And yet there’s something haunting about the facelessness of his covered corpse. It feels as if all death resides here. I’m separated from it by nothing but this thin sheet. For some reason I think of Ugo at his dinner table, showing me his replica of the Shroud. His hand hovered respectfully over the cloth, never touching it.
The sheet feels powdery when I pull it up, just far enough to find Ugo’s arm.
The stain on his hand is thick rust-brown. It spreads across the skin in a familiar pattern, darker on the fingertips and thumb, almost nothing in the palm.
My heart is thrumming now, sending a shiver of blood through my arms.
I lower the sheet and step to the other side of the table. An identical stain is on his left hand. Ugo was holding the Diatessaron not long before he died. But why? The restorers should’ve been done with it long ago. Huge enlargements of the Diatessaron’s pages are already mounted in the galleries. I assumed the last gallery door—the one Peter and I couldn’t open—was locked because the Diatessaron was already in place, elaborately mounted in that final room. Ugo had no reason to move it.
Unless he brought it to Castel Gandolfo. Unless he showed it to the Orthodox for some reason. In which case, the Diatessaron might be what was stolen from his car. The dimensions are very close to the impression I saw under Ugo’s car seat.
Impatiently I search the metal trays. Finally, under a small pile of paperwork, I find a plain plastic bag with no seal and no gendarme markings at all. Inside it is Ugo’s mobile phone. The battery is dead after three days in standby, so I pull the charging cords from my cassock and find one that powers it on. Then I begin working through the lists of calls.
The last four calls made to this phone were from Simon. At 3:26, 3:53, and 4:12, Ugo didn’t answer. Then more than half an hour passed with no contact. Finally, at 4:46, my brother called Ugo for the last time. They connected for ninety seconds. Less than ninety minutes later, Ugo was dead, since Simon called my apartment shortly after six to ask me to find him at Castel Gandolfo.
I dial Ugo’s voice mail. Sure enough, Simon has left messages. The automated voice says, “Three twenty-six PM.” Then:
Ugo, it’s me. Just wanted to run through the script. A few reminders: Italian won’t be their first language, so speak slowly. I’ll introduce you, and you only have to talk for twenty minutes, so don’t worry. Just please don’t mention what we talked about.
Then a pause.
Also, I wanted to let you know that the turnout is better than expected. We talked about a small group, but the Holy Father has been very supportive, so don’t be surprised. That’s another reason it’s important for us to follow the script. We don’t want to let him down.
A final pause.
I know this is hard for you. But you can do it. If you’re tempted to have a drink, stay strong. I’ll be with you every step.
I save the message. Then seven minutes until four o’clock, Simon leaves a second one. This time, his voice is more strained.
Where are you? The porter said you went for a smoke. We’re supposed to start in a few minutes. I really need you back here.
Twenty minutes later, the last voice mail message.
I can’t keep them waiting. I’ll have to give the talk myself. Ugo, if you’re drinking, don’t bother coming. I’ll call you when I’m done.
There’s nothing more. The automated voice returns. The final call—around quarter of five, when Simon and Ugo at last made contact—has left no message.
I feel the bitterest relief. Simon didn’t know where Ugo had gone. He was giving a talk to a room of Orthodox priests while Ugo was alone in the gardens. Possibly even as Ugo was being attacked.