Free The Lost Girls of Rome by Donato Carrisi Page A

corridor.
    A light filtered from under the one closed door.
    The hunter advanced, stepping carefully in order not to make a noise. He reached the first room. Rapidly, he moved to the doorway and aimed the gun inside. It was a kitchen, and it was empty. Everything was clean and tidy. The china on the dresser, the toaster, the dishcloth hanging from the oven handle. He felt a strange emotion, finding himself in the prey’s lair, in contact with his world. He proceeded to the bathroom. There was nobody here either. White and green tiles in a chessboard pattern. A single toothbrush. A fake tortoiseshell comb. In the next room there was a large double bed with a brown satin quilt. A glass of water on the bedside table. Leather slippers. A wall of shelves filled with model cars: Jean Duez’s passion.
    The hunter left the bathroom and at last came to the closed door. He listened. There was no sound coming from the other side. He looked down at the floor. He could see the line of light below the door. But no shadows passed across it to show that there was someone there. What he did see on the floor was something he had never seen before.
    A ring of small brown stains.
    Blood, he thought. But now was not the time to become distracted. His prey was a ruthless, complex man, he could not forget that. However fascinated he might be by him, he knew there was a total lack of pity in the man’s soul, and he had no desire to stand up to him in equal combat.
    The only way was to act first, take him by surprise. The moment had come. The hunt was nearing its end. Only then would all this have a meaning.
    He took a step back and kicked the door open. He aimed the tranquilliser gun, hoping to locate his target immediately. But he couldn’t see him. The door bounced back on its hinges, and he had to put out his hand to stop it. He entered and looked rapidly around.
    There was nobody in the room.
    An ironing board. A cabinet with an old radio and a lighted lamp. A coat rack with some clothes hanging on it.
    The hunter approached the rack. How was it possible? These were the clothes his prey had been wearing when he had seen him enter the building. The blue anorak, the grey velvet trousers, the trainers, the peaked cap. The hunter looked down and noticed the bowl in a corner.
    The name
Fyodor
was written around the edge of it. He recalled the old man taking his cocker spaniel out for a walk.
    Damn, he said to himself, but then, realising how cleverly he had been tricked, he burst into laughter. He had to admire the method the transformist had devised to trick anyone who might be after him. Every day he returned home, put on that disguise, and took his dog to the park. From there, he could keep an eye on the building.
    That meant that Jean Duez – or, more precisely, the foul creature who had taken his place – now knew about him.

1.40 a.m.
    After the storm, stray dogs had taken possession of the side streets in the historic centre. They moved about in silent packs, keeping close to the walls. Marcus saw a pack coming towards him as he walked along the Via Coronari. It was led by a red mongrel with one eye missing. For a moment their eyes met, and they recognised each other. Then they turned away again, each continuing on his way.
    A few moments later, he again entered Lara’s apartment.
    In the dark, just like Jeremiah Smith.
    He reached out a hand towards the light switch, but thought better of it. Lara’s kidnapper had probably had a torch with him. So he took out the one he had in his pocket and began searching the apartment. In the beam of light, the furniture and fittings loomed up out of the shadows.
    He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he was convinced that there was a connection between the young student and Jeremiah. Lara was much more than a mere victim, she was an object of desire. Marcus had to find out what linked them: that was the only way he could hope to discover where the girl was being kept prisoner. This