The Paradise Prophecy (19 page)

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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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“Danger? What are you talking about?”
Batty got to his feet again. She could try to stop him, but this time he had adrenaline on his side.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said. “Take me to the crime scene or stay the hell out of my way.”
18
 
T
hey took a cab to the performing arts center.
Callahan had tried to get LaLaurie to spill—to tell her what he’d seen in those photographs that
she
couldn’t see—but he had refused to budge. On the ride over, he remained evasive, and the more time she spent time with him, the more her irritation grew.
Danger. Grave danger.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did she have another Lieutenant Martinez on her hands?
As they were waved through the barricades, Callahan noted that the crowd outside had grown considerably, and she wondered how long it would be before it was too big to be controlled.
LaLaurie took it all in with a trace of wonder in his eyes. “A lot of fuss and bother for one little girl.”
Callahan arched a brow. “Do you have any idea how famous Gabriela was?”
“Not a clue.”
“There’s the pope, then there’s Santa Gabriela. And in some circles even the pope has to play catch-up.” She looked at him. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”
“About what?”
“About what you saw in those photographs.”
“Not until I know for sure.”
“Know
what
for sure?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“And when will that be?”
“Soon,” LaLaurie said. “Very soon.”
Infuriating.
Less than five minutes later, they were climbing the loading-dock steps. They entered the building, crossed through a small warehouse, then followed a hallway until they came to the storeroom where Gabriela’s body had been found.
LaLaurie paused at the doorway, just short of the police tape. “You smell that?”
“What?” Callahan asked. “And if you say gasoline, I’ll kick your butt.”
“Sulfur,” he said. “It’s not strong, but it’s there.”
“You must have a better nose than I do.” Callahan pulled the crime-scene tape aside and flicked on the light. “The reason I mentioned gasoline is because one of the witnesses insists he smelled it. But we haven’t found any evidence of it.”
“I’m not surprised. Who was this witness?”
“Her boyfriend.”
LaLaurie nodded. “Like a husband having sympathy pains when his wife goes into labor.”
“Say what?”
He didn’t respond. He was staring at the scorch mark now, his jaw tightening at the sight of it. He seemed to go away for a moment, lost in a memory—and not a pleasant one at that. She was about to call him back, when he abruptly moved past her and put a palm against the wall, closing his eyes.
He stayed that way for what seemed an eternity, and Callahan said, “Pardon the intrusion, Professor, but what the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to feel the energy in the room. Looking for signs.”
What the hell? Was he some kind of psychic?
She didn’t remember reading
that
in his file.
“Please tell me I misunderstood what you just said.”
He moved to the scorch mark again and hunkered down next to it. He studied it a moment, then closed his eyes and slowly—almost reluctantly, it seemed—lowered his hand, pressing his palm against it.
The moment he made contact, his entire body went rigid. He clamped his jaw tight and began to shake, as if a current of electricity were shooting through him.
“Professor?”
She was sure he was about to go into a full-fledged grand mal seizure, when he suddenly jerked his hand away and opened his eyes. His face had gone pale and his breathing was labored.
She moved toward him. “Professor, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. Then he got to his feet, staggered slightly and steadied himself against a wall, struggling to catch his breath. “Just what I was afraid of. Take me to Gabriela’s apartment.”
“Maybe I should take you to a hospital instead. You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Take me to her apartment.”
“Not until you explain to me what just happened.”
“I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it.” His color was returning and his breathing was back to normal.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Callahan said. “Ready to hear what?”
“I’ll explain it all when we get there.”
“How about you explain it now and we can pretend we waited.”
He looked at her. “Let’s just say that what happened here isn’t an isolated incident. That’s why I warned you.”
“You’re gonna have to give me a hell of a lot more than that.”
“At Gabriela’s apartment. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
 
 
C
allahan gave the cab driver the address for Gabriela’s high-rise.
There was something about LaLaurie—his inflexible will, perhaps—that made it impossible to turn him down.
Or maybe it was the pain behind his eyes. She’d noticed it the moment she pulled that blindfold free, only to see it compounded by his little parlor act at the crime scene.
She had to wonder if it had something to do with the scars on his wrists, and was beginning to think that the file Section had given her had been heavily redacted.
He was damaged goods, no doubt about it, and she couldn’t help thinking that whatever that damage was, it was somehow related to what he’d seen in that storeroom.
If LaLaurie was convinced Gabriela’s death wasn’t an isolated incident, then Callahan needed to know why. And as much as she wanted to smack him around until he finally broke down and told her, she decided to let him play this out.
It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.
 
 
T
hey were greeted at Gabriela’s front door by Rosa, who frowned the moment she saw Callahan. “Mr. Ruiz is not available.”
“We just want another look around,” Callahan said.
Rosa shot a wary glance at LaLaurie, then she reluctantly let them in. Callahan ushered him into the living room, surprised by the way his face lit up at the sight Gabriela’s collection.
“My God,” he said, crossing to the cases full of artifacts, his gaze immediately drawn to something of interest. “Look at this. Do you know what this is?”
Callahan didn’t really know what any of it was, but she was momentarily caught up in his enthusiasm and joined him at the glass. He gestured to a small, greenish cross that looked as if it had been carved from stone, a crude figure of Jesus with outstretched arms adorning it.
“A bronze pendant,” he said. “Seventh century, Roman Byzantine period. Soldiers used to wear these to battle. It must’ve cost her a small fortune.”
“She had a big one, so I’m sure it wasn’t a problem.”
LaLaurie moved on to the next item as if he were the proverbial kid in the candy shop. “And this,” he said, pointing at what looked like a tiny, oval picture frame. “An antique silver reliquary with a Saint Leonard relic. This has to be over six hundred years old.”
He went on this way for a few more minutes, pointing out each artifact and explaining what it was. Reliquaries, engravings, rare manuscripts, altar cards.
He certainly seemed to know his stuff.
As she listened, Callahan spotted a new item inside one of the cases: the stone figurine of an angel fighting a dragon. The one she’d taken from the box on Gabriela’s bed yesterday. Rosa must have found it there and decided to put it on display.
She pointed it out to LaLaurie. “What about this? Any idea what it is? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
LaLaurie nodded. “It looks about seventeenth century to me. It’s from Revelation. Saint Michael fighting the dragon Satan in a war in heaven.”
A sudden memory tumbled through Callahan’s brain.
You’re part of Michael’s army.
“Did you just say ‘Michael’?”
“The patron saint of chivalry. Louis the Eleventh founded an order in his name. You’ve never heard of him?”
He sent you here to spy on us.
“I’m sure I must have, but I’m not big on religious icons.”
“Well, the victim sure was. And maybe she wasn’t such a Barbie doll after all.” He gestured to the cases. “Nobody builds a collection like this unless they’re very serious about their faith.” He paused. “Or they’re trying to protect themselves.”
“Against what?”
He looked at Callahan. “Against exactly what happened to her.”
He was about to turn away when Callahan grabbed his arm. “Professor, you’ve strung this out long enough. Do you have information pertinent to this investigation or don’t you?”
“Where’s her copy of
Paradise Lost
?”
Callahan sighed. “In a room off her bedroom.”
Before she could say another word, he found the hallway and headed straight to Gabriela’s bedroom without even the slightest hitch in his gate. Callahan followed, and by the time she stepped inside, he was already moving through the walk-in closet toward the hidden room in back.
When she caught up to him, she said, “How did you do that? How did you know where to go?”
“This room has an energy. I could feel its draw.”
He stood just inside the doorway, taking in Gabriela’s prayer room the same way he’d taken in the crime scene, and the look on his face wasn’t easy to describe. Surprise. Awe. But also some uneasiness there.
He gestured to the painted blue symbol on the wall.
 
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to. You know what it is?”
“It’s a sigil.”
“A what?”
“A sign, or a seal, with a very specific power and meaning. They’re used in ceremonial magic. Even its color is significant.”
“So what does it mean?”
LaLaurie found the copy of
Paradise Lost
where Callahan had left it atop the prayer desk. He leafed through it until he came to Gabriela’s highlighted passages. He read for a moment, then looked up at Callahan.
“What it means,” he said, “is that you were right about Gabriela having an obsession. First the figurine, then the painting, and now all these notations in Book Eleven. But the obsession wasn’t limited to this book.”
“Then what?”
“Not what.
Who
.” He gestured to the wall. “That sigil represents the Archangel Michael. And blue is his color.”
You’re part of Michael’s army. He sent you here to spy on us.
“And what about the notations in the book?”
“They’re all in chapter eleven. Which is the part of the poem where Michael comes down from heaven to give Adam and Eve a message from God.”
“
Okay,” Callahan said. “So we’ve established she had an obsession. What does that have to do with her death?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“How so?”
He reached to the shelf beneath the prayer desk, pulled out the books that were stacked there and pointed to the first one.
“The Lesser Key of Solomon
. A seventeenth-century grimoire.”
“Grim-what?”
“Grimoire. A textbook on magic.” He showed her the next book. “
Forbidden Rites
. A manual on summoning spirits.” And the next one.
“
Angels, Incantations, and Revelation
. I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.” He looked at her. “Are you sensing a pattern yet?”

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