The Devil's Own Crayons Read online

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  The stranger’s lips stretched into a smile.

  “No,” the father wheezed, and clutched his chest.

  The sharp pain persisted. Grew worse. Clutching his chest, he backed up until he hit a wall. He felt himself sliding down the stone surface, sinking to the floor.

  The English couple discovered him alone, propped up against the wall. No one witnessed what had happened inside the tower. Those on the ground below reported seeing a white figure in one of the windows, but Chinese authorities determined it was the lightening.

  The clouds quickly disappeared, and the sky over the Great Wall turned blue.

  The police took custody of Baab, found standing at a kiosk near the tour buses with a box of crayons in her hand. While she waited for her mother in back of the squad, she scribbled on a scrap of paper. A man stepped over to the passenger window and tapped. When the girl’s head bobbed up, a pale hand held a box of crayons up to the glass.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following summer, in Rome.

  The gladiator swaggered up to the young, blonde American woman, adjusted the sword hanging from his hips, and placed his hands over his heart. “Uscire con me!”

  The blonde looked at her employer quizzically, and he translated: “You’re built like a chariot.”

  The gladiator – who clearly spoke no English – continued with his attempt at romance: “Avete un fidanzato?”

  “Your milky thighs remind him of Roman columns.”

  “Professor, you’re making that up.” The girl gazed up at the tall, muscular young man in the long, red cape and gold helmet topped by a red plume. “He’s a regular Russell Crowe.”

  “Si!” said the young man, beating his own chest with his fist. “Russell Crowe!”

  “He’s trouble,” said her employer, putting a hand on her shoulder. The guy smelled of trouble, too. His musky cologne was overpowering. “Let’s go, Mel.”

  “Wait,” she said, standing her ground. “You told me to talk to the locals. Try to pick up some Italian.”

  “Not this Italian.” The professor moved the young woman forward and the heavily perfumed Russell Crowe stepped in front of them to block their way.

  “Passiamo una notte di fuoco!” the gladiator said to the young woman, and winked at the older man.

  “What’d he say, professor?”

  The guy was mocking him, figuring he was dealing with an idiot turista who didn’t know the language well enough to protect his own child. The fact that Melissa wasn’t his daughter, but rather his figlia’s nanny, didn’t matter. This cheesy thespian was making him mad. “Mel, he’s trying to get into your pants.”

  “What did he say? Tell me, professor. Seriously.”

  With an exasperated sigh, the professor gave a rough summation. “He asked if you’d go out with him. You’d have a wild night.”

  “Tell me how to say something nice to him in Italian.”

  The professor grinned slyly and whispered in her ear. “Mi lasci in pace.”

  “Mi lasci in pace,” the nanny repeated to the gladiator with a smile.

  “Non sono interessata,” said the professor.

  “Non sono interessata.”

  The gladiator frowned.

  “Sono lesbica,” the professor said.

  “Sono lesbica,” she repeated.

  The gladiator took a step away from the young woman and glared at the older man. He realized he was the one being mocked.

  “Professor, what did I say to him?”

  “That you aren’t interested. You’re a lesbian. Or a Libyan. I’m not sure which. My vocabulary is a little rusty.”

  The gladiator’s jaw tensed. He wanted to say something clever in response. He stepped up to the shorter man, leaned into his ear and whispered. Laughed lowly and took a step back.

  The professor’s fists tightened at his side and he lurched toward the gladiator.

  Melissa had seen that move before, and grabbed her employer by the arm. “Don’t. Please.”

  The gladiator had already moved on to a knot of middle-aged women, throwing his arms out dramatically. “Buon giorno!”

  The professor shook off the nanny’s grasp. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The professor and the nanny muscled their way through the mob. It was always tough getting inside the Flavian Amphitheater – the Colosseum’s proper name - but today was particularly insane. Maybe it was the exceptionally pleasant summer weather. Every human on the planet seemed to be trying to squeeze into the site. Freelance guides worked the crowd, trying to get people to sign up for walking tours. Clots of travelers stood together, reading from guidebooks and unfolding maps. The gladiators – costumed men like the one who’d intercepted Melissa – were everywhere. When they weren’t posing for a price, they were standing around together smoking and talking. Probably bitching about the cheap tourists.

  While they walked, the professor kept the young woman close. The area surrounding the site was notorious for pickpockets. “Hang onto that purse.”

  A gang of young boys tripped in front of her, and she immediately tightened her hold on her bag.

  “Vattene!” the professor snapped at them.

  Bypassing the lines of people waiting in the outer hall to buy tickets and audio headsets, they hustled through security with their identification and came out arena level in the “Rome Dome,” as his wife and other archeologists called it. Railing was in front of them, and they both leaned against it.

  Looking across, he saw one of those costumed men, his solitary caped figure standing out against the stonework. He thought the gladiators weren’t allowed inside. The red man moved to the right and melted into the crowd.

  The inside of the site was as congested as the outside. Tour guides pointed this way and that while their groups clustered around them to hear. Visitors wearing headsets shuffled along, listening to the audio tour and moving as it directed. Art students sat on the ground, their backs propped against the walls and big sketchpads resting on their laps.

  The drawing was what had prompted his wife to drag their daughter to work that morning. An art student had volunteered to do a portrait of their little figlia posing amid the ruins. Their daughter was thrilled because she loved anything involving drawing. He’d agreed to fetch the budding model/artist at noon and bring her back to their apartment for her afternoon nap. They didn’t yet trust Melissa to navigate the Roman transit system on her own, but he’d made her come along to help him with their daughter. That was why they’d brought Melissa to Italy with them - not to flirt with musky gladiators.

  He checked his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes. Let’s go up.”

  As the pair made their way to the stairs, he scouted the crowd across the arena. Was that the gladiator again? He blinked, and the red cape was gone.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, as he stalled and stared.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  The upper deck offered an even better view of the gray-beige monolith of arches and columns. He nodded down toward the arena’s main level, to a reconstructed half-circle of flooring covered with sand. “That platform gives us an idea of where the fighting would have taken place. The animals and prisoners were kept in cages underneath, and brought up in lifts.”

  “And under there is where your wife is spending her days?”

  “A good chunk of her nights, too.”

  The nanny shuddered. “Claustrophobic.”

  “It is, and she loves it.” Additional subterranean chambers had been discovered, and his wife had been invited to assist in the dig. She’d been thrilled with the opportunity, and the university had encouraged him to take a sabbatical and accompany her to Italy with their daughter and nanny.

  A breeze blasted their backs, and the nanny held down her flying skirt. “Where did that come from?”

  “Roman weather.” Another gust threatened to lift his fedora into the air, and he held on to the brim with both hands. After surv
eying the sky for clouds, his eyes landed on a swatch of red across the arena. “What’s that scemo doing up here?”

  The nanny looked in the direction that her employer was staring. “Who?”

  “Your Russell Crowe.”

  A whirlwind lifted her skirt and she batted it down. “You sure it’s him? It’s so far away.”

  He was sure it was the same smart ass. The professor stepped away from the rail. “When we get back downstairs, I’m going to call security.”

  She squinted. “I still don’t see him.”

  “Can’t you see that ridiculous red cape flapping in the breeze? Stay here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m crossing swords with that stronzo myself,” he said, and left.

  Stronzo? Melissa didn’t know what that word meant, but she knew that crossing swords stuff wasn’t good. Her boss was one of those short guys with a big temper. Back home, he was practically famous for it. None of the neighbors were talking to him anymore, and his work had actually made him take anger management classes. If he started a fight this time, the prof could get hurt - and she’d get fired. As she trotted after him, her cell rang and she answered it. “Yes, ma’am...He said we had time...I’ll have him call you...I will...We will. Yes, ma’am.”

  Melissa closed her cell and dropped it into her purse. Mrs. Prof said their daughter was having a meltdown. The nanny was torn between rushing downstairs to get the kid and going after her employer. She decided on the latter. Part of her wanted to know if the gladiator had indeed followed them inside. As she ran, she held on to her skirt. All around her, other women were holding down their hems and catching their sailing scarves. Grit flew into her nose and mouth and eyes. Tears streamed down her face and clouded her vision.

  Where was he? She’d lost him entirely. Unsure of what else to do, she continued in the direction she’d started. Her cell rang again and she fished it out of her purse. Talked while she ran. She could barely hear over the wind. The wild, Roman wind. “I’m on the top floor,” she yelled into the phone. “I don’t...I can’t find him. He went after this stupid guy...A gladiator guy...I don’t know why. You’d better get up here.”

  The professor didn’t know why, either. A mission to quash a minor annoyance had morphed into a holy quest. A crusade. The older man jagged in and out of clots of tourists in pursuit of the red cape. The wind was at his back, pushing him forward. Encouraging him. He elbowed people out of the way. Knocked a bag out of a woman’s hand. Shoved a child to one side.

  “Hey!” someone yelled after him. “Watch it!”

  His fedora launched into the air, but he didn’t give it a glance. As he barreled ahead, the insult grew more severe, fueling the fury inside of him.

  That bastard! Where in the hell did he get off talking to Mel that way? Me, standing right there! Now he’s inside the building, to finish the job. Trying to seduce Mel. Who would the pervert go after next? My wife? Because I’m shorter than he is, he thinks I’m not going to do anything about it, that I’m a damn eunuch. That’s what he’d whispered, and right in front of Mel.

  The professor quickened his pace, shoving a man out of his way. An Italian mother pulled her young children out of the way and said under her breath, “Pazzo.”

  A tour guide phoned the police, telling them there could be a problem.

  The professor lost sight of his red target, and stopped to survey the crowd, whipping around to the left and right. He ran to the railing, in case the son-of-a-bitch had fled to the lower level. No gladiator. He ran his eyes around the upper level, and still saw no red cape. He spun around. Across the aisle, he spotted the gladiator framed in one of the massive arched windows of the Colosseum’s exterior. His back was turned to the professor. One hand rested on the side of the opening and the other hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword. A blast of wind caught his cape, and the red fabric billowed behind him.

  “Hey bastardo!” the professor yelled.

  The man didn’t turn around.

  The window was tucked in an alcove, and safety bars kept visitors from getting too close to the large, low-ledged opening. The professor stepped up to the railing. “I’m talking to you!”

  Tourists continued to pass the professor. Some looked beyond him to the window to see whom he was addressing.

  “It’s a gladiator, mum,” a child said to his mother.

  “Asshole!” the professor hollered to the red back. In Italian: “Stronzo!”

  “Why is he swearing at the gladiator, mum?” asked the child, and the mother hustled him away.

  Furious that he was being ignored, the professor climbed over the railing. “I’m talking to you, moron! Stupido!”

  A clump of people gathered on the other side of the railing.

  “Should they be near the window?” a man asked his wife.

  “I think it’s one of those reenactment things,” she said.

  The gladiator turned and silently mouthed the name he’d called the professor outside the gates.

  Eunuco

  A breathless Melissa pushed through the crowd, followed by the professor’s wife and young daughter. They arrived in time to see the professor rush the red cape.

  The gladiator danced to one side, dodging his attacker.

  The shriek of the professor’s wife and Melissa’s scream were both heard above the gasps and cries of the crowd.

  The couple’s daughter remained silent. Behind her, someone had reached out from the crowd and squeezed her shoulders. It was reassuring. A silent promise of security. She didn’t see those hands, but the fingers were long and slender and impossibly white.

  Witnesses to the professor’s final moments said that the American was the aggressor. A tearful Melissa told the Rome police what had happened outside the gates, and blamed herself for causing friction between her boss and a younger, bigger man.

  They never found the gladiator. In the confusion, the red cape had melted into the crowd. Security and ticket staff denied allowing one of the costumed men through the turnstiles, and couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That autumn in the United States.

  As had happened twice before, the knock came during evening prayers. The rows of veiled heads popped up, and two of the nuns started to rise from their kneelers. The abbess was already rushing out the chapel door. “Stay,” she said, with a wave of her hand, and the women bent their heads back down to return to their rosaries.

  While walking briskly, Mother Magdalen Xavier smoothed the skirt of her habit. The house was quiet, save for her rubber-soled shoes slapping the floor. When she reached the front of the convent, she stood at one end of the long, narrow foyer and eyed the door at the other end with the solemnity of a soldier facing the front lines. Folding her hands in front of her, she lowered her eyes and murmured a quick petition. A lone lamp sitting on a side table provided the only light in the hall, and her tall, black figure was almost absorbed by the evening shadows.

  As she punctuated her prayer with a hurried Sign of the Cross, the corridor echoed with the thump of three more knocks. Taking a deep breath, she went up to the door and turned the deadbolt. Opened the door a crack. Two people stood under the porch light. They were exactly whom she expected. She opened the door wider.

  As they entered, she glanced outside. By the glow of the yard light, she could see his car getting pummeled by the rain. A sedan, pale green in color.

  A damp gust of autumn air rolled inside after the pair, and the abbess shivered. She closed the door and turned the deadbolt. Without saying a word, she led them to her office, the first room off of the hallway. She went over to her desk and clicked on a lamp. Behind her, she could hear him close and lock the door after them. Good.

  He dropped a small, pink suitcase on the floor next to the desk.

  “Is that all she brought?” the nun asked.

  “She doesn’t require much.”

  As he unbuttoned his dripping trench coat, t
he abbess extended her hands. “I can throw it over a radiator.”

  “I’m good.”

  His petite companion struggled with her slicker, and the nun went over to the child. “Here, let me help you with your...”

  “No,” the girl snapped, and took a step backwards. “Get away from me.”

  “She’s tired.” Putting his hand on the child’s back, he guided his charge to a couch parked against the wall.

  “I don’t like it here,” the girl groused, running her eyes around the sparsely furnished space, its walls covered with wood paneling and floor tiled with gray linoleum squares. “It’s a haunted house.”

  He crouched in front of her and unbuttoned her jacket. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What did I say on the way over here?” he asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Be nice,” the child said, and repeated it again and again in a singsong voice. “Be nice. Be nice. Be nice.”

  “Turn around.”

  While he pulled off her slicker, she stared at a painting hanging on the wall behind the sofa. It depicted a robed woman with a chubby infant in her arms. The babe’s face was serene, and a halo circled his head. “Who’s that?”

  “The Madonna with the Christ Child,” the nun said.

  “That little boy is staring at me.”

  “Nobody’s staring at you,” the man said, and turned the girl around so her back was to the painting. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he helped her hop onto the cushions.

  “That little boy is named Jesus.” The abbess buried her hands in the pockets of her habit. “He loves you, Daughter.”

  “You’re not my mommy.”

  “But I knew you when you were a baby.” The abbess tugged on the hem of her veil. “You used to grab this with your little fist and try to pull it off.”

  “That’s because it’s ugly.”

  “You’re being rude and crabby,” the man said, dropping the small shoes onto the floor. “Apologize to Mother Magdalen.”