On the Third Day by David Niall Wilson Read Free Book Online

close on him and leave him standing alone within a stone’s throw of the jungle.
    The door closed behind them with a resonant boom.

~ Six ~
                It took a few moments for Father Morrigan’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dimly lit interior.  There was light from an array of stained glass windows high overhead, but the glass was very thick, and the colors were deep and rich.  They blocked most of the brightness of the sun, and the only other illumination was a series of torches that rested in sconces along the walls, flickering eerily and sending shadows out to meet near the center of the large hall where Father Morrigan stood.
                It’s like stepping back in time, he thought.
                He heard shuffling footsteps and squinted.  An aged priest made his way out of the rear of the building, slowly becoming visible as he slipped free of clinging shadows and stepped more fully into the light.
                A hallway stretched back into the shadows, and Father Morrigan was forced to reassess his initial impression of the size of the place.  He wondered how much of it had actually been swallowed by the jungle, and if anything beyond the walls to the rear had been cleared away, or if it was as much a lair, or a cave as it was a sanctuary.  These were the thoughts of only a few seconds, because the old priest had drawn near and held out one gnarled, blue-veined hand in greeting.
                The man was shorter than Father Morrigan, slightly stooped, with gray hair and bright roving eyes that reminded Brian of a bird of prey.  His skin was dark – though not quite as dark as the driver’s had been, and there was the hint of a smile in the depths of his eyes, though closely guarded.
                “Father Gonzalez?” Brian asked, taking the offered hand, at first gently in deference to the man’s age, and then in firm appreciation of the older priest’s strength.  He might be old, but there was strength in his grip, and it did not shake.
                “Father Morrigan,” the old man spoke softly, but the words carried.  “It is . . . an honor to have so much attention from Rome.”
                Father Morrigan searched the man’s face in the dim light, looked for hidden meaning and found nothing.
                “I wish that the circumstances were more personal,” he replied at last.  “As you know from the Cardinal’s letter, I’ve come to see Father Prescott.”
                Father Gonzalez nodded.  His expression was unreadable, and yet there was something to be read.  Father Morrigan felt it in the air that surrounded them.  He believed he still felt the gaze of the dark-haired driver, boring into him from the shadows.  Then there was this place, the undercurrent of something very old, and very powerful.  A well of faith, perhaps?  Something more, or less?
                The older priest gazed at him in silence, and then the silence grew uncomfortable.  Brian had the impression the man was trying to read something from his expression, or the tone of his voice.  It felt like being judged.
                “Father Prescott is out at the field,” Father Gonzalez said at last.  “It is nearly time for the . . . miracle.”
                Again Father Morrigan searched the old man’s features.  He knew why Father Prescott was here, of course.  Everyone in Vatican City knew when Father Prescott was sent out, where, and why.  Even Mother Church was not without her fair share of rumor and speculation.  
                Brian had particular knowledge, another reason, he reflected, why Cardinal O’Brien might have chosen him for this task.  It was Brian who had first received Father Gonzales’ request for assistance.  That letter had described their “miracle” in detail, and the memory of the simple, eloquent, and disturbing words