Read Online White Mountain by Dinah McCall - Free Book Online Page A

to be an oblong box made almost entirely of glass.   The dimensions were about two feet wide, no more than four feet long and two feet deep.   A niche had been chiseled out of the thick stone walls where the glass box now lay.   Francesco leaned forward, peering intently at the brass plaque mounted beneath.
    St. Bartholomew 1705-1735
    A shiver of foreboding ran up Francesco’s spine, but he shook it off, blaming it on Paulo’s ridiculous predictions.   They weren’t going to be cursed for stealing a few old bones any more than they would be cursed for the sins they’d already committed.
    “Help me,” he ordered, and together they pulled the glass coffin from the niche, then set it on the floor.
    “Hold this,” Francesco said, and handed him a flashlight.
    Paulo’s hands were shaking as he took the light, but when it flashed on the ancient and yellowing skull within, his stomach lurched.
    “Holy Mary, Mother of God, forgive me for this sin.”
    Seconds later, the faint sound of metal against glass could be heard as Francesco carefully cut out a panel on the backside of the coffin.
    One minute passed, then another and another.   Despite the coolness of the evening, sweat dripped from Francesco’s forehead onto the glass Paulo’s hands were shaking so hard that he once almost dropped the flashlight.   It had taken a sharp word from Antonio and a slap on the head before he had regained his equilibrium.
    Suddenly Francesco rocked back on his heels, holding a long, slim panel of the old handmade glass.
    “I’m in,” he whispered.
    Antonio spun, his eyes glittering eagerly as he took the glass from Francesco’s hands and carefully laid it on the altar.   Then he pulled a cloth sack from inside his jacket and thrust it in Francesco’s face.
    “Here.   You know what we came for.   Take it now.”
    Francesco stared down into the small casket, eyeing the fragile bones.   He knew people who prayed to this saint for healing—and he knew people who had been healed.   He couldn’t bring himself to actually desecrate something that holy—not even for a whole lot of money.
    :U can’t,” he whispered, and handed the sack back to Antonio.
    Antonio cursed and shove both men aside as he dropped to his knees.
    “The light,” he whispered.   “Hold the light so that I may see.”
    Paulo angle the beam of the flashlight down into the casket, highlighting all that was left of the small man of God.
    Antonio thrust his hand through the opening that Francesco had cut, fingering the bones as if they were sticks of wood from which to choose.   Finally he settled on two of them, one a small bone from the lower part of the arm and another that had a minute bit of leatherlike tissue still adhering to a joint.
    He pulled them out and thrust them into the sack, then stood abruptly.
    “Do you have the glue?” he asked.
    Francesco nodded.
    “Then replace the glass and put the box back in place.   We’ve been here too long.”
    Francesco’s expression was anxious as he went about the task of doing what he’d been told.
    “This patch will show,” he said.
    Antonio sneered.   “But not easily, and by the time someone discovers what has happened, we’ll be long gone.”
    Within minutes, the earthly remains of St. Bartholomew, minus a bone or two, were back in the niche.   The trio slipped out of the church and back into the streets with no one the wiser—except God.   Hastily, they made for the edge of the village, and when they could no longer see the rooftops, Antonio did a little dance in the middle of the road.
    “We did it!” he crowed.   “We’re going to be rich!”
    “We’re going to die,” Paulo moaned.
    “When do we get our money?” Francesco asked.
    Antonio smiled, his teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight.
    “We take the left fork in the road and follow the path up to Grimaldi’s meadow.   He will be waiting.”
    “Who’s he?” Francesco asked.
    Antonio shrugged.   “I don’t know