In a few moments the functionary returned. "None in the last six months, Inspector."

Colonna turned to the women, and with an elaborate shrug said, "So, dear ladies, you see? There is no proof that the monk exists. But that doesn't mean I don't believe you." He cleared his throat. "The monk may well have been begging and you may well have seen him, or thought you had seen him. But, new rules, desperate times, and I must justify my every move. Does the monk exist? If I have no permit, I have no proof, so there. How can I send a man or two to chase after a fantasy?"

Rosa's face reddened.

"And, dear inspector, do I exist? I have no begging permit, so you have no proof."

Colonna's face reddened. "Your plan is ingenious." He stroked his mustache.

She held up Carmela's note. "But, Inspector, the monk meets my daughter this evening in front of the Madonna's Chapel. The last victim had a similar rendezvous with him. Surely you can spare a-"

"Save your time. Call off your plan. Ah, yes, you have concocted a nice plot, for a...woman. Might even work with some modification and with luck. But it is based on intuition and on information from a-how can I put it-your daughter is what, a fallen woman, no? Doubtless this monk exists, but is he the one who killed?" He closed his eyes, shook his head. "The rioting continues in Catania and I still have most of my men tied up in that chaos. A thousand apologies, but with the increase in crime, I have no one to spare." He lifted his palms in a placatory gesture. "Your plan: can it wait five or ten days, perhaps a month or two? Then of course we will take over." He beamed.

Rosa looked like Etna erupting.

"Time we do not have, Inspector," Serafina said. "In less than twenty-four hours, another woman will be dead if we don't intervene. In another month, another of Rosa's women will follow. Rosa, her women, perhaps even the child, Tessa, are in jeopardy. We must act now."

He straightened the pile of papers on his desk while he spoke. "All right, you convince me. Come back tomorrow, or soon after tomorrow, say, in a week or two, and I might be able to spare you a man."

Outside Rosa sputtered. "He cannot wait until siesta when he will sink his teeth into food and, afterward, take a nice long nap. He sees nothing. He knows nothing. He does nothing. Useless, our visit."

Serafina fought to control herself. "No matter, Rosa. No time for anger. If we are to catch the killer ourselves, we must remain calm. I know our plan will work. And I'm sure the monk acts alone-except, of course, for his accomplice-so we outnumber him. There will be five of us-four in the chancel, and Arcangelo somewhere in the shadows near Carmela."

"And don't forget the guards." Rosa said.

They were crossing the piazza on their way home, hands folded into copious sleeves. Passing the fountain and the statue, Serafina saw the ragpicker leaning against a weather-beaten cart crammed with old cloth, his cap pulled down low against the wind, his one-eyed mule swishing its tail. In his line of sight were the Duomo's copper doors. She welcomed his presence, a fearful confirmation, like the glimpse of death at the edge of vision.

All her deliberation must be focused on their plan for this evening. Nothing must be left to chance. After it's over, Arcangelo could rescue the mule. She hung onto this thought, a single strand of mercy in a skein of madness and death.

Capture.

Tuesday late afternoon, November 6, 1866.

The wind was a knife at their backs as the wimpled group blew across the street to the Duomo's side entrance. Nodding to the guards sitting on a nearby stone bench, they climbed a flight of stairs and filed through the sacristy to the main altar.

Serafina led the way. With eyes cast downward, she snaked through the sanctuary toward the Madonna's Chapel, genuflected, kissed her beads, and cast an outward glance. No shadows moved in the darkness beyond the communion rail. Turning around, she saw the madam scowling to herself, red-faced in her tight-fitting headpiece. She spied Beppe frowning and Scarpo sucking at his shaven lip. They followed her to the rear of the chapel. Serafina fit the key into the chancel's lock, wincing as the tumblers fell and echoed throughout the cathedral. Slowly she opened the heavy, grilled doors. The four slipped inside.

Cold, damp, dark, the room contained nothing of comfort. Simple wooden furnishings were scattered throughout, a few straight-backed chairs with seats of straw, several unforgiving prie-dieus scattered around. A small altar jutted out from one wall. After her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Serafina glanced at Rosa. Kneeling, and with head bowed, the madam grasped the crucifix of her beads as if it were a pistol. Sensing Serafina's gaze, Rosa turned to her and smiled. Beppe and Scarpo stood against the stone wall, Scarpo with one hand on the knife wedged into his belt.

Serafina looked out. She could see nothing at first, no shadows, no movement. Soon, however, Carmela's form emerged. Facing Serafina, several meters beyond reach, she sat in the first pew waiting for the monk's arrival. Serafina's heart raced as she whispered the words to a half-remembered prayer.

Where is he, this monk? Had he gotten wind of their plan? Perhaps, after conferring with his accomplice, he saw through Carmela's ruse, devised a surprise of his own. For all Serafina knew, the cunning monster had them in his sights and would appear in fury, whipping steel blades into their hearts. No chance, then, to save her child. She started from her seat, but sat back down and wiped her forehead.

Minutes seemed like hours. Finally she heard footsteps, felt the vibrations of a heavy object on stone. Tap-step-step-tap. Tap-step-step-tap. An iron rod rammed the floor. It shook her skull. Tap-step-step-tap. The sound grew louder.

From out of the shrouded gloom a silhouette appeared, faint at first, becoming more distinct as it approached. She blinked, calmed herself, reached over, and clasped Rosa's arm. Perhaps their plan would work.

Wearing a cowl and what looked like dark sackcloth covering his head, face, and neck, the monk appeared. Cold eyes peered out from behind two slits. In one gloved hand he held a staff. At its top, a piece of metal coiled around a cross. Serafina recognized the same spiraling snake she'd seen over and over again in Bella's magazine-the symbol of the brazen serpent. The monk neared Carmela's form. Bending to her, he said, "You wait for me?"

The old nun was right. Despite the headdress Serafina wore, its starched cotton muffling sound, she heard everything, even the tremor in Carmela's voice as she began to speak.

"Do you know where I can find the monk?" she asked, her voice growing stronger. "The one who gives absolution to a few of the chosen? I have sinned, and no ordinary priest has the power to forgive me. What's worse, I probably will sin again."

My girl. Serafina smiled.

There was a long pause before the monk replied. "I am the one you seek. You must follow me and kiss the brazen serpent." He pointed to the coiling snake. "It is the serpent, not I, who offers absolution."

"Give me this absolution, monk," Carmela said. "I can pay." She opened her reticule and held out gold coins. They gleamed in the light from nearby candles.

Serafina turned and saw a veiled Beppe, his brow furrowed, his cheeks working in and out. Looking beyond Carmela and the monk, down the main aisle to the vestibule, she could pick out, in a sliver of light from the rose window, a figure walking softly toward them, twitching in his sleeves.

"No gold can buy you absolution, lady," the monk said, grabbing the coins in his gloved hands. "A few are chosen. You are one of the lucky ones, but you must feel the viper's sting. I will sign you with his mark, and you will be absolved in his blood. For this you must go with me to my chapel. Are you willing?"

Carmela nodded. "Where is it, this chapel of yours?"

"Follow me."

Serafina's heart pounded. Again she rose in her chair, but was stopped by Scarpo's hands on her shoulders, forcing her to sit down.

The monk was leading Carmela up the steps to the back of the chapel, pointing beyond the main altar to a hall leading to the sacristy.

They were nearing the chancel. Serafina crouched down as far as possible into her chair. The others did the same. She felt the air move as Carmela and the monk passed by. She hoped Mother Concetta was right, that no one could see into the room.

"My chapel is not far from here, in the rocks by the sea. I must hear your confession before the bell tolls midnight. We haven't much time. Walk faster."

"Why, monk? Why before midnight? And why not here?"

He turned to her, rapped the marble floor with his staff. "Quiet!" he hissed.

Careful, Carmela. Serafina wanted to pull her daughter inside to safety and rip apart this mad monk. But with one who had shown such quick deadly power, and her daughter's life at stake, she was too afraid to try and overtake him now. Oh, Madonna, help us, she whispered.

"Keep your head down. Speak to no one. And hurry!" the monk said.

Arcangelo bounded up the aisle, past the chancel and the altar. Serafina opened the grille and the four exited. She led them through the hallway to the sacristy and down the stairs in time to see the door at the bottom closing. They ran down the stairs.

At the bottom Rosa caught Arcangelo's elbow. "Stalk this monk, but as we rehearsed, as quietly as possible, staying a few meters behind us, keeping close to the walls. Careful: his knife never misses the heart."

"Everyone, stay close to the walls!" Serafina said.

Arcangelo nodded, grabbed his revolver and, like a cat, slipped out the door.

Outside Serafina looked around. She saw the glint from Arcangelo's revolver several blocks behind them, followed by two lolloping figures: the guards. Two others should be posted by the monk's lair. Otherwise the piazza and surrounding streets were empty. The wind swirled around them, blowing their veils, knocking stones against their shoes, burning Serafina's eyes. Ahead she saw two moving silhouettes.

"Where are they?" Scarpo asked.

Rosa pointed to the monk's cross glimmering with light from early evening stars.

"Can't we remove these habits?" Rosa asked.

Serafina shook her head.

They walked toward the lower city, hugging the walls. Buildings closed in on them. Serafina felt light-headed, squinting into the wind, watching the outlines of the monk's swaying robe. As they passed a tavern, she heard drunken shouts from within, the sudden roar of laughter, pounding fists on wooden tables. The stench of urine gagged her. Rosa held a handkerchief to her nose. They followed the monk and Carmela as they descended through twisting alleys and garbage-strewn passageways.

Soon Serafina smelled seaweed, heard pounding waves in the distance. Her curls tightened. Her wimple bit into her face. She saw Rosa's veiled form thrashing in the blowing force and was glad for the presence of five men.

Suddenly Arcangelo yelled, "Stop!"

A large wooden crate fell from an upper-story window, crashing to the cobbles, missing Serafina by a hair's-breadth, and sending debris flying. She stumbled. Rosa gasped. Scarpo and Beppe steadied her before she fell.

"Get back!" she said to Rosa, Scarpo, and Beppe. "Keep to the walls."

Serafina stood in full view, ready to meet the monk as he approached.

"Give her up, monk!" she yelled.

Ahead, the gleaming cross stopped. The dark specter turned. With a jerk of his free hand, the monk pointed to Serafina. He yanked Carmela in front of him, holding her neck in the crook of his arm, and pushed her forward.

Struggling back up the sharp incline, dragging the brazen serpent behind him, he made his way toward Serafina.

Knee-deep in offal from the fallen crate, Serafina stood, rooted to ground, staring at the approaching monk. Arcangelo and the guards hugged the walls behind them.

"Back here!" Arcangelo yelled.

Serafina turned, saw him pointing to an opening in a building a few meters behind them. "Back!" She motioned to Rosa, Scarpo, Beppe.

"In here, quick!" Arcangelo shouted.

They scurried into an alcove and flattened themselves against the wall. Taking in every detail, Serafina saw Beppe fumbling with something underneath his scapula. Arcangelo whispered to the guards who drew their pistols and retreated several paces.

Serafina brushed garbage off her sleeves. She looked at the dull shine of Scarpo's shepherd's knife, the beads of sweat on Rosa's face. Serafina squeezed her friend's hand. "Almost over now. A slight change in plans, but if this works, we won't have to fight him in cave," she said.

The alcove was cramped for five people and Serafina heard the dull thud of the monk's staff growing louder, Scarpo's habit scraping on the stucco wall. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she pointed to a door at the end of a small corridor. Scarpo pounded his fist on the wood.

Serafina listened for movement inside, but all she heard was the beating of her heart.

"I count to three, we push," Scarpo said.

They nodded.

Counted.

Pushed.

Door creaked.

"Harder," Serafina whispered.

They compressed against one another, a determined wedge.

Serafina ground her heels into the earth. Her stomach lurched, her blood thundered. Oh God and all you angels, where are you when my poor Carmela needs you?

She heard footfalls and brass clanging on stone, felt him coming closer.

Tap-step-step-tap.

Louder.

Tap-step-step-tap.

"Won't budge," Arcangelo whispered.

"Must," Rosa said. She stepped back, and with a mighty heave from her massive haunches, slammed her elbow into the back of Beppe who retched in surprise.

The force of her blow opened the door, sent them all careening, falling over one another into the room like rocks cascading into the abyss.

Scarpo straightened the hinges.

Serafina heard the click, felt the whoosh of air as the door shut.

Inside, an old woman with surprised eyes sat in the far corner, her candle guttering, one hand covering her mouth.

Scarpo tore off his headdress and turned to the woman, mouthing the word, "Bandits!" and she, nodding at a truth she understood, crossed herself.

He drew his revolver with one hand, clutched his knife in the other, and waited by the door.

Beppe crouched down in front of the keyhole.

Serafina stood next to Scarpo, ready to seize her daughter.

She turned and saw the madam tiptoe to the stove, grab the iron pan sitting on its top. Listing from side to side, Rosa headed over to where the granny sat and whispered something in her ear. The woman hunched her shoulders, nodded. Rosa picked up a ladder-back chair and returned to the entryway, placing the chair near the door, opposite Scarpo.

Arcangelo joined Beppe and they took turns peering through the keyhole. "They're coming," Arcangelo said, and the two young men stepped aside.

No one moved.

"Let go of me!" Serafina heard Carmela say from outside as the monk and her daughter approached the alcove.

A beat of silence. Then a wail, unearthly.

They waited for what seemed like hours for the monk to enter. Serafina reached for the door. Scarpo restrained her. Sweat streamed from his scalp as he motioned for the young men to stand alongside Serafina.

In one graceful arc, Rosa jumped up and stood on top of the chair's seat, skillet held aloft, while Scarpo waited by her side. Serafina saw motes of dust churn in the madam's wake.