Page 60 of Skotos
A balding priest I didn’t recognize robed in deep black with a silver cross gleaming at his chest stepped forward with a tight smile and spoke in English with the most pleasant dash of a French accent. “Mr. Barker, Mr. Snead, yes?”
“Yes,” Will said cautiously.
“The Monsignor would like a word. If you will follow me.”
Will and I exchanged curious glances but nodded and followed him through the arched corridors.
The moment the door to the Monsignor’s office opened, I saw the change. Hell, I couldfeelit in my bones, jarring and visceral and . . . almost painful.
Monsignor Rinaldi looked like a man who had seen war . . . not in the sense of witnessing broken and bruised bodies, but in his soul. His red-rimmedeyes bore the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d stood before a force he couldn’t name and walked away carrying only pieces of himself. His collar was slightly askew, which wasn’t easy for a priest in one of their white neck devices, and his hands trembled as he gestured toward the chairs. “Please. Sit.”
As we did, he paced behind his desk then stopped and turned toward the window as though weighing the right words. His fingers pressed together in front of his lips, and then he said, his voice barely above a whisper: “The Curia is missing.”
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.
“Missing?” I asked. “What do you mean he’s missing?”
Rinaldi turned, his eyes hollow. “He was not in his office this morning, nor in his rooms. His assistant claims he left late last night to retrieve something from the lower Archives but never returned.”
“Never returned from the Archives? Or he left work and didn’t return this morning?” Will asked.
“From the Archives,” Rinaldi said.
Will leaned forward. “And the guards?”
“They thought he was working. He often does, perhaps more hours alone—and at odd times—than anyone in this palace. It would not be unusual for him to fall asleep at his desk or at a table in the stacks.”
Will looked like he’d been punched in the chest. “That’s not good enough.”
“I agree,” Rinaldi said. “Vatican security insists he may have simply gone off on retreat—alone, perhaps to a monastery, informing no one. They claim this has happened before with other priests, though I do not believe Marini would ever have done something so rash. Not Marini.”
“He’s never missed a day, has he?” I asked quietly.
“Not in over thirty years.” Rinaldi shook his head slowly. “Rain, snow, holidays. Never. Not once. One could set a watch by the timing of his arrival each morning.”
Will stood, already moving. “We need to see his office.”
Rinaldi blinked. “The Swiss Guard hasn’t declared this a crisis.”
“We’re not the Swiss Guard,” Will said flatly. “Besides, from the look in your eyes,youhave declared it so, if only in your own heart.”
Rinaldi stared a moment, then nodded slowly. “I will take you there myself.”
He walked ahead of us, his hand never leaving the crucifix dangling at his chest, his fingers toying with it constantly, twisting, rubbing, clutching. Passing cardinals and priests, nuns, and plain-clothed workers nodded in greeting. The normally affable Rinaldi barely acknowledged their presence.
When we finally stepped into Marini’s office, the first thing I noticed was that nothing appeared disturbed. No papers lay strewn. No drawers stood open. Marini’s desk was neat, each item precisely arranged, just as we had seen it the day before.
It wastooneat,tooorderly. It felt . . . arranged.
Will glanced at me, one brow arched.
I nodded and began a slow circle around the room. Marini’s presence lingered—his pen resting beside a blotter, a folded letter atop a stack of correspondence.
Another thought crept into the back of my mind: Why was Rinaldi letting us sift through something so sensitive? Archivists were notoriously possessive of their domains, and the Vatican was even more protective of its secrets. Sure, we were known quantities; still, there was a huge difference between granting us controlled access to information and setting us free to rummage through a missing man’s office.
But I said nothing.
Will rifled gently through a stack of papers beside the inkwell, his lips pressing tighter with each slip of parchment.
