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Gaetano genuflected when he reached the grand altar, flanked by marble arches. Its majestic apse was illuminated by a candelabra that cast the crucifix in amber and gold. He spotted one of the junior priests, Father DiGregorio, short in his stiff vestments.
Gaetano motioned respectfully to the priest. “Father DiGregorio, excuse me, may I have a minute?”
“Of course, Gaetano.” Father DiGregorio crossed to the marble rail.
“I wonder if you could help me. I’m here on behalf of a client.” Gaetano had begun to think of the boy as his client, so he considered thisthe truth. “I know many children in Palermo are baptized at the Cathedral. In fact, my sons were baptized here.”
“Yes, we have a beautiful font.”
“I know you keep records, because I remember signing a book on the day my sons were baptized.”
“Yes, of course. The records are in the rectory.” Father DiGregorio gestured behind him, since the rectory was attached to the Cathedral.
“I’m interested in seeing the baptismal records from five and six years ago, for a client matter.” Gaetano knew that in all likelihood, the name of the kidnapped boy would be in the baptismal records, since he was probably from one of the best families in town.
Father DiGregorio frowned. “That would be quite a number of books.”
“I know, I expected that. I’d be happy to examine them here. I needn’t take them from the premises. I’d like to see them now, if possible, since time is of the essence.”
“I understand.” Father DiGregorio nodded. “I’ll speak with someone to obtain permission. It may take a moment or two. Excuse me.”
“Thank you.”
Father DiGregorio turned away, and Gaetano’s gaze strayed to the transept that held the gleaming silver reliquary of Saint Rosalia, ornately carved and taller than a man, restored there since the festival.
Gaetano walked over, reached the nave, and knelt on the kneepad. He had grown up on Saint Rosalia’s story, as did allPalermitani.She was born Rosalia Sinibaldi, the beautiful daughter of a duke, but instead of marrying, she chose to serve God and to live in a cave atop Mount Pellegrino. She died there in 1170 and performed a miracle during the 1600s, when she appeared to a soap maker and told him to carry her bones through the city to stop the plague. He did, which was why her relics were paraded at her festival every year.
The story resonated for Gaetano in a way it hadn’t before. Saint Rosalia was a young girl alone in a cave, and the kidnapped boy would be alone in a strange and hostile place, too. Gaetano prayed to SaintRosalia to help him find the boy, then crossed himself and ended his prayer, looking over as Father DiGregorio reappeared.
With a smile.
Gaetano was shown to asmall, windowless study in the administration section of the rectory, containing a medium-sized wooden table, four chairs, and austere white walls adorned with oil portraits of clergy in splendid vestments. Stacked on the table were twenty-four oversized books, one for each month of the year, five and six years ago.
Gaetano sat down, slid the paper from his leather envelope, and extracted a quill from the well. He picked up the first book, from January, five years ago. He opened the book, feeling a tingle of excitement. It was a long list of names, showing the gender of each baby, the date of each baptism, the parents’ names and signatures, and home addresses. The entries were chronological by baptismal date and written in different inks and hands, made by different priests.
Gaetano’s pulse quickened. It was exactly what he had hoped for. He intended to copy down the names of the male babies, along with the information about their families. Then he would visit the families, interview them, and see if each boy was home or if there was any sign he had been kidnapped. It would take work, but sooner or later Gaetano would end up finding the family of the kidnapped boy.
His gaze fell on the first baby boy baptized that year:Giovanni DiTolo. Gaetano started copying, and when he had finished, his papers were puckered with black ink and he had the names of one hundred and twenty boys, along with their parents and addresses.
He slid the pages into his leather envelope. His list was long but he was already thinking about how to organize his search. He wanted to find the boy as quickly as possible and he couldn’t wait to start interviewing families.
Luckily, Gaetano had an army to help.
An army of good.
“Good afternoon, Bartolomeo.”
Gaetano hung his hat on the rack, and Bartolomeo looked up from behind glasses that magnified his eyes. He occupied the better desk by the window, and a shaft of light fell on his papers, the light reflecting upward onto his stern expression.
“You were gone a long time.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Gaetano went to his desk and spotted a note from Don Matteo that read,See me about the lending agreement. “Is he in?”
“No. He left for the day. The note isn’t good.”
Gaetano disliked that Bartolomeo had read his note. “Did he have the lending agreement in hand?”
“Yes, and he wasn’t happy.” Bartolomeo cleared his throat. “He told me I did an excellent job on the Whitaker tax matter.”
