Chapter 25
LAURA CAME ROUND in the early afternoon to say that her car had turned up near the Via Nazionale. The Alfa had become the center of attraction for the stradale, the traffic police, who had found it illegally parked. Laura said she was pleased to be reunited with her car, and Marco responded that he was pleased to be reunited with Laura. They walked together to recover it.
"I'll see if I can get it going," he offered as he got inside and studied the broken steering lock. "I know a thing or two about hot-wiring." He laughed. "It's my background in used cars. If the detector's okay, can you take me back to Monte Sisto for one more look? It's what we went there for yesterday -- before you had your car stolen. We need to find the bronze head and we're desperately short of time."
Laura hesitated before agreeing, as though making an important decision. Then she gave him a firm but slightly self-conscious hug. "We'll go now -- if you can start the engine."
Ten minutes later Marco wiped his hands and put the key in the ignition. The engine fired immediately. Laura would need a new steering lock but it had been easy to put the wiring back correctly, and there was no rush to get it fixed. The person who had hot-wired the Alfa certainly knew his job.
"I learned to do this in the trade." Marco climbed across into the passenger seat. "It was legal -- most of the time. Drive gently, Laura, I've had a bad morning with Monsignor Giorgio. The Vatican can't seem to make up its mind what I should be doing. First I'm told to look for the relic, then the Monsignor turns up shouting that I've got to stop."
He wanted sympathy from Laura. Augusto Giorgio was a difficult man to get on with; but Father Josef, although being significantly outranked by a monsignor, had made good use of the telephone. It would be easy to believe that the old priest had power considerably beyond his status.
"Three more days, Laura. That's all they've given me to wrap this up, and then I'm being moved on to other duties."
Laura said nothing as she swung the silver Alfa into the fast-moving traffic, slipping between a row of vehicles waiting at the first street junction. Marco shut his eyes. Laura, even when not in a hurry, made good use of the accelerator and considerably less use of the brakes. "I told Father Josef we went to Monte Sisto yesterday. He's contacted someone in the records department and they confirm that the Vatican arranged the reburial of the Christian Brothers after the war."
"And?" Laura turned to face him, apparently oblivious of the rapidly diminishing distance between their car and the one in front. There was something hostile about her attitude.
Marco shrugged. "It's somewhere in Umbria. The records are badly filed. They're looking into it."
"You weren't meant to tell anyone what we're doing." Laura sounded furious and raised her voice. "You've broken a confidence, Marco -- and you still don't know where the monks are buried!"
"Don't start on at me, Laura. I don't need to say sorry," he protested. "I still think Canon Angelo took the bronze head back to Monte Sisto and buried it there. The neo-Nazis are after it, so we can't afford to waste time."
Laura sounded repentant. "Yes, well, I didn't mean to raise my voice, but I don't want Riccardo finding out what we're doing. He and Bruno can get very hot-tempered. They've gone off somewhere together. Maybe it's not Monte Sisto."
Marco felt a chill in the car. "Maybe? What do you mean -- maybe? You should have told me this before we went to get your Alfa. You're sure Bruno and Riccardo aren't trying to find the relic first?"
"I told you yesterday, they're doing something quite different. They're planning to smash the fascist movement."
"At Monte Sisto?"
"Forget about them and enjoy the drive."
Marco felt for his seat belt fastening and made sure it was firmly latched. "I'll try. I've been thinking: there are bound to be older graves somewhere on the hill. The monks must have been burying each other for centuries. The few graves at the top of the hill are almost as old as the monastery. No one's been digging there. So where are all the other graves?"
Monte Sisto
THEY PARKED in a small disused quarry beneath the hill from where they could walk up between the ancient olive trees. The path would take them to a level patch to one side of the main route up, well below the high rock where the monastery was built. Marco carried the spade and Laura took the detector. Although the path climbed gently, the ascent in the heat exhausted them both. As they paused for breath, Marco noticed the small cemetery.
The monks had buried one much loved brother after another on a level patch of the hill. The small garden up at the monastery could never have held all these graves.
Marco extended the telescopic stem and switched on the detector. The small loudspeaker squealed loudly. With the tuning knob turned down and the circular search head set at a comfortable angle to the ground, he began to swing it from side to side in gentle sweeps. Laura threw a handful of coins on the grass while he adjusted the sensitivity until the detector gave a short blast from the speaker every time the search head passed over them. It even worked on a single coin.
"Impressed?" he asked. "I just have to be careful not to pick up the metal crosses on the graves."
Neat rows of iron crosses were now overgrown with tall grass and brambles. Here was the final resting place for each member of the spurned order of Monte Sisto, betrayed by the official Church. Marco looked up to see the ruins of the monastery perched high above. He kicked a stone down the slope and watched it bounce until it fetched up against the broken stump of an olive tree. Then he swept the detector over the first grave in the row and the speaker beeped a continuous note.
"There's iron all around the grave," said Laura. "It's not just the cross."
They moved to the next grave and the same thing happened. "The Jews shared a shelter with Christians and they shared a common death," Marco said tensely, "but the leaders of the two religions said they couldn't share a final resting place. I find that deplorable."
"If you think Jews can be buried on Christian ground, you're naïve!" snapped Laura.
The detector was totally confused by the iron. "I know it's the rules, but I bet the community here wouldn't have wanted it that way. Nor would your family." He wouldn't get into an argument. He smiled wryly. "Every grave is covered in metal bits and pieces. It's going to be the same at the top. And look at all these thorns. It's like nature gone wild."
"That's because nature is wild," said Laura grumpily, hitting the brambles away from a grave with a short stick. "We're city dwellers, that's our trouble."
Rocky outcrops and dark shrubs broke through the grass on the steep hill, the rock face folding back in places to make the smallest of caves. These crevices seemed too narrow to provide shelter even for sheep, but there were enough of them to make the search for the missing relic an almost impossible task. He pushed the detector search head into a few at random. The speaker remained silent. They would need pegs to mark the off the holes as they searched them. They were going to need far more than the three days allowed by Monsieur Giorgio.
"We'll start here and work our way up the hill," said Laura.
"I don't suppose the relic has to be buried," said Marco. "Your father didn't say anything about it being buried. He just said the Living was amongst the dead."
"That's sounds like a grave to me."
"And me. Ask Riccardo or Bruno if they can borrow a couple of metal detectors that tune out iron. We can search the graves properly with good detectors."
Laura shook her head in alarm. "I told you, they don't even know we're here. I don't see why..." She broke off and listened. Down below, someone was blowing a car horn with long blasts; a strong, vibrant tone. "It's Riccardo!"
"Are you sure?" Yesterday Bruno had turned up; now Laura's boyfriend was here. This was not chance. They probably were after the relic.
Laura shook her head in dismay. "I'll go down and find out what he wants. I expect he's seen my car. I thought we'd hidden it well in the quarry. Riccardo will be all right if he doesn
't know you're with me. Just make sure you stay out of sight with the detector."
Laura's bare arm felt soft as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He sounded more cheerful than he felt. "I'm not bothered about Riccardo. I can stand up for myself if I have to. I'll tell him I talked you into bringing me here."
"Not a good idea. Just keep away."
"He's not jealous is he? I'm sure he trusts us to behave ourselves." It was a clumsy joke and he immediately regretted making it.
"I should hope he does." Laura sounded unexpectedly hostile. "You surely can't think we've got anything going together. I'm Riccardo's girl."
The words hurt. "I'll give you ten minutes, then I'm coming," he said curtly.
He watched Laura hurry down the hill, holding on to the long branches of the olive trees to swing herself from one level of ground to the next. Towards the bottom he could see stone walls and traces of early terracing, but years of neglect had taken their toll. Laura was having trouble getting through the undergrowth in places. He could have kicked himself for what he'd said. He'd spoiled the friendship -- whatever sort of friendship it had been.
There was no way he was going to hide because of Riccardo. There seemed to be an alternative route to Laura's car from this plateau of graves. It would be longer, but he was in no hurry. If he could judge the mood of a driver from the way he sounded his horn, then a meeting with Riccardo Fermi should be avoided. This was an unhealthy place. The feeling might be irrational, but there was a sensation of death in the air. He picked up the detector and spade. He was waiting no longer.
Close to the road he passed a low stone barn, a building in a poor state of repair with no roof. Around the walls he could see smoke stains, fresh and black against the red, weathered stone. A sharp unpleasant smell made him choke. A mixture of burning plastic and... He sniffed deeply as he got closer. The smell was not unlike that of a barbecue.
The wide doorway to the roofless barn contained the smoldering remains of a station wagon. A large Audi, probably once dark red, stood on massive five-spoke alloy wheels, its tires melted in the intense heat. The fuel tank must have gone up in a ball of flame shattering the car's windows. A glow of warmth struck him in the face. He put the detector down but held the spade defensively.
Then he saw the charred body bent over the distorted steering wheel, its wrists bound to the rim with thick wire.
"What the hell are you up to, Sartini?"
He spun round. Riccardo stood in the doorway.
"This is horrible. I feel sick." Laura stood white faced at the open door to the old barn, holding tightly onto Riccardo's arm.
Riccardo looked as smartly dressed as he had been in the restaurant. He spoke angrily to Laura. "You're a stupid cow. Vacca! I can't think why you came back, and I can't think why you had to bring him!" He seemed to have no interest in the body in the Audi as he jerked his thumb at Marco.
Marco ignored the contempt. "Is this a suicide?"
"You're mad, Sartini. Haven't you noticed?" Riccardo kicked some dust from the doorway against the warped registration plate. "This is a German vehicle."
It might be nothing more than a coincidence but Marco remembered a red Audi station wagon driving this way yesterday with German plates. The stench of burned plastic and flesh clung to the inside of his nose. Wherever he stood the smell of violent death hit him with each intake of breath.
Laura gasped something that Marco was unable to hear. Whatever it was, it made Riccardo put his arm round her. Riccardo's voice sounded more gentle now. "It's too late, Laura. Look at him, there's nothing we can do to help."
"So who do we tell?" Marco spoke more to himself than to the others.
Laura tried to whisper something to Riccardo but he shrugged her off. "This is a German car, Marco!"
"So?"
"A German car at Monte Sisto. You still don't understand, so I'll explain. There are plenty of people in Monte Sisto who remember the war. People who had their lives ruined, their families tortured, their children taken. Every village around here has horrifying stories of Nazi brutality to tell. They fought the German occupiers secretly. They set ambushes and killed them. You can be sure they still know how to kill them today." He flung an arm out in the direction of the unfriendly village. "There are still partisans -- and that's where they come from!"
Marco blew his nose violently. The smell seemed less disgusting. Either that or he was growing accustomed to the tang of scorched flesh. "I can't believe local people would kill an innocent German tourist. It's ridiculous!"
Laura held tightly to Riccardo's arm as he whispered in her ear. Then she said, "It might be true, Marco. Terrible things happened in the region. Maybe they're still happening."
Riccardo turned away from the burned Audi. "She's right. If you don't believe us, walk to the village, or go down to that farm. Go on, report this death -- and see what they do to us. We've got to think of Laura."
Marco stared at the funeral pyre. A sudden cracking noise from the bodywork made him jump. It was only the metal contracting, but it made him realize there could be people prowling about. Someone had taken Laura's Alfa yesterday afternoon. The hill of Monte Sisto seemed an odd place, though the little village was odder still.
"So what now?"
Riccardo was already outside with Laura leaning on his arm. "We just get the hell out of here, Marco. Rapidamente! And for Laura's sake we keep our mouths shut."
A sudden breeze blew a cloud of acrid smoke and warm air from the stone doorway. Marco moved into the open air but the smell was still there. His imagination was too vivid to allow his stomach to lie inactive any longer and he went round the corner of the barn to be sick.
Riccardo Fermi had been strangely unmoved by the sight of the corpse gripping the wheel. Marco returned for a further glance inside. The blackened corpse looked set to drive the shell of the station wagon from the stone building; the gaping mouth of brown, even teeth shouting for the way ahead to be cleared. But it was easy to see that the shackled figure had never stood a chance once the first tongues of flame licked up eagerly.
"You're a priest, and you're scared to look at death?" Riccardo's voice was full of scorn. "If you want to be afraid of anything, Marco, be afraid of the partisans -- the people in the village who did this. Come on!"
Marco felt ashamed of his behavior. He was still a priest. He had neglected the brief prayer for peace for a man's soul in order to find peace for himself.
"I was only joking," called Riccardo as Marco strode back into the barn. "That man was a stronzo. Bastards like that don't deserve mercy -- alive or dead. They thought nothing of burning whole communities alive in the war."
Marco returned to the doorway. "This stronzo as you call him could have been an innocent tourist. Surely you don't see every German as a Nazi?"
Riccardo spat on the grass in contempt. "Stronzo! Bastard! This man was contaminated by Nazi filth! If you go near him you'll be contaminated, too!"
"You knew him?" It seemed the only possible explanation for Riccardo's outburst.
Riccardo turned away from the barn. "I'm taking Laura away from here."
Laura was crying, whispering into Riccardo's ear again. Riccardo tried without success to comfort her.
Marco felt compelled to return inside and pray with the body. "You two go on back to Laura's Alfa. I'll join you soon."
"You're not going to do anything stupid?" Riccardo sounded anxious.
"Stupid?"
"Like going to report this death. It's nothing to do with us. Nothing! Someone will find the body soon enough, and I don't want Laura to be involved. Even if you're not bothered about your own life you've got to think of Laura Rossetti. Partisans never want witnesses."
Laura looked up, her face still pale. "Do what you have to do, then go back to the quarry and wait. Riccardo says his car is with mine. It's dark blue."
Marco carried out his ritual over the burned body, but the words were empty. This was not loveable Old Savio on the sidewalk in the Pia
zza Venezia. The harsh words of Riccardo about Nazi guilt made the prayer for peace sound a sham, a finzione.
MO WATCHED FROM the dense shelter of the fig trees that grew wild and neglected at one side of the old stone building. He liked the man who had gone back into the barn. He was a man who would show some kindness to a scemo bambino. But the kind man was going away. Mo's breath came quickly, his misshapen chest unable to keep up with the fast intakes. Bad people had come back. The bad man who hurt the driver of the big red station wagon. Maybe there would be another fire. Another look into the doorway of hell.
He felt tired. His body was all pain. He needed rest. He needed food. The rats had eaten his food last night. The bad man and the woman were talking loudly. He listened, taking in some of the words and sorting them into simple phrases.
The woman was saying, "You kill him. Bruno kill him, too. You come here yesterday to kill him."
The bad man sounded very angry, "We all want him dead."
The woman said, "You want to kill more people. You bad."
The thoughts and the words went round in his mind in a muddle. The bad man said the woman must help kill more men. The woman was saying no. The woman walked away then came back. She said she no idea the body was here.
Woman and bad man started shouting.
Woman cry.
From the shelter of the large leaves Mo felt moved to comfort the woman crying such big tears. Slowly he dragged himself from the fig trees.
"Cattivo!" The sharp first syllable followed by the long drawn out gasp of the other two made the bad man and the woman look up in fright.
"Bad! You bad!"
Behind Mo, the ground fell away steeply. There were thick bushes down there by the side of the road. His body hurt. Bad man look at him. Woman cry out. Bad man pick up stone. Bad man come to him.
Bad man cattivo.
Exhausted, twisted, and wracked with pain, Mo tried to drag himself away.
The man brought the stone down on his head. A light of dazzling intensity made him cry out just once as he fell backwards over the rock face.
The pain vanished and the white light filled his mind.
MARCO WAS RELIEVED to discover the two cars in the old quarry. He waited impatiently for Laura and Riccardo to catch up with him. Riccardo was right: Monte Sisto was not a secure place. Anyone might be in the bushes watching, ready to claim a further victim. He had already heard a shout in the distance. But the carabinieri had to be told about the body in the barn. And they had to be told today.
He became aware of a sound amongst the bushes. A breaking branch. Someone was coming along the edge of the hill. The leaves shivered.
To his relief he heard Laura and Riccardo talking and saw them emerge from the narrow path. Laura looked even more pale, if that was possible; her large brown eyes empty of life.
"It's a bad place this," said Marco, wondering if Laura was as sensitive to the atmosphere as he was.
"That's because terrible things happened here in the war." Laura sniffled, still holding Riccardo's arm.
Marco added, "Yesterday as well, by the look of that body. Do you honestly think someone killed him because of the war?"
Laura burst into tears. "That man was a German, Marco. He deserved to die."
"Then you must know something I don't," snapped Marco. "I can't get a signal on my cell phone. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to that farm over there to report the body."
"Then you'd better take Laura's car back to Rome. We're not hanging around. And don't mention our names."
THE FARMER TOOK a dislike to the man who came banging on his farmhouse door, claiming to be a priest. He called himself Father Marco, but no priest wearing jeans and without a clerical collar had ever set foot in Monte Sisto before. If this was the modern Church it might as well close down tomorrow. It made him feel good to think that he had given up going. But he sensed an urgency about the man's manner that was compelling, and he went with him reluctantly to the barn.
He stood there in front of his barn with the stranger. Never before had he seen such a grim end to a life. Last night Mo claimed he had seen something that obviously frightened him. Mo had turned up at the farm talking about flames, but he was used to the youth's stupid behavior by now and had taken no notice. The barn was nothing but a shell, and would need good money spending on it before it could be used in the autumn. Perhaps there would be insurance.
He turned away in frustration. He didn't want people nosing around his property. Before the authorities came, he would have to hide the drums of surplus fertilizer that were neatly stacked in the yard behind the house. Surely this young man wasn't with the plain clothes carabinieri, spying on his private dealings.
That body in the barn couldn't have been there for more than a day or two. This man who said he was a priest told him to call the carabinieri. He'd phone the press first. After hiding things he didn't want seen. There was money to be made from the press. And from the television.
He was worried. One of his daughters had walked to the village earlier to see a friend. Not many vehicles used this road, but those that did were often driven too fast. It sounded as though someone was lying injured in the bushes. Then came the sobbing moan, the half formed words he knew so well.
The bushes, mostly buckthorn and junipers, grew thickly with no easy way between the branches. The priest was already pulling back some of the growth. The farmer moved slowly forward then stopped in horror.
"Mo? Is that you, Mo?"
MO LAY ON his back, feeling saliva running down his cheeks. The noise of the voices made him cry out again. The pain in his head was terrible, greater than anything he had suffered before. The shapes of the people were like clouds with no detail. He looked at the two men, not knowing who they were, not knowing if they were friend or foe. One of them sounded like the children's father. The people in the village were enemy. Bad people. Cattivo. He was afraid of them.
MARCO SQUATTED down at the youth's side. Why had Riccardo and Laura driven off so quickly? Riccardo had been very anxious to get away from Monte Sisto, and he didn't seem to be doing it solely for Laura's safety. Surely they didn't know about this teenager lying injured in the bushes. He shrugged. Riccardo had been in such a bad mood that he could easily have been left here stranded without a car. At least they'd told him to take Laura's car back to Rome when he'd finished with the carabinieri. Well, the carabinieri would have plenty to do now.
He gently touched the youth's blood-stained forehead. It felt hot and feverish. This was going to be a long day, and he could do with Laura's company right now. Laura would have been able to offer comfort to the disabled youngster while the farmer returned to his farm to phone for help.
"You'll be okay," he whispered. But he couldn't say it convincingly.
Shout in the Dark Page 37