The Shroud Codex - Jerome R. Corsi [48]
“I’ve said all I am going to say,” Castle said, clearly irritated at being confronted on the street like this by a rude and overly aggressive reporter.
“How badly is Father Bartholomew injured?” Ferrar pressed on, undeterred by Castle’s brusqueness. “Will he live?”
“That’s it for now,” Castle said, his voice bristling with the outrage he felt at this news assault. “Father Bartholomew is my patient and he has been admitted to intensive care. We will hold a press conference tomorrow, or the next day, but right now, this interview is over.”
Castle excused himself from Ferrar and pushed his way roughly through the crowd of people quietly holding their candles and praying.
He grabbed the first cab he could find and headed back to his Fifth Avenue apartment. The circus was gaining momentum.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wednesday morning
Beth Israel Hospital
Day 14
By Tuesday night, Father Bartholomew had recovered sufficiently to be moved from the burn unit to a private room in the intensive care unit.
On Wednesday morning, Dr. Castle showed up at the hospital early, at 8 A.M., anxious to see how Father Bartholomew was doing.
As his limo approached Union Square, Castle could see that the crowd assembled outside the hospital had not gone away. Several hundred people appeared to be still keeping silent vigil. Determined to avoid another television hijacking, Castle had his driver take him to the private staff entrance underground.
Going directly to Bartholomew’s room in the ICU, Castle was surprised to find Father Morelli standing at Bartholomew’s bed, and a woman sitting on the bed, holding Bartholomew’s hand.
Castle was sure he had given instructions that Bartholomew was to have no overnight visitors. Visiting hours at the hospital did not begin until 10 A.M.
The priest from the Vatican might have talked himself into the room to be present with his fellow priest from New York City, but who was this woman and why was she here?
“She’s family,” the nurse said, reading Castle’s mind as the doctor entered the room. “She says she is Father Bartholomew’s sister.”
What sister? Castle wondered. In their therapy session, Bartholomew said he was an only child.
Wearing his white physician’s coat, Castle first said good morning to Father Morelli. The psychiatrist guessed from the priest’s beard stubble and his rumpled clothes that Morelli had spent the night at Father Bartholomew’s side, sleeping in the visitor’s chair. There was a second bed in the room, but the sheets looked like nobody had slept there last night.
“I thought I said ‘no visitors,’” Castle said pointedly, reproaching Morelli.
“I’m not a visitor, I’m his priest,” Morelli answered sharply in return. “Sunday night, I couldn’t leave Father Bartholomew alone. I prayed all through Sunday night that he would live. Monday and Tuesday, I came to the hospital during the night to check on Father Bartholomew, just to be sure.”
“I told you on Monday that I thought Father Bartholomew was out of danger,” Castle said.
“You did,” Morelli agreed. “But I couldn’t see how it would hurt anything if I spent the nights sleeping in the chair. What if you were wrong and Father Bartholomew had died? I’d never be able to explain to the pope why I wasn’t right here at his side every minute.”
Why argue? Castle thought. Castle knew he was on solid ground when he insisted that Morelli had no place in the analysis room in his office, but this was the hospital. Castle was the physician in charge but Morelli also had a point. In a way, Morelli was “the priest in charge,” representing not just the Archdiocese of New York, but also the Vatican. Actually, Castle felt Morelli might be helpful here, especially if Father Bartholomew woke up.
Next, Castle decided he might as well introduce himself to the young woman and find out about her. But before he could say a word, she stood up from the bed and extended her hand to greet him.
“You must be Dr. Castle,” she said calmly. “I’m Anne Cassidy, Father Bartholomew’s half sister.”
When she stood, Castle could see she was