Ercole could not.

Sachs drove to the end of the fertilizer company’s property. They discovered a small road that skirted the place. It was dirt. She started down it slowly.

“There!” Ercole called.

Ahead of them, set back a hundred feet from the road, was a structure just barely visible through the weeds, shrubs and oak, myrtles, pine and juniper trees

Sachs kept the car in third gear to make sure the transmission was quiet. She tricked the clutch constantly to keep from stalling.

Finally, near the driveway that led to the house, she pulled off the road into a stand of bushes and killed the engine.

“I don’t think I can get out.” Ercole was trying the door—the blockade of vegetation prevented its opening.

“Need to stay as much out of sight as we can. Climb out my side.”

Sachs got out and he joined her, awkwardly surmounting the gearshift.

Ercole pointed down at their feet. “That’s pomace.” Indicating a dark grainy substance. She could definitely smell the pungent scent of fertilizer in the making.

He asked, “Should we call Inspector Rossi?”

“Yes, but just have him send a half-dozen officers. There’s still a chance he’s somewhere else.”

As he called she looked toward the house. It appeared quite old, a farmhouse, of wood and uneven brick construction. The place wasn’t small. She motioned to him and they started down the long driveway, sticking to the shadows of the trees along the side.

When Ercole had disconnected, she said, “Let’s move fast. He hasn’t uploaded his video yet but I don’t think Signor Khaled has much time.”

Through brush, over fallen trees, they moved steadily toward the building. Insects streaked toward them, mosquitoes and gnats. Not far away a dove exhaled its breathy call, mournful, comforting and eerie. The smells were of smoke and something pungent, perhaps the decaying olive oil fertilizer.

They followed the driveway to the left, where the unattached garage was located. The home was even bigger than it had appeared from the road, a rambling structure of several buildings, connected by windowless hallways.

“Gothic,” she whispered.

“Like Gotico? Spooky? Stephen King.”

She nodded.

The garage was locked and there were no windows. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside.

“What do we do now?”

“Do you know Peeping Toms, in Italy?”

“Yes, yes. We know the term. From a movie, many years ago, that was popular here.” He gave a harsh laugh. “And curious. The movie is about a serial killer who films his victims. The English title is Peeping Tom.”

“Well, we’re going to peep.” She drew her weapon. She turned to Ercole to tell him to do the same but saw that he already had. They circled the house and began looking, quickly, through the few curtainless windows. At first it didn’t seem like anyone lived here but then she caught a glimpse of clothing in a pile. Some empty soda cans.

Was there a light on? In a distant room? Or was the illumination from the sun falling through a slit in a curtain?