‘Excuse me, Professore?’
He blinked, then turned his attention to his assistant. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was lost in thought. Did you need something?’
Maria nodded. ‘I wanted to know if we could go inside now.’
Boyd’s face turned a bright shade of red. ‘Good Lord! How silly of me. Here I am, pondering the significance of this bloody stone when we’re on the verge of…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, by all means, let’s venture inside.’
The passageway was narrow, giving them just enough room to enter. Boyd went first, then waited for Maria to pass him his equipment. When her arm finally appeared, he snatched the flashlight and struggled to find the power button. The powerful beam overwhelmed the blackness, shattering the sanctity of the holy grounds for the first time in years, exposing the high-arched ceiling and the colorful murals that adorned the smooth walls.
‘My Lord,’ he gasped in amazement. ‘My sweet Lord!’
Seconds later, Maria squeezed through the hole while carrying a video camera. She had no idea what Boyd was gaping at but was determined to capture it on tape. At least that was the plan. But, the moment she stepped inside the chamber she was so overwhelmed by the artwork that she dropped the camera to her side. ‘Santa Maria!’
Stunned, she spun in a small circle, trying to soak in everything at once. The vaulted roof was typical of the ancient Roman era, allowing the majority of the ceiling’s weight to be supported by the chamber’s four walls. Despite this classical approach, the chamber still utilized a series of four Tuscan columns, one placed in each corner for architectural decoration.
In between each pillar, starting just below the arched ceiling, was a series of four religious frescoes, each depicting a different scene from the Bible. The showcased piece of the group appeared to be the life of an unknown saint, for it was twice as large as the others and was centered on the right wall directly behind a stone altar.
‘What is this place?’ she whispered.
Boyd continued to gaze around the room, amazed that he’d found the mythical vaults. ‘The basic design looks similar to many buildings built during the peak of the Roman Empire, but the paintings on the walls are much more recent – perhaps fifteenth or sixteenth century.’
He paused, staring at the frescoes. ‘Maria, do they look familiar to you?’
She strolled forward, studying the colorful scenes as she moved about the chamber. She had no idea what he was referring to, but that didn’t stop her. She carefully eyed the paintings, trying to find the common thread that would unite them. ‘Oh my Lord! I have seen these before! These murals are in the Sistine Chapel.’
‘Exactly!’ Boyd applauded. ‘Adam and Eve, the flood, Noah’s ark. The three main subjects of Michelangelo’s ceiling. In fact, these frescoes look remarkably similar to his.’
Maria glanced from picture to picture. ‘They do possess his flair, don’t they?’
‘I almost hate to say this without any tangible proof, yet… I wonder if Michelangelo actually did these himself.’
Her eyes doubled in size. ‘You’re joking, right? You actually think he painted these?’
Boyd nodded. ‘Think about it, Maria. This place served as a second Vatican for decades. When the Great Schism occurred, the Italian popes came to Orvieto for protection. At the time the Church was in such disarray the papal council actually considered moving the Vatican here permanently. They felt this was the only place that could offer them adequate protection.’
Maria grinned. ‘And if the Vatican was going to be moved, the popes would want the right decorations for the new home of the Catholic Church.’
‘Exactly! And if the pope wanted Michelangelo to do the decorating, then Michelangelo did the decorating.’ Boyd chuckled as he remembered a story about the famous artist. ‘Did you know that Michelangelo didn’t want anything to do with the Sistine Chapel? Rumor has it that Julius II, the pope at the time, bullied him into doing the project. Once beating him with a cane, and once threatening to kill Michelangelo by tossing him off the scaffolding… Not exactly the type of behavior you’d expect from a pope, is it?’
She shook her head. ‘Do you think he forced Michelangelo to do these, too?’
Boyd considered her question. ‘If my memory is correct, the last pope to stay here was Pope Clement VII during Spain’s attack on Rome in 1527. I believe Michelangelo did the Sistine Chapel about twenty years before then, meaning he would’ve had plenty of time to duplicate his scenes on these walls before his death.’
‘Or,’ Maria deadpanned, ‘someone could have done these first, and Michelangelo might have copied them back at the Vatican.’
A flash of excitement crossed Boyd’s face. ‘My dear, you have a bloody good point there! If these were done before the others, then the Sistine Chapel would be nothing more than an imitation. Goodness me! Can you imagine the flak we’d get if we proved that Michelangelo was a forger? We’d never hear the end of it!’
Maria laughed, knowing her dad would have a stroke if she were involved in something like that. ‘That does have controversy written all over it. Doesn’t it?’
Although the concept was controversial, it paled in comparison to things that they were about to discover deeper inside the Catacombs.
While Maria filmed the artwork, Dr Boyd crept down the three stone steps on the left side of the chamber. At the bottom he turned to his right and peered into darkness.
Amazingly, he saw a series of open tombs so great in number that they faded into the depths of the corridor beyond the reach of his light. The ceiling soared above him to a height of over fifty feet and was lined on both sides by an intricate system of niches, built to hold the skeletal remains of the dead. These loculi were cut into the tufaceous walls in straight rows, each rectangle measuring six feet across – just big enough for a body.
‘This is stunning,’ he gasped. ‘Simply stunning!’
Maria hustled after him and focused the camera on one of the unmarked graves. She hoped to get a better view of the long passageway, but it was far too narrow for her to slip past Boyd – no more than three feet from wall to wall.
‘Tell me, Maria, what do you see?’
She smiled. ‘I see dead people.’
But Boyd missed her reference to The Sixth Sense. ‘So do I. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why can we see the bodies? Per custom, most loculi were sealed with tiles and mortar after the dead were placed inside. Others were covered with a marble slab. But I’ve never seen this before. Why would they leave the bodies exposed?’
She frowned, thinking of the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus in Rome. They were built by Christians in the middle of the second century and encompassed an area of ninety acres, with four levels and more than twelve miles of galleries.
When she was ten, she toured the ruins on a school trip, an experience that she loved so much that she rushed home and told her parents that she wanted to be an archaeologist. Her mom smiled and told her she could be whatever she wanted as long as she worked hard. But it was an answer that didn’t set well with dad. When he finished laughing, he stared Maria in the eyes and told her, in all seriousness, to give up her dreams and concentrate on finding a husband.
It was a moment that she’d never forget. Or forgive.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, ‘but aren’t the Christian tombs at Saint Callixtus open-air as well? I remember seeing a lot of holes in the walls.’
‘You saw holes, but no bodies. It was the custom of early Christians to wrap their dead in a shroud before they sealed it inside the loculi. The holes that you’re referring to were cracked open by looters and scholars. But that’s not the case down here. If you look –’
Boyd stopped in midsentence, his attention suddenly focused on the passageway ahead. Something was wrong. The corridor stretched into the darkness, snaking through the stone like a black viper. He tried to see the end of the hall but couldn�
�t. Shadows danced around him, cast by human hands that dangled from their graves like they were reaching for his light. As though his presence had somehow stirred them from their centuries of slumber. In a moment of panic, he stepped backward into one of their outstretched hands and felt icy-cold fingers against the back of his leg. Terror sprang from his lips, soon followed by a shriek from Maria.
‘What happened!’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong? Did you see something?’
Boyd took a deep breath and laughed, completely embarrassed. ‘I am so sorry… I just scared myself silly.’ His face turned a shade of red. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Truly I didn’t. I’m just jumpy. That’s all… I just bumped into a hand, and it startled me.’
‘A hand? You bumped into a hand? Good lord, professore! You almost gave me a stroke.’
‘Trust me, I know the feeling. I almost had one myself.’
Maria put her hand on her chest and closed her eyes. Her heart felt like a jackhammer pounding against her rib cage. She took a deep breath, trying to cope with the rush of adrenaline. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’
He nodded sheepishly. ‘Yes, my dear, I swear.’
‘Then let’s get moving. I need to burn off all this energy.’
They traveled together for several seconds, passing grave after unmarked grave, never stopping to examine the bodies. They were still too jumpy to do that. Thirty yards later, the corridor split in two. The path on the left led to a stairwell that slowly curled into the darkness below. The hallway on the right continued forward past hundreds of more bodies.
Boyd turned to Maria. ‘Lady’s choice.’
‘Let’s go downstairs. I hear there’s a wonderful gift shop in the basement.’
He nodded, then started down the steps. They were no more than six inches deep – perfect for the feet of yesteryear but small for the modern-day traveler – which forced Boyd to lower himself sideways. To steady his descent, he used the jutting stones in the walls as a handrail.
At the halfway point, he stopped and turned toward the camera. ‘I believe we’re under the upper hallway now, more than twenty feet down. What an incredible achievement, carving this much rock yet keeping it hidden from the outside world. Simply remarkable!’
She asked, ‘Do you think the Empire built these stairs, or was it done in the Middle Ages?’
He paused, soaking in everything – the vaulted ceilings, the high arches, the colors, the smells, the sounds – before he answered. ‘My guess would be the Empire. The shallowness of the steps is the first clue, followed by the basic design. It’s very typical of the ancients.’
Smiling, Boyd continued forward at a methodical pace. Normally he would’ve zipped down the stairs at top speed, but the heat of the outer chamber had sapped his strength. Combine that with a lack of food and sleep, and he was lucky to be standing.
‘Professore? What do you think is down here?’
He was about to answer when the hallway came into view, stretching out before him like an arroyo. No crypts, no graves, no doors. Just an empty corridor for as far as his eye could see.
‘Strange,’ he mumbled. ‘I feel like we’re in a different world down here.’
Maria nodded. ‘It looks like it was decorated by the Amish.’
Boyd ignored her comment and crept down the hall searching for clues. Fifty feet later, he spotted a stone plaque on the left-hand wall. Its color was the same shade of brown as the rest of the passageway, yet its surface was remarkably different. Without saying a word, Boyd ran to it, immediately placing his hands on its cold surface. Then, like a blind man reading, he slid his fingers across it, probing the shallow grooves with slow, tender strokes.
Maria stood back, confused by his strange behavior. She wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, why he was acting more bizarre than he normally did, but all it took was a single glance and she knew the answer. One look at his face and everything made sense.
Her mentor, the one man she actually trusted and believed in, was hiding something.
6
Walking to the shore near the rear of the castle grounds, Nick Dial realized the Danish police would never solve the case. Unless, of course, there was a witness that he didn’t know about or a security camera that had inadvertently taped the crime. Otherwise the cops’ methods were too sloppy to nail anyone. No pun intended. Not only had they moved the body, but they had done very little to protect the integrity of the crime scene.
In a perfect world, they would’ve sealed off the entire area, building temporary barriers that would’ve kept people out and cut down on the gusts of wind that blew in from the sound. Instead, officers strolled across the beach like they were on vacation, kicking up sand and blatantly ignoring the rules of evidence.
‘Excuse me, are you Mr Dial?’
Dial turned to his right and stared at a well-dressed woman who was heading his way. She pulled out her badge and held it up for him to scrutinize.
‘Yeah, I’m Dial,’ he finally said.
‘I’m Annette Nielson from the NCB in Copenhagen. I was the agent who phoned in the initial report this morning.’
Dial shook her hand and smiled, half surprised that the local field office had sent a woman to handle such a high-profile case. Not that he had anything against female investigators, because he didn’t, but he knew most executives at Interpol were far less open-minded than he. ‘Nice to meet you, Annette. Please call me Nick.’
She nodded and pulled out her notepad. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been trying to get the local chief to talk to me. He keeps making excuses, though.’
Typical, Dial thought to himself. ‘What can you tell me about the victim?’
‘Caucasian male, mid-thirties, no tattoos or piercings. Death occurred sometime this morning, probably around dawn. Puncture wounds in his hands, feet, and rib cage. Severe damage to his face and mouth. Leads us to believe that he was beaten into submission.’
‘Do we have a name?’
She shrugged. ‘The locals took his prints, but I don’t know if they have the results yet.’
‘Point of access?’
‘Best guess is the beach. The front of the castle is well-lit and guarded. So is the interior. Unfortunately, by the time I got here, the locals had covered any footprints with their own.’
‘Number of assailants?’
‘Multiple. The cross is too heavy for just one.’
‘Anything else?’
‘They left a note.’
‘They left a what? Show it to me.’
She led him to the cross, which sat in the lawn near the edge of the sand. The body was nowhere to be found. ‘The note was painted on a walnut sign and affixed to the top of the cross with a long spike driven vertically.’
Dial read the message aloud. ‘IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.’
He kneeled next to the sign for a closer look. The letters were five inches high and hand-painted in red. Very neatly done. Like the killer had taken calligraphy lessons in his spare time. Right before his advanced course in woodworking. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t blood.’
‘Red paint,’ she concurred. ‘We’re tracking down the shade and the manufacturer. Who knows? We might find a bucket of it in a nearby Dumpster.’
‘I doubt it. This sign wasn’t made around here. The killers brought it with them.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Dial put his nose next to the board and took a whiff. ‘Three reasons. One, the sign is dry, which wouldn’t be the case if they’d painted it this morning. There’s too much moisture along the shore for anything to dry quickly. Two, if they’d painted it around here, they would’ve made a mess. The wind would’ve been whipping across the beach causing sand to stick to the paint like a magnet. No way they did it out here. It’s too neat.’
‘And three?’
He stood from his crouch and grimaced, knowing that this was the first of several victims yet to come. ‘The sign was just the icing. The killer’s way of taunt
ing us. His real work of art was the victim, the way he killed the guy. That’s the thing we need to focus on.’
The sound of clapping emerged from behind, followed by a mock ‘Bravo!’
Dial took a deep breath and turned. There was no doubt in his mind that it was the local chief of police because he had dealt with this type of idiot many times before, and it was always the same. They taunted Dial because he was an Interpol big shot who was infringing on their so-called turf. Then, once they got it out of their system, he made a phone call to their immediate supervisor, and they were forced to kiss Dial’s ass – usually in a very public ceremony – and cater to his every whim for the rest of the week.
But Dial just wasn’t in the mood today. Not for some dipshit who didn’t know how to run a crime scene. So instead of letting the guy speak, Dial whirled around as quick as he could and charged toward him like an angry rhinoceros. ‘Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking for you for the last half hour, but you’ve been too scared to show yourself.’
‘Excuse me?’
Dial whipped out his badge and shoved it in the guy’s round, bloated face. ‘If you’re the man in charge, then you’re the guy who’s been avoiding me.’
‘No one told me –’
‘What? That Interpol was involved in this case? I find that hard to believe since Agent Nielson has been here all morning. According to her, your staff has been anything but helpful.’
The chief looked at Nielson, then back at Dial, trying to think of something clever to say. But Dial refused to give him a chance. He had heard all of the excuses before and wasn’t about to listen to them again. Time was too precious in a case like this.
‘And don’t even start with your jurisdiction bullshit. The victim was brought in through the sound, and half of that water belongs to Sweden, meaning this is an international case. International means Interpol, and Interpol means me. You got that? Me! That means you need to get off your ass and tell me everything I need to know, or I swear to God I’ll call every reporter in Europe and tell them that you’re the reason that this case hasn’t been solved yet.’
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