Free MASS MURDER by LYNN BOHART Page A

dead Blue Jay; its eyes glazed milky white. Rocky tried to grab it, but Giorgio just stood there, trapped in the gaze of its dead eyes. It wasn’t until his father appeared with the food that he reluctantly turned away.
    Giorgio’s eyes were fixated now on the small, beaked face of a ceramic bird at the bottom of the fountain . It wasn’t until a clanging noise engaged his brain that he with drew his attention and turned back toward the building . Fatigue worked on his body like a drug forcing him to gaze at the massive structure through half blurry eyes . The wind rattled a large, knotted oak tree that stood against the front of the building, manipulating its strong branches into a kind of mechanical stage apparatus. Along the pale stucco exterior of the front façade, bushy shadow puppets danced a Mambo energized by the wind, while three statues bobbed in and out of a row of palmettos along the colonnade as if playing hide a nd seek at a carnival sideshow.
    Giorgio turned his head to look up at the bell tower. Perhaps the clanging was coming from one of the bells. T hree arched windows stretched across the front of the tower, staring silently at the valley below. Only the shadow of a dangling rope was visible to one side, swinging from a second floor window to the left of the tower. It appeared to be weighted by a large sack. Scaffolding was erected against the west side of the tower , and Giorgio remembered reading that the bell tower was under repair after being damaged in a recent earthquake.
    He stepped around to the other side of the fountain hoping to see how thing s looked earlier that evening, b ut the clanging noise was giving him a headache . With a groan , he glanced over t o the large metal statue of a monk standing just under the corner of the bell tower. A crucifix hanging from a chain around the priest’s waist was being slapped against the cast iron robe by the wind. The monk was a formidable figure in the dark with a raised sword point ed to the heavens. The priestly robes had been cast as if blowing in an unearthly wind, while the real wind seemed about to bring the commanding figure to life. Giorgio shuddered, partially from the cold , and partially from the feeling the priest was about to step off the huge platform into reality.
    He turned his attention back to the rope, wondering why it was there and what had been tied to it . B ut the rope was gone. There was no rope and no sack to weight it, making him doubt he’d eve r seen it. After all, the entire building seemed to be wrestling with the approaching storm. When a fountain spray blanketed the back of his head, he cursed and de cided it was time to go inside.
    Leaving the ghostly statue, the rope, and the belfry behind, he ret urned inside, shutting the fairytale door behind him with a dull thud. The inside warmth was a welcoming change . O utside , the wind dragged bushes across the exterior of the building with the same spine-tingling sensation fingers create crossing a blackboard. Behind the wind, the echo of the crucifix continued to punish the iron priest. When he turned away from the door and saw the boy at the top of the stairs, he stopped so short his feet cou ld have been planted in cement.
    The boy was nine or ten years old, with round eyes rimmed in shadow. He stared at Giorgio like a barn owl in the dark and was dressed in a long-sleeved , white shirt and dark knickers, with thick suspenders pulling at his narrow shoulders. A pale , vaporous mist illuminated him in a halo of light.
    No one had mentioned anything about children on the premises and Giorgio stared back, dumbfounded. It was several moments before he noticed the boy was clutching something in his left hand. Before Giorgio could make out what it was, the heavy wooden door behind him blew open again, bringing with it a cold draft of air. He turned and shoved the door closed making sure it latched this time. When he swung back around the boy was gone.
    Giorgio leapt into