23
Payne gazed over the edge of the 900-foot precipice, trying to find the site that Barnes had described. No helicopter, no truck, no physical evidence of any kind. Only the fertile farmland of the southern Orvieto valley. ‘Where’s the damage? There should be some serious damage down there. Scattered debris, scorched earth, loss of vegetation, the works.’
They spotted a path about one hundred feet to the left, which took them to the valley floor in a steep, zigzagging pattern. At the bottom they noticed several sets of tire tracks in the grass that were too shallow to be spotted from the high cliffs above.
Jones sank to his knees and studied the wheel prints, an art he’d learned in the military police. ‘I’d say there were three trucks heading east at a slow rate of speed, probably within the last twelve hours. Large, industrial trucks. Fully loaded. Possibly salvage equipment. Not your typical four by four pickup. The treads are too large.’
‘So we’re in the right area.’
Jones nodded. ‘It would seem so, yeah.’
They proceeded east, following the tracks like bloodhounds. They ran parallel to the plateau, bisecting the open space between the olive groves to the right and the rock face to the left and swerved for nothing. The trucks had plowed through a vegetable garden, a small wooden fence, and a patch of white oleander before stopping near a massive pile of rocks. Payne stared at them and realized the front edge of the stones surpassed knee level. There was no way a loaded truck could’ve cleared this obstacle without gutting its underbelly. There had to be a different solution, something they were overlooking. ‘Could these have been dump trucks?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What if these trucks arrived with stones? Couldn’t they have dumped their payload right here? That would account for the abrupt end to the trail. The rocks would’ve covered it up.’
Jones considered this as he walked several meters to the far side of the pile. ‘You might be right. There are dozens of tracks here, fanning out in a wide variety of angles. And unless I’m mistaken, the depth of the tread keeps changing. That means they lessened their weight significantly in a short period of time.’
‘So the trucks came speeding along in the middle of the night and dropped several tons of rocks right here in the middle of nowhere… Is that what we’re saying?’
Jones shook his head. ‘This was more than just dumping rocks. This was about picking up, too. Not only did someone beat us to the crash site, they decided to take it with them.’
Tourists were usually the only people to visit Il Pozzo di San Patrizio (aka Saint Patrick’s Well), the artesian well built in 1527. But due to a rumor that swept through Orvieto, locals were drawn to the beige brick building like freshmen to a keg party.
Payne and Jones spotted them on the other side of the Piazza Cahen, a large square in the center of town, and assumed it was the line to see the well. They passed the bus station and approached the back of the throng. Hundreds of people, young and old, clogged the courtyard ahead of them, surrounding the circular building with a silent intensity quite similar to the tone of the earlier funeral. For a better view, Jones climbed on a nearby wall and searched for Donald Barnes. He wanted to see his photos of the Orvieto crash site, hoping they would reveal something important, possibly the reason that the wreckage was hauled out by trucks in the dead of night. ‘I don’t think they’re even letting people inside the well. The door looks barricaded.’
‘Maybe tourists go in as a group? Hopefully, Barnes is inside and will come out shortly.’
The comment attracted the attention of a dark-haired man standing nearby. ‘I mean not to bother you,’ he mumbled in broken English. ‘But visits are no more today due to death. No one is inside Il Pozzo but the polizia.’
‘Really? They stopped the tours because of Monday’s accident?’
‘No, you no understand. Not Monday, today. Another person is dead today.’
Jones leapt off the wall. ‘What do you mean?’
The man frowned, as if he had trouble understanding the question. ‘Ah, like you friend say: two persons on Monday and one person today. We no have violence in Orvieto for long time, now three dead real quick.’ He snapped his fingers for effect. ‘It’s a funny world, no?’
Funny wasn’t the f word that came to mind. They had come to Orvieto looking for a nonviolent criminal, at least according to Manzak’s intel. Now there were three casualties in the small town where Boyd was last seen.
Payne said, ‘I thought the pilot was the only person who died on Monday?’
‘No, no, no, no,’ the man stressed, waving his index finger for emphasis. ‘The pilot is from Orvieto. Very good man. Worked with polizia for many years. I know him long time. The other man, he no from here. He visit polizia, they go for ride, they no come back.’
A theory entered Payne’s mind. ‘Out of curiosity, was the stranger bald?’
‘Bald? What is this bald?’
Payne pointed to his head. ‘Hair? Did the guy have hair?’
‘Si! He have hair, just like you. Short, brown hair.’
Payne glanced at Jones. ‘Who do you think it was?’
‘Could’ve been anyone. We don’t even know if Boyd is involved in this. We could be jumping the gun.’
‘Speaking of guns,’ Payne said. ‘What can you tell us about today’s murder?’
The man frowned, then paused to kiss a silver crucifix that dangled around his neck. ‘Shhh,’ he pleaded. ‘Silenzio is very important tradition in Italy from long time ago. We show respect for the dead with no words. Let the dead sleep in peace, no?’
But Jones wasn’t buying it. ‘You’re not allowed to talk, yet everyone in town is already here. How in the world did that happen? ESP?’
The man eyed the hundreds of people around him, then grinned. ‘Sometimes my people not very good at tradition. Word of this crime spread quick.’
Payne smiled. ‘What do you know about today’s victim?’
The man lowered his voice. ‘I hear he found at bottom of well on donkey bridge. He was, how do you say?’ He slammed his two hands together in a violent clap. ‘Splat!’
‘Was it an accident?’
‘No, I never say that.’ He slid his thumb across his neck in a slow, slashing motion. ‘It be tough for him to slip without help. The windows of the well are very small, and American was very fat. He would need much help -’
‘American?’ Payne blurted. ‘The victim was an American?’
‘Yes, that is what I heard. A big, fat cowboy.’
Payne looked at Jones, irritated, realizing that Donald Barnes fit the description.
The Italian picked up on their tension. ‘What is wrong? I have insulted you?’
‘No, not at all. It’s just, we think you’re describing a friend of ours. We were supposed to meet him here, but we haven’t been able to find him.’
The man turned pale, stunned at the revelation. ‘Mamma mia! I so sorry for my manners.’ He grabbed them by their arms and pulled them into the crowd. ‘Please! I lead you to your friend. I talk to police and let you pay your respects! Come with me! I get you inside the well!’
24
When the Vatican hired Benito Pelati, they knew they were getting one of the top academic minds in Italy. A man of passion. Someone who had dedicated his life to the art of antiquities and had risen to the top of his field. Remarkably, what they didn’t know was what fueled his desire. For if they had, they would’ve done everything in their power to have Benito terminated.
Not just fired but killed. Before he could do any damage.
And the reason was simple: Benito’s secret. One passed down from father to son for centuries. Started in Vindobona, Illyria, many generations before, spoken by a guilt-stricken man on his deathbed. Miraculously the secret had survived wars and plagues and tragedies of all kinds. Two thousand years of whispering, concealing, and protecting. And only one family – Benito’s family – knew the truth about what had happened so long ago.
Still, in all that time, no one had the guts to do anything about it.
No one until Benito’s father told him the secret so many years ago.