1. A plan for Redemption

Father Julio Torres was working on the third bullet of his Practical Plan for Redemption when a man with a gun cut it short. He stopped in the middle of ‘forgiveness.’

That was 5:20 pm EST, June 24, 2020.

The clunk of a car door heralded the man’s arrival. It was an assertive, self-assured clunk, like that of a judge’s gavel. Not the familiar rasp of Mrs. Moreno’s driver’s side door, which hung badly in its frame. Not the ‘clack’ of Destiny King’s fold-up scooter, which she used between the bus stop and the parish hall. This resolute clunk was unexpected, so Father Torres glanced up from the unfinished sermon on his laptop, out the office window and across a stretch of poppies to the street.

A pickup truck was parked at the curbside. Dodge Ram, firebrick red, past middle age, but well kept. The man by its door was size XL, also past middle age. He had a mottled pink face, bald head reflecting sunlight, dark glasses, faded tee, cargo shorts, and sneakers. The man was strapped with guns.

For Father Torres, the world slowed down.

The largest gun was a semi-automatic rifle, muzzle-down in a chest rig that held extra clips of ammo. There was an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. A holster belt slung below the man’s paunch held a third gun.

The man pulled a red baseball cap from his back pocket, then flipped it onto his shiny head.

While he did that, Father Torres sank in his chair, perhaps hoping to put the laptop’s screen between himself and those dark glasses. But the screen was small, the windows large, and the afternoon sunlight slanted in to reveal him as effectively as it dimmed his sermon.

From somewhere back in the hall came a child’s playful yell. That was Raoul, one of two boys yet to be picked up by their mothers. Raoul and David were the last of the after-school group, because their mothers worked a later shift. Destiny King and Mrs. Moreno wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes.

The yell jerked Father Torres into motion.

He unlocked his phone and tapped 911. He didn’t wait for the call to pick up, but slipped the phone into his cotton blazer’s inner pocket. Then he grabbed the hall keys and swung over the low wall that divided the reception office from the entryway. The hall’s windows were barred, but he’d left the front door unlocked for the mothers. Only when the lock had turned did he glance through the door’s small window.

The man was limping up the path between poppy beds. And now, besides the guns, he carried a sledgehammer. There could be no doubt. This man wasn’t lost. He meant to visit the hall, and not for counseling, much as he must need it. Father Torres couldn’t fathom it and he didn’t have time to try.

A child’s cry from somewhere in the hall. David, this time.

Torres spun, shouting as he did, “Police! Send the police! There’s an armed man at the Saint John Nepomuk parish hall, and there are children here.” That was for the 911 emergency dispatcher. He raced deeper into the hall. If he heard the muffled voice in his pocket, he didn’t answer it. He shouted his plea for help twice more.

The hall was a low clapboard building with a simple layout. A space for functions along one side, with threadbare carpeting and folding metal chairs stacked against the walls. Along the other, two smaller ‘community’ rooms and a storage room. Reception and coat room at the front. Toilets and utility room at the back.

Father Torres tore open the door of the first community room. Dark. Nothing but folding tables, more chairs, and a whiteboard gone gray from use. He listened.

The boys were silent now.

Into the silence, a man’s bellow. “Open up! You can’t hide.”

“David! Raoul!” called Father Torres. He looped through the function room to the second community room. The lights were on; the boys had been in there. He dropped to his knees and peered under the tables. No boys.

Outside, the man was bellowing. An indistinct voice buzzed in Father Torres’ pocket. Then a thump shook the hall. Father Torres jumped to his feet and raced to the storage room. That room was piled with folded tables, chairs, athletic equipment and donated toys. Its lights, too, were on. No boys in sight.

A thud. A shattering of glass.

Torres shouted, “Raoul, David, come quick.” He had to get them out the back before the man broke in.

Thud.

Torres listened, but heard nothing from the boys—the yelling and bangs had spooked them. They could be hiding anywhere in that mess. With trembling fingers, he found the right key, pulled the door shut, then locked the boys inside.

Thud.

The keys! Locking the door was pointless if the keys were available to the intruder. Torres stepped up onto the precarious perch made by folding chairs stacked by the door, levered the air vent’s grille away from the wall, then tossed the keys through the gap. They clattered to the concrete floor inside the locked room.

Silence.

Then came a splintering crash. The front door had given way. The man was inside.

Father Torres scooted to the middle of the function room, turned to face the front. There, silhouetted against the light from the front windows, stood the man. He held the sledgehammer in one hand, a pistol in the other.

“You have no business here,” said Torres. “Get out!”

“Where are they?” said the man.

“Where’s what? This is a community hall. There’s nothing for you here.”

The man trudged forward like an angry bull. “The boys! Where are they? Where d’ya keep ’em?”

Father Torres gasped in horror. This was beyond belief; the worst imaginable. “There are no boys here. The hall is closed.”

“You’re hiding ’em, and it’ll be the worse for you if you don’t show me, you Chicano filth.”

Father Torres backed into one of the tables that lined the rear wall. His voice shook when he spoke. “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any second.”

“Good. Perfect. Now where the hell are they?” bellowed the man. He was now only a dozen feet away.

Through the storage room door came a metallic scrape.

The man’s head snapped towards the door, then back. His mouth twisted into something between a grin and a sneer. He dropped the sledgehammer and gripped his weapon with both hands, raising the muzzle. “No boys, yeah?”

The voice on the phone buzzed again in Father Torres’ pocket.

“Put that down,” said Torres, stalling for time. “This house has The Lord’s protection and you are trespassing. You can still find redemption in The Lord. Let’s talk it over. Or talk to this—” He thrust his hand into his pocket to pull out the phone.

The man fired twice. The bullets struck Father Torres in the stomach and chest. He coughed, fell backward against the table, then slid to floor and lay still. His phone lay on the carpet by his hand, silent now.

In the silence, an approaching siren wailed.

“Well, shit,” said the man, contemplating the dead priest. Then he picked up the sledgehammer and limped toward the storage room.