Through brush, over fallen trees, they moved steadily toward the building. Insects streaked toward them, mosquitoes and gnats. Not far away a dove exhaled its breathy call, mournful, comforting and eerie. The smells were of smoke and something pungent, perhaps the decaying olive oil fertilizer.
They followed the driveway to the left, where the unattached garage was located. The home was even bigger than it had appeared from the road, a rambling structure of several buildings, connected by windowless hallways.
"Gothic," she whispered.
"Like Gotico? Spooky? Stephen King."
She nodded.
The garage was locked and there were no windows. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside.
"What do we do now?"
"Do you know Peeping Toms, in Italy?"
"Yes, yes. We know the term. From a movie, many years ago, that was popular here." He gave a harsh laugh. "And curious. The movie is about a serial killer who films his victims. The English title is Peeping Tom."
"Well, we're going to peep." She drew her weapon. She turned to Ercole to tell him to do the same but saw that he already had. They circled the house and began looking, quickly, through the few curtainless windows. At first it didn't seem like anyone lived here but then she caught a glimpse of clothing in a pile. Some empty soda cans.
Was there a light on? In a distant room? Or was the illumination from the sun falling through a slit in a curtain?
Sachs saw inside a large wooden door that, she believed, led down to a cellar. It was closed. Could Khaled be down there now?
Stephen King...
They had nearly completed the circuit of the house. One window remained. It was to the left of the front door. The curtain was partially askew so she lifted her head quickly and glanced inside.
Well.
The room was unoccupied but there was plenty to seize her attention. Above the fireplace was a hunting rifle. She couldn't be sure, but it might very well have been a .270-caliber.
And sitting prominently in the middle of a table were a half-dozen musical-instrument strings. One had been tied into a noose.
Chapter 49
Khaled Jabril woke to fear, pure fear.
He found himself in a dim room that was damp and fetid with mold and rotting food smells. Perhaps sewage too.
Where, where?
God, praise be to Him, where am I?
Nothing made sense. He had no memory of the past...well, how long? An hour, a week? No memory at all. A vague recollection of being in a tent. It was--yes, it was under the sun. Hot sun. A tent, his home. Why was he in a tent? Had something happened to his home in Tripoli?
No, their home.
He and others. Someone...Yes! His wife! He could now picture her. Ah: Fatima! He remembered th
e name, praise be to God! And their child.
And she--he believed the child was a girl--was named...He could not recall, and this made him want to cry.
So cry he did.
Yes, yes, she was a girl. A beautiful curly-haired daughter.
Although was she, the girl he pictured, in fact, their daughter? She might have been his brother's. Then another thought came to him. Italy. He was in...in Italy.