Peter Johnson had his sleeves rolled up. He was hunched over a table in the FBI library, jotting down neat, organized notes on an array of yellow legal pads. His eyes were focused and his breathing was soft and measured.
The craziness had finally subsided, now that he was back on the case. He’d been afraid that he would spiral down into torment and nightmares and be swallowed up by fear and paranoia, but diving into the case again proved to have the opposite effect. It was therapeutic, restoring the sharp edge of his earlier days. He was coming back from the darkness and he liked the way it felt. He hadn’t slept so well in years.
He had been tirelessly following a thin data trail all day long that wound through stacks of reference volumes, CD-ROMS, microfiche newspaper articles and parish records. It was twilight in New Orleans, and the scent of jambalaya kept drifting in from down the hall. Every time the entry door of the library swung open, the scent wafted toward his table. Someone on the floor was feasting on take-out and the pungent aroma was making him hungry.
There was an open Bible on the table at his elbow, and the notepad on which he wrote Mas’ license plate number – 1184 – served as a bookmark. Beside the Bible was one of several legal pads that he had spread across his workspace. “Bible Codes” was written across the top binding of one of them, in bold block letters. On the top sheet was a list of codes, where he found the numbers in the Bible, and what their hidden meanings were, all of it written in a neat, disciplined hand.
504. New Orleans area code. “The return of Jesus.”
1147. Fareed Aly’s address. “The will of God.”
There were four more items below those two, but Johnson was compiling another list now, and he wanted to finish it before dinner, on a pad labeled “Branding Victims.” So far, there were ten items on victims list. He wrote the eleventh with his black pen:
11. Fareed Aly. Bayou Memorial Clinic. 12-25-76.
Then with a light pencil, he added another name:
12. Jean Paul Eden. Bayou Memorial Clinic. 12-25-76.
He glanced at his Bible code list. There was an entry that might apply to Eden: 5810. Church of the Rebirth address. “The Father sent the Son to be the savior of the world.”
There were thirteen babies born that night, however, not twelve. If Eden did become the next victim, Johnson strongly suspected that he wouldn’t be the last.
There were other items on the Bible code list that could be pointing to Eden. Then again, they could be indicating someone else. Bible codes were tricky in that regard, and after all this time Johnson still wasn’t sure what to make of the matrix, but he did have faith that the answer could be found somewhere, somehow. He pondered the next two entries.
5040. Clinic address. “The beginning of Earth’s great Millennium, the time of Jesus’ return.”
2112. Bonneville license plate. “A virgin shall conceive and bear a child, and shall call his name Emmanuel.”
He didn’t even want to think about the last entry on the list. Not yet. It was too much of a stretch, even for a mind like his, and he refused to leap to the conclusion it was enticing him toward. There was still an objective piece of the puzzle that was missing, perhaps several, which had to be found first. Without that, he would be taking a leap of faith rather than dispassionately pursuing a lead.
As much as he believed, and as much as he wanted to believe, he was honor-bound to construct a case with at least some semblance of rational, interlocking facts. His cheat sheet of Bible codes was adventurous enough and would never become part of the official file. It was his leg up, but he didn’t want it to be his undoing.
He turned to the desktop computer and scrolled through a file of old newspaper articles on a CD-ROM. The PC was a relic of the Nineties and chunked along in fits and starts. The vintage CRT monitor was the size of an engine block and crowded the table. The librarian already got her new Mac. Johnson idly wondered when all the Macs would be delivered for the rest of the place. With his luck, probably the day after he was done...
He stopped on the headline of a tabloid article that he missed the day before. MIRACLES NEVER CEASE! Dead Woman Found In Car – Virgin With Emergency C-Section? Johnson knew that tabloid journalists were either go-getters or hacks, sometimes both, and sometimes in the same article. He always took what they said with a big grain of salt, even though the folklore of the Bureau suggested that agents secretly treated the tabloids like they were the gospel truth. The well-thumbed sleeves of the tabloid CD-ROMs in the archive file cabinets were a testament to the rumor.
He scanned the article, filtering out the obvious nonsense while trying to determine if there was anything of substance underneath. He suddenly stopped, staring down at the keyboard as his mind began racing. The article was crap, but it did get him thinking. About what exactly, he didn’t know just yet; he let his thoughts run free and waited to see what would happen. They usually lit on something interesting if he exercised enough patience...
Got it.
He popped open the CD drawer, dropped a different one in the tray, and closed it. After several seconds, the splash screen of the Bayou Press appeared. The CD held an archive of the rural paper’s daily output from 1975-1980.
Johnson typed 12/26/76 in the search window and hit Enter. After several more seconds, the old 386 poked around on the CD and found the December 26th morning edition. He scrolled through several articles detailing the aftermath of the tornado, the cleanup efforts, the Christmas spirit of the community, yadda yadda yadda. On the bottom of page 14, he finally found what he was looking for.
Church Orphanage Takes In Abandoned Baby.
He leaned in close and carefully read the article, and as he did, his lips began to tremble. He sensed that he was getting closer.
“...the Church spokesman explained that according to state law, they will put the infant up for adoption, but that the Church orphanage would be glad to keep the child if suitable parents could not be found after the required 90-day period expires.”
From his earlier research, Johnson knew that back in those days the state of Louisiana required an orphanage or an adoption agency to wait ninety days from the recorded date of birth for the parents or kin to present themselves. After that, if no one claimed the child, the baby was legally considered abandoned and could be adopted, assigned to a private orphanage or deemed to be a ward of the state. The infants were jocularly known as ninety-day wonders.
He finished the article and went back to the splash screen. He typed “...baby...” in the search window, selected “By Title,” and hit Enter.
Several articles were listed. He scanned the results and selected one from the March 25, 1978 edition. Miracle Baby Finds Home.
Johnson skimmed the article, and finally found what he was looking for at the bottom of the first page. “...the child, now approximately one year old, will be legally adopted by...”
“Approximately,” he breathed. The operative word was ‘approximately,’ he realized. That was the key! Johnson clicked the Next button.
The top of the second page appeared and he saw the rest of the sentence, which essentially consisted of the proud family’s name, where they lived, and what the breadwinner did to make ends meet.
As Johnson stared at the information, every nerve ending in his body began to tingle. Despite all of his methodical research, and all of his disciplined logic, he knew that what he really wanted to do was make that leap of faith, and it was taking everything he had to restrain himself.
He closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross, saying a little prayer for strength, then opened his eyes once again and eagerly hunched over his keyboard and mouse. There was still one more document that he had to see to lock everything down tight. He already knew what it would say, but he wanted to read it nonetheless. It would be his victory lap.
He gently removed the CD-ROM from the tray, and noticed that his hand was trembling. This time he knew that it wasn’t from fear. He carefully, almost reverently, placed another CD in the tray. It held the 1976 birth certificates for the entire parish.
He closed the tray and the old drive slowly whirred to life. He hoped that it would hang in there for just one more round. A splash screen came up, including a search bar.
Johnson entered the family name and city, and then typed 12/26/76 in the search bar. The 26th is approximately the 25th, he thought to himself with an excited grin, and hit Enter. A moment later and there it was, flickering on the screen before him.
The birth certificate of Jesus Christ.
He read the entire document and the accompanying hospital report, savoring each detail, and knowing that the originals would be easy enough to obtain with a subpoena. To the hospital, they were just a couple of old pieces of paper, but Peter Johnson knew differently. They were priceless, and he was the first person in history to recognize their significance. For now, they were safely tucked away in the parish archives, but soon the entire world would know the truth, and he would be the one to show them.
Glowing with accomplishment, he placed his hand on his mouse and watched the screen, highlighting a capital “E.” His hand was shaking, but he steadied himself. He moved his mouse again, highlighting a capital “N.” He moved his mouse once again and clicked, and gazed at the results for what seemed to be a breathless eternity, until a sobering thought gradually intruded.
Within moments, his euphoria had completely dissolved, replaced by a sober, gnawing fear that accelerated with every breath. The documents were safe, but nothing else was.
He quickly gathered his things. He had to leave at once.
Agent Peter Johnson raced down the front steps of the Hale Boggs Federal Building in the damp evening air, lugging his overstuffed briefcase and pressing his phone to his ear. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice to the 1-800 virtual operator, enunciating each syllable so there would be no mistake and no lost time.
“American Airlines...”