Virgin (38 page)

"Let me
through," the woman said, swinging her cane before her to clear the way.
"I'll tell you if it's her or not, but I can't see from back here."

Her orderly
wheeled her up to the brass gates of the chancel rail and she stared across at
the altar.

Over and over
Dan hear voices murmur, "What do you think, Martha?" and "Martha
will know," and "What does she say?"

Apparently this
Martha was an authority of some sort among the Mary-hunters.

"I . .
." she began, then stopped. "This shouldn't be but . . . Get me
closer, Gregory."

Her dutiful
orderly unlatched the chancel gates and pushed them open. Dan didn't want them
in the sanctuary and was stepping forward to stop him when he felt a
restraining hand on his arm.

Carrie was beside him.

"Wait,"
she said. "Let her look."

Gregory wheeled
old Martha through the gates and parked her next to the altar where she was
almost eye level
with the Virgin. She peered
closely through her bifocals, then, tentatively, she reached out and brushed
the Virgin's cheek with her fingertip.

"Oh!"
she cried and threw herself back in her chair as if she'd received a jolt of
electricity.

Gregory was
standing beside her, hands clasped behind his back, unprepared for the sudden
convulsive movement. Martha and her chair went over backward.

For a moment
there was mass confusion in St. Joseph's with people shouting and crying out in
alarm, and then utter silence as Gregory righted the chair, turned to lift
Martha back into it, and froze.

Martha was
standing beside him.

Dan couldn't
tell who was more surprised--Gregory or Martha.

Martha looked down at her newly functioning legs and screamed.
Pandemonium reigned then as the rest of the Mary-hunters added their own
screams to hers, surging forward, surrounding the joyfully weeping Martha and
the altar with its precious burden.

When a modicum
of control was finally restored, the Mary-hunters knelt as one and began to
recite the Rosary.

Their hunt was
over.

Dan felt
Carrie's grip tighten on his arm. He turned and saw her tight grin, the fierce
gleam in her eyes.

"Let the
Vatican try to keep her a secret
now!"

MIRACLES IN MANHATTAN

"We've
had many healings," Martha Harrington announced to reporters from the
front

steps of St.
Joseph's church on the Lower East Side yesterday.

Mrs.
Harrington should know. Three days ago she was wheelchair bound, barely able to

stand without
the aid of two canes, and even then for only a minute or so. Now she breezes up

and down the
steps of St. Joseph's like a teenager. She is reportedly the first miracle cure

associated with
the mummified body on display within the church.

The
body, which the faithful proclaim to be the earthly remains of the Virgin Mary,

appeared on the
altar of
St.
Joseph's three nights ago during a prayer vigil on the
church steps.

Since then it
has become an object of worldwide devotion and the center of a storm of

ecclesiastical
controversy. So far, the Archdiocese of New York has had no comment on the

healings other
than to say that the phenomena are under investigation.

"Not
everyone is healed," Mrs. Harrington said. "We can't explain why some
are healed

and others are
not. It would be presumptuous of me to try. 'Many are called but few are

chosen,' as the
saying goes."

Obviously,
Martha Harrington sees herself as one of the chosen.

The New York Times

IN THE PACIFIC

11deg N, 140deg W

Now a
supercell, the storm increases the whirling velocity of its central winds,
growing

wider,
stretching into the upper atmosphere as it angles northeastward. Its spinning
core

organizes
into a funnel cloud that dips down . . . down . . . down until it brushes the

churning
surface of the ocean. The funnel latches onto the sea like a celestial leech,

whipping
the water to a white froth as it draws up a thin stream into its
200-mile-an-hour

vortex.

20

Haifa, Israel

Customs
Inspector Dov Sidel sat in his office, sipping tea and skimming this morning's
Ha
'aretz.
A low-volume day at the port so he was taking his full break. He
glanced at an article about inexplicable cures in a New York City church
attributed to what was supposedly the remains of the Virgin Mary. After reading
half of the first paragraph, he turned the page.

Two heartbeats
later he flipped the page back.

A photo was
connected to the article, a grainy black-and-white close-up of the face of the
miraculous relic in Manhattan. Something familiar about that face . . .

And then he
recognized it! The sculpture he'd so admired when it had been shipped through
Haifa this summer. When had that been? July? He'd jotted down the name of the
Tel Aviv gallery that had shipped it, and on his next trip to the city he'd
stopped by the Kaplan Gallery in the hope of seeing more works by the same
artist. The owner had told him the Old Woman piece was a one of a kind that
he'd bought at auction. He'd had no idea who the sculptor was.

And now Sidel
knew why. There
was
no sculptor.

No wonder the
owner had seemed so brusque and unhelpful. He'd smuggled out an archeological
artifact as a contemporary work of art.

Inspector Sidel
dropped the paper, picked up his phone, and dialed his superior at the central
Customs Office.

JERUSALEM: THE LADY IS OURS!

JERUSALEM
(AP) The Israeli government has announced that the mummified woman

on display in
St. Joseph's church in Lower Manhattan, currently the object of hysterical

devotion by
throngs of Catholics and Christians of all denominations, belongs to them.

Spokesman
Yishtak Levin claims his government has "indisputable evidence that the

remains were
smuggled out of Israel on July 22 of this year." Stating that "the
remains are a

historic
national relic and the rightful property of the Israeli people," he
demanded
its

immediate
return.

The New York
Post

Manhattan

Kesev stood on
the front stoop of a crumbling brown-stone and watched the roiling mass of
people that filled the street in front of the church.

He seemed to be
viewing the scene from deep within a long black tunnel. He had known despair
and hopelessness before, but never like this. Of all the possible outcomes,
this had been his worst-case scenario.

His only hope
was the Israeli government's claim to the Mother. If its demand for her return
was honored, he had a chance. A slim chance, to be sure, but once she was again
on
Israeli soil, she was in his domain. As a
Shin Bet officer he would be standing by at all times, waiting to leap upon any
opportunity to spirit her away.

Certainly he would
find no such opportunity here. There was no way in or out of the street, let
alone the church where the Mother was on display.

The vulgarity
of it drove Kesev into a near frenzy of grief and guilt and rage. He fought the
urge to turn and ram his fist through the already cracked glass in the door
behind him, then rake his wrist across the razor shards.

But what would
that do? What would that prove? It would only draw unwanted attention to him.
And the wounds . . . they'd bleed a little, then they would heal up.

And if anyone
saw it happen they'd call it another of the Lower East Side miracles. The door
might even become a shrine.

He looked over
the multitude again, all pressing forward, hoping today would be the day they
could get into the church. Some of them had been here for days. They stretched
the entire length of the street and into the intersections at both ends.
Traffic was snarled throughout the area.

Madness, that was what it was . . .

. . . sheer
madness.

Emilio shook
his head in disgust as he squeezed between the bumpers of the overheating cars
gridlocked on Avenue C. He had always believed the world was full of fools, but
this display of gullibility amazed even him.

He checked his
watch. Noon. Time for the first of his thrice-daily calls to Paraiso. He found
a booth with a functioning phone and leaned close as he tapped in the secure
line and calling-card numbers, shielding the buttons from prying eyes. The
theft of calling-card numbers had been elevated to an art in this city.

"Yes,
Emilio," said the
senador's
voice as he picked up the line.
"I'm glad you're a punctual man. I've been anxiously awaiting your
call."

This was not
the
senador's
usual opening. Immediately Emilio was on alert.

"Yes,
sir?"

"I know
you've been following this thing at St. Joseph's church. Do you still think
it's nothing but mass hysteria?"

"All I see
around the church are masses of hysterical people, so . . . yes. I do."

"All
right, it
is
mass hysteria, but I'm beginning to think it might be
something more."

Emilio leaned
back and rolled his eyes.
Here we go.
But he kept his voice neutral.

"Really?"

"Yes. I've
been in touch with some of my contacts in Manhattan, and the unofficial word--this
is being kept from the press for the time being--is that a number of the
healings in that little church are genuine. We're not talking psychosomatic
reversals here, where someone imagines himself a cripple and can't walk until
some phony-baloney healer--and believe me, I saw plenty of those while I was
looking for a cure for Olivia--lays hands on him and tells him to walk.
They've
got bona-fide cases of far-gone osteoarthritis of the hip who now have normal X
rays.
And Emilio . . ." The
senador
paused here. "Some of
those healed have been documented cases of AIDS."

"Do you
want me to bring Charlie here?" Emilio said. "To the church? I'll get
him inside for you--one way or another." He imagined ramming a truck
through the packed throng of Mary-hunters and driving it up the front steps of
the church.

"No. He's
too weak to travel. He might not survive the trip. And even if he did . .
." The
senador's
voice trailed off.

Emilio knew
what he was thinking: St. Joseph's was ringed with photographers from
newspapers all over the world. If someone recognized a sick and wasted Charles
Crenshaw in the throng, the tabloids would have a field day.

"Whatever
it is you want,
senador,
you simply have to ask and Emilio will see that
it is done."

"Thank
you, Emilio. I knew I could count on you. But
what
I'm about to ask will not be easy. It will be the most difficult task I've ever
set for you, and most likely ever will."

Emilio didn't
like the sound of this. He waited, holding his breath. What could the
senador
possibly--?

"I want
you to bring that relic, or mummy, or whatever it is, here, to Paraiso."

Emilio froze.
For a moment he couldn't speak. Then,
"Senador,
did you say you
want me to bring it to Paraiso?"

"You can't
fail me on this, Emilio. It may be Charlie's only hope."

"You want
me to
steal
it? Right out of that church?"

"Not
steal--
borrow.
I don't want to own it, I simply wish to make use of it
for a few hours, then you can return it."