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Pendergast breathed in the moist, sea-laden air and drew his coat more closely around his neck. At the far end of the quay, across the narrow street that paralleled the beach, a row of crooked stuccoed buildings sat crowded together: one was evidently a bar, although the faded sign that rocked in the wind had lost its electric light.
He hurried up the quay, crossed the street, and entered.
A thick atmosphere of cigarette smoke greeted him. At a table sat a group of men-one in the uniform of the carabiniere-smoking and playing cards, each with a tumbler of wine in front of him.
He went to the bar, ordered an espresso completo. “The woman who arrived on the chartered fishing boat earlier this evening…?” he said in Italian to the bartender, and then paused, waiting expectantly.
The man gave the zinc a swipe with a damp cloth, served the espresso, tipped in a measure of grappa. He didn’t seem inclined to answer.
“Young, slender, her face swathed in a red scarf?” Pendergast added.
The bartender nodded.
“Where did she go?”
After a silence, he said, in Sicilian-accented Italian, “Up to the professor’s.”
“Ah! And where does the professor live?”
No answer. He sensed that the card game behind him had paused.
Pendergast knew that, in this part of the world, information was never given out freely: it was exchanged. “She’s my niece, poor thing,” he offered. “My sister’s heart is just about broken, her daughter chasing after that worthless man, that so-called professor, who seduced her and now refuses to do the right thing.”
This had the desired effect. These were Sicilians, after all-an ancient race with antique notions of honor. From behind him, Pendergast heard the scrape of a chair. He turned to see the carabiniere drawing himself up.
“I am the maresciallo of Stromboli,” he said gravely. “I will take you up to the professor’s house.” He turned. “Stefano, bring up the Ape for this gentleman and follow me. I will take the motorino.”
A dark, hairy man rose from the table and nodded at Pendergast, who followed him outside. The three-wheeled motorized cart stood at the curb and Pendergast got in. Ahead, he could see the carabiniere kick-starting his moto. In a moment, they were off, driving along the beach road, the surf roaring on their right, pounding up beaches that were as dark as the night.
After a short drive, they swung inland, winding through the impossibly narrow lanes of the town, rising steeply up the side of the mountain. The lanes grew even steeper, now ru
The windows were dark.
The carabiniere parked his motorbike at the gate and the Ape stopped behind it. Pendergast jumped out, looking up at the villa. It was large and austere, more like a fortress than a residence, graced with several terraces, the one facing the sea colo
Despite everything-despite the extremity of the moment-Pendergast continued to stare. This is my brother’s house, he thought.
With an officious swagger, the carabiniere went to the iron gate-which stood open-and pressed the buzzer. And now, spell broken, Pendergast brushed past him, ducked through the gate, and ran at a crouch toward the side door on the terrace, which was banging in the wind.
“Wait, signore!”
Pendergast slipped out his Colt 1911 and pressed himself on the wall against the door, catching it in his hand as it swung to. It was riddled with bullet holes. He glanced around: a shutter outside the kitchen was also open, swinging in the wind.
The carabiniere came puffing up beside him. He eyed the door. “Minchia!” His own firearm came out immediately.
“What is it, Antonio?” said the Ape driver, coming up, the tip of his cigarette dancing in the roaring dark.
“Go back, Stefano. This does not look good.”
Pendergast pulled out a flashlight, ducked into the house, shone it around. Splinters of wood lay scattered across the floor. The beam of the flashlight illumined a large living room in the Mediterranean style, with cool plastered surfaces, a tiled floor, and heavy antique furniture: spare and surprisingly austere. He had a glimpse, beyond an open door, of an extraordinary library, rising two stories, done up in a surreal pearl gray. He ducked inside, noting that a second shutter in the library had been shot open.
Still, no signs of a struggle.
He strode back to the side door, where the carabiniere was examining the bullet holes. The man straightened up.
“This is a crime scene, signore. I must ask you to leave.”
Pendergast exited onto the terrace and squinted up the dim mountain. “Is that a trail?” he asked the Ape driver, who was still standing there, gaping.
“It goes up the mountain. But they would not have taken that trail-not at night.”
The carabiniere appeared a moment later, radio in hand. He was calling the carabiniere caserma on the island of Lipari, thirty miles away.
Pendergast exited through the gate and walked up to the end of the lane. A ruined staircase in stone ran up the side of the hill, joining a larger, very ancient trail on the slope just above. Pendergast knelt, shone his light on the ground. After a moment, he rose and took a dozen steps up the trail, examining it with his light.
“Do not go up there, signore! It is extremely dangerous!”
He knelt again. In a thin layer of dust protected from the wind by an ancient stone step, he could make out the impression of a heel-a small heel. The impression was fresh.
And there, above it, another small, faint print, lying on top of a larger one. Diogenes, pursued by Constance.
Pendergast rose and gazed up the dizzying slope of the volcano. It was so black he could see nothing except the faint flicker of muffled orange light around its cloud-shrouded summit.
“This trail,” he called back to the policeman. “Does it go to the top?”
“Yes, signore. But once again, it is very dangerous and is for expert climbers only. I can assure you, they did not go up there. I have called the carabinieri on Lipari, but they ca
“You won’t find them in the town,” Pendergast said, turning and walking up the trail.
“Signore! Do not take that trail! It leads to the Sciara del Fuoco!”
But the man’s voice was carried away in the wind as Pendergast climbed with all the speed he could muster, his left hand gripping the flashlight, his right the handgun.