Forty long, boring minutes later, he pulled up the hood of his jacket to shield his face— he hadn’t seen any security cameras, but better safe than sorry— and moved out into the darkened museum. It had been at least ten minutes since he’d heard a sound. Though he knew only a handful of German words, he was fairly certain he’d heard Bones’ new friend complaining about her missing keys. He supposed she’d hitched a ride with a co-worker, because he heard not a sound as he moved through the dark hallway.
It took several failed tries before his clumsy, gloved hands found the key that opened the protective case around the Oswald Reliquary. Heart pounding, he reached inside, took hold of the cover, and lifted the lid.
It was heavy, but it slid free easily. He gingerly set the lid aside and peered down into the reliquary. The dim glow of the security lights were more than enough to show him what was inside.
The reliquary contained two skulls.
One was unremarkable, but the other was topped with a bronze crown. Unable to breathe, he lifted it out of the case and held it up so he could take a look at the head of one of the legendary Magi of the Christmas story.
The crown was fused to the skull so perfectly that it looked to be one with the bone. Aware that he should get out while the getting was good, he opened Jade’s backpack and made to put the skull inside when a faint glimmer of light caught his eye.
An opaque, white gem was set in the front of the crown and, though it defied logic, a band of light seemed to glow from within the stone itself. He frowned, turning the skull in his hands. The light flickered, but did not go away. He was intrigued, but instinct told him he was fortunate to have gotten this far without being caught. He slipped the skull into the backpack, replaced the reliquary lid, and locked the case. At the front door, the flashing lights of the security system gave him pause, but there was nothing for it but to hurry. He chose what he thought was the front door key, let himself out, locked the door behind him, and tossed the keys beneath a shrub a few feet away. Maybe the owner would find them in the morning.
By the time he reached the street, the tightness in his chest had eased and his heart had stopped racing. Even if he had set off an alarm, what would the police find? The museum locked up tight and everything in order. Even if they found the keys and concluded someone had been inside, nothing was missing, as far as they knew. If a security camera showed a shadowy figure messing with the reliquary display, St. Oswald’s head was still in its resting place. He wondered if this was what a thief felt like when he committed the perfect crime.
He told himself it wasn’t really a crime. The skull belonged to the cathedral at Cologne, and he would see to it that it was returned. But not until they solved the mystery.
Chapter 9 — Lazarus
The knock came again, louder and more insistent. Andre sighed and closed his eyes, inhaling a deep, calming breath. This was his time for prayer and contemplation and the church was closed. Whoever was at the door would have to come back in the morning.
He counted to ten in his head, waiting to see if the knock would come again, but it did not. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted he returned to his prayer.
A crash shattered the momentary silence and seemed to rattle Andre’s very bones. He sprang to his feet and hurried from his study.
The front door stood open and a veritable bear of a man loomed in the doorway. Silhouetted against the moon, he was scarcely more than a shadow blotting out the light but, as he closed the door behind him, the sight of the intruder turned from frightening to horrifying.
Though it was evening, he wore wraparound sunglasses that did not conceal his badly scarred face. He looked like a man who almost lost a battle with leeches. What had done this to him? Some sort of plague?
The man must have seen the horror in Andre’s eyes, because his pockmarked face split into something between a sneer and a grin.
“This is the church of Saint Victor.” The words, spoken in heavily accented French, formed a statement, not a question. His voice was a cold, low rumble from deep within his chest and sounded to Andre like boulders crashing down a hill.
“It is.” Andre swallowed hard. “What can I do for you?” He supposed it was possible the man had no ill intentions, and was merely here to see the church. Andre was wrong to judge him by his appearance. He was a child of God, the same as any other. And yes, it was rude of the man to intrude, but entering a church during prayer time was far from the most grievous of sins.
“Take me to the head of Lazarus.”
“You can see all of him right here.” Andre nodded to the statue of Lazarus of Bethany. The venerated saint stood with his face lifted toward heaven. In his left hand he held a crosier. “You might be interested to know that, beneath this stature, are two stones from the saint’s sepulchre in Bethany.
“Don’t mess with me. I don’t want a statue. I want the real thing.”
Andre frowned. “I do not understand.”
“The skull!” The man seemed to blot out the light as he came closer. “I want to see the skull of Saint Lazarus.”
“The bones of Lazarus are not here.” Andre felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach grow cold. “The saint died in Cyprus and his remains were later taken to Constantinople. Perhaps if you look…” The man snatched Andre by the neck, squelching his words in a vise grip.
“We know the truth. The grotto, the three hares, all of it.” He pulled Andre near enough that the priest could feel his hot breath. Up close, the scarred face was even more disconcerting.
Andre steeled his nerves, reminding himself that he was a man of God and the Spirit would protect him.
“It is a common misunderstanding,” Andre gasped. “Many confuse Lazarus of Bethany with the bishop of Aix, Lazarus.”
“You aren’t fooling me, and if you waste one more minute of my time you will die a slow and painful death. I want to see the head of Lazarus. Now!” He gave Andre a shove, sending him hard onto his backside. The man opened his jacket to reveal the handle of a weapon. Andre knew nothing about firearms, but the sight of it was all he needed to confirm the danger he was in.
Andre had always considered his own mortality with a serenity grounded in his assurance of salvation. Of course, he had always iMagined meeting his maker at an advanced age, lying in his sick bed. The life of a priest was a secure one, at least physically. Now, for the first time in his life, he felt death staring him in the face. This man oozed evil.
“I will take you there.” Andre slowly crawled to his feet. “It is not far.” His heart pounding and his bowels threatening to empty, he led the man to a door on the south side of the nave. It opened onto a staircase descending down into the ancient subterranean church beneath Saint Victor. This church, untouched after nearly two thousand years, had been built by Cassianite monks in the third century. Behind him, the man switched on a flashlight and Andre began his descent. The cold air chilled him to the bone, as did the feeling of great age and power. While many people found the fortress-like exterior of Saint Lazarus dark and intimidating, it was down underground where the true darkness lay.
Andre did not care that this place had once been a church. Something was wrong down here. Perhaps it was that this place had the feel of a dungeon. Or, maybe it was the grotesque carvings, so many of which should not be in a place dedicated to Christ. No matter how many times Andre came down here, he always felt vulnerable and unwelcome.
He passed beneath the high ceiling supported by a few round pillars, the silence broken only by the footfalls of the man behind him. Each step sounded to him like the ring of a hammer nailing the lid on his coffin. He forced himself to keep moving, and soon came to the entrance to the ancient grotto that had been the original first-century church of Saint Lazarus. A tangle of carved vines wound its way around the entrance, adding to the forbidding nature of this dark recess.