Hannah didn’t start to run, until she was on the lawn, which made a crunching noise, as she headed for woods next to the house. She looked back when she had reached the stand of pine trees, and then only to see how much distance she had on Judith.
The carriage lamps by the front door had been turned on and Marshall was standing in the doorway in his bathrobe. Judith lay motionless on the brick walk, her nightgown hitched up to her thighs, one leg folded inward with incongruous coquetry. She resembled a rag doll, cast aside by a spoiled child, who has just acquired a more intriguing plaything.
Hannah kept to the woods that bordered the houses on Alcott Street, knowing that she wouldn’t have to emerge into the open until she got near the intersection of Alcott and Main. The ground wasn’t as slippery under the trees and she was able to move quickly, until her bathrobe snagged on some briars and she had to stop and detach it.
No one seemed to be pursuing her.
Were they preoccupied with Judith? They had probably taken her inside by now or called an ambulance. Hannah hadn’t heard a siren yet, so perhaps the woman had only been dazed by the fall. It had all happened so unexpectedly, the leap out of the darkness, the tearing of her hair. Hannah brought her thoughts back to the present moment.
The trees thinned out and the woods gave onto a field, where the kids played softball in the summer. The wind had blown down part of the backstop and the wire mesh was coated with ice. Across the street, the spire of Our Lady caught the moonlight.
Hannah was halfway across the deserted intersection when she heard a car coming down Alcott Street. Crouching low, she darted around the back of the church and across the rectory garden, narrowly avoiding the stone bench, where Father Jimmy had heard her first confession last summer. A large hydrangea bush offered temporary camouflage. Despite the layers of clothing, a chill had begun to penetrate her bones.
The mini-van pulled up in front of the rectory and Marshall jumped out. He jabbed the doorbell repeatedly, then stepped back and nervously wiped his shoes on the welcome mat. A light came on upstairs, followed by another in the hall. Finally Monsignor Gallagher opened the door and a brief conversation ensued.
At one point, the Monsignor appeared to invite Marshall inside, but the man shook his head vigorously and pointed to his wristwatch. His agitation was growing.
The Monsignor patted him paternally on the shoulder. “… my eyes and ears open….Count on it…”
” … kind of you. I appreciate it.”
After a hasty handshake and the elderly priest retreated indoors, while Marshall went back to his mini-van. Hannah watched the taillights grow smaller, before venturing out from behind the hydrangea. Through a side window, she could see the Monsignor conversing with somebody in the foyer and realized that Father Jimmy had got up, too. Then the foyer went dark.
No sooner had she concluded that they had both gone back upstairs than a light was switched on in the back of the house, where the kitchen was. Cautiously, she crept in that direction. Father Jimmy was in the midst of raiding the refrigerator, when she attracted his attention by rapping lightly on the storm door. He seemed taken aback at first, then relieved.
“May I come in?” She mouthed the question through the glass.
He put a finger to his lips and pointed overhead, which she understood to mean that the Monsignor’s bedroom was directly above and she had to be quiet.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the kitchen light brought out the gold in her hair. There was such vivacity about her, such a breathless excitement, that she might have been coming home from a skating party. It took him only an instant to understand that the euphoria was born of fear. She was dressed like a homeless person and the bathrobe she was wearing in lieu of a coat had torn.
“I have to get away,” she whispered. “Can you help me?”
Taking her hand, he led her across the kitchen and they descended the stairs to the basement, a catch-all for used furniture, old church pews and some broken statuary. The cold air smelled of must.
Father Jimmy spoke for the first time. “What’s happened?”
“Didn’t the Monsignor tell you?”
“All he said was that Mr. Whitfield had come looking for you. There was an argument at the house, apparently, and you had gotten upset and run away. When you didn’t come back, they all got very concerned.”
“Concerned? They don’t care about me. They’d kill me in a minute, if I weren’t carrying this baby. They locked me in the bedroom. Like a hostage.”
“Calm down, Hannah. It doesn’t help to exaggerate.” Even as he chastised her, he asked himself why he was being so harsh. He believed her implicitly.
“Stop treating me like I’m some mixed-up, unstable girl. I was right to have suspected them. I don’t have to prove it now. I know for certain. They told me everything yesterday.”
The priest’s felt his throat tightening. “What did they tell you?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy. I know you will. No one will take me seriously, but I don’t care. I have to get out of here and protect my baby. They’ll come back looking for me before long. I hoped you’d help.”
He positioned himself in front of the staircase to prevent her from leaving. “Just tell me what they said. Please.”
Hannah suddenly found herself incapable of speaking the words. She held her stomach and began to rock back and forth, a low moan issuing from her mouth. Her eyes grew moist. Father Jimmy approached her and took both her hands. She lay her head on his chest and sobbed openly.
“What did they say?” he murmured, feeling the softness of her hair on his lips.
“They said…that I had been chosen.” Hannah raised her head tentatively. “Chosen as the vessel for the second coming.”
Later, Father Jimmy would be unable to describe the physical sensation that came over his body, like a wave in the ocean before it has broken and is still a gathering force that floats the swimmer forward and back, floats through the swimmer’s body, so that body and water seem momentarily one. He’d experienced nothing like it before. He became dizzy and the basement went away for a moment.
As the sensation passed and his focus returned, he saw Hannah’s face, her blue eyes fixed on his. It was, he thought, the most luminous face he had ever encountered.
1:41
“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”
Hands extended toward the chalice, Father Jimmy recited the mystery of faith, and the spotty congregation that had managed to rouse itself for early morning mass recited along with him. There were fewer people than usual this Sunday, the weather being unpleasant and the roads still slippery from last night’s sleet, and the individual voices stood out, making for a threadbare tapestry of sound.
Ever since his days as an altar boy, he had told himself - and everyone else, for that matter - that his home was in the church. It was his calling, just as, he recognized, the true artist or doctor or teacher was responding to a calling. There was nothing to question, no alternate plan, no fall-back position. He thanked God every day for that certainty.
And now this.
His eyes scanned the faces watching him- some bored, others eager for enlightenment, still others, who were merely obeying an ingrained habit. How would they react, he wondered, if he stepped forward and announced that the second coming was at hand? That Jesus would once again walk the world and lead the miserable and the downtrodden to salvation? Would their lives change in an instant or would they cross themselves perfunctorily and return home to their mindless television programs and their stultifying jobs?
When he finished mass, Monsignor Gallagher was in the sacristy. “That was some surprise last night,” he said, removing his robes from the wardrobe, as Father Jimmy took off his. “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Have you heard from the young girl?”
“Sorry?” Father Jimmy said, the robe halfway over his head.
“The Manning girl. Have you heard from her?”
H
e took time to brush his hair in place with his hands. “No, I haven’t. Nothing.”
“It’s unpleasant business. I don’t need to tell you to keep an eye out for her.”
“No, you don’t, sir.” This is how it begins, he thought, the erosion. It begins with the first lie. It begins with “No, I haven’t.” The first chip in the mortar that holds the brick wall together. Hardly noticeable at all. After all, the wall still stands, doesn’t it? But the next piece of mortar to crumble will be bigger, and the one after that, bigger yet.
He handed his white and gold vestments to the altar boy, who hung them in the wardrobe.
“That will be all, Michael,” the Monsignor said, dismissing the boy. “You know that Mr. Whitfield came by the rectory again this morning.
“No, I didn’t.”
“The girl still hasn’t come back. She was gone all night, and in her condition, too! I advised him to call the police, if she doesn’t return soon. What could possibly have possessed her to bolt like that in the middle of the night?”
“I … I can’t say exactly, but I told you what she believes has happened. You ordered me never to speak of it again.”
The Monsignor drew back, his head nodding in agreement. “Yes, I did. But in light of the present circumstances, I may have erred.”
“Well, she was…terribly confused. She fears for the baby she is carrying. She’s had strong feelings about keeping this child from the beginning. And now in light of this…information, she doesn’t want the baby to fall into their hands.”
“And what do you think would be the right thing for this girl to do?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Does she have evidence for her belief? Or is this merely, how do I put it? Theoretical?”
“Theoretical, Monsignor?”
“Yes, is she making this up?” The sharpness of the reply betrayed his shrinking patience. The sacristy was overheated and the air was dry and thin to his nose.
“No, I don’t think she is. She confronted them. They confirmed her suspicions.”
It was not the answer the Monsignor wanted to hear. Dealing with the delusions of a high-strung girl was problem enough. If they weren’t delusions, the situation had grave consequences. He recalled the explanation Father Jimmy had given him the last time.
“But how did these people get Jesus’ blood, the DNA, whatever it is you say they used?”
“I can only guess from what I’ve read. The sudarium is kept under lock and key in a crypt at the Cathedral of Oviedo. It is taken out only rarely, displayed briefly to the faithful, then returned to its reliquary. Seven years ago on Good Friday, one of those occasions, a strange incident occurred. The priest who was returning it to the crypt suffered a fatal heart attack and the cloth was apparently left unguarded for several minutes. That would be long enough for someone to have taken a sample of the blood on it.”
“Surely, a missing piece of the cloth would have been reported.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a whole piece. It could be a thread. The tiniest speck is all that’s required. Scientists used a strip of tape to lift blood samples off the Shroud of Turin. Why couldn’t the same thing have been done here? It would be virtually undetectable.”
“So it is your conviction that scientifically this is all possible?”
“More than possible. I believe it has already been done.”
Monsignor Gallagher ran his finger around his collar. Why did the maintenance man keep the heat up so high? It was sweltering in the sacristy. A person could suffocate. An annoying trickle of perspiration ran down his neck.
“Even if what you say is true, it hardly means the second coming is imminent. We have no concrete proof that this cloth is stained with Christ’s blood. That is the story that has been passed down. That is the tradition. It is what in our hearts we would like to believe.”
“The Pope himself has prayed before this cloth,” objected Father Jimmy.
“And why shouldn’t he? Praying is never wrong. But what if it is not Christ’s blood? What if it is, I don’t know, the blood of a Roman solider, slaughtered in battle, or a medieval adventurer? What if the blood is that of a common criminal? What then is this poor girl carrying in her womb? Two thieves were crucified beside Jesus, were they not? Why could it not be one of them, who will be reborn?”
He watched the horror sink into the young man’s face, draining the blood from it. He hadn’t meant to be quite so harsh with him. Father Jimmy was impressionable, still an innocent in so many ways. “For the sake of argument, let us assume that tradition in this case isn’t wrong, that the face of Christ was indeed wrapped in that very cloth at the time of his death. All these people would be resurrecting is his physical self, the shell He inhabited during his short stay on earth, the body He overcame. Not his spirit, his soul, his godliness.”
“Unless these people have been divinely inspired, as they claim.”
“Ah, divine inspiration! How many have claimed it and how many has it led astray?” The reflection plunged him into deep thought. He bowed his head and unconsciously rubbed his temples with his fingertips. Father Jimmy waited awkwardly, afraid to disturb the heavy silence that had come over the sacristy.
Finally, the old priest spoke up. “If this is God’s will, nothing you or I or anybody can do will stop it from happening. If not, then you have a sacred duty to perform, James.”
“What is that?”
“I think … I think you must find this girl.”
“Why me?”
“She trusts you, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but I refuse to turn her over to those people.”
“I said nothing about turning her over to them. I said find her. In fact, if you succeed, I forbid you from informing the Whitfields. This is a matter for the church authorities now. They will deal with her.”
“Then you believe me, you believe her?”
“What I believe is that some fanatics have embarked on a mission that could wreak inestimable harm on the church, and that is enough. The world does not need at this moment another false prophet, especially one born of science. Just think of the consequences, if word got out. Every lost and lonely soul from here to Timbuktu would come running to worship this child, whoever he is. The media would make sure the story reached every corner of the planet. Imagine the hysteria! What would become of the church in all this chaos and confusion?
“Most of us in the priesthood lead very ordinary lives, James. We till our small gardens and reap our modest crops. But you are called upon to do something of significance. God has brought this girl to you, so that you can prevent the chaos from erupting. I see that now. You must see it, too. This is the devil’s work. So find her, James. Stop the heresy. Protect the church you hold so dear.”
Overwhelmed with the urgency in the Monsignor’s voice and wracked by the secrets he had kept from him, Father Jimmy felt tears forming in his eyes.
“I’ll try, Father. I’ll do my best.”
The Monsignor lay his hand upon the priest’s head. “That’s all God ever asks us to do, James.”
1:42
The context was all wrong. That was how Teri would explain it to herself later. There in the Blue Dawn Diner? No wonder she didn’t recognize the woman at first.
She was standing beside the cash register, wearing a thick blue woolen coat and a Russian fur cap (maybe that ridiculous hat had something to do with it, too) and trying to catch Teri’s attention. It was an unusually busy Sunday morning at the diner. The bus boy had called in sick, although no one believed him. If history was any indication, he was sleeping off a wild Saturday night with his buddies.
Nonetheless, it meant that Teri was having to bus all her own tables. The new waitress still wasn’t up to speed, in addition to which she wasn’t even new. She’d been on the job for seven months! And Bobby was back to his usual antagonistic self.
Now, adding insult to what was barely controlled madness, the woman standing by the cash register
had taken to snapping her fingers at Teri, each time she passed by.
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can, hon. Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can.” All the tables were taken. Where did the woman think she was going to sit? On someone’s lap?
Hastily, Teri cleared the dirty dishes from a table of four, took their dessert orders, then, dishes stacked precariously in her right hand and part way up her forearm, headed for the kitchen. This time, the woman was not content merely to snap her fingers. She poked the waitress, who jumped, causing a plate to slip off the stack and crash to the ground.
“I’m terribly sorry,” the woman said, bending down to retrieve the pieces of broken crockery. That was when Teri recognized Jolene Whitfield. Right there in the Blue Dawn.
Bobby came barreling out of the kitchen with a broom and dustpan. “I’ll take care of it, lady. I don’t want you cutting yourself or you’ll probably sue me for the shirt off my back.” Bobby didn’t have on a shirt, just his usual greasy T-shirt, but he let out an appreciative laugh that promptly dissolved into a nasty cigarette cough.
“It was an accident,” Jolene said apologetically, as Teri, fearful for the remaining dishes, disappeared into the kitchen.
Bobby was philosophical. “That’s all right. We try not to use the plates more than once around here. If you’ll wait a minute, we’ll have a table for you.”
“Oh, I don’t need a table. I just came to speak to Teri.”
He swept up the broken pieces into the dust pan and carried it into the kitchen. “Hey, Teri. This is not the best time to be having social calls. We’re kinda busy now.”
“No shit, Bobby? I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been filing my nails in the toilet for the last two hours.”
“Jeez, just get a move on, will you? You got an order sitting here since Tuesday!”
The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one Page 22