The Shroud Key (31 page)

Another bolt of lightning. Another thunder explosion.

I hear something else now too. Prayers. The Vatican soldier is reciting prayers in Latin. When I glance up at him, he is not looking at the remains of Jesus. He is instead peering up at the heavens as if they are about to open up for him. I watch the rain pelt his face and I wonder if it is possible for my heart to pound any faster without exploding.

I reach in again, and this time come out with something entirely metal. It’s a spear point. It’s rusted and, like the spike that pierces the ankle, blackened with age, time and exposure. Can this really be the spear that pierced Christ’s side? The spear of Longinus? The spear that that caused blood and water to pour forth from the wound? I set it down and reach into the bag one last time.

It’s the last object in the bag and judging by the touch, it is entirely bone.

I pull out the object and stare into the eyes of Jesus. My eyes lock onto his face. His cheek bones and teeth. My eyes see the sockets where Jesus saw God the father in the kingdom of heaven. I raise myself up from my knees, hold the skull of Christ in my hands, and like the Vatican soldier, peer up at the sky and feel the rain and the wind and an unexplainable energy that radiates throughout my body.

I know the truth now. I know that the Koran is not true. Jesus did not survive the cross. He did not use a stand-in to suffer the cross in his place. He suffered the cross on his own, and he died from his sufferings … From the scourging, the nails, the cross, the spear that pierced his side. I know now that on the third day his soul ascended into heaven leaving behind his mortal corpus. It’s the truth. It must be the truth. The only truth. In my heart, I know it to be true.

There comes another bolt of lightning that strikes the earth beside me.

I never hear the thunder that follows. Only the quick, click of the electrical discharge, the flash of brilliant heavenly white light and then nothing, as my world goes black.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

I open my eyes onto the most brilliant blue sky I have ever witnessed.

Or so it seems.

I am lying on my back, on the smooth grass. The gale force wind is gone now, replaced with a gentle sweet smelling breeze. The kind of clean spring air I recall as a child when almost nothing mattered and my life was immortal. I sit up and see that almost no signs of the storm that was ravaging this cemetery only moments ago remain. There are only the trees now in full bloom, the birds singing in them, and the chirping of the crickets.

Not far from where I am seated, I see three deer feeding on the overgrown grass. To the right of them, a dozen wild turkeys collected together in a tight pack are sneaking their way around some old marble headstones, on their way to the safety of the woods.

I stand.

That’s when I see that the Vatican soldier is still there. His clothing is dry, as if the rain never fell on him at all. Gripped in his left hand is his wood cane. Gripped in the other are the pick-axe and shovel handles. He’s bearing a curious smile on his face.

“Did you find what you were seeking?”

I nod.

“I suppose I did,” I say. “How long was I out?”

“Does it matter?”

Looking down, I can see that the hole I dug in the earth has been filled in, the sod replaced so perfectly, no one would ever know that the ground was disturbed in the first place.

I look up at the man.

“How did you …”

But I never finish my question. I’m not sure he would answer it anyway. Maybe this ground is indeed sacred, and bears the same restorative powers of the one man on earth who was said to be resurrected on the third day.

He says, “Perhaps the time has come for you to leave this place, go home to your daughter. It’s been a long time, Chase. You’ve been gone for too long.”

He knows about my daughter …

I glance at my watch. The time is ten past noon.

How can that be?

I shake my wrist. There’s got to be a problem with the watch. But the watch is operating perfectly, like it always has. The time was eleven-fifty when the cabbie dropped me off at the cemetery. But according to my watch, that’s only twenty minutes ago. It took me most of that time just to make my way on foot into the cemetery.

I peer down at the plot, at the grass, then shift my eye up to the Maltese cross, to the triangular symbol with the round hole in the center, to the bronze angelic woman who stares not at me but into me. I look at the name, Erastus Corning, embedded into the rock. I honestly can’t say if I truly did uncover the bones of Christ or if I somehow dreamed the experience. Perhaps I was struck by lightning on the way into the cemetery and what followed was a bizarre journey that occurred not in upstate New York in some old cemetery, but inside my brain.

I take a step back, look over my left shoulder for the Vatican soldier.

Only he’s no longer there.

I look over my opposite shoulder, and when I don’t find him there either, I make a full three-hundred-sixty degree turn, pivoting on my boot heels. He’s gone, along with my digging tools. How a wounded man could simply sneak away like that without my noticing boggles my mind. But then, a lot of what has transpired this afternoon boggles my mind.

I’ve told you before that I’m not a praying man. But I find myself making the sign of the cross, whispering the words, “In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost.”

When it’s done I whisper “Amen” aloud.

I turn and head back towards the cemetery gates, knowing in my heart that I have for certain, finally met my maker. But that he is gone again. This time, gone forever.

EPILOGUE

One Week Later

I’m holding the hand of a girl I love.

Only this girl isn’t the wife of some jealous husband. She’s my eight year old daughter. This morning I have the distinct pleasure of accompanying her on her walk to school, which isn’t far from where she lives with her mother and stepfather on Gramercy Park.

She’s tall for her age. She wears her brunette hair long like her mother and is very neat and fastidious about her very feminine appearance. “This is New York City after all,” the ever precocious second grader will often remind me.

She’s also inherited her mother’s deep-set brown eyes that used to make my heart skip a beat when I looked directly into them. Last but not at all least, she’s inherited her mother’s gift for gab.

“Daddy,” she says, as we turn the corner onto East 22
rd
Street not far from the police station. “Did you really see the pyramids in Egypt?”

I squeeze her little hand.

“Yup. Went inside them too.”

“Whoa. Was it scary?”

“A little.”

“Did you see mummies?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh my god. I would be like, really, really, REALLY scared the mummies would come alive and chase me. Like in that movie.”

I laugh.

“That stuff only happens in Hollywood.”

“Still gives me nightmares, dad.”

“Just remember. It’s all make believe.”

“Like your books?”

“Yeah sure. Like my books.”

We come to the school where other parents are dropping off their kids curbside and some of the teachers are waiting outside on the stone steps, greeting them as they enter the old five-story red brick public school.

Her hand slips out of mine. She turns and looks up at me with those brown eyes.

“Daddy, are you going away again? On another adventure? Or, what do you call them, research trips?”

I bend down so I can look directly at her face.

“Not for a while. I have a new book to write first.”

She smiles.

“Oh good. Will the book have mummies in it?”

“Maybe.”

“Will it have God in it?”

Her question takes me by surprise.

“Why do you ask that?”

She giggles.

“I don’t know. It just came out.”

“God works in mysterious ways, so they say.”

“Do you believe in God, daddy?”

It’s strange, because I suddenly feel my eyes welling up. I’m looking at my daughter, but in my head I’m seeing the shroud and the secret chamber inside the Third Pyramid and I’m seeing the Vatican soldier whom I shot in the leg and who later on, stood by my side while I excavated the bones of Jesus of Nazareth.

Slowly I straighten back up while reaching into my trouser pocket. I pull something out, place it over her head so that it hangs off her neck. It’s the miniature cross with the angelic statuette of the woman attached to it.

“Yes, honey,” I say. “I do believe in God. You can too if you want.”

She takes the cross in her little fingers and looks at it with awe.

“Is this real treasure from your adventures?”

“Yup. Don’t lose it.”

“I’ll hang on to it with all my might forever and ever.” She hugs my legs so tightly I think they might break. “Thank you, daddy. Thank you.”

She releases her hold, shifts her baby blue and pink peace-sign-covered backpack up on her shoulder and turns for the school stairs, where a young lady takes her hand. After issuing me a quick, pleasant smile and a wave, the young lady leads my daughter into the building. As always when my little girl leaves my sight, my throat goes tight and my heart sinks.

_ _ _

Walking back towards my apartment in the warmth of the morning sun, I check my smartphone for any new emails.

The top one belongs to an address I don’t recognize. But the subject heading says. “ERASTUS. Not Spam.” I open the email while I slowly walk along the busy sidewalk. It reads,

“Thought you might find this of interest. By the way, you still have my cross. It’s okay. I want you to keep it.

“Yours in good faith.

“Pax

“Father Gabrielle”

In my head I once more picture the Vatican soldier. His dark clothing, his black fedora, the limp I gave him after I shot him in the left thigh inside my apartment vestibule. His cross now belongs to my daughter as if he somehow fully intended for her to have it.

God works in mysterious ways …

At the bottom of his email is a hyperlink.

Stopping in my tracks on the sun-soaked sidewalk, I press the link and wait for the website to come up. It’s the digital version of the
Times Union Newspaper
. My old hometown newspaper in Albany. The piece Father Gabrielle has linked me to bears the headline, “Mayor Erastus Corning Grave Unearthed for Reburial.”

Glancing at the story I can see that the resting place of the old Albany mayor was excavated on an emergency basis after flood waters from some recent severe rainstorms threatened to erode the entire burial site. While a new plot has not yet been chosen by the surviving Corning family, the remains of Mr. Corning are said to be stored in an undisclosed location.

Accompanying the story is a photo. The big monument bearing the full-sized Maltese cross and its angelic bronze lady has been removed, the ground beneath it all dug up. There’s nothing left. Nothing to indicate that a body was ever buried there, much less the mortal remains of Jesus.