3:
...exhaustion led way to clarity. The rush of death at the camp and the thought of pursuers had put me in a bit of a frenzy. Now, having gone three miles deeper into the brush, skirting the prairie in one long swath, my sweat was cooling. ....
....My luck held out in a sliver of massive soapstone some yards out into the open. The outcrop stood well above four feet, with bushes huddled together and a banyan tree crowning it – offering a place to blot the approaching light. In the pitch I could not see; I pushed my back against the rock and backed in as far as I could - I knew this spot would remain in shadow as the light would break in an hour.
....
He was out there. He had just fed on the rich vegetation of the jungle,
but he and I both knew that it was the animus of humanity that he hungered
for. I'll bet 3-to-1 on show that he
somehow found the other two guides and made quick work of them. It would have
been a scene reminiscent of Venice just five months ago...
Cradled between the Grand Canal and the Marco, a small bar had kept its crime
scene in its queer state for three days.
The police chief of Venice (Sr. Ribieri Molcanti) had summoned me,
knowing that I had finished up a dastardly case of intrigue in Macedonia.
Only he had the stomach to show me the ruined souls of eight patrons –
the rest of the cabineri stood a ways off not making eye contact with me. Two of the dead were Americans (thus the
interest from the Bureau). The smell was overwhelming; my friend held a perfumed
handkerchief to his mouth. I entered
remarking I've smelled worse at a Hollywood beanery.
The eight bodies were in minor disarray.
Their positioning indicated they had moments to move from a central
source. In the very middle table of the bar’s
floor, no larger than a hat box is round, the bodies were entranced in their
last seconds here. I sat in the
spot. A lone perpetrator had done
mysticism upon them, all at once, without disturbing the state of anything else in the room...except
anything that once was alive.
Beyond the bodies, the potted plants, a roach or two, a parrot that sat
in the corner - all were shriveled like old yams. They were oily to the touch; not
a trace of moisture left in them. "Garish", I told my friend, who had
already left to go outside.
I requested some tools of the trade (having my own lost in the wilds of
Masovia) and went to work. Within half of a day, on little rest, I figured out
the type of weapon, its purpose and the perpetrator of this crime. [To be honest, not exactly the man, but I
figured my murderer had to be of a mental stature equal to a Da Vinci. To be honest, I didn’t want to believe that
last part either.]
Ribieri did not believe me, going so far as to deny my friendship for a
few minutes. With a small notebook and the help of a local historian (Sr. Georgi
Benzilian), I fleshed out the details to the point he could no longer deny me
material help in the matter of catching this criminal.
Leonardo Da Vinci had been moving to a new locale, since, by deduction,
he must have been on the verge of being found out...what better trip then to
take his machinations to the dark of Africa?
Light begin to touch the lower parts of the horizon. The sun is up
quickly in the prairie, with only the tall brush providing cover. The bastard
knew only so much, he had a virtual ton of equipment and there's no way it
couldn't be spotted in the bright of day. However, I would need to be cautious
- I suspect more than one person died attempting to bring him to justice.
Continue to Part 4...
unabridged version available on Lulu...
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