Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

by Vincent Zandri

  “I was their cover,” I say. “It’s not like our dear friends Andrea and sweet old Father O’Brien would go against the Vatican and suddenly become international outlaws. They had to pretend to be on the good guy squad. That meant hiring me out for my services. They knew I’d deliver them directly to the spear and their Papal father while covering their asses the entire time.”

  Andrea steps toward me, reaches out with her hand, touches my cheek gently with her fingertips.

  “You are such a sweet man, Chase,” she says through a sad smile. “But you are also so very, very blind.”

  “It’s not his eyes that are the problem, lassie,” Cal says. “It’s his other head.”

  I turn to my big Scottish friend.

  “Thanks, asshole,” I say. “Kick a man while he’s down.”

  My eyes shift to Father O’Brien. Tears pour out of his eyes. My initial reaction is that he’s ashamed of himself for betraying not only me and our cause to save the Pope and the spear, but more importantly, the God he works for.

  But then I realize, he’s not looking at me. Rather, he’s looking beyond me. He’s looking at Rickman.

  “Papa,” Father O’Brien says, lowering his weapon and hurriedly making his way past me. “How I’ve longed for this day.”

  “Grandpapa,” Andrea says, removing her hand from my face as she follows O’Brien. “We are all together now. Our family is as one. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” shout the two Nazi henchmen.

  Chapter 28

  “So, when did you decide to sell your soul to the Nazis?” Me, speaking directly to Andrea who is standing only a few feet away from me. “The old priest I can understand. He’s on his way out of this life. But you had a brilliant future ahead of you.”

  Andrea steps toward me, raises her hand, and slaps me. The shock of the slap is enough to make my head ring.

  “You are in no position to judge me, Chase Baker,” she spits. “I do what I do for the good of my family and my fatherland.”

  “And how is a priest suddenly your father?” I ask.

  “He wasn’t always a priest. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I’m learning a lot about the good padre,” I say. “Let’s see, he was in Viet Nam, he was a bartender, and now I discover he even had a family and that you, darling, is his evil spawn.”

  Here’s the deal. Cal and I have been relieved of our weapons. For seating arrangements, we been duct-taped to old wood chairs and set in the middle of the wide open underground space where apparently, everyone who considers us the enemy can keep an eye on our sorry asses.

  To my left are Rickman and his two tactical gear wearing henchmen. The old Nazi hasn’t said much of anything thus far, telling me he either can’t talk anymore at his advanced age or maybe he just doesn’t have a whole lot to say.

  To my right is the lab set up. There’s a long stainless-steel table that’s illuminated by bright, adjustable overhead lamps. There’s something that resembles a glass aquarium, but that clearly has nothing to do with providing an aquatic home for fish. It’s more of a testing apparatus. Something that might test the age and composition of an ancient metal perhaps—a metal like the kind found in Longinus’ spear.

  The brightly lit lab is also filled with more old paintings, sculptures, furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, weapons, and other artifacts dating back to the Renaissance and Medieval eras. There’s even a full-size stuffed horse outfitted with its original battle armor.

  The one thing the underground lab does not house is the Pope.

  “He’s not here,” I whisper over my shoulder to Cal.

  “Who’s not here, Baker?” Cal whispers back.

  “The Pope. For the love of God, you don’t think they killed him, do you?”

  “Nah,” Cal offers. “He’s worth more to them alive than dead.”

  “True,” I say. “Imagine the ransom they can demand?”

  “You two,” Father O’Brien shouts. “Shut your mouths, or I’ll have no choice but to gag you.”

  “You used to be a nice guy, Padre,” I say. “Now you’re just an asshole in a collar.”

  “Silence!” he barks.

  I swear, I see a hint of a smile forming on Rickman’s old, craggy face.

  “Sieg Heil,” I say out the corner of my mouth.

  “Chase,” Andrea says, her face still bearing the smile that I’d like to smack off it. “Don’t make things worse for yourself.”

  A man wearing a lab coat and blue latex gloves is standing by the glass box. When he turns to face Rickman, he’s holding something in both his hands.

  It’s the spear.

  “Behold, Herr Rickman,” Lab Coat says in German-accented English. “The dates and the composite are consistent with first-century iron.”

  Rickman’s hint of a smile turns into a full smile.

  “And the tip, Herr Einhorn?” he speaks, breaking his silence for the first time, his voice sounds like his throat is filled with gravel.

  Lab Coat/Einhorn turns back to the counter, sets the spear down, picks up something far smaller. When he turns back to Rickman, I can see that it’s the spear tip. The very tip that must have been ripped off the Pope’s neck.

  “It too is consistent with the first century, Herr Rickman,” he states.

  “Well then,” Rickman says. “My family and I are waiting. Reunite the Spear of Longinus with its tip.”

  Einhorn’s face lights up like he’s about to explode with excitement.

  “With immense pleasure, Herr Rickman,” he says. “But before I do, may I be so bold as to congratulate you on your mission. Soon the Fourth Reich will be launched upon the world and this one will not only last one thousand years, it will last forever.” Einhorn raises his free hand in perfectly executed Nazi salute.

  The two Nazi henchmen return the salute while kicking the heels of their jackboots together.

  Father O’Brien returns the salute, and his Vatican cohort, Andrea does the same.

  Finally, old man Rickman works up the strength to raise his right hand as far as it can possibly go. Which, it turns out, isn’t all that far.

  “Heil Hitler,” Rickman grunts.

  “Heil Hitler!” the rest of the room bellows in unison.

  Einhorn turns back to the table. Taking hold of the spear with his left hand, he gently takes hold of its tip. He then places the tip onto the spear.

  That’s when the lights go out.

  Chapter 29

  The room turns to black.

  A blackness so thick and so pervasive, I might punch a hole in it if only my hands weren’t bound behind my back. The silence that accompanies the darkness is just as heavy. Until Andrea speaks up.

  “What’s happening?” she begs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who turned out the lights?” Father O’Brien states nervously.

  I begin to make out a low-toned hum emanating from the spear. As if it were now plugged into a power source. But in this case, a power source not of this earth. Did God truly require that the spear be made whole with the tip, or did he simply choose this moment in time to make his omnipresence known. His power.

  Suddenly, the darkness is broken when the blade begins to take on a glow. A blood-red glow that grows brighter by the moment.

  “Chase,” Cal whispers. “What the hell is happening?”

  “What’s happening,” I whisper over my shoulder, “is that Rickman has succeeded in discovering the true spear that pierced Christ’s side during the crucifixion.”

  The humming becomes louder. So loud it’s beginning to hurt my ears.

  “Daddy,” Andrea shouts, grabbing hold of Father O’Brien. Her biological father. “I’m scared.”

  The red glow is so bright, it’s almost too painful to look at. The spear is trembling so violently now, that Einhorn is having trouble holding onto it.

  “I am too,” he says. “Don’t look at it, Andrea.”

  “Aayyy, Chase,” Cal says, out loud no
w. “What the hell do we do?”

  “It’s beautiful!” Einhorn shouts. “It’s the power of God! The power is ours. It belongs to the Fourth Reich!”

  Pulling my eyes away from the spear, I view Rickman. He’s trying to raise himself out of his chair as if the power of the spear is miraculously resurrecting his old, decayed body. His henchmen see what’s happening and they pull back the bolts on their rifles as if the action helps them deal with their fear. But there’s absolutely nothing to shoot at.

  “Listen, Cal,” I insist, “repeat after me. Our Father, Hail Mary.”

  “What?” he says.

  “Just do it,” I push. “Don’t stop until I tell you to . . . Our Father, Hail Mary. Our Father, Hail Mary. Our—”

  “—Father, Hail Mary,” he repeats along with me. “Our Father, Hail Mary . . . ”

  The basement is trembling from the force of the spear, and the electric noise that’s amplified from it.

  “What the fuck is happening!?” one of the henchmen screams. “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m bleeding,” shouts the second man. “Bleeding from the ears.”

  Einhorn’s entire body is trembling while he attempts to hang on to the spear.

  But then something out of this world occurs. Two bolts of lightning shoot out of the spear and strike Einhorn in the eyes. He screams—high-pitched and tortured. That’s when the heat from the spear causes the skin and flesh on his hands and arms to melt away with all the ease and efficiency of butter inside a red-hot frying pan. He drops to the floor, a wet sack of melting flesh, blood, and bones, while the spear hovers above him.

  “Our Father, Hail Mary,” I shout out along with Cal. “Our Father, Hail Mary . . . !”

  More lightning shoots out of the spear, striking the Nazi henchmen in their faces, in their chests, in their legs. They tremble from the electric power of the strikes until their bodies collapse to the floor, smoke rising from their fried bodies.

  Andrea is screaming at the top of her lungs.

  O’Brien realizes a fear so profound, he can’t work up the breath required to scream.

  Only Rickman seems unafraid as he leaves his chair, his right hand held high in Nazi salute. He approaches the hovering spear as if it’s calling him. And I swear, with each step he takes, he is getting younger, the skin covering his craggy old face turns smoother, suppler. His hair goes from a few pathetic wisps of gray that top a scarred, scabbed, and age-spotted scalp, to a full head of thick, black hair.

  “Our Father, Hail Mary,” I repeat, the hum from the spear drowning out my words.

  Rickman moves closer and closer to the spear, his body becoming stronger, younger. The effects of old age shed with each passing second, with each breath he inhales and exhales, his movements going from slow and crippled to quick and agile. The spear is his destiny, and it’s made him a new man.

  Until the spear shoots through the air as if the ghost of Longinus himself has thrust it, and stabs Rickman in the side.

  The expression on his new, young face is one of shock and bewilderment. It’s also fear. The spear retreats, as though Longinus has pulled it back out of the Nazi’s flesh. Blood gushes from the wound. Dark blood that comes directly from a pierced arterial sack. And something else. A dark, almost black liquid that combines with the blood. It’s as if his black soul is also escaping his mortal flesh.

  He drops to his knees, his mouth opening and closing, not like the life is pouring out of him, and he no longer possesses the strength to talk. More like he’s shocked by how his life ends.

  His face begins to grow pale. The skin once more becomes dry and craggy. His hair retreats entirely, while his scarred scalp is once more exposed.

  “Noooo,” he utters before exhaling a final breath, his body falling face forward onto the hard surface of the lab floor.

  The electric noise of the spear continues to increase in volume while sparks shoot out of it, and the room begins to spin out of control.

  Cal and I have gone from shouting, “Our Father, Hail Mary, Our Father, Hail Mary, Our Father, Hail Mary . . . ” to screaming it at the tops of our lungs. Our eyes are closed tight as we’re propelled in a circular motion so fast and forcefully that I can feel the G-forces pressing against my side. It’s like we’re caught up in a tornado that’s somehow concentrated in the depths of the Pitti Palace.

  Until suddenly, the world comes to a stop.

  The room stops spinning, the deafening noise is silenced.

  The glow from the spear is extinguished.

  I open my eyes cautiously, and find that the duct tape has been torn away from my wrists and ankles.

  Slowly, I turn to Cal.

  “You hurt?” I ask, the words leaving my mouth gradually, heavily, not as if they were made of my breath but instead, uncured concrete.

  “Aayyy,” he whispers, sweat pouring from his forehead in beads down his bearded face. “We’re not dead, lad?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. Then, standing. “But that was one hell of a show, wasn’t it?”

  “One hell of a show,” he repeats, as he slowly stands.

  The lights come back on then. Everything inside the lab seems as if it’s in its proper place. There’s no apparent damage from the swirling tornado of a wind storm, no structural or surface damage from the spear’s lightning strikes, no blood pooled on the floor from where Rickman bled out.

  In fact, there’s no Rickman.

  Shifting my focus, I search for Andrea and Father O’Brien’s bodies. They too are gone. So are the bodies of the three dead Nazi henchmen. They’re all gone like they never existed in the first place.

  “What happened to the bodies, Chase?” Cal asks, disbelieving what he’s seeing with his own wide eyes. “How is this possible?”

  “It’s not possible,” I say. “But then, we’re dealing with the Spear of Destiny here. The spear that pierced Jesus' side and drew forth the blood and the water. The sacred blood and water. Could be the spear delivered the Nazis directly to their maker.”

  “But why, Chase?”

  “To answer for their sins.” I swallow something cold and bitter. “To spend all eternity in hell.”

  “You really believe in that? Heaven and hell, I mean?”

  “Right now, I do.”

  The spear is set on the floor. It’s no longer glowing or making noise or killing anybody for that matter. It just looks like an antique spear from the first century AD.

  “You gonna pick it up?” Cal asks.

  “How about you do the honors?”

  “You kiddin’? I’m just the hired help.”

  I nod. He’s got a point.

  Stepping slowly to the spot on the floor on which the spear rests, I bend down, and slide my open hands underneath it, as though I’m picking up a precious newborn baby. I raise myself up, lifting the spear at the same time. The spear is heavier than I expected it to be. Solid and heavy.

  I carry the relic to the stainless-steel lab table, set it down. Wrapping it back up in its white linen cloth, and I then lay it out inside its already open travel attaché case, and close the case back up.

  “Time for a rapid retreat, Cal,” I say, taking hold of the case by its handle. “Before someone or something finds us down here.”

  “Where the hell we gonna go?” he asks.

  “The Pope,” I say. “We need to find the Pope.”

  “But we have no clue where he is,” Cal says. “And I’m not trying to be pessimistic here. But for all we know, Rickman’s Nazis cut his neck and dropped him in the Tiber from the air. Maybe they don’t give two craps about a ransom after all.”

  Sadly, what Cal says makes sense. Maybe Rickman and his Neo-Nazis had their sights set on the spear and the spear only. Maybe they only wanted the Pope because he possessed the spear tip. Once they took possession of it, the Papal Father was as good as dead.

  “But what if they didn’t kill him, Cal?” I say. “What if they were smart and kept him alive to use as leverage down
the road? What if they are, in fact, keeping him alive and healthy to use later as a bargaining chip?”

  “So, I go back to my original question,” he says. “Where the hell is he? Who’s gonna give us the information we need on his location now that they’re all dead?”

  I start for the opening at the opposite end of the room that leads back into the subterranean tunnel.

  I say, “They’re not all dead, Cal.”

  “They’re not?”

  “The Nazi you hogtied is still lying on the kitchen floor in the Goose. He’ll tell us everything we need to know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re gonna torture the crap out of him again,” I say. “That’s how I know.”

  Chapter 30

  We don’t walk the tunnel. We run. Sprint when possible.

  When we come to the door that leads to the hidden staircase that accesses the Vasari Corridor, we leave behind all weapons, except our sidearms.

  “Fix Betti is expecting his M16s and RPG launcher back,” Cal reminds me.

  “We’re simply storing them down here,” I say. Then, my eyes once more focused on the sad sight of the six dead Jews. “We have to come back for the bodies anyway.”

  “Roger that, lad,” Cal nods.

  We head through the blown away door opening and up the concrete stairs. When we come to the wood plank panel, we listen for any sign of police inside the corridor.

  “Silence,” Cal says. “Not a peep.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. “The cops will still be concentrating their investigation into that grenade you detonated outside the gallery. Maybe you should call Mario just in case.”

  “I’ll text him,” Cal says.

  Pulling out his smartphone, Cal proceeds to text his contact.

  We wait for an answer before we make our next move.

  The smartphone chimes. Cal peers at the message.

  “He’s coming up to meet us at the start of the corridor.” He pockets the phone. “But we have to go now if we want to avoid the police.”

  Raising my hands, I push the square floor panel up, set it aside, then place the metal case on top of it. Taking a careful look outside the opening, I confirm that the coast is clear. Then I pull myself up and out. Offering my hand, Cal grabs hold of it. I help pull the big man out of the hole.