The Hand of Christ (19 page)

Slowly, he opened the bathroom door and looked for signs of life. The hallway was empty. Making his way deeper into the headquarters, he quickly came across an office door. Knocking lightly, he waited for an answer.

None came.

Trying the handle, he found that the door was locked. It was an annoying but easy situation to remedy.

Looking around, Michael quickly found what he would need. An errant paper clip was lying on the floor. He picked it up from the floor and straightened it. Shoving it into the keyhole, it took less than five seconds for Michael to manipulate the tumblers so that he could turn the unlocked handle of the door.

Once inside of the office, he quickly grabbed the handset of the phone and punched in all but the last digit of a seldom-called phone number. Pausing a moment before depressing the final number, he sighed and then pushed the key before he could change his mind. After three rings a man picked up.

“
Hello?” the man answered.

“
Hi, Dad, it’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

“
Michael? Is that you? I am good. Good. Fine. Is everything okay? Are you okay, what’s wrong?” His father was stuttering a bit, no doubt surprised at the call.

“
Why would you think something’s wrong?” Michael knew the answer, but asked the unnecessary question anyway. It had been nearly a year since he last spoke with his father and only a handful of times over the past five years. He was still stubbornly angry with him from their last encounter.

“
Son, you haven’t uttered a single word to me in god knows how long. I call, you don’t answer. I write and you never respond. My emails to you get bounced back to me as undeliverable, like I am some sort of dalit: a filthy untouchable. Now, all of the sudden, out of the blue, you call. The first thing that goes through any father’s mind is the worst. What is it son, what’s going on, are you okay?”

Michael’s father was always intuitive, he would give him that much. It was that precise intuition that led to their falling out in the first place.

“
Dad, listen, I know this is a bit sudden, but I need some help and you are the only one that I can think of that has the expertise in this matter.”

“
Son, if this has anything to do with what you do for a living, with your choice of profession, you will have to count me out. You run off to the military and then spend all those years finishing your education and getting your doctorate; you would have made a fantastic educator. I love you and I really beg of you to understand my perspective; I want you and me to go back to the way it was. But I cannot in good faith...”

“
Cannot what, Dad? Cannot support your son’s decisions without conditions? You’re the teacher, not me, Dad!” Michael could feel his anger rising and knew he had to bring it under control. This wasn’t the time to reopen old wounds.

He needed his father’s help.

“
Michael it is not about that,” his father missed him, he missed how close they once were and his voice ached with that pain. “I just miss you, son.”

Michael was conceding to his father, he had no choice but to concede. “Dad, we can talk about that another time. Soon, I promise. But, first, I really need your expertise on something. I have come across a symbol that is connected with the name Yeshua. It is a red hand print, do you know of it?”

All that Michael heard was silence.

Michael’s father was never this quiet. This was a man whose mouth never seemed to stop moving, it could be a grating and annoying trait. The occupational hazard of a professor he guessed.

“
Dad, are you still there?”

Michael’s father’s mind was nearly a blank; it had been years since he had heard or written anything authoritative related to what Michael was asking him.

He asked Michael, “Where did you come across this symbol? Were you reading about it recently? Did you see a drawing? There aren’t many publications that would even reference this, I should know, I have written most of them. A red hand you say? Was the name Yeshua written underneath the hand? Of course it was. How would you have known of the name Yeshua otherwise? What else can you…”

Michael quickly interrupted the diatribes and digressions his Dad was about to start. It took a number of years, but Michael has learned that in order to get a word in with him one must be forceful; he interrupted him, “Dad! Stop talking!” Michael was shaking his head.

“
Oh, sorry, son, a bad habit I guess. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was about to ask you what...”

“
Dad, you weren’t anywhere! It’s my turn to speak. I can’t talk specifically about it right now; just tell me what the hell it is.”

“
Alright already, no need to be so harsh.” Dr. Sterling, Sr. cleared his throat and said, “Son, what you have described is called the Hand of Christ. It is a myth to most people that know about it, and those that do are numbered in the few, mostly scholars, Michael.

Supposedly, when Jesus was to be crucified, he struck a deal with Pontius Pilate and Joseph of Arimathea. They were going to let him live, but He had to agree to leave Judea, to forego his throne.”

“
Supposedly, Dad? Jesus left Judea?”

“
That’s right, Michael, there is a belief by some – by many really – that the Crucifixion never happened. As you know, Muslims believe that Jesus was a prophet, but deny that he was crucified, and there are over a billion of them. Hell, even the Jews don’t consider Jesus’ life relevant, and that he may have been nothing more than a Rabbi. Anyway, as I was saying, Jesus left Judea. Normally, Rome didn’t care about the minor religions of its citizens, but Jesus was becoming a liability; when He was arrested, Rome feared insurrection. According to my research, Joseph of Arimathea warned Pilate about making a martyr of Jesus, that it could lead to greater problems with the citizens. The simple solution was to banish him from the Empire. Jesus was secretly led out of the Judea with his wife and children; they were taken to Egypt, and Jesus was forced to give up any further attempts at becoming the people’s King.”

“
Wait, wait a second, Dad, are you saying that, on top of not being crucified, and leaving the Roman Empire, Jesus was married with kids?”

“
Michael, I am not saying that. I am saying that is what some people think, a very small number of people, but the idea of Jesus being married isn’t so far fetched; it is quite plausible. Back then, it would have not only have been customary to marry, it would have been highly frowned upon if a man had not married, in particular, if a Jewish man who was a Rabbi had not married.”

“
So, where does the Hand of Jesus come in?”

“
Hand of Christ, son. There is a difference.” His father corrected him and continued, “I was getting to that. After leaving Judea, Jesus had to split up with his wife and children for their own safety. Jesus knew that there was a good chance that he would never see them again. As the rightful heir to the throne of Israel, he had to ensure that, even if he were never able to reclaim his kingdom, his children and descendents would be able to.

In a decree of sorts, he set forth an outline of his lineage to include forefathers and children. Along with his family tree, he declared that his descendents should be named
Holy Roman Emperor
first, and ahead of all others. It was their birthright.

Later, the legend has it that Jesus was smuggled into Rome where he met with Paul – one of his most trusted followers – whose scribe made three copies of Jesus’ decree. Really, it was a last will and testament: one for himself, one for his wife, and the final one for his followers – which is now the church. It is believed that Jesus signed each document with a print of his hand and his name scribed underneath.”

Michael interjected, “the Hand of Christ?”

“
Right, son, it was the Hand of Christ.”

Michael didn’t need final confirmation about what his father had just said, but asked his father anyway, “Let me get this straight. According to what you have just said: Jesus was never crucified, he lived, and through a will, his children inherited his right to be King of the Empire.”

“
Yes, Michael, that is what I just said. He didn’t die on the cross.”

He didn’t die on the cross
. This wasn’t the first time he had heard this phrase uttered today.

“
Michael, why are you asking about this? Why is it so important to you, so important to the US government?”

After his father asked the question, Michael put his free hand over the front of his shirt; he could feel the book resting against his skin. As an attempt to ignore the question that his father had asked, Michael asked one of his own, “Dad, what else can you tell me?”

“
Nonsense, son, you haven’t answered my question. What are you involved in? What interest does the government have in ancient fairy tales?” It was at this moment, the moment he had finished his question that his father understood. His next question exited his lips in a very slow and precise manner, “You were involved in that attack in Damascus weren’t you; the Ayatollah, too?”

“
I don’t know what you are talking about.”
How could he put the two together so quickly?

Then it hit his father; Michael must have the Hand of Christ. Blurting out, “Holy shit, Michael, you have it don’t you? Oh my God, it exists. I can’t believe it! Do you know what this means, Michael? Have you any clue? My Lord! I mean that figuratively, not literally, Michael – this proves that the claims of the Church for the past two thousand years have been fabrications; outright lies! I knew it, everyone called me crazy, but I knew it!”

Michael’s father sounded as if he had just discovered Atlantis. The man was giddy and he wasn’t trying to hide it. Michael knew that his father was probably jumping around, shaking his finger in the air as if he were chastising a child. Sighing, Michael said, “Dad, calm down. I haven’t told you that I have seen it.”

Michael's father shot back, “Oh, put a sock in it you spook. You are my son, I know you better than you know yourself. You may be able to cast a stone face at everyone else you tell your lies, but I can read you like a book. How do you think I knew about what you do?” His father’s voice was rising with excitement. Michael imagined the man pacing restlessly back in forth in his book-filled, unkempt office.

Back in his office, pacing in a frenzy, and around stacks of books, Michael’s father nearly yelled out, “Tell me, where was it? Is there more to it? Is anything else written on it?”

“
You really need to calm yourself down, Dad. I can’t go into this right now. Not on this phone, I have already said too much.” At that moment Michael could hear the heavy footsteps of the CQ coming down the hallway.
Shit.
“Dad, listen to me. I have to go. I’ll stop by tonight, at your office.” Michael was about to hang up the phone when the marine’s voice loudly barked, “Sir, you can’t be in here!”

Michael hadn’t yet put down the phone and his father was still on it trying to ask him more questions. Michael sputtered off a string of phrases that confused the old man. “Flight time is in two hours, terminal B, and gate 68 – right? Okay, thanks for your help.” Michael hung up on his babbling father and turned to the marine, “Sorry, I wanted to confirm my flight out of SFO, and this office was open, so I helped myself to the phone.”

The marine gave Michael an unsure look, ushered him out, and closed the door, but locked it before stepping away. “Sir, I believe your ride is waiting for you outside.”

“
Okay, thanks.” This was Michael’s chance to find out the other thing for which he came inside. As he was being escorted to the exit of the building, he asked the CQ, “Sergeant, the other two Hornets, when are they due back? I had a bet with one of the pilots that I could do a barrel roll at four-g’s; he told me I was full of shit. I won the bet and I want to collect my twenty bucks.”

The Marine CQ responded, “After leaving Palmdale, they were logged to fly another three hours before their return to base. The pilots needed some flight time. It should be another hour or so before they get here. Who was it? Major Johnston? That guy is always betting stupid stuff. The Major always and
conveniently
forgets when it comes time to pay up. The cheap bastard still owes me fifty.”

The information caught Michael off guard; three Hornets were sent to Palmdale, but he had only seen one. Things were getting more complicated.

Leaving the detachment’s headquarters building, Michael climbed into the waiting Yukon and stated the only three words he would say on the short ride to SFO, “To the airport.”

Chapter Twenty

Flight 369 – SFO to DIA

San Francisco to Denver

The plane was full and the Flight Attendant ambled her way through the cabin pushing the drink cart in what seemed a purposeful and cruelly slow manner.

Row 28, seat F of the 737 fit Michael’s place of choice on a commercial flight. Really, any row beyond 25, so long as it was an aisle seat, was his preference.

Standing nearly 6’ 2” and a lean 205 pounds, Dr. Michael Sterling needed the opportunity to stretch into the aisle, even if that meant that it could be only one of his long legs.

Something was always better than nothing, his father always said.