Prologuethe gift
Rome, Italy
The monster was holed up somewhere in the church, andthe agent knew he finally had him.
He removed his boots as quietly as he could andplaced them beneath the wooden table in the vestibule. Theboots were rubber soled, but even those could make some noiseon the marble floors. So far, the monster didn't know he wasbeing followed—as far as the agent could tell.
The agent had been chasing the monster for three years. Therewere no photos of the monster, no physical evidence at all. Catchinghim was like trying to capture a wisp of smoke in your fist. The forceof your action would cause it to dissipate and re-form elsewhere.
The hunt had taken him all over the world: Germany. Israel.Japan. The United States. And now here, Rome, inside a seventeenth-centurybaroque-style church christened Mater Dolorosa, whichwas Latin for "sorrowful mother."
The name fit. The interior of the church was gloomy. With hisgun in a two-hand grip, the agent moved as silently as possiblealong the yellowed walls.
A notice posted on the church door said it was closed to thepublic for renovations. The agent knew enough Italian to understandthat the four-hundred-year-old fresco on the interior domeof the church was being restored.
Scaffolding. Gloom. Shadows. It was a natural habitat for themonster. No wonder he'd chosen it, despite its being a sacredplace of worship.
The agent had come to understand that the monster knew noboundaries. Even in times of war, churches and temples wereconsidered places of sanctuary—safe havens for those seeking thecomfort of God during their darkest hours.
And as the agent made his way around the metal poles andunderside of the scaffolding, he knew the monster was here. Hecould feel it.
The agent was no believer in the supernatural; he did not claimto have psychic abilities. But the longer he hunted the monster, themore he found that he was able to tune in to his savage wavelength.This gift brought the agent closer than any other investigatorto catching the monster—but it came at a cost. The more hetuned his brain in to the monster's insanity, the more he lost touchwith what it was like to be sane. He had recently begun to wonderwhether his single-minded pursuit might soon kill him. He'd discardedthe thought.
His focus had returned when the agent saw the most recentvictim, just a few blocks away. The sight of the blood, the tornskin, the viscera steaming in the cool night air, and the marbledbeads of fat hanging from exposed muscles would later send thefirst responders outside to vomit. Not the agent, who had kneltdown and felt a thrilling burst of adrenaline when he touched thebody through the thick latex of his examiner's gloves and realizedit was still warm.
It meant the monster was nearby.
The agent knew he wouldn't have gone far; the monster loved to hide himself and enjoy the aftermath of his work. He had evenbeen known to secret himself within the scene while law enforcementcursed his name.
So the agent had stepped into the small courtyard near thevictim's body and let his mind wander. No deductive logic, noreasoned guesses, no gut, no hunch. Instead the agent thought: Iam the monster; where do I go?
The agent had scanned the rooftops, then saw the glitteringdome and knew immediately. There. I'd go there. There was not aseed of doubt in the agent's mind. This would end tonight.
Now he was moving silently among the wooden pews and themetal poles of the scaffolding, gun drawn, all of his physical senseson high alert. The monster might be smoke, but even smoke hada look, a scent, a taste.
The monster stared down at the top of his hunter's head. He waspositioned on the underside of a paint-splattered wooden plank,clinging to the gaps between the wood with his skinny, strongfingers and equally powerful toes.
He almost wanted his hunter to look up.
Many had chased the monster over the years, but none likethis one. This one was special. Different.
And somehow, familiar.
So the monster wanted to look at his face again, in the flesh.Not that he didn't know what his hunters looked like. The monsterhad plenty of surveillance photos and footage of all of them—at work, in their backyards, on the way to fill their vehicles withgasoline, bringing their children to sporting matches, and purchasingbottles of liquor. He'd been close enough to catalog theirsmells, the aftershave they wore, the brand of tequila they drank.It was a part of his game.
Until recently he'd thought this one was merely average. But then the man had begun to surprise the monster, making leaps noone ever had before, coming closer than anyone else. Closeenough that the monster had let the other hunters fall away,focusing in on the one photo he had of this one, staring at it andtrying to imagine where his weakness lay. But a photograph wasn'tthe same as real life. The monster wanted to study this one's facewhile he still tasted the air, gazed at his surroundings, drew itssmells into his nostrils.
And then the monster would slay him.
The agent looked up. He could have sworn he saw somethingmoving up there, in the shadows of the scaffolding.
The dome above him was a strange quirk of seventeenth-centuryarchitecture. It was fitted with dozens of stained-glasswindows that took all incoming light and shot it to the peak ofthe dome, as if exalting God with his own radiance. In the sunlightit would be breathtaking. Tonight's full moon gave the windowsan eerie glow, but everything below the dome, from thevaults down, was draped in dramatic shadow. A stark reminder ofman's place in the universe—down in the unknowing dark.
The dome itself was adorned with a panorama of heaven, withfloating cherubs and heralds and clouds, as if to taunt man evenmore.
Wait.
Out of the corner of his eye, the agent saw a flittering of whiteand heard the faintest pull of something that sounded like rubber.
There. Over by the altar.
This hunter is goooooood, the monster thought from his new hidingspace. Come find me. Come let me see your face before I rip itfrom your skull.
The silence was so absolute, it was almost a pulsing, living thing,enveloping the church. The agent moved swiftly, hand over hand,climbing the scaffolding as silently as possible, gun tucked in hisunsnapped side holster, ready to be drawn at a second's notice.The wood was rough and sharp beneath his searching fingers; thepoles felt dusted with motes of dirt and steel.
The agent slowly crept around another platform, climbinghigher now, looking for any kind of reflection or hint of the monster.But there was little available light. He took a quick, sharpbreath and lifted himself to another level, desperate to see overthe edge as he exposed his head and neck to the unknown. If onlyhe could see . . .
I see you, the monster thought. Do you see me?
And then he did.
The agent saw the monster's face for the first time. Two beadyeyes looking out from a blank visage—as if someone had taken ahot iron and pressed away all of its features . . . except for theeyes.
Then it was gone, scurrying up the side of the scaffolding likea spider ascending its webbing.
The agent abandoned stealth now. He tore after the monsterwith a speed that surprised him, pulling himself up the crossbeamsof the scaffolding and around the edges of the planks as ifhe'd been practicing on an FBI course back in Virginia.
There he was again—a glimpse of a pale white limb, whippingaround the edge of a platform, just two levels above.
The agent climbed even harder, faster, more frenzied. The monster was moving closer to the heavenly dome. But heavenwas a dead end. There was no way out other than the exitsbelow.
For the first time in decades, the monster felt true fear. How hadthis hunter sensed him? How was he so fearless as to pursue himup here?
The face of his hunter looked different now. This was no merelaw enforcement officer who'd followed a hunch and caught alucky break. This was something new and wondrous. The monsterwould have tittered with excitement if it wouldn't have slowedhis ascent.
For a glorious moment the monster had no idea what wouldhappen next. It reminded him of being a child. Just a few squareinches of pressure on his hunter's trigger and the right trajectorycould end everything. The monster was many things, but he wasnot bulletproof.
Will it end up here? Are you the one who will bring deathunto me?
The agent had him.
He felt the trembling of the wooden plank above him—thelast bit of scaffolding before the dome. The agent whipped pastthe last two crossbeams. He pulled his gun.
There he was—pressed flat against the uppermost plank. Amoment passed as the agent stared through the gloom into themonster's eyes and the monster stared back. What passed betweenthem was the length of a heartbeat, impossibly short andyet unmistakable—a primal recognition between hunter and preyin the climactic moment just before one claims victory and theother collapses in death.
The agent fired twice.
But the monster didn't bleed. It exploded.
It took only a split second for the agent to recognize the soundsof splintering glass and identify the mirror he'd shattered with hisbullet—no doubt meant to help the experts with their restorationwork. The mistake could have been fatal. But as he whippedaround to fire again he knew the monster was already gone, couldhear him smashing his way through a stained-glass window and outonto the rooftop of the church. Colored glass rained down, openinga gash under his eye as he lifted his gun and fired blindlythrough the jagged hole in the glass. The bullet hit nothing, soaredaway into the heavens. A scampering sound could be heard runningdown the outside of the dome . . . and then nothing.
The agent raced down the scaffolding, but in his heart he knewit was futile. The monster was loose on the rooftops of Rome, aninvisible tendril of smoke wafting up and away, nothing but thefaintest lingering trace left to prove he had ever really been thereat all.
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