*
The Carabinieri officers guarding the door checked Marcus’s identification against the approved visitor list before allowing him into the room. As soon as they saw him, the girls sprang from their beds for hugs. They both had butterfly ports in their hands for their latest transfusions. Their color was good and it seemed their energy had improved.
“Uncle Marcus!” Victoria said. “You came!”
“You called and here I am.”
“Are you going to play with us?” Elizabeth asked.
“That’s why I’m here. Pick your game.”
Victoria ran to a table and picked a board game from a stack. Mickey had finally found something the American Embassy could do for him: staffers somehow got their hands on English versions of children’s games, new in the box.
“Candyland!” she exclaimed, holding it up.
“It’s been a good while since I played,” he said, “but I don’t expect to lose.”
“No, I’m going to win,” Victoria said.
“No, me,” Elizabeth insisted.
With the two girls cross-legged on one of the beds and Marcus in a pulled-up chair, Elizabeth took home game number one, much to Victoria’s consternation. Marcus waited until the next game to ask them questions.
“How’re you guys feeling?”
“Good,” they both said.
“Did you see Dr. Spara today?”
“You mean Bruno Bear?” Elizabeth said.
“Is that what you call him?”
“It’s what he calls himself, silly,” Victoria said.
“He came while we were having our cereal,” Elizabeth said. “He’s really nice.”
“That’s good,” Marcus said. “Did he give you any medicine yet?”
“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth said. “Bruno Bear calls them magic beans. I can swallow them, but Victoria can’t.”
“You can’t?” Marcus asked her playfully.
The girl made a gagging sound, making Elizabeth laugh.
“They crushed mine in gelato,” Victoria said.
“I got jealous and they gave me a scoop of gelato too,” Elizabeth said.
“Well, I hope the medicine makes you completely better.”
“Are you married to Celeste?” Victoria asked suddenly.
“No, I’m not married to her.”
The little girl seemed awfully curious about him and she kept drilling. “Where do you live?”
“In America.”
“Were your children sad when you left them to come see us?”
“I don’t have children.”
“Why?”
What was he going to say? That his wife wanted children, but he didn’t? That if he had it all to do over again, he’d make different choices? That now he was pretty much all alone?
“I don’t know, honey,” he said. “If I knew that kids could be as special as you two, I might have had some.”
“You can be our daddy,” Victoria said innocently, and Elizabeth concurred.
That brought out a handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and told them that was far and away the nicest thing he’d ever been told.
16
Marcus walked back to the hotel blowing cigarette smoke into the bright blue sky. The grounds of the hospital were off-limits to the media, but outside the gate to the main entrance, the satellite trucks were massed, jamming traffic. He made it through a scrum of smoking and vaping reporters who, unaware of his connection, let him pass unimpeded. He reached for his phone and called Lumaga.
“How goes it in Rome?” Lumaga asked.
“You were right about the media. It’s crazy.”
“Most of the parasites clung to your fur and left with you. It’s good for us. The girls? How are they?”
“They’re getting medicine. They look better.”
“Good, good.”
“Anything new on the investigation?”
“I wish the answer was yes,” Lumaga said. Marcus visualized the deep shrug that probably accompanied the statement. “Frankly, I’m getting the same feeling as four years ago. No leads, no positive energy. There are no CCTV images that capture pictures of our girls riding in cars near Filarete, no eyewitnesses who saw the girls arrive at the gates of the villa, or, I might add, only half-joking, no reports of UFOs hovering over the villa, no fingerprints at the villa other than people we know, no calls to our confidential hotline, nothing. We don’t know who returned them, how they were returned and we have nothing to add to our large pile of previous nothingness about the fate of the parents. Then, on top of this, a new difficult case has landed in my lap, and my life—domestic and professional—can best be characterized as shit.”
“What’s the new case?”
“Double murder. A young couple. Probably related to drugs, possibly related to the ’Ndrangheta.”
“Sucks to be you, Roberto.”
“And I believe it also sucks to be you, Marcus.”
*
Determined to avoid his constant companions, Marcus decided to flee the hotel at 7 p.m. His plan was to honor his promise to call in on the girls for another game of Candyland before visiting hours lapsed, then find a secluded café for a solo dinner and as much Scotch as he could put away without falling over. Predictably, the plan got scuppered almost before it began when he ran into Celeste and Carter entering the lobby, toting bags from the Vatican Gift Shop.
“Where you off to?” Carter asked cheerily.
“Out,” he replied.
“We can see that,” Celeste said. “We had the most enjoyable day, didn’t we, Virgil?”
“That we did. My wristwatch tells me that my feet are aching for a damned good reason. We walked fourteen thousand steps, give or take. That museum goes on forever. Good collectors, the Catholics.”
“The only thing we didn’t see was the Holy Father,” Celeste said.
“Someone probably neglected to tell him you’d be coming,” Marcus said. “Look, I’ve got to run.”
“Not joining us for dinner?” the colonel asked. “Mickey’s invited us out to someplace great. We got texts. Did you get a text?”
He had. He’d ignored it. “I don’t think I did,” he lied. “Give him my regrets when you see him. I’ve got an appointment.”
“Any developments?” Celeste asked.
“Nothing on my end.”
“Well, I’ve got a development,” Carter said. “I let my followers on social media know that I was in Italy working on the Andreason return. I got an email from CUFOM this afternoon and they are mobilizing like crazy to help us.” Carter searched Marcus’s blank face and said, “Hell, you probably don’t know what CUFOM is.”
“I probably don’t,” Marcus said.
“Now, I’m probably
