by CW Johnson
~~~
Blaze, Jim, and Perez left the cafe and returned to the lobby of the Patch Rankin building in the heart of Nashville. They walked into the spacious north wing beneath its vanilla colored arches and stately crystal chandelier. Their hard-soled shoes clicked against the glistening inlaid white marble tiles as they made their way past rows of elegant, cherry wood tables surrounded by beefy leather clad chairs.
“You have an office in this building?” Jim said, looking at Blaze.
Blaze grinned. “I do.”
“I’m a little surprised, Padre. I was expecting a small hacienda, maybe one of those little burrows.”
Perez smiled.
“Seriously though,” Jim said, as they continued, “aren’t you a priest now? This looks a little extravagant—”
“I’m on sabbatical,” Blaze said, slowing down, “as is Bishop Hickie, whom you’re about to meet.”
“Hmm,” Jim grunted. “Another career change in the works, Blaze? Already?”
“No,” Blaze said, laughing. “Nothing like that, it’s only temporary.”
They took one of two inversely matching dark-wood stairwells to an expansive lobby housing two rows of six bronze elevator doors. Within moments they were on the fourth floor.
“That’s my office,” Blaze said, pointing down a hall. “If you ever need anything at all, this is where I’ll be.”
He led them to the end of another hall toward a pair of thick glass double doors spanning six feet each, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Twin logos bearing the name Patch and Rankin emblazoned each door. The doors automatically swung inward as they approached.
“What’s with the security?” Jim asked Blaze as they moved through the doors.
“You’ll see,” Blaze said, waving at the two police officers sitting across the room from each other.
A secretary met them and led them to a small, sparsely decorated conference room housing a lengthy, rosewood table surrounded by ambrosial red velvet chairs. Four men stood up and greeted them as they entered.
Blaze quickly moved to an old, bent priest and took his hand. “Bishop Hickie,” he said, “I’m so glad you could make it.” He turned and motioned towards Jim and Perez. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Dr. James Markus Donahue, one of only six Nobel laureates to come out of our own Vanderbilt University; and with him, Doctor Victor Perez, considered to be the world’s top expert in the field of in vitro fertilization.”
“It’s such an honor to finally meet you both,” the old bishop said, putting his hand out.
Jim reached and shook the bishop’s hand. “Thank you. Actually, this is a little awkward. I’d say I was happy to be here, but frankly I haven’t a clue why I’m here.”
Perez smiled, nodded, and adjusted his glasses. “I’m looking forward to discovering that as well.”
“You will both know very soon, my old friend,” one of the men said, looking at Jim.
Jim smiled at him.
“You don’t remember me, do you Jim?”
“I’m sorry, no I don’t.”
“Jim,” Blaze said, “it’s Bing.”
“Binghamton!” Jim yelled. “What are you doing here? How you been, buddy? I didn’t recognize you with pants on—I mean,” he turned to look at the other men. “He used to wear shorts all the time, and sandals… had these—sunglasses.”
“It’s Mayor Binghamton now, Jim,” Blaze said. “You’re in the presence of the honorable mayor of Music City, USA.”
Jim reached for the mayor’s hand. “No, that can’t be… If your constituents only knew—”
“You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” the mayor said, grinning. “No one was more shocked than I.”
Blaze laughed. “I’m with you on that one. The world must be in pretty bad shape to put the likes of Bing and Jim Donahue at the top of the pile.”
“Look who’s talking,” Jim said, chuckling. “Who’d ever guess you’d wind up a Catholic priest. Bing, you remember that time Blaze had that linebacker down and was pounding on his face—” Jim stopped mid-sentence and looked at the bishop. “Of course… Blaze is obviously a changed man now.”
Blaze and Mayor Binghamton laughed in unison.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Perez,” the mayor said finally. “We didn’t mean to exclude you, it’s just that we went to school here together; we’re the best of friends.”
Perez poked at his glasses. “That’s quite alright. I understand completely. My chums and I were known for cutting up a rug or two back at old Whitley.”
Jim had to suppress a smile.
“At any rate,” the mayor continued, motioning toward the two remaining men standing nearby, “this is Mr. Forrest Patch and Mr. Mathew Rankin.”
“I’ve seen your names before,” Jim said. “Like outside on the door, for instance.”
“These men own the door,” the mayor said, “along with the building and most of the block.”
Jim quickly sized the two men up. “This is an important meeting, isn’t it?”
“Very much so,” the mayor said. “So important that Blaze—Father Jenkins—has prepared a special presentation just for you two—”
“There was talk of catering,” Perez said a little too loudly, startling everyone. “I’m famished.”
The mayor turned and motioned to the secretary sitting at a desk just outside a glass petition.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor?” she said, poking her head in the door.
“Let the caterers know we’re ready, will you please?”
~~~
The meal arrived and was consumed over more small talk until Bishop Hickie finally directed the attention to Blaze. Blaze reached into a briefcase and pulled out a laptop computer, quickly made the connections, and a picture of DNA banding patterns appeared on the wall.
“What you’re looking at,” Blaze began, “are the results of two independently tested DNA samples, specifically, two minuscule samples of blood that have been found to be genetically identical. They were both processed by our own Dr. Donahue here so we know they’re genuine.”
Perez glanced at Jim.
“The sample labeled ‘A,’” Blaze continued, “is a sample of blood tissue taken from the Shroud of Turin—”
Suddenly a monster clap of thunder rocked the building. It sounded like lightning struck just outside the window. The irony hadn’t escaped any of them.
“Nice touch,” Jim said, getting a chuckle.
Blaze was wondering if he shouldn’t start again when Perez spoke up.
“The Shroud of Turin has been proven to be a fake.”
“Actually,” Jim said, raising his eyebrows, “they thought it was a fake. I’ve heard there’s some question as to the validity of the carbon dating. They’re now thinking the sample taken was not a part of the original shroud, possibly from a corner that had been replaced.
Blaze pointed at Jim. “That’s exactly right.” He clicked the mouse, a picture of the man on the cloth appeared and he continued. “At any rate, my friends, whatever can be said about its origins, there is real blood on the Shroud. We know that for a fact.”
Jim shuffled in his seat. “Could be anyone’s blood.”
“I disagree,” Blaze said. “I think we can pin this blood down to one very important source.”
He maneuvered the mouse to point at several spots on the picture.
Jim grinned skeptically, but remained silent.
“This is what we know about the Shroud of Turin,” Blaze continued. “There are images on the Shroud of many objects, not just those of the body, markings that appear to be impressions of a crucified man, front and back. The cloth was folded over itself, half above the man, the other half below. The man’s wounds are consistent with the wounds inflicted upon Jesus during his torture leading up to his crucifixion. There appear to be wounds around the hairline, matching the description of the crown of thorns—“
“Whoa now,” Jim said. “All due respect, Blaze ol’ buddy, these observations are biased
—clearly. They look like a bunch of little smudges to me.”
“Please Jim,” Blaze said, holding up one hand. “Bear with me.”
Jim smiled and looked around the room at the other men. They sat silently looking on.
“Even if these allegations are true,” Dr. Perez said, breaking his silence, “that the Shroud could be traced back to the time and place in question, there is no evidence that it, or this blood sample ever belonged to Jesus. I can’t speak for Dr. Donahue, but if it’s some sort of confirmation or…endorsement you are after—”
“No, no, Dr. Perez,” Blaze said. “Nothing like that, I assure you—”
“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute!” Jim said, interrupting Blaze mid-sentence. “What about the other sample? Where did you get the other sample, Blaze?”
“Ah, yes…the other sample.” Blaze clicked the mouse. The picture on the wall changed to a wooden altar, painstakingly decorated with what appeared to be a sculpture of the Last Supper. It showed the altar flanked left and right by exquisitely detailed paintings.
“What you are looking at,” Blaze said, “are pictures of the Holy Blood Altar located in a church in Rothenberg, Germany. It’s one of the sites included on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostella. Other than that, it’s relatively unknown. However, in the west choir loft, there’s an altarpiece containing a very special relic—a capsule housing three drops of Christ’s blood.”
“No,” Jim said. “Is this for real? Are you telling us the other sample is from this church? Where did it come from—the blood I mean? Are you sure?”
Blaze held up his hand. “Jim, these are the two samples you processed. I swear to you.”
“How were you able to procure this sample, Father Jenkins?” Perez said. “Can the blood from the altar be traced back?”
Blaze nodded. “Back to Philip the Second of Spain, then to his great grandparents, Ferdinand and Isabella; independent, verifiable writings from Constantine mentioning the blood and claiming Saint Stephen himself as the original source.”
“Where the sample from the church came from is not the issue,” Jim said, looking at Perez. “The point is, the blood on the Shroud of Turin is the same blood as the blood in Germany. What are the odds?”
“Exactly,” Blaze said, pointing at Jim. “I think we must all agree: if these two independent genetic samples are a match—and if both of these blood samples can be traced back to the time of Christ, the odds are raised considerably. What we are dealing with is the actual blood of Jesus Christ."
Jim chuckled. “I admit what you’re saying is interesting… albeit far from conclusive.”
Blaze smiled and continued. “Now, in order for me to go on, I’ll have to refer to the Bible.” He reached into his case.
“Really, Blaze, I—” Jim said stammering.
Blaze glanced up. “Jim, you two have come all this way, now please, hear me out.”
Jim raised an eyebrow and sat back in his seat. The two doctors exchanged glances again. Finally, Jim looked back at Blaze, shrugged and gestured for him to continue.
“In order to fully grasp what I’m trying to tell you,” Blaze said, “you have to understand the staggering importance of this particular blood. The writers of the Bible, both old and new testaments, were absolutely obsessed with the subject of this blood, and for very good reason.
The obsession started in Genesis when Cain killed Abel. It wasn’t his kidneys crying out from the ground, it was his blood. The entire book of Leviticus deals almost exclusively with the proper way to sacrifice the blood of animals. It was something to be done strictly by the book or face banishment, or even death. Blood was considered holy because they believed the blood contained the life. In the New Testament, Jesus himself refers to his own blood.”
He looked up 1 Corinthians 11:25. ‘After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.’
“Not only were the writers of the old and new testaments obsessed with this blood,” Blaze continued, “but Christians, to this day, sing songs each Sunday describing how they have been redeemed by the blood of the lamb.” Blaze moved the mouse to the DNA banding patterns. “This blood gentlemen, “What you are looking at is the actual blood of the lamb.”
He put the mouse on its pad, clasped his hands behind him and continued. “We belong to a very large and diverse group of people we collectively call the Vinces. We are literally a reincarnation of an ancient sect known as the ‘In hoc signo Vinces,’ which is the Latin translation of the Greek phrase meaning ‘in this sign you will conquer’. While the Catholic Church does not sanction us, we are well represented in Rome. Suffice it to say, we have people in high places.
Two years ago, we were made aware of an archaeological find in a cave in Egypt. The find is a papyrus scroll dating back to around 65 B.C. It’s the book of Job, perfectly preserved except for one verse.” Looking at his Bible, he read Job 16:18. ‘O earth, cover not thou my blood, and let my cry have no place.’
He reached and clicked the mouse. A picture of the scroll appeared complete with translation. “According to this scroll, that scripture isn’t complete.” He directed the mouse to the bottom of the picture containing the translated verse and continued reading.
‘O earth, cover not thou my blood, and let my cry have no place, for as the branch of a fig tree bringeth forth life anew, So shalt the Lamb be renewed. For behold, in those days my blood shall renew me.’
The room was silent. Blaze opened his computer bag and pulled out several sheets of paper. He placed them on the table in front of him and proceeded with his concluding summary.
“Traditional Christianity holds that all biblical reference to blood sacrifice points to Christ, who Himself was the final sacrifice. We of the Vinces believe that the overwhelming reference to the blood of Christ points prophetically to our own time, to this very undertaking. That means the conclusion of both the Old and New Testaments, the final chapter, will be written here in this very room. What we are talking about is…the second coming of Christ.”
Jim grunted and glanced around the room. “Tell me you people aren’t thinking about cloning Jesus Christ,” he said evenly.
“Jim, we believe we’ve been given a mandate,” Blaze said, lifting his Bible, “We’ve clearly been given a sign from God. It’s all right here—”
Perez leapt to his feet, his chair banging against the wall. “This is absolutely outrageous! You people have brought me all this way in an attempt to recruit me into this madness? I’ll have no part of it, do you hear? No part!”
“Dr. Perez,” Bishop Hickie said, rising to his feet. “Please, hear us out. This is the most important undertaking—”
Perez blasted out the door leaving Bishop Hickie staring after him.
“Don’t worry,” the mayor said. “There are plenty of others.”
Bishop Hickie turned his attention to the mayor. “But, what if he makes a report to the authorities?”
“No one will believe him,” the mayor said.
The room fell silent. Jim considered the men sitting around the table. “You people can’t be serious,” he said softly. “Even though such a thing could be done your premise is utterly flawed. A clone of Jesus won’t make him Jesus. He’d be a twin—“
“No,” Bishop Hickie interrupted. “You don’t understand. He would be another son of God.”
Jim closed his eyes and shook his head. “Look… all due respect to… everyone—but cloning human beings is a major negative. You should know that. It’s illegal now, and for damn good reason. Each animal cloned today represents hundreds of failures. Most clones are stillborn. The ones that live are likely to have horrendous mutations, many of which manifest later in life, usually killing the animal prematurely. What are we gonna do with the mutated baby Jesus’— throw them away? And what happens if we are successful, and we get a perfectly healthy baby? What then? What kind o
f life can he have? For the love of God … people won’t understand. People will think he’s Jesus!”
“People won’t know, Jim,” Mayor Binghamton said. “That’s why we have taken these precautions. That’s why we’re here in this private room instead of at Cambridge.”
“Maria will be the baby’s mother, Jim,” Blaze said, pulling Jim’s attention to the other side of the table. “We’ll see to their every need, they’ll live anonymously—”
“Maria?” Jim said. “The girl in the lobby?”
“Maria has volunteered to—”
“Oh my God, Blaze!”
~~~
Todd sat in the waiting room reading a magazine. He’d been waiting for Maria to return from a door she had disappeared into a half hour earlier. He glanced up at the clock on the wall—10 p.m. He thought about how odd it was to schedule an appointment for so late in the evening.
Conflicting thoughts surrounding the men he had met earlier in the cafe still bubbled in his head. He had been studying processes discovered and refined by Doctor James Donahue for a good part of his last semester. The man was an icon. Todd recognized him the moment he walked in, but then… he fell all over Maria. Todd might just as well have been invisible. How did Donahue know they weren’t together, or married even?
“Todd Riley?”
Todd turned in his seat.
“Could you come with me, please?” A nurse was standing half in and half out of the open door
“No,” Todd said, “I’m not a patient. I’m just here to—”
“Ms. Rose is asking for you.”
Todd stood up. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“This way, please.”
Todd quickly followed. The nurse led him to a small room and pushed the door open. Maria, wearing a hospital gown, was sitting on the end of an examination table. She’d been crying.
Todd glanced at the doctor sitting on a stool. “What’s wrong? Why is she crying?”
“Because I’m so happy,” Maria said. “I’m the one.”
Todd returned his attention to Maria. “The one what?”
Maria pulled a tissue from a box and pointed at the doctor.
The doctor motioned toward a small chair in the corner of the room. “You should sit down,” he said. “My name is Dr. Yates. I’m Maria’s gynecologist—she’s going to have a baby.”