The Expected One by Kathleen McGowan Page A

composure and wailed, a singular sound of unredeemable human despair.
    The woman reached the foot of the cross just as the rain began. She looked up at Him, and drops of His blood splashed down on her distraught face, blending with the relentless rain.

    Lost in the vision, Maureen had no sense of where she was. Her wail, a perfect echo of Mary Magdalene’s despair, rang through the cathedral of Notre-Dame, frightening the tourists and sending Peter toward her at a full run.

    “Where are we?”
    Maureen awoke on a couch in a wood-paneled room. Peter’s grave face hovered over her as he answered. “In one of the offices of the cathedral.” He nodded to the French priest they had encountered earlier, who entered from a concealed door at the back of the room, looking concerned.
    “Father Marcel helped me to bring you in here. You weren’t going anywhere of your own volition.”
    Father Marcel came forward and handed her a glass of water. She drank gratefully. “Merci,” she said to the cleric, who nodded silently and retreated to the rear of the room to wait discreetly in case further assistance was required. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely to Peter.
    “Don’t be. This is obviously out of your control. Do you want to tell me what you saw?”
    Maureen recounted the vision. Peter’s face grew whiter with each word. When she finished, he looked at her very seriously.
    “Maureen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re having divine visions.”
    “Think maybe I should talk to a priest?” she quipped.
    “I’m serious. This is out of my sphere of experience, but I can find you someone who knows about these things. Just to talk, that’s all. It might help.”
    “No way.” Maureen was adamant as she sat up on the couch. “Just get me back to the hotel so I can get some rest. Once I’ve had some sleep, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

    Maureen was able to shake off the vision and walk on her own out of the cathedral quarters. She was relieved that she was able to use a side exit and wasn’t required to traverse the interior of that great icon to Christianity once again.
    Once Peter saw that she was safely settled in her room, he returned to his. He sat for a moment, contemplating the telephone. It was too early to call the States. He would go out for a while and come back when the hour was a little more decent.

    Farther down the Seine, Father Marcel walked back through the candlelit interior of the world’s most famous Gothic cathedral. He was followed by the Irish cleric Bishop O’Connor, who was attempting to ask questions in very bad French.
    Father Marcel took him to the pew where Maureen had had her vision and gave his explanation slowly, attempting to bridge the language barrier. Though it was a sincere effort to communicate with the Irishman, the French priest sounded as if he were speaking to an idiot. O’Connor dismissed him with an impatient wave, settled into the pew, and looked up at the crucifix over the altar, deep in concentration.
    Paris

June 19, 2005
    T HE C AVE OF THE M USKETEERS was less ominous by day, lit as it was by an unforgiving fluorescent bulb. The occupants were dressed in their street clothes and without the strange red cords that identified them as the Guild of the Righteous tied around their necks.
    A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of John the Baptist hung on the rear wall, a mere block away from where the priceless original resided in the Louvre. In this renowned painting, John looks out from the canvas with a knowing smile on his face. His hand is raised, right index finger and thumb pointing toward heaven. Leonardo painted John in this pose, often referred to as the “Remember John” gesture, on several occasions. The meaning of that hand position had been debated for centuries.
    The Englishman sat at the head of the table as usual, his back to the painting. An American and a Frenchman sat on either side of him.
    “I just don’t understand