Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6) (18 page)

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.

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.