Vincenzo wondered at this fellow's use of the term "the Master." Surely he was referring to Christ. Who else could be expected at the Second Coming. But it was such an archaic reference, the way the early church referred to Jesus.
But Vincenzo was even more intrigued by his last statement.
"It's 1996," he said. "Why do you say we don't have four years?"
"Because your calendar is wrong. The Master was not born in the year you have designated one A.D."
Vincenzo realized with a shock that he was right. It was an accepted fact now that the birth year of Christ had been miscalculated by a sixth century monk named Dionysus Exiguus who had been charged by the Church with numbering the years of the Christian era.
"Good Lord, sir, that is true! Jesus Christ is believed to have been born somewhere between four and seven B.C!"
"Four."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Master was born in what you now call four B.C."
"I don't think anyone really knows for sure."
"I do."
The man's tone was defiantly authoritative, leaving no room for argument. One would almost think he'd been alive then.
"Yes . . . well," Vincenzo said. "For the sake of discussion we shall accept the year four B.C. That would mean that" ... a chill rippled up Vincenzo's spine . . . "Heavens, man, that would mean that this very year marks the two-thousandth year since His birth!"
The bearded man nodded slowly. "Yes. Unsettling, no? I just realized that fact myself a moment ago." He shot to his feet. "Good-bye. I must be going."
"Yes," Vincenzo said. "Of course. It was most enlightening talking to you. Perhaps we'll meet some other time."
"I do not think so."
He walked off.
Vincenzo wondered if he was another "Mary-hunter," as one of the local papers had dubbed the hordes of faithful roaming the Lower East Side streets in search of the Blessed Virgin.
Perhaps, perhaps not, Vincenzo thought as he pushed himself to his feet. But certainly something strange about that fellow. Not very friendly, which he supposed was to be expected in New York, but this fellow was almost furtive.
Vincenzo wished he'd had more time to talk to him, though. If he was right, then this year indeed marked the true end of the second millennium. Vincenzo found that more than a little disquieting.
As he crossed Pearl Street a man ran out of an alley, frantically waving his arms in the dusk.
"OhmyGod! OhmyGod! I think I saw her! I think it's her!"
Vincenzo's heart leapt. "Where?"
As the fellow pointed toward the black maw of the alley behind him, Vincenzo tried in vain to make out his features in the dusky light.
"Back there! She was just standing there, glowing."
"Show me," Vincenzo said. "Please show me!"
"Sure," the fellow said, waving him to follow. "Come on!"
An alarm clanged faintly in a corner of Vincenzo's brain, but his mind was too suffused with glorious anticipation to pay it proper heed.
The darkness of the alley swallowed him. He saw nothing.
"Where?"
He was shoved roughly from behind and fell to his knees on the garbage-strewn pavement. Fear pounded through Vincenzo as he realized he was being mugged. He'd heard about the predators who'd begun stalking the defenseless Mary-hunters. The papers had dubbed them "Holy-rollers." He began shouting for help until a heavy boot slammed into his ribs and drove the wind out of him.
"Shuddup, asshole, an' gimme yer wallet!"
Vincenzo shouted again and was kicked again. The mugger grabbed his wrist and pulled off his watch.
"Where's yer wallet. Gimme yer fuckin' wallet or I cut ya!"
Vincenzo was reaching for his back pocket when he heard a groan above him. He heard scuffling feet, and then a heavy weight slammed onto the pavement next to him.
"Did he stab you? Do you need a hospital?"
Vincenzo recognized the accent—the little bearded fellow who'd been sitting on the bench with him moments ago.
"No. I'm only bruised. Could you help me up, perhaps?"
He raised his hand and felt another grasp it and pull him to his feet.
Immediately the man began to move off.
"Wait. I haven't thanked you. There must be something—"
"You can say nothing of this," the fellow said, stopping and turning. "That will be thanks enough."
"But people should know! You're a hero!"
"That man behind you will be dead before help arrives. I am a stranger in this country. I do not wish to be arrested."
"What did you do to him?"
"My knife did to him what his knife was going to do to you."
"But why?"
"I needed to."
Weak and trembling, Vincenzo leaned against a wall and silently watched the stranger hurry off. The parting words turned over in his mind. / needed to. Something about the way he'd said that . . .
Needed to what? Help somebody . . . or stab somebody?
He turned for one final look into the alley that might have been his grave and saw her.
She was only a few feet away, moving closer . . . flowing toward him . . . her faint glow a beacon in the black hole of the alley. Her robes were the same as in Cork, only now he was close enough to make out some of her features. The tears in his eyes blurred them but he thought he detected a hint of a smile as she looked at him.
"It's you!" he sobbed, overcome by an unplumbed longing within. "I've been searching for you. I knew I'd find you again!"
She flowed closer without slowing . . . closer . . .
Vincenzo backed up a step but she never slowed her approach. It was as if she didn't see him. When she was within inches he cried, "Stop!" but she continued her irresistible course, pressing against him—but he felt nothing. She had no substance. And then his vision was filled with light that blotted out the alley and the street and the city, light all around, light within him . . .
Within him . . .
The apparition had merged with him. Was he within her or was she within him?
He froze, he sizzled, dazzling spots flashed and swelled and danced before his eyes, he floated, he plummeted . . .
And then the light faded and the city night filled his eyes again. He whirled and saw the apparition directly behind him, flowing away.
She walked . . . right . . . through . . . me!
And then she began to fade. Within seconds Vincenzo was alone again. And then the wonder that filled him also began to fade as the pain began, searing bolts of agony lancing through his chest and abdomen, doubling him over, driving him to his knees.
IN THE PACIFIC
7° N, 150° W
The clouds and wind have organized into a pocket of turbulence with sharply demarcated borders. The pocket begins to drift eastward, drawing warm moist air up from the ocean surface into its high, cool center where the moisture condenses into droplets. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes as rain and wind whip the churning ocean surface to a froth.
The storm swells as it accelerates its eastward course.
19
Manhattan
"Okay, Monsignor. Another deep breath, and hold this one."
Vincenzo Riccio filled his lungs while Dr. Karras's fingers probed his abdomen under the lower right edge of his rib cage. The young oncologist's normally tanned-looking skin was relatively pale today. The overhead fluorescents of the examining room reflected off the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
"Damn!" he muttered as his fingers probed more deeply under Vincenzo's ribs.
"Something wrong?" Vincenzo said, exhaling at last.
"No. I mean, yes. I mean . . ."
Vincenzo sat up and pulled down his undershirt.
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I," Karras said, running a hand through his short black hair.
"Perhaps you'd better tell me the problem, Doctor. I think I deserve to know."
The examination had started o
ut routinely enough, with Vincenzo arriving at the outpatient cancer clinic, reading in the waiting room until his name was called, and then being examined by Dr. Karras. But after examining him just as he had now, Karras had stepped over to the chart and pulled out yesterday's blood test results. After checking those for what seemed like an unduly long time and shuffling through the sheaf of previous reports, he examined Vincenzo's abdomen
again, then sent him for a CT scan of the liver, with comparison to the previous study.
"Stat," he'd said into the phone. "Double stat." So Vincenzo had allowed himself to be swallowed by the metal gullet of the scanner where his liver could be radiographically sliced and diced, and now he was back again on the examining table. He had an inkling as to the nature of Dr. Karras's discomfiture, but he dared not voice it . . . dared not even think it. 'The problem is—"
The intercom beeped. "Dr. Weiskopf is here."
"Weiskopf?" Karras said. "From radiology? What's—? Oh, shit. Excuse me." He all but leapt from the examining room door.
A few moments later he was back, trailing in his wake a tall, bearded man whom he introduced as Dr. Weiskopf. He looked about fifty and wore a yarmulke; a large manila X-ray envelope was tucked under his left arm.
"I've never met a walking miracle," Dr. Weiskopf said softly as they shook hands.
Vincenzo suddenly felt weak. "Miracle?"
"What else can you call it? I looked at your scan from today, then called up your initial scan from July, and I said to myself, Moshe, a trick this Karras kid is playing on you, trying to make a fool of you by asking you to compare the very sick liver of one man to the perfectly healthy liver of another. And then I spied an osteophyte—doctorese for a bone spur—on one of the vertebrae of the new scan; much to my shock, there was the very same spur on the old scan. So I had to come and see this man for myself."
Vincenzo looked from Weiskopf to Karras. "What . . . what's he saying?"
"He's saying your liver scan's normal, Monsignor."
"You mean the tumor's shrinking?"
"Shrinking?" Dr. Weiskopf said. "It's gone! Pfffftt! Like it was never there. On your first scan your liver was, if you'll pardon the term, Swiss-cheesed with tumors—"
"Nodular," Dr. Karras added. "And half again its normal size."
"But now it's perfectly homogeneous. Not even a little fatty degeneration."
"And it's back to normal size," Dr. Karras said. "I can barely feel it anymore."
"Is that what you were doing to me?" Vincenzo said, feeling giddy and dizzy, wanting to laugh or cry or both, wanting to fall to his knees in prayer but struggling to maintain his composure. "For a while there I thought you were trying to feel my spine from the front."
Dr. Karras smiled weakly. "Last week your liver was big and nodular. Your liver enzymes were climbing. Now—"
"Maybe we're onto something with this new protocol," Dr. Weiskopf said.
Dr. Karras was shaking his head, staring at Vincenzo. "No. The protocol's a bust. We haven't seen significant tumor regression with anyone."
"Until now," Dr. Weiskopf said, tapping this X-ray envelope.
"Uh-uh," Dr. Karras said, still shaking his head and staring. "Even if it were the protocol, tumor regression would be gradual. A slow shrinking of the tumors, and even in a best-case scenario we'd be left with a battered and scarred but functioning liver. The Monsignor's CT shows a perfectly healthy liver. Almost as if he'd had a transplant."
"I can't explain it," Dr. Weiskopf said.
"Maybe you already did," Vincenzo said. "It's a miracle."
Vincenzo was regaining his inner composure now. He hadn't been totally unprepared for this. After the apparition had passed through him three nights ago, he'd been racked with horrific pain for a few moments, and then it had passed, leaving him weak and sweaty. He'd staggered back to his quarters at the mission where he fell into an exhausted sleep. But when he awakened early the next morning he'd felt better than he had in years. And each passing day brought renewed strength and vigor. A power had touched him outside that alley. He'd been changed inside. He'd wondered how, why. He'd prayed, but he'd dared not hope . . .
Until now.
A miracle . . .
The doctors' smiles were polite but condescending.
"A figure of speech, Monsignor," Dr. Weiskopf said.
Dr. Karras cleared his throat. "I'd like to admit you for a day or two, Monsignor. Do a full, head-to-toe workup to see if we can get a handle on this and—"
Vincenzo shook his head as he slipped off the examining table and reached for his cassock.
"I'm sorry, but I have no time for that."
"Monsignor, something extraordinary has happened here. If we can pin this down, who knows how many other people we can help?"
"You will find nothing useful in examining me," he said as he fastened his Roman collar. "Only confusion."
"You can't say that."
"I wish it were otherwise. But unfortunately what happened to me cannot be applied to your other cases. At least not in a hospital or clinic setting."
"Where then?"
"I do not know. But I'm going to try and find out."
Vincenzo was returning to the Lower East Side. Something was drawing him back.
"Y'soup's goin' cold, guy. Ain't y'gonna eat it?"
Emilio glanced to his right at the scrawny little man next to him—bright eyes crinkled within a wrinkled face framed by a mass of gray hair and beard matted with food and dirt; a gnarled finger with a nail the color of asphalt pointed to the bowl that cooled before him on the table.
"Do you want it?" Emilio said.
This was Emilio's third meal at the church-basement soup kitchen called Loaves and Fishes and so far he'd managed to get through each time without having to eat a thing.
"Well, if you ain't gonna be eatin' it, it'd sure be a sin to waste it."
Emilio switched bowls with the old man, trading his full one for an empty. He placed his slice of bread on the other man's plate as well.
"Ain'tcha hungry?" the old man said, bending over the fresh bowl and adding his slurps to the chorus of guttural noises around them.
"No. Not really." He'd had a big breakfast in the East Village before walking over to St. Joseph's. "I'm not feeling well lately."
"Yeah?" the old man said. "Well, then, this is the place to be." He leaned closer and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Miracles happen here."
"So I've heard," Emilio replied.
It was talk of miracles that had brought him to Loaves and Fishes.
Emilio had been in town a week and a half and hadn't uncovered anything. And he didn't expect to. A waste of time as far as he was concerned. But the opinion of Emilio Sanchez did not count in this matter. The senador wanted him here, sniffing about, turning over any rocks that the CDC might miss, and so here he was. The senador would get copies of the official CDC reports as they were filed. What he wanted from Emilio was the unofficial story, "the view from street level," as the senador called it.
To do that, Emilio had rented a room in one of the area's seedy residential hotels, stopped taking showers, and let his beard grow. He'd picked up some thrift-shop clothes and begun wandering the Lower East Side, posing as a local.
And it was as a local that he'd run into someone named Pilgrim who ranted on about this blind friend Preacher who'd begun to see at a place called Loaves and Fishes, and how all the men who'd been cured of AIDS used to come to Loaves and Fishes.
And so now Emilio came to Loaves and Fishes.
Not that he suspected to find anything even vaguely supernatural going on, but there was always the chance that the place might be frequented by someone pedaling a drug or a folk medicine that might have been responsible for the now-famous AIDS cures.
But there was nothing going on here. Just a crowd of hungry losers stuffing their faces with anything edible they could lay their hands on. No fights, which struck Emilio as unusual with this sort of group. Maybe they were just t
oo busy eating. Nothing special about the staff, either. Mostly lonely old biddies filling up their empty days toiling in what they probably thought was service to mankind, plus a beautiful young nun who spent too much of her time in the kitchen.
And a young priest who seemed to be in charge. Emilio had been startled to recognize him as the same priest the senador had chewed up and spit out in front of the Waldorf last spring. He doubted the priest would recognize him, but just the same, Emilio kept his head down whenever he came around.
Disgusted, he decided to leave. Nothing here. No miracles of any kind, medical or otherwise. As he rose to his feet, he heard the priest say he was running back to the rectory for something, but instead of leaving through the front of the room, he used a door in the rear of the kitchen.
Emilio wove through the maze of long tables and hurried up the steps to the street. As he ambled along, blinking in the sun's glare and trying to look aimless, he glanced down the alley between the church and the rectory. He stopped. Hadn't he seen the priest go out a door in the kitchen? He'd assumed it led up to street level. But there was no corresponding door in the alley. Where had the priest gone if he hadn't returned to the rectory?
He looked up at the rectory and was startled momentarily to see the priest's blond head pass a window. Emilio smiled. An underground passage. How convenient. He supposed there were all sorts of passages between these old buildings.
He walked on, taking small satisfaction in having cleared up a mystery, no matter how inconsequential. Emilio didn't like mysteries.
Farther along he passed a man wearing a white lab coat and holding an open briefcase before him. The briefcase was lined with rows of three-ounce bottles.
"Hey, buddy!" the guy said. "You got the sickness?"
Emilio looked at him and the guy's eyes lit with sudden recognition. He backed up two steps.
"Oh, shit. Hey, sorry. Never mind."
Emilio walked on without acknowledging him.
How could he learn anything, or even make sense of anything in this carnival atmosphere? The entire area seemed to have gone mad. People were wandering about in droves at night carrying candles and chanting the Rosary and seeing the Virgin Mary everywhere. Hucksters were set up on every corner selling I LOVE MARY-HUNTING badges, OUR LADY OF THE LOWER EAST SIDE T-shirts, Virgin Mary statues, slivers of the True Cross, rosaries, and sundry other religious paraphernalia.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 Page 22