PROLOGUE

 May,1928, Falerii, Italy

 The priest stood naked.

Except for his sandals.

Nine‑year‑old Joseph Mazzoni swallowed air into his suddenly parched throat and involuntarily coughed. Heat and a sissy weakness flowed down his face through his body and he wondered what possibly could be coming.

He did as instructed, as he had done each and every Wednesday, coming here after parochial school for the past three weeks. Joseph had entered the ancient stone rectory only moments ago. He had broken the eerie quiet that hung in the dank shadows when he stepped inside and pulled the heavy creaking door closed behind him, shutting out the afternoon sun that beat down on Italy's Arno River Valley. At once, he had become engulfed in the now familiar cool mustiness of the holy place, and he worried that the little noise he made might have disturbed the peace of God.

Quickly, he scraped the scruffy cap from his head and clutched it with hands that trembled. He didn't know why his mother made him wear the cap to these private catechism sessions when as soon as he stepped inside, the cap had to come off.

Joseph Mazzoni had moved slowly, concentrating on the soft placement of each sandal‑clad heel on the marble floor. He remembered how it was essential to be quiet.

And on time.

If you were a minute too early or a second too late, Father Dini would stand over you and just glare with those black eyes of his and his bald head would turn scalding red. Joseph would do anything to please the new priest, but how could you be precisely on time when you didn't own a watch? If he did have a watch, everybody living in the village of Falerii would say the little Mazzoni boy had stolen it. How else could a peasant, especially a very young Contadina boy like himself, own a watch?

He had not stolen a watch. Joseph trusted his instincts. He knew he was on time.

He'd come down the long corridor and took the narrow stone staircase very quietly up to the priest's private quarters and the antechamber where special religious instructions were given from behind the holy man's tidy desk.

Joseph Mazzoni spent one day a week with Father Dini just like his older brother Mikie and most of the other nine and ten year old boys of Falerii. It had been Joseph's turn every Wednesday for the past few weeks now to listen for two hours on reasonings behind the precious Ten Commandments.

Last week Father Dini became very expressive in his demonstration of what could happen if you committed murder, but Joseph didn't think he needed to feel the strangulation of a rope in order for him to know thou shalt not kill.

    
          He'd been so scared, equally of Father Dini and the wrath of God, that he

asked to be excused so he could find some bushes and pee. The request obviously hit

the priest with surprise that quickly turned to anger, because he grabbed Joseph by

the scruff of the neck nearly dragging him, his toes protruding over his sandals,

painfully scrapping stone, until they reached the grass then the shadows of the

rectory's grape arbor. Father Dini had yanked at the buttons on Joseph's trousers

causing the boy to fear for the hurting of his penis. That fear nearly caused him to

wet in his trousers.

          But then Father smiled at him and became gentle.

          What Joseph could not understand was why he would be punished to Hell if he told either of his parents or his sisters or Mikie just how nice Father Dini could be to him. He would think that would make them glad to know Father wasn't always such a crabby man. But no, Father swore the Devil himself would get Joseph if he uttered one word of how Father touched him, or he touched Father.

That was last week. Today he moved to the priest's closed door with caution, hearing the man on the other side pray quietly in Latin. He politely waited for a pause in the prayers before he knocked lightly three times. Yes, he was sure despite his nervousness, he had done it right. Three times.

He heard the chair scrape the hardwood floor and then the scuffle of sandals bearing the stocky teen, such a young priest the old people said. Joseph swallowed in an attempt to moisten his dry throat, wondering what the priest would do today to demonstrate the lesson on thou shalt not Commit Adultery. Quickly, Joseph looked down at his feet as he heard the priest unlock the heavy door to his antechamber. You did not look up into Father Dini's face when you were alone with him until he tilted your chin with those warm, smooth fingers. Another of the priest's rules, one of many Joseph Mazzoni feared he might someday forget and forever suffer for it.

So he was staring at his feet when the door opened, holding his breath until he felt the fingers fondle his throat and then tilt his chin upward. Joseph’s eyes rose up the bare body of the fat priest and locked onto dark orbs that gleamed with sinister expectations.

The urge to slam his eyes shut nearly overpowered him. His teeth gritted, but his humble stare did not waver.

"Good afternoon, little one," Father Dini kept his voice low. He gripped Joseph's shoulder with one soft, fat hand and standing aside used the hold to move Joseph into the room.  Father Dini closed and locked the door behind them.

The priest gestured toward the same chair beside the desk Joseph had sat on the past several Wednesdays, but unlike those times Father Dini now moved to the chair behind his desk, sat down and proceeded to pour wine into two wooden goblets. He pushed one goblet toward Joseph.

"Drink it, little one. This is a very special wine I make myself. Its recipe dates back to the Nineteenth Century and a Corsican, Signor Angelo Mariani. Pope Leo the Thirteenth would drink only this red wine fermented with coca during his long periods of fast."

Joseph listened and obeyed. The priest liked to talk, especially about history, showing off his vast knowledge of things nobody else cared to know, let alone remember. He heard his parents say as much. He lifted the goblet with both hands and took a sip. The wine tasted surprisingly smooth and sweet, so he took a larger swallow. At home he drank goat’s milk and could only have wine on very special occasions, though his parents drank it regularly with meals. This must be a very special occasion.

The priest smiled. "Good, good. It will make you feel warm inside, relaxed and happy.  It is nice to feel happy, is it not? We will drink two glasses, then begin our lessons."

Father Antonius Bellardinini had never offered wine to Joseph before, but he gave some to his brother Mikie because Mikie told him about it. Only Mikie, who was a year older and took his catechism lessons on Mondays, wouldn't say anything else about the times he drank wine with the priest because Father had threatened him with Holy Hell.

That's why, when Joseph saw Father Dini completely naked except for his sandals, he had no idea what to expect, but he realized whatever the occasion it must be special to serve this wine. And whatever came next? Well, Mikie had survived it. Still, Joseph could not figure out how Father Dini expected to teach with pictures about not commiting adultery and about whatever lewd and unchaste meant.

CHAPTER ONE

July 4, 1986, Peoria, Illinois

"You did remember we got a date tomorrow night?" The county cop reminded the city cop.

"Date? Shit. What date? It's Saturday."

"Don't matter if it's Saturday, it's the Fourth of July celebration, hombre, even if today’s actually the Fourth. And the Clay Taggart is in town. Just didn't want you to forget with this kid disappearance case we pulled, we're still undercover at the track. I'm kinda lookin’ forward to it. Taggart came in second behind Foyt a couple months ago. Now he's gonna be here."

"Shit."

"You just said that."

"Yeah, well, shit.” Manuel 'Skip' Montez had forgotten they were undercover at the track tomorrow night. This kid thing did it, made him forget. He'd been with the Peoria Police department five and a half years and had escaped, up until now, dealing with a family whose kid just vanished. A couple months ago, he'd interviewed a little girl who had been taken and later dumped near her house after some bastards were done with her. This couldn’t be any harder than that, could it?

He took the hairpin turns up Grand View Drive, leaving half of Grand View Park at the bottom, watching for kids on bikes who thought the steep downhill trip the next best thing to the Tidal Wave at Great America, only the Drive was free and smack-dab in their backyards.

Up on top the hill, Skip kept an eye to his left as he inched the squad car along the narrow road where old money first built millionaires' homes. The scenic drive along here bordered on his right with lush grass and a thickly wooded drop-off that flattened at the bottom with Route 29 and then plunged on down into the Illinois River.

A small park nestled on his left and in a few yards the huge homes began. A half-mile or so along the drive architects had tested their abilities to the limit with mansions mounted on top of the downhill slope. Up on the drive even the air seemed a bit cooler, the July humidity just a little less depressing, the smells more a nature's mossy green than man's gamy sweat. Up on the drive Skip Montez and his temporary partner were on the lookout for twin stone pillars with no gates. The house that went with the pillars didn’t have an exposed address number.

"That should be it up there.” Detective Nicholas Rasso of the Peoria County Sheriff’s department pointed.

At the head of an asphalt curving driveway stood twin stone pillars. Naked gate hinges on the pillars were orange with rust. Skip eased the car between the pillars and stopped several yards from the gray stone mansion.

Both men looked to their right. "Four car garage, maid's quarters upstairs looks like."

"Yeah. This place matches the description," said Rasso, rolling debris he pried from his broad nose between thumb and middle finger. "This is where the infamous Dr. Thomas Graham and family frolic and cavort." He cannoned the wad off his thumb out the opened window.

"Frolic and cavort? Where'd that come from?" Skip killed the engine and turned in the front seat toward Rasso, the county cop who'd been concentrating on missing kid cases the past six months. One city street dick, in between beats, and a county dick pulling special duty, Rasso, on a first date.  

He'd run into Rasso at the old downtown station every once in awhile, and they got along okay, able to kid about being a wop and a spick without any of it sounding like they meant it. Skip liked to kid around, be loose on the job when he could, which was more often now that he'd come off the south Adams Street beat. He'd been put on special duty last week. Rasso was a fifteen‑year veteran with Peoria County's finest, the past year in special investigation.

Skip scratched under his chin where moisture burned like he just shaved with a lit match instead of an electric razor. A rope slowly tightened around his chest because another kid had vanished. He’d seen the file cabinet at the station, so the sweat on his thick neck and high forehead were complements of two forces, Central Illinois' muggy summer and the pictures in his memory bank and in that squad room filing cabinet of things people did to kids who didn't belong to them. And sometimes to kids who did.

"I look all right?" He licked the fingers on his right hand and reestablished the part in his thick, dark hair while looking at the rearview mirror, not at himself, but typical cop seeing the view beyond of grass and trees on the hill that dropped down to the fields and river below.

"You being a smartass cause you're scared what we might learn?" Rasso didn't smile.

"Who me? Naw, just wondering what a person of Hispanic persuasion says to a couple of rich WASP snobs who wouldn't give me the time a day if I wasn't here supposed to help them out. What do I say? 'Don't worry folks, your kid'll be just fine. He's just away twenty-four hours now losing his cherry?’" Skip grinned.

"They ain't Protestant, you prick, they're Catholic like you and me. According to his ole lady the kid's only thirteen. Just because you Hispanic types lose yours soon as you’re weaned, don't mean rich kids downstate do it that young." Now Rasso grinned, like he loved teasing the younger cop. Skip's look turned grim.

"You're the old pro here, wiseguy. Ain't you heard the shit going round. Might be ghost stories, but I got a kid sister filling out early. Scares the hell outta me."

Skip picked his dark navy summer mesh cap up off the seat between them and studied the silver eagle and his number, 982, that told who he was in case he got killed and couldn't tell anybody, or his face blown off between his ears and they couldn't recognize him. He opened his driver's door.

CHAPTER TWO

"You say the old lady said there's been no ransom note or phone call?"

Rasso pushed his thick frame out the other car door. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the tall, muscular man, but the way he wore street clothesa floral print short-sleeved shirt with the tails out to cover the Glock bulge and Dockers slacks that made him look hung–was deceptive. Except for the hung part. A guy tried not to look and compare, but it's what guys did when they happened to be taking a side-by-side leak in the station john.

"That's what she told Heacock when she phoned it in," Rasso was saying, "but we gotta go over it all anyway. Might as well save our breath til we're in there all nice and cozy."

Rasso put a hand on Skip's muscled shoulder as they approached the huge mansion.

"Maybe you should tell your new buddy, here, some of those shittin’ ghost stories. Life's been kinda dull lately."

"Can't.” Skip shook his head and studied the three‑story, ivy-laden graystone. "It's X‑rated, man," he told Rasso, "you ain't qualified to know."

"Would I qualify if I told you a baby sitter name of Gigi took mine when I was ten?"

"Bullshit!" Skip stopped and searched the older man's faded blue eyes. "I don't think you ever lost yours, Rasso. Ugly as you are, I can't imagine any woman letting you in." They were both laughing when the massive oak double front doors to the house opened, even before they reached the big brass clapper.

The guy standing in the doorway was not the butler. Skip recognized the doctor himself now leading the way to a book‑lined study bigger than Skip's whole goddamn apartment.

Dr. Tom Graham held his skinny self tall and looked like the newspaper shots when he sponsored fund-raisers to expand that clinic of his. In person the resemblance wasn't as marked, but Skip still thought the doc looked a helluva lot like the old actor Louis Jourdán, especially around the mouth and chin and skinny neck, well maybe like Jourdán fresh out of a refugee camp what with those half moons in eclipse under his eyes. Unlike Jourdán's, Doctor Graham's gray eyes bugged out alongside his thin nose like the eyes on a lovesick sockeye salmon.

Graham's thick hair lay sleeked back Jourdán-style, dark with a widow's peak. The other thing Skip noticed about the guy–his hands. He kept fidgeting with them, in then out of the pockets of his tan sports slacks. Once or twice his fingers checked the collar on his red knit shirt and pressed it down flat.

The doc nodded toward the woman staring out a multi-paned floor-to-ceiling window. “This is my wife, Crystal.” On cue, she turned toward them.

Mrs. Graham wasn't a bad looker, but even with few wrinkles and trim figure Skip put her at forty‑something. Lack of mascara brought out the hot pink rims around her pale blue widely spaced eyes. Any gray had been dabbed from her brunette head, and the attempt to look sexy with it pulled up in a French bun with long, loose ringlets down the side of her smooth face worked pretty well. She had a slender, sharp nose and heart shaped face. All the makeup in the world couldn’t help her wide mouth. It turned down at the comers and bore an upper lip like that of a snarling Great Dane. Despite masterful attempts to look younger, fifty slinked up her front walk getting ready to knock.

But what gnawed on Skip was the fact she wasn't crying. She had a kid who had disappeared and here were the cops and she acted calm and cool as a pickled egg in a tavern jar. Maybe she was all grieved out and minutes before reapplied that mascara. Her nose looked red and sore. Which gave him reason to wonder.

Maybe she used the doc's money to carry on a love affair with expensive powder. Cop's way of thinking. He knew three different junkies had burned holes right through the sides of their noses. The uppity way she eyed him and Rasso, Skip Montez figured Mrs. Graham too smart to snort coke. Maybe that's what she wanted them to think.

Skip, in his dark navy cop's uniform, let Rasso, dressed like a Mafioso on vacation, start the questions, while he glanced around as if bored. He mentally tagged the inventory for future reference.

There were two gold loveseats that faced one another over a glass-topped coffee table and two pale green easy chairs with their backs to the huge paned window that looked out into a forested backyard. It didn't get past him that the only display of family photos sat on a round, bow‑legged table that sat off in a darkened corner of the large room.

His eyes came back to rest on the woman now sitting in a high‑backed-winged chair of white and gold. Her throne in a room of books that probably never got read and deep green carpet whose pile had just been disturbed by their footfalls. Dominant stale odors of liquor and cigarettes filled his nostrils and overwhelmed the smells of her perfume and the old books.

"First off,"' Rasso began his questioning and simultaneous slaughter of the Midwest vernacular. "Where was your boy seen last at?"

Skip tried not to grin.

"What?" Graham lit a cigarette in fingers that trembled so badly Skip worried he'd drop the smoke in the deep pile carpet and burn the mansion down.

"Where was he supposed to be last at? A friend's house? The park? Downtown?" Rasso's tiny notepad was laid open in his left palm; he touched the lead to his tongue before poising pencil over paper.

"Crystal, m‑my wife, took Todd to the library, dropped him off on her way to the grocers." Graham scraped his fingers through his hair and slid his glance briefly to his wife. "He‑he wasn't there when she came back for him. That's not like Todd, to just take off without telling someone. We've called everyone. Nobody's seen him."

Rasso turned to the woman. "Ma'am, is there a chance somebody wanted him to go with them somewhere, a friend, a relative and he wouldn’t tell you? You think he's got friends you don't know about?"

Skip read as Rasso made note of a boy in his early teens, taken to the library by a doctor's wife from a mansion on Grand View Drive who bought her own groceries. He saw Rasso put a big question mark behind it.

"Relative? No. No. Our kids are grown, gone, family scattered." She touched the hanky to her nose. Her eyes were dry.

Rasso kept on. "How'd he act yesterday morning? Any different from usual? Like maybe he was goin’ ta do somethin’ and not tell you?"

"Oooh, you think he might just be hiding somewhere?"

Like this was an idea she hadn't thought of, like maybe things weren't so bad.

"I have no idea, ma'am. What about yesterday morning?"

"I didn't see him early. I always sleep in." She wouldn't look up, taking a deep breath and shuddering when she let it go. "Todd gets his own breakfast." Her voice had raised a pitch. "He lets his mother sleep. And, of course, Tom is up so early. No woman should be expected to be up at six to fix breakfast, do you think?"

Rasso could think all right. Skip knew he hadn't let it pass that Crystal Graham had not answered the question concerning her son's behavior.

Her demeanor began a slow tromp with cleated boots all over Skip's nerves. Why wasn't she tearing her hair and begging them to find her son? Both officers turned toward the doctor.

"We need a complete description of Todd, any scars, any unusual habits. I don't suppose either of you remembers what he was wearing?"

The doctor looked at his wife with such helpless pleading in those fish eyes, Skip couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"A picture would help, current, if you got it," Rasso continued. "You said he's thirteen, is he small or big for his…"

"No, he's fourteen. Of…"

"No, dear. Todd is thirteen." Her rebuttal came out slow, weary, matching her movements as she rose from the throne and walked toward the dark corner toward the picture table. She took one picture, frame and all, without looking at it.

"Crystal." Impatience strained in Graham's throat. "Jesus Christ. He turns fifteen July eighth. Why the hell do you think I bought him that dirt bike? Another year, he'll be wanting a car!" He jerked around and faced the police officers, his fish eyes looking for confirmation to his son's true age. "He was born on my Aunt Victoria's birthday the year she died." The man's voice broke. "Jesus, he's nearly old enough to drive; pretty soon he'll be in college, out of our lives. Todd is what keeps me going, my reason for working so hard. I want him to have everything."

The woman kept her eyes averted from all three men.

"Do I have it right, there's been no ransom note or phone call?" Rasso continued his questioning and noted that the man's concern left out his other children and his wife.

Crystal said, "No," quite bravely and handed the picture to Skip. She sat slowly back onto the throne and crossed her legs at the knees.

Graham blew his nose and shook his head. He nodded toward the picture in Skip's hands. "You can see he's tall for his age, lanky, built like his ole man." He tried on a smile that fit too tight.

"Anybody upset with you, Doc, for not giving them a prescription they wanted real bad?" Rasso asked. "Sorry I have to ask that, but just in case somebody did snatch him, that he didn't just walk off."

Graham looked up from the floor, his eyes flickering over his wife's face as he answered. "That's - that's okay. No. I've never had a problem like that with a patient."

"How about your son, Graham?" They were in Skip's territory now. He knew drugs A to Z. "Did Todd use?"

"I beg your pardon."

"It's not a hard question. Was he into drugs?" Skip pursued without flinching. "The kid's from a rich family. Money's the key word. Glue, the kids call it. You got cash, dealers stick to you like glue, and that's the fucking truth. Excuse me, ma'am." Skip's cheeks flushed.

"You ever notice needle tracks? He got any tattoos on his arms or legs? Does his room smell like marijuana? I know this ain't pleasant, but then…"

"Pleasant?" Graham was livid. "My son's missing over twenty‑four hours and you two stand there and ask if he's connected?"

One cop's eyes narrowed, the other wrote in his notebook. Graham took a deep breath and tried to regain his cool.

"I know about drug addicts. My son is not one. You've got my word on that."

Rasso studied the eyes of each parent. "Was he unhappy at school or here at home?"

Crystal Graham stared blankly for a moment. When she answered, Skip thought it came after she'd played eeny, meeny, miney, moe with several options.

"He was unhappy to be home alone so much of the time." Her voice quivered just a fraction. Enough to make Skip wonder if her feelings were finally slipping through. "He‑he didn't have that many friends. Those who came here were mainly interested in his video games and new computer and of course our pool. Todd knew that and felt dejected so much of the time."

"He wasn't so unhappy that he'd run away, Crystal." Graham clenched and released his fists. "He wasn't any more moody than other kids his age." He stared hard at the mother of his children like he wondered if they were talking about the same person.

Maybe the guy wanted to punch his wife, Skip thought. He could understand that urge just the short time he'd been around her. The tension between them was a stewpot burning on the bottom and set to boil over. Instead of consoling one another, the fact their youngest son had disappeared seemed to widen a gap already growing between them. Something else he and Rasso would check out.

"You sure your son went into the library?" Only Rasso pronounced it liberry.

"Why, I-I, yes, he did. He had books to return. He's crazy about thrillers, the kind Stephen King writes, scary stories you know? I used to worry, you know, that he might lose touch with reality."

Skip Montez noted her worry lie in the past tense.

He watched Rasso flip his notebook shut then tuck it into a rear pocket. "We'll start at the liberry and try to trace his whereabouts," Rasso offered. "In the meantime, some men from County will be up here to put taps on your phone lines…"

"What?" Crystal Graham shot out of her throne. "We-we can't have our lines tapped. They'll know, they'll find out," her eyes were wide and scared, "then they'll hurt Todd. You can't…"

Graham looked quickly from his wife to the cops. Clearly he had no idea what to do. "I-I don't want Todd's life jeopardized. If they call about a ransom, I'll get a hold of you, I promise. But," he looked at her then at the floor before resting his sockeyes on the cops, "she could be right." His tone was grave, his skin three shades paler. "I don't know what I'll do if something bad happens to my son."

"We're going to find him, Dr. Graham," Skip assured. "But we have to have your cooperation. You don't want a tap, you've got to keep us posted. Go about your normal routines, we don't want to spook them. They may even try to get in touch with you at your office."

"Oh, we'll keep you posted," Crystal said, leaving Skip to feel it must be time to go. She stood and smoothed the front of her trim slacks. Violet and pink were cheery, Spring‑like colors.  She was a mom with a kid that could be lying dead somewhere. You’d’ve thought she’d have just thrown on jeans and a tee shirt. Still, the 27‑year‑old cop thought, she didn’t look too bad for an older broad. Rasso, the veteran cop and older by ten years, doing part of the job by just being polite, quietly mentioned to Mrs. Graham that she looked nice.

"Why thank you, officer. I was recently color keyed by my marvelous beautician," she said as if the two cops knew what she was talking about. A cold, piercing glance at her husband said he didn't know shit or appreciate shit when it was pointed out to him. "He told me these shades in the spectrum compliment my skin tone," she went on, "and, of course, they coordinate with my birth sign." She smiled prettily and blinked her pink tinged eyes as she and the Doc herded them toward the front exit.

After they slammed the doors shut on the squad, Rasso looked at Skip. "You're going to find the kid? Nice of you to make that guarantee."

Skip shrugged. "We start at the library and the kid's teachers, right?"

Rasso nodded and slowly smiled.

"But first, we're going back to the station and make arrangements to have their phone line tapped." Skip told Rasso.

"Yeah, that part bothered the shit outta me too."

*

Crystal Graham closed the massive doors behind the policemen, then leaned against the hardwood, taking a deep breath and blowing it out puffed cheeks. The pretty smile she'd given the cops, gone, replaced with a cynical smirk on her snarl lipped, broad mouth.

"Now are you satisfied? I called the cops, so it's in their hands." Crystal watched her husband fidget. "You're dying to do it aren't you? Just plain dying to pick up the phone and cry on that little bitch's shoulder. But you know what will happen if you do, don't you?"

*

Tom Graham swiveled on his heels and rushed across the hall into his dark paneled den. He slammed the door on his wife's ugly look and garish perfume she'd paid too much for from her goddamned beautician. He poured himself a tumbler of iced Jack Daniels and stared at the phone on his huge mahogany desk.