Play with Fire

chapter Forty

“I DON’T THINK you understand what you’re asking, Mister Morris,” Father Bowen said. “Access to the room in the Vatican Library where that book is kept is strictly limited. To get in requires written permission, and only three Cardinals are authorized to give it. Or His Holiness himself, of course.”

“Can you get permission?”

“If I could, the application process would take months – the Vatican’s bureaucracy is notorious for inefficiency. And, frankly, my application would prompt some very hard questions.”

“Like what?” Morris asked.

“Like, why I am seeking permission to examine a book that I supposedly have a copy of, right here at the monastery.”

“Could be it’s time for you to come clean about the theft, Father.”

“If I thought it might do any good, I would confess my sin of negligence, believe me. But such an admission would only be regarded as proof that I am not to be trusted with such dangerous material. I would never be allowed within a mile of that library.”

In Cambridge, Quincey Morris massaged his temples, as if he felt his head was going to explode – which is exactly how he did feel.

“Maybe if you explained to someone in authority what stakes are involved,” Morris said. “You know, the opening of the gates of Hell, the end of the world as we know it, stuff like that, he might be willing to make an exception – just this one time.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t helpful, Mister Morris. If I were to relate a story like that to anyone in the Vatican, I would be promptly branded a lunatic and denied access to any sensitive materials. And I’m not entirely sure that the whole thing isn’t, in fact lunacy. I know you and your... colleagues believe it – but it’s really too melodramatic, in my opinion. There must be some more plausible explanation.”

“Uh-huh. Well, if my colleagues and I don’t figure out a way to stop this, I’ll look for you at the fire pits, Father.”

Libby Chastain was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open to a map of the United States while she tried to make sense of the locations chosen for the church burnings. Morris ended the call and said to her, “One of the downsides of using a cell phone is that you can’t slam the thing down when you’ve just finished talking to an idiot.”

“Well, you could,” Libby said. “But it would be rather hard on the phone. I gather Father Bowen wasn’t being helpful.”

“Not in the slightest. In order to avoid looking foolish, he’s rationalized away the evidence that’s staring him in the face. Maybe if I sent him a cake with a pentagram drawn on top, he’d be more interested–”

“What did you say?”

Morris looked at her quizzically. “I said that I should send Bowen a big cake with a–”

“Pentagram. That’s what I thought you said.”

Libby searched quickly through her bag and came up with a pen. Consulting her notes, she began drawing right on the screen of her computer.

“There’s probably some program that would allow me to do this digitally,” she said. Her voice held an undercurrent of excitement. “But I haven’t got time to f*ck around with it. Here – look at this.”

Morris sat on the bed next to her and looked at the computer screen. “First church burning – Duluth.” She drew a big dot over that city on her map.

“Next one – Albuquerque.” She drew a second dot.

“Then Decatur, Alabama.” Another dot.

“And a couple of nights ago, Sheridan Wyoming.” A fourth dot joined the others.

“We already knew all that, Libby,” Morris said reasonably. “I don’t see what we’re gaining by looking at it on a map.”

“No? Then watch this.”

“Duluth to Albuquerque.” She drew a line connecting the two points.

“Albuquerque to Decatur.” Another line on the screen.

“Decatur to Sheridan.” She added the line.

“Now,” she said, “what’ve you got – or, rather, almost got?”

Morris stared at the computer screen for several seconds. “Motherf*cking son of a bitch,” he said, with feeling. “He’s drawing a pentagram, right over the United States.”

“Exactly,” Libby said. “And, although my lines aren’t perfectly straight here, look where the final point has got to be.”

“Austin,” Morris said. His voice was almost steady. “Austin, Texas.”

“Yep,” Libby said. “Your very own hometown.”