Part 5 (1/2)

Schmidt thought carefully before speaking further. ”Ummm...Juani. They might stand a better chance than you...or anyone...might think.”

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

Muttering, Father Montoya cleared away the detritus of the dank closet until a smallish wooden trunk was revealed. The trunk, footlocker to be precise, was painted green and made of cheap plywood-military issue. He drew the footlocker out into the light then pushed it-after his beating he lacked the strength easily to carry it-across the floor toward a simple wooden chair. The trunk was stenciled-how the letters had faded with the years!-with montoya-s, jorge, ssg, co b, 3rd bn, 5 bn, 5th sfg(a). sfg(a).

The priest fished in his pocket for a set of keys, then sat in front of the trunk and opened the lock; lifted the cover.

A sad smile of days gone by briefly lit Montoya's face. His hands lovingly removed a circle of heavy green cloth. Attached was a small metal device. Montoya read softly, ”De Oppresso Liberi.” ”De Oppresso Liberi.”-to free the oppressed.

We failed, but at least we tried. The memory drove away a few years and a few injuries. The memory drove away a few years and a few injuries.

Gently the priest set the beret on the floor and removed a neatly folded set of starched jungle fatigues, the slash pockets on the jacket's breast surmounted by cloth strips bearing his name and us army. These had no real sentiment attached; he had merely worn them his last day in the army. Boots and loadcarrying equipment joined the jungle fatigues.

Beneath these were several boxes of letters; from his sister, from Isabel whom he had once thought to marry, from Jack, too, though those were somewhat more recent.

The letters went atop the fatigues. Montoya stopped and stared at a long, soft, green case.

Austin, Texas

”A chance? What are you talking about?”

Schmidt bit his lip and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. ”After Jorge was 'wounded'...when he got out of the hospital... I...ah...made him a little present.

”Something... um ... special. I doubt he would throw away a present...not this kind surely.”

The governor's eyes widened. ”You didn't?”

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

”Old friend,” whispered the priest. ”Old friend, I have need of you now.”

Quivering hands seemed to steady slightly as they took a once familiar grip on a once all-too-familiar implement. Even as his left hand lifted the canvas case, the fingers of the right ran a zipper along the side. Zipper undone, the priest's fingers scooped the rifle's b.u.t.t from the pocket formed, took a grip and pulled it from the case. A simple twist and the serial number was exposed. Habit long unpracticed still caused the priest to read softly, ”120857.”

Deciding to take up a rifle again had been difficult for the old priest. His first instinct had been to send Elpidia and Miguel out of the mission, to take the blame for the shootings upon himself. He'd realized quickly that that would never work, certainly not so long as one of the agents had survived. Even if he hadn't stopped Miguel, he had no faith in either Sister Sofia's or Father Flores' ability to withstand rigorous interrogation.

Still he had tried to send the two far away. He had several thousand dollars stashed away; enough, surely, for two nice kids to get a fresh start.

Miguel had been reluctant, but willing. Not for his own sake; he would never desert his priest for that, but for the girl's.

Elpidia had killed the notion. With a will and determination to match even Montoya's, she had simply stated, ”No. Never. Not for anything.”

Her large, innocent brown eyes flashed fire at the priest's insistence. ”I WILL NOT GO!” Would she have stood up so firmly without the careful building of strength of heart and mind under the priest's tutelage? Montoya thought perhaps not.

In any case, naturally, Miguel couldn't leave either. Pride would have forced him to stay if love had not.

With Miguel staying on-again, naturally-none of the other boys would leave either...nor the girls.

Even Sister Sofia refused the priest's command. With eyes filled with tears and rabbit-frightened, fast-beating heart she too said, ”I stay here.”

Resigned, head shaking, the father had limped to his quarters to pray for guidance.

It was difficult to pray, what with the shriek of sirens and the flash of blue lights through the narrow mission windows. If true guidance had come, it had been only in the form of one flash of such light. This, glancing off an icon, had caused the priest's eyes to come to rest on a closet door. A locked door.

”Old friend,” he whispered again setting the rifle down and patting it.

Beneath where the rifle had lain rested two bandoleers of ammunition, 140 rounds each of 5.56mm, and seven 20-round magazines, empty. These joined the rifle, the beret, the jungle fatigues, the boots, the web gear.

Beneath all lay a green plastic folder, the Department of the Army crest emblazoned on it. Montoya opened it and began to read, silently: The Distinguished Service Cross is presented to SSG Jorge Montoya-Serrasin for courage in action above and beyond the call of duty, Qui Nhon province, Republic of Vietnam....

Austin, Texas

Schmidt gave a little bad-boy nod. ”Ummm...yeah...I did. His very own rifle, too. And let me tell you, it was no easy thing getting an M-16 through customs. But a few thousand piastres to an acquaintance in the South Vietnamese foreign ministry...a diplomatic pouch...and...” He shrugged.

”Oh, Jack,” Juanita half moaned. ”He's gonna get killed.” Her shoulders shuddered as tears filled her eyes. ”My only brother...”

”Then let me go save him now, Juani. Call off the cops and I'll put a cordon around the mission the First Cav Division would think twice about forcing, let alone the FBI.”