“I’ll tell you for a hundred bucks,” he chanced.
Chapter Two
“You’ve lost your mind. A hundred bucks. Good luck with the tourists, mate,” Sam scoffed, and turned in search of someone else who wasn’t out to exploit them.
“Okay, fine, fifty bucks and I’ll give you a private tour.”
The prospect of being inside the church was tempting but Alex and Sam didn’t budge and carried on walking. A second later Khalil was at their side with a new offer.
“Look, I just need thirty Euros to even out my losses. It’s not my fault the guy got killed. I have mouths to feed.”
Alex and Sam stopped and faced the young Turk. Every fiber in her being screamed at the opportunity to skip the line and get inside the church.
“You can get us into the church… today?” Alex clarified with suspicion.
“Yes, there’s a back door.”
“A back door, into the church,” Alex questioned again.
“On my life, yes,” Khalil responded with one hand over his heart. “I can get you in.”
They took no more convincing.
“Deal,” Sam responded, “but you get paid after you get us in.”
Khalil took another quick drag before snuffing his cigarette between his thumb and index finger and placing what was left of it back into its packet. He turned swiftly, making a quick call on his cellphone before instructing the group to return to the bus.
“You’re getting braver by the day, Alex. Not that I think we’ll ever see him again, but okay. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, though we’re not staying longer than what’s needed to satisfy your curiosity, agreed?”
“Of course. We’re not doing anything other than seeing what all these people are so desperate to see. A little innocent excitement won’t hurt. We’ll be back on the boat before you know it,” she promised.
In a little over an hour Khalil had somehow managed to get his tour group on their bus, and safely back to their hotel.
“Sam was convinced you weren’t going to make good on your deal,” Alex commented playfully, with a self-congratulatory tone, when Khalil finally met up with them where they were patiently waiting for him in the appointed coffee shop.
“I am many things, my friends, but I am not a liar. My word is my bond,” Khalil responded with surprising solemnity. “We’re going to need to hurry before they do the evening mass—IF they do it. But just to be on the safe side, we can’t be too careful.”
With an enthusiastic bounce in his walk, Khalil led them back to the spectacular church. By now the commotion around the unfortunate incident had quieted down. Bar the crime scene tape that blocked the front entrance, and a small shrine of flowers and lit candles against the one wall, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
“This way.” Khalil led them to a small cobbled street that ran behind the sand colored building.
As promised, he did know of a back entrance but it wasn’t anything Alex and Sam expected. Instead they followed their self-appointed tour guide into a small shop directly behind the church. Inside, the shop was dark, the lack of windows completely depriving it of any light whatsoever apart from the narrow badly distressed front door that stood only slightly ajar. The strong scent of mothballs filled their nostrils the moment they stepped inside. Sitting snugly in one corner, behind an antiquated Singer sewing machine, was a man similar in appearance to Khalil; visible only in the light from the small desk lamp that illuminated his hands. The shopkeeper jumped to his feet the moment his eyes fell on Khalil, embracing him with vigor. Their lingered greeting and native exchange further confirmed that the two men shared more than just a passing acquaintance.
“Meet my cousin, Yusuf,” Khalil introduced him briefly. “We came to Italy together, in search of a better future for our families.”
Not allowing any further time for formal introductions he placed his arm around Yusuf’s shoulders and turned his cousin around to face the corner. What followed between the two men was a subdued exchange of words in Turkish while Alex and Sam patiently scanned the small, dark tailor’s shop. Several minutes later the two men’s upbeat conversation had turned into one taking on a more intimate tone which, from where Alex and Sam stood, was now quite visibly a loaded proposal by Khalil to win his family member over. When Khalil finally embraced his cousin and then shook his hand, it was clear his efforts had worked and that they had struck some sort of private deal between them.
“Follow me,” Khalil instructed, while his cousin quietly slipped back behind his sewing machine.
Barely visible in the furthest corner of the tiny shop, and partially hidden behind a dusty brown curtain, was a small wooden door built into an arched brick wall. It was blocked off by a bulky wooden tailor’s table buried under several large rolls of fabric and clothing patterns. To one side three mannequin torsos further crowded the small poorly-lit space. Khalil leaned across the table and tugged at the brown fabric, allowing it to drop to the floor.
“Help me move the table,” he ordered Sam who, upon seeing the door up close, wasn’t at all sure how he was going to fit through the tiny entryway.
With the space already cramped, moving the table made hardly any difference except to allow barely enough space to open the door more than about two feet, just enough for them to slip in behind the table and shuffle sideways through the door. Much to his surprise, Sam made it, and apart from bumping his head against the crossbeam upon entering, found it a lot roomier than initially anticipated once he passed through. On the other side of the door, Khalil switched his cell phone’s torch on and led them through near total darkness down a short, narrow corridor until they arrived at a second door. With his silhouette only slightly visible in the darkness, Khalil paused in front of the second door and pinned his ear against the rustic wood. Satisfied their illegal entry presented no threat of discovery, he retrieved a large black key from his pocket and slipped it into the single keyhole. The lock was stiff with age and required a fair amount of force to eventually open, emitting a loud screech through the hollow tunnel behind them. Khalil turned the large rounded doorknob and pulled the heavy door toward them. Their entry point into the front of the church building was obscured by a life-size statue of some early Christian saint, visible under a warm glow of light that washed over their faces. It was only once they moved out from behind it that the full magnificence of the holy dwelling could be appreciated.
“Welcome to the Basilica di San Nicola,” Khalil broke the silence, rolling his arms out in a theatrical introduction.
Inside, it was deathly quiet and the ambience was in direct contrast to the cold, damp tailor’s shop they had just left. It took a moment for Alex and Sam to respond while they took in the spectacular sight before them.
“I have been in many cathedrals, but this certainly leaves me breathless,” Alex finally commented as she stepped out in front of the statue and stood gazing up at the vaulted ceiling, enhanced by a multitude of decorative arches.
Built entirely from limestone the basilica was divided longitudinally into three naves by enormous arched walls and pillars. T-shaped with the transept at the end of the nave, a beautiful hand-carved wooden ceiling covered the central nave, framed by a selection of richly ornate paintings.
“The painter was Carlo Rosa, a local from Bitonto,” Khalil declared in a boastful tone intended to impress them. “It’s a city just outside of Bari. The locals call it the City of Olives because of all the olive groves around it,” he continued. “The basilica was originally built in the late eleventh century but then completely restored towards the end of the nineteen-twenties.“ He walked over to a painting on one of the walls and rubbed the nape of his neck. “I’m supposed to know all the artists’ names but I don’t. The tourists never ask anyway,” Khalil admitted nonchalantly before pointing to the first of two figures who flanked the image of the Mother Mary. “This is Saint John the Evangelist and that one there is Saint Nicholas. He’s who all this fuss is about,
” he added.
Alex frowned. “Why? Who was he?”
“He’s THE Saint Nicholas… Santa Claus, Father Christmas or whatever you wish to call him,” Khalil answered.
“You’re joking, right?” Sam scoffed.
“I don’t joke, Sam. He was born around 270 AD in Patara, Lycia. Now it’s part of Turkey but back then it was called Myra and part of Greece. Anyway, he lost both his parents when he was a young man and inherited quite a bit of money. Apparently he used his entire inheritance to help the poor and sick. The people loved him. Being a devout Christian he later became the bishop of Myra. My grandfather told me many stories of his good deeds and generosity, but mostly how the Italians stole his body and brought it here, to Bari.”
From behind a row of five wooden pews positioned in one of the transepts, the floor-to-ceiling iron cage that closed off the altar in the front of the main nave captured Sam’s attention.
“This is a first for me,” Sam said as he inspected the black wrought-iron gates.
“Exactly, they’re afraid we’ll steal him back. He belongs in Turkey, you know,” Khalil continued. “Considering he was born and raised there, it’s only fair he should have stayed there.”
“Wait, you’ve lost me,” Alex stopped him. “What does that have to do with the cage?”
“He’s there, inside, buried under the altar.” Khalil motioned with his hand before taking a seat on the pew in the front row, stretching his arms out as if he owned the church. “I know you’re thinking I’m crazy, but I’m not. His bones are under the floor, enclosed in reinforced concrete blocks—at least most of them. A few years ago the BBC operators in London dropped one of their probes through the floor and they saw the skull in the middle and all his bones spread out around him. They had one of those fancy computers confirm it was him. They found a few more of his bones in Venice and of course the ones that were legally gifted to Russia. Now he’s scattered between three countries and everyone is minding their own business just to keep the peace. But it’s no secret. They all know he was Turkish.”
Sam scratched the back of his head as he gazed at the crypt through the iron gates.
“So you’re saying Santa Claus was a real person and all these pilgrims come to see this, his crypt,” Sam said puzzled.
“Yes, but it’s more than just coming to see it. It’s about the manna.”
“The food God provided the Israelites when they were stuck in the desert for forty years,” Alex responded, eliciting a curious sideways glance from Sam.
“No, not that manna. The holy fluid that seeps from his bones,” Khalil corrected her.
“Khalil, you’re not making any sense, mate,” Sam said as he walked around to the side of the cage.
Khalil rose and joined him. “Somehow the bones of Saint Nicholas secrete some sort of liquid. It’s a mystery how it happens, but it’s true. Every year on May sixth, hundreds of people travel here from all over the world to watch the bishop tap some out into a glass carafe. The sick come forward, and when they touch it they’re instantly healed. It’s a miracle. I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Khalil added.
“So you’re saying this liquid has the power to heal people,” Alex repeated.
“Exactly,” Khalil confirmed.
“Sounds like a tall story to me, my friend, but who am I to argue? What I can’t seem to wrap my head around is how the priest ended up dead,” Sam commented.
Chapter Three
A sudden hollow noise jerked Alex’s attention to the back of the church. Aware that Sam had also heard it they both paused, holding up a finger to Khalil to be quiet. Concluding that it was highly unlikely the church would open for evening mass considering the earlier events, their eyes swiftly scanned each row of the church. Then, amplified by the perfect acoustics, they heard rapid footsteps moving from one end of the church to the other. This time there was no mistaking it. They were not alone.
Khalil had heard the footsteps also and leaped across the floor to hide between the front pews. Alex and Sam took cover behind pillars on either side of the main nave. From behind one of the statues in the back of the church Alex spotted a faint shadow that stretched out across the marble floor. Whoever it was, he was an amateur. Using her hands she signaled the intruder’s position to Sam and with Khalil still hiding between the pews, they slowly made their way toward the back of the church. The shadow hadn’t moved until the faint squeaking of Sam’s rubber soles on the marble floor alerted the intruder that they were closing in on him. The slim figure of a man wearing a black hooded sweater and denim pants dashed across the back of the basilica.
“Stop!” Alex yelled, recognizing him to be the man who’d fled the scene earlier, but he had already disappeared behind a door in the furthermost corner.
“Wait here, Khalil,” Sam shouted back, ”and stay down!” he added.
With their guns now firmly gripped in their hands—thankful they had managed to sneak them in past the border control—Alex and Sam fell back against the wall on either side of the closed door.
“Think it’s the murderer?” Sam whispered to Alex.
“If it is, he’d be looking for whatever he was after, before he killed the priest,” Alex whispered back.
“Ready?” Sam asked again. Alex nodded, giving Sam the go-ahead to open the door while she watched his back.
With trained precision Sam opened the door and moved through with Alex closely behind him. With their guns in hand their eyes scanned across the room. It was empty. Built entirely out of large square blocks of stone, the room, resemblant of a small gathering place, was fully illuminated by several yellow and red stained-glass windows. A red Persian rug decorated the otherwise bare stone floor while small statues pointed towards an archway at the far end. With the walls smoothed out and nothing to take cover behind, they were entirely exposed. They remained alert as they moved through the room towards the archway.
“We just want to talk,” Alex said in a gentle voice, surprised that it didn’t echo through the empty space.
Her invitation was unanswered and they each hid behind a statue on either side of the open doorway. Alex tightened her fingers around her gun’s grip and popped her head out from behind the stone structure into the next room. Still she didn’t see anyone. Fully alert with their guns stretched out in front of them, they proceeded to cautiously move through the curved entrance. In doing so their eyes immediately drew upward to the roof that had entirely disappeared and made space for a large bell that hung three stories above their heads. The sound of the intruder’s feet as they hit the open staircase which spiraled along the outer walls toward the bell, resounded in the tower.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Why am I always forced to climb up things?” Alex exclaimed.
“You have a fear of heights and I have a fear of tight spaces. We’re the perfect team. I’ll go,” Sam said playfully, before he headed up the stone steps.
Relieved to stay behind Alex remained gaping up into the bell tower, her eyes and ears pinned to the echoing footsteps of the intruder.
“You have nowhere to go once you reach the top! We just want to talk!” she yelled again. Her words must have had some effect on the man since his footsteps stopped for a brief instance. Seizing the moment she tried again.
“Why are you running away from us? We mean you no harm. Come down so we can talk.”
From where she stood she spotted the man where he had paused on the steps halfway up the tower. There was no sign of any weapon.
“We’ll put our guns down but you need to come down and talk to us. Whatever you’re running away from we can help you,” she said again, deciding to trust her gut instinct.
Alex watched as Sam stopped about ten steps away from the man, affording him the opportunity to come to his senses. Alex dropped her gun on the stone floor and kicked it away.
“Now come down. My partner is behind you. Let’s talk.”
The man turned around in search of Sam and it was then Alex got a fu
ll view of his face. She drew in a sharp breath as she realized he wasn’t an adult man at all. The frightened eyes of a young boy, probably in his mid-teens, met hers. Desperate for another way out the boy leaned forward against the low railing. Sam paused about five steps behind the boy and kicked his gun down the stairs.
In that moment the unexpected flapping of the resident pigeons in the top of the bell tower bounced off the walls and the frightened boy swung around in panic. His sudden reaction sent him off balance and he slipped backward over the railing. The boy let out a tormented yelp, his hands desperately flailing to take hold of anything to save him from the deadly fall. With her heart caught midway between her throat and her stomach, Alex watched in anguish. Sam’s strong hands managed to take hold of the boy’s arm—just in time. She leaped up the stairs two steps at a time to where Sam was desperately wrestling against the weight of the boy’s body that dangled from his one arm; the youth’s other arm still desperately flailing through the air.
Fear lay deep in the boy’s green eyes while his feet swung over the gaping space beneath him.
“Hold on! We’ve got you,” Sam said with a strained voice as he tightened his grip around the boy’s arm while anchoring himself onto the low railing with his other hand.
“Give me your other hand!” Alex shouted, reaching out over the railing.
The boy briefly looked up into her eyes before looking down at the distant floor.
“Look at me! Don’t look down! We’ve got you! Swing your body up and grab my hand!” Alex urged again, taking note of the fact that Sam’s hand had slipped further along the boy’s arm towards his hand.
“You can do this! Take my hand!” she yelled again.
This time the boy listened and he flung his free arm up in an attempt to grab Alex’s hand. He missed. Sam felt the fabric of the boy’s sleeve slip two more inches beneath his grip as the momentum of the maneuver placed additional strain on Sam’s already weary arm. The boy let out another emotional scream.
The Bari Bones Page 2