The Second Coming

by John Heubusch

  “But she hasn’t lost a son, has she?” the pope said as he reached for a jar of jam in the center of the table. “At least, not one that’s her own.”

  Bondurant pushed aside the bowl of fruit he’d begun to pick at and looked up in disdain. “Your Holiness, forgive me, but you were there at the moment of the child’s birth.”

  “Jon. May I call you Jon?”

  “Yes, fine. I’m not interested in formalities.”

  “It’s a good name, you know. I’m sure Domenika must like it.”

  “She does. What’s your point?”

  “Saint John was martyred, you know?” The pope stirred the cream he had poured into his coffee and looked up at his guest. “They placed a rope around his neck and dragged his body through the streets before he was beheaded.”

  “I have no doubt that there are those in the Church, including yourself, who wish the same fate for me,” Bondurant said.

  The pope raised his eyebrows and gave Bondurant a wry smile. He gently set down his spoon. “Well, to your point: While it was indeed Domenika who gave birth to the child, the one you call Christopher, surely you must know that the child belongs to the Church.”

  “How could you possibly say that?” Bondurant said. He wondered if he’d heard the pontiff correctly. “She gave birth to the boy. We’ve raised him. Until now, the Church has shown only a passing interest in his well-being.”

  “I want to assure you that your stewardship of the boy to this point has been greatly appreciated by the Vatican,” the pope said. “In fact, although I understand you are already a man of great means, we are prepared to pay you handsomely for your paternal efforts to date.”

  “We have no interest in money,” Bondurant said. “We want Christopher back. It’s beyond me that the Church, any church, would swoop down and kidnap him with armed commandos in the dead of night.”

  “It was an unusual act, I must admit,” the pope said. “That particular theater was Father De Santis’s doing.”

  “ ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Does that ring a bell?” Knowing that De Santis was involved only further angered Bondurant. He tried to keep his rage in check, but the pope’s self-righteousness mixed with such a calm demeanor didn’t help.

  “One cannot steal what one rightfully owns,” Augustine said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that the child was born of material extracted from the burial cloth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” the pope said. “The Shroud is the property of the Church. The material that resides on it—you call it DNA—is owned by the Church. And most certainly, if there is even a semblance of Christ our savior who walks this earth derived from that DNA, as a clone or otherwise, he belongs to the Church as well. He is the Church.”

  “I came here to reason with you as a father,” Bondurant said. “Someone who has raised the boy from an infant. I expected more from the Church than legal mumbo jumbo.”

  “Indeed, our lawyers have reviewed the matter. But that is beside the point.”

  Bondurant tried to process what the pope had said, but he was so stunned at what he’d heard thus far that he was at a loss for words. Then he found them. “You’re a criminal,” he said.

  “Good. Just the kind of candor I asked for,” the pope said.

  “No, truly. That’s legal thievery. I would expect reasoning like that to come from a lawyer, but please don’t tell me that you, the supposed voice of your Christ on this earth, believe it’s acceptable to steal a child from his parents.”

  The pope looked away. Bondurant could tell he didn’t want their eyes to meet. “I’ve searched my soul over this,” the pope said. “I suppose you might say my councilors and I are living proof that desperate faiths sometimes do desperate things.” For the first time, there was a sense of regret rather than righteous indignation in the pontiff’s voice.

  “I see,” Bondurant said. “As long as the child was like any other, the Church had no use for him. The moment he begins to demonstrate some magic, he’s branded Church property. Is that it?”

  The pope only shook his head. Bondurant continued to try to meet his eyes with his own but had no luck. He knew he had no choice but to burrow in.

  “You know yourself, Holy Father, that the child is a clone. A clone. What could possibly drive your interest in him? The Church’s own doctrine—your own declaration—specifically forbids the existence of life by cloning.”

  “It does. It’s the same as playing with stem cells. And if I were asked today to support the cloning of any other man or woman who has walked this earth, I would not.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  The pope paused and stared out across the picturesque lake, as smooth as glass in the morning sun.

  “It’s no secret to you, is it, that my Church, our faith, is in the gravest of trouble? You’ve written about it yourself.”

  “Entire books.”

  “Bestsellers. I’ve read them, as have many others, apparently. You’ve written that less than half the people in your own country accept a faith of any kind. For every person who converts to Catholicism today in this world, many more will leave. Things are not what they used to be.”

  “And abducting children from their legitimate parents will help?” Bondurant shouted as he banged his fist on the breakfast table, rattling everything on top of it. A tall, plain-clothed member of the Swiss Guard, the force that customarily provided protection for the pope, swiftly emerged from a side room off the balcony, seemingly ready to draw his gun.

  Augustine casually waved him away, but his face quickly grew red with rage. “Surely you will not sit here and tell me I have a choice?” the pope insisted. “A Watcher walks this planet. You know that. He lives and breathes in the form of this Demanian child. He steals our faithful by the millions for his evil purposes, and I am to ignore it?” He rushed his hands to his temples and began to massage them as if he were in tremendous pain.

  “Funny,” Bondurant said.

  “What’s funny?” the pope asked.

  “Do you have headaches? Spells that happen often?”

  “In fact, I do. I have for several years.” The pope closed his eyes, still in deep distress.

  “Christopher has begun to have them too,” Bondurant said. “It’s why we had him seen by doctors.”

  “It’s not something a doctor can cure, I’m afraid. It’s an attack by the Watcher, of that I’m sure,” the pope said. “I’ve been convinced of it for some time. That and the incessant noise in my ears.”

  After a few more moments of anguished silence, the pope raised his eyes from the table to speak. His voice was so soft that Bondurant had to lean forward to hear.

  “I won’t deny our complicity in all this,” Augustine said. “Believe me, I’ve worn my knees to shreds in penance for what the sinful among our ranks have done over the years. Even you were a victim years ago.”

  Bondurant could only grit his teeth.

  “It was our vanity that led us to you in our quest to prove the divinity of the Shroud to the world,” the pope said. “It was only meant to serve as a distraction from our troubles. But from that prideful sin, the devil himself has been reborn. I know that my God is a forgiving one, but my atonement for our sins may be too little, too late. Now we need a miracle to stop this beast Hans Meyer has raised, and I believe the so-called resurrection of this boy, the one you call Christopher, might be it.”

  “Our little Christopher is only six years old, sir,” Bondurant said. “Right or wrong, Domenika and I conceived of the very idea of him to stop a plague. We’d hoped to prepare him for this inevitable moment as well. Even now, I count myself as likely insane for believing a small and innocent child might help stop this descendant of the devil. But you? You’ve upped the ante. You’re counting on him to save your Church.”

  “The Church is facing the greatest crisis in its history under my guardianship. I took a vow to fulfill my obligation to promote Christ’s work on this earth by every
means. Every means, Dr. Bondurant.”

  Bondurant threw his napkin on the table. He’d heard enough. He got ready to leave, with no intention to extend his hand.

  The pope stopped him, reached forward, and grasped Bondurant’s hand in his own. He gripped it uncomfortably tightly. “The Church can give this child a home, a home where he belongs. A place to heal countless others,” the pope said. “Join with us.”

  “You mean a way to heal your ailing Church,” Bondurant said.

  “Help us with our cause, Dr. Bondurant. Join us at St. Peter’s Square for the celebration of the child this Sunday. Please bring our Domenika. These are exciting times. There is a world to be cured, a devil to be fought, and a Church to be saved and reborn.”

  “It sounds as if you have a coming-out party planned for Christopher,” Bondurant said.

  “We do. It will be a grand one,” the pontiff said as he nodded his head and smiled. “And you are invited!”

  “We accept,” Bondurant said. “We accept.”

  Chapter 48

  The Vatican

  Bondurant had never seen a crowd so large.

  He hopped up onto his folding chair and stood for a moment to get a view above the colorful throng, then turned to look behind him at the sea of faces gathered in St. Peter’s Square. A multitude of people looked toward the papal basilica. Centered in the middle of the piazza was the famous Egyptian obelisk that towered above the crowd. It was the same monument that stood in observance of the crucifixion of Saint Peter nearly two thousand years before.

  As far as Bondurant’s eyes could see, the ellipse around him was awash with banners and flags of red and gold. The faithful who’d gathered had been asked to dress in festive colors of green and white, worn to symbolize the renewal—the rebirth—of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Flanking Bondurant and Domenika for nearly a hundred yards on both sides and extending twenty rows to their rear was a specially prepared section of seating filled with the infirm. They were cordoned off from the rest of the crowd but still subject to the heat of the sweltering sun. The sick, many in wheelchairs and carts, had been positioned close to the stage.

  The procession was led by a dozen altar boys dressed in black cassocks and white lace surplices. They were followed by the most senior members of the Vatican’s Curia as they marched before the crowd. They ascended onto a specially built platform that rested atop the entrance stairs to St. Peter’s Basilica. At the rear of the stage was the Vatican’s impressive orchestra, encompassed right and left by a chorus of fanfare trumpeters. Their brass instruments reflected brilliantly in the light of the sun. In line behind the Curia was an assemblage of cardinals dressed entirely in bright red. They represented more than two dozen countries around the world, from Latin America to Africa to Asia, the last remaining strongholds of the Catholic Church.

  Behind them proceeded the Holy Father himself, dressed in simple white and gold. He waved to the crowd and proudly held young Christopher by the hand as he shuffled forward. Taking up the rear was an assortment of other Vatican officials, including one whom Bondurant and Domenika easily recognized from their seats close to the stage: the newly minted Bishop De Santis. His bright red vestments and cap took on a radiant sheen. Finally, by invitation from Christopher and granted special permission to attend by the pope himself, none other than Father Parenti was there. He held a more marginal seat onstage at the end of his row toward the rear.

  Separating the Vatican assemblage from the crowd was a tall, temporary chain-link fence designed to provide security for the pope. Bondurant figured it was also there to keep the worshippers at bay once it became clear what the boy’s miraculous healing powers could do.

  Two gates were positioned for access to the stage through the fence that separated the ceremony’s officials from the sick. Most were ill enough that they couldn’t reach the platform without the assistance of the caregivers beside them. Cancer patients, the deaf, and more than two thousand suffering from one serious illness or another pressed desperately toward the fence to get a good look at the child who sat next to the pope. Bondurant and Domenika stood on their chairs and waved to Christopher to get his attention, but the crowd was so huge he could not see them.

  After the orchestra had completed its movement and the trumpeters finished their flourish, Pope Augustine came forward to speak from a gilded lectern at the center of the stage. Bondurant sat and listened as Domenika simultaneously translated. The pope delivered his remarks in Italian. Bondurant sat transfixed as the huge mass of people bowed their heads while the pope gave them his blessing. A woman who sat next to Bondurant with an arm shriveled by disease hung on the pontiff’s every word.

  As Bondurant listened to Domenika’s translation, he fixed his eyes on Christopher. The boy, who looked unusually worn, had his eyes shut tight. His hands were cupped to his ears as if he was in pain. It was a worrisome sign. Bondurant couldn’t tell if Christopher was frightened by the commotion around him or if his head truly ached. While he hadn’t a clue how he would reach Christopher, given the tight security that surrounded the platform, he had every intention of rushing the gate to his right when it opened to allow some of the sick to access the stage. His hope was that between the sea of humanity that made its way past the fence and the confusion created by his bold move to snatch the child once he made it onstage, he might somehow run, evade his pursuers, and make it to a side street in the chaos that would ensue. It was a long shot at best, but given that he would likely never get this close to Christopher again, it was the only way.

  A tremendous roar erupted from the crowd.

  “He has introduced Christopher as ‘the child of God’ and asked the first of the sick to come forward,” Domenika said.

  Bondurant felt her squeeze his hand in anticipation, tighter than she had ever done before. Christopher stared straight ahead into the crowd and continued to hold and shake his head. As Bondurant freed himself from Domenika’s grip and began to slowly make his way through the crowd toward the stage, he watched as a middle-aged man in a wheelchair was shoved through the entry gate. Several assistants lifted him onto the platform. Bondurant tried to press in behind them to gain access to the stage area, but two Swiss Guards, both armed, shoved him backward. He knew the only other gate to the stage sat a hundred yards away. Given the mass of people who stood along the fence, it was likely a full ten minutes away. He made his way back to Domenika, stood beside her, and eyed the height of the fence. He could easily scale it, but would just as readily be seen. He watched as the man in the wheelchair was rolled into place at center stage, just in front of where Christopher sat. A line of other invalids began to form behind the disabled man.

  The pope took Christopher by the hand and stepped forward toward the crippled figure. As he spoke into the microphone, the pontiff’s voice was clear for all assembled in the square to hear. “My son,” he said as he leaned in toward the man in the wheelchair, “when was the last time you left that chair and walked?”

  “Forty years, Holy Father,” the man replied. “I’ve been bound to it since I was a child.”

  “Take his hand,” the pope instructed the man as he pointed to Christopher beside him. “Take his hand. Stand and behold.”

  As the assistants helped bring the invalid to his feet, the man reached his hand out for Christopher to hold. The boy, his hands still pressed to his ears, hesitated for a moment. Then he extended one hand to touch the man before him. When they touched, the man stood suddenly erect. Amazed, the assistants at his side stepped back from the once-crooked figure and quickly swept his wheelchair to the side. As the dumbfounded man took his first step forward, the crowd let forth a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ancient square.

  Then, as quickly as the man had risen, he stumbled on his second step and fell flat on his face onto the floor. A moan of disappointment from the huge throng rolled across the piazza like a wave. The pope, who looked completely confused, stared down at Christopher in total disbelief. Th
e man’s assistants peeled him from the carpet and sat him with a bloody, broken nose back in his chair. Following him was a woman who had a swollen red goiter the size of a golf ball protruding from her neck. She bent down toward the child, got on her knees, and began to beg for his touch. Christopher, obviously aghast at the sight of the ugly sore before him, hesitantly reached out his hand and stroked the woman’s cheek. Feeling his touch, she leaped to her feet. As she pressed her hand to the goiter, it was clear to both her and those in the first several rows of the stage that the boy’s touch had done nothing to help.

  A third, a fourth, and then a fifth afflicted person came forward for the child’s healing touch. But each left disappointed, unable to stand or walk or breathe easier as they had been led to believe they would. Not a single cure appeared. Bondurant watched as Christopher began to shake his head. He sat back in his chair as if to protest against a continuation of the event. As he did, the din of the crowd began to grow. It was then that the once-joyous affair began to take an ugly turn. A shoe flung from far back in the crowd landed on the stage, followed by a nasty roar. A plastic folding chair, and then another, crashed into the protective fence against the stage, followed by another half dozen shoes that arced their way across the platform toward the child.

  “Vergogna!” several in the crowd shouted. “Imbroglione!”

  Hundreds more took up the chant.

  “What are they saying?” Bondurant called out to Domenika through the growing howl of the crowd.

  “They’re saying he’s a fraud,” she said.

  As the pope slowly backed away from the child, De Santis rose from his chair and took Augustine’s arm as if to lead him to safety. A vicious glare, one like Bondurant had never seen before, appeared on De Santis’s face as he looked down at the helpless boy. Bondurant knew immediately that Christopher was in real danger. He leaped across two rows of chairs and shoved several people out of his way as he pressed toward the fence. When he reached the barrier, almost ten feet high, he quickly began to scale it. Almost to the top, he felt a sharp stabbing at his knees. It was the barrel of a guard’s rifle aimed directly at him. As Bondurant tried to ignore the pain and continued his climb, he looked down to see another rifle, now aimed at his face.