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 squeeze 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
11o N, 140o 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 foam as it draws up a thin stream into its 200-mile-an-hour vortex.
NINETEEN
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 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 an 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 brownstone 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.
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...
‡
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, shielding the buttons from prying eyes.
“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 Saint Joseph’s church. Do you still think it’s anything 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.”