Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

Callahan shrugged. “Maybe he liked it.”

Batty reached over, picked it up. “That’s like finding a jazz purist who likes Kenny G. Besides, there’s something about this thing . . .”

“Let me guess. You feel an energy.”

Batty looked at her. “Mock me all you want, Mrs. Broussard, but unless I’m mistaken, you were feeling it pretty strong back in that archive room.”

But she was wrong-this was more instinct than energy. Flipping the figurine over, he examined the base, which was rounded and about the same circumference as a soda can. Grabbing hold of it, he pressed and twisted until he felt it give, then the lower half of the base swung to one side, revealing a narrow, hidden compartment.

There was a key inside. Hollow shank. Antique.

He looked at Callahan. “You were saying?”

“Luck. Nothing more.”

There was some truth to that, but Batty would never admit it. He removed the key, set the figurine back onto the tabletop and scanned the room, staring at the bookshelves. “It’s obvious Ozan was hiding something. What do you bet some of these books aren’t real?”

“I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

Batty moved into the first row again and began running his hands along the books, this time looking for a faux book panel. Following his lead, Callahan went to another row, the two moving from shelf to shelf until, a few minutes later, Callahan called out to him.

“Professor, over here.”

He found her at a bookshelf against the far wall. She had already put the faux book panel aside-a phony fourteen volume collection on neopaganism and witchcraft-to reveal a locked wooden compartment.

Batty tried the key in the lock-a perfect fit.

He turned it, felt the mechanism give, then pulled the compartment door open to reveal a large rectangular wall safe, complete with LED readout and electronic keypad.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Relax,” Callahan said. “Despite appearances, these things are cake to get into.”

Pulling her purse from her arm, she rooted around inside until she found a small nylon tool case, then unzipped it and removed a miniature screwdriver. Moving up to the safe, she unscrewed a rectangular nameplate just below the keypad and set it aside.

Behind it was a lock cylinder. “This is the bypass lock,” she said. “In case you forget your key code.”

Returning the screwdriver to its case, she reached into her purse again and brought out a ring of what looked like keys, but were less defined.

She held one up. “Jigger key,” she told him. “They’re old school, but they work.”

“You’re like a Boy Scout,” he said. “Only a lot better looking.”

She arched a brow at him. “Careful, Professor. I wasn’t kidding about killing a man with one hand.”

“I’ve already come to the conclusion you’re never kidding.”

“Glad we have an understanding.”

She inserted the key into the lock and jiggled it, but nothing happened. Choosing another key, she tried again-and again got nothing. The third and fourth keys wouldn’t fit and the fifth one was a bust as well.

One last key.

She slipped it into the lock, gave it a jiggle, and Batty could tell by the look on her face that she’d done it. Not quite a smile, but a very faint smirk. As she turned the key, the electronic mechanism thunked and the LED readout flashed O-P-E-N .

“Impressive,” he said.

“Not really,” she told him, pulling the safe door open. “But let’s hope it was worth it.”

There was only one item inside: a moldering old leather-bound manuscript.

Batty gingerly removed it, staring in surprise at the thin leather strap wrapped around it, a familiar-looking Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the light.

Callahan was staring at it, too. “Custodes Sacri. I guess there’s no question now.”

Batty said nothing, his attention drawn to the manuscript itself and the initials J. M. discreetly etched into the bottom right corner of the cover. Feeling his heart kick up, he quickly removed the strap and flipped the manuscript open to reveal gray, aging pages -handwritten pages, in a faded violet scrawl.

“Holy Christ,” he muttered. “This can’t be right. The only known copy is a transcription. A printer’s draft. And only thirty-three pages survived.”

“Thirty-three pages of what?”

Her question was just a buzz in Batty’s head. “This looks like the entire manuscript, for God’s sakes, just as he dictated it. Where the hell did Ozan find this? It has to be another fake.”

“ What does?” Callahan asked. “What is it?”

Batty’s eyes were transfixed on its carefully bound pages. If it was a fake, it was exquisitely rendered.

His hands trembled as he turned back to the first page and stared at its title. Then he looked up at Callahan, feeling an unbridled giddiness overtake him, as if he were an archaeologist who had just stumbled upon the lost city of the Incas.

“For the last time, Professor, what the hell is that?”

Batty tried to control the tremor in his voice. “It’s John Milton’s original draft of Paradise Lost .”

Spotting a leather book bag amidst the clutter on the worktable, Batty quickly moved to it and snatched it up. He dumped its contents onto the table-sunglasses, car keys and an iPad-then slid the Milton manuscript inside.

“What are you doing?” Callahan asked.

“Not leaving this here, that’s for sure.”

Ozan had apparently been planning to work from the original, and Batty wanted to examine it more closely. If it was genuine, maybe he’d find something that hadn’t made it to the printing press. A line of verse or a stanza that might help him figure out what Ozan and Gabriela had been looking for.

He gathered up the notepad and the copy of Steganographia and shoved them into the bag, then reconsidered the iPad and added it to the mix. There might be something useful on it.

“We need to get back to the hotel so I can sit down with this stuff.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, Professor, but there are a few people out there looking for us right now. How do you propose we do that?”

“This is a smugglers’ tunnel, remember? What do you bet there’s another way out?”

Callahan seemed to like that idea. “Not bad, Mr. Broussard. You just earned yourself some brownie points.”

“Why, thank you, dear. Does that mean I’ll be sleeping in a nice warm bed tonight instead of the sofa?”

She smiled. “You pick the hospital, I’ll be happy to put you there.”

As they geared up to go, Callahan was thinking she was the one who needed a hospital bed.

Putting aside LaLaurie’s mind meld-the effects of which were still lingering-she was completely, utterly and irrevocably exhausted. She’d managed a few hours’ sleep on the plane. Enough to recharge the batteries a bit. But the day’s events were weighing on her now and her body kept screaming for her to just lie down already. And the thought of getting out of this place, back to the comfort of their hotel room, was uppermost in her mind.

She waited as LaLaurie slung the book bag over his shoulder, then followed him out of Ozan’s library into what turned out to be a labyrinth of interconnecting tunnels, designed, she supposed, to discourage any interlopers who managed to discover the place. They turned left, then right, went down steps through archways, then turned right, left, right again . . . And after several minutes of this Callahan had to admit that she was completely lost.

Which annoyed her no end. She could field strip and reassemble a SIG Sauer P226 with her eyes closed, but couldn’t navigate a network of smugglers’ tunnels?