“If possible, I need to get up there this morning and back tonight.”
“Definitely we can get you there in a few hours. The only issue is returning. The crew’s got other flights after Milan. If they time out, they’ll have to spend the night in Lausanne or Geneva.”
“That’s fine,” Rhyme said. “The important thing is to get there as soon as possible.”
Hill said, “Now, where do you want to go? There’re two airports in Milan. Malpensa, the bigger one, is about twenty miles northwest of the city and depending on the time of day, the traffic can be pretty bad. Linate’s the downtown airport. It’s much more convenient if you’ve got to be in the city itself. Which would be better?”
Rossi had said the warehouse was in town, not in the suburbs. “Linate.”
“Okay. Easy-peasy. I’ll tell the crew. They’ll need to file a flight plan. Coupla hours should do it. And I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.”
Sachs began, “Mr. Hill—”
“Mike, per favore.” Spoken with the worst Italian accent Rhyme had ever heard. “And if you’re gonna bring up money, forget it. Won’t cost much to make a stop in Milano. So consider this gratis.”
“We appreciate it.”
“Never had a chance to help catch a psycho and probably never will again. Glad to do my duty.” Hill rose, pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped to the corner of the office, where, Rhyme could hear, he had conversations with the pilot and his chauffeur, coordinating the trip.
“Lincoln, Amelia.” A woman’s voice from the doorway. Rhyme looked up to see Charlotte McKenzie walk into the office, looking rumpled. Her short blond hair was a bit spiky and her copper-colored blouse a bit wrinkled. Maybe her cold was taking its toll. “Henry.” She nodded to Thom too.
“So, hitching a ride to Milan,” she said to Rhyme. “That worked out?”
Musgrave nodded toward Mike Hill, still on the phone, and said to McKenzie, “Mike’s plane’ll get Detective Sachs up there this morning.”
“Good. You think this guy, the Composer, he’s left Naples? He’s up there?”
Sachs said, “We don’t know the connection. Just an address on a note from the crime scene at the refugee camp.” She then said to Musgrave, “One thing I’m hoping. Is there someone at the consulate in Milan who could drive me, translate for me?”
Charlotte McKenzie said, “I have a colleague there. He does what I do, legal liaison. Pete Prescott. Good man. I can see if he’s free.”
“That’d be great.”
She texted and a moment later her phone chimed with an incoming message. “Yes, he is. I’ll text you his number, Amelia.”
“Thanks.”
Mike Hill joined them, slipping his phone away. Musgrave introduced him to McKenzie and then the businessman said to Sachs, “All set. You’re good to go. My driver’ll pick you up at eleven…where’s good?”
She gave him the hotel address.
“Know it. Great old place. Makes me feel like I’m part of the Rat Pack when I stay there.”
Another figure appeared in the doorway, the slim, very pale man of indeterminate age Rhyme remembered from the other day. Ah, yes, the public relations officer. What was the name again?
He nodded to those present and introduced himself to Hill. “Daryl Mulbry.”
The slight man sat and said to Rhyme, “We’re getting inundated with requests from the press—about both Garry and the Composer. Would you be willing to sit down for an interview?” Mulbry stopped short and blinked—undoubtedly at the awkward choice of a verb, considering Rhyme’s condition.
As if he cared. “No,” Rhyme said shortly. “I don’t have anything to say at this point, other than that we’ve got a composite rendering of the Composer and that’s gone to the press anyway.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. Intimidating-looking guy. Big. But what about Garry? Any statement?”
Rhyme could just imagine Dante Spiro’s reaction when he read in the press that an unnamed “American consultant” was commenting on the case.
“Not now.”
McKenzie added, “I should tell you: Garry’s been getting threats. Like I mentioned, those accused of sexual assault are at particular risk. Add that he’s an American…Well, it’s a problem. The authorities keep an eye on him but there are no guarantees.”
“No press,” Rhyme said insistently. But he added, “While Amelia’s away I’ll be following up with his case, though.”
McKenzie said, “Ah. Good.” The uncertainty told Rhyme she’d be wondering how exactly he could follow up when his ass was parked in a wheelchair, in a country that did not seem to have the equivalent of the American With Disabilities Act in force.
He didn’t tell her that he had a secret weapon.
Two, in fact.
Chapter 36
The Black Screams had begun.
But the failure at the camp and the sight of the redheaded policewoman had conspired to shake him awake early and fill his head with the screams, shrilling like a dentist’s drill.
Yes, he had a plan for Artemis. Yes, Euterpe had whispered calming sentiments from on high. But, as he well knew, very little could stop determined Black Screams. He’d hoped to control them himself, but ultimately, he knew, he’d lose. It was the same as when you wake with that first twist in your gut, small, nothing really. Still, you understand without any doubt you’ll be on your knees over the toilet in an hour with the flu or food poisoning.
Whispering screams, soon to become the Black Screams.
And soon they were.
Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin—these were nothing compared with a Black Scream.
Pacing the farmhouse, then outside in the wet dawn. Stop, stop, stop!
But they hadn’t stopped. So he’d popped extra meds (that didn’t work, never did) and, in the 4MATIC, sped to where he stood now: to chaotic downtown Naples where he prayed the ricocheting cacophony would drown out the screams. (That sometimes worked. Ironically, noise was his salvation against Black Screams—as much and as loud and as chaotic as possible.) He plunged into the jostling crowds filling the sidewalks. He passed food vendors, bars, restaurants, laundries, souvenir stores. He paused outside a café. Imagined he could hear the forks on china, the teeth biting, the jaws grinding, the lips sipping…
The knives cutting.
Like knives slashing throats…
He was sucking up the noise, inhaling the noise, to cover the screams.
Make them stop, make them stop….
Thinking of his teenage years, the girls looking away, the boys never looking away but staring and, sometimes, laughing as Stefan walked into the classrooms. He was thin then, passable in sports, could tell a joke or two, talk about TV shows, talk about music.
But the normal didn’t outshine the strange.
How often he would lose himself in the sound of a teacher’s voice, the melody of her words, not the content, which he didn’t even hear.
“Stefan, the sum is?”