Whispering Bones (24 page)

Falcone said in a soft voice, “There’s a hundred thousand euros in that envelope,
Luogotenente
. It would go a long way toward covering medical expenses. Provided, of course, you are able to bring the investigation to a quick and satisfactory conclusion. It appears we may be in a position to mutually benefit each other.”

Baldacci wrestled with his conscience. He had never accepted a bribe in his thirty-five years on the force. But this man was offering him a chance to get the help to Mirella she desperately needed, and his resolve waivered. After a moment, he dropped his gaze and discreetly picked up the envelope, tucking it into the jacket of his uniform. He swallowed hard, knowing full well the implications of his actions, but his thoughts were on Mirella when he next spoke.

“The search will continue tomorrow for the missing woman. If nothing is found, the official cause of death will be listed as accidental drowning.”

“And Ramirez?”

“He was surveying on the island yesterday, we came across his equipment. I noticed several downed trees in the forest. It’s quite possible he was crushed when one fell on him. Perhaps he knew he was dying and crawled out into the field.”

“The coroner’s report may present a problem in relation to your findings.”

“It will reflect precisely what I’ve told you. I am well acquainted with the coroner.”

“There is also the matter of the skeletal remains. It’s crucial our project not be delayed.”

Baldacci hesitated, considering. Then he said, “The remains did not appear to be recent. I can ensure publicity will be kept to a minimum. I am in charge of the investigation and have the final word as to whether construction on the island can proceed. The project will not be hindered on account of the examination of the remains.”

Falcone nodded, his shark’s eyes giving away nothing.

“The camera you retrieved,” Falcone said matter-of-factly. “Were any photos taken?”

“Yes. I examined them. Only a photographic record of the island, nothing more,” he lied.

“Perhaps I should take it with me,” Falcone suggested.

“That’s not possible,” Baldacci replied. “It’s already been entered into evidence. My retrieval of it would appear suspicious. There’s nothing of any importance on it, in any event.”

Baldacci’s hand wandered to his desk drawer, where he’d placed the camera on his return to the office. He was not a fool. The camera and the strange photo of the bell tower would remain in his possession. Just in case.

Falcone rose. “Very well, then. Thank you,
Luogotenente
, for your reasonableness in this situation.

He extended his hand, but Baldacci did not move to take it. He knew he had made a deal with the Devil, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. “
Buona
sera, Signore
Falcone.”

* * * *

Back in his office, Falcone cradled a snifter of cognac in one hand and allowed Ferro to light his cigar.

“It’s done. The investigation will be closed as of tomorrow,” Falcone said. “As soon as that happens, I will personally contact the LaServa woman’s company to advise them of her accidental drowning.”

“Excellent,” Ferro replied. “And Ramirez?”

“I’ve already made arrangements for his body to be returned to Spain. His company has been notified of the unfortunate accident.”

Ferro nodded his approval. “What progress have you made with the new architect?”

“The money was wired this evening. I’ve been assured we’ll be able to break ground by fall. The hotel will be built.”

Ferro clapped Falcone on the back and they stepped out on the balcony to enjoy their cognac and cigars.

Toronto, Canada

Present Day

Serafina sat in her wheelchair by the window like a giant withered insect trapped in a jar. Her dried-up old bones ached. She had not slept well last night.

A whisper of a sigh escaped her. As she nodded off in the warm afternoon sun, she questioned God as to why, having outlived her usefulness long ago, she was still alive, but God, she reminded herself, did as he pleased. Always had, always would.

Last night she’d dreamt of Julia, a disturbing dream that had remained with her all day. It’d been a long while since her long-dead daughter had visited her in sleep. In the dream, Julia had been trying to tell her something but, as was often the way with dreams, she’d not been able to discern the words, only the tone of it and the sorrowful expression on Julia’s face.

Even after all these years, she still carried the burden of her guilt over Julia’s suicide, although she had long ago assigned it to the deepest recess of her soul. But guilt had a way of surfacing when one least expected it. Perhaps that was the reason she’d had the dream.

If only she had gone to Julia after getting the phone call from her on the day she hanged herself. Julia had sounded so distraught, but even after Serafina pressed her, she would not say what had caused her to become upset. Serafina suspected her daughter had argued with her husband. Still, she had checked to see if the snowstorm had abated, thinking she ought to make the trip to her daughter’s home to make sure nothing more serious had occurred. The howling wind and snow had not let up, however, and Serafina had decided to wait until the next day. By then, of course, it had been too late.

Her old heart had suffered more than its share of sadness over the years. She remembered the terrible days preceding her flight from Venice after learning of Alberto’s evil deeds, and suffering through the days following Vittorio’s murder. She had thought she and Julia would be safe here, able to start a new life.

Remorse filled her again at the recollection of Julia, pale and motionless on the slab in the morgue, her beauty marred only by the purple bruises around her neck from the rope she had used to hang herself. And later, back at the house, little Anna, crying inconsolably for her mother while her son-in-law sat, head in hands, unable to comfort the child.

Yes, she should have gone to Julia after getting the call, but she hadn’t. For that, she would never forgive herself. She had spent the rest of the night after awakening from the dream in prayer.

Esmeralda popped her head in the doorway, interrupting her sad thoughts. Serafina wheeled her chair around. She didn’t mind Esmeralda, who was more capable than the other nurses and always pleasant. Today, however, Esmeralda was not smiling.

“Serafina. You have a visitor. His name is Mr. Gromley. He’s from your granddaughter’s office, and he needs to speak to you.”

“From Anna’s office? What does he want?”

She wheeled herself over to the table by her bed to retrieve her dentures. Anna always reminded her to wear her teeth when she had visitors. Halfway there, she stopped. Cold fear settled around her heart like snow as last night’s dream returned to her, and just like that, she knew. Julia had looked so mournful in the dream, and Serafina was suddenly certain the man waiting to see her had come to deliver news of Anna’s death. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Her old hands began to shake.

Esmeralda walked over and put an arm around her shoulder.

“If you like, I could stay with you while you see him.”

Serafina could only nod. She managed to retrieve her dentures and insert them, her heart slamming against her frail chest in anticipation. Esmeralda went out to the hall and returned a moment later. Mr. Gromley entered behind her, hat in hand. His face appeared grim.

“Hello, Mrs. Rossi,” he began. “My name is Ed Gromley. I work with Anna, and... Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news concerning your granddaughter.”

More words were spoken, but they melted together in a blur... “is dead”... “accidentally drowned”... “still searching, but no body has been recovered yet”...

“Where?” Serafina’s eyes cut to the man.

“Pardon?”

“Where did she drown?”

“She was working on the site where the hotel was to be constructed, on Poveglia,” he replied in an apologetic voice. “I’m so very sorry... This has come as a great shock to all of us...”

Tears rolled down Serafina’s shriveled cheeks, landing in her lap. Anna was dead. Anna, whom she had loved most of all.

She should have stopped Anna from going. She should have told her everything, but the pain of dredging up all those bad memories again had proven too much for her. Just as it had on the countless occasions in the past she’d been tempted to tell Anna the truth about what had happened in the old country. Anna had suffered so much, first with the loss of both parents, then the brutal rape she had survived. In the end, Serafina had sought to spare her the further misery of learning of her grandfather’s evil deeds. In doing so, she had succeeded only in sending Anna to her death. No good had ever come from that accursed island, and now the place where Alberto had carried out his mad deeds had claimed Anna.

She felt Esmeralda’s arm around her slumped shoulders and heard the words of condolence spoken by the man, Gromley.

“Please go,” Serafina told them, her voice barely a whisper. “I need to be alone.”

* * * *

Five thousand miles away, across the ocean, in her underground lair beneath the forest on Poveglia, Isabella turned to the decaying head still attached to the skeletal remains lying next to her. She spoke to it, caressing what had once been Anna’s face, and ran her tiny fingers through the wiry scraggle of hair remaining on the skull, much the way a child might play with a doll. The curse, the reason for her existence, the one focus of her being, coursed through her.

Isabella gave humble thanks to forces of evil for the gift she’d been given, for allowing her dark work to continue. She imagined the centuries stretching out before her. With them would come her victims, drawn to her like lemmings to the sea.

For the time being she would rest, until the one who remained hidden showed herself, the daughter borne by the woman whose rotting remains lay next to her. She would come, the next descendant. He had assured her it would be so, the other who resided within her—the barbaric executioner whose name was Revenge.

Toronto, Canada

Months Later

Denise Carrington checked the slip of paper on the passenger seat of her BMW and slowed the car. Peering out the windshield past the swishing wipers, she spotted a blue sign up ahead through a veil of rain. She turned into the driveway of the nursing home and parked in a spot close to the main doors. Before grabbing her umbrella and exiting the car, she glanced at the paper again for the name of the woman who had returned her call yesterday. Nervously, she tucked a strand of chestnut-colored hair behind her ear in an unconscious gesture.

The call from the woman at the nursing home, Esmeralda, had been the second disappointment Denise had experienced this week. She supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but still...

She had a good life, she reminded herself. At thirty-three, and married to Stan, a wonderful man who loved her for who she was and treated her like a queen, she wanted for nothing. The auto body repair shop Stan had opened after their marriage had done very well, and now, eight years later, he owned a chain of them across the province. Last year, they’d been able to move into a palace of a house. He’d given her two beautiful children as well, Camilla and little Tommy, who were the light of her life. And yet, for the past seven years, since Camilla’s birth, Denise had become increasingly obsessed with finding her birth mother.

Her adoptive parents had raised her with love and she adored them. They were her family, and Denise wasn’t looking for a mother-daughter relationship in trying to find her biological mother. But the overwhelming desire just to
see
the woman, to learn about her roots now that she had children of her own would not go away. She had spent the past five years and twenty thousand dollars of Stan’s money trying to find her birth mother. Then, finally, last week, the investigator she’d hired had called with news.

She sat in the car, staring at the rain beating down on the hood, remembering how upset she’d been to learn that her mother, whose name she now knew was Anna LaServa, was dead. A drowning accident last summer, the man on the other end of the phone had told her. The only other living relative was her mother’s grandmother, Serafina Rossi. Her great-grandmother, she’d been told, was over a hundred years old and living in a nursing facility.

Denise had called the nursing home immediately and explained who she was. The woman on the other end had hesitated and then told her someone from the home would call her back shortly.

That was when the woman, Esmeralda, had called. Her great-grandmother, she told her, had passed away three months ago. Her possessions had been boxed, but with no other family to release them to, they’d been placed in storage in the basement of the facility for the time being. Esmeralda had asked if she wanted to pick them up, and Denise told her she did.

A bitter-sweet feeling washed over her as she popped open her umbrella, and hurried through the rain to enter the building. She had tried so hard and for so long to find her mother, only to learn of her unfortunate death less than a year ago. Still, she was anxious to retrieve the box of her great-grandmother’s belongings. Perhaps there would be photographs or other things that might help her to piece her past together.

* * * *

“This is everything.” The nurse named Esmeralda handed over two large cardboard boxes with the name “Serafina Rossi” scrawled across them.

“There are some things in there that belonged to your mother as well, I believe,” said Esmeralda. “After Anna died, Serafina asked that any personal items, photographs and the like, be collected from her apartment.”

“Thank you.” Denise lifted one of the lids to peek inside. She glimpsed lots of photos, and some papers, but decided to wait until she got home to examine them in privacy.

“Serafina never got over Anna’s death,” said Esmeralda. “She passed away only weeks later. It was as if she finally lost the will to carry on after hearing the news.”