Death Masks

"An artifact, Mister Dresden. An antique possessed by the Church for several centuries."

"Oh, that," I said.

"Yes. The article is fragile and of great age, and we believe that it is not being adequately preserved. It is imperative that we recover it as quickly as possible."

"What happened to it?"

"It was stolen three days ago."

"From?"

"The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in northern Italy."

"Long ways off."

"We believe that the artifact was brought here, to Chicago, to be sold."

"Why?"

He took an eight-by-ten glossy black and white from the folder and passed it to me. It featured a fairly messy corpse lying on cobblestones. Blood had run into the spaces between the stones, as well as pooling a little on the ground around the body. I think it had been a man, but it was hard to tell for certain. Whoever it was had been slashed to almost literal ribbons across the face and neck-sharp, neat, straight cuts. Professional knife work. Yuck.

"This man is Gaston LaRouche. He is the ringleader of a group of organized thieves who call themselves the Churchmice. They specialize in robbing sanctuaries and cathedrals. He was found dead the morning after the robbery near a small airfield. His briefcase contained several falsified pieces of American identification and plane tickets that would carry him here."

"But no whatsit."

"Ah. Exactly." Father Vincent removed another pair of photos. These were also black-and-white, but they looked rougher, as if they had been magnified several times. Both were of women of average height and build, dark hair, dark sunglasses.

"Surveillance photos?" I asked.

He nodded. "Interpol. Anna Valmont and Francisca Garcia. We believe they helped LaRouche with the theft, then murdered him and left the country. Interpol received a tip that Valmont had been seen at the airport here."

"Do you know who the buyer is?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. But this is the case. I want you to find the remaining Churchmice and recover the artifact."

I frowned, looking at the photos. "Yeah. That’s what they want you to do too."

Vincent blinked at me. "What do you mean?"

I shook my head impatiently. "Someone. Look at this photo. LaRouche wasn’t murdered there."

Vincent frowned. "Why would you say that?"

"Not enough blood. I’ve seen men who were torn up and bled out. There’s a hell of a lot more blood." I paused and then said, "Pardon my French."

Father Vincent crossed himself. "Why would his body be found there?"

I shrugged. "A professional did him. Look at the cuts. They’re methodical. He was probably unconscious or drugged, because you can’t hold a man still very easily when you’re taking a knife to his face."

Father Vincent pressed one hand to his stomach. "Oh."

"So you’ve got a corpse found out in the middle of a street somewhere, basically wearing a sign around his neck that says, ‘The goods are in Chicago.’ Either someone was incredibly stupid, or someone was trying to lead you here. It’s a professional killing. Someone meant his corpse to be a clue."

"But who would do such a thing?"

I shrugged. "Probably a good thing to find out. Do you have any better pictures of these two women?"

He shook his head. "No. And they’ve never been arrested. No criminal record."

"They’re good at what they do then." I took the photos. There were little dossiers paper-clipped to the back of the pictures, listing known aliases, locations, but nothing terribly useful. "This one isn’t going to be quick."

"Worthwhile goals rarely are. What do you need from me, Mister Dresden?"

"A retainer," I said. "A thousand will do. And I need a description of this artifact, the more detailed the better."

Father Vincent gave me a matter-of-fact nod, and drew a plain steel money clip from his pocket. He counted off ten portraits of Ben Franklin, and passed them to me. "The artifact is an oblong length of linen cloth, fourteen feet, three inches long by three feet, seven inches wide made of a handwoven three-to-one herringbone twill. There are a number of patches and stains on the cloth, and-"

I held up my hand, frowning. "Wait a minute. Where did you say this thing was stolen from?"

"The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist," Father Vincent said.

"In northern Italy," I said.

He nodded.

"In Turin, to be exact," I said.

He nodded again, his expression reserved.

"Someone stole the freaking Shroud of Turin?" I demanded.

"Yes."

I settled back into the chair, looking down at the photos again. This changed things. This changed things a lot.

The Shroud. Supposedly the burial cloth used by Joseph of Aramithea to wrap the body of Christ after the Crucifixion. Capital Cs. The cloth supposedly wrapped around Christ when he was resurrected, with his image, his blood, imprinted upon it.

"Wow," I said.

"What do you know about the Shroud, Mister Dresden?"

"Not much. Christ’s burial cloth. They did a bunch of tests in the seventies, and no one was able to conclusively disprove it. It almost got burned a few years back when the cathedral caught fire. There are stories that it has healing powers, or that a couple of angels still attend it. A bunch of others I can’t remember right now."

Father Vincent rested his hands on the table and leaned toward me. "Mister Dresden. The Shroud is perhaps the single most vital artifact of the Church. It is a powerful symbol of the faith, and one in which many people believe. It is also politically significant. It is absolutely vital to Rome that it be restored to the Church’s custody as expediently as possible."

I stared at him for a second, and tried to pick out my words carefully. "Are you going to be insulted if I suggest that it’s very possible that the Shroud is, uh – significant, magically speaking?"

Vincent pressed his lips together. "I have no illusions about it, Mister Dresden. It is a piece of cloth, not a magic carpet. Its value derives solely from its historical and symbolic significance."

"Uh- huh," I said. Hell’s bells, that’s where plenty of magical power came from. The Shroud was old, and regarded as special, and people believed in it. That could be enough to give it a kind of power, all by itself.

"Some people might believe otherwise," I said.

"Of course," he agreed. "That is why your knowledge of the local occult may prove invaluable."