Part 3 (2/2)

In the dimly lit cloister, Miguel strained to hear the reclined priest's weakly spoken words. Mostly they had to do with things the mission needed done, but that Montoya lacked the strength, in his current condition, to do anything about. ”...and I want you to do something about the rabbits in the garden, Miguel. I was able to walk-a little-earlier today and I noticed they had been at the new shoots.”

Montoya had taught Miguel to shoot-and well well-a year earlier. He had, in fact, begun teaching him shortly after having administered Miguel a fairly painful and quite salutary drubbing over a no-longer-to-be-mentioned breach of mission rules. At the time Miguel had thought, He whips my a.s.s...then teaches me how to kill him. What a man! He whips my a.s.s...then teaches me how to kill him. What a man!

Miguel, too, was now rapidly approaching manhood; just as Elpidia had long since reached practical womanhood.

”Father,” he asked, hesitantly, ”would it be all right if I took Elpidia along, taught her to use the rifle?”

Montoya smiled, knowingly-he had stood in as ”Father” of the bride on more than one occasion since opening his mission doors. Miguel's interest was plain and, on more than one occasion since opening his mission doors. Miguel's interest was plain and, frankly it would be a good match frankly it would be a good match. He thought about it briefly and answered, ”I think that might be a good thing Miguel. She's had little enough control over her own life so far. Maybe giving her a little...what's that word the politicians like to use? Oh, yes, give her a little 'empowerment.' It might be good for her. Yes...I think so. Do it.”

Miguel felt a little surge of...of something. He wasn't quite sure. But this was something he knew how to do-the priest had taught him well-and also something that would give him an excuse to be alone with Elpidia. ”Si, Padre. I'll teach her the .22.”

”Fine, but you take along the shotgun. Snakes look for rabbit too.”

Said Miguel, ”Si, Padre. Thank you, Padre,” as he took the keys to the father's-which is to say the mission's-meagerly stocked (it held no more than the shotgun, two .22s, and one scoped hunting rifle often used to supplement the mission's food stores) gun rack from Montoya's pale, weak and trembling hand.

Interstate 35, Texas

Musas.h.i.+ still smarted from the intense down-dressing he had suffered at the hands of the United States Attorney General, Jesse Vega, for his failure to get ”that d.a.m.ned Catholic fanatic priest, Flores.” Vega had not cared in the slightest about the office workers ma.s.sacred in the Catholics for Children offices, as Musas.h.i.+ had known she would not. But the possibility of someone escaping to tell a story in any way different from the official truth was intolerable. Musas.h.i.+ had no doubts that his orders were to kill the priest, even though Vega had not used the word, nor any that could be construed like it. So he intended to do that.

While one of his agents drove, Musas.h.i.+ studied the map, compared the files on anti-abortion activists, noted the prominence of Father Montoya...and came up with ”Dei Gloria.” He finagled a bit with the GPS c.u.m map display in the car. Finagled some more. A bit more. Then Musas.h.i.+ smiled broadly, the satisfaction and antic.i.p.ation he felt beaming on his face.

”I think I know where to find our arsonist priest, boys.”

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

”Father Flores? Can that be you?” asked a startled Sister Sofia of the unkempt-now collarless-Dallas priest. The priest bore the look of a hunted animal.

Breathlessly, Flores demanded, ”I've got to see Father Jorge. I must see him, now. now.”

”Father Montoya is still very badly injured,” Sister Sofia announced, not at all sure but that seeing the condition of his colleague wouldn't hurt the good father's recovery.

”He will see me.” Desperately, ”He must must see me.” see me.”

”Well...I don't know...”

”What is it, sister?” called a weak voice. A limping and bandaged Father Montoya turned a corner to enter the small Mission vestibule.

”Father Flores?”

Relaxing ever so slightly-he had faith that in a world turned hostile Montoya would never cast him out-Flores sighed and forced a slight grin. ”Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Then, more seriously, he said, ”I need sanctuary, Jorge. They're after me. They killed all my staff and they want to kill me.”

”Killed? Who killed? Sanctuary?” Father Montoya had not yet recovered his full senses from the beating he had received from the riot control police.

”I don't know who it was. But they went into my offices and shot down everyone there like they were dogs.” Tears sprung to Flores' eyes. ”Jorge, they just ma.s.sacred everybody.”

Montoya forced himself to think clearly; as clearly as he could. ”Why?” he asked.

Taking in a deep breath then exhaling forcefully, Flores admitted, ”Probably over that abortion clinic that burned down.”

”It didn't just burn, did it, Father?”

”You wouldn't ask me to violate the sanct.i.ty of the confessional, would you, Father?”

”Sight carefully...squeeze the trigger,” murmured Miguel to little Elpidia. In her sights the unsuspecting rabbit continued placidly munching cabbage from the mission's neatly kept vegetable garden.

Miguel himself cradled the mission's sole shotgun, a semi-auto 12 gauge that looked older that the Priest, not beaten up but rather aged with dignity. There were were snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible. snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible.

Elpidia sighted down the barrel of the other firearm, a much newer Ruger 10/22-22 for the caliber, 10 for the number of shots the magazine held when full, which it was. In this case, the magazine held hollow points, much deadlier to a rabbit than round-nosed bullets.

The rabbit looked her way with large innocent eyes. Elpidia closed her own eyes. Her head slumped. ”I can't do it,” she whispered.

”Yes, you can. You must. He's eating our food.”

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