Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  11

  The Basilica of St. John the Baptist, in the heart of the city, was the most beautiful church that Dr. Luke Gillespie had ever seen. This was the church his mother had brought him to as a child. Every family event had been held here, from baptisms to funerals. He had been in other churches over the years for events, but none of them matched the gilded splendour of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist.

  He sat in the front pew, sprawled off with his head tilted as far back as it could go. He always marvelled at the workmanship in the ceiling. The basilica was in the shape of a crucifix. Every inch of the ceiling was covered in ornate gold designs and paintings. Who did this work? Luke thought to himself. They must have spent months on top of scaffolding, painstakingly planning and etching each golden swirl and stroke.

  His gaze fell to the statues framing the altar. Each of the Apostles was carved from the finest marble and stood guard over the church: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They each had a corner and stood high up on marble shelves, carrying a message of their own. What was it? Luke couldn’t remember. Only that he was named after St. Luke the Evangelist. The patron saint of artists, physicians, and surgeons. Was it a coincidence that his mother named him after the patron saint of physicians and surgeons, or had she planned it from the beginning? She had always told him he was going to be a doctor.

  Why was he even in this church? he wondered. He started the morning with his regular run to clear his head but decided to take a different route today. He ran up Military Road to take advantage of the steep inclines and hills in that area. When he reached the top of one incline, he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and filled his lungs with deep breaths of salt air from the Atlantic Ocean. As the sweat ran off his forehead and down his face, he wiped it back with his hands.

  He couldn’t sleep last night. He kept going over and over the information he had gathered from the video conference with the other doctors. Everyone seemed to know what this was, but no one wanted to say. Everyone was waiting for the other person to admit some of their patients had been charged with sexual assaults on children. Then, how was it spread? Was it through blood, semen, or other bodily fluids? Was someone infecting pedophiles on purpose? That couldn’t be. They couldn’t travel all over the country to do this. Was it a curse from God? Luke refused to think that way. God doesn’t create diseases. They are created by our environment, infection, unhealthy lifestyles, or a person’s genes.

  The sweat was blurring Luke’s vision. He tried to wipe it away with his T-shirt. When his vision became clear again, he looked up and saw the ten-foot-high, pure white marble statue of St. John the Baptist standing on top of a triple arch constructed of enormous blocks of granite. Luke remembered Sister Francis, his fourth-grade teacher, explaining that the statue represented St. John preaching penance as he held a baptismal shell in his left hand. Sister Pius’s words came back to him. Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? He walked through the biggest arch onto the piazza, past the twenty-foot marble statue of the Immaculate Conception on its granite pedestal.

  He slowly mounted the steps, wondering if the basilica would be open. He pulled at the large wooden door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He entered the vestibule and looked around. To the left in a niche stood a life-size marble statue of Christ with Doctors. It stood on a base displaying five identical sculptured faces. Luke remember his mother telling him the name of the marble statue when he was young.

  He pushed the main door open and entered the basilica itself. The beauty and elegance of the church, bathed in the sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows, was overwhelming and immediately filled Luke with a feeling of peace.

  Luke walked down the main aisle toward the altar that enshrined one of the most revered and valuable pieces of statuary in the basilica, The Dead Christ. He sat in the first white oak pew. His mind was full of questions and no answers. He lost track of time as he admired the architecture and tried to sort out the thoughts in his head. He was so caught up in the beauty of the basilica that he didn’t notice the man standing ten feet away from him.

  “You’re a little early for Mass.”

  Luke snapped to attention in his seat and looked around frantically to see who had spoken. An older man was walking toward him. He was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. Luke assumed he was the caretaker.

  “I was passing by and decided to come in. The door was open. I hope you don’t mind.” Luke wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there.

  “The doors are always open, son.” The man gestured toward the back. “It’s a church. You’re welcome any time.” He reached his hand out to Luke. “I’m Father Peter Cooke.”

  Luke stood and shook his hand. “I’m Luke Gillespie.” He suddenly felt embarrassed by his appearance and looked down at his sweat-stained T-shirt and running shorts. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m not dressed for church.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not dressed for church either.” Both men stood in an awkward silence.

  Luke turned to leave the pew. “I better get back to my run.”

  “What are you running from?” Father Cooke inquired.

  “I’m not running from anything. Just exercising to clear my head.” Luke wasn’t convinced by his own answer.

  “Well, if you ran here, there must be something on your mind. People run to the church when they need hope, courage, or strength to face a challenge.”

  Is that what he was doing here?

  “Father . . .” Luke hesitated, then decided to go with it. “Do you have nosebleeds?”

  Father Cooke gestured to Luke to move farther into the pew. “Sit down and let’s talk nosebleeds.” Luke sat down again, and Father Cooke sat next to him.

  “No. I don’t have nosebleeds. Do you?” The priest looked into Luke’s eyes like he could see his whole soul.

  “No. I don’t,” Luke stammered. “I am a doctor.”

  “Oh. Then the medical field is catching up with this crisis, finally.” Father Cooke nodded and sat back in the pew.

  “You know about the nosebleeds?” Luke asked.

  “Yes. I know about Wormwood, if that’s what you’re asking. What do you want to know?”

  Luke looked at the priest and for the first time noticed how kind this man’s eyes were. “Everything,” he replied.

  “Wormwood is the name of a star in the Revelation to John 8:10, 11. ‘The third angel sounded his trumpet, and a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water—Wormwood is the name of the star.’” The priest recited the information just as Sister Pius had.

  “Who wrote Revelations?” Luke was curious now.

  “People originally thought it was John the Baptist, the builder of this church, but the writer was identified as St. John the Divine,” replied Father Cooke.

  Luke looked around again. It was all coming together, but what did it mean? Why was he at this church? Was it all a coincidence? Walking by the Christ with Doctors statue, meeting this priest, learning that St. John the Divine wrote about Wormwood in Revelations, and now he stood in John the Baptist’s church under the very statue he was named after. Was this all planned? He felt light-headed and unsteady. A wave of sweat came over him, and it dripped from his forehead onto the pew. He frantically wiped it away with his hand.

  “Are you okay?” Father Cooke asked. “Do you need some water?” He started to stand.

  “No. I am okay. Do you believe in coincidence?”

  “No, I don’t,” answered the priest as he sat down again. “I believe we are where we are supposed to be at all times.” He knew Luke was troubled. “You are here in this church, in this pew, talking to me for a reason. This is not an accident, Luke. It is not a coincidence. Maybe it is serendipity.” He looked toward the great altar. “Maybe there is a benefit to you being here.”

 
“What is it, then?”

  “We both want to find out more about Wormwood, don’t we?” Father Cooke raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I guess we do. How do we stop it or cure it?”

  “We don’t. We let it run its course.”

  Luke was surprised to hear him say that. “What? Let these people suffer and then die? What kind of priest are you?”

  “One who is sick of constantly facing accusations of being a child molester.” Father Cooke rose from his seat and walked to the other side of the pew. “I was called to follow God. I never doubted that. I wanted to teach children about science and math in addition to religion. I was good at my job. Then, suddenly, parents are telling their children not to come near me because I am a priest. I can’t get altar boys to stand at Sunday Mass anymore. I am painted with the sins of evil men.” Now the priest was sweating. “They ruined my calling. They ruined my church. They crucified my God all over again, and we can never come back from that.” He lowered his head to catch his breath. “Our Lord suffered on the Cross.” He pointed to the back of the church, where a huge wooden crucifix hung. “Why shouldn’t these child molesters suffer and die like he did?”

  Gillespie was shocked. He hadn’t expect a priest to say such things. “What about forgiveness? What about ‘love your enemy as yourself’?” To Luke, these people were his patients, and all this talk of Wormwood was nonsense not proven by science.

  “What about it?” The priest waved his arms around. “Look around this church. Every Sunday it used to be packed with parishioners who came to be part of a community. To love God. Where are they now? I am lucky if twenty pews are filled on Sundays. Families don’t come to church anymore. They can’t forgive us for not protecting them. Even little old ladies don’t come to church anymore because they can’t forgive us for not giving them a prominent role in the church. They set up the altar and sing in the choir. My God, the Virgin Mary is the most powerful of all Catholic figures, and we can’t let a woman say Mass?”

  Father Cooke was pacing back and forth in front of Luke’s pew with his hands on his hips. He had some pent-up frustration that he wasn’t keeping in anymore.

  “Don’t talk to me about forgiveness. Let God forgive them. Those bastards destroyed the lives of little children. What’s wrong with letting them die?”

  Luke was speechless. He sat back to let the priest’s words sink in as Father Cooke continued his tirade. “Jesus said, ‘Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’ He wanted to protect the children. He wanted us, as his followers, to protect the children, but we didn’t.” He paused. “We protected the child molesters, and now we are damned for all time. Just like Judas. We betrayed Him again and again. Is there any wonder He unleashed this plague upon the earth?”

  “Are you saying you believe God is punishing pedophiles by infecting them with this disease? How? How does He infect them? Where did it start?” Luke couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

  “Yes, it is God. They are infected when they molest a child. It’s not transferred by any bodily fluid. It doesn’t matter if it is a boy or a girl. The molester feels the pain a thousand times stronger than the agony of their victims. Every time the victim or molester thinks about the abuse or cries out from the memory, the molester is tortured for their sins.” The priest was pale and almost foaming at the mouth as he spoke.

  “What about those who are not pedophiles who have the symptoms? Not everyone affected is being investigated or accused of abusing children,” Luke informed him.

  “Yes, they are! They just haven’t been caught,” Father Cooke shot back.

  “What about the blood? Why the blood?” Gillespie was also standing now and pacing next to the pew.

  “The blood is how God tells you if they are guilty or not. It is how He marks them, so others will know. It doesn’t matter how rich or powerful the molester is. He can never hide from the blood of the lamb. He is marked for all time. It will only stop when he confesses. Then he dies with absolution. If he doesn’t, he goes to Hell, where he belongs.”

  Luke was standing still, staring at him. “Father, if a child molester came to you and asked for forgiveness, would you give it?” He really wanted to know the answer to this question.

  Father Cooke stood straight and gave his answer like he had rehearsed it many times. “Only if they asked their victims for forgiveness first and were granted it.”

  “Really? As a priest, isn’t it your job to give forgiveness?”

  The priest had a vacant expression. “No. It’s God’s job to give forgiveness. I am just the middleman.”

  “Life is funny, isn’t it, Father?”

  “No. Life is horrible. Life is damn horrible and hard. I can’t help the victims any more than you can help your patients with bloody noses. I prayed and prayed for an answer. Why? I kept asking God. Why are You letting them destroy Your Church?” The priest sat down, and Luke sat next to him.

  “He finally answered me, didn’t He? He’d finally had enough. He sent this disease to rid the world of pedophiles. Now you are here praying for a cure. Why would you want to cure them?” The priest grabbed Luke by the arm as if to shake him awake.

  “It’s my job,” said Gillespie. “I have a calling, too. I cure people. I took an oath. I am a doctor.” Luke had no problem defending his duties as a physician.

  “Well, I guess you’ve come up against a mighty opponent. Let’s see who wins.” Father Cooke stood tall to end the conversation. “I’d say may God be with you, but I know God is with the children on this one.”

  Luke fell back on his medical training. “Let’s see about that. Science still has a say.”

  As he was walking back toward the front doors, Luke heard Father Cooke call out to him, and he turned around.

  “Luke, are you going to explain this to the media?”

  “What? No. We are in the beginning stages of discovery right now. We’re not ready for the media. It would cause mass panic.”

  Father Cooke raised an eyebrow. “Really? Too bad, because I already have my media strategy ready to execute. This time the church will not be the last one at the podium.”

  “What are you saying? You’re going to the media without scientific explanation? You’re going to tell the public that God created a disease that kills pedophiles? You can’t be serious!” Luke was shocked by the man’s arrogance.

  “Are you kidding me? This is the opportunity every church has been waiting for. It’s a miracle! Should we wait until the Muslims claim it? Or the Jews? Not this time. I prayed for this miracle, and I got it. As word spreads, people will come back to the church in droves.”

  “You’re going to use this disease to bring people back to church?” Luke couldn’t believe it. “What are you going to do? Stand in front of the cameras with the new Commandments on stone tablets?”

  “Luke,” the priest laughed. “God doesn’t use stone tablets anymore. I am posting it to my blog tomorrow. Then, Facebook. The media will call me. By the end of the week, I’ll be an international saviour.”

  Luke knew he was right, and he kind of supported him, in a way. What was wrong with killing off pedophiles? He contemplated the United States government executing prisoners and the public supporting it. The people who opposed it always said there was a chance they were wrongly accused, but there were no wrongly accused here.

  Luke left the basilica and ran down Harvey Road toward Quidi Vidi Lake, where he had parked his car. He considered Father Cooke’s stand on this. God looks into your soul. God judges your soul. God washes you in the blood of the lamb. Case closed.

  He still had to meet with Sgt. Myra. He wondered if Nick knew Father Peter Cooke.

  12

  Luke got off the elevator on the fifth floor at the same time Nurse Agatha Catania was r
unning down the hall. The two bumped into one another.

  “Oh, my God, I am sorry.” Nurse Agatha Catania was in her own world, deep in thought, and on a mission to get to the ICU as quickly as she could. It took a second before she realized it was Luke she had run into.

  “What’s your hurry?” Gillespie asked. “You almost took me off my feet.”

  “Walk with me to the ICU. I have something for you to do this morning,” she teased. “We have a new patient on the way up from emerg.”

  “Another bleeder?” Gillespie asked.

  “Yes, but not like the others. This one will throw you for a loop.”

  “Why? What’s so different about this one?” Gillespie’s curiosity was getting the better of him. “Not another archbishop?”

  “Nope. A female! This time the bleeder is a female.” Agatha used her building access pass to get into the ICU. The buzzer sounded, and she opened the door to let herself and Luke in.

  “When did this one come in?” Luke asked, flipping through the patient’s files on the ICU’s desk.

  Agatha updated him. “Late last night. Emergency couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, and they were aware we had two patients with the same symptoms. They are sending her up. She should be here any second now.”

  “I have to call Sgt. Myra this morning, too,” Luke said. He looked at his watch and hoped to get it done soon, because he wanted to discuss the pedophile theory more.

  “Sgt. Myra is in the room with the child psychiatrist,” the nurse behind the counter informed him.

  “Let me check on that patient.” Agatha was becoming smitten with the police sergeant. “I loves me some Sgt. Myra first thing in the morning.”

  “Really?” Luke was surprised. “You’re into older cops?”

  “Have you seen the size of his hands? I love a man with big hands. The moustache is kind of hot, too. Find out if he’s married,” she said with a flirty smile.