"The Shepherd"

author: Mo (ohohmo@usa.net)
rating: PG
category: V, A

summary: The aftermath of a hostage situation, as seen from the
eyes of an involved priest.

disclaimer: Ah, I only *wish* they belonged to me . . . oh, actually
I don’t. Too much responsibility. This way is good; I borrow them,
and return them and everybody’s happy. Suing and all that just messes
up the system, dontcha know? So . . . please. They belong to Fox, Carter,
Ten Thirteen and the gang. Not me.

Feedback: Please. I love it. Really. ohohmo@usa.net

Author’s Note: The beginning of this has a bit more preaching in it than
I intended. Don’t be offended, please. It’s not meant that way. I’m not
trying to convert anyone to Catholicism. Really. I’m not. Also -- the beliefs
stated in this are not necessarily mine.

**********************************************************************

"The Shepherd"

Part 1/3

The percentage of people who pray to God in any time of trouble, need,
or want is greater than the percentage of people who truly believe in a god,
or a supreme being.

This I have seen; this I have learned. It is true.

I find this . . . odd. Really. If you have no faith or belief in Him, why are
you then, talking to yourself?

It has taken me awhile, but I have decided that there are two choices. Either
more people believe in God than admit to it, or we’ve got a heck of a lot
more crazies on our hands than we ever could have thought.

I tend to not know which I prefer.

I suppose . . . I suppose I properly *should* prefer that more believe in
God than admit it. Is that not equally disheartening, though? Is the idea
that so many people cannot attest to such a belief more sad than that of a
billion people running around talking to themselves is?

I would think so.

However . . . that is expected. And, of course, what I think rarely matters
to others. I *am* a priest, after all. We’ve never really been the most popular
people in the world.

We’re right up there next to God -- when it comes to being fashionable.

Besides -- who needs God or priests, the world says, in this age of
psychologists and self-absorption and materialism, and, and . . .  well,
sex?

Ah. Forgive me. I have a tendency to preach, you see. It comes with the
job description.

It’s just that I am rather at a loss this evening. I am, unfortunately,
rather depressed.

Hospitals do that to me. It is truly a blessing that I do not need to spend
much more time in them.

And *that* brings me to why I am here tonight.

Well . . . would you believe a hostage situation? Ah -- I thought not.

Too bad. After all, I am telling you (forgive an old priest for his bad jokes)
God’s honest truth.  Priests do not lie, remember? The Vatican simply doesn’t
approve.

Oh, but I stray -- the hostage situation. It was not one of the best moments
in my life. Another priest -- our newest, a Father Dan -- was killed. Shot.
In my church. An FBI woman, a member of the diocese, and her partner, where
there when it happened.

Amazing luck, I would say. Bad or good, I cannot tell. Not yet, at least.
I am, after all, still waiting for word.

The woman -- Dana Scully -- sits next to me now, as we wait for news on her
partner. He, like my priest, was shot. Unlike poor Father Dan, however, he
has not died. I pray that this is a good sign. I know that Dana is doing the
same.

Her arm was broken early on this morning, and she holds it tightly against
her chest. Protectively. She is a very strong woman, as I have learned today.
Her arm was broken at the very beginning of the morning, when it all first
. . . happened. She simply gritted her teeth, and tried very hard to shrug
off her partner’s worry as he fixed a makeshift sling.

It is extremely difficult to shrug off *anything* with a broken arm.

Her arm is set now, but the wince that settled her brow into a furrow hours
ago has not eased. I think now it is not from pain, but fear.

But who am I to comment when my expression is no different?

A slight shimmer catches my eyes. In her fingers, she holds a gold cross. It
is tiny, but its light warms her hand with a pinkish glow. The light comes from
the fluorescents above, I know, but I am a priest. If I did not see God’s work
everywhere, who would?

I must look after my flock. Seeing God in everything makes that easier.

Especially today.

I cannot yet say why Emanuel Santos chose my church. I cannot, either,  say
why he chose a small Tuesday evening ceremony. I can testify to my relief that
he did not choose a Sunday morning mass. That  would have held hundreds --
not a half-dozen, if you do not include the two FBI agents and myself. And
Father Dan.

My stomach turns. In my thirty-five years as an ordained priest, I have never
had to hold a fellow clergyman and feel his body turn cold. I have never been
faced with the prospect of holding a funeral for one of my own.

It makes me feel ill.

I have long since dispelled my anger, though. I was angry at first, yes.
Even a priest is not made of stone.

What I feel now . . . what I feel now is more complex than anger allows.
I am now sad; I am now disturbed. I feel but pity for Emanuel. I feel a great,
aching sadness for Father Dan.

And . . . I feel worry for Agent Mulder, Dana’s partner.

I will freely admit my gratitude to this man. No matter what happens, I will
forever be thankful for his presence.

With him there, there were only three minor injuries (excluding the ones he
himself, Dan, and Dana suffered. And Emanuel).

Without him there, I think that we would not have survived -- any of us.
Agent Mulder turned out to be a gifted negotiator, and if not for a series
of events beyond his control we might have emerged from that situation
completely unscathed.

However . . .

God works in mysterious ways.  When we did emerge, it was to the waiting
paramedics -- with three gunshot wounds, a broken arm, and varied bumps and
bruises.

Three minor injuries, I said. Yes.

One: Madeleine Bishop, a middle-aged, regular parishioner who was cut when
Emanuel slapped her across the face with his gun. Two: Eric Johnson, the
four-year-old son of two of the other hostages. He had been crying. Emanuel
wanted him to stop. At the risk of sounding cynical -- never a good thing for
a priest to sound -- I think he was extremely lucky that Emanuel did not just
shoot him.

And that brings us to number three. Myself.

I was Emanuel’s original hostage. His insurance in the first, pivotal moments.
Unfortunately,  when he was certain he had herded us all into the office of our
music director, David, he pushed me away with such force that I tripped, and
rammed my head -- hard -- on David’s oak desk.

I am not a young man. Perhaps if I was, I might have caught my fall. It does
not matter, though. It is past. It is reconciled. It is . . .  unimportant.

The doctor said I have a minor concussion. That conversation took place before
I excused myself to see that Agent Scully had someone to lean on. I am afraid
I was rather impolite, especially for a priest.

Remembering the injury, I touch two fingers to it, gently, and wince.
Still there.

Dana catches my gaze, seeing what I have done. She smiles sympathetically.

"They’re a pain, aren’t they," she murmurs kindly. I nod carefully, not
wanting to inflame the pain.

"I have . . . some experience." She grins. "Mulder has more." Then she realizes
what she has said, and I believe her lip trembles. I cannot be sure, though --
it was so quick. One moment there, the next -- gone. She is back in control
immediately.

I lean over to say something ‘priestly,' and she smiles knowingly. She waves
me away, though not unkindly. It is a good thing, too. I wasn’t sure at all
what to say.

I, after all, am worried too.

Not being a doctor, I cannot be sure, but I feel certain that it has been
too long. News came on Emanuel nearly thirty, forty minutes ago. He is dead.
I have lost track of time, but I know it was a while ago. Not too long ago,
I pray.

He, too, died in my church.

Two deaths. Two deaths, in the House of the Lord.

We wait now. We wait for word on Agent Mulder, and I pray that there will
not be a third death.

***********

Part 2/3

The light is too bright. Much, much too bright.

I stand clumsily, and quickly stumble toward the men’s room.

Apparently the fact that this is supposed to be a room for men only is
lost on Dana -- for she is there mere minutes after I watch my stomach
contents find their way to the toilet bowl.

She approaches, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cold tile floor,
her voice calling to me softly, as I lean back against the thick, plastic
stall wall. My joints ache. I am, as I have already stated, no longer a young
man. Her small, delicate hand curves around the half-open stall door, and
once again her eyes are gazing toward me, sympathy cool and comforting in them.

"Experience?" I question softly, remembering what she said to me earlier. She
grins, and I watch the tension ease from her as she kneels down to help me.

"The doctor came back just as you left," she informs me evenly. I see now that
her care-freeness was simply a front: she is more fearful than ever.

"Well?" I try to keep my voice soft, open, concerned, and yet comforting.
They teach you how to do that at Seminary, by the way. How to calm FBI
agents whose partners have been gravely wounded by a psychotic gun-toting,
hostage-taker in *your* church.

It’s one of the most popular courses. It takes nearly a year to learn the
proper mixture of emotions. It’s true.

Would I lie?

"He’s waiting."

It takes me a few moments to understand. I attribute this uncharacteristic
slowness to my head wound. She is not speaking of Agent Mulder -- she is
speaking of the doctor.

I am amazed. This woman -- so obviously worried about her partner -- waited to
hear word on his condition because she was concerned about *me*.

Not only is she assured a place in Heaven, she is a saint.

I will not keep her waiting any longer. I thrust myself to my feet, ignoring
the pinpricks at my eyes, and the wooziness. I nod that I am fine to her, as
it is obviously the only response she can take right now. She needs to *know*.

We hurry out to find the doctor.

***********

Part 3/3

Sunday morning mass ends with "Amazing Grace," promptly, at 10:30 AM. I
discard my robe and prepare to say goodbye to my parishioners -- my sheep.
I nod and smile to David, and he asks me quietly about my head. I brush
it off, pointing out that there is only a small Band-Aid to mark the spot
now, and jokingly apologize for dirtying his desk.

I see young Eric and his parents. Thankfully, they look happy; they look
all right.

Madeleine rushes over and begins to gush as only an aging woman can. Thus
occupied, I miss the entrance of Dana Scully and Agent Mulder.

I do not see them until fifteen minutes later, when Madeleine realizes that
she is meeting her daughter and future son-in-law for brunch, and is going
to be late if she does not leave immediately. She rushes off again.

The room is warm -- very warm -- and I close my eyes for a bit, enjoying the
soothing temperature. I did not expect the cough. I did not expect to see
Dana Scully smirking at me ( like a true good Catholic ) when I jump at least
ten feet into the air in response. I am even more surprised to see Agent Mulder
next to her. He is supported by crutches. I can see, even now, that he is in
pain.

A gunshot wound can do that, I guess.

Jokingly, I ask if they’ve come for the next mass, the eleven o’clock mass.
Uncomfortable shadows fall on both faces -- I immediately regret my words.

They will not be staying.

The relief is palpable when I tell them I understand. And I do. If I was in
their shoes -- well . . . let’s not go into all that now.

We talk for a bit, but it quickly becomes evident that Mulder is in increasing
pain. I wonder why the hospital released him so soon. I wonder, also,  why Dana
brought him here. I am not the only one to notice Mulder’s discomfort, though. 
Dana sees it, and politely excuses herself to go and get the car.

For a moment, I fear Mulder will pass out.

I pray that if he does, Dana will be back soon. I pray that she will be back
*very* soon.

Then the moment passes, and I imagine we both sigh in relief.

He is not comfortable in the church. This is not something I only see this
time. I noticed it immediately, when he first came here, that Tuesday. He
glances around, ill-at-ease.

Outside, Dana honks the horn. Loudly.

We both jump a bit, and Mulder nearly crumples to my feet. I grab him; pull
him up.

His eyes meet mine.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice hoarse, and full of sadness. I watch,
stunned, as he limps to the car. I watch, silent, as Dana nearly flies out
of her seat to help him into his. I watch, a quiet peace forming, as they
pull away.

He was not simply thanking me for helping him to his feet, I realize.

He was talking of Scully. He was thanking me for helping her in the hospital.

His quiet "thank you" resounds within me.

My flock is safe, I think.  Contented, I smile.

THE END.
ohohmo@usa.net
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