Page 62 of Skotos
“I doubt she has anything to do with it.” Rinaldi cocked his head. “She is old—very old. From what little he says, she barely knows where she is most of the time. I doubt there is any connection, but, as you say, we are pulling every thread, yes?”
I nodded with more confidence than I felt. “Of course.”
Thomas scooted forward in his chair, leaning on the desktop. “Where does she live?”
“A nursing home here in Rome. I do not recall which one.” He turned from us to the hundreds of books and ledgers on the shelves behind his desk. His gnarled fingers traced one after another, row after row, before settling on a binder whose spine bore only a handwritten scribble for a title. We waited in silence while he flipped through pages,watched as he ran a finger across lines as he read, listened as he whispered words and phrases, whole paragraphs, never glancing up from his task.
We waited . . . and waited.
Sitting there, in the safety of that office, Ifelttime slipping away, giving enemies who were many steps ahead an even greater advantage, putting even more lives at risk.
Rinaldi murmured a prayer beneath his breath, then stilled. “Here. Her name is Gianna Marini. She lives at Santa Marta dell’Angelo.”
He turned the binder so we could see the page.
Thomas scribbled the address in his ever-present notebook. “Do you think she might know anything? About where he went, I mean.”
Rinaldi shook his head. “They were close. He visited her often, always brought her books or trinkets, but I cannot say whether she would know anything about his current whereabouts. As I said before, there are days when she would not even recognize her own son.”
“Still,” I said. “It’s a lead.”
Thomas straightened. “Is there anything else you can think of? Any place Father Marini visited often? His favorite restaurants? Coffee shops? Places he went to relax?”
“For Lucien, his work is his ultimate relaxation.” Rinaldi almost smiled. “He lives in apartments within the complex, eats every meal in our cafeteria, andwalks these halls when he requires a reprieve. I am certain he shopped or did other ordinary things in the city, but I could not name them.”
“Then his mother’s home is where we go next,” I said as I stood.
Rinaldi nodded, weariness lining every feature of his face. “Please be gentle with her. From what Lucien told me, she is quite frail.”
“We will,” I promised.
Thomas stood, and we each shook Rinaldi’s hand. He’d seemed so strong only a day before. Now, even his grip felt weary.
Outside, the Vatican bells rang noon.
The sound echoed off stone walls and into the sky, holy and hollow at once. I again felt the weight of the torn parchment in my coat and wondered if Marini had left us a trail—or if this was all that was left of the kindly old man.
30
Thomas
Our cab ride across Rome was slow. The streets were choked with traffic and tourists. Will kept an eye on the rear window the entire time, his fingers drumming nervously on his thigh.
“They’re still behind us,” he muttered.
I didn’t need to look to know he was right.
The same black sedan had trailed us since we left the Vatican gates, keeping a respectful but deliberate distance. Tails weren’t supposed to be obvious . . . unless theywantedto be seen.
And that made it worse.
“Don’t react. We’ll lose them later,” I said.
We passed over the Tiber, the dome of St. Peter’s shrinking behind us. The cab rolled up to a modest, cream-colored building tucked into a shaded courtyard—Santa Marta dell’Angelo.
Inside, we stepped into the kind of quiet that only exists around the very old or very devout. The air was thick with antiseptic and something fainter,something more intimate—like favorite old books and comfy slippers. A low murmur of voices drifted from down the hall, broken only by the soft squeak of shoes on polished linoleum.
At the front desk, a middle-aged nun looked up as we approached. A white coif framed her face, tight at the chin. Her veil fell in sleek folds down her back, like a shadow clinging to her movements. Her gaze was kind but firm—the look of a woman used to quiet order, discipline, and answering to a higher power rather than bureaucracy.
