The Shroud Key

by Vincent Zandri

  “Rob a grave,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  As we approach the village of Menands in North Albany, I remove the cross from the pocket in my jacket. I stare down at it, at the Maltese cross and the angelic lady. At her little eyes, hands, and wings. I feel my heart beat and my lungs strain to breathe. My gut is speaking to me, telling me that he’s close. The remains of Christ are very close.

  The cabbie pulls up to the cemetery gates, comes to a stop under a metal sign that reads, The Albany Rural Cemetery, Incorporated April 2, 1841. I know the old metal sign well, even if it only dawns on me now that perhaps the founding cemetery fathers wanted to avoid incorporating a resting place for the dead on April Fools Day, or what was then known as the Feast of Fools day.

  “You want me to drive inside?” asks the cabbie.

  I tell him it won’t be necessary. Paying the man, I tip him generously and get out. As he pulls away I stare down a long avenue bordered on both sides with wide open greens which are bookended with thick woods. Pulling out my cell phone, I go to VZ Navigator and type in the same GPS coordinates that I Google mapped prior to leaving Italy. It zeros in on a plot that can’t be located more than a half mile away along the cemetery road.

  Pocketing the smartphone and hefting the tools over my shoulder, I walk.

  The road winds and bends until the pristine greens become covered with hundreds upon hundreds of headstones, ornate statuary, and in some cases, mausoleums that are larger than my downtown New York apartment. The Albany Rural Cemetery is not just any cemetery. It is the resting place of former US President Chester Arthur, renowned architect Philip Hooker, an entire rebel brigade from the Revolutionary War, and one more important man: Erastus Corning, the mayor who presided over Albany for more than forty-one years until his death in 1978. The same year the Vatican called for the shroud inquiry. The same year the bodies from the Jesus tomb were removed from Jerusalem and supposedly, reburied inside a secret vault inside the Third Pyramid of Giza.

  “Erastus …” whispered the Vatican soldier as he lie bleeding on my apartment floor. “Erastus … Erastus …”

  Certain he was going to die, he was telling me the location of the bones. When I grabbed the cross strapped to his neck, he must have assumed that I was now without question, in possession of the true resting place of Jesus. If only I’d thought to read the inscription on the cross’s back, so much death and destruction could have been avoided. But then, my primary purpose was to find Manion. I found him, but I could not prevent him from losing his life in pursuit of the bones. If only I’d thought to read the inscription far earlier than I did …

  I see the headstone from maybe fifty feet away. The granite Maltese cross is easy to spot amongst the tall oak and birch trees. My heart beating in my chest, I make my way to the cross like a penitent man approaching an altar from which he is about to be judged. The cross is taller than I thought. At least two stories tall, and carved into its center is the symbol that tells me I have come to the right place. It’s a triangle with the small circle in the center. The same symbol I found on the shroud, and in the third pyramid.

  My eyes shift downwards.

  The angel of a woman who adorns its pedestal is as large as I am. Her copper body has oxidized over the years and become entirely green, like the Statue of Liberty. But her wings look thick and full and light, while her flowing robes seem as if they will blow in the breeze should it suddenly pick up. She looks into my eyes, and with her opens hands, begs me to come forward and perhaps even to accompany her to a world that is not of this earth. She’s taking a step forward as is evidenced by her right knee which is rising up against her gown, and if I didn’t know any better, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she suddenly took hold of my hand and began lifting me up into the heavens to greet the soul of the man who truly rests here.

  The man who is said to be buried here is not Erastus Corning, as the engraved name indicates on the stone located directly below this angelic woman’s feet, but instead they belong to someone else. Or perhaps, Erastus shares the grave. In any case, I set aside the pick-axe while positioning the shovel so that the vertical blade stabs the soft grass. I press my booted foot down on the blade and feel it sink into the soil.

  It takes maybe five minutes of digging before the blade hits something solid. Something that feels and sounds like metal. All around me now, the wind blows. I’ve been so busy digging, that I never noticed the once bright blue sky which has blackened with thick, dark clouds. Off to the east towards the river, I spot a flash of lightning and a few seconds later, a deep rumble of thunder. Climbing out of the hole, I feel the first of the heavy raindrops pelt my face and the wind slapping my skin.

  Setting down the shovel, I grab the pick axe and jump back down into the hole.

  I chop all around the box with the axe portion of the tool, and then set the pick into the earth beneath it. With one hard thrust of the thick wood handle, I free the box from the earth. Bending at the knees, I take the box into my arms and set it onto the grass. Climbing back out, I stand over it and simply look at it.

  The storm has picked up, the wind blowing so hard the trees above me are bending. The sky is so black it’s like night has settled in early over the land, while the rain pelts my head. A bolt of lightning strikes a tree not one hundred feet away, and a heavy branch falls from it onto the road. The explosive thunder steals my breath away. Looking back down at the box, I can see that it’s locked, but that it will be possible to open it with one swift, and well-placed swipe of the axe.

  Turning the box onto its side, I hold the axe in my hands, as if I were chopping wood. I position the blade over the center of the metal box, where the two halves join together. Sucking in a deep breath, I slowly raise the axe overhead and come down at the precise moment a jagged bolt of lightning strikes the road, thunder exploding like live artillery, making my ears ring and my head buzz.

  I look down and see that the box is open.

  I drop the axe and feel the rain that is soaking me. It’s as if the rain is heaven sent. It’s seeping into my clothing, soaking my skin and drowning my pounding heart. I feel suddenly paralyzed as though no longer in control of my movements. But that’s insane. I’m merely afraid of what it is I’m about to find.

  And then I hear a voice. It’s coming from behind me.

  “What is it you seek, Chase?”

  I turn fast, entirely expecting to be confronted by an irate cemetery worker or even a police officer. But the man I face is someone else entirely. The man stands no more than a few feet away from me, dressed entirely in black, his black fedora protecting his head and face from the wind and the rain. He’s using a heavy wood cane for balance, which he holds tightly in his left hand. More than anything else, I know now for certain that he is not dead … that he did not bleed out on my apartment floor in Florence.

  “I see what we all seek,” I answer.

  “And what is that exactly?” asks the man I shot … The soldier of the Vatican.

  “Erastus …” he whispered while bleeding out on the floor of my apartment. “Erastus … Erastus …”

  “The truth,” I say, swallowing something dry. “Proof of the truth.”

  “And how will this proof change your life?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not about that. The bones of Christ are an important artifact. Perhaps the most important in all mankind. They belong to all humanity and they should be exposed, resurrected, researched, protected.”

  “Perhaps they should be placed in a museum to gather dust?” he says. “Perhaps a placard above them should read, Here Lies Jesus of Nazareth, the man responsible for changing the world forever. Or perhaps it should say, Here lies the body of a man who once gave people strength in their mortal lives and hope for a heavenly rest in their afterlife.”

  “People don’t need to lose their faith just because mortal proof of Christ exists.”

  He cocks his head over his shoulder.

/>   “Perhaps,” he says. “But is that for you to determine? A writer who wishes only for fame?”

  “I need to know. I need to know the truth. It’s not fame I’m seeking. It’s not money. In the end, I seek only truth.”

  “Then by all means, Chase Baker,” he says, taking a careful limping step backwards, “please be prepared to meet your maker.”

  I drop to my knees on the rain-soaked grass.

  The penitent man …

  Grasping the box with both hands, I lift off the cover, toss it aside. Inside is a leather bag, not unlike the bag that was discovered in the box we took from the chamber in the Third Pyramid. I pull the bag open with my fingers, reach inside. My hand feels bone. The touch sends an electrical charge up into my arm. Into my brain. It shoots down my back and down my legs. My entire body feels charged.

  I feel the Vatican soldier standing over me. I sense the lightning and the feel the thunder concussions, but I am in another place entirely. My lungs breathe, my heart beats, but I am not even certain that I am alive any longer. Perhaps it’s possible that I have died and only now am becoming aware of it.

  I pull something out.

  It’s a bone. A dark, almost richly blackened bone. If I had to guess, a leg bone. I pull something else out. It’s a rib. Then I pull out another rib, and another. Only this rib is different from all the rest. This rib has been severed at the tip, as if something stabbed this body. Reaching in once more I pull something out that feels like rusted metal and bone fused together. It’s an ankle bone. Piercing the ankle bone is a nail. But not a nail in the traditional sense. More like a spike that has blackened and rusted with time. The pointed end of the spike has been pounded with a hammer so that it now bends at a ninety degree angle. It’s a trick the Roman soldiers once employed during execution by crucifixion in order to keep the spike from slipping out of the wood once the blood began to lubricate it.

  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 v
ery 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 22rd 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?”