Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

“Guilty as charged.”

“So, you see, if you were to try anything, I’m afraid I’d have to hurt you.” She smiled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But trussing me up like a hog is perfectly okay.”

“That wasn’t my call. If you give me your word you’ll be nice, I’ll let you loose and we can do this thing like two civilized human beings.”

“We’re off to a wonderful start,” he said. “What exactly is this thing ?”

“Do I have your word?”

He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She crossed to the workbench and came back with a small pair of wire cutters. Crouching in front of him, she cut his legs loose, then moved around behind him again and cut through the plastic tie at his wrists.

Batty slipped them free, looking up at her as he rubbed them. “Now what?”

“Now we go upstairs and have a drink.”

“I think I like that plan.”

“A non alcoholic drink, Professor. I want you sober as a nun for this conversation.”

“You must not know too many nuns.”

She gave him orange juice.

It came from a refrigerator in what looked like a neatly furnished studio apartment. The only thing unusual about the place was that it had no windows to speak of.

And, of course, the torture chamber downstairs.

Batty sat on a comfortable couch, staring at a door across the room, wondering if it was the way out of this place. He still had no idea why he’d been brought here, and he was considering not waiting to find out. If he timed it right, he could be out that door in seconds flat.

But where would it take him?

And what would Callahan do to him if he tried and failed? “Where exactly are we?” he asked.

She took a seat in a chair across from him. “A safe house. We have them all over the world.”

“So why am I not feeling particularly safe at the moment? I assume we’re not in Louisiana?”

“A little bit south of there.”

Batty frowned. The only thing directly south was the Gulf of Mexico, but he tried his best guess-which, of course, was ridiculous. “The Yucatan?”

“Sao Paulo, Brazil,” she said.

Batty flinched involuntarily. This had gone from the surreal to the absolutely bizarre. “What the hell am I doing in Brazil, for God’s sakes?”

“Again, not my call. I would’ve been happy to handle this long distance, but the people I work for seem to think you’re needed here. And when they say jump, I usually say ‘with or without a parachute?’ ”

Batty stared at her for a long moment. “Am I getting out of this alive?”

She smiled. “Relax, Professor. Nobody wants you dead. We just want your help.”

“You have an interesting way of going about getting it. You never thought of maybe just . . . I don’t know . . . asking me?”

“Would you have said yes?”

“That depends on what kind of help you need. And you’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t even imagine what that would be.”

“We just want to pick your brain for a while.”

Batty wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. Remembering he had a glass of orange juice in his hand, he lifted it to his lips and gulped it down. It was cool and sweet and half of it was gone before he came up for air, but he couldn’t help wishing it had a shot of vodka in it.

Calming himself, he hoped she hadn’t been lying about him getting out of here alive.

“Okay,” he said. “Pick away.”

“Why don’t we start with a question? Have you ever heard of a Brazilian pop singer by the name of Gabriela Zuada?”

This was out of left field. “The Christian Barbie Doll?”

“I’m not sure most people would characterize her quite that way.” Batty shrugged. “She’s just another vapid young thing who preaches Godliness to little girls, but really has no idea what she’s talking about. I’m sure she steals most of her sermons straight from the scam artists on Sunday morning television.”

“I take it you’re not a believer?”

This was a loaded question and Batty didn’t hesitate to jump onto his soapbox. Couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to.

“I’m probably more of believer than all those TV morons combined. But that’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just not big on hypocrites who claim to live by the word of God, only to cherry-pick scripture to excuse their bigotry.”

“You have pretty strong feelings about this.”

“I have pretty strong feelings in general-but I think you already knew that. Why is the State Department keeping a file on me?”

“We keep files on all potential assets,” she said. “And someone of your standing is very attractive to the people I work for. Leading academic. Biblical scholar. Expert on the occult . . .” She paused. “You had a pretty impressive profile before you started drinking.”

“Does your file say why I started?”

She shook her head. “Not what I read. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Batty didn’t respond, sorry he’d brought the subject up in the first place. But he’d gotten his answer, and that’s all he cared about.

Callahan didn’t push. Reaching into a pocket, she brought out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him.

Batty unfolded it, saw a few lines of poetry.

Darkness ere Dayes mid-course, and Morning light

More orient in yon Western Cloud that draws

O’re the blew Firmament a radiant white,

And slow descends, with somthing heav’nly fraught.

He didn’t really have to read them. The words were as familiar to him as the Old Testament. Probably more so.

“ Paradise Lost ,” he said. “What about it?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. I’m told you’re the leading authority on John Milton.”

“Depends on who you ask. What does this have to do with the Christian Barbie Doll?”

“You don’t watch the news? Read the papers?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Callahan nodded and gestured to the slip of paper. “What can you tell me about that passage?”

Batty glanced at it again. “Nothing particularly earth-shattering. You can Google this stuff and find out everything you need to know.”

“I’m not a big fan of the Internet, Professor. Too much disinformation out there. I like the human element. Someone I can have a conversation with. Exchange ideas. Is there anything in that passage you find unusual?”

“In what way?”

“In a way that might explain why a murder victim would have it painted on her wall.”

Batty looked at her. “What exactly are you getting me involved in?”

“Details to come. Just answer the question.”

Batty reread the verse. “It’s incomplete, for one thing. There’s a whole lot comes before and after it. I’m guessing you know it’s from Book Eleven, when the sun is eclipsed and Adam and Eve see a cloud descending from heaven.”

Callahan nodded again. “I got that much from the CliffsNotes.”

“But if you’re looking for any kind of hidden meaning, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Taken as a whole, Paradise Lost is a work of genius, but a couple lines alone don’t mean much beyond the simple fact that your victim may have had a thing for angels. Which, of course, leads me to believe you’re talking about Gabriela Zuada, and that’s my cue to say good-bye.”

He set the glass and slip of paper on the coffee table in front of him and got to his feet.

Callahan didn’t move. “Sit down, Professor. We aren’t finished yet.”

“As far as I’m concerned we are.”

“Do you want me to take you downstairs and tie you up again?”