DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. So tell the court how it was for you, Alvin, how it became?
A. Like I said before, life was hard. And it kind of hurt, you know; me—a man that worked all his life—having to take welfare parcels and charity just to feed his family. But pride didn't count for much. And besides, near everybody in that part a town was in the same boat, mostly.
Always remember something my daddy used to say, "Ain't no such thing as a free lunch." The breakfasts and dinners weren't free neither. They come with a "social worker" . . . and she done come every damn week.
First time she come around she stuck her pointed up little nose into every little nook and cranny in the house. She told my wife—yeah, she'd started feeling poorly again—that if she didn't clean house better she was going to lose her children. Talked down to us, you know, like we were some kind of lower life form. I confess, I kinda lost my temper.
That was a mistake too, no two ways about it. Next week, week after too, we found that our food allotments been cut. Got cut again the week after that, then again.
Like I said before, I ain't no educated man. Don't mean I'm a dummy though. I swallowed my pride; made my apologies so my family wouldn't starve.
But I never could see the justice in giving that woman that kind a power over us. For a long time, I couldn't see what I could do about it, neither.
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—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 ass . . . 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, 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.
Musashi 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 damned Catholic fanatic priest, Flores." Vega had not cared in the slightest about the office workers massacred in the Catholics for Children offices, as Musashi 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. Musashi 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, Musashi 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 cum map display in the car. Finagled some more. A bit more. Then Musashi smiled broadly, the satisfaction and anticipation he felt beaming on his face.
"I think I know where to find our arsonist priest, boys."
"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."
"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 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 massacred 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 sanctity of the confessional, would you, Father?"
"Sight carefully . . . squeeze the trigger," murmured Miquel 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 snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible.
Eldipia 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."
The girl sighed. Steeling herself, she again took aim at the hapless, albeit greedy, rodent. But it's such a cute bunny.
Montoya shook his head. Unlike lawyers in the same firm, Priests could not share such confidential information. "No, of course not."
"Then all I can tell you is they—the government—murdered my people and are coming to kill me. I need sanctuary."
Montoya was a simple enough priest, no expert in canon law. He knew that sanctuary had once been within the power of a church to grant. He didn't know if it still was and said so.
As Flores was about to speak, the faint but distinctive crack of a rifle sounded.
The shot was audible even at the several hundred yards from the mission's entrance where Musashi and his team waited. Like his agents, Musashi tensed, then relaxed. "Just some kid with a .22," he told his assistants, dismissively. "Let's move in five . . . but slowly and carefully. The file says this is a peaceful group. No forcible entry. The Kevlar T-shirts we're wearing should be more than enough. And, boys . . . we can't afford another major shoot-up. Go easy."
In through the back entrance came Miquel, rabbit in one hand and his other arm around a softly weeping Elpidia. The rabbit, despite the use of hollow points, had not died instantly. Lacking confidence—well, she was new to firearms—Elpidia had aimed center-of-mass. The rifle had cracked; the rabbit—corkscrewing through the air—had given a single, decidedly human-sounding scream, kicked twice and died.
"You have got to aim for the head, Elpi," Miguel had shouted. He needn't have raised his voice; the girl was hurt enough as it was.
Miguel had quickly apologized and led her away, shotgun slung and the rabbit—destined for the stewpot—clutched by the ears in Miguel's right hand.
At the rifle shot, Flores stiffened and lost his train of thought, or argument, completely.
"That's just one of my boys taking care of a rabbit problem," calmed Montoya. Continuing, "In any case, though, I don't know enough about canon law and sanctuary to offer them, Father."
"I do not know either, Jorge. I know they will kill me if you do not offer it, though."
"We can't simply kill the priest in the mission," Musashi cautioned his cohorts as they approached the front door. "Too many witnesses and two Catholic groups in as many days would be a bit much, even for the media. We'll just take him and then he will try to escape after seizing a weapon."
"Did you clear those weapons, Miguel?" Montoya demanded, sternly, as the boy-turning-man walked into the foyer with both arms otherwise occupied. It was expressly forbidden to enter the mission with a loaded weapon.
Miguel's mouth dropped open as he tried to stammer out a reply. He had been thinking more about Elpidia than the rules for firearms. "Oh, Father, I am sorry. No. I will . . . right away."
"Go outside with them then."
Still leading Elpidia, Miquel began to turn away. They had reached the small, shallow and dark alcove that led to the exit when . . .
Just outside the door, Musashi and his team halted. Though readied, their "knocker" was placed to the ground. Musashi reached up a hardened hand and knocked briskly, twice.
Sister Sofia turned away from the two priests, likewise turned the inside door knob and asked, "Who is—"
She didn't have time to finish as Musashi's assistant pushed her roughly aside.
In burst the agents. "FBI! FBI! Hands in the air," they shouted.
"What is the meaning of this?" Montoya demanded. "This is God's place. You have no right here."
Musashi didn't answer immediately. Scanning the area quickly his eyes came to rest upon a quailing Father Flores. "We're here for him. Stay out of the way and nobody gets hurt."
"I'll get hurt, Jorge," Flores reminded with trembling voice.
Montoya looked at Musashi, measuring him. The agent reminded the priest of certain Viet Cong he had known in the past, however brief such acquaintance may have been. Montoya looked and knew then that Flores did not exaggerate. He was a dead man unless given sanctuary.
"You will take nobody," Montoya announced, interposing himself between Flores and the FBI.
Musashi snorted at the idea of some silly old man trying to gainsay him and began to push the obviously injured and ailing priest out of the way. . . .
And found himself, breathless and stunned with his back against the thick adobe of the mission walls. Instinct long honed took over. Musashi's right hand leapt towards his left breast.
In their darkened alcove, Elpidia and Miguel stopped instantly as the main door smashed inward and three strangers entered with shouts and alarm. A fourth remained, faintly perceived, by the mission door. While the girl's hands merely tightened on her small caliber rifle, the boy instinctively unslung and drew his shotgun to his shoulder. He took a general aim, muzzle pointed downwards. Miguel had had "dealings"—often quite unpleasant ones—with law enforcement agencies before.
Elpidia stood frozen for long moments as she watched the priest, the father she had never had, put his own body between an unshaven, unkempt man and the one who had announced he was part of the dreaded FBI. She stood frozen as she watched the injured father pushed to one side. She stood frozen as she watched him smash his assailant's back to the wall. She watched as the FBI agent's right hand slipped into his suit. She saw, as if in slow motion, as the butt of a pistol began to emerge.
Screaming an inarticulate "No!" Elpidia unfroze. Her rifle flew to her shoulder and her finger to the trigger. If the range was short, the shooter was unpracticed. If the shooter was unpracticed the rifle had nine bullets still in the magazine. If the bullets were small caliber they were each hollow points.
The muzzle of Elpidia's rifle flashed fire.
Though again Elpidia aimed for center of mass, her first bullet took Musashi in the throat. The soft lead slug entered just below the Adam's apple. As it met the resistance of flesh the lead peeled back, expanding and tearing its way through larynx, meat, blood vessels and cartilage. Musashi's mouth gaped like a fish. His body shuddered from shock and pain.
Rifle weaving, Elpidia struck next the agent's right collar bone, missing the rectangle of light body armor the agent wore under his suit. Under the bullet's impact, the bone shattered, casting its own splinters inward along with the fragments of lead.
Musashi groaned and, letting go his pistol, reached both hands up to where his throat spurted crimson.
Elpidia's third shot missed her target's right ear, but her next two punched into and through the agent's face, doing a fair job of scrambling his brain.
The girl's next shot missed completely as an incredible, shocking roar exploded in front of her own face; Miguel's shotgun.
Miguel too, had seen the pistol being drawn. Yet the year-old words of the Father shone clear in his memory: "Do not point a weapon at a man unless you intend to kill him."
Miguel didn't want to kill anybody . . . but understood the priest's unspoken words: "If you do point a firearm at someone, kill him."
He stood frozen, as Elpi had earlier, while her rifle spit its first flame. When he saw the rest of the agents reaching inside their suit jackets—more guns being drawn to kill the girl he loved—he unfroze immediately and lifted the muzzle to point at the nearest of the agents. As if shooting skeet, his finger stroked the trigger. The recoil rocked him backwards, though not nearly so forcefully as the buckshot knocked back the agent who took the blast full in the face. Bones, blood and brain burst, a crimson cloud hanging briefly in the air before decorating the wall.
Miguel recovered from the recoil and swept the muzzle left for his next target. Sweep, stroke, blast, recoil, recover, sweep . . .
The last agent standing exclaimed, "My God they've got guns!" before Miguel's last—hasty—shot tore away half the agent's left leg. He fell outward and, whimpering, began to crawl to safety.
Miguel advanced to finish the job until held in check by Montoya's outstretched arm.
Though shocked by the shotgun's fierce blast, Elpidia recovered quickly . . . as anyone whose life had contained as many hard knocks as hers might have recovered quickly. Her last three shots took Musashi—quite needlessly, he was already dead and his body and mind simply didn't know it yet—in the chest. One was stopped by the body armor, the others just missed and entered the chest cavity, perforating lungs and other otherwise useful organs.
Leaving a trail of blood, the agent's body slid slowly down the wall to come to rest on the bloodstained floor.
Still holding Miguel back, Montoya's eyes swept over the scene: three fresh corpses, three spreading pools of blood. His nose sniffed at the familiar cordite smell. His ears heard the wailing of the lone survivor as he dragged his mutilated body down the neatly kept walkway that led to the mission's door . . . as they heard the retching of Father Flores, spilling his pungent vomit to join the spreading blood.
Montoya sniffed again. Yes, there was something else besides the expected smells. He eyed Flores with a mild distaste, then in charity turned his eyes away.
In the distance, but growing rapidly closer, the priest sensed as much as heard the wailing of police sirens . . . many of them.