Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6)

by Vincent Zandri

  Vitruvian Man.

  The light is almost blinding now as the dark-silhouetted, long-haired figure slowly lowers his arms and begins walking in my direction. My stomach constricts, my entire blood supply feels like it’s spilling out onto the rocky floor. Have I died and this is heaven? Or is it hell?

  He moves toward me, a faceless shadow, the almost superhuman sculpted-out-of- granite body now somehow shrinking, becoming smaller with each step it takes toward me inside the dark shaft. By the time he is only a few feet away, he has lost the musculature altogether along with his nakedness, giving way to a white-bearded man who wears a long brown robe and sandals on his feet.

  The monk.

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come. I am so dumbfounded and surprised by this man and the magic of this cave that my ability to speak cannot keep up with the messages coming from the rapid-fire synapses in my brain.

  Then, finally, I ask, “Who … are … you?”

  Raising his hands, he removes the hood, exposing the same old face I witnessed on the hilltop. A face covered in a white beard, the nose long and hooked, and a head covered in thinning, white hair that’s so long it hangs over his narrow shoulders.

  “I am the one you seek,” he says, his voice Italian-accented, but the words spoken in English. Perfect English. “You know who I am, do you not, Chase Baker?”

  “You are him? You are Leonardo da Vinci?” I hesitate, the words peeling themselves from my throat. “But, how can that be? You’ve been dead for six hundred years. It’s impossible.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I spent my entire life disproving the impossible,” he reminds me. “Most people are limited to their system of beliefs and not their inability to see the possibilities, but their refusal to embrace them. People trust in their fears more than they do their imagination. You see, man is capable of anything and everything.”

  “The universe,” I say. “Is this cave a part of that universe?”

  He nods. “There are answers to be found here. Knowledge not to be found anywhere else on earth.”

  “What is this place exactly?”

  “Perhaps it’s better if I demonstrate the purpose of this cave rather than simply telling you.”

  He raises his arm and his right hand emerges from the robe. It is a hand that contains long, graceful, if not dramatic, fingers. Like the hands of Jesus in The Last Supper. The hands of the twelve disciples. Hands that speak louder than words. Hands that provide movement, tension, conflict. The same hand that painted the face of the Mona Lisa.

  He touches me with his fingers and something shoots through my system—a shock, but a pleasant shock. Like stepping into a hot bath after a long, cold, wet day. The sensation courses through my veins and the next thing I know I’m falling. Falling fast, and oh so sweetly.

  30

  When I open my eyes again, I am standing inside a room. I am still in the cave, but the room is constructed of a perfect circle. Dark stone walls, no windows. Located in the center of the room is a pool of water. Light shines from the water as if there are high watt LED lamps installed at the pool’s bottom.

  My eyes are so attracted to the pool that when Leonardo taps me on the shoulder I am forced to pull my gaze away from it. He offers a smile. It’s not the smile of an old man any longer, but a young man. Younger than me. He’s got thick, black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his brown eyes are youthful and intense. His build is wiry and muscular, his shoulders broad, just like Vitruvian Man.

  “You are him, aren’t you?” I say. “Vitruvian Man.”

  “If you are insinuating that I used myself as the model,” he says, “you are correct.”

  “I’ve been running into Vitruvian Man everywhere I go over the past couple of days. The image is inescapable.”

  “That’s because we are all Vitruvian Man in one form or another. The earth we inhabit. The buildings we live in. The forests that provide shelter for the wild. The entire universe is modeled on the great form of the human body, and, conversely, the human body is modeled on the universe. It is timeless and immortal that way.”

  “If you are human, then why are you alive?”

  “The answer can be found in this cave,” he says. “But before you face the truth about this place and about me, you must face your own truth.”

  “What truth might that be?”

  Raising his hand, he points directly at the pool with his long index finger. My eyes are immediately drawn to the water. A bolt of white laser light, as bright and as powerful as the light that came from the craft that evaporated the lake, strikes me in the face and I feel my soul separating from my body. Oxygen escapes my lungs, my heart stops, and I enter into the void.

  31

  I see myself standing on a desert plain. I’m wearing a thin robe that’s also wrapped around my head and partially covering my face, exposing only my eyes. The hot sun bears down upon me. Sand blows against my face. In the distance, thousands of near naked men occupy a massive wood scaffolding. They’re using a system of ropes and pulleys to place a mammoth square-shaped stone made of granite in place to form a giant pyramid …

  I feel my soul leaving my body again, but soon find myself traversing a gentle incline to a rocky, unforgiving place. A no man’s land strewn with rotting human remains, bones, and skulls. Wild dogs scurry about while the cries of men being tortured competes with the rumble of thunder emerging from the dark, blackish-purple storm clouds collected overhead.

  Farther on, three wood crosses begin to take shape. Attached to each cross is a man. The men who occupy the two outside crosses are bound to the respective crossbeams by thick ropes wrapped tightly around their upper arms. But the dark, long-haired man in the middle has been nailed to the crossbeam while his feet are nailed to the vertical beam. A crown of thorns has been pressed brutally onto his head, blood streaks from his shredded scalp down his filthy face and into his gaping mouth.

  Two women kneel at his bleeding feet … weeping. Dressed in black shawls and veils, tears spill down their pale, agonized faces. When a Roman soldier raises a lance and pierces the crucified man’s side, blood and water spurt out of the wound …

  I’m once more swept away until I find myself standing amidst a piece of damp, grass-covered ground that surrounds a lake. A large granite boulder occupies a shallow inlet of the lake. There’s something embedded into the rock. A sword. A broadsword to be precise.

  A man stands before the rock, almost the entirety of his legs submerged in the still waters. The man is dressed in robes made of bear skin. He is bearded and burly, his hair long, thick, and dark. Both of his substantial hands clutch the sword’s grip. As he raises his eyes to the heavens, he pulls on the sword, using all of his divine strength to separate it from the stone. As the metal begins to lift away from the rock he screams, his thunderous voice shooting out across the water’s surface …

  Then, I’m seated inside a room that’s sweltering, even with the windows open. A room full of white-wigged men dressed in knickers and jackets standing around a desk, taking turns committing what will be considered high treason by King George, but guaranteeing their independence with a signature. Not without a war, however …

  Explosions rock the beachhead. All around me young men—kids—are dropping like sacks of rags and bones from the high caliber rounds fired from machine gun nests situated on the seawall at the opposite end of the beach. To my right, a shell bursts and an entire squad of men are decimated—their arms, limbs, heads shooting up into the air. To my left, an amphibious landing craft has taken a direct hit, the soldiers it carries burning alive …

  Next, I’m riding in a car positioned directly behind the car that holds the President of the United States. The handsome young President is waving to the crowd gathered in the Dallas sunshine while his wife, dressed smartly in pink, also waves her gloved hand. Both are wearing beautiful smiles. That is, until three distinct shots rings out and half the President’s skull falls into his wife’s lap,
while a fourth shot fired point-blank from a grassy knoll only a few feet away annihilates what’s left of his brain …

  My soul swims in darkness. Weightlessness. Silence.

  It’s a darkness broken only by brilliant starlight and the illumination of a corkscrew-shaped galaxy light years away. I float within the heavens until, just like that, I feel myself falling, fast, faster, faster than fast, until I once more enter back into my mortal body …

  Startled awake. I sit up straight, a heavy duty spring for a spine, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my forehead, heart pounding inside my chest.

  It’s a bright early morning.

  Hot. Sticky. Uncomfortable. The dreadful way mid-summer in New York City can be sometimes. I pull off the thin, sweat-soaked sheet, plant bare feet on the linoleum, rub my hands through my hair and down my face.

  “My God, what a fucking dream that was. The dream to end all dreams … “

  Standing, I go to the small bathroom located off the corridor that separates the bedroom from the kitchen/living area of this two room apartment over the pizza joint on Prince Street. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is too long for my age. I need a shave. I’m not looking entirely unfit in my wife beater, but I could use a visit or two to the gym. Too much time on the road. Too many adventures. Hell, maybe it’s time I settled down. I’m not getting any younger. But then, who is?

  If only time could move backward and forward on demand.

  I wash my face, brush my teeth, make a cup of coffee. Getting dressed, I go to the window-mounted air conditioner, give it a swift punch. The old motor starts up with a rattle and hum, the cool air soothing against the heat of the city. My writing desk is set up directly across from the bed. My latest novel is stacked by the typewriter. It requires an extensive rewrite which I should be diving into right this minute, but something is pulling me away from it. And not your everyday procrastination.

  Maybe it has something to do with that vivid, complicated dream where I’m spending time with Leonardo da Vinci only to find myself traveling through time, bearing witness to all sorts of crazy historical events—the building of the pyramids, the crucifixion of Christ, the assassination of Kennedy, meeting and speaking with Leonardo da Vinci inside a cave that quite possibly also houses extraterrestrials … E.T.s for God’s sake.

  Who’s capable of such dreams?

  Chase Baker, the over-imaginative. That’s who.

  I feel something tugging at my heart. My daughter, Ava. I see her sweet face, her thick black hair, big brown eyes, and I feel the urgent need to be with her. Even if only for a few minutes. Retrieving my cell, I dial her mother, but the operator says the line is disconnected. But, how the hell can that be? I try the number again, just to make sure, but it’s the same story.

  I dial ‘0’ for the operator.

  I get a computer asking me what my problem is.

  “Can I speak to a real human being?” I say.

  The computer laughs. No joke. It’s actually programmed to laugh at my question. It’s the first time I’ve ever encountered such an artificial intelligence-created reaction, but why am I not surprised?

  I tell the computer my problem with my ex-wife’s number. She tells me in return that the number hasn’t been in use for twenty-nine years, three months, four days, six hours, thirty-two minutes, forty-one seconds.

  Now, it’s my turn to laugh.

  She asks me if she can help me with anything else.

  “I could use a shave, some money, and a new A/C window unit.”

  The call is disconnected.

  I find myself standing in my apartment, listening to the strain of the old air conditioner motor, and I decide to grab the bull by the balls and pay a visit to my daughter, without calling ahead first. What the hell, I’ve got the right after all. Grabbing my bush jacket from the hook by the door, I toss on my aviator sunglasses and head out into the Big Bad Apple.

  It’s hot.

  Hotter than the normal sultry summertime heat. As hot as I’ve ever felt it in the city. But, that’s not what catches me by surprise. What catches me off guard is the Santa standing on the street corner ringing a brass bell, a black Salvation Army pot hanging down from a tripod set up beside him. It’s too hot to go with the entire Santa outfit, so this young black man has modified the outfit to meet the demands of the overly oppressive day. He’s got on red shorts, a red t-shirt, and a fake cotton ball beard with a red and white snowflake baseball hat.

  I go to the Santa, dig around in my pocket for spare change, pop some into the kettle.

  “Little early for Christmas, isn’t it, Pal?” I say.

  He looks at me with a crooked expression.

  “Ummm, it’s December twenty-first . . . Pal,” he says. “… Freakin’ planet you from?” Reaching into the kettle, he retrieves one of the coins I tossed in. “And where’d you get this relic? It’s bitcoins or nothin’.”

  I feel as if the solid concrete is shifting under my feet.

  “December twenty-first,” I repeat. “What year?”

  He laughs. “It’s twenty forty-four, dude.” He just stares at me. Into me. “Say, you drunk or something?”

  “No,” I reply. “I’m not drunk. But are you?”

  He gives his head a shake along with a roll of his eyes and resumes clanging the bell.

  I move on along the sidewalk looking for a cab. It’s then, for the first time since exiting my apartment, I realize the cars are different from what I’m used to. They’re smaller. Less metal, more plastic. What’s more, they all seem to be running on electricity or a power cell that is most definitely not gasoline powered. But how can that be? I’ve been out of New York for a few months, not years. So, electric cars taking over from the gas guzzlers I know and love is something very strange. It’s also very quiet. Almost too quiet.

  It’s twenty forty-four, dude . . .

  Either I’m once more caught up in a bad dream or something is going on in my head. I’ve heard about this kind of thing happening before. You bang your head on something … which seems to happen to me a lot … and your reality changes just enough that the world around you seems suddenly strange if not bizarre. You’re fully functional, but your imagination is taking over your reality, clouding your vision, making you see things not as they are, but as you imagine them to be. Good or bad. And, for someone like me who writes fiction, there’s no telling what my imagination can produce.

  Finally, a cab appears on the horizon of Houston Street. I hail it down and it pulls over. Opening the rear door, I slip inside, and shut the door.

  “Gramercy Park,” I say. “And step on it, please.”

  I peer at the driver’s seat, but there’ no driver. Instead, the steering wheel spins by itself while a dash-mounted computer lights up.

  “Yes, sir,” says the tinny voice. “Gramercy Park. Right away, sir.”

  The car pulls away and heads uptown, past the Bowery, then past Union Square, and finally to Gramercy Park where it pulls over only a few doors down from my ex-wife and daughter’s six-story townhouse.

  The meter flashes “1.15 BTC” or bitcoins. If I recall, one BTC equals one hundred bucks. Since when does a seven-minute cab ride cost more than a C-note? There’s also the option to pay by credit. Pulling out my wallet, I don’t slide the card, but tap it against the seatback-mounted credit card device. Pulse pounding in my temples, I wait for the machine to accept it. Of course, it doesn’t. Instead, it takes a photograph of me. Opening the door to the sound of an alarm, I sprint away from the cab, praying the police aren’t on my tail.

  Less than a minute later, I face my ex-wife, Leslie’s, home. The century old Victorian architecture, the red brick exterior, the porch front, and the tall French doors and windows. There seems to be no end to how bad, if not heartbroken, I feel about how our marriage ended. But, while some ex-husbands might harbor animosity if not outright jealously over their ex’s new life, I never did. I’m glad she met the man who was to become her new husband. A bank
er named Brian. I was even happier he could provide such a stable, if not wealthy, home for she and my daughter. My life has always been filled with travels and adventures. I just can’t live any other way. While those adventures gave birth to my books, they also brought an end to my one and only marriage. But, that doesn’t mean I was no longer a dad to a sweet little girl. Maybe I don’t get to see her every day, but she is still the most important thing in my life.

  My greatest creation.

  Ascending the steps to the front door, I depress the bell and wait for Leslie to appear. But when the door slowly opens on rusted hinges, I’m surprised to see an old man appear before me.

  “Yes?” says the gray-haired, hunch-backed man. “Can I help you, son?”

  My insides slide south. The face is not the same, because it’s years older. Decades older. But there’s something in the eyes that is most definitely the same, as though protected by the ravages of time.

  Brian.

  I can’t help but gaze beyond his arthritic posture into what used to be a bright and cheerful household that now seems to have become a dark, musty, foreboding place. Pulling back my head, I once again check the number above the doorbell, just in case I’ve come to the wrong place. But I don’t need to see the number to know that this is the home where my daughter and ex-wife live.

  Brian, is that you? I want to say. But, something inside me is telling me this is all wrong. That I might be making a big mistake here.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but I’m looking for my ex-wife, Leslie, and my daughter, Ava.” Removing my sunglasses. “They live here.”

  The old man’s eyes go wide. He does his best to straighten out his back, while staring into my eyes.