Absolution The Singularity: The Final Solution to God, Guilt and Grief?

By Craige McMillan

Pope Pious is not whom he appears to be. He is traveling from Switzerland to a remote orphanage in Brazil under an assumed name—because the church hierarchy in South America wants him gone. But someone even more important has given him this assignment.

Odessa is in love with an admiral. His ships, far off the coast of Alaska, fly n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Revelare
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946047052

Craige McMillan

Craige McMillan is an American writer. He grew up in the rolling farmland and small towns of the Midwest, which served farmers and provided railroad transportation for their crops. His family later moved to southern California. There he finished high school and met the girl who would become his wife. They both attended college, where he studied history during the social turbulence of the early 1970s. He followed the same route to novel writing that many other authors have taken. He wrote articles, news stories, and later worked in signals intelligence overseas during the Cold War. When he returned to the United States, he worked in large-scale computer systems where he did programming, database design, computer security and disaster recovery. Craige now lives in what is still cowboy country, the high desert American West, with his wife of forty-some years, and a Belgian Shepherd, to whom he reads his first drafts.

Book preview

PART I: MANKIND

CHAPTER 1

Martinez slipped into Madam Editor’s office at the Margolis, closing the door behind him only partially. She looked up from her desk. Her eyes told him. Their relationship had changed. She was in love!

She smiled at him. What have you got? she asked.

Martinez took a deep breath. They might be lovers, but she was still the managing editor of one of São Paulo’s largest newspapers—and his employer. 

I think we should take the afternoon off, he said.

Business…or pleasure? she asked. Then she smiled.

I have an address. For the mother and the girl, Martinez said.

Madam Editor’s face turned pale, although not the ashen pale of that first morning when the story began. Oh, my! she whispered. Yes. She reached into her purse and handed Martinez her keys. You know where the BMW is parked, she said. I’ll tell the newsroom editor that we will be out. Nothing more.

Madam Editor rolled her chair out from behind her large desk, rose from the chair and slipped her business jacket over her shoulders. Then she grabbed her purse. With a quick smile she slid between Martinez and the desk. Her body pressed ever so gently against him as she squeezed through. He smiled at her as she walked out of her office. This is either the biggest debacle, or the biggest break of my young life, the reporter thought.

Martinez was waiting in Madam Editor’s black BMW in the parking garage. It sat in a reserved spot between two building pillars that protected the door and next to the elevator that led up to the newspaper’s offices above. You can’t fall for her, Martinez thought. She’s old enough to be… 

The passenger door opened. She looked ten years younger when she smiled at him! She slipped into the seat. He glanced at her curves. She smiled as she noticed him looking. You are so damn hot! he whispered, as he turned the starter and the BMW came to life.

Madam Editor was old enough to know when a compliment should be graciously—and silently received. Not to mention joyously. Where are we going? she asked.

The western outskirts of São Paulo, Martinez said.

It was nine in the morning. Traffic was light for the downtown. The sunshine was warm and bright. Martinez was a skilled driver. Madam Editor relaxed, despite the undercurrent of excitement. She reclined her seat slightly to take in more of the sun filtering in through the tinted passenger window and sunroof. 

The drive through the downtown’s outer ring and the residential portions that came afterward took about thirty-five minutes. Then residential housing thinned to rural. Here the houses looked old, but came with just a bit more land. 

Martinez handed Madam Editor a small piece of paper. It’s an apartment building, nothing flashy.

Maybe that’s it up there, she said, pointing to a drab gray building with a reddish roof.

Martinez slowed down as they passed by. He pulled over to the side of the road, let a car behind pass, and then turned around, heading back. This time he turned into the long driveway. Parking spaces near the building weren’t marked, so he nosed the car around pointing out of the lot, just in case they had to make a quick exit. Not everyone liked talking to reporters.

Madam Editor, reading his thoughts, said, We’re both reporters. We just heard rumors. She looked at Martinez. He nodded, yes. The Cordozo family is not to be trifled with, she added.

Martinez had heard that phrase repeatedly, and not only from Madam Editor. He wondered how one family that no one seemed to know anything about could be so powerful. But that was another story, for another time. Let’s go check on our rumors, he said.

The pair got out of the BMW and walked toward the building entrance. The car acknowledged the lock command from the key fob. Martinez pocketed the keys. He opened the door for Madam Editor. Then he followed her inside.

The brilliant sunlight was left outside as the heavy door swung closed behind them. Ahead was a long, blue-gray hallway with too few fluorescent lights up along either wall near the ceiling. Apartment doors lined the right and left side of the hallway in close proximity to one another.

One-one-three is the number, Martinez said, looking to his left. It will be on your side. He glanced at Madam Editor. He read the apartment numbers on his side as they got closer to their destination. One-oh-eight…one-ten…one-twelve.

They stopped in front of the door labeled one-thirteen. Martinez reached to knock on the door. Madam Editor stopped him. A woman’s knock is less threatening, she said softly. She knocked gently on the door.

They heard footsteps inside. Oh, God! Madam Editor whispered. The footsteps paused on the other side of the door. Madam Editor could feel the scrutiny through the keyhole in the door. Madera Nachez, Madam Editor called out pleasantly, using her real name. I’m here about the paper.

The door swung open into the apartment. A tired, thin woman stood just behind the door. I don’t think we take it, she said.

Martinez smiled at the woman. She smiled back. Good looks had their advantage. We actually work for the paper, he said. Could we come in for a moment? He smiled profusely.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. I suppose so, she said. They stepped inside. The woman closed the door. Several large cardboard boxes were stacked neatly against the wall near the door. Another larger box was open, probably being filled with belongings.

We’re moving, the woman said. I don’t think we ever took the paper.

All three adults heard footsteps coming from another room inside the apartment. Mom, do you want to take this? A girl appeared in the doorway, then stopped. She held an arrangement of paper flowers in one hand.

Oh, God in heaven! Madera whispered.

Abigail looked curiously at the woman. Martinez caught her attention. You’re Abigail Salinez, aren’t you? he asked.

Abigail took a deep sigh. Yes, she said softly. And you’re not here about the newspaper subscription.

Please…I’m the managing editor of the Margolis newspaper, Madera said, looking into the woman’s eyes. This is the reporter to whom Dr. Hulos gave his account of the story…after the operation. She chose her words carefully.

Martinez inserted himself into the conversation. Mrs. Salinez, we’re not here to divulge your location or your identity. That will never be given to anyone. We just…

You want to talk to me, don’t you? Mia said from across the room. The girl walked cautiously toward the three adults.

Please, if we could, Madera said.

Abigail seemed resigned. She nodded toward the sofa and chairs that were part of the apartment and were not moving with them. The group walked to the furniture and sat down, Madera and Martinez on the sofa, Abigail in the worn, padded chair, and Mia on a spare kitchen chair that she had dragged over so she could be with the adults.

Dr. Hulos gave me a written account of the operation, Martinez said gently. I called him and he verified the information before we published. But now he is changing his story. And this account is so incredible…

Impossible? Abigail asked.

Yes, Madera said softly. Could you tell us…

Not for the paper, Abigail said quickly.

OK, I will honor that, Madera said. Just for ourselves, then. To print such a story as we already have—and then to have it turn out to be something else—as the doctor now contends…I have to know. Was what we printed true?

Mia was born with a bad heart, Abigail said. It made her sickly and small for most of her young life. A certain benefactor who cares very much about children found out about her need. He secretly paid for an operation. Dr. Hulos said the operation would go well. It did not.

What happened? Madera asked, very gently, now treading on eggshells.

I died, Mia said, speaking up. She looked directly into Madera’s eyes.

How do you know? Madera asked.

I felt pressure on the operating table. No pain, but Dr. Hulos held something he removed from me up for the others to see. It was my heart. They began talking medical talk. Then there was yelling and shouting as the heart they were going to put into me was found to be bad. I drifted away.

Madera and Martinez were trying to absorb what had been said. 

Sister Inez, from my school, Martinez whispered.

Both Mia and Abigail looked at Martinez as the Catholic connection became clear.

She was the Mother Superior at the school where I went as a kid, Martinez said. She told my mother at a conference that I was destined to do great things…

Madera steered the conversation back to the girl and the operation. But during the operation you were hooked up to a machine, Mia. The doctors must have found another heart, Madera offered.

Mia looked as if she was remembering something, her eyes moving around the room. The doctor… she whispered. She looked at Madera. He said there was no suitable heart available. The machine was needed for another operation. He told the doctor working the machine to turn it off. 

Mia looked quizzically at Madera. I didn’t remember that before… she whispered.

I was dead, Mia continued. I went to another place…a wonderful place! There were other children. I could run! I’d never been able to do that. She looked around the room as if acknowledging others who were present. 

A man came to see me in that place, Mia continued. He knew the woman who was watching the other little girls. He told me I had to come back. Mia looked toward the empty chairs around the kitchen table and smiled. She looked back at Martinez and Madera. When I came back, my body felt stiff.

Madera was having difficulty breathing. If this is true… she whispered.

I was cold and couldn’t move. Then warmth surged through my body, Mia said. I felt someone holding my hand. Mia turned to her mother. You were praying for my soul, kneeling at the foot of my bed. 

Mia looked at Madera. Come, she said softly. I want you to see. Put your hand on the scar from the operation.

Madera got up from the sofa and walked cautiously the few steps over to Mia. It is OK, I will show you, the girl said. Mia shrugged her shoulders free of the pale yellow dress she wore. It dropped down around her waist. She was naked underneath.

Madera stared at the scar that ran the length of Mia’s breastbone. 

You can touch it, Mia said softly. Then she added, Here, give me your hand.

Madera slowly extended her hand toward Mia’s naked torso. The girl took the adult hand in her child’s hand and placed it over her heart, directly on the scar. 

Heartbeat… Madera whispered. Warmth…

Martinez read a long number from the note he held in his hand. He looked at his small audience. That is the number assigned to Mia’s heart by the national pathology laboratory.

Madera began to weep. I’m sorry… she whispered, trying to wipe away her tears with her free hand. I’m touching…you don’t know…you’re the impossible child! You can’t be here. Yet you are.

Mia looked at Martinez. It’s OK, she said, if you want to touch me also. The young reporter rose from the sofa and walked cautiously over to Mia. He held out his hand. Mia’s other small hand took his and placed it on her chest, right on the scar and just above Madera’s hand.

Mother of God! Martinez whispered, feeling the heartbeat and warmth beneath his cold hand. You must be what the Mother Superior spoke of to my mother. His mind struggled to absorb the heartbeat he felt underneath his hand and what it meant. He pulled his hand away and dropped to one knee, so he would be at Mia’s eye level. They were the eyes of a child, but deep inside them he saw something beyond the here and now. How do you know William Bradshaw, the revival preacher who came from America? he asked gently.

Mia looked directly into Martinez’ eyes. He raised me from the dead, she said.

Oh my God! Madera whispered. She looked at Martinez. For a time he wondered if she was even present in her body. Her gaze had become almost vacant. Her mind, normally processing everything, always asking questions, suggesting alternative explanations, seemed to have left her.

You promised, Abigail said, suddenly, breaking the trance. Not a word to anyone. Ever. I hold you both to that.

CHAPTER 2

Papa Cordozo puffed only occasionally on what remained of his Cuban cigar. It went out a little more each time he set it in the ashtray on the end table next to his recliner, just underneath the dim table lamp. Papa picked up his glass of port. He sipped it thoughtfully.

Doctor Mendenez had been with Papa for many years. He was trustworthy—to the extent that his madness permitted it. He had always done what Papa had asked…and been well rewarded for it. Papa reflected that the doctor’s Hippocratic oath did not seem to get in the way of his loyalty to Papa on the various missions on which Mendenez had accompanied him.

Still, the more people who knew…Mendenez was mad. But I need him, Papa thought. The evidence was very strong: The U.S. Secretary of Defense had ordered the destruction of the Tristan, while Papa’s daughter, his new son-in-law and the ship’s crew were all on board. And on what evidence? The Tristan had never carried a single ounce of the illicit drugs Mr. SecDef was so concerned about! Address the demand problem in your own country, and your drug problem will disappear, Papa thought.

Hypocrites? Yes. But this attack had reached well beyond the usual American initiatives, as they were referred to among those in the business. Papa gritted his teeth. He was old; he no longer cared about himself. But the attempted murder of his family could not go unpunished. That was the law Papa had always lived by. Not even an American official. The man needed to be held accountable. The cost no longer matters, Papa thought. He jolted in his recliner as the wine glass broke in his hand from his tightening grip.

Papa rose from his chair and walked to the small bar in his study. He rinsed the port and the shards of glass off his hand and shirt sleeve as he held them over the bar sink. He saw no blood on his hand or clothing, so he had not been cut by the breaking glass. 

Papa had reached his decision. The worst was now over. He found the small vacuum he kept in his study. The broken glass had to be cleaned up. The maid would find it and tell Mama. Mama would know its meaning. Papa did not wish that. He ran the vacuum himself. Then he carefully removed the vacuum bag and disposed of it in the trash outside the house.

CHAPTER 3

It was a bright and cheerful morning outside, but Dr. Mendenez rarely experienced cheer anymore. He lived alone. It was a decent São Paulo neighborhood. Yet his life was not what he had expected it would be in his retirement years. He had not been a licensed physician in many years. The government had seen to that after one too many botched operations. But he still doctored his friends’ ailments. He performed the occasional medical procedure. One did what one had to do to go on.

The telephone near his breakfast nook rang. Few people any longer had the number; fewer still called. The doctor rose from his breakfast, walked over and picked up the receiver. Yes, he responded. Mendenez recognized both the voice and the words. 

The Al-Anon meeting has been moved to Thursday, the man on the phone said. Might I be able to catch a ride with you?

Thursday? Mendenez said. Just a moment. Yes, I can do that. The usual place and time?

Thank you, said the voice. The line went dead. It had been a long time since Doctor Mendenez had met with Papa Cordozo.

Doctor Mendenez was tidying the banana shrubbery in his front yard when the black limousine pulled up to the curb in front of his driveway. He dropped the flower clippings into a trash container, checked that the front door was locked, and got into the front passenger seat of the limousine. Thank you for the lift, he said to the driver. The man, in his early thirties, nodded. The car pulled away and headed down toward the city.

In about fifteen minutes they pulled into the parking lot of a large, chain-sponsored restaurant. The lunch crowd was beginning to arrive. The driver stopped to let Mendenez out near the covered front entrance. 

Mendenez walked inside. He spotted Papa Cordozo, sitting in a booth framed by a pair of pleasant view windows that served the booths on either side Papa’s chosen place. The doctor walked over to the booth. Papa smiled, and nodded toward the empty seat across from him. Mendenez seated himself. 

The men exchanged pleasantries. I have already ordered lunch for both of us, Papa said. He looked up past Mendenez. Ah, perhaps this is our food now. A busy waitress delivered the dishes and quickly left. Papa looked at Mendenez. Busy is good, he said.

Papa took a bite of his bife acebolado. He chewed slowly, simply to become further accustomed to the surroundings. Then he looked pleasantly at Mendenez. I think perhaps it is time for a vacation, he said. My family is otherwise occupied, but I should like a traveling companion.

I think a vacation would be enjoyable, said Mendenez. I have found myself in the doldrums lately. Perhaps a change of scenery might revive me.

Is your schedule still flexible? Papa asked.

Very, said Mendenez. He turned his attention to his lunch. In a few bites he asked, Do you still require the presence of a doctor when you travel?

Yes, I have been advised of that, said Papa.

Ah, well that will be good then, said Mendenez. I will let you make the arrangements.

I will be happy to do so, said Papa.

The two men discussed nothing further about the arrangements. In the midst of the heavy lunch crowd they discussed the weather and other trivialities. Dr. Mendenez found himself looking forward to a trip away from home. His travels with Papa had always been…interesting.

Papa felt things falling into place. He had another luncheon engagement later this week regarding travel arrangements. 

CHAPTER 4

Papa Cordozo stared at the third glass of port he held gently between his hands as he sat in his study. Smoke spiraled upward from the ashtray where he had parked a nearly consumed cigar. Once above the lamp shade, the smoke disappeared into the dark shadows of Papa’s study, where it pooled just below the ceiling. Papa sat in the recliner nearest the door. 

Contrary to what Mama always told him, the third glass almost always gave him greater clarity regarding the matter under consideration. Now he was considering the various alternatives available to him.

No one else knew—or would ever be permitted to know—the ultimate target of this excursion. Since the truth could not be known by any of those assisting him, Papa focused his attention on developing a credible scenario that would not be linked to the true mission. There were two that came to mind.

The United States Eastern Seaboard was the largest and most profitable illegal drug market in North America. Those who wished to alter their mental state from the reality of what their lives had become generally had the means to pay, and pay handsomely. Investment bankers, the attorneys who served them, sometimes their clients, senior politicians and senior civil servants. In rare instances even the old-money elite turned to mind-altering drugs, although alcohol was their usual choice. 

The clients Papa’s network served generally had enough mental horsepower under harness so that their job performance did not become an issue. They valued discretion. In almost all cases the positions these clients held protected them from undue scrutiny by ordinary police. Sometimes, however, drug task forces intruded. These were the rare cases in which Papa might become directly involved. His associates knew this. So did his special contacts. This would be the best cover for this specific operation.

Papa took several thoughtful sips of port. The liquid coated his tongue and the inside of his mouth before he released it and let it slip down his throat. As he admired the port he turned the glass in his hands, watching the cut crystal shards of light play across two walls where they met to form the dark corner of his study. 

Market competition Papa did not became involved in, preferring to leave those matters to his associates. This they usually handled to his satisfaction. He remained a major player in the market. 

Attempts by new distributors to establish a foothold had been for the most part unsuccessful, usually due to the cost. But Papa had heard persistent rumors. These went beyond the age-old games played with the various government drug and intelligence agencies, where agents tried to play suppliers off against one another, then confiscated and finally parceled out the captured product. None of these games had thus far penetrated beyond the middle level of any of the operations of which Papa had knowledge.

But something…Papa took another sip of the port and resumed watching the colored lights from the cut crystal spin across the wall. Something here was different…of that Papa was sure. As to what it was…a fourth glass of port would not help. And he was