Looking at her closely, Castle could see that she too was levitating and that she was walking with her feet about one foot above the floor.
Castle strained his eyes to comprehend what he was seeing, but Anne seemed to have exchanged her twenty-first-century clothes for the veil and robes common to Jewish women two thousand years ago.
Bartholomew stretched out his hand to receive Anne. The moment the two touched, a burst of illumination filled the room. Castle and everyone else in the room felt the pulse pass through their bodies as if an electric shock had hit them. Forcibly, he and the others were thrown to the ground. The rumble of thunder and the flashing of lightning filled the private chapel as if all Heaven had burst loose and its energy was pouring forth in waves pulsing through every cell of their bodies. For what seemed an eternity, the vibrations made every tissue of bone and muscle in Castle’s body quiver as if he were going to burst apart.
Then, as quickly as the event began, it was over.
Gone was the brilliant illumination.
Gone also were Father Bartholomew and Anne Cassidy.
Those on the floor, including the pope and the cardinal, moved slowly, their bodies aching throughout from the surges that had penetrated them. Castle was beginning to understand they had been hit by translucent, pure impulses of irradiant energy.
“What happened?” was the inevitable question, with the only answer being the pathetically inadequate “I don’t know.”
Father Morelli was the first to recover sufficiently to notice the only tangible evidence of the transcendent phenomenon they had just experienced.
“Look,” Morelli said, struggling to stand. “The Shroud—the image has gotten brighter.”
Castle’s immediate reaction was that the inexplicable splendor of pure light had rattled Morelli’s brain. But then he looked for himself. Sure enough, Morelli was right. The reddish brown lines that had previously defined the image of the man on the Shroud faintly to the naked eye had darkened decidedly, showing much more definition in the figure. The wounds now stood out in great detail, and the anatomical features were also more visible.
But that was not all that had changed.
“And the eyes have opened,” Father Middagh said with astonishment as he weaved back and forth, suggesting his ability to remain upright on his feet was very uncertain at best.
Castle thought Middagh had lost his mind, until he looked. Once again, Castle was astounded. Before, the eyes of the man in the Shroud had been closed. Now the eyes of the man in the Shroud were wide open, looking straight ahead. The once solemn and serene face now looked as if the Christ figure within were about to begin speaking.
Ferrar forced himself to his feet and rushed over to his camera crew. Reviewing the video, Ferrar saw they had recorded everything, including the illumination. “Keep taping.” Ferrar encouraged the camera crew, doing his best to make sure the cameras were still running. Ferrar did not want to lose a second of anything that happened.
Positioning himself in front of the cameras, Ferrar began what would be his afternoon newscast a few hours from now, relayed by satellite from Rome to New York and from there broadcast to every corner of the globe.
“You won’t believe what just happened,” Ferrar said into the camera with a look of disbelief on his face.
Castle was sure that was correct. If it had not been recorded, no one would have believed it.
From what Castle was provisionally putting together, he was beginning to conclude that Father Bartholomew had won his challenge with the pope. What had just happened before them in this small, private chapel in the Cathedral of Turin was unprecedented, uncaptured in human history.
As best Castle could figure, Father Bartholomew had just transitioned into a dimension beyond and he had taken Anne with him. As Dr. Bucholtz had warned him, the Shroud of Turin was a codex into ancient mysteries he and others would have no choice but to decode. Even more than a codex, the Shroud was a portal, an entry point into the dimension beyond.
Looking within himself in those first moments after the event, Castle had to admit that he was now willing, for the first time in his life, to consider the possibility of God, or at least of the existence of dimensions he had never before contemplated as existing.
Maybe Father Bartholomew was right that creating an experience beyond what we consider the normal laws of nature, in full view of the world, was the mission God sent him back to earth to accomplish.
But if Castle thought, even for a second, that his religious conversion was going to be immediate, picking up Gabrielli off the floor was all he needed to plant his feet firmly once again on terra firma.
“That was the best magic trick that I ever saw in my life,” Gabrielli said, brushing himself off and rearranging his clothes. “How do you think the pope did it?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Friday night
Hassler Hotel, Rome, Italy
Day 30
That evening, Dr. Castle returned to Rome in a daze.
He decided to go to the rooftop restaurant at the Hassler and have dinner by himself, hoping he would find the quiet time to sort out what he had just experienced.
Twilight was coming and the lights of the Vatican highlighted Rome with a magic that tonight he saw through different eyes. Perhaps Father Bartholomew had been right after all. Castle had always understood that religion could not be achieved by reason alone. Bartholomew was right in asserting that Castle had never gone through an experience that required him to believe in God. For the first time in his life, Castle was wondering if he had just gone through that type of experience.
As he sipped his wine and tried to decide if he had the appetite for dinner, the maître d’ approached him with a package.
“The signora you had dinner with here earlier this week left this package at the front desk for you today as she left the hotel,” he explained. “She said you would probably be dining here alone tonight and she felt certain you would want to have this.”
Befuddled, Castle tipped the maître d’ generously and accepted the package, having no possible idea what it might contain.
A purple ribbon bound the contents in wrapping paper Castle recognized from one of the shops he and Anne had visited in the past few days along the Via Condotti, just below the hotel on the Spanish Steps, at the Piazza di Spagna.
He opened the package with haste, finding within it a letter and a photo album. The letter was from Anne.
“By the time you read this, I will be gone,” Anne wrote. “What you must know is that I am and always was Paul Bartholomew’s mother. After his car accident, when we were reunited before God, I promised that if Paul would accept the mission to return to life, I would return as well, to accompany him. So, you see, I invented Paul’s half sister in order to explain my presence back in his life. Seeing me in the hospital, Paul recognized me immediately. But when Paul and I spoke with one another privately in the hospital, I explained to him how it had to be. I could not come back as his mother. Everyone knew I had died of Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
Castle took a drink of his wine, struggling to grasp what Anne was telling him.
“When the authorities investigate Anne Cassidy in Canada, they will find that Anne Cassidy never existed. Obtaining documentation such as a passport these days is unfortunately easy to do.”
Reading this, Castle motioned the waiter over to the table and asked for a double scotch, no ice. “Please bring it immediately,” Castle told the waiter. “I need it now.”
“Subito,” the waiter said compliantly in perfect, crisp Italian, as he rushed off to bring Dr. Castle his drink.
The waiter rushed back with the scotch, as ordered. Castle took a strong swig, then another.
He resumed reading.
“The photo album is Paul’s photo album, from when he was a baby. You will see there is no father for Paul in any of the photographs. You will see that the woman you knew as Anne Cassidy is the same woman that appears in the photos as Paul
’s mother, Anne Bartholomew. There never was a Vietnam War hero named Jonathan Bartholomew who returned mysteriously from being missing in action. What I portrayed about being Paul’s sister also required me to make up the story about Matthew Cassidy. There also never was a father who took me to Canada when he learned my mother had always loved the soldier who never existed. When you find Paul’s birth certificate, you will find the father is listed as unknown. You can search for Paul’s father if you want, but that is a secret I plan to share with you in the afterlife, when we are reunited in the presence of God.”
Castle finished the scotch and ordered another. It was beginning to look to him like he might end up drinking his dinner that night.
“I know you do not believe in God,” she wrote. “I am sure it will take you time, maybe even years, to sort out and understand the events of the last month. I only wish I could be there to assist you.”
Thanks a lot, Castle thought, reading that. When he had accepted Paul Bartholomew as a patient, Castle truly had no idea what he was getting himself into.
“Paul’s destiny was to decipher the Shroud codex for the world. Paul struggled to find God in an equation, until he gave up the idea and decided to be a priest. Professor Gabrielli will try to convince the world that my disappearing with Paul was an elaborate trick. Dr. Bucholtz will understand that we transitioned through what she calls an ‘event horizon’ to another dimension people have called ‘Heaven’ for millennia, dating back to the writing of the Bible. You will have to decide for yourself what you have seen with your own eyes, from the first moment you met Paul in your office.”
For Castle, the idea was beginning to settle in. Anne was either delusional or the entire experience with Bartholomew would have to be explained in mystical terms Castle considered suspect by nature.
“Had things been different, we might have been lovers,” she wrote. “If you believe what Dr. Bucholtz told us about parallel worlds, in another time in another dimension, we might yet be lovers. The care you took to include me and provide for my comfort was noticed and appreciated. The affection I saw you express for me, I felt for you in return.”
Castle asked the waiter to return to his table. He asked the waiter to bring him one more scotch, but he had also decided to have dinner. “Let me see the menu,” Castle asked politely.
Castle paged through the photo album. The mother with the baby Paul Bartholomew was unmistakably the woman he knew as Anne Cassidy.
“Know that I and Paul are eternally grateful for all you have done for us both,” Anne wrote in conclusion. “You became part of our destiny the moment you accepted Paul as your patient.”
She signed her name simply, in the same firm hand with which she had written the letter.
Castle knew he had a lot of thinking to do, but one thing was certain. He needed some distance to gain perspective. He took out his cell phone and called Gabrielli.
Castle began a little tentatively. “Marco, I’ve been doing some thinking since we got back from Turin.”
“And what have you concluded?” Gabrielli asked, having no idea where his friend and associate was headed.
“Maybe you should write that book about the Shroud on your own,” Castle suggested. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be your coauthor.”
Gabrielli thought quickly. He was not about to let go of the opportunity of a lifetime to debunk the Catholic Church. “Well, I will miss your help,” he said, “but I guess that just means more royalties for me.”
Castle agreed, said good-bye, and wished his friend good luck.
The next call he made was to Norman Rothschild, the venerated psychiatrist who had brought Castle into the profession. It was afternoon in New York and Rothschild answered the phone when he recognized Castle’s name showing up on his caller ID.
“How’s Rome?” Rothschild asked.
“A little more interesting than I had anticipated,” Castle answered.
“I can tell from the tone of your voice. I’ve been worried about you since you first briefed me on your new patient, Father Bartholomew. I’ve been following the television reports.”
“I figured you would,” Castle said.
“What’s going on?” Rothschild asked. “I haven’t heard anything since you left for the Vatican.”
“I can’t explain it to you now; it’s too complicated. But I’m sure you will be catching up, once you turn on the television. Will you have time for dinner early next week, after I return to New York?”
“You know I will,” Rothschild said affirmatively. He was looking forward to seeing Stephen in the city. “When are you flying home?”
“I will leave Rome on Sunday,” Castle said. “I’ll take tomorrow to rest. Can we have dinner Monday evening?”
“Of course we can,” Rothschild said enthusiastically. “I will clear off my calendar whatever I need to clear. Call my office and my assistant will work out the details.”
“Sounds good,” Castle said appreciatively.
“Just tell me this,” Rothschild said seriously, wanting to be sure before they ended the conversation. “Are you okay or do you need some assistance right now? I have colleagues I trust in Rome.”
“I’ve been through a lot,” Castle said, “but I think I’m okay for now.”
Ending the call, Castle decided to turn his attention to dinner.
“What does the chef recommend?” he asked the waiter politely, ready to accept just about anything the waiter had in mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sunday evening
New York City, 8:00 P.M.
Day 32
Anchor Dave Dunaway had Fernando Ferrar appear in person on his Sunday evening broadcast to promote the hourlong special on Father Bartholomew and the Shroud of Turin that Ferrar had produced for national broadcast the coming Wednesday. Since Friday, Ferrar’s video of the events that transpired in the Chapel of the Shroud had been broadcast by the network and picked up on the Internet.
“What is the official status of Father Bartholomew and Anne Cassidy?” Dunaway asked.
“According to Italian law enforcement authorities, both are listed as ‘missing persons,’” Ferrar reported. “I was there in the Chapel of the Shroud in Turin, Italy, when the burst of light flooded the room. The pope was standing within five feet of me at the time. What I experienced, I can’t explain. But what I think happened is that Father Bartholomew and Anne Cassidy’s bodies seemed to vaporize into what I can only describe as pure energy. It looked to me like they disappeared right through the Shroud.”
While Ferrar was speaking, the audience saw the video of the moment—the light flash as Father Bartholomew stood there and reached out to Anne; as he grabbed her hand, she was absorbed into the light. It looked like both were vaporized, with the light leaving the room through the Shroud. When it was over, the pope and the others in the room were on their knees or knocked flat on the floor. When the commotion settled in the chapel, Bartholomew and Anne were gone.
“When I got back to my feet, I noticed that the eyes of the man on the Shroud had opened,” Ferrar said. “I couldn’t believe it, but before that the eyes were closed. I know that for certain. The day before the private showing with the pope and Father Bartholomew, the archdiocese allowed our video team to bring in high-definition cameras to record very detailed images of the Shroud for broadcast. We must have been in the Chapel of the Shroud doing the HD taping for somewhere around five hours last Thursday. I got a chance to study the Shroud very closely with my own eyes.”
Again, as Ferrar talked, the broadcast showed images of the video team taping the Shroud, a close-up of the closed eyes in the image of the Shroud before the event, and the open eyes after the event.
“You interviewed Dr. Ruth Bucholtz, an internationally renowned particle physicist, didn’t you?” Dunaway asked. “What does Dr. Bucholtz think happened last Friday in Turin, Italy?”
“That’s right,” Ferrar said. “We caught up by remote from Rome with Dr. Bucholtz in
her office at CERN in Geneva, Switzerland. I believe we have a clip of that interview now.”
A split screen showed Ferrar in the television studio in Rome and Dr. Bucholtz in her Geneva office, being interviewed by Ferrar remotely.
“What you filmed, I believe, is the first documentation of an ‘event horizon’ in which people passed from our normal four dimensions into one of the additional dimensions required by advanced particle physics to explain quantum phenomena observed since Einstein first formulated the general theory of relativity,” Bucholtz said.
“Can you translate that for our audience?” Ferrar asked. “I’m afraid you lost me once you started talking about quantum physics and Einstein. I barely got through physics class in high school.”
“Sure,” Dr. Bucholtz said, smiling at Ferrar’s self-putdown. “I think what your video shows really happened. It was not a trick. Father Bartholomew and Anne turned into pure energy. They transitioned from earth to some other dimension that we humans do not normally experience.”
“I was raised Catholic,” Ferrar said, “and what you are saying sounds a lot like the resurrection of Jesus Christ, especially when we are talking about the Shroud of Turin. Are you saying Father Bartholomew became Jesus and Anne Cassidy was like the Virgin Mary? According to what I was taught in Catholic catechism, Jesus died on the cross, was resurrected, and ascended into Heaven. His mother, the Virgin Mary, also died and was assumed into Heaven. Is this what you are talking about?”
“I’m not saying that Father Bartholomew became Jesus or that Anne Cassidy was the Virgin Mary,” Dr. Bucholtz said to clarify things. “But I think they both went through an experience that the New Testament describes as the resurrection of Jesus and the ascent into Heaven of Jesus and his mother.”
Cutting back to the studio in New York, Dunaway had a look of amazement on his face. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said to the national audience. “You’re telling me that Dr. Bucholtz is an internationally respected physicist who works at CERN in Geneva, Switzerland. Is that right?”
The Shroud Codex Page 28