I followed him into the front hallway and then up the broad staircase. How curious it was, to be his guest, to be walking on this wool carpet as if I were a mortal. Sleeping under the roof that was not mine. Next, I would be doing it at the mansion. This could get out of hand. Please let it get out of hand. And here, the fragrant and cozy bedroom with all its inevitable details. Pineapples carved into the four posts of the bed, canopy of hand-worked lace through which you could peer at the faint water stains on the ceiling, loving, caring, patchwork quilt of loops and circles and careening colors, parchment lamp shades, dark clots breaking through the old mirrors, needlepoint tiptoe chairs. What ghosts are you after? What have you seen? What have they done? The Guarducci matter explained why Pietro Zander was almost reluctant to talk about the bone to Tom Bissell and me. For church scholars and professionals like Mr. Zander, the story was an embarrassment: The supposed bones of Stain Peter had been surreptitiously dug up by a meddling monsignor when the archaeologists were not looking; then they were thrown into a box and forgotten for more than a decade; then they were rediscovered by accident and became the focus of a feud between church experts.  

The whole affair did not inspire confidence in the Vatican’s ability to exhume its own history, and it is little wonder that none of it is mentioned in the Vatican guidebooks. In fact, visitors who tour the necropolis beneath Saint Peter’s are invariably impressed with the excavated cemetery but are often heard muttering on their way out: “So are they saying those are really Saint Peter’s bones?” They nodded but did not speak. Only a strip of skin was visible around their eyes, between the rim of the fur hats and their scarves pulled up over their mouths and noses, but I could see they were suspicious. I could hardly blame the, coming across someone dressed so inappropriately wandering in the graveyard. I gestured vaguely behind me in the direction of the road and attempted to explain what had happened, the snowstorm, the crash. I finished by asking if there was somewhere nearby where I might find help. I went to the right front window and drew back the velvet drape. The sky was scarlet over the distant levee. Cyprus tree branches filled the top of my view. It would have been a cinch to open this window and slip out onto the porch and disappear from this place quietly. 

I was curious to know what Mr. Bissell had made of all this. Had the visit to underground Saint Peter’s enlightened him? He observed Mr. Zander had wriggled out of the questions about the bones’ authenticity. “It is obviously important for the church. However, it seemed to me he was being very evasive,” Mr. Bissell said with a laugh. “I noticed that whenever the question came up, he began smiling.” My body had fully restored itself from bestowing the Dark Gift, but my thirst was strong, rather in the style of a craving than a physical need. Was that because of her? Certainly not! I would repair to the first floor to discover this woman was an ordinary woman and nothing more and I would then come to my sense! How is that for a stiff upper lip. In June 2009, at the close of a jubilee year in memory of Saint Paul, Pope Benedict XVI was celebrating vespers at the Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls on Rome’s ancient via Ostiense, and he spoke enthusiastically about the church as the traditional site of Paul’s tomb. #RyanPhillippe 3 of 5

I went out into the hallway of the crypt, where the sconces were already lighted, and sweet yellow and red flowers adorned the demi-lune tables, and made my way slowly down the main stairs. Hum of heavy anxious mortal blood below. Deep scent of mortal blood. Then he surprised everyone by stating that pilgrims should come to the basilica with the knowledge that the sarcophagus below the main altar, “by the unanimous opinion of experts and an undisputed tradition, holds the remains of the Apostle Paul.” I had been following the pope’s remarks and did a double take. Saint Paul’s tomb was indeed thought to lie below the main altar, but it was inaccessible beneath centuries of architectural buildup, and no one knew what, if anything, was inside. Yes, witches again, yes. Why walk right into it? Nothing could have stopped me. The furnishings of the dining room were regal and faintly charming. I saw the fine leavenings of a recent meal on the long black granite table, with a mess of linen and heavy antiquated silver. I stopped to examine the silver carefully.  

The tomb itself, a rough-hewn piece of white marble that could be glimpsed through a narrow channel from above, had been identified as Saint Paul’s only three years earlier. Incredible as it seems, for centuries the burial place had been forgotten. The hunter held up both hands and flexed all ten fingers once, then again. I frowned, then realized he was trying to tell me it was a twenty-minute walk. At least, I assumed that is what he meant. “Vingt minutes?” He nodded, then put his finger to his lips. I smiled to show I understood. They were without permits, as I had thought. “Oui, oui. Je comprends. Secret, oui?” He nodded again and we parted company. I moved towards the rear double doors. The little conservatory was octagonal Victorian style, everything trimmed in white, and the wicker was white, and the floor was pink flagstone, and the whole was three steps down. It takes the skills or a priest and a lawyer to be an effective member of the Talamasca (a secret society set up to keep watch over and keep track of the paranormal, in particular, witches, spirits, werewolves, and vampires).  Everyone knew there was supposed to be a tomb under the altar, but no one had bothered to conduct the most basic archaeological survey. Then Giorgio Filippi, a mild-mannered expect, began fettering around the church.