Faith Healer blamed for intrigue about Shroud of Turin. Will the clone from its DNA be a miracle child?
Robert Whitaker is rating resumes for the junior partner position which just developed within his firm. He pulls five finalists from the stack of two hundred on his desk and begins to make notes on a yellow pad. His dark green eyes look tired and the furrows on his forehead seem deeper as the phone rings, jarring him back to reality.
"Donna Amundsen to see you. Says it's urgent."
"Please send her in."
Whitaker stood behind his desk as she entered. With a sweeping right hand he offered her the chair beside his desk. Her dark brown hair was a tangled mess and the navy suit she wore was rumpled and stained in two places. He was worried as she took the seat. Normally Donna was impeccably dressed and in the twenty-five years he had known her, he'd never seen one strand of hair out of order.
Pouring her a glass of ice water and one for himself, he asked, "What is this about? You didn't say much on the phone last night."
"I doubt that cell phone is secure."
"Is it about those years you spent on the streets of Chicago?"
"You must not be watching Christian TV much these days, or you would know that everyone is now claiming to have once been an alcoholic or addict."
"Then what is it?"
"It's about Chicago all right, but not what you're probably thinking."
Whitaker pulled a yellow pad from the drawer and began to take some notes. "Go on please," he said.
"Just before I moved to St. Paul and bought my first church, a Jesuit priest came to see me and asked for the names of four women who'd been sober at least two years."
Now she stood and began to pace.
"This whole thing could ruin my ministry."
"What whole thing."
"It's been all over CNN. How I got $100,000 to provide him the names of four hosts for a clone from The Shroud of Turin."
"Sorry, I haven't been watching much TV lately. Way too much work. You wouldn't believe it."
"Well I got the money all right, but I never knew it was about the Shroud. He told me it was about some education program or job training or something. I wasn't going to snear at $100,000 from a priest."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"I don't really remember. I think it was Joseph Frankl, but it might have been Franki."
"How did he know you?"
"I was leading a Bible study at the shelter. I knew lots of women well enough, but I never conspired for this..."
"What exactly is this?"
"A young woman has come forward, claiming that she was a host mother for this experiment."
"She accused you because she couldn't find anyone else?"
"No, because she wants to find her son, the Shroud clone, whatever."
Now she came back to the chair and took a gulp of water.
"That's what you want? You want me to find the boy?"
"Yes, please talk to Becky Andrews for me. Tell her I didn't do anything wrong and I'll gladly pay to help find the boy."
"How old is he?"
"She told CNN, they were held under house arrest at a monastery near Avignon France for ten years, I think. Then there was a fire in the dining room and he was whisked away. Later, she got away."
Whitaker picked up the phone and smiled at Donna as he waited for his paralegal to respond. "Please book two flights to Paris, first thing tomorrow for me and the wife."
It was a bright spring day as Whitaker rolled down the rutted dirt road near Avignon. Trudy, his wife stayed at the little inn they had found the night before. She planned to tour the castle and medieval village that was the focal point of the town as he proceeded with his business. Now he wished he'd had her along. It was a winding and tedious road and conversation might have made it seem less so, as the vine covered monastery began to emerge off to the left.
It seemed odious and creepy as he knocked on the thick oaken door. A silent monk led him to the abbotts office. The door held his name in bold brass letters: Msg Thibaud. Inside, the plaster walls seemed ancient and the windows let in very little light. Whitaker wondered if there was some rule against it, as the abbott switched on a lamp on his desk. He studied Whitaker's business card carefully, then handed it back to him.
"If you're a reporter, I have nothing to say," the abbott said, folding his spindly hands over a felt blotter.
"I'm a lawyer. My client just wants to know what happened to this woman's son." He handed Thibaud a photo taken from CNNs website.
Thibaud examined the photo for a few seconds then said, "I know nothing about this woman. What she's saying is completely untrue . She has made life here almost unbearable."
"But I asked in the village, there was a fire, as she said, and people remember an infant."
Thibaud took off his glasses and placed them in a drawer. He smiled very carefully. "People love gossip, don't they? And everyone wants to get on TV."
"Look, no one's going to sue you or the monastery. I just want to find the boy."
Thibaud reached to his right and pulled a thick golden cord. In a moment the same silent monk opened the door and Robert found himself being escorted out. The ancient, dim hallways seemed even more foreboding than when he'd arrived. While he'd been in the abbott's office the sun had come from behind a cloud. As he stepped into the parking lot, the intensity of it blinded him for a moment.
The monk ignored that and pulled him along to his car. It was clear who was in charge here, he thought. And the monk watched until he had pulled on his seatbelt and started the Citroen. Only then did he retreat into the monastery.
It was then that he noticed the aging gardener, digging near the north side of the parking lot. He gave him a $200 and a business card and in the best French he could remember asked him to come to the Beauchamps Inn for supper at 7 p.m.
Donna was thrilled when he called two days later.
"I've found the boy. He's a young man now, and artist on the left bank. Says he loves his life here."
"Oh thank God. I knew you'd come through for me. When can I meet him."
"Whoa Nelly. He says he doesn't like church at all and you can understand that, after all he's been through, right?"
"Yeah, I can understand the church thing. I guess I can."
"But he wants to meet his mother. That's about the only reason he'd ever come on your show. So how about a week? Can you get this Becky person on there?"
"You bet I can."
"Let's hope we can do it without CNN and all the others. Lucky would rather avoid the circus."
"Who wouldn't?"
It had been almost twenty-five years since Whitaker had been on stage with Donna. Everything else had been handled behind scenes, but he wanted to see this. Yes, he did.
He didn't see how Donna could collect herself for this event. It was a definite turning point for her, and the youngish mother seemed hostile: long black hair, intense brown eyes and big, big teeth. When she smiled, it reminded him of a wolf baring its teeth at an enemy. When Lucky came out from back stage to meet her for the first time, Bob knew he just had to see it.
But her eyes softened and her smile was warm and full when the young man stepped on stage.
"Reggie," she said, "You look so good to me."
He came to her and allowed her to hug him, but not for very long.
"I know that's probably what you named me, but the name is Jacque Malonge. Friends say Lucky."
Becky started to sob and the young man looked frightened. Donna came to the mike and said, "this has been an ordeal for everyone on this platform, so let's just close early and let them catch up."
As the familiar opening line of the Lord's Prayer began, a bright yellow light filled the huge church. The audio popped and sizzled and the cameras went black.
Three minutes later, everything came back on, and Bob Whitaker stood at the mike. He introduced himself and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we've had a massive healing here tonight. Once we have some evidence of that, we'll put it together. I'm announcing a press conference to answer all these questions next Monday at noon, in my office.
In "A Touch of Your Presence" are words that would inspire, encourage and strengthen one's soul when faced with challenges and difficulties and to know the awesomeness of God's power.
