White Mountain

by Dinah McCall

  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 cel
l 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.”

  David interrupted. “I think you’re all overreacting.”

  Thomas Mowry had been listening quietly, but when he heard what sounded like derision in David’s voice, he had to speak up.

  “There are facts that cannot be ignored. Please. We should concentrate on them and not run amok here, worrying unnecessarily and blaming each other for what is, ultimately, inevitable.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jasper cried.

  “Age has caught up with us,” Thomas said. “And…quite possibly our pasts. We knew this could not go on forever. Besides, we have Isabella to consider and protect.”

  The other four looked at each other and then away, individually nodding or muttering.

  “Yes, yes, Isabella,” David said. “We have to think of our precious girl.”

  “Right,” Thomas said.

  For a moment there was silence, then Jasper asked, “So, what are we going to do about the last project? You know how high Samuel’s hopes had been. He kept claiming to have corrected the final flaw in our earlier works.”

  Rufus sighed. “Speaking of the works…I have news.”

  The others grew silent, waiting, fearing, yet knowing that their sentence must be that they hear it, if for no other reason than the fact that they were the ones who had set it in motion.

  “We have another self-destruct.”

  There was a collective sigh of frustration and regret that went up within the room and then, moments later, Thomas asked, “Who?”

  “Norma Jean Bailey.”

  “The blond?” Thomas asked.

  Rufus nodded.

  Thomas’s voice began to shake. “I had such high hopes for that one. She’d already done some modeling and had enrolled in acting school, remember?”

  Each man there averted his eyes from the others, choosing instead to look away, as if afraid to see blame in the other men’s eyes. David Schultz simply bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

  Thomas Mowery stood abruptly. “This leaves only two of the original twenty alive. I find this an unacceptable reason to try once more.” Then he strode to the window and stared out at the valley and White Mountain beyond.

  John Michaels, who up until now had remained silent, cursed beneath his breath, then, oddly enough, began to cry.

  The others said nothing. What could they say that hadn’t been said before? Finally Jasper broke the silence.

  “Does this mean we scrap Samuel’s last project?”

  “I say we take it to a vote,” David said.

  The five old men looked at each other. Finally they nodded in agreement.

  “Then a vote it is,” Jasper said, and picked up a pen and a pad of paper from beside the telephone. “Yes means we give the project one last try. No means we quit. Now. With no regrets and no blame.”

  “All right,” they echoed, and then each wrote his decision on a piece of paper and tore it off before passing the pad and pen to the next man.

  David took a small porcelain bowl from a bookshelf, folded the paper his vote was on and dropped it into the bowl before passing it around.

  One by one, the men dropped in their votes. Jasper Arnold was the last. He dropped in his paper, then set the bowl aside as if it contained something foul.

  “It’s your bowl. You count them,” John said, and handed the bowl to David.

  David Schultz felt every one of his seventy-eight years as he moved to his desk with the bowl in his hands.

  “Once the count is made, there is no going back. Understood?”

  He unfolded the first bit of paper.

  “Yes. It reads yes.”

  He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

  “No.”

  He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no. The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

  “This is the last and deciding vote. What ever it—“

  “Just do it!” Jasper cried.

  David nodded, then unfolded the paper. His nostrils flared. His expression went blank. He looked up.

  The men held their breaths.

  “Yes.”

  A collective sigh filled the room, part of it tinged with disbelief, part of it echoing the inevitability of what lay ahead.

  “Then that’s that,” David said. “One more time.”

  “For Samuel,” Jasper added.

&nbs
p; “And for Frank,” Rufus said.

  They nodded, then stood. Without speaking, they left the apartment, adjourning to their own rooms to dress for breakfast. There was work to be done.

  Isabella handed the room key to the couple who’d just checked in, directed them to the elevator, then watched them as they walked away. She didn’t have to ask. She knew they were here for the clinic. There had been so many over the years that she’d come to recognize the quiet look of desperation they all wore. Saying a silent prayer for their success, she filed away their credit card information, then turned to answer the phone. As she did, she missed seeing Jack Dolan’s descent down the stairs.

  But he didn’t miss her.

  He’d heard her voice before he’d seen her, and despite his hunger for a hearty breakfast, he had to see her again—in broad daylight, when he could be absolutely certain she wasn’t the ghost he’d first imagined her to be.

  “Good morning.”

  Isabella turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man from the lobby last night. Her first impression was one of surprise. The night before, she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d failed to pay him much attention. To her, he’d just been a lost and hungry guest whom she’d fed and sent on his way. But now, with the early morning sunlight coming in through the mullioned windows over the entry doors, she had ample light by which to see. She took a deep breath. There was plenty to see.

  He was tall—taller even that her Uncle David, who was six feet two inches. His hair was thick and straight, a warm, chocolate brown, and clipped very short. His eyes were blue, with a tendency to squint. She could tell by the tiny fans of wrinkles at the corners of both eyes. He had the physique of a runner—lean and fit, without a spare ounce of flesh. His shoulders were broad, as was the smile he gave her when he leaned across the desk.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Isabella said. “I trust you slept well after your midnight snack.”

  Jack’s gaze swept the delicate curve of her cheek and neck, then back up to her face, looking for signs of exhaustion. They were still there, behind the smile.

  “I think I slept better than you,” he said. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”