Genesis
GENESIS
Tom Fox
New York • London
Copyright © 2015 Tom Fox
Cover image credits: Rome, Getty 166834940/Seal, Corbis JB008652/Man, Shutterstock 246889795/Sky, Shutterstock 84527278/Script, Shutterstock 66365716
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ISBN 978-1-68144-155-9
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Tom Fox
Also by Tom Fox
About the Book
Dedication
To The Reader
Preamble
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Keep Reading for an exclusive extract DOMINUS
About Tom Fox
Tom Fox’s storytelling emerges out of many years spent in academia, working on the history of the Christian Church. A respected authority on that subject, he has recently turned his attentions toward exploring the new stories that can be drawn out of its mysterious dimensions. GENESIS is the electrifying prequel to Tom’s debut thriller, DOMINUS which will be available in June 2015.
By Tom Fox
Genesis (e-novella)
Dominus
Exodus (e-novella)
About the Book
GENESIS is Tom Fox’s adrenalin-fueled novella introducing Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro on their first case together.
In the center of Rome, a man of God fires a gunshot that echoes throughout the Santa Maria in Trastevere church.
The shot misses its intended target, police officer Gabriella Fierro, by a mere whisper. But it’s clear her investigation is on the brink of exposing a truth that some will go to untold lengths to keep hidden.
Now journalist and partner Alexander Trecchio must work quickly to uncover the conspiracy, and to save Gabriella, before all hell breaks loose.
For Emily
Because she asked so nicely …
To the Reader
To those whose appetites crave all: the sturdy weight and form of the novel, the punctuated pleasure of the short story and the in-between tension of the novella, this small gift of the latter.
There are some for whom the long is short, and those for whom the short opens up new worlds. What you hold in your hands is a plaything of the imagination, a flight of curiosity. A mystery that leads to other things. One can only hope, of course, it will not be too dangerous.
May this dallying in the genre that Stephen King once called “an ill-defined … literary banana republic” bring a bit of mystery and pleasure, to keep you suitably haunted until we meet again.
Preamble
Before we begin, two facts.
Fact #1: There are more stories told, novels written and conspiracy theories forged about the secret world of the Vatican than any other religious body in the world.
Fact #2: Just occasionally, there are good reasons why.
Chapter 1
The present day: Santa Maria in Trastevere church, Rome: 9:01 p.m.
The foundations of the ancient church seemed to rattle. A single gunshot tearing through such a vast sacred space would not normally create such an effect, but in the sheer surprise of the moment it was as if even the world beneath it shook. High above, thin windows paned in colored glass let in a serene light, so discordant with the misplaced shock of the gun’s report. The illumination highlighted flecks of dust that danced through the enormous expanse of air, lurching into new swirls as the bullet exploded out of the old Beretta M1951 and raced toward its target.
Lining the ceiling, the stoic faces of centuries-old saints shimmered from the mosaicked apse. Their features, glorious and transfigured, were unmoved by the murderous scene playing out beneath their feet.
When the bullet found—or rather, missed—its mark, the basilica’s serenity became chaos. The nine-millimeter slug slammed into a carved pew, shattering the polished surface and sending shards of hand-crafted artistry, well worn from centuries of bottom-buffing, flying into the air. The great crunch of fragmenting wood joined the report of the handgun. The recent silence was transformed into a cacophony of noise.
The woman standing at the edge of the pew stiffened in instantaneous terror, but she did not move. Shock kept her feet glued to the marble floor.
This was the last thing she had expected. She wasn’t prepared, and her senses were unable to interpret the reality unfolding before her.
The next shot smashed into the marble at her feet, so close that her toes felt the buckling of the stone and she had to reach out to the damaged pew’s edge for balance. Already weakened by the first gunshot, the pew gave way. Gabriella Fierro bolted her legs into a broader stance to keep herself upright.
This is wrong. Everything she was seeing, it was—inexplicable. The gun was aimed at her. And the sight of the man who held it was more than inexplicable: it was impossible.
He was dressed in black, at his neck a thin band of white. A priest. Trying to kill her.
In a temple of God.
The recoil of the second shot threw the man off balance. He was no junior priest, that much was obvious on sight. From the grandfatherly wrinkles on his face and the silver-white hair combed straight back around the crown of a mostly bald head, the cleric looked well into his sixties. The gun wobbled in his grip, a sign that wielding it was not a familiar experience. But something had transformed this elderly priest into a creature driven to kill.
Yet what was exemplified on the wavering man’s features was not anger. It wasn’t retribution. The overwhelming emotion, identifiable like a signed portrait, was fear.
More than fear; it was terror.
He fired again, his loose grip causing the third round to fly wide of the mark. Gabriella Fierro heard a small candle stand behind her rattle at the impact, then topple to the floor.
“Stop!” she shouted out at last, her voice fighting to be heard over the echoing repo
rts. “What the hell are you doing?”
She had come here to be helped by this priest, and hopefully to help him in turn. He was the connection she’d been waiting for—a man willing to fill in the blanks on all she’d been struggling to learn over the past days. Someone who could open doors no one had yet been able to peer through. In return, she knew she could provide him with assistance. Protection, if things ever went to trial. And he’d been so willing when they’d spoken on the phone. He’d enthusiastically, almost energetically, promised his cooperation.
Something had obviously changed.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried out again. “I’m Gabriella Fierro. I’m here at your request!”
The words did nothing to stem the panic in the old priest’s eyes. Sweat dripped off his nose in an almost constant stream. He held the weapon with both hands now, though it still wobbled in his grip.
“Miss Fierro,” he finally said, the words forced out of chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry. So sorry!”
Gabriella held up a hand, but even as she did, another bullet blasted out of the priest’s gun. This one came so close she could feel the air bend around her fingertips, the round soaring within a centimeter of her little finger. An instant later it exploded into the wall far behind her.
“Forgive me!” the old priest cried, his voice this time a shattering roar. “God forgive me for what must be done!”
Gabriella, panicked and confused, shouted back, “You’re in control here. You don’t have to do this!” She took a deep, gulping breath. “I’m not your enemy.”
This seemed to give the priest a moment’s pause. The gun sagged slightly. His look turned pitying. “Enemy or friend, it makes no difference. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
Gabriella realized she knew next to nothing about this man. Nothing of his motives, nor the drive that had led him to this moment. That was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come here like this. Not alone.
She opened her mouth, but the priest removed a hand from the gun’s grip and held it up, palm open and outward. The gesture silenced her before a word could escape.
“Don’t say anything else, Miss Fierro. There’s no point.” He gazed anxiously around. Far above, the glistening mosaic of the Virgin enthroned seemed to sparkle with a heavenly light. A different pain contorted his features.
“Just tell me this,” he said. “Are you a believing woman?”
The question brought immediate dread. Something about the words, otherwise so predictable coming from the mouth of a priest in the midst of a glorious church, terrified Gabriella.
“I … I am.” Despite her panic, she could see no reason to conceal the truth. Perhaps a point of common ground would calm the cleric.
A brief glint of compassion crossed his features. Then, just as fast, his former fear and hardness returned.
“Then I suggest, Miss Fierro, that you make your peace with God. I will give you thirty seconds.”
Chapter 2
Three days ago: San Cristóbal, Venezuela: 8:14 a.m.
To change history, one need not rewrite the whole of it. One need only understand its cycles, its beginnings and ends. Then, when an end is on the horizon, it is sufficient to craft a new beginning to follow it. A beginning in one’s own image. Where a man himself can stand at the edge of a new dawn, in the beginning, and speak into creation existence as he desires it to be.
Such was the philosophy that had inspired the man in the black shirt for decades. It inspired the man who led him. It inspired those who followed, as it had for many years.
But most of all, it inspired him now. He was at that threshold—they all were. At an end, visible on the horizon, inviting him to step in and give history a new beginning.
Some might say they lived in paradise. That they had everything men could desire or want. Power. Funds. Authority. But their paradise was surrounded by gates, and the man in the black shirt could not abide those gates. He often imagined Adam sitting inside the garden so long ago, gazing out. Longing. Coming to the realization that freedom only extended as far as the first barred wall.
Surely Adam, like he himself, would have wanted more.
Others, many others, would have balked at the opportunity they now had before them. Blanched at what it required. But what end didn’t demand a little nudge, if it was to play out to man’s advantage? What new day didn’t mandate the close of the old?
What new life came without death?
It was a premise of faith as old as his religion itself.
And so it would be death that was required. It was time they all accepted that. Standing in the shadows wasn’t enough. Too much was at risk, too few gains were being made. In the months ahead, the whole landscape of the world was going to change, and if they didn’t have a hand in shaping it, they—and all they stood for—would simply be swept away.
That could not be allowed to happen. He simply would not permit it.
The bustling streets of San Cristóbal, Venezuela, appeared to blur around the man in the black shirt. Bells chimed from churches and cathedrals he could not see behind the high-rise apartment blocks and office buildings. Yet their sound welcomed him. It beckoned him. The bells seemed to sing the words his people had made their own. “In the beginning … In the beginning …”
A new beginning was coming. Death was calling.
It was time to answer.
Chapter 3
Three days ago: 1:46 p.m.
“That, my dear, is for you.”
The innocuous statement came to the woman who received it as a smack across the face, precisely as intended. The words, innocent as they sounded, were an insult. And they were delivered with a poison only the truly spiteful could muster.
A thin folder slapped down on to a metal desk. The man behind it, Sostituto Commissario Enzo D’Antonio, had been Gabriella Fierro’s supervisor since she’d started with the Polizia di Stato two and a half years ago. The Deputy Commissioner wore a disgruntled look across a broad and unconscionably ugly face. The expression was as loathsome as his skin was red. It was the only look Gabriella had ever known him to wear in her presence, and it stood in stark contrast to her own appearance—a respectable height, straw-brown hair falling to her shoulders, and hazel eyes glowing out beneath naturally accented eyelids. A well-toned body wasn’t quite concealed beneath her carefully laundered suit, and the slope of her jawline appeared almost artistic. If she wasn’t entirely a beauty, at least in any obvious way, she was certainly close enough to make her boss look the beast. She stood tall and confident, though everything about the encounter was designed to make her feel insignificant.
The file lay in a reused manila folder, its edges marked with oily fingerprints and frays, looking meager on the tired desk. Gabriella flipped it open to the first page, her heart already sinking. The moment it was open, disappointment was all that stared up at her.
She didn’t know why she should react like this, or react at all. She had expected nothing but what she’d found: a dossier outlining a pitifully uninteresting case—the kind of drivel given by top brass to a junior officer he doesn’t care for. At all. For whom he wishes nothing other than her eventual disappearance, preferably shamed, humiliated and beaten into a satisfyingly soul-crushing sense of complete annihilation.
Just the kind of working relationship one always hoped to have with a boss.
Her words finally came in a monosyllabic thrust. “What’s this?” She tried to hide the tone of displeasure from her voice.
“Your next assignment,” D’Antonio answered. The edges of his eyes glinted with the tiniest of smiles. He seemed able to sense the displeasure in Gabriella’s heart. He was visibly satisfied at the sentiment.
“My next … assignment,” she repeated, leafing through the scant pages the folder contained. They were printed on the cheapest A4 paper the station could requisition, flimsy and almost transparent. The paltry stock seemed fitting in the moment, given the throwaway nature of the data it was being used to co
nvey.
INQUIRY CASE NO. 266101-AE/R.
A question of—wait for it, Gabriella’s mind mockingly inserted—minor financial mismanagement at a local parish. She scanned the overview with dulled disinterest. Minuscule amounts of funds were potentially being misappropriated by a parish council at an unimportant, unknown church in the east of the city.
She peered up at D’Antonio, “This is my next case? This drivel?” This shit, she added silently. At any other moment she would have flung her right hand into the familiar gesture of the sign of the cross. Expressed verbally or not, profanities were not permitted to good Catholic girls, and since childhood she’d borne the habit of crossing herself every time she uttered one. But at this moment her anger intervened, and she kept her hands stoutly at her sides.
“Too good for a little bare-bones work, Fierro?” D’Antonio scoffed at her. He was a balding man, fat and pungent from habitually dismissing the cultural norm of a healthy ratio of days lived to showers taken. His face, as a consequence, always glistened with a thin sheen of disgusting sweat. And absolutely nothing in his demeanor strove to conceal his contempt for the woman before him. “There are officers I know who made their way to the top by starting with this kind of ‘drivel.’”
Gabriella clenched her hand into a fist in her pocket. Her fingertips wrapped around the plastic beads of a cheap purple rosary she always kept there. A gift from her grandmother many years ago—a thrift sale throwaway she treasured. The beads’ slightly beveled edges dug into her flexing grip.
“I’m not saying I won’t take the case,” she answered, “just that there are more useful things out there to be investigated. Situations that matter more than a few euros going astray in a parish bank account.”
“Once you’ve cut your teeth on the small stuff, Fierro, then I’ll talk to you about taking on the major crimes of Rome.” Sarcasm stuck to every consonant of D’Antonio’s response. Allowing it to drip through the air, he reached forward and flicked the file at Gabriella, forcing her to reach down and catch it before it flew off the side of the desk. Another act of flaunted superiority. He sat back, his chair reclining to a metallic thump, and folded his fat arms across his chest. His face was a satisfied glower. The conversation was over.