Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

“Maybe someone else did,” Kathryn said.

“Maybe so,” he admitted. “Maybe so.” Shaking David’s hand happily, he said, “Whatever happened, it’s great news. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” Then, glancing at David’s shock of white hair, he said, “When did you decide to do that?”

“It was kind of… impulsive.”

Still in a rollicking humor, the doctor said, “Next time you get an impulse like that, talk to Sarah. She was always the sensible one of you two.”

He sauntered off, snapping his fingers at his side, and Kathryn tucked the check into David’s breast pocket. Without another word, he fished La Medusa out from under his collar. It turned slowly on its chain, the Gorgon’s glare catching the light.

But the moment it landed in her palm, she snapped her hand shut like a trap. “A pleasure doing business with you,” she said before turning back down the hall. She was squeezing the amulet so tight her knuckles hurt.

But she had it, she had it at last!

She had just gone through the revolving door and into the cold night air-snow was swirling off the concrete-when a black Mercedes sedan, its headlights casting a bright blue glow, tore up to the driveway, skidding to a stop at the icy curb.

She stepped back, signaling to Cyril to bring her own limo around, when the back door of the car opened and a long, black walking stick descended onto the cement. It was followed a moment later by a man with a coat draped over his shoulders, in the Continental style. He had strong features, with a prominent Italian nose, a thick moustache, black hair dusted at the temples with gray… and a scowl that might have scared a legion.

Kathryn stopped where she stood, so suddenly that he almost collided with her. Apologizing as he passed, he momentarily glanced back.

And that was all it took.

Disbelief gave way to dawning amazement. She saw his eyes searching her face, his lips moving to form the right word.

“Caterina?” he said, as a nimbus of snowflakes whirled above their heads.

It was as if the world had stopped turning. All the strength had left her limbs.

“Benvenuto,” she replied.

Dropping the cane, the coat falling from his shoulders, he snatched her into his arms, so violently that the Medusa, clutched in her hand, slipped through her fingers and landed with a sharp crack on the pavement.

“My God!” she exclaimed, looking down as its glass shattered into a thousand tiny fragments. A thin rivulet of pale green water trickled out, sizzling on the ice like acid. Before she could even consider the consequences, she felt a rush of hot blood pounding in her veins, and a flush filling her cheeks. She gasped in shock and saw that her lover was reeling, too. A light was blazing in his face, and his breathing was labored. Their eyes locked, and though they said nothing, they didn’t have to. Both of them knew what the other was thinking, and feeling. Both of them had imagined this release for centuries.

Still holding her in his arms, he glanced down at his fallen cane. But she could feel his back straightening, his legs growing stronger under him. She could sense an even greater power than before surging through his body, just as it was doing through her own.

“ Il mio gatto,” he said, a wide smile lifting the ends of his moustache and his strong arms buoying her up. “Still causing trouble, I see.”

But she was too overwhelmed to reply.

He kissed her hard on the lips, then threw back his head in exultation. Snowflakes stuck to his eyebrows and moustache. He let out a loud, braying laugh that cut through the night and reverberated off the walls of the hospice before being carried away on the gusting wind.

“You know what it is, don’t you?” he shouted, in joy. “You know what it is?”

But he didn’t have to tell her. She knew. It was the power of time starting afresh, of life beginning anew. The clock that had stopped, nearly five hundred years before, had started again. The hands that had been frozen in place were ticking. He lifted her off her feet and swung her around, laughing. And though he was holding her so tight she could barely catch her breath, she laughed, too. Cyril, and a couple trudging into the hospice, looked on in amazement. Who would have thought that in a place like this, where death and sorrow reigned, mortality itself could have been so celebrated and embraced? And when her feet touched the ground again, Kathryn-no, Caterina now, Caterina for as long as she lived-felt the pieces of the broken mirror crunching under the sole of her shoe.

For a January day in Florence, it was unseasonably sunny and bright. As David approached the Piazza della Signoria, he could see not only tourists but locals, too, out enjoying the clear skies and brisk air. Several vendors tried to sell him maps and souvenirs, and one even offered to be his personal tour guide.

But he already knew the best guide in town. An Italienisch Madchen , as Herr Linz had put it in the notebook David had stolen from the Chateau Perdu. He had read it in its entirety on the flight back to Italy. Filled with elaborate sketches and directives, it was the monster’s plan for the greatest art museum in the history of the world, to be built one day-no surprise-in his hometown and namesake of Linz. But far from being a tribute to mankind’s noblest endeavors, the Fuhrermuseum was to be a grandiose testament to Hitler’s own ruthless ambitions. With its five-hundred-foot-long facade and rows of towering columns, it was designed to trumpet the victory of the Reich and show off its master’s hoard of stolen trophies. Everything, apart from his greatest, and most secret, acquisition- La Medusa -was to be on display.

But as David now knew-from Sant’Angelo’s lips-its like would never be seen again. The glass was gone, its magic was done. For those who had fallen under its spell, the spell was over. What was left in its place was simply life-ordinary life, starting up again where it had left off… though clean and unencumbered.

And that was enough. Sarah was fine and healthy. It was as if the disease had never struck. Dr. Ross wanted to make a casebook study of her, and he’d even stopped by the house to plead his cause. But Gary had put a stop to that in no uncertain terms. “Sorry, Doc,” he’d told him as David stood silently by, “but we’ve had all we can stand of hospitals. No offense, but we hope we never see you again.”

Dr. Ross had understood and taken it well. And when he’d gotten back in his car and driven off, Gary had turned to David on the front lawn. Putting a firm hand on his shoulder, he’d said, in a voice filled with gratitude, “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to tell me what really went on that night, are you?”

“It’s a long story,” David said, “and you wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

Gary nodded slowly, and said, “You’re right.” Then, glancing at David’s hair, he said, “You know, it’s starting to come in brown again.”

“It’s a big relief.”

“I’m sure that girl you told me about-Olivia Levi?-will be relieved, too. That Andy Warhol look wasn’t working for you.”

David had been well aware of that, and to spare her a heart attack when he surprised her in the piazza, he had put on a hat.

Right now, she was off near the loggia, shepherding a group of seniors to the base of the Perseus. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear what she was saying about it, but he could see her standing on the steps, arms waving with a flourish as the gray-haired men and women on the tour huddled close to catch every word.

By the time he’d crept up to the rear of the group, he could hear her asking them if anyone knew the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.