“I never question Your will, but I fear that my capabilities involving the task You have placed in my unworthy hands may not be sufficient. I firmly believe that whatever remains might be found in the ossuary are not those of Your Virgin Mother. It is my humble wish that there will be no possibility anyone will believe whatever relics are found are those of a woman. Only then may I feel capable of dealing with this problem. I also pray that my friend Shawn Daughtry will disavow any and all association he might have originally felt between the ossuary and Your Blessed Mother.” Crossing himself, he rose, saying a fervent “May Your will be done. Amen.”

James’s torment had made sleep difficult, and his eyes had popped open that morning before five. Rousing himself from the warmth of his narrow metal bed, he’d prayed a similar prayer to the prayer he’d just voiced in the chapel, using another more simple prie-dieu in his ascetic, cold bedroom.

From then on, the morning had been similar to other Saturday mornings. He’d read his breviary, celebrated Mass with his staff, and breakfasted with his two secretaries. There had been a short ten-minute interruption when Shawn and Sana arrived to pick up the ossuary. James had watched with mild distress as Shawn and Father Maloney carried the box up from the basement and placed it in the trunk of a dirty yellow cab. When the trunk had been slammed shut, James had winced. Even though he trusted the relic did not contain the bones of the Virgin, the rough treatment seemed sacrilegious.

After the Daughtrys had left, James had returned to his private quarters to change into his full regalia as the day was to include an official visit at the Church of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary. At that point, fully dressed, he had gone into the tiny chapel.

With some effort, James got to his feet. Then, dipping his fingers into the holy water, he made the sign of the cross before descending to his office on the floor below. Checking his e-mail was part of his morning routine. Just as his computer monitor awoke, his phone rang, drawing his eyes to the caller ID screen. When he saw it was Jack Stapleton, he snatched up the receiver. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite fast enough. He got a dial tone instead of Jack’s voice, meaning Father Maloney or Father Karlin had beaten him to the punch. Impatiently, he drummed his fingertips on his blotter. The intercom buzzed a moment later.

“It’s a Dr. Jack Stapleton,” Father Karlin said. “Are you available?”

“Yes, thank you,” James said. But he didn’t answer immediately, knowing that Jack’s call meant the ossuary was now open. Reciting another quick prayer, James eyed the small blinking light. He suddenly felt less confident, as if he somehow knew the Good Lord meant for his torment to continue.