Echoes Through the Vatican: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 2)

by K. Francis Ryan

  “Of course, I understand completely.” The cardinal’s smile looked to Julian like more of a snarl. “If you have no need of my driver,” the cardinal’s face went dark and his mouth twisted to an ugly slash before he said, “then neither do I.”

  The scream that cut through the quiet was drenched in pain and pleading and terror. It seemed to come from every corner of the cardinal’s mansion at once. It echoed, clawed at the air, begged for mercy and then was gone.

  Julian’s gaze never left the cardinal’s face. The man’s expression turned pleasant, but his eyes were gray and deathly cold, knowing and unknowable.

  He smiled kindly and said, “You see, Mr. Blessing, I know what you are capable of. To a very high probability, I know what you will do, what you will not do and how far you will go.

  “It is you who does not know what I am capable of doing.” The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. The cardinal cocked an eyebrow. “We will speak again. Good night and go with God.”

  Julian turned slowly to leave, but was arrested by the cardinal’s thought. “Oh, Mr. Blessing, I write my own ‘material’, as you call, it and you needn’t fear. I don’t think I’ll be turning into a cliché anytime soon, do you?”

  A young priest, shaken and pale, fidgeted outside the cardinal’s study and wordlessly escorted Julian to the front door of the residence. The staircase leading from the front entrance swept gracefully down to the street. Julian descended, stepped off the sidewalk, looked up at the building and shivered. He could feel the malice, the power, and the smell of death that clung to the occupant.

  ***

  Julian’s steps were heavy and slow. His chest expanded to take in a breath. What he got instead was some of Rome’s famously polluted air. Within steps, he felt a presence behind him. It was someone with an abnormal interest in him. Julian picked up his pace slightly, then turned abruptly into a side street and waited in the shadows.

  The steps he heard were light. He knew it was a woman and he knew she was following him, but she made no attempt at stealth.

  When she passed him moving at a leisurely pace, Julian stepped from the shadows. The woman stopped but did not turn around. Slowly, she took her hands out of her jacket pockets and let her arms hang easily at her sides.

  Her voice was as relaxed as her stance and her English had an Italian accent and cadence. “Paying your respects to one of the princes of the Church, signore Blessing? I would not have thought Cardinal Luciano would be receiving so late at night. You must be a very special visitor, no?”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Julian’s voice was brittle. “And please, don’t turn around.”

  “Ah, yes, we have not yet been introduced. My name is Belladonna Saviano. I, of course, know who you are, but to better answer your question, I am Ispettore Saviano from the Guardia di Finanza. If you will allow me, I can show you my identification card. It is here in my pocket.”

  “No, why don’t you just keep your hands where I can see them. I’m having some difficulty believing the finance police are following me. Did I fail to pay a VAT somewhere? Who are you really?”

  Two Vespa scooters passed on the next street and Julian could feel the riders. He sensed the woman several floors above the street before she looked out from her tiny balcony. He felt the woman before him. No other presence was nearby.

  “What, signore Blessing, am I to do? You have asked who I am. I have told you. I have offered to show you my identification, but you are unwilling to allow me to do that. What would you have me do?” the woman asked. Her voice was light and easy and Julian felt she was smiling. His eyes were pinched in concentration as all of his senses went to the highest state of alert.

  “Wait – I know how we can solve this little problem and demonstrate that you can trust me. You can look at the identification card of my Assistente Capo, what you would call a sergeant.”

  “You watch entirely too many old movies. I have to say that is not very original, but I will play along. Where is this imaginary sergeant of yours? From what I can tell, you and I are…” Julian had no doubt the pressure behind his right ear was from the barrel of a handgun. A large hand appeared over his left shoulder holding a police identification card in the name of Enrico Marino, Asst. Capo, Guardia di Finanza.

  Julian had worked hard to hone the talent of sensing people, of feeling their proximity and intentions. Each individual had what he called a signature. Still, he could not sense the man directly behind him who so clearly had a weapon pressed against Julian’s skull.

  “Is your curiosity satisfied?” the woman said. “Are your fears put to rest? Grazie mille, Enrico. Say, ‘thank you’, signore Blessing. Enrico is a, how do you say, a stickler for form. The word is ‘Grazie,’” the woman said as she turned. The barrel of the gun was pushed a fraction of an inch and Julian’s head canted to one side.

  “Grazie, signore Marino,” Julian said. The weapon was withdrawn, as was the identification card. Julian started to turn, but had his direction reversed abruptly by the sergeant.

  “How marvelous. Did you hear that Enrico? Signore Blessing is trying to speak Italian. True, his accent leaves much to be desired, but he is trying and that is good. Walk with us, signore.”

  The woman was of medium height, lean and athletic. Even in the subdued glow from a distant street light, Julian could see she was in her early thirties, attractive, and her eyes and smile left Julian feeling he would not underestimate her again. That still left the man behind him. Julian could not understand how the man could have no signature, no presence at all.

  The inspector and Julian walked side by side while her assistant remained a few paces behind them.

  “So why are the Finance Police following me? What makes me so interesting?” Julian said flatly.

  “We follow people who follow people sometimes. We do this especially when the people doing the following are bad and the people being followed are tourists and therefore good. All tourists are good, no? You are a tourist, are you not, signore Blessing?”

  “That’s right, I’m a good tourist,” Julian said.

  “Do you hear that Enrico? The signore says he is a good tourist, but he does not mention he is a terrible liar.” Julian heard the man behind him snort and his inspector smirked.

  “If we are to be friends, signore, you must not lie to me. What you are really doing in Rome, I do not know, but I will in time.”

  Julian walked beside the inspector in silence.

  “Why don’t we sit here and talk for a moment?” She indicated a small, tired cafe with tables outside. Their umbrellas were furled awaiting closing time.

  From behind, Julian was pushed to a table. The sergeant sat at another table across from him. Enrico Marino was a large man, not tall but broad shouldered and he exuded an unblinking lethality. For all of his physical presence, still the man had no discernible signature. The inspector sat to Julian’s right and ordered for all of them.

  To Julian, the inspector’s signature was a maze of facts, figures and strategies. Her calm exterior belied an active mind alive with calculations and intuition.

  “Your English is perfect, Inspector,” Julian said.

  “I studied at American University here in Rome where I learned English and other bad habits. If we are done with the small talk, I will ask you a question. Please do not waste my time by making more false statements. If you do, we are done and you can go on your way. ” Julian understood the unspoken, ‘But you will regret it.’ Julian nodded.

  “Good,” the inspector said. “Do you know any Russians? Specifically, do you know any Russian gangsters?”

  “I do,” Julian said without hesitation. “I caused some a bit of trouble in New York. I got in the way of their business and cost them a lot of money. It would seem they were very attached to that money. They were unhappy and offered to kill me. I declined the offer and left New York.”

  The inspector’s gaze was penetrating, trying to jackhammer her way into Julian’s head. �
�Enrico, should we believe this man?” Her assistant didn’t look away from Julian’s face. The big man nodded his head once, but made no other movement.

  “Well, that’s settled. We believe you.” The women smiled. “Now, I will tell you what we know. We have been following some Russian gangsters. They are establishing a money laundering operation here in Rome. If left unchecked, they will control much of Italy in a year or so.

  “We would stop them, but in time they will run into the Mafia and many on each side will die. In the long run, this is good. There will be fewer to arrest and so, less paperwork.” The inspector smiled broadly.

  “Still, in the short term, we do our job to cut down on civilian casualties. While we were following one of these Russians, I looked across the street and the man we had been following the day before was doing a poor job of following you, do you see?

  “We decided following someone who was following someone would be far more interesting than what we were doing. We ended up at your hotel.

  “Having completed his task, your stalker lost interest and went away. Enrico followed the man back to a set of offices we have under surveillance in the Via del Pellegrino. I don’t think there is any doubt, but your location was carried back to his bosses, do you?” Julian acknowledged that.

  “While Enrico was busy, I waited at your hotel. You are staying in one of our best hotels. Not pricy, but very good. They have a wonderful cafe and better biscotti. Well, imagine how surprised I was. Who should appear, but Cardinal Luciano’s driver who serves also as the cardinal’s bodyguard. The man has a criminal record and I do not like him. I would not like him if he didn’t have a record. I am like that sometimes.” Her conversation was light and breezy, but she watched the impact every word had on Julian. She looked for his reactions. She got none.

  “This man went in and both of you came out,” the inspector said. “In the company of the bodyguard, you looked unhappy. Without ceremony, or even much politeness, you were pushed into the back seat of the cardinal’s car and the driver put a bag on your head. This, of course, was not necessary, but I suppose it added to the sense of theater.

  “The rest you know far better than I, is that not true?”

  Julian nodded and thought this woman spent a lot of time asking questions that weren’t questions.

  “What was the purpose of your visit to the cardinal tonight?” the inspector asked.

  “I have been asking myself that question too.”

  “Well,” the inspector asked, “if you will not discuss generalities with me, what am I to do with you? What, of value, can or will you tell me?"

  “I believe the cardinal’s driver is dead.”

  The inspector’s eyes got hard as she watched Julian more carefully. “And you would know this, how exactly?” Her smile was overly polite and overly insincere.

  “Inspector, take my word for it. Even if you never find a body – and you won’t – that man is dead.”

  “You were a witness, then. You were standing nearby when the man fell over and died. Is that it?” the inspector asked. “I can tell you, I have no intention of taking your word of anything. You will have to do better, I am afraid.”

  “I can only tell you what I know. If you don’t like my answers, perhaps you should ask someone else. I don’t know if you will get better answers, but they will be different,” Julian said with a shrug.

  The inspector ignored the remark and held up her hand to stop her assistant from chastising Julian’s bad manners. “I will look into this. Sadly, I cannot look too far. The Vatican protects its own and doors will be closed to me if I begin asking too many questions. Still, I will attempt to verify your story.”

  The three sat in silence as bored waiters stood against the walls waiting to lock up and go home.

  Chapter Two

  Doctor Ailís Dwyer’s eyes narrowed as she examined the body of a 73-year-old woman. The woman lay motionless and terrified in a hospital bed in Rome’s premier hospital. Her breathing was fast and shallow and she cringed when she looked at the men and women in white coats who ringed her bed.

  Identical stethoscopes draped around their necks, they had identical medical charts in their hands. They looked on unmoved and were unmoving. Some were interns, others were residents, a few were experienced doctors like Ailís, taking advantage of medical fellowships in Rome.

  One man stood out in spite of there being nothing remarkable about him aside from his short stature and advanced age. He was the only one who wasn’t looking at the patient. He was watching Ailís’ every move, every flicker and twitch of expression.

  A resident read from the patient’s case notes. Symptoms, followed by history, followed by blood test results, and all in an annoying drone.

  Ailís moved to the patient’s bedside and reached for the woman’s hand. Taking it firmly in hers, she looked into the old woman’s face and smiled with warmth. The patient smiled back uneasily, but with gratitude, at the sight of any friendly face.

  Ailís spoke softly, and an intern interpreted from English to Italian, “’Tis a lovely morning. Please, ignore all of these people. They all want to help you, but for now there is only you and me. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded with exaggerated slowness.

  “It’s help I need right now. Will you help me?” Ailís’ eyes never left the woman’s face. The patient nodded once.

  “You live in the mountains, don’t you?” Ailís asked. The patient nodded enthusiastically.

  “I’m a country doctor in Ireland and my practice is in the mountains, although we have a lot of farmland too. I love the country,” Ailís said in a conspiratorial whisper and made a face. “It is much better than the city.” The patient smiled more broadly and nodded.

  Ailís leaned in and the translator had to do the same. “You told them you were tired, but not how tired, or for how long.” It wasn’t a question and was delivered with kindness. The woman looked guilty and broke eye contact as she kneaded the bed sheets. She shook her head. No.

  “Your memory - you didn’t tell them about losing your memory and not being able to concentrate.” The patient looked away again.

  “Well, that will be enough of that,” Ailís scolded, but smiled. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “I’m old,” the patient said. “Old people lose their memory sometimes. I didn’t think it was important because everybody knows about old people.”

  “May I?” Ailís asked as she rolled the patient onto her side and looked at the sores on her back. Rolling the patient back she said, “Thank you. You have been very kind to help me. You can help me further and yourself.” The patient looked puzzled.

  “You must always tell your doctor everything. We study in the big cities sometimes and we forget what is important and what ‘tisn’t. We depend on our patients to remind us.” The patient nodded her gratitude.

  Ailís took the woman’s hand again and squeezed. “We will have you home to your mountains in no time.” Her smile matched her patient’s. Ailís walked to the sink in the corner and washed her hands.

  She turned as she dried her hands and addressed the small old man whose gaze never wavered. “Lyme Disease. Lyme Borreliosis, specifically. Third stage. Treat with large doses of amoxicillin, or cefuroxime axetil. It is very possible she has a neurological form of the disease, in which case she will require IV treatment with either ceftriaxone or penicillin.” It was matter of fact and she smiled while her fellow doctors looked skeptical.

  “Well, Dottoressassa.” The old man looked grave. “You are correct, of course. None of the blood work would have shown that. Knowing about the memory loss would have helped.” The man chuckled and said, “On to the next patient, signore e signori.”

  The doctors shuffled out murmuring and making notes. Ailís turned and winked at the old woman in the bed as a nurse pulled the sheets up. The old man stayed behind and linked his arm with Ailís’.

  “The diagnosis was excellent, but the way you interacted wi
th the patient, that was what mattered,” the old man said. “She became your patient the moment you touched her. She knew it and you knew it.”

  “Dr. Stefani, I am only a country doctor,” Ailís said and smiled. She is a woman from the country, from the land,” Ailís smiled at her patient. “Her heart is good and her life is hard. Kindness goes a long way. I’ve seen enough of that disease not to know it. You gave me the one you knew I would get right. You may fool them,” she nodded toward the other doctors, “but you don’t fool me.”

  “Perhaps, but I wanted those idiote to see. We have all forgotten what medicine is about. We think our profession is about illness and disease states. It is about people. They will never understand.” He pointed to the herd of doctors who gathered around the next patient. “I don’t know why I bother, but bother I must.” The man’s English was Italian inspired and carried a soft chuckle.

  “You will be out with your young man tonight, of course,” the doctor stated.

  “My young man, is it? He isn’t anything of the sort. Mr. Blessing and I are friends. Nothing more,” Ailís said maintaining the fiction of their relationship for no reason that was apparent.

  “Based on a friendship we enjoyed when I was on a fellowship in Dublin, you force a fellowship out of me so you can be in Rome at the same time as your,” the doctor added air quotes, “your friend.

  “If he is just a friend, run away with me. We will go to Paris where they understand love.”

  Ailís smiled. “And wouldn’t your poor wife be objectin’?” Ailís laughed and the lines at the corners of her eyes showed that she laughed often.

  “Only if she finds out,” Dr. Stefani said and his laugh lines were an older version of Ailís’.

  ***

  The restaurant was dark, quiet and intimate. Julian sat with Ailís Dwyer at a corner table. A single, elegant, red candle cast shadows that allowed Julian to study his lover’s face.

  She looked up from her menu and smiled as she found herself looking into his soft gray eyes.