The Shroud Key

Chapter 2.

2.

I grew up with Jesus. The product of a Catholic school guarded

by yard-stick wielding nuns who could make the toughest of corrections officers

look namby-pamby, I grew up fearing the big guy. My mother and father might

have feared him too, but they were nonetheless devoutly, overtly and hopelessly

Catholic.

My father, at one time, considered

becoming a priest. But I think he knew deep inside he could never be

married to a faith, despite its impenetrable strength. A faith could never bear

children, for instance. No way faith could bring in the big bucks like

excavation contracting and sandhogging all over the globe could. So, instead of

donning a stiff white collar and a black suit, my dad operated a backhoe,

managed a shoveling crew, and he made money.

My mother bore me and two older

sisters whom I no longer kept in touch with once our parents were dead, buried,

and seated beside the Lord they so revered. I don’t think of my family all too

often. Try not to dwell on where I came from and how I made my way out of its

confines. But I do sometimes find myself thinking of Jesus … The historical

Jesus of Nazareth.

I have no doubt that he once

existed. That he must have been a great man and a powerful presence for him to

be remembered so precisely, with such reverence and acclaim. Religions have

been created in his name and many wars have been fought over his beliefs or,

the beliefs mortal man have attributed to him. I fought in two of those wars in

both Iraq and in Afghanistan. The wars were about the control of oil, but they

were also about radical Muslims versus Judeo/Christians.

As I walk back towards my apartment

across the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, I picture the long-haired man of legend

being lashed by Roman soldiers while down on his knees, a crown of sharp thorns

piercing his forehead, the blood streaking down an anguished face. I picture

him walking the narrow cobbled streets of Jerusalem, a heavy cross bearing down

upon his shoulder, he dropping to his knees under the heavy burden. I picture

him being nailed to that cross on an ugly rock-strewn quarry called Golgotha or

Skull Place and which is located just outside the city walls, the cross being

raised up slowly by the scarlet-robed soldiers, until the heavy vertical beam

dropped down in place, his body falling hard against the nails that pierced

both flesh and bone.

Is it possible that Manion is finally

on the true trail of the Jesus Remains?

Walking the cobbled streets of a

Medieval city filled with churches and cathedrals honoring Jesus’s name, I can

help but imagine the enormous sum of cash the true bones of Christ would fetch

on the private collector’s market. If Rupert Murdoch is willing to pay $100

million for the bones of Richard III, might he not be willing to scrounge up

$500 million or even a billion for the remains of the Son of Man?

Listen, I might get hot and

bothered by the thought of digging up that kind of relic, but I firmly believe

they belong in a museum to be studied and pondered by scholars for eons to

come. However, I wouldn’t be averse from taking a few million for my efforts

should I happen to come upon them during my search for Manion.

Why?

Bestselling author or not, the

truth of the matter is this: My finances are in a shambles. As of late, neither

my books nor any one of my other occupations are making me any money. As for sandhogging,

that job dried up eight years ago in the hot Giza sand when Manion ditched me

for a plane back to the U.S. I don’t live in Florence because I love it. I live

there because the lease on my downtown Manhattan apartment is about to be

terminated due to unpaid rents.

You might also recall Detective

Cipriani mentioning the fact that I have a daughter. That’s right. Chase Baker,

free spirit, bon vivant, and all-around Renaissance man is a dad.

Maybe finding adventures and

writing fictions based upon them has become a passion for me. But my eight-year-old,

long brunette-haired, brown-eyed daughter, Ava, is the love of my life. Problem

is, I’ve fallen so far behind on the support payments that no way I can fly to

the states and not expect to be slapped with an injunction as soon as I get off

the plane. If I’m ever to see my little baby again, I’ll have to make good on

all my debts before I leave Italian soil. That means a substantial, if not

huge, payday.

Perhaps having stumbled onto the

job of finding Manion is the best luck I’ve had in a long time. That in mind, I

climb the stone stairs to my apartment, knowing that gripped in my hand is not

just a packet of information about an archeology professor who’s gone missing

in the pursuit of Jesus.

It just might also be my ticket

back home.

My ticket back to Ava.