Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (4 page)

Seated beside her on the red-velvet love seat, Francesca’s twelve-year-old daughter, Sarafina, hummed in harmony with her adopted grandfather. Music was her anchor. Her fingers tapped absently in the folds of the white dress that spread about her lap. She’d be a woman soon, Francesca thought. Too soon. Her sparkling brown eyes and pouty lips had already turned a few of the older boys’ heads. That is, until
Nonno
Mario’s glare set them running.

It was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sky was clear, the breeze gentle, and sunlight sparkled on the water. The small procession of gondolas was adorned with colorful regalia. The hulls shimmered and the brass ornamentals were polished to perfection. What had been intended as an intimate affair had grown to something more. Ahead, crowds lined the dock fronting the Palazzo Dandolo. Tourists spilled from the nearby Doge’s Palace and Piazza San Marco. Paparazzi jostled for position. Every one was anxious for a glimpse of the actress whose debut role as a modern-day Mata Hari had captured the box office.

In the boat ahead, the bride turned to Francesca. Her turquoise eyes sparkled. Her smile beamed with excitement.

Lacey and Marshall had been a couple for over six years. The actress had wanted to marry Jake’s best friend after the first few months. But one thing after another had stood in their way: Battista, their mourning after Jake’s death, her film career…

But all that was behind them now.

Lacey offered a subtle thumbs-up in their direction. Sarafina bounced in her seat and waved in return. Francesca’s daughter idolized the actress. They’d been famous friends ever since their shared brush with death on the underground river in Mexico. Lacey looked beautiful in her strapless wedding gown. Her hair was up, and she wore a pearl necklace that reminded Francesca of the night she and Jake had attended the masquerade ball. Her eyes moistened at the memory. She used a white-gloved finger to absorb a tear before it fell.

Francesca’s five-year-old son sat on her other side. Sensing her sadness, he squeezed her hand. Alex had been in tune with her feelings since the day he was born, smiling or frowning in concert with her emotions.

“I’m fine,
caro
,” she said in Italian. She straightened his bow tie, brushed lint from the satin lapel of his jacket, and added, “Women are supposed to cry at weddings,
sì
?”

Another squeeze and a look that told her he knew better. Her young son was good at that. Though he rarely made eye contact, he could communicate with no more than a facial expression, a turn of the head, a shrug. Sometimes it seemed as though his very thoughts coiled outward to embrace her. Francesca was thankful for that, because her precious son—the miracle who had held her life together when the man she loved had died—couldn’t speak. Doctors credited it to a spectrum disorder. Alex was autistic.

He was also a genius.

A five-by-seven computer tablet rested on his lap. It was his constant companion—his link to the world around him. When
he wasn’t using it, he tucked it in a side holster clipped to his belt. But for now he stared at it. An ever-changing swirl of fractal patterns filled the screen.

The first boat arrived at the dock, and onlookers made way as Tony and Ahmed stepped out. They looked splendid in their black tuxedos. A string quartet struck up a traditional Italian wedding song, and the crowd stirred in anticipation. A group of teens added their voices to the popular music. Others joined in, and soon the swelling chorus drew eyes from up and down the walkway that skirted the lagoon.

Lacey lowered her veil. Marshall sat beside her, handsome as ever, even beneath the red blindfold he wore. He’d been honored to oblige Lacey with the unusual ritual. It symbolized trust and mutual respect. The blindfold would remain in place until they reached the altar, the groom guided there by the woman who would then follow his lead until death. Francesca was touched by the gesture. Lacey danced to her own tune. This was her way of embracing her unique spirit while professing faith in her man.

Once the party was gathered on the dock, a score of striped-shirted gondoliers cleared a path leading to the entrance of the Hotel Danieli. As they set off, Alex hesitated. He let go of Francesca’s hand and stared through a break in the crowd. She followed his gaze and noticed a commotion atop the arched walkway in front of the Bridge of Sighs. There were shouts. A man sprinted down the opposite side toward San Marco. Two men pushed through the crowd and sped after him. The ruckus startled her. She pulled Alex into the folds of her dress.

It was over before it began. The three men disappeared around the corner. Tourists filled in the gaps left in their wake. But Francesca’s racing heart wasn’t so quick to settle. Even after years of peace, her nightmares surfaced easily. She blew out a breath to calm herself, releasing her protective grip on Alex.

“It’s nothing, my son,” she said. “Crazy tourists, that’s all.”

Venice, Italy

T
HE WEAPON FELT
odd under his clothing. Renzo had taken it from the car before he had ditched it. The need for it angered him. He wore a linen sport coat over a polo shirt, pleated trousers, and runners—paid for with cash from a rushed closure of his bank account.

He grabbed another handful of seeds and held out his palm. A frenzy of wings flapped around him. Two pigeons alighted on his hand and pecked at the morsels. More birds hovered nearby, their heads twisting and turning as they searched for an opening to the easy feast. Dozens more surrounded his feet, grabbing at leftover scraps. Other tourists joined in the fun, tentative arms outstretched. Cameras clicked, vendors smiled, and children ran in circles.

Piazza San Marco was famous for many things. Pigeons were the least of them. But they provided the perfect blind as Renzo studied his surroundings. The expansive piazza was framed on three sides by the former state offices of the Venetian Republic—now an arcade of shops and restaurants. Regimented rows of small tables spilled into the square—where white-gloved servers attended a buzz of diners. The eastern length of the piazza was commanded by the great arches, domed rooftops, and Romanesque carvings of Basilica di San Marco. Tourists waited
in roped-off lines to catch a glimpse of its ornate interior. The towering orange-brick campanile, or bell tower, presided over the scene.

Renzo was nervous about his next move. The kid’s parting words the day before had been in Italian, signaling their importance. He’d said,
Piazza San Marco, tomorrow, noon, Danielle.
Renzo checked his watch. It was ten past noon. But now what?

Instinct told him to hide. Instead, he brushed off his hands, removed his dark glasses, and stepped beyond the swirl of birds. If Danielle was to find him, he needed to present a tall target. He strode toward the basilica.

He noticed a group of tourists abandoning their positions in line at the church entrance. They’d been drawn by music around the corner. Renzo followed, capturing gazes along the way, searching for signs of recognition. Walking along the waterway, he saw a wedding party disembark a gondola among a throng of spectators. He strode across an archway to get a better look.

The music was cheerful. The bride was stunning. She twirled to the applause of the crowd. But it was the young boy behind her who captured Renzo’s attention. The child stood frozen in place. His head tilted. Eyes narrowed. It felt as if the boy stared into his soul.

A disturbance behind Renzo broke the spell. Two men shoved their way through the crowd. Dark glasses. Rubber-soled shoes. Their eyes fixed on his position. One had a hand to his ear. They ran toward him.

A familiar panic swept through him, and Renzo raced back over the arched walkway. He pushed through the crowd and ducked into the south entrance of the Palazzo Ducale—the Doge’s Palace.

“
Alto
!” the entrance guard ordered.

“
Emergencia
!” Renzo said, as he rushed past the guard and into an open-air courtyard. He kept moving, ignoring the shrill of the guard’s whistle. He ran past a grand staircase guarded by
two colossal statues, skirting a richly decorated arch and ducking through the southeast portico. Angry shouts confirmed that the men were close behind. In the next salon, tourists milled at the foot of a roped-off golden staircase that led to the upper floors. Beyond the ropes, at the first landing, a tour guide had opened a hidden panel. She was ushering the last of her guests through a narrow passageway. Renzo leaped the rope and took the steps two at a time. He caught the door just before it closed, slipping in with the group.

“
Scusi
,” the attractive and petite guide said with a stern edge. “This is a private tour.”

“Yes, I know,” Renzo replied casually. The run had tousled his hair, but he was barely out of breath. He offered her his best smile and peeled a hundred-euro note from his money clip. “The gentleman below said I might join you.”

She appraised him, shrugged, and took the money. The sounds from downstairs muted as the panel clicked shut. The woman brushed past him toward the head of the line. She left a pleasant hint of jasmine in her wake. “
Signori e signore
,” she whispered conspiratorially to the group in Italian, “the Doge’s Palace is layered in secrets.” She winked at Renzo. “Let us explore the fate of the man who stole a kiss from one too many wives. Follow now in the footsteps of Giacomo Girolamo Casanova!”

She ushered the group up a dark staircase. The wooden planks creaked with each step. The narrow corridor smelled of moist wood and decay. “Casanova was thirty years old when he was arrested,” the guide said. “The charge was irreligious behavior…”

They continued forward, and Renzo tuned her out. He tightened his belt around the pistol at his back and wondered if he could actually use it. He was an artist, not a killer. At least that’s what he believed. The men following him had known he would be in Venice, he thought. But how? And why did they so desperately want him dead? His past haunted him, and the only person with answers was the wounded kid on the scooter.
Renzo recalled the vague sense of familiarity he’d felt when they’d met. There had been a flash of memories. But they had faded when the small pyramid had been flung into the gutter. His consciousness had been unable to recapture it. He’d hoped that Danielle—whoever she was—would provide him with answers.

But it was too late for that now. If he didn’t get off the grid soon, he’d be dead.

There was a sudden rumble of footsteps behind him. Renzo shouldered past the other guests. But when he tried to slide by the guide, she placed her hands on her hips and blocked his path. “You really must stay with—”

She cut off when Renzo picked her up by the waist and spun her around behind him. He kissed her, winked, and dashed off. A brief round of applause from his tour partners was quickly replaced by angry shouts.

The first exit door was around the next corner. He barged through and kept running. His route took him through the State Inquisitors’ Office and the Torture Room. Then up a staircase to
I Piombi
—the Leads—so named because the attic prison cells had a lead roof that created an oven in summer and a freezer in winter. The cells were tiny, and Renzo shuddered as he ran past. He hated small spaces.

He darted down one corridor, then another, down service stairs, always moving north. He made the ground floor, spotted the exit, and skidded to a stop. The palazzo guard at the door had spotted him. He’d been alerted to the chase. One hand unstrapped a baton. The other brought a whistle to his lips.

Renzo was about to double back when the plastered wall beside his head exploded. A spray of debris stung his cheek. He bolted forward like a racehorse out the starting gate. One of his pursuers was at the far end of the corridor, his silenced pistol extended. Two more rounds ricocheted off the marble floor at his heels. A woman screamed, tourists scattered, and Renzo barreled
into the exit guard. Both men went down in a heap. Renzo’s pistol slipped from his waistband. It skittered across the marble floor. The startled guard kicked it out of reach. He latched onto Renzo’s leg, and the shrill whistle sounded between his lips. Renzo tried to twist free, but the man hung on like a mastiff to an extended towel. It took a kick to the man’s temple to loosen the grip. Renzo wrenched free and rushed out the exit.

The sudden brightness narrowed his vision, but he didn’t stop running. He weaved through a river of tourists, around a corner, and down an alley. The maze of cobbled walkways was his only hope of escape.

Past
gelaterias
and pastry shops, clothing stores, galleries, and shops filled with masks. Deeper into the ancient city he fled. Heading northwest. Away from the lagoon. The crush of tourists didn’t let up. Neither did the commotion of his pursuers behind him. He wedged through a Japanese tour group at an arch that bridged a canal. A raised fist, an irritated shout, and a gondolier’s song cut off midchorus. He ignored it all. His focus ahead.

High-end jewelry shops lined either side of the next stretch. A throng of window shoppers narrowed the pathway. He pushed through, took the next alley, and found a less-busy straightaway. Renzo poured on speed. A vaporetto, or water bus, cruised across the end of the stretch dead ahead. It was the Grand Canal. A glance over his shoulder. Two men bobbed and weaved through the crowd. They were thirty paces back.