Sister Carolyn began to sob. The sound tore at his heart. He had to leave. Now. Before he changed his mind.
"I'll be back as soon as I have the Vatican's decision."
"Don't be surprised if you find an empty room," Father Fitzpatrick said.
Vincenzo swung toward him. "Please do not do anything so foolish as to move her or try to hide her. I found her here. I can find her anywhere."
He hurried out of the room leaving behind the sobbing nun and the stricken, silent priest.
This is the way it has to be, he told himself. This is the best way, the only way.
Then why did he feel like such a villain?
He would make it up to Sister Carolyn. He would see to it that she was not separated from her beloved Blessed Mother. He would convince the Holy See that Sister Carolyn Ferris must accompany the Virgin to Rome to tell her story.
But first he had to convince the Holy See that the body in the subcellar of this church was indeed the Blessed Virgin. He could do that. They'd believe him. He'd debunked so many reputed visitations in the past that they'd listen when he told them he'd found the real thing. More than a visitation—the greatest find since the dawn of the Christian Era.
And then it would begin.
The Second Coming . . . the end of history . . .
Carrie clenched her teeth and tried to rein in her emotions. What was wrong with her? She'd never cried easily before. Now she couldn't seem to help herself.
She'd just about regain control when Dan stepped up beside her and gently encircled her in his arms. His touch, and the depth of love and warmth in the simple gesture toppled her defenses. She sagged against him and broke down again.
"It'll be all right, Carrie," he said softly. "We'll work something out."
But what could they work out? Her worst nightmare had come true.
She straightened and faced him. "They're going to take her, Dan. They're going to take her and seal her away where no one will ever see her again, where no one but a privileged few will even know she exists."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." Anger was beginning to elbow aside the fear and desperate sorrow. "And I know we didn't go to all that trouble to find her and bring her here just so she could be locked up in a Vatican vault!"
"But what the monsignor said about a 'plan' makes sense. Don't you feel it? Don't you sense a hand moving the pieces around a chessboard? We're a couple of the pawns, Carrie. So's the monsignor."
"Maybe," she said, although she knew exactly what Dan was talking about. She'd felt it too. "And maybe the 'plan' isn't meant to play out the way the monsignor sees it. We can't let the Vatican have her."
"How are we going to stop it? You heard what he said about being able to find her if we try to hide her. I don't know how or why, but I believe him."
Carrie believed him too. Maybe it was the cure he claimed the Virgin had performed, maybe it was part of the "plan." Whatever it was, the monsignor seemed to have been sensitized to the Virgin. He was like a smart bomb, targeted on Carrie's dreams.
But there had to be a way to stop him.
And suddenly she knew how.
"All right . . ." she said slowly. "If we can't hide her from the monsignor, we won't hide her at all . . . from anyone."
"I don't—"
"You will."
Excitement and dread blossomed within her as she considered the repercussions of what she was about to do.
She drew Dan to the Virgin's side.
"Will you carry her upstairs for me?"
"Upstairs? Into the kitchen?"
"No. Farther up. Into the church."
Dan stood in the nave of St. Joe's with the Virgin's stiff remains in his arms and tried to catch his breath. The church was locked up tight for the night, silent but for the muffled voices of the latest contingent of Mary-hunters chanting their nightly Rosary outside on the front steps. He wasn't puffing from the exertion of carrying her up from the subcellar—the Virgin was as light as ever—but from anxiety.
What was Carrie up to? She wouldn't explain. Was she afraid he'd balk if she told him? No. He'd do almost anything to keep her from crying again. He'd never heard her cry before. It was a sound he never wanted to hear again.
"Now what?" he said. "Where do I put her?"
She stood in the church's center aisle, turning in a slow circle, as if looking for something. Suddenly she stopped her turn.
"There," she said, pointing to the space past the chancel rail.
"In the sanctuary? There's no place—"
"On the altar."
Dan felt his knees wobble. "No, Carrie. That wouldn't be right."
She turned and faced him, her expression fierce. "Can you think of anyone with more of a right to be up there?"
Dan couldn't.
"All right. But I don't like this."
He passed her and walked down the center aisle, genuflected, then stepped over the chancel rail and approached the altar, a huge block of Carerra marble. It stood free in the center of the sanctuary so the celebrating priest could say Mass facing his congregation.
This was strange, really strange. What was this going to solve or prove? Carrie didn't expect the Virgin to come alive or anything crazy like that, did she?
The thought rattled Dan as he stood before the altar. His life had been so full of strange occurrences lately that nothing would surprise him.
As he set the Virgin gently upon the gleaming marble surface of the altar, he heard a metallic clank at the far end of the church. He turned in time to see Carrie pushing open the front doors.
"She's here!" he heard her cry to the Mary-hunters gathered outside. "You don't need to look any further. The Blessed Mother is here! Come in! See her! She's waiting for you!"
"Oh, no!" Dan said softly as he saw the Mary-hunters edge through the doors. "Oh, God, Carrie. What are you doing?"
They crowded forward, candles in hand, hesitant at first, the curious at the rear pushing those ahead. They were older, mostly female, with a few younger men and women salted among them. Plainly dressed for the most part, but they had an eagerness in common. He saw it in their eyes. They were searching for something but not quite sure just what.
And when they saw the body stretched out on the altar they hesitated, but only for a moment, only for a heartbeat. Then they were moving forward again, surging ahead like some giant, single-celled organism, filling the center aisle and splashing against the chancel rail.
Dan listened to the talk within the Mary-hunter amoeba.
"Is it her?" . . . "Do you think that's really her?" . . . "That's not what I expected her to look like" . . . "Aren't you forgetting the Assumption? Can't be her" . . . "Right. She was assumed into heaven, body and soul" . . . "Besides, she looks too old, all dried up . . ."
And then the crowd was parting like the Red Sea to make way for a pinch-faced old woman in a wheelchair. She wore a fur cap despite the heat and was propelled from behind by a burly orderly in whites.
"Let me through," the woman said, swinging her cane before her to clear the way. "I'll tell you if it's her or not, but I can't see from back here."
Her orderly wheeled her up to the brass gates of the chancel rail and she stared across at the altar.
Over and over Dan hear voices murmur, "What do you think, Martha?" and "Martha will know," and "What does she say?"
Apparently this Martha was an authority of some sort among the Mary-hunters.
"I . . ." she began, then stopped. "This shouldn't be but . . . Get me closer, Gregory."
Her dutiful orderly unlatched the chancel gates and pushed them open. Dan didn't want them in the sanctuary and was stepping forward to stop him when he felt a restraining hand on his arm.
Carrie was beside him.
"Wait," she said. "Let her look."
Gregory wheeled old Martha through the gates and parked her next to the altar where she was almost eye level with the Virgin. She peered closely through her bifocals, then,
tentatively, she reached out and brushed the Virgin's cheek with her fingertip.
"Oh!" she cried and threw herself back in her chair as if she'd received a jolt of electricity.
Gregory was standing beside her, hands clasped behind his back, unprepared for the sudden convulsive movement. Martha and her chair went over backward.
For a moment there was mass confusion in St. Joseph's with people shouting and crying out in alarm, and then utter silence as Gregory righted the chair, turned to lift Martha back into it, and froze.
Martha was standing beside him.
Dan couldn't tell who was more surprised—Gregory or Martha.
Martha looked down at her newly functioning legs and screamed. Pandemonium reigned then as the rest of the Mary-hunters added their own screams to hers, surging forward, surrounding the joyfully weeping Martha and the altar with its precious burden.
When a modicum of control was finally restored, the Mary-hunters knelt as one and began to recite the Rosary.
Their hunt was over.
Dan felt Carrie's grip tighten on his arm. He turned and saw her tight grin, the fierce gleam in her eyes.
"Let the Vatican try to keep her a secret now!"
MIRACLES IN MANHATTAN
"We've had many healings," Martha Harrington announced to reporters from the front steps of St. Joseph's church on the Lower East Side yesterday. Mrs. Harrington should know. Three days ago she was wheelchair bound, barely able to stand without the aid of two canes, and even then for only a minute or so. Now she breezes up and down the steps of St. Joseph's like a teenager. She is reportedly the first miracle cure associated with the mummified body on display within the church.
The body, which the faithful proclaim to be the earthly remains of the Virgin Mary, appeared on the altar of St. Joseph's three nights ago during a prayer vigil on the church steps.
Since then it has become an object of worldwide devotion and the center of a storm of ecclesiastical controversy. So far, the Archdiocese of New York has had no comment on the healings other than to say that the phenomena are under investigation.
"Not everyone is healed," Mrs. Harrington said. "We can't explain why some are healed and others are not. It would be presumptuous of me to try. 'Many are called but few are chosen,' as the saying goes."
Obviously, Martha Harrington sees herself as one of the chosen.
THE NEW YORK TIMES
IN THE PACIFIC
11° N, 140° W
Now a supercell, the storm increases the whirling velocity of its central winds, growing wider, stretching into the upper atmosphere as it angles northeastward. Its spinning core organizes into a funnel cloud that dips down . . . down . . . down until it brushes the churning surface of the ocean. The funnel latches onto the sea like a celestial leech, whipping the water to a white froth as it draws up a thin stream into its 200-mile-an-hour vortex.
20
Haifa, Israel
Customs Inspector Dov Sidel sat in his office, sipping tea and skimming this morning's Ha 'aretz. A low-volume day at the port so he was taking his full break. He glanced at an article about inexplicable cures in a New York City church attributed to what was supposedly the remains of the Virgin Mary. After reading half of the first paragraph, he turned the page.
Two heartbeats later he flipped the page back.
A photo was connected to the article, a grainy black-and-white close-up of the face of the miraculous relic in Manhattan. Something familiar about that face . . .
And then he recognized it! The sculpture he'd so admired when it had been shipped through Haifa this summer. When had that been? July? He'd jotted down the name of the Tel Aviv gallery that had shipped it, and on his next trip to the city he'd stopped by the Kaplan Gallery in the hope of seeing more works by the same artist. The owner had told him the Old Woman piece was a one of a kind that he'd bought at auction. He'd had no idea who the sculptor was.
And now Sidel knew why. There was no sculptor.
No wonder the owner had seemed so brusque and unhelpful. He'd smuggled out an archeological artifact as a contemporary work of art.
Inspector Sidel dropped the paper, picked up his phone, and dialed his superior at the central Customs Office.
JERUSALEM: THE LADY IS OURS!
JERUSALEM (AP) The Israeli government has announced that the mummified woman on display in St. Joseph's church in Lower Manhattan, currently the object of hysterical devotion by throngs of Catholics and Christians of all denominations, belongs to them.
Spokesman Yishtak Levin claims his government has "indisputable evidence that the remains were smuggled out of Israel on July 22 of this year." Stating that "the remains are a historic national relic and the rightful property of the Israeli people," he demanded its immediate return.
THE NEW YORK POST
Manhattan
Kesev stood on the front stoop of a crumbling brown-stone and watched the roiling mass of people that filled the street in front of the church.
He seemed to be viewing the scene from deep within a long black tunnel. He had known despair and hopelessness before, but never like this. Of all the possible outcomes, this had been his worst-case scenario.
His only hope was the Israeli government's claim to the Mother. If its demand for her return was honored, he had a chance. A slim chance, to be sure, but once she was again on Israeli soil, she was in his domain. As a Shin Bet officer he would be standing by at all times, waiting to leap upon any opportunity to spirit her away.
Certainly he would find no such opportunity here. There was no way in or out of the street, let alone the church where the Mother was on display.
The vulgarity of it drove Kesev into a near frenzy of grief and guilt and rage. He fought the urge to turn and ram his fist through the already cracked glass in the door behind him, then rake his wrist across the razor shards.
But what would that do? What would that prove? It would only draw unwanted attention to him. And the wounds . . . they'd bleed a little, then they would heal up.
And if anyone saw it happen they'd call it another of the Lower East Side miracles. The door might even become a shrine.
He looked over the multitude again, all pressing forward, hoping today would be the day they could get into the church. Some of them had been here for days. They stretched the entire length of the street and into the intersections at both ends. Traffic was snarled throughout the area.
Madness, that was what it was . . .
. . . sheer madness.
Emilio shook his head in disgust as he squeezed between the bumpers of the overheating cars gridlocked on Avenue C. He had always believed the world was full of fools, but this display of gullibility amazed even him.
He checked his watch. Noon. Time for the first of his thrice-daily calls to Paraiso. He found a booth with a functioning phone and leaned close as he tapped in the secure line and calling-card numbers, shielding the buttons from prying eyes. The theft of calling-card numbers had been elevated to an art in this city.
"Yes, Emilio," said the senador's voice as he picked up the line. "I'm glad you're a punctual man. I've been anxiously awaiting your call."
This was not the senador's usual opening. Immediately Emilio was on alert.
"Yes, sir?"
"I know you've been following this thing at St. Joseph's church. Do you still think it's nothing but mass hysteria?"
"All I see around the church are masses of hysterical people, so . . . yes. I do."
"All right, it is mass hysteria, but I'm beginning to think it might be something more."
Emilio leaned back and rolled his eyes. Here we go. But he kept his voice neutral.
"Really?"
"Yes. I've been in touch with some of my contacts in Manhattan, and the unofficial word—this is being kept from the press for the time being—is that a number of the healings in that little church are genuine. We're not talking psychosomatic reversals here, where someone imagines himself a cripple and can't walk until some phon
y-baloney healer—and believe me, I saw plenty of those while I was looking for a cure for Olivia—lays hands on him and tells him to walk. They've got bona-fide cases of far-gone osteoarthritis of the hip who now have normal X rays. And Emilio . . ." The senador paused here. "Some of those healed have been documented cases of AIDS."
"Do you want me to bring Charlie here?" Emilio said. "To the church? I'll get him inside for you—one way or another." He imagined ramming a truck through the packed throng of Mary-hunters and driving it up the front steps of the church.
"No. He's too weak to travel. He might not survive the trip. And even if he did . . ." The senador's voice trailed off.
Emilio knew what he was thinking: St. Joseph's was ringed with photographers from newspapers all over the world. If someone recognized a sick and wasted Charles Crenshaw in the throng, the tabloids would have a field day.
"Whatever it is you want, senador, you simply have to ask and Emilio will see that it is done."
"Thank you, Emilio. I knew I could count on you. But what I'm about to ask will not be easy. It will be the most difficult task I've ever set for you, and most likely ever will."
Emilio didn't like the sound of this. He waited, holding his breath. What could the senador possibly—?
"I want you to bring that relic, or mummy, or whatever it is, here, to Paraiso."
Emilio froze. For a moment he couldn't speak. Then, "Senador, did you say you want me to bring it to Paraiso?"
"You can't fail me on this, Emilio. It may be Charlie's only hope."
"You want me to steal it? Right out of that church?"
"Not steal—borrow. I don't want to own it, I simply wish to make use of it for a few hours, then you can return it."
The Manhattan madness must be highly contagious. The senador had caught it all the way out in California.
"Sir . . . how can I steal it when I can't even get close to it?"
"Yes. That is the major problem. I'm working on this end to make that easier for you. But you must be ready to move at a moment's notice."
Emilio's mind raced. The senador was asking the impossible, yet he seemed to take it for granted that Emilio could pull it off. Normally Emilio would be buoyed by such absolute confidence, but not this time. He admitted limits to his abilities, even if the senador did not.
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