F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (30 page)

           
 
Yes, he could survive, perhaps even benefit
from public disclosure of the cause of Charlie's death. His only worry was what
rats might crawl out of the woodwork when they heard that Charlie had died of
AIDS. What vermin from his past might step forward and say, "Like father,
like son."

           
 
Arthur knew he could weather either one alone,
but he would fall before the combination of the two.

           
 
Everyone would be properly supportive at
first, but he knew it wouldn't be long before the various elements of the
coalition he'd been forging began edging away from him. All his Born-Again
friends and admirers would begin looking around for someone else to support,
someone who's immediate family was not so intimately associated with sodomy.

           
 
And then his dream of a renewed
America
would go down in flames, be reduced to
ashes.

           
 
He treasured two things most in his life: his
son and his dream. Charlie's AIDS was going to steal both.

           
 
He looked again at the
Times
and
Daily News
clippings
in his lap. Like everyone else who read a paper or watched the network news,
he'd heard about the four supposedly cured cases of AIDS in
New York
. They'd sparked some hope in the growing
darkness within him, but after his experience with Olivia he'd learned that
cynicism was the only appropriate response to miracle cures. It saved a lot of
heartache.

           
 
But the
Times
article said the CDC was getting involved . . . budgeting an
epidemiological study. If Arthur was correctly reading between the lines, it
meant that these cures had been sufficiently verified for the CDC to judge them
worth the effort and expense of sending an investigative team to
Manhattan
.

           
 
Interesting . . .

           
 
The CDC was headquartered in
Atlanta
. Arthur had myriad contacts in the Bible
Belt. No problem learning what was going on in the CDC, but it might be wise to
have his own man on the scene.

           
 
"Emilio," he said, "how would
you feel about a trip to
New York
?"

 
Manhattan

           
 
Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio suppressed the urge
to vomit as he walked along
Catherine Street
near the Governor Alfred E. Smith Houses
and waited for dark. Dark would not be a safe time to be here, but he did not
worry about that. He hadn't shaved for days and was dressed in the shabbiest
clothes he'd been able to find at the Vatican Mission uptown. He was not an
attractive mugging prospect. But even if he were killed tonight, it would not
matter.

           
 
The new chemotherapy protocol was not working.
It had succeeded only in suppressing his white cell count and making him
violently ill. He'd lost more weight. The tumors continued their relentless
spread. The end was not far off, so human predators could do nothing to him
that the cancer and the chemicals had not already tried. A quick death here
might be preferable to the slow death that threatened to linger into the fall,
but surely not beyond.

           
 
But
please, God, not before I see her again.

           
 
The
Vatican
had called today. Since he was already here
in
Manhattan
, would he mind looking into these Blessed
Virgin sightings that had become epidemic on the
Lower East Side
?

           
 
He'd agreed, of course. What he did not say
was that he'd been investigating for weeks.

           
 
He'd read of the sightings and had been struck
immediately by the similarity between the witnesses' descriptions of the
faintly glowing woman they'd seen down here and the woman he'd seen walking on
the fog over the River Lee back in July. He did not resist the yearning to
search out this Stateside apparition to see if she was the same.

           
 
So far his quest had been as successful as the
new chemotherapy.

           
 
He scanned the streets around him. He spotted
numerous Asian shoppers scurrying home through the fading light, each carrying
their purchases in identical red plastic sacks. On his right sat rows of
deserted, dilapidated, graffiti-scarred buildings, with empty windows in front
and dark, litter-choked alleys on their flanks. All forlorn and forbidding.

           
 
She had been spotted twice near here. So like
her son to appear down here among the social cast offs. If indeed it
was
her. Perhaps tonight she once more
would grace this lowly neighborhood with her presence.

Israel

           
 
Kesev could feel the sweat trickle from his
armpits as he clutched the ends of his armrests and stared out the window of El
Al flight 001. He saw Tel Aviv and the coast of
Israel
fall away beneath him. Anyone watching him
would think he was afraid of flying. He did not like it, true, but that was not
what filled him with such anxiety.

           
 
Never before in his long life had he left his
homeland. The very idea had been unthinkable until now. And even under these
extraordinary circumstances, he was uneasy. He had never wanted to be more than
a few hours away from the
Resting Place
. Now there would be a continent and an
ocean between him and the site in the Wilderness where he had vowed to spend
the rest of his days.

           
 
Not that it mattered now. The Mother was gone
from the
Resting Place
. His duty was to follow her to wherever she now lay.

           
 
And Kesev had a pretty good idea now where
that might be.

           
 
New York
.

           
 
He couldn't be sure, of course. The visions of
the Virgin Mary in
Manhattan
meant nothing by themselves. On any given day someone somewhere thought
he or she had been gifted with a vision of the Mother of God, and this was nothing
new for
New
York
.
Since the 1970s a woman named Veronica in a place called Bayside had claimed to
see and speak to the Virgin on a regular basis. And more recently in
Queens
had been the painting of the Mother that
had seeped oil.

           
 
Since the Mother's theft Kesev had accumulated
a huge collection of reports on these visions. Lately the vast majority seemed
to occur in
America
.

           
 
Some were utterly absurd—the image of the
Blessed Virgin in the browned areas on a flour tortilla, in a patch of mold on
the side of a refrigerator, in a forkful of spaghetti, on the side of a leaking
fuel tank—and could be discarded without a second thought.

           
 
Others were more traditional apparitions,
often repeated on a scheduled basis, such as the first Sunday or first Friday
of the month, but although thousands would be in attendance for the occasion,
the actual vision was restricted to a single individual. Kesev marked these as
possible but most likely the product of one unbalanced mind and fed by the
public's yearning for something, anything that might indicate a Divine
Presence. Visions had been occurring long before the theft of the Mother and
would certainly continue after she was returned to where she belonged.

           
 
But these
Manhattan
visions . . . something about them had
sparked a flicker of hope in Kesev. They didn't follow the pattern of the other
sightings. They appeared to be random, had been reported by a wide variety of
people belonging to a polyglot of races and religions. When Muslims and
Buddhists began reporting visions of a softly glowing woman in an ankle-length
cowled robe, identical to the image Kesev had seen countless times atop the
tav
rock, he had to give them credence.

           
 
And then there was the matter of the cures.

           
 
The tabloid press was always touting cures for
the incurable, but these cures were linked to no miracle drug or quack therapy.
They were spontaneous and random, just like the sightings of the Virgin Mary.

           
 
And just like the sightings they all seemed to
be clustered in the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

           
 
He glanced at his watch. The flight was due to
arrive in Kennedy at
5:20 A.M.
local time. Shortly after that, Kesev, too,
would be in
Lower
Manhattan
.

           
 
Searching.

           
 
If the Mother was there, Kesev would find her.
He
had
to find her. And when he did
he would silence the thieves so they could not reveal what they knew. Then he
would return the Mother to the
Resting Place
where she belonged, where she would remain
until the Final Days.

           
 
Only two questions bothered Kesev. Who were
these people who had stolen the Mother away from him? The job was so smoothly
and skillfully done, leaving not a trace of a trail, they had to be
professionals. If that were so, why was no one trumpeting her discovery? He was
overjoyed that there had been no such announcement, for that meant he could
still set matters right before irreparable damage was done. But why the
silence? Could it be they didn't know what they had? Or were they, perhaps,
trying to verify what they had? Whatever the reason, he could not let this opportunity
pass.

           
 
The second question was more unsettling. Why
had the Lord allowed this to happen? Did it mean that the Final Days were
imminent? That the End of All Things was at hand?

           
Part of Kesev hoped so, for he was
desperately tired of living. Yet another part of him dreaded facing the Second
Coming with this new disgrace to account for.

           
IN
THE PACIFIC

           
7°
N, 155° W

           
 
North of the Line Islands, between the
trackless rolling swells and the flawless azure sky, a haze forms, quickly
thickening into a mist, then a fog, then a raft of clouds, immaculate white at
first, but darkening along the underbelly as it fattens outward and reaches
upward, casting cooling shadow on the warm water below, which is raised to a
gentle chop as the wind begins to blow.

           
Manhattan

           
 
"Damn that Pilgrim!" Dan said softly
as the door shut behind the two CDC investigators. "Why can't he keep his
big mouth shut?"

           
 
Poor Dan, Carrie thought as they stood
together by the serving counter. She repressed a smile and laid a gentle hand
on his arm.

           
 
"He doesn't know the trouble he's
causing. Preacher's his friend. He was blind and now he can see. He witnessed a
miracle and he wants to tell the world about it."

           
 
"And he seems to be doing just
that—literally."

           
 
"Let him."

           
 
"Let him? I have no choice. And I
wouldn't care, but now he's telling anybody who'll listen that if they're
looking for a miracle cure, go to Loaves and Fishes!"

           
 
"And what if he does?"

           
 
"We just saw the result! Two guys from
the CDC asking us about what we're serving the guests! Wanting to know if we're
using any 'unusual' recipes! Good God, I thought I was going to have a heart
attack!"

           
 
Carrie had to laugh now.

           
 
"What's so funny?" Dan said.

           
 
"You should have seen your face! You
started choking while you were reading off the ingredients in my seven-grain
bread!"

           
 
Dan's reluctant smile broke through. "I
did fine until he asked me about any 'special additives!'
That
was when I almost lost it."

           
 
"You were very good. Very calm. The
picture of innocence."

           
 
"I hope so. We don't need a bunch of
epidemiologists sniffing around. I have visions of them doing these in-depth
interviews with anyone around here who's been cured of anything in the past few
months and entering it all into a computer, then asking the computer to find
the common denominator and having it spit out, Loaves and Fishes . . . Loaves
and Fishes . . . Loaves and Fishes, over and over again."

           
 
"Oh, Dan. Don't worry so much."

           
 
"I can't help it, Carrie. At the very
least, we have a smuggled artifact in the basement. At the very most, if what
you believe is true—"

           
 
"What I
know
is true. And you know it's true as well."

           
 
Dan blinked, tightened his lips, and gave his
head a quick shake. Why wouldn't he let his lips speak what he knew in his
heart?

           
 
"At the very most," he continued,
"we're sitting on something that could shake up all of Christianity and
Judaism, and possibly all of Islam as well."

           
 
"But no one but you and I will
know," Carrie said patiently. How many times did she have to explain this
to him? "The Virgin's existence was meant to be kept secret, and we are
honoring that secret."

           
 
"But just moments ago we had two
government investigators here!"

           
 
"So? Let's just suppose that when they'd
asked you about any 'special additives,' you'd told them, 'Oh, yes. I almost
forgot. We've got the Virgin Mary stashed away in the subcellar and we're
adding smidges of her finely ground hair and fingernails to the soup.' What do
you think they'd put in their report?"

           
 
Dan sighed. "Okay. You've got a point.
But still . . ."

           
 
She reached across the counter and grasped his
hand.

           
 
"Have faith, Dan. We're not alone in
this. Everything's going to work out. Just believe."

           
 
Dan looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand
in return.

           
 
"I used to believe in us, and look what
happened to that."

           
 
Carrie's heart sank. Not this again.

           
 
"Dan . . . we've been through this
already. Something bigger than you and I has come into our lives and we have to
put our wants and desires aside. You said you understood."

           
 
"I do. At least partially. But even if I
understood fully, I'd still be hurting. I haven't been able to put out the fire
so easily."

           
 
But you must, she thought, hurting for him.
You
must.

           
 
"Don't the miracles make it easier?"
she said, hoping to see the pain fade in his eyes. "Don't they make you
feel a part of something glorious?"

           
 
"The cures are wonderful," he said.

           
 
"And they happened because of us! The
blind see, the terminally ill are cured, the deranged become lucid. Because we
brought her here."

           
 
"I just hope those same miracles aren't
our downfall. Look what's happening around us. People are seeing the Virgin
Mary everywhere, the streets are acrawl with epidemiologists by day and
Mary-hunters by night, there's a candlelight vigil on every other corner, and
every AIDS patient in the city seems to be trying to move to the
Lower East Side
. It's getting crazier by the minute out
there. It all seems to be building toward something. But what? And if someone
puts all the pieces together, we may find ourselves in big trouble, a lot more
trouble than we can handle."

           
 
Carrie just shook her head. Didn't Dan know?
Couldn't he feel it? Everything was going to be fine.

           
 
She is
here.

           
 
Kesev had sensed that the instant his flight
had touched down at JFK. Now he sat on a filthy bench in a litter-strewn park
named after Sara D. Roosevelt, whoever she was. On the far side of the
chain-link fence, across
Forsythe Street
, stretched a row of dilapidated houses,
worse than in the poorest sections of the Arab Quarter in
Jerusalem
, except for the brightly colored and well
kept building on the corner, the only clean structure on the block. Kesev had
found it especially interesting because of the six-pointed star of David in the
circular window near the top of its front gable. He'd thought it a temple at
first, but had been confused by the inscription over the entrance: Templo
Adventista del Septimo.

           
 
But much closer at hand—directly in front of
him—was a hoarse-voiced street preacher. Lacking anything better to do, Kesev
listened to his rant.

           
 
"Forget not what
St. Paul
said to the Thessalonians: 'The Day of the
Lord so comes as a thief in the night.' The End Times are soon upon us. First
there will come the Rapture, then the Tribulation, and then the Son of God will
come again. But only those who believe, only those who are saved will be caught
up in the Rapture and spared the Tribulation. As Paul said to his church: 'But
you, brothers, are not in darkness that that day will overcome you like a thief
. . . For God has not appointed us to wrath, but to obtain deliverance by our
Lord Jesus Christ!' Heed those words. Repent, believe, be not caught
unprepared!"

           
 
"Amen, brothers!" cried his helper
or disciple or whatever one might call the little man who followed him around
like a puppy. "Amen! Preacher should know! Preacher was blind and now he
can see! He sees
everything*"

           
 
"First will come war—beware the false
peace that surrounds us, for it exists but to lull us into laxity. Then will
come plague and famine, followed by worldwide starvation. There will be a great
shaking of the earth, the skies will darken, the seas will die, the River
Jordan shall run red."

           
 
What nonsense is this? Kesev thought
irritably. While I suffer the frustration of my fruitless search for the Mother,
must I also suffer the words of fools and madmen? If he doesn't shut up I will
wring his neck. And that of his prancing disciple as well.

           
 
Weeks here and no luck. Roaming these mean,
sinister streets at night, hearing of the apparition, rushing to its reported
location, always too late to see it. The frustration was making him ill
tempered, building to a murderous rage. If something didn't break soon . . .

           
 
She must
be aware that I am here. Why is she toying with me?

           
 
"You have four years, brothers and
sisters," Preacher said. "Four years to repent and take Jesus as your
Lord. For the year 2000 is soon upon us. And what more appropriate time than
the end of the second millennium for the End Times? The setting of the second
millennium will be followed by the dawn of the Second Coming of the Lord!"

           
 
The last two sentences shook Kesev. He hadn't
realized the end of the second millennium was indeed upon the world. The
epochal event of its departure dovetailed with his apprehensions about the
meaning of the apocalyptic events of the summer.

           
 
"Listen to him!" the little sidekick
said.
"Listen!"
But the
half-dozen people who had paused a moment to listen to the raggedy man had
heard it all before, so they moved on. And with no audience, the man called Preacher
and his lone disciple moved on as well.

           
 
Leaving Kesev and a thin, sickly looking old
man sharing the bench.

           
 
Good riddance, Kesev thought.

           
 
Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio shifted his weight
on the bench. His wasted buttocks offered no padding against the hard, rough
planked surface. He wanted to get up and continue his search for the vision,
but he didn't know which way to go in the fading light.

           
 
Fading like my body, he thought. Like my life.
Slowly, steadily, inexorably.

           
 
He was beginning to think his chance to see
the vision again would never come. He'd been traveling down from the
Vatican
mission to the
Lower East Side
night after night, hoping, praying,
beseeching God and Jesus and Mary herself to honor him with the vision once
more, just once more before the cancer took him. It had become a contest of
sorts, a race between the tumor and his determination to last until he saw her
again.

           
 
He glanced at the bearded man a few feet to
his right.

           
 
"Do you think he's right?" he said.

           
 
The bearded man started, as if surprised that
someone would speak to him. Most New Yorkers were shocked initially when a
stranger like Vincenzo opened a conversation with them.

           
 
"Sorry. Do I think who is right?"

           
 
A strange accent. Middle Eastern, certainly,
but where? The features framed by the beard and dark hair were Semitic. A
Palestinian?

           
 
"The Preacher. Do you think we have only
four years left until the Second Coming?"

           
 
"You mean, will the Second Coming of the
Master coincide with the end of the second millennium?"

           
 
"Yes. The
fin de millenaire.
He's hardly the first to mention it, but it is
an interesting concept, is it not?"

           
 
The bearded man nodded slowly. "But if
that is true, if the Master is returning with the end of the millennium, then
we do not have four years."