Chapter 1
1
FOR ALL THE HYPERVIGILANCE of New Yorkers at the slightest possibility of terrorism, they embrace anything that could be construed as modern art. That's why no one reported the man constructing a strong wooden cross on the High Line that afternoon, next to a section that overlooked the Hudson River to the west.
He was young and good looking with an easy smile, his Mediterranean skin burnished by the late sun. He caught the attention of female joggers as they ran past, noting his strong, muscular arms as he sawed the wooden planks. There was a handwritten sign on a cardboard rectangle propped up near his workbench: Performance art in progress. That was all the passers-by needed to know, answering any questions that came to mind about his actions.
Later that day, as workers began to stream out of the local offices on the commute home, an older man stopped for a moment. He looked down at the rough wood as the man fixed the cross piece, banging in long nails to hold the planks together.
"You've got that wrong, you know," the man said. "All evidence suggests that the cross Christ died upon would have been more like a T-shape."
The carpenter paused a moment.
"The emphasis of this particular piece is more about emotional resonance than historical truth." He had a slight French accent, but in this city of diversity, that was not markedly unusual. The older man nodded slowly, rubbing his fingers across his beard before he moved on, just another walker enjoying the evening sun.
The High Line was a disused railway track, raised above the streets of Lower West Side Manhattan and transformed into a boulevard of wild grasses, flowerbeds and wooden seating where bees buzzed and birds sang in the heart of the city. The views out across the city landscape and the wide river made it a tourist draw as well as a haunt for local runners and walkers, desperate for a moment of peace above the throng. There were places on the High Line where nature had reclaimed a little corner of the metropolis, and those who craved escape came here to temporarily relieve the itch of the city.
Buskers played along these sections, the sound of a jazz saxophone easing the evening into night, and still the carpenter worked on, building a base to hold the cross steady when he raised it into the sky. When that was done, he fixed pieces of rubber tire onto the cross at jaunty angles, the black material lending an urban grittiness to the simple wooden frame, a dark foil for the sunset.
As the night grew darker and the bars began to fill up below the High Line, street food vendors set up stalls to cater to those who wanted dinner with their nature walk. Far more convenient than the wilderness any day and just a stroll from Midtown.
The carpenter bought a taco and watched people as they passed. His sign on the ground had gathered a few dollars over the day, perhaps a manifestation of guilt from the city elite for the artlessness of their own lives, briefly assuaged by paying another to be creative on their behalf – like doubting believers paying tithes on a Sunday. Several people had taken photos as he worked, and later those pictures would find their way into the papers. But the carpenter had no fear of discovery, for soon he would be heading back to the monastery – beyond the reach of the tentacles of this sinful city. He understood the necessity of what was to come, but he longed for peace and solitude.
He looked at his watch. Only one more part of the structure remained to be built, a simple pulley mechanism that would help lift its weight so the cross could be drawn upright and seen from the city streets below. The carpenter turned back to his work, clearing his mind of the sounds of the sinners around him. When the relic was recovered, they would be screaming soon enough.
After the final nail was hammered in, the carpenter sat in the dark, waiting, his breathing a calm meditation. As the clock neared two a.m., this area of the city was quieter. Most of the bars were closed but, of course, New York is the city that never sleeps. An audience could be guaranteed for their spectacle at any time.
He heard a car pull up on the street below, the bang of a door and the sound of several pairs of footsteps followed by a dragging sound and the shuffling of feet. The carpenter remained still, every sense heightened.
Then a whistle came from the dark in the agreed pattern. He relaxed. The time had come, and now they would need to move fast.
The carpenter pulled a large holdall from beneath the bench he sat on. Unzipping it, he lifted out several cans of gasoline and began to douse the base of the cross. He poured the liquid up around the cross piece, making sure the fragments of tire were coated. The stink of the accelerant made him cough, and he tried to stifle the noise.
Two men ascended from the nearest staircase, half dragging a figure between them wrapped in a voluminous cloak. All three had their heads covered.
As they came closer, the men pulled back their cowls. The carpenter looked away from the taller figure, his once handsome face disfigured by rubbled and lumpy skin, dark in places where the pigment had changed. There were rumors of an assassination attempt, a power play gone wrong. Many had tried to kill this man, and all had failed. He wasn't a Confessor, but the carpenter had heard of his relationship with the upper echelons, and knew his orders must be obeyed. The other man was the Monseigneur, the most senior Confessor in New York, with closely cropped white hair and wrinkled skin, but eyes that were as hard as the stone he knelt to pray on. The carpenter crossed himself, bowing towards his superior.
The two men dragged the captive forward. The figure tripped and fell sideways, staggering a little. The cowl slid off and the carpenter stifled a gasp. He hadn't expected a woman, even as he knew the servants of evil came in all forms. The woman's head drooped on her chest, her long grey hair loose about her face. She had been badly beaten, and blood stained the clothes he could see beneath the folds of the cloak. Her face was swollen and mashed, and a stained gag was wrapped around her mouth. She opened her eyes as the stink of gasoline roused her, and the carpenter was hypnotized by the piercing blue. He crossed himself again as the two men dragged the woman to the cross.
"I hope you've prepared well," the Monseigneur grunted. "She would only speak of the ivory artifact. The location of the corpus is still unknown, but it's a step in the quest. For now, she will be a sign to those who know how to look."
He pushed the woman down. She tried to crawl a little way and the Monseigneur grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back to the cross, forcing her to lie upon it.
They used rope to tie her wrists to the cross piece and her feet to the shaft. The carpenter doused a long strip of linen with more gasoline and then wound it around her waist and torso, further binding her to the wood. She didn't make a sound as they worked, and the carpenter avoided her gaze, crossing himself repeatedly. This was for the glory of God, wasn't it? He had been told that this action would help the Confessors with the mission to this city, for if something wasn't done, the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah would take down this island of iniquity.
But he hadn't expected that the sign to the world would be this old woman.
A siren came from the road below. The men froze in their work, waiting for it to pass before they continued. When the woman was finally well attached, they hoisted the cross up so she hung there, silhouetted against the backdrop of the city lights.
"God spoke to Moses through a pillar of fire," the Monseigneur said. "Tonight he will speak through this sacrifice."
The scarred man held up a smart phone and activated a camera, focusing it on the crucifix. The carpenter pulled a lighter from his bag along with several tapers.
The men each took one and the Monseigneur began to pray aloud in Latin, his voice unwavering. They lit the ends, their faces illuminated by the flaring light. The woman finally seemed to realize what was happening and she began to thrash on the cross, the bonds loosening a little at her wrists as she moaned against the gag.
The Monseigneur leaned forward with his taper, touching the flame to the accelerant on the base of the cross, and the scarred man stretched up to apply his to the end of the cloth wrapped around the woman's torso. His smile spoke of dark desires and the carpenter crossed himself again as he touched his own taper to the base of the cross. He averted his eyes from the woman, who twisted as the flames caught the folds of her gown and billowed around her thin legs. The smell of cooking flesh weaved through the air, mingling with the gasoline. The first of the tires caught and black smoke billowed into the sky.
"Beautiful," the scarred man said with a sigh, zooming his camera in on the woman's tortured face. The whoop of sirens cut through the crackling of flames. "It's a shame we can't stay until the end."
The three men walked away from the burning cross, but the carpenter turned back as they reached the stairs. For a moment, he thought he could hear the beat of huge wings fanning the flames into brightness, but there was nothing behind the sacrifice.
The woman writhed in her bonds, her hair on fire, scarlet orange against the black smoke – like the spirit of the elements alighting upon her. She was a human torch with the pitch of Hell and the flames of Satan. The carpenter could hear her screams behind the gag and he hoped that she would succumb to the smoke before the fire consumed her flesh.
He crossed himself one last time and followed the others down to the streets below.
