Spilled Blood

attractive. This was a woman who peered into a microscope by day and danced in the bistros at night. This was a woman whose animal lust was obvious even in the still life of old photos. This was a woman who must have made her husband laugh, scream, bellow, cry, and groan with pleasure.

This was a woman who had been eaten by a demon. Gambling. A woman who had sold her soul to the devil to escape.

Florian.

Marco was in the pictures, too. A young man. An old man. Years of pictures. Eating, drinking, dancing, singing, playing, traveling, sleeping, waking. He hung on his wife as if she were his treasure, which she clearly was. One of the pictures showed them kissing on a crowded sidewalk in Rome, and their passion for each other was so obvious that it made Chris want to run home to Hannah and sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom. That was how much Marco Piva loved Lucia Causey. That was the void in his soul that she left behind.

The man who took her away would suffer.

He found Marco’s bedroom, which was small and dark. The heavy curtains were closed. The furnishings were in cherry wood. Religious icons in gold leaf graced the walls. He saw heavy metal crosses and paintings of Christ. Marco’s bed was a twin, and he’d made it neatly before he left, creasing corners into the blanket and smoothing the floral drape on the pillows. A Bible lay open on the bed, and a necklace of silver-and-black rosary beads was spread across the pages. On the floor, he could see the indentations on the carpet of a man who had spent hours in prayer.

Chris leaned closer to look at the Bible. Marco had highlighted the verses of Genesis 6:5 to 6:7.

And God saw that man’s wickedness was great on the earth and that his imagination and thoughts were nothing but evil.

And God repented that he had created man on the earth and was grieved to his heart.

And God said, I will destroy man from the face of the earth, man and beast, every creeping thing.

‘Marco,’ Chris pleaded aloud, as if the motel owner could hear him. ‘What are you doing, my friend? This isn’t the way.’

He followed the hallway to the cottage’s second bedroom, which smelled of cigar smoke. Ash sprinkled the floor. Marco had fashioned it as an office, with a roll-top desk, an old leather chair, and oak filing cabinets so stuffed with papers that the drawers didn’t close. There were photographs hung on the wall from Marco’s decades with the police in San Jose. Marco in a perfectly fitted uniform, his expression serious, his badge gleaming. Marco in a row with other officers, all of them with their hands neatly folded behind their backs. Above the desk, Chris saw four framed graduation certificates, too. They were all identical, from different years over the past decade, all signed by the Director of the FBI and the Secretary of the Army. Marco had gone through explosives training at the Hazardous Devices School at the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsfield, Alabama.

Marco wasn’t just a cop. He had spent his career in the Bomb Squad.

Chris felt his breathing quicken. He was suddenly conscious of every second that passed. He opened the drawers of the desk and piled papers in front of him, and everything he found made him sick.

Engineering diagrams.

Orders for electronics. Tools. Switches. Wires. Chemicals.

Web print-outs on underground sources of explosive materials. Comparisons of yield. Bomb designs.

Photographs.

Marco had taken hundreds of photographs in a single location, and Chris recognized the innocent stretch of roadway, not even a hundred yards across. People who drove across it didn’t even know what was built below them. It was no more than three miles away, upriver. It was the cork in the bottle controlling the flow of millions of gallons of water into the valley.

The Spirit Dam.

Marco had analyzed the dam in exhaustive detail. He’d taken close-ups of every gate, valve, and pipe. He’d obtained the structural blueprints and marked notes on the elevation, cross-sections, and contour lines. He’d mapped the points of maximum stress. He’d studied the FEMA flood plains for southwestern Minnesota. He’d consulted with security experts and engineers by letter and e-mail, using his bomb-squad credentials to seek help from outsiders in assessing the risk of an IED to the integrity of the dam.

Instead, unknowingly, they’d helped him design a bomb to blow it up. Destroy it. Bring a wall of water down on every creeping thing.

Sometimes choices are easy. Sometimes they are hard.

Chris bolted through the cottage. He had to get to the dam. He had to stop Marco, but even as he ran, he knew in the pit of his gut that the effort was futile. Marco was already there. He had chosen his path of revenge. He was unstoppable.

As he passed through the dining room, with its odd settings of plates, crystal, wine, and flowers, he spotted a slim envelope tucked under one of the lace placemats. He stopped long enough to pull it into his hand, and he was startled to see his own name written across the envelope.

Marco was way ahead of him.

Chris opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper inside. He knew what he would find. It was a note of death, and yet it made him cry. It was the last note from Aquarius.

TO THE ATTENTION OF

MR. CHRISTOPHER HAWK

IF YOU ARE READING THIS, MIO AMICO,

YOU KNOW THE TRUTH

I AM SORRY

WHAT IS DONE CANNOT BE UNDONE

SOON I WILL BE WITH LUCIA

SOON JUSTICE WILL BE MINE

I WILL PRAY THAT YOU AND YOUR FAMILY ARE SAFE

NOW YOU HAVE YOUR CHANCE

TO START OVER

MY NAME IS

AQUARIUS

50

Marco Piva staggered backward as the bullet tunneled through his body, splintering bone, searing and tearing muscle, and splattering blood, tissue, and skin across his back as it exited into the cold air and spent itself in the dead grass beyond the river. Inhaling, he felt knives cutting open his chest. He coughed, spraying red-tinged spit onto the white cotton of his T-shirt. Blood pulsed through the hole in his torso with the pumping of his heart. Even so, he managed to laugh. His lips folded into a smile. He’d expected deceit from Florian Steele.

‘Bastardo,’ he whispered.

Florian kept the gun pointed at him. ‘Who are you?’

Marco focused beyond the agony of every breath. His T-shirt had a small breast pocket, and he slid out a photograph. It was partly soaked in blood now. He stared at his beloved Lucia, in one of the happiest times of their lives. A decade earlier, they had spent a month in his hometown outside Milan. For four weeks, they had gotten drunk and made love like teenagers.

He stared at her face. Her eyes making love to the camera. Her lips blowing him a kiss. That was the image of her he wanted to take to the grave. That beautiful memory, inked into his brain.

He handed the photograph to Florian, whose eyes flicked to the picture in confusion. It took him a moment to recognize her. She looked different in the lab, her hair pinned, her glasses on that perfect sharp nose. The scientist