“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.