Thorn and Jennings exchanged a quizzical glance.
"How do you know he's abandoned Christ?" Thorn asked of the monk.
"Confession."
"But he doesn't speak."
"Written confession. He has some movement of his left hand."
"What kind of confession?" pressed Thorn.
The monk paused, "May I ask the nature of your questions?"
"It's vitally important," replied Thorn earnestly. "I beg you to help us. There's a life at stake."
The monk studied Thorn's face and then nodded.
"Come with me."
Spilletto's cubicle was bare and boxlike, containing only a straw matress and a table made of stone. Like the rotunda, it had an open skylight that let light and rain in; a pool of water remained from the rains of the night before. Thorn noticed that the mattress was wet, and wondered if they all suffered such discomfort, or if this was part of Spilletto's private penance.
"It's drawn on the table," the monk said as they entered. "He wrote it out in coal."
Spilletto's wheelchair clattered as it crossed the uneven stones. They gathered around the small table, seeing the strange symbol the priest had drawn there.
"He did it when he first came here," the priest said. "We left the coal here on the table, but he has drawn no more."
It was a grotesque stick figure, etched unevenly :n a childlike scrawl. It was bent and misshapen, its head surrounded with a semicircular line. What immediately caught Jennings' eye were the three numerals surrounding the semicircle above the stick figure's head. They were sixes. Three of them. Like the mark on Tassone's thigh.
"You'll notice the curved line above the head," the monk said. "This indicates the hood of the monk. His own hood."
"It's a self-portrait?" asked Jennings.
"We believe so."
"What about the sixes?"
"Six is the sign of the Devil," the monk responded. "Seven is the perfect number, the number of Jesus. Six is the sign of Satan."
"Why three of them?" asked Jennings.
"We believe it signifies the Diabolical Trinity. The Devil, Anti-Christ, and False Prophet."
"Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," observed Thorn.
The monk nodded. "For everything holy, there is something unholy. This is the essence of temptation."
"Why do you consider this a confession?" asked Jennings.
"It is, as you say, a self-portrait. Or so we believe. It is surrounded, symbolically, by the triumvirate of Hell."
"So you don't know, specifically, the act to which he confesses?"
"The details are unimportant," replied the monk. "All that matters is that he wishes to repent."
Jennings and Thorn exchanged a long glance; Thorn's face was gripped with frustration.
"Can I talk to him?" Thorn asked.
"It will do no good."
Thorn glanced at Spilletto and shuddered at the sight of the glistening, frozen face.
"Father Spilletto," he said firmly, "my name is Thorn."
The priest stared mutely upward; unmoving, unhearing.
"It's no use," advised the monk,
But Thorn would not be stopped.
"Father Spilletto," Thorn repeated, "There was a child. I want to know where it's from." "Please, Signor," entreated the monk. "You confessed to them!" shouted Thorn. "Now confess to me! I want to know where that child is from!"
"I'll have to ask you to . . ."
"Father Spilletto! Hear me! Tell me!"
The monk attempted to reach Spilletto's chair, but Jennings blocked the way.
"Father Spilletto!" shouted Thorn into the mute, unmoving face. "I beg you! Where is she?! Who was she?! Please! Answer me now!"
And suddenly they were jarred, the very atmosphere thundering around them as bells in the church tower began to peal. It was ear-splitting; Thorn and Jennings shuddered as the sound rebounded off the stone monastery wall. Then Thorn looked down and saw it. The priest's hand was beginning to tremble and slowly rise.
"The coal!" shouted Thorn. "Give him the coal!"
Jennings' hand moved quickly, grabbing the lump of coal from the table and thrusting it into the trembling hand. As the bells continued to peal, the priest's hand jerked stiffly across the stone, forming crude letters that wavered with each impact of the deafening sound.
"It's a word!" exclaimed Jennings excitedly. "C . . . E . . . R . . ."
The priest was shaking in every fiber as he struggled to continue, the pain of exertion plain as his disfigured mouth stretched open, emitting an agonized animal-like moan.
"Keep going!" urged Thorn.
". . . V . . » read Jennings, "... E ... T .. ."
And suddenly the bells went silent; the priest dropped the coal from his spasmed fingers as his head
fell back against the chair. Exhausted, his eyes gazed upward, his face bathed in sweat.
As the echo faded around them, they stood in silence, staring at the word scrawled out on the table. Cervet. . .?" asked Thorn.
"Cervet," echoed Jennings.
"Is that Italian?"
They turned to the monk who looked at the word, and then to Spilletto, with confusion in their eyes.
"Does that mean something to you?" asked Thorn.
"Cerveteri," the monk replied. "I think Cerveteri."
"What is it?" asked Jennings.
"It is an old cemetery. From Etruscan times. Cimitero di Sant'Angelo."
The stiffened body of the priest trembled again, and he moaned as though trying to speak. But then he fell silent, a relaxation settling over him as he surrendered to the overpowering limitations of his body.
Thorn and Jennings looked at the monk who shook his head with dismay.
"Cerveteri is nothing but ruins. The remains of the Shrine of Techulca."
"Techulca?" asked Jennings.
"The Etruscan devil-god. The Etruscans were devil worshippers. Their burial place was a sacrificial ground."
"Why would he write this?" asked Thorn.
"I do not know."
"Where is this place?" asked Jennings.
"There is nothing there, Signor, except graves . . . and a few wild hogs."
"Where is it?" repeated Jennings with insistence.
"Your cabdriver will know. Perhaps fifty kilometers north of Rome."
The cabdriver was hard to awaken; then Thorn and Jennings had to wait until he defecated in the field alongside the road. He was disgruntled now and sorry that he had taken the job, particularly when he heard where they now wanted to go. Cerveteri was a place that God-fearing men avoided, and they would not reach it until after nightfall.
The storm that hung over Rome had spread outward, heavy rains slowing their progress as, in darkness, they swung off the main highway onto an older road that was washed out with mud and potholes. The cab faltered, its rear left wheel slipping into a trench, and they all had to get out and push. When they got back inside, they were drenched and shivering; Jennings checked his watch and noted it was close to midnight. It was the last thought he registered before falling asleep; awakening several hours later, he realized the cab was no longer moving, and all was silent within. Thorn was asleep beside him, wrapped in a blanket; all that could be seen of the driver were his mud-caked shoes as he lay snoring in the front seat.
Jennings fumbled with the door handle and moved stiffly into the night, staggering to a nearby stand of bushes to urinate. It was near dawn, the sky was beginning to show the first signs of light. Jennings blinked hard, trying to make out his surroundings. He slowly realized that they'd arrived at Cerveteri. Before him stood a spiked iron fence, and just beyond it, tombstones silhouetted against the faintly lightening sky.
He moved back to the cab and stared in at Thorn, then glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to five. Walking quietly to the driver's door he reached in and removed the keys from the ignition, then went to the trunk, carefully unlocking it and lifting the lid. It rose with a squeal but the sound did not awaken
the two within. Jennings rummaged in the darkness for his camera case and loaded a fresh roll of film. He then tested his flash attachment. It went off into his eyes, blinding him for a moment and causing him to stagger. He waited for his vision to clear, then hefted his equipment onto his shoulder, pausing as his eyes fell upon a tire iron nestled among oil-soaked rags in a corner of the trunk. He reached in and took it, tucking it into his belt, then slowly closed the lid and walked silently to the rusted iron fence. The ground was wet and Jennings was cold; he shivered as he moved along the fence, searching for a point of entry. There was none. Securing his equipment, he scaled the fence with the aid of a nearby tree, losing his footing for an instant and ripping his coat as he tumbled to the ground on the other side. Then, regaining his footing and adjusting his cameras, he headed off into the interior of the cemetery. The sky was getting lighter now and he could make out the details of the tombstones and crumbling statuary around him. They were elaborate and ornate, though disfigured with decay; gargoyle-like faces with broken expressions, crypts, some half collapsed, with rodents moving, unconcerned by his presence, in and out of the hollowed and darkened in-sides.
Though chilled, Jennings felt himself perspiring. He glanced about uneasily as he plodded forward through the heavy growth. He felt as though he were being watched; the vacant eyes of the gargoyles seemed to follow him as he passed. He paused, trying to quiet his uneasiness, and his eyes moved upward, riveted to what they saw. It was a giant stone idol staring down from above, its face frozen in anger, as though outraged by his trespass. Jennings' breath became shallow as he stared upward; the idol's bulging eyes seemed to demand that he retreat. Its face was human, its expression animal: a deeply furrowed forehead and bulbous nose, a gaping, fleshy mouth stretched open as though in rage. Jennings fought down a swell of fear and managed to raise his camera, snapping off three , shots with his flash attachment, assaulting the stone face like a sudden stroke of lightning.
Within the cab Thorn's eyes slowly opened as he became aware that Jennings was gone. He moved out of the car, seeing the graveyard before him, its broken statuary now illuminated by the first rays of the dawn.
". . . Jennings . . . ?"
There was no reply. Thorn moved to the fence and called again. He was answered with a distant sound. It was the sound of movement within the graveyard, as though someone were walking toward him. Thorn gripped the slippery bars and, with effort, hefted himself over the fence, dropping heavily to the ground on the other side.
". . . Jennings?"
The sound of movement had ended. Thorn searched through the maze of broken statuary ahead. Forcing himself to move, he walked slowly forward, his shoes gurgling as they sank into mud. The half-headed gargoyles came into view, and Thorn was unnerved as he eyed them. There was a kind of stillness here that he had experienced before, a suspended silence as though the atmosphere itself were holding its breath. It was at Pereford that he had first felt it, the night he saw the eyes staring back from the forest. He paused now, fearing he was once again being watched. His eyes scanned the statuary, coming to rest on a massive cross planted upside down in the ground. He stiffened. From somewhere behind the cross came the sound. It was the sound of movement again, but this time it was coming fast, heading directly toward him. Thorn wanted to run but was rooted, his eyes widening as the sound crashed heavily down.
"Thorn!"
It was Jennings, breathless and wild-eyed as he exploded through a stand of bushes. Thorn's breath rushed out as he stood shaking; Jennings quickly moved forward with the tire iron grasped in his hand.
"I found it!" he gasped. "I found it!!"
"Found what?"
"Come here. Come with me!"
They moved at a run through the undergrowth,
Jennings dodging gravestones like a soldier running an obstacle course, Thorn struggling to keep up behind.
"There!" exclaimed Jennings as he stopped in a clearing. "Take a look. They're the ones!"
At his feet were two graves; dug close together, side by side. Unlike the others in the cemetery these were fairly recent; one full-sized, the other small, the headstones unadorned, bearing only names and dates.
"See the dates?" asked Jennings excitedly. "June sixth. June sixth! Four years ago. A mother and a child."
Thorn approached slowly and stood beside him, staring down at the mounds.
"They're the only recent ones in the whole place," said Jennings proudly. "The others are so old you can't even read them."
Unanswering, Thorn knelt, wiping dirt from the headstones to see what was inscribed.
". . . Maria Avedici Santora . . ." he read. "Bambino Santoya ... In Morte et in Nate Amplexarantur Generationes."
"What does it mean?"
"It's Latin."
"What does it say?"
". . . In death . . • and birth . . . generations embrace."
"Quite a find, I'd say."
Jennings knelt beside Thorn, surprised to find his companion in tears. Thorn bowed his head and openly wept; Jennings waited for the tears to subside.
"This is it," Thorn moaned. "I know it. My child is buried here."
"And probably the woman who gave birth to the one you're raising."
Thorn looked into Jennings' eyes.
"Maria Santoya," said Jennings, pointing to the headstone. "There's a mother here and a child."
Thorn shook his head, trying to make sense of it.
"Look," said Jennings. "You demanded Spilletto tell you where the mother was. This is the mother. And this is probably your child."
"But why here? Why in this place?"
"I don't know."
"Why in this terrible place?"
Jennings watched Thorn, sharing his confusion.
"There's only one way to find out, Thorn. We've come all this way, we might as well do it."
He raised the tire iron, plunging it forcefully into the earth. It stopped with a dull thud, buried to the hilt.
"It's easy enough. They're only a foot or so under."
He began to dig with the tire iron, loosening the caked dirt and, with his hands, scraping it away.
"You going to help with this?" he asked Thorn, and Thorn reluctantly participated, his fingers numbed with cold as he clawed at the dirt.
Within half an hour they were covered with soot and perspiration, clearing the last bits of earth from two cement covers. They sat back on their knees and stared at them, assessing what had to be done next.
"Smell it?" asked Jennings.
"Yes."
"Must have been a hasty job. Not exactly up to health standards."
Thorn didn't respond; his face was gripped with anguish.
"Which one first?" asked Jennings.
"Do we need to do this?"
"Yes."
"It seems wrong."
"If you want, I'll go get the cabdriver."
Thorn gritted his teeth, then shook his head.
"Let's go then," said Jennings. "Do the big one first."
Jennings struck hard with his tire iron, wedging it against the side of the large cement lid. Then, with great effort, he pried it upward until he could get his fingers underneath.
"Come on, goddamnit!" he shouted at Thorn, and Thorn responded quickly, his arms shaking with exertion as he struggled with Jennings to raise the heavy lid.
"Weighs a bloody ton ... !" Jennings groaned. As he threw his weight against it, the lid came up slowly; both of them strained with full force to hold it in place as their eyes searched the darkened chamber below.
"My God!" Jennings gasped.
It was the carcass of a jackal. Maggots and flies abounded in the decay, wriggling through bits of leathered flesh that somehow still clung to the bones.
His mouth flying open, Thorn lurched backward, the cement slipping from his grip and crashing downward, breaking into pieces in the crypt below. A horde of flies billowed upward; Jennings moved in sudden terror, slipping in mud, as he grabbed Thorn, trying to pull h
im away.
"No!!" cried Thorn.
"Let's go!"
"No!" gasped Thorn. "The other one!"
"What for? We've seen what we need!"
"No, the other one," Thorn moaned desperately. "Maybe it's an animal, too!"
"So what?!"
"Then maybe my child's alive somewhere!"
Jennings paused, held by the agony in Thorn's eyes. Quickly retrieving the tire iron, he jammed it against the smaller lid; Thorn moved quickly beside him, getting his fingers beneath the lid as Jennings fiercely pried up. In a single movement it was off and Thorn's face contorted with grief. Within the small casket were the remains of a human child, its delicate skull smashed to pieces.
"Its head ..." sobbed Thorn.
"... God ..."
"They killed it!"
"Let's get out of here."
"They murdered my son!" Thorn screamed, and the lid slammed shut, the two men's eyes locked in horror. 'They murdered him!" wailed Thorn. "They killed my son!"
Jennings pulled Thorn to his feet, physically dragging him away. But then he stopped; his body jarred with sudden terror. "Thorn."
Thorn turned to follow his gaze and saw, dead ahead, the head of a black German shepherd. Its eyes were close-set and glinting; saliva dripped from its half-open mouth as a vicious growl arose from somewhere within. Thorn and Jennings stood motionless as the animal slowly inched forward from the foliage until its full body could be seen. It was thin and scarred, an open wound festering amid clotted patches of hair on its side. The bushes beside it began to rustle and another dog's head appeared; this one gray, its muzzle disfigured and dripping. Then another appeared, and another, the cemetery coming alive with motion as the darkened figures emerged from everywhere, a pack of at least ten, insane and ravenous, their mouths dripping in a continual drool.
Jennings and Thorn were frozen in place, fearing any movement, even that of looking at one another, as the growling pack held them at bay.
They smell ... the carcasses . . ." Jennings whispered. "Just. . . move . . . back."
Barely breathing, the two men began to back up; the dogs immediately moved forward, heads held low as though stalking prey. Thorn faltered and an involuntary sound rose abruptly from his gut; Jennings gripped him, trying to restore calm.