Teucer wishes that fateful day eight moons ago in the woods had never happened. It has changed so much. Tetia hasn't let him near her since. She changes and bathes out of his sight. No longer looks at him in a way that stirs his blood and unchains his desires. The rape has traumatised her. Made her feel dirty. Used. Unclean. Any effort of his to get close to her only seems to bring back those painful memories.
The seer suffers a mental flash of the man in the grass bent over his beloved wife, thrusting at her, his face contorted by pleasure. He'd stab him again. Gladly. He'd hack him into even smaller pieces than Tetia had done and feed him to his pigs.
And then there's the child.
The baby they'd both longed for. The final piece to make their family complete.
But whose is it?
His?
Or the rapist's?
Teucer thinks he knows the answer. He suspects Tetia does too. The very fact she will not discuss the matter with him tells him so. More than that, there are signs, clear signs that he has the power to understand. Tetia gets excited when it kicks. Begs him to feel it moving. But when he puts his hand there, the child stays still, like it's afraid to move. A guilty thought hits him: What if she lost it? If the gods decided in their wisdom it were to be stillborn? Would this not be a blessing?
Teucer rests his old horse in the sagging hammock of the valley and tries to clear his head of bad thoughts. The autumn day is already drawing to a rosy close and the air is cool like a mountain stream. He feels guilty as he walks the animal up the hillside towards his hut and imagines Tetia tending the golden fire that forever glows in their hearth. It was before that same hearth, that they had married several honey moons ago, just after the Solstice, when the honey had fermented into fine ceremonial mead blessed by Fufluns, the god of wine. Tetia had looked so wonderful as her father accompanied her from his hearth to Teucer's. So perfect.
He tethers the horse and walks inside. 'Tetia, I'm back.'
She is speechless. Sitting by the hearth. The fire out.
Teucer falls to his knees. Blows hard into the ash. Silver flakes fly from the dry twigs. They both know the fire must never be allowed to die – the deity that lives there has prohibited it.
She puts a hand on his back. 'I don't know what happened. I'm sorry.'
Teucer removes the fresh wood that has failed to burn. He puts his hand to the ash. It is cold. Several hours have passed since it felt the comfort of flames.
The fire is dead.
It is an omen – a dark one. Such disrespect and neglect for a deity inside the home will be punished, they can be sure of it.
CAPITOLO VI
A new day brings a new dawn and a new fire in Teucer's hearth.
But not a new start.
Today, he and Tetia did not sit together and watch the sunrise. They did not even sleep together last night. Instead the netsvis tended the flames, feeding wood into the deity's hungry hearth, hoping for forgiveness, struggling with dark thoughts.
He looks across at his wife as she sleeps in the skins that cover their bed. Her long black hair is spread out like the damaged wings of a fallen raven. Her peacefulness draws him to her and reminds him of their love. He places more kindling on the fire and walks over to the bed. He slips in beside her and holds her from behind. His hands touch her bloated stomach. He fights back a wave of repulsion and resists the urge to move them. 'Tetia, Tetia, are you awake?' She sleepily murmurs something in response. 'I need to talk to you.'
Her eyes stay closed. 'What?'
Teucer moves one hand and strokes hair from her face. 'Tell me – I won't be angry – is the child mine?'
She can't help but flinch. 'It is yours. It is mine. And it is ours.' She pulls away from his hand.
'That's not what I asked. You know what I meant.' He hears her sigh. 'We have to talk about this. Are you carrying the child of the man who raped you?'
For a moment she says nothing. She gathers the skin covers and sits upright, her slender back against the cold wall, her hair falling like dark rain over her shoulders. 'Teucer, I don't know.' She sounds exhausted. 'I know only that we are having a child and I pray to the gods that it is yours and that it is healthy.'
His eyes are full of challenge as he steps away from her. 'And if I am not the father?'
She looks exasperated. 'Then you are not the father.' She looks away and stares at a twist of light streaming through the woven walls of the hut. She turns back to him, reaches out a hand. 'Teucer, it is still our child. We will still love it, raise it and make it our own.'
Hate flashes in his eyes. 'I will not bring up the child of the monster who raped my wife!' He steps away from the bed. 'What comes from evil brings only evil. If the sperm of badness grows inside you, then we must not let it live.'
Horror spreads across her face. Instinctively, she puts her hands to her stomach. The child is moving, no doubt sensing her fear. 'Husband, you are angry. Do not say such things.' She pulls a skin over her shoulders, stands and walks to him.
Teucer does not move. He loathes himself for his thoughts, for what he just said, for how he feels. But he knows he is right. Tetia wraps the cover around him so it envelops them both. 'Come and lie with me. Hold me and take me. Let's try to find each other again.'
And despite all the anger, he does. He lies with his wife and he lets her kiss him and hold him and put him inside her. He lets her do it because he's desperate for her, desperate for how things were and how he hopes they will be again. He holds her tighter than he's ever done. Kisses her so passionately they both struggle to breathe. And when she makes him come, it is more intense than he's ever experienced.
Lying in a warm post-coital haze, they both decide to move silently on. Tetia doesn't mention her awful fears. Her deep, dark worries that her husband may be right, that something truly evil might be growing inside her. And Teucer says nothing of the decision he's come to. The course of action he's determined to follow. To kill their child as soon as it's born.
CHAPTER 10
Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice Valentina listens to everything Tom has to say, interrupting only a couple of times to ask questions, then leaves him alone in the interview room.
The story is an incredible one.
Global time differences mean it will take a while to check it all out and see if Shaman really is who he says he is, and if he really did what he said he did.
Valentina uses Google as a shortcut. 'You're never going to believe this!' Pulling the printouts from the tray, she crosses the Incident Room to where her boss is. 'Our witness – the man in Room 3 – he's an ex-priest who killed two people.'
'A killer priest?'
'No, not like that. A hero.'
Vito Carvalho laughs loudly. 'Hero – killer – priest. I don't think I've ever heard those three words together before.'
'Well, you're hearing them now. Look-' She hands over the wad of papers. 'Seems he stepped into some street incident. Three against one. Couldn't save the girl being attacked, but killed two of the bad guys. He told me most of it but I wanted to cross-check before I said anything.'
Vito takes the pages. 'It's some strange kind of Padre who can handle himself like that in a street fight. What's he like?'
She raises her eyes, tries to stay factual. 'Maybe 1.9 metres tall. I guess ninety kilos, perhaps a bit more – he's a big guy. Lean, you know, muscular. Somewhere in his early thirties.'
Vito peers over the top of the printouts. 'Hey, remember he's a priest, and a witness. Not dating material.'
'Ex-priest.'
'Still a witness.' He gives her a paternal stare. 'And still not dating material. By the way, the internet's notoriously unreliable. Make sure all these details and whatever he said to you are checked properly. Get Maria Santanni to do it, she's thorough.'
'Si.' Valentina picks up a phone.
'Do it later. First, let's go and talk with your hero killer priest.'
'Ex-priest!' stresses Valentina again, as she lapdogs afte
r him. Vito Carvalho doesn't pause at the interview-room door like Valentina did. He bursts straight in. Maximum noise. Maximum surprise. Looking to see how jumpy the guy waiting on the other side is.
Tom Shaman is slouched low on the hard-backed chair, chin comfortably resting on interlocked fingers. He looks up at the grand entrance and his eyes track Carvalho into the room. He only sits up when he sees Valentina. A sign of respect, nothing more. Her face gives away that she's run checks on him. That's no surprise. It's what he'd expect a cop to do. Hopefully, they'll let him go now.
'Hello again,' he says to Valentina.
'This is my boss, Major Carvalho.' She gestures to him as they slide into seats across the grey table. 'He's leading the enquiry into Monica's death.'
'Monica?'
The major fills in the blanks: 'Monica Vidic. Her father has identified her. She's fifteen and came from Croatia.'
'Poor guy. I imagine he's in pieces.' Tom momentarily recalls the horror of dragging the girl from the canal.
Carvalho is watching every gesture, every crease on his face, every movement of his lips. 'Why didn't you tell us straight away that you were a priest? That you left the Church such a short time ago?'
Tom shifts in his seat. 'Why should I? What difference does it make to you whether I used to be a priest or a rocket scientist?'
Carvalho drums his fingers. 'It probably doesn't make any difference. But a priest who left after the experience you went through – well, maybe that's something worth us talking about, right?'
'I didn't think it was worth mentioning. Not then – and not now.'
Carvalho tries coming at him from another angle. 'When I became a policeman I stopped believing in coincidences. Phrases like, "I just happened to be there when I came across this body," stopped ringing true. And I have real trouble believing that you left two corpses behind in LA, flew all this way and just happened to be on hand to find another one here in Venice. Do you see what I mean?'
Tom smiles. 'I do. I absolutely do see what you mean. But, at the risk of annoying you, I did just happen to be there. Ask the old man, he was the one who found the young girl – Monica.'
'He found her,' interjects Valentina. 'But maybe you put her there. Killers like to be around for the find.'
Tom shakes his head. 'You don't believe that. Not for a minute. I know you've got to do your job and go through all this. But you don't really believe that.'
'Okay, let's talk about belief for a moment.' The major leans forward and rests on his arms. 'What kind of man do you believe could have killed a young woman like that?'
'A very disturbed one,' says Tom. 'He was either mentally ill – or worse. Perhaps overcome or possessed by the powers of evil.'
'The powers of evil?' says Carvalho mockingly.
Something in the major's tone gets to Tom. 'I've seen a lot of murdered people. Probably more than you'll ever see. I've heard the confessions of many serial killers, child abusers and rapists. And I tell you, you're dealing with the devil's work. It was his hand that guided that blade, as surely as if he'd stood there in all his cloven-hoofed glory and killed her himself.'
Tom looks across the table and sees their scepticism deepen. 'Okay, the bit about cloven hooves is probably over the top. But the rest of it I mean. I really mean.'
CHAPTER 11
It's early afternoon when they finally let Tom go. By now, he's way beyond hungry and thinks he'll fall over if he doesn't get something quick.
Venice is very different to eating cheap at his church vestry in LA and he's discovering his lunchtime allocation of fifteen euros won't buy much. The search is on for cheap pizza and, by the looks of it, he won't get it at the Grand Canal restaurant on Calle Vallaresso.
He stands on its elegant terrace by the waterside, watching waiters glide between tables in an exquisite culinary ballet. A menu behind glass makes his mouth water. If he had the money he'd start with salmon and swordfish tartare with lemon and basil. Maybe a glass of a local Barolo with a main course of rack of lamb and fresh garden vegetables.
'Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt ate here.' A woman's voice. One he recognises.
He turns to see Tina, the travel writer he'd met in Florin's. 'It's famous for its seafood,' she adds as she lifts a pair of fashionably oversized shades. 'And its prices.' Her blue eyes twinkle.
'You're right there.' Tom taps the menu glass. 'I can just afford the coffee.'
'You haven't eaten yet?'
'No. Not since last night. Can you recommend somewhere that suits a more modest – actually, a much more modest budget?'
She takes a long look at him, then smiles. 'I tell you what – let's get a table here. You buy the coffee – you said you could stretch to that – and I'll buy lunch.'
Tom is horrified. 'I can't let you do that-'
But Tina already has the eye of a waltzing waiter and doesn't feel like taking no for an answer. 'Lei ha una tavola per due, per favore?'
A white-jacketed ballet star in his late fifties grins at her. 'Si, signorina, certo.'
Tom feels embarrassed as he follows them to a table in the far corner. Even before the seat's been pulled out for him and the starched white napkin laid on his lap, he can tell that the view is magnificent and the meal is certain to be memorable. 'This is enormously generous of you. Really, I'm horribly ashamed. If I'd known how expensive Venice is, I probably wouldn't have come.'
'That really would have been shameful.' She studies his face and sees he's tense and awkward. 'Listen, I was going to eat here anyway. Every travel writer is compelled to eat somewhere cheap and somewhere as ridiculously expensive as the Grand Canal, so I'm simply putting you down as research.'
'"Research"? I don't think I've ever been called that before.'
His charm earns him a long sparkle of her flawless teeth. 'In return, you have to tell me your story. Who you are, why you're here, what you like and don't like about Venice – that's the kind of stuff I have to find out when I research fellow travellers.'
'Okay,' says Tom, 'you have a deal.' The waiter appears juggling two menus, a wine list, olives and a silver basket of bread. 'But,' adds Tom, 'it won't be the kind of story you're going to want to write.'
CHAPTER 12
A blue-and-white police boat speeds Vito and Valentina to the mortuary at the Ospedale San Lazzaro. The sun is baking hot and the canal smells of burned cabbage. Behind them, a white wake froths on chocolate-brown water as twin outboards growl down the canals. It reminds Valentina of the iced cappuccino she promised herself an hour ago.
They disembark at the city hospital, alongside a fleet of water ambulances knocking gently against ancient wooden posts. Paramedics in sunglasses sit on stone steps near the quay, Day-glo orange uniforms rolled down to their waists, smoking and chatting lazily. The calm before the storm.
'Hey!' The shout comes from Valentina's cousin, Antonio Pavarotti, arriving on foot from the opposite direction. 'Wait!'
He's breathless as he catches up. Only after they've slipped into the shady labyrinth of the Ospedale does he find his normal voice. 'The divers have found nothing. Short of dredging the canal, there's no more we can do.'
'Nothing?' queries Vito, who has spent much of his career lecturing officers on the subject 'there is no such thing as nothing – if there ever was nothing, then it really would mean something'.
Antonio – who's heard the lecture several times – corrects himself: 'Only a pair of fake Gucci shades, probably from one of the stalls near the Rialto, a sodden mound of litter dropped by damned tourists, and a broken Swatch watch that looks like it belonged to a child.'
Vito shakes his head. The boy will never learn. 'They're all something, not nothing. Check them. Show them to the market traders, jewellers, see if we strike lucky.'
The major leads them towards the block at the back of the hospital marked Anatomia Patalogica, Laboratorio Alalisi, Mortuarie. 'Forensics get anything?'
'There are paint marks against the wall where Monica was tied. T
hey look new. Could be from the craft that he carried her on. They're black, though, the colour of every damned gondola in Venice.'
'Samples already gone to the labs?'
'Of course.'
'Well done, Antonio. We'll be sorry to lose you. When do you start your new job?'
'Tomorrow, Major.' He looks worried for a second. 'Do you wish me to ask the unit commander to find someone else?'
Touched by his loyalty, Vito says, 'No, no. I know how much you enjoy undercover. We'll cope without you, won't we, Valentina?'
She smiles. 'Somehow. I don't know how, but we'll struggle through.'
'They're posting you out to that hippy commune, aren't they?' asks Carvalho rhetorically. 'Months of sex. Drugs. Rock'n'roll and a mad millionaire who thinks he's creating a revolution.'
Antonio grins. 'It's tough work, but someone has to do it.'
Valentina delivers him a playful punch in the arm, but as they turn into the morgue the air goes cold and so does their mood.
Vito walks them towards an old man with a bald, white head that's wise enough to stay out of Venice's blistering sun. 'Officers, this is Professore Sylvio Montesano. Professore, these are lieutenants Valentina Morassi and Antonio Pavarotti, this is their first time in the mortuary.'
'Then I'm honoured, and very pleased to meet you both.' Montesano bows, wire bifocals sliding to the tip of his nose. 'Come with me to the Cooler.'
The fifteen-year-old victim is laid out on a steel gurney, her body bleached white by the overhead lighting, her wounds the colour of putrid veal. Antonio is unfazed but Valentina is already holding a perfumed handkerchief to her mouth.
'The body is actually in remarkably good condition,' says Montesano. 'Oddly enough, submersion in water slows decomposition. We got her in here very quickly, so decay isn't as advanced as it might have been.'
At a nod from Vito, the medical examiner launches into his report, pitching it so the two lieutenants can easily follow.
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