Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

He gripped the delicate glass so tightly it snapped, and he dashed the stem to the ground and went into the kitchen, pouring himself another. It was part of a supply of amontillado he had laid down years before, and he hated to waste a drop.

He took a sip, calming himself, then strolled back onto the terrace. The town was settling down for the night: a few more faint calls, a wailing baby, the slamming of a door. And the buzz of the Ape, closer now, in one of the crooked streets that rose toward his villa.

He put the glass down on the parapet and lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke, exhaling into the twilit air. He peered down into the streets below. The Ape was definitely coming up the hill, probably on Vicolo San Bartolo… The tinny whine drew still closer, and for the first time Diogenes felt a twinge of apprehension. The dinner hour was an unusual time for an Ape to be out and about, especially in the upper village-unless it was the island taxi taking someone somewhere. But it was early spring and there were no tourists: the ferry he had taken from Milazzo had carried no visitors, only produce and supplies; and besides, it had departed hours ago.

He chuckled at himself. He had grown too wary, almost paranoid. This demonic pursuit-coming hard on the heels of such a huge failure-had left him shaken, unnerved. What he really needed was a long period of reading, study, and intellectual rejuvenation. Indeed, now would be the perfect time to begin that translation of Aureus Asinus by Apuleius that he had always intended.

He drew in more smoke, exhaled easily, turned his eyes to the sea. The running lights of a ship were just rounding Punta Lena. He went inside, brought out his binoculars, and-looking to sea again-was able to make out the dim outline of an old wooden fishing boat, a real scow, heading away from the island toward Lipari. That puzzled him: it had not been out fishing, not in this weather at this time of day. It had probably been making a delivery.

The sound of the Ape approached and he realized it was now coming up the tiny lane leading to his villa-hidden by the high walls surrounding his grounds. He heard the engine slow as it came to a stop at the bottom of his wall. He put down the binoculars and strode to the side terrace, from where he had a view down the lane; but by the time he got there, the Ape was already turning around-and its passenger, had there been one, was nowhere to be seen.

He paused, his heart suddenly beating so hard he could hear the roar of blood in his ears. His was the only residence at the end of the lane. That old fishing scow hadn’t brought cargo-it had brought a passenger. And that passenger had taken the Ape to the very gates of his villa.

He exploded into silent action, running inside, dashing from room to room, shuttering and barring the windows, turning off the lights, and locking the doors. The villa, like most on the island, was built almost like a fortress, with heavy wooden shutters and doors bolted with hand-wrought iron and heavy locks. The masonry walls themselves were almost a meter thick. And he had made several subtle improvements of his own. He would be safe in the house-or at least he could gain enough time to think, to consider his position.

In a few minutes, he had finished locking himself in. He stood in his dark library, breathing hard. Once again he had the feeling he had reacted out of sheer paranoia. Just because he’d seen a boat, heard the taxi… It was ridiculous. There was simply no way for her to have found him-certainly not this quickly. He had arrived on the island only the evening before. It was absurd, impossible.

He dabbed his brow with a pocket handkerchief and began to breathe easier. He was being utterly foolish. This business had unnerved him even more than he realized.

He was just feeling around for the light when the knock came: slow-mockingly slow-each boom on the great wooden door echoing through the villa.

He froze, his heart wild once again.

“Chi c’è?” he asked.

No answer.

With trembling fingers, he felt along the library drawers, found the one he was looking for, unlocked it, and removed his Beretta Px4 Storm. He ejected the magazine, checked that it was full, and eased it back into place. In the next drawer, he found a heavy torch.

How? How? He choked down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. Could it really be her? If not, why hadn’t there been an answer to his call?

He turned on the torch and shone it around. Which was the likeliest entry point? It would probably be the door on the side terrace, closest to the lane and easiest to get to. He crept over to it, unlocked it silently, then carefully balanced the metal key on top of the wrought-iron door handle. Then he retreated to the center of the dark room and knelt in firing stance, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, gun aimed at the door. Waiting.

It was silent within the thick walls of the house. The only sound that penetrated was the periodic deep-throated rumble of the volcano. He waited, listening intently.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

And then he heard it: the clink of the falling key. He instantly fired four shots through the door, covering it in a diamond-shaped pattern. The 9mm rounds would have no trouble penetrating even the thickest part of the door with plenty of velocity left to kill. He heard a gasp of pain; a thud; a scrabbling noise. Another gasp-and then silence. The door, now ajar, creaked open an inch in a gust of wind.

It sounded as if he had killed her. And yet he doubted it. She was too smart. She would have anticipated that.

Or would she? And on the other hand, was it even her? He might have just killed some hapless burglar or delivery boy.

Crouching low, he crept toward the door. As he drew close, he lay flat on the floor and crawled the final few feet. He stopped, his gaze on the narrow crack below the doorjamb. He needed to ease the door open another inch before he could see whether a body lay on the terrace beyond-or whether it was a trick.

He waited-and, when another gust of wind came, he used the opportunity to creak the door a little farther open to expose the terrace to view.

Instantly, two shots rang out, slamming through the door just inches above his head, showering him with splinters. He rolled quickly away, heart pounding. The door was now open a foot, and each gust of wind pushed it farther ajar. She had fired very low-expecting him to be crouching. If he hadn’t been completely prone, he would have been hit.

He stared at the holes her rounds had torn in the woodwork. She had managed to get her hands on a mid-caliber semiautomatic, a Glock from the sound of it. And she had learned at least the basics of how to shoot.

Another, heavier gust of wind blew the door wide open, and it slammed against the wall, then swung to, creaking loudly. Slowly he maneuvered around to its far side, and then with one swift movement kicked the door shut, rolled to a sitting position, and shot the bolt. As he rolled away again, another shot blew a hole in the wood inches from his ear, prickling him with splinters.

As he lay on the floor, breathing hard, he realized now the disadvantage of shutting himself up in the house. He could not see out; he could not know from what direction she would come. Although the house had been somewhat hardened against entry, he had seen no need to arouse local suspicion by making it as secure as the Long Island structure: with a gun, she could shoot the locks or bolts off any door and window. No-it would be better to fight her outside, where his superior strength, his expert shooting ability, and his knowledge of the terrain would put him at a decided advantage.

Had the gunshots been heard? People in town might be calling the police, and that could be awkward. But had they heard? With the wind coming off the water and roaring up through the figs and olive groves-not to mention the periodic booms from the restless volcano-perhaps the sound of the gunshots would not be noted. And as for the police, the only law enforcement on the island during the winter was a nucleo investigativo headed by a lone maresciallo of the carabiniere-who spent his evenings playing briscola at the bar in Ficogrande.