The Fingerprint of God

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Arthur H. Wray

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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Contents

EPIGRAPH

FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EPIGRAPH

Would that life were like the shadow cast by a wall or a tree, but it is like the shadow of a bird in flight.

—Haggadah, Palestinian Talmud

Science without Religion is lame, Religion without Science is blind.

—Albert Einstein

To live in the hearts we leave / Is not to die

—Thomas Campbell, Hallowed Ground

FOREWORD

Throughout man’s time here on this planet he has been the only creature to be aware of his own existence. With that awareness, his knowledge expanded. With his expanded knowledge, questions crept into his consciences. He began to wonder about his origins on the planet; about the environment surrounding him, and the vastness of the sky above. Sometimes things were explainable through investigation and trial and error. This, it could be argued, was the prelude to Science. Sometimes when things couldn’t be explained using those methods, some say religion was created to try and make sense of those things. Religion put everything in that category on a higher plane above and beyond man’s five senses. Unseen, everything was therefore accepted as divine in nature and accepted on faith. I do not wish to argue the points of science versus religion here, primarily because I’m not an expert in either field, but because I have been fascinated by both disciplines for a long time I decided to write about them and their interrelationship.

This book was written within the calendar year 1999, but the true genesis of the project goes back ten years or so when I guess I went through a time of confusion and self-examination. It was a time when I questioned all the beliefs I’d had since I was a boy. So on a cold January night, I decided to sit down and start writing, hoping through the creation of a fictitious character, I could address some of these issues through plots and interactions with other characters and hopefully come up with some answers. Well, one year later, almost to the day, the first draft was done; and through the course of the year writing it I discovered a lot about myself and how some of my core beliefs had changed. In researching and reading material while writing this novel I came to realize that science and religion are closer than either one would care to admit. It was fascinating to discover that our Native American brothers have believed for a millennia that all things in heaven and earth are inseparable and are bound together in an overall theme of oneness. I must admit that particular belief somehow struck a chord with me, and as you read you will notice that that theme is like a thread weaving its way throughout the book. Another theme is the morality of science. With the discovery of DNA a half a century ago and the subsequent attempts at cloning, science’s sense of morality has been under close scrutiny, mostly from the religious factions of the world, but surprisingly also from within its own hallowed halls. I understand both points of view, but as I said before, although these issues seem insurmountable and seem to show their differences, there is a oneness in the universe that makes them closer than they think.

Within these pages I tried to address these things while trying to weave a storyline that is hopefully entertaining as well as informative. My only hope is as you read it you will think about them and draw your own conclusions. I must also state that this is a work of fiction, yet there is also factual material blended within. The line between fact and fiction might appear hazy at times, and for those times please forgive me. As I stated before, these questions and conclusions are my own and solely my own. I hope my book gets you to think about some of the same questions I had, and maybe discover some answers for yourself. If you do, I will have succeeded in my endeavor and will be truly pleased.

Art Wray April 2000

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank all that read the manuscript; their input was invaluable. To Brian Giasulla, thanks for the book cover. Most of all, I especially want to thank my friend Paul Stokes. He believed in this story from the beginning and made me believe I could write it, and his input and ideas were invaluable. Thanks also to Lorraine Sarno, who gave me confidence that it was good enough to be read by others, and my wife Chris who was there at every turn to guide me through the process. I also want to thank Lisa Best who took a rough manuscript and shaped and molded it into the form it is today. To these people I am eternally grateful.

PROLOGUE

The tired and weather-beaten priest paused from his work for a moment, then standing under the blazing noonday sun with hands clasped together, looked up toward the heavens and prayed.

Father, he said, sometimes I think I’ll never understand why you always chose such hot and arid parts of the world to be the cradles of your children’s development. Couldn’t you at least once have picked a place like Hawaii or the Caribbean? He waited for a moment or two, as if hoping for a prompt reply; and then shrugging his shoulders, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, blessed himself with the sign of the Cross, and went about his work.

Father Soriano, or Father Joe as everyone called him, had been putting in long, hard hours on the dig for about six weeks now, and he was just about worn out. He was a member of a small, select, and somewhat secretive group of priests in the Vatican, formed in the eleventh century as an adjunct to the curators of the Secret Archives. These clerics were experts in religious artifacts, and were occasionally sent to archaeological digs around the world such as this one, to examine and sometimes authenticate finds of a religious nature. It was never substantiated, but there had been rumors floating around for years in scientific circles that sometime in the late ‘40s, these chosen few had been involved in a find of great importance somewhere near Iran in the Middle East. Colleagues speculated that the artifact was still hidden within the Vatican.

Father Joe, now the group’s senior member had been sent by the Vatican to investigate some strange etchings and pictographs that had been found on some of the pottery. Some of the best archeologists in the world were at the site, but weren’t able to make heads or tails of the images or even ascertain the approximate age of the vessels. They all agreed on one thing though—the vessels and pictographs were older than anything they had seen so far in the area.

Father Soriano had always been an obedient disciple of the Church, but he was becoming very aware of the fact that he wasn’t getting any younger. While he knew he was still in remarkable shape, being well on the other side of sixty and roaming around the deserts of the world was, in his opinion, better suited for someone half his age.

As the oppressive heat from the sun closed in, the white-haired priest again wondered if he wasn’t getting just a bit too old for this kind of work. He hoped to retire soon, and knew that there were surely some promising young men and women in the wings, waiting to take his place; but he also knew there was no point in speculating on the future—he was after all, a servant to the Holy Father and as long as the good Lord breathed life into him, he would go wherever he was sent.

The sun was high overhead, and he guessed it was close to the middle of the day. Hot, tired and hungry, he decided to pore through one more set of artifacts before finding some much needed shade back in his tent and something to eat.

The artifacts had already been uncovered and photographed in the grid, and then carefully catalogued. Though he argued many times that they should be kept in a properly shaded and protected area, his pleas went unanswered. He found them lying in the full heat of the sun, to be sorted, tagged and crated up for shipment.

Sifting through the contents of an old worn canvas bag filled with a half-dozen or so relics, he made casual mental notes of each of the objects. But it wasn’t until he pulled a chipped ancient stone tablet from the bag, that his eyes widened in disbelief. He stared down at the piece of stone in amazement, his focus drawn to the pictographs, the images jogging something deep in the recesses of his memory.

So familiar, he thought to himself, as the blazing sun beat down on his brow. Where have I seen these before?

Then as the images came, one-by-one, his heart beat faster and his hands shook, his mind racing with the possibilities.

He quickly pushed the tablet back into the canvas bag. He sat scarcely able to catch his breath in the hot desert sun, his old heart racing with excitement, his feeble arms now clutching the precious find to his chest as if someone or something was about to snatch it away.

So long ago, he thought, …and on the other side of the world. They couldn’t be the same pictographs. But his heart, pounding with excitement, sensed the truth. He knew that this one single item, if what he suspected deep down was true, would turn the religious world upside down—and that it had to go to Rome. Immediately.

With a growing sense of urgency and panic setting in, his eyes darted across the landscape searching for someone he knew he could trust—someone who would help him with what must be done. Finally, his eyes caught sight of the very someone he was looking for.

Carla! he yelled with a slightly frantic tone. His voice carried through the hot desert air and across the compound in Carla’s direction.

Carla looked up from her work, her eyes following the direction of the voice until she spotted Father Soriano. She smiled and waved.

What is it Father? she asked.

Carla, come over here for a minute. I need you to do something for me.

She had been trying to unearth a stubborn piece of pottery for halfan-hour, so Father Joe’s intervention was truly welcome.

I’ll be right there, she responded and gracefully relinquished the chore to her colleagues.

Carla Maria Sanchez had been sent by The University of Toronto in response to a request from Father Soriano for an assistant to help with the dig. A graduate archaeology student, Carla was in the middle of writing a paper about ancient religious artifacts when the request came through. She was highly regarded by her professors and thought to have more than an average knowledge of ancient writings. When the university asked if she was interested, Carla had considered it the opportunity of a lifetime. She arrived at the dig a few days later.

She was a tall, thin young woman, and by all accounts, actually taller than most Panamanians. She had deep-set, powerful eyes and an angular face with sharp chiseled features, her jet-black hair pulled back into a bun. Most women wouldn’t have been so enthusiastic about such a physically demanding task, but Carla relished the challenge. Everyone, to a man, agreed that she kept up with everyone in the group. With her stellar educational background she was readily accepted, but to Father Soriano there was more to it.

He remembered the day he met Carla back at her university during one of his guest lectures. He sensed something special about her, something strangely compelling about her mannerisms and gentle way. He had never met anyone quite like Carla Sanchez before. He searched inside himself to try and find the right words to describe her, but the only thing he could come up with that even came close was…spiritual. He thought about this spirituality for the rest of his time in Panama. When his time was finished there, he went back to the United States. Over time, he had forgotten about her, until one day, in a strange twist of fate he was assigned to this dig. When he sent out feelers for an assistant, lo and behold, Carla’s name surfaced. Memories of Carla flooded back, and the pieces of the puzzle came together. He was sure that God had sent her to work at his side.

Okay Father, what have you got? she asked as she stood over his shoulder.

He reached into the bag, gingerly took out the tablet, and showed her what he had found. She looked at it for a moment, and for a brief second she thought that it looked like something that she had seen before.

Something she couldn’t quite put a finger on, but then, in a flash, the thought disappeared and the moment was gone.

Carla, I want you to get two of your most trusted and reliable men.

She looked puzzled. What for Padre?

He knew he had to be careful. He needed her help, but he didn’t want to tell her too much.

We have to get this to the Holy Father in Rome as soon as possible, do you understand?

Si, I understand, but can’t we just crate it up with all the rest of the…

Father Soriano emphatically shook his head. No, no! Can’t you see that this is much too important to be crated up with the other finds?

Carla stepped back and stared at him for a brief moment. She had only glimpsed the piece of stone, how could she have determined that it was more important than anything else was? She had never seen this side of him before.

Father Joe could see that he had startled her with the tone of his response, and realized that he needed to get control of his emotions.

Carla, please, just do as I ask, he said in a much calmer tone of voice. And remember not to breathe a word of this to anyone. No one must know of the existence of this tablet and of the symbols engraved upon it.

Carla was surprised by his request. Surely he knew that this had been photographed and catalogued before it was removed from the grid? Maybe he had forgotten.

Father, I think maybe I should remind you that…

He put his index finger to his lips. Shhh, he said emphatically. Go now.

But? she said.

But nothing child! Go now! We don’t have much time.

Carla nodded and reluctantly went about her mission. Father Joe remained huddled in the sun, cradling his precious find.

She respected Father Joe immensely and felt that she should have tried harder to make her point. One of the most important parts of an archeological dig was the documentation and cataloguing of all the finds. That he would want her to overlook such a thing disturbed her. In the six weeks that they had been working together, he had always been someone she could talk to and trust—someone she thought would always do the right thing.

And so, as she walked away, a seed of doubt about her feelings for the Padre began to sprout. After stopping a minute to tell her colleagues that she would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, she began to make her way down the path from the dig site to her tent a few hundred yards away. As the hot dusty air filled her nostrils, the sound of rock chisels hard at work filled her ears. She thought back to when she had first met Father Soriano…

Father Joe had lectured to her undergraduate class at the university in Panama about the growing field of Religious Anthropology. She and a few of her friends were studying archaeology at the time and this branch of the field seemed quite interesting. She thought back fondly to his lecture, his obvious passionate dedication to the growing profession and his wonderful sense of humor. It had left a favorable imprint on her, one that had shaped the course of her life.

She continued to follow his career through articles he had written for scholarly journals and occasional lectures he gave in Canada during her early grad school years. When the opportunity came along to become a member on this expedition and work with him directly, naturally, she jumped at the chance. Now, everything in this perfect world that she had created in her mind—Father Joe, everything she thought he stood for and believed in—everything had been called into question because of the discovery of this tablet.

As she got closer to the tent, the thought of a cool drink and some much needed shade was interrupted by her re-occurring dilemma about whether to help with the practical smuggling of the tablet. On the one hand, she couldn’t go against the things she believed in, things like trustworthiness and honesty. Moreover, she wondered how on earth she could bring herself to actually steal a valuable artifact from a dig site. If she got caught, her credibility as a scientist, as well as her career, would simply be over.

But she also knew of Father Joe’s deep dedication to the field. It had been his life’s work. The tablet would have had to be really important for him to want to risk everything.

She thought about the strange feeling she had when she saw the pictographs. She was sure there was something about them.…Oh God, she prayed, please tell me what I should do.

When she got to the tent, she went in and sat down on the cot. Suddenly as if from out of nowhere she felt a strange presence. It was oddly familiar. It was not her voice that spoke to her, but it somehow came from within.

You must not interfere with Father Soriano’s wishes, the voice said, the Tablet must be taken to Rome.

"But why?’ she asked.

The destinies of many people, some you know and some that are to come are linked to the Tablet. For now its existence must be kept from the world until the time is right.

Strangely enough, Carla felt unafraid in the presence of the voice. As a young girl growing up the voice had come to her on a few occasions, such as when she was afraid or confused. She thought of it as God answering her prayers. Anyway, it had never been an unpleasant experience, so she always listened intently.

How am I to do this? she asked again.

There was a slight pause. You will find a way, the voice responded, you will find a way. Then just as quickly as the voice came, it was gone.

Sitting down on the cot with her head in her hands, Carla tried to devise a way she could get the tablet out without arousing suspicion. After about ten minutes or so, a plan finally came together.

She would get rid of the evidence. She would go into the file room and carefully remove any photographs of the tablet. She wasn’t sure why exactly, but she also decided that she would keep the photographs herself. Maybe it was the little voice she heard before, or maybe it was Father Joe’s frantic plea for secrecy; whatever it was, she knew that once it was gone and in the Vatican vaults somewhere, all that would left to prove its existence would be those pictures. She was also certain that she wanted to be the one to make sure that nothing happened to them.

Carla took a deep breath and felt an eerie calm come over her. She again wondered if the voice she felt from deep inside was truly the voice of God sending her life in the direction that He wanted her to go. Well, whatever it was, she decided to do what the voice asked of her. She would help Father Joe get the Tablet back to Rome, but would keep the pictures just in case (in case of what, she still wasn’t sure). As she lay there about to drift off to sleep, the magnificent truth about the voice within Carla Sanchez waited. It waited for the time to reveal itself to everyone involved with the Tablet and to irrevocably change their lives.

Forever.

CHAPTER ONE

Warm breezes caress my face. A broad and fertile valley beckons toward the rising sun. Standing on the edge of the mesa, the smell of tall pine trees, a blue, cloudless sky; the feeling that somehow, I’ve been here before.

A small village in the distance. It seems deserted. A noise, and looking up, a large bird, maybe an eagle, hovering overhead…makes me uneasy.

Circling lower and lower now, coming closer and closer…but I cannot run, my feet are frozen in the sand. My heart is pounding now, a muffled scream as the bird about to engulf me…

The monotonous drone of the large jet engines pervaded his sleep, until an unfamiliar voice abruptly ended it. Excuse me Dr. Mallory, are you alright? the voice said. Slowly opening his eyes the surroundings came into focus, and he was pleasantly surprised to see that the voice belonged to a beautiful young stewardess. Am I alright? Well…yes, I guess so, he said rubbing his eyes. What’s the problem?

Well sir, she said nervously, I hate to have to wake you, but you’ve been talking in your sleep and I’m afraid the other passengers are…well sir…you understand?

Understand? he said, finally awake and slightly embarrassed. Oh yes, I’m uh, sorry.

That’s okay. she responded, obviously relieved. Can I get you anything? she asked.

He thought for a second, No, thank you, I think I’m fine.

She turned to go back up front when he remembered something. Maybe there is one thing, he asked as she turned around, do you know about what time we’ll be landing?

She looked at her watch. We have about another hour or so until we land, she said. Anything else?

No, thank you.

Dr. Steven Mallory came to accept flying as a necessary evil. His lectures had taken him all over the world. He thought back to a time when it would take two—or for a long flight—maybe three martinis to get him on a plane. With medication and with the help of a lot of therapy, that was now ancient history—well, almost.

As the sleep finally ebbed, he looked out the window and focused his eyes on the stark brown earth below. It was what he liked to refer to as the interim time of year. The time when the winter snow had melted and the green of spring hadn’t quite taken hold yet.

A time of change.

A time of promise.

A time of life renewed.

Or was it?

Settling back into his seat he thought that since he had plenty of time before the plane landed, he would throw some water on his face and try and wake up. Looking up and noticing that the occupied sign on the bathroom wasn’t lit; he unbuckled his seat belt and made his way up the aisle. As he opened the door, he quickly realized to his dismay, that although everything in first class was bigger and better—the bathrooms were decidedly not. Airplane bathrooms, even in first class, are claustrophobic at best and not designed for anything more than the performance of the most basic tasks.

Closing the door behind him, he turned on the faucet and stared at the face in the mirror. He was pushing fifty, and slowly coming to the realization that he was starting to look his age. His six-foot-three frame still weighed about the same 190 pounds as it had in college, but his hair was starting to gray at the temples and the lines in his face were getting deeper. Staring at his shirt and neatly knotted tie, the thought crossed his mind that it was probably time to get rid of the preppie look and start dressing casual. He shrugged off the notion, realizing that as the foremost geneticist in the world, there was, after all, a certain image he needed to maintain.

Oh well Steven, he said to the face in the mirror, you don’t look too bad for a man approaching the half-century mark. Working out five-days-a-week before going to the Center and watching his diet did seem to be paying off, but more importantly, it seemed to offset the stress of the Project, and God knows, the Project could be stressful.

He unlocked the door and made it back to his seat. He promised himself right then and there that he would try and cut back on his schedule a bit when he got back, although he knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep.

As he settled back in his oversized seat and gazed out of the porthole-sized windows, he pretended he could see the silhouetted outline of the Boston skyline off in the distance. Though he lived in Los Angeles, he still thought of Boston as his home and had a special feeling for it. He usually made it home in the spring, but the past couple of years had been tough. His research back in LA claimed the bulk of his time, and for various other reasons; this was his first time back in Boston in three years.

Excuse me?

Steven casually looked over at the man sitting to his left across the aisle; a smartly dressed dark-haired, middle-aged gentleman, whom he was sure he had never seen before.

I’m sorry, did you say something? Steven said wryly.

Oh I’m sorry, the man said, looking a bit embarrassed. "I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard the stewardess call you Dr. Mallory and I was wondering if you were the Dr. Mallory I saw on the news last night?"

Steven gave the stranger a puzzled look.

The discussion on cloning? the man prodded.

Steven thought for a moment, and then realized he had done an interview months ago for a national cable network. He’d already forgotten about it.

I’m sorry, he apologized. I wasn’t aware that the interview was on last night, but yes, I’m Steven Mallory.

Wow! Yeah, I watched the whole thing and it was absolutely fascinating. Tell me the truth now, are you guys really trying to make a full grown cow from one drop of blood?

Jesus, here we go… Steven thought. It was times like this that he almost wished he wasn’t a representative of the Center, and would therefore, have to handle this guy gracefully.

It’s actually a little more complicated than that, he said, "besides, I’m not personally involved with that particular research project. We have many different projects going on at the same time; that just happens to be one of them."

Hey you don’t need to tell me, I read a lot about that kind of stuff; and you know, he said, leaning over and winking, "I saw Jurassic Park."

Steven caught himself before rolling his eyes, and took a deep breath, wondering at the luck that had him sitting beside the only nut on the plane.

Listen Mister…

Spencer, the man interrupted. Jerry Spencer, but my friends call me Jerry.

Well…Jerry, Steven said with a slight hesitation; "I’m afraid genetic research is a whole lot more than cloning or science-fiction stuff like Jurassic Park. He continued trying to make a point. Although movies like that are based in some truth, it’s a little far-fetched to think that we can create a living, breathing thing from a drop of DNA. I wouldn’t lose any sleep, if I were you, thinking about armies of monster clones invading the earth anytime soon."

He hoped the conversation had ended, when Jerry continued.

If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of doctor are you?

Well, if you must know, Steven said, trying not to sound too annoyed, after I went to medical school I practiced as an internist.

What made you get into Genetics? Jerry went on.

I don’t know, he said. I do remember thinking one day, that there must be another way of treating disease other than giving patients a handful of pills to take; and then if that didn’t work, giving them another handful of different pills until we got it right. I recall working in a group practice at the time, and it was getting harder and harder to go in every day and write prescriptions wondering if there was any alternative to this traditional way of practicing medicine. Steven had no idea how he’d gotten into this conversation, but figured if he told the guy what he wanted to know, he’d finally leave him alone.

What did you do? Jerry continued.

"I quit practicing full-time and went back to school to brush up on Biochemistry. While I was there, one of the professors introduced me to something I had touched on in medical school, but had forgotten about.

Genetics?

Right, and soon I discovered it might be the alternative I had been looking for.

Interesting.

So from then on, I made the decision to go in that direction and the days of pills and medicine were things of the past.

You know doctor, Jerry pressed on, "you may be right. Genetics may be the thing of the future, but traditional medicine really isn’t that bad you know. Mankind has been taking medicines in one form or another for thousands of years, and they have cured a lot of ills. He leaned over a bit more as if to strengthen his point. Those handful of pills you say are so bad, aren’t all that bad."

Steven hated getting trapped in philosophical discussions with pseudo-intellectuals, especially on an airplane with nowhere to go. Well, he thought, let’s see how far he wants to take this.

Tell me, Steven asked leaning over the aisle, you seem to have a strong opinion on this; are you a doctor yourself?

A doctor? Oh my goodness no! I sell pharmaceutical products.

Steven sat back with a smug look on his face. Oh great, he said sharply, a pill salesman who thinks a written prescription is the cure-all for all of man’s maladies.

Suddenly, he felt small for having jumped down the guy’s throat.

"Listen…Jerry, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.