“Don’t play dumb. You know who I am, and you know what I want. You yourself offered it to me by fax. Shall we discuss a trade?”
I was heartsick. Descartes and I had gambled that Stefan’s killer would still want the bones, and we’d been right. I’d been willing to risk myself, but Reverend Jonah had outsmarted me: He’d guessed, correctly, that the highest trump card he could hold was Miranda. I opened my mouth to speak, but once more my throat had seized.
“Do you hear me?” The voice had grown less smooth and more menacing. “I have your precious pearl. Give me the bones, or she dies.”
“If you kill her,” I managed to force out, “you’ll have twice as many police after you.”
He gave a short, scornful laugh. “They have no jurisdiction.”
“Not just the French police,” I said. “Miranda’s an American citizen. If you kill her, the FBI will come after you, too.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I hoped it was true, or at least sounded true, sounded intimidating.
“You misunderstand me,” he sneered. “This world’s authorities have no dominion over me.” The words, and the thinking behind them, sent a chill through me. “But why are you talking about her death? The girl goes free when you hand over the bones. Do you not intend to do that?”
“Of course I do,” I hurried to assure him. “But how do I know you’ll keep your word? You’ve already killed Stefan.”
“Only because he didn’t keep his word. He betrayed me. I hope you won’t make the same mistake.”
“I won’t. But how do I even know you’ve got Miranda? How do I know she’s all right? Let me talk to her.”
“I’ll call you in an hour with instructions. You can talk to her then. Don’t call the police, and don’t play games with me. Not if you want her back alive.” The phone went dead.
NINETY-SEVEN ENDLESS, AGONIZING MINUTES LATER, he called back. The signal was weak and his voice was breaking up badly; I didn’t know if that was because he was calling from someplace with poor signal, or because I was deep inside the concrete headquarters of the Police Nationale. “…attention,” the voice crackled. “Here’s…do if…girl back alive….”
“First I need to talk to her,” I said. “I won’t do anything until I know she’s okay.” I heard an angry breath at the other end of the line, and I feared I’d pushed him too far, but then I heard shuffling noises as the phone changed hands. “Oh, Dr. B,…sorry.” Even through all the dropouts, Miranda’s voice sounded thin and quavery; if it had been a pulse, I’d have called it “thready” and taken it as a symptom of shock. But still, the thready, shocky voice was her voice—blessedly her voice. “One of them…my hotel…paged…said you…chest pains. He had a car…hospital…with him…known better. God, I fell for the same…pulled on you…so very…”
“Oh, Miranda, I’m the one who’s sorry. I told Descartes I didn’t want to involve you, and look what I’ve done.”
“…not…fault…. Stefan’s.” Her voice shifted gears—got higher, faster, more urgent. Shaking my head in rage and pointing at the phone, I stood and jogged out of the inspector’s office and down the hallway to the building’s back door, inwardly cursing Descartes for bringing me into the concrete bunker. “Listen…Stefan…greedy…upted. Don’t let that…be interruptible…B, understand? Interruptible…key…get the bones. Do you hear…?…key…bones.”
I shoved open the door and raced outside, Descartes a few steps behind me. “Miranda, you’re breaking up really bad. Can you say that—”
“Wait, I’m not finished,” I heard her protest. Then came the sounds of scuffling and grunting, followed by the sharp smack of flesh on flesh, and the word “bastard” in Miranda’s low snarl.
“Miranda? Miranda?” I was shouting into the phone, spinning around in the parking lot, frantic with frustration and fear. Two uniformed officers, chatting beside a patrol car, stared and started toward me, but Descartes waved them off. “Miranda?”
“That’s all you get,” snapped the voice I assumed was Reverend Jonah’s, “until I have the bones.”
“Bring Miranda with you,” I demanded. “You set her free first, and I watch her walk away safely, or no deal.”
“Don’t push me. You’re playing games with her life, and her life means nothing to me.”
“But the bones do,” I reminded him. “You want those bones just as much as I want Miranda. Her safety is your only hope of getting them.”
“Bring them to the Templar chapel tonight,” he said. “Midnight.”
“No!” The thought of walking into a trap—or of finding Miranda’s body strung up the way Stefan’s had been—terrified me. What’s more, there was no hope of finding the bones that swiftly.
“What’s the matter, Doctor, does that venue disturb you?” He chuckled, and my blood ran cold. “I didn’t think a man in your line of work would be so squeamish. You disappoint me.”