The Genesis Code

by John Case

  ‘I did? And when did I do that?’

  ‘In August.’

  ‘I see.’ Della Torre swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. His brows were knitted together in thought. ‘When you say I paid him –’

  ‘Umbra Domini paid him. There was a check from your bank to his. The Crédit Suisse.’

  Della Torre grunted, his back to Lassiter, eyes fixed on the windowpane. Finally, he spun the chair around and faced Lassiter. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said. And then, almost tenderly, he asked, ‘You’re not a reporter, are you . . . Jack?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the people this man killed – they were close to you?’

  ‘Yeah. They were close.’ Even as he answered, he wondered about della Torre’s choice of words. How did he know that more than one person had been killed?

  Della Torre was silent for a while, and then he said, ‘You know, Joe . . .’ He paused again, and let Lassiter absorb the fact that the ‘Jack Delaney’ story was behind them. ‘You know,’ della Torre said again, ‘there’s nothing you can do to bring them back.’

  ‘I realize that,’ Lassiter said, ‘but –’

  ‘Let’s not lie to each other anymore. I know about your visit to Zuoz – Gunther called. And, before that, your travels in Rome. I know what’s in your heart, and I certainly don’t blame you.’

  Suddenly, Lassiter’s blood was swimming in adrenaline. ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘So let me ask you a question.’

  Lassiter nodded.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘I suppose so. Yeah, I guess I do.’

  ‘And do you believe that the good in the world emanates from God?’

  Lassiter thought about it. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And the devil?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you believe in the devil?’

  ‘No,’ Lassiter said.

  ‘In evil, then. Do you believe in evil?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Well . . . where does evil come from, if not from the devil?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lassiter said, suddenly impatient. ‘I never thought about it. But I know it when I see it. And I’ve seen it.’

  ‘We all have. But that isn’t enough. You need to think about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s the reason your sister and nephew were killed.’

  The room swelled with silence as Lassiter tried to make sense of what the priest was saying. Finally, he said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. You should think about the origins of evil.’

  Lassiter shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘If you mean . . . Grimaldi is evil – I know that. I’ve seen what he did.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘Then what? That Kathy was? Or Brandon?’

  Della Torre looked at him in silence for what seemed a very long while, and then he changed the subject. ‘Let me show you the church,’ he said, and got to his feet.

  Lassiter followed the priest down a narrow corridor and into a darkened room. Della Torre paused to flick a couple of switches, and the room grew larger with the light, though its dimensions were still unclear. A row of tiny windows, high on the walls, admitted a strange, bluish light that engulfed della Torre. For a moment he seemed a phantasm, more wood smoke than flesh.

  ‘Pray with me, Joe.’ The priest crossed the room to the pulpit, a heavily carved antique podium that, lighted from below, seemed almost to be floating in the air. Lassiter seated himself in one of the pews, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn’t prayed in a very long time, and he didn’t much want to now – and especially not in front of della Torre. Somehow, he knew it would be dangerous to get down on his knees in front of this man.

  And yet . . . he was feeling so alone, and sitting in the little church reminded him of better days, when he and Kathy had sat together as children in the National Cathedral – ‘the seventh largest in the world.’ How many times had they been told that? Hundreds, maybe more. They loved the place, with all its stained glass and soaring music, the spooky crypts down below, the towering, Gothic spaces, fearsome and silly gargoyles. That was lost now.

  He’d never go there again.

  Della Torre hovered before him in the pulpit, shimmering in the light, and yet somehow solid – like a statue with its hands pressed together in an attitude of prayer, head bowed. The light ricocheted off his cheekbones, and hung like a nimbus around his thick, curly hair. He was perfect.

  ‘No more pain,’ della Torre whispered, his voice plaintive, a lament that resonated so magically that it seemed to Lassiter the priest was speaking inside his own head. ‘No more pain.’ He pressed his palms to his chest and lifted his head toward the ceiling. Lassiter was transfixed. ‘We come before you in your own house so you may see that one of your children, Lord, is in pain. Take the vengeance from his heart, Lord, and make it your own again – for vengeance is yours. Fold him into your heart, Lord. Deliver him of hatred! Deliver him from evil.’

  The words resonated so that they seemed to come from all around him, and from above as well.

  ‘We come into your house, O Lord –’

  ‘Scusi!’

  Della Torre froze in the pulpit, his mouth open, like a fish out of water.

  ‘Scusi, Papa . . .’ An old drunk stood in the aisle, rooted and swaying. For a moment it seemed as if he’d fall, but he did not. With a beatific smile he sank to his knees, looked up at the pulpit – and pitched forward in a swoon, smacking his forehead on the stone floor.

  Della Torre seemed paralyzed, and then . . . berserk. He was waving his arms and shouting at the fallen man – ‘Vaffanculo! Vaffanculo!’ – and while Lassiter didn’t speak Italian, he knew from the tone exactly what the priest was saying. It was more than ‘Leave.’ It was ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Della Torre’s face was transformed, the once handsome and compassionate veneer peeled back to reveal the violence underneath. And then, as suddenly as the mask had vanished, it reappeared. Once again della Torre seemed filled with compassion as he stepped down from the pulpit to help the man.

  Lassiter joined him in the aisle.

  ‘Let’s try to get him to the office,’ della Torre said. ‘I know who he is. I can call his wife.’

  Together, they held the man between them and stiff-marched him along the corridor and into the office. But once in the room, the comatose drunk flailed out with his hands. ‘Papa!’ he shouted, and struck the priest with his arm. Della Torre staggered backward, and something fell from his pocket to the floor.

  A small bottle. Lassiter watched it bounce on the tiles, first on one facet, then on another. Finally it came to rest; miraculously enough, it was unbroken. Lassiter reached down and picked it up. And stared.

  It was the same bottle, or a replica of the bottle, that the police had taken from Grimaldi. He remembered the first time he saw it: sitting with Riordan in the doctor’s office at Fairfax Hospital. And on the hospital tray: the little bottle. And the knife. The knife with the blood gummed on the blade and a delicate blond hair stuck to the blood. Brandon’s hair. A police photo flashed at the back of his eyes: the crude, molded glass, a cross embossed in each side, the metal cap in the shape of a crown.

  ‘Thank you,’ della Torre said, holding out a hand. ‘It’s amazing that it didn’t break.’

  Lassiter put his head down. ‘I think I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I have a plane to catch.’

  And before the priest could reply, he was on his way out the door. Della Torre came after him, following him down the path.

  ‘Joe,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Please – come back! I feel we have unfinished business.’

  Lassiter didn’t turn around. He just kept walking. But his lips moved. And what he said, he said to himself. ‘You’re goddamn right we do.’

  20

  LASSITER REMEMBERED NOTHING of the ride from the church back to h
is hotel. His mind was on della Torre, and in particular on the priest’s peculiar willingness to play along with his pretext of being a journalist. Why had della Torre done that? They might have talked in circles for an hour or two, Lassiter thought, if he hadn’t blurted out the question about Grimaldi. And, in fact, the mystery went even deeper. Della Torre knew who he was and what he was up to, so why had he even agreed to meet him? There was no point to the whole charade.

  In the end Lassiter decided that della Torre had wanted to meet him, if only to size him up. And by playing him along in such a way that he would know he was being played along, the priest had been delivering a message, and flaunting his power. In effect he’d used his knowledge like a thug, letting his coat fall open to reveal the psychological equivalent of a .45 jammed into his waistband.

  Either that, or he’d wanted to keep Lassiter busy for a while, and didn’t really care what the American knew or didn’t know.

  This last possibility occurred to Lassiter as the cab pulled up in front of his hotel. He shoved a fistful of lire into the driver’s hands, turned, and walked into the lobby. The desk clerk looked up from the small reception desk. ‘Signore!’ he blurted.

  Lassiter turned, but continued walking, stepping toward the elevator. ‘What?’

  The clerk opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and said, ‘B-B-Benvenuti!’

  ‘Grazie,’ Lassiter said. ‘Would you get my bill ready? I’ll be right back down.’

  ‘But signore . . .’

  Lassiter pressed the call button on the elevator. ‘Yeah?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the clerk said, stepping from behind the desk, ‘if you’d do me the honor . . .’ He gestured toward the bar, and screwed up his face in a conspiratorial grin.

  Lassiter shook his head. ‘Too early for me,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but –’

  ‘Sorry. Gotta run.’

  Lassiter’s room was on the third floor, at the end of the corridor. As he walked along the hallway he could hear a telephone chirping, and realized that the sound was coming from his own room. Bepi, he thought, and hurried toward the door, searching his pockets for the white plastic card that served as a key. He slipped it into the lock, and waited for the little green light to flash. Talk about good timing. The light flickered, the phone stopped ringing, the door swung open, and someone inside said, ‘Pronto?’

  What?

  An enormous, squarely built man was seated at the desk in front of Lassiter’s computer, telephone in hand. He looked far too big for the chair. Seeing Lassiter, he replaced the phone in its cradle, took a deep breath, exhaled, and got to his feet. Almost casually, he walked toward the doorway.

  Lassiter didn’t know what to say – Miss Manners didn’t cover this one. What came out was: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ As he said it, it occurred to him that the man was built like a mattress. A mattress that needed a shave.

  ‘Scusi,’ the man said softly, smiling a grim little grin as he turned sideways to edge past Lassiter through the open door.

  It was all very quiet and slow. Almost polite. Lassiter touched the man’s sleeve. ‘Wait a second,’ he said.

  And then everything speeded up, all at once. A bowling bowl, or something like it, hit him in the face – his whole face, all at once – sending a shower of lights sparking through his head like a swarm of fireflies. He could taste the blood in his mouth as his feet took him backward into the wall, slamming him into the plaster. The breath burst from his lungs as he raised his hands to block whatever was coming next – an optimistic gesture that did nothing to prevent what seemed like a pile driver slamming into his chest. Once, twice – again!

  Now his body was lighting up in all the wrong places. His nerve ends were snapping at each other, and the room was flickering like a spent lightbulb – or maybe the flicker was in his head, he couldn’t be sure. Something heavy came down on his neck, hard and fast, and drove him to his hands and knees – where he saw an expensive-looking shoe draw back, as if to kick a field goal. He saw the shoe with amazing clarity – the tassels, the creases in the leather, the stitching . . .

  And then he heard a scream. For a moment he thought the scream was coming from himself, but looking up, he saw a chambermaid standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and her mouth open. He started to say something when, suddenly, the shoe changed direction, rushing toward him in a blur that ended deep inside his ribs. He could feel the bones crack, like pieces of kindling and old bamboo. The maid screamed for the second time, or maybe not – maybe this time it was him. But, no. It had to be her because there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to push the scream out of his throat. Indeed, he couldn’t talk, and now that he thought about it, he couldn’t breathe. The whole world was out of air, and he felt like he was dying.

  And then as suddenly as it began, it was over. The mattress was gone, and the maid was running up and down the hall, hitting all the high notes. She’d probably saved his life, and he knew that he ought to thank her, but he hurt too much to be polite. And so he got painfully to his feet, shut the door without a word, and staggered toward the bathroom.

  Every breath was a knife in his side, and so he took small ones, holding his hands against what felt like a mass of splintered ribs. He made it to the sink. He didn’t know why, but the first thing he did was turn on the water. And that seemed to help. The sound helped.

  Leaning forward against the vanity, he looked up into the mirror. And what he saw wasn’t so bad. He was a mess, but not like a train wreck. This was more like a fender bender. He had a bloody nose and a split lip, where one of his eyeteeth had been driven into the soft flesh. He touched the tooth with his tongue and gasped with surprise when it fell over in his mouth. He spat it out – it was a small tooth, and the water washed it away.

  With glacial deliberateness he lifted his shirt to reveal a purplish cloud blooming over the ribs on his right side. Tentatively, he touched the hematoma with his fingertips, and almost fainted. The pain rose inside him like a wave, and like a wave, it broke, sending streamers of pain in every direction. The color drained from his face and he made a noise that sounded like all the vowels spoken at once, a strangled gasp that ended only when he ground his teeth together. You need an X-ray, Lassiter thought. And a dentist. And Demerol. But not in that order.

  And not in Naples.

  It was a little late, but now he knew why della Torre had played along with the pretext that he’d used: The priest had simply wanted to keep him busy while his room was searched.

  There was an urgent knock at the door, and a man’s voice, entreating him to open up. ‘Mr. Lassiter – per favore – are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lassiter shouted, wincing. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Are you sure, signore? The police –’

  ‘Don’t worry about it!’ Whoever it was, left, muttering in Italian.

  A minute later the telephone rang, and for the first time in his life Lassiter was grateful to be in a hotel where there was an extension in the bathroom. He picked it up and shocked the manager by telling him that he didn’t want to talk to the police and didn’t want to make a complaint.

  ‘But Mr. Lassiter – it’s your right. You were assaulted!’

  ‘Just get my car from the garage, and put the bill on my Visa card.’

  ‘Are you certain, signore?’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  It took him almost half an hour to change shirts and pack his bag, and when he was done, it took everything he had left to walk erect through the lobby. The manager was standing in the courtyard at the front of the hotel, looking terrified, dignified, and apologetic, all at once. Lassiter’s rental car was idling a few feet away, and the manager, seeing Lassiter, hurried over to it. With a small bow he opened the door and watched his guest ease himself into the driver’s seat. That done, the manager shut the door with a practiced firmness, tilted his head and smiled.

  ‘Where’s the desk clerk?�
� Lassiter asked, looking around.

  The manager frowned. ‘Roberto?’

  ‘Yeah. I didn’t see him inside.’

  ‘He left a little while ago. The asthma.’

  ‘Well, tell him I hope he gets better,’ Lassiter said.

  ‘Grazie. Il signore e molto gentile! And after all that’s happened!’

  ‘Because the next time I see that sonofabitch, I’m gonna rip him a new asshole.’

  There was a long silence. Finally, the manager said, ‘Scusi?’

  ‘It’s a promise.’

  *

  Lassiter drove to Rome that same night, holding a bag of ice against his ribs and talking to himself as he headed north along the autostrada.

  What the fuck were you thinking of? he raged. Not that you were thinking – ’cause if you’d been thinking, you wouldn’t have been sucker-punched in your own fucking hotel room. And now, for all you know, you’ve got a couple of ribs sticking through your lung, and even if you don’t, you’re sure as shit not gonna sleep on your side for a while – and ohhhhh, Jesus! it hurts.

  And not just his body. His pride was as badly beaten as his ribs. Della Torre had kept him in the church for as long as he could . . . first with his fancy speech, then praying . . . praying! . . . while his . . . colleague – the Mattress – searched the hotel room. And he might have lingered in the church even longer (‘Fold him into your heart, Lord!’) if the drunk hadn’t wandered in and broken the spell. And then the desk clerk, trying to stall him, If you’d do me the honor . . . How many hints did it take for him to realize that something was going down – and that ‘the something’ was him?

  And finally the room itself . . . Pronto? Who the fuck are you? Scusi. Bang!

  That’s what really hurt – because he was good from the shoulders. He’d boxed in college and done pretty well. He wasn’t used to losing fights, and it really didn’t matter how big the guy was. Because he knew how to hit. And how not to get hit. Or so he thought, at least until that evening.

  Still, getting smacked around had an astringent effect that wasn’t entirely negative. It woke you up, tuned the senses, and made you think – hard – about how to avoid a recurrence. Which was why Lassiter decided not to retrace his steps to the Hassler. Instead he checked into the Mozart, an obscure hotel on a cobbled street off the Via del Corso.