The Inquisitor's Key (Body Farm 7)

Now, we waited for the fish to strike. To strike me.

* * *

“Lately I feel like a time traveler,” I said to Miranda. “Or like there are two of me. One me is here now, in the present, trying to help Descartes find Stefan’s killer. The other me is somewhere back in the thirteen hundreds, trying to figure out how that box of bones ended up in the wall of the palace. And how in bloody hell the Shroud of Turin and this painter Simone Martini are connected to it.”

We were back at the library again, once more on the trail of Martini and the Shroud. I nodded toward the immense reading room that had once been a vast banquet hall. Computers and steel shelves and halogen lights surrounded by frescoed walls and leaded windows and a coffered ceiling. “I feel as schizophrenic as this library.” From somewhere below, an annoyed sshh floated up at me.

Miranda surveyed the space, the lavish architectural metaphor I’d just staked out for myself, then turned to me with a slight smile. “You could do worse,” she whispered. “Pretty damn fancy, as psychoses go.” I squelched a laugh and motioned her out into the stairwell so we could talk without disturbing everyone else. “We might as well hang out in the Middle Ages,” she resumed with scarcely a pause. “Descartes himself said as much. He’s busy bird-dogging those fax numbers, and you’re waiting for the fish to bite. Meanwhile, why not keep plugging away on the bones and the Shroud?” Miranda had bounced back remarkably from her scare. It helped that the hotel had moved her to a new room, and that Descartes had agreed to post a guard outside her door at night. It also helped, I figured, to have something to occupy her mind.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe we can figure out the connection.”

“Maybe we can even figure out where Stefan hid the bones,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be swell, if we could find them.”

“I’m not so sure, Miranda. Maybe those bones aren’t meant to be found. Maybe they’re like the Hope Diamond — bad luck for anybody who tries to possess them.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” she said.

“Stefan might disagree with you,” I pointed out.

“I don’t mean bullshit about the bones; I mean bullshit about the Hope Diamond. All that stuff about the curse — it’s bogus. All those lurid tales of murder and madness and suicide? Hype conjured up to boost the diamond’s mystique and jack up the market value.”

“Remind me never to ask you about Santa Claus,” I retorted. “But seriously, none of it’s true? Nobody who owned it met a bad end?”

“Well, okay, there’s King Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette; I guess the guillotine wasn’t the greatest way to go.” She winced. “But it does beats crucifixion.”

“No kidding. So here’s the thing I don’t get. I thought I had the medieval mystery all figured out: This fourteenth-century monk, Meister Eckhart, pisses off people high in the theocracy. He’s attracting a big following, the people love him, and the ruling priestly class feels threatened, so he’s put to death. Sound familiar? Remind you of anybody else? Anybody from, oh, say, the first century?”

“There might be a parallel or three,” she conceded.

“And somehow this painter, Simone Martini, sees Eckhart’s body,” I pressed on. “And he sees the parallels to Christ, so he creates this image, this pseudo burial shroud. Maybe he’s moved by what he sees, or maybe he’s just greedy, just cashing in on the trade in relics. Either way, the theory works. It fits the facts — or it did until the damn C-14 test said the bones are two thousand years old.”

She studied my face. “Let me get this straight. You’re disappointed about that?”

“Confused,” I said. “Frustrated, I guess.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. I liked the theory. Liked the story I was spinning.”

She frowned. “Liked it better than the possibility that they really are the bones of Jesus?” I pondered that, and while I was pondering, she pounced. “I don’t believe this. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

I drew back; it felt almost as if she’d slapped me. “What on earth do you mean? Jealous of who?”

“Jealous of Stefan. You’re afraid that he was right after all — that he really did make the greatest find ever.” She shook her head, the disappointment in her eyes unmistakable. “He’s dead, Dr. B; you’re alive. You’ve got no reason to envy Stefan, and no need to be petty. If those are the bones of Christ, so what? It doesn’t make you any less, and it doesn’t make Stefan any more. It’s pretty clear he was up to no good. But just think — what if he was up to no good with the actual, for-real bones of Jesus Christ? How totally amazing! Can’t you see that?”

My mind reeled and raced, seeking how best to defend myself. Then, almost as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud, I heard the words of Meister Eckhart: Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure. But what would that mean, what would that be? What would I do, if I were my best self right now? I was so surprised at the answer that I laughed out loud. “Thank you,” I said. Her eyes narrowed, and I saw her bracing for the next salvo of sarcasm. “No, I mean it. Thank you. You’re absolutely right.” Was this really me talking? “I cared more about my pet theory than about the truth. That’s wrong — one of the cardinal sins in science. And yeah, I probably wanted to look smarter than Stefan, be righter than Stefan.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Maybe I wanted a little sip of schadenfreude. Maybe I was desperate to impress you.”

She shook her head again, but this time, as she did, she began to smile. “Sometimes, for such a smart, impressive guy, you can be so dumb,” she said. “But hey, that was good work you did just then.”

I took a deep breath, blew it out. “So. Let’s rethink this. If the bones really are first century, and they’re linked to the Shroud, does that mean the Shroud’s authentic after all? Was the carbon dating of the Shroud botched?”

“What, three separate labs all got it wrong, and all by thirteen hundred years? No way.”

“What about the invisible-patch theory, then? You think maybe the labs tested fabric from an invisible medieval patch?”

“Give me a break; the Shroudies are so grasping at straws there. Besides, I think Emily Craig’s right about the image. I think it was created by a terrific artist in the Middle Ages using that dust-transfer technique she described. It’s simple, and it’s credible. And that pseudoshroud she did of her friend was pretty damn convincing. Emily’s no Giotto or Simone Martini, but she proved her point.”

“So, circling back to your snuff-film theory,” I said. “How do you reconcile that with the idea that the bones are thirteen centuries older than the Shroud?”

“I don’t. I can’t.” She shrugged. “But interesting symmetry, in an ironic way, don’t you think? If the Shroud of Turin’s a medieval fake, but the bones from the Palace of the Popes are the real deal?” Suddenly she grinned. “Hey, try this one. What if the Shroud’s not the world’s first snuff film but the world’s first forensic facial reconstruction? What if your guy Martini saw the bones of Jesus and decided to put the flesh back on them? Maybe Master Simone was a thirteenth-century version of your NCMEC pal, Joe Mullins?”

My phone warbled, echoing loudly in the stairwell. The last call I’d gotten at the library had been the TBI agent’s bad news about Rocky Stone, so I was already gun-shy; when I recognized Descartes’s number on the display, I felt a tightening in my stomach. “Inspector?”

“Oui, Docteur.”

“Does this mean the fish are biting? Has something come in on the fax machine at Lumani?”

“Ah, non, not yet. That is not why I am calling you. This is something else.”

I felt my body relax, and only then did I realize how tightly I’d tensed when I saw who was calling. “What is it?”

“Where are you? Something interesting has just turned up.”

“Again? This is a big day for int

eresting finds. Miranda and I are at the library.”

“I am at Beauvoir’s apartment. Not far away. I can be at the library in five minutes.”

“Would it be easier if I came to the apartment?”

“It’s probably better if you don’t — one of the fish might be watching. It’s okay if he sees us questioning you. But it’s not good if it looks like you’re part of our team.”

“I understand, Inspector. I’ll see you here.”

“Meet me in the library courtyard. Without mademoiselle. Oh, and Docteur? Don’t look happy to see me.” Only after he hung up did I realize what he meant: One of the fish might be watching.

* * *

There were no parking places beside the library, but Descartes didn’t let that stop him. He pulled his car — a white Police Nationale sedan with lights and markings — onto the narrow sidewalk, practically scraping the passenger side against the wall of the adjoining building. It was the parking technique of choice — or necessity — in many of Avignon’s narrow streets.

I’d been waiting for him on a bench in the library’s courtyard. When he approached, I stood; I was about to stretch out my hand when I remembered his sign-off, so instead of a handshake, I offered him a scowl. “What do you want now, Inspector?” He raised his eyebrows, as if to tell me I’d gone a bit overboard, so I backed off. “What’s up?”

“This arrived at Beauvoir’s apartment a little while ago,” he said in a voice I felt sure could not be overheard. “Take a look.” He handed me a padded FedEx envelope. The lettering on the airbill was faint and smudged; it was easy to tell that it had come from the United States but hard to tell much more than that. Finally I deciphered “Miami,” and then — above that — two smeared words that looked like “Be Anal”: words, I realized with a start, that were probably “Beta Analytic.” The envelope was almost flat, but not quite, and I gave it an exploratory squeeze. Through the envelope’s built-in padding, I felt something small and hard, like a pebble. Opening the envelope, I found, as the size and shape had suggested I would, a human tooth — a canine — its ancient enamel a dull grayish brown.