“No signs of crucifragium here for the subject, no broken legs to hasten death on what was presumably a wooden cross.”
Domenika looked up, distraught. “Why do you insist on calling this miracle you’ve created before us a mere ‘subject’? It is man-made, an object of light, I know. It’s the stuff of cameras and film and marvelous machines. But this is the image of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior. Surely you must know that by now.”
Bondurant was shaken by what he’d seen, but tried to keep his composure. He knew the image before them could be representative of many thousands of men crucified since the practice had first begun, but he wanted no arguments with Domenika, especially now. He had studied dozens of examples of ancient and even rare modern-day, Third-World crucifixions prior to his examination of the Shroud, and he knew the crucified individual before them could be anyone. However, until that very moment, Bondurant had not asked himself the obvious question. Was it possible to concede that he was, indeed, examining a figure so many had come to know as “Jesus”? The similarities between the body of light before him and the Bible’s description of the crucified Jesus were remarkable. The consequences for Bondurant if it was true were life-altering. But he canceled out the absurd thought as quickly as it had arrived.
“Given these wounds and the obvious evidence of massive trauma through crucifixion,” he reported into the microphone, “cause of death for this individual was most likely exhaustive asphyxia, labored breathing over several hours compounded by probable cardiovascular collapse.”
Domenika looked exhausted. She said nothing.
Bondurant rose slowly from his chair and brought his nose to within an inch of the image’s sublime face, the one that followers of Christianity the world over believed was that of Jesus Christ.
“Who are you?” Bondurant whispered to the image of light before him.
He cleared his throat and stared closely into the face of the image again.
“I find no evidence of insects or birds or animals burrowing their way into the eye sockets, nose, or mouth of the subject. All orifices appear to be intact. Unlike the majority of crucifixions with which I’m familiar, this individual was not left to hang on display for days.”
After he carefully examined the left side of the image’s chest and found no evidence of any deep or serious puncture wounds, he consulted his notes and walked around to the other side of the light table to examine the opposite side of the image.
Domenika looked up. “I know what you’re looking for,” she said.
Bondurant didn’t answer but looked intently up and down the glowing chest cavity for any sign of a mark or indentation. He was mindful of the biblical story in which a Roman sentry, Longinus, belatedly lanced Jesus’s side with a spear to spare him from further misery. Amazingly, a faint line on the chest about the width of a fist, just above where the image’s right ventricle would be, appeared before him. In utter disbelief, Bondurant dropped to the floor on both knees and studied the mark carefully with a magnifier for several minutes. Domenika knelt down and joined him at his side.
“Not possible,” he said. It was one of few times in his life when Bondurant was completely astonished.
“More than possible,” she replied. “Divine.”
Bondurant reached over to the control panel, his hand shaking, and tried to adjust the contrast knob to sharpen the outline of the image. It was no use. His eyes began to blur from the lack of sleep, accompanied by an unmistakable lump that began to form in his throat. He closed his eyes and gathered his strength to compose himself.
“Strike that,” he said as he opened his eyes once again. “Image appears to reflect a marking of indeterminate origin, right side of chest cavity, below the pectoral muscle. Bears further examination on video capture tomorrow. Day three of investigation.”
With that, he quietly turned toward the console and pressed the off button at the bottom of the panel. He watched the crucified image slowly dissolve from view, leaving only their two souls, the mysterious relic, and his newfound questions in the darkness around them.
CHAPTER 17
Turin, Italy
June 2014
Where to? Where to, lovebirds?” the young African cabdriver asked with a broad, toothy grin. He spoke with a French Algerian accent.
“Hotel Victoria, and step on it,” Father Parenti said as his face broke into a smile. He began to laugh, and the cabbie joined in the merriment. “I’ve always wanted to say that. This is my very first cab ride, you know?” the priest said, delighted. Aldo leapt from Parenti’s small satchel and scampered quickly from the backseat to the ledge against the rear window of the cab so he could take in the view behind them.
“Félicitations, mon père!” the driver said as he pulled the cab slowly away from the curb into heavy traffic. “A first time for everyone!”
It was day seven of the investigation, and they were blessed with a relaxed Sunday off, their only break in the two-week work schedule. Parenti and Domenika were returning from the Ristorante Barolo, where they had lunched after a long and pleasant walk from Mass. Domenika was in a particularly good mood as well, given that the examination of the Shroud had produced promising results thus far. By all accounts, Rome was pleased. She turned to Parenti and arched her eyebrows.
“I’m curious. What else were you able to find on Bondurant? Did they send the additional report I requested?” she asked.
Parenti had expected the question. He’d read the confidential dossier the Vatican Archives had sent the day before. Their cab was stuck in traffic, and he could tell the ride back to the hotel was going to provide ample time to answer the questions she had put to him earlier. He also had some unexpected news. But just as he opened his mouth to answer her, the cabdriver spoke.
“Pardonnez-moi, my friends,” the cabbie said. “You are traveling with others?”
“No,” Domenika said. She looked around. “What do you mean?”
“There is a car behind us, very close,” he said. “The black Mercedes. He’s changing lanes with me. Many times.”
Both Domenika and the little priest turned to look behind them to see an expensive four-door sedan on their tail. Aldo began to pace back and forth atop the ledge. The driver of the Mercedes wasn’t visible in the sun’s glare off the car’s windshield, and Domenika shrugged her shoulders.
“Not with us,” she said.
“My fault, then,” the cabbie said. “Silly thinking.”
Parenti turned back toward her.
“Where were we? Yes, Bondurant. You know the basics already,” he said. “Most of what our researchers have gleaned from the additional documents we have and the interviews of those willing to talk are really just trivial in nature, personal things that I don’t think would terribly interest you.”
“Don’t spare the mundane, Father,” she said.
He was glad to see she had taken a genuine interest in Bondurant, although he could tell she would be the last to admit it. Bondurant was by no means perfect. He had his vices. But it had taken only Bondurant’s single act of kindness toward the little priest when they had first met for Parenti to be won over. It was a measure of the man’s heart toward those less fortunate than himself, and it meant a great deal to the priest. Parenti had no quarrel with playing matchmaker, as unlikely as the prospect of the two of them together might seem. Although she was leaning back in her seat, he could tell that when it came to deeper insight about Bondurant, she was really on the edge of it.
“An addictive personality, to be sure,” Parenti said as he shook his head.
“Yes, the drinking. Tell me something I don’t know,” she said coolly.
“Well, our research reveals it goes beyond that. He is bright, no doubt. Top of his class and all that. But accomplishments have often come too easily to him. You might say he often finds life a bore. Type A, always reaching for something, anything to fascinate him long enough to hold his interest. Then he’s off to something new. The addictions, they’
re merely for passing time, I think. The drinking, the smoking, the conquests, the—”
“The what?” Domenika asked.
“The conquests. The conquests of women. Surely you have noticed this.”
“No, actually I’ve not, Father,” she said as she once again feigned disinterest.
“Well, he has certainly noticed you. He’s not stopped talking about you since the day we arrived and you swept him off his feet.”
“You can’t be serious about that, Father,” she said dismissively. “When has he even had the time?”
Parenti knew he was exaggerating a little, but he was thrilled with the prospect of Domenika and Bondurant falling for each other. Oddly, they seemed a fit to him. He’d detected the unspoken attraction between them from the moment they came together in Turin, and he was excited for her. Parenti adored Domenika and was particularly fond of her kindnesses toward him, a disfigured and crippled priest. He saw the Vatican as a prison where only aging clergy should be sentenced to live out their time. It was no place for a woman with her spirit and such a promising life ahead of her. He reached into his satchel, retrieved a treat for Aldo, and continued.
“I like him, our Dr. Bondurant, but be on your guard, Domenika,” Parenti said. He looked out the window while the cabbie accelerated past one of Turin’s lovely gardens. “You know Father Alfeo, the specialist in the modern literature branch?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“He’s a psychologist by training. He reviewed Bondurant’s file for me. He used an American expression. Very clever, I must say.”
“And what was that?” Domenika asked.
“He says Dr. Bondurant is not interested in ‘Mrs. Right.’ He wants ‘Mrs. Right Now.’ ” Parenti slapped his knee and began to laugh. “That, only an enchanting woman like you can cure.”
Domenika’s instant frown brought Parenti’s merriment to a halt.
“So, let me paraphrase from Alfeo’s report,” the priest said as he stared at his papers and avoided Domenika’s eyes. He began to tick off the list of character traits the dossier revealed to describe Bondurant: “Highly promiscuous, lacks a capacity for vulnerability or romantic feelings. Callous toward the feelings of women, sees them as objects of comfort, enjoys—”
“Enough!” Domenika protested.
“But there’s much more here, Domenika,” Parenti said. “Misogynistic, willing to—”
“What else is there beyond his difficulty with relationships, Father?”
“An American story,” Parenti said. He carefully folded his notes and spoke from memory. “Smart man. Grew up fast, apparently. Self-taught. Impatient. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, he’s rich. I can tell you that. But those who know him well claim he is generous to a fault. He has been known to give his money away to friends, even strangers, faster than he earns it. Greed is one of the vices he’s gone without. And then there’s that remarkably odd watch. I suppose it says something about him as well.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with his watch?” she asked.
“Haven’t you seen it? The one he wears?”
“No. What’s so special about it?”
“It doesn’t keep time—at least, not time like you and I know it. It tells his time, as in how much he has left.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Domenika said.
“He explained it to me. He has a patent on it. Developed it himself. It’s a countdown clock of sorts. He believes he knows how much time he has left on this earth to the year and the month. I can’t tell you exactly how he’s calculated it, but he’s documented every aspect of his lifestyle—his genetic disposition, his family’s health history, his risk factors, cholesterol level, blood pressure, the drinking, the smoking, hours of sleep each night, vitamin supplements. Apparently it’s all in a formula that predicts the end.”
“The end?”
“His end.”
“Now that’s just morbid,” she said.
“Maybe,” Parenti said. “But he says he doesn’t lose sleep over it. He said it reminds him every day that time is running out and that he’d better make the most of it.”
“And how much time does it say he has left?”
“He wouldn’t say. When I asked, he just said ‘not enough.’ ”
“We all might wear jewelry like that, Father, if we believed, as he does, that we have just one life to live.”
“Pardonnez-moi again, my friends,” the cabbie interrupted. “I take it back. We are being tailed.”
“You’re kidding me,” Domenika said as she turned to look behind them once again. “Who is it? Is it the police? What would they want with us?”
“This is not police, my friends,” the cabbie said. “Do you want me to lose them?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Now this is fun!” Parenti exclaimed. He could tell Aldo sensed real trouble behind them as well. He had jumped from his perch on the rear window ledge back into his satchel and now began a low growl.
“It’s certainly not fun,” Domenika said. She craned her neck to get a good look behind them once more. “Who could possibly have an interest in us?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Parenti said. “But there’s no shortage of strange people in this town who know that we’re here and what we’re doing. Some are taking bets.”
Parenti stared behind them too, but it was still impossible to see who was inside the car just a few feet behind them. He watched as Domenika became visibly nervous.
“Just get us back to the hotel safely, please. That’s all we ask,” Domenika urged.
There was one more piece of information about Bondurant the priest had learned. It was difficult news to relate, and far more disturbing than anything he had come to learn before. He had debated in his own mind whether to reveal it to Domenika or to anyone, but given the insight he knew it would provide, he decided he had no choice. It had been located by Father Alfeo in a locked file cabinet placed in an obscure private reading room of the Vatican’s vast archives that very few were aware of and even fewer were authorized to enter. Parenti looked behind them nervously once more and turned to address the cabbie.
“How much longer to the hotel, do you think?”
“The traffic is bad today, Father,” the driver replied. “At least another ten minutes.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get this over with,” the priest said as he turned to face Domenika. He took a deep breath. “I believe there are extenuating circumstances for Dr. Bondurant’s history of opposition to faith. Something that might have you see him in a, in a—”
“In what, Father?”
“In a, well, a new light. A different light.”
“Father, it’s no secret why he’s an atheist. He’s written books on the subject.” She continued to look at the traffic backed up behind them but had momentarily lost sight of their pursuer.
“Yes, yes, indeed he has,” Parenti said. “His logical construct to argue against the existence of God as an atheist and as a skeptic is of the classic mold. Evolution, cosmology, and all of that. He’s used our doctrine like a punching bag, has he not?”
“It’s no secret to me, Father. I’ve had the misfortune to tangle with him on stage.”
“So I’ve heard. You should know, Domenika,” Parenti said as he joined her in minding the scene behind them, “I believe there is a source of anger, even hatred, within him toward the Church and our faith that, to tell you the truth, is justifiable. Things unspeakable. But it explains many things.”
The cabbie edged his way onto the widening avenue near their hotel, veered across two lanes of traffic, and slowed the taxi to a crawl to test their pursuers’ resolve. He shook his head as the black sedan followed suit and emerged behind them once more.
Parenti hesitated. He didn’t know why they were being followed, and wondered whether he should drop it and leave it for another time. But he didn’t know when he might have another chance. He tr
ied to decide how to explain what he’d learned, and then he summoned his courage, reached out for Domenika’s hands, and took them in his own.
“There are lists,” the priest said. A wave of nausea suddenly consumed him. He bit down on his lower lip to repress it. “Some of them quite old, some of them new. I did not know about these lists before, but apparently they contain the names of the offended. Father Alfeo has confirmed it.” Parenti cast his eyes downward and sat completely silent, now at a loss for words.
“What do you mean by ‘the offended,’ Father?” She gripped his hands in hers to reclaim his attention.
“They are the names of innocents revealed to us by certain priests, nuns as well, over many years,” Parenti said. “The names of countless children violated by some in the clergy. Names, names, names, all of them secretly recorded on lists. From what I can tell, Domenika, there are thousands. They are known only to the Church through those who have confessed their terrible sins.”
Domenika looked at Parenti with a sadness in her eyes that he had never seen before. They had begun to well with tears.
“These people, these monsters,” Parenti continued, “were required to document the names of their victims as they came forward over time to seek absolution for their acts. Most of their stories are deathbed confessions. These lists of unfortunate children and the terrible acts committed against them reveal the darkest secrets of the Church.”
Parenti watched as Domenika hung on his every word. It was as if his revelation had wound its way toward her and taken on the shape of a large and terrifying snake. Domenika released her hands from the priest’s, pushed away, and looked at him as though another revelation was coiled before her, ready to strike.
“Father Parenti, I think I know what you are about to say,” she said, her hands now trembling.
At that very moment their taxi pulled up in front of their hotel. The sedan that had followed their every move pulled up beside them and came to a complete halt. As their cabbie leaned from his window to get a look inside the mysterious sedan sitting only inches away, its engine suddenly burst into a roar and sent the car speeding away.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 13
