Book of Thomas

By Johnny B. Dunn

Night. DRIP! DRIP! Footsteps on the stone floor kept eerie time with the splat of dripping blood from a corpse dangling upside down from the cross over the altar. There is a murder in Prague. This activates the duties of THOMAS ADWELL, spokesperson for the office of the Holy See. An attractive man in his thirties, Thomas has spent ten years serving punishment and forced to wait for his confirmation as priest. On hold for his outspoken thoughts, he suspects that his church-imposed hold may be nearing an end as he is dispatched to handle a gruesome murder and a potential serial killer in Prague. He hopes if he can clean up the bad press, he will be released and given his collar.

Arriving, Thomas is whisked to the murder site where he meets KARINA KARLOVA, a beautiful businesslike adjunct for the Lord Mayor's office and DETECTIVE NOVAK, an arrogant sod with a one-track mind for crime in charge of the investigation. Three different agendas drive suspicion and tension. After seeing the crime scene, Thomas is taken to St. Vitus run by his former mentor and friend ARCHBISHOP SCARLETTI pushed up the ranks with his diplomatic demeanor and dedication to his church. A strained reunion since Scarletti played a role in Thomas' punishment. Thomas, not wanting to relive hurtful memories sets a press conference to do his job and get out.

JIRI SEMECKA, a young and determined artist and one in a group of ͞local radicals that protest the church, is picked up for the murder. During interrogation, he reveals a connection to Thomas. Jiri shows drawings he made referring to the lost gospels of Thomas the basis of Thomas' research that was hidden away, and his censor. These gospels, if revealed, would prove Mary Magdalene a disciple. therefor a founder of Christianity, creating turmoil for the Church.

Jiri reveals to Thomas a secret order of Gnostic Priests and that he has discovered the whereabouts of a surviving copy of the original papyrus hidden inside with the crown jewels in King Charles' Chamber, inside St. Vitus Cathedral. Entering requires SEVEN GOLD KEYS to open the door. Thomas embarks on a search with Jiri and Karina to find the keys.

During their quest, Karina finds herself all in unraveling the mystery with Thomas solidifying her unforgiveable lust for Thomas although he still vies to get his Priest's collar. Thomas struggles between what he thought was faith and what his heart felt was conviction for the truth no matter the power. He must fight and win to share that truth, so the world can think for themselves and find free will and not hold blind to the binds of religion.

Thomas soon realizes that the hunt for the serial killer and the keys are inexplicably linked. It's only through solving one that the truth for the other will come to light. He must actively work on both cases to find the scrolls no matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667886466

Book preview

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Book of Thomas

©2023 Johnny B. Dunn

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-66788-645-9

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66788-646-6

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 1

Rome, Italy

Although night had fallen, life filled the shadows and city lights of Rome. The distant horns of cars eked their way into the room. Light streamed through a window, casting the shadow of six panes on the floor of a simple and dark room within the compound of a monastery. The window in its old wooden frame hung crookedly from the shifts and settlement of many centuries. Cracked paint on the wood flaked in the corners. The walls of the room were finished with thick plaster made from the mud trod upon by saints.

Thomas Adwell, spin doctor for the Roman Catholic Church working in the office of the Holy See, lay on a single bed and stared at the ceiling. A woolen blanket covered the lower half of his bare torso. A silver chain dangled from his neck, the weight of two pendants hiding the charms within the sheets behind his shoulders. He scratched his belly beneath the itchy covering. Irritated and unable to sleep, he threw the blanket off to reveal his fit, but not overly muscular, build. Modest and plain white cotton briefs showed he was not a man concerned with fashionable labels.

Thomas turned on his side to avoid the light coming in from the window. One more toss and he decided he’d had enough. He jumped up from the bed, unlatched the window, and pushed it open. He leaned into the night, taking in the lights glowing on the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica not far in the distance. A light breeze moved the dark hair falling over his forehead. Moonlight bounced off the few strands of silver, revealing he’d turned the corner of thirty. Thomas inhaled deeply of the city’s warm air, enjoying the breeze as it once more brushed against his face. A stranger to this place, he relished the fresh air in contrast to the stale and old smell of his cell.

Thomas leaned into a dark doorway near the window. He reached in and slid his fingers along cold tiles until he found the light switch. With a click, energy efficient fluorescent bulbs revealed a small, sterile, and white-tiled bathroom. Last remodeled in what must have been the 1930s, the white porcelain sink floated on the wall with pipes exposed underneath. The essentials of a radiator, clawfoot tub, and an industrial commode reinforced the minimalist lifestyle of the monks who built it and lived there.

Thomas grabbed a threadbare hand towel and threw it over his shoulder. Turning on the faucet, he splashed water on his face and rubbed the warm water into his two-day old beard. Steam rose from the sink as he took one more splash and rubbed his tired eyes.

Leaning toward the mirror as it slowly fogged over, he looked at the redness in his eyes. They resembled the aftermath of a hard night’s drinking. Thomas would rather have had the bender instead of the long flight from New York across Europe, landing in Rome earlier that evening. His reflection faded away beneath the thick fog of steam. With a sour twist to his lips, Thomas thought his fading image manifested the empty feeling he had lately of losing himself and his direction. He looked down into the basin as the hot water swirled down the drain. He grabbed the stopper and shoved it in the hole. With a heavy sigh that mingled weariness of both body and spirit, Thomas leaned on the sink for support as he watched the hot water fill the sink.

Thomas pulled himself together, straightened, and reached toward a shelf for a can of shaving cream. He looked back at the mirror and gaped. Words appeared on the fogged glass: Seek and ye shall find. Thomas stared at them, with horror. Was it a message written by the previous tenant confirming his faith in God? Or did a guardian angel give Thomas encouragement? He shied away from the latter, even though he believed. In either case, he truly felt the message was for him.

He shut off the water. A slow drip from the old faucet created an eerie echo. Message taken. Thomas dipped his hand into the water and rubbed it over the mirror, removing the fog and the words. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his face into the water. If he allowed his beard to soak for a moment, then it would make the task of shaving less painful.

Under water, Thomas opened his eyes and watched the bathroom light stream through the water. The water over his ears muffled all sound but the slow drip from the leaky faucet. Bubbles passed by his eyes. The charms on Thomas’ necklace fell from behind his neck and dropped into the water. Thomas watched as a Star of David and a cross sank to the bottom. Like an eclipse, the light penetrating the water in the sink dimmed. Who or what was between the light and the sink? His curiosity turned to panic at the thought that someone stood behind him in the bathroom. Thomas pulled out of the water, shaking his head violently and sending a spray of water droplets around the small bathroom. He released stale air and took a gasping lungful of fresh. Thomas looked at the mirror, fogged up once again with the words Seek and ye shall find etched into the fog.

Thomas ran his fingers through his wet hair and pushed the short, wavy locks back. Rivulets of water streamed down his back over tense muscles and stopped at his briefs which soaked up the moisture. With the wet cotton clinging uncomfortably to his butt, Thomas looked around the simple bathroom and into the dark, adjoining bedroom. A dark shadow glided across the floor. His eyes widened. Was it good or was it evil? His thoughts raced. Almost in time with the drips, Thomas took a step. His bare feet made no sound on the cool bathroom tile. His toes curled from the fear of what might have been in the other room.

He paused at the entry to the bedroom. Again, a shadow crossed the room. He stepped into the bedroom and looked toward the window. Relief made Thomas chuckle when he saw a perfectly white dove pacing back and forth on the window sill.

With a rustle of wings, the dove flew into the room over his head. Thomas instinctively ducked. The dove alighted on a large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall – a simple relic carved from the trunk of an olive tree. It slowly rotated from the dove’s weight and gave way. Without so much as a coo, the dove took flight and flew out the window. Thomas followed the bird to the window, then closed and latched it. He looked back to the crucifix, now hanging upside down. Thomas, puzzled, walked to the crucifix and turned it right side up. He took the towel from his shoulder and wiped his wet hair without another thought of the dove or the crucifix.

Thomas returned to the bathroom, grabbed the shaving cream, and squirted the sharply scented foam into his palm. He spied a shadow out of the corner of his eye as he lathered the shaving cream over his face. He jerked around and faced the bedroom, listening intently for any sound in the other room. His breath and the drips of the water in the sink filled his ears. Suddenly, he heard a click. He gently set the can down and walked to the bedroom, that time charging through fear.

Inside the room, Thomas looked around, peering at the closed window and then into every corner. No wandering dove. He yanked back a heavy tapestry hanging from rings; it served as a door for a small closet. He looked inside, finding only naked hangers moving and clanging from the sudden reveal. Nothing there. But something had caught his eye. An intellectual man, Thomas wasn’t prone to seeing things that weren’t really there. He looked at the door to his room. The doorknob turned and the door opened.

In haste, Thomas looked for some sort of a weapon. It was a dormitory, for God’s sake. He opted for a wooden hanger in the closet and held it above his head. A dark figure stepped into the doorway and turned on the light. A monk, Brother Michael, stood stunned in the doorway, wearing a traditional tunic and a beaded rosary around his waist. His widened eyes inspected Thomas who faced him, naked except for his briefs, a hand full of shaving cream in one hand, a hanger in the other. Water in Thomas’ hair dripped, streaking through the lather on his face.

Brother Michael stammered, I—I’m sorry Thomas. I didn’t mean to disturb... His voice faded off, embarrassed by the state of things.

It’s okay. Is there something I can do for you? Brother Michael, isn’t it? Thomas tried to keep the awkwardness to a minimum. He returned the hanger to the closet and used the hand towel to wipe the shaving cream from his hand.

Brother Michael gladly accepted the other man’s civil offer to ignore their shared discomfiture. I heard your door close and someone walking down the hallway. I wondered if you had left. Now I see you have not. That means... Brother Michael hesitates, ready to drop the hammer on Thomas. We are not allowed guests, not at night, and especially for acts of...

Fear fading into annoyance at both the absurdity of himself and the monk’s unjustified innuendo, Thomas cut him off before Brother Michael jumped to the wrong conclusion. As you mentioned when I checked in earlier. I’m not sure what you heard, but it was not my room. Maybe one of the brothers stepped out?

No one else is on this floor but you and me, I’m afraid, Brother Michael clarified.

Afraid that makes two of us. Thomas tried to lighten the mood and ease tension by toying with Michael, inviting him to share in the joke, poor as it was. Maybe one of brothers who used to stay here? Thomas’ mouth stretched into an unconvincing smile.

Ghosts? Please, no more guests or ghosts entertained after dark.

Of course not. I would never—nor did I—have someone in my room. Especially dressed like this. Thomas, realized the discomfort he has created for them both, dropped his hands to cover his crotch.

Without offering further discomfort, Brother Michael quickly turned his back to Thomas and paused in the doorway, one hand on the jamb.

Is there anything you need? Brother Michael offered rote hospitality with clenched teeth.

No, I’m good.

Brother Michael stepped through the doorway and grabbed the knob to pull it behind him. Impulsively, Thomas stopped him before he shut the door.

There is one thing. Do you know why Cardinal Bizzelli asked me here? I had just finished the assignment in London and was not even back a day in New York before he had me hop a plane here. Thomas looked around the room and grabbed his pants. He pulled them on as Brother Michael responded.

He said you are to do three days of prayer, and then he will see you to discuss your penitence.

Ignoring his uncomfortably damp backside—damned if he would strip all the way and dry himself in front of the other man—Thomas buckled his belt. His expression brightened with enthusiasm. It’s not a penitence, but a leave of absence. Does he plan to end it?

Brother Michael responded in an acid tone as he shut the door behind him, Not likely, by the look of things.

After a moment during which he took the opportunity to draw deep, cleansing breaths and compose himself, Thomas stepped to the door, opened it a crack, and listened for the click of Michael’s door two rooms down. He heard it and looked out into the hall. Thomas looked toward the other end of the hallway and caught the glimpse of a human shadow disappear around the corner. That was obviously not a dove. Thomas closed his door. He wiped the shaving cream from his face, grabbed a shirt, and dressed as quickly as he was able. He needed to get out of there. Now.

Thomas hobbled out of the monastery, securing his second shoe on his foot. Disheveled, he wore Dockers, a pullover knit shirt, and a jacket. Even in winter, Rome was mild. He looked up and down the old street. Taxis raced by. One slowed and Thomas waved it on. He preferred to walk. Besides, he had no idea where he was going: he had hoped to track a shadow to discover whom it belonged to and why it was in his room. But, no one was on the street, except for the occasional taxi carrying nighttime revelers and tourists. Thomas paused for a moment and realized that he may have been chasing a ghost, real or metaphorical.

After a long trip without much sleep, hallucinations would not have been out of the question.

Thomas was too wired to go back to bed, let alone kick off the three days of prayer that were clearly expected of him. He headed off down the street and noticed the lights of a bar in a nearby hotel. Thomas crossed the street and entered. After the past two days, he wanted a drink.

The bar was a typical hotel bar with little character. He looked around and noticed a handful of tourists, mostly business types. Thomas took a seat at the bar and waved to the bartender. The bartender dropped a napkin down on the countertop. Thomas laid his hand on the napkin and ordered: I’ll have a gin and tonic.

Thomas watched the bartender pour when a hand grasped Thomas on the shoulder. Stiffening with unpleasant surprise, Thomas swiveled around.

Of all the people I should run into. The man spoke with a German accent. He took a seat next to Thomas and called out to the bartender, Put that on my tab. The man stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture. It’s great to see you, Father Thomas Adwell. But, where’s the collar? Are you stepping out incognito?

Actually... Thomas tries to get a word in even as he shook the man’s hand.

Oh, of course, it’s Rome. Priests are a dime a dozen. You never were a sheep-–instead unique.

Funny. Dr. Steinman, how have you been? I see you finally crawled out of that dig in Egypt.

Steinman laughed and slapped Thomas on the back. Please, call me Heinrich. It must be ten years since we spoke last.

The bartender delivered the gin and tonic for Thomas and another for the good doctor. They both drank and savored the tastes of pine, lime, and quinine.

Steinman broke the short silence with an unwelcome question. So, really, where’s the collar?

Thomas downed his drink to give himself a little time to think of an answer that won’t offend his old comrade or reveal his own shame. It’s a long story. What brings you to Rome?

Can you believe they’re giving me access to the Vatican’s archives? I suppose the work I did in Jerusalem for the Church was helpful. Scratch my back and me yours, you know that sort of thing.

Thomas nodded in agreement. I appreciated what you did for me. I suppose I owe you one.

Steinman gave Thomas a coy look. Seekers of the truth are always among friends. Say, did you ever find what you were looking for?

Painful memory shadowed Thomas’ face. Thank you for the drink. I better get back to the dormitory before they lock me out for the evening.

Thomas stands puts out his hand and the doctor reluctantly shakes it.

I’m sorry if I offended. I hate to see you go after we just found each other again. If you’re here for a few days, look me up. I’m staying here. I would love to learn more about your research.

Heinrich, thanks again. Unfortunately, it was dead before it began.

Heinrich grabbed Thomas’ arm before he could leave. Of course it’s dead, it’s history. That is, until we bring it to life once more. Never give up.

Heinrich signaled the bartender to bring Thomas another drink. Thomas noticed and politely excused himself again. Thank you, but I should be going.

Heinrich sighed and smiled, That’s what they all say. Besides, I don’t want you to go until I share something with you.

The bartender delivered the drink. Thomas took a long swallow in hope the act would spur Heinrich to share and eliminate the anticipation. His stomach churned in protest.

I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. She was a very kind woman and so proud of you.

Thomas downed the rest of his gin and tonic and knew he’d probably regret drinking on an empty stomach. Nice of you to say, since all I seemed to do was disappoint her.

My dear boy, she was never disappointed in you. Please know that to be true.

Thomas choked back tears, muttered a thank-you—although why, he wasn’t sure—and darted out of the bar. Heinrich wiped a tear from his face because he, too, missed Thomas’ mother and his heart ached for the younger man’s pain. Once composed, he rejoined his friends.

Returning directly to the monastery, Thomas walked slowly down the hallway on his floor, caressing the Star of David dangling from his necklace. He looked at his watch. It was 1:30 a.m. He still had difficulty adjusting to the time change. Jet lag. He noticed Brother Michael’s door slightly open.

Brother Michael, are you still up? Thomas called out in a loud whisper so as not to wake any ghosts residing in the empty rooms. Brother Michael’s door slammed shut. Thomas mumbled to himself, the words as sour as his indigestion, How about a little brotherly love?

Thomas entered his tomb of a room where he would remain for the next three days. He would have preferred to stay at a hotel with nonjudgmental staff. However, the Church owned so much real estate all over the world that it was hard to justify the request. He clicked on the light and moved to the dresser, picked up his rosary, and began to finger the beads and pray to himself.

Lips moving silently to the words of each prayer, he turned and saw a monk’s tunic laid out on his bed like a corpse at a funeral. Setting down the rosary, he stripped down to his briefs and tried it on. Under the tunic lay the cincture, a leather belt to be tied at the waist. Thomas looked at it and smirked.

He called out as he neatly hung his clothes in the tiny closet, Brother Michael, I know you can hear me. Is the cincture necessary? I know you would prefer I gird my loins with the belt of chastity, however unnecessary.

Thomas stopped and listened for a response. What he got was not predicted, the scurrying of feet away from his door back down the hallway.

Thomas dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. He glanced up at the crucifix on the wall. Again, it hung upside down, puzzling and disturbing to Thomas. He closed his eyes and continued his prayers.

Chapter 2

Prague, Czech Republic

The golden glow of Prague Castle reflected on the lazy, nearly smooth surface of the river it overlooked. In the Old Town Square, the famed astronomical clock chimed, its sonorous tones hailing midnight as one day ended and another began. Facing the square, moonlight filtering through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows cast a weak glow. The ghostly colors stretched across the stark interior and the pensive face of a nun walking through the main chapel. Drip, drip, drip. The click of her footsteps on the stone floor kept eerie time with the splat of dripping blood. She recognized the coppery scent, along with other, more putrid odors.

She took notice of the sound that should not have been there and her steps slowed. She needed more light, but turning on the switches would surely bring down condemnation for wasting electricity. A few steps aside brought her to the sacristy where she pulled a large white candle from a supply cabinet. Fumbling with cold hands because stone churches did not hold in heat well in winter, she lit it. Holding it up, she approached the altar, footsteps now slow and nearly silent as the steady dripping sound rang loudly in her ears. From habit and respect and faith, she bowed toward the altar and the tabernacle behind it, then genuflected.

Set upon the altar was a chalice, the archbishop’s chalice, a thing of heavy beauty made of gold and studded with gems, nothing like the plain cup of an ancient carpenter, but a vessel worthy of holding the blood of Christ. She gulped down a lump of anxiety, because the chalice should have been safely locked away with the cruets and ciborium. Such precious items attracted the avarice of thieves.

The chalice meant to contain the blood of Christ did indeed hold blood. It overflowed the golden rim, trickling in a thick, darkly red, sluggish stream over the gleaming lip to pool on the once-pristine altar cloth. The blood traced a profane streak across the altar and over the altar’s edge where it collected in another sticky pool on the floor. Other malodorous substances also stained the altar cloth.

A practical corner of the nun’s mind noted that they’d never get the stains out of the white linen altar cloth; it would have to be burned. Holding the candle close to the desecration, she looked up to see from where the blood dripped into the overflowing chalice...to a hand. Blood coated the hand from the wound where its thumb should have been. The coppery smell of blood, the telltale aroma of voided bowels and bladder, and the sight of exposed bone and muscle turned her stomach. The nun’s lips pressed into a thin line as she held firmly to her faith in God and her responsibility to the Church. Trembling, she followed the arm to its source and her mouth gaped open again.

She raised the candle higher to see the man whose expression was forever locked in a rictus of horror set in his final moments of life. She saw the ligatures binding him to the holy canopy above the altar. The breath in her lungs hissed explosively when she spied the thin wire cutting into the flesh of his neck like a dull garrote. A gurgle rose in her throat. She swallowed it, knowing better than to contaminate a crime scene, no matter how grisly. The gurgle rose again and that time she let it loose.

The candle fell from her hand as her screams echoed throughout the vast space, acoustics sending the sounds back and amplifying them. The candle, dented from its impact with the stone floor, rolled and the flame guttered out, leaving her enveloped in moonlit darkness and horrified distress.

Her screams brought the slap of footsteps, the murmured prayers and muttered imprecations of her sisters, and, eventually, the first of many hot cups of tea to soothe the horror from her memory. Then came the police with their flashing cameras and their staccato questions, their cold eyes and disbelief, their veiled accusations and prying technicians, turning desecration into public spectacle. The media followed with ghoulish interest and utter disregard for holy ground. They, too, brought the harsh flash of cameras, questions loaded with innuendo and accusation, and a distasteful flamboyance that exacerbated the spectacle into a circus of horror.

In another part of the golden capital of the Czech Republic, a