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The idea was startling; stunning, even Could she possibly be right? Could the Shroud depict a deliberately staged fourteenth-century non — our “zhondo,” as Elisabeth called him — be the bones of the victim?

I looked at the iht Yes, it looked like our zhondo’s face But not our zhondo’s stature I had a tape , but for starters, I lay down on the floor alongside the Shroud, side by side with the e “So, who’s taller?”

“He is He’s got a couple inches on you, maybe more How tall are you?”

“Five-ten”

“So he’s a six-footer,” she said “That’s pretty dauys back then were, like, five feet, five five, right?”

She was right During the twentieth century, the average stature of adult males had increased by six inches or h not in Third World countries — as a result of better diet and health care “Yeah, little bitty guys,” I agreed “I’ve seen suits of arrandson couldn’t fit into” My heart sank as I realized the implications “Damn It’s not our zhondo, is it, Miranda? Can’t be”

“’Fraid not,” she said “This guy’s half a head taller than our guy Sorry, Dr B; I know the facial reconstruction got you all excited about connecting the dots”

“Oh well,” I said breezily “It was an interesting possibility But so’s your snuff-Shroud theory Wouldn’t that be ironic, if somebody was killed to ot a ht?” I nodded at the Shroud “And now ot two ht?”

She didn’t findthan I did

Slipping my shoes back on, I rolled up the Shroud and tucked it underfor ht where the foot of the Shroud had been oose chase” I stepped through the doorway

“Dr B?” I stopped and leaned h to see her seese Good night, Dr B Sleep well”

I had a dream, and in my dream, i went back to the chapel in Turin Cathedral; went back to make one final attempt to see the Shroud

As I walked down the center aisle, I saw a h priest — a bishop or cardinal, perhaps even a pope — behind the chapel’s glass wall The black curtain hiding the Shroud had been opened, and I hurried forward, eager to see the relic at last But above the altar, behind the curtain, was nothing but a blank wall

Astonished, I stared at the priest Beside him, in the shadows, stood anothera snized as the Shroud, folded like a bedsheet Theto the priest; it was a thick bundle of money, I realized The priest bowed, and the h a dark doorway in the back of the chapel Then the priest turned and saw olden cord hanging fro He pulled the cord, and a heavy black drape slid shut, hiding not only the blank wall and the empty altar, but the entire chapel from my view

CHAPTER 13

I awoke at daybreak, disturbed by the dreaain I was confronted by thecurtain that shrouded the Shroud Was it possible that my dream was actually true — that the wall behind the black drape was indeed blank? Could the Shroud be elsewhere — locked in an underground Vatican vault for safekeeping? Rented out to so the long intervals between public exhibitions?

Leaning forward, I studied the glass wall that separated lass was hard to gauge, but I assumed it was at least an inch thick, maybe more — possibly bulletproof; at any rate, surely Brockton-proof There ht A way in, so the pope can open thelady can dust it once alady? Jimmy the door with a credit card or a paper clip? Suddenly I laughed — was I really fantasizing about breaking into a heavily protected chapel in order to scrutinize as probably a fake relic? I took one last wistful look, then headed out in search of a café

The café’s barista was a pretty brunette with ilish vocabulary After several fruitless, aard attempts to request hot tea, I stauessed to be Italian for “coffee with crearatulated myself on my suave Italian

I uncongratulated myself two minutes later, when she handedwhat looked — and tasted—like soft-serve mocha ice cream It was 8 AM, far too early for ice cream The barista lookedher head to punctuate the question in her eyes I took another taste, and she beaed and snifico!”

Suddenly a dusty file drawer in raduate students used to say that a lot — and her naue and fro!” Years before, E to do with the Shroud of Turin, though I couldn’t quite dredge up the details from that file drawer in ist for the Commonwealth of Kentucky, and we kept in touch across the mountains between Knoxville and Frankfort Did I have Emily’s number in my phone? I did! I hit “send” to place the call

She answered on the sixth ring, just as I’d expected the call to roll to voice mail “Hello?”

“Emily? Hi, it’s Bill Brockton”

“Who?”