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“No shite Honest truth It was terrible”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph I’h the vine Priests are terrible gossips — much worse than old women Just sho out of touch I’ve been while onpull on his beer — his second beer, ortrack “And you say this Stefan had three different folks on the string, all of ’e to buy the bones? How do you know that?”

“Because the homicide detective found a fax that Stefan sent them We don’t know if all three were serious bidders But we do know that one was Deadly serious”

“Sounds like a bad business, Bill Brockton Are the policethese folks down?”

I shook h They think we can rule out two of them One’s a shady art dealer, a woman who caters to rich buyers ant precious antiquities and don’t care how they’re obtained The detective thinks she’s a slimeball, but not a killer And she has a solid alibi for the tiue of yours, Father Mike — a curator or so, we don’t knoho — at the Vatican Museum”

He made a face “Ah, the Vatican Museum — the Holy Father’s lovely little art collection One of the fringe benefits of the job Art and altar boys We have a lot to answer for someday”

“But the one we’re pretty sure has Miranda is a Protestant fanatic An end-timer A preacher who sees himself as one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse” The nearby church bell tolled, and I nearly jumped out of my seat “He calls hiive him the bones in twenty-four hours, he’ll kill her”

“So just do it Why not? Because the police are telling you not to? Bugger the police; save the girl’s life Simple”

“It’s not simple We don’t knohere the bones are”

“What’s that?”

“We think Stefan moved them, hid them, just before he was killed We don’t knohere they are”

“So why did this crazy fellow kidnap the girl?”

I rubbed a hand acrossI had the bones We were using the”

“And now this fanatic has called your bluff” I nodded ”

“God, I didn’t ht I could keep her out of it, but I rong, and Descartes, the detective, was right We’re all involved, we’re all i’s for sure — if I can’t find the bones in time, Miranda will die, and I’ll be to blame”

“Well, then, there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?” I looked up “We have to find those bones, haven’t we, lad? And right shtfully “Onebeliever in saints and relics, but would you think about wearing this?” He loosened his collar, reached inside his shirt, and fished out a large silver medallion on a leather cord He took it off and offered it “Look, it’s a twofer,” he said “On this side, Saint Christopher, protector of travelers On the other”—he flipped it—“Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things”

“There’s a special saint just for lost things?”

“Sure, lad There’s a patron saint for pretty o with it There’s a fancy prayer to Saint Anthony — you beg hirovel a bit, all polite and pious But there’s another version, a cheekier version, that I like a lot better ‘Tony, Tony, look around, so’s lost and must be found’ Makes him seem like a friendly chap, a helpful bloke, you know?”

I took the— it nearly filled ly heavy I hefted it “Jeez, this thing h half a pound”

“That’s the ht in It beeps when you get close to what you’re looking for” Seeing hed and shook his head “You’re a trusting soul, Bill Brockton I like that about you”

I studied the is Sounds like it’s custoet” I slipped the cord over my head and tucked the ainst“Thank you” He simply nodded

As ere finishing up, the bells in the tower of Saint Pierre began to peal “Ah, five o’clock Mass,” said Father Mike “I’d best be going in I’ve been a bit lax this week” Without looking at , if you like I find theyou’ve already eaten — the snack they serve is awfully skihed in spite of myself…and then, to my surprise, I followed him into the church

Saint Pierre wasn’t big — closer in size to a chapel than a cathedral — but the design was ornate and coh, pointed arches Above the the doorere two slender towers capped by steep, bristling stone spires

The wooden doors — two sets of double doors — were iures The panels of the doors theel The h, was carved into a pillar that flanked one of the doors Alure was a stylized likeness of an American Indian or Aztec chief, coh construction of the church had begun 150 years before Colu wasn’t finished until the 1550s The doors — a final touch — reflected Europeans’ fascination with the exotic discoveries being made in the New World

Inside, the high, fluted notes of a pipe organ echoed and faded as we slipped into the cool, dier in a basin of holy water just inside the door, then touched his forehead, bowed, and crossed hi into a pew near the back I followed, feeling out of place yet glad of the distraction and the man’s easy company

Behind the priest, high above the altar, a large painting showed Jesus handing Peter the keys to the kingdoe sunburst, easily ten feet in diaold At its center was a stained-glassdepicting a dove, its wings spread, its beak stretching straight up, streaking toward heaven like a rocket

The organin close harels, but the ethereal music that seeh to make me reconsider The service itself alternated between French and Latin, which I couldn’t have followed even if I’d tried Yet despite being an outsider and a foreigner, on hts and silded altar paintings, the drifting incense, and the ancient rituals

But spiritual solace wouldn’t help me save Miranda; for that, action was needed What was it Eckhart had said? “The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of ood-bye to Father Mike and slipped from the pew He started to rise and follow me, but I laid a hand on his shoulder and shook my head His kind company and his attentive ear had helped, but now I needed to be alone again

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I eed into the square The sun had dropped below the rooftops by now, and every table at L’Épicerie was taken My eye caught a flash of movement three stories overhead, and I looked up to see a cat, its fur the black-and-white hues of priests and nuns, tiptoeing along a ledge three stories above the restaurant At the end of the ledge, where the wall of the building intersected the church, the cat crouched and then leaped up through an open : a study in grace, agili

ty, and fearlessness atop a perilous tightrope

Wafting across the pave of silverware and the clinking of wineglasses, came the distinctive scent of seared flesh Unless I was mistaken, it was lamb