White Mountain (9 page)

St. Bartholomew 1705-1735

A shiver of foreboding ran up Francesco’s spine, but he shook it off, blaming it on Paulo’s ridiculous predictions.
 
They weren’t going to be cursed for stealing a few old bones any more than they would be cursed for the sins they’d already committed.

“Help me,” he ordered, and together they pulled the glass coffin from the niche, then set it on the floor.

“Hold this,” Francesco said, and handed him a flashlight.

Paulo’s hands were shaking as he took the light, but when it flashed on the ancient and yellowing skull within, his stomach lurched.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, forgive me for this sin.”

Seconds later, the faint sound of metal against glass could be heard as Francesco carefully cut out a panel on the backside of the coffin.

One minute passed, then another and another.
 
Despite the coolness of the evening, sweat dripped from Francesco’s forehead onto the glass Paulo’s hands were shaking so hard that he once almost dropped the flashlight.
 
It had taken a sharp word from Antonio and a slap on the head before he had regained his equilibrium.

Suddenly Francesco rocked back on his heels, holding a long, slim panel of the old handmade glass.

“I’m in,” he whispered.

Antonio spun, his eyes glittering eagerly as he took the glass from Francesco’s hands and carefully laid it on the altar.
 
Then he pulled a cloth sack from inside his jacket and thrust it in Francesco’s face.

“Here.
 
You know what we came for.
 
Take it now.”

Francesco stared down into the small casket, eyeing the fragile bones.
 
He knew people who prayed to this saint for healing—and he knew people who had been healed.
 
He couldn’t bring himself to actually desecrate something that holy—not even for a whole lot of money.

:U can’t,” he whispered, and handed the sack back to Antonio.

Antonio cursed and shove both men aside as he dropped to his knees.

“The light,” he whispered.
 
“Hold the light so that I may see.”

Paulo angle the beam of the flashlight down into the casket, highlighting all that was left of the small man of God.

Antonio thrust his hand through the opening that Francesco had cut, fingering the bones as if they were sticks of wood from which to choose.
 
Finally he settled on two of them, one a small bone from the lower part of the arm and another that had a minute bit of leatherlike tissue still adhering to a joint.

He pulled them out and thrust them into the sack, then stood abruptly.

“Do you have the glue?” he asked.

Francesco nodded.

“Then replace the glass and put the box back in place.
 
We’ve been here too long.”

Francesco’s expression was anxious as he went about the task of doing what he’d been told.

“This patch will show,” he said.

Antonio sneered.
 
“But not easily, and by the time someone discovers what has happened, we’ll be long gone.”

Within minutes, the earthly remains of St. Bartholomew, minus a bone or two, were back in the niche.
 
The trio slipped out of the church and back into the streets with no one the wiser—except God.
 
Hastily, they made for the edge of the village, and when they could no longer see the rooftops, Antonio did a little dance in the middle of the road.

“We did it!” he crowed.
 
“We’re going to be rich!”

“We’re going to die,” Paulo moaned.

“When do we get our money?” Francesco asked.

Antonio smiled, his teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight.

“We take the left fork in the road and follow the path up to Grimaldi’s meadow.
 
He will be waiting.”

“Who’s he?” Francesco asked.

Antonio shrugged.
 
“I don’t know his name…only that he pays well for goods received.”

“How much is he paying us?” Francesco asked.

Antonio smile.
 
“We each get five thousand American dollars.”

The amount was staggering for men who had no vocation and who lived by their wits and their lies.
 
Still, Francesco worried.

“You’ve done business with him before?”

Antonio hesitated.
 
“No, but I can tell these things.
 
He has fine clothes and manicured hands.
 
Men like that have no need to lie.”

Paulo snorted beneath his breath, convinced that his life was over.
 
Clean men were killers, too, but he had no intention of voicing his thoughts.
 
If he hadn’t been so certain the fate would catch up with him wherever he went, he would have walked away right then.
 
But he had no wish to die alone, and so he followed the other two men to the meeting place.

Before they had time to catch their breaths, a man stepped out from behind a rock.
 
Paulo gasped and stumbled as Francesco stopped short, but Antonio swagger up to meet him.

“You have it?” the man asked.

Antonio smiled and held up the sack.
 
“We kept our end of the bargain.
 
Do you have the money?”

“I will see the merchandise first,” the man said.

“And I the money,” Antonio retorted.

The man set down a satchel, then opened it, revealing three substantial bundles of American twenty-dollar bills.

Antonio handed over the sack and then went down on his knees, laughing as he thrust his hands into the satchel and pulled out the cash.

“See?” he cried.
 
“See, I told you. We’re rich.
 
“We’re rich!”

Francesco grinned at his cousin and then dropped to his knees as greed overtook shame.

But Paulo couldn’t bring himself to touch the money any more than he would have touched the bones of the saint, and because of his hesitation, he was the first to see the man pull a weapon.

“He has a gun!” he cried.

And because of his diligence, he was the first to be shot.
 
He hit the ground with a thud as a sharp burning pain began to spread within his belly.

The man fired twice again in rapid succession, killing both Antonio and Francesco before they could look up.
 
He grabbed the money-filled satchel, scattered a few cheap pieces of jewelry upon the ground, as well as a handful of rare coins he’d stolen last week in Cannes.
 
Then he took another gun from his coat and fire it into the air before laying down on the ground beside the men.
 
He knew their reputation.
 
When their bodies were found, it would be assumed that they’d fought over stolen property and killed each other in a fight.
 
Without looking back, he disappeared into the night.

Paulo clutched at his belly with both hands, trying to hold back the flow of blood, but there was too much, and he was becoming too weak.
 
What was left of Francesco’s face was on the ground near his shoe, and the back of Antonio’s head was completely gone.
 
His one regret was that both men were no longer alive to see that his prediction had come true.

His voice was weakening, his breath almost gone.
 
But he said it again, if for no one else’s benefit but his own.

“See…I told you we were going to die.”

Despite all the wrongs that he’d done, Paulo had always been a man of his word.

By the time their bodies were discovered two days later, the killer’s payoff was in a numbered account in a prestigious Swiss bank and the goods were en route to the buyer.

Jack woke with a start, momentarily confused by the unfamiliarity of the room.
 
Then he saw the dirty dishes on the tray by the door and remembered the nighttime meal he’d almost share with Isabella Abbott.
 
He couldn’t quit thinking about how sad she’d been, and how beautiful her face was.
 
Shaking off the feeling of miasma, he reminded himself that personal feelings had no place in his line of work.
 
He couldn’t afford to feel empathy for someone he was investigation.
 
He only dealt in facts.

As the blessed quiet of the old house permeated the room, he ran through a mental checklist of all the things he needed to do today.
 
First on the list was checking in with the director to let him know he had arrived.
 
With a reluctant groan, he threw back the covers and got up.
 
A few minutes later, freshly showered and half-dressed, he sat down on the side of the bed and reached for his cell phone.
 
With the punch of a few numbers, he was connected.

“Sir…it’s Dolan.
 
I’m on the scene.”

“Fine.
 
Remember, I want this played loose and easy.
 
It’s entirely possible that no one there knew a thing about the old man’s background.
 
If that’s so, then his reasons for deceit have died with him.”

Jack sighed.
 
“Yes, sir, I understand, but in our business, we’ve always got to look for conspiracy, right?”

“Do I detect a note of ambivalence?”

“Maybe.
 
And maybe I’m just more tired than I thought.”

“How are you healing?” he asked.

Jack flexed his stomach muscles, noting that each day brought a little more ease.

“Good.
 
I rarely feel any pain.”

“That’s good.
 
No need pushing yourself unnecessarily.”
 
Then he added, “As a matter of curiosity, what’s your first impression?”

Other than the fact that I almost let myself get infatuated with a ghost?
 
“Not much.
 
I’ve only seen a desk clerk.
 
Everyone else was at Frank Walton’s funeral.
 
I did meet the owner briefly last night, but I didn’t have time to make any kind of connection.”

“Did he say anything about Walton’s death?”

“He is a she, and she referred to the old man a s Uncle Frank.
 
She also mentioned that her father had passed away less than two weeks ago, so she’s pretty devastated.
 
I didn’t push.”

“Hmm, that’s quite a coincidence—two people living under the same roof and dying within weeks of each other.
 
Check into the father’s passing.
 
Make sure it was from natural causes.”

Jack’s pulse kicked up a notch.
 
“Do we have any reason to assume otherwise?”

“Company intelligence thinks we’ve got a visitor.”

Jack stilled.
 
“Soviet?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks, maybe more.”

“Do we have any background on Walton or, I should say…Waller?
 
What was his line of expertise?
 
Was it nuclear..?
 
Biological…?
 
What in hell did that old man know that would still be of interest after all these years?”

“He was a doctor.
 
If there was a special project, we know nothing about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dolan”

“Sir?”

“Watch your back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.
 
Jack dropped the phone on the bed and reached for his shirt.
 
The leisurely week he’d been hoping for had just gone up in smoke.

Up one floor and at the far end of the hall, the uncles had gathered in David Schultz’s room.
 
Their demeanor was morose, reflecting their depression.
 
Jasper Arnold scratched his bald head as he looked about the room.

“What about the clinic?” he asked.

“What about it?” Thomas countered.

“Samuel was the heart of it,” he said.
 
“David and I have wanted out for more than five years.
 
The staff is well-trained.
 
We’ve accomplished what we set out to do.
 
I say let them have full authority and we officially retire.”

Rufus Toombs smoothed his hands over his paunch, then laid his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

“Samuel had plans, remember?
 
He swore he’d perfected the process even more than before.
 
Things have already been set into motion.”

Jasper waved away the comment.
 
“Exactly my point.
 
Samuel had plans…but Samuel is dead.”
 
He took out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow.
 
“I have plans, too, and they do not include being murdered.”