The Sixth Station(39)

“What was it?”

“A fragment from a large monumental inscription. It was a piece of a stele and it mentions King David’s dynasty. Then in June they uncovered two other fragments in separate locations, locations that the boy had also pointed out.”

“Why is that so significant? There must be millions of fragments of all kinds of things in that area—no?”

“Not like this,” she said, actually raising her voice for the first time. “Ms. Russo, it was nothing less than proof positive of the dynasty of King David!

“Stranger still, before it could even be deciphered by the archaeologists, the boy reappeared and started arguing with the rabbis in a town nearby. The argument went on for days and yet his parents were nowhere to be found.

“The boy insisted that the stele was made by an enemy of the Jews, and that it was a memorial boasting about their exploits in conquering the descendants of the house of David. The boy called the discovery a ‘boastful document’ that had then been smashed by a Jew of royal blood, perhaps Jehoash, who reigned from BCE 798–782.

“His frantic parents—unnamed—finally found him at a temple, but a media crowd had already gathered when they heard about the argument. A man, presumably his father, swept him away, saying he’d been lost.”

“So there was footage and photos of the boy at that time?”

“No. That’s when I knew, you see.”

“Knew?”

“That he was the clone baby. Every bit of film taken by every reporter was blank. The boy was twelve, the same age as Jesus when He’d been found questioning the rabbis. It wasn’t a coincidence. I knew it was history repeating.…”

“How did you know it was that boy, though?”

“He told the rabbis, that’s how. He said, ‘My name is Demiel ben Yusef and I come at the behest of my father.’”

“And you believe he was the clone baby from Ephesus?”

“I am as sure as I can be without definitive proof.”

She got up from her chair. I’d seen this move dozens of times. It meant the interview was over.

“Think about this instead, Ms. Russo. What if the man on trial, who seems so particularly fond of you, is the real child born from the blood of Jesus? For whatever reason, you were the one ben Yusef chose to kiss. Let’s hope it wasn’t a Judas kiss.”

“I guess it depends on who I give up.…”

She walked to the door and opened it. “It’s not a joke. There are powerful people who will want you to find out the truth, and equally powerful and more dangerous people who will keep you from ever finding it out—or even living beyond tonight, I assume,” she said, as though she were giving me directions to the bar down the hill.

That’s what you say to someone as you’re escorting her out of your house?

“Where do you suggest I start looking?” I asked her, trying not to show fear.

“You’re the investigative journalist—you’ll figure it out. I can only tell you that you’ve come this far, so surely you’ll be able to connect the dots—or in this case, the drops. And yes, I do believe that other droplets of blood still exist somewhere.

“But of course, you’ll have to do what every agent assigned has been unable to do for the past thirty-three years—find the rest of that blood. I believe it’s contained in some kind of vessel. If you find it, and if the DNA matches ben Yusef’s—well, you may be able to stop the second Crucifixion of Christ.”

“What? I’m just one person.…”

“Again, it’s finding whatever it is that holds the droplets first. It is simply the most important relic in Christendom, and would make the most important story any reporter has ever written, and you, dear, have clearly been invited to participate in the hunt.”

“The hunt”? Jesus!—no pun intended.

I stood up, too, and started gathering up my stuff. She said, “You were the Chosen One, remember that. So just trust your instincts.”

“How in the hell do I know I can even trust you?”

She just said, “What I did is something I can never forgive. Prove that I failed. They can’t be allowed to kill Jesus one more time.”

“So you want me to prove you wrong, find the relic, and somehow manage to steal it and get the DNA off it? You can’t really think…”

What in my life had ever equipped me to parse out the unbelievable story she just told me? But, other than this, possibly the biggest (and the second greatest) story ever told, I had nothing to go on. Can I do this? Am I capable of forgetting it and not even trying? Is the pope a Muslim?