The ninety-minute rail journey to Florence went quickly, mainly because of the beauty of the countryside that rolled past the dusty window of the airless, rundown and overcrowded carriage. He found himself mesmerized by the vineyards and olive plantations that battled for the best terraces across steep hillsides, drawn to the sunlight but scratching for patches of precious shade. In some places, the sun had scorched the ploughed fields into slabs, making the earth look as if it had been fashioned out of hunks of grey stone. In wetter valleys, golden stone cottages rose from fertile fields like farmhouse bread baking in an oven.
And Tuscany certainly was an oven.
Jack found himself bathed in sweat as the train started to slow down into Florence. He blamed the lack of air-con, but he knew it was something else. Second thoughts.
Second thoughts about facing up to whatever was inside him, whatever memories were powerful and dark enough to scare him even when he was asleep.
The facts, the cold hard facts, came tumbling into his head. The Black River Killings had broken him.
Those weren't just his words, it was what every crime reporter in America had written after his collapse at JFK.
He'd failed to catch a man who'd murdered at least sixteen young women, and who would murder more. He'd failed.
They'd written that too. Written it so many times that it had stopped hurting. Or so he told everyone.
Maybe it was best if he stayed broken. Broken didn't mean completely unworkable or totally destroyed, it just meant he wasn't as good as he once was. Maybe seeing a shrink would only make things worse.
His head filled with static, a sort of tinnitus, a hissing noise, and then it became clearer, not hissing, cutting. The noises were back; slashing noises. Steel on skin. He covered his ears and closed his eyes.
The sounds slowly slipped away. Had he heard them, or imagined them? Maybe the train pulling into the station, the wheels on the track?
He took his hands away and opened his eyes.
Silence.
The train had stopped and the carriages were empty.
It was decision time.
7
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany San Quirico D'Orcia nestles in a stunning valley east of Montalcino, a third of the way along the breathtakingly beautiful route most tourists take to Montepulciano. A kilometre in the opposite direction, on the rising, winding road from San Quirico to Pienza, is the dramatic cypress-lined hillside that Ridley Scott used for the poignant scenes of the wife and child waiting for the return of Maximus in the film Gladiator.
The town's historic walls are broken and have lost much of their beauty. Behind them though stand buildings made of a glorious golden stone, reminding Nancy of the rough chunks of sweet honeycomb that she craved when she was a kid.
La Casa Strada lies on the very edge of the town walls and was once an olive oil business. That was until the mid-seventies, when a blisteringly hot summer brought the locusts of bankruptcy to many farms in the valleys of Tuscany. The owners, Laura and Sylvio Martinelli, gave up and moved in with family in Cortona. Sixty-year-old Sylvio got a job driving taxis, while sixty-five-year-old Laura turned her hand to baking Torta della Nonna for a local shop. Since then, their former home and work buildings had been modernized and extended beyond recognition; only the magnificent view over the rolling hills of Val D'Orcia remained unaltered and unalterable.
Nancy was winding herself slowly into her working day. She'd dropped Zack at a friend's house for a play day and was about to go through her planning routines for the week and coming month. She was relieved that the three-year-old had finally settled into his daily routine. A year earlier she used to endure terrible scenes at the International nursery in Pienza with him refusing to be left. Zack would cry and scream, clutching on to her shoulders or dress to prevent her putting him down. Worst of all, when she walked outside, she would see his tear-streaked face pressed against the window, begging her not to leave him. Nowadays though, Zack was 'a big boy', a 'good boy', and he understood that mommy and daddy needed to work during the day.
Nancy stuck her head through the kitchen door where the chefs were finishing the last of the breakfasts and shouted 'Good morning, everyone!', then waited for the replying chorus of 'Buon giorno' before letting the door flap shut again.
She noticed that their local handyman, Guido, was in there fixing a troublesome ventilator hood that served Paolo's gas-fired eight-burner oven. For some time, their temperamental chef had been pressing Nancy for a new range, like the one his second cousin in Rome had. But Paolo would have to wait, cash was tight at the moment and she'd told him that until the summer's takings were in, he'd have to make do with the 'bargains' they might pick up from local catering auctions. Nancy smiled to herself. In truth, Guido had now fixed so many of the appliances that neither she nor Jack could really regard them as bargains any more.
There were other things that needed fixing too. Months back, part of the far end of the garden terrace had dramatically slipped away and created a sharp fall on to the next terrace and an intriguing hole in the hillside. Carlo reckoned there could be an old water well in there, while Paolo conjured up more exotic possibilities by pointing out that the area used to be a fortified Medici stronghold. Whatever it was, it was an eyesore, a nuisance and maybe even a danger. Any day soon, one of Carlo's friends was coming to do what he promised would be an inexpensive job of landscaping over it.
'Morning, Maria,' said Nancy, as their twenty-year-old receptionist finally arrived at her desk.
'Good morning, Mrs King,' said Maria Fazing. Her grumpy American owner had banned her from using her native Italian. Nancy insisted that as foreign tourists were their main target customers, she should always begin conversations in English. Maria put up with it because one day she would enter Miss Italia, then Miss World, and would eventually be grateful to have been forced to learn English. Or at least that's what she told herself.
Nancy checked the computer, then the answer-phone, and updated the list of room bookings. She also added four more people to that evening's dinner reservations and then checked their own website for e-mail enquiries. There were some requests for menus, a couple of letters in Italian that Nancy printed off for Maria to reply to, and someone wanting a quote for a fifth-wedding-anniversary dinner.
Maria was on the phone to some potential guests so Nancy had to wait to hand over the e-mail print-offs. She glanced down at a copy of La Nazione. The front-page headline screamed 'Omicidio!' and carried a photo of a pretty dark-haired young woman called Cristina Barbuggiani. Nancy had also seen the girl's picture on TV bulletins and had heard staff talking about how her body had been chopped up and thrown in the sea. She turned away, letting out a long sigh, sad to realize that even here, in the most beautiful place she had ever lived, there was no escape from murder.
8
Florence, Tuscany Jack stepped from the silence of the empty train into the noise and swelter of midday Florence, a broiling city of bustling bodies and blaring traffic. His mind was still clogged with the dregs of his nightmare when he reached the office of Dottoressa Elisabetta Fenella. The building stood just off Piazza San Lorenzo in the city's most famous market district and was overlooked by the majestic stone presence of the Basilica di San Lorenzo, a frontless fourth-century church, rebuilt by the Medicis.
Jack slipped from the scorching sunlight of the street into the cool shade of the building's entrance-way. He took a cramped, old-fashioned, iron-gated lift to the third floor and was ushered by a demure receptionist into a marble-floored, high-ceilinged consultation room. Overhead, two fans that probably predated Florence itself spun gracefully but pointlessly, batting currents of hot air from one side of the room to the other but doing nothing to cool the place. An antique oak desk squatted in a far corner, overlooked by a crucifix on the far wall and weighed down by papers and silver-framed photographs of a large extended family. Jack picked one up and studied a glamorous dark-haired woman in her late thirties, shoulder to elegant
shoulder with a much older man.
The door behind him opened and the woman in the picture frame looked startled to find him at her desk.
'Signore King?' she asked, her voice betraying her disapproval of his nosiness.
'Yes,' answered Jack, embarrassed at being caught snooping. 'Forgive me, old police habits die hard.'
'Please.' She gestured towards two creamy cotton settees arranged either side of a square glass-topped coffee table.
'Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, I appreciate it.' Jack offered his hand and as she shook it he noticed a gold and diamond wedding ring that would cost an FBI field officer three months' salary.
'You're welcome. I'm afraid it was either today, or I wouldn't have been able to fit you in for several months.' Elisabetta Fenella put a brown file down on the coffee table and Jack noticed his name. He was on file.
No doubt the FBI had shipped it to her, FedExed her all the gory details about his burnout, his failure to cope with the pressure of his workload, and she'd had it waiting there, gathering years of dust but ever ready for the moment he inevitably cracked up and came calling.
The thought slapped the wind out of him.
Dottoressa Fenella cut to the chase. 'Your office called me, what – something like two years ago? So, why did you choose now to ask to see me?'
It was a good question. And he wanted to give a good answer, wanted to come right out and say that he needed her intervention, needed her skills to hold back the evil that drowned him every night. But he couldn't. The words simply wouldn't come.
'Let me help you, Jack.' She saw his eyes fall on the file again. 'Read it if you like.' She pushed it towards him. 'I'm sure there's nothing in there that you don't already know.'
Jack stared at the file but didn't touch it. It was a test of strength and trust. She would hold nothing back, providing he was strong enough to do the same.
But was he?
A white flash went off in his head, as white as the tiles of the morgue, as white as the drained skin of more than a dozen dead women.
'Okay,' said Jack. 'Let's get on with this. I've wasted enough of your time already.'
9
Days Inn Grand Strand, South Carolina Once Spider had taken what he wanted from the cemetery, he'd headed straight back to his rented room at the Days Inn Grand Strand, only minutes from Myrtle Beach International.
The act of grave-robbing had not given him a sleepless night. Far from it. It had exhilarated and exhausted him as much as any imaginable sexual marathon, and afterwards he'd slipped effortlessly into a full night's sleep.
Spider stirs now in his hotel bed and looks around the room to get his bearings. He wonders how the crummy joint managed to get one star, let alone two. Outside he can hear kids shouting and laughing as they jump in the pool and he longs for them to be quiet. He needs food, drink and much more rest, but such comforts will have to wait. Escape is now the only priority.
Although he is more than thirty miles from the desecrated grave, for him it's still too close for comfort. Despite the incredible desire to stay around, to mix with the locals and listen to them talk about what has happened, he knows he must leave. By now the cops are certain to be crawling all over the cemetery, and that in turn means that the story might be on every radio and television station. He's been scrupulously careful, and he will be even more careful before leaving the room, but despite all his precautions he's aware that there's always a chance that someone will see him, even if he hasn't seen them.
Spider uses the toilet and then takes a long, hot shower. There are two white bath towels. He takes one, partly dries himself and sits on the bed, wrapping it around him.
He notices that he's breathing hard and his hands are shaking. Even after all these years, after all the killings, he still gets 'the day-after shakes'. He knows it is only anxiety, the start of a panic attack. This is the time when the fear of being caught is at its most extreme, and experience has taught him that the further away from the crime scene he gets, the quicker the anxiety disappears.
When he feels a little better he goes back to the bed and sits down, flicking through the TV stations with a remote, zapping channels for any news from Georgetown. WTMA is finishing a warning about tropical depressions and hurricanes and WCSC is in the middle of a report on a Mount Pleasant woman who drowned while boating off Sullivan's Island. He flicks over to WCBD and instantly recognizes the video footage of the cemetery. After a few seconds a Hispanic-looking reporter appears on screen, talking to a news anchor back in the main studio: 'Here in this close-knit community of Georgetown there is widespread shock and outrage today, at what most locals regard as not just an unholy act but one of monstrous repulsiveness. Camera crews and journalists have been kept outside the cemetery, but as you'll have seen from our pictures, shot from the public highway, the desecration seems to be frenzied and extreme. There's speculation here that it could be the work of sick trophy-hunters or else of a highly disturbed individual who has some kind of mental illness that draws him to the graves of murder victims. The office of Georgetown's chief of police has today categorically stated that at this stage they see no reason to connect the incident with the so-called Black River Killer, the serial murderer believed to have been responsible for the death of Sarah Elizabeth Kearney.'
Spider is both amused and irritated. Does the press really believe such nonsense? Don't they have the intelligence to realize what is really going on? He doubts that the police are so stupid. Surely they won't misunderstand the significance of what has been done?
He lies back on the bed, his hair wet on the pillow. Next to him is the other bath towel, wrapped delicately around the object of his affection. The decapitated skull of Sarah Kearney. Spider turns on his left side and with his right hand gently strokes his fingers backwards and forwards across the smooth bone. Has it really been twenty years? Twenty years since he shared the intimacy of her death, and the secret comforts of her cool body?
'We'll have to go soon, my little Sugarbaby,' he says softly, kissing her lightly in the middle of the forehead. 'Sleep just a little longer, but then you and I will have to go. There's still much for us both to do.'
10
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Nancy King was relaxing on the shaded terrace with her first cappuccino of the morning. On her lap was Paolo's new summer menu. She was pleased to see most of her old favourites were still there, including a choice of classic La Pasta Fatta in Casa, with an amazingly simple tomato sauce to go with the fantastic home-made linguini or tagliatelli. How did the Italians squeeze so much flavour out of so few ingredients? She put the menu down, took a sip of her coffee and squinted out across the sun-hazed valleys. The Tuscan countryside undulated like a series of green waves crashing towards some out-of-sight shoreline. The powder-blue sky was cloudless. Nancy felt more relaxed and alive than she'd done for years. Tuscany had certainly been the right place to choose to start over again.
Jovanna, one of the two waitresses setting clean white linen on the tables for lunch, clacked her shoes across the paved patio and wooden outer decking, breaking Nancy's moment of meditation.
'Scusi, Signora,' she said respectfully. 'There is someone in reception for you. It is a police officer.'
Nancy held her breath. She pushed her bare feet into her backless shoes, and strode quickly from the sun-toasted terrace to the cool of the hotel reception. In those brief seconds every imaginable disaster flashed through her mind. Had Jack collapsed again? Had Zack been hurt? What had brought an Italian police officer, unannounced, to her doorstep?
Nancy had expected to see a policeman, a black-haired carabiniere with a five o'clock shadow and trademark white gloves. Instead, a beautiful young woman in an immaculately tailored charcoal-grey business suit stood waiting in the marbled floor reception area.
'Buon giorno. Signora King?'
'Si.' Nancy hesitated, her heart skipping a beat.
'Buono. Sono Ispettore Orsetta Portinari. Ho bisogno…'
/> 'In English, tell me in English!' snapped Nancy, unable to hold back her fears.
'I'm sorry,' said the policewoman. She took a beat, and then effortlessly switched languages. 'I am Inspector Orsetta Portinari and I have been sent by my boss Massimo Albonetti in Rome. My boss and Mr King worked together some time ago and now Direttore Albonetti has sent me here to see if Mr King would help us.'
Nancy's fears came down a notch. 'You mean there's nothing wrong? Nothing's happened to Jack, or to my son?'
The young inspector looked confused. 'I am sorry. I am afraid I do not understand. Your son?'
Nancy brushed hair from her face. 'You haven't come here to tell me something bad about my husband, or my son Zack? They're both all right?'
Orsetta shook her head and smiled reassuringly. 'No. They are both all right.'
Nancy leant on the black granite counter of the reception desk and sighed with relief. She managed to compose herself before turning back to the detective. 'Strange how you always think the worst when you see a police officer – even if you've been married to one.'
'si,' said Orsetta.
'Jack's not here at the moment, he'll be gone all day. What exactly is this about?'
Orsetta's face gave away the fact that she wasn't going to offer Nancy a straight answer. 'With respect, Mrs King, it is police business and I would rather discuss it directly with your husband.'
Ten years of marriage to a cop had taught Nancy to know when she was being fobbed off. Similarly, she knew that cops ducked questions only when the case was important. Her mind flashed back to Maria's newspaper. 'Is it about that murdered girl?'
The detective frowned. 'I really need to speak directly to your husband. Perhaps you have a cell phone number for him?'
Nancy's eyes blazed. It seemed Italian cops were every bit as pushy and rude as American ones. 'I'd rather not do that. Police business is not our business any longer. Now, would you like to leave a message or not?'
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