The Raven (16 page)

T
he motorcyclist was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots. His helmet, which had an opaque shield, was also black.

Raven wondered if he were a policeman, assigned to follow her.

She didn’t bother to find out. Breaking into a run, she skirted him in order to return to Bruno.

“We have to go. Now!” the driver shouted.

Raven increased her speed, fighting the pain in her leg, as she heard sirens approach.

When she came to the alley, she saw Bruno lying on the ground. She could see blood on his face and a dark pool on the cobblestones beneath his head. He wasn’t moving.

A police car turned into the alley several feet away, followed closely by an ambulance.

She was going to run to him, when an arm curled around her waist and pulled her back. The motorcyclist clutched her to his side, kicking and screaming, as he pulled away.

The driver was strong, but even so, it was nearly impossible to drive with one hand and hold a squirming woman with the other. He came to a halt near the Duomo.

“If you’re caught by the police, they’ll arrest you,” he hissed behind his helmet. “Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t do anything! A man attacked us.”

“They won’t believe you. And the boy’s blood is on your clothes.” The motorcyclist pointed to her dress.

“I have to help him.” She struggled. “I have to get my knapsack.”

He gripped her arms, his gloved fingers biting into her flesh.

“Jane
, get on the bike
.”

At the sound of her former name, she stilled. She couldn’t see his face from behind his helmet. Since his voice was muffled, she couldn’t swear that he was the intruder.

But a policeman wouldn’t want her to evade his fellow officers and, certainly, no one she knew ever called her Jane.

Before she could respond, the driver pressed a helmet over her head and tugged her to sit behind him. He pulled at her arms, but she resisted, favoring her right shoulder.

“Are you injured?” He turned in his seat to examine her.

“The man who attacked us wrenched my arm.” Raven massaged her shoulder, eyes screwed shut in pain.

“I’ll fix it after you’re safe.”

“Are you the intruder from my apartment?”

“Of course,” he snapped. “Who else would help you?”

“Let me go. I have to help my friend.”

“You can’t help him from a jail cell.”

Instantly, Raven thought of Amanda Knox.

She knew she would come to regret her decision, but, with a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around the intruder’s waist.

“Hold on,” he commanded.

The bike shot forward, almost toppling as it approached the Duomo and made a hard left to go around it.

The sound of a siren pierced the air as another police car, which was parked on a street nearby, began to pursue them.

Raven shut her eyes as the motorcycle wove in and around traffic, shooting through red lights and barely avoiding pedestrians.

Still the police car followed, now joined by a second one.

With a burst of speed, the motorcycle crossed one of the large vehicular bridges that spanned the Arno before darting up the winding road that led to the Piazzale Michelangelo. Trees and houses flew past them as they raced around the curves.

Raven felt sick, but the driver would not slow.

They raced past the
piazzale
and around a tight curve, losing the police cars for a moment. The motorcyclist shot into a hidden driveway and climbed another hill, putting them out of sight.

The sounds of sirens grew close and then far away, as the police cars sped past the driveway and continued along the main road.

Raven tried very hard not to throw up, swallowing down urge after urge to heave.

The driver slowed the motorcycle to a moderately quick speed, making several turns before stopping in front of a tall metal gate. He pushed a few buttons and the gate opened.

He entered the gate, which closed behind them, and drove along a paved driveway that led past trees and what appeared to be an orchard.

They came to a stop in front of a freestanding triple-bay garage.

Raven was clutching the driver so tightly, she couldn’t let go. He had to pry her fingers from his jacket.

“Inside. Now.” He jerked his head toward the large and palatial villa visible via the floodlights that illuminated the garden and driveway. “Ambrogio will attend to you.”

The driver helped Raven from the motorcycle and removed her helmet.

“Her right arm and shoulder are injured. See to it.” He addressed a man who hovered nearby.

The motorcyclist turned his back on her and rolled his machine into the garage.

“Signorina, please.” The man, who Raven inferred was Ambrogio, gestured toward a stone path that led through the garden and to the back door.

Raven took one tentative step and threw up the entire contents of her dinner on Ambrogio’s impeccably shined shoes and suit-clad legs.

A
mbrogio said not a word as Raven’s vomit splashed on his legs and feet. He merely placed an arm around her waist, supporting her.

She heaved until she could do so no more.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, wiping her mouth shakily with the back of her hand.

“Signorina, come inside.” His tone was calm, too calm, as if the sight of blood on her skin and the vomit was not only unsurprising, but expected.

Raven gazed at him curiously.

He was about her height, with gray hair and dark eyes. He looked as if he were in his sixties and was carefully dressed in a well-cut dark suit. Raven found something troubling about his demeanor, but she could not articulate what.

She tore her eyes from his impassive expression and looked toward the garage. “My friend Bruno is hurt. He may be dead. I have to go to him.”

“Everything will be attended to.” Ambrogio deftly turned her to face the villa.

“I don’t have my cell phone. Or my wallet. My knapsack is in the alley, where Bruno is.”

“This way, please.”

Raven turned toward the garage, hoping to catch sight of the intruder. “But—”

“It would be best if you came into the house.” Ambrogio interrupted her with a tone that held a warning.

With one last, vain glance, Raven allowed herself to be led on shaky legs to the back door.

She was escorted through a modern, eat-in kitchen and a large, opulent dining room to an immense central foyer. A wide wooden staircase led to the second floor, while a huge antique chandelier sparkled overhead.

But it was the artwork that captured her attention.

The walls were painted a deep red and hung with oil paintings that varied in size and composition, all encased in glass.

Raven gaped at the sight and muttered a few stunned oaths.

She’d spent years studying Renaissance art and art restoration. The collection on display was of works from that period she had never seen. Paintings by Raphael, Botticelli, Caravaggio—and something that looked surprisingly like a Michelangelo—stared at her from their ornate frames.

She lifted a trembling finger and pointed to a medium-sized painting on the far wall.

“Is that—? It can’t be. Is it?” she stuttered.

“Michelangelo, yes.
Adam and Eve before the Fall
.” A gray-haired woman, wearing a smart navy sheath dress and jacket, strode across the floor.

“But Michelangelo is thought to have completed only one painting and it’s in the Uffizi. An uncompleted work that may be his is in the National Gallery in London.”

The woman ignored Raven’s protest. “I’m Lucia.”

“Raven,” she murmured, crossing the floor so she could get a better look at the alleged Michelangelo.

“I thought your name was Jane. Jane Wood.” Lucia followed her with a frown.

Raven kept her eyes fixed on the painting. She looked at it from the side, trying to discern the brushstrokes.

“The intruder calls me Jane, but my name is Raven.”

The couple seemed taken aback by her remarks but commented no further.

Ambrogio apprised Lucia of Raven’s injury. He bowed, declaring he would find out about Bruno’s condition and attempt to locate her knapsack, before disappearing into the dining room.

Lucia gestured to the staircase. “Your room is upstairs.”

“This painting,” Raven managed to say, fixated as she was, “where did it come from?”

“It’s part of Lord William’s extensive collection. But the best pieces are in there.”

The woman nodded toward a closed set of double doors to the left of the staircase.

Raven reluctantly tore her gaze away from the painting and stared at the closed doors.

She shook her head, as if to clear her mind.

“You said Lord William?” she whispered. “William York?”

“Of course.” Once again, Lucia seemed puzzled.

“The intruder is William York?”

“I don’t know anything about an intruder. The gentleman who owns this estate is Lord William York. He brought you here.” Lucia took a step closer, examining Raven intently. “I will send for a doctor.”

“No, I’m fine. I was just a little—motion sick.” She wiped her mouth self-consciously. “Can you tell me if Lord William recently acquired something in the style of Botticelli? Such as a set of illustrations?”

“You were bleeding.” Lucia ignored Raven’s question, pointing at the dried blood on her shoulder and dress.

“No, it’s Bruno’s. My friend.” Raven fought back tears. “I’m worried he’s dead. I need to see him.”

“Ambrogio will attend to it.”

Raven stared at Lucia suspiciously, wondering why she was repeating the intruder’s rote remark.

“I really need to go. If you could just call a taxi for me, I’ll leave.”

“It’s past one o’clock. His lordship would like you to clean up and rest.” Lucia’s expression brooked no argument.

Raven began moving toward the front door, which was a few feet away. “I don’t want to impose. You’ve been very kind.”

“Stop.” Lucia’s polished demeanor dropped for a moment and an icy coldness filled her eyes. “His lordship’s orders are always obeyed.”

“I just want to go home,” Raven whispered.

As if on cue, Ambrogio returned. He stood in front of the door, effectively blocking Raven’s escape.

Her eyes moved from him to Lucia.

“You must obey his lordship.” Lucia gestured in the direction of the staircase. “He has been expecting your return.”

“My return? I’ve never been here before.”

“This way, please.” Once again Lucia ignored her comment. She walked toward the staircase.

Raven lifted her right foot surreptitiously, trying to figure out if she could outrun Lucia and Ambrogio and make it to the back door. Of course, it was more than likely that the intruder was outside and would come after her.

She didn’t want to think about what he’d do to her if he caught her.

She forced an artificial smile and joined Lucia on the stairs. “A shower and a rest sound like a good idea. Thank you.”

Lucia’s frosty attitude thawed marginally as she ushered Raven up-stairs. She brought Raven down a long central hall, pausing in front of a tall wooden door. “In here, please.”

She opened the door.

In keeping with the rest of the house, the large bedroom boasted dark hardwood floors that were covered by elaborately woven antique carpets. A massive four-poster bed hung with wine-colored velvet curtains stood at the center of the wall to the left.

The walls were painted to match the curtains and all the other furniture in the room was dark, polished wood, with the exception of a large divan near what looked like the entrance to the bathroom en suite. The divan was covered in wine velvet and held a single gold damask cushion.

When Raven crossed the threshold, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck. Something about the room seemed familiar.

Ignoring Lucia, she walked to the bed, noting that a white Turkish cotton bathrobe had been placed at its foot, along with a pair of slippers. A blue silk slip-style nightgown rested on top of the duvet, which was covered in gold damask.

“If you sit down, I’ll examine your shoulder.” Lucia gestured to the divan and Raven lowered herself to its edge.

That was when she saw the painting.

On the wall opposite the door, and therefore hidden from initial view by the bed curtains, hung a large oil painting behind glass.

Raven turned to her right, craning her neck so she could see it.

Her eyes widened in shock.

Without a word, she pushed past Lucia to get a better look at the painting.

The composition was similar, almost identical, to Botticelli’s
Primavera
but on a smaller scale. There were three notable differences: the figure of Flora was absent in this version, and Mercury and Zephyr featured radically different appearances than their Uffizi counterparts.

This Mercury had gray eyes and a wreath of short blond hair.

In gazing at his face, Raven immediately thought of the drawing she’d done a few days earlier. The drawing that had mysteriously disappeared after the intruder’s first visit.

Then there was the figure of Zephyr, on the right-hand side of the painting.

Zephyr was clothed in blue garments, but his face and body were decidedly flesh colored, if not a bit paler than the other figures. He, too, had blond hair.

Raven glanced from Zephyr to Mercury and back again. The two figures were almost identical, except that Zephyr had paler skin and a more muscular body. There was also a refinement in his facial features that made him more beautiful than Mercury.

Whoever painted this picture had used the same model for Mercury and Zephyr. And his face was not unknown to her.

Adding to her confusion was the fact that this Mercury, with his short blond hair, largely resembled the ghost she’d found in the radiograph of
Primavera
. It was almost as if Botticelli had seen this painting, copied Mercury’s appearance, then painted over it, changing his hair from blond to brown.

Raven felt light-headed.

“You should sit down.” Lucia pulled her back to the divan and proceeded to prod her right arm and shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” Raven murmured, her eyes glued to the painting.

“The shoulder isn’t dislocated. Would you like an ice pack?”

Raven peered up at Lucia, who was staring at her with a distrustful look.

Raven shook her head. She tried to remain calm, but her mind was racing.

How could William York have a reproduction of
Primavera
that I’ve never heard of? And how could it be a reproduction if Botticelli’s original Mercury matches this one?

“I could run a hot bath or you could shower. Perhaps you should wait until you have something in your stomach. I’ll bring some tea and toast.”

Raven’s attention was drawn back to Lucia.

“I should get out of these clothes. The smell . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll be back shortly.” Lucia pointed to a long, thin piece of tapestry that hung from the ceiling at the right side of the bed. “If you need me, pull the cord.”

Raven nodded, her eyes moving to the painting again.

As Lucia approached the door, Raven spoke.

“You prepared this room for me?”

“His lordship wanted you to stay here, in his room.” Lucia disappeared through the door.