The Inquisitor's Key (27 page)

SIMONE SNATCHES A RAG FROM HIS WORKTABLE
and savagely wipes the tempera from the wooden panel. He has painted a dozen images of the dead man now and has destroyed them all, finding them bland and insipid—utterly lacking the force of that stark corpse laid on the floor of that stone cell; completely devoid even of the force of those charcoal sketches he made by flickering lamplight almost a decade before.

He returns, for the hundredth time, to the sketches. Unlike his polished attempts with paint, the charcoal images of the man are rough but powerful. Why can’t he render in paint what he captured in charcoal? Because, he thinks, a painting is too artful, too refined: a glittering object to be admired from a distance, not a force to be experienced and shaken by. The power of that scene, and of those sketches, lies in their rawness and immediacy. In the moment back then, and even in the sketches now, there is no possibility of distance, of a safe retreat into studied appreciation
of color and technique, of composition and balance, figure and background, gilded borders and halos.
The Death of Innocence
cannot be a painting, he realizes; it must be something stark, spare, and haunting.

But sketches are not enough. Simone grasps the power of these rough sketches on coarse paper. But ordinary eyes—seeing humble materials—might be misled into dismissing the images as trifles; might not take them into their minds and hearts. Simone must help people let down their guard and open their hearts. To do justice to a man who was as innocent as a dove, Martini must be as cunning as a wolf.

An image pops unbidden into his mind:
The Mourning of Christ,
painted by Master Giotto on the wall of the chapel in Padua. The limp body of Jesus is surrounded by weeping followers; grieving angels hover overhead, their hands outstretched or clasped or clapped to their faces in dismay and grief. Behind the mourning people, a low rock ledge angles from the picture’s lower left to its upper right. But something about the rock ledge struck Simone as odd the first time he saw the fresco: The ledge’s surface seemed fluid, almost as if it were draped with fabric, and Simone had briefly wondered, all those years ago, if perhaps a burial shroud had been laid on the ledge to receive the body of Christ.

Now, that remembered painting and his own sketches of the dead man combine, and he knows how to proceed.

AT A WEAVER’S SHOP ON THE RUE DE TEINTURIERS,
the street of dyers, he inspects and rejects half a dozen fabrics—too coarse, too shiny, too short—before finally settling on one: a long strip of pale linen woven with a herringbone pattern that adds heft and elegance without calling attention to itself.

He buys the entire roll and takes it back to the studio. Grinding one of his sinopia chalks into a fine dust, he mixes it with
egg yolk to make a reddish-brown slurry of tempera. On a small corner of the fabric, he daubs a bit of the mixture, but he sees at once that the contrast is too jarring, the effect not at all mysterious or mystical. Frowning, he picks up another sinopia chalk and draws directly on the fabric with the dry crayon, sketching eyebrows and the bridge of a nose. It’s better, he decides, but still too obvious. To create the haunting effect he’s after, Simone must create a haunting face—the shadow of a face, the ghost of a face. Finally, doubtfully, he takes a sheet of parchment and shades the nose and eyebrows, followed by the rest of the face, but this time he deliberately makes the image dark and heavy. Then he lays another corner of linen atop the drawing. Using the blunt, curved end of the pestle with which he grinds pigments, he rubs gently from all directions, pressing the cloth against the image in dust. After several minutes of rubbing, he folds back the fabric.

Simone gasps. There on the linen, staring back at him, is the ghost of the murdered monk; the ghost of the crucified Christ; the ghost of innocence lost.

Avignon
The Present

I GLANCED FOR THE TWENTIETH TIME AT THE DOORWAY
of the library mezzanine, listening for the staccato cadence of Miranda’s clogs as she jogged up the stairs. I’d been waiting for half an hour, and I was getting anxious. It wasn’t like her to be this late, especially when she was the one who’d called the meeting. Our librarian friend, Philippe, who had by now taken an interest in
our
interests—Eckhart, Martini, and the Shroud—had phoned Miranda an hour before to say that he’d found something intriguing, and Miranda had wasted no time summoning me. Upon arriving at the library, I’d been surprised that Miranda wasn’t already waiting. Now, thirty minutes and a dozen unanswered cell phone calls later, my surprise was turning to genuine worry.

Finally I heard footsteps on the stairs, but they weren’t Miranda’s. Philippe appeared in the doorway. “Ah, good—I
thought
that was you sitting up here.”

“Yes, but we’re still waiting for Miranda.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot wait any longer,” he said. “I’m taking a class—art history—and I have an examination this morning. If I show you what I found, will you share it with her?”

“Of course, Philippe. Please.”

He pulled out a chair and sat across the table from me, laying a folder between us. “My art history professor is a curator at the Petit Palais—do you know it?”

“That’s the museum that’s in a former cardinal’s palace, right?”

“Exactly. Specializing in medieval art from the time of the Avignon popes. There is one painting on display there by Simone Martini—a Madonna and Child, not very interesting to you, I think. But my professor showed me a drawing in the storage room—not on display—that she is certain was made by Martini. It’s not signed, but it was found in the city archives, filed along with some very old records about Martini’s house and studio. She let me make a photocopy of it.” He slid the folder across the table to me. Slowly I opened it. The image inside was a charcoal sketch of a man’s face—or, rather, parts of a face: a pair of eyes and a nose. The nose was long and broad and slightly crooked. It looked like a nose that had been broken in a fight.

It looked like the nose on the Shroud of Turin.

TWENTY MORE MINUTES CREPT BY AFTER PHILIPPE
left me with the Martini sketch of the Shroud nose, and still no sign of Miranda. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I went to the window that overlooked the library’s leafy courtyard. The window was open, and the late-morning air wafting from the street was getting steamy with heat and smells. Along with the mouthwatering aroma of onions and potatoes frying, I caught the sour tang of sewage—one of the signature perfumes of ancient cities, I’d decided. Down below, two kids scampered toward the children’s
wing; they were trailed by a mother who—at 11
A.M
.—already looked weary. On the opposite end of the courtyard, a stout dowager waddled behind a fat, waddling dog, reminding me of Miranda’s comments on dogs and gods.

Suddenly, floating up from below, I heard music—the angelic voices of a mighty choir, funneled through a puny speaker. To my surprise, I realized that the angels were singing in English: “Glory, glory hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!” Scanning for the source of the sound, I glimpsed movement across the street. A man stepped from a shadowy doorway, pulling a cell phone from a holster. As he raised the phone, the hymn swelled by a decibel or two, then ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The man put the phone to his ear, and I thought I heard him say, “Praise God.” I leaned out the window for a better view, and when I did, his face swiveled toward me.

I’d seen that face before. I’d seen it framed by upraised hands—one of them clutching a Bible, the other waving a sword—and I’d seen it in a Paris airport security photo, taken the day before I’d arrived in Avignon. As I stared, frozen in the open window, Reverend Jonah Ezekiel smiled at me for what seemed an eternity, his smile and his gaze never wavering, until a car—a sleek black sedan with dark windows—screeched to a stop directly in front of him. It paused just long enough for the preacher to slip into the backseat. Then it spun forward, skidded around a corner, and was gone.

Inspector Descartes didn’t answer until the fourth ring, and by then my throat had clamped shut in fear. As I fought and failed to form words, he snapped, “
Oui? Il y a quelqu’un? C’est quoi, ça?
” Hearing no response, he hung up. I forced myself to draw a deep breath, then another, and hit the redial button. “
Oui,
Descartes,” he practically shouted when he answered.

“Inspector, it’s Bill Brockton,” I managed to choke out this time.

“Docteur? Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not hurt, but I’m afraid something’s wrong. Terribly wrong. I’m afraid Reverend Jonah has Miranda.”

“
Merde,
” he cursed. “What has happened? Why do you think this?”

Haltingly, with frequent pauses to breathe and to tamp down my panic, I told him.

“
Merde,
” he repeated. “What kind of car? Which way did it go?”

“I don’t know. Black. Four doors. A Mercedes? A BMW? Something French? Hell, I don’t know, Inspector. I only saw it for a second before it disappeared around the corner.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. The windows—” Suddenly the phone vibrated in my hand; startled, I nearly dropped it out the window. When I saw the number of the incoming call, though, my heart soared. “Inspector, I have to go. I’m getting a call from Miranda.” I pushed the “send” button. “Miranda? Thank God. I was worried sick.”

“No need to worry,” said a man’s voice, smooth and sarcastic. “She’s in very good hands. She’s in God’s hands.” The floor seemed to drop away beneath me, and the vast, frescoed reading room spun. “But you can get her back if you do exactly as I say.”

“Who is this? And what do you want?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know who I am, and you know what I want. You yourself offered it to me by fax. Shall we discuss a trade?”

I was heartsick. Descartes and I had gambled that Stefan’s killer would still want the bones, and we’d been right. I’d been willing to risk myself, but Reverend Jonah had outsmarted me: He’d guessed, correctly, that the highest trump card he could hold was Miranda. I opened my mouth to speak, but once more my throat had seized.

“Do you hear me?” The voice had grown less smooth and more menacing. “I have your precious pearl. Give me the bones, or she dies.”

“If you kill her,” I managed to force out, “you’ll have twice as many police after you.”

He gave a short, scornful laugh. “They have no jurisdiction.”

“Not just the French police,” I said. “Miranda’s an American citizen. If you kill her, the FBI will come after you, too.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I hoped it was true, or at least
sounded
true, sounded intimidating.

“You misunderstand me,” he sneered. “This world’s authorities have no dominion over me.” The words, and the thinking behind them, sent a chill through me. “But why are you talking about her death? The girl goes free when you hand over the bones. Do you not intend to do that?”

“Of course I do,” I hurried to assure him. “But how do I know you’ll keep your word? You’ve already killed Stefan.”

“Only because he didn’t keep his word. He betrayed me. I hope you won’t make the same mistake.”

“I won’t. But how do I even know you’ve got Miranda? How do I know she’s all right? Let me talk to her.”

“I’ll call you in an hour with instructions. You can talk to her then. Don’t call the police, and don’t play games with me. Not if you want her back alive.” The phone went dead.

NINETY-SEVEN ENDLESS, AGONIZING MINUTES LATER,
he called back. The signal was weak and his voice was breaking up badly; I didn’t know if that was because he was calling from someplace with poor signal, or because I was deep inside the concrete headquarters of the Police Nationale. “…attention,” the voice crackled. “Here’s…do if…girl back alive….”

“First I need to talk to her,” I said. “I won’t do anything until I know she’s okay.” I heard an angry breath at the other end of the line, and I feared I’d pushed him too far, but then I heard shuffling noises as the phone changed hands. “Oh, Dr.
B,…sorry.” Even through all the dropouts, Miranda’s voice sounded thin and quavery; if it had been a pulse, I’d have called it “thready” and taken it as a symptom of shock. But still, the thready, shocky voice was
her
voice—blessedly her voice. “One of them…my hotel…paged…said you…chest pains. He had a car…hospital…with him…known better. God, I fell for the same…pulled on you…so very…”

“Oh, Miranda,
I’m
the one who’s sorry. I told Descartes I didn’t want to involve you, and look what I’ve done.”

“…not…fault…. Stefan’s.” Her voice shifted gears—got higher, faster, more urgent. Shaking my head in rage and pointing at the phone, I stood and jogged out of the inspector’s office and down the hallway to the building’s back door, inwardly cursing Descartes for bringing me into the concrete bunker. “Listen…Stefan…greedy…upted. Don’t let that…be interruptible…B, understand? Interruptible…key…get the bones. Do you hear…?…key…bones.”

I shoved open the door and raced outside, Descartes a few steps behind me. “Miranda, you’re breaking up really bad. Can you say that—”

“Wait, I’m not
finished,
” I heard her protest. Then came the sounds of scuffling and grunting, followed by the sharp
smack
of flesh on flesh, and the word “
bastard
” in Miranda’s low snarl.

“Miranda?
Miranda?
” I was shouting into the phone, spinning around in the parking lot, frantic with frustration and fear. Two uniformed officers, chatting beside a patrol car, stared and started toward me, but Descartes waved them off.
“Miranda?”

“That’s all you get,” snapped the voice I assumed was Reverend Jonah’s, “until I have the bones.”

“Bring Miranda with you,” I demanded. “You set her free first, and I watch her walk away safely, or no deal.”

“Don’t push me. You’re playing games with her life, and her life means nothing to me.”

“But the bones do,” I reminded him. “You want those bones just as much as I want Miranda. Her safety is your only hope of getting them.”

“Bring them to the Templar chapel tonight,” he said. “Midnight.”

“No!” The thought of walking into a trap—or of finding Miranda’s body strung up the way Stefan’s had been—terrified me. What’s more, there was no hope of finding the bones that swiftly.

“What’s the matter, Doctor, does that venue disturb you?” He chuckled, and my blood ran cold. “I didn’t think a man in your line of work would be so squeamish. You disappoint me.”

“The police are probably still watching the chapel,” I said. “Anyhow, I can’t get to the bones until day after tomorrow.”

“
What?
What are you talking about?” His tone was sharp and suspicious. “What do you mean, you can’t get to them? Why not? Where are they?”

“Stefan and I put them in a very secure place. A Swiss bank vault. I have to go to Geneva to get them, and the bank’s closed tomorrow. Sunday. The Sabbath, Reverend.”

“You’re lying.” My heart nearly stopped when he said it. There was a pause; I thought I heard whispers. “Which bank?”

“Credit Suisse.”

“What street is it on?”

“Give me a break, Reverend. I’m supposed to help you plan my own ambush? I might be from Tennessee, but I’m not that stupid.”

“Stefan said the bones were here. He was supposed to bring them that night.”

“But he
didn’t
bring them,” I countered. “Why wouldn’t he have brought them if they were here?”

“I told you. Because he got greedy. We’d agreed on a million, but that night he said he’d gotten another bid, a higher bid. He said the new price was two million.”

I was stunned by the figures, but didn’t dare show it. “That’s
not the way I do business, Reverend. If Stefan agreed to a million, I’ll honor that price.”

There was a pause, then more whispers. “I don’t think you understand the situation yet, Doctor.” His voice sliced into me, as cold and sharp as a straight-edge razor on a winter morning. “The new price I’m offering—the
only
price I’m offering—is the safe return of your assistant.” He paused to let that sink in. “If you don’t actually care about her, I suppose we could talk money instead. But that means I’ll have to kill her. And killing her would mean considerable inconvenience and risk for me. You yourself said the FBI would come after me. So if you’d rather have money than the girl, the new price is half a million.”

“You know I don’t want money,” I said. “I just want her back safe.”

“Then quit playing stupid games.”

“I’m not playing games. I’ll be back from Geneva with the bones Monday night.”

“If you’re not, she’ll die—and she’ll die a much worse death than Stefan did. And after she does, so will you. By God, you will.” With that, he hung up.

“
Damn
it, Inspector, why’d you put me in a cell-phone-proof building for that phone call? I missed half of what she was saying.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “I never have a problem using my mobile in there. It must be something about your American phone.”

“She was trying to tell me something important,” I fumed. “Something about where the bones were hidden.” Twice she’d said something about “key” and “the bones.” Piecing together the two fragmentary versions, I suspected she’d said, “the key is to get the bones.” By
key,
did she mean
crucial,
as in “it’s crucial to get the bones”? That seemed absurdly obvious; of
course
it was crucial to get the bones. No, she must have been talking about an actual key. She seemed to be telling me that the bones were
locked in a hiding place that the key would open. But what key, what hiding place, and where? Wherever it was, the Geneva ploy had bought us thirty-six hours to find it.

Geneva hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment improvisation. Descartes and I had discussed how to stall while we looked for the bones, and the Swiss bank was the most plausible delay we could invent. We had also set other wheels in motion—a contingency plan, in case we couldn’t find the ossuary. We feared that Stefan had sent photos to the buyers, so Descartes had commissioned a local mason to create a replica of the stone ossuary; my role in the ruse was to arrange for Hugh Berryman, the anthropologist who was holding down the fort for me at UT, to overnight an old skeleton from Knoxville.