Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (35 page)

"What about all this?" he said numbly. The whole thing seemed impossible. He didn’t know if he could go through with it.
 

"I’ll take care of this," Pia said. "I’ll dump it all in the sink." She smiled. "It will be a pleasure."
 

"Did you hate him that much?" Orient asked.
 

As Pia nodded, the smile left her face. "He turned my life into a crazy nightmare. He was like some predatory animal at my soul." Orient didn’t answer. Pia came closer. "I want to thank you for helping me, Owen," she said softly. "He would have killed me tonight."
 

Orient shrugged his shoulders and went into the next room.
 

Raga stood up when she saw him. "Can you put him there?" she asked. She seemed calmer.
 

"It’s finished," Orient said.
 

Her delicate face relaxed and she took a deep breath. "I’ll have to find someplace to stay," she said quietly.
 

"You can stay with me."
 

Raga came close to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I thought he was going to strangle you," she whispered. "But I feel such pity for Alistar. In spite of everything he tried to do." She looked at him. "You don’t hate me for all of this, do you, Owen?"
 

Orient smiled. "I love you, Raga."
 

She sighed and pressed her face against his.
 

Pia came into the room. She moved confidently and her face was still a tight mask of control. She put her hand on Raga’s shoulder. "Are you okay?" she asked briskly.
 

"Yes." Raga straightened up. "But I want to leave here."
 

"I have a friend’s house on the other side of the mountain," Orient said. "We can all go there for the night."
 

Pia shook her head. "Not now. Raga and I will have to stay here tonight and pack our things. We can’t leave any traces behind us. Tomorrow Raga can come to your house and I’ll leave the island. I’ll take Alistar’s clothes and personal things and leave them in Naples. I can check them somewhere."
 

"Raga can’t stay here," Orient objected. "It’s too much of a strain."
 

"Pia’s right, Owen," Raga said softly. "One more day won’t make much difference now. And it means keeping you safe."
 

"If we leave now, we’d only have to come back to the house to get our things," Pia insisted. "We can’t leave the place like this. Someone would start asking questions. Tomorrow it will be all over."
 

"Where will you go?" Orient asked.
 

Pia looked at him. "There’s a hospital in Switzerland that’s had good results with my type of disease. I’m going there to find out exactly what can be done." She paused. "Raga has you now," she said. "Maybe I can find someone to help me forget these last few years."
 

"Tell me something," Orient asked as his memory leaped back across a great distance. Back to New York. "Did you ever meet a girl called Pola Gleason?"
 

Pia’s expression didn’t change, but her voice became soft and reflective, as if with some intangible effort at recall. "Yes," she said. "She was one of Alistar’s patients. She died. Did you know her?"
 

Orient remembered the newspaper photograph more clearly than the few confused minutes he had see her in New York. It seemed as if years had passed instead of just ten weeks. "I knew her only briefly," Orient said. "How about a red-haired cowboy called Joker?" he continued. "Ever meet him?"
 

Pia shook her head. "No. I think I’d remember someone like that."
 

Orient frowned.
 

Pia’s steady voice interrupted his thoughts. "It’s better that you leave now," she said. "Someone might see your car."
 

Something about Pia’s mechanical logic disturbed Orient but he knew she was right. There were still other things to attend to. Especially Francesca. Orient felt anxiety grind against his thoughts. He had to get back to Sordi’s house. He looked at Raga.
 

"Pia’s right." She tried to smile. "It’s best for all of us."
 

Pia took Orient’s hand. "I’m going inside now to start packing. But I meant it when I said thanks." She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Raga.
 

"Yes," Raga said, "I’m coming." She came close to Orient and put her lips against his neck. "I’ll come to you tomorrow evening," she said softly.
 

"I’ll be at Citarra. Above the beach. Ask for Sordi."
 

Raga repeated the name.
 

"We’d better get busy," Pia said as she walked into the laboratory.
 

"I love you, Owen," Raga whispered, looking up at him, her yellow eyes moist and glittering. "Tomorrow we’ll be together."
 

As Orient left the house, he automatically looked through the shadows for any sign of activity. It was quiet. He hurried to the car, backed up, and pulled away, grateful for the comparative silence of the Detroit engine. When he came to the shore road he made a turn and began speeding toward Sordi’s mountain cottage. Somewhere along that deserted stretch of sea road the enormity of what he had done spread suddenly over him, flooding him with emptiness. He had killed a man.
 

Low headlights loomed up unwarned in front of him and he hit the brakes. The car fishtailed slightly and Orient slowed down.
 

His reason tried to fill the void that was consuming his thoughts.
 

Six had killed Pola, Janice, and Presto. He had almost killed Pia. He accelerated as he saw Forio up ahead. If only he had some kind of proof. It was self-defense, but it was still murder. The only thing that could justify anything he’d done was Francesca. If she was well, then
 

Six had evoked that suffocating mist that was stifling her life. Francesca held the key to his guilt.
 

If she was all right.
 

When Orient reached the house, he parked the car and walked slowly to the door, hesitant to face the reality of what he might find.
 

He went inside.
 

Sordi, Angelina, and a bald, chubby man were grouped around the bed. Mafalda was sitting in her chair half asleep. As Orient entered, they turned and he saw that Francesca was sitting up in bed, eating
 

soup from a spoon that her mother was holding.
 

"Doctor," Sordi called out, "she’s out of it. Francesca’s well."
 

"She woke up and asked for something to eat an hour ago," the chubby man said in rapid Italian. He smiled at Orient. "I’m Nino. Sordi’s told us about you, Doctor."
 

"I’m happy your daughter’s well," Orient said as a warm syrup of relief spread over his brain. He smiled at Francesca. "How do you feel?" he asked gently.
 

Francesca looked at him with wide, liquid brown eyes. They were soft and pretty now, no longer shimmering intensely like the last time he had seen them, but glowing with sleepy curiosity.
 

"I feel hungry," she said, looking at her mother. Angelina gave her another spoonful of soup.
 

Orient turned to Nino. "If she’s hungry it’s a good sign," he said.
 

Nino looked at Mafalda. "We must thank the Holy Mother and the wisdom of this good woman."
 

Sordi snorted. "You should have taken Francesca to the hospital right away."
 

Nino whirled, his round body swelling. "You and your American ideas! The doctor I called didn’t know anything. But with Mafalda the child recovered." He stopped as he remembered something. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a roll of bills and placed them in Mafalda’s lap. "This is the only way I can repay you for all you’ve done for us," he said. He picked up one of her gnarled hands and kissed it.
 

The old woman gathered up the money and slowly got up from her chair. As she shuffled toward the door, her back bent, she stopped and looked up at Orient, her small eyes hard and bright in her seamed face. "There was a cloud over the girl," she rasped.
 

Orient nodded. "The Lammia," the woman said. "It was here. Look." She pointed at the ground near her feet. Orient looked down. Mafalda had placed twenty-one grains of rice around the bed to protect Francesca. Only three of them remained.
 

"Lammia," Mafalda repeated.
 

"Lammia, nonsense," Sordi said indignantly. "There was nothing here but some mice, old woman."

 
"What do you know?" Nino shouted. "You’re the one with the closed mind. Not me."
 

"Please don’t yell," Angelina said. "Francesca must rest."
 

"I don’t want to rest, Mama," the girl protested weakly. "I had such bad dreams."

 
"Don’t worry, little one," Mafalda croaked as she headed for the door. "Go to sleep. The dreams won’t come back."
 

Nino crossed himself, then turned to Sordi, who was watching him with an expression of disdain. "This one doesn’t believe in superstitions," he said. He cocked his head to one side and looked at Orient. "But last night when me and Angelina came in to take a look at Francesca"—Nino’s broad fat face broke into a wide smile—"this modern cousin of mine is standing by the door with a kitchen chair ready to brain us." He began to chuckle.
 

Orient looked at Sordi glowering at his cousin and, despite his reluctance to offend his friend, started laughing. And as he laughed, he realized that he was very, very tired.

CHAPTER 20

Sordi leaned on his steering wheel and looked down the sloping beach at the sand shimmering in the sun. He had just cooked himself a big lunch of rabbit stew and he felt good. He watched the doctor take a running dive into the calm water and smiled contentedly. It made him happy to see the doctor enjoying himself. Orient had changed, but it was a good change. The doctor’s health and vitality were completely restored after three weeks on the island. Sordi looked around at the lush green mountain and flat, crystal sea. Ischia might be getting polluted, but it still had the power to restore a visitor’s spirits. He glanced at Raga lying in the shade of a beach umbrella near the water’s edge. Especially when the visitor was in love.
 

Sordi hadn’t spoken much to the tall, beautiful woman but he could see that Orient was happier than he’d ever been. He looked like a boy of twenty. He was deeply tanned and the leanness between his flat muscles had filled out. He was full of enthusiasm.
 

It was good for the doctor to be like this. It was good for him to have a woman he cared about. Sordi shifted in the driver’s seat and leaned his head against the back of his hand. The doctor even had a better appetite. Now he ate some fish and chicken and drank some wine instead of just fruit juice and vegetables.
 

Sordi watched the slender, silver-haired woman stand up and wave to Orient, her body pale against the black bikini she was wearing. Yes, he decided, the doctor’s taste in women was excellent. Much better than his taste in food.
 

And after they were married, Sordi speculated, and the doctor established a residence, they would need him again. He sighed. It was a splendid thing to see the doctor and his woman on the beach.
 

Orient seemed dark and hard next to Raga’s long white body. Once he had seen them walking along the cliff at sunset, his tanned, high-boned face close to Raga’s delicate, silver-maned head. They were beautiful together, like sculpture.
 

Sordi wondered where the doctor had met Raga. Except for a couple of dinners he had cooked for them, he hadn’t spent much time with the couple. Orient and Raga stayed by themselves at the house, spending their days on the beach and their evenings alone. It was perfect.
 

Sordi felt a slight breeze coming in from the sea and took a deep breath. Everything was better now that the doctor was here. And no matter how loud Nino crowed, Sordi knew that it was no coincidence that Francesca had recovered the night Orient arrived. The doctor could do many wonderful things. But it was no use telling that to his blockhead cousin. Sordi smiled. It didn’t make any difference. Soon the doctor would be calling him back as an assistant and everything would be better. He started the motor and slowly pulled away.
 

The doctor had found himself a wonderful woman. And they had even complimented him on the design of the house. It had all turned out perfectly.
 

Orient rolled over on his back and floated in the salty water, his body buoyant and relaxed in the sun-warmed sea. He felt whole. Even the lingering memories of that night at Six’s house were faint and removed from his emotions. There was just the calm, caressing sea. And Raga.
 

He paddled with his outstretched arms, turned easily in the silken water, and began swimming back to shore. As he walked out of the water, he saw a blue stone just under the surface and picked it up. It was faded and pitted with green specks of marble. Orient’s eye fell on the deep blue stone on his finger, its rough texture dark and glistening in the sun. The lapis ring Ahmehmet had given him looked as if it could have been plucked from the sea like the rock in his hand.
 

He snapped his wrist and sent the stone skipping across the surface of the clear green sea.
 

"Five bounces. That’s very good," Raga congratulated as Orient dropped on the towel beside her. "That should qualify you for the stone-skipping Olympics."
 

"Sure you don’t want to try the water?" Orient murmured.
 

"No thanks." Raga sat up and kissed him. "Umm, you taste fresh and salty."