F Paul Wilson - Novel 03

by Virgin (as Mary Elizabeth Murphy) (v2. 1)

  Quick-buck grifters and con artists had moved in too. Emilio had already had run-ins with a few of them, and the guy he'd just passed had been the first. He'd approached Emilio just as he'd started to today, asking him if he had "the sickness"—the local code for AIDS.

  Curious, Emilio had said, "What if I do?"

  With that the guy had launched into a spiel about his cure-all tonic, claiming his elixir, "Yes, the stuff right in these bottles you see before you here," was the stuff that had cured the AIDS cases everyone was talking about.

  Emilio had listened awhile, then pushed him into a corner and knocked him around until he admitted that he hadn't even come to the city until he'd read about the cures.

  Emilio had similar run-ins with a number of the snake-oil salesmen he'd come across and under pressure the stories were all the same: charlatans preying on the weak, the sick, and the desperate.

  Not that Emilio cared one way or the other, he simply didn't want to bring one of their potions back to Paraiso and look like a fool in the eyes of the senador.

  This whole trip seemed a fool's errand.

  And yet . . .

  There was a feeling in the air . . . and in Emilio himself . . . a twinge in his gut, a vague prickling at the back of his neck, a sense that these littered streets, these leaning, tattered buildings, hid a secret. Even the air felt heavy, pregnant with . . . what? Dread? Anticipation? A little of both, maybe?

  Emilio shook it off. The senador had not sent him here for his impressions of the area; he wanted facts. And whatever it was that was raising his gooseflesh, Emilio doubted it would be of any use to the senador and Charlie. But something was going on down here.

  Vincenzo Riccio stood in the dusk on the sidewalk in front of St. Joseph's church. He did not stare up at its Gothic facade, but at the doorway that led under its granite front steps. People carrying candles were beginning to gather on those front steps. They carried rosaries and clustered around an elderly woman in a wheelchair who was preparing them for a prayer meeting tonight. Vincenzo paid them little heed.

  He had wandered the Lower East Side all day, tracing a spiral path from the Con-Ed station by the FDR, following a feeling, an invisible glow that seemed to be centered in the front of his brain, pulling him. Where or why it was drawing him, he could not say, but he gave himself over to the feeling, allowed it to lead him in shrinking concentric circles to this spot.

  And now he was here. The invisible glow, the intangible warmth, the only warm spot in the city lay directly before him, somewhere within this church.

  In the course of the weeks he had spent down here searching for the vision, Vincenzo had passed St. Joseph's numerous times. He had crossed himself as he'd come even with its sanctuary, and even had stopped in once to say a prayer. But he had not been struck by anything especially important about the place. A stately old church that, like its neighborhood, had seen better days.

  Now it seemed like . . . home.

  But what precisely was it that he had followed here? That the strange sensation was connected to the apparition that had touched him with ecstasy and cleansed him of the malignancy that had been devouring him he had no doubt. Neither did he doubt that the apparition was a visitation of the Blessed Virgin. A true visitation. Not a hallucination, not a wish fulfillment, not a publicity stunt. He had seen, he had been touched, he had been healed. This was the real thing. His wish had been granted: He had witnessed a miracle before his death, but as a result of that miracle, his

  death was no longer imminent. He had been granted extra time. And he'd used some of that extra time to find this place.

  Why? What was so special about this St. Joseph's church? What significance could it have for the Virgin Mary? It was built on land that had been an undeveloped marsh until a millennium and a half after the birth of Christianity. Vincenzo did not know of any sacred relics housed here.

  And yet . . .

  Something was here. The same warm glow that had suffused his entire being a few nights ago seemed to emanate from this building. Not from where he would have expected—from the sanctuary of the church itself—but from its lower level. From the basement which appeared to be some sort of soup kitchen.

  What could be here? The remains of some American saint unrecognized by the Church? Was that the reason behind the Blessed Mother's visitations?

  Inside . . . it's inside.

  Vincenzo was drawn forward. Why shouldn't he go in? After all, he was wearing his cassock and collar. Who would stop a priest from entering a church? Especially a monsignor on a mission from the Holy See. Yes. Hadn't the Vatican itself asked him to investigate the reports of visitations in this parish? That was precisely what he was doing.

  As he descended the short flight of stone steps he passed under a hand-painted sign that read LOAVES AND FISHES; he pushed through a battered door and entered a broad room lined with long tables and folding chairs. Toward the rear, a serving counter. And beyond that, a kitchen.

  Farther inside . . .

  Feeling as if he were in a dream, he skirted the tables and moved toward the kitchen. A growing excitement quivered in his chest. He heard voices, running water, and clinking crockery from the kitchen. He rounded the corner and came upon three women of varying shapes, sizes, and ages busily scrubbing pots, plates, and utensils. The big, red-cheeked one glanced up and saw him.

  "Sorry, we're closed until—oh, sorry, Father. I thought you were one of the guests. Are you looking for Father Dan?"

  Vincenzo had no idea who Father Dan was.

  "Is he the pastor?"

  "No. Father Brenner is the pastor. Father Dan is the associate pastor. He went back to the rectory about half an hour ago."

  Down . . . it's beneath your feet.

  "Is there a basement here?"

  "This is the basement, Father," another woman said.

  "But there's a furnace room below here," said the thinnest and oldest of the three.

  Vincenzo saw a door in the rear corner and moved toward it.

  "Not that one," said the old woman. "That leads to the rectory. There's another door on the far side of the refrigerator there."

  Vincenzo changed direction, brushing past them, unable to fight the growing urgency within him.

  So close . . . so close now.

  He pulled the door open. A sweet odor wafted up from the darkness below.

  Flowers.

  As his eyes adjusted, Vincenzo made out a faint glow from the bottom of the rutted stone steps. He started down, dimly aware of the women's voices behind him speaking of Father Dan and something about a Sister Carrie. Whether they were speaking to him or to each other he neither knew nor cared. He was close now . . . so close.

  At the bottom he followed the light to the left and came upon a broad empty space with a single naked bulb glowing from the ceiling.

  No . . . this can't be it . . . there's got to be more here than an empty basement.

  Off to his left . . . a voice, humming. He followed the sound around a corner and found the door to a smaller room standing open. As he stepped inside, his surroundings became more dreamlike.

  I'm here . . . this is the place . . . I've come home . . .

  Candlelight flickered off the walls and low ceiling of a room that seemed alive with sweet-smelling blossoms. He saw a woman there, her back was to him and she was humming as she straightened the folds of the robes draped around some sort of statue or sculpture recumbent on—

  And then Vincenzo saw the glow. He recognized that glow, knew that glow. The same soft, pale luminescence had enveloped the apparition. He could not be mistaken. Hadn't it touched him, been one with him for a single glorious instant? How could he forget it? He realized then that this was no statue or sculpture before him. This was a human body laid out on a makeshift bier.

  But whose body?

  Suddenly Vincenzo knew, and the realization was like a physical blow, staggering him, numbing him, battering his consciousness until it threatened to tear loose fro
m its moorings and . . . simply . . . drift.

  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."

  "Once she gets to Rome, she may disappear forever, as if we never found her."

  "That is absurd," Vincenzo said.

  But within he wondered if she might not be right. He was more familiar than she with the internecine ways of the Holy See, and realized it was all too possible that the Virgin might be lost in the labyrinth of Vatican politics.

  "Please!" she cried.

  He was wounded by the tears in her eyes. How could he separate her from the Virgin? That seemed almost . . . sinful.

  Vincenzo shook himself. His duty was clear.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "but I really have no choice. I must report this to Rome at once."