The Sacred Bones

by Michael Byrnes

  She thought she heard Santelli sigh in relief.

  "According to Joseph's account, he acquired another crucified corpse-- one of two bodies that still remained on a cross atop Golgotha,...a criminal who had been killed the same day as Jesus. The body was subjected to standard Jewish burial rituals and allowed to decay for a year."

  "Thus wiping out the second man's identity." If Donovan was making this all up, he was doing a hell of a good job.

  "Yes. A brilliant fabrication intended to prove Christ never left the tomb. A desperate attempt to discredit early Christianity in order to preserve the Jewish aristocracy."

  She let that sink in. Father Donovan's argument was pretty good, plus he possessed what he stated to be a real document to back up his story. And it did agree with the inconsistencies she'd cited earlier, particularly the odd genetic profile and the clubbed knees. The skeleton could have belonged to some convicted criminal from a backwater Roman province. But the fact still remained that the writings in this ancient book were, quite literally, all Greek to her. The priest's interpretation was all that she had to go by. Maybe that was how he had planned it. But why? She looked at him sharply. "It's obvious Joseph's plan failed. So why is it that no one previously discovered all this?" As soon as she'd asked the question, she felt herself tighten up. Was she pushing too hard?

  Donovan shrugged. "I believe Joseph of Arimathea died or was killed during those first twelve months, before the body was finally prepared. Perhaps the Sanhedrin or the Romans murdered him. We'll never really know. Let's just be thankful that his scheme was never carried out. Because unlike today, where skilled scientists like yourself can detect foul play, in ancient times, a physical body could have been extremely problematic."

  "And the ossuary was found only recently?" She braced herself for the answer.

  "The Ephemeris Conlusio was obtained by the Vatican in the early fourteenth century. But it wasn't taken seriously until a lone archaeologist unearthed a tomb just north of Jerusalem a few weeks ago. Luckily he was smart enough to know that if he approached us discreetly we'd pay him very handsomely for it."

  Momentarily perplexed, Charlotte let the explanation roll over in her mind a couple times. If Donovan was telling the truth, that would mean that this anonymous archaeologist might have killed people to get the ossuary and the Vatican may have been none-the-wiser about its procurement. Possibly Bersei had jumped to the wrong conclusion. But he was a smart man-- a very smart man. She'd personally witnessed that he wasn't the type who'd make hasty assumptions about anything. What had he discovered that made him so sure of his claims? "A first-century relic of a crucified man bearing the symbol of Christ," she murmured. "A priceless artifact...for all the wrong reasons."

  "Exactly. This was a seemingly authentic discovery that, without proper explanation, may have caused needless hardship for the Christian faith. We needed to be sure it all matched the accounts in Joseph's journal before finalizing any transaction. And thanks to your hard work, I'm certain we've closed this case."

  Charlotte's eyes wandered back to the opened manuscript where Joseph's drawings inventoried the ossuary and all its contents. Then she noticed something. The scroll cylinder wasn't included there. Her brow furrowed.

  "Is something wrong?" Donovan asked.

  Taking the plastic-sheathed cylinder in her hand, she said, "Why isn't this shown there?" She motioned to the drawings.

  Donovan suddenly looked nervous. "Not sure," he said, shaking his head. He tentatively glanced over at Santelli. He had tried to avoid this, not knowing what the scroll inside might actually say.

  "Why don't you open it?" Santelli boldly suggested.

  Taken aback, Charlotte said, "I've never really handled ancient documents before. We were waiting to..."

  "Nothing to worry about, Dr. Hennesey," Santelli cut in. "Father Donovan is an expert in handling ancient documents. Besides, I doubt we'll be wanting to put any of this on display in the Vatican Museum."

  "Okay." She handed the bagged cylinder to the white-faced librarian.

  "Go ahead, Patrick," Santelli urged. "Open it."

  Amazed that the cardinal could be so brazen, Donovan proceeded to open the bag. Withdrawing the cylinder, he removed the loose end cap and tipped the scroll out onto the table. He exchanged eager glances with Santelli and Hennesey. "Here we go." With the utmost care, he unfurled the scroll on top of the plastic and held it flat with both hands. Seeing what was there, he felt instantly relieved and pushed it further along the table so the others could see it too.

  All eyes took in what had been inked onto the ancient vellum. It was an unusual drawing that blended all sorts of images. The focal point was a Jewish menorah superimposed over a cross entwined with leafy tendrils. The symbol that was on the ossuary's side was repeated here four times, at the end of each arm of the cross.

  "What does this all mean?" Santelli asked Donovan.

  "I'm not sure," he admitted. He tried to conceal the fact that he noticed the edge of the scroll that faced toward him looked freshly scored. Had someone purposely cut away part of the scroll? He rested his thumbs flat over the edge to conceal the marks.

  "Whatever it means, it's beautiful," Charlotte interjected.

  "Yes it is," Donovan agreed, smiling.

  "Well then, Dr. Hennesey," Santelli spoke up. "You've done a brilliant job. We cannot thank you enough and the Holy Father extends his thanks as well. Just please be diligent in adhering to our request to not discuss this with anyone-- including members of your own family as well as the press."

  "You have my word," she promised.

  "Excellent. If you don't mind, I'll have Father Martin escort you out. I just have a few items to discuss with Father Donovan. And though your work here is finished, please do feel free to stay with us as long as you'd like."

  58.

  Leaving the Apostolic Palace, Charlotte headed directly to the lab to see if Bersei had returned.

  Walking along the basement corridor, her eyes were drawn to the door of the surveillance room. It was still ajar. Against her better judgment, she wrapped her knuckles on it.

  "Mr. Conte. Can I have a word with you, please?"

  No answer.

  She pushed it open and poked her head inside. It was empty-- nothing but bare shelving lining the walls. Even the ceiling panel had been moved back in place. "What the..."

  Pulling the door closed, Charlotte proceeded cautiously down the eerily quiet hall. She slid her keycard through the reader next to the lab door, fully expecting that it would not work. But the lock disengaged with an electromechanical tumble and she made her way inside.

  For the first time since she'd been here, the lights and air-conditioning in the lab had been turned off. Groping along the wall for the control panel, she flicked a few switches up.

  When the lights came on, she couldn't believe what she was seeing. The entire lab was empty-- the ossuary, the bones, the relics...all gone. Even the computer CPUs were missing from their bays.

  Fearing the worst, she didn't move into the room-- just turned the lights off again and doubled back to the door. That's when she heard footsteps out in the corridor, growing louder as they approached.

  Now what? There was no window on the door, so she couldn't see who was coming. Father Donovan? Bersei? She listened closer. She'd strode up and down the corridor with both of them, but couldn't recall this rhythm-- this smooth stepping she now heard.

  What if it was Conte?

  Now that she'd seen the empty closet and lab, the laptop she was carrying-- the only remaining proof of the Vatican's secret project-- felt like raw meat in the lion's den. Her whole body stiffened, praying that she'd hear a different door open, or that the steps would retreat back down the corridor.

  The footsteps stopped and she could see a shadow moving into the light penetrating in from beneath the door.

  Lunging back into the darkened lab, she silently felt her way along the first workstation and crouched low to the floor ju
st as the door lock turned.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled as the door creaked open, light from the corridor spilling into the room. She was certain that whoever it was couldn't see her below the table. The intruder paused. Listening?

  Charlotte held her breath and steadied the laptop bag with both hands, remaining perfectly still. A very long moment went by. Then there was the flicking sound of switches and the overhead lighting instantly stripped away the darkness.

  No movement.

  Her legs were starting to cramp up.

  Pulling the door closed, the intruder moved slowly into the room, snaked between the workstations and back toward the break room.

  Though she couldn't see what was happening, the second she sensed that the intruder had gone into the break room, she sprang up and lunged for the door. Just as her hand turned the handle, she glimpsed Conte as he returned into the lab...and his face twisted into a snarl.

  59.

  Charlotte sprinted down the corridor, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking urgently as they pushed off the polished vinyl tiles. Without looking back, she could hear Conte in pursuit.

  Up ahead, the elevator was closed. Knowing she couldn't risk any delay, she headed directly for the fire exit, shoving the door back hard on its hinges. She practically flew up the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time, clutching the laptop tightly to her side. Halfway up the second flight of stairs, the sound of Conte slamming against the basement door blasted up at her. Climbing higher, she glimpsed his silhouette spiraling upward.

  At the top of the landing, Charlotte knew she'd have two choices: the service door leading outside, or the staff entrance accessing the museum gallery. Once she got there, she immediately pushed open the service door so that it swung wide. But instead of going outside, she wheeled toward the staff entrance door and entered the museum as quietly as possible, easing the door closed behind her.

  * * *

  Rounding the last set of switchback steps, Conte heard the lock on the service door snap into place as it closed. Charging up the last few treads, he flung the door open and ran outside.

  The geneticist was nowhere in sight-- not running down the garden walkways, not scampering around the corner of the building. And there was no worthy hiding place anywhere close by. He spun round, making his way back into the building.

  * * *

  Moving quickly through the Pio Christian gallery, Charlotte was determined to get out of Vatican City. That meant heading straight for the Sant' Anna Gate. With her money belt containing her cash, credit cards, and passport secured tightly around her waist, everything in her dorm room could be sacrificed.

  Feeling light-headed-- not from the run, but from the Melphalan swirling through her system-- she took a few deep breaths to get her head together. A quick pang of nausea came and went.

  Knowing Conte would only be temporarily thrown off, she struggled with how to proceed. Should she lose herself in the museum's massive galleries? There was plenty of floor space here, no doubt. But with surveillance cameras mounted all throughout the exhibits, she didn't want to chance him calling museum security. Plus in the long hallways that ran the length of the building's mammoth footprint, she'd be easy to spot-- the curly chestnut-haired lone tourist with a bright pink blouse and computer bag who wasn't stopping for exhibits.

  Luckily, the Pio Christian gallery was in close proximity to the building's main entrance. After scanning the area beyond the glass doors, she slipped outside.

  Threading through the crowds loitering in the courtyard, she rounded the corner of the building, hurrying along the walkway that ran along the museum's eastern wall. Conte was still nowhere in sight. But that didn't ease her concern, because she knew firsthand that he wasn't the type to give up.

  Through a short tunnel that passed beneath the city's old ramparts, she emerged into the small village that clustered in the shadow of the Apostolic Palace's rear edifice. For a moment, she wondered if Father Donovan was still in there consorting with his puppet master, Santelli. How could such a nice man be involved in all this?

  Turning onto Borgo Pio, her eyes reached for the open gate and the Swiss Guards who diligently manned it. She wondered if Conte had called ahead to alert them. Would they try to detain her? She pushed forward, knowing she had to take that chance.

  Then, only twenty meters from the gate, she saw him. Though she hadn't noticed it before, she could swear that there was some kind of wound on the side of his head.

  Hands on his hips and breathing heavily, Conte had positioned himself between her and the gate, daring her to take another step.

  But she did just that. Determined that there was no going back, her only hope was to stay the course and push forward. This was a public place. The guards were close. Surely they wouldn't tolerate an altercation here, even if they were on his side.

  Then she broke into a sprint, eyes focused on the gate.

  Conte reacted instantly, shooting out onto the roadway, just missing a delivery van that was heading into the city. A horn blared, but he ignored it-- sights set on his quarry.

  She managed another ten meters before Conte drew perilously close. There was no way she'd get around him.

  * * *

  Conte lunged in front of Charlotte, stopping her dead in her tracks. "You're not going anywhere with that," he growled, eyeing the laptop bag. For some reason, the geneticist didn't look scared. He noticed that she kept glancing at the huge purple lump on his temple, then over his shoulder toward the gate.

  Then she did something he hadn't expected. She screamed.

  * * *

  For a moment, Conte was paralyzed.

  "Help!" Charlotte screamed again, louder this time.

  The guards at the gate heard her. Two of them, dressed in blue coveralls and black berets, were running toward her, drawing their holstered Berettas and pushing through the crowd of startled tourists.

  Conte considered grabbing the bag. But where would he go? He punished himself for not having a weapon. "Remember your confidentiality agreement, Dr. Hennesey," he stated calmly. "Or I'll have to come and find you."

  When she saw his attention momentarily shift to the approaching guards, she took the opportunity to do something she'd been thinking about since the moment she met this creep. Bending slightly at the knees, she swept a powerful left foot at his crotch, landing a perfect shot.

  Conte buckled. Wretching, he had to put his hands to the ground to not fall flat on his face. "You fucking cunt!" The veins in his red face bulged as he stared malevolently at the American.

  The two guards arrived and planted themselves on opposite sides, guns leveled at his head. "Stay still!" one of them commanded, first in English, then Italian.

  Gasping, Conte immediately recognized him as the cacasenno, or smart-ass, who manned the gate the day he arrived at Vatican City with Donovan. The guard had made the connection too and flashed a satisfied grin.

  "What's going on here?" the second one asked Charlotte in English.

  "This man was threatening me, trying to take my bag." Her voice was urgent.

  The first guard was asking Conte for identification.

  "I'm not..."-- he spit out more vomit and bile-- "carrying it on me." He was sure Santelli wouldn't approve of name-dropping in this situation. Later, he would insist on a phone call to the secretary. He also decided against telling the guards that the laptop contained critical information since that would only lead to bigger problems if they insisted on details. For now, he'd have to play the game.

  The second guard had also asked Charlotte for identification, which she readily provided. The ornate papal crest on her guest badge showed she was a guest of the secretariat. "You're free to go, Dr. Hennesey."

  He turned to Conte. "And you'll need to come with us, signore."

  Conte had no option but to comply.

  The guards helped him to his feet and remained at his side, Berettas drawn.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlotte
made her way to the gate. Once safely outside Vatican City, she angled her way to Via Della Conciliazione, waved down a taxi, and told the driver to take her directly to Fiumicino Airport. Rapidamente! The car lurched forward as the driver stepped hard on the accelerator, but this was one time she wasn't going to complain about Rome's insane drivers. She couldn't get out of this place fast enough.

  Only now did she realize that her entire body was trembling.

  Peering out the rear window, she watched the dome of St. Peter's Basilica as it shrank away, fingers still clamped around the laptop bag.

  The taxi driver hit the Autostrada and Charlotte watched the needle on the speedometer climb to 160 kilometers per hour. She sank back and put on her seat belt. With Rome safely behind her, Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and called Evan Aldrich. So what if it was still the middle of the night in Phoenix? He picked up almost instantly.

  "Evan?"

  "Hey, Charlie. I was just thinking about you."

  Hearing his voice instantly soothed her. "Hi." Her voice wavered.

  "Everything okay?"

  "No. Not at all." Lowering her voice and turning away from the driver, she gave him a brief rundown of what had transpired. "I'm heading to the airport now."

  "I was going to surprise you, but...I was actually on my way there to see you. In fact, my flight just arrived at Fiumicino a few minutes ago."

  "What? You're kidding!" Her shoulders relaxed.

  "I'm at the baggage carousel right now. I'll tell you where to meet me."

  60.

  ABRUZZO, ITALY

  An hour northeast of Rome, Salvatore Conte's rented black Alfa Romeo sedan climbed the SS5 autostrada along the Apennine mountain range into Monte Scuncole. The afternoon sky was a dull gray that choked the sun to a fizzled shade of white. A light drizzle sprayed the windshield.

  Trying to settle his thoughts, Patrick Donovan stared out the misty passenger window at the patchwork of vineyards in the valley below.

  Following Charlotte Hennesey's unanticipated and hasty departure earlier that morning, and Conte's embarrassing bailout from the Swiss Guard detention center, a profoundly anxious Cardinal Santelli had given him specific instructions about what was to happen next: "You'll need to see to it that this chapter of the Church's history disappears without a trace-- by whatever means necessary, Patrick. I'll have Conte assist you in destroying the ossuary and everything it contains...the manuscript too. Without the physical evidence, the only thing that should remain is a legend. Understood?"