The Rome Prophecy ts-2

by Jon Tracy

  Valentina is intrigued by the awful coincidence. ‘The same place our Anna died.’

  Tom crosses himself. ‘Sounds like systematic paedophilia. There was a case in California where a paedophile ring scoured the death columns in local newspapers for child fatalities. They’d immediately apply for birth certificates for the dead kids because they knew that records systems seldom work properly and almost never proactively cross-check with each other.’

  ‘In Italy it is even worse,’ adds Valentina. ‘Try moving cities and you quickly discover what a mess the authorities are in.’

  Federico doesn’t quite understand. ‘What do these kind of gangs want the children’s documentation for?’

  Valentina explains. ‘They abduct babies and very young children with the idea of abusing them throughout their childhood and teenage years. They keep them imprisoned and hidden until they are completely brainwashed into accepting that they’re part of the abuser’s so-called family.’

  ‘It would explain Anna’s multiple personalities,’ adds Tom. ‘Louisa said that her multiple alters are most likely a response to years of abuse.’

  ‘Christ!’ Federico can’t help but think about his own young daughter. ‘They’re not just stealing their identities, they’re stealing their lives.’

  85

  The man Louisa remembers from her apartment block is standing outside her cell, holding a flaming torch between his face and hers.

  Through the glare she can see that he’s no longer dressed in the mundane blue jeans, jumper and short wool coat she last saw him in.

  He’s clad from head to toe in a long, heavy cloak of purple, like the off-the-shoulder himation the ancient Greeks used to wear.

  Louisa hopes this is all some crazy dream, an odd brain trip that will finish any second and then she’ll wake up, shower and promise herself never to eat cheese again late at night.

  The man tilts his head and studies her eyes. ‘How do you feel?’

  She’s not quite sure how to answer.

  Angry? Frightened? Furious?

  They’re all perfectly good ways to sum up her feelings, but she guesses he’s not really concerned with her emotions. ‘Sore. My throat hurts. My head aches.’

  He smiles sympathetically. ‘That’s the chloroform. The effects will pass quickly – as I’m sure you know.’ He looks over his shoulder to someone out of view. ‘Get her water and some white willow bark to take away the pain.’

  Louisa hears the muffled noise of retreating footsteps. She can’t see, but it sounds like the floor is made of dirt and grit and isn’t paved in any kind of way. Her senses are returning, and beyond the smell of the torch she detects the iron tang of dampness and the chatter of other voices.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  The man in the cloak frowns a little. ‘The patient you refer to as Anna – Anna Fratelli – we need you to secure her release from incarceration in your hospital.’

  ‘Anna is-’ Louisa bites her tongue. She realises there’s no advantage to telling them what has happened – on the contrary, if they know she’s dead, it will merely demonstrate her own lack of value to them and put her life in danger. ‘Anna is very sick,’ she adds. ‘She’s both physically and mentally ill. Moving her from expert medical care isn’t advisable.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a diagnosis,’ says the man. ‘Her release is all we want.’

  Louisa tries to establish more of a rapport with him. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at the hospital. You didn’t visit. At least not as far as I can remember. Are you a friend?’

  ‘I am a friend, a very close one, but visiting is not what I do.’

  Louisa thinks better of asking him to explain exactly what it is that he does do.

  On the wall to his left, a skeletal shadow grows long, then crawls up the ceiling of her cell as a woman appears in the flickering torchlight.

  Her face has been made a ghostly white by some strange thick make-up, but Louisa still recognises her from the apartment block. Like the man she was with, she’s now dressed differently. She’s wearing a flowing green cloak that is similar to his but is split on the right side and fastened over both shoulders rather than just one.

  She passes a metal goblet of water and a handful of dry, powdery tablets through the bars to Louisa. ‘Take two of the willow bark now and two a little later if your head still aches.’

  Louisa has never had time for alternative medicine, but swallows the pills anyway. The fact that they’re looking after her is a good sign.

  At least for now.

  ‘Why do you want to get Anna out of hospital? What are you going to do with her?’

  ‘She is a prophetess,’ says the woman. ‘One of our sisters-’

  The man silences her with a look that could blister skin. He turns back to Louisa. ‘It is not your concern. Trouble yourself only with how to extricate Anna from the fortress and falsehood in which she is held.’

  Louisa takes another sip of the water. ‘I need to think. You can’t simply walk into one of the world’s biggest hospitals and steal a patient.’

  ‘Then think. And do it quickly. Your life depends upon it.’

  86

  Federico parks his rust-bucket car in Via Dell Babuino.

  While he and Valentina sit and talk in the warmth of the car, Tom bangs shut the back door and braves a soft shower as he walks to Louisa Verdetti’s home.

  He turns up the collar of his new coat and cuts through Via Dell’Orto di Napoli into Via Margutta. His gaze bounces off elite lines of art galleries and restaurants, and he makes a mental note to return with Valentina.

  He finds Louisa’s address behind a large iron security gate, which, not surprisingly in Italy, has been propped open solely for convenience.

  The courtyard is breathtaking.

  A long and deeply gravelled drive opens up to reveal a quadrangle of ancient, ivy-clad houses that are amongst the most expensive in the city. Some have been turned into select offices for high-earning local professionals and the rest are rented out to cash-rich foreigners.

  Tom walks past terracotta fountains and abundant flower beds before he finds Louisa’s block.

  Behind a clear-windowed oak door he sees a red-faced, middle-aged man bawling out two maids.

  Tom raps on the door pane.

  The man breaks from his thundery attack, puts on a sunny smile and opens up for him.

  ‘ Si? ’

  Tom is hit by a backdraught of alcohol fumes. ‘I’m looking for Louisa Verdetti.’ He steps in from the rain without being asked.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tom. I’m her friend from America.’

  ‘Wait.’ The man points to the two maids. ‘You wait too. I haven’t finished with you.’ He picks up a phone and hits some numbers.

  Tom smiles sympathetically at the two women, who are now talking to each other in what he thinks is either Polish or Russian.

  The man puts the receiver down. ‘She is not there. You want to leave a message?’

  Tom searches for a pen in his pocket and picks up a yellow Post-it pad off the small desk. ‘Sure. Do you have any idea where she is?’

  ‘ Ospedale.’

  ‘No, she’s not at work.’ Tom writes down his name and cell number.

  ‘Not working, being treated. She has some problem with her ankle, I think.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Some neighbours just called by to see if she was all right. They saw her earlier being helped into a car by a man and a woman.’

  Alarm bells ring with Tom. ‘Why?’

  The man seems puzzled. ‘Because she couldn’t walk properly. They were concerned and went out to help. The driver waved them off and said everything was okay and not to worry. It seems she had twisted her ankle and fainted and they were taking her straight to the hospital.’

  Tom doesn’t buy it. ‘What time was this?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not long ago. About an hour or two.’ He points to the waiting m
aids. ‘I was inspecting the rooms. They would be cleaner if I did them myself.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name and address of these neighbours you mentioned?’

  The man looks at him suspiciously. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He turns to the maids. ‘You two do not move. That should be easy for you.’

  87

  Federico is leaning in a shop doorway, smoking and watching the rain fall, as Tom puddle-splashes his way back to the car. ‘No luck?’ the lieutenant calls as he steps from his shelter and flicks the last of the cigarette into the potholed road.

  Tom shakes his head and slips into the back seat, behind Valentina. ‘Damned weather! I look like a drowned cat.’

  She turns and weighs him up with a smile on her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I quite like the wet look. It reminds me of when you’ve just showered.’

  Federico grumpily grunts his way behind the wheel, ending all possibility of further flirtation. ‘So what’s the story?’

  Tom struggles out of his wet coat as he answers. ‘Louisa was at home just a short while ago. Some neighbours saw her being driven off by a man and woman they’ve never seen before.’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’ asks Valentina.

  ‘Only the man; his wife was out. He said he came out of his apartment after hearing a lot of noise on the gravel. At first he thought Louisa was drunk, because she was held up between the couple.’

  ‘Drugged?’ asks Federico rhetorically.

  ‘The neighbour says they were virtually carrying her. The man waved him away. Gave him some story about her passing out after she twisted her ankle and fell on the stairs. He said they were taking her to hospital.’

  Valentina turns to Federico. ‘Is there anyone you trust at work who can do a check at the clinics, see if she was admitted somewhere?’

  ‘ Si. I know such people. I can get it checked, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. If someone’s fainted, you sit them down, give them air and maybe some water. She would have been well enough to have talked to her neighbours.’

  Valentina knows he’s right. ‘Anything else?’

  Tom wipes drips of water from his face. ‘No. The door guy at her apartment is a jerk. Probably overworked and drunk most of the time. He said he hadn’t seen anything suspicious.’

  Federico runs the palm of his hand back and forth across the top of a steering wheel that’s grown shiny from years of hard Italian driving. ‘I’m trying to think why anyone would want to drug and abduct a psychiatric clinician.’

  ‘The usual reasons are sexual, financial or emotional,’ observes Valentina. ‘Some sleazy creep has been stalking her?’

  Federico asks the obvious. ‘Sure, but what’s the link to Anna?’

  Valentina’s trying to figure it out. ‘Maybe she’s been taken by someone who blames her for Anna’s death?’

  Federico’s nicotined fingers drum a heavy bass on the wheel. ‘I hope not. I really hope not.’

  Valentina explains to Tom: ‘If it’s a revenge kidnap, then we’ve got no chance of getting her back. They’re going to kill her.’

  88

  They’ve left a dented steel bucket in the corner of the cell for her to use as a toilet.

  But Louisa can’t.

  Her body is desperate for relief, but her brain is screaming no.

  She stands and stretches.

  Paces.

  Leans against the cold and rusty iron bars, then shakes them until the noise echoes down distant tunnels.

  But nothing takes her mind off the bucket and her bladder.

  Thank God she’s only drunk a little water, and not the vast amounts of coffee she usually does.

  She stares at the bucket.

  They’ve not even left a bowl of water or any soap to wash her hands with.

  Suddenly the severity of her situation crushes her.

  An unexpected cry leaps from her mouth. Once out, it seems to drag several uncontrollable sobs behind it.

  She’s shaken by her surprising outbreak of emotion.

  She tells herself she’s a strong woman, a professional, used to fighting her way through things. She hasn’t cried for years and shouldn’t be sobbing her heart out now.

  She palms away the tears and studies the streaks they’ve made on her dusty hands.

  She has to pull herself together.

  Make the best of the situation she’s in.

  Mustn’t let anyone see that she’s frightened to death.

  She doesn’t so much walk to the bucket as charge at it.

  It’s not going to beat her.

  They’re not going to beat her.

  She grinds it into the dust, unbuckles her belt, slips down her two-hundred-euro trousers, squats and pees.

  Job done.

  She re-dresses, moves to the front of the cell and shakes the bars again. ‘Hey! Hey! In here! Someone! Hey!’

  She carries on shouting and shaking until the purple-cloaked man reappears.

  She reads his face.

  He looks irritated that he’s been summoned by the noise she made. He’s human, that’s all. Nothing special. Beatable.

  ‘I’ve finished thinking,’ she says.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I need a phone.’

  His eyes say not a chance.

  ‘I need a phone so I can call work. I usually check in with my boss and my team when I’m not there. I confirm appointments and discuss cases. It already looks strange that I’ve not called for so long.’

  He gives it some thought. ‘It makes sense. Wait and I will come back to you.’

  Louisa watches him turn and walk away. She can’t believe he just told her to wait. Like she has a choice. Wait is not a word she’s ever liked, but in her current circumstance it’s been elevated to the top of the things she most hates and fears.

  But wait she does.

  Half an hour later, he reappears. With him are two more men, but their cloaks are scarlet.

  Louisa steps away from the bars as Purple Cloak unlocks them. The others enter and Louisa has to do a double-take. Their faces are startlingly feminine, but their hands and feet are distinctly man-sized. Without talking, they grab her wrists and click on a pair of steel handcuffs.

  ‘Ow!’ Louisa looks down at the metal gnawing her wrist bones. ‘They’re hurting.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ says Purple Cloak.

  One of his henchmen – or hench women; Louisa’s now not sure – disappears behind her. She’s about to turn around when the other one jerks her by the wrists.

  The stab of pain distracts her.

  A black hood is pulled over her head.

  A stretch of thin rope is looped around her neck and pulled tight.

  Purple Cloak speaks. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t panic. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.’

  Louisa struggles.

  He holds her shoulders. ‘Listen! Nothing bad is going to happen. We can’t get any reception down here, so we’re taking you to a place where you can make your call.’

  The reassurance doesn’t work.

  Louisa is panicking. Panicking like she’s never panicked before.

  The shock of the hood has triggered her claustrophobia.

  She feels like giant balls of cotton wool are being stuffed down her throat.

  She tells herself to stay calm, breathe through her nose.

  Her chest aches.

  Her heart is racing.

  Thin streams of air trickle into her heaving lungs.

  Her shoulder bumps against something.

  They’re moving her.

  ‘Come on,’ says someone. ‘Let’s get her out of the womb.’

  Womb?

  She must have misheard. They must have said room.

  Hands grip her elbows and tow her along.

  She feels sick and dizzy.

  There are other voices now. Women shouting to her, or maybe it’s children.

  Louisa starts to hyperventilate. She needs to stop. Stand still. See light and
space. Calm down.

  But they won’t let her.

  Her knees buckle.

  She gasps for air.

  Blackness is just a breath away.

  89

  Tom and Valentina eat at their hotel.

  Federico stays with them for a glass of wine, but gets a call from his wife and says he has to leave.

  Left alone, they leisurely pick their way through a platter of Tuscan prosciutto, before seeing off two small but delicious plates of mushroom risotto. A particularly fine and fragrant bottle of Vermentino di Gallura runs out during their main course of fresh lobster, pasta and salad.

  ‘More?’ asks Tom, holding the bottle aloft.

  She pulls a face. ‘Would you hate it if we didn’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  They both know what it means. The meal is heading to a close. Work is rearing its ugly head.

  Tom mops a little of the lobster sauce with a piece of torn bread. ‘Are you starting to think about Anna?’

  ‘A little.’ She pins some pasta down and starts to twirl it on her fork. ‘Though I’m trying not to.’

  ‘And Louisa?’

  ‘Also.’ Her appetite’s gone now. Killed by hearing the names Anna and Louisa. ‘When I try to make sense of everything that’s happened – the murder, or murders, Anna’s death, and this latest development with Louisa – my head feels like it’s exploding.’

  Tom understands. ‘I don’t know how you cope with such horrors as part of a daily job. I came upon death quite a lot as a priest, but nowhere near on the scale that you do, and there was seldom the same amount of violence involved.’

  She untwists the speared pasta and uses her knife to scrape her fork clean. ‘You know, murder is usually straightforward. Wife kills cheating husband. Cheated-on husband kills cheating wife. Jealous jilted lover kills reunited husband and wife, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Plus the drug killings.’

  ‘Plus the drug killings. Then there’s not much more on the spectrum until you reach serial killers.’ She pushes her plate away from her. ‘Where do you think sociopathic cults or paedophile gangs fit in?’