The Paradise Prophecy

Patience, Bernadette. Patience. She sipped her wine, half wishing she’d ordered a Tullamore herself. “So what do these chosen people get out of this?”

“The honor of serving God.”

“That’s it? No special seat in heaven?”

“That’s not really the point,” he said. He looked at the medallion in his hands. “Gabriela wouldn’t have this unless she was one of the chosen. And it’s only fitting that she had such an intense interest in Paradise Lost.”

“Why?”

“Because John Milton himself was rumored to be a member of Custodes Sacri.”

This was news to Callahan, but then her knowledge of Milton could barely fill a thimble. “Why Gabriela of all people?”

“Probably because she was so good at getting God’s message out with her music. Just like Milton did through his poetry. But there are those who think that the guardians are much more than messengers.”

“Meaning what?”

“That they’re also protectors. Like Saint Christopher. Chosen to protect something or someone specific. That the sacred traveler is not just an idea, but a person or an object of some kind.”

Callahan felt a sudden stutter of excitement. “Defende eam . . . Protect her.”

“Exactly. It didn’t make sense when you first told me, but now that we know what Gabriela was part of, it’s obvious her last words were meant for her fellow guardians-or maybe even Saint Michael himself.” He gestured to Callahan. “Do you have that copy of Paradise Lost?”

Callahan grabbed her backpack from under the table, pulled out the dog-eared book and handed it to LaLaurie. He flipped through the pages until he reached the eleventh chapter, then pointed to Gabriela’s notations and highlighted passages.

“This isn’t just random doodling,” he said. “She was trying to crack a code.”

“That’s what I thought. But why?”

“I’m not sure, but I have a guess. Milton was known to be an admirer of Francis Bacon, and some historians think he may have subscribed to the Baconian theory.”

“Which is?”

“Bacon often referred to himself as ‘the secret poet’ and there’s a whole group of literary detectives out there who believe he was the true author of all of William Shakespeare’s work. They claim Shakespeare was too uneducated to have written it himself.”

“And what the hell does Shakespeare have to do with cracking a code?”

“The Baconians are convinced that if you carefully analyze his poetry, you’ll find clear instances of cryptology-Bacon secretly signing his work so that the world would know who he really was. By extension, there are Milton followers who believe the poet may have done the same, in homage to Bacon. Only with a difference.”

“Meaning?”

LaLaurie tapped the book with a finger. “In the opening stanzas Milton claims his words were divinely inspired. Most of us agree that what he wrote was a thinly disguised allegory, an indictment of the tyranny of his times. But some of those fringe accounts I told you about claim that the true meaning of Paradise Lost is hidden within its poetry. A secret message or prophecy from God that relates to who or whatever Custodes Sacri is trying to protect.”

“So what is this prophecy?”

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? But I can tell you I’ve been through this book backwards and forwards, and I haven’t been able to find any kind of code at all. Neither has anyone else, as far as I know.”

“So then it’s bullshit.”

LaLaurie shrugged. “I’m sure that’s what the people who write for any of the Milton periodicals will tell you- assuming they’ve even heard the rumor in the first place. But Gabriela obviously didn’t think so. And she was Custodes Sacri.”

“But then wouldn’t she already know the prophecy?”

“Another good question. Maybe the guardians’ knowledge is limited only to what they need to know. And maybe she didn’t like that. Curiosity can get you into all kinds of trouble.”

Need to know. That was a concept Callahan was intimately familiar with.

She glanced at the scars on LaLaurie’s wrists. “Why do I get the feeling you speak from experience?”

“Like I told you, I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just been sitting here practicing my Zen.”

“Does your mantra include the phrase, ‘kill LaLaurie’?”

She smiled. “Maybe you really are psychic. But I’m the one who blew you off when you tried to tell me about this at Gabriela’s penthouse.”

“Look, I don’t blame you. You’re a skeptic. I probably would be, too, if I were in your shoes. But I come from a long line of people who were acutely aware that there’s a lot more going on out there than most of us want to acknowledge. And what I witnessed, first hand, only confirms that.”

She lifted her brows. “So do I have to keep chanting, or are you going to tell me about it?”

LaLaurie took a moment to gather himself, as if what he was about to say didn’t come easily to him. He was dredging up a memory that he’d just as soon leave buried for a couple lifetimes.

He drained his glass and signaled to the bartender for another.

“What I saw was nearly identical to what happened to Gabriela. There was never any indication that Custodes Sacri was in the picture, but the body was in the exact same condition, and the exact same symbol was burned into the mattress beneath it.”

Despite her doubts about good and bad angels and psychic energy and all other forms of supernatural hogwash, Callahan felt herself getting excited again.

Was this the breakthrough she’d been hoping for? Was it possible that whoever had killed Gabriela had killed before?

“Do you have any idea what that symbol signifies?”

“Hubris, vanity, arrogance-take your pick. Whoever left it has a very high opinion of himself.”

“And you’re sure the symbol on that mattress was the same?”

“I have eyes, Agent Callahan. I’m not mistaken.”

Her heart was thumping. “When and where did you see it?”

“About two years ago,” LaLaurie said. “In my own house.” He paused, a somber look on his face. “On the night my wife, Rebecca, burned to death.”

20

Batty had never told the story before. He had played it on his interior movie screen enough times to make him permanently nauseous, but he’d never said it out loud. Had never given voice to the horror.

“We were living in Ithaca at the time. My book on Milton had been published to good notices a couple years before, and I’d accepted an associate professorship at Cornell while I slogged through the next book.”

“That’s a long way from Trinity Baptist College.”

No doubt about that, he thought. A lot had changed in the last two years.

“A return to Louisiana wasn’t even on the radar then. We’d settled into a fairly routine life and Rebecca was feeling a little restless. She had her degrees in philosophy and religious studies but she wasn’t working, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, I was too busy to pay much attention to her.”

He often beat himself up for not realizing this at the time. Maybe if he hadn’t neglected Rebecca, she’d still be alive today.

“Sounds like a pretty typical marriage to me,” Callahan said. “How did you two meet?”