I smacked the steering wheel, wishing it was him. This was probably about the gutter I’d asked him to hang, and I didn’t have time for this merda. “Just tell me what the text said, all right?”
“‘HELP ME, MAMMA’ in all capital letters.”
My blood stood still. That didn’t sound like my brother. I mean, it did, but it was alarming that he hadn’t added a request for money or food onto the message. “Mom, did he say anything else?”
“He didn’t, even though I replied and demanded an explanation about what was going on between you two. Now, you agreed to let him stay for a month, so I want you to settle down and honor your commitment.”
“Okay. I will.”
“I understand that he can be a tad trying, but he is your brother.”
I didn’t argue about that “tad” because I wasn’t mad at him anymore. All I wanted to do was find him.
Alive.
“Mom, I’m driving, and the weather is getting bad. Anthony and I will call you tomorrow, I promise. Love you.”
Without waiting for a reply, I hung up and hoped I could make good on that promise.
Rain assailed the car.
The calm before the storm was over. I was in its eye.
Was Anthony in its eye too?
I tapped his number.
While it rang, I tried to figure out where he would be. It was eight thirty, so he should have been at work at Madame Moiselle’s. But as the namesake of the patron saint of lost things, I doubted he was where he should have been.
“Come on, brother. Where are you?”
Then I remembered. He had a date at St. Roch Tavern. With a new woman. Who was classy.
Fear boiled in my gut.
No.
That would be too crazy, even for a serial killer.
His phone went to voicemail.
Full.
The spirit that Chandra had supposedly channeled outside Boutique du Vampyre infiltrated my brain. The young man, theoretically Gregg, had warned that Anthony would meet his same horrible fate.
I screeched to a halt on the side of the road and searched for the tavern’s address. Google Maps showed that St. Roch Tavern was on St. Roch Avenue in the St. Roch neighborhood.
Near the cemetery named St. Roch’s Campo Santo, which was Italian for holy ground.
The fear erupted from my gut and shot through my limbs. It was like the anti-vampire saint was trying to tell me it was time for me to fight a vampire too. Or maybe it was the killer sending me a message that it was time to put my brother and me to rest in the Italian cemetery.
Hands trembling, I texted Anthony and asked him to drop everything and call me. To make sure he did, I added that we’d just inherited money from a relative in Sicily.
Rounding up my resolve, I pulled onto the road and hit the gas.
Anthony drove me insane, but he was my brother. And among Italian-Americans, family was everything. Nothing and no one could change the fact that we were related.
By blood.
21
From the doorway of St. Roch Tavern, I scanned the dingy, stale-smelling room. The only people in sight were a couple of hipsters playing pool and a group of gutterpunks crowded around two pinball machines.
It was eight forty-five, so I had no idea if Anthony had already been at the bar, or if he was en route. But the rhythmic dripping of water from my trench coat reminded me that precious seconds were ticking away. And the cobweb decorations left over from Halloween did nothing to ease my anxiety.
I approached the brick bar, and a young bartender with a scruffy blond beard and mustache emerged from a side door with a bowl of lemons. The fruit reminded me of the day Anthony told me that Nonna had enlightened Sullivan about the lemon tradition. That was also the day he’d convinced me that the detective was a good guy. But Sullivan had fooled us both.
And so had Linda West.
The bartender placed a lemon on the wooden countertop and cut it in half with a thwack. “Pabst Blue Ribbon pitchers are six dollars tonight.”
A voodoo doll on the wall behind him caught my attention. It had “Bad Tippers” written on it and a pin had been shoved through a red heart on its chest. “I’m not here to drink.”
“Then what can I do for you?” He sliced the lemon, and the sound of the knife cutting through the thick, fibrous peel was unnerving.
I held up my phone display with Anthony’s Facebook profile picture. “I’m looking for this guy. Has he been in here tonight?”
He raised his eyes from the lemon. They were ice blue, almost as white as Raven’s, and they moved from my phone to me. “Who’s asking?”
“His sister, Franki Amato.”
“Stephen Hart. Pleased to meet you.” He resumed slicing. “I wish I could say the same about your brother. He left maybe twenty minutes ago. I had to cut him off after he got loaded on Negroni Sbagliatos.”
I stiffened. Negronis were made with Campari, and the word sbagliato hit me like an accusation. It was Italian for mistaken or wrong. And I had been so wrong when I’d ignored Anthony’s announcement that he was coming to a tavern named after Saint Roch. “Was he with a petite woman?”
“Yeah. Pretty. Asian eyes.” He resumed slicing. “She had to help him out.”
My heart sunk at the news he was drunk. “St. Roch’s cemetery is up the street, right?”
“Before the old Fountain of Youth Bar.” Slice.
I gripped the edge of the bar. I hadn’t been sure that Linda had taken Anthony to the cemetery until I heard that. It seemed that the area was symbolic to her on a number of levels.
“It closed at four, though. I used to give tours of the place, so I know the schedule.” Slice.
And the cemetery layout. “Are there many Italian tombs?”
He looked up and caught my gaze. “Lots of them. It was originally for Germans, but in the 1900s Italian and Sicilian families were buried there, like the DeMajos and the Lupos, who started Central Grocery. They had an altar built for the cemetery that was blessed by the pope before it was shipped from Italy.”
I was dumbstruck. My father had gotten his start in the deli business at Central Grocery. Did Anthony tell Linda that?
“But now the only thing St. Roch’s is known for are the body parts.” Slice.
My parts tensed like they were about to be sliced. “What do you mean?”
“Braces with old shoes attached, glass eyes, hands, feet, you name it. They’re all in a building in the back by the chapel. People used to leave them as votive offerings to Saint Roch for healing.” He gave an uneasy smile. “One of these days you should check it out.”
“I’ll do that.” One of these days is now.
I turned and exited the tavern.
Rain came down like bullets, and I hurried to my Mustang. I pulled my gun from the glove compartment and shoved it into the waistband of my jeans.
Thunder cracked, shattering my calm.
And I broke into a run.
Lightning struck repeatedly, lighting my way to the cemetery.
And I prayed to Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, that I would find my brother.
With his blood still intact.
The arched wrought-iron sign said St. Roch’s Campo Santo, but it should’ve cited the quote above The Gate of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, “Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate.” Abandon all hope ye who enter.
Because the entrance was an awesome and terrible sight.
Two angels with hands clasped in prayer topped seven-foot pedestals on either side of the scrolled wrought-iron gate. And the sign perfectly framed the three-story Gothic Revival chapel in the back. Through the gate was a wide avenue that led to the chapel, and at the midpoint a giant crucifix and a statue of a sleeping girl at its base.
The appearance was so austere and foreboding that terror washed over me in tsunami-type waves, as did the torrential rain.
But I had to go inside.
I had to save my brother.
I reac
hed for the gate. Padlocked. And apart from a six-foot-wide piece of fence on either side of the pedestals, the cemetery was surrounded by a mausoleum wall too high to climb.
How did Linda get in?
Or was she even at the cemetery?
As much as I wanted to turn around and run to the safety of my car, I couldn’t yield to doubt. Too much was at stake.
My brother’s life.
There wasn’t enough space for me to fit between the sign and the gate, so my only option for entry was to climb the fence on either side of the pedestals. It was topped with spikes to keep people out.
But before starting my ascent, I had to get the attention of the police. I pulled my phone from my trench coat pocket. Then I did the scongiuri gesture for good measure. Because I planned to report a murder, but I didn’t want to curse my brother. Or myself.
I tapped the phone icon on the display.
Nothing.
I tapped again.
Frozen.
I shut down the device.
And waited.
While seconds ticked away.
I pressed the power button.
The screen remained black.
Water damage.
I wiped rain from my eyes and glanced at the businesses across from the cemetery.
But the street was as dead as St. Roch’s residents.
I’m on my own in this godforsaken place.
My stomach was heavy, like I’d consumed a tombstone. Nevertheless, I grabbed the wrought-iron fence, found a foothold, and climbed. The cold metal bit into the palm of my hands, but I banished the pain from my mind.
After a couple of slips, I reached the top of the fence and came face-to-face with one of the angels. “Pray for me.”
She stared straight ahead, unmoved.
Positioning my hands between spikes, I hoisted myself and swung my leg over the fence. I lost my grip on the wet metal and came down on a spike that sliced into my thigh. I winced and bit my lip as those lemons from the tavern flashed before my eyes. Then I glared at the angel and jumped.
My boots hit the wet concrete, and I fell to my knees. The pain was intense, and a cry escaped my lips. All I could do was hope that the heavy rain had drowned out the sound.
Rising to my feet, I touched my throbbing thigh. When I pulled my hand away, there were dark splotches.
Of blood.
I considered making a tourniquet from my sweater, but I was afraid to waste any more time.
Crouching low, I pressed my fingers to the wound to stem the blood loss and limped through the rows of graves as fast as my legs would allow. My soles made scraping sounds, threatening to give me away.
Even though the storm obscured the moon, the tombs radiated an eerie light, and so did the statues of the fourteen stations of the cross set in alcoves along the mausoleum wall. The cemetery was small, which made it easy to survey the tombs. Most were too low for a person to enter, much less hang a man in, so I limped to the larger crypts, checking the seals on the doors for breaks.
Within minutes that seemed like hours, I’d checked the likely graves. I stopped and wiped rain from my eyes and looked over my shoulder. Only two buildings were left, the chapel and the one that probably held the offerings to Saint Roch.
My thigh and knee hurt so badly that my limp had progressed to a drag, and I was losing time and hope of finding Anthony alive. I removed my hand from the wound and used both hands to drag my leg to the offering room.
The door was locked, so I rushed to a side window. Despite the darkness, I didn’t need my phone light to see the disturbing offerings the tavern bartender had mentioned. Among a stand of votive candles and plastic flowers, hung rusted leg braces, various limbs, hearts, a liver, even a brain. The floor was paved with bricks that said Thanks and Merci. And dangling from the same hook as a foot was a purple rosary that I wished I could get. Then I thought of the one in The Vampire Protection Kit and wished I had it.
Because there was only one building left to search.
The chapel directly behind me.
I turned and got vertigo, or maybe I was lightheaded. I told myself it was because of the cold and wet, not the blood oozing from my leg. Or the fear of finding my brother dead inside.
As I dragged my body toward the chapel, I read the message above the entrance. The National Shrine of Saint Roch Patron Saint of Miraculous Cures. And I prayed that if anything had happened to Anthony, Saint Roch would perform a miracle and cure him.
And that Saint Marcellus of Paris would help me fight the vampire.
I reached the door and released my leg. With a bloodied hand, I pulled the handle.
It opened.
In a scene straight from a horror film, I saw my brother suspended upside down from a cable that had been strung in front of the altar.
His hands were tied behind his back, and he was as stiff as his gelled hair.
And his brand new boat shoes.
A scream tore from my abdomen.
Chandra’s crystal ball vision had come true.
At the sound of my scream, Anthony flopped like a fish on a hook before the Gothic altar.
“Oh thank God.” I dragged my leg to the isle between the two rows of pews, but my strength was waning.
“You stay away from me.” He thrashed with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Anthony. It’s me, Franki.”
“Let me go, and I’ll clear outta town,” he shouted, unwilling or unable to hear me. “I swear on the Bible.”
The cable bounced from his weight but held firm. It stretched across the chapel from the frosted windows, well below the vaulted ceiling. I would’ve had to climb the altar to reach it, but I couldn’t in my condition.
A petite woman entered my peripheral vision.
“Don’t move.” I spun and reached for my gun.
It wasn’t there.
Luckily, the woman was a wooden statue next to the altar.
I exhaled and hung my head. “It’s okay, Anthony. False alarm.”
He was limp, passed out.
I glanced around the white marble floor for my gun. But I knew I’d lost it running in the rain or jumping from the fence.
What are you going to do now?
As I made my way to my brother, I looked at the main altar. In front of dark wooden panels, there were painted statues of Saint Roch and a dog atop a marble tomb with a glass façade.
Christ was inside.
And I focused on his likeness until I reached my brother.
His eyes flipped open. “Mamma?”
I slapped his face. “It’s Franki. Get a hold of yourself.”
“Sis.” He seemed unfazed by the slap. “My date is the vampire killer.”
Given the situation, I’d figured that out. “Where is she?”
“She went to get balloons and a cake, like this was some kinda party.”
Christine had said that Linda liked to celebrate, but to use Anthony’s language, the lady was a freakin’ nut job.
A sob wracked his body. “She’s gonna drain my blood.”
“Try to stay calm.” I steadied his swaying frame, but in truth I was swaying too. His head was level with my chest. “Lower your arms as much as you can. I’ll untie your hands.”
“She’s comin’ back.” Another sob. “To get me.” His breath reeked like a bayou.
“Don’t worry. She’s not here now.” I checked over my shoulder, just in case. Then I rose on tiptoes, wincing at the pain in my knee, to reach his zip-tied hands. I knew how to break a zip tie, but it involved slamming the bound wrists against one’s behind, and that required a standing position.
After only a few seconds of pulling the tie, my fingers and hands tingled, and the lightheadedness had intensified. I looked down at the floor.
Blood pooled beside my boot.
Mine. From my thigh.
My gaze went to Christ in his tomb, and I thought of how he must’ve bled on the cross.
My brain screamed, Make a tourniquet,
but seconds were ticking away. I shook my head, and the movement made the room spin. I wrapped my arms around Anthony’s torso to stay upright.
“This ain’t no time for a hug.” His tone was more level, relaxed.
“I’m trying to steady you,” I lied. He hadn’t seen my injured leg, and I didn’t want to alarm him. “Just watch the door.”
“Oh, I am. That woman is a maniac.”
And yet she’d seemed so nice. I should’ve suspected her for that reason alone. I pulled my car key from my pocket and tried to pry the tie from the release. In the meantime, I had to talk to stay alert. And ease the fear. “Where did you meet her?”
“Madame Moiselle’s. She asked me out.”
“You never work. When were you there?”
“The night I got hired.”
The same day I’d gone with Anthony to the interview and suspected that I was being followed. “Did she pump you for information about me?”
“No, but I told her about the family. And you.”
I wanted to choke him with the zip tie, but I couldn’t get it off. My fingers were useless, slipping. And I was slipping too. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m proud of you. You’ve made sumpthin’ of yourself.” He paused. “I haven’t.”
A cocktail of shame and affection infused my system. But it wasn’t the time to get choked up because that could prove fatal for both of us. I had to keep talking, stay alert. “Why are you dressed like a frat boy?”
“I thought Linda was classy, so I had to dress right.”
If I hadn’t been so dizzy and tired, I would’ve rolled my eyes. Classy wasn’t a word I would’ve used for frat boys or their frattire.
The key slipped from my fingers.
I bent to retrieve it, and the chapel tilted. I collapsed onto the cold floor.
Make a tourniquet.
“What’re ya doin’?”
“I need a minute.” I had a T-shirt under my sweater, so I removed my trench coat. The effort was exhausting.
“You’re not givin’ up on me, are ya, sis?” Panic had returned to his voice.
“No, never.” And I meant it. I would do anything to help him. He was my brother, and I loved him. But I would need a miracle cure to get us out of there.
Campari Crimson Page 25
