“What is it?” she heard Daley ask Dixon.
“Your alarm is off. That means somebody’s here.”
“Big leap in logic, wouldn’t you say?”
“Did you arm the panel before you left?”
A moment of silence passed. Stephanie knew they were trapped.
“I don’t know,” Daley said. “I may have forgotten. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Why don’t I take a look just to be sure?”
“Because I don’t have time for you to play soldier, and that gun in your hand is getting me hot. You’re some kind of sexy.”
“A flatterer today. That’ll get you everything.”
More silence, then a protest with a half-smothered moan.
“Easy on my head. That knot hurts.”
“You okay?” Daley asked.
A zipper released.
“Toss that gun down,” Daley said.
Footsteps thumped up the stairway.
She stared at Cassiopeia and whispered, “I don’t believe this.”
“At least we know where both of them are.”
Good point, but little comfort. “I’ve got to check this out.”
Cassiopeia clamped a hand onto her arm. “Leave them be.”
Contrary to the past twelve hours where she’d made, at best, questionable decisions, she was thinking clearly now. She knew what needed to be done.
She crept from the bedroom and entered the den. A stairway just beyond led up, the front door to her right. She heard murmured voices, laughter, and the sound of the floorboards being challenged.
“What the hell’s going on?” Stephanie wondered out loud.
“Didn’t your investigation find this?”
She shook her head. “Not a word. Must be recent.”
Cassiopeia disappeared back down the hall. She lingered a moment and spotted the same revolver Heather Dixon had drawn on her yesterday, lying in one of the chairs.
She grabbed the gun and left the den.
MALONE STARED AT THE ROSE WINDOW AND CHECKED HIS watch: 4:40 PM. This late in the year, the sun would start to set sometime in the next ninety minutes.
“This building is oriented on an east-west axis,” he said to Pam. “That window is there to catch the evening sun. We need to go up there.”
He spotted a doorway where an arrow indicated the upper choir. He walked over and found, nestled against the church’s north wall, a wide stone stairway with a barrel-vaulted ceiling that made it look more like a tunnel.
He followed a crowd up.
At the top they entered the choir.
Two rows of high-backed wooden benches faced each other, ornamented with festoons and arabesques. Above them hung baroque paintings of various apostles. The aisle between the benches led to the church’s west wall and the rose window thirty feet above.
He stared up.
Dust motes floated in the sheets of bright sunlight. He turned and studied the cross rising at the far end of the upper choir. He and Pam approached the balustrade and he admired the dramatic realism of the carved image of Christ. A placard at its base informed in two languages
CHRIST ON THE CROSS
C. 1550
POLYCHROMED WOODEN SCULPTURE
He agreed. But he was thinking about the next words.
He glanced back at the blazing rose window and followed the dusty rays as they passed the cross and entered the nave. Below, the light cleaved a trench on the checkerboard floor down a center aisle that bisected the pews. People milled about and didn’t seem to notice. The light continued east to the people’s altar and threw a faint glowing line onto its red carpet.
McCollum appeared from the lower choir and walked down the center aisle toward the front of the church.
“He’s going to be wondering where we are,” Pam said.
“He’s not going anywhere. He seems to need us.”
McCollum stopped between the last of the six columns and looked around, then turned and spotted them. Malone held up his palm and motioned for him to wait there, then displayed his index finger, signaling they’d be down in a minute.
He’d told McCollum the truth. He was pretty good with puzzles. This one had, at first, proved confusing, but now, staring down into a mass of carvings, ribs, and arches, a harmony of lines and interweaving stones that time, nature, and neglect had barely altered, he knew the solution.
His gaze followed the rays of the setting sun as they crossed into the chancel, bisected the high altar, and found the silver sacrarium.
Which glinted gold.
He hadn’t noticed the phenomenon when they’d been down close. Or perhaps the retreating sun had not as yet properly angled itself. But the transformation was now clear.
He saw that Pam noticed, too.
“That’s amazing,” she said. “How the light does that.”
The rose window was clearly positioned so the setting sun would, at least for a few minutes, find the sacrarium. Apparently the silver receptacle had been placed with great deliberation, one of the six paintings surrounding it removed, the symmetry that medieval builders cherished disturbed.
He thought of the final part of the quest.
And he headed for the stairs.
At ground level he approached the velvet ropes that still blocked access into the chancel. He noticed the interplay of black, white, and red marble, which lent an atmosphere of nobility-only fitting, because the chancel served as a royal family mausoleum.
The sacrarium stood thirty feet away.
Close inspection of it was not a part of the visitors’ experience. The priest at the people’s altar announced over the public address system that the church and monastery would close in five minutes. Many of the tours were already departing, and more people started for the exit.
He’d noticed earlier that there was some sort of image etched on the sacrarium’s door, behind which would have once been stored the blessed sacrament. Perhaps it still held the Host. Though a World Heritage Site, more tourist attraction than church, the nave was surely used for special observances. Similar to St. Paul’s and Westminster. Which would explain why people were kept at a distance from what was clearly the building’s centerpiece.
McCollum came close. “I have tickets.”
He pointed to the sacrarium. “I need a closer look at that, without all these witnesses.”
“Could be tough. I assume everyone is going to be hustled out of here in the next few minutes.”
