“Could you set it on the ground? I’ve got a bad back.”
I wanted his hands occupied for a few seconds. “Have faith, Reverend. Remember the words of Isaiah: ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and not faint.’ Hold out your arms and get ready to take this, Reverend, because I’m about to lose my grip.”
He took another step, and I swung the ossuary off the rail and into his outstretched arms. As he staggered under the weight, I darted across the bridge to the other side, snatched up the gun he’d laid down, and pointed it at him. “Liar,” he hissed. “Deceiver. Son of Satan.” He squatted and set down the ossuary with a thud.
“Not so, Reverend. I mean you no harm. I just want to make sure I get off this bridge alive.” Keeping the gun and my gaze trained on him, I backed away from him, toward the tower and staircase at the end of the bridge. I’d made it halfway when a scream—Miranda’s scream—split the night.
I turned and ran for the stairs, calling, “Miranda? Miranda!”
At that moment she emerged onto the bridge again, slung over the shoulder of Reverend Jonah’s goon, who appeared like some twisted, evil version of Saint Christopher carrying the Christ child. How had he gotten back on the road so quickly, I wondered, after his crash in the mountain tunnel? Had he flagged down a passing motorist? If so, what had become of the misguided Good Samaritan?
In person, Junior looked far bigger than the security-camera photo had suggested; he was a giant of a man, with a neck the diameter of a tree trunk and arms as thick as live-oak limbs. Miranda was writhing and struggling in his grip, with no more effectiveness than a toddler.
“Vengeance is mine,” crowed Reverend Jonah behind me. “Thus sayeth the Lord.” I turned to face him again. He was walking toward me, a second gun in his hand. He raised it, took aim at me, and I saw a flash from the muzzle, then felt myself flung backward as the fist of God slammed into my chest. I hit the wall of Saint Bénézet’s Chapel with my back and head; my legs gave way and I slid down the rough wall and onto the stones of the bridge. “Vengeance is mine,” I heard Reverend Jonah repeat. “Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory.” My vision was fading as he stepped toward me, but I could see him closing in, leveling the gun at my head. “Prepare to meet thy God.” Dimly I heard a shot, and then another.
Clearly delirious now, I saw the preacher crumple to the stones directly in front of me, followed by Miranda and her burly captor. “Miranda, no,” I groaned. But then, miraculously, Miranda pulled free and staggered to her feet. She stared down at Junior, whose head was lying in a pool of blood. “Dr. B, Dr. B,” she was sobbing. “Oh, dear God, Dr. B.” Behind her, striding toward me, I saw the angel of death coming to claim me. He was dressed in black, but instead of a scythe, he carried a rifle.
“Ah, lad, I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner,” said the angel of death, whose features crystallized into the face of Father Mike.
“Take Miranda,” I gasped. “Get her out of here.”
“Let’s see about you first, lad,” he said. “Hurt bad, are you?”
“Not sure. Hard to breathe. How’d you find me?”
“Saint Anthony,” he said. “Remember? ‘Tony, Tony, look around’?” He took hold of my collar and ripped open the front of my shirt. He looked startled, and then he began to laugh. “I’ll be damned. Maybe there’s something to the hocus-pocus after all.”
“What?” I looked down, expecting to see blood, but there was none. Then I remembered. “Oh, the vest.” The gift Hugh Berryman had sent to accompany the Arikara Indian skeleton was a vest—a Kevlar vest, a bulletproof vest—and the Bible verse Hugh had referenced, Ephesians 6:11, admonished, “Put on the full armour of God.” I’d recognized the vest right away; Hugh wore it whenever he worked a death scene, and I’d often teased him about it. But now I owed my life to it, and I vowed never to make fun of it again.
Before I could explain, Miranda reached to my chest, then held up the medallion Father Mike had given me to wear. The image of Saint Christopher had been obliterated; lodged in its place, at the center of the medallion, was a flattened lead slug. “My God,” Miranda breathed. “Incredible. Absolutely incredible. What are the odds? So you’re not even hurt?”