Chapter 4
Queenstown, Maryland
Domenika and Father Parenti barely arrived in time for the start of Mass at St. Peter’s, the quaint clapboard church in Queenstown, a half-hour drive from their hideout in St. Michaels. It was a faded white wooden Victorian-style church with a crooked, timeworn steeple. It sat just off Rural Route 50, a lonely road that wound its way through verdant cornfields stitched together like thick green and yellow carpet rolling for miles all the way to the Chesapeake Bay.
The pair quietly slid unnoticed into a tattered wooden pew in the rear of the church and bowed their heads as the priest gave the welcome benediction. Parenti’s ever-present companion, Aldo, remained snug and sheltered inside his jacket pocket. He peered out from his tiny perch at the sparse congregation assembled for the last Easter service of the day.
As Parenti settled in for the Mass, his thoughts began to wander like the tiny wisps of incense smoke that wafted through the church. It was a good time to take stock of how far he and his beloved friends Domenika and Bondurant had come in the past few years. He couldn’t help but worry that the troubles that threw the three of them together long ago in their quest to solve the mystery of the Shroud now threatened to tear them apart.
The seemingly endless search Bondurant had undertaken to find Domenika for more than a year had taken its toll on the once bold and driven anthropologist. Parenti could tell Bondurant was exhausted. It was as evident as the new lines on his face. He’d also watched his friend reluctantly walk away from the professional life he’d built, including the successful Enlightenment Institute he’d founded several years before. Bondurant had shuttered the organization, afraid that it only invited risk for him to be there and probable trouble for his colleagues and grad students, without whom the institute could not thrive.
Parenti knew that Domenika’s life had changed immeasurably as well. Once a senior adviser to the pope, tasked with minding Bondurant on his quest to study the Shroud, she had a story that was impossible to imagine. She’d lost an infant son. What greater loss might there be for a mother? Parenti wondered. The priest would often watch her sit silently in solitude overlooking the wide river beside their makeshift camp. She’d stare out at the horizon long past sunset, as though the vast distance had something to tell her.
Parenti also knew that a terrible secret had bothered Domenika for too long. It seemed a lifetime ago that Domenika had first met Bondurant and learned from obscure Vatican files that he and his younger brother had been childhood victims of sexual abuse at the hands of a priest. Neither she nor Parenti had ever shared with Bondurant a word of what they knew. Was it their business anyway? Parenti often wondered. But every day that went by as the two fell further in love had made it more difficult for Domenika to reveal to Bondurant what she’d come to learn while getting to know him.
And, of course, there was the memo, the infamous “Jozef Memo.” Parenti reasoned it was the underlying reason for her silence. It was a dossier that had come to be known by her name that she had written about Bondurant only a week after they’d met in Turin. It was replete with her analysis of why Dr. Jon Bondurant, the world’s most famous critic of the Catholic Church, had likely raged against the faith his entire professional life. Her memo surmised that Bondurant’s hatred toward the Church was not driven, as many had thought, by scientific reasoning and an extraordinary IQ. Rather, it was probably personal after all.
The dossier on Bondurant was written for her boss, the Holy Father, and only the Holy Father. But in the course of storing it on the Vatican’s vast network, Domenika had accidentally made the memo available for the entire Holy See to view. Dozens of Vatican officials, from cardinals on high to librarians down low, had been made privy to her confidential psychological assessment of the man she’d despised at the time. The memo’s existence was a secret kept from Bondurant, but it was widely available for a time to those in the clergy who had come to loathe the charismatic scientist and author who’d spent a lifetime debunking their faith.
Terrible secrets aside, Parenti had watched the couple find life-giving solace in each other, so much so that his friend Bondurant had amazingly embraced something he’d never imagined before: marriage. It was the ultimate commitment for the elusive, relation-less soul that Bondurant had once been. Previously an inconceivable vow for Bondurant, who had nurtured an aloof persona over the years, marriage was obviously a pledge his friend now intended to keep for life.
Parenti also found himself a restless soul. Beyond their present troubles, he wondered where his own life was headed next. While his bond to the priesthood and commitment to service to others remained, he couldn’t help but daydream about starting his life all over again. He was certain he would never return to work in the Vatican Library, where he’d toiled as a cripple for years, and his eyes had been opened to the world. A miracle had saved him. He relished the thought of learning new things, meeting fascinating people, and traveling to the exotic lands that were the stuff of his dreams.
Before Parenti’s thoughts could wander further, his daydream lifted like the incense above him. He realized that the first and second biblical readings of the Mass had already been said. He leaned back and squared his shoulders against the pew in anticipation of what he knew would be a reading of the traditional Easter Gospel. It was a favorite—he could recite it by heart. He watched the priest leave his seat near the altar to approach the lectern.
“The Lord be with you,” the priest said to the faithful, who numbered only several dozen. His deep voice resonated through the rough-hewn wooden rafters that formed the arch of the cathedral ceiling overhead.
“And also with you,” the congregation said in unison.
“A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Matthew.”
“Glory to you, O Lord,” came the refrain.
As the pastor looked out across the humble but festive candlelit church, he began the Gospel reading: “ ‘Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock. He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were sitting there opposite the tomb.’ ”
The pastor paused, looked about him briefly, and continued. “ ‘The next day, the one after Preparation Day, the chief priests and the Pharisees went to Pilate. “Sir,” they said, “we remember that while he was still alive that deceiver said, ‘After three days I will rise again.’ So give the order for the tomb to be made secure until the third day. Otherwise, his disciples may come and steal the body and tell the people that he has been raised from the dead. This last deception will be worse than the first.”’ ”
The pastor paused again. This time, Parenti could see the celebrant had begun to scan the congregation, as though his eyes were in search of someone in particular. Strangely enough, when the pastor looked up from his text again and spotted Parenti in the very last pew in the rear, it appeared as though the priest momentarily stared only at him. Parenti was unnerved.
He watched the priest continue, his eyes on him, and without a glance toward the text before him: “ ‘ “Take a guard,” Pilate answered. “Go, make the tomb as secure as you know how.” So they went and made the tomb secure by putting a seal on the stone and posting the guard.’ ”
Suddenly, Parenti felt a cold sweat of sorts, and his head began to spin as though he might faint. He felt himself involuntarily rock from side to side. When he closed his eyes to avoid the intense gaze of the priest, his back-and-forth swaying grew severe enough that he clumsily collided with Domenika’s shoulder several times. Domenika threw him an annoyed look and shifted several inches away from his side. Parenti then attempted to steady himself as he grasped the side of the pew. He strained to open his eyes, but try as he might, they felt sewn shut to the world around him.
“ ‘After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.’ ”
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br /> With the pastor’s mention of the tomb, Parenti’s body abruptly ceased to sway, and he instantly froze in place. Frightened at his sudden paralysis, Parenti tried to cry out. He reached his hand toward Domenika’s for comfort but found it impossible to move or speak. It was then that Parenti—the seventh son of a seventh son—realized for the first time ever the promised gift of the power of premonition. What had been foretold to him as a child long ago was now actually proving to be true. In a tiny church on an Easter Sunday afternoon, he had strangely become a vessel for a vision, one only he was meant to see.
“ ‘There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it.’ ”
At these words, Parenti felt as though his body were being pulled in a spiral through a dark and endless tunnel. He fell into a deep, trancelike state. Time appeared as a dimension that slowed to an unnatural crawl. He could envision the pastor’s words falling to the ground in the shapes of letters that appeared like drops of bright, silver rain. Soon he felt his whole body lifted by an invisible force that propelled him toward a vision that slowly materialized before him. It began with a brilliant flash of light.
“ ‘His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.’ ”
Soon Parenti found himself in a full dreamlike state on the slope of a rocky hillside surrounded by a small grove of mature olive trees framed by a cloudless sky. The air and every element of life in the seeming dream froze in perfect stillness as though time had found a stopping point. Before him was a figure, a semitranslucent being from a world not his own. Its face appeared to alternate between indescribable beauty and a mask of grotesque horror.
The giant being’s entire form glimmered in a light so intense that it mimicked the brightness of the sun. It held what appeared to be a sword of light, and it possessed a single bleeding wound on its brow. Three slain Roman sentries lay scattered before it, several feet from a shallow cave. Beside the cave was a large capstone swept from its entry.
As the vision further unfolded, Parenti shielded his eyes from the brightness of the light. He peered cautiously inside a grave the spirit had breached. Inside the tomb, now radiantly lit, he watched the glowing specter bend slightly over a crude shelf hewn into the rock. It had been carved for a corpse to lie on in repose. No other trace of life or death could be found within the cave save a large white linen cloth left on the shelf, suggesting a spot where a body had once been.
Parenti watched as the spirit, too late in its search and angry that it had found an empty tomb, let forth an agonizing roar that shook the ground beneath him. Before the being turned to leave the tomb, Parenti watched as it reached for the burial cloth that remained. The beast picked it up and examined it carefully from end to end. Parenti looked on as the ghoul slowly, and with seemingly prescient purpose, dabbed the cloth on its wounded brow. It let out a howl and hastily discarded the sheet, leaving it on the floor of the tomb. When the being emerged from the cave, it looked about. In an incredible turn, it transformed itself into a pleasing humanlike form. Then it strode toward a pathway that led down a hill. Parenti watched as a small crowd began to make its way up the narrow trail toward the tomb to greet the being.
“ ‘The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay.” ’ ”
The pastor raised the Bible in his hands and proclaimed to the congregation: “This is the Gospel of the Lord.”
“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” the congregation replied.
Parenti was dumbstruck. He opened his eyes and bolted upright in his pew, enough so that Aldo let out a tiny squeal. Terrified of what he’d seen, he sat quietly, minded only himself, and said nothing to Domenika. After the Mass had concluded, he dropped to his knees in his pew for a moment and tried to steady himself and his thoughts. His entire body shivered as if he were cold, yet around him was only incense and warm spring air.
He was certain he’d experienced for the first time in his life a frightening power, one that had been foretold. But there was no doubt in Parenti’s mind just what he’d seen and what it meant. He’d been privy to a true revelation from the scriptures, not a simple dream. It was a terrible thing that not a soul would believe. He would have to tell Bondurant—and quickly. For he was certain the mystery of the child born from the Shroud had been solved.
Chapter 5
Isle of Man
Khan did not consider herself immortal. Far from it. She’d seen more death by plague by the time she was thirty years old than anyone she’d ever met. Mortality was inevitable. Even she had to admit it. But she deeply resented the prospect of death, the great equalizer. It placed her destiny on the same footing as everyone else in the world, inviting a comparison she’d prefer to avoid.
She didn’t know just how she would one day perish, but from the time she was a young child raised on the wide-open green steppes of Central Asia, she lived with a strange conviction. It was a certainty as firm as the ground on which she was raised, earth that was flat as far as the eye could possibly see. And just like a wild Mongol horse approaching from a distance in her native land, she had an absolute certainty that she would see her own end coming long before it arrived. Death would be such an important event in her life that it deserved, indeed dictated, a warning. A premonition, to be exact. Khan’s adherence to this belief had worn an unusual path for her in life and a way of living it day-to-day unlike anyone else. This was, of course, fine with her.
Whether it involved the simple task of waking in the morning and commuting to work each day or determining whether to leap out of an airplane in a free fall, opening her chute dangerously close to the ground, she practiced a simple routine. First, she visualized in her mind whether the experience she was about to undertake would be her last. If she could not clearly conjure up a forewarning of her demise in the act, she pressed on. “Always do what you are afraid to do,” her father said. She followed his guidance without limit.
Khan had grown up an only child and a lonely child. With few souls close enough to compare or connect to on the wide and windswept plains of her birth, her role model and father—Ganzorig Khan—was a solitary figure himself. A stout, powerful man as strong as the horses he bred, his name meant “steel courage” and defined the essence of the man. Every task, chore, and challenge he presented to his daughter as she grew was strictly designed to ensure that she would far more than survive what life might throw her way. He wanted her to rise. He knew that when he died, he would likely die hard, perhaps thrown by a stallion over a cliff. He was determined to mold a woman who would thrive long after his death and win in what he knew was a man’s world.
Khan’s faith in this approach toward living, winning, and dying gave her clear license to test the boundaries of risk and the invisible edge where life sometimes met the unknown. The few who got close to her and survived with their wits and well-being intact embraced a life of reckless abandon with her or, for their own sake, quickly moved on. Her belief in this attitude toward life defined her. She put herself in harm’s way as a matter of routine. But it was the world outside her career that was every bit as riveting to Khan, a life she shared with precious few.
Now, as the ocean mist began to burn off the black pavement from the late-morning sun, the hiatus of a week away from the troubles in Kolkata offered a thrill of a different kind for Khan. It was one she coveted, having practiced it for many years. A “Superbike” enthusiast, Khan hadn’t missed the famous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy Race in five years. Once the most prestigious motorcycle event in the world, it was now considered the world’s most dangerous race.
Beginning in the small village of Douglas on the windswept southeast coast of the island, the course was a small and winding rural road closed to the public
on race day. The winning bike that wound its way around the thirty-eight-mile course reached an average speed of more than 130 miles an hour, often becoming airborne while it exceeded speeds of more than 200. Men dominated the course. Very few women qualified to challenge it, but Khan was one. She had run the race enough to memorize every single one of the two hundred bends in the road from sea level to hilltop. Almost two hundred forty riders had lost their lives in the more than one hundred years the race had been run.
Khan knew that if ever there was an event that threatened death for her, this was it. She sat alone in a lotus position before the race near its starting point, helmet in her lap, with her eyes fixed on the horizon of the sea. Not a single premonition of death was in sight before she set out on the course aboard her black-and-yellow-checkered Honda CBR 1000 RR. If she had imagined herself splayed out across the side of a stone farmhouse, having hit it head-on at 150 miles an hour, she might have readily packed it in and gone home. But she hadn’t. She was vibrantly alive and, ten minutes into her time trial, absolutely pouring it on. The world record for a female rider around the course was just over an average of 116 miles an hour. In the previous year’s trials, Khan had averaged 114.
She knew the exact turn that had prevented her from capturing the course record. It was just outside the tiny town of Ramsey on the bare northeast coast of the island. Not quite a hairpin turn, it was one of the most difficult elements of the course to master. The road, which narrowed toward the apex of the turn, dove a quarter of a mile straight down toward a ravine protected by a stone wall five feet high. Beyond the wall was a farmer’s field. The steepness of the decline dictated that the bike should get nothing but brake, several downshifts, and a hard lean to the right as the rider approached. Anything less would mean a velocity of more than eighty-five miles an hour, a speed far too dangerous to make the curve. The turn was the exact spot where Khan knew she had lost too much valuable time the year before. She was determined it wouldn’t happen again. Her ride had gone well. She’d taken her bike and her ability to the limit and was on track to achieve a personal best.
The Second Coming Page 4
