The streets were so disorienting that I had no idea where I was or where I had been. There was nothing to do except keep walking, now through a thin drizzle. I fished out my travel umbrella and flicked it open. A gust of wind yanked it from my hand. The umbrella tumbled down the steep, winding street. I bent to grab it and noticed a slight flutter of movement not far off. Something in the entrance to one of the houses. Or someone. I straightened up and stood still.
Was it Ray? Awake and irritated at my walkabout? Most likely just another citizen hurrying home to dinner.
I moved along the street, keeping an ear out, just in case. There's something about a foggy medieval town on a November evening that makes the hair on your neck rise. There. I heard something. Behind me. The soft splash of feet in puddles. I stooped and pretended to adjust my shoe. I peered over my shoulder. I was just in time to see someone wearing dark clothes duck into another front entrance. Definitely a he. I watched as he fiddled with a door. The door didn't open, because I could still see his shadow in the lamplight. I hustled my buns up that hill, turned a corner and ran like hell. I reached yet another crossroads and chose the left turn.
Two could play the same game. I hugged the wall of an entrance, thankful I was wearing basic black, always just right for hiding out in the fog. I held my breath.
The footsteps stopped at the corner, where yet another choice had to be made about which murky twisting street to check out next. He picked the same one I had and passed by my hiding place. I was pressed so tight against the wall that I could feel the rough stone wall surface through my jacket.
I could have reached out and touched him, but I couldn't make out his face. His body outline showed clearly, though, as he moved stealthily past the next street lamp. He seemed tall, slim, fit, maybe even athletic. Definitely male, although I wouldn't have expected anything else. From his confident stride, he appeared to know exactly what he was looking for. Was I just being stalked by a pickpocket? An opportunistic mugger or rapist who had just picked a convenient victim?
As soon as he moved out of sight, I ducked out of my hiding spot and dashed in the opposite direction. I splashed and puffed loud enough to be heard inside the houses as I ran past. I prayed my head start would get me back to the piazza before he caught up.
I hadn't gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. I picked up the pace. I had wild thoughts about banging on the many doors I passed. Too bad it was impossible to tell which houses had people at home. And whoever he was, he was gaining on me.
I put on the afterburners and ran like hell. I turned a corner, expecting to see lights and people in the piazza at the bottom of the long hill. Where the hell was it? I'd been running longer than I'd been walking. Had I gone around in circles? The footsteps were closer now. I darted left and took a twisty street that I'd noticed on my earlier stroll with Ray. One house had a narrow garden court that ended with a low stone wall. I glanced over my shoulder as I approached the wall at full speed. Just at the point where the street curved behind me, I dashed across the garden and vaulted over the wall. I hoped like hell my pursuer went straight.
I dropped onto the soft hillside below and rolled into another garden court, a half-street lower. A few stacked terra cotta pots clattered loudly around me. No lights flicked on in the windows of the house. I picked myself up, dusted my knees and kept going. This street had to lead back to the downtown area. I figured I'd shaken off my pursuer and stopped to catch my breath. My relief was short-lived. I realized that I had headed away from the downtown. I heard footfalls behind me, getting very close. Worse, the street appeared to be a dead end. I spotted a set of stairs that looked amazingly uninviting, but I was cut off from anything else. There wasn't even a door close enough to bang on. The stairs clanged a bit more than I thought they would. I wasn't expecting a metallic rattle in this world of old stone and wood.
I felt my way into some kind of tunnel. It was too dim to read the large signs on the side. It had to be part of the reconstruction site for the fortifications.
Aside from dripping water, the only sound was my own ragged breath as I felt my way along in the dimming light. Behind me, I heard the clang of the stairs. I was in my own personal horror movie, brought on by my own personal bad decisions.
The floor sloped, and I bumped my head on some protrusion from the ceiling. I ducked down and lumbered forward in a fast crouch, groping my way along the damp and slippery walls. Behind me, someone grunted in pain. He must have hit that ceiling too. It didn't stop him long. I stumbled and landed on my knees. I scuttled sideways, intending to press myself against the wall, hoping to hold my breath until he passed. But there was no wall, just a gap where the wall had been. Would I fall into some ancient cistern? Tumble into a sewer? In my head I heard Mrs. Parnell's voice. Remain calm, Ms. MacPhee. Right. I used my hands to try and find the extent of the gap, feeling to the left and right and then up. I inched forward to avoid falling into some unseen void. Just as the footsteps moved closer, I felt a solid wall about knee-height. I realized I'd been feeling around an entrance of some sort. I felt forward and encountered solid ground. Sanctuary. I crawled forward into it, banging my knees on what felt like broken bricks and jagged rock. I was cold, wet, shivering in the dark, breathing musty air. My knees and shins stung from being scraped by the broken bricks. I was scared shitless. Something slithered by my foot. The sinister foggy streets seemed very Martha Stewart in retrospect.
No one in the world knew where I was. Ray would wake up and feel annoyed, then bewildered, and eventually betrayed. He'd been counting on a holiday, and he was getting a dead girlfriend whose body would probably never be found. I hadn't said goodbye to him. I knew the hard way how not saying goodbye could haunt you years later.
My sisters would make new careers out of besieging the Italian embassy and bedevilling the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs. They'd find a way to pester Interpol. Of course, it would be too late.
I sniffed a bit thinking about them. Although they drive me nuts, at that moment I longed to hear their piercing voices. I thought about my father. He'd never again say, “Oh hello, um, Camilla.”
And maybe Mrs. Parnell was right, maybe I was too hard on Alvin. Something about him always brought it out in me. Still, I had to admit Alvin is loyal, resourceful and never boring. That's pretty good. I would have given anything to have him show up at that moment. He could be as irritating as he wanted. Of course, I wouldn't see Mrs. P. again either. I'd never learn what trouble had driven her to Italy, setting off this weird chain of events. Seeing dead men, that was weird enough for anyone. I wouldn't be able to help or protect her. And who would look after her little calico cat? What would happen to Gussie? He'd already been discarded by the Fergusons. My sisters would never let a dog inside their pale cream houses. Alvin's apartments never allowed pets. Would wonderful stinky Gussie end up at the Humane Society?
Ray would take them. Of course, he would. If only I could leave him a message. I dug in the pocket for a pen. I only located the goddam useless cellphone. I might have used the light from the cellphone to examine my surroundings if I hadn't thought even that tiny light might be seen. That left my lipstick. What good was Graffiti Red in this situation? Hold on, red graffiti might be just the ticket. I used it to scratch out “Love you, Ray, Camilla.” He probably wouldn't be able to read it, in the unlikely event he ever saw it, but I knew it was true. That one fact surprised me as much as anything. It gave me a lift too.
I straightened up, as much as I could. It's not like me to go down without a fight. What's more, that wasn't going to happen. I could almost imagine Mrs. Parnell shouting, “onward into the breech.” Of course, Mrs. Parnell was far too cagey to get herself get blocked in a place like this without back-up.
What did I have going for me? Cavelike opening, dark, dank, low ceiling, floor covered in debris of some sort. Impossible to see. Difficult to move around in. Definite weaknesses.
The cave wasn't really visible from the tunnel, so that was a strength, although it could be found by someone either crawling, such as I had been, or searching with a light. I was safe only as long as my pursuer didn't find the opening, or come back with a flashlight. I could have done with a bit more imaginary sympathy from Mrs. Parnell.
The damp from the earth floor seeped through my jeans. My thighs felt numb, my bum itched, my teeth chattered. I could hear them. Could someone else? The broken bricks and stones dug into my legs. I'd cut myself on a very pointed one. Hey. If it could hurt me, it could damage someone else. I scooped up the brick. I moved my arms to see how I could best deliver a projectile to disable someone crawling toward me. What if he had a gun? Broken bricks aren't much good against a bullet. If he did have a gun, wouldn't he have fired it at me as I was fleeing, when there was enough light to see? No one would have heard a thing. So no gun. A knife maybe.
Trying to be silent, I gathered brick bits and stones. My hand tightened on the brick with the sharp end as a splash sounded in the passageway.
I listened intently.
Something slithered past my back. I was getting used to that. This was different. Squish, squish. Footsteps, soft-soled shoes coming closer, stopping nearby. I heard a scraping, an ooof, and then the slow, measured sound of someone inching his way into the opening, moving toward me.
Adrenaline shot through all my systems. Fight time. Never forget the element of surprise, Mrs. Parnell whispered in my head.
His breath rasped. Or maybe that was mine. I thought my lungs might burst from trying not to gasp. Nice girls, even lapsed Catholics, are not programmed to hurl dangerous objects at others. That kind of thing is trained out of us in school, home, church. And a good thing too.
I needed to break free from constraints of law and decency. My pursuer had. He would not be expecting an attack. I lobbed my first brick. I followed with every piece of debris I could reach. The brick bits were lighter than the stones, but sharper. My fingers were so cold and stiff, it was hard to grip them. Keep going, I told myself, or you'll be colder than this forever.
I heard a grunt of pain.
Within seconds, I'd hurled every projectile in reach. I heard a yelp. Then nothing. Holding a stone in my hand, I crawled the short distance toward the spot where I hoped the opening was.
I bumped into a soft, inert form. I crawled over the warm body, trying not to vomit. Was he unconscious? Was he dead?
I felt for the opening and crawled through. I stood up in the passageway and gulped the air.
Who was lying there? I had no light. My desire to flee was tied with my desperate need to know. Of course, the useless cellphone! Was there enough of a charge left? I kept a rock in one hand, while I dug in my pocket and fished out the phone with the other. I flipped open the lid and fumbled to turn it on. The pale light on the small screen flicked off almost immediately. I bent forward, pressing keys to keep the light on. I gasped. I was expecting the dark-haired middle-aged man who claimed to be Mrs. Parnell's son. Or the balding, chiselled face of her burglar. Instead, I saw the dark trickle of blood that worked its way across the handsome unconscious features of Dario, my most flirtatious friend.
My cramped muscles screamed as I raced through the tunnel, stumbling many times. I kept looking behind me, half expecting Dario. I found the stairs and clattered up them to the deserted street. The mist turned to solid rain as I limped toward my hotel and Ray.
I lurched through the dark streets, slipping on the damp cobblestones. The piazza was dim, storefronts shuttered.
A black Mercedes sat among the Fiats and Golfs and Opels along the edge of the square. I stopped and stared.
Had Dario been the man in the Mercedes all along? But Dario drove an Alpha Romeo, and I could see it parked at a brazen angle on the edge of the piazza. Dario had been the one to tell me of the son. No one else had ever mentioned him. Dario had told me he was in a black Mercedes. At the time, I'd been quite appreciative.
The vicious little bastard. There'd never been a black Mercedes following Mrs. P. And no false son, just misinformation to get me off track.
I jerked my head at a shadow. A dark figure approached through the misty piazza. I yelped and raised my arms to strike out.
“Camilla. Where the hell have you been?”
I capsized into Ray's arms and burst into tears. How girly was that?
March 17, 1980
Dear Vi,
I think you could get off your high horse one of these days and answer some of the letters I have sent over the years. I go to quite a lot of trouble to find out where you are. I have lost my third quite lovely husband, a man who was kindhearted all of his life. He had a hard couple of years. I guess he's in a better place now. I sure hope so. My point is, we're all off to that same location sooner or later, so we shouldn't waste a single day on old grievances. Let's face it, the dead don't get out much.
I'd really love to see you and have a grand laugh about the good old days. For instance, do you remember the time that Perce managed to get that cow up on the roof of the school? Poor Harry got the blame for it, and him afraid of heights! I remember you told the principal you thought the cow on the roof must have been an act of God. I thought Betty would die on the spot when she found out her precious Perce was the culprit. She kept her mouth shut, though. Couldn't have the family lose face, I guess.
I have met a lovely widower from South Carolina. Sam Thurlow is his name, so I am about to become Hazel Fellows Stiles Murphy Thurlow now. Practically the whole alphabet. Sam is at loose ends too and very gallant. Unlike the others, he has no youngsters. That's all right, I have plenty of step-grands to love and buy presents for. I am happy to report that the Southern girls dress up a bit more than we do.
Don't go thinking that I keep writing to you because I have no life. I have wonderful friends, fine step-children, well the second and third batch anyway, and a lot of fun every single day, although I've given up on hats and there's nothing on at the movies. Even so, I am not about to take up golf like Betty!
Still waiting,
Your friend,
Hazel