Spider - Michael Morley [130]
But she knows all the teasing will have to wait. For now, she doesn’t even have a phone. It still lies in the blood-soaked darkness of the catacombs next to the dead body of America’s most feared serial killer.
EPILOGUE
Three months later
What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.
Friedrich Nietzsche
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
For the first time in the three and a half years that they’ve been here, La Casa Strada is free of tourists and strangers. That’s not to say that all its rooms aren’t fully occupied.
The celebration party was Nancy’s idea. And everyone is agreed that it is a very fine one.
It is still warm enough to take drinks on the terrace overlooking the historic, undulating beauty of the Val D’Orcia, and several guests stand together finding peace and beauty in the views they’re blessed with. Massimo, Orsetta, Benito and Roberto have travelled up from Rome, and they stand huddled in a group, babbling Italian at machine-gun speed as waitresses serve them the finest wines that Tuscany can offer. Terry McLeod has been invited back, and this time he hasn’t needed to cheat or lie his way into the action.
Nancy glances at the one area that still gives her discomfort. As soon as the forensic teams had gone from her garden, she’d brought in Mr Capello, his team of landscapers and their equipment. She had the entrance to the catacombs sealed up with enough ready-mixed concrete to cover Manhattan, but the blocked-up catacombs still give her the shivers. Her eyes fall on her son Zack, riding his trike across the terrace, making sure he never leaves her sight. Since the incident he’s been quieter than his parents had ever known and he still insists on sleeping in their bed every night. But he’s on the mend and in bright sunshine, playing noisily, a smile returns to his face.
Her home is a crime scene no more. And she never wants to be reminded that it once was.
Nancy leaves Jack’s arm for a moment to check in the kitchen on how long dinner is going to be. Paolo is preparing a special six-course feast, ending with Jack’s favourite Zabaoine. The aroma of roasting pork drifts in the early autumnal air, sharpening the appetites of the waiting guests.
Howie has repeatedly declined the local wines, and instead has drunk everyone’s quota of Bud. He’s come alone, but lives in hope that he and Carrie might get back together in time for Christmas.
FBI Field Office Director Joe Marsh cleared his diary and crossed the Atlantic to be here. Jack awkwardly holds out his left hand as they greet each other in a corner on the sunlit terrace. His right hand is still heavily strapped and is going to need physiotherapy to repair the nerve damage caused by the knife wound.
‘Still hurting?’ asks Marsh as they get chatting.
‘Some,’ says Jack, slowly wriggling the end of his fingers. ‘But not as much as my pride.’
Marsh looks at him quizzically. ‘Meaning?’ ‘Well, to tell the truth, I’m still blaming myself for not reading BRK’s strategy. If I had done, then I would have saved us all a lot of grief.’ He looks up to make sure Nancy isn’t nearby; he’s been given strict instructions not to talk about the case. ‘BRK staged the Kearney incident because he hadn’t killed for a while and he feared that we had forgotten him. By picking the twentieth anniversary of when Sarah’s body was found, he was fairly certain we’d put it down to him, but just to make sure, he wrote my name on the package containing her skull.’ Jack pauses while Marsh takes a drink from a tray offered by a passing waitress. ‘BRK gambled that the incident would reactivate the FBI investigation and put him back centre stage. Just as he gambled that if he killed