Page 57 of No Stone Unturned

Lexi

We’d spent the night looking through the records at the NSA for Slash’s supposed American birth certificate.

As a high-ranking official of the NSA, Slash didn’t need to hack to get the information. The problem was the birth certificate that was supposed to exist confirming his American citizenship couldn’t be found. It had either been deleted, moved or fabricated by Gray’s contact, because we couldn’t find a trace of it. Equally as disturbing, no record of his naturalization could be found either.

Another Slash mystery without easy answers.

I yawned, bleary-eyed and exhausted as we headed to the airport. My body was completely out of sync with Italy. I’d had a hard time falling asleep and a hard time getting up. I was hungry when I wasn’t supposed to be and full when I should be hungry. Still, I put my game face on and tried to wake my tired brain.

Slash dropped off his rental car at the airport, and we headed to our gate. On the way we bought coffee and a loaf of warm crusty bread, pairing it with taleggio cheese and cacciatore salami—a perfect breakfast. I dozed on the plane, my head resting on Slash’s shoulder, our hands linked. Last night we’d only scratched the surface of the issues that lay between us, but that was okay...for now. I was fine going at his pace. Hopefully, he’d share when he was ready, and I was willing to give him more time to get there.

We landed at the Salerno Costa d’Amalfi Airport at about eleven thirty in the morning. Slash rented a sleek convertible, set the GPS on his phone, and we headed out for San Mauro.

“Tell me what you know about the church,” I said as we drove.

He had the top down and the sun was warm on my shoulders. I’d carefully slathered my white skin with suntan lotion. I was wearing the same cotton sundress I’d had on last night and Slash had bought me a wide-brimmed straw hat in the hotel lobby to keep the blistering sun off my face. It had a long white ribbon that kept whipping around and getting in my eyes and mouth, but I held on to the hat with both hands, grateful its wide brim was keeping my fair skin from getting sunburned.

Slash had his sunglasses on and his dark hair was also blowing in the wind. “The Church of San Mauro Martyr is located in the town of San Mauro in the region of Cilento,” he explained. “It’s an ancient village surrounded by a national park. The village sits on a high hill with a breathtaking panoramic view of the surrounding forest, the mountains and stunning beaches below.”

He sounded like a brochure, and it was just too early. “Oh, no. Not the beach,” I groaned.

I had a history with beaches. While I didn’t particularly enjoy the setting—too hot, too many people and too much sand in places better not mentioned—many of the most transformative moments of my life seemed to happen at the beach.

Slash grinned as we took a tight curve. “The village has been historically divided into two parts, Casalsoprano and Casalsottano. The church is located in the Casalsottano part of the village. It dates back to the twelfth century. The Chapel of the Holy Spirit was added on in the fifteenth century.”

“So, a medieval church.”

“Beautiful, simple and holy.”

We didn’t talk much after that, both of us enjoying the scenery as we drove into the mountains. When we got closer to the town, I spotted several quaint houses nestled closely together at the top of the hill. Slash followed the directions into town, but it wasn’t hard to spot the spire of the church.

Pretty stone houses and flowerboxes peppered the street as we wound our way through the town. Slash pulled up near the church and we got out of the car. There were a few people walking around, but it was hardly a crowd like it had been in Genoa.

Slash read my mind. “San Mauro Cilento is largely untouched by tourism. The population remains small, less than one thousand residents.”

Before we went inside, I took a minute to study the outside of the church. It was a simple stone structure made of three interconnected buildings. Slash pulled open a heavy wooden door on the largest structure. The door squeaked and groaned, but he motioned for me to enter, so I stepped inside.

Inside, the church was stunning, with heavy wooden pews, exposed beams, medieval paintings and thick stained glass. Slash had started his life here, possibly spent time near that gorgeous antique organ that sat to the right of the altar.

“Wow,” I whispered. There was a quiet reverence, beauty and holiness to the old structure.

“That was my first impression, too,” Slash said. He dipped his fingers into a small bowl near the entrance and crossed himself. “It’s exquisite in its simplicity.”

“So, you’ve come back since you were an infant?” He seemed familiar with the church and its layout.

“Si. I’ve driven through the town a few times over the years and checked out the church. Curiosity, I guess. I never spoke with any of the staff, though. Father Armando had already left his post here.”

He put his hand in the small of my back, guiding me forward. The church was dim, with lighted candles beneath several statues and small altars off to the side. A gorgeous medieval tapestry of a battle hung on one wall and, although faded, provided lovely splashes of gold and red. The church itself was empty except for a sole priest dressed in a black cassock, who was moving items around on the altar.

Slash dipped his head toward the priest, so I headed in that direction. The priest saw us coming and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Buon pomeriggio,” he said with a smile. He had wiry gray hair, his skin dark and wrinkled from the hot Italian sun.

Slash responded to him in Italian and soon they were deeply involved in conversation. Since I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I wandered toward one of the apses where a lovely display of fresh flowers and flickering votive candles had been placed beneath a framed photograph of a woman. I recognized her from the banner in Genoa. It was Ana-Paula, the Uruguayan woman up for sainthood.

A few minutes later Slash walked up behind me as I was studying the photograph. “Are you intending to become an expert on sainthood?” Amusement was in his voice.

“I might. Why are people already praying to them?” I pointed to the lit candles and the padded kneeling bench in front of the framed photo. “Shouldn’t they wait until they’re officially saints?”

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