Rhyme could just imagine Dante Spiro’s reaction when he read in the press that an unnamed “American consultant” was commenting on the case.

“Not now.”

McKenzie added, “I should tell you: Garry’s been getting threats. Like I mentioned, those accused of sexual assault are at particular risk. Add that he’s an American…Well, it’s a problem. The authorities keep an eye on him but there are no guarantees.”

“No press,” Rhyme said insistently. But he added, “While Amelia’s away I’ll be following up with his case, though.”

McKenzie said, “Ah. Good.” The uncertainty told Rhyme she’d be wondering how exactly he could follow up when his ass was parked in a wheelchair, in a country that did not seem to have the equivalent of the American With Disabilities Act in force.

He didn’t tell her that he had a secret weapon.

Two, in fact.

Chapter 36

The Black Screams had begun.

But the failure at the camp and the sight of the redheaded policewoman had conspired to shake him awake early and fill his head with the screams, shrilling like a dentist’s drill.

Yes, he had a plan for Artemis. Yes, Euterpe had whispered calming sentiments from on high. But, as he well knew, very little could stop determined Black Screams. He’d hoped to control them himself, but ultimately, he knew, he’d lose. It was the same as when you wake with that first twist in your gut, small, nothing really. Still, you understand without any doubt you’ll be on your knees over the toilet in an hour with the flu or food poisoning.

Whispering screams, soon to become the Black Screams.

And soon they were.

Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin—these were nothing compared with a Black Scream.

Pacing the farmhouse, then outside in the wet dawn. Stop, stop, stop!

But they hadn’t stopped. So he’d popped extra meds (that didn’t work, never did) and, in the 4MATIC, sped to where he stood now: to chaotic downtown Naples where he prayed the ricocheting cacophony would drown out the screams. (That sometimes worked. Ironically, noise was his salvation against Black Screams—as much and as loud and as chaotic as possible.)

He plunged into the jostling crowds filling the sidewalks. He passed food vendors, bars, restaurants, laundries, souvenir stores. He paused outside a café. Imagined he could hear the forks on china, the teeth biting, the jaws grinding, the lips sipping…

The knives cutting.

Like knives slashing throats…

He was sucking up the noise, inhaling the noise, to cover the screams.

Make them stop, make them stop….

Thinking of his teenage years, the girls looking away, the boys never looking away but staring and, sometimes, laughing as Stefan walked into the classrooms. He was thin then, passable in sports, could tell a joke or two, talk about TV shows, talk about music.

But the normal didn’t outshine the strange.

How often he would lose himself in the sound of a teacher’s voice, the melody of her words, not the content, which he didn’t even hear.

“Stefan, the sum is?”