Lopez may as well have been working at a bait shop in 2002 when he got the call informing him of Jose’s accident, because he couldn’t remember which dead-end job it had been.
He drove to the hospital prepared to beat Bonnie and her new husband senseless for letting his son skateboard in the street. Post-September 11, 2001, Lopez had not only been self-centered and depressed, but emotionally unstable. He didn’t react well to a doctor’s prognosis that Jose had only a one in ten chance of surviving without significant brain damage. When Lopez saw Jose lying comatose in a hospital bed, all anger and resentment melted; his son’s recovery was all that mattered. Lopez took Jose’s hand, noted that the boy still wore the protective medallion which he’d given him for protection, and pledged to God that if his son recovered, he would clean up his life, and return to battle in the Spatium Quartus in order to make the world safe for his son’s future. Jose not only recovered without brain injury, but his broken leg healed faster than expected.
Lopez begged Hyde to reinstate him. Although it was no longer possible due to Lopez’s age and history, as an alternative, Hyde set up an independent operation funded with trust money that could not be traced to, nor cut off by the CIA. Lopez’s new operation resembled a private investigator’s office. From time to time, he even took on a case in order to maintain the illusion. The most exciting aspect was that while he loosely reported to Langley, the CIA did not control him. In essence, he was free to do as he wished.
Not long after helping Lopez, Hyde was forced to retire. Before returning to teach at La Sapienza University in Rome, Hyde had asked Lopez for a favor.
The aroma of burgers and French fries overpowered the scent of the ocean. At the end of the pier, inside a two-story building with a pointed roof, a 1950’s style diner served dinner for tourists. For the entertainment of waiting customers, they piped out big band swing music.
Lopez circled the restaurant and walked to the rail at the farthest point of the pier. He leaned, letting the wood beams support his weight. He’d made it in time to see the sunset. Faces of people on the pier took on an orange hue, the low rays creating long shadows.
Before his retirement, Hyde had showed up in person to ask for something important.
“Hector, as you know, my daughter is working at CIA headquarters.”
“Sure. From what you’ve told me, she’s doing quite well.”
“She is. However, I’m concerned that, in my absence past rivals may either consciously, or unconsciously, extract retribution.”
“Crimes of the father,” Lopez said.
“Yes, well, I’ve been in the game for quite some time, Hector. I wouldn’t request this unless I was certain she had an aptitude for the work. Kat has always taken a high level of interest in my research and experience with dream linking.”
“So you think she’s safer fighting Luzveyn Dred with me than working in Langley?”
Hyde’s blank stare told Lopez all he needed to know.
“You don’t believe in Luzveyn Dred or the Spatium Quartus, do you?” Lopez asked.
“I know that you’re fighting someone, Hector. Someone killed our men. Perhaps it was a rival faction of dream-link agents from another country, or even one within the CIA. From your assertion that Emilia Libera invaded your dream, I assumed it had been the Red Brigades enacting revenge.”
Hyde was a man of science; apparently, it was impossible for him to accept Luzveyn Dred on faith. Prior to that conversation, it had never occurred to Lopez that Hyde may have doubted his experience in the Spatium Quartus. Lopez had granted the favor, taken on Kat as a partner, and had not spoken to Hyde since.
Lopez leaned against the strong timber structure. It felt as though his journey up the pier had been made carrying those two mythical gunnysacks of barracudas over his shoulders, and he was ready to throw the fucking things back into the ocean.
This past ambush anniversary had been the most difficult. His instincts told him that Night of Nights, whatever that meant, would move the battle to a higher level. He needed guidance, direction. Taking the battle to Luzveyn Dred required help; Lopez put his face in his hands and, for the third time in his adult life, said a prayer.
The memories of agents Silverman, Bohnam, Martin, Henderson, Prie, and Imbo flashed in the long streaks of sunlight that would illuminate him just a few moments more. Their smiles, the tears of their families, came back to him, and he did something he’d done even fewer times than pray—Lopez wept. The hot streaks of salt ripped down his cheeks and dripped into the ocean. He put his hands to both sides of his face, like blinders, and leaned over railing so that no one would see him crying.
As the sun submitted to the navy blue horizon, no fish stories, and no conversations with Dr. Hyde ran through Lopez’s head. There was only Luzveyn Dred’s voice promising to continue his catastrophic plan to merge the Spatium Quartus to our world. There is always a contingency plan, Hector.
Lopez may have been acting under OIA orders, but he’d played a part in opening the portal to the Spatium Quartus. He didn’t know whether Dred’s contingency plan included Martin, Moats, Hyde or someone not associated with OIA, but he was failing in his plan to stop Dred. Lopez had saved many from the torture of the Spatium Quartus, but he had lost his way, and was failing in his primary mission—to destroy Luzveyn Dred.
- Chapter Eight -
Present Day. Four days prior to Night of Nights – Naples, Italy
Drew stared at the horizon, where less than ten miles southeast of the city center, Mount Vesuvius dominated the skyline. Its dual peaks, one dormant, one active, separated by several thousand yards, made the volcano’s outline a crooked grin in the hazy sky.
“What would they do if it erupted again?” Nadia asked.
“It’s not a matter of if, as much as when. Vesuvius is an active volcano, an active stratovolcano in fact. It last erupted near the end of World War II.”
They’d turned and begun to meander through the Piazza Plebiscito. Framed by a semicircular colonnade of Doric pillars, the piazza’s gray cobblestone provided old-world charm. In the center of the expanse, two statues of men on horseback sat on large, marble blocks. One figure’s right arm pointed forward.
Drew pulled out the medallion and compared its image with the statue. Nadia looked at him, rolled her eyes, and sighed.
“Again? This medallion is your new obsession. The two figures aren’t remotely similar. Look, the man on the medallion has his arm pointing straight up.”
The images were different, and she was right; the medallion was becoming an obsession. Since becoming sober, Drew had struggled often with obsessive thinking. He dropped the medallion into his pocket. He was quiet for a minute as they walked, and then remembered he’d been telling her about the volcano.
“Oh, yeah, Vesuvius,” he said. “Besides the eruption at the end of World War II, it also erupted in the middle ages the same way it did when it destroyed Pompeii.”
Drew had planned the trip to start in Naples, so he could explore Vesuvius. Hiking around the volcano’s cauldron was first on his list. When he turned seven, Drew’s grandfather had given him a packaged collection of rocks and minerals for his birthday. There was something about the stones that mesmerized him, called to him. Thus began his fascination with geology. While other boys were out playing sports, Drew read about caves, mines, and volcanoes.
“The next time it erupts, how long in advance will they know?” Nadia asked with a hint of concern, as they made their way up the narrow city block.
“Don’t worry too much, Hon. Ten to fifteen days before the eruption, there will be warning signs. The rising magma will cause the ground to swell, which produces a pattern of earthquakes called harmonic tremors.”
He loved to impress her. “Harmonic tremors are akin to the volcano clearing its throat.”
“And when the throat has been cleared?”
“Well,” Drew said, “a program on the Discovery Channel claimed there’s an evacuation plan, but
with a corrupt local government and narrow freeways that are usually gridlocked, they would need every bit of those two weeks to evacuate.” He gestured at the congested streets and high-rise living quarters. “Considering there are three million people living in what is the most densely populated city in Europe, a major eruption today could cause hundreds of thousands of casualties.”
Nadia’s eyebrows rose. She appeared grim, but then her eyes brightened.
“Oh, Baby, look! We’re back at the Galleria Umberto. I want to go back in and buy that music box for Alexis!”
She led Drew by the hand back into the majestic shopping gallery they had been to earlier. Its 100-foot glass ceiling flooded the internal courtyard of the structure with gentle rays of light. The atmosphere reminded him of a museum. A framework of thin, iron beams provided the illusion that thousands of windows supported the clear dome in the center of the cross-shaped building. High above the piazza, in the center of the prestigious gallery, eight statues of bronze angels encircled the rotunda, their outstretched wings balancing them on their pedestals. Each held a sword or dagger as if to provide protection to those below.
Drew chuckled. He had nicknamed Alexis “Angel” on their first meeting because she’d worn a T-shirt bearing the image of an impish devil. It hid a glowing halo behind its back. A caption above the cartoon read, “I’M A LITTLE…” and below, “ANGEL?”
The child’s carefree smile and sweet attitude towards him made her easy to like. Over the past year, the precocious girl had taught him things: coloring didn’t have to stay between the lines, hugs could be given just because, and the safest place to be after bad dreams was in bed with Mommy.
Something out of the ordinary brewed below her surface. He’d often catch her staring off into space, looking serious. A week prior, when she bore a particularly solemn look, he had asked her what she was thinking about.
She smiled and looked at him as if she was about to ask him something mundane, like how to snap her fingers.
“Drew, what should I do when the dreamers want to come from the sky?”
“What dreamers, Angel?”
“The dreamers,” she said. “Last night. Weren’t you there with me?”
His face must have darkened, because she looked away, changed the subject, and refused to talk about it again. He’d assumed it was one of her nightmares.
But there was more. Drew would swear that a few times, when Alexis was extremely emotional, objects in the room would vibrate. Drew had never broached that topic with Nadia.
Nadia’s brisk pace continued. They crossed the marble floor, passing over a giant compass that marked the center-point, and down the far flank and entered the tiny shop where, earlier that morning, Nadia had admired a music box.
“You are returned!” the grizzled shopkeeper said. He stared at Nadia as if Drew did not exist. His wide grin displayed several missing teeth.
“Yes, I’m back. I must have that music box!”
“It is for your little girl, no?” With bright eyes and an ever-widening grin, he retrieved it from where it had evidently been tucked away for safekeeping.
“You saved it for me?” Her eyes grew, and a smile brightened her face.
He cranked a few clicks on the knob at the bottom and then opened the pink-stained wooden box. The lid bore the painted image of a pair of ballerina shoes. Surrounding it were pink and yellow rose buds.
“I knew you come back.”
Still ignoring Drew, the shopkeeper winked at her and began singing along with the music—a familiar, Italian tune. His words, tinged so deeply in dialect, were difficult to understand. To Drew it sounded like, “Funiculi-Funicula, Funiculi-Funiculaaaa, blah la-la blah blah, Funiculi Funicula!”
He hummed a moment while enclosing the box in bubble wrap, and then stopped. “Why don’t more beautiful people like you come to Napoli? We are good, yes?”
“Well, I think,” Nadia said slowly, “some might think it’s too dangerous.”
His eyes twinkled as if he questioned the veracity in reports of pickpockets, stolen cars, and Mafia activity. With a smile, he gazed at Nadia as though he was prepared to accompany her as long as it took to prove the reputation unjust.
Then, without breaking eye contact with her, he handed Drew the bill.
*****
Drew and Nadia walked through a small park called the Piazza Municipio. Under trees, students sprawled next to their classmates, reading books. One girl sat cross-legged in the grass, gently strumming a guitar. Scattered across the green, people of various ages and ethnicities enjoyed waffle cones stuffed with colorful gelato. The piazza was an oasis of slow motion in an otherwise bustling city. Drew and Nadia would have lingered longer, had their jetlag not already begun to wash over them. They walked down the concrete steps which led back to the street.
Just beyond a huge fountain of Neptune, a fleet of Carabieneri squad cars were parked in front of their hotel. Gridlocked cars honked as mopeds sped between them. Drew and Nadia navigated across the street and, attempting to enter, were greeted by a uniformed policeman. “What room, please?”
“Room 26.”
The officer stared blankly and then nodded. He led them through the lobby to a room behind the hotel lobby desk, where they were instructed to wait.
“Something’s seriously not right.” Drew’s grim tone filled the small office which smelled vaguely of smoke. Shredded bits of paper covered in scribble decorated the walls.
“Really? Do ya think?” Nadia stared at him with an expression of mock surprise.
Drew emitted a low growl just as a short, olive-skinned man in his late-sixties or early-seventies burst into the room mumbling something under his breath. He stood five-feet six-inches tall, and, uncharacteristically for an Italian man, he had a broad-shouldered, stout frame. Reading glasses on his nose and fashionable European sunglasses atop his head, he threw his hand in the air, he pulled a badge from the pocket of his brown tweed jacket, and displayed it—Detective Alfonso Simone.
“Okay, okay, you two both stay in Room 26.” He paused even though technically, he hadn’t asked a question.
Nadia took charge. “Yes, we are staying in that room.”
“Okay, well, there has been an accident.” He stopped. His brow furrowed at his mistake, moving the curled, salt-and-pepper hair planted atop his high forehead. “I mean to say, there has been an incident in your room.”
Nadia and Drew looked at each other, unsure which of the two words was more disconcerting.
The detective moved closer. “Where were you at one o’clock this afternoon?”
“We’ve been out and about Naples all afternoon,” Drew answered. “Why?”
“You have proof of this? Maybe receipts?”
Drew fumbled for his wallet. “Yes, of course we have receipts,” he said, volunteering them.
The detective looked them over and, apparently satisfied, handed them back.
“What is this all about, Detective—”
“Alfonso, please,” he said. “I think someone goes through your room looking for something. The lady from the front desk hears it, and they kill her.”
Nadia gasped, and covered her mouth.
“In our room?” Drew asked.
“You know why they do this?” the detective asked.
“Why they killed her?”
“No. Why they look in your room. What thing they look for.”
“We just got here today. We’re Americans. I can’t think of a reason someone would do that.”
“I think there is something you do not tell me, signore.”
“Look, we’ve done nothing wrong here. We’ve been out all day,” Drew said. The defensive tone of his own voice surprised him.
The detective said nothing.
Drew heard the faint ticking of a clock, as if it counted down the time before he would cave. In the lobby, two men could be heard speaking in Italian, but he couldn’t understand them. The detective stared at him and still said nothing.
“All right, I found a coin in my bag after we arrived. I doubt it has anything to do with this incident, but we’re not sure where it came from. We think it’s a lucky piece from her mother.”
The last part had been a fib, but his eye contact warned Nadia to keep quiet. He pulled the coin from the pocket of his jeans, and flashed it at Alfonso, hoping to put an end to the matter. Instead, the detective moved in, peering, and extended his hand. Drew sighed and handed the medallion over.
Alfonso inspected it like a jeweler appraising a gem. “Hmm, yes, yes. You do not know where you get this from,” he said while searching Drew and Nadia’s expressions.
“No, but like I said, it’s likely a gift from her mother.”
“I take a picture of it and research. It is probably nothing important,” he stated flatly. “This thing happens in Naples and often it is a case of wrong identity.”
“Mistaken identity?” Nadia’s eyes revealed a flicker of hope. “You mean whoever went through our room could have thought we were some other travelers?”
“Yes, yes, not to worry about it, but now for you some bad news.”
Drew braced for the worst. He sat jetlagged, confused, and afraid in the hotel where his room had been ransacked and a woman murdered. Now for the bad news?
“We need to get you to a safe place, and also we must be keeping your things from the room.”
“Keeping our things? Is that really necessary?” Nadia asked. Drew thought she appeared on the verge of tears.
Alfonso rubbed his temples, as if the extended session in English had given him a headache.
“Your room is a crime scene. Everything needs to be cataloged. We hope we return your things in less than eight days.”
“Eight days?!” The couple exclaimed in unison.
“Our entire trip is only twelve days!” Her eyes welled up.
Drew slid closer, lacing his fingers into her hand.
“Not to worry,” the detective said in a comforting tone, “I take you to some place very safe. Tomorrow you get some new clothes.”
Alfonso slipped a tiny Canon digital camera from his pocket, and took multiple, close-up pictures of the medallion.
Dream War Page 8