Chapter One The Present Day

Taron and Mason are in Naples. Taron meets a mysterious red-haired girl with a brusque attitude, and his curiosity gets the better of him, landing him in a lot of trouble.

1

The Present Day

(Naples)

 

Taron Swift sipped his orange juice idly as he read the bold print across the envelope lying before him on the iron table; it was from his publisher, and he knew he didn’t want to open it, so he wouldn’t. After all, who would want to read through the sniveling paragraphs of an editor, trying desperately to reign in his newest talent? And he was already fairly certain of what he would find inside. There would be lines pleading for him to return to the tour schedule, pleading for him to adhere to the contract that he so foolishly signed. But there would be angry paragraphs in it too. Threats of legal action would abound, but the desk-jockey would end it the same as he had all the others with a:  “We look forward to hearing from you soon.” 

He sipped some more from his glass, looking over it to see his cousin come drowsily up the steps to the café on the terrace. Mason pulled out the opposite chair and it made a sustained shriek as it slid roughly on the tile floor, and he dropped in it with a sigh. Taron eyed him amusedly, knowing he had a terrible night of sleep once again.

“I take it you didn’t sleep well?” he queried, impishly.

Mason Reynolds gave his grinning cousin a glaring shot across the bow. “No"I didn’t.” He wiped some matter from the corner of his eye with his index finger. “I see you’re yer usual cheery self this mornin’. I take it that letter’s from your publisher.”

“Yep,” Taron replied pleasantly. He sipped at his juice. His cousin sighed, and sensing a lecture coming, Taron signaled to the waiter, and the blond, boyish-faced server approached with an affable smile to take their order. Taron being the linguist of the two, and most adept at Italian, ordered them a very American breakfast of bacon and eggs. The waiter thanked them with a nod, before sauntering off to the counter.

Taron was quite pleased with himself. After only three weeks in Italy, his Italian was getting much better. He turned to his cousin, his smile fading at the scowl Mason wore.

“You enjoy this don’t you?” he asked frankly.

“What?” Taron queried in reticence, knowing exactly what Mason meant by the hint of contempt in his voice.

“You know exactly what I mean. The languages, the people, the living out of suitcases. You enjoy everything about this. What the hell happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“This traveling, this wander lust of yours; when is it gonna end?”

“It’s vacation.”

“Bullshit!” Mason pounded his hand on the iron table, causing the glasses of juice to rattle, and drawing a few curious stares from the other patrons. He leaned forward, his brow wrinkled in earnest. “Vacations don’t last seven months Taron.”

“Alright.” The young writer wore a more serious expression. “I’ve told you before, I need this. In fact I consider it research. How the hell can I continue to write, knowing almost nothing about the world? Tell me how I can write about something without ever doing it, without ever being there, without ever seeing it, huh?"tell me that?”

Mason looked at him in exasperation. He had drawn the same response from his cousin as he had for the better part of a year"though he would not give up. They were both very similar men, both stubborn and unyielding. It had served them well at times, but in matters of deep, or"hell, even shallow disagreements, they were always at a lock. However, for seven months Taron’s will had been the one to win out, for they were still far from home. Yet as much as Mason would love to blame him for this, he knew deep down, that his cousin could not make him follow should he not want to. And perhaps it was that fact which incensed him the most.

“What did you mean?” asked Taron suddenly.

“Mean what?” Mason gazed blankly at his cousin’s inquisitive stare.

 “You asked what the hell happened to me?”   

Mason was taken off guard by the rejoin, had forgotten he had uttered the words in his moment of irritation. 

He sighed. “Hell, I dunno, I guess I meant what changed in you. I mean it’s been two years since”"his gaze met Taron’s uneasily"“since that day. I know we both had to do some things to survive, things we never thought we’d have to do. And I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t change me too"but, I’ve set myself to going on.” His expression turned earnest. “I just wonder if you think you have to keep livin’ it. I mean, first there was the media, then you wrote that book, now there’s this urge to keep movin’. I don’t think you’d know what to do if things ever seemed normal again.”

“So you think I’m runnin’, that I’m getting off on all this?”

Mason now met his companion’s sharp gaze with quick sheepish glances. “Even you’d have to admit, it’s not like you. You were always pretty grounded. You had roots, you were happy with where ya came from. And I dunno, I guess it just seems like yer tryin’ to be someone yer not.”

Taron was visibly irritated now. “Okay, first of all, I never went anywhere cuz I didn’t have the time or the money. Second, I’m proud of where I’m from, and I don’t see any harm in stretchin’ my roots. And lastly, I’m the same person I’ve always been, and I’m gettin’ damn tired of everyone lookin’ at me like they expect me to go off like a bottle-rocket.”

“Fine, forget I said anything.” Mason sighed, knowing reason was now beyond his fuming companion. But he was troubled by Taron’s further denial, knowing that there had been a change in him. And in many regards the differences were stark, yet others were subtle and could not be identified as artificially created abnormalities, or perhaps were merely an evolution of his character. Whatever the case, they didn’t talk for a while after that, both men avoiding eye contact with one another until the tension dissipated. 

“I hope we head home soon,” Mason stated, testing his cousin’s mood.

“I promise,” Taron said, before sipping his juice. “Real soon.”

“That’s good, because I heard from Brooke last night.” Mason tried not to notice his cousin roll his eyes slightly at the speaking of his fiancé’s name. “Anyway she really wants me to...” 

Mason’s voice trailed off into the confines of Taron’s mind, as the young author always drifted out when his cousin began to speak of his betrothed. It was a cancerous subject to him. He didn’t care for his cousin’s fiancé, although in all honesty he could find no fault with her other than she threatened Mason’s freedom. So as his friend continued to ramble on about the news back home, as told to him by Brooke, Taron’s gaze drifted lackadaisically about the open air café.

However, his aimless gawking suddenly came upon something of interest. He focused in, looking directly over Mason’s shoulder, and he beheld a sight that no heterosexual man could ignore"and she was stunning. He studied her as she talked to the boyish-faced waiter by the counter. She was slender with an athletic build in her faded cargo-pants and black t-shirt. He could tell she was a tourist by the way she dressed, from the battered satchel she carried, to the hiking boots, he could surmise that much anyway. She turned as the waiter pointed off to the north and he saw for the first time her lovely face, which was only enhanced by her sharp dark eyes and focused expression.

Taron’s curiosity was growing as he watched her converse with the waiter. Her expression stood out to him, pleasant upon the surface, but beneath that he divined a more determined, more driven, and a much more willful quality to her character. She seemed insistent and quite impatient, despite the politeness of her demeanor as she conversed with the waiter, and this intrigued the young writer. He studied her closely as she swept the fiery hair from her eyes, trying to learn her in glance, as a man of his talents was somewhat capable of doing. He watched as she forced an abrupt smile of gratitude to the waiter, before starting off. 

The young writer stared after her with anxious eyes as she moved swiftly down the stairway and turned right, disappearing around the corner of the building. An instinctive thrill brought him to his feet. He must meet her, he thought to himself. 

“Where you goin’?” queried Mason with a puzzled look. 

“Sight seein’,” replied Taron, with a wry grin.

“But I thought we were gonna have breakfast?”

“Go ahead. I’ll see you later.” Taron was gone almost as quick as he spoke. 

Mason shrugged with a weary sigh as he turned to watch his cousin go. “That boy needs a leash.”

Taron rounded the corner, walking to the street behind the café. He looked to the north, quickly acquiring his quarry. She was stopped in the middle of the street, studying a piece of paper briefly, before stuffing it into her satchel and continuing on. He followed along, being careful to keep his distance and path erratic enough so as not to appear conspicuous. He would stop and study a building, maybe take a few seconds to pass salutations to a local, but all the while, keeping a firm locking on the girl, who seemed to be looking for something specific. Frequently she would stop and take out the paper, studying it for a while before moving on.

This had the young writer enthralled. Her suspicious demeanor, her mysterious mission thrilling him, and he was determined more than ever to continue on his fool’s errand. Although he had to admit, following her made him feel a little strange. However he could not just let her walk so briefly into his conscious, and leave without him at least knowing her name, or the sound of her voice. He couldn’t explain it, but he needed to know her.  His curiosity had to be sufficed. And also, he needed her to know that he was someone who also inhabited this world. It made damn little sense"call it narcissism, call it a love stricken boy’s need"but her ignorance to his existence wounded him somewhat.  

She stopped at a gelato stand, taking out her piece of paper and showing it to the proprietor, a thin little man with a massive mustache. 

Taron saw his opening. He approached the stand as the man was about to speak. “Due cioccolatini per favore,” he said in perfect Italian, numerating with his fingers. 

The girl gave him a quick glance, as he met her eye to eye with a warm grin. The vender went to work on Taron’s order, the girl shuffling impatiently beside him. 

“Nice day,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied plainly, not even looking at him. 

Taron averted his gaze as well, deciding to use some discretion, but at least he got her to speak. She was American. 

The man came up with the chocolate gelatos, handing them to him before going to work on his cash drawer. Taron turned to present one of the sweet delicacies to the girl, but was surprised to see her gone. His panicky eyes darted down the narrow street, and he was relieved to see her standing further on down the lane, again studying her paper. He quickly started after her. 

“Sir, si deve pagare!” exclaimed the vender, his palm out. Taron hastily overpaid for the gelatos, taking off without his change. He moved in long strides, catching up to the girl just as she started to move again. 

“For you,” he said, offering her one of the frozen treats.

“No thanks,” she refused dryly, as she walked on, her gaze fixed forward.

“It’s quite good.”

“I’ve had it before.” Again she did not look at him. However, he was undaunted, keeping pace beside her despite the cold attention. 

“Maybe you’d prefer something warm?”

“I’m kind of busy right now.”

“So you’re here on business?”

She stopped and faced him, and for the first time their eyes met meaningfully, even if her dark eyes glared frostily back at him. 

“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but please stop following me.” She continued on, leaving Taron to grin in curiosity. He would not be discouraged though, and after handing off the extra cone to a grateful little boy standing nearby, he quickly caught up to her. 

“So maybe we can get together later?” he queried, nonchalantly working on the gelato in his hand. The girl sighed in irritation, but ignored him as she walked on. “Whenever you’re free?”

She sighed again, before turning to him with glaring eyes. “Okay, I bet some ice cream and a few phrases in Italian are enough to get girls back in the states, but I’m really not interested. Now, if you would excuse me"I’m looking for something.” 

“I’ve been here quite a spell. Just tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help?”

She stopped in her tracks, her face flushed red in a simmering rage. Her dark gray eyes were exquisitely bright, like polished blue slate, the flames of her inner fury, reflecting from those glinting surfaces. 

“Alright, if you’re looking for validation? If your ego is desperate for some kind words from a complete stranger? You’re quite handsome, your eyes are green and captivating, and I’m sure you’re a smooth conversationalist. Now you can go back home and tell your friends whatever lies you want. That you met a girl, and got lucky abroad, I don’t care. So unless you can tell me where this chapel is”"she held up a newspaper clipping of an old church"“you can’t help me. Now go away!”

“Okay,” he muttered, with an impish grin.

“Okay, as in you’re going to leave me alone?”

“No, okay, as in I can help you.”

She scoffed, “Like you know where the chapel is.”

Taron smiled mischievously. “It’s over there,” he said pointing over her shoulder.

She turned to see the chapel dwarfed between two stucco buildings. She shook her head in vexation with herself and her pestering shadow, as he self-assuredly licked at his gelato. 

“Hey, wait!” he exclaimed, grabbing her by the wrist as she tried to move toward the chapel.

“What!”

“Can’t you see the sign? The public can’t go in there. It isn’t safe,” he explained looking earnestly into her eyes.

She was emboldened. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not the public.” She stomped away, heading into a narrow alley to the right of the old chapel. 

Taron stared after her with a grin. “The girl has spunk,” he muttered amusedly to himself.

Deciding that she was breaking at least three laws, the young writer went to stand watch across the street from the chapel.  He leaned against the wall of a building which afforded him a view of the mouth of the alley, and he attended to his gelato which was melting rapidly in the searing Mediterranean heat. Though he was not at his post long, when abruptly he saw the chapel’s double doors rattle on their hinges and come open. A Neapolitan police officer emerged from the dark entrance, and Taron swallowed hard. Of all the rotten timing, he thought, of all the cruel turns fate had ever dealt him, this one seemed especially taunting in nature. He watched as the police sergeant chained the door, and taking out a small ring of keys, married the chain with a sturdy lock. He then moved down the steps. 

Taron gritted his teeth and cursed when he saw the sergeant start in the direction of the alley. “Keep walkin’, keep walkin’,” he whispered to himself, as he watched the sergeant pass in front of the alley. But it would seem, today at least, luck was not on Taron Swift’s side; the sergeant stopped, glanced down the alley then did a sudden double take. 

“Uh-oh,” blurted the writer. The officer stepped quickly into the alley. This isn’t good, was all Taron thought as he hurried to the rescue.

 

“Excuse me miss?” queried a male voice. It was said in English but the dialect was of heavy Italian. 

The girl, who was on her knees as she worked on the shiny lock with a metal pick, quickly stopped what she was doing. When she had heard the steps behind her, she merely assumed that they were those of her annoying stalker, but clearly they had not been. She took a deep breath, stared longingly at the steps going down to the chapel’s basement. The stairway was barred by a solid iron-grate latched to the stone with a heavy lock going through it. 

“Excuse me miss, but tourists are not allowed into the chapel,” resounded the sergeant in a sterner voice. The girl got to her feet, turning to meet the swarthy faced policeman. 

“Oh?” she blurted. Playing dumb was all she had. The cop had her red-handed, what else was she to do, but sweep back her dark red hair and smile dumbly.

“Are you an American citizen?”

“Yes.”

“May I see your passport please?”

This was trouble. “My passport...my passport"sure.” She searched her satchel falsely, buying time as she tried to come up with a plan, but aside from flat out coldcocking the policeman, she was drawing a blank.   

“Darling, there you are!” hailed a relieved voice that was now, annoyingly familiar. He brushed by the bewildered sergeant and gave the not so amused, but smiling girl, a warm hug. “You know, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

“Excuse me sir,” snapped the officer. 

Taron turned to face him with a warm, rube-like grin. 

“Is this your wife?” queried the sergeant.

“Yes sir, been married for what darling"three years,” he said with a broad smile, and an impish glance at the girl.

“Yes, that’s right,” she muttered, corroborating with a phony smile that otherwise would have been a scowl. 

The sergeant’s face was painted in suspicion. It was clear he was not sold on the narrative.

“Well sir, I caught your wife trying to break into the chapel.”

“Sugar plum,” Taron said in shocked disappointment. He was a fine actor as he reprimanded her with his gaze. 

“I only wanted a look,” she replied innocently.

Taron threw a friendly arm over the sergeant. “I’m sorry for this sir. You’ll have to excuse my wife. She can be...uh”"he gazed at her with an absurd grin"“rebellious.”

“Sir, your gelato!” exclaimed the sergeant, as Taron’s cone dripped over him. 

“Oh dear,” uttered the writer in mock sympathy, guiding the sergeant away. “You’ll have to get that cleaned right away.  Come on darling.” 

“Coming,” the girl feigned sweetly, following the two men. 

They stepped out from the shadowed alley and into the bright street. Taron was dabbing at the sergeant’s jacket with a napkin; the officer growing even angrier by the minute, as the sticky gelato was merely smeared into a broader patch.

“I’m so sorry sergeant, you must allow me to pay for the"”

“That’s enough!” snarled the officer, pushing Taron away.  He continued slowly, seething beneath the surface as he said, “you and your wife stay away from this chapel. It is dangerous, and not open to the public. If I catch either of you around it again, I’ll arrest the both of you.” He glanced quickly between the two Americans, waving a stern finger in warning. He huffed, snatched the napkin from the writer, before stomping off down the street. 

Taron watched amusedly as the sergeant sulked off and disappeared around a bend. 

“And he’s gone,” he stated, quite pleased with his work. He turned, frowned when the girl wasn’t there to share in his delight. He went back into the alley to find her standing in front of the barred entrance of the stairway, digging in her satchel. 

Taron cleared his throat loudly. “A thank you would’ve been nice,” he muttered frankly. 

“God, you again?” she exhaled sardonically.

“Now, is that anyway to talk to your husband?”

The girl finally grinned in amusement, having to admit that the husband and wife bit had been pretty shrewd. “I’m sorry. Thank you for your help, uh...”

“Taron, Taron Swift.” He stretched out his hand, and the girl looked at it reluctantly. 

“Samantha Sheppard,” she finally replied, extending her own.

They shook hands; Taron’s expression affable and exuberant, the girl’s, outwardly friendly, but with dubious reluctance glittering in her eyes.

“So Samantha Sheppard"what are we looking for?” asked Taron, nodding to the gated access. 

The girl grimaced with a groan, her petulance returning as she tossed away his hand. “There you go.”

“There what goes?” he puzzled.

She was again digging in her satchel. “You go from being somewhat helpful, right back to annoying.” Finding her pick, she hit her knees and began to work on the lock again.

Taron stood behind her, watching curiously with his arms folded across his chest, and a smug grin spread over his face. “So you want help, huh?” he asked with a mischievous tone.

She sneered, “What little help you can provide, I don’t need.”

“Oh, I see,” he muttered, nodding smugly.

She ignored him as she worked, carefully finessing her pick into the lock. After all, she was undoubtedly pondering, what help could a naïve tourist be to her, aside from playing that part specifically. 

“D****t!” she cursed, finding it difficult to navigate the inner mechanism of the large padlock, and, cope with the annoying specter standing over her. 

It was then that Taron leaned in, dangling a ring of keys over her shoulder. “Try these.” 

She turned to glare at him as she snatched the jingling keys from his grasp. The right key was promptly found and the lock eagerly removed, all the while, the girl murmuring under her breath, curses of disdain for her unwelcomed companion.

But Taron paid no mind, stooped over and grabbed the heavy grate. He grunted in exertion, finding the gate to be much heavier than he had anticipated, but he thrust his legs into the fray and his sinewy body won out, the iron impediment ringing loudly as it flopped over. 

“Ladies first,” he quipped with a grin as he stepped aside. 

“You’re not coming.” Her voice was firm, her eyes like daggers as she put her foot down. 

“Oh yes I am,” replied Taron in collected pleasantness. “You have my curiosity ignited now. I have to see just what it is you’re looking for. I want to know what makes it worth the possibility of jail.”

For a moment there was a staring match, the girl trying to break him with her gaze, he, trying to win her trust with his. However, both were soon to discover that the other’s will could not easily be dissuaded. But Taron held the cards this hand.

“I won’t be much trouble,” he added, “and besides, we can’t stand here all day. The sergeant will miss those keys soon.” 

The girl practically growled her displeasure at his factual remark, cursing as she stomped down the steps, Taron following with a smirk. Reaching the bottom of the stairway, she turned and scowled at him before limberly kicking the rotted door from its hinges, and it hit the floor inside with a loud crash. 

“Come on,” she growled through gritted teeth, stepping through the entrance. 

Taron had to stifle a chuckle, thinking her vexation with him to be quite amusing. He walked into the dusty smelling basement of the chapel, finding it to be surprisingly bright inside. Though it was not hard to figure why as he looked around to see countless shafts of light piercing the floor above, and he could assume that the chapel probably didn’t have much of a roof either. 

He heard the crash of a board being tossed on the floor stones, and he looked across the rubble strewn basement to find the girl clearing away a large pile of fractured timbers. Ever the gentleman, he came up and ushered her aside, setting to work on the pile himself.

“So where you from?” he queried, trying to make conversation.

“Fredericksburg,” she replied frigidly, not even watching him as he worked. Instead, she had taken out a folder from her satchel, and was reading through it.

“Virginia, I’ve been there.” He tossed a heavy hunk of stone from the pile, paused a moment to wipe his sweaty face with his shirt. “So what do you do in Virginia?”

“Nothing anymore,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Haven’t been there in years, you might say I don’t exactly live anywhere.” 

“So you’re homeless.” Taron new the remark would draw a look of ire. It did, and a cutting one at that. 

“No"I’m not homeless. I’m an archeologist and I travel a lot. So owning a house wouldn’t make much sense now, would it?” Her eyes softened and she retreated back to her studies. She realized that his prods were merely a way of getting her to divulge, and she swore she would not be so easily manipulated. 

Taron went back to work. “You’re an archeologist. I never would have guessed, but then again I haven’t known that many archeologists.” He tossed away a board that rattled on the floor. “I can tell ya one thing though.” The tone of his final sentence hinted with challenge, and he had stopped his labors to stare at her, his fists resting against his hips. 

“And what’s that?” she asked guardedly, meeting his gaze with a callused expression.

“I bet you’re not exactly welcome at any dig sight, or we wouldn’t be rummaging through a condemned church.”

Her eyes were fierce as she slammed her folder shut and tucked it away. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

He was grinning impishly. “Yup, it seems to be the only way I can get you to talk.”

“Look, I don’t even want you here. You followed me! What I’m looking for is my business, remember that.” 

“Hey, I got nothing against breaking a few laws. Hell, we’re breaking about five of them right now. And I wasn’t implying that you owed me anything. What you’re looking for is your business.”

“So why have you been following me? Why won’t you go away? You have no clue what you’re getting involved in.”

Taron picked up a heavy block of stone, rested it on his shoulder. His eyes were soft and sincere, his grin quite the contrary. “Maybe I just enjoy your company.” He smirked and she scowled, and suddenly the floor beneath them started to moan. Taron tossed the stone then gave the astonished girl a rough shove, before the floor gave out and he fell through the chasm.

Samantha shook the dizziness from her cranium and sat up from the pile on which she had been shoved. There were dense clouds of dust billowing up from the gaping wound in the floor. She franticly crawled to the edge, looked futilely into the blackness below.

“Taron!” she cried anxiously. She paused for a second and listened, then called again. There was another long pause, and at last, to her relief, she could hear him groan and then curse. “Hold on! I’ll be down in a sec!” Her voice hinted of worry.

She quickly searched the room for a means to get herself down into the passage. Finding a ten foot length of rope anchoring a support beam for the floor above, she took a terrible chance on a collapse, as she cut it free and coiled it up. And after tying the rope around a nearby column, she started to lower herself into the blackness.

It was not a terribly deep passage, her boots thudding on a solid stone floor, after chancing a drop from the end of the rope. She took a flashlight from her satchel and clicked it on, nearly screamed as the illuming glow of light hit the upturned face of a skeleton lying in the rubble beneath the hole.

“Taron!” she called, the beam of her flashlight disappearing into the expanse of the passageway. 

“Over here,” he said startlingly near. She turned, her flashlight casting its gaze on him, as he was reaching into a recess in the wall. “You didn’t tell me we were looking for a catacomb.” His arm emerged from the cubby with a grimy skull. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well.”

Samantha smiled meekly at his thespian attempt. “I’m glad you can laugh. I thought you broke your damn neck.”

Taron tossed the skull back into the cubby, glanced at her with an intrigued countenance. “And you would’ve been sad?”

She rolled her eyes. “I would’ve felt guilty"but I doubt I would’ve been sad.”

Taron grinned, took out his cell-phone and used it for a light as he studied the chiseled stone. “So what are we looking for"or, maybe I should ask, who are we looking for?” When no answer came he shot a stern look to the girl who still watched him with suspicious eyes. She wasn’t willing to trust him. Maybe out of greed or for his own good, but whatever the reason, she wasn’t inclined to bestow him with details. “I can’t be much help, if I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”

She sighed. “A Spaniard, we’re looking for a Spaniard. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Taron approached her as she took out a tattered and stained piece of cloth. He studied it over her shoulder. On it was a drawing in bold ink of a mountain set ahead of the sun. The mountain had a line going up the peak, bending back and forth like a switchback. Also on the cloth was an inscription in Spanish"Dormir bien amigo leal. 

“Loyal friend sleep soundly,” said Taron, reading the phrase aloud.  “There’s no name, but that’s a tomb inscription if ever I’ve heard one.”

“Exactly!” The girl was somewhat exuberant, realizing that her companion maybe wasn’t the hapless idiot she believed him to be. “I think we’re looking for a Spaniard with this inscription carved over his tomb.”

“And quite likely that picture will be there too,” inserted Taron, becoming even more intrigued. The girl nodded to him, and they both went their separate ways. Dividing up the catacomb, they searched the many graves stacked atop one another, reaching part way up to the ceiling of the damp and musty tunnel. 

Taron gladly searched every inscription chiseled into the rock, and every name along the wall. It seemed a pleasant and thrilling thing for him to be in the dark confines of the crypt. Like some childhood fantasy sufficed, he reveled in the creepiness, the uniqueness of the experience. After all, how often had a kid from the Platte River of Nebraska, ever found himself in the musty confines of an Italian catacomb? And as a writer, he could appreciate the wealth of the experience. An experience Edgar Allan Poe, himself, would have gladly partaken.

Taron continued to search, but abruptly he came to a halt before a barrier of solid earth. He had come about a quarter mile from where they had started, and had not found a single grave belonging to a Spaniard. Every grave was that of an Italian. Undaunted, he began scanning the graves on the opposite wall, working his way back down the cool corridor.

He arrived back where he had started, his search coming up empty. Samantha wasn’t back yet, so he continued to search the graves heading in the direction she had taken, though not going far before he met her coming back. Her face was solemn, her mood deflated. 

“Did you find anything?” she queried softly.

Taron shook his head. “Not a single grave even belonging to a Spaniard. Are you sure it’s here?”

“I don’t know where else it could be.” She was noticeably upset. “I’ve searched all the other catacombs.”

“Just catacombs?” 

The girl nodded. 

“Wait a minute"just what century are we talking about here, because these catacombs date back to the third or fourth century.”

Samantha eyed him closely. She was still guarded, not wanting to give out any information which she might come to regret, as indeed she had before. Taron’s gaze was earnest and imploring, but the answer was still not forthcoming. 

“I’m guessing we’re talking from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century,” he muttered, “when the Hapsburg line laid claim to Sicily, which Naples was then a part of.” He grinned in amusement at the astonished expression of the girl. Delighting as he surmised she had greatly underestimated him. “Now I’m not an archeologist, but I’m bettin’ we’re looking for a tombstone in an actual cemetery.” 

He now looked at the girl, and for the first time his eyes had an accusing suspicion in their light. For this was something he thought, an archeologist like she claimed to be, should know. Unease filled him, as his palms began to sweat. He felt foolish, for he barely knew the girl. Yet, here he was in the bowels of a foreign city, with a stranger who for all he knew could be dangerous. He finally looked at her with his eyes wide open. She was still beautiful"but an unknown quantity; and he realized that just as she had underestimated him, he was perhaps gravely underestimating her. 

“It seems to me an archeologist should’ve reasoned that,” he stated boldly.

She looked at him, her expression blank. “I wasn’t the best student,” she muttered with a faint grin. “I never claimed that this was my exact era of study.”

“I think it’s time you level with me.” Taron’s gaze was firm, his voice stern. 

She was stepping back, but her face showed no fear. “I didn’t ask for your help. You’ll get nothing out of this"”

“I don’t want anything!” he boomed, his voice echoing through the catacomb. “I really don’t care what you’re looking for, let alone, do I want it.  But I have to know"who are you, really?” 

She stopped backing away, her dark gray eyes meeting him grimly. “I told you who I am...but, I did lie about being an archeologist. Two years ago I was accused of selling artifacts from a dig in Greece. I haven’t been allowed to dig anywhere since.” Her voice was soft and she turned away from him in shame. 

Taron felt a pang of sympathy for her. It was not the answer he had expected to hear. “Did you?” he asked earnestly.

She turned to him, surprised that he even cared to know more.

“Yes...well...no, not exactly,” she was fumbling for words, paused for a second, took a breath. “What I mean is, I made the mistake of trusting someone I shouldn’t have"and I’ve paid the price.” Her eyes were burning when she finished. And Taron knew those eyes spoke of a thirst for vengeance, and that was the most telling indication of the truth. He didn’t speak, merely gazed toward her thoughtfully. “I’m still paying the price, I"”

“It’s alright,” he said with a warm smile, “I believe you.”

Samantha, who had expected much less from her companion, couldn’t help but smile, and the writer believed it enhanced her beauty greatly, no matter the poor light. “Well, let’s go find that grave,” he proposed, exuberantly. The girl’s frown toward his last statement went unnoticed, as he led the way back to the hole. 

“How long do you think we’ve been down here?” she queried, watching him closely.

Taron looked up at the rope swinging just over his head. “Not long"a couple hours, maybe. Come on, I’ll give ya a boost.” 

She came forward and lithely stepped into his cupped hands, and he hoisted her to the rope above. He watched her shimmy up the line, but after a moment’s reasoning, he found himself not yet inclined to trust her fully. He decided he had better stay close behind; after all, with one quick swipe of a knife, he would be keeping the company of corpses for God knows how long. This thought made him shiver and he leapt up grabbing hold of the smooth nylon rope. It was hard going, and it gave him an appreciation for the girl’s strength as she went nimbly up the line. Taron could muster no such skill, and though he was strong, his climbing was slow and clumsy, and Samantha reached the top first. 

He heard her shriek suddenly, and he looked up franticly. Seeing nothing, he hastily and out of sheer will, towed himself up the rope with his arms. His pace was much quicker, but his muscles screamed as he neared the top. He poked his head up from the hole, could see the tall figure of the police sergeant, his back to the chasm, the girl struggling in his grasp. 

Taron sprung from the opening and took the Sergeant from behind, putting the taller man in a wrenching headlock. The policeman, absent of air, let go of the girl. Samantha wasted no time, and with a sweeping roundhouse kick to the face, the officer was cleaved from Taron’s grasp, and he hit the dusty floor with a crash. 

The young writer gazed down at the officer in awe. “Nice kick,” he commended, turning to the girl, only to meet a hard fist in the chops. He was staggered by the punch, but with bleary eyes he saw her step back and load up, and in another instant all went dark for him as her kick connected to his face, and he crashed over. 

Samantha picked up her satchel, which she had dropped in the scuffle. She took a couple of steps to the door"but stopped, looked back at the unconscious man. His eyes were closed, his nose and lips trickling blood. Despite his annoyances, he had helped her, and she felt guilty for having to leave him in such a way. 

“I never asked for your help,” she muttered earnestly, more for herself than anyone, as if it would relieve her of the guilt"it would not. After one last glance at him, she walked swiftly out the door.