Dalton looked down at his hand, and then took a sip of Chivas.
“I was in Italy to look into the death of a friend of mine. His name was Porter Naumann—”
Naumann threw his hands up in frustration and walked away shaking his head. Dalton forced himself to look only at Cora.
“He was a good friend. He died of a heart attack the day before yesterday. In Cortona. His death was unexpected. The company—”
“What company?”
“Naumann worked for an English bank called Burke and Single.”
“I do not know this bank.”
“They’re not well known. Anyway, when his body was found—”
“Where?”
“In the courtyard of the Cappella San Nicolò.”
“Oh yes. I know it. A sad little church. Very old. Your friend died there? Of a heart attack? Was he old?”
“No. Fifty-two. And in good health. Or so I thought.”
“You are not telling me everything about this death, are you?”
“Let’s just say it was ugly.”
“In what way?”
What the hell? She was a grown-up. He laid it all out for her, the rain in Cortona, the crime scene tent, Major Brancati. The ruined body of Porter Naumann. The injuries he suffered.
He said nothing about the green spider and stayed far away from any mention of what had taken place in the piazza. Cora took the narrative in without a flicker, and when he finished she was quiet for a while. Dalton found that he could stand up and went to pour two more scotches. Naumann came over to meet him by the drinks tray.
“This is very nasty territory, Micah,” he said, in a stage whisper, as if Cora could hear him. “Don’t drag her into it.”
Dalton mixed the drinks without looking at or in any other way acknowledging Naumann’s warning. When he handed Cora her scotch, she took it without much attention, her professional self now fully engaged.
“To me this sounds like your friend had some kind of psychotic break. People undergoing such a psychotic break have done terrible things. To others. To themselves. This may be consistent with what has happened to your friend. Sometimes the… the trigger?… of such an episode has been drugs. Psilocybin. Peyote and its hydrates. Mescaline. LSD. Occasionally you will find organic causes. This Brancati has told you that he thinks Mr. Naumann had un colpo apoplettico, yes?”
“Yes.”
“But there was no time for all the blood work to be done?”
“No. I’m going to Cortona tonight, as a matter of fact. To take charge of his body. And his insurance firm will want to do their own toxicology tests.”
“Don’t forget my Chopard,” put in Naumann. Dalton glanced up at him, and then forced his attention back to Cora.
“Of course,” she went on, “I do not have much regard for the pathologists who work for the Carabinieri. They are buffoni. Clowns. You tell me this policeman says the forensic autopsy suggests stroke. I have seen cases where psychotic episodes have caused un colpo. There may have been a physiological flaw, such as an undetected aneurysm. Your friend was fifty-two? His age makes a stroke very plausible. Was he… indulgent? A drinker? Given to excess?”
“Hey! I was in damn good shape, lady,” said Naumann.
“He was in excellent shape.”
“There you go, kid. Thanks.”
“Except for his prostate.”
“Schmuck.”
“Well, at his age, a prostate problem is very usual.”
“My age? I was fifty-two, for Christ’s sake.”
“Allora, what I do not understand is what any of this has to do with the old Indian man and his spinning pots.”
“Not a damn thing, sweetheart,” said Naumann, coming across the room and dipping his index finger into Dalton’s scotch, stirring the cubes around. The tinkling sound drew Cora’s attention again to the glass, so Dalton snatched it up and took a sip, watching in mute horror as Naumann stuck his index finger into his mouth and sucked the scotch off it. Dalton found the action impossible to ignore.
“Why do you do that? You can’t taste anything?”
“What?” said Cora, staring at him, but he was looking up at Naumann and did not hear her speaking. Naumann took his finger out and stared down at it with a thoughtful expression.
“Like hell I can’t,” he said, licking his fingertip.
“Who are you talking to?” asked Cora, in a soft voice.
“Sorry. Sorry, Cora, I guess I was thinking out loud.”
“No. You were talking to… someone else.”
“It’s the drug, I think. Last night I had a terrible time with it.”
“More drugs? What drug did you take last night?”
“I mean, I had a dream, a nightmare. Last night.”
“What kind of nightmare?”
“Nothing. I meant today. I meant to say today. That thing — whatever was in that pouch — it made me see things.”
“For a CIA guy you are one lousy liar,” said Naumann.
“Yes. But you knew them?” Cora persisted. “The images were familiar?”
Dalton instinctively shied away from the question, but his face was answer enough for her. She was alarmingly bright.
“Yes. They were… familiar.”
“From your past?”
“Yes,” said Dalton, and only because any attempt at a lie would have been detected at once. She looked as if she wanted to press for more, but then she let it pass.
“I see. And did your Mr. Naumann also have bad memories?”
“If you answer that,” said Naumann, “you’re a total putz.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do not know anything about your friend’s personal life?”
“She’s shrinking you, buddy,” said Naumann. “Just shut up.”
“Not much.”
“His past?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
“You lie easily, but not well. You shut me out. There it is. I do not care. But you should try to find out. Perhaps he was seeing a therapist. Psychological issues. There might be official records.”
“Tell the little bitch to mind her own damn business.”
Shocked, offended, Dalton sent Naumann a black look.
“Watch your mouth, Porter.”
Cora was silent for a time, studying Dalton’s face while he tried to force his expression into what ended up as a twisted parody of innocence. She took his hand in hers, leaned forward.
“Porter? You are talking now to your dead friend Porter?”
“No.”
“Your dead friend Porter is talking to you?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I think he thinks he is.”
Cora blinked, sighed. “He is in this room? Now?”
Naumann shook his head vigorously, holding his hands up. “Leave me out of this.”
“He’s behind you,” said Dalton. “He’s leaning on the fireplace.”
Cora turned and of course saw nothing at all. When she looked back at Dalton, her expression had softened and there was a worried look in her eyes.
“You must let me take you to the clinic, Micah. I know the best people there. We need to make some tests. You might have some neurological damage. Truly, Micah. This is very dangerous for you. These… these visions, they could come again. Without warning.”
She spoke with such unshakable confidence, such searing professional certitude, that her words cut deep. He had a fleeting vision of Laura in her white room by the sea, the salt wind billowing the curtains as she stared dead-eyed into eternity.
“Now you’re getting it,” said Naumann, his tone gentle. “I said this situation was dangerous. This is exactly what I meant.”