The Shroud Key by Vincent Zandri

the remains of Jesus were close by, nonetheless.”
    Yes, he did believe that. If only he had told me more. But I was his simple sandhog. I wasn’t privy to the secrets. I was there to dig, along with my crew, in the spot where he told me to dig. And that was all.
    “The Vatican and the IAA has been playing hide and seek the with Jesus family remains for centuries,” I deduce. “Hide the bones, block any and all chances for a scientist to perform DNA testing on them. In the end, you maintain the balance of religion in both the Judeo/Christian world, and the Muslim world.”
    “Andre was convinced that the 1978 team working on the shroud were entrusted with marking their precise burial location on the shroud. In that sense, the shroud and the divine body it once protected in death, will have been reunited.”
    “What better place to record the location of the dead divinity than on its burial robe?”
    In my head I’m picturing the shroud covered in maps and symbols indicating former Jesus burial locations. Or perhaps the former locations have been erased, or covered over, or they are simply too obscure or old to be noticed.
    “Clever, huh?” Anya goes on. “And get this: Almost at the exact moment the bones were said to be securely reburied, the scientific examination of the shroud officially came to a close.”
    “Why go to such lengths to suppress the truth?”
    “It’s a matter of faith, Chase. No one wants to steal heaven from a man or woman dying of cancer, or from some little child’s bedtime prayers. Do you?”
    We sit for a bit in a silence filled with the mechanical sounds of the speeding train.
    “I wonder if there’s truth to the Koran? That the man who was truly crucified on Golgitha back in the first century wasn’t Christ at all, but an imposter. A paid double.”
    “Now wouldn’t that make the Vatican crumble?”
    She takes hold of my hand. I feel a kind of sadness in her grip, but a tenderness also. I lean in to her, to kiss her. I would go through with it too if I don’t feel a pistol barrel pressing up against my back.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    “Don’t turn around,” says the man with the gun.
    He’s speaking the King’s English mixed with a foreign accent. But the accent doesn’t quite sound Italian in origin. Of course, I could be wrong about that. The Italian language consists of many dialects.
    I look straight ahead, but since the sun has gone down almost entirely and the electric lighting is illuminating the car, I’m able to get a look at his reflection in the semi-tinted window glass just by glancing over my left shoulder. He’s of medium height and bald. Clean shaven, as far as I can tell. Dressed entirely in dark clothing. A turtleneck and an overcoat. I have no idea what age he is. Or if it matters.
    “Might I ask you your name, my son,” I say.
    “Cut the bullshit, Chase Baker,” he giggles. “I’m well aware of who you truly are. Who the false sister is also.”
    “Nice to meet you, asshole,” Anya says. “Maybe I should stand and start screaming about the man who has a gun pointed at my back.”
    “It’s pointed more at Mr. Baker, actually,” he corrects. “But consider a quick death aimed at you too.”
    “Sixty four thousand dollar question,” I say. “Who are you? What do you want? Who do you work for? Are your motives political or religious or both?”
    “Let’s just say we all want the same thing.”
    “I’m just a humble servant of the Lord,” I say. “You must have me mixed up for someone else.”
    “Those pictures of the Shroud of Turin on your lap tell a different story, my friend.”
    “What is it you want from us?”
    “Consider me your new partner.”
    “I don’t understand. We are people of God.”
    He laughs.
    “You go right ahead with your charade. It will make things easier for what I am about to do.”
    “And what is it you are about to do?” Anya chimes in, speaking under her breath.
    “I am going to accompany you to the