She shook her head in frustration, pulling her suitcase over the final footbridge before reaching the alley that led to her home. A fifteen-foot-high wall blocked the end of the lane, much of its aging plaster missing, the rust-colored brick and mortar beneath exposed in an irregular patchwork. A tall, arched oak door was recessed in the center of the wall. Embedded beside it was a worn marble plaque with an embossed bust of a bald man whose warm smile belied the stern set of his eyes. An engraved inscription beneath the figure read Marco Fellini MDXCVI.
She pushed through the heavy door and let out a contented sigh at the familiar musky aroma of jasmine. The flowering vines climbed the walls that surrounded the courtyard of her family’s ancestral home. The gentle lapping of the canal water in the boat garage reminded her of the countless mornings she spent with her father in his workshop as he polished and repaired his prized gondola and taught her his version of the ways of the world.
Hefting her suitcase, she trudged up the four-hundred-year-old stone steps leading to the front door of her home.
The murmur of men’s voices brought a smile to her face. “Papa, I’m home!”
Her father sat at the worn pine dining table with her smiling cousin, Alberto, her uncle Vincenzo, and three of her father’s lifelong friends, Salvatore, Lorenzo, and Juliano. Except for her twenty-year-old cousin, whose cherubic face always seemed to blush when she was around, the men were all in their sixties. Alberto and two of the men were dressed in traditional gondolier garb—white-and-blue-striped jerseys with red silk scarves and matching waistbands. Their stitched straw hats were on the credenza behind them. Her father and uncle were in comfortable house clothes. Though they all gave her big smiles, they seemed to shift uneasily in their chairs when she entered the room. She was tempted to open her senses to them in order to get a hint of what mischief they were into, but she resisted. Men needed their secrets. Besides, her father had long ago learned to shield himself from her talent. She couldn’t explain why it was so, but she’d encountered a number of people she couldn’t read. Her father was one of them. Signor Battista was another.
“Francesca! You’re back so soon?” Mario said. He stood and embraced her, holding her longer than usual.
Her father had been acting odd over the past few weeks—anxious about something—and she still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of it. Even today, with his friends surrounding him, something wasn’t quite right. She pulled away and looked in his eyes for an answer. “Papa. What’s going on?”
He patted the sides of her shoulders with his callused hands. “Everything is fine, sweetheart. No need to worry. We’re just struggling over some proposed legislation that may affect our membership requirements. And of course, Carnevale is only few days away.”
There was at least a partial truth there. The other men nodded eagerly as they stood up, one by one, and greeted her with small kisses to each of her cheeks. Her uncle Vincenzo held her at arm’s length for a moment. His warm brown eyes and easy smile appraised her as if looking her over for the first time in many years. He gave her a strong hug. “Welcome home, child. Don’t mind us old fools. We’re always looking for an excuse to get together and drink your papa’s wine, eh? Now, you must be exhausted. Off to bed with you, and we’ll finish up and leave you and your papa in peace, si?”
Francesca had a dear love for her uncle. He looked after her like a second father, filling the void left when her mother died so long ago. And her cousin, Alberto, whom she only recently had begun to see as a man rather than a boy, had been like a little brother to her.
These were all good men. She was lucky to have them in her life. She understood their sensitivity to new laws that might affect the number of gondoliers in the city. Under current Venetian law, one must be born in Venice to practice the profession. Anything that threatened that rule was dealt with aggressively by their guild. An active gondolier made a reasonable living, and only by limiting the competition could it remain that way.
And yes, Carnevale was right around the corner, a two-week festival ending on the day before Ash Wednesday. It lured droves of tourists. The piazzas and canals would be filled with costumed revelers, parades, and pageantry, all amidst a flavor of impetuousness and sin that permeated the air. Even the institute participated with its celebrated masked ball on opening day.
Leave the men to their secret talks and their wine. She was going to bed. Stifling a yawn, she bid her good-byes and retired to her room to unpack and prepare for the difficult meeting the next day with Signor Battista. He was going to be very displeased that the American would not come to the institute.
As she settled into bed, her mind wandered once again to her meetings with Jake. While his demeanor was curious—if not a little maddening—she couldn’t deny that there was something special about him. It was more than his newfound savant-like abilities, and even his startling reflexes, if they truly did exist. It was something deeper than that.
She recalled the strange sensation she felt as she left their first meeting at the library. She was still convinced she heard him say, “I’m sorry,” as if he had been standing behind her. But when she turned around to confront him, he was still inside, sitting at his table, secure behind stacks of books. Hiding from the world…and from her.
***
After Francesca disappeared up the stairs, Mario lowered his voice. “It is settled then, si?”
One by one, like players around a poker table, each man in turn placed his right fist on the table before him.
Mario watched intently as the last man in the circle, Salvatori Manini, the oldest member of this small representative group and the formal head of the Guild of Gondoliers, cast a scrutinizing gaze from one man to another, settling finally on Mario. “It has been many years since we have taken up arms. The world knows us for the love and laughter that we project with the sweep of our oars and the tenor of our songs. But through our history we have paid dearly for this life, in many cases with our lives, as we have been called upon to protect one another and our beloved city. And now we must do so once again. We gather to protect the family of one of our favorite sons.” The men all looked at Mario, grim determination etched on their tanned and weathered faces.
Salvatori continued, “With the covenant before us, the guild pledges itself to the cause of Mario Fellini and his daughter, Francesca, to protect them both and to rid Venice of the threat of Signor Battista and his secret experiments.”
The men raised their fists high and in unison slammed them down on the table.
“It is done,” Salvatori proclaimed.
Chapter 12
Venice, Italy
JAKE AWOKE ON ONE OF FOUR twin beds lined up as if in a dorm room at an upscale orphanage. Crystal sconces along the Florentine-papered walls illuminated the room in a soft hue. The room smelled musty, ancient. It reminded him of the rooms he had seen on a tour of Hearst Castle in San Simeon. Two narrow-arched windows hung between the beds, sealed behind stout green wooden shutters that were padlocked. Small slivers of daylight slipped in between the slats, spilling a pattern of thin, sunny stripes across the terrazzo-tiled floor. Two of the other beds had been slept in but were empty.
What the hell kind of kidnapping was this? He had expected a small cell. Not that he was complaining.
Not so far, anyway.
Jake tested his legs. He was still a little wobbly from the drug. Dressed only in boxers, he shuffled over to an ornate hand-painted washbasin in the far corner of the room. There was a pink barrette lying in the soap dish. A gilded baroque mirror hung over the basin. His face looked drawn and haggard. There were dark circles under his eyes. His joints ached. Turning on the cold water, he splashed some on his face, his fingers lingering over the stubble on his chin. It looked and felt like more than a day’s growth.
How the hell long had he been out?
He ran his wet fingers through his hair, wincing when he touched a tender spot at the base of his skull. He peeled back a band aid and probed u
nderneath. A patch of hair had been shaved clean, and the underlying skin had been punctured.
Son of a bitch.
Jake braced his shaking hands against the cool porcelain sink.
He noticed a small dab of cotton taped to the inside of his elbow. He tore it off to reveal a badly bruised vein. There were two small rectangular outlines of adhesive residue on his forearm on either side of the bruise. He’d seen that before. Somebody had secured an IV to his arm.
He threw his head back and yelled, “What the hell is going on?”
No one answered.
He tried the heavy walnut door that he suspected might open into a hall. It didn’t budge. Locked from the outside. There was a smaller door at the end of the row of beds that looked like it might connect to an adjoining room. Also locked.
At the windows, he tried to peer though the shutter slats, but they were swiveled upward and locked into position. All he could see was blue sky.
Jake paced the room, struggling to control his mounting panic, when he noticed a neatly stacked pile of clothes peeking out from under his overturned blanket at the foot of his bed. White cotton slacks, a linen shirt, and a pair of leather deck shoes. He tried the pants—a perfect fit. Of course. He put on the shirt and shoes.
As if someone had been waiting for him to get dressed first, a soft click indicated an electronic lock being released at the adjoining door.
The knob turned easily this time.
Like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
Jake swung the door open to what looked like a large conservatory and children’s playroom.
There were two child-size play tables with chairs, a soft couch, a few easy chairs, and a long table along one wall with two computer terminals. Tall bookcases stretched along two walls, piled full of books. A baby grand piano sat in a bay surrounded by arched windows, a crystal chandelier suspended above it. A large mirror hung on the far wall, making the room look bigger. Several brass floor lamps provided light.
Jake’s brain absorbed the room in an instant, but it was the young boy and girl who riveted his attention.
They sat at one of the small tables. The little girl was maybe six or seven, wearing a pink button-front sweater over a soft nightshirt and matching pajama bottoms printed with tiny daisies. Her feet were covered in fluffy pink slippers with little rabbit ears flopping down either side. When she saw Jake, her big brown eyes went wide. She tilted her head down so her long, dark hair swept forward to hide her face. Abandoning her colored pencils, she scurried over to the piano, a small teddy bear in tow. She climbed up on the bench, making a point of not looking in Jake’s direction. She sat the bear next to her, and her tiny hands began to glide over the ivory keys. Her eyes remained closed while she played. Tension seemed to drain from her little form as she swayed back and forth with the music. The unfamiliar tune was soft and haunting.
It was beautiful.
The young boy said, “Sarafina won’t talk to you.” He wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a black Star Wars T-shirt. He was a little pudgy, with deep olive skin, a hawk nose, and dark, penetrating eyes. There was no fear there.
“Why not?” Jake asked as he stepped into the room and sat in an easy chair next to the boy’s table.
The boy prattled on as if Jake weren’t there. “She never speaks to anyone, ever. She’s Italian. I don’t know if she even speaks English.” While he spoke, the young boy remained fixated on one of the colored pencils on the table. He spun it like a top, over and over.
“Besides, she likes music, not words, and she hasn’t been fixed yet. But I’m fixed, see?” He turned his head around and separated his curly, dark hair to reveal a well-healed, four-inch scar at the back of his skull.
Jake gasped. He reached up involuntarily to the small wound at the back of his own head. Just a puncture, not a long scar.
Not yet.
The boy went back to spinning his pencil as though it fueled his ability to talk nonstop.
“That’s why I can speak English. I just learned it. My name is Ahmed. I’m eleven. Why are you here? Are you sick too? You’re the first grown-up that has spent the night here. What’s your name? Do you like languages or numbers?”
“Whoa, there, big fella,” Jake said, turning his chair toward the boy. “Slow down a bit. One question at a time, all right? My name is Jake. I’m glad to meet you, Ahmed.”
Jake extended his hand for a shake. Ahmed instantly scooted his wooden chair back with his feet and threw his hands behind his back, his face screwed tight in apprehension. “No touching!”
Pulling his hand back, palms patting the air, Jake said, “Okay, no touching. I’m sorry.”
The boy relaxed. He was quiet for a moment.
In his recent library studies, Jake recalled that it was not uncommon for some autistic children to have an inherent fear of physical contact. Some of them went their entire lives without the benefit of physical comfort from another human being.
That was just one of the many sets of behavior that was possible with autism and other spectrum disorders. There were many others, like uneven motor skills, using gestures instead of words, tantrums, laughing or crying for no apparent reason, or acting as if deaf. The list went on and on.
He remembered reading that children and adults with autism can function normally and show improvement with appropriate treatment and education. But experimental brain implants? In children?
These two kids were obviously part of Francesca’s school, part of the research at the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies. Francesca and her goons had kidnapped Jake to be here with these children? It just didn’t make any sense. He rubbed the wound at the back of his head again.
What the hell kind of tests did she run on me?
Jake looked back at the boy. He was back to spinning a pencil. “Do you know where we are, Ahmed?”
“Sure, this is our home. Are you going to be my new father? I hope so. I miss having a father.”
The little girl, Sarafina, suddenly stopped playing the piano. Jake glanced over and noticed her tilting her head toward them.
“My father spoke Dari,” Ahmed added. “My mom too. Do you speak Dari, Jake?”
“No, only English.”
“You should learn Dari. It will be easy for you after they fix you. I used to only speak Dari. Dr. Battista calls it my base tongue. But he says English is important too.” The spinning pencil picked up speed, matching the cadence of the words spilling from Ahmed. “He wants me to be able to teach his friends that he’s trying to fix. But I prefer Dari. Will you learn it so we can speak Dari together? I speak Italian too. So are you going to be my father now?”
Jake saw Sarafina peek up at the mention of the word father, as if waiting for Jake’s answer. She may not speak English, Jake thought, but it sure seems as though she understands it.
“Where is your father now, Ahmed?” Jake asked.
With little evident emotion, the boy said, “He’s dead. And my momma. Sarafina’s mother and father are dead too. So are you going to be my father now?”
Jake looked over at Sarafina. She glanced away but kept her ear aimed in their direction, as if desperate to hear Jake’s answer. She clutched her teddy bear against her chest. A small tear ran down one of her pink cheeks.
Jake didn’t know what to say. He felt the pain that these children were burying as if it were his own. He had an overwhelming urge to embrace them, to protect them, to save them from whatever was going on here. Jake closed his eyes, struggling to fight back the wave of compassion he felt for them. He wanted to hold them and make their pain go away.
As though she had heard his thoughts, Sarafina stared at him with wonder, capturing his eyes with hers. It reminded him of the look he had received from the little baby in the library. She said, “Cosa? Che ha detto?”
She wiped her eyes and allowed a small smile to brighten her face. Grabbing her bear, she slid off the piano bench and walked over to stand in front of Jake. She placed her little ha
nd on his arm. She struggled to maintain eye contact.
Jake smiled back at her. He asked Ahmed, “What did she say?”
Ahmed’s gaze darted back and forth between Jake and Sarafina. His hand hovered motionless above the pencil. “I…I’ve never heard her speak before. Dr. Battista is going to be surprised. How come she can speak even though she hasn’t been fixed yet? Why—”
“Ahmed,” Jake interrupted, “what—did—she—say?”
“She wants to know what you said just now when you closed your eyes,” Ahmed said, his voice quivering. “But you didn’t really say anything, did you? I was watching you. Your lips never moved. But I heard it. Like it was inside my head.”
Is it possible? “What did you hear?”
But before Ahmed could answer, Sarafina squeezed Jake’s arm and cooed something in Italian. Jake looked over at Ahmed, hoping for a translation. “She says you feel like her papa and her grandpapa, that everything is going to be all right now that you are here, and that…she loves you too!”
Jake placed his hand over hers and smiled. That must have been the sign she needed, because she suddenly jumped up onto his lap, threw her arms around him, and buried her cheek in his chest. Her sweetness enveloped him like a cozy blanket.
Ahmed’s dark eyebrows pinched in anguish. He lost control of the pencil, and it spun off the table. “She never talks to anyone! What’s going on? Are you going to be her father now? What about me?”
As he looked over the top of Sarafina’s head, Jake gave Ahmed a warm smile, extending his arm as an invitation to join in the hug. The young boy took a half step forward. His small frame shook in protest. Jake saw him wrestling with the demons that made the prospect of being touched so frightening.
He thought about what Ahmed had said. They’d heard or felt his thoughts even though he hadn’t said them aloud. It had really happened. He reached out with his mind, drawing Ahmed closer with his thoughts, projecting an aura of safety and love. He took the boy’s tremulous hand in his. After a final moment of hesitation, Ahmed allowed himself to be pulled into the embrace. He shuddered as he hugged Jake with the fierceness of a drowning child grasping for his father’s strong arms.