These Dark Things (23 page)

“They once held individual bodies in upright fetal positions,” Heller explained, “while they putrefied. Those rounded cavities held up their heads.”

They searched each room methodically. Pino’s light revealed graffiti faintly chalked on a wall.

“Enlightened vandals,” he said and read: “
Such wast thou / Who art now / But buried dust and rusted skeletons.

” Natalia sneezed.

“The great Leopardi,” said Pino. “Giacomo Leopardi.”

“It’s amazing what these ancient structures have withstood,” Natalia said. “Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes.”

“Yes.” Heller pointed at the white mortar holding together the large stones that made up one foundation wall. “They used mostly lime, sometimes mixed with a little linseed oil. It turned out to be perfect because it remained flexible even when subjected to seismic shocks.”

Heller preceded them into the adjoining rooms and pointed out where they should look for passages. Pino found one, but it led downward and no one was keen to follow it.

“Check the corners carefully,” Heller said. “They sometimes used optical illusions to camouflage.”

In a corner of the fourth chamber, Pino discovered that the walls didn’t meet. Instead, there was a nearly invisible lateral passageway. It was narrow but passable, and they inched along sideways. High on the wall, Heller planted a self-contained light to mark their way. The passage widened and started to ascend at an angle. They came to a low arch and stopped. Neither Pino nor Natalia was doing well in the close subterranean environment.

“Any chance of this coming down on us any time soon?”

“I don’t think so,” Heller said, “or I wouldn’t have been so quick to volunteer. The subsoil is not a problem. The tufa stone is light and durable.”

“And this arch? It looks repaired.”

“It has been. Decayed building stones have been cut out and new ones substituted.” Heller touched the pair. “
Pinnare
, it was called. They did a good job: raked and repaired the lime mortar and mortised the blocks.”

They followed it for forty feet and came to another low opening. No arch this time, just natural stone. On the wall above it was a smudged handprint. Natalia thought it was blood. Pino planted more lights and they pressed on, ducking through into a small chamber. They advanced bent over, the ceiling too low for them to stand normally. There were no more worked stones, just sheer tunneled rock.

“How old do you think this shaft is?” Natalia asked.

“Heaps,” Heller panted, sweat dripping off his chin. “Five hundred years? Two thousand? It’s like a hive under the city. Has been like that since before the Romans, before Christ.”

They stopped to gulp some water and then pressed on. Carabinieri were tested for claustrophobia. Natalia assured herself that hers wasn’t bad, but she grew less convinced the farther they went. The idea of having to retrace their steps through what they’d come through seemed inconceivable, and she blocked it from her mind.

The tunnel ascended slowly. They resumed their climb. More bloodstains, this time on crude steps cut into limestone. Natalia counted twenty up to a ledge. There, they found themselves standing upright in a small square space.

“Mason’s marks on rock,” Heller said, touching the wall. “Building stones.”

His light fell on a heavy wooden slab standing upright in the wall. There was no passageway going farther. Unholstering their weapons, Natalia and Pino lashed the flashlights to their belts and pushed. The slab was hinged. A door. It resisted, then creaked open ever so slowly.

Natalia and Pino drew their guns and stepped, blinking, into the light: it was the interior walkway of a courtyard. A heavy-set monk turned and gasped at the new arrivals. His hood fell away. “Christ have mercy,” he said.

Pino and Natalia holstered their weapons and grabbed him by the elbows before he could topple. Judging by his garb, a Capuchin. It was Benito’s monastery.

“I’m Captain Monte of the Carabinieri,” Natalia said. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

The monk pressed a hand to his face, as though still uncertain as to the reality of his visitors. “No one uses that door. It’s been sealed for years.”

“Have you seen Brother Benito?” Pino asked. “Today? Maybe yesterday?”

The monk shook his head.

Heller examined the door. “It opened easily enough,” he said. “Someone’s used it recently.”

Natalia and Pino returned to the station, dirty and exhausted. Natalia collapsed in her desk chair and slipped off her walking shoes. Giulio brought her water and an aspirin unbidden. She hadn’t the energy even to thank him. Half an hour later, Father Pacelli arrived, as summoned. He was wearing street clothes and looking like a distinguished author or a professor in his turtleneck and corduroy jacket. A graceful man, she realized again. She and Pino questioned him in an interview room, tape running.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Father,” said Natalia.

“Not at all. How can I help?”

“We have a question to put to you about a book. Among the late Teresa Steiner’s academic notes, we found photocopies of some pages of a rare volume apparently copied at the Collegio Romano.”

“
Athanasius Kircher
, yes. I arranged for her privileges there so she could have access.”

“Did you accompany her to Rome?”

“I was required to be there, yes—to vouch for her. We took the local train in the morning. Around ten, as I recall. I introduced her to the chief librarian and left to visit some brothers at Santa Maria Maggiore and returned to Naples by train in the early evening.”

“You lied to me when I spoke with you at the
Termini
. Why? You told me you didn’t know her, hadn’t met her.”

“I did it for your sake, really. Not to waste your time. It wasn’t—isn’t—pertinent to your investigation.”

“That isn’t up to you to decide. Where did Ms. Steiner go after your research mission?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was that the last time you saw her?”

“No.”

Natalia glanced at Pino and waited to hear more.

“You seem hesitant, Father,” she said.

“I
am
hesitant.”

“Why so?”

“I heard her confession several times. But that is as much as I am comfortable confiding.”

“Because of your vows? Of course. I understand the silence imposed on you as her confessor.”

“That’s very considerate. I appreciate it.”

“Were you aware of the tunnel connecting the crypt under the church to the cloister in the monastery?”

“Not before you revealed it so dramatically. Though the abbot says he knew of its existence. And a couple of the brothers who are the order’s gardeners. You might want to discuss it with him.”

“How did you come to intervene for Teresa Steiner at the library in Rome?”

“Benito. He asked me, as a favor. I’d seen her a few times with him, and in the confessional. She also sought me out once to thank me for my help, and promised me a copy of her thesis.”

“Have you seen or heard from him lately?”

“Seen? No.”

“Spoken to…?”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes.”

“Did he happen to tell you where he was?”

“No. But he did say he was innocent of this crime.” Father Pacelli looked at them both in turn. “He is, you know.”

“Are you speaking definitively, as his confessor?” said Natalia. “Or hopefully?”

“I wouldn’t even be permitted to respond to that if I had heard his confessions. But no. The abbot is his confessor and spiritual adviser. I say it as his friend. Benito is not capable of killing Teresa Steiner or anyone else.”

The disbelief was evident on Pino’s face. Natalia thanked Father Pacelli for agreeing to be interviewed and saw him to the door. It closed after him. She turned back to her partner.

“You think he’s withholding something—a man of the cloth, a priest?”

“A sin of omission perhaps. Yes. I can’t say any more.” Pino assumed his most arch and sarcastic manner, imitating the elegant deportment of Father Pacelli. “Privileged information.”

14

Lola was asleep. Natalia waved at the guard on duty and tiptoed in. She went to the bedside table and removed the dead mimosas from the vase, replacing them with anemones. Lola opened her eyes.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Natalia kissed her friend on the forehead.

“I was dreaming,” Lola said, looking gaunt and anxious.

“I interrupted. Sorry.”

“No, I’m glad you’re here. It wasn’t a good dream anyway.”

Natalia smoothed the sheet.

“They washed my hair.”

“I noticed. It looks nice.”

“Kind of blah, don’t you think? But I can’t do it.” Lola held up her hands, swaddled in bandages. “I need Fionetta’s magic touch.”

“Or mine,” Mariel said from the door.

“Hey,” Lola said. “Just like mornings at the salon.”

Natalia massaged Lola’s shoulder. “Let it out, Lol. Let it out.”

“I need to get ready.”

Mariel set about trying to make her presentable. Half an hour later, Lola looked almost normal. Her two friends held up a mirror. They were just about ready when Bianca Strozzi entered like a corporate executive in a dark gray pantsuit and lighter blouse, her blond hair highlighted with streaks of white. Her two female companions were likewise attired.

The police guard who had slipped in behind Strozzi was nervous when she tried to dismiss him.

“I’m supposed to stay,” he said.

“We’ll protect her,” Bianca assured him. “Go have a cigarette.”

Natalia inclined her head toward the door. The officer said, “Ten minutes,” and departed, saying, “A sector car is already downstairs, waiting to escort yours.”

Bianca Strozzi and her two henchwomen were there to accompany Lola too. The meaning of the gesture was not lost on Natalia. Lola had joined the Strozzi group and was in open opposition to Gambini and his clan. All three women, Natalia could tell, were discreetly armed—as was she.

Mariel finished fussing with Lola’s hair and makeup and helped her into the coat she would wear over her black dress. Then they added a hat and veil. The five of them escorted Lola to the elevators and down to the front of the hospital. A black Wrangler and two limousines awaited, each with a driver and a duo of Bianca Strozzi’s women inside. Bianca saw them all into the center limo and climbed in after, sitting backwards to face the three old friends. The convoy traveled down the steep hill into Old Naples toward the Church of Christ the King. When they arrived, Strozzi’s ladies stepped out to take up positions on the sidewalk and check those gathered outside, then signal their boss, who assisted Lola. She was still groggy from her injuries and leaned against Bianca as they walked.

A stormy night had deposited a carpet of pink petals on the walk outside. Mourners embraced Lola, and tears flowed, streaking cheeks with mascara—faces from the neighborhood that Natalia had not seen in years. Beseeching gestures animated the women. The men, in dark suits, stood stoic and silent. Anthony Turrido the baker looked awkward and stiff in an obviously borrowed suit jacket and mismatched pants.

Natalia summoned Lola inside. Eyes turned as she and Mariel helped Lola down the long center aisle, trailed by Bianca and the two bodyguards. The three of them took seats in the front pew, Bianca and her people immediately behind them. The caskets were closed, flanked with great bursts of flowers in huge vases, some stalks the height of small trees. Nico’s coffin was a fraction of the size of his father’s.

Mourners passed in a steady stream and stopped by Lola to express their condolences: somber men and weeping women, some accompanied by children who were uncharacteristically quiet and still amidst the roiling emotions they sensed all around. Half the old neighborhood had turned out: gents with hair gelled, ladies with permanents, teenage daughters teetering on five-inch heels, self-conscious boys in their fathers’ oversized shirts and ties, and half a dozen widows who lived on their monthly Camorra stipends: a thousand euros or more, depending on their man’s status, and token staples for the fridge. No one from Gambini’s crew, though Frankie had spent most of his life in Zazu’s organization.

Then, suddenly, Tomas. Bianca crossed her arms, casually brought her hand closer to her weapon. Lola accepted Tomas’s hand and listened to his words. He kissed her on both cheeks and passed on.

The funeral mass was long. At the end, Lola was wrung out, but there was no escaping the trip to the cemetery itself. Roses and gladiolas covered the coffins. On the way, the cortege rolled by the bent figure of Gina Falcone as she trudged toward the graveyard, pushing her empty cart in front of her. Bianca, on the jump seat, bent toward Lola, whose head rested against the window.

“He will pay,” she said. “I guarantee it.”

No one had to ask who she meant.