Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Ercole said, ‘Ah, he’s not using gasping breath for the rhythm, like before. It’s the victim’s heartbeat.’

Sachs said, ‘It’s familiar, that music. Do you know what it is?’

‘Ah, yes. It is the “Danse Macabre.”’

Sachs actually shivered, hearing the pulsing, ominous piece. She then squinted as she gazed at some papers in front of her.

No. Impossible.

She hit redial.

‘Sachs. You’ve found something?’

‘It’s far-fetched, Rhyme, but it’s the only chance we’ve got. Where’s Massimo?’

‘Hold on. You’re on speaker.’

‘I’m here, Detective Sachs,’ Rossi said.

‘Here’s an address. In Naples.’ She recited it.

‘Yes, it’s in the Spanish Quarters, not too far away from us. What’s there?’

‘Khaled Jabril, I’m pretty sure. The only question is, is he still alive?’

Sachs saw Massimo Rossi, standing before what seemed to be an old factory, long abandoned, boarded up. The word Produzione was legible, appearing below another word — a person’s name or a product or a service — that was not.

The inspector saw them and called, ‘ Qui. This way.’

She and Ercole were on foot. They had to be on foot, for the address they sought was in what Rossi had described as Quartieri Spagnoli , a congested, chaotic warren of narrow streets and alleyways in Naples. ‘Named for the Spanish garrison that was stationed nearby in the sixteenth century,’ Ercole told her. ‘If you see a boy running here , unlike the Vomero, he very likely is alerting his father or brother to the presence of police. Camorra are here. Tanti Camorra.’

Above her, laundry on white lines fluttered in the soft breeze, and scores of residents watched the flashing lights and the manhunt underway by dozens of uniformed officers. The spectators’ vantage points were balconies and open windows — which were probably where they spent much of their time; there were no yards, front or back, or even door stoops to sit on and rock babies or talk about politics and the day’s adventures at work, in the evening with a beer or wine.

Sachs was startled as a large basket descended to the ground just ahead of her. A boy ran to it and dropped in a plastic grocery bag. The basket ascended; three stories above his father or older brother began to haul the heavy load upward.

Life in the Spanish Quarters seemed to be largely overhead.

They entered the factory now. The air was dank, nose-pinching with mold. The bases of some type of equipment were still bolted into the floor, though what had been mounted to them was impossible to tell. The place was not large and was now made smaller by the many police officers inside. Little sunlight reached in; bright lamps had been set up and, while the rooms were naturally spooky, something about the stark white illumination made them seem even more troubling, like a bright light shining into an open wound. She saw Daniela and Giacomo and nodded. They greeted her in return.

Rossi pointed to the back of the facility and she and Ercole continued to the doorway he indicated. ‘Down there. The Composer has outdone himself this time,’ he muttered.

The inspector was already wearing booties and now Sachs and Ercole paused to slip them on too. Blue latex gloves, as well. They entered a small room and descended to the basement of the factory.

The area did not cover the entire footprint of the building but only the back half. The sting of mold and mildew was greater here. Decay too. Overhead were beams, and the floor was pocked stone, giving the place a medieval appearance.

A torture chamber.

Which was exactly what it had been. Khaled Jabril had been stationed — in a chair again, as with Ali Maziq — against a damp wall, the backdrop for the Composer’s latest video.

‘He was taped down and the noose went over the beams. It was tied to that.’ He pointed out a body-builder’s circular weight, sitting on the floor, in a large evidence bag. Another bag held the noose.

‘ Qual è il peso? ’ Ercole asked.

Rossi replied, ‘Ten kilos.’

About twenty-five pounds. Maziq was going to be strangled by a water bucket that would have weighed roughly the same, Sachs guessed.

Rossi clicked his tongue. ‘But what is so devious. Look there.’

On the ledge where a number card sat was a piece of meat.

Sachs understood.

Ercole asked, ‘ Ratti? ’

‘ Sì. Exactly. Il Compositore set the meat up as a block to prevent the weight from rolling, and then rats sensed it and began to eat. So the victim had time, perhaps much time, to contemplate his impending death.’

‘Did anyone see the Composer arrive or leave?’ Ercole asked.

‘No. There is a pushcart outside. We think he covered the unconscious victim in blankets and wheeled him here from the square nearby. He would look like any other merchant. We are conducting a canvass but even though the Quartieri Spagnoli is a small area, there are so many people, so many businesses and shops that nobody would pay him any mind.’ Rossi’s shrug translated into the hopelessness of the efforts.

Then he brightened. ‘But now, let us go upstairs. You might wish to meet the man whose life you saved. For his part, I know he wishes a word or two with you.’

Khaled Jabril sat in an ambulance. He appeared groggy and had a bandage on his neck but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

The medics spoke to Rossi and Ercole in Italian, and Ercole paraphrased to Sachs. ‘Mostly he is disoriented. From the chloroform or other drugs used to keep him submissive.’

Khaled gazed at Sachs. ‘You are the one who saved me?’ His Libyan accent was pronounced but she understood him.

‘And Officer Benelli here,’ Sachs said. ‘Your English is good.’

‘I have some, yes,’ the man said. ‘I studied in Tripoli. University. My Italian is not good. I believe I was told my wife is all right. They told me she was struck by the man who did this. I have no memory of that.’

‘She’s fine. I’ve spoken to her since the attack.’

‘And my daughter? Muna?’

‘She’s good. They’re together.’

The medic spoke to Ercole and he translated. ‘They will meet you at the hospital. A car is bringing them from the camp.’

‘Thank you.’ Then Khaled was crying. ‘I would have died if not for you. May God bless you forever, praise be to Him. You are the most brilliant police ever on earth!’

Sachs and Ercole shared a brief glance. She didn’t tell Khaled that the deduction as to his location was not so profound. The paper she had stumbled upon on the Composer’s desk in the farmhouse near the fertilizer farm was a list of names of his victims — Maziq, Dadi and Khaled Jabril — and the places where they were to be stashed for the video. Sachs didn’t quite believe it could be so obvious.

It’s far-fetched, Rhyme, but it’s the only chance we’ve got...

After she’d given Rossi the address, the inspector had sent Michelangelo and his tactical force here.

And, in the basement, they’d found Khaled.

Sachs was relieved that she could conduct an interview in English... though the results were far from satisfying. The unsteady Khaled Jabril had no memory of the kidnapping itself. In fact, he could remember very little of their days in the refugee camp. He’d woken and found the noose around his neck. He’d screamed himself hoarse through his gag, trying to scare the rats away as much as plead for help (neither worked).

Ten minutes of questioning led to nothing. No description of the kidnapper, no words he’d uttered, no memories of any car Khaled had been transported in. He supposed he’d been blindfolded for much of the time but couldn’t say that for certain.