by Richard Bard
A quick glance out the picture window revealed a white van across the street, two men sitting up front. Probably a new gardening crew for his neighbor, Helen. The picky old lady went through gardeners like most people did magazines, interviewing new ones every month or so.
The doorbell rang again.
“Hang on!” he shouted. He was going to be rid of these reporters once and for all.
He swung open the door, but his anger froze on his lips.
Francesca looked even better than he remembered from yesterday. A full tumble of dark hair streamed over her shoulders, framing an oval face dominated by liquid chocolate eyes filigreed with rings of gold dust that sparkled in the sunlight. A faint constellation of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, adding an endearing touch to a beautiful face. She wore turquoise harem-style pants, platform sandals, and a cropped, tailored jacket over a white blouse.
Her pillowy lips parted in a tentative smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bronson.”
His tongue was stuck.
She hesitated. “Are…you okay?”
He noticed her eyes glance for an instant at his abs, and for the first time in a long while he was glad he’d kept up his exercise regimen. She seemed to flush a little and looked away for a fraction of a second. “I’m so sorry to arrive unannounced like this. But I couldn’t get through on the phone.” Her brow furrowed as she looked past him to the condition of his home. Was that disgust on her face? Or concern?
Jake felt like his head was stuffed with cotton. There seemed to be a temporary disconnect between his brain and his tongue. He managed to mumble, “Uh-huh. I’m…fine.”
Is that the best you’ve got? Speak up, you idiot!
He cleared his throat. “Hi, Francesca. I’m really sorry ’bout yesterday.”
Tension seemed to melt from her shoulders. “Me too. Can we try again?”
Half an hour later they were sipping cappuccinos at Coffee Cartel. The twenty-year-old establishment was billed as the first “authentic” coffeehouse in Redondo’s Riviera Village. They sat amidst an eclectic mix of worn couches, overstuffed chairs, and small wooden cocktail tables with antique straight-back chairs. The Bohemian atmosphere attracted writers, students, and beachgoers looking for a quiet hideaway from the crowds.
Jake’s headache had faded, and he now had full control of his tongue. The triple shot of espresso helped.
They’d been talking about the institute in Venice. Francesca continued, “The children come from all over the world, many of them orphans.”
“And they’re all gifted?”
“Yes, in one way or another. Some in art, others in music or math, while some have an eidetic memory, much like yours.” She leaned forward, her elbows propped on the table between them, her fisted hands under her chin as she seemed to appraise him. “But unlike you, each of them exhibits what we call a spectrum disorder defined by a certain set of unusual antisocial behaviors that separate them from the rest of society. They often have difficulties interacting with others in a normal way.”
Jake considered his behavior over the past couple of days. Antisocial would be one way to describe it.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “No, you were just being a…schifoso, as we say in Italian.” Her eyes seemed to empty for a moment while she searched for the translation. The tip of her tongue licked at the corner of her mouth until the word finally came to her. “You were a jerk, si?” She flashed a feisty smile. The day seemed to brighten up just a little.
“I can’t argue with that,” Jake said. He allowed his thoughts to linger on her. This woman was something. Captivating. He flicked his napkin off the table with one hand. A fraction of a beat later he snapped his other hand around to try to catch it before it hit the floor.
Not even close.
Mental checklist: Super reflexes not activated when I’ve got it bad for a woman.
Francesca gave him a curious look but shrugged it off. “You can help us, Jake. By understanding what happened to you, and discovering why you’ve been given access to your gifts without any attached disorders, we may be able to unlock the secret to helping countless autistic children around the world.” Francesca shifted uneasily in her chair. “We could also explore any…paranormal talents you may have acquired.”
Jake wondered a moment at that last comment. Had she sensed something about him in the library? It seemed she genuinely believed he could help with her research at the institute. There was no denying it was for a good cause. Was he actually considering going? He had to admit, her appeal was difficult to resist. He imagined what it would be like to be with her in Venice. Helping her. Close to her.
“In a year,” she said, “two at the most, we could make incredible progress.”
Jake’s blood hardened to ice. The air seemed to thin around him. He sank back in his chair and stared blankly out the wall-length windows of the coffee shop. A small corner of his mind recognized the two men in the white van parked in the lot outside—the new gardeners that he had seen earlier at his neighbor’s house. He shrugged off the coincidence, his focus on the emotional pain that engulfed him. He couldn’t help Francesca or the children even if he wanted to. He wouldn’t be around three months from now, much less a year or two. What the hell was he thinking?
Francesca’s face clouded over. “What’s wrong?”
Jake stood. “I’ve gotta go.”
“W—what? Why?”
Jake allowed himself one final plunge into the blissful promise of her eyes. “I’m so very, very sorry,” he said. “But I just…can’t help you.” He turned and walked out the door before she could notice the tears that moistened his eyes.
Chapter 8
Venice, Italy
THE OLD MAN’S GONDOLA was fifty years old, but it was still strong, like him. Its elaborate decorations and smooth-as-glass finish were second to none on the crowded canals of the city that had been his family’s home for ten generations. Mario Fellini had been fourteen when, with a handshake, his father commissioned the boat to be built by none other than Tramontin Alberto Vitucci Nedis, the last of the squerarioli, a school of master gondola builders who had traced their methods back to the nineteenth century. The boat was solid, built with traditional master craftsman techniques, without glue or putty. Mario had always believed he would outlive his precious boat. Now he suspected that was not to be.
He pushed the long oar back and forth through the quiet canal, his gondola gliding silently into the institute’s small supply garage, ready to pick up a turista for a very different tour of Venice. There was to be no serenade of “O Sole Mio” on this very private ride to a soggy tomb beyond the cemetery isle of San Michele.
As he pulled up to the stone pier, he was stunned to find not one but two bodies this night. And one was just a child. She couldn’t be more than six or seven years old. Paralyzed at the sight of her innocent face, Mario wept silent tears into the grey stubble of his chin.
The old gondolier cursed his involvement in Signor Battista’s loathsome experiments.
I spit on you, I spit on your ancestors.
But what could he do? How could he stop? His own daughter’s life was at stake. She worked amidst this nightmare, unaware of the institute’s hidden secrets and now an unwitting hostage under the watchful eye of Signor Battista and his bloodthirsty entourage.
He recalled that life-changing evening a month ago when the sleek mahogany speedboat had barreled around the corner…
***
The motorboat had fishtailed out of its turn into the Grand Canal only a few meters away and headed straight for him. Mario had raised his fist in the air, with expletives spilling from his throat. The boat swerved to avoid him and barely missed his stern. The spray from its wake arced into his gondola and sprayed the young German couple holding hands as they cuddled on the gilded parécio.
Suddenly Mario’s angry yell caught in his throat. A lifeless hand had slipped out from under a tarp in the motorboat’s aft w
ell. The old man’s eyes darted to the driver as the boat sped away. Even from behind, the figure seemed familiar.
The driver risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder.
That was Signor Battista’s man, Carlo, from the institute!
For half a beat Mario went rigid, standing on the wobbling stern of his gondola, his arms stretched to the side, his mouth agape. His daughter, Francesca, worked at the institute. Was she safe? The pounding of his heart filled his ears and spurred him to action. He grabbed the long oar handle and scissored the blade deep into the water with every ounce of his strength. He turned the boat around and headed toward his home on Calle de la Chiesa in the San Polo district. By the time he got there, Francesca should be home from work.
At the urging of his date, the young German man started to complain about the change of course. He blabbered something in very broken Italian about wanting to see the Ponte di Rialto. Mario tried to explain, but the language barrier was too great. He finally shut them up by pressing the hundred-euro fee back into the young man’s hands and ushering them off the boat at the first landing they passed.
Twenty minutes later, Mario sped up the ancient stone steps of his jasmine-covered courtyard. He swung open the door to his small home. The smell of that morning’s baked bread still lingered in the air. He yelled into the hallway, “Francesca!”
There was no reply. When he stepped into the living area, he froze, his blood chilled.
His daughter was seated on a dining chair with her hands tied behind her back. Her auburn hair spilled out from under a silky black hood that was cinched over her head. Carlo stood behind her with his stiletto pressed against her throat. His casual sneer disclosed his lust for the job.
Signor Battista was seated next to her at the well-worn pine table. An open bottle of Mario’s favorite Chianti and two half-filled glasses were on the table in front of him.
Mario lunged forward. “Francesca!”
Two pairs of vice-like hands grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his feet. He kicked at the air and twisted his body to get free, but the two big men held him fast.
“Don’t be foolish, Mario,” Battista said. “Your daughter’s life depends on it.” He motioned for Carlo to increase the pressure of the knife against the pale skin of Francesca’s neck. She flinched at the touch of the cold steel and a muffled shriek leaked from the gag she wore under the dark shroud. There was a strangled wheeze as she strained to suck air in through her nose.
Mario stilled.
Battista gestured to the empty chair opposite him. “Please, have a seat and join me in a sip of wine. It’s rather good, actually. A much better vintage than I would have expected from your pantry. Were you holding it for a special occasion?”
Mario’s body shook. He stood there and said nothing. Francesca had given him the expensive bottle of wine as a gift. It was his favorite. They were going to share it together on his sixty-fifth birthday next week.
“Are you going to behave?” Battista said. “Or must I ask Carlo to press the point, so to speak?”
Mario couldn’t stop his body from trembling. He nodded, his eyes glued to the knife.
“Excellent,” Battista said with a flourish of his hand. “There are some things we need to discuss. Now please take a seat.”
The two guards loosened their grip. One of them pulled the chair out. Mario sat down and pushed the glass of wine away from him.
Battista swirled the wine in his own stemmed glass before taking another appreciative sip. “I’m sure Francesca has told you of the groundbreaking research we are conducting at the institute.”
In the lecture that followed, the well-spoken signor tried to impress upon Mario the importance of the institute’s research and experiments, of the amazing medical breakthroughs they were working on. Battista set his glass down and pointedly added, “I know that the importance of our work is certainly not lost on your lovely daughter.”
Mario had difficulty hearing anything that was said. He kept glancing at the blade, and the empty eyes of the man who held it to his daughter’s throat. Battista was saying something about the research subjects. They were all volunteers, hardened and convicted criminals from throughout Eastern Europe, who had agreed to participate in return for reduced sentences or financial assistance for their estranged families. Yes, there was some risk, and occasionally a subject died, as had happened earlier that afternoon.
The casual mention of the dead body brought Mario’s attention back into focus. Battista continued, “That’s when records need to be modified and the body disposed of. Quietly. For the sake of the research, all the lives we will save with the treatment we are perfecting, and the dedicated people who are part of the institute.” He motioned to Francesca. “Including your daughter.”
Darkness gathered on Battista’s face. His teeth clenched, and his eyes bore into Mario. The silky tone vanished, replaced with a growl that reminded Mario of a wolf protecting its kill. He pounded his fists on the table and half stood up in his chair. “Our research is everything. Do you understand me? I will allow nothing to stand in the way of our success. Nothing!”
Mario shrank from the intensity of Battista’s rage, seeing in his deep-set black eyes the maniacal alter ego buried within.
As if the outburst never occurred, Battista took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, consciously relaxing his features. He took a slow sip of wine. For a moment, he studied Mario and the simple appointments of his home while appearing to consider where to go next with this conversation, measuring the risks of each choice.
Calm once again, Battista set down his glass, his voice smooth. “Mario, we need your help. Or should I say our entire family at the institute needs your help? We are going to hire your services as our personal gondolier.” He pulled from his breast pocket an envelope stuffed with a stack of euros and slid it across the table.
Mario pulled his hands from the table and pressed them back into his chair as if the money held a deadly contagion.
“An advance for your efforts,” Battista said. “Since you, too, are now part of our family.”
Mario fought back a wave of nausea.
“In the event that we find ourselves in the same unfortunate situation as we did today, we need to be more careful.” Battista cast a stern glance at Carlo. “We cannot be racing around recklessly in our motorboat with a lifeless test subject flailing about in the back.” He turned back to Mario. “This is Venice. We must be discreet. Certainly a respected gondolier going about his normal duties would remain above suspicion, yes?”
Mario recoiled as the horrible meaning behind Battista’s words dawned on him. They wanted him to dispose of bodies from their failed experiments. God, no! “Please, signore, not that.”
Battista discarded the plea with a wave of his hand. “Certainly your daughter’s life is worth it, yes? And it would only be for a short time. In any case, it is decided.”
Mario fought to control his breathing. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He looked from his daughter to Battista. Embers of rage smoldered in his gut. This man would pay. Mario would find a way to hide his daughter and then pay a visit to Signor Battista. Mario had friends. They would help. But for now, he must play along.
I must be patient.
A nod of Mario’s head sealed the black agreement. He slid his tremulous hand across the smooth table and pulled the envelope toward him, vowing silently to spend every last euro of it, as well as the rest of his meager savings, to defeat the devil sipping his birthday wine in front of him.
Rising from the table, Battista said, “There is one last thing, Mario—an important lesson just in case you question my sincerity.” He motioned to the two guards behind Mario. Rushing forward, one of them looped a thick forearm in a chokehold around Mario’s neck. The other quickly secured Mario’s arms, chest, and legs to the chair with duct tape. The last strip went across Mario’s mouth.
Battista leaned across the table and captured Mario’s frantic eyes
with his own. “The restraints are for your own safety. I don’t want you to hurt yourself in the next few moments. I want you to savor the feelings you are about to experience because you are the only one in the world who can prevent them from ever happening again.” He stepped back and nodded to Carlo.
Shifting his position behind Francesca, Carlo pulled the back of her hooded head hard against his chest with his left palm, exposing the full length of her delicate neck. Francesca stiffened; another muffled squeak escaped from under the black hood, tearing at Mario’s heart. In one smooth motion, Carlo’s right hand pushed the pointed blade of the stiletto deep into her flesh, pulling its razor-sharp edge in a savage semicircle across her throat, slicing through both her carotid arteries. Blood pulsed from the deep gash in a gruesome scarlet waterfall.
She was dead in seconds. Her head drooped forward.
An anguished moan pressed against the thick tape covering Mario’s mouth. He contorted and twisted against the restraints, his body trying to deny what his eyes were seeing. He shook his head violently from side to side, the hard-backed chair jumping beneath him. His eyes felt ready to explode out of his head.
Battista watched him for several long seconds. “Carlo, let’s end his suffering before the old fool has a heart attack.”
Carlo yanked the black hood off the bloody corpse. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled the dead woman’s head up so that her face was pointed directly at Mario.
He stopped moving. His tear-filled eyes blinked at a face he did not recognize.
Mother of God.
“That’s right, Mario,” Battista said. “Francesca is at the institute working late tonight. Perfectly safe. And she will remain that way as long as you do as you’re told. Do you understand?”
Mario’s head was nodding repeatedly even before Battista stopped speaking.
“Good. Your first assignment is to clean this place up and dump the body in the lagoon before your daughter gets home. Carlo will tell you where. And remember, Francesca must know nothing of this. I expect her to be at the institute tomorrow morning at her regular time, ready to work.” Battista ripped the duct tape from Mario’s lips. “Do you understand?”
