by Jon Trace
It was then that the young American had arrived. He’d sat with the dead girl while Luigi went to the door of an apartment building and got someone to call the Carabinieri.
Valentina pauses outside the interview room and looks through a pane of wired glass at the American witness: Tom Shaman. A tourist with no fixed abode. Strange. She studies him for a while. Normally, witnesses who’ve found dead bodies don’t look as calm as he does. There are usually outward signs of distress. Edginess. Depression. A head hung low in reflective thought. But not this guy. He looks at ease. Comfortable. Bored, if anything.
She pushes the door open and he looks her way. Bright brown eyes. Some natural warmth. Tall when he stands. One of those guys who meets the world with a bone-crushing handshake. ‘Buongiorno, I’m Lieutenant Valentina Morassi.’ She looks again at her notes. ‘You’re Tom, Tom Shaman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down. Do you talk Italian?’
He smiles. A nice smile. Easy. Maybe practised. ‘Not enough to get us through this.’
‘Okay. Then please forgive my bad English.’
Tom doesn’t think there’s much to forgive. She seems smart. Bright as a button, as his mom used to say. ‘You sound word perfect. Did you learn English at school, or did you live abroad?’
She pointedly ignores his question. ‘Can you tell me what happened this morning? How did you come upon the young woman in the water?’
Tom understands her need for brevity. ‘I was out walking and heard a man shouting. I crossed some bridges and found this old guy trying to pull the girl out of the canal. Some small dog was barking and running round. I guess it was his.’
‘It was. A terrier.’
Tom wonders what happened to it. Guesses it ran off home. ‘The old fella couldn’t manage to get her out. Though he was doing his best. I think he thought the girl was still alive.’
‘Did you?’
His face shows the first flicker of sadness. ‘No.’
‘And then?’
‘I finished pulling her out. By that time the old guy had gone off to get help. I sat with him until your officers showed up, and then I was asked to come here.’ Tom glances at his watch. ‘That was about three hours and one bad cup of coffee ago.’
Valentina frowns. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, the coffee is not good. But as I’m sure you can see, we’re a little busy with more important things than being waiters at the moment.’
‘Glad to hear so.’
Valentina notes the riposte. Normally she’d like that in a man. But not one sat in an interview room. ‘You told one of my colleagues that you are American. You live in LA and you’re just here on holiday?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Not quite what I said. I am American. I no longer live in LA, and I’m not here on holiday, I’m just passing through.’
‘Through to where?’ The question comes out more aggressively than she meant.
He thinks about telling her it’s none of her business. Contemplates explaining that recently he’s been to hell and back and now just wants to go to his hotel and have a long bath.
Valentina repeats herself. ‘Where? Through to where?’
‘I really don’t know yet. Maybe London. Maybe Paris. I’ve not seen much of the world and I’m going to spend some time putting that right.’
It’s the kind of comment ex-cons make when they’re just out of the slammer. Valentina makes a note to come back to it. ‘So what about LA? That’s not home any more?’
‘No.’
‘Then where is?’
‘For tonight and the next seven days, home is gonna be here. Then I’ll see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said. Home is pretty much - in the words of the song - wherever I lay my hat.’
Her face shows she’s not in the mood for a sing-along. ‘Why did you leave LA, Mr Shaman?’
Tom leans back. This is a tough one to explain. Though he knew it was coming. It was inevitable. And judging from the scepticism in her eyes, she’s not going to buy anything but the full, checkable truth. So he’s going to give it to her. Or at least, most of it.
‘Because, some months back, I killed someone.’
He tries to sound casual, but guilt sticks like tar to every syllable.
‘Actually, that’s a lie - I killed two people.’
CAPITOLO V
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta
Teucer thinks of many things on the long ride back to his home. Relief that he and Tetia have not been discovered for what they are. Murderers. Even greater relief that they are not to be subjected to the brutality of Larth. And of course he thinks about what he must do to satisfy Magistrate Pesna. Most of all, though, he is thinking about Tetia.
He is worried about their relationship, and about their unborn child. A gap is opening between them. He can feel the distance. Day by day, degree by degree, it grows. He knows it’s foolish, but he blames the baby. The stronger the child gets, the weaker the love between him and his wife. Almost as though it’s draining affection from her.
Teucer wishes that fateful day eight moons ago in the woods had never happened. It has changed so much. Tetia hasn’t let him near her since. She changes and bathes out of his sight. No longer looks at him in a way that stirs his blood and unchains his desires. The rape has traumatised her. Made her feel dirty. Used. Unclean. Any effort of his to get close to her only seems to bring back those painful memories.
The seer suffers a mental flash of the man in the grass bent over his beloved wife, thrusting at her, his face contorted by pleasure. He’d stab him again. Gladly. He’d hack him into even smaller pieces than Tetia had done and feed him to his pigs.
And then there’s the child.
The baby they’d both longed for. The final piece to make their family complete.
But whose is it?
His?
Or the rapist’s?
Teucer thinks he knows the answer. He suspects Tetia does too. The very fact she will not discuss the matter with him tells him so. More than that, there are signs, clear signs that he has the power to understand. Tetia gets excited when it kicks. Begs him to feel it moving. But when he puts his hand there, the child stays still, like it’s afraid to move. A guilty thought hits him: What if she lost it? If the gods decided in their wisdom it were to be stillborn? Would this not be a blessing?
Teucer rests his old horse in the sagging hammock of the valley and tries to clear his head of bad thoughts. The autumn day is already drawing to a rosy close and the air is cool like a mountain stream. He feels guilty as he walks the animal up the hillside towards his hut and imagines Tetia tending the golden fire that forever glows in their hearth. It was before that same hearth, that they had married several honey moons ago, just after the Solstice, when the honey had fermented into fine ceremonial mead blessed by Fufluns, the god of wine. Tetia had looked so wonderful as her father accompanied her from his hearth to Teucer’s. So perfect.
He tethers the horse and walks inside. ‘Tetia, I’m back.’
She is speechless. Sitting by the hearth. The fire out.
Teucer falls to his knees. Blows hard into the ash. Silver flakes fly from the dry twigs. They both know the fire must never be allowed to die - the deity that lives there has prohibited it.
She puts a hand on his back. ‘I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.’
Teucer removes the fresh wood that has failed to burn. He puts his hand to the ash. It is cold. Several hours have passed since it felt the comfort of flames.
The fire is dead.
It is an omen - a dark one. Such disrespect and neglect for a deity inside the home will be punished, they can be sure of it.
CAPITOLO VI
A new day brings a new dawn and a new fire in Teucer’s hearth.
But not a new start.
Today, he and Tetia did not sit together and watch the sunrise. They did not even sleep together last ni
ght. Instead the netsvis tended the flames, feeding wood into the deity’s hungry hearth, hoping for forgiveness, struggling with dark thoughts.
He looks across at his wife as she sleeps in the skins that cover their bed. Her long black hair is spread out like the damaged wings of a fallen raven. Her peacefulness draws him to her and reminds him of their love. He places more kindling on the fire and walks over to the bed. He slips in beside her and holds her from behind. His hands touch her bloated stomach. He fights back a wave of repulsion and resists the urge to move them. ‘Tetia, Tetia, are you awake?’ She sleepily murmurs something in response. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Her eyes stay closed. ‘What?’
Teucer moves one hand and strokes hair from her face. ‘Tell me - I won’t be angry - is the child mine?’
She can’t help but flinch. ‘It is yours. It is mine. And it is ours.’ She pulls away from his hand.
‘That’s not what I asked. You know what I meant.’ He hears her sigh. ‘We have to talk about this. Are you carrying the child of the man who raped you?’
For a moment she says nothing. She gathers the skin covers and sits upright, her slender back against the cold wall, her hair falling like dark rain over her shoulders. ‘Teucer, I don’t know.’ She sounds exhausted. ‘I know only that we are having a child and I pray to the gods that it is yours and that it is healthy.’
His eyes are full of challenge as he steps away from her. ‘And if I am not the father?’
She looks exasperated. ‘Then you are not the father.’ She looks away and stares at a twist of light streaming through the woven walls of the hut. She turns back to him, reaches out a hand. ‘Teucer, it is still our child. We will still love it, raise it and make it our own.’
Hate flashes in his eyes. ‘I will not bring up the child of the monster who raped my wife!’ He steps away from the bed. ‘What comes from evil brings only evil. If the sperm of badness grows inside you, then we must not let it live.’
Horror spreads across her face. Instinctively, she puts her hands to her stomach. The child is moving, no doubt sensing her fear. ‘Husband, you are angry. Do not say such things.’ She pulls a skin over her shoulders, stands and walks to him.
Teucer does not move. He loathes himself for his thoughts, for what he just said, for how he feels. But he knows he is right. Tetia wraps the cover around him so it envelops them both. ‘Come and lie with me. Hold me and take me. Let’s try to find each other again.’
And despite all the anger, he does. He lies with his wife and he lets her kiss him and hold him and put him inside her. He lets her do it because he’s desperate for her, desperate for how things were and how he hopes they will be again. He holds her tighter than he’s ever done. Kisses her so passionately they both struggle to breathe. And when she makes him come, it is more intense than he’s ever experienced.
Lying in a warm post-coital haze, they both decide to move silently on. Tetia doesn’t mention her awful fears. Her deep, dark worries that her husband may be right, that something truly evil might be growing inside her. And Teucer says nothing of the decision he’s come to. The course of action he’s determined to follow. To kill their child as soon as it’s born.
CHAPTER 10
Present Day
Carabinieri HQ, Venice
Valentina listens to everything Tom has to say, interrupting only a couple of times to ask questions, then leaves him alone in the interview room.
The story is an incredible one.
Global time differences mean it will take a while to check it all out and see if Shaman really is who he says he is, and if he really did what he said he did.
Valentina uses Google as a shortcut. ‘You’re never going to believe this!’ Pulling the printouts from the tray, she crosses the Incident Room to where her boss is. ‘Our witness - the man in Room 3 - he’s an ex-priest who killed two people.’
‘A killer priest?’
‘No, not like that. A hero.’
Vito Carvalho laughs loudly. ‘Hero - killer - priest. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those three words together before.’
‘Well, you’re hearing them now. Look—’ She hands over the wad of papers. ‘Seems he stepped into some street incident. Three against one. Couldn’t save the girl being attacked, but killed two of the bad guys. He told me most of it but I wanted to cross-check before I said anything.’
Vito takes the pages. ‘It’s some strange kind of Padre who can handle himself like that in a street fight. What’s he like?’
She raises her eyes, tries to stay factual. ‘Maybe 1.9 metres tall. I guess ninety kilos, perhaps a bit more - he’s a big guy. Lean, you know, muscular. Somewhere in his early thirties.’
Vito peers over the top of the printouts. ‘Hey, remember he’s a priest, and a witness. Not dating material.’
‘Ex-priest.’
‘Still a witness.’ He gives her a paternal stare. ‘And still not dating material. By the way, the internet’s notoriously unreliable. Make sure all these details and whatever he said to you are checked properly. Get Maria Santanni to do it, she’s thorough.’
‘Si.’ Valentina picks up a phone.
‘Do it later. First, let’s go and talk with your hero killer priest.’
‘Ex-priest!’ stresses Valentina again, as she lapdogs after him.
Vito Carvalho doesn’t pause at the interview-room door like Valentina did. He bursts straight in. Maximum noise. Maximum surprise. Looking to see how jumpy the guy waiting on the other side is.
Tom Shaman is slouched low on the hard-backed chair, chin comfortably resting on interlocked fingers. He looks up at the grand entrance and his eyes track Carvalho into the room. He only sits up when he sees Valentina. A sign of respect, nothing more. Her face gives away that she’s run checks on him. That’s no surprise. It’s what he’d expect a cop to do. Hopefully, they’ll let him go now.
‘Hello again,’ he says to Valentina.
‘This is my boss, Major Carvalho.’ She gestures to him as they slide into seats across the grey table. ‘He’s leading the enquiry into Monica’s death.’
‘Monica?’
The major fills in the blanks: ‘Monica Vidic. Her father has identified her. She’s fifteen and came from Croatia.’
‘Poor guy. I imagine he’s in pieces.’ Tom momentarily recalls the horror of dragging the girl from the canal.
Carvalho is watching every gesture, every crease on his face, every movement of his lips. ‘Why didn’t you tell us straight away that you were a priest? That you left the Church such a short time ago?’
Tom shifts in his seat. ‘Why should I? What difference does it make to you whether I used to be a priest or a rocket scientist?’
Carvalho drums his fingers. ‘It probably doesn’t make any difference. But a priest who left after the experience you went through - well, maybe that’s something worth us talking about, right?’
‘I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Not then - and not now.’
Carvalho tries coming at him from another angle. ‘When I became a policeman I stopped believing in coincidences. Phrases like, “I just happened to be there when I came across this body,” stopped ringing true. And I have real trouble believing that you left two corpses behind in LA, flew all this way and just happened to be on hand to find another one here in Venice. Do you see what I mean?’
Tom smiles. ‘I do. I absolutely do see what you mean. But, at the risk of annoying you, I did just happen to be there. Ask the old man, he was the one who found the young girl - Monica.’
‘He found her,’ interjects Valentina. ‘But maybe you put her there. Killers like to be around for the find.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘You don’t believe that. Not for a minute. I know you’ve got to do your job and go through all this. But you don’t really believe that.’
‘Okay, let’s talk about belief for a moment.’ The major leans forward and rests on his arms. ‘What kind of man do you believe could have killed a youn
g woman like that?’
‘A very disturbed one,’ says Tom. ‘He was either mentally ill - or worse. Perhaps overcome or possessed by the powers of evil.’
‘The powers of evil?’ says Carvalho mockingly.
Something in the major’s tone gets to Tom. ‘I’ve seen a lot of murdered people. Probably more than you’ll ever see. I’ve heard the confessions of many serial killers, child abusers and rapists. And I tell you, you’re dealing with the devil’s work. It was his hand that guided that blade, as surely as if he’d stood there in all his cloven-hoofed glory and killed her himself.’
Tom looks across the table and sees their scepticism deepen. ‘Okay, the bit about cloven hooves is probably over the top. But the rest of it I mean. I really mean.’
CHAPTER 11
It’s early afternoon when they finally let Tom go. By now, he’s way beyond hungry and thinks he’ll fall over if he doesn’t get something quick.
Venice is very different to eating cheap at his church vestry in LA and he’s discovering his lunchtime allocation of fifteen euros won’t buy much. The search is on for cheap pizza and, by the looks of it, he won’t get it at the Grand Canal restaurant on Calle Vallaresso.
He stands on its elegant terrace by the waterside, watching waiters glide between tables in an exquisite culinary ballet. A menu behind glass makes his mouth water. If he had the money he’d start with salmon and swordfish tartare with lemon and basil. Maybe a glass of a local Barolo with a main course of rack of lamb and fresh garden vegetables.