The Flaming Grenade: Fountains of Power, #1

By Marcus Williams

Set on the beaches of California and the mountains of Sicily, The Flaming Grenade takes us on an adventure to discover ancient secrets with modern technology. Archie, a scientist in Half Moon Bay, CA is accidentally used as a test subject in his company's secret teleportation research, a mistake that somehow connects him to an ancient Power long sought after throughout the centuries. His discovery links his cutting edge research with his fiancé's family history, and together he and Zaira travel to beautiful Sicily to discover the horrible secret surrounding her great uncle's death during World War II. When a powerful oligarch discovers the connection, Archie and Zaira are thrust into a struggle between ancient myths, family secrets, and those who will stop at nothing to obtain ultimate power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Williams & Co Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201751944

Marcus Williams

Marcus has written thousands of pages of law enforcement reports describing the details of cyber crimes, sexual assaults, drug trafficking, and murders during his career as a federal agent. He now uses all of that "practice" to tell stories that excite, entertain, and engage. While life doesn't always have a happy ending, there is always hope found in family, friendships, and kindness. He and his family have lived all over the world and love exploring and making friends wherever they find themselves: from California's high desert, to Sicily's historical marvels, to the beaches of the mid-Atlantic coast, to the rain soaked forests of Washington, to the base Mt Fuji, and to the majestic Rocky Mountains. The world is full of mystery and untold stories.

Book preview

Dedicated to the many law enforcement officers I have had the privilege of working with over the years.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

BAY AREA, CALIFORNIA

My eyelids felt heavy and my right arm started to tingle, a preamble to the feeling of a thousand needle pricks signaling to my brain that my arm was waking up faster than I was. I felt that heavy, foggy feeling when, in order to wake up, you have to somehow climb out of a great chasm of sleep. My arm was asleep, and I realized as I slowly awoke that I was not actually lying on my own bed, and my pillow seemed to be my balled-up jacket trying its very best to be fluffy and supportive, but failing miserably. 

I reached my arms out to stretch, rolling my wrists, flexing my elbows, and shrugging my shoulders when I realized I was cold—very cold. I managed to pry my heavy eyelids open to look around. I felt disoriented and confused.

It looked like my room. The dimensions were all correct, the carpet had the familiar smell of wet dog and dirty shoes, and the window still had the same crack—but somehow it was all wrong. There was a desk where the bed should have been and a. . .treadmill? Weights? The scene flickered, the light shifting from light to dark, the scenes shifting from my old bedroom to a grove of trees.

The scenes flashed again, and I realized that I seemed to be in the bedroom where I grew up, not the bedroom in my current two room apartment. My childhood room had long since been converted to my parents’ workout room.

I tried to sit up, but felt woozy. I looked down at my feet and wriggled my toes in my socks. I love the redwood forest: soft beds of needles, majestic trees, and green ferns. Wait a minute. The forest? I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand and shook my head. What in the world?  Why was it so cold? Maybe I really was in one of those droopy-eyed dreams. If I could just manage to open my eyes, I would be back in my apartment ready to take on another day. I pinched myself.

I was shivering and I felt too beat up to be asleep. My muscles ached all over, and each joint seemed to be competing for the prize of most stiff. I was definitely awake. 

I looked down again as the scene flickered in and out, meshing the two images of bedroom and forest until they were almost unrecognizable. It looked like ferns were growing out of my old bedroom carpet. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to remember where I was before I fell asleep. I felt that if I just got up and moved, that somehow the visions would stop, and I could force myself back to reality. With that in mind, I gingerly got to my knees and then stood, planting my feet firmly on the carpeted forest floor. The floor around my feet shimmered, but somehow still felt solid.

I wondered what was causing this strange reality.  I leaned down, touched the floor with my finger, and swiped. It felt real. I could feel dirt, branches, and polyester carpet fibers, all mixed together. But at the same time, I felt that if I applied too much force, my hand would somehow push through the facade into a great void. The thought made my stomach turn and I drew back my hand, feeling dizzy.

I watched in confusion as the ground around me folded into rolls, like an organic yet electronic yard of fabric. The rolls became tighter, spiraling towards the center of the room, like the whole room was being sucked into a black hole. With a swoosh or air, I found myself standing on a solid forest floor, the flickering gone. A cold breeze blew down through the redwood trees. Even though I was glad to finally find myself on solid ground, the reality posed more questions than answers.

Chapter 2

BAY AREA, CALIFORNIA

Things were growing more confusing as I continued to pull myself from sleep, not less so. I shivered again and remembered that I had been using my soft-shell jacket as a lousy substitute for a pillow. I reached in and pulled the jacket arms inside out and then swung my arms into the sleeves. It took a moment for my fingers to get the plastic zipper connected, which I then pulled up to my chin. I snuggled in the growing warmth, starting to feel more like myself.

Shoes—I needed to find my shoes. I looked around on the forest floor. I had to have had some supplies, right? I'm a smart guy and wouldn't go into the woods shoeless. If I were smart, it would therefore follow that I wouldn't have left my shoes on the ground. I looked up. There, hanging from a low branch were my shoes, shoelaces tied together. I had to hop a little to grab the brown hiking shoes and stubbed my toe on a small rock. I cursed the pain as I sat down on a fallen log to shake out the shoes. I didn't want to discover a banana slug had made a home down in the toe. My socks were a bit damp from hopping up and down on the forest floor, but there was nothing I could do about that. I wiped the bottom of my socks with my hands to remove pine needles and dirt before putting on the shoes. I stood, feeling my back pop as I stretched.

My feet felt snug in their shoes, and I was starting to warm up. Breakfast would have been nice, but it appeared that a pancake house had yet to clear cut the forest to build their latest franchise. Having taken care of my immediate needs, I decided to test my mental status to ensure I still had a firm grip on reality.  

I was able to remember my name, Archifeld Bennington Causterman, as well as details from my childhood. I was the butt of quite a few jokes growing up, not the least of which being that my initials are ABC. Other kids always spoke to me in bad British accents, taunting me and calling me Lord Archifeld. I always asked my teachers in advance to call me Archie.

I was named after my great-great-grandfather on my dad's side. I like to think he was a big-time aristocrat, but from what I've been told, he was just a stable boy for some rich English family on their manor. He immigrated to the United States during the gold rush and crossed the continent in a prairie schooner, working for the wagon company as a hunter. It took a few seasons, but eventually he arrived in California, ready to make his fortune.  

He didn't find gold, or at least if he did, he did not invest it so as to ensure my constant comfort. I’m sure he probably found gold dust running down the creek bed where he staked his claim, but alas, one must pay for food and drink. There is no trust fund with Archifeld Bennington Causterman's name written on the account. I'm just a normal guy who has to work for a living. I grew up in Half Moon Bay, California, a small coastal town south of San Francisco. 

Looking around, I was pretty sure I was in the mountains near Half Moon Bay. I was pretty familiar with them from all of my time as a boy scout. I am well aware that what I call mountains are mere hills in comparison with the soaring peaks of Utah and Colorado. They don't compare much to the gold rush Sierra Nevadas either, but to us folks in the Bay Area, these are our mountains, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Anyway, I knew generally that I was in the mountains near home, but I wasn’t sure about the exact location. Just because I spent a lot of time in the mountains doesn’t mean I know every trail, canyon, pass, or stream. I was a thirteen-year-old scout and had bigger concerns than memorizing a topographical map of the area. 

I was frustrated standing there alone in the forest because I couldn't seem to remember why I was there. I felt like I was in the mountains for a reason and that I went there on purpose, but I could not for the life of me figure out why. I did not have a pack, so I figured I hadn't planned on staying overnight, but I slept on the ground and knew that there was something I needed to do or see that day. I didn’t feel like I was lost, so there was a purpose to my actions known to someone, somewhere. That someone wasn’t me however, and that needed to change.

I found a boulder down the trail and sat down for a moment to think. It ended up being a bit damp from the early morning fog, and I felt the chill seep through my pants. I decided I should go over yesterday to figure out the last thing I could remember. I recalled that I woke up early yesterday morning in my actual bed in my actual apartment. I woke up five minutes before my alarm, which I really hate. 

I remembered that I showered, dressed, and then went into the kitchen, where I ate a bowl of cereal and took my vitamins with a glass of orange juice. I couldn’t remember exactly what I wore, but I was sure it was probably what I was currently wearing. I left my apartment, locked the door, and went down to my car to drive to work. 

I drive a six-year-old pick-up truck, and remembered it was parked in the normal spot at the far corner of the lot. I recalled backing out of my designated parking space when that jerk from down the hall who drives the new purple muscle car went screaming through the parking lot, forcing me to slam on the brakes. 

The drive to work is usually a blur, done on autopilot, so not remembering it doesn't mean much. I did remember pulling into the parking lot at work and then, hmmm, and then...nothing. So I guess that is when it happened, whatever it is. 

Chapter 3

LINGUAGLOSSA, SICILY, ITALY

Giuseppe Calderone , a fresh out of the academy Carabinieri officer, decided to stop for a caffè and pastry on his way into the station. His uniform was freshly cleaned and he felt he did the department proud. His dark blue jacket was neatly pressed, buttons shined.  The white belt and shoulder strap were scuff-mark free; his black designer shoes spit shined.  The Arma dei Carabinieri had a long history of being the best dressed law enforcers in the world, and Giuseppe was determined to keep up the tradition. Giuseppe was assigned to the small Carabinieri station in the small Sicilian town of Linguaglossa, located on the Northern slope of Mt. Etna, the famous active volcano. Linguaglossa, at least in his limited experience, was a relatively quiet town. The people seemed friendly enough; the view of the mountain was spectacular. It wasn't exactly a Palermo or Naples as far as being a high-profile assignment, but he couldn't complain. There was plenty of time to make a name for himself and rise through the ranks. But for now, Giuseppe was content to learn the ropes and bide his time.

"Ciao Mario," Giuseppe called to the cafe owner as he walked into the bar on the corner.

"Buon giorno, Mario Guifridda replied, Prego." Mario had a white towel tossed over one shoulder and was busy making caffè for the morning clientele. He shook out the used grounds, refilled, and latched the steel cup into the machine.

"Un caffè e un pane cioccolato per favore."

"Si, si."

Giuseppe placed his two Euro coin on the ceramic plate next to the cash register and Mario's lovely daughter, Carmela, rang him up and set down a receipt in place of the coin. Giuseppe thanked her with a shy nod and stepped over to the black lava stone bar where the other men made room for him to stand. Giuseppe handed Mario the receipt and Mario ripped a corner and placed the receipt and caffè on a saucer next to the pane wrapped in tissue paper on the counter.  Giuseppe took a packet of sugar, shook it, and ripped it open before pouring it into his caffè. Giuseppe stirred the caffè with the small spoon on the saucer and, with his thumb and forefinger, picked up the small cup. 

Giuseppe thought about his trip to California earlier that summer to attend his cousin's wedding. Giuseppe had gone into a coffee shop and when the lady handed him a huge steaming cup of brown sludge, his cousin laughed at his surprise. Caffè in Italy came in a small cup, and if brewed right (as it often was), that was all the kick you needed. The watery tasting American coffee could not compare. Giuseppe’s memories were interrupted when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young man down at the end of the bar, staring.

Giuseppe turned to look at the boy, but he immediately turned away. Giuseppe did not recognize the rigazzo, but Giuseppe wasn't exactly an old-timer at the bar. He had a pretty good memory and had gotten to know most of the regulars downtown. However, something was off. The boy looked normal enough. He was dressed to impress in his knock-off D&G sunglasses and pink polo shirt with the collar turned up. Giuseppe made a mental note to keep an eye out for the boy for the next few days, but quickly lost interest as he bit into the pane cioccolato. He knew he should probably eat a healthier breakfast at home, but not only was the pastry delicious, he had other reasons for frequenting that particular bar.

Giuseppe had been coming to this particular bar since first arriving in Linguaglossa. Mario treated him well, and Giuseppe had his eye on Carmela. Bellisima, Giuseppe thought as he watched her work. 

Now that Giuseppe was a trained officer and had a respectable career, he knew he should ask Carmela out for dinner or maybe to a club. So far, the most Giuseppe had been able to muster was a smile and "grazie" when paying for his morning caffè. But one day, he thought, he would muster the courage to speak to her. In the meantime, he would enforce the law and try to find a good mafioso to investigate—maybe make a name for himself. Giuseppe suspected Mario was waiting for him to court Carmela, and so it had become a bit of a game. Giuseppe wondered if they ever talked about him while sitting over a steaming plate of pistachio pasta. If they did, Giuseppe hoped it was all positive.

Giuseppe finished his caffè and pane and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He brushed some powdered sugar off of his tunic and straightened his uniform. He said his goodbyes to Mario and, as he turned to leave, Giuseppe noticed the pink shirted boy darting out of the door. Giuseppe hurried out, but by the time he got outside, the boy was halfway down the block on his motor scooter. 

Giuseppe shrugged as he turned the corner and walked down to the Carabinieri station. He would have to ask around about the boy. As he approached the old baroque era stone building, adorned with peeling paint and a flaking facade, his boss, the town maresciallo, and Giuseppe's partner, Vincenzo, came rushing out of the building. The small courtyard in front of the building was protected from the street by a waist level iron fence entwined in bougainvillea. Vincenzo looked a bit disheveled, like he had been still in the midst of getting ready when the maresciallo pulled him out of the building. The maresciallo actually lived in an apartment on the second floor of the Carabinieri station—one of the perks of the job.  He seemed out of breath and out of sorts.

Giuseppe, I'm glad you are here.

"Certo, Signore. What is happening?" Giuseppe asked. He was becoming alarmed. Giuseppe had never seen the maresciallo so excited before. He was generally too calm, too unconcerned. It was like a crazy twin brother had taken his place.

Come inside. Quickly. I will explain everything. And then we must go! the maresciallo exclaimed.

All three of them went inside, past the waiting room on the right and down the hallway to the maresciallo's office.

Sit, sit, he said.

Giuseppe sat in the green faux leather chair as the boss sat behind his desk and absentmindedly rearranged pens standing in a coffee mug with the insignia of the US Navy stamped on its side. The office reeked of stale cigarette smoke, even though Italian law had banned smoking indoors years ago. Giuseppe wasn't sure if the boss still smoked in the office or if the years and years of smoke and no new paint had made the smell a permanent fixture in the room. It’s not like anyone was going to report him for smoking if he did.

"Bene. I just got off the phone with the Corpo Forestale, and they have found a body up on the mountain," the maresciallo explained, his palms flat on the surface of the desk.

Like, a dead body? Vincenzo asked, crossing himself.

"Si, Vincenzo," the maresciallo continued. "The Corpo Forestale is waiting for us to arrive to begin the investigation. I want you both to get your gear together and I will call the magistrate. We leave in ten minutes. Va bene?"

"Va bene, Signore," both Vincenzo and Giuseppe responded as they got up from their chairs to go to their shared office next door. 

Giuseppe was nervous, yet excited. Finally, something was happening. The small Carabinieri station in the quiet town of Linguaglossa was going to get some excitement.

Do you think it was a mafia hit? Vincenzo opined.

I don't know.

Or maybe a cuckolded lover or drug deal gone bad?

Enzo, this is not Los Angeles. This is Sicilia, Giuseppe said, waving his hands for emphasis, a flashlight in one hand and a notebook in the other.

I know Giuseppe. But a dead body, here, on Etna? Wow!

Giuseppe grabbed a uniform jacket from the coat rack behind the door. It was often several degrees colder up on the mountain, and he wanted to be prepared. He opened his scuffed wood laminate desk drawer to find his warm gloves and then walked over to a bent metal equipment shelf on the far wall to get some latex gloves to include in his bag. If there was a lot of blood, they would call the forensics team in Messina to respond. The Carabinieri receive some crime scene training in the academy, but Giuseppe knew these types of things needed to be done correctly. The Corpo Forestale officers are part of the Italian forest service. Their rangers were very professional, but they knew a dead body was beyond their scope, so they called in the Carabinieri to help them out.  The Carabinieri in turn would call in the crime scene techs, if needed.  Giuseppe gave one of his buddies at the lab a call, letting him know they might have to roll out soon.

Chapter 4

LINGUAGLOSSA, SICILY, ITALY

The maresciallo appeared around the door jam, hat in hand. Ready? He headed down the hallway, expecting Giuseppe and Vincenzo to follow.  We will take two cars in case one of us needs to return to the station for supplies.

Giuseppe knew that meant that as he and Vincenzo worked, the maresciallo would likely return to ensure he got his picture in the evening news. The maresciallo was not a bad man, but you do not get transferred out of a small town to be put in charge of a larger office without a little self-promotion. Giuseppe could understand that and didn't blame the man. Of course, it would be nice if the maresciallo would stay and help, but that was asking a lot. Either way, someone was going to have to coordinate phone calls with headquarters, and Giuseppe would much rather it be the maresciallo than him.

Giuseppe grabbed the keys to the Carabinieri Fiat Punto hanging in a lock box just inside the station door as the maresciallo grabbed the keys to the Alfa Romeo 159 wagon. It would have been nice for Vincenzo and Giuseppe to ride in the bigger car, since there were two of them and they were carrying the equipment, but rank has its privileges. The cars were parallel parked on the street in front of the station, their bumpers just inches apart. Giuseppe drove. He purposely avoided being a passenger when Vincenzo was driving. Vincenzo was a crazy driver, even by Sicilian standards. Sicilians drive with no regard for anyone else on the road. Traffic signals are mere suggestions, and lane markers are guides for the unimaginative. Seatbelts, of course, were nuisances.

He followed the maresciallo as he made a U-turn then turned right onto Via Mareneve heading out of town and up to the mountain.

The drive only took ten to fifteen minutes, but the road climbed steadily and the vineyards and small farms at the base of the slope petered out, being replaced by dense forests with mounds of lava rocks jutting out in intermittent clearings. The mountain was still an active volcano, and there was always at least a plume of smoke billowing from the crater and blowing out over the Ionian Sea. The smoke often turned in on itself and transformed into mystical formations, like breaths of memory from an ancient past. Mt. Etna held a large role in Greek mythology and was at one time the home of the Cyclops who held Odysseus captive in a cave, then threw rocks at Odysseus after he escaped. The rocks were still visible jutting from the Ionian Sea in what is now a protected bay in the city of Aci Trezza.  The crystal-clear waters are popular for scuba divers and snorkelers, and sunbathers spread towels out on the lava rock shoreline.  During the mild winters of Sicily, snow fell on Etna, and the locals trekked up to the mountain for skiing and sledding.  This late in the spring, the snow had melted, and the trees were once again green and full.

As the car climbed higher, Giuseppe was occasionally able to see out over the trees and beyond. It was a beautiful sight. He was even able to see the Italian mainland in the distance across the Straits of Messina.

After climbing about halfway up the mountain, Giuseppe noticed a wooden fence bordering the road on the right and then saw the Corpo Forestale vehicle pulled in next to two dumpsters a little further up on the left. Giuseppe was familiar with this clearing. There were a few old picnic tables in various states of disrepair, some being propped level by lava stones. There was also a lava rock barbeque pit. Flies buzzed energetically around the dumpsters, and trash was strewn haphazardly throughout the picnic area.

Giuseppe hated this portion of Sicilian life. It was such a beautiful island, yet it seemed some people couldn't be bothered to take a few moments to collect their trash and utilize the provided dumpsters. Discarded paper plates and San Pellegrino bottles could easily have been picked up and tossed in the trash. Doesn't everyone who goes through the trouble to pack a lunch and drive up the mountain do so to enjoy the beauties of nature? Giuseppe had never understood. His parents had taught him to leave a place cleaner than you found it. Oh well, that was not why he was there that day.

Beyond the clearing was a wash where a small creek ran after heavy rains. Old pizza boxes and plastic bags littered the bottom. The wash marked off the clearing from what Giuseppe considered to be a magnificent grove of trees. The large pines rose at least 5 meters in the air before any limbs branched off to provide scattered covering from the elements. The trees were spaced 3-5 meters apart, giving an illusion of sentinels guarding the path to anyone who sought entry to the mythical heights further up the mountain. He could see dust and pollen in the beams of sunlight filtering through the branches, and the light bathed the clearing in a golden haze.

Giuseppe remembered last summer when he first arrived at Linguaglossa and he came up the mountain to explore and relax and read a book in the silence of nature. Giuseppe had stopped at the picnic area and an American tourist family had just finished their meal. The children were playing a game of tag in and out of the trees while their father chased them and their mother took pictures.  Giuseppe felt a pang of jealousy for a life in a large family, but he had plenty of time for that. He had been an only child and always wanted brothers and sisters. Few people in Italy had more than one child, and certainly not more than two. His family would be a large and happy one. But first, he had to find the courage to talk to Carmela and ask her on a date. Then he could worry more about marriage and kids. He wondered how many kids Carmela wanted.

Refocusing, Giuseppe locked the doors to the car and joined the maresciallo as they walked through the picnic area to the trees just across the dry wash where the rangers were gathered around something on the ground. Giuseppe assumed it was the body and felt a twinge of anger that the rangers were standing so close, corrupting the crime scene. They climbed up the other side of the wash and the body came into view.

Giuseppe heard Vincenzo gag and turn to run back down to the dry creek bed where he retched. The maresciallo turned away, taking a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and covering his nose and mouth. He looked extremely pale, and a forest ranger grabbed his arm for support. Giuseppe stood transfixed. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the nightmare on the forest floor.  

It can't be. Giuseppe muttered. No!

Chapter 5

BAY AREA, CALIFORNIA

This was getting ridiculous . Why in the world would I hike up into the mountains without a backpack or any other gear? As I carefully made my way down a narrow game trail, in what I hoped was the right direction for wherever it was I was supposed to be going, I thought about my experiences that morning. If I explained what happened to anyone, they would ask how I had enjoyed the wild mushrooms for dinner. I began to doubt myself. I didn't see any signs of human presence along the trail, which meant it was not the way I came. 

A squirrel ran up the trunk of a nearby sequoia as I passed, and I could hear birds singing high in the upper branches. The further I got from my previous night’s resting place, and the more I thought about it, the less real the whole experience seemed. It had to have been a dream. My doubts grew stronger. I hadn't been sleeping much. My personal life was a bit of a whirlwind, and projects at work had me keeping long hours. 

But that still didn't answer the question of why I was up in the mountains without any gear, looking for something, whatever that was, wherever it was. In fact, I felt foolish for even thinking any of it was real. A bedroom that disappeared? That's nuts. I just needed more sleep. 

I passed a group of four redwoods growing together in a circle when something sparked a memory, not like I had been there before, but like I had been instructed on where to go. The trail I was following forked, and I knew I needed to turn left. If my experiences this morning were imagined, I guess I needed to come up with an explanation for the continuing feeling that I was going somewhere specific—to find something specific. Maybe the morning vision was fake and the feelings were real. Could I legitimately separate the two phenomena, or did they come together in a package deal? I can tell you what I felt at each moment, but the feelings seemed to fade from one moment to the next. 

The ground flattened out, and I crossed a small creek bed into a copse of trees, stepping on rocks to avoid getting my feet completely wet. The scenery had somehow shifted. I turned in a circle, confused that it no longer looked like the redwood forest on the other side of the creek. These trees seemed to stand alone, apart from the surrounding woods.  The trees were separated by ten to fifteen feet, and the undergrowth was minimal. The sun shone through their branches, lighting the bed of fallen needles, making the copse glow. I emerged into the sunlight and felt its warmth on my back.  It felt good, taking the edge off the chill of the morning. It felt right, like this was the place I was looking for.

A glimmer flashed out of the corner of my eye, something shiny on the forest floor. I felt like a bird swooping down to snatch a bit of tin foil in my beak. I was drawn to the shiny object. The item was resting under a thin layer of burnt-orange needles. I bent over at the waist, brushing away the needles, revealing what appeared to me to be some sort of police or military badge. 

My experience with law enforcement is pretty minimal because I'm a boring guy and I tend to stay out of trouble. However, this badge was different from anything I had ever seen in real life or on any television show.

I knew cops generally wear their badge on their shirt or maybe on their belt next to their gun. This one certainly couldn't go on a belt; there was no clip or loop, only holes for some type of fastener. It appeared to be a bomb or grenade or something with wavy flames coming out of it, not the typical shield or star shaped badge most American police departments use. Something nagged at me, a thought deep down in my subconscious, a feeling that I should recognize the badge. I knelt down on one knee, ignoring the damp earth. I gingerly picked up the badge, using two fingers. Something felt wrong as soon as I touched it. A feeling of sadness washed through me, and I shivered again, although this time not from the cold. The weight of the badge felt familiar to me, like I'd held it before. It wasn't quite a déjà vu moment. It was more than that—not a flicker that I'd been there before, but a feeling of a similar occurrence.

I hefted the badge in the palm of my hand and turned it over and over. It was just a badge lost in the woods, not a crime scene, right? I was being paranoid. There was something wrong, an energy or force that caused my palm to tingle. My entire hand began to grow warm, and the air around it started to hum and rattle the bones in my fingers. I looked up suddenly, thinking I had seen a shadow rustling the underbrush just outside the edge of the clearing.  The feeling of being watched persisted, like an army of eyes moved in and out of the trees, just waiting for my next move. A single bead of sweat rolled down my forehead to the tip of my nose. I was no longer cold. In fact, I had a desperate urge to tear off my jacket before my blood began to boil. Suddenly, the loud buzzing sound in my ears calmed and I heard birds chirping in the trees. The thick energy was gone, and I was just holding a simple piece of shaped metal, nothing special, nothing odd, other than the circumstances of its discovery.

I dropped to both knees and then fell forward on my elbows, a wave of exhaustion suddenly hitting me with a knockout punch. I was so tired again; I just needed to close my eyes for a minute. I managed to stuff the flaming grenade badge into my front pocket before my eyes shut for good. It was not a good time to sleep, but I couldn’t stop it. The last thing I remember before I succumbed was a wish that I was back in my apartment. I fell into a deep sleep on a cool bed of needles.

Chapter 6

MT ETNA, SICILY ITALY 

Giuseppe couldn't move . He noticed the wind had picked up, a cold wind, one that swept over the lip of the volcanic crater and drifted down from the bare slopes of the mountain peak. Plastic wrappers rolled and bounced along the ground, one rolling up and over the body. The sullen colors of the dry leaves on the ground seemed to overwhelm the young officer, adding to an atmosphere of death and decay. 

Giuseppe’s mind sharpened as he mentally forced himself to focus on every detail. Colors came alive. Rust colored leaves turned into glowing orange. Green shoots of grass were like neon signs.  Giuseppe became aware that he was shivering, and his alternate self, his normal self, absently thought he must have left his jacket in the car. It was like time had stopped. The Corpo Forestale rangers were talking next to him, although they sounded as if they were underwater. Someone laughed back at the parked cars. Noises blended together. All he could hear clearly was the rattling of his own shallow breathing.

Giuseppe wanted to scream, wanted to cry, anything to release the emotions that were building inside of him like a pressure cooker. This was not the way he had imagined it, not the way he had planned. There would be no glory here, no career advancing, no crime solving heroics. This was a nightmare, unreal to even consider. This was the last crime scene any officer wanted to be called to, not a case upon which to build a career.

Vincenzo had managed to grope his way out of the wash, and he clasped his hands on Giuseppe's shoulder for support. The human contact broke the spell and now, in a wave of noise, the sounds separated and focused into the voices of individual officers, the rustle of the wind in the trees, plastic wrappers crinkling, and birds chirping. The maresciallo was no longer there. Giuseppe looked around and then turned to find the maresciallo back at the car, frantically holding his cell phone in the air to search for a better signal. Giuseppe wondered if it was an act, if he was creating an excuse to leave the scene for an area with better coverage.

It didn't really matter. Apparently the maresciallo was going to be of no assistance there on the mountain side. Giuseppe knew, despite his limited experience, that this was going to be his case, and that was not a good thing. And at that moment, Giuseppe no longer cared about the accolades or the rewards of running the case successfully. All he cared about was finding whoever, or whatever, did this.

"Minchia!" Viinzenzo swore softly.

Giuseppe took a deep breath, refocused his eyes, and took charge of the scene. This was certainly going to require the forensics team from Messina.  He looked over at one of the rangers.  "You. Go tell the maresciallo, ask the maresciallo, to call for the forensics team and to call the Piedimonte Etneo station for backup."

"Si Signore." The ranger hurried off.

And you, pointing to the other Ranger, do you have communications in your vehicle?

Yes, of course.

Set up a secure channel on your radio. We cannot rely on our mobile phones up here.

Right away.

Enzo, are you OK? Giuseppe asked now that the rangers were out of earshot.

Well, I would not say that I am OK to be honest, but I will manage. Tell me what to do.

Giuseppe grimaced. Vincenzo was six months senior to him, but had never shown a great motivation to do more than stay in the quiet little town, do his job, and work his way through the pool of single women. It was awkward telling a senior officer what to do, but as long as Enzo was willing...well, Giuseppe wanted this one and was going to go ahead with it. Giuseppe knew that the maresciallo would let him run the case. If Giuseppe screwed it up, the maresciallo could distance himself from the failure. And if he succeeded, then the maresciallo could take all of the credit. 

No pressure.

"All right, Enzo, first I need you to cordon off this whole area. No one else comes in or out unless necessary, and when the teams arrive, document every entry and exit. I don't want to create a mess of the scene like those cazze up in Perugia did with the murder trial of that American girl. Idiots! And tell the rangers that they must stay here until the forensics team arrives. Then take their statements. I want to know everything they did from the time they woke up until we arrived, especially everything they touched here at the scene. Got all that?"

Vincenzo nodded.

While Enzo went to the car to get crime scene tape, Giuseppe was left alone with the body. He relaxed his shoulders knowing he could let down his shield of stoicism just for a moment. She had been a beautiful woman. Liliana Moretti was an instructor at the Carabinieri Academy, her good looks belying her professionalism and toughness. Inevitably, the new recruits would all have crushes on their beautiful instructor, and when she sharply refused any advances, they inevitably retaliated by making lewd jokes about her rising through the ranks on her back. Oh, did they regret that! In every class, she made at least one of the new recruits cry and quit the Academy. She was tough, hard as nails, and knew more about the service than anyone Giuseppe had ever met. Giuseppe heard she was one in a long line of Moretti Carabinieri Officers. The other instructors always deferred to her judgment and showed her great professional respect. And in Italy, a still very male dominated society, that was impressive.

The great Moretti had been reduced to a mangled shell, a mortal body of flesh and blood like any other. Her ears were gone, not cut off, but ripped away from her flesh. Her lips had been crudely sewn shut with a thick black thread. But the worst was the eyes. They were gone, only grotesque bloody sockets remaining, like the eyes that look outward were removed so that an outsider would be able to see into her thoughts. If only he could look into her thoughts now, or at least see what she last saw before she died. At first, Giuseppe thought of every new recruit she had shamed that might harbor a desire for vengeance. It was a long list of suspects. But no, only a handful of people on earth would be able to do this to another human being. It was the work of a monster.

Moretti was wearing her uniform, which was odd. Usually, if an officer was visiting another district, especially in an official capacity, he or she would notify the local station as a professional courtesy.  If she was here on holiday, then of course she wouldn't have notified them, but wouldn’t have been in uniform either; had she been working, or not? Giuseppe squatted down, his heels slightly off the ground, and felt the burn in his thighs. He wanted to get a closer look without touching the body or disturbing any potential evidence. One arm was awkwardly positioned under her body, but the other was outstretched, reaching towards the wash and the road beyond. Her dark hair was entangled with leaves and branches, fallen out of the customary bun she wore when in uniform.  The skin on her wrists and ankles was an angry red, apparently burned raw by a rough rope. Dried