Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3)

by Vincent Zandri

  The God Boy reaches out with all six hands.

  “Touch me,” he says, in his soft voice, “and you shall be healed.”

  I wake up in a pool of sweat.

  It’s as if the temperature in Florence has risen by one hundred degrees. I slide off the bed exhausted, make my way across the length of the apartment to the bathroom, stare into a cracked mirror at my distorted face, the crack making it look like my skull has been fractured vertically down its center. The face peering back at me is withdrawn, eyes red, scruffy covered skin, pale and sallow. Maybe it’s the result of having spent most of the afternoon drinking. But then, it could be something else. It could be that already the God Boy is affecting me. Getting under my skin. Touching my soul.

  I wash my face, dry it, avoid any further contact with the stranger in the broken mirror.

  Out in the living room, I dig into the left chest pocket of my bush jacket and produce the letter that came with the bronze key one month ago … to the day I realize. Peering down at the page, I view a hand-drawn illustration of an eight-armed Kali holding what appears to be shrunken hearts in the palms of six of her hands while with the seventh she holds a sword and in the eighth, a severed head that’s still alive.

  The full frontal illustration is accompanied by an equally detailed one of the statue’s backside. There’s an area of the upper back that’s been boxed out in pencil. Inside the box is written one word in big capital letters: KEY. Below that are written the words:

  Chase, they are coming for me. The evil ones. Do not lose this key. It’s all that separates my life from certain death. I never stopped loving you.

  Elizabeth

  Once more, I open my wallet, slide out her photo, peer into Elizabeth’s green eyes. I feel their power as if she were standing right before me in my apartment. Again, I pull the bronze key out of my shirt, feel the solid object in my hand. I can only wonder if it’s the true Kali key. And if that is the case, what secrets will the statue reveal once unlocked?

  “Are…you…alive?” I say at the photo as if expecting an answer.

  Returning the letter to my shirt pocket and the photo to my wallet, I grab my shoulder-holstered Colt .45 where it hangs on the wall-mounted hat-rack, slip it on over my shoulders. Then, grabbing my leather jacket from the hook beside it, I slip that on. I pull the automatic from the holster, thumb the clip release, make a check the nine-round load. Cocking one into the chamber, I engage the safety and return the piece to its resting space beneath my left arm, grip inverted for easy access.

  “I’ll be back, Lu.”

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and exit the apartment, the pit in my stomach telling me that although my new assignment to find the God Boy has yet to begin, I’m already in way too deep.

  6

  Arrival at the Elbow.

  Part of me thinks it would be hilarious to enter through the window I was tossed out of just this afternoon. But I’m not feeling very entertaining right now. I’d rather cry than bust a gut. And anyway, a team of blue-overalled workers are busy installing a new picture window in place of the one that was shattered by my rather compact, but solid, five-foot nine-inch, one hundred eighty-five pound frame.

  As usual, Matt is behind the bar still wearing his ABCD, AC/DC black cotton tee.

  “No more trouble, Chase,” he says, popping the top on a green bottle of Heineken for me. “You’re costing me a small fortune in glass. Not to mention the words ‘Fiddlers’ and ‘Elbow’ I’ll need to have stenciled on it. You know how much one of those artists charge?” He says “artist” like “arteest.”

  “Don’t tell me, Matty,” I say, grabbing the beer, taking a quick swig. “Tell Joe muscles over there. And we’re in Florence for God’s sakes. Everywhere you turn you see a starving arteest. Make a trade for crisps and beer.”

  Matt purses his lips, crosses sinewy arms, concealing the ABCD on his T-shirt as if seriously contemplating the idea.

  Four stools down, Calum is busy staring at his smartphone while working on a pint. I approach him.

  “Yo, Cal.” Reaching into my pocket, retrieving not the thick wad that Dr. Singh gave me, but the far thinner one I grabbed earlier. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Matt races over, snatches the Euros off the bar.

  “You mean, they belong to me.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the big wad, slip off three five hundred euro notes.

  “This cover it, Matt?”

  He gives me bug eyes.

  “That’ll do nicely,” he says, in his Irish brogue. “It’ll cover the beer too.”

  “Good. Then give Calum back his cash.”

  Calum, sets down his phone, takes a hit off his pint, holds out his sledgehammer of a hand. “No hard feelings, Chase. Don’t know me own temper sometimes. Plus, that man in the funny turban…the way he looked at me with his eyes. Made me feel real bad for tossing you out the window, even if you did deserve it.”

  “That’s why our necks won’t allow us to look backward.” I shake the iron-gripped hand. Then, look around the sparsely populated bar. “Say, Matt, you didn’t happen to see a stranger walk in a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s Florence, Chase,” Matt says trying to imitate my New York accent. “Just about everyone who walks in here is a tourist which makes them a stranger.”

  Peering around the long, narrow bar room, I make out a couple of college-age kids drinking pints of Guinness. Also a tall, dark man standing at the far corner of the bar. He’s sporting a trim, salt and pepper beard. For a split second, I believe I’ve found my man.

  But then, I take notice of the person seated a few stools up from him—a woman. She’s on the small side, if not petite, but sporting a shapely body packaged in a short black skirt, a white button-down shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to reveal a pair of fine breasts supported by a black pushup bra, and gladiator sandals. Her black, shoulder length hair is lush and parted neatly above her left eye. She’s typing on an iPad while sipping Prosecco from a long-stemmed glass.

  Calum drinks another swig of beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances over at the woman, then back to me.

  “Not bad, huh?” he says under his breath. “She breezed in about fifteen minutes ago, set up shop right there. Wonder if she’s single.”

  As if sensing the subject of our conversation, she turns and gives me a look with these wide, dark eyes and equally dark brows that are as mesmerizing as they are attractive. When she smiles at me, I know I’ve found my contact. After all, Dr. Singh never specified a gender when he informed me about making contact with his associate.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Looks like I have a date.”

  Grabbing my beer off the bar, I step over to the woman. “Saving this stool for someone?”

  She looks up, smiles a sultry smile. “It is reserved for you, Chase Baker.”

  Her accent is not Italian, nor is it English, but something more exotic. Asian if I have to guess. Judging by the rich, coffee with milk color of her skin, maybe Indian or Pakistani.

  “Where you from?”

  “My mother is from Pakistan. My father is from India. I was born in Varanasi. Made for a complex relationship, two sworn enemies defying their parents, marrying for love anyway.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She holds out her hand.

  “I’m Anjali,” she says.

  I take hold of the small, warm hand. Give it a gentle squeeze. Releasing it, I sit myself down, steal another sip of beer.

  “Dr. Singh said you’d have some information for me.”

  “Is there a place we can go that’s more private? I’d rather not discuss details in front of your pals.”

  Like boss, like employee…Secrecy is essential.

  In my head, I picture the Ponte Vecchio. It’s not nearly as packed full of tourists at night as it is during the day.

  “I know just the place.”

  Packing up her iPad, she shoves it into her le
ather bag, drinks down the rest of her Prosecco, slides off the stool.

  “Lead the way, Mr. Baker.”

  My first full view of her take-no-prisoners body. Outstanding. Maybe this job won’t be so bad after all.

  “Call me, Chase.”

  On our way out of the bar, I shoot a wink at Calum and Matt.

  “Some guys have all the luck,” Calum says loud enough for me to overhear. “Or maybe my karma just sucks.”

  “You might think twice next time about who you’re tossing out a window,” Matt says.

  7

  We walk out of Piazza Santa Maria Novella down a narrow road that leads directly to the river. Maybe two hundred feet on the right is the Ponte Vecchio, one of only two bridges spared by the Nazis when they blew them sky high to prevent the allied advance during World War II. The old iron lamps mounted to the bridge’s stone buttresses illuminate the now cool, foggy evening in inverted arcs of smoky lamp light.

  When I come to the mid-point of the bridge—an open area sandwiched between the many butcher-shops-turned-jewelry-stores—I stop, turn, and pull the .45 from my shoulder holster.

  Anjali’s dark eyes go wide. “What are you doing, Chase?”

  “What’s happening here? Your boss just happens to know a little bit too much about my life. Knows where to find me, knows about my past loves. Or love, anyway. Why do I get the feeling that finding his God Boy is a do or die mission? As in, I either do it, or die.”

  She feigns a smile. “You have Dr. Singh all wrong, Chase. Finding Rajesh is his number one priority and he knows you are the only man in the world capable of that task.”

  “That why he tossed in the little bonus about Elizabeth Flynn? My heart tells me she’s dead, Anjali. But he claims she’s alive.”

  “Dr. Singh might be many things, but a liar is not one of them. If he knows of this Elizabeth you speak of and he says she is alive, then you must believe him.”

  “He claims to be a psychoanalyst or clinical psychology professor or both. But tell me, what’s Singh’s real business?”

  “He has many businesses. His family has gathered great wealth and prestige over the decades. He is an investor. He is also a generous benefactor. One of his passions is children. The new children’s hospital in New Delhi was personally financed by him. Rajesh is his son. It has not been easy for him, having to bear the burden of a child with six arms.”

  “Okay, he’s got a lot of dough and he’s nice, and he’s got a lot of college degrees to prove how much smarter he is than me. But why insist on messing with my head? That one of his little psychoanalysis tricks?”

  She eyes the gun barrel. “Pardon me for saying so, but I’m not sure it’s your head he’s messing with. Perhaps your heart would be more accurate.”

  I exhale, lower the gun, return it to the holster.

  “Show me what I need to know, Anjali.”

  She digs into her bag, retrieves the iPad, fires it up. The screen illuminates with a man’s face. It’s covered with a thick, black beard, his eyes shielded by aviator sunglasses. His hair is equally black, his skin dark like an Indian or perhaps even a man originating from one of the Stans…Pakistan or Afghanistan. I can’t see precisely what he’s wearing, but judging from his shoulders and collar, he’s sporting a military-style tunic.

  “Do you know this man, Chase?”

  I stare at the face. It isn’t the least bit friendly.

  “Can’t say I know the man,” I say truthfully. “But the more I look at it, the more my mind spins.”

  “His name is Ilyas Kashmiri and, until recently, he was the head of Al Qaeda’s 313 Brigade.”

  My pulse picks up. Bingo. Now I recognize him.

  “I know of 313. They’re the terrorist team that operates out of Afghanistan and Pakistan.”

  “Exactly. They also have ties to the Iranian-backed Hezbollah, and more recently to ISIS regiments both in Syria and Iraq. They are cold-hearted killers and they have spilled much innocent blood in the name of Allah.”

  “What’s this got to do with a boy born with three sets of arms?”

  “Radical Islamists, especially those belonging to ISIS, wish for one thing: world war. A jihad to end all jihads. A war that will unleash Armageddon for which they will gladly die. That happens, the sky will be filled with martyrs all making their way to heaven…”

  “…And their forty virgins…I’m already well aware of this bedtime story, Anjali.”

  “Kashmiri and his 313 believe with all their hearts that it is just a matter of time until enough atrocities against Christians, Jews, Westerners, and peaceful Muslims occur, and that the United States and its allies will have no choice but to commit to a total war against Radical Islam and all its differing factions, including 313.”

  “Here’s what I believe,” I interrupt. “If that kind of global war were to occur, it would not last very long. Would you like to know why?”

  “Why, Chase?”

  “Because evil bastards like Kashmiri will die and die quickly. ISIS, 313, Al Qaeda, and all of them lack an important tool for waging World War III. They haven’t got the money to unleash a world war. No heavy armor, no heavy assault weapons, no Air Force, no Navy…need I go on? The most they’re capable of are lone wolf attacks outside the Stans, Africa, and the Middle East. They also lack unification. As much as they fight the West, they also fight and kill one another.”

  “You don’t need to go on, Chase, but your point is very well taken, which leads me to why Kashmiri is interested in Rajesh. You see, the terrorist has set his sights on something far larger than 313 or ISIS. He wishes to unite all the differing terrorist factions in an unholy axis of evil by resurrecting the ancient Thuggee cult.”

  The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. “The original terrorists. Responsible for millions of innocent deaths. Until the British wiped the cult out. I’ve already discussed this craziness with Singh.”

  “There are people today who believe ISIS and Al Qaeda are Hell incarnate on Earth, just like the Indian Sikhs and Hindus of yesteryear believed the Thuggee was Satan on earth. The Thuggees were believed to maintain a very real and special relationship with the evil God Kali herself. Kashmiri would require a special power to raise the Thuggee from the dead. A direct connection to Kali.”

  In my head, I recall Dr. Singh describing Rajesh’s miracles.

  “The kid,” I say.

  “Rajesh is a special boy. A God Boy, as you called him. A healer. A miracle maker. To men like Kashmiri, he is a direct link to God or…” Her voice trails off.

  I turn to her, peer at the lamp light reflected in her dark eyes.

  “Or the Devil,” she adds. “You see, Chase, like the black Goddess Kali, Rajesh can be utilized for both good and evil purposes, just like a mortal man, who himself is capable of both good and wicked.”

  My stomach drops. “I think I see what’s happening now. Kashmiri kidnaps Rajesh, believes he can use the kid to summon up the power of Kali and the evil Thuggee. With the power of the devil behind him…”

  “His new Thuggee army of terrorists, formerly aligned with Allah, now becomes invincible. However, it still needs one thing more.”

  “And that is?”

  “Funds. Enough cash to build an army bigger than that of the United States of America.”

  I stare out over the river. It’s black and haunting. The way it flows beneath me makes me feel lonely and cold even in the warm weather.

  Anjali flips through more digital pages on her iPad until she comes to one that shows a gold statue—a photo I instantly recognize as the eight-armed Goddess Kali.

  “Several weeks ago, our spies intercepted an email intended for officials at Rhode Island’s Providence College in the US. It came from a scientist digging beyond the boundaries of the Chitwan National Forest in Nepal. It reads: ‘Kali Statue located. More beautiful than believed. She rests upon a blue rock that shines with brilliance. Fear I won’t live long enough to examine her for the secrets she possesses.�
��”

  I lock eyes on her iPad. I see the words printed digitally on the electronic page, but they don’t register entirely. Like a sickness that has only just surfaced inside my gut, I pause to await the onslaught of pain. Pulse pounding, mouth dry, I feel the solid weight of the bronze key wrapped around my neck and I recall Elizabeth’s letter. In my head I read the words, “…I’m already dead.” Is it possible the letter and the email originated from the same woman?

  “This Golden Kali Statue means something to you?”

  “Of course it does. The statue has been buried for centuries. Hidden. Up until now, it was the stuff of legend. Fantasy. Treasure buried where X marks the spot or some such nonsense.”

  “Lots of ancient statues of Kali have been buried and unearthed.”

  “Yes, but this one is special because of a map it contains. It’s also believed to contain something of special spiritual significance. Don’t you see?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Listen,” I say, recalling my many conversations with Elizabeth over just what the Kali map might lead to. “If the email is correct, then someone has discovered the one map on Earth that could lead directly to the Daundia Khera.”

  “The massive diamond deposit?” Anjali questions.

  “Exactly. A big, brilliant, blue rock. The story goes that back in the early part of the twentieth century a holy man named Swami Shobhan Sarkar experienced a vivid dream one night. He dreamed that a Thuggee rebel by the name of Ram Baksh Singh came to visit him. Singh had been dead since 1857 when he was hanged by the British government for his participation in the Thuggee uprising. But, in the dream, he is said to reveal the exact location not of the diamond deposit itself, but instead, the map of the deposit’s location. That map is believed to be printed on the back of the Golden Kali Statue.”

  “And you believe now that this email indicates the map has finally been found?”