On the Third Day Read Online Free PDF Page A

itch had returned, and it was all he could do to keep himself in motion and overcome the illusion.  He managed a glance at his left hand to reassure himself and took a quick gulp of air as he saw nothing but smooth skin and the deep rich material of his vestments.
                Something winked at him from far above, and he realized the unfamiliar gleam must be the lens of Bishop Michaels’ camera.  It should have distracted him, and he’d prepared himself for somewhat of a bout of stage fright, but it never happened.  He glanced up once, silent acknowledgement of the scrutiny, and the man and the Church behind it, and then fell into the easy rhythm and tonal cadence of practiced ritual.  Though he sweated profusely, he found that his hands did not shake, and his voice was loud, clear, and resonant.
                He hoped, briefly, that none of the others had managed to breach security.  Reporters frightened him, and they were the least of those who had made his life miserable over the past year.  There were fanatical members of other sects, mystics, and a menagerie of the worst the world had to offer, all waiting just outside Father Thomas’ personal sphere of influence for him to do something they could use to their advantage.  He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
                For the first time since he’d awakened after the preceding year’s debacle, Father Thomas allowed himself to believe it was possible that everything was going to be just fine.
    * * *
                Through the lens of the camera, Father Thomas’ figure glowed in the soft light.  Bishop Michaels squinted, placed his eye over the viewfinder and worked the focus slowly.  The altar, and the young priest standing before it, blurred, and then focused sharply.  In that instant, Father Thomas glanced up at the balcony, and the Bishop had the impression their gazes locked.  Then Father Thomas turned away, and the whirr of the camera intruded, dragging Michaels back to the present.
                The Bishop had chosen to set up dead center in the balcony.  His driver had carried the heavy case up for him, helping him to unfold the tripod and attach the camera to the mount.  There was plenty of tape – it was a VHS model, and he had set the record button on extended play.  Whatever happened this morning, even if it stretched well into the afternoon, Bishop Michaels was ready.
                Or, more precisely, his camera was ready.  The Bishop had never felt less ready for anything in his life.  He had borne the weight of stares and mumbled comments as he climbed stoically up the stairs and into the balcony.  He had felt the curiosity, animosity, and outright hatred of those he passed burning into his back.  He had an idea that the camera, poised between the aisles like Big Brother’s eye materializing from the pages of Orwell’s 1984 , was not going to go a long way in easing the bad feelings.
                It had been a long morning for the Bishop.  He’d risen at 5:00 am, unable to sleep, and had begun his morning rituals an hour earlier than usual.  He’d had tea, meditated for half an hour, gone over and over the equipment to be certain he knew how to operate it, that the battery pack was charged and the tape was fresh, new, and loaded.
                He had wanted it to be over, but in the perverse manner of the world, his actions only served to make the morning drag on and on, until he was finally able to summon his driver and get the equipment safely stowed in the trunk.  It wasn’t a long drive to San Marcos, about twenty-five minutes with minimal traffic, and he hadn’t wanted to arrive too soon.
                That part of the morning, at least, had worked out for him.  He’d arrived just as the last of the congregation filed through the huge wooden doors, and he had managed to use some of the bustle and murmur of last minute