She frowned. “Liked it better than the possibility that they really are the bones of Jesus?” I pondered that, and while I was pondering, she pounced. “I don’t believe this. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
I drew back; it felt almost as if she’d slapped me. “What on earth do you mean? Jealous of who?”
“Jealous of Stefan. You’re afraid that he was right after all—that he really did make the greatest find ever.” She shook her head, the disappointment in her eyes unmistakable. “He’s dead, Dr. B; you’re alive. You’ve got no reason to envy Stefan, and no need to be petty. If those are the bones of Christ, so what? It doesn’t make you any less, and it doesn’t make Stefan any more. It’s pretty clear he was up to no good. But just think—what if he was up to no good with the actual, for-real bones of Jesus Christ? How totally amazing! Can’t you see that?”
My mind reeled and raced, seeking how best to defend myself. Then, almost as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud, I heard the words of Meister Eckhart: Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure. But what would that mean, what would that be? What would I do, if I were my best self right now? I was so surprised at the answer that I laughed out loud. “Thank you,” I said. Her eyes narrowed, and I saw her bracing for the next salvo of sarcasm. “No, I mean it. Thank you. You’re absolutely right.” Was this really me talking? “I cared more about my pet theory than about the truth. That’s wrong—one of the cardinal sins in science. And yeah, I probably wanted to look smarter than Stefan, be righter than Stefan.”
“Why?”
“Dunno. Maybe I wanted a little sip of schadenfreude. Maybe I was desperate to impress you.”
She shook her head again, but this time, as she did, she began to smile. “Sometimes, for such a smart, impressive guy, you can be so dumb,” she said. “But hey, that was good work you did just then.”
I took a deep breath, blew it out. “So. Let’s rethink this. If the bones really are first century, and they’re linked to the Shroud, does that mean the Shroud’s authentic after all? Was the carbon dating of the Shroud botched?”
“What, three separate labs all got it wrong, and all by thirteen hundred years? No way.”
“What about the invisible-patch theory, then? You think maybe the labs tested fabric from an invisible medieval patch?”
“Give me a break; the Shroudies are so grasping at straws there. Besides, I think Emily Craig’s right about the image. I think it was created by a terrific artist in the Middle Ages using that dust-transfer technique she described. It’s simple, and it’s credible. And that pseudoshroud she did of her friend was pretty damn convincing. Emily’s no Giotto or Simone Martini, but she proved her point.”
“So, circling back to your snuff-film theory,” I said. “How do you reconcile that with the idea that the bones are thirteen centuries older than the Shroud?”
“I don’t. I can’t.” She shrugged. “But interesting symmetry, in an ironic way, don’t you think? If the Shroud of Turin’s a medieval fake, but the bones from the Palace of the Popes are the real deal?” Suddenly she grinned. “Hey, try this one. What if the Shroud’s not the world’s first snuff film but the world’s first forensic facial reconstruction? What if your guy Martini saw the bones of Jesus and decided to put the flesh back on them? Maybe Master Simone was a thirteenth-century version of your NCMEC pal, Joe Mullins?”
My phone warbled, echoing loudly in the stairwell. The last call I’d gotten at the library had been the TBI agent’s bad news about Rocky Stone, so I was already gun-shy; when I recognized Descartes’s number on the display, I felt a tightening in my stomach. “Inspector?”
“Oui, Docteur.”
“Does this mean the fish are biting? Has something come in on the fax machine at Lumani?”
“Ah, non, not yet. That is not why I am calling you. This is something else.”
I felt my body relax, and only then did I realize how tightly I’d tensed when I saw who was calling. “What is it?”
“Where are you? Something interesting has just turned up.”
“Again? This is a big day for interesting finds. Miranda and I are at the library.”
“I am at Beauvoir’s apartment. Not far away. I can be at the library in five minutes.”
“Would it be easier if I came to the apartment?”
“It’s probably better if you don’t—one of the fish might be watching. It’s okay if he sees us questioning you. But it’s not good if it looks like you’re part of our team.”
“I understand, Inspector. I’ll see you here.”
“Meet me in the library courtyard. Without mademoiselle. Oh, and Docteur? Don’t look happy to see me.” Only after he hung up did I realize what he meant: One of the fish might be watching.