"Now," he said. "We are going to walk very slowly out of here. You will be ahead of me. We will go to the parking lot and get into my car and drive away. If you do everything I say, absolutely everything, then I will consider letting you go when I get to my destination. Is that clear?"
"Yes," I said. I was looking at the table for some reason, the large dark stain on the cloth and little pools of liquid around the cheese. Grappa, I thought, and then I knew what I had to do. I slid my hand slowly to one side, and then, in one swift move, knocked the two nearest candlesticks over.
It was a long shot. The first one spluttered and died. There must have been someone looking out for me, because the second, after a moment's hesitation, ignited the liqueur. It flared like a torch. We both, I think, screamed. I ducked and knocked the knife from his hand.
It may not have been the worst fire in the world, but it was astonishing how fast that tomb filled up with smoke. It was dark, hot, and the air was so bad my lungs hurt. Rosati grabbed me, put his hands around my throat, and squeezed. I fought back, scratching and clawing. His jacket sleeve caught fire, and we both went down. I think I hit my head, I know I saw stars, and for a moment, I may have blacked out. I couldn't breathe, I could hardly move, and for a moment I just lay on the floor. I didn't know where Rosati was, and I knew I would die if I stayed there. I just couldn't seem to summon the energy to do anything.
Then I felt strong arms pulling at me, and Lake's voice in my ear. "You've come this far," he said. "It would be rather silly to give up now." Somehow I stumbled to my feet and followed him up the stairs.
Outside, I lay in the grass, gasping. Dottie and Eugenia sat beside me. "Hold on," Dottie said, patting my hand. "The doctor is coming. I'd like to say in my defense, though, that I thought maybe there were overriding principles, something more important than friendship. Like saving a nation's heritage." I just looked at her. "Maybe not," she said. "I'm sorry."
"I suppose we each made tiny compromises," Eugenia said. "But taken together. . ." Her voice trailed off.
"I've got Rosati," Lucca shouted, pulling a limp body out of the hole in the earth. "Where are the others?"
We looked around and then back toward the house. Nicola Marzolini, Vittorio Palladini, and Alfred Mon-dragon were trussed like chickens to the columns that stood to each side of the loggia. Crawford Lake was gone.
EPILOGUE
CRAWFORD LAKE IS DEAD. HE SPENT more money than most of us can even imagine on a fancy yacht, sailed it out into the Mediterranean, and on a clear day, when no one was looking and the sea was like glass, the sun reflected in it so bright it was almost painful, quietly slipped away.
There has been much speculation about why someone with all the advantages he had—wealth, intelligence, and a much brighter future than the rest of us can look forward to—could do such a thing.
I know he just got tired of sitting alone in the dark. I'm mad at him, though. He wouldn't let me give up. Why did he?
Cesar Rosati is gone, too. Smoke inhalation. Nicola Marzolini, Vittorio Palladini, and Alfred Mondragon have managed to have their sentences reduced by testifying against Rosati, who couldn't defend himself for obvious reasons, placing him at the scene of both murders, and by telling the authorities where the hydria had gone: a buyer in Hong Kong. Italy has initiated proceedings to try to get the chimera hydria back.
The Societa della Chimera has been disbanded. Lola and Salvatore seem to be having a good time scouring the countryside together looking for Lars Posena's tomb. Dottie has found a new man to bankroll her store. Antonio's Teresa has married someone else.
My little 1887 worker's cottage with its white picket fence and tiny garden looked so nice when I got home that I just stood out front and stared at it for a few minutes. The lights were on. Perhaps I thought, Alex, my friend and neighbor, had gone over to turn them on to greet me.
I opened the door. I could see there was a fire in the fireplace. Rob was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," I said. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me, too," he said. He looked tired, and discouraged, and older, somehow. "Did you have a good time?"
"Not really," I said. "Your job done?"
"Yes."
"I read about it in the newspaper on the plane," I said.
"Then you know?"
"Yes," I said. "You arrested a fellow officer in a sting operation. Drugs."
"I worked with that guy for fifteen years," Rob said. "We were even partners for a couple of them. When I finally figured out who it was, I felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut by a horse."
"That's too bad," I said.
"I'm thinking of quitting," he said. "I'm sure there's something else I could do."
"I'm sure there is," I said. "But you're an awfully good policeman."
"Maybe I could start up a security company, or something. I mean, would that be all right with you?"
I looked at him for a minute. "Whatever you want is okay with me. But I know what you need," I said, going up behind him and putting my arms around his neck and nuzzling his ear. "First," I said, "grappa, which, as it happens, I have in this duty-free bag." I opened the box, placed a glass in front of him, and poured.
"Second," I said. "Pasta. Not just any pasta, mind you. Pasta con aglio, olio, and peperoncini, garlic, oil, and hot peppers. I've been taught by an expert." I opened the kitchen cupboard and brought down the ingredients, then filled a large pot at the sink. "That should fortify you.
"And third," I said, walking over to the Indonesian armoire I use to house my stereo equipment, "Music. Verdi. Otello. Because whatever else there is to learn from it, it's about finding out the hard way whom to trust."