Patience of the Spider

That was the problem. The first question was like a first step down a path of no return. He closed his eyes—the doctor couldn’t see, anyway—and began.

“You have a patient who lives in a cottage off the road to Gallotta, a man who flipped his tractor and—”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the Good Shepherd Clinic, which is two and a half miles from—”

“What kind of questions are these? Of course I know it. I go there often. So what? Are you going to recite a list of my patients?”

No. No list of patients. L’omu e sceccu di consiguenza . And you, that night in your SUV, with your heart racing madly, your blood pressure soaring because of what you were doing—since you had to deposit the helmet and backpack in two different places—what roads did you take? The ones you knew best! It was almost as though you weren’t driving the car, but it was driving you . . .

“I just wanted to point out to you that Susanna’s helmet was found near the path leading to your patient’s house, and the backpack was recovered almost directly in front of the Good Shepherd Clinic. Did you know?” “Yes.”

Matre santa! Bad move! The inspector would never have expected it.

“And how did you find out?”

“From newspapers, the television, I don’t remember.”

“Impossible. The newspapers and television never mentioned those discoveries. We succeeded in letting nothing leak out.”

“Wait! Now I remember! You told me yourself, when we were sitting right here, on this very bench!”

“No, Doctor. I told you those objects had been found, but I didn’t say where. And you know why? Because you didn’t ask me.”

And that was the snag which at the time the inspector had perceived as a kind of hesitation and couldn’t immediately explain. It was a perfectly natural question, but it hadn’t been asked, and actually stopped the flow of the discussion, like a line omitted from a printed page. Even Livia had asked him where he’d found the Simenon novel! And the oversight was due to the fact that the doctor knew perfectly well where the helmet and backpack had been found.

“But . . . but Inspector! There could be dozens of possible explanations for why I didn’t ask you! Do you realize what kind of state I was in at the time? You want to construct God-knows-what out of the flimsiest of—” “—the flimsiest of spiderwebs, perhaps? You have no idea how apt the metaphor is. Just think, initially my construction rested on an even flimsier thread.”

“Well, if you’re the first to admit it . . .”

“Indeed I am. And it concerned your niece. Something Francesco, her ex-boyfriend, said to me. Do you know Susanna has left him?”

“Yes, she’s already told me about it.”

“It’s a touchy subject. I’m a bit reluctant to broach it, but—”

“But you have to do your job.”

“Do you think I would act this way if I was doing my job? What I was going to say was: But I want to know the truth.”

The doctor said nothing.

At that moment a female figure appeared on the threshold of the French window, took a step forward, and stopped.

Jesus, the nightmare was coming back! It was a bodiless head, with long blond hair, suspended in air! Just as he’d seen at the center of the spiderweb! Then he realized that Susanna was wearing all black, to mourn her mother, and her clothes blended in with the night.

The girl resumed walking, came towards them, and sat down on a bench. As the light didn’t reach that far, one could only barely make out her hair, a slightly less dense point of darkness. She didn’t greet them. Montalbano decided to continue as though she wasn’t there.

“As often happens between lovers, Susanna and Francesco had intimate relations.”

The doctor became agitated, uneasy.

“You have no right . . . And anyway, what’s that got to do with your investigation?” he said with irritation.

“It’s got a lot to do with it. You see, Francesco told me he was always the one to ask, if you know what I mean. Whereas, on the day she was kidnapped, it was she who took the initiative.” “Inspector, honestly, I do not understand what my niece’s sexual behavior has to do with any of this. And I wonder if you know what you’re saying or are simply raving. So I’ll ask you again, what is the point?” “The point is that when Francesco told me this, he said Susanna may have had a premonition . . . But I don’t believe in premonitions. It was something else.”

“And what, in your opinion, was it?” the doctor asked sar-castically.

“A farewell.”

What had Livia said the evening before her departure?

“These are our last hours together, and I don’t want to spoil them.” She’d wanted to make love. And to think that theirs was to be only a brief separation. What if it had been a long and final goodbye? Because Susanna was already thinking that regardless of whether her plans came to a good or bad end, they inevitably spelled the end of their love. This was the price, the infinitely high price, that she had to pay.

“Because she’d put in her request to go to Africa two months before,” the inspector continued. “Two months.