Fanatics

by William Bell

  I got out my cell, checked that the ringer and camera flash were disabled, and snapped a couple of photos. I kept to the cover of the trees and crept farther around the perimeter of the clearing until I had a clear view of the cabin’s front, with its verandah and cracked window. The door was padlocked, the weathered frame and wall stained by fresh paintball hits. The boys had been making pretend attacks again. I shot a few more pictures.

  Aware that I was pressing my luck, I made my way toward the place off to the side of the cabin where the chewed-up ground indicated they parked their ATVs. It was empty. Or so I thought at first glance. Streaked with dried mud that blended perfectly with its camo finish, one ATV stood nose-in to the trees. And I could just barely make out the little licence plate. I took a picture of the machine, zoomed in, and captured the plate. I pocketed my cell.

  And froze when I heard the sound of water striking dry leaves.

  I held my breath, scanned the trees around the ATV for movement. I finally saw it. Sparkling with captured sunlight, a stream of water arched from the leafy ground to the camo trousers of a figure standing near the ATV, legs splayed, hands at his crotch. A two-way radio hung from his belt. Little wires connected his ears to the lump in his shirt pocket, and his head bobbed as he played the stream of water back and forth on the ground.

  “Can you write your name in the dirt?” I almost shouted. If this character was the camo-boys’ idea of a sentry I figured I didn’t have much to worry about. But then I remembered the chase a few days before, when I could taste my fear at the back of my throat. I began to retrace my steps, stopping every few metres to look back and listen. When I was fairly sure I’d gotten away unnoticed I walked more confidently, sweeping the forest with my eyes as I walked as silently as I could. The sentry’s presence proved the paintballers were out and about, and I couldn’t let down my guard.

  Time to boogie.

  Four

  I

  SOMETIMES I WONDERED if Mrs. Stoppini ever left her kitchen for anything other than writing letters or sleeping. When I got back to the mansion, she was making fettuccini noodles.

  “Mrs. Stoppini, I need to have an important conversation with you,” I announced as soon as I had come in the door.

  She turned and regarded me with a mixture of severity and curiosity.

  “Indeed? And what is it about?”

  “I guess it’s about my job here. And our contract.”

  She searched my face for a moment, her dark brows forming a V, her mouth pursed, and seemed to come to a decision. Brushing flour from her hands and pulling her apron strings, she replied, “If this is to be a business meeting, perhaps we should hold it in the parlour. I shall join you presently.”

  I walked through to the formally furnished parlour and dropped into an armchair. Sheer curtains on the north window muted the light, making the room feel cool, although a thermometer might say otherwise. There were paintings on the walls-landscapes with rolling hills, stone villas, and spear-like cypresses pinning the earth to clear blue skies.

  I psyched myself up for my task. I had confidently persuaded Raphaella that I should do this on my own, but now I didn’t feel so sure. The stork-like Mrs. Stoppini could be intimidating at times. Because I wasn’t sure how much she knew, I was worried about upsetting her. I might blunder into territory that was none of my business, or trample on her grief.

  She glided into the room with a silver tray holding a bottle of clear liquid and two small stemmed glasses. For a split second she reminded me of the spectre, the way her dark form seemed to cover ground without touching it.

  “We shall talk over a glass of grappa,” she said in her don’t-contradict-me tone, setting down the tray and pouring from the bottle. “It was the late professor’s favourite aperitif.” She sat, perching her angular frame in the centre of the green leather couch opposite me.

  “Now, Mr. Havelock, it appears you have something significant to impart. Please go ahead.”

  I did my best to use a businesslike tone. “Mrs. Stoppini, the lease I signed for the workshop required that I do a full inventory of the library.”

  Her eyes squinted slightly. Her posture straightened a little, if that was possible. What are you up to? her body language demanded.

  “And, um, I would feel better if I was confident that you are aware of… well, everything.”

  “Everything?” she repeated in a wintery voice.

  “Not long ago I showed you a hidden cupboard-no, please let me go on,” I said hastily when she showed signs of bolting, “so skilfully built into the bookshelf that it was invisible. The workmanship was top-notch.”

  “The late professor never did things by halves,” she stated, reluctantly staying put.

  “I want you to know, Mrs. Stoppini, that I discovered it without intending to. I was taking out the things in the, er, visible cupboard when one of the vellum sheets caught on the edge of the recess where the release catch is.”

  “You haven’t touched your aperitif.”

  I lifted the little glass to my mouth and barely allowed it to touch my lips. An unusual fragrance, an unexpected taste.

  “Once I found the cupboard and saw what was inside, I tried to show you. But I failed. I think it’s important that you know about the… er, contents. Or are you already familiar with the items? No?” I asked when she didn’t respond. “Then I think I ought to tell you. Raphaella agrees,” I quickly added, hoping that would persuade her. “Okay?”

  She nodded and finished off her drink without confirming or denying that she knew about the exotic objects in the professor’s secret cupboard.

  “There are some very old manuscripts on vellum,” I began. “I can’t read them, so I can’t tell you what they are. There is a small handmade wooden box containing a medal with Girolamo Savonarola’s image on it.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Every Florentine has heard of him,” she replied, shakily refilling her glass and clutching it in both hands, as if afraid it would fly away.

  “There is a large cross of gold with gems set into it. I don’t know anything about jewellery, so I can’t say what they are. They might even be glass, but I doubt it.”

  I had decided to leave out the glass dome and the atlas for the time being.

  “Mrs. Stoppini, that cross might be a priceless antique.”

  “Good gracious,” she murmured-to herself, not to me. “I didn’t realize.”

  “There’s something else.”

  The intense woman sitting across the room from me began slowly to come apart. Her severe expression ebbed away as signs of grief-a softening of her brow and the set of her mouth-crept in. The rigidity of her back and shoulders gave way, and she gradually settled into her chair. Her chin quivered.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, regretting my decision to press her. But she surprised me.

  “Please continue, Mr. Havelock.”

  I swallowed a bit of grappa. “There is a complete typed book-length manuscript. Written by Professor Eduardo Corbizzi.”

  She gaped as her thick brows rose in surprise. “Did you say ‘complete’?”

  I nodded.

  She began to cry silently.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoppini,” I said again.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, pulling a lace hanky from her sleeve and dabbing at her streaming eyes.

  “The title is Fanatics. Professor Corbizzi had been editing it when he… when he stopped.” I hesitated. “Raphaella has read it.”

  “Good. The late professor would have been most gratified to know that an intelligent young woman like Miss Skye had read his book.”

  She blew her nose and continued to pull herself back together.

  “Well,” she sighed, making a final dab with her hanky and stuffing it up her sleeve, “an interesting conversation to be sure.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “In that case.” She held up the bottle to ask if I w
anted more, and reading my refusal in my face, she topped up her drink.

  “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  She took a slug. “Please go on.”

  “This may sound strange, but have you ever noticed the odour of smoke around the house? Or even outside?”

  I kept my eyes on her face, certain that if she tried to be evasive or dishonest I’d notice.

  “Not since the library was cleaned and the draperies and rugs laundered.”

  It was possible. Her activities in the mansion were mainly confined to her bedroom, the kitchen, and the room where we were sitting now. The spectre could reveal himself when he wanted. And to whoever he wished. Did the odour he left behind follow the same rule of ghostly physics?

  I pushed on. “You’ve told me that toward the end of his life the late professor was very secretive, and that he asked you to stay away from the library. I get the impression that he was acting… um, in a way that was uncharacteristic.”

  I had almost said “acting crazy” but caught myself just in time.

  “I…” She paused momentarily. “I used to love that library,” she said sadly. “It was-is-such a beautiful room, so full of light. It was our custom each morning to take our coffee there before our breakfast. We would chat or read contentedly, surrounded by our books, discussing our plans to return one day to Italy and retire to a small village outside Florence. Our house there has been in the Corbizzi family for three hundred years. There is a small garden and a few olive trees on the rise beyond the yard. I regret to say it passed into other hands when the professor needed to raise money quickly last year for his research.

  “There was a time, Mr. Havelock, when I would not have shared with you what I am about to relate. But you have proved to be a reliable and, may I say, a caring young man, and I feel that I can confide in you.

  “During the last few years the professor began to act in a way that was, as you say, uncharacteristic. He was frequently agitated. He had begun a new project, his last book, he promised, his best and most important. I saw immediately that it was not like the others, which he composed at an orderly pace, working an hour or two each morning after breakfast, then again after lunch. He became obsessed, as if his life would have been rendered meaningless if he didn’t finish the project.

  “He grew increasingly secretive, retreating to the library behind closed doors. He made me swear to keep confidential all facts pertaining to his most recent work. Eventually he requested, then demanded, that I stay away from the room in which we had passed so many pleasant hours. He worked feverishly, often long into the night, as if desperate to reach some self-imposed deadline. Occasionally I would open the doors to see him asleep at his work.

  “I feared for his health. He lost weight and his colour was not good. Sometimes I heard him talking to himself, at times remonstrating, as if he was arguing with someone. I looked forward to the day when that accursed book would be finished for good and all. But of course, he passed on before… I was about to say, ‘before he brought the book to a conclusion,’ but you’ve said it is finished.”

  “Did his change in behaviour begin as soon as he started the book?”

  “Shortly thereafter. He was conducting preliminary research and drafting the outline when he told me excitedly that he had made some sort of breakthrough or discovery and it was imperative that he go immediately to Florence. It was subsequent to his return that he… changed. For some reason, the journey altered him, and he evolved from a kind and gentle man to a person possessed. He was frantic to finish the project.”

  “Did he bring anything home with him?”

  “Papers. Notes from his research. Books. And something he refused to let me see. He kept it in the library, out of sight.”

  “So you don’t know what it was.”

  “Not until today. I know now. It had to have been that cross.”

  Everything Mrs. Stoppini had told me fit with what Raphaella and I had deduced. Now I had to proceed cautiously. I couldn’t let slip anything about the spirit haunting the library. If I did, Mrs. Stoppini would think I had flipped my lid.

  “Mrs. Stoppini, there are two important-crucial-suggestions Raphaella and I want to make.”

  “Very well.”

  “But you can’t ask why we’re making them.”

  “Indeed. Well, Mr. Havelock, you are mysterious when the spirit takes you.”

  You’re not kidding, I almost said, not realizing at first that she was using the word “spirit” in a different way.

  “About the cross. If it is bequeathed to the university”-she nodded as I spoke-“please don’t take it to Italy yourself. Don’t let anyone take it. Send it. The second thing is that Raphaella and I are certain there is only one copy of the professor’s manuscript. There should be a backup copy. We’d like your permission to take it out of the house to have it photocopied.”

  I had decided not to tell her that Raphaella had photos of each page, taken without permission.

  “We hope you’ll have it published,” I said.

  “Yes, Mr. Havelock, I agree. As I said, I was not aware that the late professor had completed the book. That fact alters my original intention to include it among his papers and add it to the bequest. I shall not do so. But I see no need to hurry publication. The manuscript will keep, I am sure.”

  Not if it burns first, I wanted to say but couldn’t.

  “In addition,” she went on, “you are quite correct about making a photocopy. I shall lodge the second copy with my lawyer. He keeps a safe in his chambers. I would be most grateful if you and Miss Skye could attend to that task as soon as is convenient.”

  I relaxed a bit and took another sip of the grappa. We sat together for a few minutes in what Mrs. Stoppini would have called a companionable silence. I heard her sigh, then she spoke softly.

  “In a way, Mr. Havelock, the late professor gave his life to that manuscript.”

  She didn’t know how right she was.

  II

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when I got home to find Dad assaulting the hemlock hedge that borders our yard, his electric clippers buzzing and clattering as he slashed away like a cavalier. Mom was relaxing in a chaise longue on the patio, spooning boysenberry yogurt into her mouth.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Eventful.”

  “How so?”

  “Tell you later. I gotta hit the shower. Make sure Dad still has all his fingers when he’s done.”

  I stood under the hot water a long time, letting the shower sluice away the day’s sweat and tension and trying to decide what had been more intimidating, the testosterone-charged atmosphere of the paintball camp or the mournful face of Mrs. Stoppini. I was pleased that she had opened up a bit. When I thought about it, I recognized that she had placed a lot of trust in me from the start-in certain areas. Not that I blamed her for guarding her personal business. It was her unexplained behaviour concerning the secret cupboard that had weakened my trust in her and led me to wonder if, in a way, I was being used and purposely kept in the dark. Now I believed in her, and that made me both glad and relieved, because I liked Mrs. Stoppini.

  I was getting into clean clothes when my cell rang.

  “It’s your companion,” Raphaella said.

  “Nice to hear your voice, Ethel.”

  “Hah-hah. What did she say?”

  I sat down on the edge of my bed and replayed my conversation with Mrs. Stoppini.

  “It must have been hard on her, going over the events of the prof’s death again,” Raphaella remarked.

  “Yeah. There were lots of tears. But I got the feeling she was relieved, too, like she was unburdening herself.”

  “She’d been holding it all in since he died.”

  “Right.”

  “But you’re certain she knows nothing about our favourite ghost?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Good. And you got her permission to take the manuscript away and g
et it copied?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “Come over for supper. We can pick up a movie and flop in front of the TV for the evening.”

  “Okay. Who’s cooking?”

  “Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come anyway. It’s barbecue.”

  “Barbecued what?”

  “I don’t know. Some dead animal or other. I’ll try to get Dad to throw some veggie burgers on the grill while he’s at it.”

  WHEN I CAME DOWNSTAIRS Dad was still raising mayhem in the yard, a clutter of hemlock cuttings at his feet. I dragged a chair beside Mom and sat down.

  “How’s the research going?” I asked.

  “You haven’t explained your cryptic answer to my question when you came home.”

  “You first.”

  “Are you still my confidential source?”

  “Yup.”

  “Meaning anything I tell you can’t be shared.”

  I nodded.

  “Even with Raphaella.”

  “No dice, Mom. I tell her everything. Besides, she already knows most of it.”

  “All right. I’m not surprised. Anyway, I’ve contacted the Mounties through my lawyer. The laws relating to terrorist activity and suspected activity are pretty broad, so someone like me has to be careful about even possessing information affecting national security, because that can be interpreted as a crime. Protecting an anonymous source is very difficult. The old rules about reporters refusing to divulge a source don’t really apply. It’s all very unclear, and if it’s unclear, the practical result is that the security forces have very wide powers to make my life hell.”

  “So you think these guys are terrorists?”

  “I think it’s possible. I know the Mounties will think it’s likely. I can’t tell the authorities about the cellphone-not yet anyway-without getting into legal complications. In the meantime, my lawyer has worked out a deal with the cops. My position is that an anonymous source warned me about some suspicious-looking guys at a hunt camp near Orillia. I followed up and got enough info for a story, and I want to go ahead. But I understand the cops’ position that I can’t compromise an investigation. So I’ll agree to hold off. When the cops break the story, the basic facts will go out via the usual press conference. Once it’s announced, I have the exclusive on all the details.”