Stones Unturned (13 page)

"It's nice to see the two of you getting along," an unmistakable voice said, and Eve turned to see Conan Doyle coming into the kitchen. Ceridwen followed, carrying shopping bags from some her own favorite establishments.

"Hey, bossman," Squire said. "Dinner should be ready in an hour or so. I'm making some of that Southern-style corn bread you like."

"You spoil me, Squire," Conan Doyle said, and then turned to Eve. "And how are you, my dear?"

"Just fine." She closed the cap on her bottle, sated for the moment. "How are things in England?"

She noticed the scowl appear on Ceridwen's face.

"Things have changed," the mage replied. "But the rest, I believe, has done us good."

Conan Doyle and Ceridwen looked at each other then, and Eve could have sworn she saw something almost spiritual pass between them.
This is good,
she thought. The two of them belonged together. Conan Doyle was a pain in the ass normally, but he'd become an even bigger pain when Ceridwen wasn't in his life. It was good they had found each other again.

"I see you did some shopping," Eve said to Ceridwen.

"Why, yes," the Fey sorceress replied, holding up her multiple bags. "Following your advice. I told Arthur that if I am to remain in this world, I would need to adorn myself in raiment befitting my stature."

Conan Doyle slowly crossed his arms, fixing Eve in his patented icy stare.

"Good girl," she said, reaching out to pat Ceridwen's arm. "You're learning."

The sound of the oven door slamming caused them all to start, and they looked over to see Squire standing on the counter where he had just placed his corn bread in the oven.

"Oh yeah," the hobgoblin said, using the portable step to climb down. "Before I forget, I met with Detective Hook yesterday about a couple'a bodies they found in an alley off Tremont."

Eve saw the change in Conan Doyle's demeanor immediately, and the atmosphere in the kitchen turned serious.

"And your findings?" Conan Doyle asked.

"Not really sure," Squire replied, washing his hands and then drying them with a hand towel. "One of the bodies was skinned, and the other chowed on. Think we might have something demonic walking the streets."

Eve frowned.
Demonic
. The word brought a sudden recollection of her adventure at Sultan's, and the moment in the alley outside the dance club when she had sensed a presence.

"Now that you mention it, I might've sensed something nasty in the air the other night," she said.

"And this is the first you've thought to mention it?" Conan Doyle asked, giving her the haughty, paternal glare that always made her want to punch him in the face. It never seemed to occur to him how ridiculous it was for him to scold her as though she were a child. Her, of all people.

Eve shrugged. "Dark things are passing through this city all the time. I didn't think of it again until now."

"Until the part with the partially eaten and skinned bodies," Squire suggested.

"Exactly," Eve said with a nod, wanting to jump over the island and smash the cheeky little bugger's potato head against the marble counter.

Conan Doyle stroked his chin, deep in thought.

"Aren't there rules about the demonic walking the earthly plane?" Ceridwen asked.

"Quite right, my dear," the mage said. "But with the way things have been of late, it's hardly surprising that a creature from one hell or another might try to test the rules."

Squire leaned back against the counter, folding his stubby arms across his chest. "So, what do you think?"

"I think a hunting expedition may be in order." Conan Doyle looked at Eve. "May I call upon your services?"

She slid from the stool and slid it back under the island.

"You may, and I think I have just the outfit."

Laughter and gaiety fill the night, as illuminating as the lanterns placed all about the perimeter of the stone amphitheater. At the far side of the Boboli Gardens, away from the Pitti Palace, the Florence Symphony plays beautiful music that seems to pull fairy magic from the evening sky, drawing down the sparkle of the stars themselves.

Or perhaps Dr. Graves has simply had too much champagne.

This place does seem magical tonight, though, an oasis of wealth and laissez-faire amid the desperation of the European war theater. To think that an American could be so welcome in Italy . . . Dr. Graves has been surprised by the reception he has received. Yet Florence has ever and always been a city of light and of art and music, not of war.

Champagne glasses clink. Women in elegant gowns and dapper men walk arm in arm along the paths farther away from the symphony. Chairs have been set up on the garden lawn near the musicians, and those rows are filled, but far more guests seem to prefer to mingle in the gardens, beneath the stars, with the musical accompaniment.

He spots his fiancée, Gabriella, chatting with a young Florentine woman of her acquaintance . . . old friends, reunited. The two wave to him and then smile at one another like schoolgirls. Graves had tried to convince Gabriella to stay behind, but she would not hear of it. If there was danger, she trusted him to deal with it, to keep her safe. He cannot quite bring himself to wish she had stayed back in New York — not when he sees her in this gown, dark ringlets of hair falling around her shoulders, a Roman goddess come to Earth. She leaves him breathless.

And it is good for her to be out of New York for a while. In the States, the newspapers never let her be anything but the fiancée of Dr. Graves, with all that entails. Gabriella is a white woman planning to marry a black man. New York society burns with fascination at the fame Dr. Graves has achieved, and with every aspect of his life, including his engagement. But beneath their fascination, there lurks disdain. No matter how much of a novelty he might become to them, he will never be more than that. Regardless of how many times he might prevent some horrid crime, even saving their lives, he is still a black man.

Professor Zarin would have poisoned their skies, their water, and perhaps even brought the glorious Empire State Building crashing down, if not for him. The society ladies smile and call him a hero. Wealthy men pat him on the back and congratulate him, even thank him for his efforts. But between them always is the distance created by the unspoken acknowledgement of race.

Italy is better. The country is not free from prejudice. Yet here, in this war-torn country, he feels more welcome, more at home. They love him in Europe, and while some might hate him for the color of his skin, there are far more people here who only want to meet him, to know him. Stories of his adventures around the world reach Florence in the newspapers, but by the time they are translated in Italian, his feats have been blown all out of proportion.

Graves has been to dozens of events like this one, but this is one of those rare moments when he does not feel the reluctance and resentment that often accompanies his presence. It is a welcome relief, a chance to exhale from so much time spent holding his breath, holding his tongue.

And the music is sublime.

The symphony transports him with a melody that seems to speak to the heart of him, to the little boy he had once been. He feels sure he knows the tune, as though he's heard it a thousand times in his mind. But perhaps that is the hallmark of true genius in music, that it speaks to the soul with such passion that it seems to be something one has always known.

A waiter passes, and Dr. Graves snatches a fluted champagne glass from his tray. He smooths the front of his jacket and begins to navigate the maze of Florentine society that mingles around him. Many people greet him in Italian as he passes. They smile, and some even clap a friendly hand upon his shoulder or arm. Dr. Graves nods and smiles and moves on.

A perfect night. The only way it could be more perfect is if he and Gabriella could dance beneath the stars with the symphony playing. But there will be no dancing for Dr. Graves tonight. He needs to maintain his focus if all of these people are to survive until morning.

The presence of a bomb mars his enjoyment of the evening.

Graves scans the crowd, lifting his champagne flute and hiding behind it as he studies the people around him, looking for anything out of place. He takes a sip. As he lowers the glass he sees a thin, blond man with grim, craggy features look nervously away. The man sets off through the crowd, headed toward the symphony.

Holding his breath, Graves watches as the nervous man looks back once, then continues away skittishly. He is headed directly for the symphony.

Champagne glass in hand, Graves smiles at two silver-haired gentlemen and nods amiably even as he starts after the nervous man.

"Dr. Graves?" one of the silver-haired men says.

He turns to study the man more closely. The gentleman has a professorial air about him and appraises Graves through glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose. His hair is a bit wild and unkempt. He and his companion stand out from the other men in attendance at the celebration. If they are wealthy, they are also eccentric.

"Indeed, sir," he says. "I don't think I've had the pleasure?"

"No, we haven't met, sir," the silver-haired man replies. "I am Doctor Giovanni Arno. This is my associate, Vincenzo Mellace. I must tell you that we are great admirers of yours. We follow your achievements with much enthusiasm."

Graves tries to be polite, but his gaze darts past the men, trying to follow the skittish man as he makes his way through the crowd toward the symphony. He glances at Gabriella, just to be certain she is far, far away from the nervous gentleman.

"I appreciate that," Dr. Graves says. "But many of those stories are greatly exaggerated."

Arno laughs and strokes his beard. "I hope so. I would be deeply troubled if everything I had read was true. Nevertheless we are more interested in your scientific and medical achievements than your leap from a burning zeppelin last month."

Though he needs to extricate himself from these men, to get after the blond man, he cannot help being charmed by Dr. Arno. But they are all in peril, and the danger grows with every moment these men delay him. Several of his agents who travel in the criminal underworld have indicated that Zarin will set off a bomb here in some bizarre attempt to strike at the Axis forces. A number of Italian officials are in attendance this evening, but only a lunatic like Zarin could possibly think killing men and women here would have any influence over the war effort.

Yet from past experience, Graves knows it is just the sort of thing Zarin would do.

He glances toward the symphony, sees the horns gleaming in the starlight. The violinists stand as one and begin to eke out a hauntingly beautiful melody, that same one that seems so familiar to him.

The skittish man is nowhere to be seen.

"Gentlemen, please forgive me," he says, as diplomatically as he is able. "I do appreciate your kind words, but there's a matter of some urgency to which I must attend. If I might seek you out shortly, I'll be only to happy to discuss my experiments and research."

"Oh, yes, of course," Mellace says.

But a frown creases Dr. Arno's forehead. "If you must."

"I must. With apologies."

As he turns and rushes off, weaving through couples who are arm in arm and clusters of men talking business and women talking war, he hears Arno mutter something to his companion.

"Another rude American. I'd hoped otherwise. Perhaps what they say about the Whisper is true, after all."

Then the two men blend with the crowd behind him, their voices gone. The words stay with him, even as he slips past a waiter, moving toward the rows of seated guests and the symphony beyond them. That haunting melody still plays.

And he thinks of the Whisper.

It had been a perfect opportunity for the newspapers in New York and elsewhere to reveal the resentment society felt toward him. When he plays the hero, the world loves him. His achievements in science and his explorations around the globe have made him the pride of New York, a darling of the press. But like tigers, they had lain in wait for the moment when they could turn on him.

The Whisper had provided that moment.

Shortly after Dr. Graves had begun to use his extraordinary mind and the body he has honed to near physical perfection to combat crime and espionage, the Whisper had appeared upon the scene. Graves had seen him as a kindred spirit, another man with extraordinary abilities, dedicated to the betterment of mankind and the defense of the helpless. According to the newspapers, the Whisper was able to hypnotize criminals into changing their ways, using only the power of suggestion. His voice alone could compel them. He was said to have rehabilitated dozens of hardened men in the New York area.

Graves had been hopeful, looking forward to his first encounter with the Whisper. Yet when they finally met, he discovered the truth about the Whisper — whose real name was Simon Broderick. The people deserved to know the truth, the deception that Broderick had perpetrated upon them, the cruelty and evil that lurked within a man they thought of as a hero. Dr. Graves had exposed the Whisper as a fraud.

Simon Broderick had taken his own life.

In New York society, the font from which Broderick had sprung, new bitterness developed toward Graves. Many now hate him for what they perceived as his humiliation of the Whisper, claiming that was what had prompted the man's suicide.

As if they needed another reason to be wary of Dr. Leonard Graves.

And now he has encountered that bitter wariness here in Italy. Perhaps there is nowhere in the world where he could escape it.