Ring of Fire

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  Joe Vinile snorts. “You’re saying … rrr … that this … rrr … piece of glass … rrr … is worth something?”

  “It could have tremendous value,” replies Ermete. “Or none at all.”

  Elettra is silent. She doesn’t look up. She’s thinking.

  She thinks of Ermete and Harvey and Sheng and Mistral.

  She thinks of the professor.

  She thinks of the mirror.

  She thinks of the Ring of Fire. Which is a concave mirror. Perhaps the most ancient one in the world. Perhaps the very first one. It’s the mirror of fire, and she’s burning up with a single desire: to get out of there.

  To get outside. Under the starry sky.

  Joe Vinile uses his foot to flip the mirror over. Carved into the bronze frame are a drawing and an inscription. “And this … rrr …? What is it? A comet … rrr …? And this … latinorum? You’ve studied this stuff … rrr … What the heck does it say … rrr …?”

  Ermete leans over to pick up the mirror, but Joe sticks out his foot to stop him. “Look at it … rrr … but don’t touch it … rrr … !”

  Ermete squints in the darkness. He reads the inscription on the back of the mirror and lets out a little laugh.

  “What’s so funny … rrr …?”

  “The professor had it right,” the engineer says in a soft voice, once again trying to catch Elettra’s eye. “It’s a quote from Seneca. It’s from his book about comets.”

  “And what does … rrr … it say?”

  “ ‘There is an invisible purpose behind the visible world.’”

  Joe Vinile grunts. “That doesn’t mean … rrr … a damn thing.”

  “That’s not true …,” Elettra cuts in, whirling around.

  Her hair is flowing as though moved by an approaching storm.

  And her eyes are completely yellow.

  * * *

  A man is sprawled out inside the bathtub. His hands and feet are bound, his mouth is gagged and his chest is covered in blood.

  “Harvey!” shouts Sheng, bursting into the bathroom and hugging his friend. “Are you okay?”

  The boy nods.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” murmurs Sheng.

  “The man with the violin,” Harvey confirms in a whisper. “But what’s he doing in there?”

  “Is he dead?”

  The man’s eyes are closed and he seems to have lost a lot of blood. The whole tub is stained red.

  “I think so.” Harvey takes a step closer.

  “What are you doing?” cries Sheng.

  “I just want to make sure. …”

  “Harvey, don’t do it! Let’s get out of here!”

  The American boy takes a second step toward the tub. And then a third. He doesn’t take his eyes off the man’s motionless face.

  “Come back here!” pleads Sheng.

  Harvey takes another step, leans over and touches the man’s arm with his fingertips. Then he takes a small step back, stiff with tension. He turns to look back at Sheng and murmurs, “Yeah … he’s dead.”

  Suddenly, a hand tries to grab him around the waist. Harvey doesn’t even have time to turn around.

  Sheng shouts, “Harvey! Look out!”

  The man with the violin has opened his eyes.

  Harvey trips over the plastic shower curtain, yanking out its rings. He slips and falls to the floor.

  “No!” screams Sheng, running up to him and trying to drag him to his feet. The man with the violin thrashes around in the tub, trying to free himself. The boys don’t stay there a moment longer. They race out of the bathroom. They rush all the way up the hall and down the stairs, out the front door and across the path.

  They don’t even stop when they’ve crossed through the front gate.

  Or even when they’re past the arch.

  They don’t stop. They just keep running.

  When he sees Elettra’s yellow eyes, Joe Vinile backs up toward the exit of the mitreo. “Hey … rrr … kid … rrr … what the heck is … rrr … happening to you … rrr …?” he croaks. The moment he reaches the door, a shadow appears behind him. A dark shadow revealing a tiny glimmer of gold. Joe lets out a grunt and turns his head just enough to face the person standing behind him. “And who … rrr … the devil … rrr … are you?”

  Ermete lunges at Joe Vinile, giving him a punch that the man resists as though it were a caress. Ermete tries a second time, but Joe rushes at him, head down, ramming him up against a wall of the mitreo. The two are locked in a desperate struggle, with Joe rushing at Ermete and Ermete trying to hoist Joe up by the belt.

  Elettra just stares at the Gypsy woman, stunned.

  “I came to tell you, child … that your life line is still very long,” the woman announces.

  “Do something!” grunts Ermete, punching Joe Vinile in the back wildly.

  “Stop!” shouts Elettra.

  But the two continue to fight.

  “The gun! Look out!” the girl screams.

  Only then does Joe Vinile seem to remember that he still has a gun in his hand. He easily breaks free from Ermete’s awkward hold and takes a step back. He opens his mouth to say something, but without the amplifier box his voice is just a series of throaty grunts.

  He raises the gun over his head and takes a second step backward.

  Mistake.

  His foot lands right inside the niche in the floor and he loses his balance. His head smacks against the altar to Mithra with a deafening thud. The gun falls to the floor with a metallic clatter.

  A long silence fills the room.

  The Gypsy woman is still standing at the door, bundled up in her thick layers of coats. Ermete pants, counting the ribs he thinks might still be intact. “Elettra?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes … At least I think so. Are you?”

  The engineer coughs out a yes and then takes a few unsteady steps toward Joe Vinile. “He’s unconscious,” he says, kicking the gun away. “We’ve got to get out of here, right now. …”

  Ermete looks around for the mirror, but the Gypsy darts out and stands between him and the Ring of Fire.

  “Not you,” she orders, raising her hand.

  The man rubs his aching bones. “Not me … what?”

  “You aren’t the one who should take the Ring,” the Gypsy explains. “She is.”

  Ermete shakes his head violently. “Listen, don’t you get in the middle of this, too, okay? What difference does it make who takes it?”

  “The Ring belongs to the one who is to wear it. And the mirror belongs to the one who is to look into it,” the Gypsy replies adamantly.

  “But I don’t want to look into it!” Elettra protests.

  “You can see your reflection in the mirror even with your eyes closed,” the woman reminds her.

  Ermete stares at her, not understanding. “Am I crazy, or are you two in on this together?”

  Elettra walks up to him. “Are you one of them?” she asks, point-blank.

  29

  THE BETRAYAL

  “WHY ARE WE STOPPING?” MISTRAL ASKS BEATRICE.

  The young woman puts on her emergency lights as she pulls the yellow Mini up to the curb.

  “We’ve still got one more thing to do …,” she says enigmatically She motions to Mistral to get out of the car, and together they walk down a narrow lane. The air is cold and they can see their breath.

  “Is he following us?” asks Mistral, hunching over slightly.

  “No. He can’t follow us,” replies Beatrice. “At least I don’t think so.” Her lip has turned purple, and she can feel her temples throb with a dull pain.

  Around them, Rome is immersed in the last chilly night of December. The night of San Silvestro. “Do you know why we call it that?” she asks Mistral.

  “What?”

  “New Year’s Eve. We call it the night of San Silvestro, or Saint Sylvester.” She even manages to smile. “I mean, if you mention the name Sylvester, the only thing that comes to my mind is the bl
ack-and-white cat who’s always trying to catch Tweety, but always fails.”

  This even seems to amuse Mistral. “Well, we’ve got to try to be just like Tweety. And be good at not getting caught.”

  Beatrice nods and lifts the lid.

  “Come on, Mistral,” she orders, nodding her head toward the open Dumpster. “It’s time for a little spring cleaning.”

  Mistral lifts up the violin case and throws it in.

  “To hell with you!” exclaims Beatrice, slamming the lid shut.

  She can feel the adrenaline in her body drain away, like hot water melting through snow. She realizes she has to move fast, before she collapses. She has to go away, far away, before she thinks back on what she’s done.

  “Okay,” she says.

  Mistral looks at her with her big, kind eyes. “Now what?”

  “We get back in the car and I take you home.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I know what to do.”

  It’s not true. But it’s something, at least.

  Ermete’s eyes are open wide. His lip is trembling. His hands are nervously pressed up against his aching abdomen.

  “Are you one of them?” Elettra asks him a second time.

  “How could you think such a thing?”

  “Isn’t that man a friend of yours?”

  “He’s an acquaintance.”

  “He’s one of them.”

  “H-how was I supposed to know that?” Ermete stammers. “I have nothing to do with … with them. How could I know who was following the professor … or me?”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Just do it,” the engineer insists.

  “Let the Gypsy see your hand,” Elettra orders.

  Ermete De Panfilis gapes. “What are you talking about, Elettra?” he exclaims. “What could showing her my hand possibly accomplish? Be serious! Let’s … let’s just get out of this place before Joe comes to!”

  “Are you scared?” asks Elettra.

  “Of course not!” he protests, shocked. “Dammit, Elettra!” he cries when he realizes the girl means it. “Do you want to know my star sign, too? And my rising sign, maybe?”

  “All she needs to do is read your palm.”

  “Elettra! We don’t have time for this!” Then, with an exasperated sigh, Ermete lets the Gypsy woman take his hand.

  “What do you see?” the girl asks her.

  “What do you expect her to see? She sees a hand covered with dust!” Ermete grumbles.

  At their feet, Joe Vinile lets out a gasping noise.

  “What do you see?” Elettra insists.

  “Have you gotten to the part where I forged my parents’ signature in high school?” Ermete says mockingly. “Or that unforgettable weekend when I had dates with two different girls on the same night?”

  The woman shakes her head.

  She reads his hand and shakes her head.

  Seeing her so focused, Ermete yanks his hand back, trying to get free. “No funny business, okay?”

  “What do you see?” Elettra asks for the third time.

  The Gypsy woman’s face melts into a calm smile. “I see the hand of a man who’s never worked a single day in his life.”

  “And I’m proud of it!” Ermete blurts out.

  “And I see a giant string of lies. …”

  Elettra and Ermete stiffen.

  “But they’re all amusing lies. Pranks … and games. Child’s play,” the Gypsy concludes.

  “Long live the truth!” cries the engineer, taking a deep breath. “Can we go now?”

  “So he isn’t one of them?”

  The Gypsy woman smiles. “No, not unless by ‘them’ you mean people who just like playing around.”

  Ermete bends over to pick up the Ring of Fire and brusquely hands it to Elettra. “Here. Take this, before madame gets angry!”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl tells him, accepting the Ring of Fire.

  “That’s all right,” says Ermete. “It’s just … I wasn’t expecting …”

  Elettra rises up on her tiptoes to hug him. “I’m really sorry, Ermete! I just don’t know who to believe anymore.”

  “Well, this time, believe me: we’ve got to get out of here!” he says, returning the hug.

  Harvey and Sheng are running at breakneck speed. Harvey’s racing out ahead, deciding on the spot when and where to turn, finding his way through the streets of Rome without hesitating.

  And without ever looking back.

  They’re running in order to put as much distance as they can between themselves and the man with the gray hair. And despite the ice, which makes each step dangerous, they run without ever slowing down, even when taking curves, barely dodging the passersby.

  When they finally decide to slow down, the city around them is once again Rome. Nothing around them reminds them of the crenellated walls of Coppedè. They see white cupolas, rows of monumental columns and series of archways. They see the ruins of the ancient empire proudly illuminated by spectacular lights.

  Rome is protecting them and hiding them.

  But the city is too big and too ancient for them to keep challenging it like this.

  They need a safe place where they can rest.

  A place where no one can touch them.

  The Domus Quintilia.

  Jacob Mahler finally pulls himself out of the tub and lies there on the cold bathroom floor. He manages to spit out the gag in his mouth and starts to drag himself toward the sink, his hands and feet still bound. His chest is exploding with pain.

  First he gets to his knees, and then he crouches on his feet. He leans against the edge of the sink. He pushes himself up. The mirror reflects his face. It looks like a skull.

  “Don’t think it ends here …,” he growls, staring at his reflection. “Don’t think I’m not going to come looking for you.”

  His head’s throbbing. The wound in his chest makes it difficult for him to breathe.

  He moves awkwardly up to the medicine cabinet beside the mirror, opens it, clasps the corner of his medicine bag between his fingertips and dumps it into the sink, making its contents spill out. He rummages through it, finds his razor, opens it up and slips the handle in between his teeth. Then he raises his wrists and starts to rub the cords against the blade, up and down, up and down, barely slicing them with each stroke.

  A minute later and he’s free. He spits out the razor and frees his ankles.

  He pants.

  His whole chest is covered with blood.

  He staggers out of the bathroom. He reaches Mistral’s room and looks around. Empty. Or actually, not entirely empty. Photographs are scattered everywhere. He recognizes them. He was the one who ordered them to be taken and sent in to the newspapers. They’re pictures of Alfred Van Der Berger.

  “AAAARGH!” he howls, ripping the sheets off the bed and dragging them down the hallway.

  First he needs to take care of his wound. Then he has to take care of the girl. But when he returns to the bathroom, he hears music, the notes of the song “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt. It’s coming from the sheets he’s dragging behind him. Jacob Mahler kneels down and untangles them. A cell phone tumbles to the ground.

  It’s Mistral’s phone.

  “Hello?” he practically roars, answering it.

  “Good morning,” comes Beatrice’s voice. “Have you looked outside the front door yet?”

  Mahler doesn’t breathe.

  “You’re through, Jacob …,” the young woman continues. “It looks like they just caught the Tiberside Killer.”

  “You didn’t …,” he snarls, rushing furiously down the stairs.

  He throws open the front door.

  And he backs up, staring into the blue blinking light. Two police cars are parked outside the house.

  “Freeze!” a carabiniere warns him. “Put your hands up!”

  Jacob Mahler gapes. He sees the gleaming of guns being trained on him. Bu
t he doesn’t raise his hands.

  Instead he goes back inside, locks the door behind him and runs upstairs, wheezing from the pain in his chest. He walks over to his carry-on bag and pulls out his special satellite cell phone to be used in case of emergency.

  From the garden he can hear the voices of the carabinieri as they spread out to surround the house. “Come out with your hands up!” The blinking lights are streaming in through the shutters.

  Jacob hits the cell phone’s On button and punches in the three-digit code. Any other combination of numbers will make the telephone explode.

  He punches in the code.

  Six-six-six.

  He holds the phone up to his ear as the policemen break down the front door. “Come on …,” mutters Jacob.

  Purrrr. Purrrr.

  “Come on. …”

  Purrrr. The satellite receives the signal, beams it over to Shanghai, directs it at a black crystal skyscraper that no one can enter without authorization.

  First ring.

  A carabiniere starts to climb the stairs.

  Second ring.

  Jacob walks down the hallway, heading toward the round window.

  Third ring.

  He looks outside: a snowy garden.

  Fourth ring.

  No blinking lights. Footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  Fifth ring.

  “Devil,” says a voice on the other end. It’s barely more than the hissing of a snake. As sharp as a dragon’s claw.

  “Jacob,” he replies. “They got me.”

  The carabiniere suddenly appears at the top of the stairway, his gun cocked in front of him. “Freeze!” he shouts. “Nobody move!”

  Jacob ends his phone call.

  He’s not sure the devil will send anyone to help him.

  But while he waits, he’d better prepare for hell.

  “Hands up!” the carabiniere shouts again. “Drop it!”

  Jacob Mahler raises his hands slowly.

  His fingers punch three random numbers into his cell phone.