Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6) by Vincent Zandri Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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vertical tunnel that appears to access the outside world. Precisely
where that outside world is, however, is anyone’s guess. Standing at the bottom
of the vertical shaft, looking up at what seems to be a metal cover, much like
a manhole in a road. A metal ladder, that looks older than time itself, is bolted
into the stone wall. What other choice do we have but to climb it?
“You first,” Andrea says.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Why is it
always brawn before brains?”
“Why didn’t you say brawn before
beauty?”
“A woman is running for President.
She wouldn’t like my objectifying you.”
Gripping the old, rusted rungs, I
start climbing. The ladder seems solid and in decent shape. Whoever constructed
it meant for it to last a good long time.
“What are you waiting for, Andrea?”
I say. “Come on up.”
When I get to the top, I press one
hand flat against the circular metal disc and push up. It’s heavier than hell,
but it pulls away from its metal frame. The dirt and dust that has accumulated inside
its circular support over the decades comes raining down on us. I push until
the disc is free, and allow it to drop onto the floor beside it. The metal
creates a reverberating racket as I push it across what I’m guessing is a stone
floor, telling me that we’re about to access a wide open building like a church
or a library.
Climbing the rest of the ladder, I
stick my head out of the opening and see wooden pews—not in a church or
cathedral, but a chapel. It takes me a moment, but I quickly realize we’re
inside Dante’s chapel in central Florence, only a few hundred feet from the
Piazza della Repubblica, the area where Florence was first born two thousand
years ago when Roman soldiers established the area as a military encampment.
“All clear?” Andrea echoes from
down in the tunnel.
“Clear,” I say. Then, when she’s
standing beside me. “Dante’s Chapel, or what’s also known as the Chiesa di
Santa Margherita de’ Cerchi.”
“Like, the Divine Comedy, Dante?”
“The one and only.”
We take a second to gaze upon the
plain altar that, over the past few years, has been transformed from a house of
God into an art gallery. Subdued ambient orchestral music is being piped into
the otherwise silent space, filling the cold emptiness of the stone and wood
chapel. The sound is eerie and sad, but it beats the chewing noise from the
millions of centipedes that crawled through the walls and ceiling of the
catacomb sub-chamber.
“This is a lonely place,” Andrea observes
while finger coming her hair.
“This is the place where Dante
married the one love of his life, Beatrice Portinari, only to lose her to a
dreadful disease a few short years later. That’s why lonely folks travel here
from miles around to ask Dante, and God, to help heal their broken hearts.”
A door that leads from the altar to
a sacristy in the back of the church opens. Out steps a man in a long brown
robe, his hood pulled all the way over his head, hiding his face entirely in a dark
shadow. My pulse quickens. I recall the monk walking along Via Guelfa earlier .
. . and the monk who stopped and stared at me when I was placed in the back of
a van in the middle of the night by Andrea’s cohorts, the Poseidon Brothers.
Like I said, Florence is no stranger to priests, friars, and monks, but why do
I get the feeling I keep seeing the same one again and again?
A cell phone vibrates and chimes.
Andrea pulls out her phone, peers down at the screen. She thumbs a few
commands. A quick beat later, she’s looking intently at a video that someone
just forwarded to her.
“Good Christ,” she says. “Look at
this Chase.”
Staring down at the phone, I see
two men standing outside what appears to be the mouth of a small cave located
in a heavily wooded area. One of the men is tall and gray bearded, the other
shorter and bearing a thick five o’clock shadow. The men are dressed for
where that outside world is, however, is anyone’s guess. Standing at the bottom
of the vertical shaft, looking up at what seems to be a metal cover, much like
a manhole in a road. A metal ladder, that looks older than time itself, is bolted
into the stone wall. What other choice do we have but to climb it?
“You first,” Andrea says.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Why is it
always brawn before brains?”
“Why didn’t you say brawn before
beauty?”
“A woman is running for President.
She wouldn’t like my objectifying you.”
Gripping the old, rusted rungs, I
start climbing. The ladder seems solid and in decent shape. Whoever constructed
it meant for it to last a good long time.
“What are you waiting for, Andrea?”
I say. “Come on up.”
When I get to the top, I press one
hand flat against the circular metal disc and push up. It’s heavier than hell,
but it pulls away from its metal frame. The dirt and dust that has accumulated inside
its circular support over the decades comes raining down on us. I push until
the disc is free, and allow it to drop onto the floor beside it. The metal
creates a reverberating racket as I push it across what I’m guessing is a stone
floor, telling me that we’re about to access a wide open building like a church
or a library.
Climbing the rest of the ladder, I
stick my head out of the opening and see wooden pews—not in a church or
cathedral, but a chapel. It takes me a moment, but I quickly realize we’re
inside Dante’s chapel in central Florence, only a few hundred feet from the
Piazza della Repubblica, the area where Florence was first born two thousand
years ago when Roman soldiers established the area as a military encampment.
“All clear?” Andrea echoes from
down in the tunnel.
“Clear,” I say. Then, when she’s
standing beside me. “Dante’s Chapel, or what’s also known as the Chiesa di
Santa Margherita de’ Cerchi.”
“Like, the Divine Comedy, Dante?”
“The one and only.”
We take a second to gaze upon the
plain altar that, over the past few years, has been transformed from a house of
God into an art gallery. Subdued ambient orchestral music is being piped into
the otherwise silent space, filling the cold emptiness of the stone and wood
chapel. The sound is eerie and sad, but it beats the chewing noise from the
millions of centipedes that crawled through the walls and ceiling of the
catacomb sub-chamber.
“This is a lonely place,” Andrea observes
while finger coming her hair.
“This is the place where Dante
married the one love of his life, Beatrice Portinari, only to lose her to a
dreadful disease a few short years later. That’s why lonely folks travel here
from miles around to ask Dante, and God, to help heal their broken hearts.”
A door that leads from the altar to
a sacristy in the back of the church opens. Out steps a man in a long brown
robe, his hood pulled all the way over his head, hiding his face entirely in a dark
shadow. My pulse quickens. I recall the monk walking along Via Guelfa earlier .
. . and the monk who stopped and stared at me when I was placed in the back of
a van in the middle of the night by Andrea’s cohorts, the Poseidon Brothers.
Like I said, Florence is no stranger to priests, friars, and monks, but why do
I get the feeling I keep seeing the same one again and again?
A cell phone vibrates and chimes.
Andrea pulls out her phone, peers down at the screen. She thumbs a few
commands. A quick beat later, she’s looking intently at a video that someone
just forwarded to her.
“Good Christ,” she says. “Look at
this Chase.”
Staring down at the phone, I see
two men standing outside what appears to be the mouth of a small cave located
in a heavily wooded area. One of the men is tall and gray bearded, the other
shorter and bearing a thick five o’clock shadow. The men are dressed for
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