by Joanne Pence
“Certainly.” Michael nodded. “But before you go, could you tell me the time he died?”
The doctor’s gaze was cold. “A few minutes before midnight. Why do you ask?”
Michael couldn’t reply. He had looked at a clock shortly after the priest left his apartment. It had been midnight. “It’s nothing,” he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper.
Chapter 4
Idaho
“Berosus is dead.”
“Damn!” Hank Bennett’s hand tightened on the satellite phone at the private eye’s news. Bennett, founder and onetime owner of the most advanced internet security program in existence, had spent years searching for Berosus. Just that morning he found a photo of the old priest in an Italian newspaper online. He immediately contacted a private investigator he knew in Italy, Lorenzo Fermi, and told him to find Berosus and the pearl. “What about the pearl?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t in his room at the hospital, and we can’t find where he was living. Frankly, we suspect he slept on the streets or homeless shelters.”
“Not good enough!” Bennett fumed. He stood in his cabin high on a mountain side in an unprotected area in central Idaho. It was called “unprotected” mainly because the feds, who controlled most of the forest and wilderness lands, never bothered to formally decide if it belonged to the eastern Bitterroot forest, or the western Nez Perce forest. As a result, no one watched the hundreds of thousands of acres of no-man's-land, with no phone lines or cell towers, and no electricity beyond what could be supplied by a generator.
“Signore, the priest didn’t have what you want.” Fermi kept his tone calm. “The man had nothing.”
“Do I have to come there myself to investigate?” Bennett raged. “I’ve paid you good money, more than good. And now he’s dead. Where could he have hidden it? Have you done anything at all to earn the money I sent you?”
“Sì, sì! I heard that someone, an American, went to the hospital asking about him. I’m trying to track him down, but if he’s asking, most likely he doesn’t have it either.”
“An American? That’s bad, extremely bad. Find out everything you can about him,” Bennett insisted. “In the meantime, the priest was Chaldean. There can’t be that many of them in Florence. Someone’s got to know him. Find whoever knows him, and find where he was living, where his possessions are. Do I have to do your thinking for you?” Bennett yelled. “And do whatever it takes, do you hear me? If you want to see the bonus I promised, you’ll get some answers for me—useful answers.”
“Yes, Mr. Bennett. I will not disappoint you.”
“You had better not.”
Bennett ended the call and walked to the window, planning his next step. He was in his mid-sixties, but would have looked much younger if he trimmed his light brown hair and bushy beard so that the few frizzy strands of gray wouldn’t stand out, giving him the appearance of an aging hippy. A thin man, his face seemed concave from his cheekbones to his jawline, and his eyes were two small, gray-blue circles surrounded by pale lashes.
He looked out on a western branch of the Rockies, broad, rugged mountains, sliced by glaciers into jagged monoliths, many of which had ever known a human footstep. People who opined from their small, crowded urban residences that creatures like Bigfoot couldn’t possibly exist or some authoritative person would have sighted and photographed them, had never seen an expanse of mountains like this. Some considered it the most rugged land in the continental U.S.—roadless, impregnable, and threatening.
As much as he cherished the solitude of the area, the land had a sameness to it despite its beauty, and a loneliness that could drive a man mad.
People who knew Bennett would swear he’d gone crazy long before moving there, however. Madness was the only explanation they could give for Bennett leaving the world of information technology ten years earlier. Some of his colleagues swore that if he hadn’t sold his company, his fortune one day might have neared a billion dollars.
But Bennett had walked away from all he knew and sold all he owned. He owed no explanation and gave none. Why should he? Those authoritative know-it-alls thought the item he had spent his adult life tracking did not exist.
They were wrong.
His gray tabby leaped onto the window sill and then let out a loud squawk followed by a strange chattering noise at a squirrel on the opposite side of the window, the kind of clicking sound that told him every sinew in the feline’s body wanted nothing so much as to sink its teeth into the furry little critter’s neck.
He understood the feeling perfectly.
Chapter 5
Los Angeles, California
At precisely 5:18 a.m., a loud rumble and violent shaking of the earth woke clinical psychologist, Dr. Kira Holt, from a deep slumber. Dogs in the neighborhood barked in fear of the quivering ground. As she sat upright, the earth stilled. She waited a moment, ready to stand in a doorway or run out of the townhouse if the trembler began again. It didn’t.
She switched on her clock-radio to listen for news reports. They would begin to come in almost immediately, and sure enough, a disgustingly cheery-voiced radio announcer let everyone know they weren’t feeling whips and jangles or having nightmares. The Los Angeles area had just experienced what he called “a beaut of a shake.”
Kira took a quick shower and had just finished drying off when the first report hit from the seismology lab at U.C. Berkeley. The quake rated a 5.9. So far, there were no reports of serious damage. More would become known after the sun came up.
Kira made coffee, glad to have been awakened from a disturbing dream, even if by an earthquake. It was one of those strangely recurring dreams, but she had no idea why she kept dreaming it, or what triggered it. In the dream, she was still married to Ben Simmons. Remarkably, she was happy, which was rarely the state of her short, ill-conceived marriage. But then, everything turned fuzzy and tinged with red, including the eyes of some strange black creatures. They weren’t dogs, and she guessed from their tails they might be foxes, although she had never seen a fox except in pictures, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing one completely black. Whatever they were, they frightened her, and she screamed for Ben to run—to run and not look back, to run and be safe.
As a psychologist, she knew if she could connect the bizarre images to real life, she would understand the dream, rationalize it, and overcome it. A tried-and-true formula. But so far, she couldn’t find the link.
After yogurt and half a bagel for breakfast, she dried her long red hair and pulled it straight back into a pony tail. She hated the bright color and found that keeping it tight against her head was the best way to stop people from commenting on its color or speculating on whether her temperament matched the fiery locks. It didn’t, most of the time.
She dressed in a business-oriented gray pants suit with a silk blouse that matched the sky-blue color of her eyes. She didn’t consider herself especially attractive, but she had often been told that her large, penetrating eyes were an effective asset in her line of work. She routinely did all she could to highlight them.
Her nerves were still raw as she reached the Federal Building, a massive, white modern structure on Wilshire Boulevard near Veteran Ave. She showed her badge to get past security. Although her degree was in clinical psychology, she worked increasingly often in criminal profiling. The FBI’s criminal profilers were back in Quantico, but the Special Agent in Charge of the Criminal Division of the Los Angeles field office found the practice useful and set aside funds to hire consultants. After she helped successfully track down a child pornography ring, the FBI called for her services so often she found it difficult to maintain a private practice. She had to admit, however, the scope of the FBI job was far more interesting than holding one-on-one sessions, and capturing criminals was more personally rewarding than listening to wealthy people lament about their low self-esteem.
She stepped onto an elevator filled with government workers and pressed the button for the seventeenth f
loor. The morning’s earthquake made her nervous about going so high, but she tried to put it out of her mind by thinking about her current case, one that involved a potential serial killer. Five young women had been murdered, three in California, one in southern Nevada, and one in Arizona. Several odd similarities made it appear the same killer could be involved, but she wasn’t one to jump on the “serial killer” bandwagon without hard evidence. They weren’t nearly as common as books and movies portrayed, and that line of pursuit could mean that up to four murderers were getting a pass while all of law enforcement concentrated on only one.
Understanding the criminal mind came easily to her, growing up as she did with a father who worked as a district attorney and a judge. Throughout her childhood, Judge Daniel Holt, now on the Federal Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and rumored to be the top prospect for the next Supreme Court opening, would often muse aloud about his cases, not particularly directing his thoughts towards her, but she was often the only other person nearby. He would ponder what could make a criminal do some of the outlandish, cold-blooded or downright stupid things he saw in his courtroom day after day.
As she progressed in her study of psychology, she realized the workings of the criminal mind weren’t exactly the sort of thing one should discuss with a child. But if her father hadn’t thought out loud in her presence, he wouldn’t have talked to her at all. He never asked her anything as mundane as whether or not she liked her teacher, or her school, or even what she enjoyed reading or watching on television. He had no idea of her best friend’s name. But she had listened and learned, and that upbringing served her well in taking on the most interesting cases of her career.
On the seventeenth floor, she crossed the large open floor filled with FBI agents’ desks. Hers was in a dark but quiet corner. Only supervisors had private offices.
Someone had placed a couple dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts beside the staff coffee pot. Kira guessed she wasn’t the only one shaken by the earthquake. She poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a glazed doughnut, then sat at her desk and picked up the papers in her “in-tray” eager to inspect the latest evidence from Arizona. She had just begun to read them when Special Agent in Charge Edward Lungren approached.
“Something’s come up, Dr. Holt,” he said. He was tall but rotund, with a fleshy, lined and sagging face that reminded her of a bloodhound. His tie was loose and the top button of his shirt was open. “I have to ask you to put aside your current case for a day or two. I don’t think this will take you long, but it’s high profile, and I want to be sure all the bases are covered.”
He dragged a nearby chair to the side of her desk and sat as he told her about the death of Hollywood horror movie producer Gene Oliveros and his family. “We need a psych profile from you. There’s talk it might be a murder-suicide, but from what we’ve heard so far, he had no reason to do what he did, and was supposedly in love with his wife and kid. Still, the kind of movies he produced showed a warped mind … maybe. Or, he could have made them simply because that was the kind of movie that made him rich. We’re only speculating. We need you to find out for sure.”
He handed her photos from the crime scene. They were horrifying.
“I’ll be glad to help,” she said. “But why is this an FBI case?”
He looked sheepish. “It isn’t yet. It might never be, but right now, you’re our in. The LAPD will do what they can, and that’s plenty, but they don’t have a criminal profiler so we’re happy to assist—with you. If the local police screw-up, or if Washington gets interested given how palsy-walsy they are with Hollywood contributors, we might be asked to help. If so, I want to be on top of things.”
“Got it.” She threw on her jacket and then picked up her handbag and notepad. She was happy to get out of the high rise.
Chapter 6
Florence, Italy
Michael dashed out of the hospital to the sidewalk then stopped and took a deep breath. The air felt crisp but clean after the rain. Sunshine. Pigeons flew. Car horns honked. Crowds of people bustled through the streets lined with shops and cafes. Here, life was normal.
He wanted to get away from the hospital and quickly reached his Vespa. Clearly, the man who died wasn’t the elderly priest who had visited him. Maybe the two were relatives. He had no idea, but told himself all would become clear once he reached the mortuary.
First, however, he had the problem of the bronze and the pearl. He traveled as if on autopilot to his bank and placed the bronze and pearl in his safe deposit box, then continued to the place he was dreading to go.
At the mortuary, he was directed to a chillingly sterile, small room. Before long a man, older, balding, and wearing a white uniform wheeled a gurney into the room.
Michael steeled himself. He had seen dead bodies before, but a body without the spark of life was a sad thing to behold.
Please don’t let it be Berosus. Please …
The mortuary assistant quietly watched him, waiting. Michael nodded, and the assistant pulled back the sheet covering the face.
Michael drew in his breath. “Well, he does look like the man I met. But according to the hospital, he was in a coma during the time I spoke with him, so ...”
“Sometimes hospitals are off by a few hours,” the assistant said, trying to be helpful. “If he looks like the man you know, I suspect it’s him.”
Michael stared at the body. It was definitely Berosus. “I’m not sure,” he said. “May I see his clothes?”
“No problem.” The assistant put the sheet back in place, wheeled the body from the room, and soon returned with a large, black plastic bag. His mouth wrinkled with disgust as he handed it over. “Be careful. Everything’s filthy.”
Michael opened the bag. It contained the black clothes Berosus had worn and the silver crucifix. He went through the pockets, looking for identification that the hospital might have missed. He found a five euro note, a few coins, several holy medals, and a small photograph of a group of American sailors folded in half. Badly faded, it was the size and shape of a photo taken with an old Polaroid camera. When the assistant looked away, Michael slid the photo into his jacket pocket.
“It’s him,” Michael admitted, handing back the clothes bag.
After signing some papers to positively identify the body as that of Father Yosip Berosus, he left the mortuary, glad to get the scent of chemicals and flowers out of his nose.
He shivered, but not from cold as he walked to his parking place. He had heard more than once that when the body died the soul sometimes remained on earth for several hours to finish its work or to assure loved ones. He had never experienced that phenomenon, and tended to believe it was said only as a means to comfort the bereaved, but it was the best explanation for what had happened.
He couldn’t help but think of how ironic it was that he’d moved to Italy to get away from paranormal weirdness, and now a ghostly spirit may have arrived at his doorstep. But Berosus hadn’t been a ghost. Whatever had come to his apartment was alive and real. He had drunk wine and water, and handed over an object of some weight.
How was it possible? Michael got on his scooter and started it up. It was late afternoon now, and the streets more crowded as they filled with people shopping and going to restaurants.
At the first intersection, a Fiat sedan cut him off. He swerved and nearly ran into a wall. The driver jumped out of the car, followed by another man, and they headed towards Michael.
From their expressions, he knew they were trouble.
The driver swung first. Michael sidestepped the blow, then grabbed the fist that flew by and used the attacker’s own thrust to pull him forward and downward. He then struck a Shaolin blow to the back of the man’s neck. The attacker dropped like a stone.
But the quick, powerful movement caused pain to shoot from Michael’s bad shoulder down his arm to his fingertips. He gasped, unable to move for a moment, and then turned to look for the second man.
He heard a whoosh just before something
struck the back of his head and all went black.
Michael opened his eyes to see concerned faces of strangers peering down at him, women’s as well as men’s. He slowly stood, trying to get his bearings and shake the fuzziness from his brain.
The Fiat and its passengers were gone. One person had picked up his motor scooter, another handed him his wallet, while others tossed a barrage of Italian at him. He didn’t understand the words or the situation, and kept repeating “grazie” and smiling like some doofus, while inside he was furious. What the hell was going on?
He felt in his pockets and found everything, including his passport, except his keys. He searched the ground, but they were gone. A sinking feeling hit, especially when his wallet still had money and credit cards.
This was no typical mugging. He gingerly touched the back of his head and felt a lump forming. Last night, he’d passed out for no reason, and now some strangers knocked him out. If Florence was trying to tell him he was no longer welcome here, he was getting the message. All he wanted to do, now, was get back to his apartment.
An English speaker offered to help him report the attack to the police or go to a hospital to be checked for a concussion. Sure, and spend hours trying to explain the inexplicable while his apartment was being cleaned out. He thanked the man, but declined, wanting no part of cops, hospitals, doctors or anything else disrupting what had been, until midnight last night, a quiet life.
Without his keys, he couldn’t even drive his scooter. A couple of men pushed it to a parking space. Michael caught a taxi home. Anxiety over what he might find there, along with the bump on his head, made him slightly nauseous.
Luckily, his landlady, Mrs. Silvestri, was home. She was in her fifties, rotund, usually jolly, but looked horrified when he told her what had happened, and that his apartment key had been stolen. He once overheard her calling him her “quiet, lonely tenant,” and she had even introduced him to a couple of women who immediately became overly shy, and couldn’t say much more than hello. Those experiences had been even more painful to him than the whack on the head. Now, Mrs. Silvestri’s brown eyes showed her worry as they walked to his apartment and she tried to persuade him to see a doctor. He refused and said he’d be fine. She shook her head as she unlocked his door.
