Free Vigil by Robert Masello Page B

were worn marble and elegantly curved, a reminder that the building, now a part of the university, had been erected centuries ago as a private palace for a Medici descendant. Right now as darkness fell on a Saturday night, it was deserted and only a few overhead lights were left on; it would be Russo’s job—or Augusto’s, if he was even still here—to turn them off before leaving.
    Russo hated to stray so far from the phone, but the clanging sound came again, and he had to make sure it was nothing serious. He lumbered down the stairs, one hand on the finely wrought iron railing, and into the large vestibule on the ground floor. There was no sign of Augusto, or anyone, but the great arched doors that led to the courtyard were open and creaking in the wet wind.
    The clanging came again—and from within the courtyard.
    Russo buttoned his cardigan, noticing he had left some cigarette ash on its front, and pushed one of the heavy doors open wider.
    The massive black block of stone brooded in the center of the interior courtyard, resting on half a dozen steel sawhorses. A huge blue plastic canopy hung above it, flapping and whipping in the wind. One of the cable lines holding the canopy in place had come loose and it was blowing wildly, banging its metal clip against the side of the stone.
    At least the mystery had been solved.
    But Russo knew that he couldn’t let the cable remain loose, especially as it could cause some damage to the stone.
    He stepped reluctantly into the courtyard, the cold wind scouring his face, and approached the block. As he did, he had the unmistakable sense that he was not alone, that there was someone else in the empty courtyard, and his eyes swept the gloomy colonnades on either side.
    “Augusto?” he called out. “Are you there?”
    But no one answered.
    The cable smacked against the cobblestones so hard it threw off a bright blue spark. He reached to grab it, but the wind picked up and the line flew away from his hand. He’d have to be careful. He waited a few seconds, bending down, then reached out again and this time snagged it. He was reminded of a snake charmer he’d once seen grabbing a hissing cobra by its throat.
    “Rompi . . . la pietra.” Break the stone.
    He froze in place, still bent over, the cable in his hand. His head was just a few inches from the fossil, and the words, he could have sworn, had emanated from inside the stone.
    But that was impossible.
    He secured the metal clip of the cable line to a bolt in the cobblestoned floor, then pressed his foot down hard on top of the bolt to make sure it was deeply rooted.
    The rain had begun to fall, pattering on the plastic canopy and driven sideways by gusts of wind captured in the courtyard. The stone grew damp.
    He was about to leave when something made him stop and turn back.
    He bent his head closer to the surface of the stone, like a doctor listening to a patient’s heartbeat. The rock was cold and wet against his cheek.
    “Break the stone.”
    His head instinctively jerked back, his heart pounding. This time the voice had been unmistakable. In the dim light of the courtyard, he could see the bony talons now, and they were no longer fused to the stone—they flexed—and, as he watched in horror, the crown of something’s head—round and wet and smooth—also pressed itself outward, as if it were being born. He tried to step back, but it was too late—his sleeve was caught in the creature’s claw, and he was being drawn toward the glistening rock. Toward the head that was now emerging and turning its stony eyes upon him. He groaned in terror and heard, as if from miles away, a ringing sound.
    The red velvet curtains stirred.
    And the ringing came again.
    Rain slashed against the casement windows.
    He stared out, his eyes wide, as lightning flashed white above the Palatine Hill.
    The phone, on his desk, rang a third time.
    He’d been asleep. His hand fumbled for the receiver. “Pronto.”
    “ Professor