The man who was now forever silent.

Alas, my love….

I’m sorry, Euterpe…I’m sorry…

Oh, don’t ever turn your back on your muse. Never nevernevernever…

Never disappoint.

That Stefan hadn’t wanted the man to die this way made no difference. Stefan’s composition was ruined, his waltz—so perfect—was ruined.

He dried his eyes and glanced back at the camp.

Which was when the sight stunned him. If it had been a sound, it would have been a dynamite explosion.

No!

Impossible.

This couldn’t be…

Stefan pushed his way down the hill—still remaining under cover of the pine and magnolias—and paused, his cheek against the bark of a gnarly tree.

Was it true?

Yes, yes, it was! His eyes closed again and he sagged to his knees. He was devastated.

For below him, at the very spot where the man had died, where his blood had spilled out so fast, so relentlessly, stood Artemis.

The red-haired policewoman from the factory in Brooklyn. Stefan knew that some people from New York had come to Italy to help in the investigation against Il Compositore. But he’d never thought it would be the same woman who had so cleverly tracked down the plant and burst through the fence, like the goddess from Olympus that she was, the huntress winging her way to her prey.

No, no, no…

All that mattered in Stefan’s life was arriving at Harmony. He would not allow anything or anyone to deflect him from that state of grace, where the music of the spheres hummed in perfection. And yet here she was, Artemis, intent on stopping him and driving his life to discord.

He lay curled on the ground, knowing he should be moving, but shivering in despair. Nearby, an insect clicked, an owl hoo-ahed, a large animal broke a branch and swished some dry grass.

But the sounds brought him no comfort.

Artemis… In Italy.

Get back to your house, he told himself. Before she starts looking here. Because she will. She’s lethal, she’s keen and she’s hungry for the hunt.

She’s a goddess. She’ll sense where I am!

He rose and stumbled back to the car. He started the engine, wiped the last of his tears and pulled back onto the road.

What would he do?

An idea occurred. What was the one thing that a huntress might not expect?

Obvious: that she would become another hunter’s prey.

Chapter 34

Later that evening, ten o’clock, the Composer team reconvened at the Questura.

All except Dante Spiro, the man who kept his own hours…and his own counsel.

Rhyme kept glancing impatiently into the lab, at Beatrice, who was silently plodding away in her analysis of the evidence. Her fingers were stubby, her hands small. Yet even from here Rhyme could see a deftness about her movements.

Rhyme was also aware of Thom, who’d glanced pointedly at his watch twice in the past few minutes. Yes, yes, I get it.

But Rhyme was in no mood to leave, certainly in no mood to sleep. He was exhilarated, as always when on a thorny case. Tired from the travel, yes, but sleep would remain evasive, he knew, even back in the luxurious hotel.