The Quest

Purcell moved closer to the execution wall. Some military gear and rotted shammas confirmed that this was a mass slaughter of Prince Joshua’s soldiers. Jackals and ants had nearly cleaned the bones, but some desiccated brown tissue remained, and dried blood covered the marble floor.

The plaster fresco on the wall was shattered where fusillade after fusillade had cut down the condemned men. Purcell noticed that splashes of blood and perhaps brain stained the remnants of the fresco, as high as ten feet off the floor, adding a grisly touch to the pink bathing nymphs.

Mercado, too, was staring at the scene, and he said, “This is evidence of a war crime.”

Purcell, trying not to sound too cynical or unfeeling, replied, “Henry, this country is drowning in blood. What difference does this make?”

“This is inhuman.”

“Right.” They’d both seen battle deaths, but that was what passed for normal in war. Mass executions, on the other hand, had a special ugliness.

Purcell counted skulls, but stopped at about fifty.

Gann was poking around the lobby, gun in hand.

Vivian had walked away and was standing at the back of the lobby, which opened out onto the courtyard and gardens.

Mercado stared at the corner where they had laid the priest and covered him with a blanket-the now desecrated spot where he and Vivian felt a miracle of sorts had taken place.

Mercado said, as if to himself, “The blood of the martyrs gives nourishment to the church.”

Purcell could not completely understand how people like Henry Mercado, and to some extent Vivian, persisted in their belief in a benevolent power. But he’d come to see that there was a special language used to explain the simultaneous existence of God and human depravity. You would need the right words, Purcell thought, evolved over thousands of years, to keep your faith from slipping.

Vivian had unexpectedly returned to the scene, and she had her camera out now. She took a deep breath and shot a few pictures of the grisly carnage. She moved closer to the corner where the priest had lain and died, to shoot photographic evidence of both sainthood and mass murder.

Mercado stood close to her, to give her moral support and silent encouragement. It occurred to Purcell that Vivian and Henry might well be better suited to one another than Vivian and Frank could ever be. It bothered him to think that, but that may have been the truth. Henry and Vivian were, in a way, kindred spirits, eternally joined at their souls, whereas he and Vivian were connected only once a night. Well… but there was more there between them.

Gann had joined them and inquired, “I don’t suppose any of these bones are that of the priest?”

Vivian replied, “No. We buried him.”

“That’s right. Well, lead on.”

They exited the lobby through the rear and walked quickly across the paved courtyard, with Vivian and Mercado in the lead and Purcell and Gann on the flanks with their weapons at the ready.

Gann pointed out horse droppings, obvious evidence of Gallas, but he assured them that the droppings looked to be months old. Maybe weeks.

Purcell thought back to when they’d first walked through this spa complex without too much concern about Gallas, soldiers, partisans, or armed and desperate outlaws who roamed the countryside. God, indeed, watched over idiots.

Gann was being both security man and tourist, and remarked, “Incredible engineering.” He added, “Rather a waste, though.”

They found the garden where they’d buried Father Armano. Getachu’s soldiers had exhumed the body, and jackals had scattered the bones in the garden and on the paths. The grave itself had caved in and a colony of red ants had taken residence.

Gann seemed pleased for Vivian at all the bones, and Purcell thought Gann was going to pick one up for her and say, “Here we go. Nice one. Let’s move on.” But in fact he stood patiently and reverently, staring at the grave. Vivian took photographs of the grave and of the scattered bones, while Mercado again stood beside her.

The time had come to pick a bone as a relic of the saint-to-be, and Mercado informed everyone, “The skull is considered the most important mortal relic.”

But there was no skull in sight, so that set off a search through the overgrown gardens. Gann let everyone know, “The jackals will often take a bit of their find to their lairs.”

Indeed, Purcell had noticed that there were not enough bones to make a complete skeleton. But there were some good-sized bones, including a femur and a pelvis, and he would have pointed this out to Henry and Vivian, but he wasn’t sure of the protocol.

Vivian was about to settle for the femur, but then Henry exclaimed, “Here it is!” and retrieved a skull from the underbrush. He held it up, sans jawbone.

Purcell was standing closest to Henry, so he could see that, thankfully, the skull had been picked clean by jackals and red ants, and that the rains and the sun had contributed to the job, though the white bone was stained with red earth.