F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (33 page)

           
 
This was no holy relic, no unsung, uncanonized
saint. This was
her!

           
 
He knew it and yet a part of him stubbornly
refused to accept it. Impossible! Tradition held that she was assumed body and
soul into heaven. And even if tradition were wrong, even if her body had
remained preserved for two thousand years, she would not—
could
not—be here in this church basement in
Lower Manhattan
. It defied all reason, all belief, all
common sense.

           
 
Can it
be her? Can it truly be her?

           
 
As he lurched forward he heard a voice
speaking. His own. In his native tongue.

           
 
"Puo
essere lei? Puo essere veramente lei?"

           
 
Carrie cried out in shock and fear at the
sound of the strange voice behind her. She turned and saw a man in black
silhouetted in the light from the door, staggering toward her.

           
 
Reflexively she began to dodge aside, but
stopped and forced herself to stand firm. Anyone trying to get to the Virgin
would have to go through her first.

           
 
Then she saw his collar. A priest.

           
 
"Father?"

           
 
He didn't seem to hear. He continued forward,
trembling hands folded before him as if in prayer, eyes fixed on the Virgin as
his expression twisted through a strange mixture of confusion, pain, and
ecstasy.

           
 
"Puo
essere lei?"

           
 
She didn't understand the priest's words, but
the devotion in his eyes caused her insides to coil with alarm.

           
 
He knows! she thought. Somehow he
knowsl

           
 
Sensing he meant no harm, Carrie eased aside
and let him approach. Her mind raced as she watched him gaze down at the
Virgin. No . . . obviously he meant no harm, but his mere presence was a
catastrophe. No matter what his intentions, he was going to ruin everything.

           
 
"Who are you?" she said.

           
 
He didn't seem to hear, only continued to
stare down at the Virgin.

           
 
"Who are you, Father?" she repeated
and this time touched his arm.

           
 
He started and half turned toward her, tearing
his eyes away from the Virgin at the last possible second. Carrie hadn't
realized how old and thin he looked until now.

           
 
"It's her, isn't it," he said in a
hoarse, accented English, and Carrie's heart sank as she searched but found no
hint of a question in his tone. "It's truly her!"

           
 
"Who do you mean, Father?" she said,
hoping against hope that he'd give the wrong answer.

           
 
But instead of answering in words, he knelt
before the Virgin, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head.

           
 
That was more than enough answer for Carrie.
She began to shake.

           
 
I'm going to lose her, she thought. They're
going to take her away from me!

           
 
At that moment she heard the scuff of hurried
footsteps out in the old furnace room, then Dan dashed in. He skidded to a halt
when he saw the figure in black kneeling before the bier, then stared at
Carrie, alarmed, confused, breathing hard.

           
 
"Hilda called me over . . . said there
was a strange priest . . ." He glanced at the newcomer. "Who . . .
how?"

           
 
Carrie shook her head. "I don't
know."

           
Dan stood in the center of the room,
looking indecisive for a moment, then he stepped forward and laid a hand on the
other priest's shoulder.

           
 
"I'm Father Daniel Fitzpatrick, Father,
associate pastor here, and I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

           
 
The older man turned his head to the side,
then rose stiffly to his feet. He stared at the Virgin a moment longer, then
turned toward Carrie and Dan and drew himself to his full height.

           
 
"I am Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio. From
Rome
. From the
Vatican
."

           
 
Carrie stifled a groan as she heard Dan
mutter, "Oh, God. You're the priest from the pub!"

           
 
"You must explain this," Msr. Riccio
said, gesturing toward the Virgin. "How . . . how is this possible?"

           
 
"How is what possible?" Dan said.

           
 
"Please," the older priest said.
"There is no point in trying to fool me. I was touched by her,
healed
by her. I know this is the
Blessed Mother. Do you understand? I do not believe it, think it, or feel it, I
know
it. What I do not know is why
she is hidden away in this dingy cellar, and how she came to be here. Will you
please explain that to me, Father Fitzpatrick."

           
 
Dan held the monsignor's stare for a moment,
then turned to Carrie and introduced her as Sister Carolyn Ferris.

           
 
"Carrie," he said. "This is
your show. What do you want to do? Whatever you decide, I'm with you all the
way."

           
 
Carrie felt as if she were perched on the edge
of a precipice . . . during an earthquake. Her mind was numb with the shock of
being discovered. She could see no sense in lying. The monsignor already knew
the core truth. Why not tell him the details.

           
 
And suddenly hope was alive within her.

           
 
Yes! The details. Maybe if he knew how the
Virgin had been hidden away in a cave much like this subcellar room, he'd
realize that she had to remain hidden . . . right here. "It began with a
scroll Father Fitzpatrick received as a gift . . ."

           
 
"I see," Vincenzo said softly as
Sister Carolyn finished her story, closing with the details of the cures and
miracles at the soup kitchen one floor above.

           
 
He had been too fascinated to interrupt her
long monologue more than once or twice for clarifications. He had studied her
expression for some hint of insincerity, but had found none, at least none that
he could detect in the candlelight. And as she spoke he came to understand
something about this beautiful young woman. She was deeply devoted to the
Virgin. No hint of personal gain or notoriety had crossed her mind in bringing
the Virgin here to her church. It had seemed like the right thing to do, the
only
thing to do, and so she had done
it. She was one of the good ones. He sensed a hard knot of darkness deep within
her, an old festering wound that would not heal, but otherwise she was all love
and generosity. Had she always been like this, or was it the result of
prolonged proximity to . . . her?

           
 
He turned to stare again at the Virgin.

           
 
"An incredible story," he said into
the silence.

           
 
If I were someone else, he thought, or even if
I had happened to stumble upon this little room only last week, before my
encounter with the Blessed Mother, I would have said they are both mad.
Good-hearted, sincere, and well intentioned, to be sure, but quite utterly mad.
But I am not someone else, and I believe every incredible word.

           
 
"Then you can see, can't you,"
Sister Carolyn said, and Vincenzo sensed that she was praying he could and
would see, "that she has to remain here? Remain a secret?"

           
 
"A secret?" Vincenzo said. "Oh,
no. That is the last thing this discovery should be. This is the Mother of God,
Sister. She should have a cathedral of gold, she should be exalted as an ideal,
a paradigm for a life of faith and purity."

           
 
"But, Monsignor, that isn't what the
Apostles intended when they brought her to the
Resting Place
in the desert."

           
 
"Who are we to say what the Apostles
intended? And besides, these are different, difficult times. True faith, generous
and loving, seems to be on the wane, replaced by wild-eyed fundamentalist
factions that call themselves Christian, and other violent, non-Christian
sects. Think what the physical presence of the Mother of God could mean to the
Church, to Christianity, to all of humanity? This could usher in a whole new
age of faith."

           
 
A new age . . .

           
 
The words resonated through his very being as
he remembered his conversation with the strange bearded man who saved his life
a few nights ago . . .

           
 
My life
was saved twice that night.

           
 
. . . of how the Second Coming might be linked
to the end of the second millennium. And of how the second millennium would be
ending this year, was perhaps ending even as he stood here speaking to these
two good people.

           
 
Dear Jesus, it all fit, didn't it. It all made
sense now. The discovery of the scroll, the journey of these two people to the
Holy Land
, finding the remains of the Blessed Virgin,
removing her from the desert, the
Vatican
sending him to
Ireland
and then
New York
, the apparitions, his cure, his arrival in
the subcellar of this humble old church—these weren't random events. Three
times his path and the Virgin's had crossed: in
Cork
City
, on the streets outside, and now in this
tiny room. There was a pattern here, a purpose, a plan.

           
 
And now Vincenzo saw the outcome of that plan.

           
 
The Virgin was to be revealed to the world.
And when she was brought to the
Vatican
, when she joined the Holy Father in
Rome
, it would herald a new age. Perhaps it
would signal the Second Coming.

           
 
Philosophers and academics had been speaking
of the end of history for years already. What will they say now?

           
 
The staggering immensity of the final sequence
of events that might be set into motion numbed him for a moment.

           
 
The end of history . . .
all
history.

           
 
But he couldn't tell these two what he knew.
At least not now. He could, however, try to reassure them.

           
 
"There is a plan at work," he said.
"And we are all playing our parts. You've played your parts, and now I
must play mine. And the
Vatican
must play its own part."

           
 
"But what if the
Vatican
doesn't
play its part?" she cried. "What if, instead of showing her to
the world, they hide her away in one of the Church's deepest vaults where
they'll test her and probe her and argue endlessly whether to reveal her or
keep her hidden from the world? Don't say it couldn't happen. This may not look
like much, but here at least she has some contact with the world. People are
benefiting from her presence. Leave her here."

           
 
"I can't make that decision."