The Paradise Prophecy (45 page)

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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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Stepping onto its grounds was like stepping through the looking glass into another time and place.
Batty and Callahan had arrived in London early, and were forced to wait until well past nightfall to approach the church grounds. The streets here seemed only slightly less crazy than those in Chiang Mai, and as the unruliness continued, the police did their best to keep it contained.
They had spent the day holed up in a cheap hotel nearby, Batty fidgeting like a teenager, unable to sleep or eat, just anxious to do what needed to be done. He tried to bide his time by reading sections of the Milton manuscript and
Steganographia
—both of which he carried in the book bag—but his mind kept wandering, remembering his vision.
Only those whose motives are pure can read the pages without fear of the curse,
Milton had told him. But were Batty’s motives pure?
Was anyone pure?
Part of what had fueled him, what had taken hold of him in São Paulo in the first place, was his desire to know who had ripped Rebecca out of his life. And when he found out, he had been filled with a rage and anger he hadn’t felt since the day she died.
Yet when he’d put that bullet in Belial’s back, when he saw what McNab had done with his sniper’s bullets, Batty had felt nothing more than relief. Relief that Belial had been stopped—if only temporarily—from destroying more lives.
So did that make his motives pure?
No way to tell, unfortunately.
And now, deep into the night, he and Callahan made their way across the churchyard to the main entrance. It was locked, as expected, and if there was any kind of security guard, he was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly spooked by the pandemonium in the streets these last couple days.
Or maybe joining in.
Callahan checked for alarms and found none, then got through the lock with little effort. Fortunately, she didn’t use her foot this time.
They carried flashlights to guide them. Batty had been here before, in his quest to know everything Milton, and noted that it hadn’t really changed. Even in limited light, the church was impressive, sporting polished wooden pews and lined on either side with carved stone columns and archways.
To their right, beyond the archways, stood a bronze statue of John Milton.
Callahan put her flashlight beam on it. “This is a good sign.”
“Here’s an even better one,” Batty said, then shone his light on a nearby wall that held a bust of Milton atop a plaque that read:
JOHN MILTON
Author of Paradise Lost
Born Dec
r
1608
Died Nov
r
1674
 
 
His father John Milton
died 1646
They were both interred in this church
“The question,” Callahan said, “is where?”
“That part could be tricky.”
She knitted her brow. “How so?”
“It’s been a few centuries since he was buried,” Batty said. “And the place has been rebuilt and refurbished a few times since then, so finding the exact location could be problematic.” He paused. “Then there’s the issue of grave robbers.”
“What issue?”
“It’s said that during one of those rebuilds—about a hundred years after he died—Milton’s coffin was broken into and he was stripped of his teeth and hair. The coffin was supposed to have been moved after that.”
The more Batty thought about this, however, the more he had to wonder if it was just a cover story. What if it had been the guardians who had moved him, at Saint Michael’s bidding? To protect the pages. The corpse with the missing hair and teeth may not have been Milton at all.
“So, in other words,” Callahan said, “we have no idea where the hell we’re going.”
“Then might I suggest you turn around and leave,” a voice told them.
They both froze as a figure stepped out from the shadows beyond one of the archways. He was tall and slender, in his mid-fifties, and had a shotgun resting on his forearm, casually pointing it in their direction. The security guard, no doubt. Although he wasn’t wearing a uniform.
He was British, of course. “Picking locks, carrying torches...looks to me as if you two are up to no good.”
“Easy,” Callahan said, her eyes on the shotgun.
“I don’t shoot, luv, unless someone provokes me. And you’re not going to provoke me, are you?”
“Listen to me,” Batty said. “I can’t explain any of this without it sounding completely crazy, but we need to see John Milton’s remains.”
“I was getting that impression, the way you two were talking. The question is why? I’ve seen some Milton crazies in my time, but not all that many of them have been anxious to get a look at a few rotting old bones.”
“Like I said ...” Batty spread his hands.
The guard pointed to Callahan. “You. Do you have some form of identification on you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know who I’m about to shoot, should it become necessary.” He turned a palm up and waggled his fingers at her. “Let me see.”
Callahan pulled her State Department ID out of her pocket and tossed it to him. He opened it, gave it a glance, then suddenly relaxed, tossing it back to her.
“It’s good to meet you, Agent Callahan.” Then he set the shotgun aside and held out a hand to shake. “My name is Grant. Jim Grant. I was told to expect you.”
Batty and Callahan exchanged looks, then Callahan said, “You’re with Section?”
“I presume that’s who you work for, but no, I answer to a higher authority.” He reached into his collar and brought out a Saint Christopher medal. “I’m the caretaker here, but I’m also here to protect what needs to be protected.”
Callahan looked confused. “But how could you know we were coming?”
“Quite simple. I received a telephone call.”
“From who?”
“That’s a question I don’t have an answer to, I’m afraid. But whoever he is, he knows about
Custodes Sacri
, so I can only assume he’s one of Michael’s associates. Recruited the same as I was.”
Batty turned to Callahan. “The D.C. connection, no doubt. He obviously prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Whatever the case,” Grant said, “we’re wasting time.” He turned and gestured with his fingers. “Follow me.”
 
 
I
t was a vault. A burial crypt located beneath the church down a long, narrow stairway, behind a locked metal door.
But the crypt itself obviously hadn’t been touched since it was built centuries ago, and the sight of it sent a sustained shiver of revulsion through Callahan the moment they stepped inside. She’d seen plenty of death in her time, but places like this gave her the creeps.
It started with a narrow ossuary, or bone house. A stone wall to their left was lined with long wooden shelves—and on those shelves, sitting side by side, were several hundred skulls, yellowed by age. To their right were two large pallets carrying piles of neatly stacked bones.
“The plague,” Grant said, without offering any further explanation. Not that Callahan needed one. She was surprised by his complete sense of calm. His demeanor seemed much more monklike than Brother Philip’s ever had.
LaLaurie, on the other hand, seemed to be on edge the moment they stepped through the crypt doorway, and she had wonder if being surrounded by all this death had an effect on him. Those enhanced senses of his had to be going into overdrive.
“This way,” Grant said, motioning with his flashlight.
They stepped through an archway on their right and into the main chamber. It was the size of a small warehouse and Callahan was instantly reminded of the staging room in Istanbul. But instead of boxes full of antiques, this one held rows of coffins, some in the center made of ornately carved stone, while those lining the wall—in neat, horizontal rows—were shallow wooden caskets, warped and weathered by years of neglect.
There was a smell down here that was hard to miss. A mustiness. And beneath this, faint but unmistakable, the scent of rotting corpses. Callahan had no idea how fresh some of these bodies were—she didn’t figure this place had hosted anyone new in quite some time—but the smell was there and she recognized it immediately.
Either that, or she had an amazing imagination.
Grant moved to a stone casket in the center of the room. “This is the one,” he said. “John Milton.”
LaLaurie nodded and crossed to it, pressing a hand against it, trying to suck up its energy. Callahan half expected the lid to crack open on him, letting loose a vampire or some other deadly creature.
But nothing happened, and LaLaurie opened his eyes, shook his head.
“You’re wrong,” he told Grant.
Grant’s eyes widened slightly. The most emotion Callahan had seen in him so far. “How can that be? This is the one I’ve been guarding for the last fifteen years.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Jim, but you’ve been guarding the wrong coffin.”
LaLaurie looked down the row, and over the next several minutes, moved from coffin to coffin, pressing his hand against them, coming away from each one looking a little less whole, and she knew this process was taking its toll on him.
Grant was scratching his head. “I can’t believe we got it wrong. All this time and we got it wrong.”
“Maybe you didn’t pick up the phone often enough,” Callahan said.
By the time he’d finished touching every coffin in the room, LaLaurie looked a bit green under the gills. And he still hadn’t found what they were looking for.
He turned to Grant. “I assume you have a pauper’s vault?”
“Pauper’s vault?” Grant said. “I hardly think Milton would be—”
“Maybe one of the previous guardians thought it was prudent to hide him where someone would be less likely to look.”
Grant nodded and pointed his flashlight beam toward the back of the room. There was a wooden door there, and he motioned for them to follow. They moved with him and he pulled the door open to reveal another set of steps leading to a subbasement, Callahan again reminded of the auction house.
These steps, however, were old and rickety and creaked so loudly as they descended them that she was sure they were going to wake someone up.
When they got to the bottom they found a smaller, narrower room, no caskets in the center. Instead the walls were lined with cubbyholes holding cheap wooden boxes, most of them falling apart, arm and leg and foot bones protruding through the cracks.
There was one that didn’t belong here, however. An actual casket stuffed into a dark corner, weathered by age, but clearly out of place.
LaLaurie glanced at Grant and Callahan, then moved to it and pressed his palm against the lid. He closed his eyes, but didn’t keep them closed long.
“This is it,” he said. “John Milton.”
“You’re sure?” Grant asked.
“No doubt whatsoever.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Callahan said. She stuck her flashlight under her arm and reached for the lid, pushing it open, not at all surprised when they found yet another skull and a set of bones, these mostly intact. The clothing that had covered them was long gone.
It suddenly occurred to her that this is how we wind up.
All of us.
Some leave behind a legacy, as Milton had, a piece of themselves that will be remembered for centuries to come. But most of us die in obscurity. A pile of bones that lay forgotten in some grave, our lives no more important to the world at large than the quarter-inch column of ink that announces our departure from it.
One day we’re here, then we’re gone. And unless you get lucky, a couple hundred years later nobody knows who the hell you were.
She shone her flashlight inside. Some of the coffin lining was still intact, but no sign of any pages in sight.
“Check under the bones,” LaLaurie said.
Callahan looked at him. “You first.”
He frowned at her, then reached inside, shoving his hands beneath the body and patting the tattered lining there. She could tell by his expression that he wasn’t having any luck.
Then she noticed something—on the right side of the casket where the lining was torn. She shone her light directly on it for a better look, and saw a tiny seam in the wood.
Another hidden door?
Reaching over, she tore the lining away to reveal a narrow oblong panel. Digging her nails into the seam, she pried the lid back and found a hollowed-out space behind it, a burlap bag stuffed inside.
She looked up at LaLaurie, saw the excitement on his face and gestured to the bag. “Be my guest.”
With shaky hands, he took it out, untied a leather string at the top, then reached inside and pulled out a familiar-looking Saint Christopher medal.
Custodes Sacri.
He handed it to Callahan, then reached inside again and this time pulled out a roll of time-worn pages, bound by another leather string.

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