Whispering Bones (13 page)

He’d stopped only a second before continuing to the asylum, where he’d be safe. Fenelli and the hospital employees would still be milling around. Once there, however, he could not bring himself to speak to anyone about what had happened. Instead, he entered the lavatory, cowering undetected in one of the stalls for the next half-hour. Then, still trembling from his encounter, he left the hospital and boarded the first boat back to the mainland.

Since his arrival home, he’d been sitting in his study, trying to get over the shock of what he’d seen. Serafina had poked her head in twice, once to see if he would be coming to dinner, another to ask him to say goodnight to the children. Both times, he’d ordered her to stop bothering him and told her to get out.

He had to think. Rossi rubbed at his temples. There was more to worry about than the abominations he’d seen. It had not escaped his notice that the apparitions had looked exactly as described to him by the patients on whom he’d performed leucotomies, right down to the sightless, waxy eyes. He appeared to be suffering from the same delusions as his patients and the thought terrified him.

Rossi poured another drink. The notion that some type of transferable disease resulting in insanity was spreading at the hospital had entrenched itself firmly in his mind over the past several hours. And if that was true, he had fallen victim to it.

After watching the horrendous manner in which his insane father had died, the idea he’d contracted an incurable mental illness frightened Rossi beyond measure. He
had
to find out the cause of the delusions experienced by his patients and now, by him. Only then could he begin to work on a cure. He refused to suffer the same fate as his father, or worse, his lobotomized patients.

The clue, he believed, to establishing the nature of the mysterious disease rested with Carbone, the man on whom the leucotomy had proven unsuccessful. He picked up the glass and downed another shot of liquor, knowing what he had to do. Since Carbone was still experiencing delusions, Rossi might be able to pinpoint the area of the brain affected by the disease. If, that was, he examined the man’s brain.

Such an examination would naturally result in death to the patient. He would have to make sure no one else was present in the laboratory when he conducted the surgery. The man’s remains would also have to be disposed of by Rossi himself afterward, in the crematorium. This, he decided, could be accomplished if he conducted the surgery late at night, after Fenelli returned to the mainland and only the bare bones staff remained.

It wouldn’t be murder, he argued with his conscience as he poured himself another shot. Not if the man’s death served to advance medical knowledge. Besides, there was no other way.

* * * *

Poveglia

At midnight, exactly one week to the day following his decision, Rossi removed the chloroform-soaked rag from Carbone’s nose and mouth and looked down at the unconscious man. A second later, he grabbed a saw-like instrument from the table next to him. The night attendants had not raised an eyebrow when Rossi instructed them to bring Carbone to the laboratory, after he’d explained he would be examining the man to determine why the leucotomy had failed.

The hand bearing the small saw trembled slightly as Rossi lowered the blade to the patient’s forehead, just above the man’s eyebrows. He suffered a moment’s hesitation, questioning once again whether he was doing the right thing. As if in answer, hideous images of the pus-ridden corpses who had stalked him incessantly each day for the past week filled his head. His trembling hand steadied and he brought the saw to bear on Carbone’s head, ignoring the crimson spatters jumping onto his white lab coat as the cutting began.

A short time later, Carbone’s brain rested in a large jar of formaldehyde in a cupboard of the laboratory. Rossi discarded his blood-stained lab coat and stuffed it under Carbone’s brainless cadaver. After washing his hands of the man’s blood, Rossi wrapped the dead man’s head in a sheet and tossed another over the corpse. Then he opened the back door of the laboratory and glanced about furtively. Seeing no one, he wheeled the gurney bearing Carbone’s body outside.

The crematorium rested less than thirty feet along the path ahead of him and he set off, pushing the gurney past the quarantine building to the crematorium doors, glancing over his shoulder as he went. The path was clear. Once inside the crematorium, he pulled the gurney in after him and latched the heavy doors shut.

Almost a month ago, he had overseen the cremation of an elderly patient who had died of natural causes. Stoking the furnace would take time, but the task was simple enough. Once the fire reached the proper temperature, the body would need to remain inside the cylinder for approximately two hours. All he needed to worry about was getting the body inside before anyone discovered its condition.

Not a half-hour later, Rossi wheeled the gurney bearing Carbone’s body up against the cylindrical opening of the blazing incinerator to push the body inside. After several minutes, sweating profusely from the heat, Rossi managed to shove the cadaver onto the grate inside, although it took quite a bit more effort than he originally thought. Afterward, he tossed the blood-stained lab coat and sheets inside as well, and slammed the round door of the incinerator shut.

He wheeled the gurney back outside and gratefully breathed in the cool night air as he rehearsed what to say to the night staff who would no doubt be arriving soon. The smell of Carbone’s burning remains wouldn’t take long to reach the hospital.

He waited only ten minutes before two young men dressed in white uniforms came running down the path toward him.

“
Dottore
Rossi,” one of them said in a surprised voice, when they arrived at his side.

Rossi raised a hand to stop the man from speaking. “An unfortunate occurrence, gentlemen.
Signore
Carbone suffered a heart attack during my examination of him earlier tonight.”

“But why did you not summon us? Surely the body could have remained in the laboratory until tomorrow morning for disposal by the staff.”

Rossi donned the mask of grief he’d practiced in front of the mirror earlier. “I...I felt the man was my responsibility...and that it was my obligation to lay him to rest. The least I could do, since he died under my care. Frankly, it pained me to see how greatly he suffered with his affliction. An affliction I was not able to cure.” He lowered his head in false grief.

The men glanced at each other. One of them said, “You are to be admired,
Dottore
Rossi, but perhaps you should return to your office to rest now. Paolo and I can take over from here.”

Rossi said in a humble voice, “Thank you both. I will remember your kindness.”

“Certainly,
Dottore
.”

Rossi sauntered off in the direction of his office. When the two attendants entered the crematorium, he backtracked to the lab and retrieved the jar bearing Carbone’s brain.

* * * *

In the two weeks that followed, three further incidents of violent behavior by patients occurred in the asylum, two of them quite serious, resulting in a broken arm for one attendant and a concussion for another. All three patients who had become delusional and violent were transferred to the quarantine building to await their fate at Rossi’s hands. It did not bode well for them that Rossi, over the past few weeks, had begun to drink heavily. When no one was within earshot, he had also taken to ranting at the decomposing corpses who continued to stalk him.

Late one evening, Rossi reclined on the bed in his office, several empty liquor bottles on the floor next to him, the drapes at the windows overlooking the field tightly drawn. He mentally cursed the creatures milling around outside his office when they began their ceaseless wailing. Rossi vowed to himself they would not prevent him from continuing with his research. He would have to work quickly, though, before the disease rendered him incapable.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he reminded himself that Carbone’s brain, after a thorough dissection and examination, had appeared to be perfectly normal, with no indication of malfunction in either the right or left temporal lobes. He consoled himself with the knowledge he now had three other patients in quarantine—three fresh brains to examine.

First, though, he would have to take care of that meddling charlatan, Fenelli, who’d been asking too many questions about Carbone and the manner in which he had died. Why, just this morning, Fenelli’d had the audacity to come right out and ask Rossi what his intentions were for the three newly quarantined patients. Before the day was over, Rossi would give the ungrateful little bastard his walking papers—effective immediately.

Venice, Italy

Present Day

That night Anna slept poorly. She awoke just before sunup and watched as strands of reddish light seeped into the darkness outside her window. Her mind wandered from the apparition to the gloomy island and back to the apparition. When the images finished churning, her thoughts turned to Alejandro and how much she had enjoyed being with him last night. This train of thought led her to daydream a bit as she anticipated what might happen between them tonight. Glad she’d kept up her daily sessions at the gym back home, she knew his eyes would find no fault if they ended up in bed...but she was getting ahead of herself. And behaving like a school girl, she told herself.

Craving coffee, she picked up the phone and ordered breakfast from room service. When the food arrived—puffy pastries and biscotti served with a giant mug of cappuccino—she sampled the breakfast rolls then carried the large cup to the sitting area. As she sipped on the strong, creamy coffee, the idea of going back to the island returned to put a damper on things. She debated whether to have a cigarette, decided not to, then lit one anyway.

In the shower, as the steamy water rolled over her, it occurred to Anna that Falcone might not be the only one she could ask about Poveglia and its history. She had overheard the concierge at her hotel yesterday talking to one of the guests in the lobby about the nearby islands. Maybe he might be able to provide her with some information. In any case, it wouldn’t do any harm to ask when she got downstairs.

Once dressed in a pair of soft, loose-fitting jeans and a pale blue sleeveless top, Anna left her room and went downstairs. In the grand lobby, she waited her turn in line to speak to the concierge.

“
Signorina
LaServa. How can I assist you today?” the man asked, smiling.

She checked the plastic tag on the man’s lapel and addressed him by name. “Hello, Stefano. I wonder if I could trouble you for some information on one of the islands.”

“Certainly. Which one? The Lido? Murano? Burano, perhaps?”

“Um, no, actually, none of those. The island I’m interested in is Poveglia.”

The salesman smile disappeared immediately from the man’s face, his pleasant look replaced by one of surprise and something else. To Anna’s eyes, he looked frightened.

The concierge turned abruptly and grabbed some brochures from the counter behind him. “There are many more interesting islands to visit in Venice.”

She noticed the slight trembling of his hands as he flipped through the brochures and held several of them out to her.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said. “But it’s Poveglia I’m curious about.”

An almost angry look appeared on the man’s face. “I’m sorry,
Signorina
, I’m afraid I cannot help you. The island is not open to the public and I have no brochures that might assist you... Next.” He looked past Anna, obviously finished with her, and waved the next person in line over.

Anna walked away, surprised and more than a little irritated by the abrupt dismissal. When she glanced back, the man had turned to replace the brochures he’d pulled out for her. She could have sworn she saw him make the sign of the cross before he faced forward again.

She stood staring at him for a moment, then turned to see Alejandro entering the lobby and hurried over to him.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, Anna and Alejandro entered the narrow old building that housed Falcone’s office and made their way up the stairs to the second floor.

“Hello,” Anna said to Falcone’s immaculately groomed assistant. “Mr. Ramirez and I were wondering if we could have a word with Mr. Falcone before leaving for the island.” Anna checked her watch. At eight-thirty, they had about half an hour before they were expected at the dock. That left about ten minutes to speak with Falcone.

“Oh, I am sorry, Ms. LaServa. He is not here. He had a—how do you say—out-of-town meeting,” she replied in the charming accent Anna remembered from yesterday.

“I see.” Anna hesitated. The woman was probably a native Venetian. Maybe she might be able to tell her something.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

The woman smiled at Anna, waiting.

“It’s about the island where the hotel is to be erected. I was wondering if you knew anything about its history.”

The woman’s smile remained in place, but Anna noticed it no longer reached her eyes.

“Well, I know the
ospedale
—the hospital—was built there in the nineteen twenties, nineteen twenty-two, I believe.”

When she said nothing more, Anna asked, “What kind of a hospital was it, do you know? Was it an asylum?”

The woman’s pleasant expression evaporated. “That, I do not know. Why do you ask?

“We were just curious,” Alejandro interjected.

After an awkward silence, the woman said, “I could make some inquiries with the city for you, if you think it necessary.”

“We’d appreciate that, thank you,” Alejandro said. “Oh, and would you mind asking Mr. Falcone to ring me this evening at my hotel, please?”

“Not at all,
Signore
Ramirez,” the woman replied. “I will make sure he gets the message.”

“Thank you.”

Anna led the way back downstairs and stepped out into the overcast morning, disappointed they’d not been able to learn anything more about the island.