A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (36 page)

Around the corner was a gondola station and a stop for the traghetto. Maybe he could find an oar. Using the wall to hold himself up, Brigham inched around to where the boats docked. There, bobbing in the water of the Grand Canal sat a row of gondolas, a couple of taxis, and a beat-up and neglected boat with a small cabin, but was otherwise uncovered. He crawled along a wooden plank used as a pier and peeked inside. The boat contained a lot of junk and about six inches of standing water.

He seized the edge of the boat, pulled it to the plank, and attempted to roll into it. As he reached the edge of the boat, a large wave heaved it into the air, pelting his face with icy water and nearly knocking him off the pier. A searing pain shot through his ribs and leg. He squeegeed the water from his face with his hand and tried again, this time landing face down in the filthy water in the bottom of the boat.

Rifling through the pile of junk in the back, he found a thin yet stout piece of wood about four feet long. He tested it. It supported his weight. Getting back on the pier, he hobbled down the street toward the witch’s house, feet freezing in the water now covering the pavement.

The scorpion oil was beginning to work. That is, to kill him. His mind was reeling, and his legs struggled to support him. The makeshift cane helped, but he was rapidly losing his strength. Careening off the buildings lining the street and leaning on his stick, he made headway. He fell onto the flooded pavement. The shocking cold of icy water on his face restored him. He staggered up with his cane and continued.

All of his wounds burned in the salt of the water, which helped him remain conscious. The wind stung his eyes, and he found himself at a dead end. Where was the house? Close to panic, he turned about and continued the way he had come until he saw the tiny street leading to the witch’s house. He limped as quickly as he could to the door. With his strength fading, he fell against it. The door opened, and he collapsed to the floor just inside it.

When he came to, Mauro was dragging him through the house into the garden. The lamb still hung by the feet.

“Mauro!”

“Brig, you’re still alive, but not for long.”

“Help me up.” Mauro grabbed him, helping him to his feet. “Easy, I think I broke my leg.”

Mauro led him to the spot under the lamb and searched for something with which to cut its throat. What was left of the witch lay where they had left her, the knife still in her hand. With a sweeping motion, Mauro cut the lamb’s throat, then cupped his hands under the flowing blood, directing it into Brigham’s mouth. Brigham began to lick the blood from his lips and swallow it.

When the blood stopped flowing, Mauro hauled Brigham to a place in the garden where there was a bit of grass. “Brig!” he shouted at the still body of his friend.

Brigham heard but couldn’t respond.

“Brigham!” Mauro shouted, slapping his face.

Brigham tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“I hope that’s all there is to it,” Mauro said. “That’s all the witch told us to do.” He shook Brigham. Still no response. He put his ear to Brigham’s chest. “Still alive!” he whispered excitedly.

Brigham tasted blood. Not human.

Mauro shook Brigham again. “Come on,
amico
, stay with me. Don’t die after all that.” As Mauro lifted Brigham’s head, Brigham reached up and grabbed Mauro by the throat.

“Water,” Brigham gasped. “Get me some water, you fucking monkey.”

“Brig!”

“
Water!”

XXX

Brigham Stone, Esquire, now painter in Venice, man, not ghoul, stood at the door to his apartment. Cleaned up, hair cut, wearing a suit and tie, he prepared to enter. Perhaps he had overdone it with the suit, but he needed to make a grand entrance. He pushed the doorbell. Expecting him, Rose buzzed him in. He went up the stairs, and she opened the door to the apartment. The corgi stuck his nose out and sniffed excitedly.

“Can I help you?” Rose said.

“Very funny. Can I come in?”

“Of course, but you have to be gone before my husband gets home.” Rose leaned up against the door frame.

“You really should take that act on the road. You’re a natural.”

Rose moved out of the way, motioning for Brigham to enter the apartment. The Corgi jumped on him and barked with excitement. The mutt hopped around, shaking his toy. “At least someone is glad to see me. The master of the house has returned.” 

“Now you are the funny one,” Rose said, closing the door behind him.

“I do have a biting wit, as you know.”

“Is that what they call it where you come from?” He approached her and looked her in the eyes, which turned red and filled with tears. He embraced her, and she began to sob.

“Don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’m back.”

She buried her face in his shoulder. Through her sobs, she said, “I thought I had lost you forever. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Neither did I.” He squeezed her tightly.

After a few seconds, Rose leaned out so they stood in a loose hug. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “What did you do to your leg?”

He hesitated for a moment looking down at the cast. “Oh, it’s a long story.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me later.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Coffee, thanks.” 

“Coffee? It’s well after noon,” Rose said from the kitchen doorway.

“I stopped drinking.”

Rose’s mouth dropped open. “You what? No booze? The gin industry is going to go under.”

“They will have to make it without me. I’m dry. For good.”  She made him a pot of coffee, they chatted for a while, then reconciled and made up. Repeatedly.

“You’re not immortal anymore; you’re going to die someday,” she said after a short rest.

“I’m good with that.” 

“You’re good with that? Wasn’t this whole thing about your being afraid of death?”

He waved his hand. “Not afraid of death, just not wanting to die,” he said, putting his arms around her waist and tugging her closer. “Now I’m cool with the idea.”

“Then you have come around to believing in God?”

“Now let’s not get nutty. I still don’t believe in God.” 

“Then what happened during your sojourn to change your mind?”

“I have been to the mountain top, as it were.”

“What did you see?”

“Immortality isn’t a natural state of affairs. Creatures are born, they live, and they die. To do otherwise is an abomination and requires acts of incredible brutality and violence. It requires an utter disregard for human life and sacrifice of others for your own life. It is patently unjust and inhuman. A person, or more accurately, a thing that lives like that is not living. The idea seems fantastic upon first hearing, but the reality of it is so vile that it becomes worse than death.

“I believe that death is a ceasing to be. One no longer exists in any form. But I didn’t exist before I was born, and I won’t exist after I die. All anyone can hope for is to live a long, happy life and to die without pain.”

She smiled and stroked his hair. “You had to go through a lot to realize what most of us already knew. And you put us through a lot.”

“Yes. I am a fool.”

“Not anymore.”

BRIGHAM WORKED THE NEXT DAY, first cleaning his studio and then painting. He still had the show in Rome coming up, and he had to crank out another work or two and repair or replace the paintings that Charles’s goons had sliced.

He had never seen such filth. It reminded him of a cage at the zoo. Once things were organized, he assessed his paintings. Not bad. This might fly. His polluted, horrible mind had generated some decent art. Now what would happen? He was about to attempt a new work while sober.

He sat at an easel with a blank canvas, swished a brush around in turpentine, squeezed a few colors onto a palette, then looked at the white monster with a blank mind. What to do?

“Can you tell me where to find Brigham Stone, Esquire” Pink Jesus asked.

“He’s right here, my friend, in the flesh.”

“Ah, so it is you. Didn’t recognize you. It didn’t look like you or smell like you.”

“What do you mean? I smelled?” Brigham was horrified.

“I have to say that your hygiene left a little to be desired.”

“Of all the terrible things I did, I never thought I had BO. I can live with my acts and deeds but to stink at the same time? Ouch.”

“Now aren’t you taking the moral high ground? You killed and dismembered people, feasted on the contents of their earthly vessels, and all you regret is having body odor?”

“It’s like getting in the car after arguing a case in court, looking in the mirror, and realizing you had something hanging out of your nose.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think your victims noticed.”

Brigham dipped the brush into black paint and drew a straight line across the canvas. Paint dripped from the line down the surface. He drew another line parallel to the first.

“What do you think?” Brigham asked.

“Rather minimalist for you, isn’t it?”

“I’m just starting.”

“First time I ever saw you draw a straight line.”

Brigham laughed. “Sobriety does funny things to a brother.”

“Then you don’t need me anymore,” Pink Jesus said.

“Why did I need you in the first place?”

“If you don’t know that now, you never will.”

Brigham nodded.

He worked on the painting for a while, then asked Pink Jesus what he thought should be done with it. Pink Jesus didn’t answer.

He stood in front of Pink Jesus for several minutes in silence, studying him. It was certainly one of his best. Maybe he should put it in the show. But what if someone bought it? No, he couldn’t have that. He took Pink Jesus off the easel, carried him home, and hung him in the living room.

ZORZI REQUESTED THAT BRIGHAM visit him at his vault. Brigham was reluctant, given the events of the past few weeks, but he knew Lorenzo had sent Tiberio to help him and so felt that he owed him at least this visit. When he arrived, Lorenzo, sitting on a sofa, motioned for him to sit in a large chair opposite.

“Thank you for your help disposing of Charles. He had become quite the pest.”

“What do you mean, helping you dispose of Charles?”

“I orchestrated the events that led to his destruction.”

Brigham’s face darkened. “You used me to get to Charles?”

“Used is such a harsh word, but I suppose it’s the proper term.”

“And Samantha?”

“Also part of the plan.”

A servant brought in a platter of olives, steamed baby artichokes, and various hams, cheeses, and salamis, accompanied by a bottle of red wine.

“Please,” Lorenzo said, gesturing toward the food. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks, but I don’t have an appetite.”

Lorenzo poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Brigham.

“I could have been killed,” Brigham said. “People were killed.”

“Yes, that was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? You dismiss the deaths of two people as unfortunate?”

Lorenzo held up a hand. “Don’t be so indignant. You knew you were playing with fire. It’s a miracle you weren’t all killed.”

Brigham stared into the fire raging in the hearth. He couldn’t disagree. Then it occurred to him. “You helped kidnap my wife.”

Lorenzo shook his head. “No, it was Charles. I took no active role in that. My role was passive, in that I did nothing about it.”

Brigham took up the glass of wine and gulped it. Courage was needed now, not sobriety. “You knew it would be the impetus for me to look in the tombs.”

“That’s right. More wine?”

Brigham leaned back in the chair, frowning. “No, I’ve had enough. I’ve decided to quit drinking.”

“But—”

“You are a wicked man.”

“I do not deny my wickedness. Wicked is probably a kind way to put it.”

“Then your attention to my art was a lie to gain my confidence?”

Lorenzo shook his head. “No, I truly admire your work. I intend to remain a patron.”

“You have created quite the mess for me , do you know that?”

“I understand,” Lorenzo said.”

“You are concerned with the consequences regarding those individuals whose souls you separated from their flesh.”

“Yes. There are crimes I’ve committed for which the penalty would be less than convenient for a lover of freedom such as myself. Don’t get me wrong; I’m very remorseful about the whole thing, but I don’t feel the need to suffer in prison.”

“You have nothing to worry about. It’s taken care of.”

“Taken care of?”

“There’s a story you might have heard about a Christian in the court of the Grand Vizier. He was offered three choices. Undergo trial by ordeal, whereby they would shoot arrows at him to see whether his God would deflect them; be impaled; or accept the true religion. Which do you think he chose?”

“I’m going with converted to Islam.”

“That’s right. Most people have a very strong aversion to pain and death. To me, there are three kinds of people in this world. Those who do as I say, the dead, and those who wish they were dead. There are certain police officials in this country who deem it in their best interests to look the other way where I am concerned. That works to your benefit, too, Mr. Stone.”

“Very handy.”

The fire popped and sparked.

“Then you don’t object to my converting back?”

“Not at all. It was Charles who wanted you converted.”

“And the others?”

Lorenzo waved his hand. “Minions of Charles. They can do as they please. Not my problem.”

“So, you and they will continue to kill innocent people.”

“Yes, we have to,” Lorenzo said. “But we will do it properly—by going through the portals.”