Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6)

by Vincent Zandri

  PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI

  “Sensational … masterful … brilliant.”

  —New York Post

  “(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) … Riveting.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “… Oh, what a story it is … Riveting … A terrific old school thriller.”

  —Booklist “Starred Review”

  “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)

  “The action never wanes.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting.”

  —Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years

  “Tough, stylish, heartbreaking.”

  —Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.

  “A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller…I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”

  —MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure

  “A classic slice of raw pulp noir…”

  —William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob

  “Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination when awake?”

  ~Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Vinci, Italy

  April 1467

  The bastard son is mesmerized by all that he observes.

  Maybe what his father expects of him is to keep his sharp, fifteen-year-old eyes glued carefully to the flock of sheep he herds through the tall grass that covers the seemingly endless foothills of Vinci. But, instead, he focuses on the early morning sunlight shining through the leaves of scattered patches of tall trees. He studies the birds flying overhead and nesting in the trees. The way they take flight by simply falling into the sky with wings spread wide, catching the air with all the ease, speed, and efficiency of a horse galloping along the dirt roads that connect Vinci to Florence. The natural world that surrounds him is divine—a gift from God—and it inspires him like nothing else.

  His field of vision shifts and he spots a farmer working a newly plowed field not three hundred meters away, pulling seed stored in his cloak to sow. The boy feels something boiling inside him. An idea automatically brewing. A better way to spread the seed. Something mechanical so the farmer can produce more without so much wear and tear on his body. The idea is there, but the boy can’t quite put his finger on the mechanics of it all—the engineering. A cart perhaps, attached to a horse. A machine like no one has ever seen before that will spread the seed so fast, the abundance of food it will produce will be almost Godlike—Divine.

  Dropping his walking stick, he retrieves the sketch book hanging from his neck by a leather lanyard and he once more watches the birds. His eyes capture their every movement in detail, as if his brain is able to place their rapid action on slow motion. Pencil in hand, he observes and he sketches. But he also thinks.

  ?ylf I t’nac yhW, he writes in his curious, backward, mirror writing. Finger-combing his long, lush, brown hair, he asks the same question aloud. “Why can’t I fly?”

  He listens to the forceful sound of the stream flowing at the bottom of the valley not far from where his stone house is located, and he wonders: Why can’t I swim like a fish?

  He wants to do all of these things, but he just doesn’t know how. If only he could talk to God directly, ask him how to make the things he wants to make. Ask him how to make beautiful drawings that take your breath away just by laying eyes on them. Only God possesses such knowledge. Only God alone possesses the power and creativity. The one, all-omniscient force that created the world. Surely a direct line of communication with the Divine would give him the ability to make things beyond not only his wildest dreams, but those of the entire world.

  Then, coming from out of the blue sky, a streak of lightning.

  But this can’t be lightning, because the trail is not vertical and jagged. It’s horizontal and straight as an arrow led by an object that appears to be on fire. A spherical shape with a triangle attached to its front. It reminds him of those horrifying, long-beaked medicine masks the priests wear when confronted with those dying from the plague. Only, this is not a mask. It’s some kind of craft and it has emerged from the heavens. A bright fire trailing behind and it is flying as fast as the swiftest swallow.

  He puts pencil to paper, makes a sketch. As detailed as he can make it in just a few seconds of time. Then, acting on instinct, he runs after the trail of fire. Runs downhill, through the grass, tripping once but bounding back up, never breaking stride, his notebook and pencil spanking him in the chest.

  Crossing over the dirt road, he enters into another field that runs steeply downhill, the bottom of the hill converging with another where it forms a wide streambed. He steps into the cold, swiftly moving mountain run-off as it flows over his bare feet and shins. Looking back up into the sky, he no longer sees the trail of lightning and smoke. Instead, he sees nothing but blue sky and the occasional puffy white cloud.

  “Where did the flying machine go?”

  He looks around ardently. He is certain he saw the machine go down in this very spot. Or close to this spot anyway. But if it went down here, why can’t he see it, touch it, feel it? There’s no evidence it existed at all.

  He decides to walk along the streambed farther away from his home, the cold water numbing his flesh to the point he can no longer feel his feet making contact with the ground. Facing a steep hill, he begins to climb. It takes almost all his strength, but when he comes to the top of the granite-topped peak, he looks down upon the other side, only to see where the stream empties into a lake. It’s a beautiful, if not pristine scene, that he would love to paint one day, but the primary object of his fascination remains to be seen. There is no flying machine down there.

  Dejected, he’s about to turn back to find the she
ep he abandoned in his quest, when something on a tree branch on the hillside beside him catches his eye. Another bird. But this bird is different from all the others he’s observed today.

  This bird is a large hawk with glassy, black eyes.

  The hawk appears to be watching him, communicating with him. Stepping down off the hilltop, he moves toward the hawk. It takes flight and soars in perfect circles around the hillside, descending in the direction of the lake each time it makes a pass.

  The boy follows the hawk, moving further downhill until the terrain gives way to a small field that abuts the lakefront. A lake not much wider than the village of Vinci. As he comes closer to the lake, he realizes he’s not alone. The flying machine he spotted shooting across the sky is now hovering over the lake. The triangular shaped machine is shiny on the bottom, as if it is made of the most polished metal, and as it floats over the water it emits a hum. When a bright laser light shoots out of the bottom of the craft, it strikes the lake. The water begins to ripple violently and, at the same time, recede.

  But how can that be? How can an entire lake just begin to disappear the moment it is touched by a bright light?

  Pushing his way through the tall grass and coming around a stand of tall trees, he sees the lake water has disappeared entirely, exposing a hole in the earth. A cave, to be more accurate, that appears so deep it is filled with pitch black darkness.

  “A grotto,” he whispers to himself.

  His mind spins out of control thinking it could run as deep as the center of the earth and wondering if perhaps he is the first person to discover it. He knows he must explore this cave.

  He runs across the stony bottom of the now dry lake bed until he comes to the cavern-like entrance. Leaning over, he peers down into the abyss. Cool, rich, sweetly organic smelling air emerges from the depths.

  “But what of my sheep?” he asks himself aloud. “Father is all alone and he is depending upon me. But what harm can come from exploring this massive opening in the earth, even if only for a few moments, to see what secrets it holds?”

  That’s when it comes to him. The flying object. Maybe this cave was its destination all along. Maybe the cave is a home for whoever—or whatever—flies inside the machine?

  Moving to the edge of the cave, he stumbles, loses his balance, his right foot pushing a loose stone over the edge so that it falls into the opening. The stone lands, coming into contact with what sounds like a pool of water. The sound of the splash resonates up and out of the cave’s mouth.

  Sitting down, he hangs his legs over the opening. Then, rolling onto his stomach, he gradually lowers himself into the hole, his feet searching desperately for a foothold. When he finds one, he realizes happily that he will be able to climb down into the cave using only his hands and feet. Slowly, he descends into the cave, his hands gripping the stone outcroppings, his feet balancing on the small, narrow, stair-tread-like ledges until, finally, he finds himself standing on the cave floor, only the light from the mid-day sun illuminating him.

  He looks one way, spots the pool of crystal clear water.

  He looks the opposite way, sees a pitch black shaft tall enough to accompany a man of great height without his having to lower his head. The shaft is somehow claustrophobic and frightening. It also possesses a strange smell that’s different from the sweet organic scent that hovers over the pool. It’s a smell that reminds him of smoke, but also of the fire pit inside the swordsmith’s hut in the center of Florence. An acrid, almost toxic, odor that consists of burnt metals and gases. Knowing he won’t get very far without a lamp of some kind, he, nonetheless, finds himself drawn to the shaft. His body trembles and his heart beats ferociously in his chest.

  “What secrets do you possess?” he whispers aloud, his voice echoing inside the stone cavern.

  When the voice from deep inside the shaft answers him, asking, “What is it you wish to know?” the boy grows so dizzy he feels he might faint.

  He breathes in and out, attempting to steady himself. To regain control.

  “Who is it?” he says. “Who’s there? Are you the man from the flying machine?”

  “Come forward, Leonardo da Vinci,” the voice says. “I shall tell you everything. I shall give you the answers you seek.”

  And with that, the shaft becomes engulfed in a light so bright, the boy must shield his eyes with his hand. Once more lowering his hand, he begins to see something gradually taking shape against the light. A silhouette of a man. A muscular man whose straight legs are spread shoulder width apart, his arms fully extended at the shoulders, his long, wavy hair draping his face like the depictions he’s seen of Jesus Christ so many times before inside the galleries of Florence.

  “Come forward, Leonardo,” the man says, voice deep, commanding, resonating. A voice not of this world. “It’s time you come face to face with your destiny.”

  The boy is so enthralled with the man, his voice, his dark image, he forgets to breathe.

  “But there is one thing you must remember. The knowledge you seek will not come without a price.”

  The boy suddenly remembers to breathe. “And what shall this price be, good sir?”

  “Turn around and you shall see.”

  The boy turns. The figure that stares him down is a woman. A woman he’s not laid eyes upon in years. His mother. Instead of hair, she sports a nest of live snakes. One of which lashes out, bites the boy on the neck.

  “My God!” he screams. “I am going to die!”

  “You have much to learn, young Leonardo. For the price of knowledge is not only death, it is birth, death, and rebirth. It is also, eternal life.”

  1

  69 Via Guelfa

  Florence, Italy

  “You sure you’re not married?” I say, rolling over onto my left side on the bed, facing the open French windows of the bedroom, the night air cool and clean on our naked skin, the light of the brilliant moon bathing us like it must have bathed the Renaissance masters of the past. Caravaggio, Michelangelo … da Vinci. If we crane our necks just so, we can spot the golden cupula that rests on top of the Duomo (the dome Brunelleschi built nearly six hundred years ago) less than a half-mile away in the center of the city.

  From the cobbled streets below comes the noise of young revelers as they return from the bars and retire to their hostels. Across the street, a humble family which consists of a young man, equally young woman, and their little boy will already be fast asleep as the mouthwatering aromas of pizza and roasted meats still waft up from the trattoria several doors down on the right. Farther down on the left is the Korean brothel, which is situated directly across the street from an old convent that now houses indigent, elderly women. Sometimes, on any given late morning, you might spot one of the Korean prostitutes leaving the house dressed in nothing but a red silken robe, a plastic bag filled with food in her hand, which she will then hang on the big wood door of the old convent. Who says sinners don’t have hearts?

  Go not but for the grace of God …

  “No, I’m not married,” the woman says with a smile, her long, wavy, black hair veiling her smooth, almost pure-milky, brown-eyed face. Her small, but firm, breasts soak in the moonlight, along with her flat tummy and beautifully shaped legs. “I’m far too young for a husband,” she adds, leaning into me, kissing me tenderly on the mouth. “But not too young for a lover like you, Chase Baker.”

  The Italian woman, whose name is Andrea Gallo, captured my attention the moment I pulled into the Goose for my usual early evening beer. She was dressed in a knee-length beige skirt, tall black leather boots, and a red wine colored cotton turtleneck sweater. As far as I could tell, she wore no bra and her humble, but lovely, breasts burst forth from the sweater in a way that nearly brought me to tears.

  What really struck me was not her breasts, or her apparent youth, or her height which was a full two or three inches more vertical than my own, but the purple beret she wore on her head. The way it defied gravity by hanging at an angle over her right sh
oulder, and the way it made her black hair seem all the thicker and wavier and more inviting. It accentuated her dark, full, wet eyes.

  Her lips were painted with a glistening red lipstick, and it was all I could do not to ask her to marry me on the spot. She looked like someone born not of this century, but early in the last one. A woman who might have been witness to the Spanish Civil War or perhaps Paris during the Nazi occupation. I half expected to hear bombs bursting outside the wide windows of the Goose while a hand-cranked gramophone spun scratchy Edith Piaf records and exhausted partisans entered through the door, rifles slung over their shoulders, their leather jackets damp, their faces tired and gruff, hand-rolled cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths. Clearly, Andrea was a woman born for an era and age long since passed.

  To be truthful, I thought myself too old for her.

  Single, middle-aged men can do all right in Florence with the younger generation, but this woman was out of my league at any age. Which is why she took me by total surprise when she said, “Chase Baker, the famous bestselling novelist, I presume?” Her voice was accented. Italian. Most likely from the north. But then, I’ve been known to be wrong about dialects. In any case, her English was excellent.

  I turned one way and then the other. She was addressing me, of course, but I was neither famous nor bestselling—at least in terms of the James Pattersons and Dan Browns of the literary world—but what the hell. It didn’t hurt to hear the words coming from someone as stunning as her.

  The obvious question: “How’d you guess my name, gorgeous?”

  Chase the flattery hound.

  When she smiled from across the bar, little dimples formed on her rosy cheeks. They made me want to melt.

  “The owners told me you like to come here for a drink after work.”

  “They blew my cover like that? Now the entire city is gonna converge on the Goose. I won’t get any peace.” I drank some beer. Then, “And speaking of coming here often, why haven’t I met you before?”