The Curse of Akbar

By Troy Bond

After the tragic death of his son, all Dalton Scott wants is to live a quiet life in a sleepy tourist town in northern Italy. But his solace is shattered when British agents locate him to break the news that his friend, Oxford professor Paul Ross, was killed in a car bombing.

The agents believe Dr. Ross was murdered after he discovered the "Text of Akbar", a mysterious collection of 2,000-year-old Sanskrit fragments which could hold the key to the entire Christian faith. To find Dr. Ross's killer, the agents want Scott to assume the identity of Dr. Ross at an auction of rare books soon to be held at a faraway palace in India. The last Maharaja of Naipurna is hosting a group of religion scholars from around the world for this once-in-a-lifetime event.

Out of sympathy for Dr. Ross's widow, Scott reluctantly agrees to travel to the remote desert city where his three-day assignment spirals into a nightmare of danger and intrigue. Scott is in far more danger than he anticipated when he learns that his fellow guests at the palace are consumed with being the first to acquire the Text of Akbar...and one of them will gladly kill for that chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troy Bond
• Release date: Feb 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311282224

Troy Bond

Troy Bond attended Trinity University, Texas and Northern Iowa in English Literature. He is a native Iowan, but spent years on both coasts and traveling extensively overseas. His writing career began as a script reader and researcher at Columbia Pictures. His one-act play "Shades of Grey" was a finalist at the Seattle Director's Festival.

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THE CURSE OF AKBAR

Troy Bond

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Troy Bond

Chapter One

CROSSING TO BELLA

My heart raced when I heard the shrieking wind in my sleep. At first, I tried to ignore the pump and rush of blood pounding behind my eyes. I rolled over and tried to will myself back into darkness. But the crazy-making drumbeat in my chest persisted—pounding—until I shot out of bed. I couldn’t let anything happen to the Beatrice.

Light like sour milk filled the single window in my tiny flat. I cursed and fumbled around to find my clothes, jacket, and wool cap. Unsteady, I stumbled down the dark narrow staircase to the back of the trattoria. My shoulders bounced between the peeling plaster walls.

I emerged from a door next to the kitchen into a tight alley that never saw direct sunlight. I held my breath against the stench of rotted food and garlic. I squinted, put my head down, and pulled the collar up on my corduroy jacket as I scurried in the early morning mist across the slick cobbled streets toward Lago Maggiore.

A frigid November wind had swaggered into town overnight bringing with it ice-cold rain. Once I left the protection of the Banca Milano on the corner, needles stung my face and neck. The tips of my ears were already raw.

In the long shadow of the Grand Hotel des Isles Barromees, I lifted my gaze across the Corso Umberto to the deep lake beyond. The iron-gray water frothed with wild chop. A north wind, bursting with cold and clouds, whipped up the lake’s surface into a white carpet of shark teeth. Beyond the lake a frosty mist made the lights of Cerro, the town on the opposite shore, impossible to see. The mountains to the north that bordered Switzerland were shrouded in a layer of clouds that raced south across the sky in one massive steel blanket.

I looked for the Beatrice, a thirty-two-foot Erman Cruiser customized to carry up to two dozen passengers. I caught a glimpse of her behind another boat and the knot in my stomach dissolved. The Beatrice bobbed and pitched, straining against the ropes of the landing, but she was still secure. I had fought to tie her down last night. I clenched my fists and felt the rope burns and bloody cracks in my hands.

Crossing the short distance to Isola Bella today was out of the question. No tour group would want to visit the tiny island in this weather. That put me in a foul mood. But then, it was the end of the season anyway. What did I expect?

I turned and the wind gave me a shove back to Stresa, a tired tourist village that tumbled out of the steep green hills. Stresa had a reserved charm, an influence perhaps, of being so close to Switzerland. But that’s what drew me here to live the past three years. Stresa was a town that respected my privacy.

I headed toward the piazza in the town center, a rambling intersection of six pedestrian-only roads. I was about to turn down the alley when I heard the sharp rattle of a shop door being raised. The noise came from the espresso stand I frequented. I felt in my pocket for a couple of Euros and headed for the café.

The humble, open-air shop had no name. It was just a long countertop with an espresso machine behind it and a framed picture of Padre Pio on the wall. There was no place to sit except when Marilena, the owner and barista, decided to set out a couple white plastic patio tables and chairs in the summer.

She was in her fifties, with bleach blond hair and dark roots. On cold mornings like this one, she wore the same maroon cable-knit sweater that sprouted a few dangling threads which she never bothered to mend. Typically, Marilena appeared more than anyone to need a strong cup of coffee. This morning was no exception. The bags under her eyes were shiny black and her cheeks were as gray as the sky.

I was her first customer. I leaned my elbows on the counter, said good morning, and ordered my usual. She nodded, but didn’t look up. Soon, a curtain of steam rose from the espresso machine between us as she set to work. Despite lacking any gift for conversation and appearing depressed most days, she was the best barista around. A few moments later, the saucer, the cup, filled with a stiff peaked cappuccino, and the teaspoon, appeared in quick succession...one-two-three.

As I stirred in a teaspoon of sugar, I noticed James, a British bus driver for the only tour group in town, on the other side of the piazza. He was walking toward the café. I cursed through my teeth. Marilena heard me. I wanted to duck around the corner, but James had already spotted me.

He wore his pretentious driving gloves even when he wasn’t driving and a sleeveless-down vest whatever the weather. He was pushing fifty, but wore his hair to his shoulders and dyed it black.

Cheers, mate, he said with a slap on my shoulder. I was looking all over for you.

I nodded. How’s the tourist trade? I took a sip of my coffee and stared at the knobby, leafless trees in the center of the piazza.

Ah, you know, could do better. James sighed. But it’s end of season, so what-are-ya-gonna-do? You?

The Grand Prix killed my business this year, I said. Tourists couldn’t get to the water for all the temporary fencing. And the big operators brought in tour boats from around the lake. The busiest weekend of the year and all the little guys like me got squeezed out.

James hadn't heard a word I said. He turned to Marilena and said in local slang, Un cappuccio.

Prego, Marilena murmured as she steamed a pitcher of milk.

So... James gave me a cocky smile, resting an elbow on the counter and tugging on a wide black leather watchstrap. Any chance you’re thinking of crossing to Bella today?

I don’t have enough sick bags on board.

You think it’s that bad? Nah. It’s no worse than a Channel crossing.

You actually have someone interested on a day like this?

I’ve got maybe six, seven couples, he insisted.

They’re crazy.

No, they’re cheap. They know the weather is shit, but they’re dying to see the palace anyway because they’re on a discount holiday. Bella is what they paid half-price to see. What else is there to do in this town?

I shook my head. I dunno.

Look, otherwise I have to take them to Milan early and do the Da Vinci and the cathedral, and you know what that’s like. Rush-hour traffic is pure crap. Nose-to-tail the whole way.

And you think navigating a boat in this wind is a piece of cake?

I was only saying...

If I go, it’s only to Bella. You can forget Pescatori or Banero. No way.

A couple of old men, regular locals, trudged up to the counter and ordered. James leaned into me and said, Isola Bella only, mate. That’s what the cheap bastards came here for.

I could feel his breath on my ear and I turned away from him. He was always getting too close. He reached into his pocket.

And I’ve got an interested party who needs a trip to the airport, if you know what I mean. And these wankers are serious. James slid a couple of folded Euro notes under the edge of my saucer. I left them there.

For a fee, I took guys from tour groups in my van to visit prostitutes. Along SS332, a winding back road to Malpensa Airport, you could find girls—from Africa, mostly—waiting for lonely truck drivers, Milanese businessmen, and nervous teenagers.

James was anxious for an answer. I could always tell when he was impatient, because he gave an arrogant sniff, like a rich snob turning up his nose at an undercooked piece of fish. I finished my cappuccino and ordered a double espresso, added some cream and sugar, and took my time drinking it.

I hated the work, but I was awfully good at rationalizing. I told myself I wasn’t pimping; I was just a driver. Having come off a bad summer, I couldn’t pass up the money. With another dark winter ahead, I could use every Euro. The son of a bitch had me.

Finally, I said, "Ten o’clock for the ride to Bella. Let your ‘interested party’ know he can talk to me at the landing after the tour. I’ll see what I can do."

Ah! Music to my ears. I knew you’d come through. Thanks, mate! James gulped down the rest of his cappuccino. The cup hit the saucer with a clink. He slapped my shoulder and strode off.

Hey! I called after him. Make sure no one eats a heavy breakfast. I just scrubbed the deck.

I turned and found the parish priest from the only Catholic church in Stresa at Marilena’s counter. Padre Fernando Nuovo was a jittery man, about my age, and reed thin. Fernando’s nose was as pointy and red as a hen’s beak, and his eyebrows arched in the middle at forty-five degree angles. I had spoken with him privately once when I first arrived in Stresa. In the weeks following, he invited me to attend mass because I had mentioned that while my mother was Protestant, I was raised more or less Catholic by my father. But I never went to mass in Stresa, and after a while, he gave up asking me to go. He then got into the habit of making the sign of the cross to me whenever we happened to meet. I took it as a gesture of blessing to the wayward and his hopes that I would come back to the church.

This morning, after his impromptu benediction, Padre Fernando made small talk while we drank our coffee.

He wiped at his sniffling red beak with a linen handkerchief. Ah, Signor Scott. This weather! Does the storm mean the end of the tourist season, my friend?

The season wasn’t much of one to begin with.

I heard it was poor. Everyone in town blames it on the economy.

Yeah, the economy, I guess.

Padre Fernando pocketed the hanky and turned to his coffee. What will you do this winter? Didn’t you go somewhere last year?

I went to Portugal. I have friends in Lisbon.

Lisbon, that’s right. Will you go there again?

I don’t know. I have to earn some money this time. I wasn’t expecting the summer to be so slow.

He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped himself. He turned his head slightly and tipped his chin down as if he were listening to something.

Well, Padre Fernando said, you are a man of many talents, many interests. What you need is to be of use. That would be good for your soul.

I gave him a wry look. Oh, I’m useful. I ferry passengers to that little island over there. It’s such an unforgettable experience that they hand me their cameras so I can take their picture.

He grinned. Yes, yes. That’s being useful. But I’m talking about something more substantial. A full meal rather than a snack. You need to do work that fortifies your soul.

I’m shocked you would say that, I said with a deadpan expression. Do you think my soul is too skinny?

He laughed. Your soul needs my mama’s antipasti! He put his hand on my shoulder and at once, his face turned sober and vulnerable. I’ll pray for you.

* * * *

The Beatrice was prepped for the crossing, her engine gurgling impatiently as I watched James’ tour bus roar into the parking lot. I stood on the cement landing in the harsh wind, one foot on the first step of the boat. Eight couples, between middle-aged to retired, filed off the bus. James stood outside the bus helping the ladies and a couple of creaky geezers down the steps. I wondered which one was the client.

I took each passenger by the elbow and asked them to watch their step into the Beatrice. When I smelled a heavy cloud of musky cologne, I knew who my customer was even before I had a good look at him.

He had a fat gut, the kind of fat that comes from a steady diet of booze and bangers. He was of average height, but his ample waistline made him look shorter. While a sizable bald spot spread over his head, he had no trouble sprouting hair out of his ears, on the top of his nose, between his eyebrows, and a wiry tuft out of the top of his shirt. The name badge provided by the tour company, a decal that had peeled at one corner said ‘Simon’.

He gave me a smile and a ‘good morning’ when I helped him into the bobbing craft. He stuffed a folded ten Euro note in my hand and gave me a nod. He sat next to a dour, graying woman whose glasses were fogged up. She vainly gripped the straps of a plastic rain bonnet under her chin and grimaced. I decided she couldn’t be his wife.

Over the sound of the wind and the motor, I stood at the helm and shouted that life preservers were located under their bench seats. That was the extent of my emergency drill. On calmer days, I would explain a little of the history of Isola Bella. The local legend was that the island estate was built in the seventeenth century by Stresa’s Count Barromees. He was said to have chosen the tiny rock in the middle of the lake for his summer residence so he didn’t have to listen to the screams coming from the Stresa prison. But today, no one could hear me over the shrieking wind.

I cast off. James helped push us away from the dock and gave me a half-assed salute. I shook my head and advanced the throttle. We chugged across the chop. A few hard bumps made some of the passengers yelp. A couple of the men laughed with macho excitement, but a spray of ice water in their faces quickly shut them up. The passengers rode it out the rest of the way in silence, heads down.

We finally arrived at Isola Bella. I cut the motor as we glided alongside the dock. I jumped to the side, caught a cleat, slick and icy cold, and slung a rope around it before helping everyone out. The passengers filed up the steps to the manicured gardens and the grand palazzo.

In the three years I had lived in Stresa, I had never played tourist. While my passengers roamed the islands where we called, I always stayed with the Beatrice. This morning was no different. I hunkered down in the stern to get out of the wind that sliced through my jacket.

I tried to light a cigarette, but the wind kept blowing out my lighter. I cursed and flicked the cigarette into the lake. I was trying to quit anyway.

I cupped my hands to my mouth and stared at the gunmetal water. Now that it was the end of the season, I had some decisions to make about the winter—where to go and what to do once I got there. But as I stared at the lake, all I could think about was what I might eat for dinner and how much I wanted to spend on a bottle of wine.

My routine was to take one day at a time, and end each day getting drunk. It was easier to go to sleep that way. I could keep myself busy enough during the day, but at night the chattering monkey in my head wouldn’t shut up without something to numb it into silence.

* * * *

James was waiting at the landing when we returned from Bella, shifting one foot to the other in the cold and breathing into his cupped hands. I threw him a line. The Beatrice squeaked madly, chafing against the tire bumpers as I worked to secure her. Fibers from the nylon rope bit into my hands, making the cracks in my palms bleed. Meanwhile, James helped the passengers out of the Beatrice and back on the bus.

I was so busy tying everything down that I hadn’t noticed James’ bus leave the lot until I heard someone whistle like a ship’s bosun. I turned. Simon and another guy stood on the dock, shivering. Simon’s friend was shorter and thinner than him. He had the look of a fiendish clown, a regrettable overbite compounded by a mat of frizzy red hair. I didn’t remember him from the ride to Bella.

Ahoy there, matey, Simon said with a wave. His dopey friend thought that was amusing.

Simon pulled his shoulders up to his ears and rubbed his hands. He wore a chunky onyx ring on his right hand and a wedding band with a row of rock salt diamonds on the left.

Our driver told us you can take us up the road. He pointed with a fat thumb over his shoulder. If you know what I mean.

I was grateful he got to the point. I nodded and turned back to looping a rope around my arm. I didn’t know there were two of you.

Is there a problem?

I shrugged. The less I knew about them, the better. I’m going that way if you need a lift.

He’s American, said Simon’s friend and he pointed at me as though I were a specimen in a zoo. The wind rattled their jackets.

I stopped gathering up rope. Do you want to explain that?

Simon didn’t want to kill the deal, so he tried to smooth things over with a snorting laugh. We expected you to be Italian, this being Italy, you know.

How I wished I didn’t need the money. My legs were sore from keeping my balance in the pitching boat. I jumped up on the landing and faced the men. At six foot, I was taller than both of them.

I nodded. See that white van? Wait there. I’m almost finished.

In less than ten minutes, we were on our way out of Stresa. We left the lakeshore and plunged into the forest on a two-lane blacktop, glazed silver from the rain. The storm made the canopy of trees sway. They shed their yellow leaves in clumps like a flock of goldfinches swooping to the ground. Rain landed in fat drops that snapped the windshield.

Two years ago, I didn’t even know this road existed until a particularly randy businessman from Belgium paid me a good sum to take him there. Over time, I formed a casual arrangement with two sets of girls. They offered me a slim percentage of their take if I brought business their way. I charged a flat rate to the men—what the girls gave me was gravy. Beyond that, I kept out of it. The most I would do was deny a lift to men who were drunk or who asked up front for some kink that I knew the girls weren’t into.

The men behind me laughed. I had spent enough time in England to tell by their accent that Simon and his friend were from Yorkshire. Another clue was that they spent most of the time talking about Manchester football. I turned up the radio so I didn’t have to listen to them. The forecast predicted a series of storms coming out of Switzerland over the weekend. As I tried to find some music through the static, we saw a pair of girls along the road huddled together, sharing an umbrella. Simon and his friend stopped talking. I slowed the van to a crawl.

I only knew them as Farisa and Lina. When they heard my van approach, they turned in my direction and smiled. Their rigid postures melted into syrup. Lina seemed fairly young, while Farisa was a bit older, but it was hard to tell by just how much. Farisa wore a black skirt, a tight number on top that showed considerable cleavage, and over that a sequined denim jacket. Lina’s coal-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had a tight little body and wore a pink jacket over a white T-shirt with a frilly pink mini-skirt and pumps. Her gangly legs were covered in fishnet stockings. Both girls’ skin was glossy black.

I slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. All right, gentlemen, I said into the rearview mirror.

Simon already had the sliding side door open before I came to a complete stop. He peeled the name badge from his jacket, and along with his friend, hopped out to greet the women. Farisa and Lina smiled and chatted up the men, took their arms, and started down a well-worn path that led into the brush. What accommodations they had back there, I didn’t want to know. A panel van with the windows covered in spray paint? A soiled mattress slapped on the ground? I never ventured to find out. I kept myself out of it. I told myself I was just a chauffer.

I sighed. My cap was getting itchy and I tossed it on the dashboard. I slipped a copy of the Herald Tribune from the visor and set to work on the Times crossword puzzle. Out of habit, I kept watch for the state police, but the officers on patrol knew me by now. I paid them and they left me alone.

I lost track of time because in between solving the puzzle, I was preoccupied with what to do about my tepid relationship with Theresa. Her husband was a long-haul pilot for Al Italia. While he was gone days at a time, she lived a quiet and lonely life in a village south along the lakeshore. I got the impression that her husband had moved to a remote and picturesque village so that when he was at work, his beautiful wife would keep to her hobbies of painting and raising money for a children’s charity instead of having an affair. But with his extensive travel schedule, it was easy for us to see each other. Besides, she suspected him of cheating, so my conscience was once again conveniently absolved of any guilt.

Lately, though, my encounters with Theresa had gone stale. Something was troubling her and she wouldn’t tell me. I found myself caring for her, not so much out of a desire to deepen our relationship, but out of fear of losing it, and being swallowed up into a chasm of loneliness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some movement down the path. I looked up from my puzzle and saw Simon and his goofy friend walk away quickly out of the brush. I leaned over the steering wheel to get a better look. Simon’s friend appeared sick. His cheeks were flaming red. He was talking to Simon, one hand on Simon’s arm pulling him along, the other gesturing toward the highway. Simon’s arm had a long red string hanging off the end of his finger.

My insides went numb. That wasn’t string. It was a stream of blood!

Jesus! I scrambled out of the van.

Simon looked at me, and then bent his head. His face was scratched and bleeding. Simon and his friend picked up their pace and veered away from the van along the road in the direction of Stresa.

I spun around and headed toward the trail, knowing there would be time to take care of the men later. In the next moment, Farisa appeared out of the brush with an arm around Lina’s rubbery legs.

Help her! Farisa cried, her mouth frozen in a panic. When Lina lifted her head, I knew what was coming. She had been badly beaten. There were cuts and blood around her left eye, loose from its socket. Her long black hair had been yanked from the ponytail and was now matted against her face, stuck there by a river of blood that ran from a gash on the bridge of her nose. Her skirt was wadded up into her pink panties and her blouse was torn.

Though it was some time ago, my training as a police officer took over, and instead of focusing on her grotesque injuries, I went into action. I scooped Lina into my arms and carried her to the van. She needed to get to a hospital immediately. She moaned. Her head lolled back. She was losing consciousness. Her tongue was so swollen, she couldn’t close her jaw. She smelled of bubblegum and blood. I opened the door of the van with one hand and laid her limp body on the floor. I turned to Farisa.

Get in! I shouted over the wind. I started around to the driver’s side when I felt a pull on my jacket. I spun round.

Where? Farisa asked, her voice at once shrill and full of wrath. Her eyes were big and white and her mouth agape. Where? Where do we go?

I’m taking her to a hospital. Now get in the van.

The wind blew her hair in her face. She swept it back and shook her head defiantly. No. No police.

Right then, I could have taken Lina with me and left Farisa by the side of the road. But I was selfish. I could not under any circumstances be the one to deliver Lina to the hospital alone. Farisa was a witness and could clear up the impression that I had something to do with her beating. I had to get her in the van, and quickly.

She’s hurt! Can you see that? I pointed, wondering how much of my Italian she could understand. Your friend needs help. Now get in.

No trouble. No trouble. I can’t go back. Farisa stepped away, pulling her denim jacket tight over her chest with defiance. You go. You take her.

Oh, no you’re not, I said in English and grabbed her by the shoulders. She dug her heels into the gravel and tried to scratch my face. To dodge her hand, I had to let her go. She stumbled backward. I lunged at her, grabbing her arm. Before she could fight back, I pivoted behind her and wrapped my left arm around her body, pinning her arms to her side. I forced her toward the van.

She screamed, No! No! Her body was rigid. She tried to sink her hips down as if to sit on the ground. I pulled her up, but she dug her heels into the gravel. With a free hand, I struggled to open the front passenger side door and pulled her toward it.

It will be all right, I said through gritted teeth. Just...get...in.

Lina stirred and moaned. She was losing consciousness. Mama, she whispered. Mama.

I looked at Lina in disbelief. I let Farisa go and she fell to her knees. She covered her face with her hands. I was dumbstruck, unable to comprehend what would make a mother refuse to help her child. I didn’t know what to say. Farisa’s eyes reacted to my judgment of her.

They will send me back! I can’t go back. Farisa stared at me as she pulled a knife from her purse. The blade was six inches long and serrated near the handle. Blood was smeared on it. She stood up, but kept her body bent as if ready to spring. Get away from me! she hissed.

I can’t go back either, I said, but the urgency had left my voice and I must have sounded hollow and sad, and maybe too quiet for her to hear me over the wind in the trees. I put my hand on the panel door. But that’s your daughter and she needs you. I was done waiting. I had to go. Farisa, I’m taking her to a hospital. If you don’t get in now, you might never see her again.

I turned to walk to the driver’s side when she lunged at me with the knife. But I was ready for her and stepped aside and gripped her wrist. My other hand was on the back of her neck. I pulled her to my chest.

Don’t, I told her softly. Don’t.

I squeezed her bony wrist hard. She winced and gave in. The knife fell from her hand, the blade’s tip slipping into the soft earth by her feet.

With sudden force, she pushed me out of the way and crawled into the van on her knees. I slid the door shut behind her.

We sped off to an emergency clinic in a town up the road.

Keep talking to her, I told Farisa. It will be all right. But while I hoped Lina could recover from her injuries, I was already resigned that my safe, quiet existence in Italy was over.

Farisa took off her jacket, folded it, and placed it under Lina’s head. She lay down on the floor, held her daughter’s hand, and sweetly sang to her in a faraway voice in some language I didn’t understand.

Chapter Two

‘DEO VEDI...’

Lina was out cold when I carried her into the clinic in Somma Lombardo. Drops of blood from her long hair formed a trail behind us. Taking one look at her, the admissions nurse got on the phone, spoke two words, hung up, and rounded the counter. With a look of disapproval, she snapped at me to wait. Two nurses pushing a gurney appeared within seconds.

Farisa stood next to me, speaking to her daughter nonstop. Lina had lost a shoe and Farisa was stroking Lina’s bare foot, about the only place on her body that wasn’t smeared with blood. An orderly took Lina’s legs and together, we gently laid her on the gurney. She was whisked away. Farisa trotted after her, mumbling and wiping away tears.

I looked down. My clothes were spattered with blood. My jacket was ruined. I found a restroom, went inside, and locked the door. I peeled off the jacket, emptied the pockets, balled it up, and stuffed it into the trash bin. I washed my hands in hot water with lots of soap. As I lathered up, I got a jolt when it occurred to me that Lina could very well be HIV-positive. I looked at my face in the mirror as the realization set in that I could die from trying to help her. But at that moment, I was more alarmed by my face and my sullen, bloodshot eyes. My jaw was grinding, temples pulsing. My haggard expression was a mask of unrelenting hopelessness. I saw how old I had become in the past three years.

I examined the cuts on my hands from my chores as a ferryman, as if I could somehow tell just by looking at them, if they were deep enough to allow in a disease. I promised myself I would get tested later, but I knew even as I had that thought, that I probably wouldn’t bother. I didn’t really care anymore. I was too busy finding someone else to blame.

I dried my hands on a paper towel. My only thoughts now were to get out of the clinic without being questioned by the police and to find Simon and his clown friend.

At that moment, I wanted to kill them. I could feel rage filling my heart.

I opened the restroom door a crack and waited until the hallway was empty. I slipped out and turned away from the emergency desk. I found my way to another exit and stepped into the wind.

Without a jacket, I was cold. I ran to the front of the clinic and jumped into my van. I had left it running and it was warm inside, but the steering wheel was caked with blood. I reached under the seat. I found a blue shop rag and used it to hang onto the steering wheel as I pulled away.

In the rearview mirror, I saw a police officer in a navy-blue uniform run out of the clinic. He shouted and motioned for me to stop. I kept driving. My heart sank when I watched him pull a pen from his shirt pocket and record my license plate on his palm.

Now I didn’t have much time to find Simon.

I retraced my route along SS332. The rain got heavier. My windshield was fogging up and I had to slow down. When I drove past the clearing where Farisa and Lina emerged from the brush, I stopped. Could it be? I rolled down the window to make sure: Farisa’s knife was no longer stuck in the dirt.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Simon and his friend had been back. In fact, it was possible they may not have ever left, but had hidden in the trees and watched my struggle with Farisa. If they saw me drive south, I could only assume that they headed in the opposite direction, back to their hotel.

I continued on SS332 toward Stresa. I started to wonder why they needed the knife. If they wanted to get far away from their crime, why return for it? Unless...unless...Simon was really hurt. Perhaps he lost so much blood that he couldn’t walk far. But he and the red-haired guy couldn’t hitch a ride, because that would mean involving a witness. Then how would they get back to Stresa? They were on holiday, after all. They were unlikely to know anyone to call for help.

And then it dawned on me. Simon and his friend probably used Farisa’s knife to highjack a prostitute’s vehicle—a car, or even a scooter—knowing that she wouldn’t dare report it to the police.

While I drove, I plotted what I would do to him. For my sake, I hoped he was at the hotel so I could get him alone.

En route to Stresa, there was no sign of Simon or his friend along the road. With every kilometer, my enthusiasm for revenge waned. I decided to find a phone, call Simon’s hotel, and see if he had returned to his room, and then plot a way to surprise him. Theresa was on my mind anyway, so I thought of calling the hotel from her home.

On the way to see Theresa, I stopped by a filling station that had a water hose running off the back of the building. I dampened a towel I kept in the storage compartment and swabbed out the bloodstains from the floor of the van. The floor was made of textured plastic. It took some scrubbing to get the blood off that had already turned black. I looked around to make sure no one saw me and threw the rag in a trashcan when I was done.

I knew Theresa’s husband was away this week. She had invited me to have lunch with her the day before, but I had declined. It was lunch and not dinner, after all. But now, I needed to see her.

I pulled up to her gate across the road from the lake and rang the bell on the stanchion. No answer. I rang again. The gate jolted open accordion style and I drove up the short incline and made a hairpin turn behind a row of drooping fir trees that concealed my van from the road.

I got out, knocked on the door and waited. A moment later the door opened a crack and the nose of Theresa’s dog, Henri, poked out. He gave the air a sniff. She told him to get back. The nose disappeared and Theresa opened the door. She was barefoot, wearing one of her husband’s old pilot shirts with the epaulets and the insignia of the airline on the pocket. She wore it loose as a paint shirt and with the sleeves rolled up. Her slim hips were slid into a pair of black tights. A wan smile passed across her face.

Dalton. I was just thinking about you, she said. I watched her crystal blue eyes dart to the road. Someone might see your van in the daylight.

I need to use your phone, I said. I’ll only stay a minute.

She nodded. You must be cold.

Without asking me to come in, she opened the door a little wider. Her eyes gave me a concerned