“Get in the car. Now!”
The chrome gun moved in Marion’s direction, and Peter tightened his grip on the man’s tree-trunk wrist. An instant of dizziness ripped through his head like a buzzsaw, followed by a sense of utter clarity. It was a clarity of purpose and sensory input. The strength of Peter’s hand seemed to be increasing exponentially as each second ticked away. Big Guy was suddenly reeling backward away from the Accura, his gun hand waving randomly in the air. Peter felt the guy’s radius and ulna cracking beneath the flesh like broomsticks wrapped in a wet towel. Still he continued the pressure.
“No,” Peter repeated, softly. He was certain the single word had been heard, even through the other man’s screams.
Eyes bulging, mouth twisted into a ragged circle of torment, the thug leaned into Peter, aiming the gun at his stomach. Releasing the crushed left arm, Peter lunged for the gun and wrapped his fingers around both bright chrome and the guy’s hand.
There was the softest sound, like the breath being forced from the chest of a small animal, and a 9mm shell spanged into the outer shell of the black sedan. A stinging flash of dizziness crossed Peter’s forehead, and again the sensation of absolute clarity came to him.
This bastard had tried to kill him. Kill Marion.
Another pffffttt! The slug thonked into the side of the car, and Peter could feel the subtle aftershock under his grip. There was a pungent smell of cordite, mixing quickly with a stronger, darker odor—the smell of burning flesh.
The thug’s screams reached a new octave of agony as he tried to dance away from Peter, who looked down to see a blue aura surrounding his hand, the gun, and the other guy’s hand.
Only there wasn’t much of a gun anymore, and less of a hand holding it. Running like liquid mercury, the molten metal of the gun poured through Peter’s unscathed fingers. He watched the polished teardrops fall to the concrete like silver rain. It was beautiful and horrific at the same time.
The guy’s hand had been reduced to charred, flaking bits of bone. The intense heat had vaporized his flesh and carbonized his skeleton in an instant. His frenzied dance parted him from Peter as the rest of his arm fell out of his sleeve like ashes down a coal chute. The blue aura vanished when the contact with Peter’s hand was broken. All through it, the thug continued to scream.
Mute, stunned, Marion looked from the hideous scene into Peter’s eyes. Who are you? her gaze asked. Fear lurched behind her sea-green pupils, but so did something else.
He hoped it was respect.
Everything had happened so fast, it was hard to believe that only seconds ago, they had bumped into a couple of pseudo-skycaps. In the tradition of all New York cabbies, the waiting drivers had ignored the entire confrontation. If anyone had seen the results of Peter’s counterattack or heard the agonized screams from the one-armed man, nobody was letting on.
“Come on,” said Peter, reaching out to take Marion’s hand. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
She looked at him like that was the last thing she’d want to do with him, but she nodded once, accepted his hand and let herself be led into the parking lot.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
Marion tugged at Peter and they ran in a half-panic. She fumbled with the door-lock before they could scramble in. She drove in silence glancing over repeatedly at him. His face burned with a flush of embarrassment, like a boy who’s been caught stealing cookies. Her gaze was both fearful and intimidating.
“Where’re we going?” he asked. “Your place?”
The lights of Ozone Park blinked past the window behind her head, creating a halo in her auburn hair. She looked very beautiful.
“No,” she said finally. She checked the rearview mirror for a moment. “It doesn’t look like anybody’s following us…”
“That was a hell of a show back there,” Peter said, trying to smile. “When did you learn all that ninja stuff?”
“It’s tae kwon do. I’ve been studying it for years…” She paused, rubbed her eyes. “But I don’t think that’s the burning issue of the day—if you’ll pardon my pun.”
Peter looked down at his hands, knowing what she meant, trying to fathom how she must be feeling right now.
“You saw what happened?” he asked lamely.
“Father, how could I miss it?”
Peter exhaled, shook his head. How could he ever explain? Would she believe him? Did it matter?
“Listen,” Marion said, touching his arm softly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got to tell you, you’ve got me freaked out. First somebody who tries to mug you gets hit by lightning—only the M.E. says it was more like a microwave—and now…I saw what you did to that guy and his gun. Pardon me for asking, Father, but what the hell’s going on with you?”
“Could you please call me ‘Peter’?” he asked, not really knowing why.
She nodded, waited.
The car barreled its way along the Belt Parkway as he glanced out the window. A freighter loomed beyond Gravesend Bay, and the towering lights of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge grew even larger as Brooklyn unfolded to their right. He felt like he was hurtling forward into a terrible darkness, upon a journey he couldn’t make alone. The car exited at Ocean Parkway and headed north.
“All right,” he said in a half-whisper, “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Marion glanced over at him then went back to concentrating on the traffic, which had become suddenly heavy. “Not now,” she said. “We’re almost there.”
Sinking back into his seat, Peter nodded.
She turned on Avenue H and headed east till she reached Ocean Avenue. Waiting motionless, in silence, for a moment, she decided they hadn’t been followed. She exited the car, and Peter followed her lead.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“My friend, Suzette, lives here.” She pointed to a bungalow surrounded by trees, then held up a house key. “She’s in Nags Head for two weeks and I told her I’d water her plants while she was gone.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s go,” said Marion, leading the way up the walk to the porch, and through the front door.
The living room was well-furnished in a contemporary style. The bookcases and framed artwork bespoke a person of intelligence and culture. Exactly the kind of friend he would have expected Marion Windsor to have.
“I don’t know about you, but I need something to drink,” she said, going to the kitchen. “Suzette always has a couple of bottles of wine around. Red or white, Father? I mean—Peter.”
He sat on the couch, smiled. “Red will be fine—if it’s okay with you.”
“Listen,” she called from the other room, “after what I’ve been through tonight, the color of my wine isn’t going to score too many points, if you know what I mean.”
She entered the room with two half-full goblets, handed him one, and joined him on the couch. She’d discarded the Aussie hat, and her hair fell down past her shoulders in a red-brown cascade. Even in the dim light of the room, highlights gamboled brightly.
Peter sipped the wine, then gulped down most of it. He was breathing raggedly and his pulse had begun to jump in reaction to all that had happened since he’d gotten off the plane.
“All right, Peter,” she said over the crystal rim of her glass. “I think you owe me an explanation.”
“I just hope you’ll believe me,” he said.
“After what I’ve seen, I think I could believe anything.”
Peter nodded, looking into her eyes. “Then listen…”
EIGHTEEN
Rome, Italy—Targeno
* * *
August 27, 1998
He watched the Jesuit pacing about the room. He’d never seen the man so agitated or anxious. Having just received the news that Peter Carenza had escaped detention at JFK, Father Francesco seemed disoriented, unable to think or function in his usual Machiavellian manner.
Targeno lit a Turkish cigarette, sucked the thick smoke deep into hi
s lungs. The hot gases seared his delicate nasal passages as he exhaled.
“We have been playing games for hours, Giovanni,” he said. “Is it not time we were honest with one another?”
The priest glared at him.
Targeno smiled. “Things do not add up. So far we have traded information the way children on a street corner swap candy, exchanging flavors neither one of them like.”
“I have told you everything I can.” Francesco turned to the window.
“I do not think so.” Targeno’s voice rose sharply. “Listen to me! Masseria’s goons blew the assignment at JFK. I do not know how two trained agents could be stopped by a single priest, but believe me, I will find out.”
Wheeling from the window, the Jesuit glared at him. “I cannot tell you anything else!”
“You have not told me goat-turds!” Knowing the impact of his next words, Targeno spoke quietly. “You and your friends hired a German scientist to artificially inseminate a naïve little girl just dumped into a convent.”
Francesco nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? How did you—”
“I discovered it on my own.” Targeno knew it was only a matter of time before he got all the information he wanted. “We keep going over the same barren landscape, Father.”
Francesco slumped into a chair, exhaled dramatically. A sign of surrender? “There were two others involved…”
“I already know that too. Cardinal Lareggia and the Abbess Victorianna. The only other person who knew anything was the late Pope.”
Francesco seemed surprised. “How could you possibly—?”
“Some crumbs gleaned from the nun, some from my research into the files. I also know you received a scrambled message from Carenza’s pastor in America, who used the code name Bronzini.”
Francesco’s mouth hung open.
“I assume the pastor told you something which warranted your summoning Carenza himself. I am still running some checks on Carenza in America. If anything out of the ordinary has happened to him lately, I will soon know about it.”
“You are incredible,” said Francesco. His voice conveyed a mixture of disgust and admiration.
“If you think you can keep the whole story from me after dropping me into its center, then you have never learned who I am.” Targeno drew dramatically on his cigarette. “A little intuition and a little guessing.” He smiled. “That is how I have stayed alive all these years.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. I always knew you were good. I should not be surprised at what you learn when your skills are pointed at me.”
“So who else knew about your little experiment?”
“The Pope, as you surmised. He knew what we had planned. He approved of everything.”
“What about the current Holy Father?” He purposely employed the euphemism for satiric effect.
Francesco shook his head. “He knows nothing. None of the Popes after Paul VI knew anything about the project.”
Targeno nodded. “So you stole the baby, locked him into the Church, then sent him to America. Why? And now you want him back and he doesn’t want to stay. I want to know why.”
Francesco shook his head, buried his face in his spindly, long-fingered hands. “I did not expect Carenza to do anything like this. Either he does not believe what he learned about himself, or he is terrified by it. Regardless, he does not want to accept the path we have set him upon.”
Targeno moved to the Jesuit’s desk, leaned down over the older man. “That is precisely what I need to know…”
“Yes?”
“Just exactly what did you and your little band of conspirators do to Peter Carenza to make him run like that?”
“That is possibly the one thing your research, your files, and your intuition might never tell you.” Francesco leaned back in his chair, reached for a cigarette from his jeweled tobacco box.
“Maybe so,” said Targeno, looking at his wristwatch, “but as we speak your runaway boy is losing himself in the great melting pot, eh?”
Francesco said nothing, but the expression of defeat on his face eliminated the need for words.
“It is late, Father. If you have nothing else to say, I have got work to do. Other work.”
“I will get Masseria to order you to help me.”
Francesco’s last-ditch threat was pathetic. Targeno looked at him and smiled. “Do you actually think Masseria can make me do anything I do not want to?”
“What does that mean?”
“I have always wanted a long vacation—and I have never seen all there is to the USA. I could spend lots of time and money traveling around the country. I might never look for your priest, and no one would be the wiser.”
“You would not do that.”
“Listen, Father. You may think I am just a pawn in all the games you play, but I tell you Targeno is one piece who thinks for himself!”
“Damn it! I cannot tell you anything else!” The Jesuit was close to tears. Frustration drove him to the limits of self-discipline.
“You must, or I cannot help you.” Let the bastard cook in his own juices just a little longer.
Francesco shook his head, again burying it in his hands. “No one else must know the secret…”
“Try this on for size,” said Targeno. “In 1969, when Father Masseria was young and only beginning to learn how to be a Jesuit thug—working for you—he was questioned about the disappearance of another of your employees.”
“Who?” Francesco’s olive complexion had become suddenly ashen.
“A seminarian named Amerigo Ponti. He vanished the night after being assigned to a Vatican Commission to study the Santa Sindone.”
Francesco slapped his fist on his desktop. “Goddamn you…”
Targeno smiled. “Eventually I will know it all, but it will take much time, and by then, your boy may have permanently disappeared.”
“Even the sheep would not have you!”
“True.” Targeno chuckled. He knew he had Francesco now. “Are you ready to give me some answers?”
“Yes, goddamn you! Yes…”
Targeno sat in the chair facing the large desk. Deep in the core of his being, a feeling of satisfaction blossomed like a new sun being born. Money was not the most valuable or desired commodity in the world. There was something better.
Information.
Anybody could steal money. But only a master could extract information.
“I must warn you,” Francesco said dramatically. “What I am about to tell you is—”
Targeno waved him to silence. “I know, I know. Top secret and all that, right?” He wanted to chuckle. “Please, ’Vanni, I have heard this sort of thing all my life.”
“That is not what I meant,” said the Jesuit, letting his anger seep from behind the edges of his mask of resignation. “You think you are so smug, Targeno. What I’m about to tell you is the craziest story you’ll ever hear. But, believe me, it is completely true.”
NINETEEN
Brooklyn, New York—Windsor
* * *
August 27, 1998
“Do you really expect me to believe you’re Jesus Christ?” asked Marion. She tried not to think how silly she sounded. After what she’d seen and heard, she didn’t know what to think, but Peter’s explanation stretched her credulity beyond its limits. She felt disconnected from solid reality. She felt like she had in childhood when walking out of a Disney movie—knowing that it had all been a fantasy but wishing it were true somewhere in the universe.
“How can I ask you to believe something I don’t even believe myself!” said Peter. “I’m just telling you what they told me.”
She looked at him draped across the couch, his dark hair flying in every direction, his dark eyes half-lidded. He looked damned sexy. Sorry, Father, but you do. Full of wine, he was slowly getting stoned. Well, he probably needed it. If what he said was true, what Peter Carenza had gone through in the past twenty-four hours was enough to put anybody into the bottom of a bottle.<
br />
“I know,” she said. “But it just sounds so absurd, so unbelievable.”
“Yeah, yeah…I’ve been over all that in my mind. Lots of times.”
The after-image of the blue aura burned abruptly in her mind’s eye. The twisted face of the goon leered at her as he pirouetted once again through his pas de doleur while the bones and flesh of his arm turned to powdery ash. She’d seen it happen. No denying it or trying to explain it away. Peter Carenza had somehow zapped the guy—just like he’d zapped that mugger in the alley.
“What are we going to do now?” She sat on the edge of the couch, fighting the urge to smooth his hair, to run her hand along the edge of his shoulder and down his triceps.
He looked at her for a moment before answering. “You said ‘we’…”
“I did, didn’t I?” She smiled at him, wanting to tell him she was wildly attracted to him, that she had a bad case of the lusts. But she didn’t want to scare him away or offend him. Besides, there was more to it than that.
“Because I care about you, Peter,” she said softly. “Because you’re a good person, and you’re in some kind of crazy trouble, and—because you seem very much alone.”
He placed his empty wineglass on the carpet, rubbed his eyes. “That’s very perceptive. I do have one close friend, but I’m afraid to call him.”
“They would know about him,” she said slowly, thinking aloud. “They’d wait for you to get in touch with him.”
Peter shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t really know, but I don’t want to take any chances. That’s why I called you. They don’t know you. They don’t know I know you.”
“You’re safe here,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to get some sleep now?”
“Does the Pope wear a funny hat?”
She burst into nervous laughter and he joined her. It felt good to relax after what they’d been through. It was the first time she’d seen him really smile. The sound of his laughter was a broad, healthy sound. She wished the circumstances were different, so that she might hear more of it.
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