The Paradise Prophecy

19

Have you ever heard of Archbishop Jacobus de Voragine? Or the Golden Legend?”

Callahan had decided to let this play out a little longer, mostly because LaLaurie had been so bowled over by the discovery of the medallion that she couldn’t help getting caught up in his passion.

Maybe she’d been too quick to judge this guy. LaLaurie’s belief in otherwordly phenomenon didn’t make him any different than half the world’s population, so what could it hurt to practice a little patience, buy him a drink and see what else he had to say? There might be something amidst all the nuttiness that she could actually use.

She took him to her hotel bar. LaLaurie had ordered Tullamore Dew, and Callahan had settled for a glass of the house pinot.

“I’ve heard of the Golden Rule,” she said. “Do unto others and all that?”

“This is different. The Golden Legend is a collection of stories compiled by the archbishop in the thirteenth century. Stories about the greater saints of the Catholic church.”

“Like Saint Michael.”

He took a sip of his drink. “He was one of them, yeah. But the one we’re concerned with right now is Saint Christopher. Do you know his story?”

“I know he’s the patron saint of travel, but that’s about the extent of it.”

“According to de Voragine, Christopher was a Canaanite warrior who wandered the countryside in search of a great king to serve. But when he finally found one, he quickly discovered that the king lived in fear of the Devil-which, to Christopher’s mind, meant that Satan must be a greater king.” He paused, took another sip. “So Christopher threw in with Satan, only to find that despite all of his power, the rebel angel was deathly afraid of someone called Christ.”

“So let me guess,” Callahan said. “He became a Christian.”

“Right. And to serve Christ, he spent his days down at the river, helping people cross against a dangerous current.”

Someone near their table laughed, and LaLaurie shot him a look, annoyed by the interruption. He waited a moment, then continued.

“Then one day, a boy walked up to Christopher and asked for his help to cross the river. So Christopher hoisted him up on his shoulders and gave him a ride. But despite his size, the boy was heavy. Christopher nearly lost his footing and barely managed to hang on. Once they were safely across, the boy kissed his forehead and thanked him. Then he said, ‘I am the king you serve.’ ”

“Jesus?”

LaLaurie nodded. He had been holding Gabriela’s Saint Christopher medal in his hands as he spoke. Now he it held it out, pointing to the etching of the man carrying a child on his back.

“And that’s why Christopher was named a saint.”

“Okay,” Callahan said. “But what does this have to do with Gabriela’s death, or her being-what was it?”

“Custodes Sacri Peregrinatoris. Guardians of the Sacred Traveler.” Callahan balked. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Sounds like a crappy eighties’ kid show.”

“Far from it,” LaLaurie said. “And by most accounts, they’ve never existed. You’d be hard-pressed to find anything about them in the usual literature. But there are one or two fringe accounts out there. You just have to know where to look.”

“So who are these guardians?”

“A group of men and women who are said to have been chosen by the Archangel Michael to help those who want to make the journey from sinner to servant, just as Christopher did.”

“Are they all Catholics?”

LaLaurie shook his head. “Custodes Sacri transcends religious ideology. They come from all walks of life. All cultures, all faiths. But each of the chosen has made the journey as well-Gabriela being a prime example. From drug addict to Christian superstar in a few short years.”

He flipped the medallion over, pointing to the beetle etched into its back.

“This scarab symbolizes the promise of resurrection for all human beings. A symbol you won’t find on any other Saint Christopher medal. In fact, if you ask most religious scholars, they’ll tell you these don’t even exist.”

“So how do you know this isn’t some kind of mock-up? A forgery?”

“The same way I knew how to find Gabriela’s secret room. I can feel its energy.”

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.”