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  He looked at the stacks of papers on his desk and then at Rick. “You are correct in not wanting to become a policeman, Riccardo. I hope you and Betta will be doing something interesting while I sift through these. You did come up here to see Orvieto, after all, and not from the back of a police car.”

  “As a matter of fact we have decided to see the Pozzo San Patrizio.” He glanced at the clock on the wall of LoGuercio’s office. “We should be able to get there before it closes.”

  “An excellent choice, a masterpiece of Renaissance engineering. There’s an aura about it that I’ve always found somewhat disconcerting, perhaps because of the story that gave it the name, but you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Story?”

  “Christ showed Patrick the way down to the gates of purgatory, so that the saint could descend with members of his flock who would see what awaited them if they didn’t walk the straight and narrow. Apparently the name St. Patrick’s well was given to any deep hole in the ground back then. And this one is quite deep.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The afternoon sun had dropped low enough in the west to cast shadows on the tree-lined path that led from the street to the Pozzo San Patrizio. Betta held her guidebook in one hand, its red ribbon marking the page she had read to Rick on the short bus ride. The history of the structure—if a hole in the ground could be called a structure—was fascinating, but its design even more so. Two winding staircases intertwined in a double helix, allowing men to descend with empty buckets by one set and return to the surface with full ones by another. No army encamped below would be able to cut off the city’s water supply, Orvieto could hold out almost indefinitely. The years of labor it took to cut through the hard tufo rock were worth it.

  The view of the valley below drew them to the edge of the hill. The angle was slightly different from the one they’d seen at the end of the funicular ride bringing them up to the city. Todi, only twenty-five kilometers to the northeast, was hidden from view behind rolling hills, their green made darker by the fading light. Lights from farm houses to the north flickered on as shadow seeped into the low points in the terrain. They watched for a few minutes before turning back to the structure behind them.

  “It looks like a silo sunk into the ground with only the top showing,” Rick observed.

  “Or one of those cement bunkers from World War I that you can still find on the sides of the roads in the Veneto. There was one just outside town my brother loved to play in. I was always afraid to go inside.”

  Rick took her hand. “You’re not afraid to go in this one, are you?”

  “Of course not, I’m looking forward to it. And at this hour we may have it all to ourselves.”

  They found themselves on the top of the stairwell beginning its spiral down to the cistern at the bottom. Rick ran his hand along the cold rock outer wall as he started down the steps. Dim lamps set in the stairway wall illuminated the route, but most of the light, such as it was, came from the skylight at the top of the well. The late afternoon light spread from the void in the center into the stairways through tall openings cut at intervals along the inner wall. Betta leaned over a steel railing at the first opening and looked up at the skylight, then at the pool of water almost two hundred feet below. The musty smell of ancient rock clung to the silent air.

  “What a project this must have been,” she said. “How could they have been sure to get water? There must be some underground stream that comes out below the cliff outside. Perhaps your friend Morgante can tell us.”

  Rick was now beside her, his hands on the metal bar, peering down at the water. “Let me go down to that opening and get a picture of you up here. It will give a good sense of the spiral design.” He pulled out his phone and continued down the steps while Betta watched him pass one opening, then several more, until he had made one and a half turns. He poked his head out, camera-phone in hand.

  “I’m not sure if there is enough light from the flash. Let me take one and we’ll see.” He held up the phone and moved it until Betta’s head and shoulders were in the center of the small screen.

  Rick was about to click the photo when the image blurred and he heard Betta scream.

  He charged back up the stairs. It seemed to take him forever to reach her, and when he did she was huddled against the wall holding her hand to her head. Above her he saw someone dashing for the entrance and made the decision to pursue the attacker and tend to Betta later. She seemed to know what he was thinking and waved him up the stairs.

  “I’m okay,” she called to him as he took steps two at a time.

  As Rick stepped through the doorway into the half light he sensed someone standing just to his left. His intuition was enough to dodge a sucker punch that glanced off the side of his head. He whirled and caught the man square in the stomach with his fist, causing the assailant to double over in pain. Then Rick grabbed him by the collar of a leather jacket and slammed him against the brick of the building. The man’s eyes tightened shut with the force of the blow on the back of his head, and he was at the point of losing consciousness. Rick stared at the face in disbelief.

  “Carlo—why you son of a bitch,” he said in English. He was pulling his fist back when Betta appeared at the doorway.

  “Rick, don’t.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Rick snapped.

  The attacker slid to the ground holding the back of his head.

  “He wanted to talk to me. I…I told him we had nothing to talk about.”

  “You knew he was here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know he was here in Orvieto, I swear it. I didn’t tell you because…” She rubbed her hands together and didn’t meet his eye. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “He was stalking you, and you didn’t want to tell me because I would be upset? Betta, the man just attacked you.”

  “I didn’t think…”

  Rick noticed a tear running down her cheek, and then saw that a red bruise just below her black hair. “Are you all right?” He stepped toward her and put his hands on her arms.

  Carlo took advantage of the opening to scramble to his feet and run up the path. Rick barely noticed the dark figure disappearing into shadows that now spread out under the trees; his attention was on Betta. He moved his hand to her forehead but stopped before touching it.

  “Did he do that to you?” His head snapped toward the path but there was no sign of Carlo.

  “When I fell, my head hit the side of the wall. I’ll be all right.”

  As he took her in his arms he could feel his own heart beating fast. Exertion or anger? And if anger, was it more with Betta’s former fiancé or with Betta herself?

  ***

  Fabrizio shuffled along the street, his arms weighted down by two plastic bags full of dinner. His mother would have been working all afternoon making sauces and simmering meats, but Tullia was content with ready-to-serve items from the salumaio. Well, that was fine with him, all he needed was minimal sustenance to keep mind and body together, and a bit of deprivation was good for a writer. Just bread and wine would be enough. Wasn’t that some quote he’d read somewhere? Something about a loaf of bread and a jug of wine? He tried to remember. Byron? Boccaccio? One of those.

  He returned his thoughts to the latest chapter of his book, which was also the first chapter. Getting started had to be the hardest part of writing, especially if you don’t know what you want to write. He’d thought it would all flow smoothly from his soul, through the fingers, and onto the keyboard, but it didn’t seem to work that way. God knows he was getting enough life experiences, so when did the inspiration from it kick in? He’d been toiling over that first paragraph for days, knowing that it would be the most important one in the book. He’d read that somewhere. Maybe he should go back and read more books on writing; perhaps that one wasn’t enough. It didn’t have many pages, now that he thought about it.
Tonight he would ask Tullia for some euros so he could go to the little bookstore near them. It should have some titles about the writing craft. If not, he could go online and see what he could find about the subject. Problem was, the best stuff there was in English, and his English wasn’t that good. Unlike his cousin Riccardo. Was Riccardo still in Orvieto?

  He reached his building, carefully set down his bags, and pulled out his keys. The door had two locks, and since he had not been using either of them, he fumbled with one key trying to find which lock it fit. After more jiggling of keys he found that only one of locks was turned. After what had happened the previous night, Fabrizio had locked both when he went out, he was sure of it. That meant that Tullia was already there and had neglected to turn both latches. He closed the door behind him and hurried up the stairs.

  “Tullia, sorry I’m late. The salumaio was packed.”

  Between the stairs and the bags, he found he was out of breath when he pushed open the door to the living room. He looked quickly around the room, walked to the small kitchen, and put down his bags on the counter. Smiling, he tiptoed to the door of the bedroom and slowly pushed it open.

  Tullia was not in the apartment.

  He walked back into the living room and was about to start putting away the groceries when he noticed an envelope propped against his computer. After staring at it for several seconds he picked it up and loosened the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, its typed message signed in a hurried hand.

  ***

  It had been an especially long day for the head nurse at Casa San Bernardo, and the problems had begun before she arrived at work, thanks to her demanding mother. The nurse had barely clocked in when the first crisis happened, a broken elevator. Breakfasts had to be taken up the stairs on trays to residents who could not manage the walk down. Then Signor Rossi had one of his seizures, unfortunately in front of several others, and had to be taken to the hospital. A mix-up in schedules meant she had barely fifteen minutes for lunch, and no break in the afternoon, even for a coffee. At three o’clock Signora Minoti fell again while trying to get out of her wheelchair, and just after that Signor Rossi’s son, a lawyer in Rome, called to demand an explanation of why his father was again in the hospital. Weren’t they giving him proper care?

  The nurse rubbed her forehead and turned her attention to the numbers on the clipboard. Numbers—that was all that was important to her bosses, and maybe it was better that way. The details of those real stories of the Casa San Bernardo, the small and large human tragedies, were better left untold in the monthly reports. Numbers were preferable to individual stories. Signor Rossi would become a number in the rows of statistics at the end of the month, a cipher under the category of ambulance calls. Yes, it was better that way. Numbers were better for everyone.

  She finished the entries in the ledger and returned the clipboard to its nail under the counter. The foyer was quiet, as it usually was at this time in the late afternoon. The residents would be starting to awaken from afternoon naps and realize that it was almost time for dinner. In the kitchen it was anything but quiet as the staff prepared for the evening meal, but the walls were thick enough to contain the din. She looked at her watch. Another fifteen minutes and the night shift nurse would arrive so she could go home. After all that had gone on this day, the evening would have to be easy in comparison, even if Mother was still having issues.

  She came out from behind the counter and walked to the double doors leading to the sitting area, her heels clicking on the stone tiles. It was getting dark outside, time to turn on the lights in the other room and set up the chairs for the evening games of cards. It was the duty of the next shift nurse, but with nothing going on, she could do it, and it would make her own shift go more quickly. She walked through the doors and saw that the room was not empty, as she’d expected. Signora Vecchi had a visitor. The two of them sat in the sofa looking intently at a photo album, the same album she had shown to the policeman that morning. How nice for Signora Vecchi, thought the nurse as she walked over to turn on the light switch. The woman doesn’t get any visitors for months, and now she’s had two in one day.

  ***

  “Dove vai, Donato?”

  “I have to go out, Mama.” He cursed to himself. He had been sure she was in her room asleep since it was well past the end of her usual programs. Instead she’d dropped off again in front of the TV and woken up when he came down the stairs. She was in the habit of turning off the sound when the ads came on, and now the remote was in her lap.

  “You’d better get ready for bed, Mama. You know what happens when you fall asleep in that chair, your back hurts the whole next day.”

  She turned her head and smiled at her son. The screen flickered in front of her. “Yes, dear, you’re right. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mama. Buona notte.”

  He slipped out the door and descended the steps into the darkness. A few stars were visible above the house, and a cold wind was blowing off the field behind it. He looked around to see if there were any lights in the windows of the neighbors, but saw only dark behind the glass. No need to wake anyone. He pointed his key at the car, causing the interior light to come on and popping the door lock. When he got inside, the engine started easily. He steered the car around the house and out to the road, just as he’d done other nights. Seeing no cars in either direction, he eased onto the road, and after shifting into second gear he finally turned on his headlights and speeded up.

  He couldn’t get the phone call out of his head. The visit by that policeman was not something he needed in his life at this point. If his boss found out that the cops were talking with him, he might ask even more difficult questions than the inspector had. He couldn’t afford to lose the job now—it paid well and he was just getting to enjoy it. And now this call. Come in, we need to talk with you again. Jesus, what did that mean? Did they really consider him a suspect in this murder? His hand got clammy on the steering wheel at the thought. How could the cops think that?

  He rounded a curve, the beams of his headlights brushing the trees on the other side of the road. Still he hadn’t passed another vehicle. He thought about turning on the radio to his favorite station, but stared at the road instead.

  Calm down. Concentrate on what you’re going to do tonight.

  Five minutes later his breathing steadied, and he pressed the radio button. The silence of the night was broken as the speakers behind him pounded a beat that was matched in violence by the rap lyrics.

  ***

  Betta took off her reading glasses and put the book in her lap. Dressed in a loose fitting tee-shirt and light sweat pants, her preferred sleepwear, she adjusted the pillows between her back and the headboard of the bed. She sat cross-legged, the red toenails of her bare feet matching what was left of the day’s lipstick. Rick sat at the room’s small table, clicking away at his laptop. He too was barefoot, wearing jeans and a red tee-shirt emblazoned with a picture of Louie Lobo.

  “Rick, you’ve barely said a word since dinner. Are you still angry with me?”

  He looked up from the screen and his eyes went immediately to her forehead. “I’m trying not to be, but it will be difficult to forget what happened until your bruise heals.”

  He was trying, but the sting of betrayal was still there. Betrayal may be too strong a word, he thought, but trust was key to a relationship. He could not help wondering if trust had been lost when she decided not to tell him about Carlo contacting her. Would he have done the same thing in her shoes? Impossible to say; he wasn’t an Italian woman. What bothered him was the thought that she might be keeping other things from him. Or would in the future. He tucked away his doubts and brought himself back to the murder.

  “Betta, I keep thinking that nothing is happening in the case, and we’re going back to Rome tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And you want to be in on it when Paolo catche
s the murderer.”

  “Of course.”

  “You want to be a successful police detective without being a policeman.”

  Rick shrugged. “Why not? It’s worked before.” He turned the chair, stretched his legs so that his feet rested at the bottom of the bed, close to hers. “I thought women only did their toenails in the summer, when they wore sandals. Are you going to paint yours all winter?”

  Before she could answer, his cell phone rang. He looked at the number. “This should bring some good news. I hope.” He hit the button. “Fabrizio?”

  “Yes, Riccardo, it’s me.”

  “No more break-ins, I hope?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Rick closed his eyes tightly and opened them. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, I got back to the apartment, thinking Tullia was going to come over, since she said she would. When I got upstairs I found a note from her.”

  “She has a key to the place?”

  “Of course, she’s paying the rent.”

  Rick glanced at Betta, who was able hear both sides of the conversation. “What did the note say?”

  “That we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

  Rick gave Betta a thumbs-up, and she shrugged.

  “Well, Fabrizio, if that’s what she wants—”

  “But I don’t know if it is what she wants.”

  “You’re not making sense, Cousin. You’re not sure if there was a break-in, and you’re not sure that what she wrote was what she meant?”

  “No, no. What I’m not sure is whether she even wrote the note. It started “Dear Fabrizio,” and she’s never used that name with me. Since we met she’s always called me Fabi.”

  “So you think—”

  “She either didn’t write it, or was forced to write it and used that name to tell me that she was doing it against her will. I tried calling her cell phone but she doesn’t answer. Riccardo, I know where she lives, I’m going over there.”