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Nothing.
She then went over their later meetings, the books he had given her, his decadent disquisitions on sensual living. But there was still nothing, not even the hint of a geographical location.
In my house-my real house, the one that is important to me-I have a library… That was what he had told her once. Was it, like everything else, just a cynical lie? Or was there perhaps a glimmer of truth?
I live near the sea. I can sit in that room, all lights and candles extinguished, listening to the roar of the surf, and I become a pearl diver…
A library, in a house by the sea. That wasn’t much help. She ran over the words again and again. But he had been so careful to hide any personal details, except for those lies he had so carefully crafted, such as the suicide scars.
The suicide scars. She realized that, in her recollections, she had been unconsciously avoiding the one event that held out the greatest chance of revealing something. And yet she could not bear to think of it again. Reliving those final hours together-the hours in which she gave herself to him-would be almost as painful as first reading the letter…
But once again a coldness descended over her. Slowly she lay back on the bed and stared upward into the darkness, remembering every exquisite and painful detail.
He had murmured lines of poetry in her ear as his passion mounted. They had been in Italian:
Ei's’immerge ne la notte,
Ei's’aderge in vèr’ le stelle.
He plunges into the night,
He reaches for the stars.
She knew that the poem was by Carducci, but she had never made a careful study of it. Perhaps it was time that she did.
She sat up too quickly and winced from a sudden throbbing in her ear. She went back into the bathroom and went to work on the injury, cleaning it thoroughly, covering it with antibiotic ointment, and then bandaging it as unobtrusively as possible. When she was done, she undressed, took a quick bath, washed her hair, put on fresh clothes. Next, she stuffed the washcloth, towel, and bloody clothes into a garbage bag she found stored in the back of the room’s armoire. She gathered up her toiletries and returned them to her suitcase. Pulling out a fresh scarf, she wrapped it carefully around her face.
She closed the suitcase, buckled and strapped it. Then she took the garbage bag and descended to the greeting room of the convent. The sister was still there, and she looked almost frightened by this sudden reappearance.
“Signora, is there something not to your liking?”
Constance opened her wallet. “Quanto costa? How much?”
“Signora, if there is a problem with your room, surely we can accommodate you.”
She pulled out a rumpled hundred-euro bill, placed it on the counter.
“That is too much for not even one night…”
But Constance had already vanished into the cold, rainy dark.
Chapter 74
Two days later, Diogenes Pendergast stood on the port rail of the traghetto as it plowed through the heaving blue waters of the southern Mediterranean. The boat was passing the rocky headland of Capo di Milazzo, crowned by a lighthouse and a ruined castle; behind him, sinking into the haze, stood the great hump of Sicily, the blue outline of Mount Etna thrusting into the sky, a plume of smoke trailing off. To his right lay the dark spine of the Calabrian coast. Ahead lay his destination, far, far out to sea.
The great eye of the setting sun had just dipped behind the cape, casting long shadows over the water, limning the ancient castle in gold. The boat was heading north, toward the Aeolian islands, the most remote of all the Mediterranean islands-the dwelling place, or so the ancients believed, of the Four Winds.
Soon he would be home.
Home. He rolled the bittersweet word around in his mind, wondering just what it meant. A refuge; a place of retreat, of peace. He removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, took shelter in the lee of the deck cabin, and lit one, inhaling deeply. He had not smoked in more than a year-not since he had last returned home-and the nicotine helped calm his agitated mind.
He thought back to the two days of hectic traveling he had just completed: Florence, Milan, Lucerne-where he’d had his wound stitched at a free clinic-Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Brussels, Amsterdam, Berlin, Warsaw, Vie
But now, as he watched the sun dying in the west, he felt strength and presence of mind returning. He had shaken her in Florence; she had not, could not have, followed him. From there, he had changed identities several times, confused his trail to such an extent that neither she nor anyone else could hope to untangle it. The open borders of the EU, combined with the crossing into Switzerland and re-entry into the EU under a different identity, would confound even the most persistent and subtle pursuer.
She would not find him. Nor would his brother. Five years, ten years, twenty-he had all the time in the world to plan his next-his final-move.
He stood at the rail, inhaling the breath of the sea, feeling a modicum of peace steal over him. And for the first time in months, the interminable, dry, mocking voice in his head fell to a susurrus, almost inaudible amid the sound of the bow plowing the sea:
Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight.
Chapter 75
Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast got off the bus at Viale Gia
He pressed the buzzer and, after a moment, the gates opened automatically, leading into a graveled courtyard before a large ocher villa. The side door was open, and a small sign identified it as guest reception.
“Good morning,” he said in Italian to the small, plump nun at the desk. “Are you the Suor Claudia I spoke to?”
“Yes, I am.”
Pendergast shook her hand. “Pleased to know you. As I mentioned over the phone, the guest we spoke of-Miss Mary Ulciscor-is my niece. She has run away from home, and the family is extremely worried about her.”
The plump nun was almost breathless. “Yes, signore, in fact I could see she was a very troubled young lady. When she arrived, she had the most haunted look in her face. And then she didn’t even stay the night-arrived in the morning, then returned that evening and insisted on leaving-”
“By car?”
“No, she came and left on foot. She must have taken the bus, because taxis always come in through the gates.”
“What time would that have been?”
“She returned about eight o’clock, signore. Soaking wet and cold. I think she might have been sick.”
“Sick?” Pendergast asked sharply.
“I couldn’t be sure, but she was hunched over a bit, and her face was covered.”