Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (35 page)

He
hugged his mother then left without saying anything else, afraid he’d once
again lose control. Quickly covering the distance from his father’s chambers to
Dr. Heinrich’s lab, he took a moment to compose himself before entering.
Heinrich was changing the woman’s bandage when he entered.

“One
moment,” said Heinrich, the woman nodding, staring at him for a moment then
turning away.

“How is
she?”

“Her
wound is infected. She needs more care than I can give.”

“That
isn’t an option.”

“Your
father wouldn’t want her to die.”

Dietrich
glared at Heinrich. “My father is almost dead. I’m in charge now.”

Heinrich
took half a step backward, bowing slightly. “I understand.”

“The
authorities might be closing in on this location. Can my father be moved?”

“I
wouldn’t recommend it.”

“It may
become necessary. In fact, it
will
become necessary.”

“I’ll
make the arrangements.”

“I want
him and my mother moved as soon as you’re ready.”

“And
what of her?”

Dietrich
looked over at Laura Palmer, the wound on her stomach exposed and inflamed.

“If my
father dies, she dies.”

Basilica of Sant’Agostino, Rome, Italy

James Acton was almost giddy with excitement. The Vatican had
arranged to have several large, battery powered lights brought into the
catacombs, and once they had arrived, his slow progress had become rapid. With
a notepad and pencil he had mapped out the catacombs, his practiced diagramming
skills put to work as he sketched each section, indicating where the bodies
were and which ones were labelled.

Some were,
but many weren’t.

But that
hadn’t been his concern. He was more interested in discovering the organization
of the catacombs, if there even was one, and with many of the caskets engraved
with dates, especially the more “recent” ones, he was able to find the section
that appeared to have bodies from the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries,
the rest of the catacombs appearing to be much older, very little newer.

And that
had led rather quickly to his shocking discovery.

“Hello,
Professor.”

Acton
jumped, spinning toward the voice to find Terrence and Jenny coming down the
stairs, Terrence in the lead with a hand held out behind him to help Jenny. He
was torn between continuing with what he had just discovered, and his curiosity
in how things had gone.

He chose
to be polite.

“Did
everything go well?”

They
both nodded. “I won’t be charged with anything.”

Acton
breathed a sigh of relief at Jenny’s words. “Thank God! That must be a huge
weight off your shoulders.”

She
nodded, though she still seemed uneasy.

“Something
wrong?”

She
shook her head, a little too quickly. Terrence pointed at the wall where
several lights were focused. “Did you find something?”

“Yes!” He
beckoned them toward his find, only minutes old. “Look at this.” In one of the
alcoves dug out of the wall there was a casket, many centuries upon centuries old,
but still intact. “There’s a nameplate here that identifies the occupant.”

“It’s
been scratched out,” said Jenny, leaning closer, the awe in her voice
suggesting whatever had troubled her a moment ago had been forgotten. “As if by
a nail or something.”

Acton
nodded vigorously. “And look. That’s an L, isn’t it? And a G?”

Terrence
got up close, squinting. “I think so. That’s definitely an L. The rest of it I
can’t tell.”

“None of
the rest of them have had their nameplates tampered with like this. Now mind
you I haven’t looked at them all, but I’ve looked at probably a hundred, and
this is the only one I found so far.” He pointed at a box of tools he had
brought down earlier. “Grab me the chisel and hammer.”

Terrence
complied, handing the tools over to Acton who quickly went to work, sticking
the chisel between the top of the coffin and the side, gently tapping until he
was in about an inch. He lightly pushed up on the handle, the top of the coffin
rising slightly. As he worked around the edge, the work painstakingly slow, he
had to resist the urge to simply rip the top off and get at what was inside, the
repetitive, deliberate task leaving him with far too much time on his hands to
think about Laura and the race against time he was in.

Please
God, take care of her!

“Give me
a hand here.”

Terrence
grabbed one end of the top, Acton the other, and they both gently rocked it
back and forth until it came loose, thankfully in one piece, Acton a desperate
husband but also a trained archeologist with a duty to preserve the past.

Unlike
those barbarians in Mosul.

He felt
a spark of anger ignite at the thought of anyone arrogant enough to believe
they had the right to destroy artifacts thousands of years old because they
felt they insulted their religion. How insecure in your beliefs did you have to
be to feel a sculpture, handcrafted five thousand years ago, was an affront to
your God?

He shook
his head.

I
don’t have time for this.

He
crouched down, squeezing himself into the alcove barely big enough to hold the
casket, looking inside. A breath caught in his throat at the sight. The body
inside was intact, at least from all outward appearances, it carefully wrapped
in bandages from head to toe, the skeletal structure plain, any tissues long
having decayed.

“Flashlight.”

Somebody
slapped one in his outstretched hands, his eyes not leaving the body, something
having caught his attention. He flicked the light on and shone it near where
the hands appeared to have been clasped over the person’s chest.

“These
bandages have been opened.”

“What?”
Terrence poked his head in, trying to get a look.

Acton
pointed. “Look, see the discoloration here? These wraps are newer around the
chest.” Acton reached over and gently ran his fingers along the bandages,
tracing a rib then pausing when he felt something else, something on top of the
ribcage. Running his finger along the straight, hard line, he came to a corner
and continued to trace out what felt like a stone rectangle.

A stone
rectangle gripped in the person’s hands.

“I think
it might be some sort of tablet.”

“Underneath
the wrappings? Why would they do that?” asked Jenny, she having replaced
Terrence.

“They
might have been trying to hide something, or it might have been some sort of
private message, meant for God, not to be seen by man.” Acton shrugged,
stepping back from the alcove and stretching the kinks out. “Whatever the reason,
we need to see what it says, if anything. Clearly somebody discovered it, probably
when transferring the body to this newer casket, cut through the wrappings,
read it, then rewrapped the body. I’m guessing that’s when they discovered this
wasn’t Saint Longinus.”

“Then
let’s do it!” Terrence began to root through the toolbox, triumphantly holding
up a set of scissors.

Acton
held up his hand. “I promised Father Albano I wouldn’t disturb anything without
talking to him first.” Acton turned and rushed up the stairs, the excitement of
imminent discovery fueling his tired frame, his worries over Laura almost
pushed to the background as he sought out the elderly priest.

“Father,
I think I’ve found him!”

Father Albano
looked up from some papers he was reading, momentarily startled. “Found who?”

“Longinus.
Rather, Tiberius.”

Father Albano
rose, a smile on his face. “Congratulations, my son. But all you have done is
find the body of a man you weren’t looking for, if I’m not mistaken.”

Acton
smiled. “True, but it may contain a clue as to where the real body is.”

“How
so?”

“We
think there’s a stone tablet concealed underneath the bandages used to wrap his
body. It may contain information that could lead us to him.”

“How can
you be certain?”

“Without
examining it, I can’t.”

“What
are you asking me, my son?”

“I need
your permission to cut open the bandages so we can see the tablet.” As soon as
the word ‘cut’ was spoken Father Albano’s jaw dropped and Acton knew he was
going to have a problem. He pressed forward, reminding the priest of why they
were here. “My wife’s life is depending on my finding Saint Longinus. I
need
to see that tablet.”

Father Albano
shook his head slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before
returning to Acton’s. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow it. To desecrate the dead,
it’s…” He seemed at a loss for words, instead shaking his head. “I…don’t…know.”

“Perhaps
if we consulted a higher authority?”

Father Albano
looked up. “God?”

Acton
smiled. “I was thinking someone a little closer to Earth.”

Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France

“It’s still a huge area.”

Reading
nodded as he, Dawson and Niner looked at the overlay provided by the CIA
showing the cellphone tower’s range based upon topographical and meteorological
data at the time of the call. “Over three thousand square kilometers.”

“That’s
insane.” Niner stepped away from the screen, grabbing a bottle of water from
the kitchenette. “There’s no way we can cover that area, it’s like looking for
a needle in a haystack.”

“True,”
said Dawson, “but this waiting is driving me nuts.”

“I don’t
know how we’re going to narrow this down any further.” Reading leaned back and
stretched. “But I’m going crazy as well. Jim is counting on us to find his wife
before it’s too late.”

Niner
sat back down. “He seems to be making progress.”

“Yes,
but in his own words he’s simply found out why they once thought this soldier
was buried there. He hasn’t actually found him.”

“And may
never,” mumbled Dawson who was bent over, his head hanging low between his
knees, apparently deep in thought. He suddenly sat upright. “We have the phone
number that made the call, right?”

Reading
nodded.

“Let’s
call it.”

“Wouldn’t
that just tip them off?”

Dawson
shook his head. “No, we have equipment that can ping the phone just like the
cellphone companies do. It will force the phone to send a signal back. We can
then try to trace that signal.”

“Won’t
it just lead to the same cellphone tower?”

Niner
leaned forward, excited. “No, he’s right. We wouldn’t be tracing the cellphone
tower signal, we’ll be tracing the phone’s signal. If we can pick up that
signal we’ll be able to narrow the area significantly, and maybe even pinpoint
the damned thing.”

Reading
smiled. “I’m not even going to ask if we’d need a warrant to do this officially.”

Dawson
shrugged. “No warrants in our business unless we’re operating on US soil.” He
looked at the Eiffel Tower through the window. “We’re not in Vegas, are we?”

“Nope,”
replied Niner.

“Then
that must be the real one.”

Niner
grinned. “No warrants.”

Reading’s
phone vibrated on the table. “It’s Mario Giasson.” He swiped his finger,
putting the call on speaker. “Hi Mario, it’s Hugh. You’re on speaker with our
friends
.”

“Understood.
We may have a problem. In fact, we
do
have a problem that our friends may
be able to help with.”

“This is
White. What’s the problem?” asked Dawson.

“Terrence
Mitchell received a text message from our suspects. It says ‘You failed to
report your discovery. Next time she dies.’ They refuse to talk about it,
essentially claiming they’ve been told Jenny Mitchell will be killed if they
do. They also claim that the suspects seem to know everything they’re saying.”