The Visionary: Welcome to the Fold

Chapter One

Dominic Cardinal Santoni looked up from his desk, his gaze falling first on the double doors then on the gold clock above the ornate lintel. The loud, chipper voice of his secretary, Mrs. Greene, announced the arrival of his eleven o'clock appointment.

"Did you take a taxi from the airport or did you rent a cah?" Mrs. Greene's voice carried through the thick doors.

Fifteen years at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston and Cardinal Santoni still found the accent amusing. He chuckled and returned to his task. After flipping through the last few pages of the dossier, he knew all he needed to know. Father Marcus Ignatius Leeds, age thirty-one, born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England. Graduated with high honors from St. Mary's College, Oscott Seminary in Birmingham, England. Leeds had taken his priestly vows at the age of twenty-four with, of all orders, the Society of Jesus.

A Jesuit. Cardinal Santoni sighed and shook his head. A bunch of renegade cowboys, those Jesuits, and far too liberal for his conservative tastes. He wasn't surprised, though. The Jesuits were ultra-educated, the intellectuals among the ordained faithful and thus more prone to doubt. Perfect for holding office in the Vatican's most controversial department, the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. In six short years, Marcus Leeds had become a senior investigator for the Congregation, with the duty of either approving or discounting reported supernatural events with possible ties to the Church: visions and apparitions, visitations, angelic sightings, saintly intercessions and miracle cures, and demonic possession.

Cardinal Santoni closed the leather-bound binder, straightening his black clerical suit as he crossed the expansive room. He took a deep breath and put on a congenial smile as he swung open the double doors.

"Welcome to Holy Cross, Father Leeds. Please, come in."

The young man standing in the doorway smiled. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome—every Catholic schoolgirl's fantasy. In other words, trouble.

"Good morning, Your Eminence." Father Leeds crossed the threshold, pausing to bow and kiss the ring on the Cardinal's right hand. "His Holiness sends his greetings."

Cardinal Santoni offered his hand again for a secular shake, noting Leeds' firm, self-assured grasp. He gestured toward the antique wing chair facing his desk. "Please make yourself comfortable, Father Leeds. How was your flight?"

Father Leeds sat, removing a notepad and pen from his leather briefcase before setting it on the floor beside him. "I wish I could say 'delightful,' but in all honesty the trip was long, the leg room nonexistent, and the last forty minutes nothing but unsettling turbulence. I'm quite glad to be back on solid ground."

Cardinal Santoni picked up his favorite gold pen and tapped the red-felt desk blotter with the closed tip. "Father, let me cut to the chase. What is your experience with stigmatists? Your dossier doesn't include mention of any specific case histories."

Father Leeds sat back in the chair, his lips drawn tight. "Those case histories are recorded only in the Vatican Secret Archives. However, I have Holy Father's permission to be candid with you on the subject. The Congregation has investigated twenty-seven cases of alleged stigmata since my appointment. The last investigation occurred two years ago. I traveled to the Dominican Republic, where a young woman claimed to bear the marks. The palms of her hands bled, and she bore puncture wounds on her forehead as if from a crown of thorns. After a week of observation, I concluded without a shadow of doubt that the girl's wounds were self-inflicted. The preceding twenty-six cases were hoaxes or unfortunate cases of disease. We live in complicated and often frightening times, Your Eminence. Desperate attempts to fabricate miracles are bound to increase."

"The Church has done an excellent job keeping our situation here in Boston under wraps in anticipation of your arrival." Cardinal Santoni relaxed back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "There's a young man whom we believe is genuinely afflicted. He's eighteen years old, the eldest son of a local fisherman and a schoolteacher—a devout, stable family. He's an above-average student, not prone to eccentricities or fads. He discovered his calling to the religious life at a very young age. St. Mary's Seminary in Baltimore has accepted his application for enrollment."

Father Leeds jotted some notes. "What leads you to believe this is any different from the other cases? Teenagers—American teenagers in particular—seem to be fascinated with the occult these days. The boy's intelligence and positive family situation do not necessarily negate the need for peer acceptance at that age."

Leaning forward, Cardinal Santoni clasped his hands together on the blotter. "The boy's name is James Miller. He's been bleeding continually for the past twenty-one days." Cardinal Santoni paused for effect. "From his wrists."

Father Leeds stopped writing and looked up. "Are you certain?"

"I've seen him with my own eyes," Cardinal Santoni said. "James spent two weeks in the hospital, undergoing batteries of physical and psychological tests for everything from hemophilia to schizophrenia. Other than the persistent bleeding, James is fine: alert, coherent, otherwise healthy, and in no way hysterical. The parents ultimately insisted on his release into their care." Cardinal Santoni sighed. "This is where the story becomes more disturbing, Father Leeds, and why you've been brought in for first contact rather than one of your stateside subordinates. James Miller claims a beautiful angel visits him each night, renewing the wounds and speaking of James's immortal soul. His recollections of these alleged visitations are fuzzy and vague and, so far, no one else in the household has seen any evidence of an intruder. The house is in an upper middle-class area, protected by a monitored alarm system, and the parents diligently arm the system each night. No alarms have gone off since this event began, and no one else knows the current disarming code."

"Fascinating." Father Leeds scribbled more notes. "There are no other cases I'm aware of that mention an angel causing the wounds. Such a divergence from classic stigmata literature certainly places this case in the realm of unique. Should I expect resistance when I visit the family?"

"No." Cardinal Santoni shook his head. "No resistance. They're simply seeking answers, if not a cure." He glanced at the clock over the door then back to Father Leeds. "I've arranged an apartment for you in the old brownstone across the street. If you'd like to stow your luggage first, I'll have a car waiting for you in thirty minutes. It's a short drive to the Miller residence, but lunchtime traffic will be heavy." He slid a key fob, monogrammed with the Cathedral's insignia, across the wide desk. "I'm told you Jesuits are fond of your freedom, so I thought the diocese-owned apartment would be preferable to a room in the rectory."

"I appreciate the courtesy." Father Leeds took the key. He fingered the fob for a moment, a look of concern darkening his face. "I'll do all I can for the young man, Your Eminence. I'm not expecting this to turn out any differently than my previous investigations, but the fact he bleeds from the wrists and not the palms piques my curiosity."

Chapter Two

The fully furnished apartment turned out to be more than adequate for Marcus's needs. He'd only brought one suitcase with him from Rome, which he left unopened on top of the king-sized bed. Cardinal Santoni's accounting of the Miller case had Marcus far too focused to bother with a mundane chore like unpacking luggage. With any luck, he would quickly debunk the teenager's claims and be on a return flight to Rome in the morning anyway.

Ready to leave long before the scheduled arrival of his transportation, Marcus dashed down the street to Dunkin' Donuts to grab a cup of hot tea. The girl at the counter gave him a funny look—apparently Americans rarely ordered hot tea and especially not in the summer.

The car pulled up to the curb with perfect timing as Marcus stepped back onto the sidewalk.

* * * * *

Noontime traffic moved along at the speed of cold molasses, and Marcus was grateful to have a driver to deal with the stress. He peered out from behind the BMW's smoked windows. With his first trip to America only hours old, the intense pace of life on this side of the pond already struck him as frantic and overwhelming. Everyone seemed in a great hurry, and no one appeared to notice anyone else. After witnessing two near-accidents accompanied by shouted curses and waving fists, Marcus turned his attention to a leather-bound portfolio containing notes he'd accumulated on stigmata phenomena over the years.

The Roman Catholic Church had records of over five hundred cases of reported stigmatists—people who claimed to suffer from the Holy Wounds of Christ, persistent marks mimicking those inflicted on Jesus during the course of his crucifixion. To date, only a handful of cases reported defied natural explanation.

After the driver turned the car off the main road, the choke of traffic died away. Expensive homes with spacious yards and three-car garages peppered the streets of Brookline. The BMW wound through the neighborhood and pulled in front of a large Tudor, the lower level of the house blocked from Marcus's view by a high hedge.

A man Marcus presumed to be the boy's father approached. Marcus exited the car, tucked his belongings under one arm, and offered his right hand. "Mr. Miller? I'm Father Marcus Leeds."

The man looked tired, eyes bloodshot with dark circles beneath as if he'd cried too much and slept too little in recent days. He shook hands with Marcus. "Please, call me Gary. Cardinal Santoni's office phoned and said you were en route. My wife and I are grateful you were able to come so quickly."

Gary Miller led the way through the yew hedge, the entrance cleverly concealed unless approached from the perfect angle. A walkway paved in pastel cobblestones bisected a well-tended lawn and led to the house. Brass chimes tinkled happy tones in the warm summer breeze, a bentwood rocker on the stucco porch seeming to rock itself.

A woman met them at the front door, the same late-thirties as the man, similar dark brown hair and tan skin. She looked as exhausted as Gary, worn from worry, deep creases of concern etched into her brow, her shoulders slumped and rounded. She opened the door, the comforting smell of fresh-baked cookies wafting outside.

"You must be Father Leeds. I'm Karen Miller." She gestured inside, her eyes darting toward her husband.

"Hello, Karen." Marcus shook her hand. "Cardinal Santoni told me about James. I hope to be of help."

A genuine sense of dread emanated from the couple as they entered the house. The most stressed victims of paranormal experiences were often those who lived with the affected or afflicted. Marcus felt their pain and sensed no duplicity. "Is James here now? I'd like to visit with him directly."

"Of course." Karen touched her husband on the shoulder as she closed the front door. "Why don't you go downstairs and relax, honey? The ball game will be on in a few minutes. I'll introduce Father Leeds to James."

Gary looked about to protest, but a raised eyebrow and soft smile from Karen proved enough to dissuade him.

"Nice meeting you, Father." Gary promptly disappeared down a flight of wide, open steps.

Karen watched the staircase until the noise of an announcer and a cheering crowd filtered up from below. She shrugged and offered Marcus a tired smile. "Red Sox fan. Watching baseball is the only thing able to take his mind off this situation for a few hours. Gratefully, there's a double-header today." She started up another open flight of stairs, looking partway over her shoulder at Marcus as she made a slow climb. Her gaze lingered for a few seconds on his Roman collar. "Did His Eminence tell you that James is entering the priesthood?"

"Yes, he did. You must be very proud." Marcus had a sneaking suspicion something more than the possibility of stigmata worried this family. Mrs. Miller's nervous glances and quick dismissal of her husband gave Marcus the impression she harbored a secret. "Mrs. Miller . . . before I meet James, is there anything you'd like to tell me in confidence? I have a feeling you're hiding something. Something important."

She paused halfway down the long, carpeted hall, speaking in a hushed tone. "Did Cardinal Santoni tell you that my son believes an angel visits him in the night?"

"Yes." Marcus studied her face for signs of untruthfulness but found nothing. "He told me only James sees the angel. Is that correct?"

"By nightfall," Karen said, "the wounds on his wrists stop bleeding and begin to scab over. In the morning, the blood is flowing again, and James awakens with a euphoric look on his face. Rapturous, like you read about St. Bernadette when she saw the apparitions of the Blessed Virgin, or on Bernini's statue The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. James says the angel is beautiful, but when pressed to describe the apparition he can't—except for one detail. He says the angel's eyes shine with the light of God."

She brushed wayward strands of brown hair from her eyes with a badly trembling hand. "Three nights ago, the angel told James he would be joining his 'maker' soon, and that James would become immortal, remaining young for all eternity. James told me, but I didn't tell Gary. I'm barely coping myself, and the last thing I need is for my husband to fall apart on me." Her eyes watered, rimmed with red, and she lowered her voice to a fraction above a whisper. "I do believe something not of this earth is visiting my son, Father Leeds, but God help me—I don't believe for one minute it's an angel."

Her utter desperation set every hair on the back of Marcus's neck on end. He'd seen the nerves of parents worn threadbare before, but most of them believed the purported miracle to be a true act of God. The fear blazing bright in Mrs. Miller's eyes reminded him of events he'd observed in the past, but never for a supposed stigmata event. Darker things plagued those who felt the visceral sort of fright she exhibited.

Marcus touched her forearm with a gentle hand. "I'll do my best to find the underlying cause of your son's problem. Please, I'd like to meet him now."

Karen led Marcus to the end of the hallway. She rapped softly on the last door and turned the knob. "James, Father Leeds is here to see you."

A gaunt boy seated at a desk looked up from a textbook, his eyes sporting the same dark rings both his parents shared. Clearly, the family teetered on the brink of breaking. Marcus entered the room. "I'm glad to meet you, James." He smiled at Karen. "I'd like to speak to your son alone, if that's all right."

She gave a solemn nod and left, closing the door behind her.

Marcus sat on the corner of the bed closest to James.

Wraps of white gauze covered both of James's wrists, bloodstains drying on the cotton. "James, your mother says you believe an angel comes at night and leaves those marks. May I see?"