Read The Stolen Gospels for Free Online Page A

saw his hand go into a pocket of his robe as the big woman approached. He appeared to be afraid of her.
    Does he have a weapon there? A priest with a gun?
    She didn’t know why she was thinking so strangely, so conversely to everything she had been taught in her life. She was twenty-four years old and had always been a good Catholic; it was in her blood, as much a part of her as the child she held so tightly in her arms. Her faith had always been her anchor, providing her with strength and constancy and the knowledge that her life was connected to something more important than her solitary, meager existence. But her faith was a broad white sail as well, linking her with an ethereal wind that guided all humankind on a heavenly course.
    How did this holy man fit into such a structure?
    Her pulse drummed and thrummed in her ears.
    Keeping his hand in his pocket, the priest moved briskly toward her.
    By now the other figure—approaching from the aisle—had halved the distance to Consuela. Out of the shadow-face of this person emerged two burning red embers for eyes, like fiery fragments wrenched from the bowels of Hades.
    The priest reached her first and placed a hand on her shoulder. He smelled of fear. Sweat glistened on his brow. “My child,” he said in their native Spanish, “you are troubled, and I—”
    Consuela wasn’t looking at him. The other figure neared, moving slowly, inexorably, and the terrified peasant woman no longer saw ember-eyes, replaced instead by a white visage and the palest of albino orbs, staring directly at her. She wondered if all this was only her imagination, if she was trapped in a wild kaleidoscope of the mind, a spinning, topsy-turvy nightmare. For some reason she felt a threat not only from this person but from the priest. She didn’t trust either of them. The priest’s grip tightened on her shoulder.
    The woman reached into her white bag.
    Consuela bolted and ran out a side door into the night. The church was no longer a sanctuary. It had been invaded by evil, an extension of the entity that was trying to destroy her child.
    Shouts and gunfire sounded behind her, and a bullet struck the door frame as she ran into the street, but neither she nor her baby were hit. Dogs barked frantically.
    A man screamed out in agony. It sounded like Father Matteo.
    She didn’t dare look back.
    * * *
    A tiny nun in a black habit hurried through the grand corridor, her smallness and simple garb contrasting with the exquisite craftsmanship and immensity of scale around her . . . the Italian marble floor, the ornate mirrors, gilded walls, leaded glass, and vaulted ceiling, the paintings of Christian religious scenes by renowned masters, the sculptures of famous popes and cardinals. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a golden band, signifying the sacred wedding vow she had given to her blessed savior, Jesus Christ.
    At a Gothic entrance portal she stood before two Swiss Guards who wore sixteenth century body armor with royal purple and gold leggings and red headdresses. Each man carried an automatic rifle. It was shortly after 7:00 AM in Vatican City.
    Beneath the folds of her robe the nun carried a glass message cylinder, which she brought forth and displayed for the guards. One of the guards looked it over, then waved her in with a jerky motion of one arm.
    She passed through into a waiting room that featured intricately designed blue-and-white mosaic tiles. Two more Swiss Guards stood at another door, which led to the papal offices.
    The door to the inner sanctum swung open, and an angular, ruddy-faced man in a white vestment emerged, walking toward her energetically. Pope Rodrigo held one hand on a golden cross that dangled from his neck. He ushered her in, smiling broadly. “Ah, Sister Meryl,” he said as they walked together into his enormous, exquisitely appointed office, “It is good to see you!”
    This nun was from his own home city of Segovia, Spain—and he liked her so much that