The Inquisitor's Key (28 page)

Hugh had plenty to choose from. Shelved deep beneath the university’s football stadium were roughly five thousand human skeletons: more than one thousand modern donated skeletons, plus several thousand Arikara Indian skeletons from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—bones I’d excavated from the Great Plains many years before as the Army Corps of Engineers dammed rivers, creating new reservoirs and flooding Indian burial grounds. The Arikara bones certainly weren’t two thousand years old, or even seven hundred years old—more like two hundred to three hundred—but they had a gray patina that made them look convincingly old, and they bore no dental fillings, orthopedic devices, or other traces of modernity. I’d given Hugh detailed specifications: The skeleton had to be an adult male, roughly five and a half feet tall, and free of obvious skeletal trauma—except for the gouges I instructed Hugh to inflict on the wrists, feet, and lower left ribs to simulate the wounds of Christ, or the wounds of our Jesus Doe. We were performing a bizarre sort of crucifixion—a postmortem, postdecomp crucifixion, surely the only one of its kind ever done. With this counterfeit Christ, I realized, I was joining the ranks of forgers, taking up a
new trade: the trade in fake relics. With luck, the decoy skeleton would arrive in thirty-six hours, and while it might not fool a forensic anthropologist, it might fool a crazed televangelist.

It was risky. But we needed time. We needed bones.

And we needed a miracle.

I FLIPPED THROUGH THE PILE OF PAPERS ON THE DESK
for the third time, but it still wasn’t there. My panic and my blood pressure were skyrocketing. I’d been back at Lumani for only a couple of hours, and already I felt caged and crazy. Descartes had told me to sit tight while he and a search team combed the palace for the bones, but I couldn’t bear the confines of my room any longer. I desperately needed to talk to someone, but Jean and Elisabeth were nowhere to be found, and I couldn’t find the phone number I wanted.

Finally I thought to look under the desk, and sure enough, down by the baseboard, hidden by the desk’s square leg, I found the card with the number scrawled on it. My hands shaking, I dialed it.

“Sorry I missed you,” announced a cheerful Irish voice, “but leave me a wee message and I’ll ring you back.”

I cursed silently; after the beep, my words poured out like
water through a collapsing dike. “Father Mike. It’s Bill Brockton. The American anthropologist. We met a few days ago at the library. I don’t know if you’re still in Avignon, but if you are, I’d appreciate a call.
Really
appreciate a call. I…something terrible has happened, and I don’t know who else to call. I…So if you’re still around, please call me.” After I hung up, I realized I hadn’t left my number, so I called back and left that.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. I stared at the display. The number looked familiar, but I was having trouble placing it; on the third ring, I realized that it was the very number I’d dialed only moments before. “Father Mike, is that you?”

“Hello, lad. Yes, it’s me. And yes, I’m still here. I’d been planning to leave this morning, but I had a drop too much last night and I missed my train. So here I am, at your disposal. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and the serendipitous hangover is one of his most mysterious.” His voice grew serious. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, lad?”

“I do. But not over the phone. Could we meet somewhere? Talk in person?”

“Of course. There’s a lovely little church two blocks east of the Palace of the Popes. It’s Saint Peter’s, but the Frenchies insist on calling it Saint Pierre.”

“I don’t know, Father Mike. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a church.”

“You didn’t let me finish, did you? Right in
front
of Saint Pierre’s is a lovely outdoor restaurant with green umbrellas. L’Épicerie. It’s French for ‘grocery,’ or so I’m told. Somewhere nearby, I suppose, is a greengrocer’s called Le Restaurant. Could we meet at L’Épicerie? I’m starving, and to tell you the truth, lad, I could do with a little hair of the dog, too, if you wouldn’t mind terribly.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t even drink, and I’m tempted to have a few. How soon can you be there?”

A YOUNG COUPLE WAS JUST SITTING DOWN AT THE
last of the umbrella-shaded outdoor tables when I arrived at L’Épicerie fifteen minutes later. In the restaurant’s doorway, I noticed Father Mike talking earnestly with the headwaiter. The maître d’ was shaking his head stubbornly, but suddenly he paused and seemed to listen more attentively. He leaned closer; he smiled; finally he nodded. Father Mike smiled, too, and shook the man’s hand, and a moment later the young couple—now the indignant young couple—was being ejected from their table, and the waiter’s profuse apologies did little to smooth their feathers. They glared at Father Mike, who shrugged, smiled sheepishly, and pointed heavenward before taking one of the vacated chairs for himself and offering the other to me.

“That was impressive,” I said. “The power of the collar, or the gift of the gab?”

“Neither, lad,” he grinned. “The allure of the euro. I slipped the bloke a twenty.”

“You’re very worldly, for a priest.”

“I wasn’t always a priest, remember. Besides, I’m just doing what the Lord told us to do.”

“Jesus said something about bribing maître d’s?”

“In a manner of speaking, lad. He said to be as crafty as serpents and as innocent as doves.”

“I’d say you’ve got the first part down cold, Father Mike.”

He laughed, but then his face turned solemn. “But we’ve got more serious things to talk about, haven’t we, now? You’ve gotten more bad news, I’m thinking. Something more about that undercover fellow?”

It took a moment to realize that he wasn’t talking about me. “No, no, it’s not Rocky. Not at all. It’s Miranda.”

“Forgive me for being thick, but who’s this Miranda?”

“She’s my assistant. My graduate assistant. She’s here for the
same reason I am—the old bones I mentioned to you. But she’s in terrible danger, Father Mike.”

“What kind of danger?”

“She’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped, is it? Are you sure? I’ll bet she’s just off on a lark with some French lad she’s taken a fancy to.”

“The kidnapper called me, Father Mike. And he let me talk to her. She sounded scared, and he’s threatening to kill her.”

“Dear Lord in Heaven. Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, of course, but if this guy finds out, he’ll kill her for sure.”

“Well, let’s pray he doesn’t find out, then. How much ransom money is it he’s wanting? Is it a huge lot? Can you get your hands on it?”

“It’s not money. He doesn’t want money.”

There was a silence before he asked the obvious next question. “Then what does he want, Bill Brockton? You don’t have to tell me if it’s too personal. But I’m thinking you want to.”

I considered keeping the secret, but the idea made me angry, I realized: It had been Stefan’s secrecy—his damnable secrecy and lying—that had caused all this trouble in the first place. “The bones.”

“Excuse me? I’m not quite following you, lad.”

“He wants the bones. The goddamned, stupid,
sonofabitch
bones.”

If he was shocked or offended, he didn’t show it; all he said was, “These must be some mighty important bones, then.”

“Yes. And no. People think they’re important—one guy’s already been killed over these bones—but they’re not as important as Miranda is.”

“Well, then, it’s simple, isn’t it? Just give him the bloody bones.”

“I wish I could. It’s not that simple, Father Mike.”

“Ah, well, then. It usually isn’t, is it? If it were, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, would you, now? So how can I help you, lad?”

I shook my head. “I don’t even know. Just by listening, I guess. You do a lot of that, right?” He nodded and leaned forward, so I talked. I talked while the waiter brought beer for Father Mike and water for me; I talked while plates heaped with food appeared before us, and empty plates got cleared away. Starting with Miranda’s unexpected invitation and sudden departure to Avignon, I told him almost everything that followed: my own hasty trip; Stefan’s secrecy and paranoia; the facial reconstruction and its uncanny similarity to the Shroud of Turin; the carbon-14 results and the way Stefan had rigged those; finally, the murder of Stefan.

When I described the death scene, the priest gave a soft whistle. “Crucified? You’re not feeding me shite here, are you, lad?”

“No shite. Honest truth. It was terrible.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m gobsmacked I didn’t hear about it through the vine. Priests are terrible gossips—much worse than old women. Just shows how out of touch I’ve been while on me holliers.” He took a long pull on his beer—his second beer, or maybe his third; he had a quick elbow, and I wasn’t keeping track. “And you say this Stefan had three different folks on the string, all of ’em wanting to buy the bones? How do you know that?”

“Because the homicide detective found a fax that Stefan sent them. We don’t know if all three were serious bidders. But we do know that one was. Deadly serious.”

“Sounds like a bad business, Bill Brockton. Are the police making any headway tracking these folks down?”

I shook my head in frustration. “Not enough. They think we can rule out two of them. One’s a shady art dealer, a woman who caters to rich buyers who want precious antiquities and don’t care how they’re obtained. The detective thinks she’s a slimeball, but not a killer. And she has a solid alibi for the time of the murder.
One is a distant colleague of yours, Father Mike—a curator or something, we don’t know who—at the Vatican Museum.”

He made a face. “Ah, the Vatican Museum—the Holy Father’s lovely little art collection. One of the fringe benefits of the job. Art and altar boys. We have a lot to answer for someday.”

“But the one we’re pretty sure has Miranda is a Protestant fanatic. An end-timer. A preacher who sees himself as one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” The nearby church bell tolled, and I nearly jumped out of my seat. “He calls himself Reverend Jonah Ezekiel. And if I don’t give him the bones in twenty-four hours, he’ll kill her.”

“So just do it. Why not? Because the police are telling you not to? Bugger the police; save the girl’s life. Simple.”

“It’s not simple. We don’t know where the bones are.”

“What’s that?”

“We think Stefan moved them, hid them, just before he was killed. We don’t know where they are.”

“So why did this crazy fellow kidnap the girl?”

I rubbed a hand across my weary eyes. “I let the detective talk me into pretending I had the bones. We were using them as bait. But we were just bluffing.”

“And now this fanatic has called your bluff.” I nodded miserably. “Raised the stakes a bit, too, I’m thinking.”

“God, I didn’t mean to involve Miranda, Father Mike. I thought I could keep her out of it, but I was wrong, and Descartes, the detective, was right. We’re all involved, we’re all implicated. One thing’s for sure—if I can’t find the bones in time, Miranda will die, and I’ll be to blame.”

“Well, then, there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?” I looked up. “We have to find those bones, haven’t we, lad? And right smartly, too.” He laid a hand on his chest, studying me thoughtfully. “One more thing, lad. I know you’re not a big believer in saints and relics, but would you think about wearing this?” He loosened his collar, reached inside his shirt, and fished out a large
silver medallion on a leather cord. He took it off and offered it. “Look, it’s a twofer,” he said. “On this side, Saint Christopher, protector of travelers. On the other”—he flipped it—“Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things.”

“There’s a special saint just for lost things?”

“Sure, lad. There’s a patron saint for pretty much everything, and a prayer to go with it. There’s a fancy prayer to Saint Anthony—you beg him for help, you tell him what you’ve lost, and then you grovel a bit, all polite and pious. But there’s another version, a cheekier version, that I like a lot better. ‘Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.’ Makes him seem like a friendly chap, a helpful bloke, you know?”

I took the medallion from him. The disk was big—it nearly filled my palm—and surprisingly heavy. I hefted it. “Jeez, this thing must weigh half a pound.”

“That’s the metal detector,” he said. “It’s built right in. It beeps when you get close to what you’re looking for.” Seeing my look of puzzled incredulity, he laughed and shook his head. “You’re a trusting soul, Bill Brockton. I like that about you.”

I studied the images of the two saints. “Travelers and lost things. Sounds like it’s custom made for me. Okay, why not? I’ll take all the help I can get.” I slipped the cord over my head and tucked the medallion inside my shirt. The metal felt heavy and warm against my chest; also strangely comforting. “Thank you.” He simply nodded.

As we were finishing up, the bells in the tower of Saint Pierre began to peal. “Ah, five o’clock Mass,” said Father Mike. “I’d best be going in. I’ve been a bit lax this week.” Without looking at me, he added casually, “You’re welcome to come along, if you like. I find the music calms me nerves sometimes. But it’s a good thing you’ve already eaten—the snack they serve is awfully skimpy.” I nearly laughed in spite of myself…and then, to my surprise, I followed him into the church.

Saint Pierre wasn’t big—closer in size to a chapel than a ca
thedral—but the design was ornate and complex. The doors and windows were framed by high, pointed arches. Above them, flanking the doorway, were two slender towers capped by steep, bristling stone spires.

The wooden doors—two sets of double doors—were immense: tall, thick, and elaborately carved with figures. The panels of the doors themselves featured saints, the Virgin Mary, and an angel. The most striking figure, though, was carved into a pillar that flanked one of the doors. Almost life-size, the figure was a stylized likeness of an American Indian or Aztec chief, complete with headdress. Although construction of the church had begun 150 years before Columbus stumbled upon America, the building wasn’t finished until the 1550s. The doors—a final touch—reflected Europeans’ fascination with the exotic discoveries being made in the New World.

Inside, the high, fluted notes of a pipe organ echoed and faded as we slipped into the cool, dim interior. Father Mike dipped his finger in a basin of holy water just inside the door, then touched his forehead, bowed, and crossed himself before sliding into a pew near the back. I followed, feeling out of place yet glad of the distraction and the man’s easy company.

Behind the priest, high above the altar, a large painting showed Jesus handing Peter the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Above the painting was a huge sunburst, easily ten feet in diameter, carved from wood but covered in gold. At its center was a stained-glass window depicting a dove, its wings spread, its beak stretching straight up, streaking toward heaven like a rocket.

The organ music was replaced by high, pure soprano voices chanting in close harmony. I’d long since stopped believing in angels, but the ethereal music that seemed to emanate from the stones themselves was almost enough to make me reconsider. The service itself alternated between French and Latin, which I couldn’t have followed even if I’d tried. Yet despite being an outsider and a foreigner, on many different levels, I found solace in
the sounds and sights and smells of the vaulted stone sanctuary, the gilded altar paintings, the drifting incense, and the ancient rituals.

But spiritual solace wouldn’t help me save Miranda; for that, action was needed. What was it Eckhart had said? “The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.” I waved a slight good-bye to Father Mike and slipped from the pew. He started to rise and follow me, but I laid a hand on his shoulder and shook my head. His kind company and his attentive ear had helped, but now I needed to be alone again.