Whispering Bones (7 page)

* * * *

Several moments later, Falcone entered the office of his partner, Luciano Ferro, on the third floor, directly above the office in which Anna and Alejandro worked.

“Well?” Ferro asked.

“Everything is in order. She appears to be more than competent,” Falcone replied.

Ferro gave a terse nod. “Good. Let’s hope she’ll have no trouble in carrying the project to fruition. There’s too much money at stake. If we don’t get the project underway in short order, our investors will lose confidence and pull out.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Falcone snapped. “I’ve done the best I could. You know very well no Italian will set foot on that island. And procuring services outside the country takes time. I’ve managed to line up an architect in less than two weeks. What more do you expect?”

Ferro waved off Falcone’s outburst. “I know that, Paolo. And you’ve done well. Sit, sit. I did not mean to criticize your efforts. Construction will begin soon. We will both be wealthy men before long.”

Mollified by Ferro’s apologetic tone, Falcone sat and accepted the cigar Ferro held out to him.

Poveglia Island, Venice

1927

The last thing Dr. Rossi unpacked from the remaining box on the floor of his new office was a photograph of him with Serafina and their children. After polishing the glass of the framed photo with the sleeve of his pristine lab coat, Rossi angled the picture just so on the large desk. He looked around the bright room with more than a little pride and a sense of accomplishment in his new capacity as head surgeon of the asylum on Poveglia.

He’d arranged for the custom-made mahogany desk to be shipped to the island earlier in the week with the other furnishings he had hand-picked—walls of bookshelves, a settee, tables, chairs, and even a bed, in the event he was required to remain overnight on the island in case of an emergency. The head surgeon’s office was actually a separate one-story building, erected a small distance from the complex. The building served as both office and personal sanctuary, devoted entirely to him, and a more comfortable place to work he could not imagine. The building’s interior consisted of one enormous room with banks of tall, arched windows running along both lengths, providing plenty of air and sunshine. The back wall had been partitioned to include a bathroom, complete with a large tub, for his use alone.

Today marked his first official day as head surgeon in charge of the facility. Earlier during the week, he had taken a quick tour of the two-story hospital, with its orderly, clean patient wards—twenty beds to a room—and the adjoining laboratory, a large, up-to-date facility with stainless steel operating tables and everything necessary for surgical procedures. Approximately twenty feet to the north of the hospital proper, and resting at a right angle to it, was the quarantine building, where patients who required segregation could be housed, if necessary.

The facility, he’d been pleased to learn, even had its own crematorium, so any who died during their hospitalization could be cremated without the necessity of having to transport corpses by boat to the mainland. Not something the surviving family members had been happy to learn of—traditional burial was always preferred—but the city health officials had deemed it a practical necessity and the regulation had gone into effect right after the hospital’s construction five years ago. The crematorium rested just beyond the quarantine building. Next to that, approximately thirty feet away, was his, the head surgeon’s office.

All in all, he’d been extremely impressed by the institution. The structures on the island, save, perhaps, for the crematorium and the quarantine building, were aesthetically pleasing, with plenty of tall, narrow windows. The entire facility had been constructed short steps away from the landing where the boats arrived and departed. A treed path connected all the buildings, starting at the landing and ending at his office. The hospital’s imposing bell tower, built in the Venetian style and incorporated into the facade, lent a formal air to the place.

He walked over to one of the windows on the north wall of his office, which overlooked a large field, a bit overgrown, and backed by a veritable forest of poplar trees. Yes, he was going to be very happy in his new position.

At eleven o’clock, Rossi exited his office, ready to make his first rounds. Close to a hundred patients occupied the facility and he had spent the earlier part of the morning conducting a quick review of the medical records provided to him by Dr. Fenelli. Rossi had been impressed by the young doctor’s thoroughness in preparing the daily charts. From his perusal of the records, he learned several of the patients were afflicted with severe mental conditions. A quick walk-through to introduce himself to those in his care was his first order of business, and he followed the path to the hospital to locate Dr. Fenelli, anxious to get started.

Rossi entered through the main doors of the hospital and found Dr. Fenelli in the large vestibule, waiting for him. They passed through a portico on their left, into the first of the three wards on the main floor, which were connected to each other by arched openings. As he made his way through ward one, Rossi stopped at each bed and introduced himself to the occupant. Some of the patients appeared responsive, others not so much. Rossi made a note in his chart as he met and observed each one.

He continued in the same manner through the second ward. Just as they finished in ward two, Rossi heard shouts coming from the next room. He and Fenelli rushed through the opening into ward three, where two attendants were attempting to physically restrain a struggling patient shouting incoherently at the top of his lungs. Two more attendants arrived a moment later, but it took all four of them to subdue the man. Even after being restrained in his bed with leather straps at his wrists and ankles, the patient continued yelling.

“That’s Carbone,” said Fenelli. “Admitted just over a year ago. He’s become extremely delusional over the past several months.”

“What’s he saying?” Rossi asked. “I can’t make it out.”

“He’s yelling that they give him no rest.”

“Who?”

Fenelli sighed. “The spirits. He claims to see spirits, almost on a daily basis. As I say, the delusions started approximately three months ago. He appears to have developed symptoms of schizophrenia since his admittance, and his condition has worsened considerably in the past few weeks.”

“Have him transferred to the quarantine building. Today. I don’t want him threatening the safety of the other patients. I’ll review his history in more detail tonight then conduct a thorough examination of him first thing in the morning.”

“Of course,
Dottore
.”

Fenelli gave directions to the attendants nearby to remove the patient into quarantine, and Rossi continued making his rounds.

* * * *

At six o’clock that evening, Rossi boarded the waiting vessel at the landing for his return to the mainland. He carried with him the files of nine patients. It appeared whatever affliction the patient, Carbone, suffered from he was not the only extremely delusional patient in the hospital. Eight of the other patients seemed to also be suffering from a similar condition, requiring the regular use of restraints. He supposed it might be possible the patients could be feeding off each other’s paranoia, but the matter definitely warranted further investigation. By the time he’d finished making his rounds that afternoon, all nine of the patients who’d exhibited violent behavior had been transferred to the quarantine building. He would spend tonight studying their case histories and, in the morning, intended to conduct his own examination of each of them.

His brow creased in a frown as he considered the heavy caseload he’d taken on, with Dr. Fenelli the only other doctor to assist him. Still, Rossi had never been afraid of hard work, and this was the opportunity he’d waited for all his life. Whatever it took, he was going to make his mark here. Besides, he had to admit, he’d been more than a little intrigued by the similar symptoms being displayed by the unruly patients. Truth be told, he couldn’t wait to examine them tomorrow.

* * * *

Rosaria doubled over in pain, rocked by another contraction only moments after the last one. Her mother-in-law helped her up the stairs and into bed. “It’s not time yet,” Rosaria fretted. “The baby’s not due to arrive for another month.” She raised her worried eyes to her mother-in-law.

“Babies have a way of coming when they’re ready,” her mother-in-law reassured her. “It is a little soon, but I’m certain everything will be fine. Lie down now and I will send Massimo to stay with you while I fetch the midwife,” she said, hurrying out of the room.

A few minutes later, Massimo entered. He smiled warmly at her, and kissed her.

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she told him. “Soon we will be holding our child.”

“Are you in much pain?” he asked, his concern evident in his eyes.

“Not so bad.” She smiled, thinking that, most likely by tonight, Massimo would be more than a husband; he would be a father holding their newborn child in his arms, as he had longed to do for the past two years. “Are you happy?” she asked.

“Deliriously happy. And I love you.” He kissed her again.

* * * *

“Push!”

Rosaria did her best to follow the midwife’s instruction. Her mother-in-law, who remained in the bedroom with her after Massimo had been shooed out by the two women hours ago, wiped Rosaria’s brow and spoke soothingly to her.

After twelve hours of labor, Rosaria was drenched with sweat, her hair plastered to her head, the agony of birthing her child growing more enormous by the minute. She pushed with all her might, trying to ignore the blinding pain across her midsection, exerting maximum pressure in an effort to push the baby out.

Suddenly, she felt a burning, stinging sensation as her flesh tore and the baby slid through the birth canal to enter the world.

Tears of relief sprang to her eyes, not only because she’d been liberated from the pain of childbirth, but because she knew she had finally succeeded in bearing Massimo the child he had always dreamed of.

Her relief, however, was short-lived. She lifted her head to peek over the sheet draped across her, but could not see her baby or what the midwife was doing. Rosaria’s mother-in-law remained silent and did not look at her. She heard a slapping sound, but not the ensuing cry of her child. She looked to her mother-in-law for reassurance, but the woman still did not meet her eyes.

“What’s happening? Is my baby all right?”

Her words were answered by the sound of another slap that rang through the quiet room like a gunshot, and her fear mounted. “Tell me what’s happening,” she demanded. “I want to see my baby.”

At her words, her mother-in-law seemed to snap out of whatever trance she’d been in. The woman looked at the midwife. Rosaria saw the midwife shake her head no.

“Rosaria.” Her mother-in-law moved to her side and took hold of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Tears had formed in her mother-in-law’s eyes and a wave of dread coursed through her in anticipation of her next words.

“Your son... Your son did not survive the birth.”

A scream of anguish pierced the room which Rosaria almost did not recognize as her own. Disconnected thoughts filled her mind as shock and disappointment rang through her.
My baby.
Dead.
Oh, Massimo.
A boy.
Our son is dead.

The midwife quickly bundled the stillborn child in blankets and carried him out of the room.

“No! My baby... Bring him back to me! I want to see him!” Rosaria struggled to get out of bed, ignoring her mother-in-law’s efforts to comfort her, her hysterical cries echoing through the house.

Venice, Italy

Present Day

At one in the afternoon, having finished with the paperwork left by Falcone, Anna and Alejandro walked out of the old office building and made their way to an outdoor trattoria near the Grand Canal. They both ordered grilled panini and had almost finished eating when Falcone called Alejandro on his cellphone to say he’d lined up a driver to take them to Poveglia.

“Wonderful,” Anna said. “Are you just about done?”

Alejandro popped the last morsel of his sandwich in his mouth and summoned the waiter. “All set. The water taxi stand’s nearby. We can get there in a few minutes.”

As they traveled the crowded street, Anna studied Alejandro out of the corner of her eye. She liked the primal way he moved, and several times during lunch she’d caught herself wondering what he’d be like in bed. She reminded herself it would be best to nip this infatuation in the bud, even though she sensed the attraction might be mutual.

At two o’clock, they arrived at the dock and were directed in English to one of the wooden boats nearby, similar to the one Anna had boarded from the airport.

The driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and an impressive handle-bar moustache, appeared somewhat surly as he hurried them onto the boat with a wave of his hand. No sooner had they taken their seats than the boat pulled out into the canal. Once they hit the open water of the lagoon, Anna called out to the driver, “How long is the trip to Poveglia?”

“Not long.” The man at the wheel sounded annoyed, and didn’t turn around.

Anna looked at Alejandro and raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem to have the same warm disposition as most of the other Italians I’ve met.” she whispered.

Alejandro suppressed a smile and whispered back, “I don’t think he’s Italian. The accent sounds Romanian, I think. Maybe he had other fares, and had to set them aside to take us.”

“I wonder why the island isn’t accessible by public transport.”

“Yes, it does seem strange,” Alejandro replied. “But it is private property now, and Falcone probably wanted to make sure the place remains off-limits to the public until the construction is complete. Insurance reasons, no doubt.”

As the boat sped into the lagoon, heavy clouds rolled in, blotting out sun and blue sky. The air turned sticky-hot.