Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (5 page)

“You’re not taking any chances on
me saying no, are you, Doc?”

“You might not have known Elizabeth
for very long, but I am assuming you loved her with all your heart. Her capture
is, in a way, my good fortune. Rajesh’s good fortune. His karma at work.”

…His karma…what about my karma,
pal?

“Love…Love is why I’m saying yes to
going after your six-armed God Boy.”

“Love…Is there no better reason on
earth for saving a soul touched by God?”

Dr. Iqbal Lamba Singh stands, reaches into his jacket pocket,
pulls out a considerable wad of Euros. “Take this. Consider it a down payment. You
will be hearing from my associate within the hour regarding the information
you’ll need to know prior to proceeding with the assignment.”

“Not at this address. You’ve
already revealed that the eyes of someone or something are upon you. For all I
know, you’re being followed right now.”

“Then, I will make certain to have
the associate available to you at your home away from home. The Fiddler’s
Elbow.”

“That will do just fine.”

“One hour. I should warn you that
you are to leave tonight.”

“You don’t waste time, Singh. What
about weapons?”

“Something to defend yourself with
should the situation get dangerous?”

“I’m strictly offense.”

“It will be taken care of.” Handing
me the cash. “Remember, one hour.”

“How will I get a hold of you if I
should suddenly require your assistance? You know, if I should happen to step
into some quicksand or something?”

“I will be in touch. But don’t worry.
There’s little chance of you stepping into quicksand where you’re going. Everything
has been arranged, or will be arranged. Do we have an understanding?”

“You knew I would agree to the job.
Once you mentioned Elizabeth. You never even asked about my fee.”

“Your fee is of no concern. It will
be paid if you succeed and, by all means, the down payment is all yours no
matter what.”

“What if I don’t succeed?”

“But you will. Soon you will find
Elizabeth.”

“But this isn’t really about her is
it? It’s about the six-armed boy.”

“It is about the boy. You see, Mr.
Baker, locate Elizabeth Flynn, and she will lead you directly to Rajesh. Now do
you understand my logic?”

“I do. And conversely, if I find
the boy first, it’s possible he might lead me to Elizabeth.”

“Perhaps that is equally true. But
in all likelihood, Elizabeth will be out in the open, working on uncovering the
mine, while the boy will be hidden away in a chamber or a cell, separated from
all who seek a glance at him and, shall we call it, his condition.”

“One more thing, Doc. Who the hell
took Elizabeth and Rajesh in the first place?”

He shakes his head and gestures
with hands as if to say,
not now
. “That will all be explained to you. Suffice
to say…a man of extreme evil.”

The devil…he’s talking about the
fucking devil.

I see the doctor out, lock the door
behind me. Reaching inside my T-shirt, I pull out the leather strap wrapped
around my neck and twirl the small bronze key it supports in my hand, the tiny
diamond fragments embedded inside it sparkling even in the dimly lit apartment.

Slipping the key back inside my
shirt, I then pull out my wallet, open it, slip my fingers into one of the
slots, pull out a photo. Stare at the image. Elizabeth’s face. She’s smiling, a
smile that crinkles her green eyes as her long hair blows in the breeze by the cobbled
riverbank in Paris. I feel my throat tighten, my eyes well up. I knew the moment
I met her in the Ritz Bar that I would marry her someday. But that day never
came because Elizabeth disappeared and … died.

Or did she?

Lulu trots out of the bedroom,
stares up at me.

“What the hell am I doing? I’ve
finally gone and lost my marbles, Lu.”

“For starters,”
the pit bull
says,
“you’re talking to a dog.”

“I’m not really talking to a dog. I’m
only
imagining
myself talking to a dog.”

“Okay, whatever. But something’s
got you upset.”

“You think it’s possible for
somebody to come back from the dead, Lu?”

“Only in story books, Chase.
Isn’t that one of your many jobs? To write stories? Fantasies? Adventures?”

“I guess. They seem real when I’m
writing them.”

“Well, there you go. There’s
nothing wrong with suspending your disbelief now and again, especially when it
comes to someone you miss so much.”

The dog turns tail, hops up onto
the couch, rests her chin on her front paws, falls to sleep.

“Have a good nap, Lu. Looks like
I’m not going to get a lot of sleep tonight, so, I think I’ll do the same.”

Heading into the bedroom, I lie on
my back, close my eyes. Within minutes, I find myself drifting until the
drifting becomes a deep sleep.

I see fire. I am down in a pit
or a cavern. A portion of the floor flows with a river of lava. It’s so hot I
can hardly catch my breath. Sweat leaks from my pores as if my skin were a
sieve. Then, something begins rising from out of the lava. First, a head. Then,
a set of arms, and another, and another. Soon the entire body has risen out of
the hot flow and hovers above as though levitating.

It’s the God Boy.

He locks eyes with me as I step
towards him, only to feel myself sinking into the lava. But then, I’m not really
sinking so much as melting into it. The pain is beyond anything I’ve ever felt.

The God Boy reaches out with all
six hands.

“Touch me,” he says, in his soft
voice, “and you shall be healed.”

I wake up in a pool of sweat.

It’s as if the temperature in
Florence has risen by one hundred degrees. I slide off the bed exhausted, make
my way across the length of the apartment to the bathroom, stare into a cracked
mirror at my distorted face, the crack making it look like my skull has been
fractured vertically down its center. The face peering back at me is withdrawn,
eyes red, scruffy covered skin, pale and sallow. Maybe it’s the result of
having spent most of the afternoon drinking. But then, it could be something
else. It could be that already the God Boy is affecting me. Getting under my
skin. Touching my soul.

I wash my face, dry it, avoid any
further contact with the stranger in the broken mirror.

Out in the living room, I dig into
the left chest pocket of my bush jacket and produce the letter that came with the
bronze key one month ago … to the day I realize. Peering down at the page, I
view a hand-drawn illustration of an eight-armed Kali holding what appears to
be shrunken hearts in the palms of six of her hands while with the seventh she
holds a sword and in the eighth, a severed head that’s still alive.

The full frontal illustration is
accompanied by an equally detailed one of the statue’s backside. There’s an
area of the upper back that’s been boxed out in pencil. Inside the box is
written one word in big capital letters: KEY. Below that are written the words:

Chase, they are coming for me.
The evil ones. Do not lose this key. It’s all that separates my life from
certain death. I never stopped loving you.

Elizabeth

Once more, I open my wallet, slide
out her photo, peer into Elizabeth’s green eyes. I feel their power as if she
were standing right before me in my apartment. Again, I pull the bronze key out
of my shirt, feel the solid object in my hand. I can only wonder if it’s the true
Kali key. And if that is the case, what secrets will the statue reveal once
unlocked?

“Are…you…alive?” I say at the photo
as if expecting an answer.

Returning the letter to my shirt
pocket and the photo to my wallet, I grab my shoulder-holstered Colt .45 where
it hangs on the wall-mounted hat-rack, slip it on over my shoulders. Then,
grabbing my leather jacket from the hook beside it, I slip that on. I pull the
automatic from the holster, thumb the clip release, make a check the nine-round
load. Cocking one into the chamber, I engage the safety and return the piece to
its resting space beneath my left arm, grip inverted for easy access.

“I’ll be back, Lu.”

Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the
door and exit the apartment, the pit in my stomach telling me that although my
new assignment to find the God Boy has yet to begin, I’m already in way too
deep.

Arrival at the Elbow.

Part of me thinks it would be
hilarious to enter through the window I was tossed out of just this afternoon.
But I’m not feeling very entertaining right now. I’d rather cry than bust a
gut. And anyway, a team of blue-overalled workers are busy installing a new picture
window in place of the one that was shattered by my rather compact, but solid, five-foot
nine-inch, one hundred eighty-five pound frame.

As usual, Matt is behind the bar
still wearing his ABCD, AC/DC black cotton tee.

“No more trouble, Chase,” he says,
popping the top on a green bottle of Heineken for me. “You’re costing me a
small fortune in glass. Not to mention the words ‘Fiddlers’ and ‘Elbow’ I’ll
need to have stenciled on it. You know how much one of those artists charge?”
He says “artist” like “
arteest
.”

“Don’t tell me, Matty,” I say, grabbing
the beer, taking a quick swig. “Tell Joe muscles over there. And we’re in Florence
for God’s sakes. Everywhere you turn you see a starving
arteest
. Make a
trade for crisps and beer.”

Matt purses his lips, crosses
sinewy arms, concealing the ABCD on his T-shirt as if seriously contemplating
the idea.

Four stools down, Calum is busy
staring at his smartphone while working on a pint. I approach him.

“Yo, Cal.” Reaching into my pocket,
retrieving not the thick wad that Dr. Singh gave me, but the far thinner one I
grabbed earlier. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Matt races over, snatches the Euros
off the bar.

“You mean, they belong to
me
.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out
the big wad, slip off three five hundred euro notes.

“This cover it, Matt?”

He gives me bug eyes.

“That’ll do nicely,” he says, in
his Irish brogue. “It’ll cover the beer too.”

“Good. Then give Calum back his
cash.”

Calum, sets down his phone, takes a
hit off his pint, holds out his sledgehammer of a hand. “No hard feelings,
Chase. Don’t know me own temper sometimes. Plus, that man in the funny turban…the
way he looked at me with his eyes. Made me feel real bad for tossing you out
the window, even if you did deserve it.”

“That’s why our necks won’t allow
us to look backward.” I shake the iron-gripped hand. Then, look around the
sparsely populated bar. “Say, Matt, you didn’t happen to see a stranger walk in
a few minutes ago.”

“It’s Florence, Chase,” Matt says
trying to imitate my New York accent. “Just about everyone who walks in here is
a tourist which makes them a stranger.”

Peering around the long, narrow bar
room, I make out a couple of college-age kids drinking pints of Guinness. Also
a tall, dark man standing at the far corner of the bar. He’s sporting a trim,
salt and pepper beard. For a split second, I believe I’ve found my man.

But then, I take notice of the
person seated a few stools up from him—a woman. She’s on the small side, if not
petite, but sporting a shapely body packaged in a short black skirt, a white
button-down shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to reveal a pair of fine
breasts supported by a black pushup bra, and gladiator sandals. Her black,
shoulder length hair is lush and parted neatly above her left eye. She’s typing
on an iPad while sipping Prosecco from a long-stemmed glass.

Calum drinks another swig of beer,
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances over at the woman, then
back to me.