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He carefully wiped the page with a folded white linen handkerchief, then examined it with his magnifying glass. There, stuck to the linen weft, was another curled red wool fiber.
Chapter 76
Diogenes Pendergast stood on the terrace of his villa. Below him, the tiny whitewashed village of Piscità crowded down to the broad, black-sand beaches of the island. A wind came in from the sea, bringing with it the scent of brine and flowering ginestra. A mile out to sea, the automatic lighthouse on the immense rock of Strombolicchio had begun winking in the gathering dusk.
He sipped a glass of sherry, listening to the distant sounds from the town below-a mother calling her children in to di
And behind him, he heard the thunderous rumble of the volcano.
Here, at the very edge of the world, he felt safe. She could not follow him here. This was his home. He had first come here twenty years before, and then almost every year since, always arriving and departing with the utmost care. The three hundred or so year-round residents of the island knew him as an eccentric and irascible British professor of classics who came periodically to work on his magnum opus-and who did not look with favor on being disturbed. He avoided the summer and the tourists, although this island, being sixty miles from the mainland and inaccessible for days at a time due to violent seas and the lack of a port, was far less visited than most.
Another rolling boom. The volcano was active tonight.
He turned, glancing up its steep, dark slopes. Angry clouds writhed and twisted across the volcanic crater, towering more than a half mile above his villa, and he could see the faint flashes of orange inside the jagged cone, like the flickering of a defective lamp.
The last gleam of sunlight died on Strombolicchio and the sea turned black. Great rollers creamed in long white lines up the black beach, one after another, accompanied by a monotonous low roar.
Over the past twenty-four hours, with enormous mental effort, Diogenes had expunged from his mind the raw memory of recent events. Someday-when he had acquired a little distance-he would sit down and dispassionately analyze what had gone wrong. But for now he needed to rest. After all, he was in his prime; he had all the time in the world to plan and execute his next attack.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near
He gripped the delicate glass so tightly it snapped, and he dashed the stem to the ground and went into the kitchen, pouring himself another. It was part of a supply of amontillado he had laid down years before, and he hated to waste a drop.
He took a sip, calming himself, then strolled back onto the terrace. The town was settling down for the night: a few more faint calls, a wailing baby, the slamming of a door. And the buzz of the Ape, closer now, in one of the crooked streets that rose toward his villa.
He put the glass down on the parapet and lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke, exhaling into the twilit air. He peered down into the streets below. The Ape was definitely coming up the hill, probably on Vicolo San Bartolo… The ti
He chuckled at himself. He had grown too wary, almost paranoid. This demonic pursuit-coming hard on the heels of such a huge failure-had left him shaken, u
He drew in more smoke, exhaled easily, turned his eyes to the sea. The ru
The sound of the Ape approached and he realized it was now coming up the tiny lane leading to his villa-hidden by the high walls surrounding his grounds. He heard the engine slow as it came to a stop at the bottom of his wall. He put down the binoculars and strode to the side terrace, from where he had a view down the lane; but by the time he got there, the Ape was already turning around-and its passenger, had there been one, was nowhere to be seen.
He paused, his heart suddenly beating so hard he could hear the roar of blood in his ears. His was the only residence at the end of the lane. That old fishing scow hadn’t brought cargo-it had brought a passenger. And that passenger had taken the Ape to the very gates of his villa.
He exploded into silent action, ru
In a few minutes, he had finished locking himself in. He stood in his dark library, breathing hard. Once again he had the feeling he had reacted out of sheer paranoia. Just because he’d seen a boat, heard the taxi… It was ridiculous. There was simply no way for her to have found him-certainly not this quickly. He had arrived on the island only the evening before. It was absurd, impossible.
He dabbed his brow with a pocket handkerchief and began to breathe easier. He was being utterly foolish. This business had u
He was just feeling around for the light when the knock came: slow-mockingly slow-each boom on the great wooden door echoing through the villa.
He froze, his heart wild once again.
“Chi c’è?” he asked.
No answer.
With trembling fingers, he felt along the library drawers, found the one he was looking for, unlocked it, and removed his Beretta Px4 Storm. He ejected the magazine, checked that it was full, and eased it back into place. In the next drawer, he found a heavy torch.
How? How? He choked down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. Could it really be her? If not, why hadn’t there been an answer to his call?
He turned on the torch and shone it around. Which was the likeliest entry point? It would probably be the door on the side terrace, closest to the lane and easiest to get to. He crept over to it, unlocked it silently, then carefully balanced the metal key on top of the wrought-iron door handle. Then he retreated to the center of the dark room and knelt in firing stance, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, gun aimed at the door. Waiting.
It was silent within the thick walls of the house. The only sound that penetrated was the periodic deep-throated rumble of the volcano. He waited, listening intently.