“Yes, Detective? Amelia?”
“The paste in the Composer’s shoe? The olive oil residue. You call it what again?”
“The word is ‘pomace.’” He spelled it.
“Is it thrown out after the oil is extracted?”
“No, no, it’s valuable. It can be used for fuel in producing electricity. But around here it is mostly used to make organic fertilizer.”
“Then he might not have picked it up at the Barbera oil operation.”
He gazed at her with a look of concern. “In fact, he would not pick it up here. This factory would be careful not to spill or waste any. They would package it and sell it. Now that I am thinking: Most likely the Composer would have picked it up on his shoes at an organic fertilizer farm. Not here.”
“And do you know where one of those farms might be?”
“Ah, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And the answer is, yes, I do.”
In twenty minutes they were deep in the countryside, near a town called Caiazzo, surrounded by pale wheat crops glimmering in the hazy sun.
Sachs was racing along the highway that would take them to Venturi Fertilizzanti Organici, SpA. She pushed the tiny car up to 120 kph, thinking: Oh, what I could do on this road with a Ferrari or Maserati…She downshifted and took a turn at close to forty. The skid was not remarkable; the volume of Ercole Benelli’s “Mio Dio” was.
A glance at the GPS map told her they were approaching the turnoff road and she slowed and veered onto it.
Five minutes later: “Look there.” Ercole pointed.
The operation was small: what appeared to be an office structure and several warehouses or processing plants, then fields containing ridges of dark material, about fifty yards long and three feet high. “There. Those are the composting piles?”
“Yes.”
She braked to a stop.
“Look, that one at the end is on top of a slope. With any rain the pomace could run down to the property in the valley. Is there a house there, can you see?”
Ercole could not.
Sachs drove to the end of the fertilizer company’s property. They discovered a small road that skirted the place. It was dirt. She started down it slowly.
“There!” Ercole called.
Ahead of them, set back a hundred feet from the road, was a structure just barely visible through the weeds, shrubs and oak, myrtles, pine and juniper trees
Sachs kept the car in third gear to make sure the transmission was quiet. She tricked the clutch constantly to keep from stalling.
Finally, near the driveway that led to the house, she pulled off the road into a stand of bushes and killed the engine.
“I don’t think I can get out.” Ercole was trying the door—the blockade of vegetation prevented its opening.
“Need to stay as much out of sight as we can. Climb out my side.”
Sachs got out and he joined her, awkwardly surmounting the gearshift.
Ercole pointed down at their feet. “That’s pomace.” Indicating a dark grainy substance. She could definitely smell the pungent scent of fertilizer in the making.
He asked, “Should we call Inspector Rossi?”
“Yes, but just have him send a half-dozen officers. There’s still a chance he’s somewhere else.”
As he called she looked toward the house. It appeared quite old, a farmhouse, of wood and uneven brick construction. The place wasn’t small. She motioned to him and they started down the long driveway, sticking to the shadows of the trees along the side.
When Ercole had disconnected, she said, “Let’s move fast. He hasn’t uploaded his video yet but I don’t think Signor Khaled has much time.”
Through brush, over fallen trees, they moved steadily toward the building. Insects streaked toward them, mosquitoes and gnats. Not far away a dove exhaled its breathy call, mournful, comforting and eerie. The smells were of smoke and something pungent, perhaps the decaying olive oil fertilizer.
They followed the driveway to the left, where the unattached garage was located. The home was even bigger than it had appeared from the road, a rambling structure of several buildings, connected by windowless hallways.
“Gothic,” she whispered.
“Like Gotico? Spooky? Stephen King.”
She nodded.
The garage was locked and there were no windows. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside.
“What do we do now?”
“Do you know Peeping Toms, in Italy?”
“Yes, yes. We know the term. From a movie, many years ago, that was popular here.” He gave a harsh laugh. “And curious. The movie is about a serial killer who films his victims. The English title is Peeping Tom.”
“Well, we’re going to peep.” She drew her weapon. She turned to Ercole to tell him to do the same but saw that he already had. They circled the house and began looking, quickly, through the few curtainless windows. At first it didn’t seem like anyone lived here but then she caught a glimpse of clothing in a pile. Some empty soda cans.
Was there a light on? In a distant room? Or was the illumination from the sun falling through a slit in a curtain?
Sachs saw inside a large wooden door that, she believed, led down to a cellar. It was closed. Could Khaled be down there now?
Stephen King…
They had nearly completed the circuit of the house. One window remained. It was to the left of the front door. The curtain was partially askew so she lifted her head quickly and glanced inside.
Well.
The room was unoccupied but there was plenty to seize her attention. Above the fireplace was a hunting rifle. She couldn’t be sure, but it might very well have been a .270-caliber.
And sitting prominently in the middle of a table were a half-dozen musical-instrument strings. One had been tied into a noose.
Chapter 49
Khaled Jabril woke to fear, pure fear.
He found himself in a dim room that was damp and fetid with mold and rotting food smells. Perhaps sewage too.
Where, where?
God, praise be to Him, where am I?
Nothing made sense. He had no memory of the past…well, how long? An hour, a week? No memory at all. A vague recollection of being in a tent. It was—yes, it was under the sun. Hot sun. A tent, his home. Why was he in a tent? Had something happened to his home in Tripoli?
No, their home.
He and others. Someone…Yes! His wife! He could now picture her. Ah: Fatima! He remembered the name, praise be to God! And their child.
And she—he believed the child was a girl—was named…He could not recall, and this made him want to cry.
So cry he did.
Yes, yes, she was a girl. A beautiful curly-haired daughter.
Although was she, the girl he pictured, in fact, their daughter? She might have been his brother’s. Then another thought came to him. Italy. He was in…in Italy.