“Can you come see me at the hotel?”
Marcus hadn’t recognized the number on his phone.
“How’d you get my number?” he asked.
“I asked Mikkel for it,” Celeste said.
He was alone in the living room of Villa Shibui, involved with his first after-dinner Scotch. Mickey was out, taking a walk on the beach, Noemi Pennestrì was clearing up in the kitchen, and the girls were upstairs with their Italian grandparents.
“Why do you want to see me?”
“It’s very important, Marcus. Please come.”
“You’re going to have to try harder than that.”
“I’ve had another vision,” she said. “It’s terribly urgent. I didn’t know why it was so important until Colonel Carter educated me.”
He heard Carter in the background, sounding like a parrot perched on her shoulder. “Tell him I’ve got to talk to him too.”
“Colonel Carter says—”
“I heard him.”
He looked out the window at the soft, evening light and at the fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue—Mickey had ordered in an entire case for him.
“Why tell me,” he said. “Why not talk to Mickey?”
“He told me to go through you on everything,” she said. “He values you greatly, you know.”
He resigned himself to the drive to Reggio Calabria. “I’ll come,” he said.
*
He saw the two of them near the rear, but not wanting to waste time, Marcus placed his drink order with the bartender on his way. The Scotch and ice arrived before they had gotten much beyond small talk. The young waiter laughed approvingly when Marcus ordered his next round before tasting the first.
“Got to like a man who likes his liquor,” Carter said, sipping a beer and munching peanuts. “Celeste told me it’s okay for me to go first with what I’ve put together. Kind of like the appetizer to her main course.”
“Entertain me,” Marcus said.
“Oh, I intend to,” Carter said. “Like I told you, my friend Antonio at CUFOM has been sorting through his databases at my behest, plus he put out a message to the Italian and European UFO community for any sightings that weren’t previously logged. I think I’ve got some really compelling data to share with you. Let’s start four years ago, specifically in the week preceding the abduction of the Andreason family. I’ve made a little PowerPoint presentation, if you’ll allow me.” Carter opened his laptop to the first slide, a map of Europe. “All righty,” he said, “as I understand it, you don’t know exactly what time the abductions occurred—could have been on the night of the twelfth or the early morning of the thirteenth.” Marcus nodded his agreement and Carter went on, “This dot over Brest in France represents a UFO sighting at 10:59 p.m. Here’s the video of the sighting, taken with a mobile phone camera by a teenager walking home from a friend’s house.”
To Marcus’s eye, it was a classic, small bright light flashing through the sky type of nonsense he’d seen countless times online, each time eliciting a yawn.
The next slide had a dot over the south of France.
“Now, at 11:01 p.m.,” Carter said, “an Air France pilot on descent to Lyon at an altitude of approximately eight thousand feet, radioed air traffic control that an ultra-bright yellow light flashed across his field of view at an extraordinary speed. He wanted to know if there were any missile launches in the vicinity. He was informed there were none.”
The next slide had a dot over Corsica.
“At 11:03, we’ve got another video, this one taken by a German tourist on northern Corsica, smoking a cigar on his balcony. Here it is.”
It was another fast-moving orb against a black sky, with the German providing a soundtrack of his shouting at his wife to come look at what he was seeing.
“That was the last report that night to make it into CUFOM’s database,” Carter said, “but look at this.”
The last slide was a view of Europe connecting the dots and projecting the line across the Tyrrhenian Sea where it intersected with Reggio Calabria.
Carter dinged the screen with his finger and said, “A minute or two later, the UFO would have been right smack over their house. Now, what do you think of that?”
Marcus had already finished drink number one and was searching the room for the waiter and drink number two. “Fascinating,” he said.
“Well, I can tell you’re not impressed,” Carter said. “Admittedly it’s circumstantial, but, hell, I think it’s pretty damned compelling.”
“Are you impressed?” Marcus asked Celeste who had been quietly sipping at her drink. She was wearing her low-cut red dress again, and he was trying hard not to look at her chest.
“I’m not an expert like the colonel, but I find it quite interesting,” she said. “I have a completely open mind. One must, in these circumstances, no?”
“Must one?” Marcus asked.
“Okay, last piece of info from CUFOM,” Carter said, “and I think it’s a winner too. The night the girls returned, a group of Italian university students were leaving a pizzeria in Naples close to midnight when one of them looks into the sky and sees a bright object moving fast toward the nearly full moon. By the time she whips out her phone and hits record, it’s seen here, in this video as a dark object streaking across the yellow moon.”
He clicked on a file and played the video.
“Now, here in slow motion, the object passes over the moon and now it’s bright yellow against the night sky. You can see that it’s the same color and shape as the UFOs in the videos from four years ago, and now, in normal motion, you can see it zips along at a similar incredible speed. Now, I maintain, that it is a distinct possibility that Victoria and Elizabeth Andreason were on that UFO when this was shot, just moments before they were returned to their house just up the road from here. That’s all I’ve got, but I feel like we’ve moved the needle on the investigation. And while I’ve got you, I want to say that I still haven’t gotten my interview with the girls.”
“A few things have taken priority, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I have noticed and it’s perfectly reasonable that I’ve gotten bumped to the back of the queue, but I just don’t want to get bumped out of existence. Will you please talk to Mickey?”
Marcus breathed out a couple of yeahs. A new drink arrived and he gave it his full attention for a few moments. “So, that was the appetizer,” he said. “I think I still have some room for the main course.”
“Yes, okay, my turn,” Celeste said, “although the colonel also has some things to say about the main course. What I find remarkable is that the two of us, a military man and a psychic have found common ground and are aligned on matters of importance. My vision this afternoon came about in the most ordinary of ways, although this is a common pattern with me. I had taken my lunch with the colonel in a small café nearby and when I returned to my room, I washed my teeth. While I was putting away the brush, I was seized by a powerful image that left me standing in front of the sink, motionless, for some considerable time. I was in a dense, dark forest, in an elevated place. It was the same forest in my earlier vision of Jesper—I told you about it on the plane. Initially, I had the sense I wasn’t alone; however, I could not tell you who I was with. I most certainly did not know why I was there until the thought came to me: they are coming back.”
Marcus knew what she was going to say, but he was content to play along. He was here already. He was in a bar. He had a drink in his hand.
“Then it came to me again, even stronger,” she said. “They are coming back. I was looking up at the dark, dark sky, searching for something, anything, to show itself in the blackness, and then I saw it. At first it was a tiny speck of light, like a star in a distant galaxy. Then it became larger and larger by degrees, and as it got closer, it got brighter and brighter, until the forest floor was bathed in pure light. My eyes hurt terribly and I was unable to shield them properly, so I closed them tightly. When I opened them again, I saw Jesper first and then Elena, standing close to one another, awash in white light—pure, white light. That’s when another thought flashed through my consciousness. Actually, it was more like signage, telling me the time and the place. Friday night. Torriglia. Monte Prelà. Then all was normal again. I was looking into the mirror. The toothbrush was in my hand.”
“What’s Torriglia?” Marcus asked.
“I didn’t know until I had words with the colonel. My goodness, the significance soon became apparent!”
Carter shifted in his chair and only then did Marcus see that he was wearing cargo shorts that exposed massive, hairy legs.
“I don’t mind telling you,” Carter said, “that I almost fell over when she mentioned Torriglia. For Italians, it’s like saying Roswell to an American. It is ground zero for UFOs in this neck of the woods. I guess you’ve never heard of it.”
“Guess not,” Marcus said.
“Then you won’t have heard of Pier Zanfretta either.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Well, Pier Zanfretta is a fellow—he’s still alive as far as I know—who was abducted by aliens in the north of Italy, at Torriglia, in December 1978. More accurately, that was the first time he was abducted.”
“Poor guy got snatched twice?” Marcus snorted.
“More than twice. It’s a saga, to tell you the truth. Let me walk you through it, ’cause I’m sure Mickey’s going to have plenty of questions. He’s an inquisitive fellow, as you are well aware. The Torriglia incidents have some similarities and some differences to the Andreason case. For instance, Zanfretta wasn’t abducted by Grays. They were Reptilians. On the other hand—”
Carter’s mobile phone rang. He saw the ID, swore a little, and asked Marcus to hang on a second so he could take the call. He wandered off and returned with an exasperated look.
“I’m on mute,” he said. “It’s my daughter. Her husband, a sorry-ass turkey just got arrested. Again. I’ve got to deal with this, but here’s a printout I made in the business center about the Zanfretta case and Torriglia. If Mickey needs to speak to me, you know where I am. Ciao, as they say around here.”
Marcus took a peek at the small stack of paper and excused himself to use the men’s room. When he got back to the table, another Scotch was waiting for him.
“I didn’t order this,” he said.
“I did,” Celeste said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He saw it was a double. “If I drink this, I won’t be able to drive for a while.”
She smiled slyly. “Perhaps, that was my plan.”
He decided that it was now okay to have a more direct look at her figure. The tight red dress and red lipstick were killers, but why was she trying to slay him? He had maybe twenty years on her, and while he was given to understand by lady-friends that he was a pretty good fifty-four, her motives were suspect. That said, did he really care? He hit the new Scotch hard and in short order, another one mysteriously appeared, courtesy of the grinning waiter.
*
Her room didn’t seem like it had been occupied. It looked as pristine as a hotel room looks on check-in, and as he stood by the bed, swaying from the drink, the part of his brain that remained sentient told him that she had squirreled away all her personal belongings before coming down to the bar. That smacked of premeditation.
It became clear soon enough that she wanted to be the aggressor in this interlude, and he didn’t put up a struggle. If it worked for her, it worked for him. In any case, his shoulder still hurt like hell, which limited his mobility. She shed the red dress the way a snake sheds its skin and pulled him by his belt buckle onto the bed. He wasn’t altogether sure how competent his performance was, but before long, she was moaning and that got to him—in a good way. When they were both spent, he felt for something to cover their nakedness, but since they were lying on top of a made bed, he came up empty.
“Here,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “Let’s get under.”
He was a little more sober now and it began to sink in. He’d slept with a woman he didn’t particularly care for. No, it was stronger than that. He was deeply suspicious of her and couldn’t figure out her angle. Were these visions of hers part of an elaborate scam? Was she about to hit Mickey up for a big payday? Was this new Torriglia thing a lead-up to the big ask? And why did she feed him liquor and lead him by the nose to her bed? Was that a bribe for him to convince Mickey she was the real deal?
“A penny for your thoughts?” she said. She was on her side, her head propped by an arm. He turned his neck and saw the tattoo on her wrist.
“That’s all they’re worth,” he said.
“Oh, I doubt that. You’re a man of uncommon substance.”
“Good to know.”
“And you’re an excellent lover.”
“Better to know.” He was eager to change the subject. “Why the Big Dipper?”
She laughed. “My tattoo? I got it when I was quite young. I always liked the way you can use the Big Dipper to find the North Star.” She ran the sharp nail of her pointer finger lightly across his chest. “You make a line from the two outer stars in the cup of the Big Dipper, then there’s the North Star.” She stabbed her finger into his breast, just hard enough to make him twitch. “It’s important to know where the North Star is, don’t you think? It centers you and guides you through life.”
He didn’t answer. His persistent dull headache had become a painfully throbbing one. His doctor had neglected to tell him that sex could make post-concussion symptoms worse. When he started to massage his eyes and temples, she picked up on it and took over, working the muscles of his head and neck.
“You’ve been through a lot,” she said. “You were very brave.”
“Also known as very stupid. I shouldn’t have chased after the ambulance.”
“I think your training took over. Mickey told me you worked at the CIA.”
“People have a lot of misconceptions about that line of work. It’s mostly sitting at desks and staring at computers.”
“You’re not James Bond?” she purred.
“I’ve got his drinking down to a science, but that’s about it.”
“I disagree. You also ravish the ladies.”
“My recollection is that you were the one doing most of the ravishing.”
Her laugh was small and sexy. “I couldn’t help myself.”
It was time to transition to an interrogation. “Why me? I’m not quite old enough to be your father, but, still.”
She abruptly stopped the massage and propped herself on pillows to sit up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I offend you.”
“Would you mind getting me a water from the minibar?” she asked.
He was aware of her eyes on his naked body.
When he was back under the sheets, she said, “I had a complicated relationship with my father.”
“We can change the subject.”
“No, it’s okay. We are adults. We can talk. I told you he was Lebanese, no? He was a dominant man, very aggressive in his approach to life.”
“An alpha male.”
“Yes, alpha for sure. When I was young, I was in awe of him—you know, the size of him, his incendiary temperament, always like a volcano about to erupt, his thick, black moustache and the way he went to work cleanly shaved and returned for dinner with heavy stubble. His life force was strong.”
“And your mother?”
“A beautiful woman, especially in her youth—always quiet and reserved. They were both Christian, but she was more religious.” She got quieter. “She was afraid of him. He could be brutal with her. Also, tender, but it’s the brutality I remember most acutely. It was the same with me. When he was happy, when things were going well with his business, he was tender. When he had trouble with his business, he was brutal.”
“Physically brutal?” Marcus asked.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “But he didn’t beat me.”
He got the drift. He didn’t want the confession—he wasn’t a priest. But it came anyway.
“I was abused. Sexually abused. I left home when I was sixteen, but I’m afraid the lifelong damage was done. He died of a heart attack when I was twenty. It was all very difficult and tragic, especially for my poor mother who did not have a good life before or after, to be honest.”
He tried to find something positive to say. “You seem to have done all right.”
“Perhaps my childhood created the environment, a certain sensitivity that led to fostering my psychic abilities. In that sense, I did do all right. I have been able to earn a living, helping people, doing what comes naturally. But what I’ve told you is also a long answer to your question of why me? Because of my complicated relationship with my father, I’ve always been attracted to men who are older than me. I saw a psychiatrist some years ago and I have a complete awareness of my situation. Of course, the men must be attractive.”
“I’m glad it’s not just my age,” he said with an edge.
“Please don’t be offended, Marcus. I’m comfortable with you, so I am able to be totally honest.”
“Honesty is good,” he said.
“Will you tell Mickey about my vision? About Torriglia?”
“It’s my job to pass along information, regardless of what I think about it. He’s a grown man. He’s the one paying the bills. He’ll make his own decisions about what to do with it.”
“Will you promise not to put up a roadblock?”
“Like I said, he makes up his own mind.”
She reached over and began stimulating him. “Will you promise?”
His head was clearer now. The effects of the booze were waning.
“Yeah, I promise.”
He rolled onto her and this time, at the risk of making his headache worse, he was the aggressor.
*
When he returned to Villa Shibui, the house was dark. The Carabinieri let him through the gate and the late shift of Mickey’s private security, verified him before he could get inside. He sat at the kitchen table with a big glass of water, donned his reading glasses, and browsed Carter’s printouts on the Zanfretta abduction.
On December 6, 1978, Pier Zanfretta, a twenty-six-year-old night watchman was on a routine patrol at the empty country house of one of his clients in Torriglia, north of Genoa. Suddenly, his car died and its radio and lights failed. He saw lights in the garden and, believing there were thieves, he exited the car with his pistol and flashlight. In the garden, he felt something touching his shoulder, and when he wheeled around, he saw, according to his testimony, “an enormous green, ugly and frightful creature, with undulating skin, no less than ten feet tall.” Then he saw a huge triangular UFO hovering over the house and was pulled into the craft after he was blasted by a searing wave of heat. A couple of hours later, Zanfretta was deposited back at the house where he contacted his dispatch by radio, babbling incoherently about being assaulted by non-humans. When other watchmen from the company arrived, the normally sober family man was agitated and inconsolable. The Carabinieri were summoned and they discovered imprints of three-meter wide horseshoes in the frosted grass of the garden, presumably from the ship’s landing gear. Their subsequent investigation found over fifty residents of Torriglia reporting a bright illumination in the vicinity of the country house at the precise time of Zanfretta’s abduction.
In the midst of the media hysteria, experts were called in. Zanfretta was put under hypnosis by a renowned specialist whereby he described details of his time on board an alien craft and communicating with the giant creatures using translation devices. He was probed and examined and was told that the aliens wanted to talk to humans and would return at a later time in larger numbers.
That wasn’t the end of things for Zanfretta. Back on patrol three weeks after the first incident, he was abducted again near the mountainous Scoffera Pass and was returned after some hours in a confused and agitated state. When the Carabinieri arrived, his Fiat, though bathed in cold rain, was said to be as hot as if it had been baking under a hot sun. The car was also surrounded by fifty-centimeter-long boot prints. He was once again hypnotized and revealed an account of his captivity on a spaceship, where, among other details, the aliens fired his pistol into a panel to test the destructiveness of Earth weapons. A prominent neurologist examined Zanfretta and declared that he was in a state of shock but perfectly sane.
The furor died down for several years until Zanfretta was abducted four more times in 1979 and 1980 in and around Genoa, firmly establishing the region as the UFO capital of Italy, and Zanfretta as an icon. But now, Marcus was skimming and yawning, glossing over the details of the remaining papers in Carter’s Zanfretta file. He got the picture. Torriglia was hallowed ground for alien-abduction types.
“How come you’re up in the middle of the night?”
Mickey was in his bathrobe.
“Just doing a little reading,” Marcus said.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Mickey said. “I’m going to have some cereal. Reading about what?”
Marcus was going to tell him about Celeste’s new vision and Torriglia in the morning, but now was as good a time as any. He kept his promise. It was difficult, but he played it straight, giving Mickey the facts devoid of the snarky commentary he could have interjected. Mickey munched and listened and when Marcus was done, he took his bowl to the sink and washed it out.
“I know what you must be thinking about all that, Marcus. I appreciate your being an honest reporter and keeping your opinions to yourself. This is on me. If there’s even the slightest chance of getting Jesper and Elena back, it’s imperative we act. We’re going to Torriglia on Friday.”