Dead By Dusk (31 page)

She was afraid he'd still be involved with the police, or attending a patient in the hospital, or even out and about in the town, but to her relief, when she tapped at the door, he bid her to enter.

He looked at her suspiciously as she came in and sat down.

“
Buonasera,
” she told him.

He nodded.

“We've taken Doug out of the hospital,” she said.

“I didn't release him.”

She nodded. “I know, and that's why I've come to apologize. But, surely you're aware, the old man, the jeweler . . . he just tried to kill Doug.”

Antinella sat back. He didn't reply.

“In the United States,” she reminded him, “the man would have been arrested for attempted murder.”

“This isn't the United States,” he said, and she winced, thinking she had ruffled his feathers. Then he sighed. “Here, yes, usually, there would have been an arrest for attempted murder.”

She hesitated, then said, “Dr. Antinella, did that man, Adalio Davanti, the jeweler, think that Doug had become a vampire? Did he believe he would be saving his entire community if he were to see to it that Doug was . . . beheaded? Is there a belief here that such things can happen? Is that why Maria Britto's mother severed her head, and . . . is that why you didn't perform an autopsy, and why she wasn't embalmed?”

He set his pen down on the charts on his desk, sat back, and stared at her.

“I don't know what Adalio thought he was doing, exactly,” he said.

“But . . . there was no autopsy. You're a man of science. You said that Maria had been killed by animals. But then . . . Grant found an arm last night, so we can only assume that Gema is dead as well, and animals didn't bury Gema, nor did they leave the arm for Grant to find,” Stephanie said.

Still, he paused. Then, at last, he said, “I am a man of science. Our police are men of the law. This is a fine community.”

“It's a wonderful community,” Stephanie assured him. “But . . . if there are things here that we should know . . .”

He looked at her angrily again. “There were not ‘things,' as you say, until you arrived!”

“No!” she said, just an emphatically. “I am not the cause of any of this, nor is the theater, nor is Reggie . . . or any of us! This place has been filled with legends for centuries . . . with stories about creatures . . . devil dogs, demon dogs, witches. We didn't bring any of it here.”

Antinella studied her again for a long moment, then sighed. “Every place has its history. Take your country. For years, they taught American school children that the cavalry defeated savage beasts, and they were talking about the Native Americans, the Indians, the indigenous tribes. Now, there is a fairer view—Europeans came and brought their civilizations, their gods, their guns, and their diseases. Yes, wars have raged across Europe. Every man thinks he is right. Countries have fought, barons have fought . . . and here, yes, there was one fight that has stayed in local lore since it occurred. And,” he added softly, “perhaps it has stayed for a reason. In essence, your country is new. In Europe, the Middle East, the Far East . . . Africa, history is much older. Sometimes, yes, men were beasts. Then, there is the gray area. In mist-shrouded mountains everywhere, there are tales about creatures that aren't quite human. And here . . . yes, again. You will find that many of the people have beliefs similar to those of Lucretia Britto—and Adalio Davanti.”

Stephanie nodded, then persisted. “You were charged with the autopsy of Maria Britto. It wasn't done. Not at first, not when it should have been.”

“No,” he agreed.

“And it wasn't because you were afraid of hurting her mother any more than she had already been hurt. That was your official story, I believe.”

He picked up his pen again, his fingers tightening around it. “Are you condemning me, Miss Cahill?”

“No. I'm just trying to find out if . . .”

“If witches, vampires, and beasts exist?” he queried.

“You see,” she explained, “I'm beginning to believe that they do. And I think you share many of the fears evidenced around here.”

“What do you want from me, Miss Cahill? I am a medical doctor—I trained across the world. I am a man of science. I understand as well that the mind and the soul are greater factors in the human condition than we have ever imagined. Will I protect my community, my people? Yes. Science isn't always in books—and there are hundreds of mysteries that we haven't answered, or even begun to explore. Where there is knowledge sometimes, there is ignorance. Where there are miracles . . . there is also the frightening and the eerie. Simply, where there is good, there is evil. You have taken your friend from the hospital. We saved his life. Now, it is for you to protect what we have given you. And may I suggest that . . . you protect yourself as well.”

She stood up, aware that he was dismissing her, and aware that he didn't intend to give her anything else.

“The evil seems to come from the excavations,” she said, standing.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I'm very busy, you know.”

“One last question. What are the demon dogs?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I wish I did.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

He nodded, and stared back at his charts. She knew he wasn't really reading them at all.

 

 

Out on the streets, they came across the funeral procession for Maria Britto.

Here, the local hearse was a Victorian horse-drawn vehicle. One giant roan pulled it.

Grant was stock-still as it passed them by. The sides of the hearse were etched glass. There was also a glass window on the coffin, and Maria's face was clearly discernable.

Now, her rich, dark hair was drawn around her neck.

Her head had been sewn back on her body by the coroner.

“Jesu!” Drew whispered, crossing himself.

They had all stopped, since the road ran between the hospital and the parking lot that serviced it. Lined up on the street, they listened to the sad toll of the violin being played by a man who followed directly behind Lucretia Britto. The priest walked with her, and behind him, scores of townspeople.

“They're headed to the cemetery,” Liz murmured.

“Yes, I would think,” Grant said.

The procession continued. At the end, Drew said, “I'm tempted to follow.”

“Me, too,” Grant said.

Doug groaned. “I'm tempted to go back to the resort, find my bed, and crawl into it.”

Grant ignored him. He started after the last man trailing in the procession, and the others fell in line behind him.

 

 

Carlo Ponti stood in the center of the excavations with Heinrich, reading from transcripts he had received via the Internet just the night before.

“ ‘And was thus, on the night of Our Lord, on the eighteenth of August, in the year 1215, that the great battle took place. The dead arose from their graves, as summoned by the devil's own bride, and there ensued a battle so fierce that the slain lay in greater numbers than the flies. Those who rode forth with the great knight fell in vast numbers, and in the end, found triumph, but through great loss, for their leader did not see all that was truth, and so, gave of his own blood. The ruins were searched, but the surviving were forced to flee, for in the end, God roared above all, and his earth created the grave, and where the fallen had not breathed their last, God commanded that the ground itself and the silver relics of the good be a tomb to hold them evermore, '” he read.

Heinrich, great white bushy brows knitting, shook his head. “Carlo, there is nothing new here. We know for certain the battle took place. We know about the fallen, and the earthquake. And we have unearthed a number of the dead.” He shivered suddenly and fiercely. “These mountain breezes! One minute, it is the beautiful warmth of the summer, and the next . . . didn't you feel that snap of cold?”

Carlo waved a hand in the air. He wasn't interested in the weather. “My friend, did you hear the date?”

“Yes?”

“This was written by the old calendar!” Carlo pronounced. “We are standing here, centuries later, but on the exact date of the battle when you figure in the change!”

Heinrich smiled, amused by his friend and colleague's enthusiasm. “So, this will be a very good thing when the television stations arrive to do their documentaries. A hook to our story.”

Carlo was very still. Then he shivered, too. “Dusk is coming. That is why it's suddenly so cold. This is wonderful,” he said, shaking his paper. Then he sighed. “It was written by a monk in 1225, ten years after the battle, but my researchers believe that the monk, a Brother Marcus, was here at the time of the battle. I think his words mean so much more. If I can only fathom what he has written between the lines!”

Heinrich sighed. “I don't think there is anything written between the lines. It is all as it was recorded historically, and that was actually in line with the legends. There was a great battle, between a man kind and decent to the peasants, and a man who broke their backs and thought of human life as a very cheap commodity.”

Carlo shook his head. “There's more. Listen. ‘Let us, in the wake of this, know that the ways of goodness must be upheld. Ever present lurks the danger that the earth shall shift again, and let us forget that evil must be conquered, and the mistakes of the past never again relived.'”

“I'd say it was a big mistake for that many people to die,” Heinrich said lightly. But he shivered again. Suddenly, he was very uneasy where he stood. Nonsense! He was a scientist. He studied the dead. He slept with old bones in his house upon occasion!

And yet . . .

He felt a presence. And Carlo's words were getting to him.
Evil.
It existed here.

“Let's get back to the camp—we'll reread all this tomorrow and look for what Brother Marcus is saying between the lines, eh? We'll work when the sun is up, and our vision is much better.” He clapped a hand on Carlo's shoulder. “A monk must write such words, you know. All that about goodness and evil.”

Carlo spoke again, very excited. “‘When the moon rises, full upon us, there is danger. For the past never lies truly buried, and only as it is rectified as it was, can we look for the light.' ”

Heinrich thought that he saw the great shadow of a monstrous bird's wings sweep around them, bringing an ever greater chill to his bones. Then, he realized that goose bumps had broken out over his flesh, and though he was cold, he was sweating.

His breathing was labored. His heart hammered too quickly.

He was afraid.

“Carlo! We will read this in the morning!” he insisted, and leaving his associate behind, he hurried along the trail to the camp, and the place where the lights burned.

 

 

Stephanie was baffled. She had assumed that they would reach Grant's car, realize that she wasn't with them, and wait.

Or come after her, one or the other. She had even expected Grant to be angry, but she had intended to deal with that—it had seemed very important to her to speak with Dr. Antinella.

But they were nowhere to be seen, and Grant's car was still in the parking lot.

She hesitated, then remembered her cell phone, pulled it out, and dialed Grant's number. She got his answering machine. She hung up.

The resort was a short drive, and no more than a twenty-minute walk. With nothing left to do at the hospital, she decided that she might as well head back. She'd find Lena and Suzette.

As she walked, she mused that Jade had told them that they should continue to refer to her and Lucien as Liz and Clay. Now, Stephanie wasn't sure that was such a good idea. Too many things seemed to be happening too quickly. At least, among the group of them, she thought that the truth should be out. If it
was
truth . . .

There she went again! Did she really believe all this?

She quickened her pace, noticing that the afternoon was already waning. She suddenly decided that it was imperative to reach the other girls before dusk.

The streets seemed to be oddly deserted. She remembered that today was Maria Britto's funeral, and thought that most of the people in the town would be attending it.

At last, she saw the resort ahead of her. She exhaled a sigh of relief. She hadn't realized just how uneasy she had gotten, following the road back toward the beach and the resort.

She walked through the reception area. It was empty. She exited the rear, and then paused.

There was already a wind blowing. Clouds were beginning to obscure what was left of the sun.

There was no one on the beach.

She started along the path that would bring her to Lena's cottage. As she walked along, she was startled when Giovanni suddenly came around from one of the other little places.

“Miss Cahill!” he said, pleased. “I've been looking for you.”

“Oh? Why? What's up?”

“Reggie is here—she wants to see you,” he told her.

Instantly, she felt a guard rise around her. She shook her head. “Giovanni, I spoke with Reggie just a few hours ago. She was in Belgium, and she said she still had some business to attend to.”

“You have a cell phone?” he said. “Call her. She is here.”

“If she's here, why doesn't she just come to me?” Stephanie said.

He sighed. “I told her that you would not believe me. Please, call her. She is here.”

“She got a plane out of Belgium and got here this quickly?” Stephanie said. She felt a growing unease. But it was still daytime—surely that meant something. And they were out in the open—even if it seemed that no one was about. But he had to be lying about Reggie.

“Call her, please.” He sighed, then lifted his hands and grinned. “I just work for Reggie,” he said. He gave her a rueful, charming smile, and brushed a curl of dark hair from his forehead. The he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I will just tell her that you won't come. It's all right. She'll have to come to you.”