The Night Villa (21 page)

E
lgin is the first to run to the tunnel. Lyros is leaning heavily on me, limping, so I’m unable to keep up with him. I watch helplessly as Elgin is swallowed up in a cloud of dust at the mouth of the tunnel. When I try to follow, Lyros pulls me back.

“There’s no sense risking your life, too,” he says. Lyros calls to the workmen, who have come down to the pit but are hovering far from the building as if they are afraid the whole villa is about to come down. He tells them to bring shovels and lights.

“What the hell were they doing in there?” I ask, still trying to get close enough to the tunnel to see what’s going on.

“You heard what Maria said, Simon was showing Agnes some paintings. The man’s a fool! He somehow got the idea that there were more paintings in there that could be copied for the restorations, but I’ve told him the tunnels aren’t safe….” A coughing spasm compels Lyros to stop talking. While I’m waiting for him to recover I wonder if this is what Lyros and Simon were arguing about the night before last on the sea-steps. I also wonder if the paintings were all Simon was looking for in the tunnels. Could it be that Simon is the Tetraktys member on the project? “When I got down here, I heard their voices coming from this tunnel so I followed them in. I got about three yards in when the ceiling started to collapse. I could see them, about another fifteen yards in, I would say. I saw the support beam over their heads come down and then the one just in front of me came down as well and tore out a piece of the wall. There was too much dirt for me to dig through so I came back out, but with shovels…”

Lyros turns to two workers who have arrived at the scene with shovels and shouts for them to start digging for the
signorina Americana.
They spring to attention to save the pretty American girl, moving far faster, I imagine, than if it were only old, fat Simon trapped in there. Simon’s lucky he’s got Agnes with him, but what about poor Agnes?

“Shouldn’t we contact the archaeological office?” I ask. “They must have more experience with this kind of situation.”

“They do,” Lyros says, “but it’s a holiday. By the time they assemble a crew Simon and Agnes could be dead. We should notify them, though, and tell them to call an ambulance. You and Maria should go…. Where is Maria anyway?”

“I don’t think she ever came downstairs,” I say. “I’ll get her.”

I leave Lyros crouched in front of the tunnel and run up the stairs to the third level of the villa. The courtyard is empty, though, save for the painted figures on the wall, still moving through their rituals as if nothing had happened. Hades ravages Persephone, Demeter in her grief scorches the earth and transforms her daughter’s companions into shrieking sirens who then lead a young girl through the steps of initiation. Even the brutal assault of the young initiate seems like a staged scene, both actors a little bored. They have, after all, been at it for nearly two thousand years; not even a volcanic eruption had fazed them. The only sound in the courtyard is a faint patter, like raindrops, coming from behind the west wall.

When I walk around the wall I see Maria seated at the field desk, typing on the laptop. Behind the plastic tarp she appears spectral and blurred, less substantial than the painted figures on the other side of the wall. When I lift the tarp, she startles and slams shut the laptop.

“
Dio!
You scared me! I was just letting George know what happened. Have they gotten them out?”

“No,” I say, wondering why she’d think alerting George, across the bay on Capri, would be a top priority, “but they’re going to go in. John wants us to go to the archaeological office to notify them of the accident and call an ambulance.” When she fails to get up, I add: “I need you to go with me to give the directions in Italian.”

She sighs and gets up, casting a reluctant parting glance at the laptop.

“How did George respond when you e-mailed him about Agnes?” I ask as we go down the stairs. “He’s so protective of her.”

“What?” Maria looks distracted by the scene at the bottom of the pit. The workers have returned with high-powered floodlights that they’ve trained on the opening of the tunnel. Elgin and Lyros must be inside already.

“George,” I repeat. “You said you e-mailed George to tell him what happened to Agnes and Simon.”

“Ah, I didn’t actually reach him,” she says. “
Andiamo.
We ought to hurry.”

She quickens her pace so that I have to jog to keep up with her. Clearly she’s trying to avoid my questions—probably because she hadn’t been e-mailing George at all. What
could
she have been doing on the computer? Checking her e-mail? Online shopping? Whatever she was doing, she’s clearly not going to tell me. The one good thing about her running from me is that it gets us to the archaeological office fast. By the time I catch up with her, she’s gotten them to call an ambulance and deputized two young men to go back to the site to help with the rescue mission.

“You lead the way,” Maria tells me.

“Where are you going?” I ask when I realize she’s not coming back to the site.

“Family emergency,” she says, gathering her thick dark hair and coiling it into a knot at the back of her head. Beads of sweat dampen her forehead and the collar of her gauze blouse. There’s a streak of gray tufa dust on her cheekbone, but after a few minutes of patting and smoothing she manages to look more put-together than I generally do after an hour’s primping. She takes out of her bag a lipstick and a pair of heels that she exchanges for the flat sandals she wore at the site.
“Mia zia,”
she says when she sees me eyeing the heels and lipstick. “If I’m not dressed properly, I’ll never hear the end of it from my aunt. Now go! Tell John I’ll meet you back on the island tonight.”

The two young men, who have decided to bring a portable stretcher even though it seems to me that the ambulance will have one, follow as I head back to the villa, and I feel as if I am leading some sacrificial procession. Every time I glance back at them I half expect to see them carrying a slaughtered lamb between them instead of the stretcher. Instead of chanting, though, I hear a low sibilant exchange that seems to concern various parts of my anatomy. By the time we reach the site, I feel as though I’m to be the sacrificial lamb, but when I hold the gate for them they return my glare with such open smiles that I find myself smiling, too. All our smiles vanish when we see what’s waiting for us at the bottom of the pit.

Simon lies gray and motionless just outside the entrance to the tunnel. Elgin is thumping on his chest and then breathing into his mouth. I rush on ahead of my litter-bearers and kneel down next to Elgin just as Simon’s chest spasms, his ample belly rippling as he begins to cough.

“Thank God,” Elgin says, his voice shaking, and then, noticing me, “If I lost one more person on this project, I might not get any more grants.”

I lift my hand to slap Elgin in the arm, but then I notice that his face is as white as Simon’s under the grime and I squeeze his arm instead.

“Agnes?” I ask, afraid to hear his response.

“She’s okay,” Elgin answers, pointing with his chin toward the villa. “She’s right over there.”

I look over his shoulder. Agnes, dusty but apparently unhurt, stands at the mouth of the tunnel. I rush to her, certain she must be in shock, but when I get to her she seems calm and collected. She’s holding a flashlight with a steady hand, shining its beam through a broken gap in the wall about three yards from the entrance.

“Agnes, thank God you’re all right,” I say, grabbing her arm, which I see now is scratched and bleeding under the layer of grime. “But you have to get out of here and go with us to the hospital—” I stop when I see what’s beyond the hole. A painted swan hovers on the opposite wall. When I move closer I see that the walls are covered with paintings and that the space isn’t another tunnel, it’s a stairway leading down into the ground. “Wow,” I say. “It must have led under the villa and it seems to be completely intact.”

“It’s carved out of rock,” she says, in a girlish wispy voice that sounds strange coming from her soot-covered face—like the voice of an angel emanating from the mask of a gorgon. “These walls must be three feet thick.” She stops because we hear Simon moaning behind us. “Simon’s coming to?” she asks.

“Yes, but he’s still badly injured and you—” I scan her up and down, looking for injuries, but except for a few scratches and a torn shirt sleeve, she looks fine. “You still should go to the hospital to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Did you get hit on the head?”

Agnes reaches the hand that’s not holding the flashlight and rubs the top of her head, more like a sleepy toddler trying to wake up than someone who’s been hurt, but then, I think, her baffling affect might be the result of a blow to the head. “Um, maybe, it all happened so quickly, but yeah, I think something did graze my head. But Simon’s the one who really got hit hard by a big rock. Are you sure he’s okay?”

“I’m not sure at all. We’d better get both of you to the hospital.”

She nods slowly, like a person in a dream. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Then she turns and walks out of the tunnel. I follow, giving one backward glance to the painted swan, which seems to be hovering in the space above the hole, feeling irrationally that it will escape before I get a chance to see it again. I remind myself it’s been waiting there behind that wall for centuries. It will wait one more day. I turn and join Elgin and Agnes, who are both kneeling next to Simon. He appears to be breathing, although raggedly. His eyes flicker open for a moment, but he groans and closes them again.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Elgin says. “There’s an ambulance on the way, right?” Elgin turns to me, his face imploring.

“Yes, it should be here any minute,” and then I mouth, “Where’s Lyros?”

“He ran upstairs—leaving me to do mouth to mouth with Simon here when he stopped breathing. I guess that’s what being a billionaire’s all about: getting other people to do your dirty work.”

Simon opens his mouth as if to say something, but all that comes out is a hoarse rasp that sounds as if he’s drawing breath through a cheese grater. Agnes winces at the sound and pats Simon on the shoulder. “Don’t try to talk, Mr. Bowles. Here’s Mr. Lyros now.”

I turn and see John Lyros, his laptop case strapped across his chest, coming down the stairs. At the same moment I hear the sirens approaching.

“Where’s Maria?” Lyros asks.

“She said she had a family emergency and had to go,” I answer.

“Damn, I was going to suggest she go to the hospital with Simon and Agnes and that you go back on the boat with Elgin. But you can probably handle the
Parthenope
yourself, right, Elgin?”

“Well, yes, but…” Normally I would expect Elgin to leap at the chance to take control of such a luxurious boat, but he seems oddly reluctant.

“Good. Sophie, why don’t you go in the ambulance with Simon and Agnes? I’ll meet you at the hospital with my car.”

“Dr. Chase doesn’t have to go with us,” Agnes pipes up. “I can look after Simon.”

“And who will look after you?” Lyros asks.

“Really, I’m fine—” Agnes begins, but Lyros is already walking away to let the paramedics into the site and lead them down the ramp.

“Really, Dr. Chase, you should go back to the island with Dr. Lawrence. I’ll be fine.”

“I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone,” I say. “I’m sure Dr. Lawrence agrees.”

Elgin looks at me and then at Agnes. “Dr. Chase is right, Agnes,” he says, then switches his gaze back to me. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you. Perhaps Dr. Chase can do a better job of it than I have.”

He’s still angry with me for blaming him for bringing Agnes here. Well, too bad, I feel like saying, look at what’s happened.

The paramedics strap Simon to a stretcher and carry him up the ramp toward the street where the ambulance is waiting. They try to make Agnes lie down on a stretcher, but she insists she’s well enough to walk. Still
I
insist on walking by her side with my arm around her in case she feels faint. When we’re all in the ambulance, John Lyros sticks his head in to confirm with the driver that we’re going to the Ospedale Santa Maria del Popolo degli Incurabili.

“Doesn’t that mean the hospital for the incurables?” Agnes whispers in my ear. “Is Simon really that bad?”

I start to explain the origin of the hospital’s name, but a noise from Simon distracts me. He’s struggling with the oxygen mask that’s strapped over his mouth, his eyes darting from me to Agnes. I squeeze his hand, pretty sure what he’s trying to ask. “It’s okay,” I tell him, “Agnes is okay and you’ll be fine, too. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

He squeezes my hand again, this time so hard that I inadvertently pull back. Abruptly, he wrenches his hand from mine and bats the oxygen mask away from his face. When he opens his mouth, though, the only thing that comes out is a sibilant hiss—the sound a tire makes when it’s been punctured. I snap my head up and yell at the paramedics.

“His lung!” I say, pointing to Simon’s chest while I try to remember the word in Italian. But it’s not necessary. It’s obvious right away to the paramedics that one of Simon’s lungs has collapsed. I move back as they converge on him with needles and tubes. I can see by the color returning to his face that they’re able to keep him breathing, but he rides the rest of the way with the oxygen mask over his face and eyes tightly closed. Agnes takes my place by his side, holding his hand and telling him over and over again that he’s going to be okay. I spend the rest of the trip with my hand over my own chest, trying to ease the sympathetic tightening I’d felt there when Simon’s lung collapsed.