Pierced by a Sword (19 page)

Why do I spill my guts so easily with this girl?
he asked himself.

He talks about Mary like he knows her personally. Like Chet,
she thought.

"I like you, Joe." The words seemed to come out of her
mouth of their own accord.
Oh no! I blew it!

His skin was too Mediterranean to show a blush, but Joe was clearly embarrassed.

Have I gone too far?
she thought, distressed.

"Good," he said after a pause. "I like you, too, Becky. I think we're going to be friends."

"I would like that," Becky assured herself and the soft-spoken giant.

She decided to take his arm. It was like taking hold of a moving
piece of rock.

Joe felt warmth run up his arm. He made a halfhearted attempt to ignore the sensation. He knew that taking a man's arm was less common in the North than in the South.
Becky has manners,
he told himself.
Means nothing.

"Now that we're friends, lets see what we can do for Nathan," Becky suggested casually. "Father Chet calls it the Mystical Body of Christ, doesn't he? I mean, everybody
is connected to Jesus. It's all new to me, and he says it's a mystery, but I like it." She realized that Father Chet's prophecy had already come true. She had found her first Catholic friend.

Joe didn't say a word.
Hmmn,
he thought,
she's interesting. I'll have to think about this one. Becky Macadam. Isn't Macadam Scottish? I'll have to ask her. And she's quoting Father Chet on Mystici Corporis.
That's a good sign...

Joe Jackson's mind was jumping from stone to stone. Rebecca Macadam was a word descending into the warmth of his heart, where she would become flesh. There she would stay.

They arrived at the Grotto and knelt to pray for Nathan, and, unknown to Joseph Jackson, for Becky's unborn child.

3

From
Dark Years History
(New Rome Press, 31 R.E.)
by Rebecca Macadam Jackson

...debate
when the Tribulations began. Many believe they began with the rise of Soviet Russia in 1917–as foretold by Our Lady at both Fatima, Portugal, and Hrushiv, Ukraine–and the enslavement and murder of over ninety million citizens in what had been one of the most pious nations of the world before the communist regime.

Other historians point to the period when practically all the governments of the
world–communist, socialist, and capitalist–embraced and glorified abortion as a solution to problems of so-called overpopulation. Abortion was also promoted as the primary sociopolitical means for the so-called emancipation of women after the 1960s. While these attitudes horrify those of us who live today, the pro-abortion philosophy was considered socially and morally necessary. Not counting unborn
children lost to abortifacients such as the IUD and the pill, surgical abortion accounted for roughly 1.6 billion souls lost in the second half of the twentieth century. Counting nonsurgical abortions, biologists estimate the actual number of immortal souls lost in this silent holocaust at four times that number.

The reader will bear in mind that fewer than five billion souls lived on the face
of the earth before 1950. Therefore, at least half as many souls were murdered in their mothers' wombs
in less than fifty years
than ever were born of their mothers' wombs in all of the centuries of known human history before 1950. A case could be made that abortion was both the
cause of
the Great Chastisement as well as a
part of it.

Other historians hold that the great natural disasters beginning
in the late 1980s and increasing in frequency and intensity up until the Three Days of Darkness mark the "birth pangs"–as Jesus referred to them in the Scriptures–of the Tribulations. Certainly this period marks the beginning of unprecedented visits from heaven by Our Lady and Our Eucharistic King to warn us.

Most historians do agree, however, that the attack upon the life of Pope Patrick the
Great and the ensuing Great Schism clearly indicate the time when an historical line was crossed...

4

Sunday Morning
8 October
Albano, Italy ("Sector Four")

Pope Patrick tore a piece of cloth from his soaked nightshirt and stuffed it into the bullet wound just below his ribs, in a desperate–and mostly successful–attempt to staunch the bleeding. There was an extremely painful throbbing in his temple
where his head had hit the doorjamb of his Fiat. His vision was alternately blurry and clear.

No hospitals. Don't pass out Angus!
the pope commanded.

Sweet Mary, help me!

He fought nausea and blackout. He collapsed on the side street of Albano. His vision slowly returned. He struggled to regain his feet. The narrow cobblestoned alley was empty.

Got to get to Dublin, then...

Then what?

He didn't
know.

He thought of poor Thomas Phillips. The lad, his nephew from Boston, had been a champion wrestler in high school. But he had given up a full scholarship to the University of Iowa to enter the Legionaries of Christ.

A disjointed phrase from the seminarian's lexicon echoed back from a conversation the pope had with the boy months earlier:
...and go. Suck it up and go.

"It means to gather oneself
and prepare to fight against all odds to succeed in winning the game," the bright seminarian had explained.

A pained smile formed on Angus's lips. He willed himself to chuckle. The wound in his side suddenly stung him and his faint smile turned to a grimace. He fought blackout again.

Suck it up and go. What was the other one? Walk it off? Walk it off. Dressed like this? Think!

Somehow the pope
was able to stand up. The business day had begun and Angus could see people walking beyond the alley. He spotted a small dumpster nearby and stumbled over to it. Inside he found a ratty coat with a large collar. He abandoned his own water-soaked coat and covered his shivering body. He still had his own wallet and the wallet Thomas had thrown to him during the nightmarish chase. The old man combed
his hair as best he could with ice cold fingers.

He made his way slowly to the end of the street and into a drugstore he found two blocks away. He tried desperately to walk without revealing his weakened state. Angus's perfect Italian (spoken in the local dialect) helped keep the clerk from becoming suspicious. The indifferent clerk didn't even look at the pope's face during the transaction. Using
damp bills, Angus bought several items with the dead seminarian's money, including makeup, hair coloring, some cheap clothes, a large-brimmed hat, bandages, and over-the-counter antibiotics.

There was a lot of money in the wallet. Thomas had come to say good-bye to him. The lad had planned on leaving the seminary the morning of his death, and had carried his traveling money with him to the Vatican.
Thomas had loved being a seminarian, but after much prayer and soul-searching, he had come to the conclusion that he did not have a vocation. His spiritual director had agreed.

He's a martyr now,
Angus thought.

Angus bought several loaves of bread, cheese, and some fruit at a grocery cart. He devoured the food while he walked, forcing it into his system. He found a room in a cheap
pensione
in
a poor neighborhood nearby. It took all of his will to prevent himself from collapsing onto the small sunken mattress. He painfully dressed his own wound–the bullet was still inside him but the hole was small and uniformly round. It took almost an hour to color his hair and change the complexion around his eyes with the makeup. He fought blackout the entire time. The acrid smell from the hair coloring
helped keep him awake.

God did not save me only to have me die in this cheap hotel,
he reasoned. Angus felt hope open a door inside him and take up residence in his soul.

He sat and ate an apple with some cheese while he waited for his hair to dry. He grieved as he thought about Thomas Phillips. He tried to distract himself by thinking of where to go next and how to get there.
I'll take the trains,
he thought.
The airlines are too dangerous.
They
might be watching them. Too many trains in Europe to watch them all.

Chapter Nine

1

Tuesday Evening
10 October
Under the English Channel

Angus gingerly sat up in the small bed of the private sleeper car in a vain effort to minimize the pain in his side.
At least the bleeding has stopped,
he tried to encourage himself.
How did it ever come to this, running like a rat?

He was beyond weariness, sustained by sheer will, steeled by years of disciplining his mind and
body with prayer and mortifications. When the pope closed his eyes, instead of peaceful and much-needed sleep, the night of the assassination attempt played before him like a movie...

...On the very evening of Angus's return to Rome from Detroit, Thomas Phillips had greatly surprised his uncle by showing up in the papal bedroom just before three in the morning. The flight to Boston was in four
hours. He had decided to visit the pope and used his special pass to enter the Vatican gate. The guard was accustomed to late night visits by unusual guests to the eccentric pope. Once inside the sprawling gardens and past the Swiss Guard, Thomas used a secret stairway installed by a Renaissance pope which Uncle Angus had shown him for fun.

Months earlier Uncle Angus had told him, "Even the Swiss
Guards don't know about it. My predecessor, the Magnificent Pole, discovered it by accident, and showed it to me when I was the Cardinal of Dublin."

Instead of continuing down the path to the second security checkpoint at the door which led to the pope's private suite, Thomas ducked through a hedge and quietly felt his way through the gardens until he found the secret entrance. After fumbling
for several minutes he pushed the correct square of marble and a section of the wall opened. The ex-wrestler squeezed through the small opening into a cramped passage which led to a narrow, completely dark stairway.

The whole night had an emotionally surreal feeling to it, which only added to his disappointment over leaving the seminary. As he climbed the stairway, he consoled himself with the
thought that he was living a great adventure. This was something to tell his grandchildren–now that he was free to get married and actually have some grandchildren.

As he reached the top, he paused; a wave of fear washed over him. He brushed it off with a brief prayer to his guardian angel. The pope's bedroom was on the other side. He crawled out of the passageway hidden in the carved woodwork
of an immense wall of bookcases.

The pope was sitting at his desk, studying his Bible. He looked up and chuckled. "Good evening, Thomas. How nice of you to join me."

"Well, I was just passing through."

Angus laughed, gave Thomas a serious look, then said, "You're not here to borrow money, are you?"

Now they both laughed.

After a moment Thomas said, "I'm here to ask for your blessing."

"Is something
wrong?"

"I'm leaving the Legionaries of Christ. In four hours I'm flying back to Boston."

The pope regarded him thoughtfully.

"I... I don't want anyone to know I came here tonight, Uncle Angus." Thomas went on, "No one knows I'm here, except the Swiss Guard who let me through the gate." His emotions caught up with him. He fought to keep tears out of his eyes.

Angus was surprised–but not completely
shocked. There had always been something too worldly about the young man standing before him now.

"Well, Thomas, we both know that you gave it your best."

"Do you think so, Uncle Angus?"

"I do," the pope replied somberly, nodding slowly. "I believe it's all for the greater glory of God. At times like these, the best thing we can do is ask Our Lady for help."

Thomas took hold of himself. He pulled
his rosary out of his pocket; the beads were already tightly clenched in his fist.

They knelt down beside the bed and began to pray.

They were just beginning the fourth decade of the Sorrowful Mysteries when a man wearing black clothes and a dark mask slipped through the door into the large bedroom.

The assassin had been expecting to find the pope asleep or at least alone; he hesitated before
aiming his gun. Then he fired three muffled shots at the old man. Angus dove behind the bed. Then the assassin turned to fire at Thomas who was already charging towards him.

Thomas Phillips took two of five bullets into his burly chest and one into his left arm. He slammed into the assassin. In a series of quick, brutal movements the assassin was trapped in a human vise. Thomas grunted; all three
men heard a sickening crack.

Thomas stood and dropped the corpse. Angus would forever remember the unnatural angle of the assassin's neck.

Like a dead crow,
he thought.
God have mercy on his soul.

Angus was hit. The bullet had gone into his left side below the rib cage.

Thomas saw the blood spreading on the pope's white nightshirt. He grabbed a pillow from the bed, tore it open and gingerly jammed
stuffing into the pope's bleeding wound, muttering, "...direct pressure stops bleeding, direct pressure stops bleeding–"

"–Thomas! You're wounded!"

Thomas stared at the blood oozing from his chest and felt pain for the first time. He nodded and began to treat his own wounds.

"No, lad! You don't understand, we've
got
to get you to a hospital."

"No way! I'm okay–we've got to get
you
out of here!"

"Out of here?" Angus replied. "No, I'll call Security–"

"Security?! After this? You've got to get out of here!"

Angus's eyes widened as the significance of his nephew's words hit home.

"Uncle Angus, they let that guy in. They didn't know I was here. Who can you trust?" Thomas reached for his wallet. "Wait! Here, I... I've got a ticket to Boston." He held it out in his bloody hand.

Angus reached
for it, and stopped.

"The pope cannot leave Rome. I will not leave Rome." He said it to himself.

Despite his pain, Thomas closed his eyes and prayed. He swayed on his feet.

Angus walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "You're a brave lad, but that doesn't mean we can't go to the hospital now."

Angus was recovering from his shock. A plan formed quickly in his head, part
calculation, part gut feeling. The boy was right: there was no one he could trust beyond the walls of this room. He would never leave Rome, of course. But he did know one thing:
We can't leave through that bedroom door.
It was time to act.

–And Thomas's prayer was answered.

Angus hastily threw on a coat and heavy leather walking shoes. Out of habit he grabbed three fake passports he kept in the
drawer of the ancient night table next to his bed.

"Through the passage, quickly," he urged Thomas, who was just beginning to get his second wind.

The two bleeding men then entered the secret passageway, using Angus's flashlight.

This boy is strong. He's as strong as an ox even with three bullets in him!
Angus told himself, amazed, as they staggered down the claustrophobic stairway.

Once outside,
they made their way over to the path by the gate. They hid behind thick hedges. The Swiss Guard who had admitted Phillips earlier was slumped in his chair in the guardhouse.

"He was probably shot by the assassin who attacked us," Angus whispered to Thomas. "Somehow, I don't think we should leave this way, laddie," the pope added before leading Thomas to a tiny shed in the rear of the gardens.
Inside the shed was the pope's Fiat.

Angus had arranged to have the old car available for his secret missions. He always needed to be able to leave at any time without being noticed. Now he opened a private steel gate in a wall that led to a back street.

He didn't know that his enemies had bugged the gate months earlier so they could keep track of his movements. As soon as the gate was opened,
the ones who had planned the assassination deduced that their attempt to kill Angus had failed.

"Mary had her
fiat,
and I have mine," the pope quipped, trying to cheer up the ashen-faced seminarian. Thomas didn't laugh. He threw himself behind the wheel. A minute after their escape onto the streets of Rome, a black Citroen appeared behind the Fiat. Thomas saw it.

"They're back, Uncle Angus! Time
to suck it up and go!" he shouted, stepping on the gas. Thomas was still pumping adrenaline. His left arm screamed with pain.

Thomas tried but failed to pull away from the more powerful Citroen. During the insane car ride that followed, he frantically explained how easy it had been to overpower the assassin. Talking helped calm him while he drove like a madman.

"Guess they don't teach the assassins
in Europe how to wrestle, Uncle Angus! Somehow, I'm glad I killed the son of a bitch as a layman and not as a Legionary. He was going to kill you! Killing the pope, I can't believe it! Here! Money!" Thomas threw his wallet at the pope.

The chase lasted only a few minutes. As Thomas drove the old Fiat over a curb at the end of
Via Cola DiRienzo,
the steering arm on one of the wheels broke and the
car careened toward the small wooden fence at
Lung Michelangelo
which separated the road from the raging river below.

For a moment, where there had been the screeching sound of wheels on the wet streets, there was now only the sound of rain on the hood of the Fiat before it plunged into the roiling cold water. Phillips started shouting a Hail Mary as the car quickly filled with water through floorboards
riddled with rust holes. Only the light from the dashboard let the eerily calm Angus see Thomas's fearful face, which was now bleeding after smashing into the unbroken windshield.

Angus began to pray for the boy's soul and muttered the Latin prayers for the Anointing of the Sick. The car hit a gully at the bottom of the river and flipped over on its side, precariously balancing in the strong current.
The pope's door was facing the surface.

Thomas was dead.

The car was completely full of water now. Holding his breath, Angus prayed an act of contrition and begged Jesus for mercy.

I have one minute, maybe less,
he thought serenely.
I'm shot and bleeding. I can't swim well. I'm going to die.

He decided to die with a prayer in his heart. Rather than form sentences, he prayed to the Christ whom
he had served as Vicar, and for the intercession of His mother:
Jesus... Mary... Jesus... Mary... Jesus... Mary...

Then the angel came.

Angus never saw the angel. The bleeding pope was about to inhale water when the door of the Fiat was pulled open. Angus felt–but did not see–two hands with superhuman strength grasp him and pull him through the water at a terrific speed. He heard four confusing
words:
"God conquers is here."

The battered old man heard the words inside
and
outside of his head. Angus had no idea what the words meant. He did not know that the angel was saying its
name:
God Conquers (just as the Archangel Gabriel's name means God Speaks). Angus's angel was saying, in effect, "I, God Conquers, have arrived."

The rest of the experience was like a dream with real water in it.
Angus wondered if he was being taken up to heaven when he broke the surface and saw the lights of the city above him. He was far downstream from where he had crashed–at least a hundred yards. He saw the smashed fence far behind him. His lungs involuntarily sucked in huge gobs of air while his bullet wound sent waves of pain through his torso.

Angus saw two men dressed in black, wearing masks,
peering over
Lung Michelangelo,
the Citroen behind them. In the glow of a street light Angus saw that they were holding rifles and were looking at the location in the river where the Fiat must have entered. They did not see Angus. The pope felt a chill that had nothing to do with his wounds, his pain, the river, and his shortness of breath.

The invisible hands were still holding Angus under his
armpits. He was just above the surface. The strong being moved him to a large, floating log. He was held to the log by this invisible creature of God.

An angel! Lord you have rescued me! I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death!

He felt an enormous warm "hand" cover his wound. He suddenly felt safe and dizzy. Remarkably, the log began to move faster than the current. Again, inside
and outside of his head, in a kind of supernatural stereo, Angus heard the angel speak to him:

"South Bend, Indiana."

Water streamed by; Angus lost track of time and passed out. He woke up downriver almost four hours later on the cobblestoned alley in Albano, less than a half mile from the Tiber.

+  +  +

In the sleeper car of the train the pope shook himself and turned away from the memory. He
wished that he had a set of rosary beads to hold.

He felt better, despite the lack of sleep. The bleeding in his side had stopped to a trickle–although it still pained him greatly–and his head was pounding. He felt wide awake, as if he had just "woken up."

Maybe I'm going to make it. At least through today. I've got to get to Dublin. Then South Bend, Indiana. South Bend? Suck it up and go. I wonder
what the angel's name was?

Angus had purchased a Walkman at the station in Paris. He turned it on. As he listened to the news, he was not surprised at the half lies in the reports about his death. There was no mention of an assassination attempt at the Vatican Residence. Nor was there any mention of bullet wounds in Thomas's body. Casino was quoted in the reports. Angus was certain Casino was
behind the falsehoods. Why was Casino and not the official Vatican spokesman leading the press conferences?

The beleaguered pope looked at himself in the mirror on the door of the sleeper. He did not resemble Pope Patrick. He looked like Carlos Cepeda, a businessman from Milan–the fictitious man portrayed in his false Italian passport.

It was time to find a place to get some blood and to heal.
Angus was a practical man, after all, and you couldn't order room service for blood in a moving train.