The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) by Kristen Elise Ph.D. Page A

suppose that is necessary.”
    “Do you know what bus number you need?”
    “Um…” I began, and he shook his head in a silent scolding.
    “I’m going to the Naples Archeological Museum,” I said and then quickly added, “My husband is meeting me there.”
    He explained to me that I needed to take the Number Two bus, which would follow a continuous loop through downtown Naples, stopping at the railway station and at several of the major tourist attractions.
    “Now, please, do not be afraid,” he said. “I am taking the same bus. But I will get off before you. I live in the Spanish Quarter. You’ll be able to wave ‘bye bye!’ ” He waved cheerfully at an imaginary target.
    I smiled wearily, feeling a bit stupid. And, admittedly, a bit grateful.
     

    I had not ridden a bus in years. There must have been a hundred people crammed onto the one that pulled up to our stop. By the time I entered and found a place to stand that was near the driver, my new friend was nowhere in sight. I took care to hold my purse in front of me with my arm over the zipper and the strap laced more than once around my hand. I also had a death grip on the leather.
    The bus lurched from one stop to another, and I listened intently for the driver to announce the stop for the Naples Archeological Museum. Two Metro policemen boarded and began shoving their way between the wall-to-wall passengers. The police approached each passenger in turn, and each passenger extracted a ticket for the policemen to see.
    “ Billete ,” one said when they reached me. I produced my ticket.
    The two policemen looked at each other. Motioning between my ticket and my face, they began a heated discussion in Italian. Finally, the dialog ceased, and one of them turned back to me. “ Settanta-cinque euro ,” he said.
    “Huh?” I asked and shrugged my shoulders.
    The policemen turned back to one other, and they began yelling back and forth again, shaking their heads. Finally, one took out a small notepad and wrote on it. “75€” his script read.
    “Does anyone here speak English?” I asked, straining to turn my head and peer through the crowd. Dozens of pairs of eyes dropped to the floor of the bus. Others continued to stare straight ahead as if I had not spoken at all.
    We proceeded through two or three additional stops, with both policemen yelling feverishly at me in Italian, before the bus screeched to a halt and one of the transit cops grabbed me by the top of the head. He roughly turned my head toward the window, which he pointed through with a long stabbing finger. “ Bancomat! ” he said emphatically.
    The policeman was pointing toward a cash machine. Finally, I understood that they were telling me I owed them money. I had been through the procedure dozens of times during college weekend jaunts from San Diego across the border to Tijuana. These officers expected seventy-five euros from me in exchange for leaving me alone.
    I thought for a moment. Then I flashed a sweet smile at both policemen and stepped casually off the bus.
     

    The bustle of downtown Naples was around me in full force as the automatic doors of the bus snapped shut with their characteristic metallic sigh. The honking of horns and overlapping voices of hurried pedestrians blended together in a murky haze of sound.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two policemen exchange a look of triumph as I stepped toward the cash machine. I reached into my purse and withdrew my wallet, from which I pulled my debit card. I withdrew eighty euros from my checking account and handed the cash to one of the policemen. I returned my wallet to my purse.
    “Thank you, Officer, uh… Carmello Rossi,” I said, peering at the name badge on his uniform. “You may keep the change.” I smiled again at his partner and made a quick mental note of his name badge as well—Franco Dalfani.
    The officers exchanged a few words in Italian as Rossi motioned toward the banknotes in his hand.
    “May I go