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 ma?tre 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 ma?tre 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.”