Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel)

by Williams, R. A.

  The least of evils…

  ****

  Steam and aroma rose from the skillet as Jenny grilled chicken for a salad. “Why don’t you chop the cucumbers?”

  Amari was at the kitchen table, but she barely heard Jenny. She was too engrossed in her investigation.

  “Or do you even like cucumbers in your salad?”

  “Okay, why would you go through all the trouble to forge what’s supposed to be the burial shroud of Christ, yet do it in a way that you barely see the image? You can’t even see it up close. You have to be several feet away before it comes into view. And you can’t really see it as a lifelike picture until you look at the photographic negative. That’s when the image really pops. So why would anybody go to all the trouble?”

  “So I guess we’re eating on the coffee table again.”

  “And they didn’t even have photographs back then. How could a forger know to make a picture that could only be seen clearly by a photographic negative? It doesn’t make sense. This thing would cost a fortune to make, even if they had the technology. How could a poor knight who didn’t have enough money to buy his way out of getting killed in battle pay for such a thing?”

  Jenny turned the burner off and put the lid on the skillet. “You see how engrossed you are? You would make such a good detective. You’re like a beagle tracking a rabbit.”

  “I know, you’re right. It’s like a drug I get hooked on. One time when I was in Junior Detectives, I shadowed my dad at work. We were on a case. We were getting so close. It was intoxicating. And we got the guy!”

  Jenny pulled out the kitchen chair and sat across from Amari. “It’s the thrill of the kill, isn’t it? It’s the hunt that excites you.”

  “Yes, I think that’s it.”

  “So are you going to change your major back to criminal justice or what?”

  “I don’t know, Jenny. I don’t want to talk about that right now. Right now I need to focus on the Shroud. There’s so much evidence that says the carbon date is wrong. I mean, just look at this. That knight they claimed first displayed the Shroud couldn’t have been the forger because Nicholas Mesarites—this guy was the custodian of the treasury at the Grand Palace in Constantinople—he cataloged having the Shroud in 1201. That’s 150 years before Geoffrey de Charny got a hold of it. And besides, they have no idea how the image was formed. There’s not a fleck of paint on it. It’s like the fibers have microscopic burns.” She flipped through her notes. “Denatured cellulose is what they think caused the image. The linen is made from cellulose, and some kind of energy caused it to denature. They say light or even radiation coming from the body could have caused it. Now tell me how a forger could have done that?”

  Jenny picked up the photographic negative of the Shroud and studied it, an intrigued look on her face. “You think this could be real?”

  “All I know is that when I look at his face, it’s like something comes over me. It’s like he’s speaking to me. I think God is calling me to prove this isn’t a forgery.”

  “To me it’s just sad. If this really is Jesus, then seeing his bloodied, tortured dead body is very disturbing, don’t you think? And even worse, it’s on the table I’m trying to eat a salad on.”

  “Fine, Jenny, I’ll move it to my bedroom. I’ll put it on a card table or something.”

  “The kitchen table isn’t the point. I don’t see how you can read all the gory details about how much Christ suffered without being just a little sad. You don’t seem to be phased about the pain he must have gone through. And this is the price he paid for your sin. It makes me want to cry when I look at it.”

  Amari gazed upon the face of Jesus on the shroud. “But that’s not the way I see this. That picture is the moment Jesus came alive. The energy that caused this image was God’s power bringing him back from the dead. This is victory over death. It means that someday I’ll overcome death too. Someday I’ll be in heaven.”

  Jenny gasped. “Why didn’t I see this before? This is about your mother. You’re still grieving for your mother,” she said and pointed to the table. “This is how you can feel assured you’ll see your mother again. It’s a psychological protection mechanism against the harsh realities of death.”

  Amari stared at the setting sun streaking into the kitchen, as a beam of light illuminated her research. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s not the whole reason I’m doing this. The Shroud is hope I feel for a lot of people out there. Millions of people.” She outstretched her hand and blocked the sun, causing a shadow to fall on the face of Jesus. “For a lot of people out there, that carbon date will cast a shadow on their only hope. For some other people, it might remove hope completely. If that hope is going to be taken away, then it better be because of something that’s true. It can’t be because of a lie.” She pulled her hand away and let the sun beam fall on the face of Jesus. “The world deserves to know the truth.”

  “Yes, Amari, they do. That’s what a detective does. She exposes the truth. An artist can’t do that. Listen, if this thing is real, then the carbon date is wrong. Something went wrong somewhere. Use your detective skills to find out what happened.”

  “I can’t prove anything. I’m just a novice.”

  “But your dad isn’t. Call him. See what he says about all of this.”

  Amari rubbed at her eyes. “Jenny, please. Stop bringing up my dad.”

  “I don’t want to be a psychiatrist for the money. I want to help people. And right now, you need my help.”

  “And how do you plan on helping me?”

  “You said the world deserves to know the truth, right?”

  “It does.”

  “Well, so do you. You have to confront your feelings. I think you changed your major to art because of repressed hostility toward your dad.”

  That statement caught Amari off guard. “It’s not repressed. I’m very vocal about that.”

  “Yes, but there’s more going on behind your words. Unconscious impulses you aren’t even aware of. I think you changed your major as a way of lashing out at your dad while attempting to extend your mother’s life through art. You preferred to carry on her legacy rather than his.”

  “Jenny, this is none of your business. I don’t want to confront my feelings. I just want to move on.”

  “You won’t find peace until you confront the truth.”

  “If you’re trying to make me cry this out, it’s not going to work. I’ve done that already. There’s nothing left for me to let out, if that’s your therapy angle.”

  Jenny crimped her lips. “Hmmm. I was going for that, actually. Seems like a good cry helps most people.”

  “It’s not going to work on me. You’re just going to make me mad.”

  “My job as a therapist isn’t to cause any particular emotion, but to discover what emotions you’re feeling and go from there.”

  Was she ever going to shut up? Every day, it was the same thing. She was driving her nuts. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about this. If you don’t shut up, I’m going to raise your rent.”

  Jenny just stared back, her lips pursed, an indignant look on her face.

  “You want to know why I’m still mad? It’s because my mother didn’t die from breast cancer.”

  “You said she did.”

  “No,” Amari snapped. “She died from a broken heart. She was doing better. She was in remission until this came out. And then he lied to us both. Always, always, always, he told me. Always tell the truth! And then he lied, and then my mother died.” She slumped back into her chair and cupped her hands over her face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you m—,”

  “Don’t interrupt me. I’m counting to ten.” She took deep breaths as she continued to count. When she finished, her hands fell from her face and she heaved a heavy sigh. “All better now. Mother said I had anger issues. She said count to ten.”

  “And did it work?”

  “A little.”

  “Good, then we’re making p
rogress.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Amari, I know he did a terrible thing. Maybe he did it because your mother’s illness made him feel vulnerable. Your mother couldn’t provide comfort, so he found it any way he could. Who knows why he did it, but it doesn’t matter. We’re all flawed.” Jenny picked up the picture of the Shroud. “That’s why Jesus had to die for us. It’s because we do things like your dad did. Listen, I don’t want to preach, I really don’t. But you know what Jesus said about all this. Unless you forgive others, you can’t be forgiven.” She set the photo back on the table and pointed to Jesus’ wrist. “He paid a terrible price for our sin. If you don’t find forgiveness, then you can’t have it either. Don’t let him die in vain.”

  “I thought you were a psychiatry student. Now you’re in seminary?”

  “How long has it been since you’ve gone to church?”

  “Not since before mother died. Let’s just say God and I haven’t been on the best of terms since then.”

  Jenny pointed at her research. “Then maybe he’s using the Shroud to bring you back.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “This Sunday, you need to go back to your church.”

  “Not back to my old church.”

  “Why not? You grew up there.”

  “Because it’s too embarrassing. Everybody there knows about my dad. Everybody knows I quit going to church. I’m just a backslider to them, the daughter of a man who committed adultery.”

  “Don’t be silly. Nobody thinks that. They probably haven’t stopped praying for you this whole time. Listen, I’ll go with you if it helps.”

  “But you told me you were Southern Baptist. This church is non-denominational.”

  “It’s the same God, isn’t it? Besides, I haven’t found a church in Tucson yet. Maybe this will be it. I’ll go back to Southern Baptist when I go back to the south.”

  “You’d really do that for me?”

  “And for me. We both need to get back to church.”

  Amari massaged her tense jaw muscles as she pondered Jenny’s statement. “I don’t know, let me think about it.”

  “Raise my rent if you want to, but I’m not going to stop pestering you until you say yes.”

  Amari let out a heavy sigh. “All right, I’ll go. But I like the ten o’clock service.”

  “I’ll start doing my hair at eight.”

  Chapter 9

  It was ten at night when Pete and George drove out of the Catalina foothills on East River Road. There had been a suspicious drowning in one of the Spanish tile-roofed mansions that overlooked Tucson. It looked like the fifty-something man may have had a heart attack while swimming alone. His wife found him floating when she’d gotten home. Nothing looked out of place, but they’d have to see the toxicology report to be sure.

  A call came over the radio from dispatch. A burglar alarm reported, 3928 North Alvarez.

  “Hey, Pete, that’s just two streets over,” George said. “You want to check it out or let patrol handle it?”

  “It’s probably the wind,” Pete said. He was bushed. It had been a long day already. Why make it any longer? “May be a short circuit. It’s late.”

  “Suit yourself. You’re the boss.”

  Then again, Pete knew it would bug him all night if they weren’t first on the scene and something was going down. “You say it’s just two streets over?”

  “It’s near that big Jewish Center.”

  “Jewish center, huh?” Pete merged left on East River. He had a hunch. “What are the odds that another place of worship gets an alarm this time of night?”

  “Punch it then.”

  Pete mashed the accelerator and sped down East River, past the compound of the Jewish Community Center, through the sparsely housed Jewish quarter of north Tucson. He cut left. The car slid sideways on the dirt-caked road. Back wheels sent dust flying as he corrected and pushed toward the target.

  “Slow down, it’s right here on the left,” George said.

  Pete swerved into the parking lot and skidded to a stop while he got his bearings. Bushy green mesquite trees in the parking lot medians obscured the synagogue. He flipped off the headlights and eased the car forward. A full moon lit the way and threatened to blow their cover. The place looked empty. No cars in the lot.

  He parked and scanned the scene. It brought back memories of a murder he’d worked in a synagogue a few years before. Up front on the stage were expensive Torah scrolls that could be the object of a theft. “Let’s check the perimeter. See if all the doors are locked.”

  They got out of the car and stood under flood lights that illuminated the building. A pack of coyotes cackled and yelped in the distance, an eerie noise that sounded more like kids playing on a playground than a pack of wild canines.

  George looked over to his left. “You hear that, Pete?”

  “The coyotes?”

  “No, that hum over by the corner of the building.”

  “I hear it. Probably a noisy air unit.”

  George gave two quick sniffs. “Smells like spray paint.”

  “That’s because you’re standing on it,” Pete said and pointed at George’s feet. “It’s graffiti.”

  The light was too low to read it, so George stepped over to the car and got the flashlight. Pete heard a noise from within the church, like a door slamming shut. He drew his gun and moved toward the door. He reached for the knob—the door flung open and bashed him in the head. He fell back into a cactus and hit the ground. A man wearing a motorcycle helmet dashed down the sidewalk. “George, he’s coming your way!”

  “Hey, man, you better stop!” George yelled as he ran after him.

  Seconds later, the revving engine of a motorcycle roared. Before Pete could react, he smelled it. Smoke. He clamored to his feet and yanked open the door. A piece of the broken lock clanged as it fell onto the concrete.

  He heard the motorcycle scream off down the parking lot, followed by two gunshots from George’s pistol.

  He rushed into the foyer and a jab of pain shot from his hip. He winced as he searched for the flame. A table with flyers and prayer hats was on one side of the sanctuary door. White prayer shawls with blue stripes hung on a rack on the other side. He saw no fire but sure smelled the smoke. Then he noticed the smoke curling from the top of the wooden sanctuary doors.

  Pete limped over to the doors and threw them open. Orange flame glowed from the altar and lit the large open room. Smoke rose to the high ceilings and gathered around darkened skylights. He spotted the fire pull station in the corner, rushed to it, pulled the fire alarm, and hefted the fired extinguisher from its hook.

  He limped into the sanctuary. The fire alarm clanged in his ears as he pushed forward to the front, hobbling past wooden pews, desperate to quench the flames before it got out of control. He pulled the pin and kept toward the stage. Flames on carpet inched toward mosaic walls and a tall case with heavy cloth curtains. A light beamed down on the curtains from small light bulbs. Behind those curtains, were the sacred scrolls of the Torah. He had no time to waste.

  He climbed the stairs and aimed for the base of the fire. He squeezed the trigger. A jet of white powder spewed from the extinguisher. He swept the nozzle back and forth, following the trail of flame as it consumed carpet.

  Finally, the fire was out. He dropped the extinguisher and stopped to catch his breath, wiping at his stinging eyes with the top of his wrist. He pulled his shirt over his mouth as a filter for the smoke and worked his way to the exit. He’d done a good thing. Maybe now God would forgive him for the affair. If only Amari would do the same.

  “Pete, you okay?” The beam of George’s flashlight made a white streak through the smoke.

  “Yeah, you?” He limped over to George. “It’s out.”

  “Your hip again?”

  “Only when I fall on it. Or try to run.”

  “Good job on the fire, partner.” George slapped him on the back.

  Burning pain rem
inded him of the cactus. “Hold on, hold on.”

  George shined the light on his back and saw the thorns. “Sorry, boss. That looks painful.”

  “It is, thank you. Let’s go outside so we can breathe.”

  Blue lights flashed onto the sidewalk when they stepped out of the synagogue. An officer walked up, shining a flash light in Pete’s face. “Detective Johnston, is that you?”

  “It’s me,” he said and sat on a bench.

  “Take two ibuprofens and you’ll be good in the morning,” George said.

  “And maybe an ice pack for my head,” he said, fingering the knot rising on his forehead.

  “Are you hurt?” the patrolman asked. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “I’ll live. Thanks anyway,” he said to the patrolman and then turned to George. “So what happened out here?”

  “That hum I heard was his motorcycle. It was idling around the corner. He jumped on it before I could catch him. I squeezed off a couple of rounds, but he went behind those mesquite trees. Couldn’t get a clear shot. He went out the other entrance. I saw his lights head up into the foothills.”

  Pete reached around and winced as he pulled a thorn from his shoulder. “I told you I had a bad feeling about this.”

  “Jihad.”

  “What’s that?”

  George shined the beam of his flashlight on the sidewalk graffiti.

  76 الجهاد

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, October 13, 1988

  Amari was cooking dinner in the kitchen when Jenny came through the back door carrying a sack of groceries.

  “Did you get milk?” Amari asked. “Cause we’re almost out.”

  “Yep, I got it,” Jenny said. She pulled a jar of peanut butter from the bag and placed it in the cupboard. “Hey, before I forget, make sure you watch the news tonight. I talked to Kevin a few minutes ago. He said the carbon date announcement is tonight on the evening news.”

  Amari’s heart throttled up. Why was she so anxious? She knew what they’d found here in Tucson. But what about the other labs? Maybe they dated the cloth to the time of Jesus. “What channel?”