Emmanuel Shepherd, raised in an orphanage by nuns, sits in the Oval Office with the President of the United States and learns who he is and how he came to be. A covert CIA operation has achieved the unthinkable—is it part of a divine plan set in motion two thousand years ago? This is the question a floundering priest must ask as he is catapulted into an event that will impact the course of history. Simultaneously, scientists discover an object forming in deep space. Its behavior follows no known laws of physics. The President’s Chief of Staff is the only person to have knowledge of both situations and soon realizes the presence of Christ and the detection of The Ghost are parts of the same event.
DON STANSBERRY
International Award-winning author, Don Stansberry, is a native West Virginian and an elementary school teacher. He is the author of Inky & the Missing Gold and Inky, Oglebee, & the Witches, and his children’s books–which he also illustrated, Koko & Stoney Mom’s Choice Award and Crusty, named a Finalist in the USA News Best Book Awards. Don is the author of Secret Blood, a multiaward-winning book that took top honors for best spiritual fiction at the London Book Festival. It was named a Winner at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards at a reception at The Plaza in New York City during Book Expo America. His second novel, Vulture Bend, is a riveting good vs. evil award-winning story. Don is also part of the Headline Kids School Show Program.
THE Emmanuel Shepherd STORY
SECRET BLOOD
Winner Next Generation Indie Book Award Winner London Book Festival International Book Award Finalist and Honorable Mentions at the Hollywood, San Francisco, Paris, and Great Southeast Book Festivals
This is the feel-good novel of the century. From the Beatles, Central Park, and Cleveland to a TV evangelist and the Oval Office, this remarkable story hits home with real questions about current technology and the men who control it.
DON STANSBERRY
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story
Don Stansberry
Publisher Page
an imprint of Headline Books
Terra Alta, WV
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story by Don Stansberry copyright ©2012 Don Stansberry copyright ©2024 Don Stansberry All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com www.donstansberrybooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 9780938467472 hard cover ISBN 9780938467489 paperback Library of Congress Control Number: 2012936901 Stansberry, Don. Secret Blood / Don Stansberry p. cm. ISBN 9780938467472 ISBN 9780938467489 1. Clones—Fiction. 2. National Security—Fiction. 3. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction 4. Biblical History—Fiction.
P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A
For Patty, Shay, and Sidney
Special thanks to Tod Faller, Diane Chandler, and Dr. Toni DeVore for their expertise and support throughout the project.
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Prologue The body was taken down gently, much more gently than when it was nailed and hoisted. Now centurions looked on with a mixture of fear and awe. The very men who had cast lots for his clothing now knelt and bowed their heads. Only one, a soldier, put a lance to his side to test for life. The darkness that had rolled in and blanketed the land must certainly have been a message from God. The midday twilight changed many minds about this man, Jesus. His followers wept and struggled with his absence and pledged to carry on his message. Even though he had prophesied to them of his future, this was too much for many to bear. Pontius Pilate, who couldn’t find a way to circumvent the crucifixion, gathered his family and huddled in the bowels of his palace. He had heard rumors of the miracles the Nazarene had performed and feared he would be the one remembered for the Holy man’s demise. The people who had lined the streets to curse and spit on the savior now fled from Golgotha, believing they had degraded the Son of God. Most left their homes to disappear into the masses and trek back to their places of birth. The body of Jesus was not to be left on the cross due to the ritual Preparation Day. This relieved Pilate. The fools of the Sanhedrin, he thought, the ones who handed Jesus to him, might do something even more foolish with the body, angering God even more, if that were possible. Pilate worried about the Jews also. He was relieved when Joseph of Arimathea asked to remove 5
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story
Jesus. A new tomb, in which no one was yet buried, would be made available. The body was grimy and sweat-streaked. Blood had crusted on the hands and feet and on the site pierced by the lance. He was wrapped in a burial cloth and carried to the tomb. Joseph led the way with Mary Magdalene walking beside the body of the Savior. The small entrance was near the ground. A stone chiseled into the shape of a wheel rolled in a slot cut in the ground at the front of the tomb. The burial party had to crawl to enter, but once inside the cavern, there was enough room for several to stand. A shelf was hewn into the wall where they laid the body. Mary Magdalene, with tears streaking down her face, knelt beside the body. Placing her hand on the shroud; the movement under the cloth startled her as the lifeless arm of Jesus slid inside. It had dropped from the chest and was now below the edge of the shelf, still contained within the cloth. The wound on the hand reopened and the blood began to run. As the shroud became saturated, a crimson flower bloomed on the shroud as the holy blood pooled. Then it began to drip to the ground. At the sight of Jesus’ blood, Mary sobbed even harder. This was His blood, the blood of redemption, the blood of the covenant, dripping into the dust. An alabaster jar was handed to Mary. She held the jar beneath the dripping blood for many minutes, hoping to retain every drop. The body, in its wondrous way, began the clotting process, resealing the wound and leaving the jar almost full. Only then did they leave the tomb and begin the journey of the Holy Grail.
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Chapter 1 Northern Italy 1941 The driver allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. They had been driving for nearly a week over country roads that were little more than muddy gullies, through farm towns and across meadows, dodging goats as they passed. The Vatican’s Rolls Royce Wraith had proved itself a marvel of engineering, conquering every terrain it encountered. Now, only an hour from their destination, a seed of optimism began to grow. The boys, also provided by the Vatican, were a perfect cover. They slept now, four in the Roll’s massive rear seat and two in the front beside the driver. They were mannerly, disciplined, and, most importantly of all, they could sing. The turn was ahead to the left, a hundred meters past a dilapidated barn. The plate-sized headlights panned across the road and onto the next, which was actually a cart path. It veered to the left, then to the right, and disappeared beyond the reach of the headlights. He drove carefully, keeping away from the deepest part of the ruts and watching for partially exposed rocks that might flatten a tire. The path wormed its way around a stone outcropping and down a hill where it flattened out. Oak trees stood ghostly white, then disappeared entirely as the car passed. The darkness was so dense that only the trees closest to the path were illuminated, the ones farther back dimmer and dimmer. The driver’s mind 7
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story
turned back to his childhood, to Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Their horrors inhabited a forest such as this. His seed of hope turned into a black seed of fear. It sprouted and entwined itself in his brain. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, over his neck, and into his Priest’s collar. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly. He increased the speed slightly without knowing it. “Are you all right, Father DeAngelo?” It was Vito Maslo, the oldest and sharpest of the choirboys. He hadn’t realized the boy was watching him. “Yes, Vito,” he said in Italian. “I am anxious to get to the church and end this business.” Before Vito could agree with Father, a single light flickered half a kilometer ahead. They slowed to a stop. Here, the path was wide enough to turn the car, but where to go? He had committed this route to memory. He knew no other course. In turning, they would surely be chased, which could only lead to arrest. Better to continue and pray their cover would work. “Boys!” he said sharply. They squirmed awake, stretching and yawning. All except for Vito Maslo, who looked calm and wide awake. “Be prepared, this is why you have practiced!” The car started forward again, more deliberate this time. The boys were wide awake now, looking out the windows and holding the items with which they had practiced. They could hear the crunching of the loose stones under the tires. Father DeAngelo dabbed his temples with a handkerchief. The light came from a kerosene lantern placed in the center of the path. Behind the light, barely illuminated, was a black Fiat Balilla. It was parked sideways, blocking the road, looking out of place in the middle of the night. A Nazi soldier in a Field Gray uniform stood near the car, rifle resting comfortably in his arms. Father DeAngelo’s worst fears were confirmed. They had been waiting for them. A week of concerts, zig-zagging around 8
Don Stansberry
from church to church had not fooled anyone. Even going east instead of west to the safety of Switzerland did not confuse them. The Rolls slowed to a stop ten meters from the lantern. The soldier brought the gun up, barrel evenly pointed at the windshield of the car. Nothing happened for several seconds, and then slowly, almost as if scripted, the rear door of the Fiat opened. Father DeAngelo’s heart sank even further. The man emerging from the car was Gestapo, dressed in a gray SS uniform. He was tall, but thin with a narrow face and expressionless eyes. His hair was cut short and perhaps white, but that was difficult to see in the dim lantern light. He walked with a slight limp. The Priest was trained to read the emblems on the German uniforms, which was difficult because the agencies often overlapped. This officer had something the Father had never seen: a diamond-shaped black patch on his left sleeve. The letters SD were sewn inside in white. He stepped to the driver’s window and motioned to roll the window down. “Your papers, Father,” he said in Italian. Father DeAngelo handed a folder out the window and smiled at the Nazi. The officer pulled a pair of reading glasses from his tunic and studied the driver but did not open the folder. He held it out toward the soldier, who stepped to the car to receive it without lowering the gun. “You are traveling to the Parish Church of Oswald?” “Yes,” said Father DeAngelo. “My young charges are a choir and I am their director.” The Nazi watched him as he spoke like a lion, deciding which moment to pounce. “Yes, I watched their performance two days ago at Duomo Vecchio. Perhaps you did not notice me in the last pew. I try to keep a low profile when I attend Mass. “I did not notice any Nazis. Are you Catholic?” “No, Father, I am a realist. Considering the world’s current climate, a Nazi is a more practical thing to be.” He looked at the 9
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story
boys in the back seat. “Have the young men step out of the car.” The Father motioned the boys out and stepped out himself. Vito carried a worn Rugby ball. Another boy carried a soccer ball. As soon as they exited the car, the soccer ball was on the ground and being kicked from one side of the path to the other. Vito skillfully laid the Rugby ball in the shadows while two others got into a loud mock argument. Another soldier appeared from the darkness of a flanking position. “Search it,” the officer said in German. Father DeAngelo backed off and waited while the boys played and the two soldiers dismantled the car. To their credit, the boys gave the impression the soccer game was much more important than the search. After nearly an hour, the interior of the Rolls Royce lay in pieces in the grass, and the three Germans were at a dangerous level of frustration. The seats were removed and cut open, the trunk ransacked, and they searched the engine compartment using flashlights. The soldiers muttered and the officer glared at the Father, who had taken a seat on an exposed root. The officer unsnapped the strap on his holster. Both soldiers heard it and stopped searching. Father DeAngelo heard it also. He stood as the Gestapo officer approached, pistol drawn, speaking in Italian. “My patience grows thin. I will ask you only once, Padre. Where is it?” The Father turned his hands palms up. “I don’t know what you mean.” The Gestapo officer shot him in the stomach. The Father looked down at the barrel, then up into the Nazi’s face, and then dropped to the ground. As his hands covered the wound, blood oozed from between his fingers. He lay there, breathing hard, not moving.
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Don Stansberry
The boys turned at the sound of the shot and let the ball roll away into a clump of weeds. They ran to the body of the Priest, ignoring the man who had shot him. The Gestapo Officer grabbed a small boy named Louis Dimitto. He held him by the scruff of his neck and placed the barrel of the Luger against the back of his skull. He wondered who was second in charge, scanning the group of boys. Whoever it is will speak up now. “Stop,” Vito Maslo said in Italian. The Gestapo officer smiled. “I will ask you the same question. Where is it?” Vito unconsciously glanced at the spot where he had hidden the Rugby ball. The look did not go unnoticed by the officer. Dragging a squirming Louis with one hand, he stepped across the path to the spot. He holstered the gun and bent to pick up the ball with one hand. Smiling bemusedly, he released Louis, who sprinted back to join the boys. The two German soldiers were interested in the ball, too. They left their rifles, which were leaning against the Rolls, and walked to the Gestapo officer. One of them produced a knife and they huddled around the ball, losing interest in their surroundings. Slicing the stitches and removing the stuffing around it, the officer pulled out an alabaster jar. Instantly, there were two sharp cracks and the soldiers crumpled to the ground, leaving the officer holding the jar. A dozen men in woodsmen’s clothing stepped out from behind trees into the light. Grimy, dirty, and looking like they belonged in the woods, they entered with weapons raised. A slight breeze blew through the trees, the echo of the shots lingered. The men moved in unison like wolves around the Gestapo officer who had just witnessed a complete reversal of control. “I will take that,” said one of the woodsmen. He wore a maroon beret and a thick wool vest and spoke Italian with a 11
Secret Blood: The Emmanuel Shepherd Story
French accent. Black hair curled from under the cap and the cuffs of his flannel shirt. The Gestapo officer’s eyes darted across the scene, searching for any escape from his predicament. He found none; he had no bargaining chips, no leverage. He handed the jar to the man in the beret. “Is there any type of deal that might interest you?” the Gestapo officer asked in French. “Perhaps we could barter for information in exchange for my life?” The man in the beret found the Rugby ball, replaced the stuffing, and placed the jar back when a shot exploded behind him. The woodsmen dropped to the ground as the Gestapo officer fell backward, his gray jacket turning a deep red in the center of his chest. The shooter stood behind them, the German soldier’s rifle still aimed. “He shouldn’t have killed a priest,” Vito Maslo said as he lowered the gun. An hour later, the torn seats were back in the Rolls Royce and the three Germans buried in shallow graves twenty meters from the path. Three of the woodsmen took the Rolls along with Father DeAngelo’s body and another three took the Fiat. The area where four men had been killed appeared as pristine as it had only a few hours before. How they were to use the cars, Vito Maslo would never know. “What happens to the Jar, now?” Vito asked the man in the beret. The man studied Vito, the boy who had killed a Gestapo officer. Could he be trusted? “We will travel by night, two weeks, keeping clear of the Germans and the Russians. Then we will rendezvous with the French Resistance.” “I thought you were the French Resistance,” Vito said. “We are the Order of the Dragon.” Vito considered this and decided now was no time for too many questions. 12
Don Stansberry
“Then,” the man continued, “you, the package, and your fellow choir members will be handed to the American military. All of you are going to America for safekeeping.” “I do not speak English,” Vito said. The man smiled. “You are young, you will learn. But I have heard they may make you change your name, or at least change some letters, so it sounds more American.” “And the Jar?” Vito asked. “Do not worry, my young friend; they already have a secure place in mind.” America, Vito pondered, the land of opportunity.
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