by John Case
With death so near, I write to you with an open and joyful heart, secure in the knowledge that I will soon stand in the presence of our Lord, there to be judged.
I see now that I came to you in my weakest hour, seeking through confession not only the forgiveness of the Church, but its complicity as well. The enormity of my life’s secret, and the profundity of what I then believed to be my sin, seemed so great that I could no longer bear the weight alone – but felt that I must share it.
And so I did, and that was wrong.
They say you closed the church, and went to Rome. And that you stayed for days. Oh, Giulio . . . how I must have worried you!
But now I know that it was only through the lens of false pride that God’s will could ever have been mistaken for my own achievement. I know now what you, as a man of God, have always known: that we are all instruments of the Lord, and that what we do is neither more nor less than the working out of His will.
The calamitous discovery that I made, by which cells could be returned to . . .
‘I don’t know what that is,’ Marie said, pointing to a word.
Lassiter looked. ‘Totipotency,’ he said. ‘It’s a word in genetics.’
Marie continued:
. . . by which cells could be returned to totipotency, was inevitable in the great scheme of things. If Ignazio Baresi had not done it yesterday, another would have done it tomorrow. If not in Zurich, then at Edinburgh.
And it is precisely in this, in the inevitability of what I did, that God’s hand can be seen. Because that’s what ‘inevitability’ is and must be: God’s plan, hard-wired into the world around us.
How else, my friend, if not by reference to such a plan, can we explain the circumstances that brought a microbiologist to the study of relics? Relics! What are they, but magic tokens, fetishes and rabbits’ feet? A sort of ‘visual aid’ for the unsophisticated, making complex, metaphysical doctrines accessible to the common man. This nail pierced the hand of Jesus! This splinter stung His flesh! He walked among us. He was real.
And yet . . . almost against my will, I found that when I placed these objects in a microscope, they swarmed with possibilities. The patronizing point of view with which I first approached the subject soon gave way to a more profound understanding. After fifty years of scholarship, I realized what every peasant knows by intuition – that these objects are vital and tangible links to God.
As you know, this is not a point of view that’s encouraged in Rome. The Vatican would prefer to forget when the trade in relics was most intense – when fortunes were paid for bits of flesh or wood, and relic mongers poisoned saints, the sooner to sell off their bones. The Vatican has always seen relic worship as a threat. When powerful relics have found their way to remote dioceses, pilgrims have followed with their wealth. And the Vatican is all the poorer for it.
As a consulting scientist in the Vatican’s employ, my task was simple: to discredit the spurious, and reserve comment on the rest. And so I did: I revealed that ‘St. Anthony’s clavicle’ was only a fragment of a lamb’s rib. And that ‘the cloth that mopped Christ’s brow’ had been woven in the fifteenth century.
In truth, a great many of the objects that I examined were, as the Vatican suspected, counterfeits. But not all. There were objects that simply could not be discredited: their provenance seemed likely, their age appropriate. They might be what they claimed to be – or might not.
It was then that I turned to medicine, stunned by the realization that I might serve as midwife to God – and that, indeed, this was my life’s work.
Marie looked at Lassiter. ‘What’s he talking about?’ she asked.
Lassiter shook his head. ‘Just keep reading . . .’
It wasn’t difficult. My medical studies were comparatively brief. The clinic was easily established, and women came to me, mysteriously, from everywhere in the world – all of their own accord. Using DNA materials taken from a dozen of the most likely relics, I created an immaculate conception for each of eighteen patients.
Who knows, old friend, what will come of this? Perhaps these children will be no more than a strange band of peasants, resurrected from antiquity to no good purpose. Or perhaps I will, indeed, have begotten Christ anew. I will never know. You will never know. But, surely, we must hope.
And so, my friend, I bid you good-bye with the hope that I have set your mind at ease. I knelt before you in doubt, it’s true – but that was only human. Christ, too, knew doubt – though I no longer do.
This matter is in God’s hands. And always has been.
Ignazio.
‘Joe?’ There was a tremor in her voice. ‘What’s he talking about?’
Lassiter was silent for a moment, and then: ‘Do you have anything to drink?’
Marie got to her feet, went to the cupboard, and returned with a bottle of cognac and two glasses. She poured one for each of them, and repeated her question. ‘What’s he talking about?’
Lassiter took a long sip. ‘Jesse,’ he replied.
‘What about him?’
‘Well . . . Baresi . . . what he was doing – he was trying to clone Jesus.’
‘What?!’
Lassiter sighed. ‘Maybe Jesse . . . maybe Jesse is Jesus.’
They stayed up late as Lassiter related what he’d learned from the professor at MIT.
‘So that’s it,’ he said, pouring his third cognac. ‘He took a scraping from a likely relic, isolated one of the nucleated cells, and returned it to its totipotent state. After that, all he needed was an egg and a woman who wanted to have a baby.’
‘Una sorpresa piccola,’ Marie said.
‘Once he had the egg, he replaced the nucleus with the one from the relic, implanted it, and . . .’
The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks across the floor. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘How could he know, after two thousand years, if a relic was genuine? There’s no way he could know that.’
Lassiter talked about Baresi’s painstaking historical research into the provenance of relics, his ability to conduct DNA tests, his scientific credentials – but Marie continued to shake her head.
‘All you’re saying is that he was in a better position to guess than anyone else. But even so – it was just an educated guess.’ Lassiter was about to reply, but she held up a finger. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘Your nephew Brandon – did he look like Jesse?’
‘No, he –’
‘And the others?’ she demanded, ‘did they all look exactly the same?’
‘I didn’t have the pictures of all of them, but . . . no.’
‘Well, there you go,’ she said, as if everything was settled. ‘They can’t be clones then, can they? Not if they’re all different. So Baresi was just guessing, that’s all he was doing. If the children were not identical, the most you can say is that there’s a remote possibility that maybe one of them was produced from a true relic. The rest of them would be . . . whatever – the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.’ Her hands flew up in the air. ‘So what you’re suggesting – it’s crazy!’
Lassiter agreed with her that obviously, Baresi could not rely on the provenance of any single relic; that was almost certainly why he multiplied his chances by using DNA samples from a collection of likely relics. ‘Maybe none of them is a true relic – but that doesn’t make any difference.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Because it doesn’t matter who Baresi cloned. It doesn’t matter if he cloned Jesus or Al Capone.’
‘I just don’t –’
‘As long as there’s a possibility that even a single relic was the real thing – well, someone’s unwilling to take a chance on that. That’s why my sister died, and Brandon, and all the others. That’s why you’ve got to get out of here.’
‘I can’t believe anybody would do that, kill a bunch of children on the off chance . . .’
‘Well somebody has, and what’s more, they’ve taken an extra step and made sure that non
e of the DNA survives. That’s why the children are burned – to eliminate that possibility. They’re exorcising it. With fire.’
‘Oh, come on –’
‘When Brandon was killed, the man who set the fire was caught. Something happened. He fucked up. The combustion was incomplete, and you could still recognize the kid – barely, but you could recognize him. So they dug him up, and burned him again.’
‘But . . . they’re children. They’re just babies. They’re . . . they’re just more souls for the Church.’
‘This isn’t about the Catholic Church. It’s about Umbra Domini. Christian ultras who’ve bombed abortion clinics, waged a crusade against Muslims in Bosnia, and –’ Lassiter threw up his hands. ‘Look: in Umbra’s view, what Baresi did was an abomination.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he turned the Bible inside out: God creates man in his image, not the other way around.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks, and Lassiter knew that, at last, she’d accepted that he was right. ‘Let me help you,’ he said, ‘because they won’t stop until they find Jesse.’
‘But how? If it’s what you say, how can anyone help?’
‘When I was in the army . . . I had a funny kinda job.’ She looked at him as if he were insane, but he plunged on. ‘I ran the central cover staff for the ISA.’
‘What’s that?’
Lassiter shrugged. ‘Intelligence Support Activity. It’s like the CIA, except they know what they’re doing. Anyway . . . the point is: I can build identities for you and Jesse that no one can ever break. I can have them backstopped from here to Mars – and I can promise you, you won’t be traced. Ever. But you have to trust me. And you have to leave.’
‘Mommy?’ Jesse was standing in the doorway, in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ Marie said, her voice full of love. ‘What’s the matter?’
He stumbled toward them, clumsy with sleep. ‘I had a bad dream.’
‘Oh noooo,’ Marie said. He climbed into her lap and put his head on her shoulder. She stroked his hair and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Bad men,’ Jesse said.
She made a sympathetic sound, a sort of coo, and asked, ‘Should I read you a story?’
Jesse lifted up a chubby finger and pointed it at Lassiter. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Him.’
‘I’m not sure –’
‘I’d love to,’ Lassiter said. ‘Want a piggyback ride?’
Marie caught his eye as he knelt down so that Jesse could climb aboard, but he couldn’t read her expression.
‘Heyyyyyy,’ Jesse said as Lassiter straightened up. ‘This is high.’ Lassiter grabbed his feet.
They strode toward Jesse’s room, ducking under beams and doorways, as Jesse reached up to tap the ceiling. Sitting down on the bed, Jesse said that he didn’t want to hear a story, he wanted to read one – to Lassiter.
‘Okay,’ Lassiter said. ‘Hit it.’
The boy pulled a book from under his pillow and, with a look of immense gravity, said, ‘Dr. Seuss.’ Then he opened the book to the first page and, dipping his body toward the words, said:
‘One fish –’
Slowly, his little body rocked back, away from the book: ‘Two fish!’
And forward again: ‘Red fish!’
And back – but this time with a deliberately goofy look on his face, wide-eyed and grinning at the ceiling: ‘Blue fish!’ Then he toppled onto his back with a belly laugh as big as the moon.
37
LASSITER WAS KNEELING on the dock, untying the dinghy, when Jesse said, ‘Look, Mama – a boat.’
Turning to where the boy was pointing, Lassiter raised his eyes to the horizon, squinting against the blowing mist. There wasn’t anything that he could see, except the slate-gray sky, the rocks, the pines, and the heaving ocean. And then – there it was: a white motor launch riding up the back of a dark swell. The kid’s eyes were amazing.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
Marie cupped a hand above her eyes and grimaced into the wind. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’
Lassiter cursed, and retied the dinghy to its cleat, looping the line into a clove hitch. They’d been just about to row out to the skiff and take off, but that was impossible now. Or at least it was not possible without being observed by whoever was in the white boat. ‘You have any binoculars?’
Marie nodded, and lifted Jesse into her arms. ‘In the cabin,’ she said, and started running. Lassiter followed, squinting against the drizzle.
The binoculars were hanging from a hook next to the big bookcase. Raising them to his eyes, Lassiter looked out to sea and turned the focusing knobs. Although the boat was still too far away to make out the men’s faces, he could see there were three of them.
‘Is it them?’ she asked, coming to his side.
‘I can’t tell.’ He forced his eyes to focus on the shuddering faces – and then it happened. In the stern of the boat a block of muscle got to its feet and pointed toward the cabin. Lassiter didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was. ‘It’s them,’ he said as their features coalesced. ‘The big guy. Grimaldi. And della Torre.’
Marie sucked in her breath and pulled Jesse closer.
‘We can’t stay here,’ Lassiter said. ‘Is there anywhere else?’
She thought for a second. ‘We could go to the boathouse. They don’t know the island. They might not look there.’
‘All right,’ Lassiter said. ‘Get a flashlight.’ Then he crossed the cabin to the closet where she kept her rifle. ‘Where do you keep the ammo?’
‘In the bread box,’ Marie replied.
He should have known. Grabbing the gun, he went to the bread box and opened it. Inside he found a loaf of sourdough, a couple of corn muffins, and, in the back, a box of ammunition.
Which was surprisingly light.
Lassiter tore open the box and, with a groan, found a single cartridge. ‘Where’s the rest?’ he asked.
Marie looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t know. I guess . . . maybe I used it up.’
‘Doing what?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Practicing,’ Marie explained, and seeing the reaction on Lassiter’s face, added, ‘Well, it’s not like there’s a lot to do in the winter!’
He couldn’t believe it. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked. ‘Tell ’em to stand in a row?’
It was too much. Marie’s face crumpled with unhappiness, and seeing this, Jesse rushed to console her.
He threw his little arms around her legs in what was meant to be a protective embrace. ‘Don’t cry, Mama,’ he said, ‘don’t cry.’
Lassiter threw up his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he growled. ‘I’m really sorry. Just take Jesse to the boathouse – I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.’
Marie nodded, started to leave, and turned back. ‘But . . . what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lassiter said. ‘Pin ’em down!’
He pushed Jesse and Marie out of the cabin and watched them as they vanished into the woods. Then he loaded the single round of ammunition and went outside. Kneeling on his right knee, he steadied the rifle on the porch railing and closed his left eye. Slowly, he swung the gun in an arc until the motor launch swam into view.
The scope was a masterpiece. Della Torre loomed in the bow of the boat, swathed in a black cassock, oblivious to wind and rain, a clerical Odysseus. The motor launch was two hundred yards offshore, and though the shot was a difficult one, Lassiter knew he couldn’t miss. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a slow stream as he settled the crosshairs of the scope on the priest’s chest.
One shot, and it would all be over, he thought, and felt his finger tighten on the trigger. Killing della Torre would be like decapitating a snake. The body might live for a while, but it would be blind and aimless, thrashing in the dirt.
Or maybe not.
He moved the barrel an inch to the left, until the crosshairs came to rest just below the Matt
ress’s right eye. The Italian was shouting to della Torre, unaware of the fact that his life hung by the weight of a single finger. And though the boat was yawing, Lassiter had its rhythm and knew for sure that he could take the big man out.
Take the shot, he told himself. Take it! You don’t want to dance with this guy. He tried to kill you twice. He shot Azetti, and probably killed Bepi. It was a persuasive argument, but even as he made it, he felt the rifle slide to the left for the second time. And suddenly Grimaldi was in his sights.
He sat in the stern, grim as the rain, staring straight ahead. By now the boat was barely a hundred yards from shore, and heading directly to the dock below the cabin. In spite of the weather, Grimaldi’s features were so clear in the scope that Lassiter could tell he needed a shave. Do it, he thought. Do it for Kathy and Brandon.
Jesse and Marie.
Jiri. Me.
If I pull the trigger, Lassiter told himself, the bullet will go through his skull like a high-speed drill, tunneling through the brain until it blows out the back of his head. His finger tickled the trigger.
But no, he thought. They’re not looking for me. They don’t even know I’m here. And if they find the cabin empty . . . who knows? Maybe they’ll leave.
It was an unconvincing argument, but it had the force of an only hope. In any case, he had nothing to lose by backing away. It wasn’t as if he had an M-16 with a full clip; he had a bolt-action Roberts with a single round. There was only so much damage he could do with the gun, and once that damage was done, so, in all likelihood, was he. Better to wait.
With a sigh that came out like a growl, he lowered the rifle and got to his feet. The motor launch was almost at the dock, and its occupants were standing, eager to come ashore. Almost tentatively, he took a step backward, and then another, and another – until he rounded the corner of the cabin and found himself on the path that Jesse and Marie had taken.
The woods were dim, the twilight dying. Ground fog lay on the path like smoke from a fire, and, everywhere, rain dripped, dripped, dripped from the trees. There were patches of snow in the lee of boulders, and fiddleheads poking out of the ground. The air was dense with the smell of resin.