Sign Of The Cross (17 page)

‘The Holy Ghost?’

‘You know, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? There’s bound to be a victim for him. And after that, who knows? They might start on the Hail Mary.’

Tamher frowned as he took a seat behind the desk. Dial could tell that something was bothering him so he put the crime photos down, waiting for Tamher to fill the silence. It was a tactic that worked on cops and criminals alike.

‘Why did they come here? We’re a Muslim nation not a Christian one. Where do we fit?’

‘Beats me,’ Dial admitted. ‘Then again, maybe the killers were looking for some R & R after they dumped the body. I’ve traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I’ve never seen a country like this. Libya is simply gorgeous.’

Tamher beamed with pride, which was what Dial was hoping for. He knew how crucial it was to stay on Tamher’s good side. Without him, his access to the crime scene would disappear.

‘Unfortunately, it’s way too early to label these as Christian murders. I wish that wasn’t the case, but what choice do we have? The fact is that Narayan wasn’t a Christian – he was a Hindu – so this might not be about religion.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘Not really. Then again I don’t know what to believe.’

In Dial’s mind the only common thread between the murders was the way that they killed. These men were kidnapped, shipped to a specific location, and then crucified like Jesus Christ. But why? What were the killers trying to say? What did these guys have in common?

Not much, according to Interpol.

Jansen was a devout Catholic who grew up in Finland as the middle child in a middle-class family. He lived a clean life – no drugs, no sexcapades, no legal problems – and knew at a very early age that he wanted to join the priesthood. Dial was still waiting for additional information from Cardinal Rose, but according to preliminary reports, everyone thought very highly of him.

The same could not be said about Narayan, who spent half his time in bars and the other half in bed. He was one of several princes in Nepal, a country that had seen its share of royal tragedies in recent years, the most famous occurring in July 2001, when Crown Prince Dipendra pulled out an M16 and an Uzi at a family party and killed the king, queen, and princess.

Dial shook his head as he pondered the two victims. What did these guys have in common? Different religions. Different homelands. Different lifestyles. Their only connection was their gender and the way they died. Tortured, then nailed to a cross.

Crucified like Jesus Christ.

By claiming to be friends of the victim, Payne and Jones were granted immediate access to
Il Pozzo di San Patrizio.
To guarantee their cooperation a young deputy was assigned to lead them down the 248 steps to the bottom of Saint Patrick’s Well, a sixteenth-century landmark named for its supposed similarities to the Irish cave where Saint Patrick used to pray.

As they began their descent, Payne lagged behind, trying to figure out how they had built it. Two diametrically opposed doors led to separate staircases, each superimposed over the other, which prevented descenders from colliding with ascenders. The original concept was conceived by Leonardo da Vinci, who devised the stairs for an Italian brothel so its patrons could sneak in and out of the whorehouse with their anonymity intact. The customers were so pleased that word spread about the stairs, and the design was implemented in a number of new structures, including the pope’s well. Another stroke of genius was the way the architect took advantage of natural light. The stairs were illuminated by a spiraling series of seventy hand-carved windows that allowed sunlight to flow through the gaps in the roof and filter to the outer circumference of the well, providing travelers with more than enough light to fetch water.

‘Jon?’ Jones called from below. ‘Are you coming?’

Payne picked up his pace until he encountered Jones around the next turn in the stairs.

‘Our escort was worried about you. Barnes died in here an hour ago, and the cops don’t want a repeat performance.’

‘I don’t blame them. This place would be a bitch to clean.’

‘Plus it’s a historic landmark. The cop told me while Pope Clement
VII
was hiding in Orvieto, he was afraid his enemies would cut off his water supply. To prevent that from happening, he ordered this well to be dug. All told, it’s 43 feet wide and 203 feet deep.’

‘Damn! The pope must’ve been thirsty.’

‘It wasn’t just for him. See how wide the steps are? That’s so pack animals could make it down the slope without falling. They were actually allowed to drink right from the source.’

Payne winced. ‘That’s pretty disgusting. No wonder Barnes had the runs.’

‘Thankfully, the town doesn’t rely on the well anymore. Otherwise I’m sure their water would taste funny for the next few weeks.’

‘Oh yeah, why’s that?’

Instead of speaking, Jones pointed to the violent image that gleamed in the natural spotlight. Donald Barnes lay facedown in the center of the well, his ample body bisecting the wooden bridge that connected the two staircases. Members of the local police poked and prodded him for clues as blood oozed from his ruptured gut, dripping into the water and turning it dark crimson.

The cop in charge of the investigation saw their approach and tried to prevent them from seeing Barnes sprawled in a puddle of his own blood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said in clear English. ‘I know this must be difficult for you.’

Payne and Jones nodded, not knowing what to say.

The detective pulled out a notebook and pen. ‘We heard his name was Donald.’

‘Yes,’ Payne said, ‘Donald Barnes. He was an American.’

‘As are you,’ the cop said, never lifting his eyes from his pad. He took their names and addresses, then asked, ‘Were you friends with the deceased for long?’

‘Not really. We just met him today at the funeral.’ Payne studied the cop, waiting for some kind of reaction. ‘He willingly gave us assistance when we needed it. Directions, a list of sites to see, and so on. He also described the helicopter crash that killed your colleague on Monday.’

The cop nodded, still not reacting. ‘Any idea where he was from, or where he was staying?’

Payne shrugged. ‘Midwestern U.S., maybe Nebraska. At least that’s what his T-shirt says. And as far as his hotel goes, we’re not sure. We didn’t know him long enough to find out.’

As Payne finished speaking, the young officer who’d led them down the steps approached the detective. He whispered a number of Italian phrases, then held up a single key adorned with the monogram
GHR
. The detective smiled at the discovery. ‘Gentlemen, are we through here?’

Jones shook his head, then lied. ‘Actually, there’s one more thing. We took a few pictures with Donald in front of the cathedral. Could we possibly have the film as a remembrance?’

The detective glanced at the body and frowned. ‘Camera? We didn’t find any camera. No wallet, film, or anything of value… In my opinion this was just a robbery that went bad.’

Payne and Jones knew
that
was bullshit. But the last people they were going to tell were the cops. If they did that, all the cops were going to do was get in their way.

Regrettably, that ended up happening anyway.

As they emerged from the well, Jones growled, ‘This wasn’t a robbery. It was an assassination.’

Payne pushed through the crowd of onlookers. ‘An assassination? How do you figure?’

‘Because it’s too coincidental to be anything else. This town hasn’t seen violence in years, now there are three deaths in two days. Plus the latest victim just happens to be someone with proof of the crash site. C’mon! What else could it be?’

‘So let me get this straight. We started with one case, and now we’re up to three: Dr Boyd, the stolen crash site, and Donald Barnes.’

‘Yep, that about sums it up.’

‘Damn! We aren’t very good at this.’

Jones laughed. ‘Any ideas on where to start?’

Payne nodded. ‘Let’s stick to Boyd, since that’s the reason we’re here. Let’s assume it was his truck at the bottom of the cliff. I mean, no one’s come forward to claim it. Plus there was a police chopper hovering above it and rumors of a grave robber in the area. That means either he died in the explosion, he’s still in Orvieto, or he left town some other way.’

‘Makes sense to me.’

‘And unless he had an accomplice, he either stole a car or bummed a ride.’

‘Or used public transportation.’

‘And since there aren’t any airports in town, the odds are pretty good that he used a bus.’

Payne looked at Jones, then both of them looked at the row of buses parked on the far side of the
piazza
. Seconds later they approached the one-story terminal that sat on the northern end of the square. A silver bus idled near the entrance, delayed by an elderly porter who checked tickets with one hand while grabbing the butts of unsuspecting females with the other.

Jones said, ‘I’ll talk to the guy at the front counter and show him Boyd’s picture. Why don’t you look for a map so we know where we’re going?’

Payne glanced around the lobby and spotted a rack of brochures leaning against the far wall. Restaurant guides, museum tours, and hotel listings – most of which were written in English. A pamphlet for La Badia, a twelth-century ecclesiastical complex that had been converted into a local hotel, caught his eye. The blend of wooden beams and tufa walls reminded him of ancient times until he noticed a television stuffed in a tiny stone alcove. Talk about a
feng shui
killer.

Payne returned the brochure and picked up another, this one for the Grand Hotel Reale. It wasn’t as well-maintained as La Badia, yet he got the feeling that it used to be something special. He marveled at the beautiful frescoes and the antique furniture in the lobby, plus the large fountain that was carved out of a shade of marble that –

‘Jon? Are you ready?’

Payne turned toward Jones who was standing near the entrance. ‘Yeah, I’ll be there in a second. I was just -‘ He stopped in midsentence, thinking back to Saint Patrick’s Well. Payne couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to put everything together.

‘You were just what?’ Jones walked toward him. ‘I got some good information from the front counter and… Are you OK? You look kind of puzzled.’

‘Not at all. In fact, I’m feeling rather enlightened.’ Payne handed him the brochure for the Grand Hotel Reale. ‘What do you think?’

Now Jones was the one who was puzzled. ‘About what?’

‘The hotel. Could this be where Barnes was staying?’

He flipped through the brochure. ‘I have no idea. Why?’

‘Remember the young cop in the well? What did he find in Barnes’s pocket?’

Jones replayed the incident in his mind. ‘A key with his initials on it, right?’

‘Close, but not quite. It had someone
else’s
initials, not his. It had
GHR
, not DB.’

‘Yeah, that’s right:
GHR
. But what’s that have to do with -‘

And that’s when he realized the same thing that Payne had. The key chain didn’t have Barnes’s initials on it because he didn’t own the keys. And where does a tourist get keys? At a hotel. And what hotel in Orvieto had the initials GHR? The Grand Hotel Reale.

‘Holy shit! Do you think the cops are there yet?’

‘Probably not,’ Payne guessed. ‘They lost one of their officers on Monday, and the rest are probably at the well. No way they’re there yet.’

‘So?’ The mischief in Jones’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. He was going to the hotel whether Payne was joining him or not. ‘What do you think?’

Payne smiled. ‘I think we should see how long it takes you to pick an Italian lock.’

Maria Pelati was a woman torn, an archaeologist with a guilty conscience. She was possibly sitting next to the most important document ever written, yet all she wanted to do was set it on fire. But how could she? If it was real, it would bring her more fame and fortune than she’d ever dreamed possible. At the same time she knew she’d never be able to enjoy it because of all the suffering the scroll would cause.

A billion Christians suddenly doubting the existence of Christ because of her discovery.

There were so many thoughts swirling through her brain she didn’t know what to focus on first. The scroll. Its ramifications. Her beliefs. The truth was, she needed to think about everything, but before she could do that, she needed to ask Dr Boyd one simple question. And his answer would help determine her plan of attack.

‘Sir,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you sure that the scroll is real?’

The sound of her voice startled Boyd, who was lost in thought. ‘I believe so, yes. I still need to run some tests to be certain. However, the grandeur of the Catacombs seemed beyond reproach, too real for this to be a ruse.’

‘And your translation… is it accurate?’

‘There’s always a chance that I misinterpreted a word or two. Still, the basic message would remain the same. Tiberius handpicked Jesus as the Jewish Messiah and did so for the financial gain of the Empire.’

‘But how is that possible? I mean, how does someone create a Messiah?’

‘That, my dear, is a mystery that wasn’t addressed in the scroll.’

She nodded, a million questions racing through her mind. ‘And what about you? What do you think? Is any of this feasible?’

He paused, looking for the courage to answer. ‘The possibility had crossed my mind. Although I was raised a Christian, I’m also a scholar, which means I’m forced to leave myself open to a world of possibilities. Even if the evidence goes against my beliefs.’

He paused, figuring out what to say next. ‘Maria, the truth is we found Tiberius’s seal on the cylinder and his handwriting on the parchment, which gives us plenty of reason to believe that he composed the note. And if he wrote it, then we’d be foolish not to examine every alternative, including the possibility that he found a way to pull this off.’

Maria swallowed hard. ‘Even if that means Jesus wasn’t the Son of God?’