Free The Fifth Gospel by Ian Caldwell Page B

toward the rooftop. The most solitary place in the ­building.
    I begin to follow, but she puts a hand on my arm and whispers, “Peter needs you.”
    I turn toward the nursery. Inside, I find my son sitting up in his makeshift bed. The light is dimmed and the floor is strewn with books and stuffed animals from the nearby crib. Peter is breathing so hard he looks as if he’s been running.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I say.
    The air around him is wet and warm. He reaches out his arms.
    â€œNightmare?” I ask.
    This is the age when night terrors and sleepwalking begin. Simon fell prey to both. I raise his gangly body into my lap and stroke his head.
    â€œCan we read about Totti again?” he whispers, half-delirious.
    Totti. The starting second striker for Roma.
    â€œOf course,” I tell him.
    He leans forward and paws the dark floor for his book. But he’s careful not to exit my lap. I’ve already left him once.
    â€œIt’s over, Peter,” I promise him, kissing the damp back of his head. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here.”
    I stay beside him for a while after he falls asleep again, just to be sure. By the time I slip out, Leo has returned home, and Sofia is heating him a plate of food. In the kitchen I see him rub her belly while leaning across it for a kiss. Before they can invite me to join them around the table, I excuse myself to look for Simon on the rooftop.

    HIS HAIR IS WINDSWEPT and wild. His face is drawn. He is staring down at the lights of Rome the way I imagine a sailor’s widow would stare at the sea.
    â€œYou okay?” I ask.
    His hand, tapping for cigarettes from his emergency pack, is unsteady.
    â€œI’m not sure what to do,” he murmurs, not turning to look at me.
    â€œMe either.”
    â€œHe’s dead.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œI called him this afternoon. We talked about his exhibit. He can’t be dead.”
    â€œI know.”
    Simon’s voice grows thinner. “I sat beside his body, trying to wake him up.”
    A dull pang forms in my chest.
    â€œUgo poured himself into this show,” my brother continues. “Gave it everything.” He lights a cigarette. A look of grinding disgust crosses his face. “Why let him die a week before opening night? Why let him die right on the doorstep?”
    â€œHuman hands did this,” I say. A reminder of where his anger should be directed.
    â€œAnd why bring me there?” he continues, not listening.
    â€œStop. None of this was your fault.”
    He blows a long plume of smoke into the darkness. “It was my fault. I should’ve saved him.”
    â€œYou’re lucky you weren’t there. The same thing could’ve happened to you.”
    He glares bitterly at the sky, then peers down at the empty spot where we used to play as boys. One of the Guard families would inflate a plastic swimming pool on this terrace. All that remains is a water stain.
    I lower my voice. “Do you think this could have to do with the Shroud? Moving it here from Turin?”
    Tendrils of smoke creep from his nostrils. I can’t tell whether he’s considering it.
    â€œNo one could’ve known it was moved here,” he says flatly.
    â€œWord could’ve gotten out. People hear things. The same way we just did from Leo.”
    It would’ve taken a team of men to load the new Shroud reliquary onto a truck. Priests to open the chapel. Then more men and more priests to unload it here. If just one of them had mentioned the news to a wife, a friend, a neighbor . . .
    â€œUgo was on the truck that night,” I say. “Anyone else who was involved would’ve seen him. Maybe that’s why they came after him.”
    â€œBut they didn’t see you or me. Why come after us?”
    â€œWhat do you think happened, then?”
    Simon flicks an ash off the tip of his cigarette and watches an ember