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 that 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 Golgitha 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 US. 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 archaeology professor who’s gone missing in the pursuit of Jesus.
It just might also be my ticket back home.
My ticket back to Ava.
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