The Paradise Prophecy (18 page)

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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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She pulled a wallet from her back pocket and flipped it open, showing him an ID card with what looked like an official seal. “Agent Bernadette Callahan. State Department.”
Batty gaped at it. It looked real enough, but he had his doubts. What on earth would the U.S. government want with
him
?
“Since when does the State Department go around kidnapping people?”
“You’d be surprised,” she told him.
Judging by the energy in this room, maybe he wouldn’t be. He glanced at the floor, saw a drain at the center, and wondered how much blood had been washed down it.
“This apology,” he said, flexing his wrists behind him. “Does it include untying me?”
Agent Callahan didn’t move. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I can trust you not to do anything stupid.”
“Too late for that,” Batty said. “You’d need a score card to keep track.”
“Which is why I hesitate. I’ve read your file. I know you sometimes like to swing first and ask questions later—and I’m assuming that’s how you got all those bruises on your face.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So, you see, if you were to try anything, I’m afraid I’d have to hurt you.” She smiled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But trussing me up like a hog is perfectly okay.”
“That wasn’t my call. If you give me your word you’ll be nice, I’ll let you loose and we can do this thing like two civilized human beings.”
“We’re off to a wonderful start,” he said. “What exactly is this
thing
?”
“Do I have your word?”
He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She crossed to the workbench and came back with a small pair of wire cutters. Crouching in front of him, she cut his legs loose, then moved around behind him again and cut through the plastic tie at his wrists.
Batty slipped them free, looking up at her as he rubbed them. “Now what?”
“Now we go upstairs and have a drink.”
“I think I like that plan.”
“A
non
alcoholic drink, Professor. I want you sober as a nun for this conversation.”
“You must not know too many nuns.”
17
 
S
he gave him orange juice.
It came from a refrigerator in what looked like a neatly furnished studio apartment. The only thing unusual about the place was that it had no windows to speak of.
And, of course, the torture chamber downstairs.
Batty sat on a comfortable couch, staring at a door across the room, wondering if it was the way out of this place. He still had no idea why he’d been brought here, and he was considering not waiting to find out. If he timed it right, he could be out that door in seconds flat.
But where would it take him?
And what would Callahan do to him if he tried and failed? “Where exactly are we?” he asked.
She took a seat in a chair across from him. “A safe house. We have them all over the world.”
“So why am I not feeling particularly safe at the moment? I assume we’re not in Louisiana?”
“A little bit south of there.”
Batty frowned. The only thing directly south was the Gulf of Mexico, but he tried his best guess—which, of course, was ridiculous. “The Yucatán?”
“São Paulo, Brazil,” she said.
Batty flinched involuntarily. This had gone from the surreal to the absolutely bizarre. “What the hell am I doing in Brazil, for God’s sakes?”
“Again, not my call. I would’ve been happy to handle this long distance, but the people I work for seem to think you’re needed here. And when they say jump, I usually say ‘with or without a parachute?’ ”
Batty stared at her for a long moment. “Am I getting out of this alive?”
She smiled. “Relax, Professor. Nobody wants you dead. We just want your help.”
“You have an interesting way of going about getting it. You never thought of maybe just . . . I don’t know . . .
asking
me?”
“Would you have said yes?”
“That depends on what kind of help you need. And you’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t even imagine what that would be.”
“We just want to pick your brain for a while.”
Batty wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. Remembering he had a glass of orange juice in his hand, he lifted it to his lips and gulped it down. It was cool and sweet and half of it was gone before he came up for air, but he couldn’t help wishing it had a shot of vodka in it.
Calming himself, he hoped she hadn’t been lying about him getting out of here alive.
“Okay,” he said. “Pick away.”
“Why don’t we start with a question? Have you ever heard of a Brazilian pop singer by the name of Gabriela Zuada?”
This was out of left field. “The Christian Barbie Doll?”
“I’m not sure most people would characterize her quite that way.” Batty shrugged. “She’s just another vapid young thing who preaches Godliness to little girls, but really has no idea what she’s talking about. I’m sure she steals most of her sermons straight from the scam artists on Sunday morning television.”
“I take it you’re not a believer?”
This was a loaded question and Batty didn’t hesitate to jump onto his soapbox. Couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to.
“I’m probably more of believer than all those TV morons combined. But that’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just not big on hypocrites who claim to live by the word of God, only to cherry-pick scripture to excuse their bigotry.”
“You have pretty strong feelings about this.”
“I have pretty strong feelings in general—but I think you already knew that. Why is the State Department keeping a file on me?”
“We keep files on all potential assets,” she said. “And someone of your standing is very attractive to the people I work for. Leading academic. Biblical scholar. Expert on the occult . . .” She paused. “You had a pretty impressive profile before you started drinking.”
“Does your file say
why
I started?”
She shook her head. “Not what I read. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Batty didn’t respond, sorry he’d brought the subject up in the first place. But he’d gotten his answer, and that’s all he cared about.
Callahan didn’t push. Reaching into a pocket, she brought out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him.
Batty unfolded it, saw a few lines of poetry.
Darkness ere Dayes mid-course, and Morning light
More orient in yon Western Cloud that draws
O’re the blew Firmament a radiant white,
And slow descends, with somthing heav’nly fraught.
 
He didn’t really have to read them. The words were as familiar to him as the Old Testament. Probably more so.
“
Paradise Lost
,” he said. “What about it?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. I’m told you’re the leading authority on John Milton.”
“Depends on who you ask. What does this have to do with the Christian Barbie Doll?”
“You don’t watch the news? Read the papers?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Callahan nodded and gestured to the slip of paper. “What can you tell me about that passage?”
Batty glanced at it again. “Nothing particularly earth-shattering. You can Google this stuff and find out everything you need to know.”
“I’m not a big fan of the Internet, Professor. Too much disinformation out there. I like the human element. Someone I can have a conversation with. Exchange ideas. Is there anything in that passage you find unusual?”
“In what way?”
“In a way that might explain why a murder victim would have it painted on her wall.”
Batty looked at her. “What exactly are you getting me involved in?”
“Details to come. Just answer the question.”
Batty reread the verse. “It’s incomplete, for one thing. There’s a whole lot comes before and after it. I’m guessing you know it’s from Book Eleven, when the sun is eclipsed and Adam and Eve see a cloud descending from heaven.”
Callahan nodded again. “I got that much from the CliffsNotes.”
“But if you’re looking for any kind of hidden meaning, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Taken as a whole,
Paradise Lost
is a work of genius, but a couple lines alone don’t mean much beyond the simple fact that your victim may have had a thing for angels. Which, of course, leads me to believe you’re talking about Gabriela Zuada, and that’s my cue to say good-bye.”
He set the glass and slip of paper on the coffee table in front of him and got to his feet.
Callahan didn’t move. “Sit down, Professor. We aren’t finished yet.”
“As far as I’m concerned we are.”
“Do you want me to take you downstairs and tie you up again?”
Batty looked at her. He may have been pretty good with a left hook, but he had no doubt that she could do exactly what she was threatening to do without breaking much of a sweat.
He sat back down. “You know, I’d probably be a lot more cooperative if you just told me what this is all about.”
So she did.
She told him she was down here to help the local police investigate the death of Gabriela Zuada. That there were a lot of unanswered questions surrounding it, including possible signs of a Satanic ritual. Gabriela had apparently been obsessed with
Paradise Lost
, and she left behind a cryptic message that may or may not have been related to it.
Batty gestured to the slip of paper. “The lines of verse?”
“That’s only part of what we found. The message I’m curious about was written in the margin of the book, which she repeated over the phone right before she died.”
“And what was it?”
“
Defende eam
. Protect her.”
“Protect who?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. When a victim says something like that right before she’s killed, you tend to think it might be important. Whoever she wanted to protect is potentially another victim, or a possible witness. So you can see why we’d want to locate this person.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you much there.”
“I know this is a shot in the dark, Professor, but you can’t think of any way her message might relate to those lines of verse?”
Batty shook his head and sighed. “
Paradise Lost
revolves around Satan’s fall from grace and the corruption of mankind, and despite your victim’s obsession with it, I’d have a hard time equating any part of it to a murder or a Satanic ritual.”
“Would you mind taking a look at the crime-scene photos?”
“If I refuse, will you let me go?”
“Not likely.”
“I’m not sure how much good it’ll do you.”
“Just take a look and tell me if anything jumps out at you.”
She brought out a cell phone, played with it for a moment, then handed it to Batty. “Just touch the arrow to flip through the photos.”
Batty did as he was told and the screen came to life with a publicity shot of Gabriela Zuada. Before now, he’d only had a vague idea of what she looked like, but the moment he saw that face, his heart rate kicked up.
He’d seen her before. And not on TV.
This was the girl from his nightmare the other night. The one whose screams had awakened him. The one consumed by a wall of fire.
He sat there, unmoving, staring at her image, then reluctantly touched the screen again, advancing through the next several photos.
What he saw was a burned body. Burned beyond recognition. Then shots of a floor marred by dark scorches that roughly formed a circle with an
A
at its center.
Goose bumps rose on the back of Batty’s neck.
He stared at the screen wordlessly, suddenly swept away to a place he didn’t want to go. To a moment in time he had spent the last two years trying to obliterate.
Struggling to pull himself back, he said, “Where did they find this body?”
“In a backstage storage room at the local performing arts center.”
“I need to go there. Right now.”
Callahan frowned at him. “That’s probably not a good idea, Professor. I’m sure anything you have to contribute can be handled right—”
“You don’t understand. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. It’s imperative that I see that storeroom. You’re in danger. Grave danger. And so is anyone else involved in this investigation.”

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