The Fallen Angel

but Gabriel’s. It galloped alongside the front tire, pausing every now and again to drop into an aggressive crouch and bare its savage teeth. Then, when the car came to a stop, it launched itself toward Gabriel’s window like a missile and tried to bite him through the glass. Gabriel regarded the animal calmly, which incensed it even more. It had the pale yellow eyes of a wolf and was frothing at the mouth as though it were rabid.
    “Maybe you should try talking to it,” suggested Chiara.
    “I don’t believe in negotiating with terrorists.”
    Gabriel sighed heavily and removed the plastic wrapper from one of the sandwiches. Then he cracked the window and quickly shoved the sandwich through the gap. Six inches of Parma ham, fontina, and bread disappeared in a single ravenous bite.
    “He’s obviously not kosher,” said Chiara.
    “Is that a good sign or bad?”
    “Bad,” she replied. “Very bad.”
    Gabriel slipped another sandwich through the window. This time, the dog’s incisor nicked the tip of his finger.
    “Are you all right?”
    “It’s a good thing I’m ambidextrous.” He quickly fed the dog three more of the sandwiches in assembly-line fashion.
    “The poor thing is starving.”
    “Let’s not start feeling sorry for the dog just yet.”
    “Aren’t you going to give him the last one?”
    “Better to keep it in reserve. That way I’ll have something to fling at him if he decides to go for my throat.”
    Gabriel unlocked the door but hesitated.
    “What are you waiting for?”
    “A declaration of his intentions.”
    He opened the door a few inches and put a foot on the ground. The dog growled low in its throat but remained motionless. The ears were up, which Gabriel supposed was a positive development. Usually, whenever a canine was attempting to tear him to shreds, the ears were always back and down, like the wings of an attack aircraft.
    Gabriel placed the last sandwich on the ground and emerged slowly from the car. Then, with his eyes still fixed on the animal’s jaws, he instructed Chiara to get out. He did so in rapid Hebrew, so the dog wouldn’t understand. Partially satiated, it devoured the food at a more decorous pace, its yellow gaze fixed on Gabriel and Chiara as they made their way toward the back door of the house. Gabriel knocked twice but there was no answer. Then he tried the latch. It was locked.
    He removed the small, thin metal tool he carried always in his wallet and worked it gently inside the lock until the mechanism gave way. When he tried the latch a second time, it yielded to his touch. Inside was a cluttered mudroom filled with old work clothes and tall rubber boots caked with earth. The utility sink was dry. So were the boots.
    He motioned for Chiara to enter and led her into the kitchen. The counters were stacked with dirty dishes, and hanging in the air was the acrid stench of something burning. Gabriel walked over to the automatic coffeemaker. The power light was aglow, and on the bottom of the carafe was a patch of burnt coffee the color of tar. Clearly, the machine had been on for several days—the same number of days, Gabriel reckoned, the dog had gone without food.
    “He’s lucky he didn’t burn the house down,” Chiara said.
    “I’m not so sure about that.”
    “About what?”
    “The part about Falcone being lucky.”
    Gabriel switched off the coffeemaker, and they moved into the dining room. The chandelier, like the coffeemaker, had been left on, and five of the eight bulbs had burned out. At one end of the rectangular table was a meal that had been abandoned. At the other end was a cardboard box with the name of a local winery printed on the side. Gabriel lifted one of the flaps and looked inside. The box was filled with objects carefully wrapped in sheets of the Corriere della Sera . It was a rather highbrow paper for a man like Falcone, he thought. Gabriel had him figured for the Gazzetta dello Sport .
    “Looks like he left in a hurry,” Chiara said.
    “Or maybe he was forced to leave.”
    He removed one of the objects from the box and cautiously opened the newsprint wrapper. Inside was a concave fragment of pottery about the size of Gabriel’s palm, decorated with the partial image of a young woman in semi-profile. She wore a pleated gown and appeared to be playing a flute-like instrument. Her flesh and garment were depicted in the same terra-cotta color, but the background was a luminous solid black.
    “My God,” said Chiara