Chianti Classico (30 page)

Fine lines of tiny bones and a web of arteries popping out of the wrists, a pair of hands maneuvered the bludgeon to the side, and within seconds, yielded a blow to the ear. Bernardo must have never felt the second hit.

If the boy had recognized his brutal attacker, his eyes did not reveal it. They rolled upward, creating the face of a martyr, beseeching the heavens to let him enter. The slight smile on his lips suggested his mind was filled with other images. The second strike sent him into the marble rendering of St. Francis, where Bernardo finally crumpled, prostrate at the feet of the patron saint against dying alone.

The figure brushed the hood back and slid out of the robe. There was work to do. Bernardo’s violent end had left a pool of blood on the floor and spatters on the walls. A long red stripe adorned the white folds in St Francis’ vestment. The body of Bernardo was hurriedly crammed back into its hiding place, the blood methodically mopped up with the hooded robe.

Had Bernardo been watching through his peephole, he would have observed the figure, dragging a long object and robe, pause again to face the altar, and an arm pass first up, down, and then from shoulder to shoulder. As the shadow paused in front of the candles, a stream of smoke would curl upward. Bernardo would have heard the coins drop noisily through the slot and seen the figure kneel for a moment to pray. But he could witness none of this—at least in the way that one on this earth knows or senses things. Nor could he listen to the person follow the indirect passage through the sacristy or hear the outside door finally close as the shadow merged with the darkness that shrouded the tiny hill

village of Montriano.

Coralie is a native of California and graduate of the University of California at Berkeley. Having visited Italy four times, Coralie has traveled extensively for her books. She and her husband and her golden retriever now live in Massachusetts.