CBN.com – Jacob Stein came to a
stop in front of the hilltop Laguna Beach home of Vincent LaBont. He cut
the motor and killed the lights. For the past two months, he had charted
the LaBonts’ every move to prepare for tonight’s job. In fifteen
minutes, he would have the item he’d come for wrapped in furniture
pads in the back of his van. Every detail had fallen into place so perfectly
it scared him. Its rightful owner had assured him that the ancient curse
had more than likely disappeared. But even if it hadn’t, with all
that rode on its return to Savoy, Stein had to swallow his uncertainty
and focus on his job. He glanced at his watch. It was only 7:55 p.m. He
had plenty of time.
Grabbing his clipboard and flashlight from the seat, he studied the attached
Thompson Movers work order. An alarm code was written across its face.
Folding the paper, he stuffed it in the top pocket of his crisp, white
overalls. He patted his breast pocket for the lump of his small tool kit,
retrieved his Tazer from the glove compartment, and clutched two furniture
pads and a cloth tie under his arm and opened the door. He knew no one
would be home before midnight, but he always worked prepared.
He chose to disguise himself as a mover, because workmen had been transporting
paintings in and out of the house all week. If any of the neighbors questioned
him, he would just shrug and say he was moving the chair down to the gallery.
But this was California. Neighbors didn’t pay much attention to
what was going on around them.
Stein strode briskly through the darkness to the porch. There was no
need to rush. Right about now Mrs. LaBont was probably serving caviar
and Dom Pérignon to their guests at young Paul LaBont’s inaugural
art exhibit. The young man would be explaining his work to prospective
clients, while the elder LaBont schmoozed the critics and gallery owners.
During his preparations for tonight, Stein had even dated their maid.
She had unwittingly helped him with the layout of their home, the family
schedule, and their habits. The challenge had been the prized alarm code.
He’d found her weakness: a low tolerance for alcohol. One evening,
after a bottle of expensive wine and too much dancing, she fell into a
sound sleep on the way home. Before carrying her into her apartment, he
rummaged through her purse for the code. Tomorrow she’d awaken with
nothing more than fond memories of the sweet taste of a bottle of Grand
Cru Chablis and a night of sweaty salsa dancing.
At the front door, he donned a pair of kid leather gloves. Picking both
locks, he entered the marble foyer. A tiny red light blinked, the alarm
beeped its forty-five second warning. He punched in the code. The light
turned solid green, the beeping fell silent.
He panned the dark rooms with his flashlight. The home looked exactly
as he expected—a miniature art gallery of valuable original art.
Before he came to work for the Duke of Savoy, he would have cleaned the
place out. But his only job tonight was the recovery of the chair stolen
during World War II from his boss. It was scheduled to leave Los Angeles
International freight terminal at midnight for Milan. He intended to have
it on that flight.
Moving cautiously up the stairs, he paused on the third-floor landing.
He played the thin beam in an arc. The space facing the street had been
turned into an elegant sitting room furnished with French antiques. Two
perfectly restored Louis XVI armchairs in yellow silk patterns with a
round matching table between them sat under the window. A bookcase with
glass doors from the same period stood against the wall. A Renaissance-period
cupboard nestled next to the bookshelf. But the chair he came for wasn’t
here. He breathed a sigh of relief. The stories the duke had told him
about the premature deaths of the ancient users of the chair had chilled
his bones like nothing he had ever heard. At first, he considered such
tales as fables until he saw art like da Vinci’s, created by men
who merely sat in the chair’s grasp. How could this be? Ordinary
men did not paint like the maestro. But then the fiery deaths of the men
who used the chair flashed through his mind. He had assured Stein that
simply touching it would not harm him. But could anyone be so certain?
He scoffed at his fear—it’s just a chair!
Turning around, he faced the ocean side of the house. The hallway ran
from right to left in front of him. Running the beam of light down the
hall to the right, he saw a door that he knew led to the studio near the
end of the corridor. Directly in front of him was the entrance to the
library, where the maid had told him the chair was kept most of the time.
Once inside the darkened room, he flipped the light switch.
The oblong room was lined with mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookshelves
on both walls, while the far wall was a solid window reaching up to the
vaulted ceiling. The room was bare of furnishings except for two pieces
at the far end of the expanse of a thick Oriental carpet that covered
a polished hardwood floor. The chair sat against the window, directly
facing him like a throne waiting for its king. To its left was a French
provincial writing desk with a lamp on it.
Stein imagined how many hours the LaBonts had spent sitting in the hand-carved
masterpiece of the maestro. He smirked, wishing he could see the LaBont’s
shocked faces when they came looking for a ride tonight. Would the curse
befall them once the chair disappeared from their home? The duke was certain
it wouldn’t. Stein had no way of knowing the truth of the matter,
nor was it a great concern to him. He had no intention of sitting in it.
The only reason he had agreed to retrieve it for the duke was his promised
share of the sale of a lost da Vinci that would miraculously be found
in the ancient castle of Savoy. The reward far outweighed the risk.
Crossing the room, he studied the chair. A few pre-World War II photos
and a copy of the only extant drawing of the chair from Leonardo’s
own hand found in the University of Madrid Library in the late ’60s
had not had not prepared him for its exquisite workmanship.
It was fashioned out of rich walnut and styled in the straightbacked,
rectangular style of a Roman throne chair, a popular style in da Vinci’s
time. He wanted to run his hand across the high back, covered with the
type of intarsia work Italian Renaissance craftsmen were famous for, but
he could only stare. The large square surface of the back was inlaid with
ivory and tortoise shell, designed into perfect miniaturized renditions
of four of his masterpieces. The Last Supper in the upper right-hand
corner, the Mona Lisa in the upper left, the Virgin of the
Rocks in the lower right, and the Madonna and Child in the
lower left. In the center was a rounded marble Pietra Duma, made of inlaid
marble, with a barely distinguishable figure of the maestro himself etched
in exquisite low relief. Arabesques were carved along each arm, ending
in a lion’s head.
Stein held his hand above the arm, then touched it with his index finger,
not feeling anything. He slowly rubbed his palm along the arm. There was
not one surface that hadn’t been decorated with intricate designs
by the maestro.
What would it be like to enjoy a tranquil moment in the chair? Painting
had been a passion of his when he was young, but he had soon learned he
was better at stealing it than creating it. He turned and started to seat
himself, then hesitated. Would its power suddenly seize him? Would he
become so distracted he wouldn’t be able to finish his job? The
chair had to make its way to Savoy tonight. But something called to him,
like a father to a long lost son. What harm would a moment sitting on
it do? He lowered himself into the deep, velvet seat and lightly rested
his hands on the lions’ heads. They were cool to his touch. A clarity
and simplicity of thought came over him, then a shot like a burning fire
rammed through his chest. He jumped out of the chair, landing on his feet.
He didn’t dare touch its smooth skin again. He took a deep breath
and calmed himself. He would bring the chair home to Savoy; he would help
sell the painting when it was finished, but he would never sit in it.
He covered it with the furniture pads then wrapped the cloth tie around
it like a belt. Grabbing the arms to lift it, he noticed a sparkle of
light glinting off a piece of glass. It was from the lamp on the writing
desk. It looked familiar. Setting the chair down, he stepped around to
the side of the desk. The lamp was about two feet tall with a clear, delicately
hand-blown globe seated on a brass base. Stein stooped to scrutinize royal
signets painted on two sides of the globe. He didn’t recognize the
signets as De Medici or Sforza, but the exquisite lamp could be from the
House of Este, which would indeed be a rare find. It appeared to be from
the same high-Renaissance period as the chair. If it were authentic, such
a piece would bring a handsome sum.
Picking it up to examine it, he supported the heavy brass base with both
hands. The large globe had originally been designed to hold oil, but had
been converted to electricity. From the looks of the frayed cord by his
feet, the alterations had been made some time back. Carefully turning
the piece over to see if he could find a craftsman’s signature,
he was disappointed that the bottom was worn smooth. Various guilds signed
their creations in different places, but Stein only had time for a cursory
inspection. He scolded himself for getting distracted.
Cradling the lamp with both hands, he turned it back over and shifted
his weight. As he placed the brass base gently on the desk, his right
foot came down hard and mashed the brittle electrical cord into the thick
carpet, half pulling it out of the socket. Blue sparks arced from the
plug, startling him. He gingerly backed off, only to find that he had
cracked the cord, nearly severing one of the double strands. He swore
under his breath and reached down for the plug; but again a blue spark
leapt from the socket, as if trying to bite him. Instinctively he recoiled.
He felt terrible about leaving the lamp in this condition, but he had
a schedule to keep.
Stein hoisted up the heavy chair and then froze in midstride when he
heard a door slam downstairs. It couldn’t be the LaBonts.
***
Marcella LaBont’s green Ford Explorer jerked to a stop in her garage
a little after eight o’clock. She had sped through the back streets
of Laguna, making it home in record time. Driving like a crazy woman wasn’t
one of her bad habits, but taking her anger out on the accelerator was
a poor substitute for taking it out on her husband.
She entered the house and slammed her purse on the granite kitchen counter.
She hadn’t wanted to leave Paul’s show early, but during an
inpromptu sparring match with Vincent, in front of all of their guests,
she started having the blurry vision with the flashing lights that presaged
a migraine. Now her head throbbed on the right side and soon it would
be pounding mercilessly unless she took her medication and lay down. Marcella
found her Fiorinal in the cabinet and chased down two tablets with a full
glass of water. Soon the pain would dissolve into a faint memory, and
nothing would wake her until morning.
She frowned at the thought of not being with her son during his hour
of triumph. Paul would learn to deal with the art critics on his own,
even though it was like throwing him to the wolves. The sooner he got
his share of bites and claw marks in his artistic hide, the better. She
feared their argument had embarrassed him on such an important night.
It wasn’t like her to blow up in public, but she just couldn’t
stomach Vincent’s rude remarks anymore.
Vincent will rue the day he said my watercolors are for Gypsies and
street vendors.
She kicked off her heels and then picked them up and trudged up the wide
staircase to the master bedroom to ready herself for bed. On the second-floor
landing, she dropped one of her shoes. Bending over to pick it up, she
thought she heard a familiar noise from upstairs—one of those squeaky
twinges of an oak floor plank when you stepped on it just right. But she
knew everyone was still at the show. She cocked her ear. Her head was
throbbing; maybe she was just hearing things. Turning toward the stairwell
leading to the third floor, she could see a glint of light coming from
upstairs. It wasn’t like Vincent to leave a light on.
***
The wrapped chair turned into a piece of lead in Stein’s hands,
but he didn’t dare move a muscle. He had heard someone tromp up
the stairs. Whoever it was, from all the noise being made, apparently
didn’t suspect he was in the house. The footfalls weren’t
heavy ones like a man would make. It was more like a woman or the young
LaBont. No, he thought, it must be LaBont’s wife. Paul wouldn’t
come home early from his own show. Stein had lost track of her sound,
and if he didn’t soon hear her closing doors then she might suspect
something. Fear always froze people. He’d been in homes too many
times when the owners came home. These situations could get out of hand
quickly if he wasn’t careful. Whatever happened, he did not intend
to leave here without this chair. If she started up the stairs to the
third floor, he’d have to act fast. He was glad he brought his Tazer.
***
On the second-floor landing, Marcella could see light slanting out of
the library door. She had left around lunchtime today and movers had been
in and out of the house all day. Anyone could have left it on. She stood
perfectly still and the house took on its customary quietness. It was
probably just a settling noise she periodically heard. Her head continued
to pound. She had to get ready for bed before her medication kicked in.
Once in the master bedroom on the second floor, she changed and settled
under the covers. With the darkness caressing her like a warm blanket,
she could feel the Fiorinal kicking in. She smiled at Paul’s enthusiasm
over his successful show. It reminded her of her passion for painting
that had dried up to an almost unnoticeable trickle over the years. She’d
made the choice not to paint any longer for the sake of her marriage.
She had concluded long ago that Vincent couldn’t stand anyone competing
with him in his own house. That was what made her so proud of Paul tonight.
He had stood tall and handsome, basking in his artistic accomplishments.
He was well on his way to becoming his own person and an accomplished
artist.
Tomorrow she would go back to her not-so-secret studio in the Gillespie
Gallery and continue her painting. Marcella smiled in the darkness. Vincent
wouldn’t like it. She would figure out what to tell him if she had
to sit in front of her workbench all day. The pleasing thought of painting
again, like a tonic for her troubled soul, helped her drift off into a
deep sleep.
***
Stein thought his arms would explode, sweat dripped down his forehead,
stinging his eyes, but he stood like a statue even after he heard a door
close. It sounded like she had gone into her bedroom; he waited to see
if she came back out. He would stand there until she went to sleep if
he had to; but if she came home early, anything could happen. He had to
get out quickly. Tiptoeing across the library, he hesitated at the top
of the stairs. All was quiet. He took the stairs one at a time. The second-floor
landing was vacant. He hustled noiselessly down the stairs to the first
floor. She had set the alarm, so he couldn’t open the door without
it going off. He set the chair down, punched in the code, and the light
blinked green.
Once outside, the cool breeze chilled his sweat-soaked body. Bundling
his load into the van, he secured it with tie-downs so it couldn’t
move. In the driver’s seat, he checked his watch: 8:26. He was ten
minutes behind schedule. His next stop was LAX.
He fired up the engine and drove away with the casualness of a man heading
down the hill for a leisurely evening of dinner and drinks. The tension
from his close call drained away, but he wouldn’t be able to completely
relax until the chair was crated and on its way home to where it had spent
nearly the last four centuries— in the castle of Savoy. With its
return, Stein was certain, the genius of Leonardo da Vinci would make
him fabulously wealthy.
***
In the third-floor library, a spark from the damaged lamp cord smoldered
in the wool carpet, filling the room with smoke. It crept up the wall
of books, making its way toward the smoke detector high up on the vaulted
ceiling. Though the detector was new, it was too high in the dead-air
space close to the peak of the vault to speak its warning.
The fire below devoured the green wool yarn, then the tan, finally the
delicate flower embroidery, all the way to the other end of the library.
It gained strength from the wood floor underneath, eating through five
coats of varnish. The floor burst into a sheet of flames, leaping up the
walls of books, consuming paper and ink.
The thick, noxious smoke slipped under the library door and curled its
way down the stairs. The stream sought for openings under doors along
the second-floor hallway. It crawled under the master bedroom door, and
continued its trek down the long hall. When it reached the smoke detectors
on the hall ceiling, they both went off with a wail.
As Marcella slumbered, a black stream of hot air wrapped itself around
her bed in the spacious master bedroom. She tossed fitfully, agitated
by a disturbing dream. Paul’s show was a great success, and she
drove to the bank to deposit the receipts. Entering the bank, her ears
stung with the nerve-wracking metal jangling of an alarm. The bank manager
approached her; an addled look contorted his face. Wringing his hands,
he asked why she was there. Marcella’s chest tightened, she labored
to breathe. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm. Her body dripped
with sweat. She struggled for air. The bag of money dropped to the shiny
speckled terrazzo. Checks and bills floated around the room. She tried
to run. But a paralyzing fit of coughing came over her.
Hacking and choking, she jolted awake from her deep sleep. Furiously
she gasped for air and then screamed. Instead of a fresh draft of air,
a dark finger of hot smoke shot down her throat, scalding her as if she
had swallowed a cup of boiling coffee. Clutching her throat and clamping
her eyes shut, she knew she would die in her own bed unless she remained
calm. Groggy from the Fiorinal, she could hear the unmistakable roar of
fire above. She rolled off the mattress onto the floor, wrapping the covers
over her head, and crawled along the floor toward the door. She fought
to ignore the searing pain in her chest.
Keep calm. Breathe slowly. Oh, God, help me get out of here alive.
***
Paul LaBont didn’t know which was brighter, the gleaming moon that
hung full and silvery over the Pacific Ocean or his future as an artist.
Promptly at eleven, his first art exhibition had closed. Not too much
later, he and his father rode home along Pacific Coast Highway, the spring
air cooling Paul’s flushed face. He knew few artists enjoyed such
attention on their first show as a professional.
“Some show, huh, Dad?” Paul asked, smiling. He brushed his
hand through his black hair and smoothed it down.
“I’ve never seen a first show sell out like that,”
Vincent said.
“Even that Cubist portrait sold.”
Paul propped his elbow on the window frame and let the air ruffle his
shirt-sleeve. He glanced over at his father. Vincent’s gray eyes,
usually full of energy, looked tired, with deepening lines down his cheeks
and creeping crow’s feet around his eyes.
“It surprises you people like different styles, doesn’t it?”
“Nothing really surprises me anymore. It’s just …”
Vincent nervously smoothed down his mustache.
“You don’t understand why someone would do a portrait in
any style other than classical, huh?”
The road wound through a series of hairpins as it climbed the home-filled
hillside.
“Don’t knock me for sticking to what’s worked well,”
Vincent said with firmness in his voice.
Paul stared out the window at the glassine ocean, its iridescent waves
crashing on the white sandy beach below. The view of the Pacific expanded
north and south as scattered blinking lights on the water blended with
the star-studded sky. Tonight wasn’t the time to pick a fight. He’d
put off talking to his father all week about his plans, and now was as
good as time as ever to tell him that he was moving out of the house on
Monday. “You’re the best there is at portraits. That’s
why all the big people come to you. But doing portraits all the time in
the same old way just isn’t for me.”
“Don’t lose your perspective because of the flattery of a
few modern art critics.”
“I know all that. I just don’t need any more lectures about
art theories.”
“You did enough experimenting in college; it’s time to grow
up. Your abilities are superior to sentimental beach scenes or splashing
paint on a canvas with a spatula.”
Paul jerked his head toward his father. “So, is that what you said
to Mom that made her stomp out of the show?”
Vincent gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You knew about her
studio at the gallery, didn’t you?”
“I think she’s a talented painter. She loves watercolors.
I don’t understand why she has to do it secretly.”
“I never said she has to do anything secretly. All I’m saying
is that with the talent our family is blessed with, why not concentrate
on its highest and best use?” Vincent tapped the steering wheel
with the palm of his hand as he spoke.
“Why not concentrate on what you enjoy?” Paul said. “Watercolors
are what Mom enjoys. What’s the big deal?” He fought the urge
to tell his father that he was tired of classically composed portraits.
He was tired of princes and princesses, senators and congressmen. He was
tired of shaking their hands and listening to their egotistical stories.
He wanted to paint anyone besides the rich and the famous, their bratty
kids, and their stuckup wives.
As soon as I get home, I’m packing my bags and leaving. I’m
not taking this anymore.
“The big deal is,” Vincent said, turning to Paul with a confident
grin, “we can accomplish what lesser talented artists will never
achieve.”
Paul had heard this argument so many times. He didn’t think his
father would ever see things differently. It was time for him to get out
from his father’s prodigious shadow and the sooner the better. Now
he just needed to break the news.
“I saw you talking to Richard Kraemer for a long time. What did
he want?” Vincent asked.
“He’s hosting some shows at his gallery in San Francisco,”
Paul said, wondering how much of the conversation he should share with
his father. “He was looking for landscapes.” He rested his
arm on the open window and waited.
“So what did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d do it. He wants me to send at least fifteen
canvases by the end of April.”
“The Crown Prince of Kuwait is coming into town in April. You promised
to help me out. He wants portraits of all his wives.”
“Fine! But they’ll be the last of any classical portraits
I’ll paint. And I plan on keeping my commitments to Richard Kraemer.”
Vincent gave a short guttural laugh.
“Don’t start telling me this is just a phase and I’ll
grow out of it. I’m not saying I’ll do landscapes the rest
of my life, but I want to do this show with Kraemer.”
“So do it,” he shot back, shrugging his shoulders.
The car rounded another curve and the top of the hill came into view.
Now’s the time to stand up. I’ll work with him, but not
for him. “Dad, I’ve decided I’m going to move …
hey, what’s that?” Paul asked, observing a glow in the sky
above the row of houses along the rim of the hill. “Stop the car!”
The Mercedes jerked to a halt in the middle of the deserted road. Paul
squinted out the window. Flames dancing against the dark sky illuminated
the top of the hill. One of the houses lit up like a giant bonfire silhouetting
the row of expensive homes along the moonlit ridge.
“Dad! That’s awfully close to our house.”
He punched the accelerator and the Mercedes responded smoothly through
the tight turns.
Paul kept the home in view, as the car zigzagged up the hill. The sight
of the burning home looked like an iridescent torch against the starry
sky. He shivered thinking about his mother. He knew she was upset when
she left. She had done so much for him, and tonight she had outdone even
herself. He hoped she wasn’t in one of her deep sleeps because of
her migraine medicine.
Paul clutched the dashboard with both hands as the Mercedes roared up
the winding road.
***
The wicked taste of ash lay thick on Marcella’s tongue. With the
comforter over her head, she crawled toward the door. The smoke stung
the soft lining of her throat. The hollow beat of her pulse throbbed through
her temples as she clawed her way on all fours across the room.
Vincent, where are you when I need you?
The Fiorinal made her feel confused. She had to fight the urge to simply
lie down and go back to sleep. Groping blindly, she reached out with her
hand, wanting desperately to feel the doorframe. If she took an innocent
wrong turn, she wouldn’t have the energy to find her way out. She
kept imagining herself rolled up in a fetal position in the closet; or
a falling, fiery beam smashing her, turning her body into warm ash. But
most of all she could taste death in the chalky air rushing up her nose
and into the back of her mouth.
God, help me find the door.
Hesitating for a moment, she reached her hand out to touch the wall,
but she only waved at the air. With her lungs ready to burst, she lowered
her face to the carpet and gulped a breath of relatively fresh air. She
opened her eyes to get her bearings. A burning sting shot through her
eyeballs. The air was a poisonous, murky soup. She kept creeping forward
until her head hit the wall. She slid her hand along it, feeling relieved
once she ran her hand up the molding of the doorjamb.
Is this the door to the hall or to the closet?
She leaned the top of her head against the door. Her stomach ached. Her
arms cramped, her lungs felt seared, her head woozy. Fearing she would
faint before she reached the hall, she straightened herself up and lunged
frantically for the brass knob. She yanked her hand back, her skin stung
by the heated brass. Wrapping her hand in the comforter, she tried again
to open the door. It slipped beneath the smooth cloth. Forcing herself
to stand, she wrapped the cloth around the knob, turned it, and swung
the door open. An impenetrable wall of swirling smoke confronted her.
Is this my closet or the hall?
Reaching out both arms, she thrashed the air blindly. Not touching any
clothes, she became convinced it was the hall. Are the stairs to the right
or the left? Why can’t I remember? She dropped to her knees. With
her lungs on fire, she crawled out into the hall. Gasping short breaths,
her arms buckled every time she leaned on them. Her legs felt like she
was dragging two lead weights. The roar of the fire above her grew louder.
When she reached the stairs, she planned on lying down and sliding headfirst
to the bottom.
I just need to get to the first step.
Every movement brought more agony to her body. The possibility she wouldn’t
see Paul and Vincent urged her on, even as every sinew of her body pleaded
with her to just lay down, wrap herself in hot smoke, and let it take
her away. It would only take a long silent moment.
The stairs have to be right here. I want to be with my family.
Putting one weary hand out, she expected to feel the first step leading
to her salvation. Instead, she hit a wall.
What’s this?
Running her hand across it, she felt the edges of a door.
It’s the linen closet—at the far end of the hall. I went
the wrong way. I’ll never make it back to the stairs! Oh God, I
don’t want to die. Help me.
Her head filled with a fuzzy noise like a staticky radio, she started
to faint.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Please save me.
In anguish, she dropped her head to the carpet and sobbed. Then a gentle
surge of energy came over her. It felt as if she had been given a sip
of ice-cold water. Thankful for the tiniest of miracles, she lifted her
head and she shrieked for help into the thick
night.
***
When the Mercedes skidded out of the last turn to their street, Paul
saw flames licking up the side of their home from a top story window.
His father floored the accelerator, rocketing the car up the road, then
slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop in front of their home.
Jerry Martin, their neighbor across the street, ran up to the car. “I’ve
already called 911,” he yelled as they scrambled out of the car.
The smell of their burning home permeated the air. The fire popped and
crackled as it ate through the top story.
“Where’s Marcella?” Vincent shouted to Jerry.
“She must be inside,” Jerry yelled, following them onto the
front lawn. “The fire department will be here in a few minutes.”
“If we don’t do something now, she’ll be dead in a
couple of minutes,” Vincent said, nearly screaming. “Look
at those flames.” Vincent lunged toward the front door.
Jerry hustled in front of him and blocked his way to the house. “Wait
one more minute. They’ll be here.” Jerry put a consoling
hand on Vincent’s shoulder.
“Dad, we have to do something now!” Paul yelled, coming up
behind his father. The noise of the engulfing flames was deafening. Sirens
sounded in the distance. Vincent stared at Jerry with a clenched jaw.
He pushed his neighbor out of the way and ran to the house. Paul trailed
behind his father.
Vincent unlocked the door. A wave of heat and black, toxic smoke blasted
them as they stormed into the house. They both stopped at the foot of the stairs. A thick river of black smoke poured
down from the second floor. They whipped out their
handkerchiefs, covered their mouths, and started up the stairs.
The heat threatened to suffocate Paul as he followed his father. It pierced
his clothes as if he didn’t have anything on. The smoke
clawed at his eyes, the hot air in his nostrils and lungs felt like he
had swallowed a pincushion. With his handkerchief clasped to his mouth,
Paul and Vincent found their way into the master bedroom.
“She’s not here,” Paul yelled, grabbing his father’s
arm.
“Check her closet,” Vincent shouted. “I’ll check
mine.”
Crouching low, Paul crept into his mother’s walk-in closet. He
crawled around in the pitch-black and was convinced she wasn’t
among the clothes and shoes. He met his father back in the main bath area.
“She couldn’t have gone far. She has to be around here somewhere,”
Vincent said.
A faint cry came from the hall.
“That was Mom.”
They ran back to the door, dropped to their knees, and peered down the
hall. They couldn’t see through the black smoke.
“I can’t see anything,” Vincent said.
“She must have turned the wrong way,” Paul said in his father’s
ear. He began coughing and couldn’t stop.
Vincent grabbed his shoulder. “You go back. Tell the rescue people
where we are.”
“No way. I want to stay with you,” Paul protested, still
choking.
“This is no time to argue.” He pushed Paul out the door,
toward the stairs.
Paul reluctantly crawled away.
***
Vincent watched his son disappear into the smoke. He then plunged blindly
on all fours into the hall.
It didn’t take long before he felt Marcella’s lifeless body.
Vincent cradled her in his arms and headed to the stairs. He didn’t
see any signs of life, but he stopped looking at her face to concentrate
on where he was going. At the top of the stairs, he felt for the first
step with his foot. For a second he turned his head and tried to penetrate
the thick gloom flowing down the staircase from the third story.
The chair, he thought.
He couldn’t think about it right now; he had to get Marcella to
safety. He struggled carrying her down the stairs. He never realized how
hard it was to carry a limp body. Once he was outside, the fresh air hit
him as if he had dived into a bucket of ice water. He laid her gently
on the grass.
A paramedic slapped an oxygen mask over her face. Another one opened
Marcella’s nightgown, began to attach electronic leads to her chest,
and then listened to her heartbeat with a stethoscope. “She’s
breathing.”
The voice of a doctor at a local trauma center barked over the radio
asking for readouts of her vitals from the paramedic’s instruments.
Vincent lay on the lawn beside her, gasping for breath. Another paramedic
rushed over and gave him an oxygen mask. Paul came beside him, a mask
strapped to his face. They both lay side by side taking long pulls of
cool, clean air. Vincent crept to her
side, with the mask pressed against his face, and held her hand tightly
while Paul worked his way to other side. Vincent bent over and kissed
her forehead. “Whatever happens, I love you,” he whispered.
Another paramedic came over, put his arm around Vincent, lifting him
to his feet, and guided him out of the way. “You’re a real
hero, Mr. LaBont. You saved her life.” The blond-haired man patted
his back reassuringly.
Vincent found his son. “I want you to stay with your mother. Don’t
leave her. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Aren’t we going together? What are you going to do?”
he asked with a raspy voice.
“Please, stay with your mother. I need to talk to the firemen and
see what can be saved.” He motioned toward the just arriving
firemen running hoses and carrying ladders. He stared into Paul’s
eyes. “I’ll come down to the hospital as soon as it’s
under control. Stay with her,” he said sternly.
They both watched as the paramedics loaded Marcella onto a gurney and
then slid her into the ambulance. Paul climbed in
behind her and glanced back at his father standing on the lawn facing
the house.
***
Paul watched as Vincent stretched the elastic straps of the oxygen mask
over his head and slung the canvas straps of the metal
cylinder over his shoulder. What’s he doing? His father
glanced around at the firefighters who were busy laying their hoses. All
of a sudden, he took off running for the front door of the house just
as an attendant slammed the back door of the ambulance in Paul’s
face.
“No!” Paul yelled, but one of the paramedics put a hand on
his shoulder and pulled him down into the seat as the ambulance,
sirens blaring, moved away from the curb.
***
Vincent dashed for the front door, past two distracted firemen setting
up their hoses, and took the stairs two at a time. He was
determined to find Leonardo’s chair before the house was flooded
with water. The fire seemed hotter now. The smoke stung his eyes with
a renewed vengeance. He breathed the cool oxygen heavily through his mask.
From the second-floor landing, he saw flames licking up the wall at the
top of the stairs. Sweat rolled off his scalp, stinging his
eyes. His heart skipped a beat when fiery debris crashed through the ceiling
at the end of the hall where Marcella had lain a few
minutes before.
He mounted the stairs cautiously, flames curling up the walls on both
sides of him. The heat and noise increased in intensity. The chair
has to be okay. It can’t be destroyed. He felt like his whole
body could flash into flames.
At the top of the stairs, he scanned the floor where his studio and priceless
chair had resided—his heart sank. The third floor had been transformed
into a naked darkened shell of itself—a massive skeleton with no
body, no soul, and no chair. The walls were gutted, the books disintegrated
into a heap of ashes. In places, the floor was burnt down to the joists,
the furniture nothing but smoldering ruins.
Vincent balanced himself on the top step at the edge of the landing.
As he stood, too stunned to move, staring at the spot
where his chair used to sit, he heard chopping on the roof, men yelling
to each other. Then a thundering crash as a section from
above caved in and smashed debris onto the floor a few feet in front of
him. Smoke and fiery embers plumed up, stinging his eyes. He teetered
backward, not wanting to be enveloped in the cloud of embers. He swung
his arms to regain his balance. Losing his footing, he reached out and
grabbed the flaming walls. Pain, like a thousand piercing needles, told
him he’d made a grave error. It shot through his hands, streaking
up his arms. He tried to move them but nothing worked, his heart beat
so fast it felt like it was going to explode.
He screamed long and loud.
As consciousness slid away, he seesawed back and forth, losing his hold.
He floated backward toward the sound of heavy footfalls and excited voices.
For an instant, through the gaping hole in the roof, he glimpsed a bright
star set in the inky sky. It sparkled brilliantly like a diamond on black
velvet reminding him of a distant hope that was now beyond his reach.
The tiny sparkle disappeared as if a curtain had been dragged over his
eyes. Not a shred of light penetrated his darkness.
Excerpted from Leonardo's Chair
by John DeSimone, Copyright 2005. Published by Cook
Communication Ministries.
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