Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Wait? Of course we’re not going to wait! For now I’m going to unscrew the bolts on the ladder so we can steal it before they have a chance to use it.’

  Boyd stared at Maria for several seconds before breaking into a wheezing laugh. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been chased by the police before? Because you seem to be at ease.’

  She shrugged. ‘If you watch enough movies, you can be prepared for anything.’

  ‘I certainly hope so because our situation is still precarious… Or are you keeping something from me?’

  Maria laughed at the irony of his statement and gave him a confident smile. ‘Everyone has some secrets. Right, Dr Boyd?’

  It didn’t take long for her to disconnect the ladder and pull it to the roof. To slow the cops even more, she jammed the hatch shut by wedging the guard’s keys between the door and its sturdy metal frame, a trick she’d learned from a Bruce Willis movie.

  ‘That ought to hold them.’

  Boyd didn’t answer, but his smile was a welcome sign to Maria. A few minutes earlier she was afraid that he was going to have a heart attack.

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better, because you’ll need all your strength to survive our next trick.’

  ‘And if I may ask, what do you have in mind?’

  Instead of answering, she helped Boyd to his feet and led him to the edge of the hundred-foot building. ‘If you’re up to it, I figured we could just jump for it.’

  ‘What?! You’ve got to be kidding me!’

  Maria pointed to a long metal tube that ran from the rooftop at a seventy-degree angle until it flattened out near the bottom. The purpose of the chute was to aid in the disposal of unwanted materials during the construction project. Instead of carrying debris down the stairs or flinging it off the side of the building, the workers dumped their scraps down the slender tube and into a Dumpster below.

  She said, ‘I noticed it when I walked to Il Duomo. I figure if it can hold bricks and wood, it should be able to support us.’

  Boyd tapped on the tube, trying to gauge how much weight it could handle. Then, after running a few calculations, he eyed the pile of rubble at the bottom and realized it wouldn’t be a comfortable landing.

  ‘All right, my dear, I’m willing to give this a shot, although I think it would be best if we attempted this one at a time. No sense putting extra strain on the chute by climbing in together.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’

  ‘Now all we need to do is decide who shall take the initial plunge. In most situations I would follow the rules of chivalry and insist on ladies first. However –’

  ‘Great! Sounds good to me!’

  Grabbing the top of the chute before Boyd could argue, Maria swung her body inside, giving her all the momentum she needed to get started. From there, it was all downhill as she sailed down the pipe like a bobsledder at the Winter Olympics. The ending was a little rough for her taste – she was shot feet-first into a large pile of wood and plaster – but figured that was much better than the alternative: being shot on the roof by an angry SWAT team.

  After dusting herself off, she glanced toward the roof and gave Boyd a big thumbs-up. Reluctantly, he nodded his head, took one last gasp of air, and followed her lead, plunging into the escape tunnel.

  In truth, their adventure was just starting. And most of the craziness was yet to come.

  33

  Jones could speak some Italian, so he was able to translate the article on the bus crash. Which, it turns out, wasn’t a crash after all. According to the newspaper, Dr Boyd was more than just a professor/forger/thief. He was also an escape artist/munitions expert, capable of blowing up a bus in front of half the cops in Italy without getting injured or caught. Pretty good trick, huh?

  The story claimed that Boyd shot down a helicopter, hijacked the first bus leaving town, and then fled down a country road that the cops were able to block. After a brief standoff, Boyd detonated a device that killed everyone except himself and managed to escape capture while the heroic police force risked their lives trying to pull injured passengers from the raging inferno.

  Payne laughed when he heard that, because he knew it was total bullshit. He knew the worst thing a criminal could do was kill a cop, because it guaranteed a motivated police force, a group looking for retribution even if it meant breaking some laws along the way. Why? Because the police knew if they didn’t strike quick, then every punk with a gun would think they could kill a cop and get away with it. And the next victim could be the cop’s partner. Or even himself.

  Therefore Payne knew there was a major problem with the story. There was no way an entire police force was going to surround a bus that had been hijacked by a cop-killer and let him get away. Not a chance. So how did Boyd survive? Furthermore, what type of explosive did he use that could blow up the bus but let him walk away? None that Payne knew, and he knew them all.

  Anyway, those were just a few of the things running through Payne’s mind when he listened to the details of the story. They were running through Jones’s mind, too, because he insisted that they drive to the crime scene before it was too dark to see.

  To get to the site, which was less than ten miles from the gas station where Payne had cleaned himself up, they pulled off the main highway and went down a country lane that wasn’t built for buses, let alone a Ferrari. A wooden barricade blocked their path a few miles from the site. Plants, flowers, and a few dozen pictures surrounded the barrier, items left behind by the victims’ families in a makeshift shrine. Some people were able to shrug off scenes like that without a second thought, often driving past them like they were street signs or mailboxes. But Payne wasn’t one of those people. His parents were killed by a drunk driver when he was a teenager, so he got reflective every time he saw a bundle of flowers near the road. Of course, Jones knew this about Payne so he got out of the car and moved the barricade by himself.

  For as long as he could remember, whenever Payne started thinking about his parents, he found that music helped ease the pain. He knew they still had a few minutes to drive to the bus site, so he decided to test the audio system in the car. Sadly, the only stations Payne could find in the middle of the Apennine Mountains were filled with the depressing sounds of Andrea Bocelli and Marcella Bella. Not exactly what he had in mind. Flipping from station to station, he hoped to find something more upbeat when Jones started yelling at him from near the barricade

  ‘Go back!’ he demanded. ‘Hurry!’

  Payne did as he was told, hoping there wasn’t going to be opera when he returned to the previous station. Much to his surprise, there was no music at all but rather an Italian newscaster rambling in rapid Italian. It could’ve been the weather or a traffic report. Payne wasn’t sure, because the only Italian he knew he learned from The Sopranos. Whatever it was, though, he knew that Jones liked it because he had a grin on his face the size of a small dog. This went on for over two minutes before Jones turned off the stereo, saving Payne from the tortuous sound of Pavarotti or whatever fat guy was about to start singing.

  ‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Jones said. ‘But Boyd was just spotted in Milan.’

  Payne rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, I wish.’

  ‘I swear to God, Jon. He was just spotted in Milan. The cops tried to grab him, but he got away. Again.’

  ‘Wait a second, you’re serious? How did he get away?’

  ‘He vanished from the roof of a library. And get this: he’s running with a woman.’

  ‘Boyd took a hostage?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘No, he took a partner. Apparently the two of them are in this together.’

  34

  The crucifixion in Denmark barely made a blip in the United States, and he couldn’t understand why. The murder had everything that Americans usually looked for in a story – a brutal execution, a famous setting, and a Vatican priest as a victim – yet the only attention it received was a small story in the Associated Press. Nothing in USA Today, noth
ing in the New York Times, and nothing in the National Enquirer.

  God, what was wrong with these people? Were they really that numb from all their horror movies and video games that they didn’t care about a crucified priest? Who did he have to kill to get their undivided attention? The fucking president?

  Obviously, he realized, that would be going too far. He wanted to attract as much attention as he possibly could without starting a worldwide manhunt. That was the only way that he and his partners could get this to work.

  They needed attention, not intervention. A spotlight without the heat.

  In his mind, the second murder was a step in the right direction. CNN sent a camera crew to Tripoli and Nepal, hoping to get a reaction from the royal family. Their footage popped up on newscasts across the U.S., which led to stories in 90 percent of the newspapers in North America, including most major cities. Not front-page coverage like they’d hoped for, but enough to make the Vatican take notice, which was the ultimate goal of the murders.

  The clock was ticking, and the stakes were high. It was time to tighten the vise.

  Nicknamed the Holy Hitter because of his surname, Orlando Pope was one of the best players in baseball. He hit for power, ran with speed, and did all the little things that made his team win. Simply put, he was the type of guy that every club coveted.

  During the off-season, two teams – the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees – did everything to sign him. Not only to get Pope, which would be a coup on its own, but also to keep him off the other’s roster, which was even more important in their way of thinking. Why? Because no teams in baseball hated each other more than the Red Sox and Yankees. The players hated each other. The fans hated each other. Even the cities hated each other.

  This was Sparta versus Athens, only with bats instead of spears.

  The bidding between the teams went back and forth for nearly a month. Ten million. Twenty million. Fifty million. One hundred million. And more. In the end, Pope signed with the Yankees. It also made Pope public enemy number one in Beantown.

  Due to a scheduling quirk, the teams wouldn’t play in Boston until the upcoming weekend. They’d split an early-season series in New York and would play a dozen more times later in the year, but this was the match-up that every sports fan in New England was waiting for.

  The Pope was coming to Boston, and they were going to let him have it.

  Orlando Pope hated the limelight and all the attention that he got as the highest paid player in sports. He loved it on the baseball field where he had the confidence and the talent to thrive, yet hated it in his personal life. He grew up in a biracial family from Brazil – black father, white mother – which led to self-image problems. Was he black? Was he white? Was he both? In the end, he didn’t feel comfortable with any group, so he spent most of his time alone, reading books and watching movies in his luxury high-rise, instead of enjoying his hero status in the Big Apple.

  In his mind people led to problems, so he stayed away from everyone whenever he could.

  The pizza he ordered from Andrew’s was forty minutes late, and he was angry. He’d bought a brand-new DVD, The Lesson, and didn’t want to start it until his food was there. Nothing pissed him off like interruptions when he was trying to watch a flick.

  He was tempted to call and complain when he heard a knock on his door. With wallet in hand, Pope undid the lock and opened the chain without looking through the peephole.

  It was the biggest mistake of his life.

  Four men stood in the hall. Different men than Denmark or Libya. But a foursome with the same objective. Grab their target, take him to a predetermined location, and nail him to a cross.

  The leader of the group held an M series Taser and shot Pope in his chest before he could react. The weapon sent a burst of electricity to Pope’s central nervous system, causing an uncontrollable contraction of his skeletal muscles. A moment later, one of the best athletes in the world was lying on his floor in the fetal position, unable to protect himself in any way.

  From there it would be easy. Carry Pope to the van, take him to a predetermined location, and then wait for the news to hit. And oh how it would hit!

  This would be a home run, the biggest one yet.

  Every murder was a clue. Every clue led to a secret. The secret would change the world.

  In the end the Vatican would be helpless. Completely helpless.

  Finally forced to honor his ancestor two thousand years after the fact.

  35

  Thursday, July 13

  Milan, Italy

  Payne and Jones’s journey to northern Italy covered several hundred miles. Thanks to the liberal speed limits on the autostrada and the F1 power of the Ferrari, they got to Milan just after midnight. It was too late to get Barnes’s film developed but was early enough to get some detective work done. With that in mind, they wasted no time and headed directly to the Catholic University campus.

  Jones said, ‘The first thing we need to do is find out if Boyd’s been caught. Why don’t I snoop around, maybe talk to a couple of reporters, while you walk around the perimeter and look for weaknesses? If all else fails, we might need to sneak inside.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Payne joked, ‘and we better do it quick. If the current trend continues, Boyd’s liable to blow up the library to conceal evidence.’

  Laughing to himself, Payne walked past the right-hand alley and noticed several cops staring at a garbage chute and a Dumpster. He didn’t want to deal with them, so he headed past the main entrance, hoping there’d be less cops on the other side of the building. That’s when he noticed a security guard at the front door, deciding who got in and who didn’t, like a bouncer at a local discotheque. In a heartbeat his plan of attack changed. Instead of sneaking in, he decided to be invited in, compliments of the rent-a-meathead.

  Payne didn’t have a badge or anything official-looking, so he knew he’d have to lay the bullshit on pretty thick. He also knew there was a damn good chance that the guard couldn’t speak English any better than Payne spoke Italian, so he decided to use that to his advantage. He figured he might be able to make the guard feel so uncomfortable that he’d let Payne go inside just so he’d leave him alone. With that in mind, Payne went right up to him and started babbling in a fake accent, claiming that he was with the British embassy and was there to protect the legal rights of Dr Boyd. The fact that he sounded like Ringo Starr, had bandages all over, and carried a stolen handgun in his shorts made no difference to the guard. He looked at Payne, shrugged, and let him inside. No questions asked.

  Snooping around the first floor, Payne looked for anything that might explain why Boyd was at the library. He figured it might’ve been something perverted, since the women’s room was sealed off with yellow tape that said Polizia. Then again, that didn’t make much sense, since Boyd was too smart to do anything that would draw attention to himself, like peeping into the ladies’ room. Unless this had something to do with the mysterious female who was mentioned on the radio. Maybe she was the one who did something in the restroom? Maybe she was the reason he was running for his life after all these years toying with Interpol?

  Whatever the case, Payne needed to find out what had happened in that bathroom.

  Paranoid, he crept over to the door, not sure what to expect. A corpse? Some bloodstains? A battered female? At the very least he was hoping to overhear some juicy facts about Boyd and his partner, yet the only thing he saw was a technician dusting for prints. Disappointed, he turned from the door and started walking when he felt someone latch on to his arm.

  ‘Where is you going?’ demanded a man in a thick Italian accent.

  Son of a bitch, Payne thought to himself. The security guard at the front door must’ve told some of the cops about him, and they were getting ready to haul his ass out. Payne turned around, half expecting to see a gun pointed at his chest. Instead, he found a tiny man with a smiling face and a head filled with the curliest black hair he’d ever seen in a nonpubic re
gion.

  Payne was so stunned he started babbling. ‘I was, just, ah, I was –’

  ‘Just what? Running off and no introducing yourself?’

  Confused, Payne stood there trying to size up this guy who was at least a foot shorter than he was. He wore a light-gray suit and a starched white shirt. A picture ID hung from his coat pocket, but the writing was microscopic and in Italian, so he had no idea what it said.

  ‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘if you no gonna speak, I do the talking. My name is Francesco Cione. My English-speaking friends call me Frankie. I am university’s media man, which, as my feet tells you, makes me busiest man in all of Milan – at least on this night no?’

  And just like that, Payne knew Frankie would be a wonderful ally.

  Thinking quickly, he whispered, ‘Are you really the media liaison for the Boyd case?’

  Intrigued by the hushed tone, Frankie looked around for eavesdroppers. ‘Yes, I am media man for this school. Why do you ask?’

  Payne put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhh! Not here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘In private?’ he asked softly. ‘Yes, I can do that. I can do anything. Follow me.’

  In all honesty, Payne didn’t have anything to speak to him about – at least not at that moment. But he figured he couldn’t risk standing in the hallway with a dozen cops liable to spot him. Plus, he realized he had to give Frankie some kind of explanation and figured a long walk to a secluded part of the library would give him enough time to develop a believable cover story.

  Frankie led Payne to a private reading room filled from floor to ceiling with stacks of leather-bound books. Then he asked, ‘What is this? Some secret, no?’

  Payne countered the question with one of his own. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’