. Richman’s side.

  The professor staggered back and fell, the knife still lodged in his side.

  Lucia tried to fight, but her hands were slippery with blood and she could feel darkness closing in around her. The little man was dragging her by the chain and handcuffs that linked them, she could see the effort in his body, but she felt she was floating. She wasn’t really there. The only thing real was the pain and the overwhelming darkness.

  Standing at the painting, the man stopped, dug something out of his pocket, and held it high overhead, wires trailing down to the bulky package strapped around his waist.

  “In the name of Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero!” he boomed.

  And in that same instant, a slim figure in a black leather jacket burst out of the crowd and dived headlong between Lucia and the man in gray, wrapping her in a fierce embrace, shielding her with his body from whatever was to come. And with a final desperate surge—one arm reaching out, hand still clutching the detonator, the other stretched to its limit, dragging Lucia and Moto behind him—the man in gray went sprawling against the stand that held the painting.

  Lucia saw Jesus and Judas toppling toward her.

  And then the darkness embraced her.

  She never heard the explosion.

  She never felt the flames.

  Chapter 55

  Palo

  1610

  “Hoist anchor!” shouted the captain.

  Fenelli grasped his arm. “But what of Caravaggio?”

  “There’s nothing I can do!” shouted the captain above the flapping of the mainsail. “But I’ll see that the chest returns to the Colonnas.”

  The first mate turned the boat into the wind as the captain watched the white mainsail. He gave a nod, and the Gabbiano turned off wind, her sails filling.

  Fenelli looked back toward the castle shrouded in mist.

  As the Gabbiano plunged into the rough seas, the captain could see the rowboat emerging from the mist. He strained his eyes and looked again. And again.

  There were only three figures in the boat now, not four.

  Chapter 56

  ROME

&nb
sp; Finding Professor Richman’s hospital room was a struggle. There was no one to help her. She wasn’t supposed to be out of her room. The heavy bandages on her neck made it impossible to turn her head. The concussion from the bomb blast had left her balance uncertain. The cast on her right arm kept her from opening doors. And the burns left her in a haze of constant pain.

  But Lucia was determined to say some sort of goodbye before the limousine (courtesy of a deeply embarrassed officer of the carabinieri who had failed so terribly to protect her or the painting) took her to the airport.

  No one had prepared her for what she would find when she finally got to the professor’s room—because no one had imagined she would be foolish enough to fight her way through the labyrinth of the hospital on her medically unauthorized mission to say goodbye.

  The professor was in no shape to exchange farewells—or even to hear them.

  Almost two weeks after the self-styled comandante militare had plunged a knife between his ribs, Professor Richman was still unconscious. The doctors were keeping him heavily sedated while he recovered from the extensive surgery to repair his kidney, liver, and colon.

  A doctor followed Lucia into the room and hovered next to her, as if trying to find a safe spot on which to touch her and lead her away.

  “Sembra morto,” she said. He looks dead.

  “Lo era quasi.” He almost was. And then reassurance. “Si riprenderà.” He’ll be OK.

  Slowly, painfully, Lucia turned her entire body so she could look the doctor in the eye. Tears were running down her cheeks. She wanted to tell him that, no, nothing was ever going to be OK again. They had lost too much. But she found she couldn’t say a word.

  After a long silence, the doctor looked away, shrugged uncomfortably, and left her alone with the professor.

  She’d been told that sometimes people can hear what you say when they’re unconscious, so she wanted to be cheerful. Hopeful, at least. But she was in no mood to call him “Ralphie.” This was serious business. Too serious.

  “Professor . . .” What came next? “I have to leave. I’m going home.” Where was that? “Back to New York.” So what? “I hate leaving you here. Leaving you like this.” So much for cheerful. “But I have to go.” Now she was crying openly. “I have to.” Deep breath. “I’ll miss you.” Another. “I’ll miss you both.”

  And now she had to tell him. In case he could hear. He needed to hear it from her.

  “He’s dead.” No. She needed to say it straight out. “Moto’s dead.” She couldn’t go on. Her voice failed. But she had to say the rest. So she waited in silence until she found her voice again.

  “He saved my life. And yours too. He saved us. He . . .”

  And now, no matter how long she waited, she couldn’t go on.

  Moto was dead and she would never see him again.

  So she turned and made her way painfully back through the labyrinth to her room.

  Chapter 57

  Porto Ercole

  1610

  The sea was rough, though, by now, Fenelli had nothing left in his stomach. As the boat rocked, the oil lantern swayed, casting an erratic pool of light.

  Fenelli stared at the black iron padlock. Without taking his eyes off it, he dug his right hand into his carpetbag.

  He withdrew the hammer, feeling its weight in his hand.

  The swaying light illuminated the figure of the poet, his arms wielding the heavy tool over his head. The padlock shattered into black bits.

  Fenelli opened the chest, watching over his shoulder for anyone to descend the ladder from the deck.

  Inside, he saw four rolled canvases. One had some inked writing on the back. He chose that one, slamming the chest closed. Then he dragged the chest, turning the side with the smashed lock away from the hatch.

  He opened his carpetbag and buried Caravaggio’s painting in among his belongings.

  The captain’s experienced hand guided the ship safely into Porto Ercole.

  Mario Fenelli was already on deck, carpetbag in hand.

  “I am reporting I have no passengers,” said the captain. “You are going to have to enter the Roman state as a crew member of the Gabbiano. Get in line with the other three sailors.”

  He called to the crew, “We sail at noon. If you are not here, I’ll leave without you.”

  “We’re not overnighting, Captain?” called a sailor.

  “You heard me. Noon sail. As soon as they unload the hold, we’re off.”

  There was a low grumble and then: “Aye, Capitano!”

  Mario shifted his feet, his eyes glancing from the dock to the captain.

  “If I were you, Fenelli,” said the captain, “I would forget I ever saw Michele Merisi.”

  The whites of the poet’s eyes shone in the early-dawn light.

  “And get out of the Roman state as fast as you can,” added the captain. “All right, go on.”

  The sailors and first mate jumped nimbly onto the dock. Fenelli eyed the gap between the gunwale and the dock.

  “Throw us your bag,” said the first mate. “It’ll make it easier.”

  Fenelli shook his head adamantly, clinging tightly to the bag.

  He looks like a scared rabbit, thought the captain.

  Fenelli took a deep breath and jumped, carpetbag flying forward first. He landed stumbling, the bag landing at a sailor’s feet. The first mate helped him to his feet, but Fenelli slapped away his hands and grabbed his bag from the sailor.

  “Are you all right, signore?” asked the first mate.

  “Certo! Of course I’m all right,” said the poet, straightening his posture. After a few days on the water, now the solid ground seemed to pitch and roll, and he swayed clumsily.

  “Arrivederci, then,” said the first mate, walking down the dock. “And may our paths never cross again,” he added under his breath.

  The captain stared at Fenelli as he weaved down the dock, trailing the sailors.

  He rubbed his salty beard with his thumbnail.

  That poet is a shifty son of a bitch.

  The captain set sail at noon, heading directly back to Napoli. The sea was rough again. At midnight, the first mate took over watch and the captain descended into the passenger cabin, lantern in hand.

  As he walked closer, he saw the broken padlock.

  “Bastardo!” he cursed.

  The captain opened the chest. Nestled within the cedarwood and linen lining were three rolled canvases.

  He closed the chest without inspecting further.

  Three paintings. What else had been in the chest before Fenelli broke the lock?

  I will see that these canvases are returned to the Colonna family. They may be the only friends Caravaggio had.

  He fell asleep in the passenger’s bunk, his lantern swinging erratically, spilling light over the tarred sea chest of the dead artist.

  Facing the rage of Cardinal Scipione Borghese, the messenger ran his fingers nervously over the rim of his cap.

  “What do you mean Caravaggio is dead?” roared Borghese. “I arranged his pardon with the pope!”

  “The news just reached us from Porto Ercole,” said the man. “They say he died on the beach between Palo and Porto Ercole.”

  “On the beach?”

  “He was detained in Palo. His papers were not in order. He was imprisoned for a day, then released.”

  “Released? He was released?”

  “The guards at Palo say he was weak and disoriented. The boat he sailed on set off without him. He went raving mad. The word from Porto Ercole was that he chased after it.”

  “Chased after a boat? That’s madness. As if he could catch it!”

  “We’re not sure if he leased a horse or ran.”

  “This is all lunacy! Only a fool would believe this tale. The beaches between Palo and Porto Ercole are infested with malaria. In July? A man running after a ship?”

  “The speculation is that he died of fever—”

  “Bah! Lies! The guards were b
ribed.”

  “The rumor is Caravaggio was buried by a fisherman on the beach in an unmarked grave.”

  “Basta! Where are the paintings?” roared the cardinal.

  “They were delivered by the sea captain to the Marchesa Colonna in Napoli.”

  “Seize them at once! They are my personal property—recover them before the Maltese Knights get there!”

  The Marchesa Colonna stared at the three paintings, now unrolled and simply framed.

  One canvas was of Saint John the Baptist as a young man. The second was Caravaggio’s boy, Cecco, posing as David, the head of Goliath in his hand. The severed head was a self-portrait of Caravaggio, his eyes open, mouth agape.

  The third was a beautiful woman with dark hair, her head thrown back, throat bared. Mary Magdalene in ecstasy.

  The marchesa stared at the woman.

  I recognize her. She is the model for his last paintings in Roma.

  She was the one he loved. He painted her from memory in the moment of ecstasy.

  The marchesa’s pale mouth twisted in a rueful smile.

  There was a rap on the door.

  “Avanti,” said the marchesa, startled out of her reverie.

  Her footman rushed in the door, his face a mask of terror.

  “There is a band of Maltese Knights at the door. They insist they see you at once, my marchesa!”

  The marchesa looked once more at the paintings, the images searing into her memory.

  “I know what they have come for,” she said.

  Chapter 58

  NEW YORK CITY

  She sat in a coffee shop at the edge of East Harlem, two blocks from her apartment. The city surged past the window, vivid and unstoppable. A turquoise silk scarf hid the almost-faded scar on her neck. Her wild black hair was only slightly tamed in deference to a job interview earlier that day, a promising opportunity almost certain to lead to something better. Her life was back on track.

  But for now her mind was far away from the city. She was focused on the letter in her hand.

  My Dear Lucy,

  If I may start in media res, as the immortal Horace advised, I am currently continuing my recuperation in a villa looking out over the magnificent Piemontese estates belonging to the delightful Contessa dei Marsi—I am sure you remember her well. She and I have become quite good friends at this point. Quite. I expect I will be staying here awhile longer. What, after all, remains to draw me back to the hurly-burly of life in the Stati Uniti? (You can see I am practicing my italiano every chance I get—and I get a lot of chances.)