Coffin Collector (3 page)

Casca slid his smart phone over to Talon. It showed a photograph of an ancient-looking coffin. The design was simple, almost austere. Just a crude wooden casket.
 

Talon zoomed in on the image, and more disturbing details became visible. Strange glyphs and sigils adorned the coffin’s surface. Occult symbols Casca might know how to interpret but were beyond Talon’s knowledge, at least at this point in the game. There was something sickening about the cumulative effect of the cryptic patterns.

 
“What am I looking at?” Talon asked.

“This is the casket that Bruno Zamora was buried in. Zamora vanished in 1905, suffering from ill health. Some believed he’d committed suicide and drowned in the North Sea near his hometown of Kampen. In reality, Zamora’s assistants had buried him on his property instead, the coffin remaining undiscovered until a recent construction project unearthed them.”

Talon chewed this over and said, “Alright, so why is this of interest to us? Don’t tell me this was Dracula’s coffin, or I’ll walk right out of here.”

Casca arched an eyebrow and said, “The coffin was stolen a few weeks after its discovery. The German Kriminalpolizei even has a suspect. This man.”

Casca swiped his phone and revealed the ancient features of Giallo. The picture perfectly captured the cold fire smoldering behind the man’s eyes.

“Marco Giallo, heir to the Giallo Cofani dynasty, a fourth generation coffin maker and rumored to be an obsessive collector of coffins.”

“I guess everybody needs a hobby.”

This time a grin stole over Casca’s face.

“So you have contacts in the German police force?”

Casca’s eyes narrowed. “I have contacts wherever underpaid government employees need to make ends meet.”

“Point taken. So Giallo might have the coffin. And you want me to head to Florence to find out if he does?”

Casca nodded.

Talon frowned as he inspected the image of the coffin again. “What makes the coffin so special?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of soul transference?”

In the old days Talon would’ve rolled his eyes at a question like this. Much had changed. “The occult practice of transferring one’s soul into another body,” he answered without hesitation.

Casca sipped his wine and said, “Zamora believed he could cheat death and be reborn in another, younger body. Tapping into Babylonian occult concepts of rebirth and reincarnation, he constructed a coffin capable of trapping his soul upon the moment of his death. It would prevent his spirit from passing into the next world.”

For a second, Talon was reminded of the Reaper and fought back an involuntary shudder. He hoped Casa didn’t expect him to go after another ghost so soon after the events in Ohio. He’d be better off calling the Spirit Breakers.

“Zamora’s plan was simple,” Casca continued. “He let his assistants bury his ailing body while still alive.”

“Thereby allowing his soul to remain in the coffin,” Talon said.

“Precisely.”

Talon furrowed his brows. “So this was preferable to the afterlife? Being trapped inside a moldy box at the bottom of an unmarked grave?”

“Not quite. This was only the first phase of the plan.”

He swiped his phone again. A faded black-and-white photograph taken at the turn of the 20th century picture showed an older Zamora with a young man in his twenties. “Maximillian Geiger, a young protégée of Zamora and the man he’d handpicked to be the vessel of his rebirth. Once Zamora was dead, his assistants were supposed to dig up his body and place Geiger in the coffin with Zamora’s remains. This second burial would allow Zamora’s spirit to transfer from the coffin into the younger man.”

Talon’s jaw tightened with revulsion. Was there no limitation to human madness? “How do you know all this?” he asked.

“Magic has always been a passion of mine. I was able to piece together much from Zamora’s journal.”

Talon studied Casca, and once again he mused that the man’s dark interests clashed with his pretty-boy good looks and stylish attire. “So what went wrong?” he asked.
 

“They got cold feet. Never dug up their master, fearing they would hang for two murders.”

Talon chewed it over. “So we have this Giallo freak who’s obsessed with coffins. He hears about the discovery of Zamora’s casket and uses his money and pull to steal it. So what do you think he wants with the box? Bring Zamora back?”

Casca mulled it over for a beat before he spoke. “Good question. Having studied the man, I think he is trying to see if the stories are true. We’re talking about a man in the twilight of his life. He may not be ready to meet his maker.”

“You think Giallo wants to use the coffin on himself?”

“It’s the best theory I can come up with.”

“What happens with the soul of the replacement body?”

The grim expression on Casca’s face spoke louder than words. “Murder is a small price for the chance at another lifetime. In theory, Zamora’s coffin possesses the power to extend one’s lifespan indefinitely. It’s powered by black magic, however, so anyone who returns from the dead this way will become an agent of the darkness here on Earth. Giallo must be stopped before he gets a chance to use the coffin. I need you to go to Italy immediately.”

Talon nodded grimly and flashed the billionaire a grin. “I always wanted to visit the country of my ancestors.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

TALON ARRIVED IN Florence thirty-six hours after his dinner with Casca. He checked in at his hotel, found his case of kit waiting for him, and began to do some surveillance on Giallo. The coffin collector was known for frequenting certain restaurants and bars in the area, so establishing the millionaire’s routine became easy. Studying his new enemy proved informative. The men guarding the old coffin tycoon were seasoned pros. Not ex-military; most likely former mafia enforcers whose skills had been honed in the Italian underworld.
 

After shadowing Giallo for over a week, he got a lucky break when his quarry visited one of his regular hangouts. Talon was nursing a glass of tonic water at the bar when a fellow American took a tumble after one drink too many. The young girl he’d been chatting up wrapped her arm around him and, displaying more strength than one would expect from her tiny frame, dragged him to the back of the bar. The beauty, which Talon now recognized as one of Giallo’s employees, must’ve slipped something in his drink.
 

Talon followed both of them through the rear exit into an alley. He pressed himself against the wall, merging with the shadows as he witnessed the woman pulling the unconscious American into the trunk of Giallo’s Maserati with the assistance of the coffin collector’s security team.
 

As much as Talon wanted to stop the kidnapping in progress and rescue the hapless American, he had to find out what Giallo wanted with the boy. He tailed the black Maserati as it fought its way through the city’s narrow stone streets and a fleet of crazy taxi drivers. They left the city behind them and made their way through densely-wooded outskirts.
 

The Maserati turned onto a narrow trail and Talon passed them, staying on the main road. Once the Maserati was out of sight, he performed a sharp U-turn and pulled onto the side of the road to wait. He wasn’t worried. On these deserted forest streets, Giallo’s security team would know they were being tailed. Fortunately he’d planted a transmitter on the Maserati earlier in the week and would able to resume his pursuit on foot within a few minutes.

A half an hour later, he caught his first glimpses of Giallo’s secluded warehouse. The fence barely slowed Talon down. After he cut his way through the chain-link mesh, he sprinted toward the Maserati parked next to the open main entrance.

He slipped a black balaclava mask over his head and entered the warehouse, Glock in hand. Even though Talon tried to steel himself for whatever might be waiting within the walls of the structure, nothing could have prepared him for Giallo’s coffin collection. The disturbing, surreal sight took Talon’s breath away.
 

There was a hushed, almost reverent silence to the place that made him feel like he’d set foot inside a vast cathedral. The dead commanded respect.
 

It reminded him in a weird way of the time when he’d traveled aboard a C-130 Hercules military aircraft filled with the flag-draped caskets of soldiers who’d fallen in the Iraq war. He remembered thinking how clean all the flags looked in that country of dust. There were no flags inside Giallo’s warehouse, but each coffin gleamed in the sunlight, pristine and meticulously maintained. The freak certainly loved his collection.
 

Talon steeled his nerves and carefully opened the nearest casket. Inside, the pale, mummified corpse of a young woman lay on the pristine satin. A quick survey of half a dozen more caskets confirmed Talon’s suspicions. Giallo was not only a madman but a mass murderer.

He made a silent vow to himself: Soon, he’d add one more body to the collection—Marco Giallo. Maybe he’d even let the old man choose his own coffin.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

GIALLO STOLE NERVOUS glances at his prized collection. Normally, gazing upon his coffins had a calming effect. Now, he felt only dread. He was so close to finding out if the stories surrounding Zamora’s famed coffin were true. This stranger shooting up the warehouse was liable to ruin everything.
 

He cracked his knuckles, mentally reassuring himself that his men were some of the best killers money could buy. They would take care of this problem. A minor setback only, and then…

Gunfire echoed once more, and there was a distinct thump of a body tumbling against one of his coffins. It broke his heart to see his collection being damaged like this and rage welled up, overpowering even his fear. He would make this intruder pay.

All thoughts of retribution left his mind as the cold, hard barrel of a pistol dug into the back of his skull.
 

Giallo saw Rolfo emerge from the maze of coffins, pistol leveled at the assassin who was holding him hostage, but his bodyguard was too far away to save him.

“Drop the gun,” the intruder with the gun commanded. He spoke Italian with a strong American accent. “I won’t ask again.”

This was the voice of a man who didn’t make idle threats. A voice much like Giallo’s own.
 

Rolfo still hesitated, and Giallo barked, “Do as he says! NOW!”

The pistol hit the floor.

“Now start digging up the man you buried,” the American intruder ordered.

“You don’t understand…” Giallo protested.

“I understand. Your sick experiment is over.”

The intruder had said experiment. Did the assassin know what he was trying to accomplish. But how? The theft of Zamora’s coffin was well documented. Maybe it had drawn the attention of another occultist who might be after the prize of immortality?

Rolfo began to dig. A pile of earth grew around him.

Growing excitement replaced Giallo’s fear. Would Bruno Zamora be reborn inside the body of the American, or would a blubbering, terrified child emerge from the coffin?

Giallo tried to turn his head to catch a glimpse of the man with the gun. All he saw was a black balaclava and a tight combat suit. A man molded from darkness. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He addressed the assassin in English, communicating that he was well aware of his national origins.
 

“Shut the fuck up, freak!’

The disgust in the assassin’s voice brought a smile to his face. A true killer, like Giallo, wouldn’t be disturbed by his collection. The masked intruder might be a skilled assassin, but deep down he was weak. His lethal skill paled in comparison with the fire raging inside Giallo.
 

The assassin nudged him with his Glock, indicating he should head for the open grave. Zamora’s coffin sat at the bottom of the shallow wound in the earth. The wooden box held the answers to life’s mysteries. Giallo licked his thin lips in anticipation.

“If you know the origins of this coffin, then you know what it does. A chance to conquer death itself. To live forever.”

The assassin’s mouth twisted into a cold smile. “For a man who worships the art of death you sure seem squeamish about dying.” The assassin eyed Rolfo and said, “Open the coffin.”

A low, insistent scratching noise emanated from within the casket, and an excited shudder shot up Giallo’s bent, age-worn spine. The American student was alive. But whose soul resided in his body? Was it the American or Zamora reborn?

Even Rolfo failed to mask his fear as he hunched over the coffin. Putting people into the ground was easier than digging them up. Motivated by the assassin’s gun pointing at him, Rolfo jumped into the hole and using a crowbar, he pried open Zamora’s coffin. The lid flipped open and the American student glared back at them, his eyes wild and mad, his fingers bloody from trying to claw his way out of the wooden box.
 

“Warum hast mich nicht schneller zurueck gebracht? Warum? WARUM?”

The shrill intensity behind the guttural words reflected the speaker’s insanity. They were spoken in German, and Giallo knew enough of the language to grasp the gist of the message: Why didn’t you bring me back sooner?

Elation filled Giallo’s black heart.

It had worked.

The stories about the coffin were true.
 

The body that now held Zamora’s soul jumped out of the casket and launched into the nearest target, which in this case was poor Rolfo. Without hesitation, the American student sunk his teeth into the bodyguard’s exposed throat with animal savagery. Blood gushed, and Rolfo cried out in pain and shock as he shoved the madman aside.

Giallo sensed what might happen next. He wanted to cry out, but it was too late. Rolfo whipped out a knife from his belt and rammed it into the American student’s heart. More German words reverberated through the warehouse, but as far as Giallo could tell, they were nonsense. The stage magician had obviously gone mad. Who wouldn’t after all this time? His soul had been trapped for a hundred years inside the coffin, neither dead nor alive. A disembodied entity with nothing to occupy its mind but the memories of a life once lived and glories long faded.