I tapped the counter. I was getting ticked. “Maybe they snuck in.”
“Whatever for?”
Initially, I’d wondered how an English monk had gotten stuck with a literal graveyard shift, but based on his manners, below ground was the best place for him. “I wouldn’t know. All I can tell you is that their cell phones haven’t been giving off signals, which might mean they’re underground. So could you please give me a private tour? Lives could be at stake.”
He rubbed his bald head as though weighing whether to say yes, and I weighed whether to take the rope off his robe and choke him with it.
But because he was clergy, and because I didn’t want to end up back in the Italian clink, I pulled one hundred euro from my wallet to help him make up his mind. “Of course, I’ll make a donation to the Church.”
“Oof. Very well.” He snatched the bill and tucked it into his robe. Then he speed-walked to a steep flight of stairs.
As we descended, my lower back spasmed. I silently cursed Don Peppino’s son, Gaetano, and his three-wheel Ape truck. He’d given Glenda the passenger seat and put me in the mini flat bed—with a chicken named Ciro that he had to take to the vet. “How long are these catacombs?”
“Nineteen kilometers, or twelve miles.”
Thankfully, I’d convinced Glenda to search for clues outside on the Appian Way. Even though she could’ve walked the entire three hundred fifty miles of the famous road in her stripper sandals, she would have cramped my style in the Catholic crypt. And there was no way in hell she would have let the dead rest.
Fra Bart cleared his throat. “Additionally, there are five levels, and the deepest is sixty-five feet.”
My stomach dropped like an elevator in a mineshaft. I was afraid of depths. And with that much hallowed ground to cover, I’d never find the boys in time. “But not all levels are open to the public, right?”
“Correct.” He stopped at the base of the stairs. “Only this first level.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, but not too deeply. There was a musty odor that I wanted to believe was old dirt because it was a more appealing source than crumbling corpses. “Do these catacombs have any unique features? Something that might appeal to young men?”
“In a word, everything.” His tone was holier than thou, like him. “But one note of interest is that they were expanded in the second century to include chapels, meeting rooms, a dining area, and sleeping quarters.”
“Wow. Not a chance in Hades of me sleeping surrounded by skeletons.”
Fra Bart raised his chin and looked down his British nose. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate jokes about the underworld, maybe because he worked in it.
“Let’s check the dining area.” I gestured for him to lead the way. “The boys had food with them, so they might’ve gone there.”
He turned, and I followed him through a narrow tunnel lined with arched tombs that had been carved into the soft volcanic rock. The lighting was dim, and his brown cassock blended with the environment, so I used his head as a beacon.
Living in New Orleans, I’d seen my share of spooky cemeteries, but the catacombs were really the pits. Among the marble plaques, statues, and sepulchers was the occasional femur or the odd tibia. And from time to time, there was an actual shriveled body.
After walking for an eternity, I paused to peek into a nook. My forehead struck an object.
It was a skull.
With a full set of teeth.
I sucked in my breath and gagged, but not because of the skull or even the musty odor.
I’d inhaled something, and I feared it was an ancient hair—or a flake of dried skin.
Traumatized, I reached into my mouth and extracted the offending item.
Then my face morphed into a murderous look.
It was a piece of feather, but it wasn’t from Ciro the chicken. One of Glenda’s fuchsia plumes had flown the coop on that tiny truck and nested in my mouth.
And meanwhile, so had my guide.
A realization chilled me to my live bones. I was alone in this scary cemetery.
“Fra Bart?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Nothing. I decided to try British.
“Yoo-hoo?”
To my relief, I heard the shuffling of monk moccasins.
A tall, twenty-something blonde appeared in a cute pair of flats. “Oh!”
She jumped, and I jumped too.
“Sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. “I thought you were my college student, Vanessa. She and her friend Matteo got separated from our group.”
I knew people got lost in this godforsaken place. If I ever saw that Fra again, he was getting a tongue flogging.
Staci clutched a clipboard to her chest. “Between you and me, I almost wish I could leave them here.”
“Partiers, huh?”
“Worse. Philosophers.” She flipped her long curls. “Always falling behind debating the meaning of life, while the rest of us have moved on.”
Who did that? Especially on vacation. “I’m looking for two college kids of my own. But they’ve been missing for three days.”
“That’s terrible.” She touched a pin shaped like an S on her scarf. “I’ll help you look. I’m Staci Cecchini, by the way. I volunteered as a tour guide here when I was in graduate school, so I know the layout like it was my house.”
A creepy analogy, but okay. “Franki Amato. I was on my way to the dining area when I lost my guide.”
“I’ll take you.” She shoved the clipboard into her tote. “Maybe he’s waiting for you there.”
I hoped he wasn’t. Staci was a lot more pleasant. Plus, I suspected she was Texan.
She led me to an open room with a fresco of a feast.
I glanced around. “It doesn’t look like they’ve been here, but who knows.”
“What can you tell me about them? You know, something they might be into?”
“They’re ancient Rome freaks, and they were trying to buy a sword.”
“Hm.” She pressed a finger to her cheek. “There’s a crypt of a saint who was stabbed by a Roman soldier, but it’s sealed for restoration.”
When she said soldier and sealed, I
