What followed was anticlimactic in the extreme.

No gunshots, no barricades, no battering rams.

The door simply opened and although he was too far away to hear, it was clear to Rhyme that Charlotte McKenzie, from the U.S. Consulate, uttered nothing by way of protest. Nor did she express any surprise. She nodded and held up her arms in surrender. The man standing behind her, Stefan Merck, did exactly the same.

Chapter 56

Michelangelo’s tactical team had cleared the house.

Hadn’t taken long; like most single-family homes in this part of Naples, it was small. The well-worn place had mismatched furniture, most of it a decade old. The feel of a rental.

With the help of two SCO officers, Rhyme’s clever wheelchair surmounted the single step and wheeled into the living room, where Charlotte McKenzie was sitting on a divan with her hands together, as if she’d just put aside her knitting. Rossi and Spiro stood nearby, each on his own mobile, speaking quietly and quickly, the inspector’s face animated, the prosecutor’s stony. Sachs, pulling on booties and latex gloves, headed into the back of the house.

McKenzie glanced at her with the confidence of someone who has hidden all the incriminating evidence off-premises.

We’ll see about that…

The room was warm with yellow light and the air smelled of cinnamon. Stefan stood behind the woman’s chair, looking more bewildered than anything. While McKenzie was not in irons, the serial killer—the faux serial killer—had been cuffed. The tactical policemen who’d helped Rhyme into the apartment kept eyes on the prisoners. They were both dark of flesh, not big—much smaller than their boss, named after the famed artist—but were in sinewy, taut shape and looked prepared to strike fast if they needed to.

Since the police arrived, the kidnapper had said nothing other than one word to Amelia Sachs.

“Artemis.”

A Greek goddess, Rhyme believed, recalling both Ercole’s speculation and the mental hospital director’s comments that Stefan’s crimes had a mythological connection.

He now looked over Stefan carefully. There was nothing unusual about his appearance or expression. He was just another handsome young man, pudgy but more or less fit, stubble just returning to his shaved head, which glistened with sweat. He was dressed in jeans and a Mark Zuckerberg gray T-shirt (this was the term that had been used by Rossi; Rhyme didn’t know, but believed he was some computer guy).

Rhyme noted one curious habit of Stefan. From time to time he would close his eyes and ease his head to the side. Occasionally he would smile. Once, he frowned. At first, Rhyme didn’t understand these gestures and expressions. Then he realized that Stefan was listening. To sounds, it seemed. Not to words or to conversations—only Italian was being spoken and he probably wasn’t fluent, certainly not at the rat-tat speed of the officials in the room.

Just sounds.

But what noises might engage him wasn’t clear. Initially there didn’t seem to be many in the still apartment but, aware that Stefan was so engaged, Rhyme too closed his eyes and filtered out the voices and became aware of one or two sounds, then a dozen, then many more. The clink of Stefan’s handcuff chains. Footfalls of Sachs in the nether regions of the house. A distant siren. A creak of door. A tap of metal upon metal from outside. A tiny whine of floorboard under Spiro’s weight. A buzz of insect. A crick of metal. A skittle of vermin. A hum of refrigerator.