“Look, it’s been less than an hour since the explosion. Mohammed can’t be that far away,” said O’Donnell with an urgent tone to his voice.
“Have your Carabinieri pick him up and bring him in for questioning. He lives at Cara di Mineo. Maybe he’s stupid enough to go back there. But I doubt it.”
Constanzo went silent and thought long and hard about what he had just been told by the turista. He was looking for reasons why he shouldn’t believe him.
“Okay, O’Donnell. Let me make a few calls to confirm what you say about yourself is true. Then we may act. Now thank you and goodbye. If you’ll excuse me, I have a major crime scene to process.”
The captain turned around and pulled out his mobile phone, hitting the speed dial. He was obviously checking out O’Donnell’s credentials for himself.
“Sir, it’d be appreciated if you could please keep me informed with your progress. I’m sure Generale Conti will confirm this.” O’Donnell handed a card with his contact details to Constanzo and then walked away.
He was going to try and locate Mohammed before his trail went stone cold.
“Ah . . . G, something terrible has just happened,” exclaimed Jools, totally out of the blue. She sat bolt upright and focused on the moment, crystallizing her thoughts, trying to make sense of the vision that had just flashed in front of her eyes.
They were sitting on the small balcony that led off their hotel room in Palermo, having a late afternoon aperitif, enjoying their time together without their kids and watching the world go by on the street below: children running around playfully, noisily chasing each other; mammas and their bambinos shopping for the night meal at locals-only, no-name mercatos, their male partners sitting together at tables outside, smoking, drinking espressos, talking; tourists looking for a quaint bar to sit and relax in the piazza with a cool beer. It had been a hot and humid day and G and Jools were chilling after a few hours of sightseeing.
G, being the intrepid yachtsman that he was, insisted they take a leisurely stroll through the labyrinth of narrow, unevenly paved, higgledy-piggledy streets that meandered through the old part of town, then visit the ruins of Castello a Mare, an old fort that guarded the entrance to the original port, and eventually ended up near the yacht harbor for lunch and a cold bottle of vini chianti.
A perfect day in a friendly city, fifteen thousand kilometers and a world away from the miserable winter they left behind in Melbourne ten days ago.
G turned and looked at his wife. There was definitely something awry. After twenty-nine years of marriage he knew Jools well and her intuition was never wrong. It was almost verging on the supernatural how Jools could pick up on happenings around her and seemingly predict what was about to or had just happened. He was sure that she could get inside his head and have a conversation with him, then jump out again without him ever having actually muttered a word. She was just like her mother.
Totally psychic. And it looked like Cait had inherited the same DNA and was following suit. Mother and daughter might cross swords from time to time, but they were so alike it was unreal.
“What’s wrong, Jools? What did you see?”
As if G had to ask. Jools would tell him in any case, as they told each other everything. Well, almost. They both had a few secrets and indiscretions that had happened along life’s path, but these were best left buried.
“There was a terrible flash. An explosion of some sort, then a burning fire that was so hot it felt like it was melting my skin. It’s the kids, G. They were in the vision. I saw them.” She’d never been more positive of anything in her life.
“Something bad is going down.”
Jools became aware of distant voices echoing in her head, demanding attention. For the first time since she was an adolescent, her ancient grandmothers were calling her. Warning her. The bonds of motherhood started urgently tugging at her, slapping her around the face, forcing her to listen.
“What’s happening!” shrieked Jools, distraught and concerned for the safety of her children.
“G, you need to contact the kids now! They’re in danger.” Jools was in panic mode, her temporal pulse pounding against her head like a beating drum, the pit of her stomach feeling like it had dropped to the floor.
“There’s no answer on Cait’s phone,” said G, trying unsuccessfully to call her.
“She didn’t take it, G, her battery was dead, remember? Ring Dec. And please hurry up.”
“No answer either.” Little did they know that Dec’s phone was destroyed when he was hit by the full force of the blast.
“Oh my God. Ring Paul. He’s always got his phone on him.”
No answer. Paul had left his phone in his bag in the car, and it had been incinerated.
“G, we’ve got to ring the police. Get the number from the concierge desk.”
They both got up and urgently walked inside together, just as a news flash came on the TV, which they had previously switched on when they first arrived back in their room to check tomorrow’s weather. A bomb had been detonated in Catania. The charred shell of a vehicle came into view. Victims were being loaded into ambulances. Police were wandering around controlling the crowd. And there, for a split second in the background was Paul, looking dazed and disheveled.
“Oh God, where are our children,” sobbed Jools, tears running down her cheeks as she stared at the flickering screen, scouring the crowd for Cait and Dec.
But they were nowhere to be seen.
G took it all in and realized that this was real time, his wife’s vision had been correct, and it was serious. He broke out in a cold sweat. His eyes welling with tears, G moved over to his wife and placed a comforting arm around her heaving shoulders, pulling her into him so they could feel the pain together. His embrace was as much about helping him deal with his own distress at what they had just seen as it was to comfort his wife.
“Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t gild the lily on this,” said Commander Syzchowski in a forthright but kind military manner. He had just left the operating theater and was standing in front of Cait and Paul with an exhausted, glum look on his face, still in his green scrubs. Cait stiffened as Syzchowski rose, senses heightened, willing him to say that all was going to be fine. Looking at the man in front of her, her attention was drawn to five dark spots randomly spread across his left shoulder like drips of paint, as obvious to her as a rain cloud on an otherwise clear spring day.
I wonder if that’s Dec’s blood, Cait absently thought, her mind playing tricks on her.
The Commander was a tough man in an even tougher job, but he found this part of being a trauma surgeon challenging. Normally his patients had been flown in from a war zone or the front line, so he had no one pacing the floor of the ED waiting room for hours, anxious for news of their loved one. But this time it was different. He felt obliged to personally deliver Dec’s prognosis. He’d treated him immediately after the explosion, kept him alive in the eighteen-minute ambulance ride to the naval hospital in Sigonella and spent the last four and a half hours repairing his shattered body, so he felt an obligation to follow this through.
“Cait, your brother’s still alive, which I’m sure you want to hear.”
A glimmer of hope invaded Cait’s psyche, which she clung to with hope and trepidation.
Oh thank God! He’s going to be all right, Cait willed.
“But only just. It was a very difficult operation and had its complications.”
Cait’s roller coaster of emotions changed in a heartbeat to the depths of despair.
“Unfortunately the severity of the internal bleeding caused a condition known as tamponade, which is where the buildup of blood inside the chest squashes the heart. Dec went into cardiac arrest as soon as we removed the shrapnel from his chest, but we managed to bring him back. It was amazing actually. We thought we’d lost him, then with no indication or reason why he suddenly had a pulse again. He’s certainly one lucky kid. The shrapnel was only millimeters from his heart.�
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Cait heard the words, but her brain was in a fog. His assessment of Dec’s prognosis drifted to her ears in muffled tones, the high notes clipped, making them sound like the Commander was speaking to her from under a wet blanket. Tears flooded her eyes as she vacantly stared at the messenger in front of her. He ceased to have clear form, instead taking on the hazy persona of a dreamlike character.
“We managed to revive him, but he lost a lot of blood. We thought we were going to lose him again two or three more times, but somehow Dec kept pulling through after each setback. He must have a guardian angel watching over him, because lesser men wouldn’t have survived what he’s just been through.”
Oh my God, thought Cait. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
During the long, agonizing wait for Dec’s operation to finally end, Cait had turned inward, and trancelike, invaded Dec’s anesthetized mind. She used all her available powers and then some more to summon her ancient grandmothers from the Otherworld. If ever she needed them, it was now. Her brother was on death’s door, his soul floating midway between this world and the next, and she required their guidance to grasp hold of his floating spirit and bring it back into his physical body before it was too late and he passed over for good.
Twice during his operation, Cait had to drag Dec back from the brink of death.
You’re not going to die, Dec, Cait repeatedly whispered, the words hanging precariously in the ether, morphing into a spell-like mantra as they dominated the space between her brother and herself.
I won’t let you leave this world. Not now.
James appeared in Cait’s vision, his presence akin to a warming summer breeze kissing her soul. Gently taking hold of Cait’s ethereal hand, he guided her through the maze of the fourth dimension that she was floating in, directing her energy into a protective mantle that ensnared Dec’s soul, trapping it in a shimmering spider’s web of love and positivity.
Trust in me, Cait. I can help you, whispered James, his gentle words settling her troubled mind. Together we can protect your brother from the Gatekeeper of Lost Souls.
“Cait, Dec may have survived this round of surgery, but I don’t want you getting your hopes up,” continued Commander Syzchowski solemnly.
“Dec’s condition is still critical. He’s currently sedated and in intensive care. We won’t be able to fully determine his prognosis for a few days, I’m sorry to have to tell you.”
The Commander’s words of caution registered with Cait, but through the haze of worry and concern she knew she had a secret weapon. In fact, an arsenal of them. She had the power of The Gift and her ancient shamanic grandmothers on her side to nurture and guide her brother’s injured soul and ensure it remained within this mortal coil. If anyone, or anything for that matter, could keep Dec’s soul in this corporeal world, it had to be them.
Just heal yourself, Dec. Get better, and we’ll stop your spirit from drifting.
Cait knew she couldn’t control Dec’s body’s ability to repair itself, but she could help keep his mind, body and soul connected in a single conjoined entity.
As soon as Paul and Cait had arrived at the hospital at six o’clock, even though it was evening, Paul had been marvelous and chased down a landline for Cait to use to contact her parents. And when Commander Syzchowski, the White Knight that he turned out to be, found out about G and Jools he immediately stepped in and arranged for a naval car and driver to leave from Catania and pick G and Jools up from their hotel in Palermo at ten o’clock the same night and bring them directly to the hospital.
Syzchowski recognized that Cait needed the support of her parents around her. In fact, he was amazed at how well Cait was coping with the stress of having her injured brother knocking on death’s door in the ICU, considering how they were obviously very close. Her friend Paul was a good backstop, but she needed her immediate family to lean on and share the pain and concern with.
“Dec’s out of surgery. He’s not good, but he’s made it so far,” said Cait to her parents. It was now ten thirty in the evening—six hours since the explosion. She’d already rung G and Jools earlier at six o’clock to give them the distressing news about Dec and fill them in as best as she could. When Cait finally managed to touch base, G and Jools had obviously gone through the whole gamut of emotions—absolute shock, concern, worry, denial even—but now at least they had something to focus on, even if it was the fact that their beautiful son Dec was just hanging on to life by a tenuous gossamer thread.
Cait was exhausted and drifting into delayed shock, living on adrenaline, too distressed to talk lucidly, but she’d somehow found the strength to contact G and Jools again. They needed an update. They were currently en route from Palermo and weren’t due to arrive until around midnight. Her parents were the most important people in her life, and she needed them here so they could all weather the crisis together.
And as G and Jools were now due to arrive in about an hour and a half, Cait purposefully kept her conversation short. It was just too difficult to speak at length.
“Mum, Dad, I need you here. Dec needs you here. He’s going to pull through. We can’t let him die,” continued Cait, concern and sadness dominating her voice.
“Caitie, we’re in the car and according to the driver will be there a bit after midnight,” said G hoarsely over his mobile, briefly stopping to swallow.
“Hang in there until we arrive, darling. You’ve got to be strong, just like I taught you. We all have to be. For Dec’s sake.”
Just hearing her father’s calming words helped take the edge off the moment. G and Cait were more than just father and daughter—G was her best friend, her mentor, her life coach, and he knew how to touch her heart and get through to her and soothe her concerns and worry.
“I’ll come downstairs at twelve fifteen then and meet you two at the front entrance,” said Cait, relief evident in the tone of her reply.
“Caitie, always remember, there’s no medicine as strong as hope, and we have that in abundance. Keep the faith, girl. We’ll be there soon,” said G lovingly, a sadness dominating his voice.
“In the meantime, try and get some rest. It’ll no doubt be a long night.”
“G, Jools, I just don’t know what to say. Sorry doesn’t even get near how I feel,” said Paul, menacing memories of the explosion bruising his mind as he recalled the horror of the blast.
“That car bomb was obviously meant for me.”
Paul let his comments momentarily hang in midair as he wiped a wet eye with his index finger, the emotion of the moment gushing up inside him, then continued.
“And Dec being the one who was actually injured . . . my God, I’m just so sorry.” Paul was beside himself, wracked with guilt, and finding it difficult to think clearly.
It was now three thirty in the morning. The four of them had stumbled across a no-name bar that was still open a block away from their accommodation that Commander Syzchowski—a.k.a. the White Knight—had arranged for them. Without a second thought they wandered inside and sat down. It had been such a harrowing eleven hours and exhausted as everyone was, they were all too hyped to go to bed yet.
G and Jools were of course devastated, concerned, worried—totally distraught—but they had known Paul way too long to use him as their whipping boy and attribute any of the blame for Dec’s injuries on to him. The two families had shared the comings and goings of events in their lives for over thirty-five years—fun times at university when they were all footloose and fancy free, their hopes and dreams, marriages, children, social get-togethers, family holidays, Paul’s separation from his wife, Kaz. Paul’s three children were Cait and Dec’s best friends and confidants and were an important part of G and Jools’s extended family.
As far as Paul was concerned, Dec’s death would be tantamount to losing one of his own children. So as much as it was part of human nature to look for someone, or something for that matter, to pin the blame on for such a devastating event, for G and Jools there was simply way too much
history to walk this path with Paul.
Instead, they needed to focus their combined energies on Dec. He may have made it through the operation, but he was still on death’s door and could die in the next heartbeat.
“Grappa all around,” said Paul, placing four tall glasses of the clear Italian firewater on the table. He had ordered double shots.
“I think we all need something strong to take the edge off.”
Silence gathered momentum as they tentatively sipped their aperitifs, invading the atmosphere, allowing each person’s disparate yet collective thoughts to mingle in a pool of disquiet and trepidation. Cait toyed with her drink, lost in thought as she swished the liquid around, the church windows of glycerol clinging to the inside of the glass capturing her attention. She raised the glass to her mouth, paused while the evaporating alcohol tingled on the inside of her nose as she breathed in, then in one movement threw the whole eighty milliliters down in a single gulp, feeling the burning liquid set her esophagus on fire.
Cait’s eyes immediately watered and she coughed uncontrollably, her mouth feeling like a white-hot blast furnace that had just been forcefully pumped with air.
The grappa was weapons grade—raw, strong, almost explosive—and totally took Cait by surprise. She’d had shots before, but nothing like this. In a strange way the shock of the potent alcohol was actually like a wake-up call, cleansing her mind of some of the worry and concern that had been dominating her thoughts. It was impossible to think of Dec; Cait felt like she was in survival mode herself.
“It’s a bit like that, Cait,” said Paul. “Sorry, I should have warned you first.”
“Thanks Paul,” replied Cait hoarsely. “Good God, that’d put hair on your chest.”
G looked on and for the first time since he had arrived in Catania smiled and laughed at the distorted faces Cait was pulling.
“Cait, slow down a bit,” said Jools, ever the pragmatic one. “You’ll need a clear head tomorrow.”
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 58
