The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  “I do not hide in the church. And I have not left God or the Church.”

  “I doubt God would agree.”

  Dominic pushed the hair out of his face. “He has a path for all of us.”

  “Then his will—will be done through me.”

  “No!” Dominic shouted. “You’re right. You have been sent by God and he has a message. And you are the bearer of that message.”

  The jet began to swing around toward the gate, slowly, closing the gap between it and the jet way.

  Dominic sucked in his breath, as he traced the painted line from the two parallel wheels at the front of the jet to the gate. The line curved, then ran straight, ending in a short ‘T’ at the jet way. Tonita had been carefully laid out so that her body ran perpendicular to the painted line. If the Novice did not kill her, the jet would.

  The pilot perfectly executed the turn, and revving the engines slightly, the jet moved forward.

  “It is time.” The Novice stared into Dominic’s eyes, as the jet’s engines surged. He arched his back letting his head fall back.

  Dominic shouted, “No!” and rushed forward.

  The jet moved within a few feet of the Novice and Tonita’s limp body on the tarmac.

  Dominic’s heart pounded as adrenaline poured into his veins. His eyes bounced from the oncoming jet to the Novice’s foot at Tonita’s throat, then back again. He calculated the distance, and with growing dread, knew he could not make it in time.

  The Novice stood his ground. He watched as Dominic raced forward, ready to sacrifice his life for the whore. “You are a fool,” he shouted over the revving engine of the jet. “You will both die.” Suddenly, the Novice’s face went blank. His eyes opened wide. And then his whole expression turned to shock. He stumbled, falling backwards, fighting to maintain his balance. His right hand came up to his left shoulder, cupping it.

  Dominic continued forward without letting his eyes move from the Novice. He scooped up Tonita, half lifting, half dragging her body off the painted line, out of the path of the oncoming jet and the twin wheels rolling along the line. He pulled her back toward the terminal.

  The Novice pulled his hand away from his shoulder, revealing a growing scarlet stain. He looked directly at Dominic. Then, his eyes drifted over Dominic’s head, allowing his gaze to linger there.

  The jet came to a stop, just feet from the Novice and the end ‘T’ of the painted line.

  The Novice averted his gaze from behind Dominic to the jet in back of him. He turned back to Dominic and smiled.

  Then suddenly, the pilot revved the jet’s engines. The turbines sprang to life and spun with ferocity, roaring and whining in a cacophony of noise, propelling the aircraft forward as it closed the gap between the front wheels of the plane and the painted “T” at the end of the line.

  The Novice’s eyes grew wide and the sudden realization hit him, as he first stumbled, then was picked up by the tremendous force of the spinning turbines and sucked backwards into the engines, folding in half, face to foot, as the fan cut him into pieces and thrust him out the rear of the engine in a scarlet spray.

  Dominic stared at the unfathomable sight of a man blended by the jet’s turbines into little more than liquefied flesh and blood. The awestruck disgust at the horrific sight turned quickly to relief, as a moan escaped from Tonita’s lips. Her eyes opened, fluttered, and closed. Dominic turned, looking over his shoulder to the same spot behind him. The place the Novice had been looking.

  Inspector Carrola stood atop a small set of stairs that led from the terminal to the tarmac, pistol raised.

  SEVENTY TWO

  “DOMINIC?” INSPECTOR Carrola spoke softly, respectful of the chapel and the prayers recited here.

  Dominic lifted his head from his hands and shifted his knees on the thick padding of the pew’s knee rest. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. The voice was instantly recognized. He had been waiting these past few hours for him to come. The hours spent here in the chapel had been a welcome relief from the minutes spent on the tarmac at the airport. The flow of adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he watched the Novice toy with Tonita’s life, and his own, had faded soon after the events unfolded, and had left him feeling empty, sad, depressed and exhausted.

  The Novice got what he deserved, Dominic thought and then immediately tried to erase the thoughts and the vision from his consciousness of the final moments. Instead every detail grew sharper, words and sounds unheard, as he stood upon the tarmac, were now clearly heard and left to repeat in his mind. Sights and smells came rushing back as he contemplated the moments. He had, just in the nick of time, as the saying goes, he thought, pulled Tonita to safety. But the vision of two-foot diameter wheels rolling over her torso, with the hundreds of tons of aircraft above them flattening her body—kept playing out in his mind. Dominic shook his head trying to dislodge the vision.

  The medical team at the airport pounced on Tonita once the area was cleared. They swarmed around her, shouting in Italian for medical equipment and supplies. They pumped and pounded on her frail body. Jabbing syringes of clear liquid into her veins. Her body remained limp. And despite the comforting words of the medics, Dominic could not help but wonder and worry and draw the only conclusion that he could.

  Until that moment in the customs area of the airport, when the image of the Novice, disguised in a hooded robe at Cardinal Celent’s apartment, flashed back, he had all but forgotten about the man he now knew as the Novice of the Jesuit order. A Novice to the Society. He had believed that the man—the Novice—was dead, or at least seriously injured after the fall down the long set of stairs that led to Cardinal Celent’s apartment. He never expected to see the man again, and when he saw him at the airport with his hair deep red and his strength intact the images of the man in Cardinal Celent’s apartment and the man in customs, did not immediately come together. He consoled himself with the thought that he didn’t even know of the man and his determination to kill both Tonita and himself.

  At Cardinal Celent’s apartment, he had acted on instinct. There was a clear sense of evil and Dominic had acted almost without thought, pulling the Novice forward, causing him to lose his balance and tumble down the stairs. All of his actions—reactions, he reconsidered—were that of prey. It was instinctive. It was an act of self-preservation.

  It was all coming together as he laid out the events of the last few days. The monk who attacked him and Cardinal Celent in his apartment. The priest who died there. The Novice. Cardinal Celent. Senator Scott. The Vatican. Each had a role in the events. Each participated to do what they thought or were told that God wanted them to do. And then a thought struck him with an emotional sledgehammer.

  Tonita?

  His doubts played on him. He pushed them away with prayer. Our Father who art in heaven...he began the silent prayer, but before he could finish the first line, the words of the Novice came back to him. I have not chosen to leave him after he has placed such faith in me. He started the prayer again, Our Father who art in heaven...and the doubts intruded once again. Dominic raised his eyes upward, looking to the one stained glass window high above the Nave of the chapel. The blue, red, yellow, and purple glass reflected the light, not cast from the sun, but from the LED lighting framing the window. Dominic shook his head in dismay.

  The Novice had spoken the truth. Dominic had chosen to leave the church. He had given up on God and the church, but still lived in the shadows of Vatican, taking refuge there. And he did this while denying the church and God. How had the Novice known? The question dogged him.

  Had he become a modern version of Judas, betraying God, and all the while taking comfort and refuge in his church? He hid there, just as Judas had.

  Dominic had left the church because of the lingering doubts in his belief. He had convinced himself that those were doubts about God, and whether He existed. And if He did, whether He cared about man or not. Now, head raised to the heavens, he realized the cloud of doubt was not about whether
God existed, but, instead, whether Dominic existed. He was secure in the existence of the shell that others called Dominic—in his body of flesh and blood. He could feel it, taste it, and abuse it. It was his to do as he wished. But there was more. Or, he thought, should be more, and that is where his true doubt lie. He could not commit to the spirit of himself. Self-preservation or divine intervention? The question rose up in his thoughts.

  A hand touched Dominic’s shoulder, lingering lightly there. “Chi più meglio per indicare che il dio esiste, il credi o non—il credi? Who better to learn that God does exist? The believer or the non-believer?”

  Dominic turned toward the softly spoken voice.

  Cardinal Celent took hold of the pew rail and lowered himself to the bench. He carefully slid forward, placing his knees on the knee rest. He brought his hands together, then, making the sign of the cross, he said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and ...” he paused, turning to Dominic, “in the name of the Holy Spirit.” Completing the sign of the cross, Cardinal Celent raised his hand, moving it to Dominic’s face. He wiped away a tear that had slowly formed in the corner of Dominic’s eye. He stared for a long moment, looking past the surface of Dominic’s eyes and into his soul. “And Jesus wept,” he said, repeating the words from the shortest verse in the Bible.

  Dominic leaned his head on Cardinal Celent’s shoulder. Then, turning to the large cross that hung from the ceiling of the chapel at the front of the nave, he spoke, “Lord, I am not worthy, but only say the words and I shall be healed.” He repeated the words falling into a chant, “Lord, I am not worthy, but only say the words and I shall be healed. Lord, I am not worthy...”

  And Cardinal Celent joined in, “... But only say the words and I shall be healed.”

  SEVENTY THREE

  CARDINAL CELENT BROUGHT the ancient bits of torn cloth and rags to his face and breathed in the stale, raw aroma of the two thousand year old fabric. The dry desert air of New Mexico had kept the cloth from mildewing and rotting, and despite the more than sixty years that the cloth of ancient Judea had remained buried under the stones and rocks outside of Corona, the material had little deterioration. He carefully placed the bundle of cloth down onto the altar of the small chapel.

  Dominic and Inspector Carrola each stood to one side of Cardinal Celent, like altar boys at mass, watching Cardinal Celent as he unwrapped the metal-like foil that had once lined the water pit surrounding the small brown building. It was the same foil that he had gathered from the brush of the desert after his return from ancient Jerusalem. He carefully pulled it back, piece by piece, revealing more of the rags of cloth. He set the cloth aside, then removed a small bundle of tightly twisted foil that had been hidden underneath. He slowly untwisted the end of the foil and poured out the contents onto the altar. A handful of pebbles and sand fell onto the polished wooden top of the altar, forming a tiny pile. Cardinal Celent looked up to the cross, then turned to Dominic and said, “The blood of Christ.” He reached out and picked up one of the rust colored, blood stained pebbles, took Dominic’s hand, and placed the pebble in the center of his palm. Cardinal Celent wrapped his own hand around Dominic’s, closing them both.

  Dominic’s eyes closed, and his head fell back as his body shuddered. After a moment he opened his eyes and smiled.

  Cardinal Celent unfolded his hand from Dominic’s and turned back to the altar and the bundle of foil and cloth. Removing another layer of foil, revealed a final wrapped object; he pulled the last piece from the foil and, with great care, began to fold back the layer upon layer of foil that had encased the object for more than sixty years. The last piece of foil was peeled back, revealing a folded square of papyrus paper. Cardinal Celent touched the papyrus with the tip of his first two fingers and was immediately taken back to the scene of the crucifixion. In his mind, he replayed the moments.

  A commotion behind him caught his attention, and he turned to see the man he thought to be Pilate standing in a small chariot pulled by a team of heavily breathing horses. Several Centurions followed the chariot on foot, keeping up the best they could, as Pilate circled the plateau of Golgotha, screaming at the crowd, “Illic is exsisto jesus talea abbas. Vos certus!”

  The crowd of thieves, peasants, and clergy parted in the wake of the chariot, and then, like a great ocean wave, folded back together as the charging horses and crazed man passed.

  Pilate circled again, nearly trampling an older woman who could barely move quickly enough, and would have certainly been hacked to death by the pounding hooves, if a man hadn’t grabbed her by the waist pulling her out of the path of the oncoming chariot. Pilate passed her, with only inches separating the woman and the chariot’s wheels. He gave her no notice and continued shouting his rant, “Illic is exsisto jesus talea abbas. Vos certus!” His face red, veins pulsing in his neck, Pilate snapped the reins onto the haunches of the horses and urged them on into a frenzy. He circled again raising up the dust and throwing the crowd into a near panic as they tried to project the path of the chariot and clear a route. The centurions, who had been following the chariot on foot, had now given up the chase and stopped near the pathway, panting and sweating under the heavy cloth and armor of their rank. They watched in dismay as their commander screamed again to the crowd, and then turned the chariot in their direction.

  Pilate headed directly for the centurions and the spot where William “Bill” Celent, the young scientist, who would someday be Cardinal, now stood. The crowd ahead of the chariot scurried out of the way of the galloping horses and the bouncing, nearly out of control, chariot. Pilate grabbed the reins with one hand and steadied himself with the other, taking hold of the rail mounted to the side of the chariot. He pulled the reins to the right, and the horse responded by turning onto the pathway and headed down the hill, following the same path Christ did on his way up to the sight of crucifixion. The chariot’s wheels hit a rut in the worn path as it turned, sending Pilate and the cart into the air. It landed hard. Pilate fell forward. The chariot skidded to the side, then righted itself. Pilate pulled back on the reins, leaning his body back as he did. The horses slowed and Pilate turned back to the crowd. And again, in a voice now rough and dry, yelled out in Latin, “Illic is exsisto jesus talea abbas. Vos certus!” There he should be. Jesus bar Abbas. Bar Abbas. You decided! “Vos certus! Vos certus!”

  Pilate, with the Roman centurions, again in quick pursuit, continued down the path back through the gate and into the city of Jerusalem. The now crazed crowd turned their attention to the remaining centurions and the task at hand. The crucifixion.

  Bill Celent adjusted the rags and bits of cloth around his face, making sure that only his eyes could be seen. He took a step forward, glancing down to check his footing, and there, not a foot and half in front of him, he saw the rolled sheet of papyrus. As the chariot that Pilot was commanding hit the rut in the path and jostled the cart into the air, the papyrus roll had also gone airborne and had landed there at the feet of Bill Celent. Unseen by others in the crowd, who were too concerned with their own wellbeing and the man who lay in a crumpled heap on the ground before them, Bill picked up the papyrus roll and tucked it into a fold in the jumpsuit, well camouflaged beneath the rags.

  On the altar, unwrapped from the foil and exposed, the papyrus that had once been rolled, was now a flattened square, compressed by the years hidden beneath desert rock, but still remained quite supple. The edges had frayed and one corner had broken away, crumbling into near dust and collected at the bottom of the foil wrapping.

  Cardinal Celent pulled gently on the edge of the papyrus. The sheet came away from the underlying sheet. Even though the papyrus had been folded, it did not bond into the sheet below. Now, using both of his hands, Cardinal Celent held the top of the scroll with one hand, pressed firmly down on it, and with the other hand pulled the sheets apart. As the sheet uncoiled, letters became visible: IES. The lines of text were not written left to write, but ran from the top to the bottom of the scroll. Cardinal Celent un
folded another, the center piece of the papyrus roll, and now a more of the text could be seen: IESUS.

  Cardinal Celent looked into Dominic’s eyes and smiled. He continued to watch Dominic’s expression as he unrolled the scroll completely, pressing it flat to the altar, revealing the complete text.

  IESUS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM

  ישו והמתנזרת מלך היהודים

  Ο Ιησούς του βασιλιά των Εβραίων

  Dominic’s eyes grew wide. He brushed the hair from his forehead, glanced at Cardinal Celent, then traced the letters of the first line of the text with his finger, and read the words aloud, “Jesus Nazarene King Jews.” He looked back to Cardinal Celent, then back to the papyrus scroll, as the understanding of what he was reading—what he was looking at and what he was touching—struck him with as much force as a bolt of lightning surging from the clouds above could have. He read the line again, “Jesus the Nazarene King of the Jews.”

  Cardinal Celent smiled as he watched the man next to him; the Key had just come to the understanding of the task that God had handed him. Just like himself, God had chosen a non-believer to carry the truth and the unimaginable burden that knowing the truth would bring. He had, with the aid of only the trusted few, been able to shoulder this holy burden for the past sixty years. And now, he was just a moment away from passing it on. An odd sense of loss, tremendous freedom mixed with regret, welled up within him. It had been an unexpected journey. His life had been in science, not the occult, and religion had little effect upon him. Yet, God had taken him from the books of fact to a book of faith. He had learned that he did not need faith to carry this burden. He had been shown the truth. A truth that he quickly learned, that must be kept for the few. It was a truth too dangerous to reveal to the world. Governments and people had set up their lives around their systems of beliefs and faiths. And the revelation to the world of what had happened in the New Mexican desert sixty years ago would have caused the world,—that had at the time just come out of a war that involved to many governments, countries and people—to slip back into chaos.