Miriam decided that the best thing to do was play it straight down the line. The morgue attendant, who was totally absorbed in the twin activities of reading a paperback and picking his nose, had noticed nothing and looked unlikely to move from his chair until pay day. She reasoned, with a kind of Polish logic, that as no one was likely to come looking for the body we might as well pretend that it was still there. While I held my breath, Miriam calmly filled out a card for the front of the freezer drawer that would hold our invisible corpse, then we put a combination of our finger-prints on the sheet that had to go down-town. Since the NYPD was not going to come up with a match for the dabs, we figured that the freezer drawer would stay closed until the time came to ship the body to the city morgue. And when somebody opened it and found it empty, that would be their problem.
Miriam transferred the blood from the floor on to glass slides then cleaned up the slab. We went back upstairs into Emergency where she did a quick snow job on Lazzarotti then we hung up our white coats and slipped out of the hospital.
Needless to say, we gave the Fassbinder movie a miss. We went back to Miriam’s apartment on 57th and First, brewed up some strong coffee, bolstered ourselves with an even stronger drink and looked at each other a lot. Occasionally, one of us would pace up and down and start a sentence that foundered somewhere between the initial intake of breath and the first three words. We were like a couple of characters from a play by Harold Pinter. In the second act, we withdrew into silence. I think we both thought that if we did not talk about the problem it would go away. A well-known tactic which, as you’ve probably discovered, doesn’t work. Deep down, of course, we were both trying to figure out some kind of explanation that our dazed minds could accept. After all, we were normal people, leading normal lives, with a firm belief in the normal scheme of things. We both knew that thin air disappearances just did not happen. And yet – there it was.
In the third act, when the words came, it was in the form of small talk that touched upon our lives but carefully side-stepped what had happened at the hospital. It was as if the event was a concealed Claymore mine which, if triggered by one careless word, might explode and blow our lives to pieces. So we kept our distance until finally we could no longer resist playing the verbal equivalent of chicken. Jumping in with both feet but protecting ourselves by jokes – the New Yorker’s defence against calamity. At least, I did. And we might have managed to laugh off the event if we’d been dealing with the inexplicable disappearance of an unknown Hispanic too poor to buy himself a pair of shoes. But all the black humour and scepticism I was able to muster could not shake Miriam’s deep inner conviction that she had bandaged the wrists and feet of you-know-Who. And that really had me worried. Because on top of being a very down-to-earth doctor, this was a girl who had no time for religion. She came from a good solid family background, so naturally, like any nice Jewish girl, she had had a grounding in the faith. But, like me, she had left all that behind a long time ago. And again, like me, she was a very together person. She needed a religious experience like a hole in the head. But if she was right about who had done that Houdini act in the hospital morgue, there was only one possible explanation.
Somehow, at the instant of the purported Resurrection, the body of the man known as Jesus had been transported forward through time and had materialised for at least seventy-five minutes in Manhattan on Easter Saturday of the eighty-first year of the twentieth century.
‘Instead of where?’ I asked, when we reached this conclusion.
‘Wherever he went to when he disappeared from the morgue,’ said Miriam.
‘What kind of an answer is that?’ I huffed.
‘The kind you get when you ask that kind of question.’
Now I am sure that some of you who have been following this may already have spotted what seems to be a deliberate mistake and maybe have even checked to see what it says in the Book. And the question you’re asking is – if he rose on the third day, what was he doing in Manhattan on Saturday night? The answer is that the time in Jerusalem is seven hours ahead of New York. It was already Sunday over there.
I mention this now, but it didn’t occur to me on that first fateful night. As I’ve said, we were both trying to find a way to dismiss the whole thing because, even if one set aside the nut-and-bolt practicalities of the time-travel hypothesis, it raised other issues which strained the limits of credibility.
To begin with, it meant accepting that the event described in the New Testament Gospels and which formed the cornerstone of the Christian faith actually took place. Until quite recently, I’d never taken that part of the story seriously but, after the publication of the latest scientific investigations of the Turin Shroud, I was prepared to accept the possibility that something quite extraordinary might have occurred. And if, as rumoured, the alleged image of Christ had been sealed into the linen by some process involving cosmic radiation then, clearly, we were into a whole new ball game.
For it meant accepting not only the reality of time-travel, but also the simultaneity of time. Which meant, as I understood it, that Einstein had got it wrong. For if our tentative explanation was anywhere near the truth then our own births, lives and deaths had occurred in the same instant as that in which the body of Christ had been transported from the first century AD to our own. And as he lay in the alleyway over on the East Side and later on that slab in the morgue, four Roman guards were lying blinded outside a rock tomb in a Jewish cemetery near Jerusalem and, if the scientists were right about the Shroud, maybe even dying from radiations burns. While we sat in Miriam’s apartment on 57th and First, his life and ours and all the events in between co-existed simultaneously along with every other event from the beginning to the end of the world – and the universe itself.
As you can imagine, the implications of such a concept were too stunning to even begin to contemplate. What we needed was reassurance. The comforting thought that our world was still as it had always been. That everything was as we perceived it to be. And so we tried to convince ourselves that what we had witnessed had not really happened. After all, visions of Christ, complete with stigmata, and of the Virgin Mary had appeared on numerous occasions to more than one witness. In some cases over periods of several hours. Days even. But to avail ourselves of this escape route meant explaining away the fact that the cops in the squad car, the crew of the ambulance, the admission personnel on duty in Emergency at the Manhattan General, Wallis, Lazzarotti, the morgue attendant and the two of us had all been exposed to different segments of a unique hallucinatory experience.
Maybe Saint Teresa or Saint Augustine might not have had any trouble taking something like this on board, but ecstatic visions were definitely not part of our scene in spite of the highs we’d had whilst sharing the odd joint.
To be honest, we would have given anything to have been able to shrug the whole thing off, but no matter how our minds twisted-and turned, the circumstantial evidence of our time-traveller remained. And while it could be destroyed, it could not be denied. The thorns that Miriam had picked out of the victim’s scalp and the blood she had transferred on to three glass slides and had passed on for microscopic examination. And the photographs. Yes. They were a surprise to me too. One of the cops had taken four colour Polaroids of the body before it had been moved from the alleyway on the East Side. We didn’t know about the pictures on that first night but later, when they came into my possession, I remember saying to Miriam – ‘Have you any idea what these could be worth?’
You will find them with the other documents in my safety deposit box at the Chase Manhattan.
Sunday morning, 19th April. The sun rose on schedule. The world around us, and presumably the universe, appeared to be still in one piece. Monday, the same thing. We went back to work and tried to forget what had happened. What the hell, life had to go on – right? We went out to dinner a couple of times. We made love. We even went to see the Fassbinder movie. But it was no good. Neither of us could shake off the image of
that whipped and beaten body on the slab and its sudden inexplicable disappearance. And although I said nothing to Miriam, I was haunted by those eyes and the look they had given me.
Through a colleague, Miriam had got in touch with an obliging lady botanist who was able to identify the thorns as coming from a prickly shrub called Palerius. It was one of several similar types to be found in Israel and the Middle East generally. As evidence, it wasn’t particularly conclusive but it didn’t help our mental campaign to turn the Saturday night mystery into a non-event.
I asked Miriam if she was going to try and have the thorns carbon-dated.
‘No need,’ she replied. ‘Alison found traces of sap on the base of the thorns. She reckons that the branch they were growing on had been cut from the bush within the last couple of weeks.’
Which, when you think about it, seemed to make sense.
It was with the blood sample that things got a little sticky and the story we concocted eventually fell apart, but it was the best we could come up with at the time. Miriam had asked a friend of hers called Jeff Fowler to analyse it. He was the head of some research team or other that was working on blood fats. When he called Miriam back he had sounded distinctly twitchy so she fixed for the three of us to meet at my place.
As he came in through the door, he said, ‘Where did you get this sample from?’ We hadn’t even shaken hands.
‘Before I answer I want to know one thing,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘Is it human and, uhh – what would you like to drink?’
‘The answer to your first question is a qualified “Yes”. And I’ll have some of that Jack Daniels. On the rocks.’
Miriam went into the kitchen to get the ice.
I put my back between Fowler and the bottle and poured out three thick fingers of Sippin’ Whisky. ‘That really surprises me. I thought it might be chicken blood. Or maybe pig.’
‘No, it’s human,’ said Fowler. ‘Only more so. That’s why I want to know who you got this from.’
Miriam returned from the kitchen. I took the ice and sent her in to bat. ‘What exactly do you mean, Jeff?’
‘Just what I’ve said,’ replied Fowler. ‘The blood is human but it differs from any other sample I’ve seen in two important respects. First, it appears to have been subjected to a heavy dose of radiation – ‘
‘Not unreasonable.’ I handed over the glass of bourbon in the hope that it might sap his zeal for the truth. ‘My client had been receiving cobalt therapy for cancer of the stomach.’
Miriam eyed me and did her best to look as if she knew all about it. ‘And the second thing?’
‘The red cell structure is abnormal,’ said Fowler. He didn’t seem to have noticed that the ice cubes didn’t touch the bottom of his glass.
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Do you know anything about blood?’
I shrugged. ‘I know it retails at ten dollars a pint.’
Fowler gave up on me. ‘It’s too complicated to explain in detail. What I really need is a bigger sample to run more tests but if the abnormality I found was reproduced throughout the body, it would arrest the ageing process.’
‘I wish I knew the secret,’ said Miriam.
‘I’m not kidding,’ said Fowler. ‘This is dynamite. Whose blood is it?’
I put on my blandest expression. ‘It, uhh – belongs to a gentleman who paid several visits to a centre for psychic healing in the Philippines. As Miriam had probably explained, I’m a lawyer. My client’s family had reason to believe that the treatment was fraudulent and we were preparing a law suit against the people involved.’
‘Got it,’ nodded Fowler. ‘Some of those guys are pretty smooth operators.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘It took months of planning and skullduggery to obtain a sample of the blood that allegedly came from the stomach of my client after one of the ‘operations’. The last thing I expected was that it would be human.’
‘Group O,’ said Fowler.
I grimaced disappointedly at Miriam. ‘My client’s blood type …’
‘Where is he?’ asked Fowler. ‘Can we run some more tests?’
‘I wish it were possible,’ I said. ‘He died last Friday. I’m acting for the family.’
It was Fowler’s turn to look disappointed. ‘I see. Has he, uhh – been buried yet?’
‘No, cremated,’ I replied. ‘But if the blood cells were transformed in the way you suggest, it would seem to imply that some of these people actually do have paranormal powers. If the word got around it might weaken our case. Apart from which, it could be embarrassing for you.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Fowler.
‘Well – ‘ I shot a sideways glance at Miriam. ‘You want to come out in public for faith healing? Even if it worked? Isn’t your research program funded by one of the big multi-national drug companies?’ I sat back and let the poison do its work.
Fowler’s eyeballs bounced off the rims of his glasses as he figured out the implications. ‘You’re right,’ he mused.
I shrugged. ‘No point in rocking the gravy boat.’
‘No,’ said Fowler. ‘And anyway, why should I help line the pockets of those dinks. Screw ’em.’
‘Good thinking,’ I said. Then added helpfully, ‘Jeff, why don’t we play it like this? You keep the samples. Junk them or work on them all you want, but let’s agree to keep this whole thing under wraps. It’s going to make life a lot simpler. Okay?’
Fowler looked at each of us then nodded. ‘Okay. But don’t be surprised if you hear from me again. I’m going to stick with this until I come up with a satisfactory explanation.’
I threw up my hands and quoted the Bard. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Jeff. Let me give you a refill.’ I gave my fellow-conspirator a loaded look.
Miriam smiled sweetly. ‘Leo, why don’t you call Carol and see if she can make up a four for dinner?’
Carol was my friendly neighbourhood nymphomaniac. If she got on Fowler’s case he would soon forget about abnormal blood samples. In fact, by the time she was through, he wouldn’t even remember the difference between red and white corpuscles.
Luck was certainly on our side on that particular night. Or so I thought. Now, of course, I know better. But don’t let’s jump the gun. Not only was Carol free, she was bowled over by Fowler’s blend of academic diffidence and Old World courtesy that he probably picked up from watching Upstairs, Downstairs on Channel Thirteen. Frankly, I found Fowler to be something of an asshole but with the aid of some spurious goodwill we managed to pass an agreeable evening over some Szechuan specialities then sent them both off in a taxi to finish what they had started under the tablecloth.
Miriam and I went back to my place with similiar intentions but I made the mistake of first seeking praise for the way I’d handled Fowler’s questions about the blood.
‘Yes, it was very good,’ she said flatly.
‘Very good? It was a goddamn stroke of genius,’ I crowed. ‘All we have to do now is to keep him sedated with heavy doses of stunned admiration.’
‘Yes,’ said Miriam. ‘Unfortunately, Fowler isn’t our only problem.’
I stopped nibbling her ear. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she began. ‘I meant to tell you earlier but then Jeff arrived and – etcetera. The thing is, I was having coffee this morning with some of the hospital administrators and just by chance somebody mentioned the ambulance.’
I felt my lustful passions wilt. ‘What ambulance?’ As if I didn’t know.
‘The ambulance that answered the NYPD call and brought the body to the Manhattan General. Instead of taking it to the city morgue.’
My eyes were riveted on hers. ‘Go on …’
‘It was stolen from the Gouverneur Hospital.’ she said. ‘The two paramedics who drove away with the body did all the right things but nobody knows who they are. It certainly wasn’t any of the regular crews. I asked Lazzarotti about them. All he can remember is that they were both t
all slim guys. Like basketball players.’
‘How about the police?’ I asked.
‘You mean the squad car that escorted them to the hospital? They don’t know more than we do.’ Then added with a shrug. ‘Listen, an ambulance is an ambulance. When one answers a ten fifty-four, who asks questions?’
I reached for a cigarette and stiffened my nerves with a quick drag. ‘Has it been found yet?’
‘Yes, the same night. They left it parked outside the Manhattan General.’ She borrowed my cigarette for a couple of puffs then put it back between my lips. ‘I’m going to make some coffee.’
I followed her mechanically into the kitchen. My mind was in overdrive. Figuring all the angles. ‘Do you realise what this means?’
She nodded as she put some beans into the grinder. ‘I think so. But go ahead and tell me anyway.’
For once I had to force the words out. ‘It means that – that someone must have known he was – coming.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miriam. ‘The question is – who?’
Who indeed? I had been besieged with questions all week and now more were crowding into my overworked brain. How could they have known? What was their role in all this? Where had they come from? Were they people like us, or had they come from beyond time and space as he had? Why, of all the hospitals in New York, had they chosen the Manhattan General? And did whoever ‘they’ were, know about us? I can at least tell you one thing for sure. When something like this is dropped in your lap at one a.m. in the morning, all carnal thoughts fly out the window.
Chapter 2
The following Saturday, I drove up to Sleepy Hollow. On top of the metaphysical turmoil created by the mystery man at the hospital, it had been a pretty heavy week at the office and on the back seat of the Porsche I had a caseful of papers that I’d promised myself I’d read through by Monday morning. Miriam was working but hoped to make it up-state on Sunday after lunching with her parents in Scarsdale. Normally, I’d have stayed in my apartment. I think the real reason I left town was because I wanted a moment of relative peace and quiet to reflect on what had happened. At least I like to think that was the reason. That I had a choice, and not because it had all been worked out for me.
Mission Page 2
