The Book of Q

For the briefest of moments, Pearse thought that perhaps he’d let himself forget the fundamental rule with the Manichaeans. Hidden knowledge. Had he missed something in the verses, something even more profound than the Resurrection segments? Was there a final word game that he had somehow overlooked? He quickly remembered that there couldn’t be. Q had been written by Menippus, a first-century Greek Cynic, two hundred years before Mani’s birth. Even the Manichaeans didn’t reach that far back.

“There are breaks in the text,” said Pearse. “I can tell you what’s no longer there.”

Blaney was starting to roll back the parchment. He stopped and looked over at Pearse. “What?”

“The missing text. The stuff to threaten the church. It isn’t there anymore.”

Blaney started to answer, then stopped. He went back to the scroll. “You wouldn’t have done that. I know you, Ian.” Blaney had reached the first gap in the text.

“That doesn’t look like natural decay, does it, John?”

Blaney sca

“Don’t worry,” added Pearse. “Angeli tells me she’ll have it looking authentic enough by the time Peretti presents it to the Biblical Commission.”

Blaney rolled deeper into the scroll. He found another gap. Again, he stared down at it. Almost in a whisper, he said. “Why?” His face was etched with confusion. “Why would you do this?” He slowly turned to Pearse. “You always believed in the sanctity of the Word. I taught you to believe in the sanctity of the Word. How could you have done this?”

Pearse continued to gaze out. “If you had time to read the entire scroll, you’d see it’s not a threat at all. In fact, it’s-what did Dante call it? — a rebirth. It’s all in there. Except it’s the Catholic church that will be using it now. Peretti wanted me to pass on his thanks.”

Blaney stared at Pearse a moment longer, then looked back at the scroll. His fingers began to trace over the gaps. It was as if he were caressing a wound. “It’s the Word of Christ. Who are you to say what can be taken out? I chose you because of your faith in the Word. In the Word.”

“It’s the denial of the bodily Resurrection,” Pearse said offhandedly. “That’s what’s missing.” He turned to Blaney. “Dangerous stuff.” He watched as Blaney stared at the scroll, only a slight shaking of his head. The rest of him seemed frozen. “It looks like you have a choice, John. You can either let Peretti get his hands on the scroll and use it to inject new life into the church. Or, you can destroy it, and hope that the church eventually runs itself into the ground. The problem is, if you do destroy it now, you won’t have the ‘Hodoporia’ to guide you at that point. You won’t have the one piece of scripture that every good Manichaean looks to as his ultimate guide.” He waited. “I guess that’s not really much of a choice, is it?”

Blaney began to roll the scroll again, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for something to tell him Pearse was wrong.

“You won’t find anything,” said Pearse. “We made sure of that. Trust me.”

Blaney’s arm began to shake, his grip on the scroll weakening. His head suddenly spasmed, a jolt that forced Pearse to reach over and take the scroll from him.

“John?” Blaney’s entire body began to shake. “John-”

He started to gag violently. Pearse had wanted a reaction, needed it, but not this.

At once, Salko was moving toward them. Pearse dropped the scroll and reached out for Blaney. Instantly, six men appeared from the trees some twenty yards off, one of them the titan Pearse remembered from his escape from the Vatican, all of them descending on the bench, guns drawn. The first shot rang out.

But not from the men racing at him.

Utterly confused, Pearse spun around. It was then that he saw Peretti’s men emerging from another group of trees, guns firing, the clipped sounds of volley and return. Pearse dropped to the gravel, pulling Blaney down with him. The old priest had stopped shaking. In fact, he had stopped moving entirely. Pearse lifted the head and looked into his eyes. Blaney was gone.

Only then did he hear Petra’s scream.

“Ivo! No!”

Pearse spun around. She was forcing herself up from the bench, trying to pull Ivo back. But he was too well trained, too intent, the sound of the shots telling him to find an open space, lie facedown. Pearse watched as his little arms pumped in the air.

Everything seemed to slow, Pearse dropping Blaney to the ground, grabbing at the gravel to force himself up, Ivo too far from him, endless shots ringing out. All around him, men were falling, and still Ivo ran. From the corner of his eye, Pearse saw the last of von Neurath’s men nearing, firing wildly, the gun aimed directly at the boy. Pearse leapt out, a sudden tearing pain in his own leg forcing him to the ground. For an instant, he couldn’t see a thing. Only the gravel, images of Ivo, his son, once again unable to protect him, the chance to lose him now. Again.

A final shot. Ivo screamed.

Pearse looked up.

There, lying in front of the boy, was Mendravic, his chest covered in blood. Ivo was crying wildly as he pulled at Mendravic’s arm.

“Get up, Salko! Get up!”

Unscathed. Perfect. Pearse breathed again as he saw his little man standing over Mendravic’s shattered body.

Even so, the Croat was doing all he could to calm the boy. Pearse pulled himself to his feet and hobbled over. Petra already held Ivo close to her chest as he continued to scream. Now at her side, Pearse took them both in his arms for several moments before turning and dropping to Mendravic’s side.

The sound of Ivo’s cries seemed to vanish as Pearse took Mendravic’s head in his hands. Barely focusing, Mendravic looked up at him.

His breathing was erratic as he spoke: “I taught him how to run out like that.” He coughed several times. “‘Out in the open, Ivi. Out in the open.’” His neck arched for a moment. “He’s all right, yes?”

Pearse nodded. “Yes.”

“Good … that’s good.” He tried to swallow. “I never meant to …” He squeezed Pearse’s arm, the grip powerful. “You have to know that, Ian.”

Pearse nodded, tears begi

Mendravic tried to nod, but his back suddenly constricted. He stared up at Pearse, an instant of clarity in the eyes. His grip then released. And he became still.

Pearse held him there, gently pressing Mendravic’s head to his own, unwilling, for the moment, to let go. His body began to shake, tears flowing for the man he had known. The man he would always know.

Slowly, he laid Mendravic’s head on the gravel. He brushed away his own tears, shut the Croat’s eyes, and made the sign of the cross. Then, as best he could, he made his way back to Petra and Ivo.

Four men lay dead, the rest in the hands of Peretti’s men. The scroll was where it had fallen, Blaney’s arm cast awkwardly over it.

None of it mattered, though. Not as he reached Petra and Ivo and wrapped his arms around them. Again he cried. They pressed into him, all three quietly cocooned within themselves.

Two hours later, Pearse was still holding Petra’s hand, Ivo on her lap, the three of them seated across from Peretti in his library. The stars outside the oriel windows were holding Ivo’s gaze, the first time since the Pincio that he’d stopped shaking. Angeli sat as well, the scroll in its box at her feet.

The doctor had left twenty minutes ago, Pearse’s flesh wound handled easily, more attention for Petra’s side. She was doing fine. A little less activity would be good. She had refused the sedative for Ivo.

“And I can’t convince you otherwise?” said Peretti.

“I don’t think so, Eminence,” Pearse answered.

“It’s an extraordinary opportunity, Ian,” said Angeli, no small degree of hope in her voice. “And I could use the help.”