He fell facedown onto the cold damp rock.
Before he could regain his footing, hands he couldn’t see grabbed his arms and hauled him upward. A heavy blow shattered his cheekbone, then another punch in the pit of his stomach doubled him over. He gasped, trying and failing to suck air into his lungs. Whoever was holding him let go of his arms, and he crashed facedown on the cavern floor in an explosion of pain.
That pain, however, was nothing compared to what was to come.
SISTER ANSELM BECKER WAS STILL sleeping peacefully in her solitary cot at St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome, Arizona, when the jangling ringing of her cell phone awakened her. It was a distinctive ringtone, one that belonged to her benefactor, Bishop Francis Gillespie, calling from his residence at the archdiocese in Phoenix.
Glancing at her bedside clock, Sister Anselm read 4:45 a.m.—well before her normal waking time for morning prayers. A nighttime call like this could only mean one thing. Somewhere in Arizona a badly injured patient was in desperate need of a patient advocate. That was Bishop Gillespie’s self-appointed mission—to care for badly injured patients, often solo travelers or undocumented immigrants—who found themselves suddenly thrust into the world of hospital care and unable to cope. Sister Anselm, an eightysomething Sister of Providence, was the bishop’s main tool in that regard. Not only was she a skilled nurse, she was conversant in any number of languages and was able to translate health-care jargon into something understandable.
“Good morning, Father,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Two hours ago, a pair of elk hunters camped out in the Prescott National Forest came upon a badly injured, naked man lying in the roadway. There was an arrow in his back. I’m told he’d also been tortured and is suffering from severe hypothermia. The hunters were out in the middle of nowhere. They wrapped the guy up as best they could and drove him to St. Jerome’s Hospital in Flagstaff. I’m told he’s in serious condition.”
“Why did they call you?” she asked.
“They believe the victim may be a priest. The only thing he had in his possession was a bloodied crucifix. So far he hasn’t regained consciousness, and he’s likely to go into surgery soon. I’d like you to be there as soon as you can.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
It took more than an hour for Sister Anselm to arrive at St. Jerome’s Hospital in Flagstaff. Once there, she paused outside the ER to read through what little information there was on John Doe’s chart. He had indeed been struck in the back by an arrow. After stabilizing the patient, ER personnel had used ultrasound imagery to thread the arrow through the chest cavity and out through his rib cage without damaging any additional internal organs. His next stop would be an operating room where surgeons would address other pressing internal injuries.
Squaring her shoulders, she entered the ER and approached the proper cubicle only to find that another visitor—a distinguished-looking and fit young man—had preceded her.
“Who are you?” he demanded, barring her way. “And what business do you have with Martin Price?”
“That’s his name?” she asked, making a notation on the iPad. She carried it with her. “Martin Price?”
The man nodded.
“I’m Sister Anselm Becker, a Sister of Providence,” she said. “I’ve been asked to serve as Mr. Price’s patient advocate. Who might you be, and how do you know this man? Are you a relative?”
“My name is Bravo Shaw,” he said. “I’m the director of the order of Gnostic Observatines. Martin Price is a member of our order.”
A pair of nurses hurried past Sister Anselm and Bravo Shaw and disappeared into the cubicle. They appeared moments later, wheeling Price and his IV tree out of the ER and toward the operating wing. While Shaw watched Price, Sister Anselm studied him. He didn’t look like any priest she’d ever seen, and if he and the patient were members of an order, why would Shaw refer to himself and the patient by their given names?
“Father Shaw, I’ve been a Sister of Providence for more than sixty years,” she said. “I’ve never heard of an order called the Gnostic Observatines inside or outside the church.”
“Bravo, please, rather than Father,” he said, smiling at her in a way she didn’t much care for. “We’re Franciscans, adhering to St. Francis’s original dicta. The order was cast out by Pope Clement VIII because we refused to go against St. Francis’s edict and remain Conventuals. Over the years, my predecessors developed an interest in religious relics and have conducted explorations outside the strict boundaries of the church.”
Father Shaw had a way of speaking that she found both intimidating as well as annoying. She also didn’t like the fact that he obviously knew far more than he was willing to share.
“I suppose you called the Vatican for support,” she said dryly.
A slow smile spread across Bravo’s face, a smile she found unsettling, even a bit wicked, and a little shiver traveled down her spine.
“The Vatican and the Gnostic Observatines are not in contact,” he said. “As I indicated, we haven’t been since the era of Clement VIII. When it comes to church doctrine, and methods, we don’t see eye to eye.”
“And just what is the Observatines’ mission, Father?”
Bravo gave a small laugh. “I see I have come up against an immovable object.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “And are you declaring yourself an unstoppable force?”
“I suppose,” he said, “you’ll have to judge for yourself.”
Sister Anselm allowed herself the ghost of a smile, the smallest treat. “Your mission, Father.”
“In a nutshell, Sister, we’re humanists. We are locked in an eternal battle against evil for the souls of mankind.”
“As is the church.”
“Method, Sister. I told you our methods differ.”
Having been put in a thoughtful mode, she made another note.
“Returning to facts,” she said, looking up from her iPad. “Father Price’s date of birth? Next of kin? Place of residence?”
Bravo continued to be amused by her use of the word Father but had said all he was going to on the subject. “All that information is confidential, I’m afraid. Because of the nature of what we do and the dangers involved to ourselves and potentially to our loved ones, that information is never divulged.”
“Then tell me what Father Price and his team were doing up in the mountains.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, either.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked, irritated. “I’m quite sure they were looking for something, and if you are who you say you are, the odds are you sent them to find it.”
Bravo remained silent.
“Very well then,” she said, slipping her iPad into the generous pocket of her jacket. “In that case, we’re even.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of HIPAA?”