The intruder spotted the two men, and saw the knife in Paolo's hand. He stopped so quickly that he slipped on the damp grass, then, scrambling to his feet, ran straight into the back door of the kitchen. For one moment Paolo thought about throwing the knife at him, but then dropped it and gave chase.
The masked man bolted from the kitchen, through the restaurant and down the hotel's narrow corridors, barging guests aside, as they abandoned the last of their drinks to see what all the commotion was. The corridors automatically guided him to reception, where Maria made a brave attempt to hold him up by raising a chair in front of him to block his way. Grabbing the other end, he pushed her into the wall and escaped through the front door as she slumped to the ground like a rag doll.
Maria was crying in pain and holding her stomach by the time Paolo appeared in reception. He had no choice but to give up the chase and check she was all right. 'Are you okay? Stay still, Maria, show me what hurts.'
'My stomach,' she said. 'My stomach and my ribs, they hurt like crazy. What happened?'
Giuseppe and Nancy arrived seconds later, followed by several guests.
'It's okay, folks. Please don't be alarmed,' said Nancy, flapping her hands at them. 'We seem to have had a nasty incident but it's all over now. Please go back to the dining room and allow us to sort things out here. Thanks for your help.' She shut the connecting door from the reception to the rest of the hotel and joined the others as they helped Maria to her feet.
'Are you all right, Maria? Did he hurt you?' asked Nancy.
'I am okay, Mrs King, I think,' said the receptionist, still tearful. 'I picked up that chair to try to stop him with it, but he, he just knock me over and run away.'
'Sit down,' said Paolo. 'Have a drink of water, and get your breath back.'
Giuseppe grabbed a carafe of water from behind the reception desk and poured a glass.
Nancy stood for a moment biting her nails, taking stock of what had happened. It was at times like this that she missed having Jack around. Paolo and Giuseppe had been wonderful in chasing the intruder off, but if Jack had been here, well, by now the guy would have been wishing he'd picked any other hotel in Italy to burgle.
'Shall I call the police, or will you call Signor King?' asked Paolo.
'Ring the Polizia or the carabinieri,' answered Nancy. 'Jack has bigger things to worry about; I don't want to bother him with something like this.'
Paolo made the call and talked for so long that Nancy thought he'd discussed the case with every member of staff at the station. Maria gradually recovered and insisted there was nothing wrong with her other than some bruising to her tummy. She took consolation from the fact that it would be a terrific story to tell on television when she got to run for Miss Italy. Nancy thanked all of them for their efforts and promised that she wouldn't forget their support when it came to pay-packet time.
Giuseppe offered to run Maria home in his car and as they left Nancy wondered whether she could detect the first flicker of something more than just friendship between the two. Paolo volunteered to stay the night when he found out that the police couldn't send anyone until the following morning, but Nancy wouldn't hear of it. Nevertheless, he did a final check around the hotel before he left on his scooter, its rusted exhaust making such a noise that it set off dogs barking at a farmhouse almost half a mile away.
Nancy went upstairs and got ready for bed. She scrubbed her teeth and put paste out for Jack, forgetting for a second that he wasn't there. Then she went in Zack's room and scooped up her sleeping toddler in her arms. She carried him into her darkened bedroom and laid him down gently in the cool bed. She was doing it partly to make sure he was safe, but also, if she were honest, because she needed the comfort of him next to her.
When it started to rain heavily Nancy remembered the beautiful Independence Day cake that was still out in the garden, getting ruined. It would have to go to waste. There was no way she was getting out of bed until the room was filled with daylight and the hotel was once more alive with the sound of voices she trusted.
Downstairs, a key turned quietly in the front-door lock. Recent arrival Terry McLeod was trying as hard as possible to make sure that he didn't wake anyone.
PART FIVE
Thursday, 5 July
45
Hotel Grand Plaza, Rome It was still the dead of night when Jack woke, dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe. The latest nightmare was the most personal and most intense he'd ever experienced.
He'd fallen asleep around midnight and thought he might get a decent rest. How wrong he had been.
Soon his sleep had tricked him back into the basement, where the white-coated ME was moving as mysteriously as usual, but everything else seemed somehow more intense. The blood was running faster from the pipes on the black walls, spilling on to the floor, and there in the puddles forming around his feet were strange shapes, like Rorschach's ink blots. In them, the faces of BRK's victims had appeared, one by one, and slowly morphed into each other, until finally Jack was left staring at the face of Cristina Barbuggiani. She was trying to mouth something to him but he couldn't hear her. For a second, her young fingers stretched out from the blood and implored him to grab her and save her. Then, in the instant that he touched her, her flesh melted and the hand became skeletonized and snapped off.
Jack wiped the sweat from his face and tried to remember what else he'd dreamt. He recalled a mixture of male and female voices shouting: 'IT'S YOUR FAULT!' He had hung on to the gurney for fear that his legs would give way beneath him as his head filled with voices.
'What they say is right. You're a failure, King, a burnout.'
'Think how many girls have died, because you've been unable to save them.'
'Think! Is it five, ten, fifteen, twenty or more?'
Jack had clung to the body on the steel gurney as the ME raised the bone saw. He had to save this one, there must be no more killing.
The blade came closer to the body on the gurney, its teeth seeking more innocent flesh and bone. Jack put his hand out towards the ME, trying to force the blade back, but as he did so, he stumbled. Falling into the pool of blood, he got a clear view of the face of the victim on the steel trolley.
It was that of his wife.
46
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Terry McLeod sat on his own at a table for four, his breakfast plate piled high with ham, cheese, croissants, jam and butter. To one side of him was a large map entitled Terre di Siena, and on the other side was a copy of La Nazione. He didn't speak any Italian, but it was a quirk of his that, wherever he went, he always took a national newspaper home with him. He was a magpie, always had been, always would be, and he liked nothing better than international souvenirs.
Paullina, the waitress, arrived with his double cappuccino, something that she'd never been asked for before. She'd taken it to mean a single cappuccino with a double dose of coffee and the guest had laughed and said he was fine with that.
'Which visiting are you planning today?' she asked, noticing his map as she cleaned away a juice glass and cereal bowl. 'Maybe Siena or Pienza?'
'You know,' said McLeod, his mouth open as he chewed a croissant. 'I'm really not sure. I'm still a bit jet-lagged from all the travelling. Maybe I'll go here.' He jabbed a finger at a nearby town. 'What's it called?'
Paullina bent over the map and McLeod savoured the sensation of having her that close to him.
'Chianciano Terme,' she said, in a voice so sweet that he would have paid a premium-rate call charge just to listen to it.
'Or, you know what,' he added, 'I may just go to Montepulciano. Some folks at dinner last night said it was real nice.'
Paullina nodded. 'It is. It is very famous for its views and its churches. It is high up the hill, but worth the climb.'