The Death of Faith Read Online Free PDF Page A

contemplation of his feet, but they no longer spoke to him of idle things. Like a presiding deity, his mother filled his thoughts, she for years a traveller in the unchartable territory of the mad. Fears for her safety flailed at his mind with their wild wings, though he knew well that only one, final, absolute safety remained for his mother, a safety his heart could not wish for her, no matter how much his mind urged him. He found himself involuntarily pulled toward the memories of the last six years, fingering them like the beads on some horrid rosary.
     
    With a sudden, violent motion, he kicked the drawer shut and got to his feet. Suor’Immacolata —he could not yet call her anything else — had assured him there was no danger to his mother; he had heard no proof that there was danger to anyone at all. Old people died, and it was often a liberation for them and for those around them, as it would be for . . . He went back to his desk and picked up the list she had given him, again ran his eye down the names and ages.
     
    Brunetti began to think of ways to learn more about the people on the list, more about their lives and their deaths. Suor’Immacolata had given the dates of their deaths, which would lead to death certificates at the city hall, the first path in the vast bureaucratic labyrinth that would lead him eventually to copies of their wills. Gossamer, his curiosity would have to be as light and airy as gossamer, his questions as delicate as the touch of a cat’s whiskers. He tried to remember ever having told Suor’Immacolata that he was a commissario of police. Perhaps he had mentioned it during one of those long afternoons when his mother allowed him to take her hand, but only if the young woman who was her favourite remained in the room with them. They, the two of them, had to talk about something, since Brunetti’s mother often remained silent for hours, crooning a tuneless melody to herself. As if the habit she wore had amputated her personality, Suor’Immacolata had never said anything about herself, at least nothing that Brunetti remembered, so it must have been then that he had told her what he did, as he cast about for topics to fill those endless, ragged hours. And she had heard and remembered and so had come to him, a year later, with her story and her fear.
     
    Years before, there had been certain things that Brunetti had found it difficult, sometimes impossible, to believe people capable of doing. He had once believed, or perhaps had forced himself to believe, that there were limits to human vice. Gradually, as he was exposed to ever more horrible examples of crime, as he saw the lengths to which people would go to feed their various lusts — greed, though the most common, was hardly the most compelling — he had seen this illusion eaten away by the mounting tide until he sometimes felt himself in the position of that daft Irish king, the one whose name he could never pronounce correctly, who stood at the edge of the sea, beating at the encroaching tide with his sword, maddened by the defiance of the mounting waters.
     
    It no longer surprised him, therefore, that old people might be killed for their wealth; what surprised him was the technique, for at least at first glance it was replete with possibility for error or discovery.
     
    He had also learned, during the years he had practised this profession of his, that the important trail to follow was the one left by money. The place where it began was usually a given: the person from whom the money was taken, either by force or by craft. The other end, where the trail finished, was the difficult one to find, just as it was the more vital one, for it was there that would also be found the person who had practised the craft or the force. Cui bono?
     
    If Suor’Immacolata was right — he forced himself into the conditional mode — then the first thing he had to find was the end of the trail, and that search could begin only with their