The Deliverance of Evil Read Free Page B

Alessandrini lived on the top floor in one of the buildings and had given the other floors over to Dioguardi for his offices. The third floor was used for administration; the second floor was open to the public—that is, priests and nuns looking for accommodations.
    On one of my days off, a Saturday at the beginning of May, I went to meet him there. It was a glorious morning—the skies clear, the sun already warm. In my old Alfa Romeo Duetto, I crossed the historic city center crowded with tourists. Every so often I slowed to admire a young female visitor. Near the Colosseum I saw a German blonde with huge tits and the words Über alles printed on her T-shirt. In Piazza di Spagna, American girls in shorts were sitting on the Spanish Steps, and in Piazza del Popolo, where the bars were already full, two gorgeous Japanese girls were taking turns photographing each other. Eventually I drove up the winding slopes of Monte Mario and came to Via della Camilluccia. A huge green gate barred the entrance to the park where the two low-rise blocks were situated, separated by a huge fountain, a tennis court, and a swimming pool. It was a little corner of paradise allowing some privileged people to live a separate life, far above that wonderfully chaotic city crawling with people and traffic.
    I drove the car up to the gate. A severe-looking woman in her sixties came out of the gatehouse. She looked me up and down skeptically, unable to decide whether I was an encyclopedia salesman or some lackey of one of the rich people around there. I stared back at her with one of my own surly looks, a gift that came naturally to me.
    “Can I help you?” she asked with a Southern accent.
    “I’m a friend of Angelo Dioguardi’s.”
    “You’ll have to park outside. Only the residents can park inside.”
    She saw me surveying the handful of vehicles parked on the enormous grounds. Among them was a stupendous Aston Martin, Angelo’s Fiat 500 and, gleaming in the sunshine, a Harley-Davidson Panhead.
    “The Count doesn’t want nonresidents’ cars past the gate. And if it was up to him, you know, nonresidents wouldn’t even be allowed in on foot,” the concierge added with a note of disapproval, whether for the nonresidents or the count I couldn’t decide.
    Fortunately, parking on that quiet green road was no problem. The residents all had garages, and there were no stores or restaurants around, only trees, well-tended flowerbeds and Filipino au pairs pushing strollers carrying the children of the wealthy. Their parents were off having coffee in Piazza Navona or out on the golf course.
    “You have to walk to the far end of the grounds. Go around behind the pool and the tennis court, and you’ll get to Building B. You can see the balcony from here; you can’t miss it,” she explained, as though talking to a small child.
    As I passed Building A, the one nearer to the gate, I felt I was being watched. I turned upward and caught sight of a reflection on the third-floor balcony. Someone was spying on visitors through a pair of binoculars. I stopped to admire the Aston Martin parked in front of the entrance to the building. The Harley stood beside it. I went around the large fountain and onto the pathways between the tennis court and the swimming pool; tall trees prevented me from making out Building B.
    I came across a lanky and energetic young man. Thick red curls, blue eyes, freckles, probably not more than twenty. He was wearing a priest’s cassock.
    “Are you lost?” he asked in a thick American accent.
    “I’m not sure. I’m looking for Angelo Dioguardi in Building B.”
    “You’re not a priest,” he said, smiling as though he’d said something witty. He explained, “Only priests and nuns come to see Angelo. I’m Father Paul, assistant to Cardinal Alessandrini.”
    He accompanied me to Building B’s front door.
    “Angelo is on the third floor. Call me if you decide you’d like to become a priest. Maybe I can help.”
    He