PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI
“Sensational … masterful … brilliant.”
—New York Post
“My fear level rose with this Zandri novel like it hasn’t done before. Wondering what the killer had in store for Jude and seeing the ending, well, this is one book that will be with me for a long time to come!”
—Reviews by Molly
“I very highly recommend this book … It’s a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists … Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one best seller after another.”
—Life in Review
“(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”
—The Times-Union (Albany)
“I also sat on the edge of my seat reading about Jude trying to stay alive when he was thrown into one of those games … Add to that having to disarm a bomb for good measure!”
—Telly Says
“… a gripping psychological thriller that will keep you riveted on the edge of your seat as you turn the pages.”
—Jersey Girl Book Reviews
“This book is truly haunting and will stay with you long after you have closed the covers.”
—Beth C., Amazon 5-star review
“The action never wanes.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinal
“Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting.”
—Harlan Coben, bestselling author of Six Years
“Tough, stylish, heartbreaking.”
—Don Winslow, bestselling author of Savages
Chase Baker and the God Boy
(A Chase Baker Thriller #3)
Vincent Zandri
“There is no death. How can there be death if everything is part of the Godhead? The soul never dies and the body is never really alive.”
—Isaac Bashevis Singer
“Thuggees were an organized gang of professional assassins – sometimes described as the world’s first terrorists – who operated from the 13th to the 19th centuries in India. Members of the fanatical religious group were infamous for their ritualistic assassinations carried out in the name of the Hindu Goddess Kali. According to the Guinness Book of Records, the Thuggees were responsible for approximately two million deaths.”
—Ancient Origins
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
1
The Fiddler’s Elbow
Piazza Santa Maria Novella
Florence, Italy
October 2015
“The problem with you Americans, Mate, is you think you’re entitled to the world.”
The man who presently has his hand wrapped around my neck is Scottish or, what some people refer to as, a Scott. He’s also much bigger than me, drunk as a rabid skunk, and really pissed off, which doesn’t bode well for my immediate future.
“I work for a living,” I say, my words coming out more like I-wor-fer-a-livin’, what with my wind-pipe about to be crushed. “Nobody’s givin’ me a thing.” Or, Nobies-giv-a-thin…
The issue here is not one of governmental policy-making, nor are we engaged in a geopolitical, socio-economical debate regarding the United States of America and its lone world power status. Instead, we’re playing an innocent game of Blackjack, which up until now we’ve been engaging in rather pleasantly at the old wood bar. That is, before I made the mistake of spotting Calum slip an extra Ace under his dealt cards when he assumed I wasn’t looking.
Problem one is that Calum is drunk—really soused and not exactly adept at sleight of hand. Problem two is that the normally mild-mannered freelance English/Italian teacher is also a retired mercenary who once fought for the French Foreign Legion in the Balkan Wars, the Persian Gulf Wars, and more recently, Iraq and Afghanistan. Oh, and problem three, did I fail to mention that in retaliation for his cheating I picked Calum’s stash of cash up off the bar and stuffed it into the pocket of my khaki work shirt?
Six feet tall, round face covered with a thick red beard, bearing the shoulders of a rugby fullback, Calum (last name unknown), might never see forty again, but he’s fully capable of tossing me through the barroom window. Which is precisely what he’s proceeding to do right this very second.
He releases his hold on my neck, uses one hand to pick me up by the collar of my leather jacket, and the other to grab hold of my belt like I’m a bail of Highlands hay he’s about to toss into the back end of a horse drawn cart.
“Cal, buddy,” I say. “This isn’t right. You were cheating. What’s fair is fair, don’t you agree?”
“Toss him, Cal,” comes a voice from the crowd inside the bar. “Toss his American ass back to Obama.”
My friends…What senses of humor…
But then I hear, “Calum, put Chase down this very instant!”
It’s Matt, the Fiddler’s Elbow owner and proprietor. I catch a quick glance of the tall, wiry, middle-aged man. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that bears the white letters ABCD in AC/DC-style logo.
“I’m tossing the bastard,” Calum says in his heavy brogue. “Ayyy, he called me a cheater. He stole me money.”
“A round for Calum Whatever-your-last-name-is,” I shout as he raises me up so that I’m not only facing the window, I’m seeing the reflection of my closely cropped hair, stubble-covered face, and terrified, wide brown eyes.
“Too late, Baker,” he says. “You insult me, you insult me entire clan.”
He swings me backward to create a pendulum effect, so that when he finally decides to let me go I will literally fly through the window.
“One!” the bar crowd shouts.
I’m propelled forward. But the man-bear isn’t quite ready to release me.
He swings me backward again.
“Two!!!” they shout, enjoying my imminent demise far more than they are the soccer match being broadcast on four separate wall-mounted flat screens…Oh, wait, not soccer. Futball.
I swing forward again so that the top of my head nearly touches the glass. And back again.
“Threeee!” the crowd shouts.
“Calum!!!!” Matt screams.
I close my eyes, feel myself propelled forward like a cannonball shot out of a cannon.
Oh shit…
Here’s the surprising thing: Getting tossed through a window, as dramatic and cinematic as it might appear in the movies, isn’t all that bad. What is bad, is landing on the cobblestone sidewalk on the other side of it. Luckily, I’m wearing my worn leather jacket over my work shirt or the skin on my chest, arms, and palms would mimic raw hamburger f
or certain. But the impact of human being against cobblestone does knock the air out of me so that when the still very pissed off, and apparently never satisfied, Calum, exits the Elbow through its open front door, bulling his way through the onlookers, I can’t even hope to put up a fight. All I can possibly manage is to roll over like a dog, raise my arms up in surrender from down on my back. What the hell, maybe he’ll give me a belly rub.
But even a white-flag maneuver like surrender doesn’t stop the former French Foreign Legionnaire from lowering himself onto one knee, making a fist with a hand the size of the Loch Ness monster, cocking it back. Squeezing my eyelids closed, I await the death blow.
But it never comes. In its place comes a gentle, if not haunting voice.
“You will not harm that man any longer.”
The voice isn’t deep, but it isn’t high either. The tone is soft and peaceful, like the sound of a gentle breeze blowing off a calm lake. The accent isn’t Italian or anything European for that matter. More like American. Maybe even New Yorkian. The East Coast anyway.
I open my eyes to see a silhouette of a man. A big man, who stands over me, the high afternoon sun positioned directly behind his back. The dark figure is imposing, the head shaped more like a bullet or a howitzer shell, the apex coming to a distinct, sharp peak. It isn’t until he bends down, offers me his hand, that I see his face and realize he’s wearing a black and gold turban.
“Mr. Chase Baker, I presume,” he says politely, gallantly.
“Uh huh.”
He kneels down, offering me his hand.
“My name is Iqbal… Dr. Iqbal Lamba Singh. They told me I would find you here.”
“Who’s they?”
“The Florence Police and Fire Brigade.”
“They know me so well I guess.”
He smiles warmly, his smooth tan face gentle but intense at the same time. I take his hand and he pulls me up like he’s capable of dead-lifting a sacred cow.
“Back off, Haji,” Calum shouts. “This one’s mine, ayyy.’
Dr. Singh does something extraordinary. He turns completely around and faces down Calum. At first, the former Legionnaire clenches his fists, raising the right one, cocking it back at the elbow like he’s about to lay my turban-wearing savior out. But Dr. Singh stands his ground, arms relaxed at his sides, fingers open, legs slightly spread at shoulder length. Eyes wide, he initiates a staring contest with Calum. It’s as if the doctor’s gaze is a tractor beam that locks not onto Calum’s blue eyes, but into them. Into his Guinness-soaked his brain. The soldier turned piss poor card shark can’t avert his gaze even if he wants to.
The entire crowd of onlookers falls silent as if Piazza Santa Maria Novella were placed on pause by God himself. After a long, drawn-out moment, Dr. Singh raises his right hand, holds out his palm, five stick-like fingers extended vertically.
“You will not harm Mr. Baker,” he says in a commanding tone. “You will turn and leave this place at one.”
“Wait,” Matt chimes in, pushing his way through the crowd. “What about my window?”
“Calum,” Dr. Singh says.
Calum stands flat-footed, caught up in a robotic, almost zombie-like trance.
“You will pay for a new window. And you will never raise your fist against Mr. Baker again. Do you understand?”
It only takes two or three Guinness pints to turn Calum’s face red beneath his beard. But Dr. Singh’s words make him go visibly pale. For a second, I’m convinced he might toss the dozen pints he’d just consumed over the course of three hours all over the tourist crowded piazza. His burly arms and chest seem suddenly deflated, like a bloated haggis that’s been poked. He shakes his head, turns, and begins to walk slowly away.
“Ayyyyy…I understand,” he mumbles in a semi-sedated, trance-like state, eyes wide open. “Me apologies, Chase. Beer’s on me next time.”
Dr. Singh turns back to me, purses his lips.
“That man will never harm you from this moment on,” he insists. “In fact, he will always be in your debt.”
The crowd issues ooohs and ahhhs, as if they just witnessed the most fascinating circus sideshow on earth. A group of surgically masked Chinese tourists clap.
“How’d you do that?” I ask the mysterious, tall, dark man named Singh.
“Perhaps we can go somewhere and converse alone,” he suggests.
“You got a job in mind?”
“Almost certainly.”
“You like beer?”
“I prefer tea.”
“No surprise there,” I say. “Follow me.”
Together we head out of the piazza, my breast pocket still stuffed with Calum’s cash.
2
We make our way through the central market, past the cheap tourist eateries, past the gypsies begging for coin in the name of Christ, past the Iranian leather merchants, and over a narrow side street that houses grocery stores owned and operated by West Africans who spend their afternoons drinking away their beer inventory. Coming to a street called Via Guelfa that runs perpendicular to the side street, I instruct Dr. Singh to go right, which he does. Ahead is a small café that’s mostly patronized by students and faculty of the nearby America University. It’s a smart place to sit and talk. Dr. Singh seems like one smart dude.
We take an empty table outside. He orders tea and I order an espresso. I sit and ponder where this character came from until the drinks arrive, soaking up a late afternoon that is neither too hot nor too cool, the creative bustle that’s always made Florence so attractive to creative types for a thousand years going on all around us.
“You must be pondering many, many questions, Mr. Baker,” Dr. Singh says after a time, taking a small, careful sip of his hot tea. “Not the least of which is who am I and why have I sought you out?”
“Be a good place to start,” I say, drinking down my espresso in one swift pull. Chase Baker, man of international adventure and espresso junkie. “But first, I want to know how you pulled off that little stunt back there. After fighting more wars than I have fingers on my right hand, Calum’s sort of off his rocker if you know what I mean. I’m pretty sure he was about to clean the piazza cobbles by using me as a dish rag.”
He sips more tea.
“My family name is Singh,” he says. “Which in India means I am a Sikh. Sikhs are warriors by tradition.”
“But you’re American. Talk like one anyway.”
“Indeed. Born in Varanasi but raised in Manhattan. My father taught biophysics at New York University. However, my family ties are strong, and it’s because of those ties that I have learned the practice of what you might recognize as the evil eye.”
“That’s how you tamed the savage beast? The evil eye? Isn’t that just a myth?”
He laughs gently. “It’s not really evil, and it’s not as mysterious or mythical as all that. You see, my background is psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. It’s actually a hypnotic maneuver that doesn’t take all that much skill once you learn the technique.”
He presses his lips into a grin, but my built in truth detector tells me immediately this man isn’t happy. Not by a long shot.
“Dr. Singh,” I say after a beat, “what is it you want from me?”
He reaches into the pocket on his long, button-down shirt, pulls out a photograph. He sets the photo down on the table for me to see. Initially, the full-color image doesn’t register in my still slightly buzzed brain. But very quickly it takes shape. When I realize what I’m looking at, I feel my pulse pick up speed.
“Mr. Baker,” he says, “I would like to introduce you to my beautiful five-year-old son, Rajesh.”
To say the boy is abnormally constructed is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. This boy doesn’t possess a single set of arms. Instead, he was born with one set of arms that protrude from his shoulders like any normal person, but also two more sets that emerge from his mid and lower torso, respectively. He looks almost like a human spider, or maybe a scorpion.
What’s even more remarkable about the boy is that he is dressed in the princely clothing of the traditional Indian aristocracy—a Nehru jacket covered in gold stitching, matching pajama-like pants, and a Sikh turban inlaid with the identical gold stitching. He’s also sporting matching earrings made of brilliant green jade. In the photo, he’s smiling like not a thing is wrong or out of synch with both his spiritual and physical world.
Me, I’m exhaling, wishing I had a stiff drink to wash all this down with. “What caused this, Dr. Singh? How can something like this happen?”
“Rajesh was born five years ago with a birth defect which can occur when two or more embryos gestating in the mother’s womb die, leaving only one survivor. In such circumstances, the living sibling inherits the underdeveloped remains of the once co-joined embryos. This parasitic embryo manifests itself in the form of additional limbs that are attached to the torso. The condition is a one in a million occurrence, or so my extensive research reveals. But then, thirty-four babies are born every minute in India. The law of odds dictates that not every one of them will be perfect. Or, looking at the situation another way, perhaps Rajesh is the ultimate manifestation of perfection.”
My eyes on the photo. Glued to it.
…I prefer the imperfection of just two arms…
“Is the condition painful?”
Shakes his head slowly, deliberately. He’s been asked this question a thousand and one times prior. “No pain. However…I say this with great sadness…children like Rajesh do not live long. Multiple limbs place undue strain on the heart and circulatory system. Structurally speaking, there are spinal problems, muscle weakness, excessive fatigue.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Singh. You must be broken-hearted. But what gives? Why are you showing me this?”
“You see, Mr. Baker, in my country a child born with one or more limbs can initially be considered an outcast, which at one time, Rajesh was. His mother and I were forced to shield him from the outside world or else face unimaginable ridicule.”
Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) Page 1
