The Expected One (17 page)

“Sadly, it was not to be. Poor, lovely Giovanna died in childbirth just two years after the wedding.”

Maureen was taking it all in, trying to process the Italian story with what she had seen earlier in the day at Rennes-le-Château. She was struck by a thought.

“Do you think that Saunière could have found Magdalene’s gospel? Is that what made him so wealthy?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Sinclair was emphatic on this point. “Saunière was definitely looking for it, however. Locals say he would walk for miles in the area, examining rocks and caverns, looking for clues.”

“How can you be so sure he didn’t find it?” Peter wanted to know.

“Because if he had found it, my family would have known. Besides, it can only be found by a woman, a woman of the bloodline who has been chosen by Magdalene herself.”

Peter could no longer hold in his suspicions. “And you think Maureen is the chosen one.”

Sinclair stopped for a moment to consider, then replied with his customary candor. “I admire your directness, Father. And to answer in kind…Yes, I do think Maureen is the chosen one. No one else has succeeded, and thousands have tried. We know the treasure is here, yet even the most intrepid have failed in their attempts to uncover it. Myself included.”

When he turned to Maureen, his expression and tone both softened. “My dear, I hope this is not frightening to you. I know it must all sound strange and even shocking. All I ask is that you hear me out. You will never be asked to do anything that is against your will. Your presence here is entirely voluntary, and I hope you will choose to continue your stay.”

Maureen nodded at him, but said nothing yet. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such a revelation. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it all. Was it an honor to be thought of in this way? A privilege? Or was it just plain scary? Maybe she was nothing more than the pawn of an eccentric and his cult. It seemed impossible that all of this could be not only true, but also connected to her. But there was something about Sinclair’s manner that felt ultimately sincere to her. For all of his extreme opinions and eccentricities, Maureen didn’t find him erratic.

Finally, she responded simply, “Go on.”

Peter pressed for more details. “What makes you think that Maureen is the one?”

Sinclair nodded to Roland. “
Primavera,
please.”

Roland punched more keys until a full-screen version of Botticelli’s masterpiece,
Primavera,
appeared in glorious color.

“More from our boy Sandro. You know it, of course.”

“Yes.” Maureen’s reply was barely audible. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but her stomach was clenched in a tangled knot.

Peter replied. “Of course. It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world.”

“
The Allegory of Spring.
Few people know the truth behind this painting, but once again Sandro is paying tribute to our lady. The central figure here is the pregnant Mary Magdalene — note the red cape. Do you know why our Mary represents spring?”

Peter was trying to follow Sinclair’s thinking as closely as possible. “Because of Easter?”

“Because the first Easter fell on the vernal equinox. Christ was crucified on the twentieth of March and rose on the twenty-second of March. An esoteric legend here in the region indicates that Magdalene was born on the twenty-second of March as well. The first degree of the first zodiac sign, Aries the ram. It is the date of new beginnings and resurrection, and it carries the added blessing of the master spiritual number twenty-two, the number of the divine feminine. March twenty-second. Does that date mean anything to you, Maureen, my dear?”

Peter had already discerned the connection and turned to see how Maureen was handling this revelation. She was speechless for a long moment. When her reply came, it was hoarse, whispered.

“It’s my birthday.”

Sinclair turned to Peter. “Born on the day of resurrection, born to the bloodline of the Shepherdess. Born under the sign of the ram on the first full day of spring and rebirth.”

He delivered the final decree to Maureen. “My dear, you
are
the paschal lamb.”

Maureen had excused herself immediately from the room, needing time to think and to process all of the information and Sinclair’s implications. She reclined on the bed and closed her eyes.

The knock on the door was inevitable, but it came sooner than she had hoped. She was thankful it was Peter’s voice on the other side of the threshold.

“Maureen, it’s me. May I come in?”

Maureen rose from the bed and moved across the room to open the door.

“How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed. Come in.”

Maureen motioned for him to sit in one of the rich, red leather armchairs that flanked the fireplace in her sitting area. Peter shook his head. He was too wound up to settle in a chair.

“Maureen, listen to me. I want to get you out of here before this gets any weirder.”

Maureen sighed and took the seat herself. “But I’m just starting to get the answers that I came for. That
we
came for.”

“I can’t say that I care much for Sinclair’s answers. And I think you’re at great risk here.”

“From Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

Maureen gave him an exasperated look. “Oh, please. Why would he want to harm me if he sees me as the answer to his lifelong goal?”

“Because his goal is a delusion, wrapped in centuries of superstition and legend. This is very dangerous, Maureen. We’re talking about religious cults here. Fanatics. What worries me is what he’ll do to you once he realizes that you’re not his savior.”

Maureen was silent for a moment. Her next question was surprisingly calm.

“How do you know I’m not?”

Peter was stunned by the question. “You’re buying into all of this?”

“Can you account for all of the coincidences, Pete? The voices, the visions? Because outside of Sinclair’s explanation, I can’t.”

Peter’s tone was firm, as though he were speaking to a child. “We’re leaving in the morning. We can catch a flight from Toulouse to Paris. We can even fly from Carcassonne to London…”

Maureen held her ground, inflexible. “I’m not leaving, Peter. I’m not going anywhere until I have the answers I came for.”

Peter’s escalating agitation was getting the best of him. “Maureen, I swore to your mother before she passed away that I would always look after you, that I wouldn’t let what happened to your father…” Peter stopped himself, but not before the damage had been inflicted.

Maureen looked like she had been slapped. Peter backpedaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Maureen, I…”

She cut him off cold. “My father. Thank you for reminding me of yet another reason I need to stay here. To find out what Sinclair knows about my father. I spent most of my life wondering about him, when all my mother would tell me was that he was criminally insane. I suppose that’s what she told you, too. But in my memories of him, as dim as they are, I simply know that isn’t true. If anyone else can give me a larger picture of him, I’ll do whatever it takes to see that. I owe it to him. And to myself.”

Peter started to say something, but thought better of it. Instead he turned to leave the room, looking tormented. Maureen watched him for a moment, softened, and called out after him.

“Please, try to be patient with me. I have to figure this out. How will we ever know if these visions mean anything if I don’t follow this through? What if — just what if — even a fraction of what Sinclair presented tonight is the truth? I have to know the answer to that, Pete. If I leave now, I will regret it until I die, and I don’t want to live like that. I’ve been running all my life, running from everything. As a child, I ran from Louisiana — ran so far and so fast that I don’t even remember any of it. After my mother died, I ran from Ireland and came back to the U.S., running to a city where there were no memories, to a place where everyone becomes someone different than what they were born to originally. Los Angeles is a place where everyone is like me, everyone is on the run from what they once were. But I don’t want to be that anymore.”

She crossed the room to meet him face-to-face. “Now for the first time in my life I feel like I may be running
toward
something. Yes, it’s terrifying, but I know I can’t stop. And I’d rather not face this without you, but I can — and I will — if you choose to leave in the morning.”

Peter listened attentively to her outburst. When she was finished, he nodded to her and turned to go. Standing quietly with his hand on the door for a moment, he turned back to her before leaving.

“I’m not going anywhere. But please don’t make me regret this for the rest of my life. Or yours.”

Peter went back to his room and spent the remainder of the night praying. He found himself ruminating long and hard on the teachings of Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order. One passage in particular, written by the saint in 1556, haunted him.

Sleep was elusive as the words of the founder of his order ran through his heart as well as his mind.

Rome
June 23, 2005

B
ISHOP
M
AGNUS
O’C
ONNOR
wiped the drop of sweat from his brow. The Vatican Council chamber was air-conditioned, but that was of no help to him at the moment. He sat in the center of a large, oval-shaped table, surrounded by officials of his Church. The red folders he had delivered the previous day were in the hands of the intense and intimidating Cardinal DeCaro, who was acting as interrogator.

“And how do you know these photographs are authentic?” The Cardinal placed the folders on the table, but did not open them yet to reveal the contents to the others.

“I was present when they were taken.” Magnus was trying hard to conquer his stammer, which emerged in stressful situations. “The subject was referred to me by his parish priest.”

Cardinal DeCaro now removed a series of 8 x 10 photographs from the folder. They were taken in black-and-white and had yellowed with time, but this did not diminish the impact of the images as they were passed around the table.

The first to circulate, labeled “Exhibit I,” was a deeply gruesome photograph of a man’s arms, placed side by side and turned palms up. They were inflicted with gaping, bloody wounds in the wrists.

“Exhibit II” showed the man’s feet, both damaged with similarly gruesome, bleeding holes.

The third photo, “Exhibit III,” showed a shirtless man. A jagged and bleeding gash ran underneath his rib cage on the lower right side.

The Cardinal waited for the shocking photographs to make their rounds before returning them to the folders and addressing the members of the Council. The faces around the table were grave as he verified what they all suspected.

“We are looking at authenticated stigmata. All five points and accurate as to the wrists.”

Château des Pommes Bleues
June 24, 2005

S
INCLAIR WAS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND
the next morning. Maureen and Peter were greeted by Roland, who escorted them to breakfast. Peter wasn’t sure if the extraordinary attention they were receiving was a sign of impeccable hospitality or something more akin to house arrest. Clearly, Sinclair was being very careful not to leave Maureen and Peter on their own.

“Monsieur Sinclair asked me to assure you that you have been provided with excellent costumes for the ball this evening. He is busy with the final preparations for the fête, but has put the chauffeur at your disposal if you would like to tour the local area today. He thought perhaps you would enjoy viewing the Cathar castles in the region. I would be honored to attend you as your guide.”