Chapter 4 - THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA
By morning, my apartment had become a crime scene.
Detective Shaw's team photographed the broken closet lock and collected the page.
Nothing else appeared missing.
Not my laptop.
Not the small amount of cash in my kitchen drawer.
Not even the old television.
Whoever entered had wanted one thing.
My grandfather's records.
Gabriel called at nine.
"Are you safe?"
"I'm tired."
"That wasn't my question."
I looked toward Rebecca, who was speaking with a forensic technician.
"I'm safe."
A pause.
"Good."
He sounded relieved.
Then he said:
"I found something about the bells."
My pulse quickened.
"What?"
"There's an old maritime chapel near the Boston waterfront. It was built by Italian merchant families in the nineteenth century."
"And?"
"It has three bells."
I sat down.
"What's it called?"
"Saint Nicholas of the Harbor."
I closed my eyes.
My grandfather used to take me there.
Every December.
He'd buy me hot chocolate afterward and tell stories about ships arriving from Naples and Marseille.
I hadn't thought about that chapel in years.
By noon, Rebecca had secured permission to examine the chapel's archives.
Gabriel accompanied us, along with a historical preservation officer.
The building stood between a converted warehouse and a narrow cobblestone alley.
Its stone facade had been darkened by generations of sea air.
Inside, the smell of candle wax and old wood made my throat tighten.
I remembered my grandfather holding my hand.
History isn't always in museums, little bird.
Sometimes it's hiding in places people walk past every day.
The chapel's caretaker, Father Michael Donnelly, greeted us.
He remembered Thomas Quinn.
"Your grandfather restored our baptismal registers," he told me.
I stared.
"He never mentioned that."
Father Michael smiled sadly.
"Thomas didn't mention much about his work."
He led us downstairs.
The basement contained old parish records, storage cabinets, and a locked archive room.
I studied the walls.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a carved wooden panel beneath a staircase.
Three bells.
The same symbol.
My heart accelerated.
"That's it."
Rebecca approached.
"What?"
I pointed.
"My grandfather drew those bells."
Father Michael frowned.
"That panel has been here longer than I have."
I knelt.
Beneath the carving was a line of Latin.
Non sub undis, sed sub sonis.
Not beneath the waves.
Beneath the sounds.
I looked upward.
The bells were directly above us.
Then I noticed three small iron rings embedded in the wall.
They were numbered.
Not one, two, three.
But seven, four, nine.
My grandfather's favorite numerical sequence.
I pressed the rings in that order.
A small section of paneling shifted.
Father Michael gasped.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside lay a metal cylinder wrapped in oilcloth.
Rebecca stopped me before I touched it.
"Let the evidence technician handle it."
I nodded.
My hands were shaking.
The cylinder contained a sealed envelope and a miniature photographic negative.
The envelope was addressed to:
THE CHILD OF THE WOLF.
Gabriel stared at it.
His face had gone pale.
Rebecca carefully documented the discovery.
Then she asked:
"Do you recognize the handwriting?"
I nodded.
"My grandfather's."
Gabriel looked at me.
"Can you read it?"
"Not until it's properly examined."
He nodded.
For once, the man who controlled half the waterfront didn't seem interested in giving orders.
He looked frightened.
That evening, forensic specialists opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter.
Written in plain English.
To the child who survives us:
Your father was not killed by accident. The fire was arranged to erase the rightful heir and transfer control of the Moretti trust.
Your mother escaped with you. I helped her.
I cannot name your location here. Too many people are watching.
If I fail, remember this: the child carries his mother's name.
Thomas Quinn.
I stared at the final sentence.
The child carries his mother's name.
Gabriel looked at Rebecca.
"What was Luciano's wife's maiden name?"
Rebecca checked her notes.
Then frowned.
"We haven't confirmed it."
Gabriel looked toward Vincent.
"Find it."
An hour later, Vincent returned with a birth certificate.
Luciano Moretti's wife had been named Adriana Vale.
I studied the name.
Vale.
Something about it troubled me.
Then Rebecca received a message from the records office.
Adriana Vale had given birth to a son in 2002.
But there was a second birth record.
Filed under a different surname.
A girl.
Born eighteen months earlier.
Gabriel looked up.
"A daughter?"
Rebecca nodded.
"And her name was Evelyn."
May you like
My blood turned cold.
Because Evelyn was my mother's name.
