End of Days by Frank Lauria Page A

faith.”
    This interview has definitely gotten out of hand, Jericho thought ruefully. “This girl you were talking about … is she in trouble? Does she need help?”
    â€œYou can’t understand,” Father Novak said sadly as if addressing a child. “You don’t know how. Now if you’ll excuse me, our hands are pretty full here.”
    He turned away, clearly dismissing Jericho.
    â€œI have more questions,” Jericho said lamely.
    Father Novak paused and shook his head. “I know, but if you can’t believe in God, what makes you think you can understand his adversaries?”
    â€œSo now I have to believe in God to solve a crime?” Jericho asked as the priest moved behind the altar rail.
    â€œI assume you can find your way out,” Father Novak said over his shoulder.
    Jericho walked slowly toward the large doors, his brain churning with confusion. One thing was clear. The girl was the key. Whoever she was. And Father Novak was hiding something. On impulse Jericho turned and followed the priest into the vestibule behind the altar.
    But when Jericho entered, the room was empty. There was no Father Novak—and no other exits.
    He saw something move in the corner of his vision. A thick wall tapestry billowed slightly. Jericho crossed the floor and pulled the heavy fabric aside.
    The tapestry concealed a narrow doorway. Inside was a circular stairway leading down to darkness. After a moment’s hesitation, Jericho started down the stairs.
    At the bottom of the stairway was a light. It came from a room at the end of a dark corridor. As Jericho moved toward the light, he heard voices. Then he saw them.
    There were dozens of people in the stone chamber beneath the altar, all priests and academic types. They were gathered around desks and tables, reading various scrolls and translating texts. All were bent to their tasks with an urgent zeal.
    Like a religious sweatshop, Jericho observed, trying to minimize the fear strumming his taut belly.
    In the center of the room was a shriveled old woman, babbling in some strange tongue, her voice rising and falling. A number of priests attended to the woman. They wiped her face with wet towels, and put liquid nourishment to her lips. One of the priests moved aside, and Jericho saw the woman’s arms were outstretched.
    He also saw the shiny red blood streaming from open wounds on both her palms.
    Father Novak examined the woman briefly, sharp features drawn with anxiety. “How many have received the stigmata?” he demanded, looking around.
    â€œShe’s the third this week,” a young priest offered.
    â€œThen he’s almost here.”
    Suddenly the old crone bolted upright, her eyes bulging—and she screamed. Her clawed, bloodied hand pointed directly at Jericho as she jabbered wildly.
    Jericho froze, pinned by the amazed stares of the people in the chamber. “What is she saying?” he asked in a strangled voice.
    Father Novak shielded her from view. “Get out!” he shouted. “Forget what you’ve seen here.”
    Jericho held his ground. “What drove Thomas insane?”
    Father Novak hurried across the room and took him by the arm. “There are forces at work here you simply cannot comprehend,” he scolded.
    You got that right, Jericho thought, fear and confusion circling his brain. He shoved the priest aside and backed away.
    Once outside he took a deep breath and began walking, comforted by the normal city traffic. Yellow cabs, young lovers, street vendors, panhandlers, drunks, operagoers, artists, store clerks, bartenders; all flowed around him like healing water, washing away the clammy dread clinging to his skin.
    I must find the girl, Jericho kept repeating like some perverse mantra. But all he had was a picture. He recalled Father Novak’s hushed words. “Then he’s almost here.”
    The priest was right, Jericho didn’t understand what he had