The Mephisto Club (26 page)

“We’ve finally found you,” he said.

She straightened, her chin lifting. If she had to face the Devil, she’d damn well do it with her head high.

“So where is he?” the German asked.

“Who?”

“Dominic.”

She stared at him. This question she had not expected.

“Where is your cousin?” he said.

She shook her head in bewilderment. “Isn’t he the one who sent you?” she asked. “To kill me?”

Now the German looked startled. He gave a nod to one of the men standing behind Lily. She flinched in surprise as her arms were yanked behind her, as handcuffs snapped shut over her wrists.

“You will come with us,” the German said.

“Where?”

“A safe place.”

“You mean…you’re not going to—”

“Kill you? No.” He crossed toward the altar and opened a hidden panel. Beyond was a tunnel that she had never known existed. “But someone else very well may.”

THIRTY-TWO

Lily stared through the limousine’s tinted windows as the Tuscan countryside glided past. Five months ago, she had traveled south down this very road, but under different circumstances, in a rattling truck driven by an unshaven man whose only goal had been to get inside her pants. That night she had been hungry and exhausted, her feet sore from trudging half the night. Now she was on the same road, but heading north, back toward Florence, not a weary hitchhiker this time, but traveling in style. Everywhere she looked, in the backseat of the limo, she saw luxury. The upholstery was black leather, supple as human skin. The seat pocket in front of her held a surprising range of newspapers: today’s issues of the
International Herald Tribune,
the London
Times, Le Figaro,
and
Corriere della Sera.
Warm air whispered from heating vents, and in a refreshment rack were bottles of sparkling water and wine and a selection of fresh fruits, cheese and crackers. But comfortable though it was, it was still a prison, for she could not unlock the door. Shatterproof glass separated her from the driver and his companion in the front seat. For the past two hours, neither man had bothered to glance back at her. She couldn’t even be sure they were human. Maybe they were just robots. All she’d seen was the backs of their heads.

She turned and looked through the rear window at the Mercedes following them. She saw the German man stare back at her through his windshield. She was being escorted north by three men in two very expensive cars. These people had resources, and they knew what they were doing. What chance did she have against them?

I don’t even know who they are.

But they knew who she was. As careful as she’d been all these months, somehow these people had managed to track her down.

The limo took a turn off the highway. So they were not going all the way to Florence. Instead they were headed into the countryside, climbing the gentle hills of Tuscany. Daylight was almost gone, and in the thickening dusk she saw bare grapevines huddled on windswept slopes and crumbling stone houses, long abandoned. Why take this road? There was nothing out here except farms gone fallow.

Maybe that was the point. Here there’d be no witnesses.

She had wanted to believe the German when he’d said he was taking her to a safe place, had wanted it so badly that she had let herself be temporarily lulled by a little luxury, a comfortable ride. Now, as the limo slowed down and turned onto a private dirt road, she felt her heart battering against her ribs, felt her hands turn so slick she had to wipe them on her jeans. It was dark enough now. They’d take her on a short walk into the fields and put a bullet in her brain. With three men, it would be quick work, digging the grave, rolling in the body.

In January, the soil would be cold.

The limo climbed, winding through trees, the headlights flashing across gnarled undergrowth. She saw the brief red reflection from a rabbit’s eyes. Then the trees opened up, and they were stopped at an iron gate. A security camera glowed above an intercom. The driver rolled down his window and said, in Italian, “We have the package.”

Blinding floodlights came on, and there was a pause as the camera panned the occupants of the car. Then the gate whined open.

They drove through, followed by the Mercedes that had tailed them all the way from Rome. Only then, as Lily’s vision readjusted back to the darkness, did she see the silhouettes of statuary and clipped hedges lining the drive. And ahead, looming at the end of the gravel road, was a villa with lights blazing. She leaned forward in astonishment, staring at stone terraces and enormous urns and tall cypresses, like a row of dark spears pointing at the stars. The limo pulled up beside a marble fountain, now dry and silent for the winter. The Mercedes parked behind them, and the German stepped out and opened her door.

“Ms. Saul, shall we go into the house?”

She looked up at the two men flanking him. These people were taking no chances that she might escape. She had no choice but to go with them. She stepped out, her legs stiff from the ride, and followed the German up stone steps to the terrace. A cold wind swept leaves across her path, scattering them like ashes. Even before they’d reached the entrance, the door swung open and an elderly man stood waiting to greet them. He gave Lily only a cursory glance, then turned his attention to the German.

“The room is ready for her,” he said in Italian-accented English.

“I’ll be staying as well, if that’s all right. He’ll arrive tomorrow?”

The elderly man nodded. “A night flight.”

Who was coming tomorrow? Lily wondered. They climbed a magnificent balustrade to the second floor. As their party swept past, hanging tapestries stirred, trembling against stone walls. She had no time to ogle the artwork. They hurried her up a long hallway now, past portraits with eyes that watched her every step.

The elderly man unlocked a heavy oak door and gestured for her to enter. She stepped into a bedroom that was ponderously furnished with dark wood and thick velvets.

“This is only for tonight,” said the German.

She turned, suddenly realizing that no one had followed her into the room. “What happens tomorrow?” she said.

The door swung shut, and she heard the key turn, locking her in.

Why will no one answer a single damn question?

Alone now, she quickly crossed to the heavy drapes and yanked them aside, revealing a window secured with bars. She strained to pry them apart, pulled and pulled until her arms were exhausted, but the bars were cast iron, welded into place, and she was nothing more than flesh and bone. In frustration, she turned and stared at her velvet prison. She saw an enormous bed of carved oak, covered with a wine-red canopy. Her gaze lifted to the dark wood moldings, to carvings of cherubs and grapevines that laced across the tall ceiling.
It may be a prison,
she thought,
but it’s also the nicest damn bedroom I’ll ever sleep in. A room fit for a Medici.

On an exquisitely inlaid table were a covered silver tray, a wineglass, and a bottle of Chianti, already uncorked. She lifted the lid and saw cold sliced meats, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, and unsalted Tuscan bread. She poured a glass of wine, then paused as she brought it to her lips.

Why would they poison me when it’s just as easy to fire a bullet into my head?

She drank the entire glass of wine and poured another. Then she sat down at the table and attacked the tray of food, ripping apart the bread, stuffing chunks into her mouth and washing them down with Chianti. The beef was so tender and sliced so thin, it was like cutting into butter. She devoured every sliver and drank almost the entire bottle of wine. By the time she rose from the chair, she was so clumsy she could barely stumble her way to the bed.
Not poisoned,
she thought.
Just plain old drunk.
And beyond caring what happened tomorrow. She did not even bother to undress but collapsed, fully clothed, onto the damask cover.

A voice awakened her, a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar, calling her name. She opened one aching eye and squinted at light glaring in through the barred window. Promptly she closed her eye again. Who the hell had opened the drapes? When had the sun come up?

“Ms. Saul, wake up.”

“Later,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t fly all night just to watch you sleep. We need to talk.”

She groaned and turned over. “I don’t talk to men who won’t tell me their names.”

“My name is Anthony Sansone.”

“Am I supposed to know you?”

“This is my house.”

That made her open her eyes. She blinked away sleep and turned to see a man with silver hair gazing down at her. Even in her hungover state, she registered the fact that this was one damn good-looking guy, despite the obvious fatigue shadowing his eyes. He said he’d flown all night and she didn’t doubt it, looking at his wrinkled shirt and the dark stubble on his jaw. Sansone had not come into the room alone; the German man was there as well, standing near the door.

She sat up in bed and clutched her throbbing temples. “You really own this villa?”

“It’s been in my family for generations.”

“Lucky you.” She paused. “You sound like an American.”

“I am.”

“And that guy over there?” She lifted her head and squinted at the German. “He works for you?”

“No. Mr. Baum is a friend. He works for Interpol.”

She went very still. She dropped her gaze back to the bed, so they could not see her face.

“Ms. Saul,” he said quietly, “why do I get the feeling you’re afraid of the police?”

“I’m not.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“And I think you’re not a very good host. Locking me up in your house. Barging in here without knocking.”

“We did knock. You didn’t wake up.”

“If you’re going to arrest me, you want to tell me why?” she asked. Because now she realized what this was all about. Somehow, they’d found out what she’d done twelve years ago, and they’d tracked her down. Of all the endings she’d imagined, this was not one of them. A cold unmarked grave, yes—but the police? She felt like laughing.
Oh right, arrest me. I’ve faced far worse terrors than the threat of prison.

“Is there a reason why we should arrest you?” asked Mr. Baum.

What did he expect, that she was going to blurt out a confession right here and now? They’d have to work a little harder than that.

“Lily,” said Sansone, and he sat down on the bed, an invasion of her personal space that instantly made her wary. “Are you aware of what happened in Boston a few weeks ago?”

“Boston? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Does the name Lori-Ann Tucker mean anything to you?”

Lily paused, startled by the question. Did Lori-Ann talk to the police? Is that how they found out?
You promised me, Lori-Ann. You told me you’d keep it a secret.

“She was your friend, correct?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lily admitted.

“And Sarah Parmley? She was also a friend?”

Suddenly she registered the fact that he’d used the word
was.
Not
is.
Her throat went dry. This was starting to sound very bad.

“You knew both of these women?” he pressed her.

“We—we grew up together. The three of us. Why are you asking about them?”

“Then you haven’t heard.”

“I’ve been out of touch. I haven’t talked to anyone in the States for months.”

“And no one’s called you?”

“No.”
How could they? I’ve done my damnedest to stay out of sight.

He looked at Baum, then back at her. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. But your friends—both of them—are dead.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Was it an accident? How could both of them…?”

“Not an accident. They were murdered.”

“Together?”

“Separately. It happened around Christmas. Lori-Ann was killed in Boston. And Sarah was killed in Purity, New York. Sarah’s body was found in your parents’ house, the house you’ve been trying to sell. That’s why the police have been looking for you.”

“Excuse me,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted into the adjoining bathroom. She slammed the door shut and dropped to her knees over the toilet bowl. The wine she’d drunk the night before came up, scorching like acid as it burned its way up her throat. She clung to the toilet, retching until her stomach was empty, until she had nothing left to throw up. She flushed the toilet and staggered to the sink, where she splashed water in her mouth, on her face. Staring at her own dripping reflection, she scarcely recognized the woman she saw there. How long had it been since she’d looked, really looked, into a mirror? When had she transformed into that feral creature? The running had taken its toll. Run too long, and eventually you’ll leave behind your soul.

She dried her face on a thick cotton towel, used her fingers to comb back her hair, and retied the ponytail. Mr. Good-Looking-and-Rich was waiting to interrogate her, and she needed to stay on her toes. Tell him just enough to keep him happy. If he doesn’t know what I did, then I sure as hell won’t tell him.

The color was returning to her face. She lifted her chin and saw the old warrior’s glint in her eyes. Both her friends were dead. She was the only one left.
Help me, girls. Help me survive this.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

The men looked at her with expressions of concern. “I’m sorry to have sprung that news on you so abruptly,” said Sansone.

“Tell me the details,” Lily said bluntly. “What did the police find?”

He seemed taken aback by her coolheaded directness. “The details aren’t pleasant.”

“I didn’t expect they would be.” She sat down on the bed. “I just need to know,” she said softly. “I need to know how they died.”

“First, may I ask you something?” said the German man, Mr. Baum. He moved closer. Now both men were standing above her, watching her face. “Do you know the significance of the reverse cross?”

For a few seconds, she stopped breathing. Then she found her voice again. “The upside-down cross is…it’s a symbol that’s meant to mock Christianity. Some would consider it satanic.”

She saw Baum and Sansone exchange surprised glances.

“And what about this symbol?” Baum reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pen and a scrap of paper. Quickly he made a sketch, which he showed to her. “It’s sometimes called the all-seeing eye. Do you know its significance?”

“This is Udjat,” she said, “the eye of Lucifer.”

Again, a look passed between Baum and Sansone.

“And if I were to draw a picture of a goat’s head, with horns?” said Baum. “Would it mean anything to you?”

She met his mild-mannered gaze. “I assume you’re referring to the symbol for Baphomet? Or Azazel?”

“You’re familiar with all these symbols.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Are you a Satanist, Ms. Saul?”

She felt like laughing. “Hardly. I just happen to know about them. It’s my own peculiar interest.”