by Joanne Pence
“I’ve never been so humiliated in my life,” Cat said, looking down at herself.
Angie pointed and laughed. “You look so short and stubby.”
Daniel had to agree. For some reason, Cat reminded him of the way children drew mushrooms with dotted tops and boxy brown stems.
“Anyone who looks like a bumblebee on steroids has no right to point fingers,” Cat retorted. The two sisters beamed death stares at each other.
“Ladies,” Father Daniel said, holding up his hands, “we’ve got to get out of here before more people start milling around. You should put on the rest of your things so we can get going.”
He had also bought wool overcoats and head scarves. Cat studiously inspected the coat for lice, moths, or other bugs before putting it on. They covered their hair with the scarves, knotting them under their chins.
Daniel put the St. Peter chain in a paper bag for Cat, and handed Angie a heavy wooden rosary. “Pull the scarves forward onto your foreheads a little and keep your heads down. I think we can do it.”
He nodded and opened the door. The women stepped out to the hallway and headed for the stairs. Angie’s sneakers were so large, they slapped and squeaked with each step she took.
Daniel followed behind them. They met three residents as they passed, all of whom stopped and gawked at the strange procession. Angie and Cat said nothing, knowing even a “Buon giorno” would give away their American accents. Daniel nodded, trying to act as if nothing the least out of the ordinary was going on.
He’d been able to borrow a car at the Vatican. Fortunately, neither Angie nor Cat asked how.
When they reached the street, he saw a huge, scowling man with a bandage across his nose, standing in a doorway, watching the passersby.
Angie shivered, and Daniel quickened his steps to pull alongside her, hiding her from view. Did she recognize the huge man? Was he one of the assailants?
Perspiration beaded on Daniel’s brow as he contemplated his next steps.
The car wasn’t far, and he quickly hustled them into the small black Mercedes Smart Car. Back in the States, he had no idea Mercedes made anything so tiny. But then, most of the cars in Rome were minuscule by U.S. standards.
As he drove nervously away from the Vatican, he looked into his rearview mirror. The man with the bandaged nose was no longer in the doorway.
Chapter 35
“I know a small church that’s been all but abandoned,” Father Daniel said as he drove. He was a slow, careful driver who sat up rigidly in the seat, eyes straight ahead, and tended to make the Italians around him have fits. Angie could see that many wanted to honk their horns at him or do worse for his slowness, but when they saw his collar, they refrained.
“It’s the Church of St. Monica,” Daniel continued, “named for the mother of St. Augustine. She prayed for twenty years that her world-loving pagan son would become a Christian, and when he did, he developed into one of the intellectual fathers of the Church. St. Monica’s is on the outskirts of Rome, on the road to Ostia, where Monica died. As the number of people in parishes has declined, many of the smaller churches with no history, nothing special to keep them open, are being closed. There are fewer and fewer priests as well.”
“I hadn’t realized that,” Angie said.
“It’s true. It’s a strange time for Europe and the Church. A dark time.”
Angie felt a chill as she stared at the gray industrial buildings off the highway. She couldn’t help but reflect on Monica and the kind of mother she was to Augustine, as opposed to the way Rocco had spoken of his own—how she’d talked him into leaving the restaurant he loved to concentrate on a furniture store. Had he been left alone, Angie wondered if so much tragedy might have been averted.
Daniel parked the car at the bottom of a steep hill and they walked up. The church sat at the top. Halfway up the hill, along a narrow path off to the left, was a small house. He unlocked the door and they entered. “This is the caretaker’s cottage. It’s empty now, so you can stay here. The caretaker from St. Boniface comes by occasionally to check on things.” He led them into a two-room house. It was sparse, but comfortably furnished. It had no telephone, Angie noted. She would have to find one and tell Paavo soon everything that was happening. Soon, she told herself, soon she’d be with him again. That one word, soon, had become her mantra.
“The rectory is closed up as well, and the church is locked. A key to it is on the ring I’ll leave you. You can go in if you’d like. It might be a comfort,” he said as he rubbed his hands together from the cold, then lit a fire in a woodstove. It seemed to be the only source of heat in the house.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’ll talk with some people to find out all I can about getting you two out of Italy and back to the U.S. without being arrested. Your instincts were right about not wanting to get tied up in the Italian legal system. It’s something to avoid at all costs.”
“Good,” Angie said, “especially since I need to get back to San Francisco in time for my meeting with Chef Poulon-Leliellul.”
“Who?” Daniel asked.
“Don’t start, Angie,” Cat warned.
Angie shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Once they were alone, they watched the sunrise until Cat announced she was going to lie down for a while and headed for the bedroom.
Angie stretched out on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t like the idea of being so cut off in this strange place, and wondered if it was wise to trust Father Daniel.
She told herself she had no reason not to, and her instincts said he was a good man. It was odd, however, that he just happened to talk to her in English at the restaurant that first night, and then he just happened to be at St. Peter in Chains, and he just happened to be staying right next door to Da Vinci’s.
Also, why did he deny following the archeologists?
They were now completely dependent on him. Everything they owned—their few euros, credit cards, passports, even their makeup—was all back at Da Vinci’s, and they had no way to get there.
While Cat snored, Angie decided to look over their surroundings. She took the key to the church. There were times in life she prayed for divine intervention. This was one of them.
She took the back route to the church from the caretaker’s cottage. It was winding and overgrown with shrubbery. A turn in the footpath gave her a glimpse of the small church. Signs of neglect were evident even from a distance, and yet, against the gray, overcast sky, there was an aura about the place that was mystical, even spiritual. Her step lightened as she neared it.
Around the far side of the church stepped an elderly priest. He stopped and stared, as shocked to see her as she was to see him. He had close-cropped white hair, a white beard, and a gray moustache, while his eyebrows were thick and dark. In the gloom, his eyes appeared black. He wore a brown friar’s robe with a cowl.
“Why are you here?” His voice was harsh, his gaze severe.
In nervous, clumsy Italian, Angie apologized for disturbing him. She had to admit that older nuns and priests still had the whammy on her, and in their presence she often reverted to feeling like an awkward schoolgirl. “I’m staying at the caretaker’s cottage with my sister. Father Daniel, who is studying at the Vatican, let us in.”
The priest’s gaze narrowed as if trying to determine if she was lying. In nearly accentless English he said, “Our bishop must have approved, then.”
Angie hadn’t thought about that, but it made sense. Father Daniel didn’t seem to be a person who would do anything without permission.
“Is this your church?” she asked.
“No, but I check on it from time to time. None of the local people come here anymore, and there’s nothing inside to draw pilgrims to it. It’s simply a lovely old church that has stood for nearly three hundred years. That is neither old nor special in Rome.”
He invited her to see the church if she wished. She agreed and told him her name and where she was from. He sai
d she could call him Father Pio, and that he, too, was only a visitor in the area. His manner was gruff, but oddly comforting, and she followed with no hesitation.
They entered through a side door, and Father Pio turned on lights, which only illuminated a small part of the nave, near the altar. The heat had been turned on and a few candles burned. The rest of the church was shrouded in darkness, but she could see the gold and marble surrounding the altar, statuary, and artwork. “This is lovely,” she said.
The old priest placed his hand caringly on the rail. “It saddens me to see it going to ruin.”
Angie realized she was with a person who could probably explain some Church history to her.
They sat down in a pew, and Father Pio answered her questions about Peter in chains in Jerusalem and Rome and his imprisonment and death. As the padre spoke, his words echoed through the empty church. The lights flickered, and the outside wind, which had been a gentle breeze, suddenly howled. Rain fell and made a patter on the roof. Yet inside, the church felt warmer, and the candles brighter.
“Grazie, padre,” Angie said when he finished.
“Why do you ask about such things?” Father Pio inquired.
“I wonder if it’s possible that . . . that there’s another chain that held St. Peter, one the Church doesn’t yet know about.”
Together they left. The rain had diminished and was now only a gentle mist. Dark, piercing eyes studied her. “If such a thing existed, it would be a great find. Something that the people should be allowed to see. Something that might help them remember. I will pray that you are given guidance.”
With that, he made the sign of the cross over her, then turned and walked back into the church.
Angie was halfway down the hill to the cottage when she paused. What had Father Pio meant by “remember”?
Although it was night, Yosh, Calderon, and Benson were still at work in Homicide when Paavo entered with Charles.
Calderon was sitting at his desk, reading through some paperwork and whistling an old show tune that Paavo recognized as a favorite of Angie’s. He remembered some of the words. “Two lost souls on the highway of life . . . ”
Calderon must have felt Paavo’s eyes on him because he looked up, then all around the office. Benson and Yosh were grinning broadly. “What,” he said, “you guys don’t like music all of a sudden?”
Paavo remembered the song ended with something like, “Ain’t it just great, and ain’t it just grand . . . we got each other.”
He hadn’t seen Calderon since Luis went for coffee with Frannie, after she had quoted something about mothers.
Mothers. He couldn’t help but reflect on Flora Piccoletti and Serefina Amalfi, and the very different, albeit strong, influences both had on their children’s lives.
As he glanced back at Calderon, he wondered if the time Luis Calderon had spent with Frannie was the reason he seemed so happy now. No. Impossible.
He introduced Charles to Calderon and Benson, then led him to the interview room. Before taking his statement, Paavo went to his desk to check for messages from Angie.
Yosh stopped him. “We’ve got a match! Len Ferguson. His fingerprints were found on Flora Piccoletti’s back door. We don’t know when, we don’t know why, but I’d say it’s pretty suspicious.”
“Especially since Ferguson denied being in the house.” Paavo quickly scanned the report Yosh had drawn up when he’d booked the Fergusons. “We’ve got him and his wife for kidnapping Charles, but if they killed Flora Piccoletti, we’re looking at murder one.”
“I thought you must be hungry,” Father Daniel said with a big smile as he walked into the cottage. He put plastic grocery sacks with bread, milk, eggs, pancetta, cheese, butter, coffee, and tea on the table. “We can have bacon and eggs, American style.” He opened a cupboard in search of a pan. “I’ll even cook.”
“No need,” Angie said, taking the pan from him. “Cooking is my forte.”
“It’s the one thing she does better than me,” Cat offered.
As she made brunch, Angie told Daniel about her strange conversation with the elderly priest. “He said the church will be destroyed if there isn’t some reason for local people or pilgrims to visit it. He sounded very unhappy about that.”
Daniel listened to her story with a perplexed look. “There’s no priest connected with this church, Angie,” he said, shaking his head. “Only a caretaker from St. Boniface, once a week or so.”
“But the electricity was on, as was the heat. Candles were lit.” Angie was equally puzzled.
“The electricity is off,” Daniel insisted. “The church is locked up.”
“It’s open. I was inside,” Angie countered.
“Maybe you dreamed it, Angie,” Cat said. “You were lying down when I got up.”
“How could I have dreamed the story of the life of St. Peter? Besides, look at my shoes.” She held up her feet. “They’ve still got some dried mud on them. Or are you suggesting I was sleepwalking? After we eat, we’ll go back. I’ll show you.”
“You’ve been under a great deal of stress.” Daniel’s words were soft and troubled. “The scene you described was comforting. That might be the reason for it.” The concerned way he looked at her made a chill run down her back.
Angie cooked brunch in silence. Everyone felt better after eating, and she was almost ready to concede that she had dreamed the conversation—the whole thing did seem rather otherworldly—but she hadn’t. She was determined to show Father Daniel what she’d seen.
Cat refused to waste her time or energy.
When Angie reached the church, the main doors were shut with a large chain and a padlock. She hadn’t noticed them earlier. They walked all the way around the church and found the side door she’d entered with the priest. Strangely, there was only one set of footprints going up to and leaving the church. And the door she supposedly used was locked as tight as the one with the padlock.
Daniel unlocked the door and they entered. The church was icy cold and dark. Other than that, everything was exactly as she remembered it.
“How can this be?” She looked around, dazed and confused.
He held her arm. “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.”
Angie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was sure it hadn’t been a dream. She’d never been inside the church before, yet knew exactly what it looked like. That was impossible. She shuddered from more than cold.
Father Daniel led her outside again.
“I don’t understand.” She clasped her hands. “I know what I saw!”
He frowned. “You must have visited years ago when you lived in Italy. You forgot, but subconsciously you remembered all of it.”
“No! I’m sure I was there today. I don’t get it.”
Her eyes searched his clear gray ones, but he had no answer for her. He put his arm around her back and turned her toward the cottage.
“Getting a little familiar, aren’t you, Father?”
Angie and Daniel froze at the gruff voice. Cautiously, they turned, and the two “goons,” as Cat had called them, who’d broken into both Cousin Giulio’s place and their bedroom at Da Vinci’s, stood before them. For the first time, Angie could see them clearly. The slim one had a goatee. He was the goateed man who’d followed them when they first arrived in Rome. The hulking one was ugly with a bandaged nose. He was so huge it was no wonder they couldn’t knock him out last night.
“Where’s the chain?” Goatee demanded brusquely.
“We don’t have any chain,” Angie said.
“Don’t get smart!” The Hulk stepped forward, raising his hand to smack her.
“No!” Daniel jumped in front of Angie. The Hulk changed his open hand to a fist and punched the priest in the face. Daniel went down hard. His head hit a tree trunk, his glasses flew off, and he was out cold.
“Father!” Angie started toward him, but Goatee grabbed her and dragged her toward the cottage.
“We can’t just leave h
im!” she cried.
“You’re going to get that chain for us right now,” Goatee said.
They opened the door to the cottage. Cat wasn’t there. They searched, but she and the chain were nowhere to be found.
“Where’d she go?”
Confused and miserable, Angie shook her head. She couldn’t believe Cat was gone.
Chapter 36
“You made us look like idiots!” the Hulk yelled as he stuffed Angie into the backseat of a tiny two-door Fiat Panda—all three inches of it—and got in front. “A dog chain! Goddamn it!”
She was curled up like a pretzel. “I did no such thing! I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I demand you let me go. You don’t know the trouble you’re going to be in.”
“Do we look worried?” Goatee asked with an evil chuckle. He got into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s the chain of St. Peter?” the Hulk demanded.
“You took the only chain I’ve ever had,” Angie said. “If it’s not what you want, go find Marcello, or should I say Rocco Piccoletti?”
“We’ve watched Piccoletti. He doesn’t have the chain. We know he thinks you and your sister have it. We want it. Where is it?”
“I don’t know!”
“Then your sister does!” Goatee started the car and peeled from the church grounds. “If she ever wants to see you alive again, she’ll give it to us.”
“What do we care about some old chain?” Angie watched the roads. Entering the highway, he turned toward Rome. “You saw how fast we gave it up once already. We’d give it to you in a heartbeat if it meant we were safe.”
“It’s worth a lot of money,” the Hulk said.
“So am I,” Angie told him. “Let me go, and I’ll pay you.”
“You’ll pay all right! Believe me.”
“Please.” Angie clutched the back of the driver’s seat. Goatee drove so fast and the car was so small, she wondered if they’d survive to ever get to Rome. “Let me talk to Piccoletti. Listen in as I do. You’ll see that my sister and I don’t have the chain. He’s got it! You’ve got to believe me. Would I lie to you?”
