Death Logs In (29 page)

“Joseph, I beg of you. Please, can we change the subject?” Petrucceli, although seething, calmly placed his knife and fork on the plate. He then sat perfectly still, as though collecting himself, before he spoke again. “Now, Joseph, tell me how you are doing.”

Sharkey looked as though a small bomb had gone off inside his head, his face contorted. “How the heck do you think I’m doing? I’m living in a goddamned hotel with a bunch of Italians. I’m like a trapped rat. I’m sitting here with you, watching you eat a plate of brains. How do you think I’m doing? What kind of question is that?”

“Joseph, perhaps you would prefer if we brought you into the Vatican community. We have special guest apartments where you could reside. Maybe living there—until it is safe for you to return to the U.S.—would relieve some of your alienation, yes?”

“Do they have room service?”

Petrucceli wondered how a benevolent God could have created such a man in his own image and then placed him there with him that evening.

“No, but you could dine regularly with others of our holy community. Often the meals are taken at communal tables where you could interact—”

“Are you nuts?”

No sooner had the offer left his lips, Petrucceli realized how ridiculous it was to think Sharkey would consider it. Such a move would, however, have been a perfect way to begin to rein in and control him, he thought. In the event more drastic action ever became necessary, having him inside the Vatican walls would make any such moves easy to accomplish—silently. But clearly Sharkey wasn’t about to relocate to any Vatican apartment. At least not yet, not voluntarily.

“Alright, Joseph, let me rephrase the question. Is there anything I can do for you that I’m not already doing? After all,
we
didn’t indict you for several murders and attempted murders. Your own country did that. You are our protected guest here, Joseph. You are staying in one of the finest hotels in Rome. You are eating in our best restaurants. You have been provided plenty of spending money. We didn’t create your situation or your problem. We are trying to help you and we are doing that, because ten years ago, you did us a big favor.”

Sharkey was unfazed. “When are you going to get rid of Michael Nicholas? Until he’s dead, I have no chance of going free. Once he’s gone, the cops have no one who can testify against me in any of these murders.”

“Listen carefully, Joseph.” Petrucceli preferred not to share the plan with Sharkey but it might be the only way to keep him from doing anything else. “The day we have spoken about is nearly here. Next Monday, your Labor Day, it will be done. Then, I pray, the charges against you in New York will be dropped due to the lack of substantial evidence and you can then go home and resume your life.”

Sharkey perked up. “How will they kill him?”

“It doesn’t matter, Joseph. But it will be done.”

“No, Monsignor Dominick,
it does matter
. It fucking matters to me. I want to know how he’s going to die.”

“I don’t understand, Joseph. These are not details that I wish to dwell on.”

Sharkey leaned across the table, his face now just inches away from Petrucceli’s. “Well, you see, Monsignor, that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t just dwell on it. I savor it. I relish every moment from that first split second when the man knows he’s going to die until he takes his last fucking breath. That’s the
payoff,
my friend. That’s what it’s all about. And the longer that is—and the more painful it is—the better. And in those last gasps, as he thinks about his wife and kids and all that shit, I want him to know that he’s dying because he crossed Joseph Sharkey. I want to be his last regret. I live for those fucking moments. Do you understand, my friend?”

Chapter 73

Whitestone, New York

F
rom the moment Michael attended his first funeral, he was fascinated with funeral homes. Like your first love, you never forget your first open casket, he thought.

It was a strange place to visit on the eve of the long holiday weekend when everyone else seemed to be thinking about the beaches, barbeques and baseball.

As he sat and listened, he wondered about funeral directors. What were they like? What personalities gravitate to, and are comfortable with dealing with the dead every day? Could they be normal? He doubted it.

“Yes, Mr. Nicholas, of course. I can assure you that the body was properly cared for once we received it from Flushing Hospital. As you can imagine, due to the nature and positioning of the wounds, the deceased required extensive work in preparation for any viewing.” As he spoke, Nick Leventis, one of the proprietors, was checking the file, which, Michael noticed, was neatly labeled, “Alexander Nicholas.” He continued. “We were instructed to immediately seal the casket.”

“And who requested that it be sealed immediately?”

Leventis, appeared to be in his late twenties, the youngest member of his family to join the century-old Leventis Funeral Home, scanned the several papers in the folder, then looked carefully again at Michael. “I’m afraid the file doesn’t indicate who exactly made the request. The notes are from my uncle.” After a long silence, Leventis added, “I’m sure that my uncle assumed the casket was to be closed in order to spare the loved ones any discomfort.”

“It was your uncle who received the instructions?” Michael asked.

“Yes, my Uncle Paul personally handled all the initial interviews and then coordinated the arrangements. These are his notes I am looking at.”

“Can I speak with your Uncle Paul?”

Nick Leventis looked down and closed the file. “I wish it was possible, but my uncle passed away in January.”

Chapter 74

Westport, Connecticut

M
ichael didn’t want Samantha to notice as he quietly left their bedroom to head to the wine cellar. She had taken an Ambien, so tonight he was confident she had fallen into a deep sleep.

As soon as he turned on the computer, signed in and lowered the big screen, he could see Alex appearing to be turning up his nose. “What’s wrong, Alex?”

“It smells like oak and cork in here?”

What now? Michael thought to himself. “Where is the smell coming from—where
you
are or where
I
am?”

“What do you think, Michael? It’s got to be from your wine cellar.”

Michael looked around and even inhaled himself. The room naturally did have a distinct scent of oak and cork, since both were such prominent materials there. Alex had to know that—was he just pulling my leg?

“You can’t seriously smell anything—let alone
in here
, can you?”

“I’m a little surprised myself.” Alex answered; he appeared to be genuinely puzzled.

“Well, it’s the type of complaint you’d have if you were alive—alive in the sense that you were
physically
still here.”

“Michael
, I am
here, you can see me. But you can also see that I’m not there with you
physically,
say, sitting in a chair in your cellar. That seems to be a hard concept for you. You only had about ten years of college.”

“Yeah, I know you’re not sitting here in this room with me.” But Michael had never been so unsure about so many things. “Alex, this is just so unreal. So unbelievable. You have to understand how strange and incredible this is. I have to ask you a question—and don’t get upset with me.”

“What now?”

Michael told Alex about the strange call from Father Papadopoulos, his sudden death, and then his visits with Father Papageorge and Nick Leventis. Alex appeared to listen intently.

“Michael, I don’t have the answers; not yet, anyway. But I think you are too fixated on my body—instead of the spirit. Even the priests all tell you that. I’m beginning to see their point. Maybe the body
is
just a vessel for the mind. … But what was your big question?”

“Alex, where is your body now?”

“What an odd question. I just don’t know the answer. It’s funny, but I expect I will learn the answer at some point. It would be interesting to meet my old self—unless I am that same person.”

Michael took a deep breath. He sensed his brother was losing patience with this discussion. It was all too theoretical and spiritual.

“Alex, you would tell me if you really
were
still alive, wouldn’t you? I mean,—is there a chance you never died in that shooting—and you’re sitting in Brooklyn somewhere and doing all this on some FaceTime program on a computer?”

“I may have gotten pretty good with all this technology—for obvious reasons—but I’m not exactly a computer geek. Not yet anyway.”

But Alex ignored the rest of the question and changed the subject. It was odd and rather abrupt, Michael thought, but again, not unlike something Alex would have done when he was, yes, alive.

“I’m making room for you here, Michael. It’ll be like when we were little kids, you know, sharing a bedroom,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked.

“The people that are after you think you have more protection around you than you do. That and some luck are probably the only reason you’re still alive. Also, people think that professional killers are smart. Most guys in the underworld are stupid. But, no matter what, they’re closing in.”

“What have you found out?”

“I don’t have specifics yet. Certain things seem to be coming together. Bad things. It’s like when the government says they hear “static” before a terrorist strike. They don’t have the details, they just see or hear a lot of activity. That’s what this is.”

Michael could see that Alex’s virtual world was becoming more complex and his powers of perception more sophisticated. But exactly how it was happening was a mystery. Alex and everything surrounding him appeared to be a mysterious black box.

“Alex, how do you learn things? What’s feeding in to you that causes you to reach conclusions about what’s going on?”

Alex seemed to struggle with the question. “What do you mean, what’s feeding in to me? I’m connected to a lot of things now. I don’t mean with wires, somehow it just happens. I’m connected to the Internet. And now, even when the computer is “off” or sleeping, these links are transmitting information into me. I use Google, GPS, Facebook, Twitter, and all kinds of apps. I can message people—live people. I can intercept things. It’s better than being alive.”

“Alex, I don’t think anyone really knows how these systems work together—and what it might lead to. Your artificial intelligence software is leading-edge stuff. It could be taking on a life of its own—or, of
your
own.”

“Don’t ask me how anything works. All I know is I can see things happening.” Alex said. “Like I said before—you don’t know how your mind works either.”

“Can you see the future?”

“No, if I could see the future, I’d have you placing big bets on the games and the horses. I’d open a fucking day trader account at Schwab, for Christ’s sake. But I can put a lot of things together and kind of predict some things that look logical.” Alex stopped abruptly as though something new entered his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked. “Did we lose the connection?”

Alex looked frozen. He stayed motionless another few seconds then, as though the camera moved in for a close-up, his face became animated again, he looked straight at Michael. “They’re going to kill you. Very soon.”

Chapter 75

New York City

K
aren DiNardo knew about Michael’s second life running Tartarus—but she didn’t know his bigger secret, that his brother was at least
virtually
alive and smarter than ever. He had asked Karen to update her research on artificial intelligence. Alex’s evolution over the past several months had Michael wondering whether he was imagining things—or had Alex’s learning and informational powers rapidly accelerated. As with their discussion the first time he’d asked her to compile the latest information on the topic, he suspected it would become a dance as he withheld his secret—and she knew he was doing so.

“Michael, listen to this.” Karen was reading from her report.

In an interview published on Saturday by the German magazine Focus, Stephen Hawking argues that the increasing sophistication of computer technology is likely to outstrip human intelligence. He believes that the scientific modification of human genes could increase the complexity of DNA and “improve” human beings.

In contrast with our intellect, computers double their performance every 18 months,” says Hawking. “So the danger is real that they could develop intelligence and take over the world.”

“It’s been over a year. No wonder he’s getting smarter.” Michael said to himself, louder than he thought. Karen, as usual, didn’t miss a thing

“
Who’s
getting smarter?” she said, her eyes piercingly curious.

“My computer,” he said, nonchalantly.

“No, you said,
he
. You don’t refer to your computer as a
he
, do you? You know, you originally asked me to research this about a year ago. I remember, it was right after your brother was—or died. You never did tell me why you were so interested in all this.”

“I know, Karen—and I’m still not going to tell you. At least, not yet. But, I promise you, when I’m ready, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“Interesting,” she said, which Michael knew was simply her way of delaying until she decided it was safe to resume her questioning. Nevertheless, Karen turned her attention back to her dish of homemade tagliatelle in a Tuscan meat sauce. “I’ve always wanted to come to Da Silvano. This is even better than I’d imagined it would be.” She twirled her fork into the dish, took another bite and then abruptly put it down.

“But wait, there’s more.” She reached for another document. “Listen to this. This is from
National Science Monthly
:

“It has been rumored that recent breakthroughs in the field of artificial intelligence will allow a
simulated
person to achieve greater intelligence than a real human being but will also be capable of acquiring a higher level of emotional intelligence, thereby able to match or exceed the emotional capabilities of many humans. There is speculation that, should advanced artificial intelligence technology be combined with certain computer imaging and emotion-sensing technologies, that the computer—or simulated person could accurately read the mind and emotions of a real human.