Read Online The Expected One by Kathleen McGowan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen McGowan
Tags: Religión, Fiction, General, thriller, Historical, Contemporary, Thrillers, Mystery, Adult, Religious
Ads: Link
was
Her.
She was here, in Maureen’s room.
Maureen swallowed. Her mouth was dry with shock and more than a little fear. She knew the figure in the doorway was not of the physical world, but she wasn’t sure if that was exactly comforting. She summoned all of her courage and managed to whisper to the shape in the doorway.
“What…tell me how I can help you. Please.”
There was a light rustle in reply, the swishing of a veil or the blowing of springtime leaves, and then nothing. The apparition vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Maureen jumped out of bed and switched on the light — 4:10 A.M. , according to the digital clock. It was three hours earlier in Los Angeles.
Forgive me, Father,
she thought as she grabbed the phone from her nightstand and dialed as fast as her shaking fingers would allow. She needed her best friend — and maybe, just maybe, she needed a priest.
Peter’s insistent voice, with its comforting Irish lilt, brought Maureen back to earth.
“It is incredibly important that you keep track of these…well,…visions. I hope you are writing them down?”
“Visions? Please don’t go all Vatican on me, Pete.” Maureen groaned loudly. “I would die before becoming some weird cause célèbre for the Roman inquisition.”
“Pah, Maureen, I would never do such a thing to you. But what if these
are
visions? You can’t discount the potential importance of what you have been shown.”
“First of all, there have just been two so-called visions. The rest have been dreams. Very vivid and intense dreams, but dreams nonetheless. Maybe it’s the genetic madness setting in. Runs in the family, you know.” Maureen exhaled hard. “Damn, this is scaring me. You’re supposed to be helping me to calm down, remember?”
“Sorry. You’re right, and I do want to help you. But promise me you’ll write down the dates and the times of your vis — er, dreams. Just for our purposes. You’re a historian and a journalist. You of all people know that documenting your data is critical.”
Maureen allowed herself a little laugh at this. “Oh, yes, and this is certainly historical data.” She sighed across the telephone line. “Okay, I’ll do that. Maybe it will help me to make sense of it all someday. I just feel like there’s so much happening below the surface, and it’s all so completely out of my control.”
…I must write more now of Nathaneal, who we called Bartolome, for I have been so moved by his devotion. Bartolome was little more than a youth when he first joined us in Galilee. And while he had been expelled from the house of his noble father, Tolma of Canae, it was clear upon meeting him that there was nothing of the incorrigible within him — surely, a cruel and unwise patriarch had misjudged the beauty and promise of such a precious and special soul, a beautiful son. Easa saw this as well, and as immediately.
Bartolome could be understood with a glance into his eyes. Outside of Easa and my daughter, I have never seen such purity and goodness through the eyes. His cleanliness was revealed within them — a soul that is pure and pristine. On the day he arrived in my house at Magdala, my tiny son climbed into his lap and stayed there for the remainder of the evening. Children are the greatest judges, and Easa and I smiled at each other across the table as we watched little John with his newest friend. John confirmed for us what we both knew upon looking at Bartolome — he was part of our family, and would be for eternity.
T HE A RQUES G OSPEL OF M ARY M AGDALENE,
T HE B OOK OF D ISCIPLES
Chapter Five
Los Angeles
April 2005
M aureen was exhausted as she drove up to the valet parking area outside her upscale condominium building on Wilshire Boulevard. She allowed Andre, the attendant on duty, to park the car for her and asked him to bring up her bag. The delayed flight out of Dulles, combined with her inability to sleep the night before, had left her nerves in a delicate
Her.
She was here, in Maureen’s room.
Maureen swallowed. Her mouth was dry with shock and more than a little fear. She knew the figure in the doorway was not of the physical world, but she wasn’t sure if that was exactly comforting. She summoned all of her courage and managed to whisper to the shape in the doorway.
“What…tell me how I can help you. Please.”
There was a light rustle in reply, the swishing of a veil or the blowing of springtime leaves, and then nothing. The apparition vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Maureen jumped out of bed and switched on the light — 4:10 A.M. , according to the digital clock. It was three hours earlier in Los Angeles.
Forgive me, Father,
she thought as she grabbed the phone from her nightstand and dialed as fast as her shaking fingers would allow. She needed her best friend — and maybe, just maybe, she needed a priest.
Peter’s insistent voice, with its comforting Irish lilt, brought Maureen back to earth.
“It is incredibly important that you keep track of these…well,…visions. I hope you are writing them down?”
“Visions? Please don’t go all Vatican on me, Pete.” Maureen groaned loudly. “I would die before becoming some weird cause célèbre for the Roman inquisition.”
“Pah, Maureen, I would never do such a thing to you. But what if these
are
visions? You can’t discount the potential importance of what you have been shown.”
“First of all, there have just been two so-called visions. The rest have been dreams. Very vivid and intense dreams, but dreams nonetheless. Maybe it’s the genetic madness setting in. Runs in the family, you know.” Maureen exhaled hard. “Damn, this is scaring me. You’re supposed to be helping me to calm down, remember?”
“Sorry. You’re right, and I do want to help you. But promise me you’ll write down the dates and the times of your vis — er, dreams. Just for our purposes. You’re a historian and a journalist. You of all people know that documenting your data is critical.”
Maureen allowed herself a little laugh at this. “Oh, yes, and this is certainly historical data.” She sighed across the telephone line. “Okay, I’ll do that. Maybe it will help me to make sense of it all someday. I just feel like there’s so much happening below the surface, and it’s all so completely out of my control.”
…I must write more now of Nathaneal, who we called Bartolome, for I have been so moved by his devotion. Bartolome was little more than a youth when he first joined us in Galilee. And while he had been expelled from the house of his noble father, Tolma of Canae, it was clear upon meeting him that there was nothing of the incorrigible within him — surely, a cruel and unwise patriarch had misjudged the beauty and promise of such a precious and special soul, a beautiful son. Easa saw this as well, and as immediately.
Bartolome could be understood with a glance into his eyes. Outside of Easa and my daughter, I have never seen such purity and goodness through the eyes. His cleanliness was revealed within them — a soul that is pure and pristine. On the day he arrived in my house at Magdala, my tiny son climbed into his lap and stayed there for the remainder of the evening. Children are the greatest judges, and Easa and I smiled at each other across the table as we watched little John with his newest friend. John confirmed for us what we both knew upon looking at Bartolome — he was part of our family, and would be for eternity.
T HE A RQUES G OSPEL OF M ARY M AGDALENE,
T HE B OOK OF D ISCIPLES
Chapter Five
Los Angeles
April 2005
M aureen was exhausted as she drove up to the valet parking area outside her upscale condominium building on Wilshire Boulevard. She allowed Andre, the attendant on duty, to park the car for her and asked him to bring up her bag. The delayed flight out of Dulles, combined with her inability to sleep the night before, had left her nerves in a delicate
Similar Books
