Luke joined Agatha and Nick in the hallway. “What is it? Myra, what do you see?” Luke asked.
“I just got this gut feeling that Jermaine Cousin has a guardian angel.” He was surprised by his own words.
“He does. He has a brother who protects him. Maybe more than he knows. I think they both found peace today.” Gillespie watched Jermaine get on the elevator.
“But neither gave him forgiveness,” Agatha stated. “I don’t get it. I thought to find peace you had to give forgiveness.”
“Not always,” answered Nick. “Sometimes you find peace through retribution and justice.”
14
Father Peter Cooke was pacing up and down the vestibule inside the great doors of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. His eyes were closed as he ran through the script in his mind. Had he covered everything? Had he anticipated all possible questions? The priest reviewed his speaking notes every few steps, hoping he wouldn’t forget anything. He would have one chance to get this right, and he didn’t want to fail his Lord and Saviour. This time, he would save the Church.
His morning had started with the news of Archbishop Keating’s death. It was perfect timing. Father Cooke knew God Himself had aligned the stars in his favour. With Keating out of the way, he was now free to protect the children and let the world know that God was unleashing His plague upon the world.
When he posted the news release to the basilica’s website and social media pages that morning, he hadn’t expected the phones to light up so quickly. Within seconds of posting the announcement, his elderly receptionist was inundated with calls from the media.
In between questions from reporters, the new, temporary archbishop called and demanded he answer the phone. Father Cooke whispered, “I am not here,” to the poor lady who was doing her best to keep up. The Church was still reeling from the death of Archbishop Patrick Keating. Media outlets had been announcing his death all morning. Several asked for permission to shoot footage inside the basilica, and Father Cooke saw this as his sign from God.
Not this time, he thought. You will not stop me this time. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, and he mopped them away with a cotton handkerchief he kept in his pocket. He decided to wear his Eucharist vestment today instead of his normal choir dress. After all, he thought, this will be the most important central act of divine worship that I will take part in.
He stood still for the first time, statue-like, in front of the great wooden doors at the front of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. The sun beamed in from the top windows. He prayed for guidance. He prayed for strength. He prayed for hope. He prayed that this rebellious act was rooted and grounded in his love for the Church and not vengeance against those who had hurt it.
Father Cooke closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to calm his nerves. His eyes opened slowly, and his focus was intense. His jaw was clenched like a fighter walking into a ring. His breathing was slower, deeper than usual. It was as if someone else had taken possession of his whole body. He raised his arms, his steady hands grabbed the two large handles, and he pulled the massive doors open, causing a downdraft to rush into the vestibule and swirl his robes around him. The priest calmly walked toward the media storm, basking in the glow of the camera’s lights, knowing he was now in control of the whole Catholic Church. The entire foundation of the Roman Catholic religion, and Christianity itself, would implode and be rebuilt today.
He recalled Matthew 16:18. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock, I will build My church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. He was indeed Peter—Father Peter Cooke—and this rock was the island of Newfoundland and Labrador. The most easterly point in North America. Father Cooke envisioned himself as the gatekeeper.
The steps in front of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist were full of reporters, camera people, and TV camera tripods. They were scurrying to set up before Father Cooke came out to speak. His news release inviting them to attend his news conference was short and to the point:
Blood of the lamb: God has arrived to kill pedophiles
Father Peter Cooke, Diocese Priest at the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, is holding a news conference on Tuesday, May 1, 2018, at 10:00 a.m. on the steps of the basilica to discuss Wormwood, God’s revenge on pedophiles.
The news conference notice shot through newsrooms throughout the province and the country like a bullet. Wide-eyed reporters sat staring at the screens on their phones, wondering if this was a prank. Calls to the basilica office verified that it was indeed real. Every other story happening in the country went on the back burner. News directors were barking out orders to dig out footage of past interviews with church officials, victims, or anyone who could add to what they rightfully predicted was going to be the biggest story of the year.
Reporters staked their spots on the steps of the basilica, each trying to get a front-row seat to Father Cooke’s show. When the doors to the grand basilica opened, they were not disappointed. This Catholic priest walked toward them like he was the Pope himself. He looked calm and fierce, more like a warrior than an ordained man of God.
The great doors stayed open behind him, and the photographers were pleased to see how this priest was framed by the long aisle that led to the statue of The Dead Christ lying across the altar. It was as if he had planned it that way.
Father Cooke stood in front of the media. A hush came over the pack. All microphones and lenses were on him.
His eyes were dark and hypnotic. He took a deep breath, and his lips parted. Everyone who stood in front of him held their breath, waiting on his first word. Nobody moved. He tilted his head toward the sky, as if asking for permission to speak. Lowering it, he looked directly at the crowd gathered in front of him. His voice at first was calm and low.
“My name is Father Peter Cooke. I am a Catholic priest. A servant of God. I have come to talk to you about Wormwood.”
As he spoke, his preprogrammed social media updates appeared every five minutes on the basilica’s Facebook and Twitter streams. Each one was shared and retweeted by the dozens, then hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, until Father Cooke began to trend worldwide. By the power of God, and social media, he would own this story.
His voice took on a strong, authoritative tone. “Wormwood is the name of a star in Revelation 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—the name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters turned bitter, and many people died from the waters that had become bitter.”
He looked around at the baffled faces in the media, each one standing still with mouth open and microphone pointed at him, not knowing what was coming next.
“For many years, scholars had interpreted this passage as a comet, meteorite, or a natural disaster striking the earth.” His voice took the tone of a backwoods preacher. “I am here to tell you, today, that those scholars are all wrong! They are wrong.” He lifted both arms toward the heavens. “Wormwood is not a natural disaster. It is a disease. A disease that affects only pedophiles!” The reporters looked cynical, as if unable to decide if this was real or not. Then a huge, cold gust of wind swept over the crowd. It was as if Father Cooke’s news conference came with special effects. It took a second to process what the priest had just said. Then the reporters went into overdrive.
Father Cooke felt a power inside him that he had never felt before. The true meaning of his life was unfolding before his eyes. He felt like his body was being lifted toward heaven. Words were coming out of his mouth, and he had no idea who was speaking. He continued with his sermon.
“The very saint that this basilica was named for, John the Baptist, wrote about Wormwood in Revelations. About a year ago, I became aware of symptoms that some parishioners were having. Every now and again someone would ask me to pray for their fath
er, brother, uncle, or aunt who was suffering. After a while I found it odd that these people all had the same symptoms, but no disease was ever attributed to their suffering. Until one day a man came to confession and told me his sins. He confessed that he had molested his nephew. As he spoke to me, his nose began to bleed profusely. He told me every time he thought of the molestation he would experience nosebleeds, severe pain, and an unquenchable thirst.”
The media people stood silent with their mouths agape. They could hardly believe what they were hearing. They never uttered a word, but they were tweeting out quotes as fast as Father Cooke explained.
God creates disease to kill pedophiles #Godisback, tweeted a TV reporter.
John the Baptist wrote about a disease that kills pedophiles called Wormwood #Godisback, tweeted a newspaper reporter.
Father Cooke knew he had the media where he wanted them. He took strategic breaths and paced himself to allow them time to update their social media feeds. He knew by the time he walked back in through the basilica doors he would be famous worldwide.
“Then, I was giving the last rites to a dying man. He was in great pain, suffering nosebleeds, and called all water poisonous. On his deathbed, he confessed that he, too, had been a child molester and felt insurmountable remorse toward his victims. Once he confessed his sins, the bleeding and pain stopped. He sipped water without issue and died peacefully.”
Disease is cured when pedophiles confess #Godisback, tweeted a reporter.
Cooke waited for the reporters to look at him again, then continued. “I began to notice a trend. When each sinner confessed, the pain and suffering stopped. When they didn’t confess, the pain and suffering worsened. They were being tortured for their sins by God Himself.”
God is torturing pedophiles, claims priest #Godisbadass, tweeted a young reporter in the back of the crowd.
The priest settled back on his heels, enjoying the heat of the limelight. “I started investigating and found the community of pedophiles referred to this disease as Wormwood. In Revelations, wormwood is a well-known bitter taste. They call the disease Wormwood because it makes all water taste bitter, and without water a human can only live for three days.”
He watched as they took notes with a vengeance. “This disease only affects pedophiles, not victims. They suffer great pain that cannot be calmed with drugs or alcohol. Which is God’s way of punishing them for their sins. Then He afflicts them with unstoppable nosebleeds. Jesus said He would wash us from our sins in His own blood. The blood of the lamb.”
Pedophiles being killed by the blood of the lamb #Godisback #Godisbadass. Twitter was on fire worldwide with news of the disease created by God to kill pedophiles. Google was breaking from millions of people searching Basilica of St. John the Baptist and St. John’s, NL.
Kevin Macy sat in his hospital bed watching the news conference on his small rented TV. He nervously put his hand to his face and could feel the thick blood dripping from his nostrils. It was followed by a sharp, stabbing pressure in his chest. His monitor began to beep, indicating distress. The nurses ran into his room and tried to stabilize him.
Father Cooke was in his glory. “The information you want is in the old hymn “‘Blood of the Lamb.’” He began to sing softly, “Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?”
His dark eyes scanned over the crowd of skeptical and elated reporters. Many would make their careers based on this news conference. “Do you have any questions?”
Every mouth moved at once as a wind swept over Father Cooke. A reporter in the front of the pack asked, “What do you mean by ‘washed in the blood of the lamb’?”
He responded, “The phrase ‘washed in the blood of the lamb’ refers to being washed by virtue of the blood of Jesus. His blood was spilled upon His death to cleanse the sins of humanity. So, when you are washed in the blood of the lamb, you are forgiven your sins.”
Reporters began to fire questions at him. Who does this affect? Priests who molest? Or others?
The priest replied, “Wormwood affects anyone who molests a child. Take note that ‘molest’ does not just refer to the physical inappropriate touching of a child, but the lustful thought of molesting a child by watching or creating child pornography. Their profession does not matter. Only the act of molestation matters. Remember, there are pedophiles who have not acted upon their urges. So, this disease does not affect them unless they act on it through their body or mind. Once a pedophile acts upon their urges, they will suffer by God’s Hand.”
A reporter jumped in. “This is the first I am hearing of this disease. How long has it been around? When did this start happening?”
Father Cooke pondered the question. “I believe it has been around for the past two years. This year I started hearing about it more and more. I did some investigation after giving numerous last rites. It struck me as odd that so many people who were dying started confessing to these crimes against children. There was no rhyme or reason to it. For some, the offences had happened within the last year, but for others it happened decades ago. Some were repeat offenders, and some committed one offence.”
“So, you’re saying Wormwood not only affects recent offenders but historical offenders, too?” questioned another reporter.
“Yes. From what I understand, any time the victim or the abuser thinks about the abuse, the abuser is hit by a torturous bout of Wormwood.”
Reporters were looking at each other, trying to get their facts straight and process the information. “A disease is a disorder that produces specific symptoms. How can one person remember a traumatic event in their life and have it affect another person who caused the event? It doesn’t make sense,” advised a senior reporter in the pack.
“None of this makes sense, my son,” teased Father Cooke. “God works in mysterious ways. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What if I don’t believe in God?” the reporter yelled back at him.
“Then I suggest you start.” Father Cooke was a natural in front of the cameras.
“Are health professionals aware of this disease?” interrupted another reporter.
“Yes, health professionals are perfectly aware of this disease. A young doctor stopped in here this week to ask me about it. They want to cure it,” fretted the priest.
The idea of a credible source excited the crowd. What doctor? What is the name of the doctor? Can you tell us the name of the doctor?
“I can’t give you his name. As a priest, I can’t give you the names of those I speak to. It is part of my oath. I will leave that up to the health care professionals. They can deal with that part of it.” The gauntlet had been dropped.
Another question came from the back. “What about the police? Are they aware of it?”
“I believe so,” continued Father Cooke. “I have had conversations with a police investigator about this.”
Once again, the questions came at him rapid-fire. Can you name the police officer? Which police force does he work for? Was it part of an investigation?
“You will have to contact the police about that,” Father Cooke countered. He was feeling elated. “I will take one last question.” His gaze swept across the sea of reporters.
“Father, does your nose bleed?”
Father Peter Cooke’s eye twinkled. “No.”
With that, he turned and walked back into the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, closing the big wooden doors behind him.
“No,” he happily repeated to himself. “No.”
15
It was as if someone had let the air out of the room. Dr. Luke Gillespie, Sgt. Nicholas Myra, and Mrs. Furey stood transfixed by what they were watching on the television.
Dr. Gillespie could not believe that Father Cooke had gone
through with his plan. Sgt. Myra was trying to mentally prepare himself for the onslaught of victims who would be coming forward. Mrs. Furey was envisioning the media that would soon be swarming the hospital.
The doors of the great basilica had closed. Reporters and camera people stood in different areas around the church doing closing shots so they could file their stories. The female news anchor looked pale when the studio camera came back to her. She stumbled through her words as she ad libbed through the wrap-up on the biggest story of her career.
“If you’re just tuning in, Father Peter Cooke, a Roman Catholic priest from the Basilica of St. John the Baptist in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, has just made a stunning announcement on the steps of that church.” She cleared her throat. “Father Cooke has just proclaimed that God has created a disease called Wormwood that seeks revenge on pedophiles and possibly kills them.” The news anchor could not believe what was coming out of her mouth. She struggled to keep up with the information appearing on the teleprompter in front of her. “Father Cooke claims he became aware of the disease when some of his parishioners started showing signs. The main sign of this disease is a bloody nose.”
In the news control room, a producer was screaming, “Find me some pedophile victims who will talk! Find me someone with a bloody nose! Goddamn it, get me the Pope on the phone!” Producers and reporters were scrambling in all directions. The producer put his microphone, a direct line to the anchor person’s earpiece, close to his mouth and slowly said, “So God has created a disease that marks pedophiles, then kills them . . . about time.”
The news anchor stared solemnly into the camera pointed directly at her and repeated the sentence word for word, even though the producer hadn’t meant for her to repeat the last two words. Now it was out there. The media had taken sides. The lynch mob was starting to form. People throughout the world watched in shock. Taking to social media, one by one, they lit their torches, picked up their pitchforks, and joined in. Until every tweet, every Instagram update, every Facebook status became a sworn allegiance to the support of Wormwood.
Operation Wormwood Page 11