Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

“This is about as concrete as it gets. The way it looks to me is that Gabriela was trying to summon up an angel and it backfired on her.”

Oh, brother. Should she even bother?

“Backfired?”

“She got the wrong angel,” he said.

Callahan wanted to scream, but couldn’t quite muster up the energy. She was just too tired to argue anymore.

The best thing to do, she decided, was to let this guy have his say, then put him on the next plane back to looneyville.

But she had to admit she was curious. “What do you mean by wrong angel? Aren’t angels supposed to be good?”

“It’s all about intent. Just like the magic.”

She thought about Martinez’s paranoia. “I always thought demons were the bad guys.”

“They’re the same thing,” LaLaurie said. “The ancient Greeks thought of demons as benevolent spirits. Even Christians acknowledge they’re nothing more than the so-called fallen angels. So what you’d call a demon is simply an angel who’s made some bad choices.”

“Why do I think my old catechism teacher would view this a little differently?”

“Most of what you hear in church was cobbled together by people who were long on faith but short on knowledge. And most religions are a jumble of ancient folklore, inconsistencies and convoluted logic.”

“Yet here you stand, talking about angels and demons as if they’re as common as wheat toast.”

“Because this isn’t about religion.”

Callahan frowned. “I think you just lost me there.”

“Religion is simply a byproduct of people trying to explain the inexplicable. What I’m talking about here has nothing to do with any particular faith, and everything to do with reality. And angels are quite real. They just happen to occupy a different plane of existence than we do. Most of the time, at least.” He paused. “The trouble starts when we try to invite them home for dinner.”

“Okay,” Callahan said. “For the sake of argument, let’s pretend you aren’t one sandwich short of a picnic.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“The bottom line is that you’re saying Gabriela tried to summon up an angel and got more than she bargained for.”

“Not just any angel.”

“Then who?”

LaLaurie indicated the symbol on the wall. “I thought we already established that.”

You’re part of Michael’s army.

“Saint Michael?”

He nodded. “But I have a feeling it wasn’t Michael who answered her call.”

“You said what happened to Gabriela wasn’t an isolated incident. What did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before.”

LaLaurie was damaged, all right. Somewhere around the left temporal lobe.

Maybe that would explain why he was on indefinite leave from Trinity Baptist College.

Callahan had let this guy say what he had to say, and no words she uttered in response would express the depth of her disappointment. Or annoyance. Maybe she was the one who belonged in the looney bin for letting it get this far.

Time to wrap up this nonsense, put this guy on a plane back home and go to bed.

“Thank you for your insight, Professor. I just have one more question for you. One that might actually elicit a rational response.”

“You don’t want to hear the rest of it?”

“I’ll leave that for you and your psychiatrist to sort out. But you do seem to have a lot of knowledge about Christian artifacts, so maybe you can tell me the significance of . . .”

She stopped herself as she looked at the wooden cross atop the prayer desk and noticed that the necklace was gone. “What the hell happened to it?”

LaLaurie was at a loss. “To what?”

“The Saint Christopher medal. It was hanging here yesterday.”

The look on LaLaurie’s face went from mild confusion to sudden surprise. “What kind of Saint Christopher medal?”

“What do you mean, what kind?”

“What did it look like? Did it have anything on the back?”

Callahan nodded. “Some initials and an etching of a beetle.”

LaLaurie stiffened. “You’re sure about that?”

“Why? Does that mean something?”

“It could change everything.”

“How?”

“I need to see it. Right now.”

“I just told you, somebody took it.”

“And you don’t have any idea who?”

As a matter of fact, she did. She doubted Alejandro had the emotional energy to do much of anything at this point, so that left the housekeeper. Rosa.

Turning, Callahan moved back through the bedroom and down the hall, LaLaurie at her heels. She called out Rosa’s name, and a moment later, the woman appeared in the kitchen doorway, a quizzical look on her face.

Callahan said, “Gabriela had a Saint Christopher medal in her prayer room. Did you take it?”

“Yes, Senhorita. In preparation for the funeral.”

“For the funeral?”

“Yes. She told me if anything ever happened to her, she wanted it buried with her.”

“Did she say why?”

“I think it was very important to her. Very personal.”

No kidding. Callahan told the housekeeper to bring it to them and Rosa disappeared down another hall, returning a few minutes later with the necklace in hand.

“You won’t keep it, will you?”

“We just want to look at it for now,” Callahan said. “But I can’t make any promises at this point.”

Rosa handed her the necklace and Callahan passed it on to LaLaurie.

He nearly froze in place as he took it, staring at it intently. Then he turned it in his fingers, looking at the etching on the back, his hands trembling, his face going through a dozen different changes before settling on complete and utter astonishment.

“CSP,” he said quietly. “I was wrong about Gabriela. This is about much more than a summoning gone haywire.”

“You know what those initials stand for?”

LaLaurie’s face was pale again, but there was an odd excitement in his expression, as if he’d stumbled across a cache of hidden jewels.

“She was Custodes Sacri ,” he said softly. “That’s the only explanation. No one else would have this. No one. Not even a collector. And that’s why she was trying to summon Michael. She probably spoke to him on a regular basis.”

“What the hell is Custodes Sacri ?”

He turned the disk in his fingers again, gaping at it, then looked up at her.

“I think it’s time for another drink,” he said. “Something a lot stronger than orange juice.”

Have you ever heard of Archbishop Jacobus de Voragine? Or the Golden Legend?”

Callahan had decided to let this play out a little longer, mostly because LaLaurie had been so bowled over by the discovery of the medallion that she couldn’t help getting caught up in his passion.

Maybe she’d been too quick to judge this guy. LaLaurie’s belief in otherwordly phenomenon didn’t make him any different than half the world’s population, so what could it hurt to practice a little patience, buy him a drink and see what else he had to say? There might be something amidst all the nuttiness that she could actually use.

She took him to her hotel bar. LaLaurie had ordered Tullamore Dew, and Callahan had settled for a glass of the house pinot.

“I’ve heard of the Golden Rule,” she said. “Do unto others and all that?”

“This is different. The Golden Legend is a collection of stories compiled by the archbishop in the thirteenth century. Stories about the greater saints of the Catholic church.”

“Like Saint Michael.”

He took a sip of his drink. “He was one of them, yeah. But the one we’re concerned with right now is Saint Christopher. Do you know his story?”