James Rollins - Map of Bones

Lightning flashed across the clouds below.

Thunderclouds stacked higher ahead, lit up momentarily by the crackling bolts, then vanishing into darkness. They were flying into the teeth of a real storm.

VIGOR WALKED along the stone lip that circled the glass floor — and its etched labyrinth. He had been studying it for a full minute in silence, fascinated by the mystery here.

“Notice how it’s not truly a maze,” he finally said. “No blind corners or dead ends. It’s just one long, continuous, sinuous path. You can find this exact same maze done in blue and white stones at the Chartres Cathedral outside Paris.”

“But what’s it doing down here?” Kat asked. “And why did you call it the Labyrinth of Daedalus?”

“The Chartres labyrinth went by many names. One was le Dedale . Or ‘The Daedalus.’ Named after the mythological architect who constructed the maze for King Minos of Crete. The labyrinth was the home of the Minotaur, a bull-like beast that the warrior Theseus eventually defeated.”

“But why put such a maze inside the Chartres cathedral?”

“It wasn’t just Chartres. During the height of church-building in the thirteenth century, when Gothic construction was at its most ardent, different mazes were placed in many cathedrals. Amiens, Rheims, Arras, Auxerre…all had mazes as you entered their naves. But centuries later the Church destroyed them all, deeming them pagan artifacts, except for the one at Chartres.”

“Why spare Chartres?”

Vigor shook his head. “That cathedral has always been the exception to the rule. Its roots in fact are pagan, built atop the Grotte des Druides, a famous pagan pilgrimage site. And to this day, unlike any other cathedral, not a single king, pope, or famous personage is buried beneath its stones.”

“But that doesn’t answer why the maze was repeated down here,” Kat said.

“I can imagine a few explanations. First, the Chartres maze was based on a drawing from a second-century Greek text of alchemy. Fitting symbol for our lost alchemists. But the labyrinth at Chartres was also representative of journeying from this world to paradise. Worshippers in Chartres would crawl on hands and knees along this tortuous path from the outside until they reached the center rosette, representing symbolically a pilgrimage from here to Jerusalem, or from this world to the next. Hence the maze’s other names. Le Chemin de Jerusalem . ‘The Road to Jerusalem.’ Or le Chemin du Paradis . ‘The Road to Paradise.’ It was a spiritual journey.”

“Do you think it’s hinting that we must make this journey ourselves, follow the alchemists to solve their last great mystery?”

“Exactly.”

“But how do we do that?”

Vigor shook his head. He had an idea, but he needed more time to think about it. Kat seemed to recognize that he was not speaking freely, but she respected him enough and didn’t press.

Instead, she checked her watch.

“We should head back up. See if Gray has attempted to make any contact.”

Vigor nodded. He stared back one more time, pointed his flashlight across the space. It reflected off the glass surfaces: the floor and the embedded plates in the wall. He pointed it up. More reflections glittered, jeweled ornaments in a giant tree of knowledge.

There was an answer here.

He needed to find it before it was too late.

W HY AREN'T they answering?

Gray sat with the jet’s air-phone fixed to his ear. He was trying to raise Kat. But so far with no luck. Maybe it was the storm, interfering with the signal. The plane bucked and rolled through spats of lightning and sonorous rumbles of thunder.

He sat near the back of the cabin for privacy. The others, strapped to their seats, were still deep in discussion.

Only Rachel glanced back periodically, concerned to hear about her uncle. But maybe it was more. Since their rescue in Lausanne, she’d never been more than a step away from him. She still refused to discuss in detail what had happened at the castle. A haunted quality hung about her. And since then, it was as if she sought some solidity from him. Not to cling to — that wasn’t her. It was more simple reassurance, grounding herself in the moment. No words were needed.

And while Monk had also been severely traumatized, Gray knew they’d eventually talk. They were soldiers-in-arms, best friends. They would work through it.

But Gray didn’t have that patience with Rachel. A part of him wanted an immediate solution and answer to what troubled her. Any attempt to discuss what had happened at Lausanne had so far been rebuffed, gently but firmly. Still, he read the pain in her eyes. And as much as his heart ached, all he could do was stand beside her, wait until she was ready to speak.

At his ear, the phone’s incessant ring finally stopped as the other line was picked up. “Bryant here.”

Thank God. Gray sat straighter. “Kat, it’s Gray.”

The others in the cabin turned toward him.

“We have Rachel and Monk,” he said. “How is everything over there?”

Kat’s voice, usually so stoic, rang with relief. “We’re fine. We’ve found the secret entry.” She went on to briefly explain all they’d discovered. Occasionally the transmission broke up and he missed a word here and there, due to the storm.

Gray noted Rachel’s intense stare at him and nodded his head to her. Her uncle was fine.

She closed her eyes in gratitude and sank back to her seat.

Once Kat was finished, Gray gave a short account of events in Lausanne. “Barring any delay from the storm, we’ll be landing at Avignon Caumont Airport in about thirty minutes. But we don’t have much lead time on the Court. Maybe half an hour if we’re lucky.”

Seichan had given them intel on the Court’s means of transportation. Raoul had a pair of planes stored in a small airfield half an hour outside of Lausanne. Calculating the airspeed of the Court’s planes, Gray knew they had a small lead on the Court. One he meant to keep.

“With all teammates secure again,” Gray told Kat, “I’m going to break the silence with central command. Contact Director Crowe. I’ll have him coordinate ground support with the local authorities. I’ll call again as soon as we land. In the meantime, watch your back.”

“Roger that, Commander. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Gray hung up. He dialed the access number to Sigma command. It rang through a series of scrambled switchboards and finally connected.

“Logan Gregory.”

“Dr. Gregory, it’s Commander Pierce.”

“Commander—” The irritation rang in the one word.

Gray cut off an official scolding for his lack of communication. “I must speak to Painter Crowe immediately.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Commander. It’s nearly midnight here. The director left command about five hours ago. But no one knows where he went.” Aggravation clipped his words again, even harder-edged than his irritation at Gray.

At least Gray understood the man’s frustration. What was the director doing leaving central command at a time like this?

“He may have gone over to DARPA, to coordinate with Dr. McKnight,” Logan continued. “But I’m still ops leader for this mission. I want a full debriefing on your whereabouts.”

Gray suddenly felt uncomfortable speaking. Where had Painter Crowe gone? Or was he even gone? Ice chilled through him. Was Gregory blocking him from reaching the director? Somewhere there was a leak at Sigma. Who could he believe?

He weighed the odds — and did the only thing he could. Perhaps it was rash, but he had to go with his gut.