The Lion's Den(101)

“I’ll be right back,” I say, holding my stomach as though I feel sick. “Will you please tell Summer? I really have to go.”

I slip out the door without giving her the chance to deny me and dart in the direction from which we came.

My sandals slap the knobby cobblestones of the deserted road, reverberating between the crumbling buildings as I run. I round the first corner without incident and pull the phone from my purse. No service. Crap. I make a mad dash to the next intersection, where I see the motorbikes I spied earlier a block ahead of me.

Surely the police station has Wi-Fi. Or a phone I can use. A pay phone—do those exist anymore? They don’t know who I am. I can tell them I lost my passport, that I need to call the embassy to make an appointment to get a new one.

I hurry up the street, again checking Amythest’s phone for wireless connectivity. Nothing.

A wide set of stone steps leads to an ornate concrete building with POLIZIA MUNICIPALE TERRALIONE spelled out in block letters over the double doors. It’s an imposing building for such a small town, and I am acutely aware of the fact that I am going to be lying to them as I climb the steps two at a time. I take a deep breath and put my hand on the heavy door. It suddenly swings in, opened by a burly guard in uniform.

I manage some version of “no Italian” that produces a nod and a gesture toward the metal detector. It goes off the first time I try to walk through, and I realize I’m still wearing my purse across my body. I hand it to the guard, who rifles through it while I walk through the metal detector again, this time successfully.

“Wi-Fi?” I ask when he returns my purse.

He shakes his head and points to an empty desk at the end of the hallway.

“Phone?” I ask hopefully, making my hand into a phone.

Again he shakes his head and points.

The wide tile corridor is lined with doors that I imagine lead to offices, but the only sounds are the slap of my sandals on the floor and the hum of the air conditioner. The hallway dead-ends into an identical perpendicular hallway, where rows of mismatched plastic folding chairs line the walls, empty.

At the intersection sits an unmanned big black desk, in the center of which is an old-school black push-button phone.

I stand at the desk, unsure what to do. “Hello?” I call.

No one answers. I probably have ten minutes before anyone realizes my story about needing a Dramamine patch was a lie. I need to make the call before then, or Vinny’s liable to find me and drag me back to the boat and…

I reach for the handset, glancing up and down the hall as I put it to my ear. No dial tone. I start pressing buttons, but none of them light up or produce any sign of life.

A uniformed woman emerges from one of the doors and moves down the hallway toward me. I drop the phone into its cradle, firing up my smile. “Mi scusi,” I say. “Inglese?”

She looks bemused, as though I’m the first person ever to come into the police station in whatever town this is.

“Un po’,” she says quizzically.

“I need to make a call,” I say. She doesn’t seem to understand. I make a logical guess, gesturing to the telephone. “Telefono?”

“Quello non funziona,” she replies, sizing me up. “Mi segua, signora.”

I follow her down the hallway and through a door that leads to another waiting room. Another unmanned black desk, two doors behind it.

“Aspetti un momento,” she says, and disappears through one of the doors.

The only sound to cut the silence is the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. I lean against the desk while I wait, again checking Amythest’s phone for service. Nothing, and battery power is running low.

God, I’m tired. My body is buzzing with adrenaline, but the accumulated lack of sleep is catching up with me. My brain is frayed, my muscles weak, and my heart is galloping like a racehorse in the last turn.

It’s been ten minutes. They’re going to be wondering where I am. I need to make this call and get out of here before anyone knows better.

Finally an officer who looks like he’s barely out of high school emerges from the door that the woman disappeared into. He’s skinny with acne, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You the lady want make call?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes at me. “Who you want call?”

“I need to call the American embassy. I’ve lost my passport,” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible.

He turns, beckoning for me to follow. I hurry after him, through a door and into a windowless room with a desk and a number of closed folding chairs leaning against the wall. There is no phone in the room.

This was a bad idea.

I think fast. “Actually…can I use the restroom first?” I ask. “I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

“Okay. Down the hall.”

“Thanks.”

I scurry out the door and hasten down the empty hallway as quickly as I can while still maintaining some semblance of nonchalance. I see no other way out of the building than back the way I came, so I retrace my steps, push open the double doors to the main entrance hall, and run headlong into Vinny.

He stands under the fluorescent lights, the bulk of his body blocking the hallway. His brow is bathed in sweat, his jacket rumpled. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarls.