The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  Cardinal Celent fought to release the information. He wanted to show the world what he had found. Show them that God did exist. He was convinced that it would heal the wounds of war. Other’s, however didn’t agree. The Soviets would never have accepted the church or Jesus, nor would the Japanese, the Chinese, or any other country and government that had already established its power and authority. There were far too many who would rise up against the truth. “My numbers are legion.” The words of Satan crept into his thoughts. Cardinal Celent had come to understand what the consequences of revealing the truth to the world would mean. And when the Vatican had ruled on the matter, in a secret synod chosen by the Pope, and had decided that the time was not right. Cardinal Celent had then, reluctantly, obliged to be of the few to bear the burden of this truth. It was his hope that during his lifetime, that truth could be revealed and the world would come together in it. But as he now knew, there had not been, nor would there ever be a time when the truth could be told.

  Cardinal Celent let his hand slide away from the bottom of the papyrus scroll that he had pressed flat against the altar, revealing the few remaining inches of the papyrus and the wax seal there.

  “Pontius Pilate,” Dominic said the words a loud. He touched the cracked darkened wax lightly with the tip of his finger. He could feel the rounded, smooth edges and the indentation of the seal into the wax. The profile of a man and the words Pontius Pilatus had been pressed into the wax while it was molten over two thousand years ago. The impression remained clean and clear. The wax seal was encircled by a legend that read in Latin: Praefectus Judea. “This is the seal of Pontius Pilate?”

  “When the Governor of Judea rode through the crowd, excitedly screaming that he had offered Barabas to them in order to spare Jesus’ life, this scroll fell to where I was standing. I picked it up, but did not know at the time what it was. And when I returned to the desert in New Mexico, I was surprised that I had it. But, like everything that happened that day in Roswell, we were not in control,” Cardinal Celent said, then looked into Dominic’s eyes. “These are the words that Pilate wrote,” he said, then added. “What I have written I have written,” quoting the words of John from the New Testament. “Pilate responded with those words when the chief priest’s made a request to him to change the titilum, ‘What I have written I have written.’”

  Dominic touched each line of the text on the scroll and spoke, quoting John further, “Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read: ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.’ Many of the Jews read this inscription, because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew, in Latin, and in Greek.”

  SEVENTY FOUR

  DOMINIC CAREFULLY FOLDED the papyrus scroll back onto itself, then, securely wrapped the metal foil around it. He repeated the process with the blood stained pebbles, securing them tightly by twisting the ends of the metal foil, so that the small package resembled a piece of wrapped candy. He laid out the pieces of cloth, one on top of the other. Then, he put the metal foil wrapped papyrus scroll and pebbles into the middle of the cloth and folded the material, drawing the bottom portion up and then folding down the top. He folded the ends together creating an envelope of the cloth. He took the bundled artifacts, wrapped them in the remaining metal foil, and placed that into his backpack, zipping the compartment closed. He flung the backpack over his shoulder and turned to Cardinal Celent. He opened his mouth slightly, as if there were words for this moment, hesitated, then closed his mouth and simply stared into the eyes of the Cardinal.

  A moment later, he reached out taking hold of the Cardinal’s hand, placing his own within it.

  The men shook hands, each lost for words.

  Dominic stepped away from Cardinal Celent and headed up the main aisle of the small chapel.

  Inspector Carrola stood at the door. He had remained a silent guard and witness, and Dominic realized in that brief moment in between the steps in his stride, that Inspector Carrola’s involvement had, all along, been a part of the design. Dominic stopped in front of the Inspector, smiled, and held out his hand. The Inspector had been right of course, questioning Dominic’s faith and loyalty. Hard words that stung at the time. But now, words that rang true, he thought, as he took the Inspector’s extended hand and shook it.

  “She is okay, Dominic,” Inspector Carrola said, releasing Dominic’s hand. “Tonita is okay, and she will recover completely.”

  Dominic sighed, let his smile slip for a moment, and then nodded. He pushed through the doors leading from the small chapel back into the brightly lit, sterile hallways of the hospital.

  “THE PEACE OF THE LORD, be with you.”

  “And also with you,” a near unison response welled up from the seated congregation.

  “The mass has ended. Go in peace.”

  The congregation rose to its feet as the organ high up in the balcony above began to sound a low brassy note. “Amen,” they chanted back.

  Father Dominic Renzi stepped down from the altar, turned back to the cross, and the image of Christ hanging, arms stretched, head looking skyward, intricately carved into the wood. He bowed, made the sign of the cross, and turned back to the waiting congregation, now singing out to the vibrations of the organ. He walked to the back of the church. He waited there as the song ended and the congregation exited past him, shaking hands, kissing babies, and blessing many.

  “You seem to have found your calling.”

  Dominic looked up. “Yes, I believe I have.”

  “Well done. We are very proud of you.” Inspector Carrola slapped Dominic on the side of the arm. “You will never be alone, you know that. We will always be here.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.” Dominic smiled. “I am sure that I can count on you. But it will be many years before I will need to pass on the truth.”

  “I may not be here then, and certainly Cardinal Celent will not, but there will always be someone. Someone you can trust.” Inspector Carrola paused as a congregant passed by. “It is our destiny.” Inspector Carrola slapped Dominic once again upon the shoulder and exited the church.

  Fifteen minutes later, after the last of the congregants had filed by and the doors to the church had been closed, Dominic stepped into the sacristy—the room that connects to the nave of the church, just beyond the altar. There, he removed the chasuble, lifting up the garment from over his head and carefully hanging it in the closet. He reflected momentarily on the large cross embroidered into the fabric, the symbolic representation of the purple robe worn by Christ when he went before Pilate. He untied the stole and hung it next to the chasuble, then the cincture, and let the alb—the long tunic—fall loosely to the floor.

  There was a knock at the sacristy door, followed by, “May I come in?” and Tonita stuck her head into the room.

  “Sure,” Dominic waved her in.

  Tonita stepped in. She cocked her head and looked at Dominic, who, dressed in the long hanging white tunic, with his dark hair and deep, black eyes, and the bit of shadow caused by the dark hairs of his shaven face, looked as though he had just stepped out of painting by Rubens.

  Tonita sighed.

  “I’m glad you came by. I was hoping you would.”

  “I can’t stay long, the others are waiting.” Tonita gestured out the open door.

  Dominic stared at her, smiled, raised an eyebrow, and said, “You look beautiful.”

  “In this?” Tonita frowned. “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “Well then,” Tonita laughed when she spoke, “so do you.”

  Dominic looked into her eyes. “I’m going to miss you.” He wanted her, and he was sure that she wanted him. They loved one another. Truly loved one another. Yet, both had chosen paths that would lead them away from each other. A higher calling, he joked internally, as he fought the urge to grab her, kiss her, and have his way with her.

  “Sister? We will be departing shortly,” An Italia
n accented voice echoed in from the hall.

  Tonita smiled, then let the smile slip as she fought back tears. “I’m sorry, Dom.”

  “No need to be.”

  “I didn’t want to deceive you. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Tears began to slip down her face. “And I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.” She rushed forward and flung her arms around Dominic’s neck.

  Dominic returned the embrace, holding on to her tightly, pulling her close, feeling the coarse fabric of the Habit she was wearing. After a moment, he gently pushed her back.

  Tonita raised a hand and brushed the hair from his forehead. She stepped back from him. She looked at him. The expression on her face changed from sad to smiles and back again.

  “I have something for you,” Dominic said, pulling the book of Roswell, that Cardinal Celent had given him, off of a shelf and handing it to her. “Just a way to remind you.”

  Tonita took the book and brought it up close to her heart. “I don’t think that I’ll need any mementos to remind me. But thank you.”

  “Sister? You are coming now?” The older woman’s voice carried a tone of concern.

  Dominic leaned in and kissed Tonita on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

  She turned and walked out the door. “Yes, Mother Superior. I am on my way.”

  MINUTES LATER, THE other sisters in the Order had all settled into their seats on the motor coach. Most were now in silent prayer, reading passages from the Bible. Some eyes were closed, asleep, or genuflecting. Tonita sat alone in the seat. Since her return, the others had given her the space they thought she needed. None of them knew for certain the reason that she had been gone for so long. “Personal time to find herself and to reaffirm her calling with God,” Mother Superior had told the sisters when they asked about Tonita’s absence from the Order. She had deceived them also, and she told herself that she would make that up to them. And that someday, they might understand.

  Tonita looked out of the large, tinted window of the bus as the driver carefully maneuvered the coach slowly through the narrow and crowded streets of Rome. The drive back to the convent at Abbazia di Santa Maria in Farfa would take little more than an hour. But in that hour, the Sisters of Santa Maria would virtually be transported back to the middle ages and to a sanctuary of great importance to the papacy of old. Today, the former great abbey of the papacy has given way to time and the elements, and few reside there. The sisters of Tonita’s order preside over the small guesthouse, taking in and caring for the few tourists who venture to the medieval city.

  Tonita glanced at the book on Roswell she had tucked into the flap on the backside of the seat in front of her. Cardinal Celent had come to her personally, visiting the abbey on an historical tour from the Vatican. He had arranged, prior to the trip with the Mother Superior, to meet with Sister Maria a Sunta, the divine name that Tonita had taken on when she had joined the order. It was then, that Cardinal Celent had recruited her. She sighed heavily, regretting and celebrating her decision at once. She reached out and lifted the book from the pocket of the seat in front of her. She flipped through one page and then another. Then, taking her thumb, fanned the pages of the book, taking in the dusty, worn smell of the paper and ink. She fanned the pages again, then once more. It wasn’t the smell of the dried up paper that had caught her attention. There was something else. Tonita opened the book so that it was flat on her lap. The pages quickly fell to the right and to the left, parting at the approximate center of the book. All the pages fell to one side or the other.

  Except one.

  The page that Dominic had torn out. The page that contained the hidden map. That one page now stood alone. It had been placed back in the book.

  Tonita lifted the parted book and closely examined the page. It had been carefully pasted directly into the center fold of the book, just where the binders glue would have been, holding the page tight into the bind. She turned her eyes to the lines of text on the previous page tracing the last line into the next. The text flowed perfectly from the previous page, onto the new page and then onto the page after. There were no revealing marks that the page had ever gone missing. No new text. No torn text. And no missing text. The page fit perfectly with the other pages of the book. And except for the fact that it was almost unnoticeably thicker, no one could ever know that it held the map to the truth.

  SEVENTY FIVE

  THE CLOISTERS AT ABBAZIA di Santa Maria, built during the Middle Ages, surrounded a library. The sisters of Tonita’s order, in addition to seeing to the needs of visiting guests at the guesthouse and helping to care for the few Monks who lived at the abbey, they were also in charge of the upkeep of the magnificent collection of over twenty thousand rare volumes.

  Tonita searched the row upon row of near capacity shelves that lined the walls. Ancient, painstakingly hand printed and painted gospels, and rare tattered books on Greek and Roman history, the Crusades, and works by Albrecht Durer, the German master printer of the 16th century, were tucked into every conceivable place. Some stacked upon others, some rested on shelves in front of books, lined in perfect little rows. It was an amalgam of chaos and order. She stopped toward the end of the long row of shelves and climbed upon a chair that doubled as a ladder. She pulled out a small book that had been tucked in between two others, leaving an inch gap in the row of tightly compacted books. She reached into the cincture of the habit she had gone back to wearing, giving away the street clothes that she had worn for so many months, and took out the book on Roswell that had been securely tucked into the cincture. She slid the book on Roswell into the inch wide opening between the two books. She then took the book that had originally occupied the space and pushed it into the same space, making it look as though only one book filled the slim area between the book on the right and the book on the left. She hopped down from the chair and left the library, closing the door on a room filled with millions of words...and the silent truth.

  EPILOGUE

  SENATOR SCOTT STEPPED spryly up onto the stage. Cameras were rolling. Photographers snapped shots and reporters crowded the room. He did not want to look feeble and aging to the press corps —despite his advanced age—so he grinned as though he moved without the soreness and stiffness in his muscles that accompanied his age. He moved to the podium situated center stage. The round seal of the United States with the symbolic eagle, shield, olive branch, arrows, stars and stripes, like the great seals of ancient Judea and Rome, was attached to the front of the podium. “Ladies and Gentlemen, honored guests, and members of the press, thank you for your attention. My name is Senator Ray Scott. I have been a member of the United States Senate for a great number of years now, thanks to my constituency and God. It gives me great pleasure, after many hard won battles in congress, to announce to you today that the funding for the Atlas Pulsed Power Experimental Facility, which has been moved from Los Alamos in New Mexico to the Nevada Test Site, has been appropriated.” Senator Scott moved his eyes around the room, glancing quickly at each of the military guests and reporters in the room. His eyes held for a moment, caught in the gaze of a man standing against the back wall of the room.

  The man nodded slightly, almost unnoticeably.

  Senator Scott retuned the nod, then quickly moved his eyes, sweeping the room again, and continued with his speech. “The $49 million dollar Atlas Pulsed Power machine will be a great asset to our scientific community and will serve the United States well. Its ability to generate massive electromagnetic...” he paused, “Well, let me bring Doctor Joseph Bechtel to the podium to explain the significant accomplishments that this machine is capable of. Doctor Bechtel.”

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I wasn’t prepared to speak. I’m really just here to support the Senator, who I can assure you knows every detail of the Atlas Pulsed Power Machine. But let me give it a try.” He adjusted the glasses on his nose, just as one would have expected of a scientist of physics to do, then continued, “The Atlas Pulse Powered Machine is really just a big magnet. The
machine is a circle of twenty-four meters of approximately seventy nine feet in diameter, and has the ability to produce an electrical output that is equal to four times the world’s total electrical power production. The way it works is like this: the amperage of Atlas is very near, if not over, thirty million amps. The machine stores the built up electrical energy slowly, over a period of time, and then releases it in a jolt that is massive. The jolt of electrical energy is caught within the magnetic field and funneled into a thin beam that can project a plane from New York to Los Angeles in just a few seconds. It is a remarkable machine. You might say that it is a machine capable of permitting time travel...”

  Senator Scott moved quickly, stepping in close to the Doctor, and gently eased him away from the microphone. “Thank you, Doctor Bechtel for that information. I know you weren’t prepared to speak, so we will keep any questions for Doctor Bechtel until after the press conference. I would also like to mention that our technical exchange with the Russian scientists on the Atlas project will also continue as planned. The exchange with Russia on pulse-powered science has been a great achievement for both of our countries. After all, it was with Rasputin that this journey all began. And it is with God’s blessing that we will continue.”

  The man at the back of the room looked directly into Senator Scott’s eyes, a gaze that the Senator could not pull himself away from. The man raised his right hand and moved it to his forehead. He touched his forehead, then moved his hand to his chest, then his left shoulder and completed the gesticulation at his right shoulder. He brought his hand up to his lips and kissed the curled fingers and mouthed the words, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”