A Whateley Universe Tale
There's An Angel In Father John's Basement
by Bek D Corbin
November
8th
Saint
Gregory’s had seen better days. But even those better days weren’t exactly what
you’d call Grand. St. Gregory’s was a rather run of the mill, working class
Roman Catholic church, tucked away in a not terribly glamorous part of
Manhattan. Father John Carmody was leading the Mass, and wasn’t looking forward
to hearing Confession from the regulars. You can only hear about the same sins
over and over for so long, before you feel the urge to say ‘For Christ’s Sake,
go out and do something Interesting!’
But even
nervous old ladies need their hands held. Maybe especially nervous old ladies.
Father John finished the liturgy, and went into the rectory to change his
vestments. But before he could make it to the rectory, a uniformed policeman
stopped him. “Excuse me, Father,” the cop said in the slightly nasal accent of
Hell’s Kitchen, one of New York’s Irish working class neighborhoods, “but I
really need your help.”
“Well,
get in line, Confession will start as soon as I can get out of these things.”
“This
isn’t a Confession, Father.” That’s when Father John saw the strange look in
the Cop’s eyes. “Something’s happened, and I think that we need a Priest.”
New York
mostly deserved its reputation as one of the toughest cities in the world. NYPD
had to be tough. You didn’t see blue-suits coming in driveling about
trivialities. ‘Well, John,’ the Father thought to himself, ‘you wanted
something interesting to happen.’
He
quickly checked the cop’s nametag, which said ‘O’Keefe’.
“Well,
my son, exactly what happened to you?”
“It
didn’t happen to ME, Father. Well, not directly. Well, lem’me get ‘im in here
before I say anything more.”
Officer O’Keefe
bustled out the side door to the alley, and quickly came back in with someone
whose head was covered by a gray blanket. “Father,” he said quietly. “I think
that we oughta take this into the rect’ry.”
O’Keefe
steered the person into the rectory, followed by Father John. O’Keefe sat the
person- a boy, from the jeans and ski jacket that the Father could see under
the blanket- on a shabby couch. “So, what’s the matter?” Father John asked,
genuinely intrigued.
O’Keefe
took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head. “Ah, Well, it’s like
this, Father. Me an’ my partner, Nunez, was answering a Code Kent,” ‘Code Kent’
was a well known bit of NYPD slang for a call regarding superheroes and/or
supervillains, “at the Times Square subway station. When we got there, some
damn fool- beggin’ your pardon, Padre- had let something loose that looked for
all the world like demons.”
“Officer
O’Keefe,” Carmody began, “that could have been almost anything. These days
there are oddballs out there …”
“That
there may or may not have been demons, ain’t the matter, Padre.” O’Keefe cut in.
“Let me get there, ‘cause if I don’t tell you right, you’re gonna think I’m
nuts. Anyway, we had a report that this asshole was kicking up a row and had
sent these things. Me an’ Nunez was sent with a bunch’a other guys to try and
get the civilians out safe, an’ mebbee keep the freaks down, ‘til someone with
real muscle could get there t’handle ‘em. We went in, and Mother Mary, it horrible!
They’d chewed up two people already, and there was blood all over the place!
“There
were people all huddled against the wall, damn near clawing away at each other
trying to get away, you know how it is. But when one of the other guys got
mauled by one’a the demon-things, this scrawny little Puerto Rican guy pulled
away from the wall and pulled the cop away from the demon. And you know how New
Yorkers are, Padre; all it takes is one. One by one they stopped huddling by
the wall, and they started pulling the wounded away and tried to do first aid
an’ all that.”
Father
John nodded. New Yorkers were like that. They were so conditioned by raw
necessity to ignore the needs of others that they could walk over a dying man
to get to a cab. But, give them a reason to open up, and they would. And you
could never really be sure which way they’d flip.
“Ennyway
Father, they was doin’ ever’thin’ they could, but these damn- beg pardon,
Padre- the demons wouldn’t let ‘em. This one ol’ lady was about to lay inta one
of ‘em with her shoppin’ bag, and suddenly this kid who was up against the wall
began glowin’.”
“Glowing
all over? A sort of radioactive glow?”
“Nossir,
it was a pure white light, and it came from his hands an’ around his head.
Ennyway, he walks away from the wall, right at one’a the demon things and this …
thing … just kinda came out and smacked the demon thing right in the
schnozzle.”
“This … thing
… you mention- what did it look like?”
O’Keefe’s
eyes went wide. “Father- it was an Angel …” he whispered the word, as if afraid
to say it out loud.
“An
Angel.” Carmody said in a flat, disbelieving voice.
“Yeah, an
Angel!”
“O’Keefe,
this is NEW YORK. We have more superheroes and supervillains bopping around
this town than any other city in the world. Only Manila even comes close! It
could have been anything. Just because it looked-”
“Father,
it wasn’t what it LOOKED like, it was what it felt like!”
“Felt
like?”
“Father,
before that kid opened up, it was like a fucking- beggin’ yer pardon, Padre- it
was like a tomb down there in Time Square! It was cold, and miserable, and we
all knew that we was gonna die! But then …”
“Okay,
Officer O’Keefe, bitter cold and an intense sense of desolation and despair is
one of the classic signs of a supernatural experience, along with the smell of
brimstone, but that …”
“And
then, Father,” O’Keefe plowed right over him, apparently needing to tell his
story, “the kid lights up and, it’s like, well, we KNEW that everything was
gonna be all right! We KNEW that we were gonna be safe! And that thing that
zapped outta his hands- it burned that demon-dog thing like acid!”
“The
demon thing melted?”
“No, it
was just like the demon-dog got scaled by hot water. It left off’a tearin’ this
guy’s let off and lit out’a there like it was on fire! Father, Nunez an’ me, we
was pumping ten gauge shotgun rounds int’a that thing and it didn’t so much as
blink! Then the kid zaps the others, and they scat, too.”
“Well,
officer, so far it sounds like a very interesting, but still very natural
manifestation of a paranormal ability. It’s possible that this boy is a mutant,
and he was set to manifest his powers-”
“Father,”
O’Keefe cut in, “when then demon-dogs was gone, the kid, he starts shovin’
rubble and stuff off’a people with these bursts of white like. Then he walks
over and he has this HALO glowin’ around his head, and this white, glowin’
thing rises up out of his chest. It touches this one guy whose leg was burnin’
from the ACID those things have in their mouths, and the guy stops screamin’.”
“And the
leg was completely healed?”
“Nossir.
Well, it was kind’a healed, like it had been a year or so, but there was a lot
of meat still gone.”
“Well,
Officer O’Keefe, if the leg had been completely restored, THAT would have been
miraculous. What you just described to me sounds like some paranormal, but
non-divine force at work. I assume that this person here is the boy that you
described.”
“Yessir.”
Carmody
went over to the young man. “Son, are you all right?”
“I-- I Dunno.” The boy spoke flatly, his bland Middle American accent covering
just a hint of a New Jersey whine.
“Well,
let’s get a look at you, and see what’s going on.” Carmody pulled the blanket
off the kid’s head. The kid looked like any of a million kids that you see
every day in the Big Apple- except for the halo.
Carmody
paused. “Okay. You don’t see THAT every day, I’ll admit.” Still, Carmody
reminded himself, he was a man of Faith, not superstition. “Still, I think that
we can rule out anything supernatural, let alone …”
Then the
boy startled, as if hearing something from the nave of the church. he stood and
walked to the rectory door, pulling the blanket about his head as he went. As
he walked toward the door, the halo grew brighter, shining even through the
coarse gray NYPD-issue blanket.
He walked
into the nave, where Mrs. Vallacio was praying in a loud whisper. Mrs. Vallacio
had a cancer of the bone marrow in her right thigh. she couldn’t afford any of
the marrow transplant procedures, so for her, every day was a battle with the
pain, and the numbing effects of drugs that couldn’t cope with that pain.
Coming to church and praying for relief was literally one of her only sources
of comfort.
The boy
staggered towards her, as if being dragged by a greater force than himself. He
stopped a few steps behind Mrs. Vallacio, and threw his head back. The halo
around his head grew brighter, the glow filling the church as a ball of light
emerged from his chest. It unfolded into a lambent white circle of light, with
what looked like six ethereal wings outspread. It was like seeing the Gates of
Heaven open. A palpable awe filled the church. The winged ring floated toward
Mrs. Vallacio, and settled into her.
Mrs.
Vallacio stopped praying, but there it wasn’t as if she had been interrupted.
Rather, it was as if she were finally being answered. The regulars waiting for
Confession were all watching, down on their knees, hands clasped before them in
reverent awe. When Mrs. Vallacio gave out a loud gasp, it didn’t ring of outrage,
or shock, or fear, or even carnal pleasure. No, it was a gasp of relief, of
agony finally dispelled. The light about the boy’s head and hands faded, and
the boy himself collapsed at Carmody’s feet.
O’Keefe
took the boy in his arms, and carried him back into the rectory, as Carmody
tried to deal with the situation in the nave. Mrs. Vallacio was crying, and
burbling in an elated flood of Spanish, alternating laughing and crossing
herself. Carmody tried to speak reason to the woman, but it was no use - she
knew a miracle when one dropped into her lap. And, by the time he remembered
the regulars, only three of them were still on their knees in rapt prayer.
Carmody
managed to talk Mrs. Vallacio into going to the hospital, to have a doctor take
a look at her thigh, just to be absolutely sure. Senora Vallacio agreed, more
as a way of humoring the priest than that she was worried about her health
anymore. After seeing Senora Vallacio to the church door, Carmody returned to
the rectory.
O’Keefe
had set the boy, who seemed exhausted by what he’d done, out on the rectory
sofa. The cop looked at the priest with the eyes of a confused child, looking
to a trusted authority figure to explain things. “That’s what happened at Times
Square. Padre, I been a cop in this town for going on ten years. I’ve seen
superheroes and supervillains. I’ve seen guys who grow ten stories tall and can
throw city busses like footballs. I’ve seen a ten-foot tall pile of junk that
walks and talks like a real human bein’. I’ve seen things in the sewers that
they don’t even have names for. Today wasn’t even the first time that I’ve seen
a demon. And Padre, I ain’t never seen anything like that. That ain’t no
gimmick or spell. I dunno what it is. But I do know one thing- it ain’t no how,
business as usual.”
Carmody started to correct him, to say that it was
possible that there could be any of a number of paranormal, though
non-miraculous ways to explain what had happened. But he couldn’t. You don’t
lie about things like this, especially when the truth is so patently obvious. he
sat down and rubbed his face. “I don’t know. Yes, I know what we just saw in
there, but … I don’t know what all of this means. The only thing that I can
think of, is that we keep the boy here, and I’ll send a message to the Archdiocese
for instruction. I know someone who’s worked for the Canonical Review Board. If
anyone would know how to tell the a miracle from a fluke, it would be Father
Almaguer.”
NEW
YORK HERALD, Nov. 9thCHAOS
IN TIMES SQUARE.
The
glossy sheen that’s fallen over Times Square in the past few years was badly
cracked when an as-yet unverified Paranormal Terrorist group launched an attack
on the Atlantic Heritage Society. The attack, which included several heavily
armored gunmen, back up by ‘unconventional forces’, attempted to seize several
rare tomes that the Atlantic Heritage Society had in their Rare Volumes vault.
NYPD forces, including SWAT quickly responded to the alarm, and attempted to
restrain the raiders. The raiders unleashed paranormal life forms, that
witnesses describe as being vaguely dog-like, but ‘monstrous’. Along with the
‘monstrous’ dogs, credible witnesses place the supervillain known as ‘The
Anti-Paladin’ among the raiders. Local superheroes, including the Sentinel,
Captain Quantum, Dynamo and the Lioness showed up several minutes after the
NYPD, and joined in the fray.
After
several minutes, the raiders broke and ran. In order to cover their escape, one
or more of the raiders produced more of the ‘monstrous dogs’, which barreled past
the NYPD barricade, and made their way to Times Square, attacking several
bystanders. Reportedly, three or four of the creatures slipped into the Times
Square subway station, and began attacking commuters. NYPD officers attempted
to restrain the beasts, but were unable to keep them in check.
However,
onlookers report that a young person among the bystanders responded to the
threat by attacking the beasts with what were described as ‘bursts of white
light’. The young paranormal destroyed the beasts, and then somehow used those same
abilities to treat the injuries of one of fallen bystanders. Immediately
afterwards, the unidentified paranormal was taken into custody by the NYPD.
However, the NYPD Public Relations Office denies having the young paranormal in
custody at this time.
NEW
YORK TRIBUNE, Nov. 9thNEW
SUPERHERO MAKES SCENE
A new,
as yet unnamed super-powered hero has made his debut. When strange, seemingly
demonic beasts unleashed by costumed terrorists attacked innocent bystanders in
the Times Square subway station. The strange constructs escaped from the NYPD
SWAT perimeter surrounding the Atlantic Heritage Society, which had been
invaded by persons as yet unidentified. The bizarre dog-like beings attacked
several innocent bystanders, despite heroic efforts of New York police officers
to restrain them.
NEW
YORK RECORD, Nov. 9th
ARMAGEDDON IN TIMES SQUARE? Reputable sources in the NYPD claim that
the ‘strange beings’ that attacked the Atlantic Heritage Society this afternoon
and later attacked innocent bystanders in the Times Square subway station were
‘demonic’ in nature. A person that witnesses describe as ‘angelic’ saved the
commuters from the ‘hellhounds’.
NEW
YORK DAILY GRAPHIC, Nov. 9th THE ARCHANGEL GABRIEL SAVES NEW YORKERS FROM THE HOUNDS
OF HELL!
AMERICAN
CRUSADER, Nov. 9th
DOORWAY TO HELL OPENS IN TIMES SQUARE! STATUE OF FATHER DUFFY COMES TO LIFE
TO SAVE UNWED MOTHER FROM MAULING!
truthouthere.com/06/11/07-
Sources that wish to remain anonymous have stated that the so-called ‘hellhounds’
that attacked innocent civilians in the Time Square subway were, in fact,
bio-engineered war-beasts that the Pentagon is field testing for an undisclosed
third party.
###
In New York, the Annex of
the Office for Esoteric Investigation is a major office, which is run by a
Bishop-without-See. The Office for Esoteric Investigation was formed in the
late 19th Century as a small inquiry board to investigate the
phenomenon of Spiritualism, and its possible impact on the Faith. It closed
after a few years, after dismissing Spiritualism as a hollow fraud. It
re-opened in the 1930s to investigate the appearance of ‘Super Powers’, and the
claims of all sorts of preternatural events. Currently, the New York Annex is the
office that keeps tabs on the various beings operating in New York City, many
of whom claim to be gods or mystical entities of one sort or another, and investigates
allegedly ‘supernatural’ events. In general, it makes sure that the Cardinal is
kept informed of what is going on in that part of society..
###
November 9th
The
Bishop cleared his throat and addressed the small meeting of officials in his
office. “Very well, what can you tell me about the incident at the Atlantic
Heritage Society yesterday?”
Bishop
Spengler is a quiet, seldom spoken man, who can do more by just listening than
most people can with both hands
Monsignor
Fenzi opened the first of several thick dossiers on his lap. “First of all, the
Atlantic Heritage Society is a legitimate philanthropic society that tries to
promote cultural exchange between Europe and the United States. It arranges
scholarships, tours of fine art and historical artifacts, concert tours; that
sort of thing. They also do work with Landmark designation and Historical
Preservation and that sort of thing.
“However,
in the 1930s, when Hitler and Mussolini were doing everything in their power to
drive everyone with a degree out of Europe, they started helping refugees with
academic backgrounds. Many of these refugees went to great pains to take rare
and valuable books with them when they left Europe, only to find themselves at
the mercy of unscrupulous rare book dealers, once they were here in the States.
The AHS started buying valuable books from these refugees. While they were
getting a great bargain, they were also giving these outcast academics much
better prices for the works than they had been getting. In the process, they
acquired a very large, quite enviable collection of rare books, including a
disproportionate number of esoteric works. It seems that one of the members of
the AHS Board of Directors, from 1923 to 1951, was Prof. Emerson Thurwell.”
“The
Vampire Hunter?” Spengler raised a single eyebrow.
“The very
one. Thurwell was known as usually being up to his eyebrows in one supernatural
bit of business or another. During this period, Thurwell used the Atlantic
Heritage Society as a cover for groups such as the Mystic Six, Dr. DeLusignan’s
Great White Hunters, the Esoteric Order of St. Michael, and other groups of
mystics and monster hunters.”
“So, you
think that the Atlantic Heritage Society is a front for a some sort of mystic
cabal.”
“Not in
so many words. These mystics don’t control the AHS, they merely use it as a
meeting place, and avail themselves of the Society’s enviable collection of
esoteric works. Not so much co-option, as cooperation.”
Father
Montjoie took over. “We think that the Society’s collection of esoteric books
was the target of yesterday’s raid, although, we’ve suspected that the
Society’s Controlled Climate vaults were also being used as repositories of
various items of arcane power, so the raiders might have intended on taking
those, instead. Or, as well, possibly.”
“Do we
have any ideas as to who the raiders were?”
“Oh, we
know exactly who was behind it.” Montjoie produced an 8x11” photograph of a
figure in red articulated plate armor, carrying a hoplite shield and a bastard
sword. His helmet covered all of his face except for a pair of shadowed eyes.
However, the pair of curved horns that swept back over the helmet left no
question as to who he was.
“The
Anti-Paladin.” Spengler sighed. “So, it was the Hall.”
“The
Grand Hall of Sinister Wisdom is the closest thing that there is to the
‘International Satanist Conspiracy’ that was so beloved by conspiracy
theorists. However, while it is an international society of mystics who are generally
agreed to be ‘evil’, it is in fact, neither Satanic nor a real conspiracy. It is
more of a combination of neutral ground, clearinghouse for information, and a mutual
assistance society for practitioners of the dark arts, which allows a motley
assortment of untrustworthy individualists to cooperate with a minimum of
back-stabbing. The Anti-Paladin is a sort of arcane mercenary who worked
exclusively for the Hall. He is their ‘Showcase Hitter’, someone that they send
when they don’t care about exposure or collateral damage. … How much did they
get away with?”
“Nothing,”
Montjoie said. “We’re still gathering details, but it looks like a complete
rout for the Hall. Right now, it looks like someone put together your basic
‘Evil Master Plan’, and it went afoul rather spectacularly. Ideally, no one
should even have been aware that there had been a raid. Instead, there were
police, SWAT and superheroes. A friend of ours at the Federal Aviation
Administration noted a remarkable number of small private aircraft suddenly
filing flight plans leaving various airports around the greater New York City
area in a five-hour period right after the dust settled in the AHS incident.
70% of these flights never arrived at their stated destinations.”
“So, the
rats are leaving the ship.”
“Well, we
can hope so. Even so, our sources in the Magical Vigilante community tell me
that the heat is still on.”
“So,
you’re telling me that they didn’t walk out with ‘Ye Darke Book of ye
Disgusting Revelations’, or the Gallstone of Beelzebub, or anything potentially
apocalyptic like that?” Montjoie shook his head. “Well, that makes for a nice
change of pace. Any other fallout?”
“Just the
incident in Times Square,” Father Fabrici said, opening another, newer dossier.
“According to our best sources, the Grand Hall had summoned five of the demonic
entities known popularly as ‘Hellhounds’ to assist them. When their attack
broke and they ran, they left the hellhounds to keep the authorities busy, and
quickly summoned up another five hellhounds, which they sent after the crowds
in Times Square as another distraction.”
“Excuse
me,” Bishop Spengler interrupted, “but HOW do you ‘quickly summon up’
hellhounds? They’re demons, you don’t just snap your fingers, and whistle up
fiends from Hell!”
Brother
Keifhauser nodded. “It’s a recent development. One of the problems with
Conjury, from the point of view of an unscrupulous conjurer, is that once you
summon a demon or elemental, you can’t just put them on hold until you need
them. You have to give them orders right then, right there. This presents a lot
of logistical problems. So, someone came up with a technique of temporarily
binding a summoned creature into small temporary ‘vessels’. They call them
‘Conjure seeds’, or ‘Demon Seeds’, or ‘Dragons Teeth’. Each one of these things
is about the size of a peach pit, and since the demon or elemental hasn’t been
completely brought into the world yet, it will fit into the seed. There’s a
specific key to activate these ‘seeds’, depending on the nature of the being
that’s under wraps. For an Earth elemental, you’d plant the seed; for a Fire
elemental, you’d throw it in a fire.”
“And for
these hellhounds?”
“You’d
bathe it in blood. And there was a lot of blood lying around.”
“Though
the Anti-Paladin had a nasty little wrinkle for that,” Fabrici noted. “He
grabbed a police officer, cut a slit in his stomach and inserted the demon
seed. The officer was torn apart by the manifesting hellhound, from within.”
Spengler
shuddered. “How many died, altogether?”
“Four
civilian employees of the AHS were severely injured, two killed. Seven
uniformed police officers injured, three killed. Five SWAT officers were
injured, seven killed. Twenty-five civilians injured in Times Square, four
killed.”
The
bishop gave a long sigh. “We can’t let an atrocity like this go unanswered.
What is our best intelligence as to who was the mastermind of the AHS raid?”
Fenzi
checked his files. “As best we can estimate, it was probably a rare true group
effort on the part of the upper echelons of the Grand Hall in New York. We
suspect that the Mages known as Madam Misraim, Friar Rush, and Al-Mahgrebi were
deeply involved, possibly the ringleaders. But, to be honest, in order to
expend that much of Grand Hall resources on a single effort strikes me as a
‘All-or-Nothing’ effort. Everyone of them would have to be in on it, and they
probably all share the burden of its failure.”
“So, is
there any way that we can impress upon the Grand Hall that we aren’t going to
stand for this sort of nonsense?”
Fenzi
gave a gallic shrug. “We don’t really have to. The esoteric members associated
with the Atlantic Heritage Society are already turning the greater New York
area, turning it upside down and shaking it. We could ask certain *ahem!*
‘friends’ in the *ahem!* ‘Families’ to shake the trees in their own
orchards and see what falls out of them.”
Spengler
nodded. “Offer them our special brand of protection, if they come up with
anything real. Let it be known that we’re not standing for this sort of thing.
Anyone who protects this scum suffers our wrath; anyone who stands against
them, enjoys our protection. Now, what about this new ‘superhero’ that the
papers say saved those civilians in the Times Square subway?”
“Well,
I’d say that ‘superhero’ is something of an overstatement.” Montjoie flipped
through his file. “More like a classic case of some sort of paranormal ability
manifesting under extreme duress. More than likely some manner of supernatural
ability- exactly what, I couldn’t say. Definitely some sort of blaster, there
are reports of flashes of bright light.”
“Didn’t I
hear that he destroyed the hellhounds, almost completely?” Brother Keifhuaser
asked.
“Again,
something of an overstatement. From what I got when I saw the MTA security tapes,
he severely damaged them and sent them packing. Now, the thing that really
disturbs me is that, on the tape, there was a bright light over one of the
people who’d been injured by the hellhound. I checked on him at Our Lady’s
Hospital, and while a big chunk of his leg is still missing, it looks like it
happened years ago.”
Spengler
nodded again. “Any idea of what happened to our mysterious ‘hero’?”
Father
Almaguer cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I know exactly where he got
to. A city cop took him directly to Saint Gregory’s. That’s a church on the
edge of Hell’s Kitchen. The parish priest, Father John Carmody, has taken
charge of the boy, and is trying to give all due aid and guidance.”
“Boy?”
“Yes,
according to Carmody, the *ahem!* ‘hero’ is all of fifteen years old,
and extremely frightened at what happened yesterday.”
The
bishop gave out a low aggravated snarl. “Fifteen years old. Oh, wonderful! A
perfect time frame and condition for an emergence of a powerful mutant trait.
Just what we don’t need- to be stuck between a scared kid who happens to be
both a mutant and a minor hero, and the MCO. What’s the boy’s name, Almaguer?”
“Carmody
says that the boy is still in shock.”
“Okay,
get in touch with Carmody. Tell him to offer the boy refuge, at least until we
can come to some sort of intelligent decision as to what we’re going to do in
the long run. Tell him to NOT ask the boy his name. We don’t have to obey a
court order to divulge the name, if we don’t know it. And the MCO doesn’t have
the kind of clout where they can issue a blanket warrant for anyone who might
be in one of our churches. And the boy is to be kept incommunicado for now.
There are just too many things still up in the air.”
“What
about the boy’s parents?”
“For the
moment, we don’t know who they are, and to be honest, given the way that the
MCO works, it’s best for them if they can honestly say that they don’t know
that their son is a mutant. Or, whatever this boy is.”
“Excuse
me, Bishop? What if this boy isn’t a Catholic?”
“Well, if
the reports as to this boy’s powers are right, then I’d say that that’s a
grievous shortcoming that we’ll have to correct as soon as possible, no?”
###
Carmody
nodded at his instructions. “Yes, I see. Try to keep the fact that the boy is
here as quiet as possible. I’ll do what I can. Are you sure that I shouldn’t
just have him call his parents, wherever they are?”
“No, our
position is such that if the Mutant Commission Office asks us questions about
this boy’s background, we can honestly say that we don’t know. We don’t want a
repeat of that debacle with the church at Calahorra. Amnesty International
still hasn’t stopped busting our chops over that one.”
“But that
was in Chile! The MCO has to operate by American rules, here in the States.”
“All that
means is that they’ll have to be quieter. Do you really want this boy to
disappear in the night and fog, like Isabel Anaelez did?”
Father
John crossed himself. “No. Well, at the very least, can I ask him his first
name? I can’t just keep calling him ‘boy’, now can I?”
Carmody
heard Almaguer sigh over the telephone line. “Well, I think that we can keep it
to a nickname or something like that. Tell him about the MCO, and that we’re
working on finding a way to keep him safe.”
“All
right. And, what about this power of his?”
“Bishop
Spengler has spoken with the Congregation Head Office in Rome. They should get
back to us in a few days with a pro tem policy as to how to handle
this.”
“Almaguer,
I think that I should tell you; I’m not sure exactly what we’re dealing with
here. I thought at first that it was just some oddball mutant trait showing
itself, or maybe a strange supernatural thing. But I think that it’s more.”
“John, I
know that miracles are our business, but it doesn’t do anyone any good if you
start seeing Our Lord in a mildew stain.”
“Dammit,
Ernesto, I am NOT some hysteric who needs to fabricate miracles out of nothing,
to convince myself of my faith! What I’ve seen… Good Lord, what I’ve experienced!…
is no parlor trick! I’m in way over my head here! I need some guidance here!”
“Well,
John, if he’s as impressive as you say, then that’s all the more reason to not
let him fall into the hands of the MCO, wouldn’t you say?”
Carmody
put the receiver down, and let out a long cleansing breath as he rubbed his
eyes. He’d wanted something interesting to come along. ‘Be careful what you ask
for,’ he thought to himself, ‘you might get it.’ He willed himself to stand up
and walk out of his office, into the rectory proper. He climbed the stairs up
to the guestroom on the second floor, where the boy still was. He carefully
knocked, and was allowed in. “Are you feeling better?” The boy nodded dully.
“Feel like something to eat?” The boy shook his head with the same lack of
animation.
Finally,
the boy looked up with golden eyes, and asked in a ragged voice, “What
happened?”
Carmody
sat down in the hard chair and let out a deep breath. “That, I’m afraid, is THE
question of the hour. What happened to you could have been one of several
things. None of them, I’m afraid, will allow you to return to your life as if
nothing has happened. You could be a mutant. You could be one of those
one-in-a-million flukes that happen in situations like that. You could have
somehow tapped into some supernatural force that I don’t have the slightest
idea what to tell you about. Right now, the Office for Esoteric Investigation-”
“The
WHAT?”
“The
Office for Esoteric Investigation. It’s a special office within the Roman
Catholic Church, to examine strange things like super powers, demonic
possession, psychic abilities, and things like that. To decide what policy to
suggest to the Pope, as to what Official Church Doctrine will be, regarding
these things. It’s a branch of the Congregation for the Determination of the
Causes of Saints; they investigate reports of miracles and things like that, as
to determine whether someone who has been nominated for Sainthood should be
recognized as such by the Church.”
“Oh. I’m
not Catholic.”
Carmody
gave the boy a smile. “Well, no one’s perfect.”
“My
name’s-,” the boy started.
“I don’t
need to know that,” Carmody quickly held up a restraining hand. “Oh, don’t get
me wrong, but we’re in a very touchy situation here. The ploy that’s been
decided on, is that if we don’t know your name, then we can’t be asked to give
out your name. And if they don’t know your name, then the Mutant Commission
Office can’t serve us with a warrant to remove you, and take you into custody.”
The boy visibly flinched at the mention of the MCO. “I take it that you’ve
heard of the MCO?”
“Yeah,”
The boy nodded as he curled up into an even tighter ball on the bed. “I’ve
heard my Mom talk about them. She say that they’re the Second Coming of the
Gestapo.”
Carmody
winced at the comparison. “Well, that’s tarring a lot of people with a rather
wide brush. Far be it from me to apologize for the MCO, but they are a group
that was given a very big and quite difficult task to do. There are agents of
the MCO who are doing their very best to protect us baseline humans from some
very dangerous, very unpredictable, and extremely powerful people. On the other
hand, certain agents of the Office have been known to be rather … overzealous
in discharging their duties.” Carmody gave a wry smile. “The Church does have
some experience with that sort of thing.”
“Why
would the MCO be interested in me? I haven’t done anything wrong?”
“Well,
while the MCO’s charter does limit themselves to investigating mutants, the
rather nebulous distinction between mutants and other paranormals- and I’m
afraid that no matter what specifically you are, you fit the definition of
‘paranormal’ perfectly- means that they will assume, until proven otherwise,
that you are a mutant. And, I’ve heard that there are factions within the MCO
that believe a proactive solution is in order, when dealing with powerful
mutants.”
“A
‘proactive solution’?”
Carmody
cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that ‘Proactive Solution’ is the current
euphemism for ‘kill them before they become dangerous’.’
“Oh,” the
boy said in a small voice. “But, couldn’t you, like, just … tell ‘em that I ran
away, or somethin’?”
Carmody
let out another deep breath. “My son, the Roman Catholic Church obeys the Law.
There have been times when individual members haven’t obeyed, following the
dictates of their conscience, but the Church as a body obeys the Law. The Law
says that when a duly authorized agent of a Law Enforcement Agency, such as the
MCO, asks us a direct question in the performance of his or her duty, then we
have to respond as truthfully as we can. However, the fine details of the Law
also protect you- you can’t be rounded up with a ‘John Doe’ warrant, unless
you’re accused of a crime. Which you haven’t been, not even leaving the scene
of a crime, since you were brought here by a police officer. So, unless the MCO
comes here with an individual specific warrant for you BY NAME, then you’re
safe here.”
“What-
what if I called my folks, in Jersey?”
“Then
that would place not only you, but your parents in great danger. If the MCO
knew that you were here, one of the first things that they’d do would be to
access the parish’s telephone records. And how am I supposed to explain ONE
call to a residential address in New Jersey?”
“But… how
am I supposed to get home?”
Carmody
shook his head. “I don’t know. There are too many things still up in the air,
right now. We’ll try to get you to your parents. But the important thing is, I
will do everything in my power, to keep you safe.”
Father
John forced himself to cheer up. “Well, it looks like we’re going to be
spending a bit of time together. My name is Father John Carmody. You can call
me ‘Father Carmody’, or ‘Father John’. And, well, I can’t ask you your name,
for reasons that we’ve just thrashed out. But I have express permission to ask
if you have a nickname.”
The boy’s
large golden eyes blinked. “Kerry. My folks call me Kerry.”
###
November
10th
The news
van drove carefully through the street and found a parking space a block away
from the church. Channel 13 field news reporter Suki Sanchez got out and looked
around. She repressed a shudder. The neighborhood was straight out of a
Scorsese flick, only with Shanty Irish and Latino low lives. She allowed
herself a fleeting hope that she’d gotten the address wrong, that it was maybe
a little closer to Broadway? Not a chance, stories like this only happened in
down-at-the-heels parts of town like this.
Then she
saw the little makeshift offerings of flowers and candles on the church steps,
and she knew that she had the place. “This is it, guys.” Her cameraman and
soundman bustled out and got their gear ready. Giving the scene a quick
once-over, Suki spotted a grandmotherly Irish woman who looked like an extra
from on old James Cagney gangster movie. She was arranging a small altar with a
photograph of a teenage girl, a candle and some rosary beads. Well, an earthy
Hispanic grandmother type would have been better, but at least she could trust
that Molly Malone over there spoke English. She rushed up and pounced. The
woman looked at the camera like a deer caught in headlights.
After a
few on the street ‘interviews’, Suki spotted a mustached man in a cassock who was
cleaning up the little altars. She hurried over. “Excuse me, but are you the
priest of this church?”
“Yes, but
if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy, I have a Youth at Risk community service-”
“Father,
I’m Suki Sanchez, from Channel 13 news. Would you like to comment about the
miraculous healing of Elena Vallacio?”
“Miss
Sanchez, you in the media may feel you have a license to throw words like
'miracle’ around, just because they might increase your ratings a dot or two.
As a minor representative of the Roman Catholic Church, I don’t. Yes, I’m aware
that Senora Vallacio has experienced a remission in her cancer, and I, along
with everyone else in St. Gregory’s Parish, am delighted to wish her a speedy
and complete recovery. And, while I would like to think that her recovery was
due to her prayers, I’m sure that her doctor likes to think that he had
something to do with it as well.”
“Father,
would you like to comment on the reports of a miraculous vision that was seen
in your church?”
“Again,
Miss Sanchez, I have to warn you about blithely bandying the word ‘miracle’ about
that way. The Roman Catholic Church accepts that the Lord does directly
intervene, as it suits the Divine Plan. However, every hysterical report and
fraudulent miracle that are tossed about for little more purpose than causing a
stir, undermine the doctrine of Miracles as a basic tenet of the Faith.”
###
Father
Carmody deftly avoided either confirming or denying anything on camera, and
managed to separate himself from the news hawk. Firmly shutting the front door
of the church behind him, he made his way to the rectory, and up the stairs.
Kerry was in his room, flipping through a few second-to-third-hand books from
the parish library to ease the boredom. “Things have just become more
complicated,” Carmody told him.
“What
happened? Is the MCO here?”
“No, but
I’m afraid that that’s only a matter of time. A reporter showed up outside the
church, asking questions. She didn’t ask any questions about what happened in
Times Square, but if she heard about this, then so has every reporter in New
York. And, it’ll only be a matter of time before one of them puts that and us
together, just to see if it fits."
Kerry’s
eyes went worried as it clicked together in his head. “And once they start
asking questions in the papers, the MCO will hear about it.”
Carmody
nodded. “Yes. I’d hoped that the furor would die down in a few days, maybe
there’d be some other big scandal or superhero fight or something, and we could
quietly move you to another location. There you could contact your parents
without pulling them into the spotlight.” Carmody let out a heavy breath of
exasperation. “Well, so much for doing this the easy way.”
“What’s
the hard way?”
“I don’t
know, I haven’t figured it out.” Carmody sat down in the hard chair. “I just
wish that the Office of Esoteric Investigation would make up its ecclesiastical
mind!” He rubbed his face a bit, and looked at the boy. “Kerry, how do you feel
about what happened? At Times Square, and down in the nave?”
“What do
you mean?”
“Are you
up to discussing it?”
“Yeah,
okay. What do you want to know?”
Carmody
leaned forward. “Well, what was it like, when… what happened, happened?”
Kerry
furrowed his brow. “Well… it’s kinda hard to say, to put into words. It was
sorta like there was something all around me, that was moving through me, that
wanted to get out, and I was the only way that it could get out.”
“So,”
Carmody tried to see if he had the idea right, “it doesn’t come from inside
you, it moves through you? You’re a conduit?”
“More
like a ‘can’t do it’. It was like trying to take a dump and passing a brick!”
“So, I’m
guessing that it’s some sort of force that you feel? Not like there’s someone
or something inside you?”
“Inside
me?” Kerry shook his head. “No, it’s more like I’m cold, and I feel heat flowing
into me. But then, it sorta gets all balled up and tries to come out again.”
Carmody
let out a relieved breath. “Well then, at least we can rule out some sort of
possession.”
“POSSESSION?”
Kerry blurted. “Possessed by WHAT?”
“Well, I
don’t know. But, since it comes from outside you, possession isn’t the issue.”
“It- it
looked like some sort of ... angel ...”
Carmody
gave an uncomfortable grimace. “I was rather trying to avoid that.”
“But
Angels don’t really exist!”
”Well,
there hasn’t been a verified visitation of an Angel in centuries, but given
some of the things that happen in New York, how strange would an Angel be?”
Kerry looked at him dubiously. “Kerry, what sort of religious instruction have
you had?”
“Well, my
family’s Unitarian, and Mom makes sure that we go every Sunday. Well, almost
every Sunday. Every Sunday that we can make it.”
‘Mother
Mary, full of grace, Carmody thought to himself. ‘A Unitarian. The boy’s the
next best thing to an Atheist!’ He leaned forward, and started asking the boy
things in earnest.
###
When the
priest left the room, Kerry curled back up into a ball. How do you tell a
priest that you felt GOD working through you? Kerry didn’t even know that he
believed in God! I mean, God works through Saints! And Kerry knew that he was
no saint.
Why would
God work through someone like him?
Being a
saint meant being good all the time. Being a saint meant that you couldn’t
screw up. Being a saint meant that you couldn’t get mad at people and yell at
them or just haul off and bop them one, even when they have it coming.
Kerry
looked up past the ceiling, and asked aloud, “God, if you really wanted to give
me a gift, couldn’t it have been a portable DVD player or something?”
###
November
12th
Nothing
much happened the rest of Friday or Saturday. The locals kept bringing more
flowers and candles and so on, in hopes that the ‘angel’ inside the church
would notice. Another team of third-echelon newshounds who were too lazy to go
out and FIND real news joined the Channel 13 news crew.
Kerry was
torn between extreme boredom, a sense of being trapped, an urge to get the hell
out of this freaking church, and the fear that the second that he set foot out
of the church, that the MCO would taser him and ship him off to some gulag in
Antarctica. Father Carmody had even suggested that he put that blanket over his
head, in case someone with a digital camera in his cell phone saw him, and
decided to make a quick buck.
But, as
bored as he was, the really annoying thing was that … that ... ‘buzzing’, he
framed it in his mind. This … something … that was like being next to a really
big, really LOUD speaker at a concert, where you could feel the tremor in your
bones. But there wasn’t any sound. And the ‘buzzing’ got softer, then louder,
and sometimes faded to almost nothing, but it never went away.
By Sunday
morning, Kerry was starting to think that the best thing all around would be
for him to sneak out the side door, get to a payphone, and call home. After
all, Father John wouldn’t get in any trouble if Kerry wasn’t there when the MCO
came calling, right? And Father John had made a point of not knowing Kerry’s
full proper name, or where in Jersey he lived, so Father John couldn’t let slip
what he didn’t know, right?
Then,
Kerry heard the sound of music down in the church proper. At first, he could
barely hear it over the dinky little b&w TV set that they’d given him. But
then, it seemed to be a wave on which the ‘buzzing’ rode in. He kept trying to
ignore it, but the ‘buzzing’ developed into a kind of music that was and wasn’t
part and parcel of the organ music downstairs. As much as he tried, he just
couldn’t ignore it. It wanted in.
Finally,
Kerry couldn’t keep it out anymore. He let it in, and immediately recognized
it. It was what he’d felt on Sunday. It entered into him, just like it had down
in the subway, and it started to grow. But this time, he felt it flow into the
rest of his body. It was like being on fire, but it was a glorious fire, one that
lit every part of his being from within. He jerked and twitched as spasms
wracked him until his body got used to it. Then he rested for a moment, feeling
absolutely spent.
But the
music wouldn’t stop. He felt drawn. He needed, no the music needed, to get
closer to its source. He tried to fight it, to ignore it, but it was worse than
trying to ignore the mother of all burning itches.
Against
his will, he felt himself crawl off the bed. As a sop to his reason, he grabbed
the NYPD blanket and covered his head, so that no one would be able to ID him.
Kerry went down the stairs feeling as if ropes were dragging him along.
Though
his peripheral vision was hampered by the blanket, Kerry saw a few
parishioners, who were, understandably, rather puzzled to see someone walking
around a church with a blanket over his head. What he didn’t know was, that
while a person walking around a church with a blanket on his head was
admittedly odd, it WAS New York; they saw stranger things on the back fire
escape. On the other hand, a guy walking around a church with a blanket on his
head, with a bright white light shining out from it? Now THAT was something
even New Yorkers didn’t see every day.
Kerry
pushed past the double doors of the alcove, into the nave of the church.
###
Paula
Feeney had lived in Hell’s Kitchen almost all her life. Her eyesight had been
deteriorating for almost fifteen years. Nerve damage, the doctors said. They’d
given her drugs that worked a bit, but nothing was stopping the slow fade of
the light. As it was now, she could only barely make out rough shapes, if the
light was really bright. Normally, she went to Our Lady of Sorrows, around the
corner; St. Greg’s was an ‘overflow’ church, where you went when Our Lady was
too crowded. But Paula had heard that an angel had come down to some Chicano
lady who came to St. Greg’s, and healed her cancer. Just like that. If an angel
could come down to some Chicano lady, why wouldn’t it come down for a real
God-fearing American?
###
Father
John noted with wry amusement that attendance was unusually heavy that morning.
Usually, all the he got was either a few regulars, or some spill-over from Our
Lady around the corner, or someone who had stopped in by mistake looking for
the Lutheran church a block over. Also, there was a definite undercurrent, a
sense of expectation from the congregation. Well, he hated to disappoint them,
but he wasn’t some revival tent charlatan who produced ‘miracles’ on cue.
Carmody
was reading the litany, when there was a murmur and a hush from the
congregation. Carmody looked up and almost profaned the Holy Name. His wry
amused evaporated as he saw a piercing white light emanating from a draped
figure near the door at the back of the pews.
###
Kerry
literally couldn’t stop himself. It was like being pulled along by a powerful
riptide. It was even more intense than it had been Wednesday, in the subway
station. Now, the power was all around him, filling him, gathering inside him
and growing. It grew until he couldn’t keep it in anymore…
###
Carmody
bustled down from the pulpit and ran down the center aisle, but he was too
late. Kerry canted his head back under the blanket, his arms outstretched.
Again the ball of light emerged from his chest and unfolded its wings. An awed
hush settled on the congregation as the ‘angel’ wafted down the aisle, a soft
tone filling the silence.
###
“What’s
that?” Paula Feeney asked, “What’s going on?” Then, suddenly, something touched
her and filled her. Later, she would swear with utter sincerity that it was the
very Touch of God. She was dazed for a moment, and shook her head to clear her
vision.
Her
vision … “Dear God Above! I can see! I CAN SEE!”
###
As the
stout Irish woman fell to her knees, laughing and crying as she crossed
herself, Carmody shoved the parishioners aside and got Kerry out of the nave.
The boy was clearly exhausted, and offered no resistance. Once he had the boy upstairs
in and in his room, Carmody asked, “What did you think you were DOING?”
“I … I
couldn’t help it! I tried, but I couldn’t stop myself! It was like trying to
swim against a riptide!”
Father
John paused. “Was it anything like what happened last Sunday, in the subway
station?”
“Sort of.
But it was different, too. It’s like … there’s this … sound … and it’s all
around me. Sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it’s loud, like now. I can hear it,
and it comes into me …”
Carmody
leaned forward intently. “Kerry, when did you first hear this ‘sound’?”
“It was
in the subway.”
“EXACTLY
when did you first hear it?”
“It ...
it was when the dog-things were attacking people. I first heard something ...
else ... and then, when the dog-thing was tearing up the cop, this guy jumped
the dog-thing … and then I first heard the sound. Then more people started
fighting the dog-things, and the sound got louder. And the sound filled me, and
it got to the point where I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”
Father
John nodded intently. “And this … sound … is it the same as you heard down in
the church? Sunday, and just now?”
Kerry
shook his head. “No. It’s … like that, but different … like Rock music is like
Jazz, but different.”
Father
Carmody, who loved Jazz, let the invidious comparison slide. “Can you hear this
noise now?”
“Sort
of.”
“Is it ...
louder than before?”
“nnnggg …
It’s louder than this morning, before the service started, but not as loud as
it was during the service. And it was different, during the service.”
“Oh?
How?”
“Well,
before the service started, and right now, it’s sort of like there’s a party
next door, with a bunch of people all talking to each other at the same time.
But during the service, it was like … like a choir … everyone singing the same
song at the same time. Not louder, but clearer, more powerful.”
Father
John nodded, “Okay, I can accept that. Go ahead, get some sleep. You've had a
busy day. And I have a busy day ahead of me.” As Kerry stretched out on the
bed, Father John noticed the NYPD issue blanket that Kerry had been using to
cover his head. Normally, those blankets are black, but Carmody remembered it
as being gray. Now, it was flat white.
“Oh, My
God,” Carmody heard the boy say.
“What’s
the matter, Kerry?”
“I can’t
see!”
###
He
couldn’t do anything about Kerry’s sight, and completing the Mass was
impossible, so Father John spent the next two hours doing as much damage
control as he possibly could. He had managed to get the more hysterical
worshippers under control, and he was dealing with the one TV newsperson who
was stubborn enough to have hung around that long, when Mrs. Newton, the
housekeeper told him that he had a phone call from the Archdiocese.
Father
John tactfully disconnected himself from the news-head, got to the rectory and
gently but forcefully shut the door behind him. He took a deep breath and
picked up the receiver. It was Father Almaguer. “Dammit, Carmody, what do you
think you’re DOING?”
“How did
you hear about it?”
“Some
fool had one of those digital camera things, probably in their cell phone, and
they took pictures of what happened!”
“What?
It’s only been two hours! How could pictures get to you in only two hours?”
“Welcome
to the Information Age, Carmody. What do you think you’re doing down there?”
“Honest,
Ernesto, I never saw it coming. And, to tell the truth, I don’t think that the
kid had a lot of choice. It was like something was-”
“Dammit,
John, don’t you have a ‘No Cell Phones’ policy?”
Carmody
ran down what had happened. “Now, Almaguer, this is important. I think that
there’s something more to this than just some random manifestation of some
mutant power.”
“John,
just because-”
“No,
listen! From what I understand, the ‘sound’ isn’t constant. I comes and goes,
and it got ‘louder’ as the congregation arrived for services. Now, this is
important, Ernesto- the ‘sound’ became clearer and more focused as I began the
service.”
“What are
you implying, John?”
“Well …
what if what this child is channeling … is Faith?”
“Are you
shitting me, John?”
“Well, we
keep saying that faith can move mountains and heal the sick- what if it’s
literally true?”
“John, I
would expect something like that from a Prot Holy Roller, but not from an
educated ...”
“Oh, that
was uncalled for!” Carmody snapped back. “Okay, YOU have all the answers? Then
tell me, WHAT am I supposed to do here? Sunday, I asked you for some guidance,
and you told me that you couldn’t say anything until the OEI panel had made up
their minds. So, TELL me, is the panel any closer to making up its
ecclesiastical mind? If you’re not going to listen to me, at least SAY
something intelligent!”
The line
went uncomfortably silent. “Almaguer? Ernesto? Are you still there?”
“Ah, John
… I’m afraid that the panel isn’t in a position where it can make any
definitive statements at this time.”
“WHAT?”
“John,
Bishop Spengler got a call from the Vatican. It seems that people from the Holy
Office have been asking questions at the Congregation home offices.
“The
‘Holy Office’, or more formally, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the
Faith, is an organ of the church that deals with issues of doctrine that affect
the ‘faith and morals in the whole Catholic world’. Even less formally, it is sometimes
known as ‘Inquisition 2.0’.
“The
Office of Esoteric Investigation is a branch of the Congregation for the
Determination of the Causes of Saints, which only has due authority to
investigate candidates for Beatification or Canonization. However, in
investigating possible miracles, the Congregation for the Determination of the
Causes of Saints and the Office of Esoteric Investigation have often had to
define things as having causes that were Natural, Paranormal, Supernatural,
Demonic or Divine.
“In a
world with super-powered mutants. and beings that claim to be the incarnations
of pagan deities and such, such definitions often bring the Congregation into
conflict with the Holy Office. And these days, since Pope Benedict XVI has formerly
been the Preceptor of the Holy Office, the Holy Office usually wins.”
Father
John held his breath. “Is there any chance that they might order me to just
hand over the child to the Mutant Commission Office, as a matter of course?”
The ‘Holy Office’ was notoriously conservative, and there were rumors of a
‘friendly understanding’ between the Holy Office and the MCO.
“After
the backlash after Isabel Anaelez, I doubt it. But that doesn’t mean that they
won’t try to find some excuse for flushing the boy out of there.”
This was
getting nasty. Father John decided that a change of topic was in order. “By the
way, I saw Senora Vallacio at Mass this afternoon. She was as light on her feet
as a ballerina. Would you know whether she saw a doctor, as I asked her to?”
“Yes, now
that you mention it, we do. Took a little doing, but you’d be amazed at how any
mention of a ‘miracle’ lights a fire under technical types. According to the
X-rays and scans- that we paid for, by the way- Elena Vallacio’s osteosarcoma
is in complete remission. It’s still there, but it’s gone benign.”
“Which is
unlikely and unexpected, but not impossible.”
“Sorry,
John, I’m not allowed to comment on that.”
“Well…
then, what am I supposed to do?”
Almaguer
let out a long breath. “John, I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to do the
best you can.”
NEW
YORK TRIBUNE, Nov 13