Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (10 page)

There had been a long pause before Jake finally said in Italian, “You’re joking with me, yes?”

Mario had translated Jake’s question for the two Americans. They had responded with grim expressions and shakes of the head.

“B-but why?” Jake had asked. “What was it all about?”

The three men had exchanged furtive glances before Marshall started to reply. But Mario cut him off with a wave of his hand. The old man knew the story for himself. Jake recalled his blowing out a long breath before saying, “You told us that the device had been left here thousands of years ago by an alien species. They had identified mankind’s violent nature as a potential threat. The pyramid was like a testing station, or kiosk. Its purpose was to identify that point in time when man’s intellect had achieved the level necessary to develop the capability for interstellar travel. Unlocking the device by solving the complex riddle of the glyphs was the first test; the brain scan was the second. With your enhanced abilities, you passed them both. That triggered the launch, sending the device back to its makers with the results.”

Jake could barely imagine what he was hearing, much less accept it as truth. But he had seen from his friends’ expressions that they believed every word.

Mario had hesitated before adding, “You explained that the aliens would later return to pass judgment on mankind. If our violent tendencies remained, then humanity would be eliminated.”

Jesus!

Jake shook off the memory and returned to the present. He felt a kinship to these men. But it was a sensation born from the day’s events, not from their shared past. He wondered at the bravery and loyalty they had exhibited by rescuing him today—six
years after his funeral. Perhaps it was fitting that their reunion was to be consummated on the Isola di San Michele. The walled island was a cemetery isle.

It had also been the secret gathering place of the Gondoliers’ Guild since the late sixteenth century.

They’d switched boats twice before arriving at the deserted dock. His wrinkled clothes were finally dry. Night had fallen, and a thin blanket of fog hung over the water. Bugs buzzed in endless circles around the lone lamp over the concrete pier. Two men appeared out of the mist. They wore windbreakers, knit caps, and wary expressions. Each carried a vintage assault rifle.

Mario motioned for them to lead the way. “Stay close,” he said. They single-filed through an arched gate leading to an earthen path framed by cypress trees. A beam from one of the gondolier’s flashlights strayed from the path and reflected off an expansive stretch of grave markers. Only a few were adorned with fresh flowers.

Death all around me.

“Creepy,” Marshall whispered.

A white-haired monk awaited them at an open side door to the church. A rosary dangled from one hand, and his lips moved silently in prayer. He motioned them inside. Domed ceilings, carved arches, and marble columns dominated the space. Religious frescoes adorned the ceiling and walls.

They passed through a locked door and down a narrow staircase that led to the catacombs. Jake was taken aback by the expansiveness of the chamber at the bottom of the steps. A statue of Saint Michael on Judgment Day commanded the center of the circular room. He held the scales of justice in one hand and a spear in the other. Contemplation benches surrounded the figure. Five corridors spiderwebbed outward.

The monk ushered them down one of the dimly lit passages.

“The church was built in 1469,” Mario said. “For a time, it also served as a prison.” He pointed at the tombs inset into either
wall. They stretched into the distance. “Each of the spaces was once a prison cell.”

Jake shivered at the thought. The openings couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. A bead of sweat slid from his forehead.

When the last of the tombs was ten paces behind them, Mario added, “One of those prisoners was a gondolier. He escaped with the help of a priest. His brother.”

The line of caged overhead lightbulbs ended. The path ahead was shrouded in darkness. Flashlights flicked on. The beams danced off rough-cut walls. The tunnel made a sharp turn. Five paces later, it dead-ended into a wall of rock.

“The young priest was an archivist,” Mario said. “He stumbled across drawings that revealed this.” He placed his palm on an outcrop and pushed. There was a click, and the entire wall slid smoothly to one side. It barely made a sound. A wooden door stood behind it. It appeared ancient but well oiled. It was strapped in black iron.

“This part of the catacombs was God-made,” Mario said. “It was used as a storage area during construction of the church. But it was long forgotten after a cave-in sealed the end of the tunnel. The priest toiled for six months to clear the path that eventually led his brother to safety.” He patted the priest on the shoulder. “With the aid of brethren like Father Filippo, it became the guild’s secret gathering place, protected through the ages.”

There was a camera over the doorframe. Bolts were thrown from within. Jake flinched at the sound.

My family is on the other side of that door.

As it opened inward, Mario said, “Of course, we’ve made a few changes over the years.”

The space was expansive and well lit. It resembled the interior of an eighteenth-century sailing vessel. The low ceiling was supported by stout beams, and the walls and floors were planked with polished wood. The furnishings were simple but inviting.
A leather couch and chairs formed a casual sitting area. Pictures adorned the walls, and a bowl of fruit rested atop a round dining table at the far end of the room. The space smelled of must, gun oil, and…pasta.

“There’s a kitchen?” Marshall asked.

“Of course,” Mario said.

“Smells like home,” Tony said.

Voices traveled from a hallway at the far end of the room.

Jake braced himself.

Isola di San Michele

S
ARAFINA PACED BACK
and forth in the underground room. The melody she composed in her mind reflected her anxiety.

“Stop it,” Ahmed said.

She barely heard him. A full orchestra accompanied the frenzied music. A crescendo of drums, racing violins, and a crash of cymbals. Her fingers tapped imaginary keys…

“Stop!” Ahmed shouted.

It was as if the conductor had hurled his baton. The music ceased, she opened her eyes, and her hands went to her hips. She’d abandoned her bridesmaid dress and heels for a hodgepodge outfit that didn’t fit. At least it was clean. The striped gondolier shirt was long-sleeved. The waistline of the black trousers wrinkled beneath a cinched belt. The cuffs were rolled up above a pair of deck shoes. “What’s your problem?”

“Your humming was getting out of hand,” Ahmed said. He was irritated. He still wore the white shirt and trousers of his tux.

“I was humming?”

“Dude, you’re lucky the walls didn’t come crumbling down.”

“Shut up,” she said. “And I’m not a dude.”

Ahmed brought his palms to his ears. “My world for a pair of noise-canceling headphones.”

“Shut—” She stopped herself. Getting angry wasn’t going to help. Either of them.

Her shoulders dropped. “He’ll be here any minute,” she said, stopping in front of a dresser mirror to straighten her hair. “Where do you think he’s been all this time?”

Ahmed sat on a lower bunk in the sparse bedroom. The pencil he was spinning on an empty chessboard came to an abrupt stop. “Bolivia, the Galápagos Islands, Siberia. Probably not Somalia. Too many pirates. Unless he was their hostage. Do you think he was captured by pirates? He’d have some stories to tell! If you ask me, I think—”

“Flip it,” Sarafina interrupted. There was no anger in her voice. It was the signal they’d agreed upon long ago.

Ahmed clamped his jaw closed. He calmed. The mood change was instantaneous. He nodded. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”

Sarafina shrugged. He hadn’t blabbered like that in a long time. When they’d first met, years ago at the institute, it was the only way he knew to communicate. The way her mom had explained it, intense nervousness opened too many pathways in his overactive brain. He spoke whatever came to mind. Over the years, he’d learned to control it, slipping only during extreme circumstances. This had been the third time he’d lost it in the past hour.

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “It seems impossible that he’s alive.”

Alex’s legs dangled down from the upper bunk. They swung back and forth in unison with his rocking body. His hands were in his lap. He still wore his black jacket and bow tie. The faraway look in his eyes was familiar, though Sarafina had little doubt that he absorbed everything that was going on. His tablet was on the bed beside him. He hadn’t communicated through it again, despite everyone’s encouragement. It frustrated her, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. Life was complicated. She had learned that from her own experiences. It would happen
when he was ready, she thought. Not before. That his first written words were in English was a shock. She and Ahmed stuck to the language, hoping to draw him out.

“Something compelled Jake to stay away,” Ahmed said. There was no trace of his Afghan roots in his accent. He was a gifted linguist, due in large part to the brain implant he’d received years ago as part of Signor Battista’s experiments. “It must have been for your safety.” He pointed upward. “And Alex’s.”

The sentiment struck a chord. “I know,” Sarafina said, wiping away a tear. “But it’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Ahmed agreed.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So, what are we going to do?” Ahmed asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, regardless of why he was away, he’s back now. And he’s in trouble.” He waved a hand to encompass their surroundings. “That’s why we’re all here, right? To help him?”

“I guess. But what can
we
do?”

Ahmed considered the question. His lips moved silently around the stream of thoughts that likely careened through his head. Finally, he captured her gaze and said, “Whatever we must.”

The notion rendered everything in hard clarity for Sarafina.

“Whatever we must,” she repeated.

Alex’s legs stopped swinging.

Isola di San Michele

J
AKE COULDN
’
T SHAKE
the sense of foreboding. He still had the envelope in his pocket.

Lives hinge on your ability to remain anonymous.

A striking blonde stepped into the underground hideaway, and Jake recognized her from the wedding party. She wore an ill-fitting outfit that appeared pieced together from a gondolier’s wardrobe. The boots, baggy pants, blousy shirt, and leather vest were more fitting for a pirate than for a bride. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. She rushed forward.

“Jake!” she shouted as she threw her arms around him. “It’s really you!” she said in Italian.

His return embrace was tentative. She noticed and pulled away. Her head canted to one side. Caribbean-blue eyes studied him. Marshall moved in and placed an arm around her waist.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, her voice trailing off.

Mario stepped forward. He had called ahead to warn the others of Jake’s condition. “This is Lacey,” he said in Italian. “Marshall’s fiancée.”

“
Molto piacere
,
signorina
—” He cut off as the awkwardness of his formal greeting sank in. According to the stories he’d heard on the boat, Lacey had been one of his closest friends. Her courage had saved lives. He reached out and took her hands in
his. He offered her a tight-lipped nod. Her features relaxed and she squeezed his hands.

“Welcome back, Jake,” she said in Italian. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

“Damn straight,” Tony said.

It was then that Jake noticed the woman behind her. She stood motionless beneath the hallway arch. One hand clutched a locket at her chest. She wore a white peasant dress that was belted around a small waist. Auburn hair spilled down her shoulders. It framed a face that was filled with hope.

The sight of her eyes took his breath away. Liquid chocolate—the eyes from his dreams. He’d sketched them a hundred times.