“Cutrì!” And the deputy chief looked the officer in the eyes. “Do you get it now?”

Italo nodded. “Fucking . . .”

“Right.” And Rocco put the wallet back where it had been. He opened the front door of the little house and left.

“Come on, let’s get moving.”

“Are we going to leave everything like this?”

“I’ll finish up later. Now get going!”

THEY WENT BACK TO THE STABLES. THE HORSES WERE STARTING to wake up. Many of them had put their muzzles outside the half doors and were stamping their hooves. Rocco and Italo reached the stall next to Winning Mood’s stall and went into it. The deputy chief inserted the key in the lock and pulled open the door to the little secret room.

Ten feet by seven, a refrigerator, English prints of horses hanging on the walls. Rocco opened the refrigerator. The dim bluish light illuminated his face. The fridge was full of pharmaceuticals. Phenylbutazone, Zylkene, Equanimity, Calmitan, Equiworm . . . Rocco examined them box by box. He would read the label and then put the package back. Stanozolol, Tefamin. Bronchodilators, corticosteroids, anti-inflammatory drugs, and hormones. Rocco was no expert in sports medicine, but he’d dealt with a few cases. Half the pharmaceuticals in that refrigerator were banned substances, products used for doping, things you’d definitely keep under lock and key. Then one box in particular caught his eye. Drontal Plus, a dog dewormer. He knew about it—he’d given the same stuff to Lupa. He picked up the package. It seemed odd to find that pharmaceutical in the midst of all those horse medicines. Under lock and key, and in a refrigerator. He opened the box. Inside were three glass vials. And they were labeled: “Ethyl carbamate.” Urethane.

“Bingo!” said Rocco. He put the medicines back into the refrigerator. “Now we’ve got to get moving, Italo. I have to put everything back where it was, and soon it’ll be daylight. Let’s lock up here, and then we can meet at the enclosure wall.”

“Where are you going?”

“To put the keys back and screw down the skylight.”

BACK ONTO THE ROOF. THE SKY WAS BEGINNING TO LIGHTEN. On the one hand, that was a good thing, because it helped him to carry out the challenging task of screwing back together the opening mechanism of the skylight. On the other hand, however, if someone woke up and looked out the window, they’d spot him immediately. He was as unmistakable as a drop of blood on fresh snow. He took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. He had put the keys back and had shut the door to the outbuilding behind him. Up on the roof, with all the chill and the damp that had seeped into his bones during that long night, his hands seemed to be tied in knots. It was hard to get his fingers to move, and the screws were only about an inch long. He’d already driven home the first two. He moved on to the third screw. He silently hoped that Italo had made it back to the place where they’d crossed the wall and climbed over to the other side by now. At least that way, if he was captured, he’d be able to take full responsibility, without having to put poor Pierron in harm’s way. The third screw slipped into place as well. He pulled out the fourth. But the forefinger and thumb of his right hand refused to obey his mental commands. The screw slipped out of his grasp and bounced across the terra-cotta tiles. It continued its progress toward the rain gutter, landing with a metallic clang.