Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

They carried flashlights to guide them. Batty had been here before, in his quest to know everything Milton, and noted that it hadn’t really changed. Even in limited light, the church was impressive, sporting polished wooden pews and lined on either side with carved stone columns and archways.

To their right, beyond the archways, stood a bronze statue of John Milton.

Callahan put her flashlight beam on it. “This is a good sign.”

“Here’s an even better one,” Batty said, then shone his light on a nearby wall that held a bust of Milton atop a plaque that read:

JOHN MILTON

Author of Paradise Lost

Born Dec 1608

Died Nov 1674

His father John Milton

died 1646

They were both interred in this church

“The question,” Callahan said, “is where?”

“That part could be tricky.”

She knitted her brow. “How so?”

“It’s been a few centuries since he was buried,” Batty said. “And the place has been rebuilt and refurbished a few times since then, so finding the exact location could be problematic.” He paused. “Then there’s the issue of grave robbers.”

“What issue?”

“It’s said that during one of those rebuilds-about a hundred years after he died-Milton’s coffin was broken into and he was stripped of his teeth and hair. The coffin was supposed to have been moved after that.”

The more Batty thought about this, however, the more he had to wonder if it was just a cover story. What if it had been the guardians who had moved him, at Saint Michael’s bidding? To protect the pages. The corpse with the missing hair and teeth may not have been Milton at all.

“So, in other words,” Callahan said, “we have no idea where the hell we’re going.”

“Then might I suggest you turn around and leave,” a voice told them.

They both froze as a figure stepped out from the shadows beyond one of the archways. He was tall and slender, in his mid-fifties, and had a shotgun resting on his forearm, casually pointing it in their direction. The security guard, no doubt. Although he wasn’t wearing a uniform.

He was British, of course. “Picking locks, carrying torches…looks to me as if you two are up to no good.”

“Easy,” Callahan said, her eyes on the shotgun.

“I don’t shoot, luv, unless someone provokes me. And you’re not going to provoke me, are you?”

“Listen to me,” Batty said. “I can’t explain any of this without it sounding completely crazy, but we need to see John Milton’s remains.”

“I was getting that impression, the way you two were talking. The question is why? I’ve seen some Milton crazies in my time, but not all that many of them have been anxious to get a look at a few rotting old bones.”

“Like I said …” Batty spread his hands.

The guard pointed to Callahan. “You. Do you have some form of identification on you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to know who I’m about to shoot, should it become necessary.” He turned a palm up and waggled his fingers at her. “Let me see.”

Callahan pulled her State Department ID out of her pocket and tossed it to him. He opened it, gave it a glance, then suddenly relaxed, tossing it back to her.

“It’s good to meet you, Agent Callahan.” Then he set the shotgun aside and held out a hand to shake. “My name is Grant. Jim Grant. I was told to expect you.”

Batty and Callahan exchanged looks, then Callahan said, “You’re with Section?”

“I presume that’s who you work for, but no, I answer to a higher authority.” He reached into his collar and brought out a Saint Christopher medal. “I’m the caretaker here, but I’m also here to protect what needs to be protected.”

Callahan looked confused. “But how could you know we were coming?”

“Quite simple. I received a telephone call.”

“From who?”

“That’s a question I don’t have an answer to, I’m afraid. But whoever he is, he knows about Custodes Sacri , so I can only assume he’s one of Michael’s associates. Recruited the same as I was.”

Batty turned to Callahan. “The D.C. connection, no doubt. He obviously prefers to remain anonymous.”

“Whatever the case,” Grant said, “we’re wasting time.” He turned and gestured with his fingers. “Follow me.”

It was a vault. A burial crypt located beneath the church down a long, narrow stairway, behind a locked metal door.

But the crypt itself obviously hadn’t been touched since it was built centuries ago, and the sight of it sent a sustained shiver of revulsion through Callahan the moment they stepped inside. She’d seen plenty of death in her time, but places like this gave her the creeps.

It started with a narrow ossuary, or bone house. A stone wall to their left was lined with long wooden shelves-and on those shelves, sitting side by side, were several hundred skulls, yellowed by age. To their right were two large pallets carrying piles of neatly stacked bones.

“The plague,” Grant said, without offering any further explanation. Not that Callahan needed one. She was surprised by his complete sense of calm. His demeanor seemed much more monklike than Brother Philip’s ever had.

LaLaurie, on the other hand, seemed to be on edge the moment they stepped through the crypt doorway, and she had wonder if being surrounded by all this death had an effect on him. Those enhanced senses of his had to be going into overdrive.

“This way,” Grant said, motioning with his flashlight.

They stepped through an archway on their right and into the main chamber. It was the size of a small warehouse and Callahan was instantly reminded of the staging room in Istanbul. But instead of boxes full of antiques, this one held rows of coffins, some in the center made of ornately carved stone, while those lining the wall-in neat, horizontal rows-were shallow wooden caskets, warped and weathered by years of neglect.

There was a smell down here that was hard to miss. A mustiness. And beneath this, faint but unmistakable, the scent of rotting corpses. Callahan had no idea how fresh some of these bodies were-she didn’t figure this place had hosted anyone new in quite some time-but the smell was there and she recognized it immediately.

Either that, or she had an amazing imagination.

Grant moved to a stone casket in the center of the room. “This is the one,” he said. “John Milton.”

LaLaurie nodded and crossed to it, pressing a hand against it, trying to suck up its energy. Callahan half expected the lid to crack open on him, letting loose a vampire or some other deadly creature.

But nothing happened, and LaLaurie opened his eyes, shook his head.

“You’re wrong,” he told Grant.

Grant’s eyes widened slightly. The most emotion Callahan had seen in him so far. “How can that be? This is the one I’ve been guarding for the last fifteen years.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Jim, but you’ve been guarding the wrong coffin.”

LaLaurie looked down the row, and over the next several minutes, moved from coffin to coffin, pressing his hand against them, coming away from each one looking a little less whole, and she knew this process was taking its toll on him.

Grant was scratching his head. “I can’t believe we got it wrong. All this time and we got it wrong.”

“Maybe you didn’t pick up the phone often enough,” Callahan said.

By the time he’d finished touching every coffin in the room, LaLaurie looked a bit green under the gills. And he still hadn’t found what they were looking for.

He turned to Grant. “I assume you have a pauper’s vault?”

“Pauper’s vault?” Grant said. “I hardly think Milton would be-”

“Maybe one of the previous guardians thought it was prudent to hide him where someone would be less likely to look.”