Lost and Found in Prague (15 page)

“Maybe,” she replied. “We could show this photo of the musicians to people who live around the convent.” She thought of the schoolchildren, the old men who hung out around the square.

“Do you believe Novák looks the same after twenty years?” Borelli worked away at the leg of venison with knife and fork. Dana returned photo and receipts to her purse. The priest sat quietly for a moment, then ran his hand over his bald spot and she could tell he was at least mulling this over. “It seems we have a very busy evening ahead of us,” he said.

After dinner they engaged in a small disagreement over who would pay the bill—the bullheaded Borelli insisted, and Dana finally caved in. He seemed to enjoy picking up the tab. A means of control? she wondered. They took a cab back toward the hotel, again walking the last block under overhead clouds threatening rain. She went up to her room to change and get the keys. They’d decided to listen to the CD later, after going to the church.

When she stepped into the room, she glanced toward the closet and noticed the door slightly ajar, though she thought she’d closed it when she’d checked the safe. She hurried over to look inside.

The safe was unlocked, though the keys were still there. Had she been so careless she hadn’t even bothered to lock it? Taking in a deep breath, Dana exhaled slowly to calm herself, knowing she had to maintain control, to be more alert to what was going on around her.

She slipped out of her skirt and blouse, pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, worked her new hoodie over her head. Sliding into her sneakers, she put the keys in her jeans pocket, her recently acquired flashlight in the roomy front pocket of her sweatshirt, and returned to the lobby to find Borelli asleep in a large leather chair.

“Father Borelli,” she whispered, giving his shoulder a little nudge.

His eyes popped open. He glanced around, seemingly confused.

“Time to go,” she said after a moment.

The leather squeaked as he braced himself and rose from the chair. He straightened the crease in his pant leg and started out the front door. Dana followed. His breathing was labored by the time they’d progressed a half block down the street, past the crew, just finishing up covering the ditch. She suggested they slow down, though if they didn’t hurry they might get caught in a rainstorm, clouds hovering heavy above. Fearing he might collapse on the street, she considered stopping to search for a cab, but decided it would be unwise to have someone witness their being dropped off at, or near, the church. They walked down Nerudova Street, turned right at the Malostranské námestí, and then on to Karmelitská. Dana’s heart beat wildly, and then seemed to flutter like a trapped moth inside her chest, finally escaping and settling in her throat. When she turned to Borelli and asked, “Are we really going to do this?” it came out as a froggy croak.

He smiled and nodded. Now he seemed almost energized.

A streak of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Dana, who had never believed in signs or messages, wondered if they were being warned. She and Borelli exchanged glances, his eyes flashing in the dark. She knew what he was thinking:
No turning back.
She nodded as a second clap of thunder sounded.

The church stood like a dark shadow, reaching up, appearing much larger and foreboding than it had during the day. As they approached the side door, Dana took the keys from her pocket and inserted the larger into the keyhole. A perfect fit. She glanced back at Borelli with a grin, then turned the key and pushed the door, and they walked inside, locking the door behind them.

The overpowering, pungent scent of the almost-week-old Easter lilies filled the air, and Dana wondered if the altar flowers had gone without the nuns’ careful tending since Sister Claire’s death. They smelled as if they had begun to rot.

Quietly they moved through the church and on toward the sacristy, Dana with flashlight in hand. Borelli had assured her there was a ladder in the closet, and behind a broom, dustpan, and vacuum cleaner, they found it. He flicked off the altar alarm. Earlier they’d talked about security and he’d told her the surveillance cameras were nonfunctional. He lifted the far end of the ladder, Dana hoisted the other, and they proceeded back through the church. Gripping the increasingly heavy ladder, they crept past the altar of St. Joseph and on to the Infant’s altar, Dana shining the flashlight ahead, a small path of light leading them. Thinking of the small Infant of Prague medal in her pocket, she whispered,
Protect us tonight,
so softly it was more a thought, though she felt her lips tremble as she formed the words. Another clap of thunder sounded.

In the glow of the flashlight, Father Borelli unfolded the ladder and secured it, performing these tasks with surprising precision and quiet. Together they positioned it to the left of the altar. Then the priest turned to Dana with a grand inviting gesture.

“
I’m
going up?” she whispered. Oddly, they hadn’t talked about this—who would climb the ladder to examine the statue. Yet, even in the dim church, she could make out an eye roll, and she realized Borelli had no intention of making the ascent. It had started to rain. Dana heard the low hum of a car, muted by the pelting rain.

She handed him the flashlight and stepped on the first rung, aware that her entire body, every limb, every bone, was shaking. Rain slapped with vigor against the church windows. Inside, everything but her body was still. She took a second, then a third, then a fourth step, slowly, cautiously, until she was level with the top of the altar, the base of the large ornate box containing the little statue. Pots of lilies covered the altar, surrounding the base of the altar box. She would have to reach the statue from the ladder unless they removed some of the pots. The overripe scent filled her nostrils.

Suddenly she sneezed.

“God bless you,” Borelli called up with irritation.

“We should move some of these lilies,” she called down, though she wasn’t sure he could hear, as rain continued to assault the window.

“You’re fine,” he reassured her.

From the top of the marble altar, Dana reasoned, it would be much easier and safer to reach the glass box and statue. If she could just stand on the hard stone, it would provide better support than the ladder. “We should remove the lilies,” she said again. Louder.

“No. You’re fine.”

Easy for him to say, she thought, rubbing her nose, attempting to hold back another sneeze. She shivered as rain drummed against the window.

Borelli shone the flashlight up on the altar box, centered on the Infant’s face, though it quivered and Dana felt her heart jump, overcome with an eerie sensation that it was the little Infant who had moved, not the beam. As if he were alive. So much for that bottle of wine, she thought. She’d had but one glass, Borelli finishing off the rest. He seemed to hold his alcohol well, but he probably wouldn’t have been her number one choice to help with this particular task, had she actually had a choice. A brief image of Damek flashed through her mind.

“Well?” she heard loud and clear from Borelli below, the single word conveying his impatience. The rain had stilled to a quiet pitter-patter, and she heard another motor out on the street, then fading into the distance.

“I can’t make out where the lock is,” she said. She breathed heavily through her mouth, not wanting to take in any more of the rancid scent, as she examined the box, realizing it was much larger than it appeared from below. With its ornate golden curls and scrolls, the interior stand with angels and rays of golden light, it stood at least five feet tall. It wouldn’t be easy reaching the statue, and she envisioned herself stretching, losing her balance, tumbling forward, bringing down the entire box, it crashing on the floor, spilling out the Infant, his jeweled crown tumbling off his head, the tiny globe—the world—rolling about before the altar. Logic told her the box was well anchored to the altar, but she was shaking with nerves.

Borelli moved the flashlight along the outline of the glass case. “Try the back.”

“There’s no way I can reach the back,” she cried. She wondered how the nuns did this. Maybe removing the statue required more than climbing up a ladder. Then boldly, without a word, she pushed one lily, then another, along the smooth marble, bunching them tighter together, providing just enough room to set one foot, and then the other, firmly on the altar. She didn’t bother to look down for Borelli’s approval, and he said nothing.

Slowly, starting from up as far as she could reach, she ran her hand along the side of the box. There it was, halfway down, an indentation, a hole. A keyhole! She reached into her pocket and pulled out the key chain and, as she did, she felt something slip from her grasp and drop to the floor with a tinny clink that echoed through the empty church. Damn, she’d forgotten to fasten the small Infant of Prague medal back on the key chain with the larger Virgin medal.

“What was that?” Borelli asked.

“I dropped the Infant medal.”

He turned the flashlight toward the floor, moving it slowly from side to side.

“We’ll get it later,” she said resolutely. The smell was making her dizzy; she needed to get down. But not until she finished.

“Okay,” he replied reluctantly as he shone the light back glaringly on her face. For a moment she closed her eyes, and then, taking a deep breath, grasping the edge of the altar box, she fit the key into the small keyhole and turned. She slipped her finger into the joint where the corners of the box met and carefully pulled it open. “It’s unlocked!”

“Just touch it,” Borelli advised her. “Touch the face. We should be able to tell if it’s wax and then we won’t have to take it out of the box.”

Dana drew in another deep breath, exhaled, and then with her index finger she reached out. For a second she imagined the Infant moving, striking her, knocking her off her ladder. She steadied herself, extending her finger to within inches of the statue. But she couldn’t, she just couldn’t do it. What if this
was
real? She felt so nervous, so hot, she envisioned her touch melting wax. Her hand felt moist and sticky. She’d leave a fingerprint right there on the child’s face. Why hadn’t she thought to buy a pair of gloves?

“What if it’s real?” she asked.

“What?” Borelli replied incredulously. “Does it
look
real?” He was attempting to center the light beam directly on the statue’s face, but to Dana it seemed to vibrate.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice as shaky as her legs, as Borelli’s grip on the flashlight.

“Well, then, for heaven’s sake,” he bellowed, “take it out.”

“Just give me a minute here,” she snapped. The rain had started up again.

“Reach in with both hands and lift it out, then hand it down here to me.”

A dreadful thought coursed through her. This was the real Infant of Prague and she, an accomplice, was helping Borelli steal it.
No, no, no,
she told herself. That didn’t make any sense whatsoever. It had been
her
idea to break into the church and examine the statue. Her breathing was labored, her heart beating too rapidly. She stood for a long moment and then she reached in, placed her hands lovingly around the Infant as if he were a real child. The garment felt soft, rather than stiff as she had imagined it. She lifted him out, held him to her breast, one hand cupping his head and crown, the other on his lower back. Slowly she inched, one step on the altar, one more. Onto the ladder, leaning in, trembling, rung by rung by rung, she descended.

Borelli stood waiting. “Good girl,” he said, reaching out. Dana clutched the little figure, unable to let go. She was shaking and feared if she released her tight grip she might drop it.

“Let’s take it into the sacristy,” she said. “We can turn on the light in the closet.”

Borelli did not object and they quietly retraced their steps in the dark. She heard something—or did she just imagine it?—a crack or creak. She glanced at the priest. He’d heard it, too.

“Old building,” he said calmly.

Just settling,
she decided as they continued toward the sacristy, Dana holding the child carefully, cradling the head and golden bejeweled crown, which she didn’t believe was secured to the head. The Infant was larger than she had realized. Forty-seven centimeters, she remembered, but in her mind she hadn’t really been able to picture what that meant. Now it felt about the size of a newborn baby, though rigid, without any flexibility or softness to the body.

They walked slowly, cautiously, without words, Dana taking the smallest of steps, Borelli surprising her without protest or impatience. Another vehicle passed by slowly on the street—she could hear it splashing through puddles—but again she reassured herself that no one could see them in the dark interior.

Once in the sacristy she carried the Infant to the closet. Borelli switched on the light. Having been roaming about in the darkness, she found the light overwhelming, much too bright. She let her eyes adjust and then released her embrace of the little Infant and held him out in front of her. He had the same sweet face of the real little King she’d studied over and over again in the books and pamphlets. The small, doll-like mouth, the soft blond curls, the arched eyebrows as if he had been suddenly surprised.
Don’t be afraid,
she wanted to say.
We won’t harm you
. The crown tilted slightly on his head, but she had prevented it from falling off. For several moments, neither of them spoke. Dana wondered if Borelli were praying. Surely as a priest he had some respect for what this little statue represented. Christ, the child. Christ, the king. God, made man.

God, help us,
she thought.

Suddenly, startling Dana with his abrupt gesture, Borelli reached out and touched the Infant’s face. He gave it a little knock on the forehead, at the same time supporting the crown with his free hand. It had a hollow, porcelain sound. This was not a wooden statue covered with a protective layer of wax.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a fake.”

Again they were both silent, Dana wondering where the authentic Infant was at that very moment.
I hope they are treating you kindly,
she thought, and then she said, “Now what?” They were ready to move on to the next step, though she wasn’t sure what that next step was.

“First of all, we replace it on the altar.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Again she wrapped it in her arms and they proceeded together as if in a religious procession to the altar of the Infant of Prague. Dana climbed back up the ladder as Borelli held it for her. She placed the porcelain child lovingly in the glass case, adjusted the crown, relocked the door, slid the keys in her jeans pocket, and rearranged the potted lilies.

“We’d better find that Infant medal,” she told Borelli as she climbed down. She dropped to her hands and knees, feeling in the dark for the small medal. Borelli stood above her, moving the light along the parquet floor. In this position, Dana could not help but think of the old nun, lying in this very spot just a week ago. And she could not help but envision the photo in Damek’s file. Suddenly a thought came to her. “I want to take a closer look at the ladder.” She glanced up at Borelli.