The Expected One (50 page)

Mary did not look up immediately. She thought perhaps a gardener had come in the early morning to tend to the grass and flowers around the tombs. Then she wondered if he had witnessed something and might help her. She spoke through her tears as she lifted her head. “Someone has taken away my lord, and I do not know where they have laid him. If you know where he is, I beg of you to tell me.”

“Mary,” came the simple answer from behind her, spoken in a voice that was unmistakable. She froze, afraid for a moment to turn, unsure of what she would see behind her. “Mary, I am here,” he said again.

Mary Magdalene turned as the earliest rays of morning sun illuminated the beautiful figure before her. Easa stood there, clothed in a pristine white robe and perfectly healed from his wounds. He smiled at her, his beautiful smile of warmth and tenderness.

As she moved toward him, he held up his hand. “Do not cling to me, Mary,” he said gently. “My time on earth is gone, although I have not yet ascended to my Father. I had to give you this sign first. Go to our brothers and tell them that I will ascend soon to my Father, who is also your Father and theirs, in heaven.”

Mary nodded, standing in awe before him and feeling the pure and warming light of his goodness radiating all around her.

“My time here is gone. It is your time now.”

M
aureen sat outside in the garden with Peter. The fountain of Mary Magdalene gurgled softly behind them. She had to get him out into the air and away from the others. Her cousin’s face was white and drawn with the sleeplessness and stress of the week’s events. These past days appeared to have aged him by a decade. Maureen even noticed that there were gray streaks at the temples of his dark head that had not been there before.

“You know what the hardest part of all this is?” Peter’s voice was barely a whisper.

Maureen shook her head. For her, this was the most exhilarating of all possible circumstances. But she knew that much of what Peter believed, even lived for, was challenged by things he had read in Mary’s gospels. And yet, her words confirmed the most sacred premise of Christianity, the resurrection.

“No, what? Tell me,” Maureen responded.

Peter looked at her, his eyes red and bloodshot as he tried to make her understand what he was thinking. “What if…what if for two thousand years we have been denying Jesus Christ His final wish? What if that was what the Gospel of John was trying to tell us all along, when Jesus appears first to Mary Magdalene — that she is his chosen successor? How ironic would it be that in His name we have denied her a place, not only as an apostle, but as the leader of the apostles?”

He paused for a moment, trying to sort through the challenges that had been presented to his mind as well as his soul. “ ‘Do not
cling
to me.’ That’s what He says to her. Do you know how important that is?”

Maureen shook her head and waited for the explanation.

“The Gospels are not translated that way — they translate the words as ‘Do not
touch
me.’ Arguably the Greek word in the originals could have been ‘cling’ rather than ‘touch,’ but no one ever sees it that way. Do you see the difference?” This whole idea was a revelation to Peter as a scholar and linguist. “Do you see how a translation of even one word can change everything? But in these gospels the word is definitely ‘cling,’ and she uses it twice as she quotes Jesus.”

Maureen was trying to follow Peter’s intense reaction to the single word. “There certainly is a difference between ‘Do not touch me’ and ‘Do not cling to me.’ ”

“Yes.” Peter was emphatic. “That translation of ‘Do not touch me’ has been used against Mary Magdalene, to show Christ pushing her away from Him. What we see here is Him telling her not to cling to Him when He is gone because He wants her to stand on her own.” His sigh was heavy with exhaustion. “It’s huge, Maureen. Huge.”

The ramifications of Mary’s story were only beginning to set in for Maureen. “I think the depiction of women as leaders in the movement is one of the more important elements of her story,” she said. “Pete, I hate to make matters worse for you right now, but what about this perspective on the Virgin? She calls her the Great Mary and refers to her clearly as a leader of their people. Mary is obviously a title given to a female leader. And then there’s the red veil…”

Peter shook his head hard as if doing so would clear it. “You know,” he answered, “I once heard the argument that the Vatican declared that the Virgin would be depicted only in white and blue as a way of diminishing her power, of hiding her original importance as one of the Nazarene leaders — who, as we have seen, wore red. Honestly, I always thought that was rubbish. It seemed obvious to me that the Virgin was shown in blue and white to show her purity.

“But now,” Peter said, rising wearily, “nothing seems obvious to me anymore.”

Cape Cod, Massachusetts
July 2, 2005

A
CROSS THE
A
TLANTIC
on Cape Cod, real estate mogul Eli Wainwright sat staring out the window across the lawn of his sprawling estate. He hadn’t heard from Derek in almost a week, which deeply concerned him. There was an American contingent in France for the feast day of John the Baptist, and the leader of that group had telephoned Eli when Derek did not join them in Paris.

Eli wracked his brain, trying to think like Derek. His son had always been a bit of a maverick, but the boy knew how important this was. All he had to do was stick to the plan, stay close to this Teacher of Righteousness and learn as much as he could about his movements and motivations. After they had a full intelligence report, the Americans could begin to plan their coup to wrestle the power structure of the Guild away from the European contingent.

At their last meeting here in the States, Derek had been displeased with the lengthy timeline Eli proposed to achieve their goals. Eli was a strategist, but his son did not inherit the qualities of patience and planning that had made the Wainwrights billionaires. Was it possible that Derek had done something rash and stupid?

The answer, of sorts, came to Eli Wainwright that afternoon as his wife’s scream tore through the tranquil sea air of the Cape. Eli sprang from his chair and ran into the entry hall, where his wife was collapsed on the floor in a shivering heap.

“Susan, for God’s sake. What happened?”

Susan could not answer him. Her sobs were hysterical, her attempt to speak a gibberish as she gestured toward the international Federal Express box on the floor beside her.

Steeling himself for the contents, Eli slid a small wooden casket out of the box. He opened the lid to reveal Derek’s class ring from Yale.

The ring was attached to what remained of the severed index finger from Derek Wainwright’s right hand.

Château de Pommes Bleu
July 3, 2005

E
VEN UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES,
Maureen was a light sleeper. With so many issues pertaining to the scrolls rattling around in her head, she found sleep elusive despite her overall weariness. She heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room and sat up in bed. The steps were very light, as if someone were trying hard not to be heard. Maureen listened carefully but didn’t move. It was a huge house with many rooms and servants she probably didn’t even know about, she rationalized.

She lay down and tried to go back to sleep, but was disturbed again by the sound of a car engine outside the chateau. The clock said it was nearly 3:00
A.M
. Who could it be? Maureen got out of bed and moved to the window that faced the front of the house. She rubbed her eyes to be sure she was seeing clearly.

The car driving past the window and out the front gate of the château was her rental car — with someone who looked like her cousin, Peter, at the wheel.

Maureen rushed out her door and down the hallway to Peter’s room. A flick of the light switch confirmed the absence of Peter’s things. His black bag was gone, as were his glasses, his Bible, and his rosary beads, all items he kept out next to his bed.

Maureen looked frantically for another minute to see if he had left any information for her. A note? Anything? But her search turned up nothing.

Father Peter Healy was gone.

Maureen tried to sort through the events of the last twenty-four hours. Their last conversation had been the one by the fountain when Peter explained the importance of the words “Do not cling to me.” He had seemed distressed, but Maureen had attributed that to the emotionalism and sleeplessness of the week. What caused him to bolt in the middle of the night, and where did he go? This was entirely out of character for Peter. He had never deserted her or even let her down, ever. Maureen felt panic creeping in. If she lost Peter, she would have no one. He was her only family, the one person on earth whom she trusted implicitly.

“Reenie?”

Maureen jumped at the voice behind her. Tammy was standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her own eyes. “Sorry. I heard the car and then I heard movement up here. Guess we’re all a little jumpy at the moment. Where’s the padre?”

“I don’t know.” Maureen was trying not to sound frantic. “The car was Peter leaving the château. I don’t know why or where. Damn! What does it mean?”

“Why don’t you call him on his cell phone and see if he answers?”

“Peter doesn’t have a cell phone.”

Tammy looked at Maureen, puzzled. “Sure he does. I saw him on it.”

It was Maureen’s turn to look confused. “Peter hates them. He has no time for technology and finds cell phones particularly distasteful. He wouldn’t carry one even when I begged him to for emergency purposes.”

“Maureen, I have seen him on a cell phone twice. Come to think of it now, both times he was sitting in the car. I hate to say this, but I think there’s something rotten in Arques.”

Maureen felt like she was going to be sick. She could see from the look on Tammy’s face that the two had the same thought at the same time.

“Let’s go,” Maureen said as she turned to run through the château corridor and down the stairs toward Sinclair’s study. Tammy followed behind her by a half step.

They stopped at the door. It was ajar. Ever since the scrolls had been in the study, it had been closed and locked, even if one of them was in the room. Maureen swallowed hard and braced herself as she entered the dark room. Behind her Tammy found the switch that illuminated the study — and revealed a bare study table. The mahogany surface gleamed in the light. It was empty.

“They’re gone,” Maureen whispered.

She and Tammy searched through the room, but nothing remained of Mary Magdalene’s scrolls. The yellow legal pads were all gone as well. Not a scrap of paper was left, not even a pen. The only proof that the scrolls existed were the clay jars that remained in the corner, where they were out of the way of traffic. But the jars were empty. The real treasure was gone.

And it appeared that Father Peter Healy, the most trusted person in Maureen’s life, had taken them.

Maureen moved on wobbly legs to sit on the velvet sofa. She couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say or what to think. She simply sat on the sofa, staring straight ahead.

“Maureen, I need to find Roland. Will you stay here? We’ll be right back.”

Maureen nodded, too numb to reply. She was sitting in the same position when Tammy and Roland returned, followed by Bérenger Sinclair.

“Mademoiselle Paschal,” Roland said gently as he knelt by the sofa, “I am sorry for the pain this night will cause you.”

Maureen looked at the big Occitan, who leaned over her with concern. Later, when she had the luxury to remember this time in detail, she would think of what an extraordinary man he turned out to be. The most valuable treasure of his people had been stolen and his primary concern was for her pain. Roland, more than anyone Maureen would ever meet, taught her a great deal about true spirituality. She would come to understand why these people were called
les bonnes hommes.
The good men.

“Ah. So, I see Father Healy has chosen his master,” Sinclair said calmly. “I suspected he would. I am sorry, Maureen.”

Maureen was confused. “You expected this to happen?”

Sinclair nodded. “Yes, my dear. I suppose it must all come out now. We knew your cousin was working for someone. We just weren’t entirely sure who it was.”

Maureen was incredulous. “What are you saying? That Peter betrayed me? That he planned all along to betray me?”

“I cannot claim to know what Father Healy’s motives are. But I did know that he had motives. I suspect that before the end of the day tomorrow we will know the truth.”

“Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” This was Tammy, who Maureen now realized was also out of the loop. Roland sat calmly beside her as she looked at him accusingly. “There’s a lot you’ve been keeping from me, I see,” she snapped at the big man.

Roland shrugged his huge shoulders. “It was for your own protection, Tamara. We all have secrets, as you know. They were necessary. But now, I think, it is time for us to reveal ourselves to each other more plainly. I believe it is only fair for Mademoiselle Paschal to know everything. She has proven herself more than worthy.”

Maureen wanted to scream in her stress and confusion. The frustration must have shown on her face as Roland reached over and took her hand. “Come, Mademoiselle. I have things to show you.” Then he turned to Sinclair and Tammy and did something she had never seen before — he gave them orders. “Bérenger, have the servants bring coffee and then join us in the Grand Master’s room. Tamara, come with us.”