The Sacred Blood (8 page)

“A bit premature to follow up with a potential cure-all,” he said, “especially when my best researcher can’t quite explain what it is.” He folded his arms to await her rebuttal to the dig.

“Is that right?” she said, feigning offense.

He shrugged. “There could still be side effects,” he reminded her.

“Like what? Me growing a beard?” she quipped.

Aldrich laughed. “We just need to be patient.”

The smile faded from her lips. He’d recently applied those same words to their relationship. Given the circumstances, his noble reasons had been justified—the huge corporate responsibilities now commanding all his time and energy. Problem was, those circumstances wouldn’t be getting any easier going forward.

Sensing what she was thinking, he parried with “I was going down to Starbucks for a coffee. Want me to pick you up one of those frappa-mochasoy-latte Frankenbrews you like?”

She snickered. “I’ve already exceeded my caffeine quota for today, but why not. And it’s
‘venti,’
not ‘medium.’ ”

“Right.” He made to leave, but paused to offer some encouragement. “Remember, Charlotte: we know the world isn’t flat and the sun is the center of our solar system. The answer is there,” he said, pointing to the monitor. “You’ll figure it out.” He gave a wink and made his way into the corridor.

Through the clear glass partition, she watched as he got onto the elevator. “But I’m not Copernicus,” she mumbled as the doors slid closed in front of him.

As she twirled her chair back to the computer, the desk phone chimed. She pressed the speakerphone button. “BMS Genetic Studies Department.”

“Doc, it’s Lou.”

Charlotte immediately recognized the security guard’s distinct Brooklyn accent. The big voice complemented the man’s imposing stature. “Hey, Lou. What’s up?”

“Just a sec . . .”

Through the receiver she could hear his heavy footsteps, then a door closing to block out the sound of voices in the background. Then came the groaning of upholstery and some heavy breathing as Lou settled into a chair.

“Sorry ’bout that. Had to come into the office before I talked to you. Anyway, we got a guy down here—out front at the desk. Askin’ for you. Told him you ain’t workin’ here no more. Seven freakin’ times I told him.”

Charlotte straightened in the chair.

After all she’d told Evan about what had happened in Vatican City— that goon, Salvatore Conte, quite literally chasing her out the front gate—they’d agreed it would be best to leave her name off the company directory. To further limit her exposure, Aldrich had taken her off media duty too. She’d even gotten a new cell phone number and home number.

Lou continued, “But this stubborn mother—uh, pardon my French— refuses to vacate the premises till we tell ’im where you’re at. I’m gonna call the police, but—”

“Did you get a name?”

“Sure. But he sounds like a leprechaun,” he said, digressing. “I think he’s after your Lucky Charms—”

“My folks were Irish too, Lou,” she reminded him. “Remember, I’ve got the reddish curly hair, green eyes?”

“Ooh. Sorry ’bout that. But you’ve got that great tan—”

“His
name,
Lou?” Down at the front desk, she’d overheard the ex– nightclub bouncer sizing up the female employees. Best to cut him off before he started commenting on her great “rack.”

“Right. Just a sec.”

There was a pause, then she heard his chair creak, the crinkle of paper.

“Name’s Donovan. Patrick Donovan.”

Father Donovan? Here?

“Just thought I’d tell ya before I call the black-and-whites. Case he says something and they call ya.”

“Wait, Lou,” she said, still caught up in confusion. “Is he bald, about five-nine . . . mid, late forties maybe?”

“Bald as a baby’s butt cheek. And he ain’t no NBA draft pick, age or height, I can tell ya that.”

“Give him a pass and send him up.”

“You sure?” he asked, disappointed.

“He’s safe. I’ll vouch for him.”

“If you say so. Just give a shout if he gets fresh.”

She disconnected the call and sat back in her chair. What could possibly bring Donovan all the way from Vatican City?

11.

Each time the elevator doors opened, Charlotte reacted like a little girl waiting for her daddy to come home. She even caught herself nibbling at her unmanicured fingernails.

During her short stay in Vatican City—which Patrick Donovan had arranged with BMS—the priest had been a consummate host, looking out for her at every turn. She’d dismissed any notion that he could have been responsible for siccing Conte on her when she made to leave Vatican City unannounced. That look in Donovan’s eyes when Conte first wheeled the crated ossuary into the Vatican’s lab? Conte was certainly not under his control.

When the doors smoothly parted for the third time, a man in jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt with a white guest badge plastered across its pocket stepped off the elevator looking lost. Even without the black suit and white collar, she immediately recognized him. Rising from her chair, she smiled and waved to him through the glass, then made her way to the door.

“Can I hug a priest?” she asked.

“If you don’t squeeze too hard and make all the confessions come out,” he said with a wide grin.

“It’s so great to see you,” she said, bending slightly for a quick embrace. “Quite a surprise.”

“Yes. So sorry, Charlotte. Rather rude, me showing up unannounced like this.”

His soothing voice delighted her. “Don’t be silly.” Right away she could sense something was troubling him. “I take it this isn’t a social visit?”

Smiling tightly, he said, “We must talk for a few minutes. It’s quite urgent, I’m afraid.”

Immediately she felt her stomach flutter. “Sure. My office okay?”

He looked over her shoulder. All the walls were clear glass and he could see a young woman who appeared to be Charlotte’s assistant in an adjacent glass cubicle. He seemed to think it was private enough, because he said, “Certainly.”

Charlotte led him inside, locked the door to avoid interruptions, and motioned to the small oval conference table set by the window. She watched as he sat with hands folded on the table, his posture timid and vulnerable.

“Lovely view,” he couldn’t help but comment.

“Scores high in our employee satisfaction surveys,” she replied, taking the seat across from him. He smiled genuinely for the first time—the smile she remembered from their strolls in the papal gardens. “Speaking of which, how are things at the Vatican?”

Donovan contemplated his hands for a moment. “Oh, you know . . . as long as there are sinners out there, business will be good, I suppose.”

“And Cardinal Santelli?”

His eyes met hers for a moment, then went back to his woven hands. “I take it you haven’t heard.” He told her about the cardinal’s death, which, for now, he explained simply as unexpected heart failure. Only he and God were privy to the true nature of Santelli’s demise.

“I’m sorry” was all Charlotte could muster.

“Well, I’m sure he’s in good hands now.” Whether they were God’s or Satan’s, Donovan wasn’t certain. Before proceeding, he knew he had to address something else too. “And Dr. Bersei—”

“I read about it,” she said, her voice suddenly choked. “I still can’t believe . . .” Eyes watery, she had to stop herself. “Was it really an accident?” she managed in a low voice.

The emptiness in Donovan’s chest felt instantly larger. The Vatican could spin anything. “About that . . . ,” he said, but reconsidered. “Later, actually. No time now. You see, I left the Vatican . . . after all that had happened. Returned to Ireland. Back to the homeland,” he said.

“Temporary leave?”

“Permanent, perhaps. Anyway, it worked out fine . . . got to spend time with my father before he passed on, God rest his soul.”

She
tsk
ed and reached out to touch his hands. “So sorry.”

“Lived a full life. He was a good man. God will take him with open arms.”
Unlike me,
he thought, and drew a breath before going on. Leaning forward, he looked deep into her eyes. “Something very troublesome happened to me yesterday. When I couldn’t reach you by phone, I had no choice but to come find you immediately.”

Luckily, his checkered past in Belfast meant always keeping his Italian passport (the de facto standard for Vatican citizens) alongside his wallet, and a small travel bag was always at the ready in his motorcycle’s stow box. After the incident at the store, he’d headed straight for Belfast International and immediately got standby seating on an Aer Lingus flight bound for New York. A second booking on Continental got him to Phoenix by late morning.

“Two men came looking for me,” he explained, “asking about the ossuary we’d studied.” The fear this brought into her eyes pained him. Guilt came fast.

Confusion rumpled her brow. “I saw the ossuary in the news. Tough to miss the dolphin-trident etching. They said it’d been stolen,” she said, without trying to make it sound like an accusation. “Then it was anonymously returned to Jerusalem. Right after Dr. Bersei was found dead.” Hearing her own words made her consider the facts. Conspiracies immediately began spinning in her head. “Was it him?”

Donovan shook his head. “Not Bersei.”

She studied his shamefaced expression.
“You?”

A reluctant nod.

“To set things right,” he said, trying to defend himself. “A long story I don’t have time to explain just yet. But the big problem is . . . I returned it empty. And it seems these two men were looking to get the skeleton back.”

“The bones?”

“Yes. They were very insistent. And when I chose to remove myself from the conversation”—he looked up with hard lines creasing his brow— “they came after me with guns.”

Charlotte’s face blanched. Oddly, the first thought that struck her was industrial espionage. Could it be the miraculous gene code they were after? But only she and Evan knew about that. “Wow” was all she could say.

“Besides me, I’m afraid you are the only person left who’s worked on the project. And . . .” His voice trailed off and he spread his hands to compensate for the lost words. He’d never anticipated all of this when he’d first acquired the ancient manuscript that told of the ossuary’s existence beneath Jerusalem’s Temple Mount.

“You don’t think . . .” She looked hard at him. “You think they might come after
me
?”

Looking down again, he nodded. “I had to warn you.”

At that moment, he happened to divert his eyes to the corridor, where two technicians were just coming off the elevator. They were attired like Charlotte—spotless white lab coats covering business-casual clothing. But the taller man’s coat wasn’t buttoned because his broad shoulders pulled at it too tightly.

Donovan’s eyes went wide when he spotted the fellow’s companion— an ordinary, forgettable man. It took only a split second before the man made the connection too. “Jesus save us!” Donovan yelled, jumping up from the chair.

The shorter man snarled as he went for the door and began fussing with the lock.

A second later, the elevator doors parted and Evan emerged with a to-go cup clutched in each hand.

“Oh no!” Charlotte cried. “Evan!” But her scream was subdued by the glass partition. She watched in horror as Evan stopped in his tracks, his confused gaze bouncing from the two lab techs to Donovan, who was frantically waving his arms, shouting for Evan to move away. But Evan failed to grasp the gravity of it all.

Instead of retreating, Evan stepped up to the tall man and scrutinized the tiny photo on the security badge dangling over his chest. When he surmised that the two lab techs were imposters, his temper flared. While trying to urge the short one away from the door, Evan attempted to sidestep the tall man. But the giant blocked his advance so that Evan’s face collided with his chest. Some verbal sparring ensued, all inaudible on the other side of the glass.

“We’ll have to let him handle it,” Donovan implored her. “We’ve got to leave right now.” But Charlotte was frozen. “Let’s go!” Donovan yanked her up from the chair.

“We can’t just—”

“Get moving!” He pulled her arm even harder.

Overwhelmed, Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off the scene as the large man planted a huge hand on Evan’s chest and thrust his arm like a piston, sending Evan stumbling backward. By the time Evan regained his footing, the giant had reached beneath his lab coat, produced a gun, and raised it to Evan’s face. Horrified at the dire turn of events, Evan threw the two cups at the man and tried to run for the fire exit. The gunman barely reacted as the scalding coffee hit his chest and splashed up under his chin, steam swirling into his face.

With unwavering aim, he snapped off a shot that drilled a red circle through the back of Evan’s head and ripped open bone and skin in a red spray as it exited his face. Evan’s body catapulted forward onto the tiles.

It wasn’t the crack of the gunshot that caught the assistant’s attention; it was Charlotte’s bloodcurdling scream. When through the glass partition she spotted the two men near the elevator and Evan’s body sprawled in a pool of blood, she panicked and darted for the metal security door leading to the labs. She fumbled for the employee ID card clipped to her suit jacket and slid it through a reader on the lock.

Donovan swung open a second glass door leading into the assistant’s cubicle, dragging Charlotte behind him.

“Wait!” Charlotte protested. “Evan!” she cried.

“Stay down!”

An instant later, the door leading to the elevator let out a loud
clack
as cracks webbed out from a single hole blown through the center of its tempered glass. The round thwacked into the windowpane behind Charlotte’s head, making her snap into action.

The assistant was just making her way through the metal door, and Donovan muscled Charlotte through right behind her. He stole a glimpse of the large gunman, who was throwing his shoulder against the fractured glass. A third attempt brought the door down in a thousand pieces, the man stumbling forward into the office.

“Come on! ” Donovan screamed. He ducked into the doorway, Charlotte at his heels. He yanked the safety door shut just as another round thudded close to the handle. “How do we get out of here?” he panted.