“Father, you look just fine to me,” Bondurant said. “And second, there must be a thousand priests who—”
“Fine?” the priest interrupted. There was a sudden twinge of sadness in his voice. With some effort, he struggled to rise from the bed again and when he finally righted himself, he turned so that Bondurant had a view of his crooked profile. Bondurant could see the priest was bent over more than he remembered, and was in some pain. He could also hear that his breathing was labored, which he had never heard before.
“I am growing old, Doctor. We all do. But this spine I have been blessed with, well, it seems to be growing more twisted by the day. There is a doctor here in Rome who says at this rate my breath will vanish and I will not last the year.”
“I see,” Bondurant said. He was shaken by the news of his friend’s condition, and his mind began to race. How did he want him to help? “Surely there are specialists in the United States who can help. I’ll find you one.”
“I’m afraid my condition is far beyond the scope of doctors,” Parenti said. He sounded resigned. He sat back down on the bed and reached out to take Bondurant’s hand. When Bondurant offered it, Parenti put the worn cloth in his palm. “You hold in your hand the veil—Veronica’s Veil, Doctor. With it, I will be cured.”
Bondurant closed his eyes, shook his head, and tossed the worn cloth on the bed. “I’m done with relics, Father.”
“You must help me. Please,” the priest pleaded. Bondurant could see Parenti had begun to choke up. “Try as I might, I cannot do this alone. I have tried lying on it, sleeping on it, rolling on it. It’s no use. I’m convinced it cannot be done alone.”
“Father, if it were truly Veronica’s Veil, it—”
“I know what you’re thinking. I’ve already checked. Unfortunately, it contains not a trace of blood. But I know the veil is a gift of healing from one to another. And there is no one else I can trust to do this.”
“So you think this rag you’ve discovered has the fabled healing powers talked about for centuries, do you?” Bondurant said. He pitied the desperate priest. He wanted to help, but surely Parenti could see how foolhardy this was. He picked the cloth up off the bed and looked at the smeared image.
“It’s no fable,” Parenti insisted.
Bondurant checked himself. “Yes, and now you’re going to tell me you have seen it work wonders, is that right?”
“Yes. It brought someone back from the dead already,” he insisted.
“Who?” Bondurant asked skeptically.
“Aldo,” he said as he pointed to the dog that looked on attentively from atop a pillow on the bed. He wagged his tail.
“Enough, Father,” Bondurant said. He set down the cloth. “Let’s get to work in the morning finding you a doctor who can give a second opinion.”
“How would you explain your friend Dr. Sato’s hands?” Parenti asked.
Bondurant looked up, surprised. He remembered Parenti had made his way to see Sato in the hospital in Turin, but he’d never given it much thought. Still, Sato had thanked the priest for his kindness. And the healing that had occurred in his hands was by any measure extraordinary.
“I had seen the veil work its wonders on Aldo, a poor little animal,” Parenti said, “but whether it would work on a human being—that was another question. And it plainly did.”
Bondurant stared at the cloth once more and examined it closely. Fragile, and indeed ancient, he thought. And, incredibly enough, once he stared at it some more, the image revealed on the cloth looked eerily similar to some elements of the face he had seen on the Shroud. He looked up and saw the pitiful priest in real pain. He decided he had no choice but to humor him before leaving for the night.
“All right, then, what would you like me to do?” he asked.
Parenti smiled. “Help me remove my nightshirt, if you would. And I want to warn you, the sight is not for the faint of heart.”
The priest unbuttoned his top and raised his hands high into the air as best he could, while Bondurant lifted his shirt away by the yoke. Parenti was right. Bondurant was not in the least prepared to see the grotesque hump on the entire upper half of the priest’s back. It was filled with massive blue-streaked veins that fed its core while it seemingly ate the priest alive.
“Not an inviting sight, I know,” Parenti said wryly.
Bondurant averted his eyes for a moment to buy time to gather his nerve to continue. He tried to pretend he was fine, but he feared the priest knew better.
“You need not touch it,” Parenti said. “But I need you to stroke it with the veil, if you will, while I pray.”
Bondurant quickly reached for the cloth to get the strange ritual over with as soon as possible.
“I’ll do this for you once, Father,” Bondurant said. “But not again. And I’ll make you a deal. If this works, I’ll convert. How’s that? If it doesn’t, you’ll let me find you a specialist. Is that a deal?”
“A deal,” Parenti said. “Now start rubbing.”
Bondurant gingerly placed the cloth on Parenti’s parasitic hump and closed his eyes, unable to watch the strange task he was performing. With every stroke, he could feel the undulating bumps of Parenti’s deformed spine surrounded by malformed muscles that strained to keep his upper back from caving in altogether. He listened carefully and could hear the priest’s breathing slowly relax, but after a minute of rubbing gave up and pulled the cloth away from the futile task.
“What are you doing? What are you doing? Continue,” Parenti urged.
“Father, I’m afraid we’re getting nowhere. A deal’s a deal.”
“The deal was that—”
Parenti, instantly caught short of breath, was unable to finish his words. His eyes bulged from their sockets and began to turn pale yellow, and a long, terrifying wheeze came from his lungs.
“Father, are you all right? Are you all right?” Bondurant called out as he took a step backward to take full measure of the priest. He was worried Parenti had begun to enter cardiac arrest.
The priest, unresponsive, began to contort his face and revealed a kind of pain Bondurant had never seen before. A loud snap, almost deafening to the ears, shot forth from the area of the priest’s back, followed by another, and then another. Parenti cried out and writhed in agony. He lifted his head toward the ceiling and struggled to straighten himself. As he did, the sound of bones popping and cracking echoed through the room.
Bondurant, dumbfounded, took another step away from Parenti and tripped over the leg of his chair. He fell backward onto the floor, next to the miniature dog, which now howled like a wolf. Bondurant watched in amazement while the priest shuddered uncontrollably, in full seizure. Then, miraculously, his spine and shoulders began to straighten, and the hump on his back slowly began to disappear.
“This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening,” Bondurant cried over and over.
Slowly the priest raised himself upward, inch by inch, until he stood completely straight. Bondurant knew the little priest had not done so since he was a child. The pain in Parenti’s face was slowly transformed to a look of sheer joy. Bondurant still could not believe his eyes. Aldo leapt joyously into Parenti’s arms and licked his face.
“Now, a deal’s a deal, Dr. Bondurant,” Parenti said, beaming as he caught a huge, deep breath he’d not felt for a lifetime.
Bondurant looked up at Parenti from the floor, speechless.
“Think of it,” Parenti said. “And you’re converting! Two miracles in a single day!”
CHAPTER 42
Rome, Italy
March 2015
Bondurant had been inside hundreds of places of worship to study religious relics over the years, but there was not a single one he’d entered in search of God. Today was different.
Even as exhausted as he’d been the past few days, he hadn’t slept at all the previous night. The adrenaline coursing through his veins since he’d witnessed Parenti’s miraculous healing just hours before, in combination
with a pint of scotch he’d downed to calm his nerves, had his head abuzz. Church services had finished for the morning when he arrived, and he sat completely alone in a dark corner chapel of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore in central Rome. Surrounding him in the spectacular church were resplendent fifth-century biblical mosaics glorifying the Virgin Mary. Towering above was the fabled cathedral ceiling gilded in gold Columbus had brought back from the new world.
Bondurant’s breathing was shallow, and his chest and stomach were in severe pain from an anxiety he had never felt before. He was in a cold sweat, and for the moment his tired eyes were singularly focused on the life-sized statue of Mary placed above the chapel altar in the small alcove where he sat. Given the startling events of the night before and his present shaky condition, he half expected the marble Madonna to come alive and strike up a conversation. For one long, frightening minute, he even thought he saw her lips tremble and move as if to speak. He knew the hallucination was the result of complete exhaustion and his unsettled state, but the same could not be said of the unexplainable events from the night before.
He was absolutely certain there was no scientific or medical explanation possible for what he’d seen happen. Bondurant knew what he’d witnessed was the very definition of miraculous, something he’d known to be impossible his entire life. The veil he’d mocked over the years as one of many worthless religious trinkets possessed properties that somehow defied the laws of physics, biology, physiology, chemistry, and at least a half dozen other sciences. Parenti’s transformation had happened right before his very eyes, and he was certain there was no earthly explanation for what had restored the priest’s long-deformed body.
He hadn’t come to the chapel because he expected answers. A clinic to treat the dull, throbbing pain he felt in his head and chest would have made more sense. But his instincts told him a church was a good place to start. Or, start over. His mind held a list of terrifying questions to ponder. He still believed in a world of true and false. He knew with all his heart and mind that much of religious dogma invented by man served to simply enslave humankind in a prison of its own making. Yet he had seen a miracle. How was it possible that much of what he had learned and even taught over many years could be dead wrong? If a miracle that defied the laws of science could happen, was there truth to other miraculous events claimed in the past, and what did this mean for the future? If there was some unseen force or energy in the world that operated above the laws of the universe as we knew them, what was this force, and where did it reside? Was this, by definition, the work of a higher force?
Of all the admonitions from believers about miracles and faith he could remember, it was Domenika’s words above all that came hurtling back to him. Are you willing to agree that science may never be able to grasp the divine? she had asked. Amazingly, he now thought the answer to be yes. But, sadly, she was not there to witness the mystery of what he had seen or the effect it had left on his soul.
As he considered how it was possible that his very identity and much of his life’s work could be turned upside down in an instant, a sudden wave of wonder and then despair began to overwhelm him. He had no choice. He didn’t know what else to do. He placed his hands over his face and began to weep quietly.
Trying to make sense of his new world drained him of what little strength he had left. His body had denied him peaceful sleep for days, but he now wanted rest more than ever. Suddenly, a noise nearby caused him to startle and look up. Directly in front of him stood a young altar boy, still a child. His face was the portrait of innocence. It bore a resemblance to Bondurant’s younger brother’s. In the boy’s hands was a tray of new, white votive candles wrapped in ruby red glasses. The boy had begun the process of delicately stacking each glass on an iron altar rack to replace spent candles, ones that had been extinguished with the passage of time. Over a hundred brightly lit candles remained before the boy, placed there, no doubt, by those of faith, who had lit them in honor of another needy soul or wish. Bondurant stared at the boy’s face, glowing in the warm light, and could see he moved with quiet trepidation. The boy went about his task slowly and deliberately, as though the slightest jostling of a votive candle might disturb someone’s sacred intention.
“What are you doing?” Bondurant asked as he wiped the tears from his face. That was it, he thought. He needed someone, anyone to talk to.
The startled child turned quickly toward Bondurant’s silhouette in the dark and nearly dropped his tray. He recovered bravely. “I am in service to the Lord,” the boy whispered, catching his breath. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your prayer.”
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to pray,” Bondurant said. “It’s been a very long time.”
“Oh, it’s easy, Jon,” the boy responded in earnest. “You just fold your hands like this.” He set down his tray and demonstrated. “Then you close your eyes and speak to God. He hears you. And you need only whisper.”
“I’ve not tried to talk to him since I was a boy, when there was great trouble,” Bondurant said. “I’m afraid he didn’t listen.”
“And how old are you now, if I may ask?” the boy said.
“Forty years on, my friend.”
The boy paused for a moment. “That’s a long time. Here, then. I’ll light one of these just for you. I’m sure it will help.”
The boy removed a fresh candle from his tray, turned it sideways, and held its wick over the flame of another. Once it was lit, he set it in the center of the rack before him and turned to smile at Bondurant.
Bondurant returned the smile. “Thank you,” he said as he leaned back and rested his head against the pew. He closed his eyes and let his body relax for the first time in days. “That’s very kind.” In a matter of seconds, Bondurant fell into a deep and trancelike sleep. He was soon pulled into a vivid dream.
In his dream, he looked down at his watch. It read only zeroes, and Bondurant felt surrounded by a terrible dread that death was near.
“My time is done,” he said as he looked at the boy who was barely visible in the shadows of his dream.
“Look again,” he heard the boy murmur.
As he did, Bondurant could see that the numerals on his watch had begun to spin out of control, wildly careening toward infinity.
“Embrace the mystery of God,” he could hear the boy whisper. “It’s within you. If you believe in his resurrection, you too will never die.”
“Another miracle?” Bondurant asked as the boy drifted from his sight.
“Yes,” the boy responded. “For you and all mankind.”
When Bondurant awoke from his dream, the boy who had known his name had vanished. Before him was an enormous sea of glowing candles fully illuminating the chapel in brilliant hues of yellow and white. Bondurant knew that for the first time in his life, he had come into the light.
CHAPTER 43
Rome, Italy
March 2015
The late winter weather in Rome was unseasonably warm. The stench inside the Dumpster where Bondurant lay in hiding was so putrid from having baked in the hot Italian sun all day that he had no choice but to risk being arrested. Bondurant squirmed on his back and braced himself against the mound of trash beneath him. He kicked open the container’s heavy lid with both feet and gasped for fresh air. The metal cover of his filthy hideout slammed so loudly against its side when it fell open that he was certain it would send every Vatican guard on night watch headed his way. He didn’t care. The odor from the decaying mix of rotting food and soiled diapers that enveloped him had grown so sickening he could take it no more.
Parenti had instructed Bondurant to loiter unnoticed inside the Vatican grounds until after the gates had closed at six o’clock. He told Bondurant to hide in the trash bins in the small alleyway just outside the first-floor restrooms of St. Peter’s Basilica. Having toiled as the bathroom attendant there for six months, he could assure Bondurant the nearby containers were rarely used. Bondurant made a mental note to reacquaint Parenti w
ith the term “rarely used” as soon as they were reunited. He crouched behind the Dumpsters and looked about for signs of anyone headed in his direction. Surprisingly, no one appeared. It was then that he noticed the large window above him slide slowly open, guided by two childlike hands that lifted mightily against its weight.
At first, only Aldo’s tiny face appeared at the windowsill. His paws quickly covered his tiny nose from the stench. Then Bondurant heard a familiar voice.
“Excellent. You are on time,” Parenti whispered. “Quickly! Up! Up! Before you are seen!”
Bondurant scaled his way back up the open trash container, stood firmly on its rim, jumped to grasp the ledge a foot above, and pulled his body up to lean inside the open window. His legs dangled in the air as he found himself an inch from Parenti’s scowling face.
“You smell like death,” the priest said.
“You think?” Bondurant said as he pulled himself completely through the window, bounded to his feet and looked warily down on the container that had been his miserable hiding place for over an hour.
He looked at Parenti standing newly erect, and could see from the priest’s smile that he was enjoying his newfound height. While the little priest was still small, five feet tall at best, he exuded a sense of stature Bondurant had not seen in him before. Bondurant, transformed as well since witnessing Parenti’s marvelous healing, had second thoughts about his refusal to consider the priest’s plans for locating a second source of the true blood of Christ.
“You must put these on, Doctor,” the priest said in a low voice as he pulled garments from the small canvas bag he held. “They will help you blend in if, God forbid, we are seen.” He held in his outstretched hands a priest’s cassock with a gold cross emblazoned across the front.
“You have to be kidding me, Father,” Bondurant protested.
“Don’t trifle with me, my son,” the priest said as he tossed the robe at him. “There is work to be done this night, and we must not be discovered.” Parenti picked up Aldo, shoved him into his satchel, turned from Bondurant, and motioned toward the door.
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