The Shroud Codex (15 page)

Christ died on the cross. Would Bartholomew die imitating Christ’s crucifixion? Castle tried to remember what he could of the wounds of Christ’s passion and death that Bartholomew had not yet suffered—the crown of thorns, the nail through his feet, the spear in his side. Were these next? Castle didn’t consider Bartholomew
consciously
suicidal, but subconsciously—that was a different matter.

Stopping by the burn unit, Castle consulted with the physicians and nurses on duty, making sure they understood his instructions.

Satisfied that he had done everything he could, Castle decided he would return to see the priest early in the morning.

As he stepped out of the hospital at First Avenue and Sixteenth Street onto Stuyvesant Square, he was surprised to see a crowd of some 250 people quietly holding lit candles. They had gathered in a silent vigil that Castle presumed was for Father Bartholomew.

He wondered how these people knew Father Bartholomew was here, but he did not have to wonder about that for long.

Catching sight of the doctor leaving the hospital’s front entrance, Channel 5 reporter Fernando Ferrar stepped forward from the crowd with his film crew in tow. Seeing Ferrar rush at him with a microphone, followed by a mobile camera crew complete with bright lights, Castle had the answer to his question. Ferrar either had been monitoring police calls, or somebody at the television station had been tipped off.

The media circus was in full swing, even at this late hour on a Sunday night in New York City.

“Dr. Castle!” Ferrar shouted. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

Castle stopped long enough for Ferrar to shove the microphone in front of him. The lights from the TV crew illuminated the street around Castle in front of the hospital.

“Not right now,” the doctor objected. “I’m not ready for a press conference.”

“You are Father Bartholomew’s doctor, right?” Ferrar pressed on. “Can you tell us what happened? We are hearing from ER that he had scourge marks all over his body. Is this a miracle? Father Bartholomew already has the stigmata in his wrists, so now has he been scourged at the pillar? Is Father Bartholomew becoming Jesus Christ?”

“Father Bartholomew has been admitted to the hospital,” Castle affirmed. “That’s all I have to say right now.”

“Who is Father Bartholomew? Is he the Second Coming of Jesus Christ?”

“I’m a doctor,” Castle protested, “not a priest.”

“But you’re also a psychiatrist,” Ferrar said, playing to the television audience. “Is Father Bartholomew crazy?”

“I’ve said all I am going to say,” Castle said, clearly irritated at being confronted on the street like this by a rude and overly aggressive reporter.

“How badly is Father Bartholomew injured?” Ferrar pressed on, undeterred by Castle’s brusqueness. “Will he live?”

“That’s it for now,” Castle said, his voice bristling with the outrage he felt at this news assault. “Father Bartholomew is my patient and he has been admitted to intensive care. We will hold a press conference tomorrow, or the next day, but right now, this interview is over.”

Castle excused himself from Ferrar and pushed his way roughly through the crowd of people quietly holding their candles and praying.

He grabbed the first cab he could find and headed back to his Fifth Avenue apartment. The circus was gaining momentum.

Wednesday morning

Beth Israel Hospital

Day 14

By Tuesday night, Father Bartholomew had recovered sufficiently to be moved from the burn unit to a private room in the intensive care unit.

On Wednesday morning, Dr. Castle showed up at the hospital early, at 8
A.M.
, anxious to see how Father Bartholomew was doing.

As his limo approached Union Square, Castle could see that the crowd assembled outside the hospital had not gone away. Several hundred people appeared to be still keeping silent vigil. Determined to avoid another television hijacking, Castle had his driver take him to the private staff entrance underground.

Going directly to Bartholomew’s room in the ICU, Castle was surprised to find Father Morelli standing at Bartholomew’s bed, and a woman sitting on the bed, holding Bartholomew’s hand.

Castle was sure he had given instructions that Bartholomew
was to have no overnight visitors. Visiting hours at the hospital did not begin until 10
A.M.

The priest from the Vatican might have talked himself into the room to be present with his fellow priest from New York City, but who was this woman and why was she here?

“She’s family,” the nurse said, reading Castle’s mind as the doctor entered the room. “She says she is Father Bartholomew’s sister.”

What sister?
Castle wondered. In their therapy session, Bartholomew said he was an only child.

Wearing his white physician’s coat, Castle first said good morning to Father Morelli. The psychiatrist guessed from the priest’s beard stubble and his rumpled clothes that Morelli had spent the night at Father Bartholomew’s side, sleeping in the visitor’s chair. There was a second bed in the room, but the sheets looked like nobody had slept there last night.

“I thought I said ‘no visitors,’” Castle said pointedly, reproaching Morelli.

“I’m not a visitor, I’m his priest,” Morelli answered sharply in return. “Sunday night, I couldn’t leave Father Bartholomew alone. I prayed all through Sunday night that he would live. Monday and Tuesday, I came to the hospital during the night to check on Father Bartholomew, just to be sure.”

“I told you on Monday that I thought Father Bartholomew was out of danger,” Castle said.

“You did,” Morelli agreed. “But I couldn’t see how it would hurt anything if I spent the nights sleeping in the chair. What if you were wrong and Father Bartholomew had died? I’d never be able to explain to the pope why I wasn’t right here at his side every minute.”

Why argue?
Castle thought. Castle knew he was on solid ground when he insisted that Morelli had no place in the analysis
room in his office, but this was the hospital. Castle was the physician in charge but Morelli also had a point. In a way, Morelli was “the priest in charge,” representing not just the Archdiocese of New York, but also the Vatican. Actually, Castle felt Morelli might be helpful here, especially if Father Bartholomew woke up.

Next, Castle decided he might as well introduce himself to the young woman and find out about her. But before he could say a word, she stood up from the bed and extended her hand to greet him.

“You must be Dr. Castle,” she said calmly. “I’m Anne Cassidy, Father Bartholomew’s half sister.”

When she stood, Castle could see she was a beautiful and fully mature woman. Before Castle could say a word, their eyes met. Her soft blond hair flowed elegantly down to her shoulders and her deep brown eyes looked alive and vibrant.

He too immediately struck her as handsome, with his neatly trimmed graying hair and beard making him look very distinguished and professional, even more so in his full-length white medical coat.

Both instantly felt out of time and place. To Father Morelli, their meeting appeared a casual affair, nothing out of the ordinary. But for Dr. Castle and the woman he was meeting for the first time, the moment had an otherworldly quality about it.

Castle looked deeply into her brown eyes and somehow connected almost with her soul. He felt he was having the same impact on her. Her eyes locked firmly on his and her gaze seemed to penetrate to the depths of his soul as well. Each of them connected with the other at a level far deeper than words.

Castle felt like he was standing there for an eternity contemplating this bewitching woman, feeling for maybe the first time in his life not fully in command of the situation.

“I didn’t know Father Bartholomew had a sister,” Dr. Castle said, shaking her hand as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“He doesn’t know he has a sister,” Anne said honestly. “We have the same mother, but different fathers. We are half brother and half sister.”

“How is it that Father Bartholomew does not know you’re his sister?” Castle asked.

“My father was estranged from our mother after I was born,” she answered. “Paul is about two years younger than me. This will be the first time we have ever met.”

Castle filed this information away, to explore it in much greater depth as soon as he had the chance, with both Bartholomew and Anne.

“What drew you to the hospital now?” he asked.

“I live in Montreal. As soon as I read on the Internet about my brother getting the stigmata, I watched the videos. When the Internet reports said he had been hospitalized, I decided I had to be here. I got in my car and drove to New York. I got to the hospital sometime after midnight last night and I felt I had to see my brother right away. I begged them downstairs until somebody finally told me my brother’s room number.”

Listening to her soft voice explain how she managed to get herself to her brother’s room, in direct violation of his instructions, Castle could not make himself feel angry. Instead, he felt instantly attracted to Anne. He realized she was much younger than him, probably in her early forties, about the same age as her brother. But he suspected she had strength of character that belied her young age and petite frame. Her knee-length blue dress draped her well-developed figure comfortably, almost sensually. Her long blond hair looked silky and soft. She had an expressive
smile and delicate features. But more than anything, Castle was captivated by the intelligence and life he saw flashing in her chocolate brown eyes.

Castle instantly forgot having been irritated with her for showing up in the hospital room unannounced and against his “no visitors” order. Still, he felt he had to make the point that Anne and Morelli should not feel free to come and go as they liked. The hospital staff was certain to complain, especially if Morelli or Anne got in their way.

“Visiting hours at Beth Israel end long before midnight,” Castle said as firmly as he could. He made a mental note to investigate what breaches of security had occurred that allowed Father Morelli and Anne Cassidy to spend the night in Father Bartholomew’s room. “I won’t allow either of you to be here again after visiting hours without my explicit permission. Do you understand?” he asked them both.

Both Father Morelli and Anne acknowledged that they understood and would comply with his instructions.

“Is my brother in a coma, Doctor?” Anne asked. “He hasn’t woken up all night.”

Castle looked at the chart and he could see that Bartholomew had stabilized overnight. As Castle had instructed, Bartholomew was continuing to get morphine intravenously.

“He went through an incredible amount of trauma on Sunday,” Castle explained. “His wounds covered every square inch of his entire body, from his neck to his ankles. From the emergency room I had him sent directly to the burn unit, where they could treat his wounds and get him stabilized. With all the tranquilizers and painkillers we have given him, he may sleep most of the day today, maybe through the night. But technically, I’m not ready to say yet that he is in a coma.”

Castle pored carefully over Bartholomew’s chart and studied
the monitors in the room measuring the priest’s circulation and heartbeat. Looking at the priest, he was surprised at how much color had returned to Bartholomew’s face. When Castle had finally left the ER on Sunday night, Bartholomew had looked as white as a ghost. He thought Bartholomew would have been kept in the burn unit for several days.

Next, the psychiatrist lifted the covers back and examined the bandages on Bartholomew’s body. Bartholomew looked like a mummy, wrapped in gauze. Using surgical scissors, Castle carefully cut the gauze at Bartholomew’s chest so he could peel away the dressings and examine a small sample of the wounds.

Morelli and Anne waited silently for his verdict.

“From what I can see, Father Bartholomew is recovering faster than I ever imagined possible,” Castle said, with obvious relief in his voice. “I don’t claim to understand it, but the bleeding has stopped. His wounds appear to have closed and clotted, much more than I would have expected from the trauma I saw last night. Wounds this severe could easily have killed him. My biggest concern was that he would go into shock, but after the injuries stopped happening, he calmed down and his vital signs improved almost immediately.”

“You know what these wounds are, don’t you?” Morelli asked knowingly.

Castle suspected he knew what the priest was going to tell him, but he decided to let the priest go ahead and make the point.

“No, Father Morelli, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“These are the wounds Christ suffered when he was scourged at the pillar,” Morelli said without any evident emotion. “Father Bartholomew is continuing to experience Christ’s passion and death. I’m confident that if we take a close look at the wounds and examine them against the scourge wounds on the Shroud of Turin, we are going to find out they are identical.”

That was pretty much what Castle expected Father Morelli would say. The same thought had occurred to Castle on Sunday.

“Well, I suspect you will have the opportunity to prove that point,” Castle said quietly. “I have asked Dr. Lin to take CT scans and run an MRI on Father Bartholomew this afternoon. I doubt if I will have any results today, but Archbishop Duncan called me at six-thirty this morning. He wants results, too, and I believe he wants to introduce us to an expert on the Shroud of Turin recommended by the Vatican. I suggest we all get together tomorrow morning at ten in my office.”

“What about me?” Anne asked. “Can I attend as well?”

“Yes, you’re part of the family,” Castle conceded. “Father Morelli can give you the address. But tonight I insist you find a hotel room and get some sleep. Security around Father Bartholomew will be tighter from now on, I assure you. As I said before, nobody will be permitted to stay overnight with him tonight. Understood?”

“Yes,” Father Morelli and Anne both said.

“Good,” Castle said firmly.