Bondurant was prepared to allow the dog his wish, but he could see that Christopher, who knew the dog’s personality as well as Parenti, had no intention of losing a second friend as well. He reached over, snatched Aldo in his arms, shoved him into his satchel, closed its flap, and backed away from the table that held the priest.
In the commotion, Christopher’s movements had caused the veil to slip from Parenti’s chest and glide lightly to the floor. Barsanti bent slowly over to pick it up, yet the moment he touched the ancient cloth, the fabric spontaneously combusted in his hand. It ignited and consumed itself, momentarily lighting up the room in a brilliant blue hue. Barsanti shook his hand and howled from the swift burn he’d received.
The boy, visibly upset at the loss of Parenti’s most prized possession, a gift to him, turned and kicked Barsanti hard on the shin. As he scowled, Barsanti pulled the shroud back over Parenti’s face and unceremoniously shoved the table back into the wall. Then he limped toward the doorway and prepared to turn out the light. As he did, he signaled again that it was time to go.
Bondurant was the last to exit the room as the large steel door closed with finality behind them. When he turned to walk away, Bondurant paused. He thought his ears had fooled him, but he couldn’t be sure. Just a split second before the door slammed shut, he thought he’d heard the faintest of sounds escape from inside the ancient morgue. As Barsanti sauntered forward ahead of them, Bondurant grabbed Christopher’s hand. The boy looked up at him.
“Daddy, why—”
“Shhhh,” Bondurant said. He held his forefinger to his lips and listened to the quiet around them more intently than he’d ever listened to silence before. Then his eyes shot open wide.
“Barsanti, the key,” Bondurant said.
The priest turned around. “I said you’ve said your peace, sir,” Barsanti said. “We’ll be on our way.”
“Open the door again, or you’ll eat this,” Bondurant said. He held in his hand the bloodstained knife that he’d pulled from Parenti’s back just minutes before.
Barsanti limped back to the door of the morgue. As soon as he’d turned the key and opened the door a crack, Bondurant shoved it open with his shoulder and turned on the light. Christopher was only a half step behind.
Bondurant rushed over to the drawer that contained Parenti and held his breath. Then he tugged hard on the handle and quickly slid the table out once again. Parenti immediately bolted upright from the table and sat erect before them. He turned his head from side to side and looked about him wide-eyed, as though he’d suddenly awoken from a terrible dream.
“Whatever you do,” Parenti cried out when he saw Bondurant and Christopher standing before him, “for God’s sake, please don’t leave me in here!”
Chapter 51
Rome
Domenika!” Bondurant shouted as he entered their hotel suite.
Father Parenti and Christopher were right behind him. He hoped she’d gotten a good head start on packing their things so they could be on their way to the airport quickly. Bondurant was worried that once Barsanti relayed the story of Parenti’s resurrection in the Vatican morgue, any deals involving Christopher’s custody might be off. He could see that two of their suitcases had been packed and sat ready near the front door, but he knew there was more packing to be done when he spied several of Christopher’s toys still strewn about the living-room floor.
“Mommy, we have a visitor for you!” Christopher cried out as he tugged at Parenti’s hand.
“Domenika, where is Christopher’s backpack?” Bondurant called out. She must have been in the shower, he thought, unable to hear him at all. Bondurant entered the master bedroom and glanced at two more of their suitcases on the bed. Both were empty. He turned to look in the bathroom but found the lights off with no one there.
“Domenika!” Bondurant yelled out.
He watched as Parenti entered the room with a worried look on his face. “There’s no trace of her here,” the priest said.
Other than the balcony, there was no place left to consider. Bondurant ran into the living room and hurriedly yanked open the drapes that had been drawn to block the morning light. Domenika wasn’t there either. The realization that something might be terribly wrong hit Bondurant hard. His eyes began to dart about the room to find even the smallest clues.
“Look everywhere for something, anything, that might let us know,” Bondurant said. He went back into the master suite and for the first time realized it had been ransacked. A lamp from the nightstand beside the bed was broken into several pieces. It was then that he found the note. He’d missed it before in his hurry, but it sat in plain sight on top of one of the suitcases on the bed. It wasn’t just the contents of the note but the manner in which the writer had obviously been forced to pen it that turned Bondurant’s stomach. Every painful word had been spelled out in blood, written by what appeared to be a bloody fingertip:
Meet 9:00 p.m.
Castle Bridge
Child, no police
or
she’s dead.
“What time is it, Father?” Bondurant shouted out.
“Eight thirty-five,” Parenti called back. He was already headed for the door.
Bondurant stuffed the note into his pocket and passed Parenti and Christopher as he leaped down five flights of stairs and back onto the street in search of a cab.
As soon as he’d hailed one, Bondurant jumped into the back of the taxi and reached for the door to pull it shut. Before he could grab the door handle, Parenti had wedged himself halfway into the cab.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Bondurant cried out as Christopher scrambled to get into the car right behind the priest. He knew he hadn’t a minute to lose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Parenti asked frantically. “You read the note. You need the boy.” The little priest strained hard to keep the cab door open for himself and the child.
Bondurant paused and closed his eyes for a moment as if to summon every bit of his genius that he could. He didn’t have a plan, and he knew it. And it was his fault. He’d never thought that Christopher would have to confront Meyer or his Watcher like this. He’d thought it might be years before the boy was asked to encounter such evil and perform a miracle powerful enough to bring the beast’s life to an end. As Bondurant sat and focused on their predicament, Christopher jumped squarely into his lap and looked his father straight in the eye. The boy possessed an amazing sense of calm.
“I must go with you,” the boy said. “There is a plan.”
Bondurant sat stunned for a moment at the child’s words, certain the boy had somehow read his mind.
“Christopher, I can’t risk—”
“Andiamo! Andiamo!” the cab driver said, anxious to get his fare into motion.
“This is how it must be,” Christopher said.
“You don’t understand, Christopher,” Bondurant said. “You need to stay here with Father Parenti. I’ll be back—”
“I know the plans of my father, and this is how it must be,” Christopher said again, this time with so much conviction that Bondurant suddenly felt his words were more of a command than a request.
He found himself yanking Parenti the rest of the way into the cab. He pulled the taxi’s door shut. The cab shot forward as Parenti called out their destination.
“Castel Sant’Angelo, signore!” the priest said.
Their destination was an ancient brick fortress just minutes from St. Peter’s Square. Bondurant cursed himself as he pulled the note from his pocket and read it over and over. He shouldn’t have left Domenika alone when they were within inches of escaping Rome with Christopher in hand. He wrapped his arm around the boy as their taxi sped across the Ponte Cavour toward the glow of Vatican City ahead.
After years of successfully evading Meyer, the clock had finally run out. He would gladly give his own life to spare Domenika’s or Christopher’s, but given Meyer’s demands, perhaps now they were all in jeopardy. Christoph
er’s words echoed over and over in Bondurant’s mind: “There is a plan . . . This is how it must be . . . There is a plan.” Bondurant would try to negotiate. He would offer whatever fortune he had left, every penny they owned. State any demand, and he would meet it. If either of his loved ones was harmed, he would have no reason to live.
As they rounded the corner of Via della Conciliazione and came to within a hundred meters of the dimly lit bridge, the cab came to a sudden stop. The driver would go no further. He said nothing, but the dread on his face as he pointed toward the scene down the road explained his halt. It was the moon that hung over the bridge, as large as any Bondurant had ever seen. But it had turned blood-red and cast a crimson light over everything it touched.
Once they’d been deposited by the cab in the center of the deserted street, all three of them stood at the edge of the ancient marble pedestrian passage known as the Bridge of St. Peter. It spanned the Tiber River, which now lashed about in waves so high that the froth they created had begun to form a blanket of foam on top of the bridge.
Bondurant lifted Christopher in his arms and held him close to his chest. Then he looked toward the bridge. Not a soul was on it. A clock on a tall tower behind them showed the time was 8:55.
“Father,” Bondurant said as they warily approached the bridge, “this is where you leave. If there’s any trouble, you know what to do. Call the police.” He looked all around, certain Domenika’s captors were eyeing them in wait from some shadow nearby.
“I know what to do, all right,” Parenti said. “I’m going with you and Christopher onto that bridge.”
“Father, I beg you—” Bondurant said.
“Beg all you want,” Parenti said as he took over the lead and marched toward the marble span. “Besides, I’ve returned from the dead once before.”
Bondurant could only shake his head.
As they made their way under the last of the lengthy shadows that lined the cobblestone street in front of the bridge, Bondurant slowed and looked around. The castle in the foreground, also aglow in the blood-red light of the night sky, towered above him. Bondurant could feel Christopher’s tiny heart pounding away inside his chest. He was wary with every beat of his own heart that his next step might be his last. He listened carefully to detect the sound of footsteps but heard only the river sloshing noisily beneath the bridge ahead. He looked behind at the clock tower again. The hands showed exactly nine o’clock.
As he stepped onto the bridge, he turned toward Parenti beside him. He could hear the priest nervously mumbling away.
“What are you saying?” Bondurant whispered.
“I’m not saying, I’m praying,” Parenti whispered. “You should try it sometime.”
“Just whom do you pray to at a time like this?” Bondurant asked.
“We all have our favorites,” the priest said. “Tonight it’s Saint Peter and Saint Paul. It’s their bridge. Or choose an angel, if you wish. See, they all rise before you! May they protect us as well.”
Bondurant looked down the length of the span to the other end. There stood sentries on either side of the ornate bridge, a dozen exquisitely carved marble statues of winged angels in a line that flanked the two famed apostles. Bondurant peered into their faces, hoping they would inspire strength. He found none. He knew they might be walking into a trap, and his knees felt weak beneath him.
When they had nearly reached the center of the bridge, Bondurant saw several figures emerge from the darkness at the opposite end. He counted four, then five, then six as they began to make their way onto the bridge. One looked smaller than the others. Another appeared to be hooded and was being dragged blindly along beside them. Domenika. He breathed a sigh of relief; if it was her, she was still alive. Three large men dressed all in black brought up the rear.
As the group moved forward, it was clear to Bondurant that the men standing behind the smaller figure, the child, meant business. They were heavily armed. Each held an Uzi-style machine gun at the ready, their barrels pointed menacingly straight ahead. When the group had come within twenty yards of Bondurant, the leader held up his hand and motioned for his entourage to stop.
“I am Hans Meyer,” the man called out. “Nice to meet you after all this time, Dr. Bondurant.”
Bondurant watched the man look nervously about him as if searching for protection Bondurant might have stationed nearby. The child, just a step behind Meyer, had his arms crossed. He ignored the world around him and stared only at Christopher. He seemed almost twice Christopher’s size, and Bondurant could swear his eyes actually glowed a faint red.
“Domenika!” Bondurant called out, ignoring Meyer. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Jon!” Domenika shouted from under the black hood. “Jon, I’m so sorry. I—”
“Let’s dispense with the apologies, shall we?” Meyer interrupted. He reached over and yanked the hood off Domenika’s head. Bondurant could see from a distance that she was all right. Both of her hands were bandaged.
The moment Christopher heard his mother’s voice, he turned his head and called out. “Mommy!” he shouted. He struggled to free himself from Bondurant and run toward his mother. Bondurant set Christopher down gently, turned him from the gaze of the Watcher, and placed the boy’s hand in Parenti’s.
“Christopher, I promise you will be with your mommy soon,” Bondurant said. He knelt and stroked the boy’s hair. He looked at Parenti and whispered, “I need my arms free. Whatever you do, don’t let go of him.”
Parenti nodded.
“I’ll be quick about this,” Meyer called out. “It’s a trade. Ms. Jozef for the boy.”
Domenika tried her best to swing her fist at Meyer, who stood just a few feet away. She missed by inches and was quickly restrained by one of the armed men behind her.
“Jon, you shouldn’t have come!” Domenika cried out as she fought to set herself free from the man’s grip. It was no use. “Take Christopher and run. Do it now, or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“I’m afraid you have it all wrong,” Meyer said. “You send the boy over in exchange for Ms. Jozef, or I swear I’ll kill her!”
“Mommy!” Christopher called out. Parenti had to restrain him hard.
Bondurant’s heart raced. His entire body broke into a cold sweat. “What could you possibly want with our boy?” he called out. “You have a boy of your own.”
“I do, if that’s what you’d call him,” Meyer said. “But I know where your boy’s from. He’s from the same place as mine. And I can’t afford to have another one like him around. Not unless he’s on my side.” Bondurant watched as Meyer grabbed his child by the back of his collar as though holding a vicious dog on a leash.
“Take me,” Bondurant said. “Christopher’s just a harmless boy, you know that. There’s no magic in him.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Meyer said.
“I said, take me,” Bondurant pleaded again. He had no doubt that Meyer had no intention of letting anyone live.
Bondurant began to walk forward to force the deal. If he could reach Domenika alive, no doubt he could sweep her over the side of the bridge and submerge her beneath the surface until the current carried them safely away. But that left Parenti and Christopher to make a dash of it on their own, something nearly impossible to do. Bondurant held his arms high in the air as if to surrender while he stepped even closer. As soon as he did, all three armed men raised their guns and pointed them straight at him. One lowered his weapon and fired off several rounds at Bondurant’s feet to keep him at bay.
Meyer raised his hand to stop the gunfire. “Simple as this, Dr. Bondurant,” he said as anger grew in his voice. “Hand over the child, or she takes a bullet in the head. I’ll count to three.”
“You can’t be serious!” Parenti cried out.
“Dead serious. One,” Meyer said. The man behind Domenika pulled a pistol from his jacket and held it to her head.
“Mommy!” Christopher shouted as he began to cry. He struggled to f
ree himself from Parenti’s grip.
“Two,” Meyer said.
“Don’t do this!” Bondurant called out, ready to charge forward to end his life with hers.
Before Meyer could get to “three,” Christopher kicked Parenti hard in the shin, which caused the priest to fall backward in pain. As he did, the boy broke free from his grasp and charged toward his mother.
Bondurant leaped forward to grab Christopher, but at the sound of another gunshot, he stopped in his tracks. He looked toward Domenika and saw that she continued to struggle against the force of the gun still pressed to her head. Then a deep, searing pain burst from Bondurant’s right side. When he looked down, he knew for sure he’d been shot. Warm blood trickled down his leg. Hobbled and in agonizing pain, he stumbled to the ground and watched helplessly as Christopher, just inches from his reach, dashed toward Domenika. The only two loves of his life were now within Meyer’s grasp.
“Stop, Christopher!” Bondurant shouted. It was all he could do. “Stop!”
Christopher ran the last few yards toward his mother, and Bondurant looked on helplessly as Meyer moved aside. When he did, the Watcher stepped directly into Christopher’s path. He then hurriedly drew forth a knife. Bondurant tried desperately to get up to reach his son, but it was useless. He fell to the ground again and called out once more for Christopher to stop.
It was too late. In an instant, the Watcher child lunged toward Christopher and buried a knife deep into the center of the boy’s tiny chest. Christopher collapsed to the ground at Domenika’s feet. The Watcher stooped over, withdrew his bloody blade, and held it victoriously aloft like a sword. Then, his eyes aglow in red, he shouted triumphantly, “Your God has forsaken you!” He then let out a primeval scream.
The Second Coming Page 29