Bones of Angels Read Online Free Page A

Residence
    Manhattan, New York
     
    The priest and his two gray-clad acolytes searched the Archbishop’s residence. Connolly was proving to be most uncooperative and was currently tied up in a drawing room on the first floor.
    The three men looked through closets and all of Connolly’s personal belongings. They rifled through his desks and tossed old and valuable manuscripts onto the floor in the Archbishop’s library, hoping to find a slip of paper inserted between the pages of an old volume. Or maybe a book itself, one that dealt with arcane information of the Archangel Michael.
    They found nothing.
    The priest went upstairs and stood in the doorway of Connolly’s study. He must surely have missed something.
    Of course. It was right before him.
    The cursor of Connolly’s desktop computer was still blinking.
    The priest sat in the Archbishop’s chair and swiveled it to face the computer screen. The message displayed read as followed:
    UPLOAD 100% COMPLETE
     
    The priest smiled, though because of his distorted facial muscles, the effect was that of a malevolent grimace. He tapped a few keys to see where the email and its attachment had been sent. The email recipient had been [email protected] . The attachment had been named TrumpetingPlace.
    The priest looked into Connolly’s document file, but TrumpetingPlace.doc had been erased.
    Mikail was the Arabic name for Michael. And St. Michael was mentioned in Revelation 12:7.
    The priest glanced at the text Connolly had been reading moments earlier.
Blessed is the one who reads the words of the prophecy . . . the time is near.
     
    Yes, the time was near, although the world was ignorant of its sin and imminent spiritual destruction. The priest needed whatever was in the file. He would therefore have to find the document — and who it had been sent to.
    If Archbishop Connolly was not disposed to tell him, there were other methods that he could employ to get the information.
    Ways that could cause even a young, healthy body to plead for mercy let alone an old and decrepit one.
    6:38 a.m., September 12
    Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
    Manhattan, New York
     
    Archbishop Connolly’s broken body was discovered at his residence on the grounds of St. John’s Cathedral early the next morning by a young priest who served as his assistant.
    Connolly had been crucified.
    Mounted on a twelve-foot high wooden cross in the foyer, Connolly’s body hung from iron spikes driven through his wrists and feet. The Archbishop’s head hung forward, his dimpled chin resting against his chest. Thin, ragged clumps of gray hair clung to his liver-spotted scalp. No angels had saved the Archbishop.
    The assistant dropped to his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he retched violently onto the marble floor. A bible verse from the Book of Psalms sprang into his mind: 
A band of evil men has encircled me,
They have pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones;
People stare and gloat over me.
     
    The young priest crossed himself and called the police.
    Midtown Manhattan
    September 12
     
    Father Emile Deschamps Reynard sat in the front seat of the black Cadillac Escalade, which was stationary in a parking garage beneath one of the city’s steel and glass skyscrapers. The tinted windows prevented anyone from seeing the priest sitting in the passenger seat, one of his acolytes behind the steering wheel. The other acolyte sat in the rear, a titanium briefcase open on his lap.
    “Have you made any progress, Brother Antonius?” asked Reynard. The grotesque aspect of Reynard’s features was accentuated by a look of restlessness and concern.
    “I’ve accessed the servers of Connolly’s Internet Service Provider,” Antonius replied. “Seanet. It’s a local ISP that serves part of the east coast, from Maryland to Massachusetts.”
    “Then it should be a simple matter of pulling the email out of cyberspace,” Reynard said with unmistakable irritation.
    Antonius pushed back the