James Rollins - Map of Bones

But it was the steady fix of his gaze that most struck Gray. Despite his welcoming manner, there was a steely edge to the man. Even Monk straightened his shoulders under the priest’s attention.

“Come inside,” Vigor said. “We should get started as soon as possible.”

The monsignor led the way to the closed doors of the nave, opened them, and waved the group inside.

As he entered the heart of the church, Gray was immediately struck by two things. First by the smell. The air, while still redolent with incense, also wafted an underlying stench of something burnt.

Still, that was not all that caught Gray’s attention. A woman rose from a pew to greet them. She looked like a young Audrey Hepburn: snowy skin, short ebony hair parted and swept behind her ears, caramel-colored eyes. She offered no smile. Her gaze swept over the newcomers, settling a moment longer on Gray.

He recognized the familial resemblance between her and the monsignor, more from the intensity of her scrutiny than any physical features.

“My niece,” Vigor introduced. “Lieutenant Rachel Verona.”

They finished their introductions quickly. And though there was no outward animosity, their two camps still remained separate. Rachel kept a wary distance, as if ready to go for her gun if necessary. Gray had noted a holstered pistol under her open vest. A 9mm Beretta.

“We should get started,” Vigor said. “The Vatican was able to gain us some privacy, demanding time to sanctify and bless the nave after the last body was removed.”

The monsignor led the way down the central aisle.

Gray noted sections of the pews had been marked off with masking tape. Place cards had been affixed to each with the names of the deceased. He stepped around the chalked outlines on the floor. Blood had been wiped up, but the stain had seeped into the mortar of the stone floor. Yellow plastic markers fixed the positions of shell casings, long gone to forensics.

He glanced across the nave, picturing how it must have looked upon first entering. Bodies sprawled everywhere; the smell of burnt blood, richer. He could almost sense an echo of the pain, trapped in the stone as much as the reek. It shivered over his skin. He was still enough of a Roman Catholic to find such murder disturbing beyond mere violence. It was an affront against God. Satanic.

Had that been part of the motivation?

To turn a feast into a Black Mass.

The monsignor spoke, drawing his attention back. “Over there was where the boy was found hiding.” He pointed to a confessional booth against the north wall, halfway up the long nave.

Jason Pendleton. The lone survivor.

Gray took some degree of grim satisfaction that not all had died that bloody night. The attackers had made a mistake. They were fallible. Human. He centered himself with this thought. Though the act was demonic, the hand that committed it was as human as any other. Not that there weren’t demons in human form.

But humans could be caught and punished.

They reached the raised sanctuary with the slab-marble altar and the tall-backed cathedra, the bishop’s seat. Vigor and his niece made the sign of the cross. Vigor dropped to one knee, then got up. He led them through a gate in the chancel railing. Beyond the railing, the altar was also marked in chalk, the travertine marble stained. Police tape cordoned off a section to the right.

Crashed onto the floor, cracking the stone tile, a golden sarcophagus lay on its side. Its top rested two steps down. Gray shrugged off his backpack and lowered to one knee.

The golden reliquary, when whole, plainly formed a miniature church, carved with arched windows and etched scenes done in gold, rubies, and emeralds, depicting Christ’s life, from his adoration by the Magi to his scourging and eventual crucifixion.

Gray donned a pair of latex gloves. “This is where the bones were enshrined?”

Vigor nodded. “Since the thirteenth century.”

Kat joined Gray. “I see they’ve already dusted it for prints.” She pointed to the fine white powder clinging to cracks and crevices in the reliefs.

“No prints were found,” Rachel said.

Monk glanced across the cathedral. “And nothing else was taken?”

“A full inventory was conducted,” Rachel continued. “We’ve already had a chance to interview the entire staff, including the priests.”

“I may want to speak to them myself,” Gray mumbled, still studying the box.

“Their apartments are across a cloistered yard,” Rachel responded, voice hardening. “No one heard or saw anything. But if you want to waste your time, feel free.”

Gray glanced up at her. “I only said I may want to speak to them.”

She met his gaze without shrinking. “And I was under the impression that this investigation was a joint effort. If we’re going to recheck each other’s work at every step, we’ll get nowhere.”

Gray took a steadying breath. Only minutes into the investigation, and already he had stepped on jurisdictional toes. He should have interpreted her earlier wariness and trodden more lightly.

Vigor placed a hand on his niece’s shoulder. “I assure you the interrogation was thorough. Among my colleagues, where prudence of tongue often surpasses good sense, I doubt you’d gain any further details, especially when being interviewed by someone not wearing a clerical collar.”

Monk spoke up. “That’s all well and good. But can we get back to me?” All eyes turned to him. He wore a crooked grin. “I believe I was asking if anything else was taken.”

Gray felt the attention shift from him. As usual, Monk had his back. A diplomat in body armor.

Rachel fixed Monk with her uncompromising gaze. “As I said, nothing was—”

“Yes, thank you, Lieutenant. But I was curious if any other relics are kept here at the cathedral. Any relics that the thieves didn’t take.”

Rachel frowned in confusion.

“I figured,” Monk explained, “that what the thieves didn’t take may be as informative as what they did.” He shrugged.

The woman’s face relaxed a touch, contemplating this angle. The anger bled away.

Gray inwardly shook his head. How did Monk do that?

The monsignor answered Monk. “There’s a treasure chamber off the nave. It holds the reliquaries from the original Romanesque church that once stood here: the staff and chain of Saint Peter, along with a couple of pieces of the Christ’s cross. Also a Gothic bishop’s staff from the fourteenth century and a jewel-encrusted elector’s sword from the fifteenth.”

“And nothing was stolen from the treasure chamber.”

“It was all inventoried,” Rachel answered. Her eyes remained pinched in concentration. “Nothing else was stolen.”

Kat crouched down with Gray, but her eyes were on those still standing. “So only the bones were taken. Why?”

Gray turned his attention to the open sarcophagus. He slipped a penlight from his nearby backpack and examined the interior. It was unlined. Just flat gold surfaces. He noted a bit of white powder sifted over the bottom surface. More latent powder? Bone ash?

There was only one way to find out.

He turned back to his pack and pulled out a collection kit. He used a small battery-powered vacuum to sniff up some of the powder into a sterile test tube.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asked.

“If this is bone dust, it may answer a few questions.”

“Like what?”

He sat back and examined the test tube. There was no more than a couple grams of gray powder. “We might be able to test the dust for age. Find out if the stolen bones were from someone who lived during Christ’s time. Or not. Maybe the crime was to recover the family bones of someone in the Dragon Court. Some old lord or prince.”