still radiates venomous heat, released when the top was lifted. There are teeth and a fragment of vertebrae floating in the strawberry-colored stew.
“What’s the matter?” Sterling calls.
“Look at this.”
Sterling lopes up the walkway and glances into the tank. Beside us the dog is barking frantically — not taking a breath — the same message over and over.
“That’s our guy,” I say.
“I’ll talk to him,” says Sterling, slowly making his way back down.
A stocky laborer wearing a filthy jumpsuit has stepped out of the woods. He has dark curly hair and a round, sooty face.
Sterling stops and speaks calmly in Italian.
“We are very sorry for the intrusion. We mean no harm.”
The man raises a.45-caliber handgun and aims at Sterling’s chest, continuing to yell that we have invaded his place.
“Tell him we got lost,” I say. “We’re American tourists—”
Sterling does. Falassi continues to rant. His face is red with sweat and fear. Sterling has been caught in the middle of the site with no options. An iron pry bar rests up against the shack, way out of reach.
“This is a suckface situation in hell,” Sterling says.
Right next to me the dog is barking incessantly.
Falassi raises the gun with both hands and sights it.
I scoop up the dog under the belly and hold him over the tank.
“Tell him I’ll kill his fucking dog.”
The dog weighs fifty pounds and is struggling with all his might.
“Put the gun down or we’ll dump your dog,” Sterling shouts in Italian. “We’ll throw him in! We’ll do it, I promise you!”
The dog is whipping back and forth, all four legs cycling in midair. His body is warm, and I smell pine in his fur. I brace my back, but my fingers are slipping. He’s strong, he’s desperate, he licks my face, saying all he wants to do is to be let go. Another second and he’ll worm out of my arms.
“Put the gun down!”
Falassi stares in disbelief, and then his peasant face goes dumb and grief-stricken.
I grit my teeth, muscles aching, continuing to hold the squirming animal over the poisonous sludge.
“How long will it take for his body to dissolve? Ever do it while they’re still alive? Put down the gun or the dog goes
Falassi cries,
Sterling picks up the weapon.
“Good choice. Nobody gets hurt.”
I put the dog down on the platform. Sterling tosses the gun into the tank, where it sinks with a caustic hiss. My legs are trembling.
“We are tourists,” Sterling repeats as I climb off and we back away. “We made a mistake. And now we are going back to America. We are leaving.”
Our goal is to get out of there with no further violence and no reason for pursuit. We keep murmuring how sorry we are as we slip past Falassi, who has become a tearful penitent, down on his knees in the resinous dust, begging the dog to come. Unfortunately, the dog wants to go with us. We have to speak harshly to him, and throw sticks, until he finally turns back.
TWENTY-SEVEN
We run all the way back to the car, through the oak forest and past the meadow. Sterling’s shirt is soaked, but he is scarcely breathing hard. I am out of shape and tasting the exertion. When we finally stop, my whole body begins to quiver. I have to lean against the iron gate and force down the revulsion.
“How do you know it isn’t her?”
“Those bones looked real old,” he says.
“You don’t
“I’ve seen it before,” Sterling says somberly. “In mass graves in Rwanda.”
“There’s no comparison!”
“I know how you feel,” he continues gently. “She’s your sister.”
“Don’t be so condescending.”
“What in hell are you talkin’ about?”
Sterling takes a long look back down the empty road. I hear a sound like steel ball bearings rolling over each other and realize he is grinding his teeth.
“What if Falassi didn’t buy our story?” I snap.
He starts shouting. “First of all, shut the fuck up! If it’s all too much, go sit in the car.”
He looks like a madman. The dirty bandanna, the sweat, the bristled jaw working, the bright eyes darting. He looks like a man who has in fact just parachuted in from a slaughter. But then it passes. I force myself to look at the treetops until my tears of shock and nausea are gone.
“Here’s what we know,” I say carefully. “The ruins in the forest are a crime scene. Whether it’s her or not”—I can’t say
Sterling wipes a palm across his forehead. He is past the episode. He does not apologize, which is not in his nature, either. Maybe he has not been aware of where he is or what he said. A few years ago I was involved in a shooting incident in Los Angeles. Afterward, I was told about things I had done of which I had no memory.
“Who does the crime scene belong to, legally?” he asks. “The tank, all of it?”
“The Italian authorities.”
“Do we trust them?”
“No.”
“What about the Americans?”
“You mean the FBI? I don’t trust Rizzio, either. But it’s my duty,” I say, kicking at the dust. “I have to tell him what we found. Then it’s his call to involve the Italians.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know how much independence he has over here. If he’s supposed to call headquarters before he takes a piss, it could be days.”
Sterling takes out his cell phone. “I’ll handle it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Chris.”
The plan is for Sterling and Chris to stake out the witness, Falassi. They will secrete themselves at the mouth of the dirt road and follow him. According to the GPS, it is the only way out of the site. The long evening passes slowly, and there is no sign of Falassi. Chris arrives after dark with a trunk piled with sniper rifles, automatic weapons, and camouflage gear. In a country that bans guns, someone had to commit a crime in order to import all that firepower — hide it in a shipment or pay off a customs official.
