The Keys of Solomon (19 page)

“And you must be Sam Conner,” he said in a silky smooth voice. “I've heard a lot about you. My name is Enrique DeLorenzo.” He picked up his suitcase and walked across the floor, his hand extended. “I'm pleased to finally meet you, Sam. Please accept my sincere gratitude for the aid and care you've rendered Thomas.”

Sam managed a wooden nod and shook Enrique's hand. “No worries. He needed help and I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, I think we both know there's more to the story than that, Sam. I'm anxious to hear the details. All of them.” Enrique took a seat near the end of the sofa, leaving Sam as the last man standing. Feeling awkward, Sam sat down in a nearby armchair directly across from the newcomer. As they waited for Falco to return from the kitchen, Sam studied Enrique from the corner of his eye.
Stylish, but not flashy. Definitely not flashy. Confident, but not cocky. Sophisticated. Yeah, that's a good word. And he's loaded. You don't wear those kinds of suits on a bean counter's salary. This guy carries authority, and a lot of it. So what the hell does he want with me?

Finally, Falco made his way back to the recliner carrying a steaming mug. “There's fresh coffee in the kitchen. Would you care for some?”

“No thanks, Thomas. Perhaps later.”

Falco nodded and sipped from the mug. Grimacing, he said, “Tastes like paint thinner. So, Enrique … how was your flight?”

It was a standard question asked of travelers, but Sam thought he detected an edge in Falco's voice, a subtle change in tone. He was sure the seemingly innocuous query carried some hidden significance. Had either man expected trouble during DeLorenzo's trip? Perhaps they had anticipated more Little Stevie–type encounters. The notion sent a slight chill along the nape of Sam's neck.

“The flight was uneventful,” said Enrique. “I only wish I could say the same for last night. I'm afraid I have some disturbing news.” Turning to Sam, Enrique said, “But that can wait until I've had an opportunity to visit with our new friend, young Mr. Conner.”

The two locked eyes and in an instant, and in a flash of clarity, Sam knew. While he wasn't the Enemy, Enrique DeLorenzo could well prove just as deadly. The purpose of his visit wasn't to check on the welfare of Thomas Falco. No, this man was here to determine if Sam Conner would live to see another day.

Sun City, Arizona

The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon, leaving in its wake a dark crimson sky and the occasional wispy line of clouds. Evenly spaced, ornate street lights flickered with renewed life, casting a pale amber light over the concrete streets of the subdivision, an upper-middle-class neighborhood filled with new families and retirees alike. This particular street ended in a cul-de-sac featuring a large two-story brick and stucco affair. Henri knew the house and its occupants very well.

Pulling a cigarette from a new pack, Henri spoke a Word and the tip of the cigarette smoldered, then ignited. He took a deep drag on the filter, and blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils.
Won't be long now
. He took another drag on the cigarette and looked through the window sheers as a pair of silhouettes moved about in the living room. One of them, Henri knew, was now acutely aware of his presence. He could have shielded himself from her just as he could have shielded himself from her brother two years earlier. But what was the fun in that?

I wonder what she's thinking at this very moment? Is she afraid?
It was a rhetorical question. He knew damn well she was afraid.
Maybe she's called her brother. And what would he say to her? Would he come running to the rescue?
Another rhetorical question. He knew Sam would come to his sister's aid if called. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.
That's the kind of person he is: heroic and foolish with only the very best intentions. The graveyards are full of his kind, all dead long before their time. I hope she doesn't call him. His arrival would complicate things. Besides, I really don't want to kill him. Not unless the boy refuses to cooperate.

Henri cocked an ear toward the east. Smiling, he dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed it beneath the heel of his silver-toed boots. “About damn time,” he said just as a pair of headlights came into view from the main road. He watched as the vehicle turned onto the dead-end street and drove slowly toward the cul-de-sac. The sleek Escalade parked in the driveway of the two-story house and a man and woman, both dressed in business attire, got out and strolled casually to the front door. Seconds later another pair dressed in dark clothing came out of the back seat and quickly disappeared around the side of the house. Sticking close to the privacy fence, they were headed directly for Henri.

Amateurs. I would have expected better.
He whispered another Word and a split second later, a wisp of blue-gray smoke drifted across the backyard toward the patio. As the black-clad operators passed through the smoke on the way to the rear entrance of the house, one of them, a tall, slender female, raised her hand, signaling a halt. Her accomplice, a heavily muscled bulldog of a man, moved to her side and whispered, “What? What's wrong?”

The woman paused for a moment and shook her head. “Nothing. I just thought I … never mind. Let's go.”

The man muttered a string of curses, then said, “We haven't got time for this shit. Move!”

Had the wisp of smoke possessed a mouth and vocal cords, it would have said, “The clock is ticking. Hurry before this entire affair turns into a goddamned train wreck.”

The smoke followed lazily as the black-clad pair crossed the short distance from the fence to the patio. Bulldog Man knelt beside the backdoor, holding his pistol in a two-fisted combat shooting grip. He and the female Watcher were now positioned, waiting to deal with anyone who tried to escape the house through the backdoor. Several seconds passed and still no sign of the other two Watchers.
Damn it, be quick,
thought Henri.
You've got company coming!

The smoke that had been Henri Charpak drifted to the patio and hovered just behind the woman's shoulder. By now, the first pair of Watchers was inside the house, holding the two Conner females at gunpoint. They would allow the mother and her daughter to gather a few belongings, then walk them through the house, out through the backdoor, and into the waiting Escalade. The plan was sloppy, and took far too much time. If they didn't hurry, other visitors would arrive and derail the kidnap operation as well as Henri's own much grander scheme. He wouldn't allow that.

The four inside the house were coming down the stairs now, and would be at the backdoor within seconds. Henri turned his supernatural senses to the south, and sent out a weak probe. There was no need for a stronger search. The Enemy was less than a mile away and closing fast.

The backdoor opened and the four Watchers herded their female victims into the backyard and toward the SUV. The younger of the two, a teenager with auburn hair, proved obstinate and dug her heels into the damp grass, forcing her gun-toting shepherds to physically propel her forward.

“She's burning precious time,” muttered Henri beneath his breath. He closed his eyes and exhaled softly. The young girl turned toward the shadows and Henri's hiding place. She gave the fence line a quick, worried glance, then hurried to the awaiting vehicle. Henri smiled. He knew revealing his presence would speed her along.
Too late. The
other
bad guys will pick up her trail
. He laughed at his weak joke.
Oh well. I've nothing better to do than run interference for a fourteen-year-old.

Seconds later the Escalade pulled out of the drive and sped away toward the interstate. Soon after, a long white older-model Lincoln driven by Henri followed at a distance.

CHAPTER 13

Rome

Investigator Arturo Giannini zigged in and out of traffic along the narrow thoroughfare, his bleary, bloodshot eyes darting to the rearview mirror and back to the rain-slicked road ahead. There was no sign now of the gray BMW four-door sedan that had tailed him for the better part of ten kilometers, since leaving the Vatican. Arturo was well versed in the art of following vehicles in heavy traffic, and he knew the work of an expert. In fact, had he not been so afraid, he might have admired the other driver's deft and tenacious driving. But he
was
afraid. Very much so.

He hadn't recognized the expensive car, and the windows were heavily tinted. Yet each time the car appeared in his rear-view or side mirrors, Arturo's stomach rolled violently. There was something ominous,
dangerous
, about the automobile and its occupants. Of that Arturo was certain. He was also certain the occupants of the BMW were involved in the incident back at the Holy See, and more specifically, with the journal and scroll Arturo had recovered from the apartments of Father Raoul Acuna. He had drafted a report before leaving the Vatican and e-mailed the encrypted file to his contact within the Watchers. Other members of the Gendarmes had interrupted him before he could destroy the original file. That file was now contained within a passworded file on the notebook computer sitting in the passenger seat. The encoded information should be safe enough, he reasoned. The file was unrecoverable by anyone short of Interpol or some other top-shelf intelligence agency. Still, something nagged at him to erase his notes at the earliest opportunity. The appearance of this mysterious pursuer only reinforced the thought. Everything about his current situation spelled extreme danger.

He turned onto a busy avenue, his apartment now just blocks ahead. As he neared an intersection, an old man dressed in a floppy rain hat and heavy overcoat stumbled into the pedestrian crosswalk and shuffled out to the middle of the street. Arturo braked to a stop and waited impatiently for the old timer to make his way across the double lanes. Arturo reached for a pack of chewing gum stashed above the visor when the old man stopped in the center of the lane and slowly turned to face Arturo. With a palsied hand, the old man pushed the brim of the hat away from his face and grinned wickedly.

Arturo's heart skipped a beat, then threatened to explode from his chest. The old man now standing scant inches from the front bumper of Arturo's car was none other than Father Raoul Acuna, his face a bloodless, sallow gray, and the mocking smile forever frozen in place by rigor mortis. Thin, bluish lips moved, trying in vain to form words, but lifeless muscles in the nightmarish face refused to cooperate. Arturo shook his head side to side in an attempt to dislodge the horrid image from his mind, but the dead man remained, leering obscenely.

Arturo squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then stomped on the accelerator. The Fiat's tiny engine buzzed like an angry nest of hornets as it lurched forward. Horns blared as cars entering the intersection swerved to avoid the Fiat, and Arturo braced himself for the impact. Yet, there was none. Not with any of the approaching cars, and not with the ghoulish form of the dead Father Acuna.

As Arturo cleared the intersection, he checked the rearview mirror, but the street was empty except for a tangle of traffic. Stunned, Arturo turned back around in the seat and for the second time in as many minutes, his heart threatened to exit his heaving chest. The distorted face of Father Acuna pressed against the windshield as boney fingers sought purchase on the slick hood of the car. Fat droplets of blood fell from the gaping maw in the man's throat and spattered on the glass.
Jesus!

The Fiat swerved hard to the right as Arturo jerked on the steering wheel. The small car jumped the curb, traveled a short distance along the narrow sidewalk before striking a utility pole. The impact threw Arturo forward, slamming him hard into the steering wheel. As the car came to rest, he managed to open the door and fall out into the street. His hand snaked inside his jacket and trembling fingers closed around the comforting grips of his handgun. Rising from the street, Arturo made his way around to the front of the car, his gun drawn and held at the ready. Steam hissed through the Fiat's ruptured radiator and obscured his vision, as he moved cautiously forward. A quick glance at the windshield confirmed this hadn't been some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. Thin rivulets of blood ran from the center of the cracked glass down to the crumpled hood. As he stepped around to the front of the car, he prayed to the Father, the Son, Mary, and all the saints that he wouldn't find the reanimated corpse of Father Acuna. He didn't. However, pinned between the crushed bumper of the car and the broken utility pole, he did find a floppy rain hat.

Arturo recovered the laptop from the car and broke into a run.

*   *   *

Arturo jogged three flights of stairs leading to the seldom-used apartment. As he approached each landing, his hand strayed to the butt of the handgun hanging from the shoulder holster inside his suit coat. Each time the landing proved deserted and Arturo uttered a quick prayer of thanks.

Upon reaching the last landing, he ran the length of the hallway leading to his apartment. He pulled the keys from his pocket, dropped them onto the carpet, and swore loudly. He picked them up, nearly dropping them again in the process, and finally managed to unlock his apartment door. Once safely inside, he locked the door behind him, locked a second deadbolt, and moved to the living room's double windows. He peered through a narrow seam separating the heavy curtains and looked out over the rain-slick streets below. Traffic was light, and there were no obvious signs of pursuit or of the dead priest.

Holy Mother of God.
Arturo pulled the curtains together and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. An occasional social drinker, he now felt the need for a very large, very stiff drink. A quick inventory of his kitchen cabinets revealed a near-empty pint bottle of Chivas, barely enough liquor to remove the bitter taste of bile from his mouth. He took a bottle of chilled chardonnay from the refrigerator and filled a wineglass to the rim.