“We would like to interview him,” Byron says flatly.

“Prego. I only hope you do not end up wasting precious time while more people suffer.”

Chapter

Thirty

He had expected to stay awake all night, but the hypnotic motion of the overnight train had put him to sleep within minutes of departing, and he didn’t wake up again until they were nearly pulling into the station in Naples.

The morning rush hour at Stazione di Napoli Centrale is bustling with commuters and travelers. Businessmen and -women in suits hurry past in every direction. Several speak on phones. Others keeps their heads down, walking almost blindly as they tap away on their mobile devices. Everyone seems to be in such constant contact these days. No one is disconnected, except for him. There was solitude in his previous life, certainly, but never the kind of loneliness he has experienced since launching on his mission.

Aside from the business types, backpackers and other tourists fill the terminal. He has to avert his eyes from some of the women with their revealing tops, exposed midriffs and buttocks poking out of their miniature shorts. O Lord, surely You never meant for this!

Realizing it is time to take his morning pills, he heads for the nearby washroom and locks himself in a stall. It’s even filthier that the rest of the terminal.

His backpack vibrates slightly as he lowers it to the floor and digs the bottles out from the side pocket. He swallows down one tablet of each antibiotic with only saliva. He pulls out the other full bottles, wondering why he even brought them along. He reads the labels again: lithium, olanzapine, and sertraline.

“Mood-congruent psychosis secondary to schizoaffective disorder,” Dr. Lonzo had pronounced.

He never questioned Dr. Lonzo’s mouthful of a diagnosis. He has nothing but respect for the medical profession and, particularly, Dr. Lonzo. But why would he take the medications? His mood is stable and his thoughts have never been clearer. Besides, when he was taking the drugs, he found it so difficult to commune with the Almighty. The voice went almost silent, leaving him without guidance. And never more had he needed divine counsel.

The voice returns now. “Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Sloth. Wrath. Envy. Pride.” Each of the seven deadly sins is articulated softly inside his head, in little more than a whisper, but the force behind them could move mountains. “Man has turned against man. Man has turned to Satan. Man has turned from Me.”

I understand, O Lord, but what you ask . . .

“To me belongeth vengeance and recompense,” the voice commands. “Their foot shall slide in due time. For the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.”

He recognizes the verse from Deuteronomy. He doesn’t dare argue.

As he puts the bottles back in the bag, a muffled squeak emerges from deep inside. The rats will need to feed soon. At least, the ones who will be continuing on with him. He hasn’t decided whether he will leave Cacio or Grappino behind. Both are born survivors. Either would fare well among all the garbage and discarded food at the train station.