Chapter 13 - The Crypt of St. Michael
The cemetery gates groaned against the midnight storm.
Thunder cracked across the Hudson Valley as Marcus jammed the crowbar beneath the rusted iron latch of the Whitmore private mausoleum. Vanessa stood behind Claire, holding a high-beam flashlight, her trench coat soaked through. The air smelled of damp earth, decaying moss, and centuries-old granite.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Vanessa whispered, shivering violently. "Desecrating the crypt... Marcus, if the press catches wind of this—"
"The press is the least of our problems," Marcus grunted, throwing his weight against the iron bar. The heavy door gave way with a deafening screech that echoed into the hollow vaults.
They stepped inside. The mausoleum was cold as a butcher's freezer. Slabs of Italian marble lined the walls, bearing the names of five generations of Whitmores. At the center rested the grand sarcophagus of Charles Whitmore, carved from solid obsidian.
Claire’s flashlight beam swept across the floor. "Look here."
Fresh scrape marks scarred the dust on the marble floor. The heavy stone lid of the crypt had been shifted recently.
Marcus climbed the stone pedestal, wedging his flashlight between his teeth as he gripped the carved lip of the casket lid. "Help me."
Vanessa and Claire placed their hands on the cold stone. With a synchronized heave, the heavy lid slid aside, scraping with the sound of grinding bones.
Claire braced herself for the stench of decay. But as Marcus directed the light inside, the three of them froze in petrified silence.
The silk-lined interior was empty of human remains.
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In place of Charles Whitmore’s body lay dozens of steel lockboxes, each stamped with an identical alphanumeric code: *417-OMEGA*. And draped over the center box was an exact replica of the sapphire pendant Claire wore around her neck—dripping with fresh, bright red paint that still smelled of turpentine.
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