Martha was standing beside him.
Dan couldn’t tell who was more surprised—Gregory or Martha.
The old woman 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 squeeze 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
11o N, 140o 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 foam as it draws up a thin stream into its 200-mile-an-hour vortex.
NINETEEN
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 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 an 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 brownstone 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.
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, shielding the buttons from prying eyes.
“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 Saint Joseph’s church. Do you still think it’s anything 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 phony-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 own abilities, even if the Senador did not.
“I’ll … I’ll need help.”
“Decker and Molinari will be on their way on the jet. We’ll hangar it at LaGuardia so it will be at your disposal when you secure this relic. You’ve got the credit card—charge anything you need. And if you require cash, I can wire that within minutes. Spare no expense, Emilio. This is more important to me than anything else in the world. Remember that.”
“Yes, Senador.”
He hung up. Madre! How in the world was he ever going to pull this one off?
He shook himself. Why worry about it? As long as this thing in the church remained surrounded by a crush of people twenty-four hours a day, there was no possible way the Senador could expect him or anyone else to steal it.
VATICAN: THE LADY IS OURS!
ROME (AP) The Vatican released a statement today claiming the so-called Manhattan Madonna as property of the Catholic Church.
“The object was discovered on Church property and therefore must be considered Church property unless and until other ownership can be established,” contended Cardinal Pasanante, spokesman for the Vatican.
“Too much publicity attends this object already,” the statement reads. “It has become the focus of devotion of hysterical proportions. This is of great concern to the Holy Father. The Church intends to investigate the many claims of miracles associated with the object, and to substantiate the object’s authenticity, if possible.”
When questioned about Israel’s prior claim on the Madonna, Cardinal Pasanante replied, “We are disputing that.” When asked what the Church would do if the object should be proven to be the remains of the Virgin Mary and if Israel’s claim to ownership is upheld, the enigmatic cardinal replied, “There are too many if’s in that question.”
(The New York Post )
IN THE PACIFIC
15o N, 136o W
Quantas flight 902 out of Sidney encounters a massive storm along its route to Los Angeles. Faced with a raging front of swirling clouds, the pilot pushes the L-1011 to another 5,000 feet in altitude and angrily radios back to Sydney. He was told there was no weather on his flight path and here he is facing a monster.
The reply comes that radar shows no sign of the slightest storm activity at flight 902’s location.
The pilot tells Sydney to get its radar fixed because the mother of all supercells is moving northeast along his course.
TEHRAN: IT’S ALL A ZIONIST PLOT!
Ayatollah Seyed Ali Khamenei proclaimed from Tehran in a message to all Islam that the conflict between Israel and the United States over the supposed remains of the Virgin Mary is “a fiction, a plot cooked up between Zionist Israel and its puppets in the United States.” He further went on to state that the miracles associated with this false relic are as fictitious as the ownership conflict. “The infidels’ pitiful attempts to confuse the faithful by presenting false miracles that call into question the great Mohammed’s place as Allah’s one true phosphate will fail. Do not listen. It is the voice of Satan speaking!”
(The Daily News)
TWENTY
Manhattan
Carrie turned away from the steaming stove and wiped the perspiration from her face. Hot down here. She saw Dan sitting in the corner staring at the floor.
“Why so glum, Father Dan?”
He looked up at her. The usual sparkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a haunted look.
I don’t know.” He sighed as he leaned back in the chair. “Don’t you get the feeling that everything’s spinning out of control?”
“No,” she said, and meant it. “Just because we can’t see where events are leading doesn’t mean they’re out of control. We may not be in the driver seat, but that doesn’t mean we’re on a runaway bus.”
“Is anybody in the driver seat?”
“Always.”
He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “I’ll tell you something. No one’s in charge up there in St. Joe’s. It’s chaos.”
“Confused, maybe, but it’s not anarchy.”
“Talk to Father Brenner about that, why don’t you. He’s got a slightly different take on the situation.”
They’d both received a dressing down for opening the church to the Mary-hunters. They’d expected that. Father Brenner had lost control of his church—he couldn’t close it at night, couldn’t say Mass for his regular parishioners, couldn’t get on with the day-to-day business of the parish. Every square inch of St. Joseph’s, from the rear of the sanctuary to the vestibule, down the front steps and into the street, was occupied by a restless, weary mass of humanity in every imaginable state of dress and health.
Father Brenner placed the blame on Dan and Carrie.
Carrie’s order had restricted her to the convent until proper disciplinary action could be taken. Carrie refused to submit to what she saw as house arrest and, much to the dismay of Mother Superior, went about her usual duties at Loaves and Fishes. She’d broken her vow of obedience so many times already she couldn’t see what difference it made if she kept on breaking it. Besides, she’d made a vow to the Virgin to protect her and always stay near—that vow superseded all others.
“Father Brenner should be honored this is happening in his church. So should you. This is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to any of us. Or ever will “
Dan shook his head slowly and smiled. “I wish I could look at everything like you do. I wish I could work a room like you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I wish I could get people to respond to me like you do. You move through those people upstairs like an angel. They’re hot, tired, sick, irritable, and hurting. Yet you squeeze by, say a few words as you pass, and suddenly they love you.”
Carrie felt her cheeks reddening. “Come on …”
“I’m serious. I watch you, Carrie. And believe me, you leave a sea of happiness in your
wake. Sounds corny, I know, but I see the smiles that follow you. I see the love in their eyes, and they don’t even know you. You have that effect on people.”
Carrie hesitated, trying to frame a reply, and then the phone rang. Dan picked it up.
“Hello? Hi, Brad. Fine. Yeah, she’s right here. Hang on.”
He passed the phone over to Carrie, then waved as he took the tunnel back to the rectory.
“Hi, Brad,” Carrie said. “What’s up?”
“It’s Dad.”
Carrie groaned. “Now what?”
“He could be on his way out.”
She’d heard that before.
“What is it this time?”
“They were just getting ready to send him back to the nursing home when he had another heart attack. A bad one. They’ve moved him into the coronary care unit.”
Carrie said nothing, felt nothing.
“He’s asking for you,” Brad said.
“What else is new?”
“The doctors say he’s not going to make it this time. He’s on a respirator, Car. He looks like hell …”
That’s where he’s going.
“… and I just wish, before he dies, you could find some way to forgive—”
“How can I forgive what he did to me?” she said in a fierce whisper. “How?”
“God forgave—”
“I’m not God!”
“At least give him a chance to say he’s sorry.”
“Nothing he can say—”
Brad’s voice rose. “You’re better than he is, Carrie! Act like it!”
And then he hung up.
Carrie stared at the receiver, stunned. Brad had never yelled at her before. Never lost his temper.
She replaced the receiver on the cradle and shoved her hands into her pockets.
Poor Brad. Always the peacemaker—first between that man and Mom, now between that man and her. But how could he think she could ever …
Carrie’s right hand pressed against the two little Zip-loc bags in her pocket. The powdered nail clippings and the ground-up hair …
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