“We’re all sinners, Doctor. Some of us, by the grace of God, are forgiven sinners. That’s the only difference. I’ve sinned many times in my life. I’ll probably sin many more. But I am cleansed and made spotless by the blood of Jesus Christ. By the miracle of grace. And when the trumpet sounds—soon, very soon—I will stand with the righteous. Because I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord! Make straight his path!’ Unworthy as I am, Doctor, I am God’s chosen instrument.”
His words—and his fervent, escalating intensity—filled me with dread, but I knew better than to show fear. “And so am I, Reverend,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, or could pretend to. Growing up, I’d been surrounded by fundamentalist Protestants—Southern Baptists, Primitive Baptists, even a few snake-handling Holy Rollers. I cast my mind back to that subculture and its language, hoping to speak to the preacher in words that would carry weight with him. “I’m the Lord’s instrument, too. Listen to the Spirit, Reverend, and you’ll know it’s true. I found the bones. I escaped the snares you’ve set for me. And now I charge you—as Jesus charged the woman caught in the act of adultery—‘Go and sin no more.’ Forgiveness requires repentance, Reverend, and repentance isn’t true—it’s a lie—if you’re already plotting the next sin. So bring her to me in ten minutes, and do it with a pure heart. I charge you in the name of Him you serve.”
“Don’t you dare presume—” he began, but I hung up. It was a risk, I knew, but then again, I was playing a high-stakes game of chicken with a madman. Doing anything was a big risk…but doing nothing would be a bigger risk. Seven hundred years after he’d said them, Meister Eckhart’s words still rang true: “The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.” In this case, I felt sure, the price of inaction would be Miranda’s death.
I rang Descartes. The phone rang and rang, then finally rolled to voice mail. Christ, I thought, he’s in the basement of one of those thick stone towers. Those signal-proof towers. After the voice-mail announcement finished—the only part I understood was the name, “René Descartes”—I blurted, “Inspector, it’s Brockton. I know where the bones are. I’m meeting the preacher in ten minutes. Saint Bénézet’s Bridge. Hurry. But whatever you do, don’t spook him, or he’ll kill Miranda.”
A massive wooden door sealed the portal at the base of the tower that anchored the stone bridge to the rocky hillside. The door had an ancient-looking iron lock. By the light of my cell phone, I wiggled the key into place and turned. The lock resisted; I twisted harder, praying I didn’t snap the ribs off the spine of the key. Still it resisted, so I applied more force, and more prayer…and the lock yielded. Hurling my weight against the door, I bulled it open and then raced up the stone stairs and out onto the top of the bridge. Fifty yards ahead was the crumbling little chapel where Bénézet’s incorruptible remains had lain for hundreds of years, until the French Revolution dethroned the dual monarchies of king and church.
At the door of the chapel, I repeated the same sequence: light, key, prayer, force. Again, just as I was expecting the key to snap, the lock turned and the door opened.
The chapel’s interior was pitch-black. The cell phone’s display had offered plenty of light to see a keyhole, but it made a mighty feeble searchlight. On hands and knees, I searched the perimeter of the chapel. I found rat carcasses, pigeon droppings, and a few scraps of paper and plastic that the mistral had whirled through the window openings. But I did not find a stone ossuary.
I did, however, find another door, a small door set into one of the chapel’s side walls. I stood up, found an iron handle, and opened the door. It opened onto a staircase that descended to a lower level: a low-ceilinged chamber that must have been the chapel’s crypt. This must have been where Bénézet’s body had lain until it was spirited away by nuns for safekeeping. Could this be where Stefan had hidden the ossuary—an ironic in-joke by the arrogant archaeologist?
On a simple stone altar in the center of the crypt was Stefan’s last laugh: the ossuary, its inscribed cross and lamb plainly visible even by the faint light of my phone. Without even lifting the lid to make sure the bones were inside, I slid the box off the slab and staggered up the stairs to the top of the bridge.
CHAPTER 42
I REACHED THE EDGE OF THE BRIDGE AND BALANCED the ossuary on the narrow round railing just as Reverend Jonah emerged from the tower. Half a step in front of him was Miranda; with his left hand, he clutched her left arm; with his right, he pushed her ahead of him like a shield.
“Let her go, Reverend,” I called. “Let go of her arm and keep walking toward me, with both hands where I can see them.”
He brought his right hand from behind her back, and I saw it held a gun, which he pressed to Miranda’s ribs. “Show me the bones.”
My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth, but I knew I had to speak with apparent calmness and strength. “Let go of her first. And put down the gun.”
“No, Doctor.”
“That was our deal, Reverend. I get her; you get the bones.”