A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (25 page)

“I didn’t tell you to kill the son of a bitch. “

“Someone had to do something. You were whining with your eyes shut like a little girl.”

Brigham scrunched up his face. “Oh, bullshit.”

“We’ll debate this later. It might be a good idea to get the fuck out of here.”

“Right.” Brigham waved his arms around as if giving orders. “But first, see if you can find something to tie him up with and grab his phone. I’m gonna look around.”

The old woman was quite a nasty fucking mess, caked with black, dried blood all down the front of her. She was dressed in standard Venetian old-woman garb, including frumpy dress, brown shoes, and an apron with a pocket, into which she had stuck her right hand. She stared forward with wide-open eyes, the huge spike protruding from her mouth like a big iron tongue. What remained of her left hand hung down at her side; her attackers had chopped off all the fingers at the second knuckle, leaving only the thumb.

“Christ,” Brigham said. “They tortured her before they nailed her to the wall.”

“Tortured her?”

“Let’s just say she can only count to one on the left hand.”

“You mean ... Jesus, we gotta get outta here.”

Brigham took hold of her right arm and pulled the hand out of the pocket. That hand, still with all its digits, tightly gripped a small glass vial.

“Found something,” Brigham said, prying her fingers off it.

“Brig, you fucking with that dead woman?” Mauro asked, putting the finishing touches on binding the intruder.

“I think I found what our friend here was looking for. She had a vial clenched in her good hand.”

“Good. Our friend here is tied up, and I have his phone. Let’s go.” Mauro got up and started for the door.

“Not so fast. I need to take a look at this desk.”

Mauro’s eyes narrowed. “You know the kind of trouble we’ll be in if the cops show up?”

“I wouldn’t worry. All the cops do around here is measure how far the outdoor tables at the cafés come out from the wall.”

“But we have dead people all over the place, a guy we hit with a wrench, and blood. Lots and lots of other people’s blood, some of which is on us. Please,” Mauro said, holding his hands as if praying, “let’s go.”

“Give me two minutes,” Brigham said. “Our visitor was very interested in this desk. I wonder what he wanted.” Brigham leaned with both hands on the edge of the desk to think. A panel on the front fell open, and a small drawer sprung out. The drawer contained only a map.

Brigham held it up for Mauro to see. “This is what that he was looking for, not the vial. The vial is a bonus.”

“What do you think it’s a map of?” Mauro asked, coming over to get a better look.

“I don’t know. Kinda looks like a diagram of a building, but it’s got a bunch of boxes, some with Xs in them.” Brigham held it up to the light and turned it around to see the back.

“We’ll look at it later. Now, it’s time to get out of here. Out the back.”

B
righam nodded. “Wonderful idea.”

XX

Brigham, Mauro, and Gloria met at Brigham’s apartment, After introducing Gloria to Mauro, Brigham put the kettle on. “Our first goal is to find Rose.” 

“Have you heard anything?” Gloria asked Brigham.

“Not a thing, but I have an idea as to how.”

“Okay, first who do you think did it?” Mauro said.

“Charles, although he denies it.” Brigham put coffee beans in a small electric grinder and whirred them into a coarse grind.

“And your idea?” Gloria said.

Brigham measured the coffee into a French press, sat down, and put the vampire book on the table. “This,” he said. “I think the answer is in the secret writing in this book.”

Gloria picked it up. “This is the book you were reading the day we met.”

“Yes. I think it has clues as to Rose’s whereabouts,” Brigham said.

“Why do you think that?” she asked.

“Pink Jesus told me.”

“Pink Jesus? What are you talking about?” Mauro said.

“I’ll tell you later,” Brigham said.

Gloria handed the book to Mauro. “A lot of these pages just have a bunch of lines and pairs of numbers scattered across them. The numbers look random,” she said.

Brigham took the book. “I have an idea.” He traced the lines from the first page onto a blank piece of paper. He did the same to the next page and the page after that. Then he put the traced pages together. “Guess what we have here.”

“What is it?” Gloria asked, moving closer to get a better view.

“A map of Venice,” Brigham said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“And the numbers?” asked Mauro.

Brigham put the numbers on the paper where they were indicated in the book.

“Looks like house numbers,” Mauro said, “but why are there two at each location?”

“I don’t know,” Brigham said, although he did know. This was a map of the portals to different eras. Wherever a number was indicated, there were two rather than one, as would be expected. For example, where the house number would be 825, there was instead written 825/1756. The first number was a house number and the second, a year. That was the only thing that made sense. If it were the other way round, if the year were 825, there might not be anything on the other side but a big swamp.

He kept this realization to himself. He would draw the whole map later.

“There’s one more thing,” Brigham said. “The letters SMV. I know what they mean.”

“Santa Maria Valverde,” Mauro said.

“Right. There’s some connection between the shroud eaters and that church. We have to take a look.”

“That church is abandoned,” Mauro said. “It’s used as a storeroom.”

“Exactly,” Brigham said. “Think about it. It’s not open to the public. A perfect place to hide bodies, or live people, and to have secret meetings and to do acts of horribleness out of view of the world.”

“Good point,” Mauro said. “And it’s also isolated—not that many people live around there.”

“It says right here that the shroud eaters would hide bodies around Venice, even live people,” Gloria said.

Mauro scratched his over-gelled cop hair. “Alive? How did they survive?”

Brigham explained.

“Fine,” Mauro said, “but how does this relate to Rose?”

“If the shroud eaters are behind her disappearance,” Brigham said,  “she may be in a place like that.” 

“Oh, no,” Gloria said.

“What if they crucify her?” Mauro asked.

Gloria cringed. “Oh my God.”

“There’s something else,” Mauro said. “I’ve been going over the drawing you found in the desk. I know what it is.”

“Yes?” Brigham asked, looking over Mauro’s shoulder.

“It’s the Church of San Francesco della Vigna and the cloister.”

The kettle whistled.

“So?” Brigham asked, pouring the water into the coffee press.

“It shows the tombs in the cloister. Have you ever been there?”

“Yeah,” Brigham said. “The cloister is paved in tombs, a few from the fourteen hundreds.”

“Right.”

“This drawing shows the tombs. That’s what the boxes are. Some are marked with an X.”

Brigham poured them each a cup of coffee.

“What do you think that means?” Gloria asked, blowing on her coffee.

“It means we are going to take a look,” Brigham said.

“You have a plan?” Mauro asked.

“Of course.” Brigham sipped his coffee. “We’re going to pay a visit to the church of Santa Maria Valverde, and then to San Francesco della Vigna.”

“What about the vial the old woman had, and the phone we took from the guy I clobbered?” Mauro asked.

“Take the phone and see if you can find anything useful. I’m sure there’s a lot of information this guy didn’t expect to be made public. The vial? Not sure what to do with it. Clearly, the old woman wanted us to have it, but how do we tell what it’s for?”

“I have a cousin who can tell us what’s in the vial,” Mauro said.

“Great. Have him check it out,” Brigham said.

“
It’s a her, and I’ll get it to her this afternoon.”

BRIGHAM FINISHED PIECING TOGETHER the map showing the locations of the portals. He expected the sickness to come soon. What would he do? The idea of returning to Charles’s house horrified him. Made him ill. But did he have the guts to do it himself? He had passed out there, so he didn’t know whether it was the blood or something else that satisfied or relieved the sickness. Maybe he would let it ride to see what happened. Maybe he would try to take care of it on his own. If the blood is what eased his suffering, perhaps he could learn to like it.

His phone rang. Charles invited him to come over. He declined. Charles insisted. Brigham refused and Charles hung up. Still feeling okay, he went to his studio.

After a short time, the door burst open. He turned, expecting to see Charles, but there stood Lorenzo Zorzi with two burly assistants, all dressed in the manner of the mid-seventeen hundreds.

“Please, come in,” Brigham said, “but the party is next door.”

Lorenzo smiled faintly. “Sorry for the intrusion, but we have some business to take care of tonight, and I don’t want you to be shanghaied by Charles.”

“You are my protector, then?”

“That’s probably a good way to look at it.”

“Since I seem to be outnumbered, what can I do for you?”

Zorzi motioned to one of his companions, who produced a duffel bag containing clothing of the eighteenth century. “I intend to take you on a little ride into time past. That is where we are going to show you how to go about this business for yourself. That way you can avoid Charles and his barbaric ways.”

“So, your way will be more civilized?”

The assistant removed the clothing and handed it to Brigham. “Put these on,” Lorenzo said.

Brigham took the clothes and began to dress. “Are your friends here for protection or to make sure I cooperate?”

“A little of both.”

“What exactly do you intend to have me do?”

“You’ll see. Now kindly get dressed.”

They left the studio and walked until they came to a bricked-in doorway. They stepped through the portal to a cool and misty night in 1756. The filth and stench of the place was little better than that of the fifteenth century. The people stank, the air reeked, and the water in the canals was foul.

Brigham and Lorenzo walked side by side, the two other men behind them. The mist mixed with smoke from fireplaces, giving an eerie look and woody smell to the air, masking to some extent the stench of garbage and raw sewage. Nevertheless, Brigham enjoyed this rustic and organic scene, and wouldn’t have minded living during this time, so long as they had vaccines and antibiotics.

Few people were out, as the streets were unsafe at night, and it was quite dark. At Campo Santa Margherita they ordered wine at a café and sat at a small wooden table in the corner. Groups of two or three people stood around chatting. At a nearby table sat an unusually beautiful woman, her skin the color of ivory, black hair framing delicate features. An angel from a Renaissance painting. She wore a dress of green velvet and a cloak trimmed in mink. A man sat down next to her.

“What do you think of her?” Lorenzo asked Brigham.

“Beautiful.”

“Then you shall have her.”

“What do you mean, ‘have her’?”

“Your first kill.”

Brigham swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Kill? Oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t think you can do it?”

Brigham swirled his wine, studying the contents of the glass. “No.”

“Trust me. You can. And you will. Tonight.”

A man carrying a lantern arrived at the woman’s table.

“What’s that guy doing?” Brigham asked.

“He’s a Friulian. They walk people back to their houses at night. There are no street lights.”

The woman and her companion got up to leave.

“We’ll wait a moment, then follow them.”

“There are three of them now. Isn’t that going to complicate things?”

Lorenzo nodded. “It doesn’t make it any easier, but we should be able to deal with it.”

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m not a fighter.”

“Have confidence in yourself.”

“What are we going to do with them? Kill them here? Bring them back? What?”

The woman and her escorts disappeared around the corner.

“Let’s go,” said Lorenzo.

They moved to follow the couple and their lantern bearer.

“We must kill the two men,” Lorenzo said. “The woman, however, we will bring back through the portal. We’re not above taking a person in the street, but we prefer a more, as you said, civilized course.”

They followed the woman and her escorts, remaining in the shadows. The Friulian turned to look back a few times as if he sensed something, but apparently he saw nothing, and they continued. Lorenzo sent his men to intercept the trio from another direction while he and Brigham closed the distance.

“Follow my lead,” Lorenzo said.

“I don’t know,” Brigham said.

“It’s simple. I will cover her mouth and pin her against the wall. You take her hands and secure them behind her with this.” He handed Brigham a length of rope.

Brigham shook his head. “Christ, I don’t know.”

“Come on, my friend. It’s now or never.”

A moment later, Lorenzo’s assistants were visible as dark forms in the mist, blocking the way. When the Friulian and his clients reached Lorenzo’s men, the men took hold of the Friulian and the escort, and took them around the corner. Brigham never saw them again. The woman’s eyes grew large, and she began to scream. Lorenzo placed his hand over her mouth and pushed her against the wall.

“Get her hands!” Lorenzo commanded.

Brigham approached her, barely able to see in the darkness. He got hold of one of her hands, but before he had a chance to get the other, he felt a searing pain in his side. A small dagger was stuck between his ribs. “Fuck!”

“What is it?” Lorenzo asked. “Get to it!”

“She stabbed me! The bitch stabbed me!” He felt the blood running down his side into his trousers.