~ Sole Journey ~

A Nowhere Man Story

by Marge Brashier

313 Marston Drive. Though Thomas Veil knew the address by heart, he checked again the soiled page of the small notebook in his hand. 311 was an abandoned dry cleaner, the cracked panels of glass covered with swirls of black and orange paint. Rap music spilled out the open door of 317, the neon lights spelling out "The Spiked Lady" glowing faintly in the early dusk. Between the two was a narrow gravel lot exposing the back of a brick apartment building which faced the next block. The lot was strewn with debris: an old mattress, a chair spewing sodden foam from its torn fabric, collapsed cardboard boxes of trash tossed from the fire escapes above, the smoky edges of broken beer bottles half buried in the dust glittering with shattered glass. Despite the loud music, the bar appeared to be deserted at this early hour. The bartender kicked disgustedly at the shoe of the only customer, a bum dozing against the wall in the entryway.
 

Checking the faded numbers again, Tom started across the street. He paused involuntarily at the distant wail of sirens. He'd never expected to come back to this city; he'd barely escaped with his life the time before and the memory of the brutal violence he'd witnessed still sickened him. He'd rebelled at the thought of returning when he found the name and address in Gemini's file, trying to convince himself of the futility of traveling cross-country with nothing more substantial to go on. After all, he had no idea why Charles Harriman's name was in Gemini's file; it was just a loose sheet at the bottom of the folder. It could even be another trap to lure him out into the open. But he had so few leads to follow in his quest to find out who he was and what they had done to him, he couldn't afford to ignore even the most remote possibility.
 

The pale sliver of light penetrating through the propped-open doorway was swallowed up by the oppressive gloom in the bar, the dark-stained wood blackened by decades of tobacco smoke and greasy bodies pressing up against the walls and leaning on the bar. The pony-tailed 30ish bartender swiped a rag across the bar and cheerfully asked Tom what he wanted to drink. He drew the beer Tom ordered and pushed it across to him.
 

Tom winced in appreciation as the cold brew hit his dry throat and mouth.
 

The bartender laughed, "Not the best, but after they knock back a half dozen or so, who can tell the difference?"
 

Tom smiled. "I've had worse."
 

The bartender grinned good-naturedly. "Don't suppose you remember where that was. So what brings you to this neck of the woods? You don't look like our usual punk biker or would-be gang member. And you sure don't look far enough down on your luck to be stuck in a place like this."
 

"Just passing through," Tom replied vaguely. "I was wondering What happened to the building next door?"
 

"Burned down last year," the bartender said. "Blew up is more like it. Natural gas explosion, they said."

"Were you working here then?"
 

"Yeah, but it happened about 5:00 in the morning. Good thing, too. It took out a chunk of the wall right behind me. Would have been a whole bunch of folks killed if it had blown a few hours earlier. Not that anyone would care what happens in this hell-hole."
 

"What kind of place was it?" Tom tried to keep his voice casual.
 

"Some kind of hobby shop," the barkeeper answered. "Ham radio and all sorts of electronic gear. You should have seen some of those radio geeks who used to stop in here looking for a drink. They'd scamper out like rabbits when they got a look at the punks hanging around here."
 

"Old Henry was a pretty nice guy," he continued reflectively. "I didn't understand half of what he was talking about, but he'd come over sometimes when I was opening up and chat. All about radio and the people he'd talked to that day."
 

"Did Henry own the shop?" Tom asked. "Did he ever mention a Charles Harriman?"
 

The bartender shook his head. "No. Don't mean nothing to me. As far as I know, it was Henry's shop. He and his wife lived on the floor above. 'Course, they never had a chance. The building went up in a ball of flame and killed them straight off."
 

"You said it was natural gas?"
 

"That's what the papers said," the man confirmed. "There was a big stink about it for a while. Seems like Henry had reported a gas small the day before, but the gas company was in no hurry to come check it out in this neighborhood. Funny thing, though"
 

"What?" Tom asked eagerly.
 

"There was someone else killed in that explosion. Another body down in the basement that they never did identify. The police wrote it off as a burglar who had the bad luck to pick the wrong building. Always seemed just a little too coincidental to me. I mean, there's plenty of break-ins around here, but on the same night the place blew up?"
 

***

Tom paid for the beer and left the bar, starting back across the street. He heard the soft sound of brakes being applied, and turned his head to see a dark sedan pulling up to the curb at the opposite end of the street. The setting sun in his eyes, he couldn't make out the features of the driver or even if he had a companion. It might not be the Organization, but the car seemed too conservative and new for that neighborhood. His mouth dry, Tom turned and stepped back to the sidewalk, turned rapidly at the corner and walked away. Midway down the block, he heard the thump of a metal door and then dull footsteps on the crumbling pavement. He flashed a quick glance over his shoulder. A man wearing a dark overcoat had stepped out of a door between two warehouses, their barred windows dark and silent. When he saw Tom look back, he slowed his step and glanced indifferently across the street. But Tom could hear his pace pick up to match his own.
 

An alley was coming up on his right. If it went clear through to the next block, it should bring him back to Van Buren. If he made it there, he might be able to grab a cab or at least make it back across the river and find a bus stop. Deciding to chance it, he suddenly sprinted the remaining ten feet to the mouth of the alley and spun around the corner. His pounding footsteps seemed deafeningly loud in the narrow tunnel between the buildings, making it impossible to tell if he was being pursued. When he reached the end, Tom realized that he hadn't made it through to Van Buren. The alley ended at a smaller cross street. Turning away from the direction of Marston, Tom found himself running through a maze of narrow, refuse-strewn streets and alleys, trying to stay parallel to Van Buren as he searched for an outlet towards the river. Before long, he lost track of the number of turns he'd made, no longer sure if he was heading towards or away from the thoroughfare. He slowed to a jog as he rounded another corner and saw before him a long, narrow street lined with dingy brick factories and warehouses. The infrequent alleys between the buildings were blocked by gates topped with barbed wire.
 

He had to get off this street. If he was being chased, his pursuer would see him as soon as he turned the corner. Tom began trying the heavy metal doors and the edges of boards covering the windows of an abandoned building. The third sheet of plywood he tried gave slightly under his hand. Grabbing a piece of splintered board from the ground, he pried at the edge until the nails pulled loose and he could pull it back enough to slip inside. He held the board open an inch or so, watching the street for a few minutes; there was still no one in sight. Too winded to curse, he wondered if he ever had been chased or if he had let himself be spooked by his imagination.
 

Tom gave his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness, then moved deeper into the building, searching for a way to the street on the other side. Though he walked as quickly as he dared, his progress seemed painfully slow, his path lit only by the light cutting through the murky gloom from gaping windows far above. Tom nearly stumbled over a chunk of concrete fallen from what had once been the floor of one of the upper levels. Rats squealed and scurried away into the darkness, frightened away from their foraging. Tom froze and listened intently as their squeaks died away. His blood chilled when he heard another noise. He hoped he'd been mistaken, but there it was: a soft tapping on a metal pipe, followed by another series of taps an octave lower.
 

He tried to concentrate on the sources of the tapping. Which direction were they coming from? Were they inside the building or out? While the first taps had seemed to come from behind him, now they seemed to be emanating from both sides of the building. He finally decided they came from outside the warehouse, but he had no intention of letting himself get penned up inside this derelict building. The best route seemed to be forward. If he was being herded into a trap, he preferred to take his chances out in the street, where there was at least a chance of getting away.
 

He neared the street door, every muscle tensed and ready to flee back into the depths of the building. He relaxed fractionally as the tapping noises diminished and faded into the distance. His pent-up breath exploded from him with a sigh and he managed a slight, ironic grimace. The door was bolted fast, the hasp sturdy and firm, a slightly humorous precaution considering the panel that had been kicked from the frame of the door. Tom stooped and crawled through, mindful of the jagged splinter of wood ready to pierce an incautious shoulder not bent low enough to clear it.
 

Having passed through so many deserted streets and alleys, Tom was surprised to find himself on a populated street; not busy, but a handful of teenagers dressed in black T-shirts and matching leather jackets sprawled in a haphazard circle in a vacant lot across the street, laughing and jeering at an elderly Hispanic woman pushing her groceries in a small handcart. She looked frightened as she darted glances at the young hoodlums and her breath began to come in wheezing gasps as she increased her pace as quickly as her feeble legs would allow. She nearly screamed in terror when Tom stepped forward and offered to push her cart.
 

"No comprendo," she whispered. "No hablo ingles."
 

Tom laid one hand lightly on the handle of the cart, but the woman jerked it away, clearly frightened that he was going to steal it. He searched his mind for the rudimentary Spanish he had once known, trying to find the words to explain that he wanted to help her, but the poor woman nearly wept as she looked back and forth between the hoods across the street and Tom beside her. With an encouraging smile, Tom took a step back. "Dispenseme," he said. Still clinging to the handles of the cart, she gave it an urgent shove and nearly ran until she reached the next block. The youths laughed raucously at her panicked flight.
 

Reaching the end of the warehouse, Tom turned left onto a street of three-story tenement buildings. The noise from sundry television sets and the bass beat of stereos and boom boxes dampened the sounds of slamming doors and voices of residents fixing dinner and sitting down to eat. A battered parkbench suggested a bus stop, but no sign marked the route or stop; a bare green post with two empty bolt holes stood at one end. Tom searched for a street sign, but the few letters he could read on the twisted metal sign were little help in getting his bearings: KIN. Before coming back to this city, Tom had pored over a street map, locating Marston and trying to memorize the grid of streets around it. But this could be King or Kinmont or Kinnear--they all crossed through the central city, King and Kinmont parallel but several blocks apart, Kinnear crossing them at an angle.
 

Tom tried to recall the map in his mind. He thought the river was to his right, but if he was too far west, heading directly that way would take him through the most dangerous section of the city, the turf of the Mac Boys. He tried to shake off a sense of foreboding, but a chill went through him as he remembered hearing the tapping of pipes from inside the warehouse. Making his decision, he turned to the left for a block, before heading back east. The streets began to look increasingly like a war zone, hulking blocks of buildings with darkened windows, either abandoned or locked up securely against the terrors of the night. Graffiti splayed across brick walls darkened by years of city soot. Odds and ends of trash blew across the crumbled sidewalks. Putrid smells assailed him from alleys clogged with garbage dropped from windows above.
 

The few people he passed hurried by without making eye contact, their faces showing varying levels of fear as they turned their heads to check each doorway and alley they passed. Tom thought again of a war zone, of living in a place where fear was an inescapable part of daily existence. A girl about twelve passed by on the other side of the street, holding tight to the hand of a little boy several years younger; Tom's throat ached as he wondered if they would survive growing up on these streets. What price would that survival have? Would that innocent-faced little boy end up like the teens Tom had seen earlier, hardened and contemptuous of anyone outside their gang and preying on the weak. And what of the girl? Would she beat the odds against her and finish school, or would she end up on a street corner turning tricks for the money to survive or raising a child before she was barely out of childhood herself?
 

A block ahead Tom saw a slender figure with long, honey-colored hair. He thought his eyes must be deceiving him, but there was something familiar about the way the girl hugged her jacket around her against the evening chill. She turned her head to check for traffic at the corner and Tom saw he hadn't been mistaken.
 

"Margo!" he called, but she didn't hear him. She crossed the street and turned left, blocked from Tom's view by the buildings lining his street. He broke into a trot, hurrying to reach the corner before she turned again and he lost her. In his haste, he forgot to be careful and never saw the man whose hands reached out to pull him roughly into the alley. Hard-won instinct took over and he thrust back an elbow into the man's ribs, but a crushing blow to the back of the head sent him dazed to his knees. He felt hard hands scrabbling for his wallet and swung wildly. One of his disoriented blows must have found its mark; the man swore and backhanded Tom across the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but his arms had no strength. Reeling with dizziness and nausea, he had no defense against the boot that came crashing into his ribs. He tried to turn away, wrapping his arms around his ribs to protect them. His attacker swung back his foot one more time and a blow to the forehead brought an explosion of pain followed by a drift into darkness.
 

***

Cold, so terribly cold. Alyson must have rolled over and pulled the blankets with her again. But why did the night air feel so damp? He couldn't remember leaving the window open. And this headache--it throbbed so badly he felt he would be ill if he moved even an inch. But the cold was unendurable. He had to find some warmth. Shivering, his teeth chattering, Tom pushed himself to his knees. A wave of nausea rolled through him and he hunched over, leaning his head against the ground. Steadying himself against the sickness and pain, he cautiously straightened up with a groan.
 

He tried to open his eyes, but they clenched shut against the dim light shining into the alley. Feeling wetness on his forehead, he reached up a shaking hand to wipe away a stream of blood trailing over his left eye. Bracing himself against the pain, he coaxed his eyes to open. He was bewildered to find himself facing a grimy brick wall obscured by piles of trash. Then realization hit him. He patted his pockets, wincing as pain shot through his battered ribs. No surprise there--his wallet was gone. So was his watch.
 

Tom was surprised by the depth of pain he felt at the latter loss. Inscribed to him from Alyson, it had been one of the few links to the life he once thought he had, but he thought he had come to terms with the fact that she had deceived and betrayed him. But while he couldn't he couldn't think of her without anger and sometimes hatred, it wasn't so easy to free himself from the memory of a love that had seemed so real to him. Alyson may never have been his wife, but late at night in his dreams, it was still her face he saw, her body he held as they lay together in their bedroom in Evanston. Sometimes he would awaken in a sweat, jolted from his reverie by the nightmare image of Alyson coldly pointing a gun and threatening to kill him. The horror went beyond a lost love. He was tormented by the fear that he might never know which of his memories were really his. Had he ever known and loved Alyson or was she a chemically-induced phantom in his mind, one more stimuli to lure him through their maze?

Grabbing hold of the iron railing guarding a recessed stairway, Tom pulled himself to his feet. The pull on his shoulder and chest muscles was agony; he nearly passed out from the fiery pain stabbing at his side. His head felt as if it had been split apart and then crushed inside an unyielding vise. Swaying as he tried to find his balance, he fought against the dizziness that had sent the alley spinning wildly around him. When the world ceased its gyrations, he pushed off from the railing and took one tentative step. The alley see-sawed slightly but settled back into place. His gait slow and awkward, leaning against the wall for support, he managed to stagger from the alley back out onto the sidewalk.

He had no idea where he was going. He just knew that he couldn't stay here. With no money or identification, or for that matter, an identity that could be verified, he couldn't risk turning to the police even if a policeman could be found. He remembered that few of the pay phones worked, but who could he call? Once more he was on his own, friendless, estranged from the family that may not be his own. He would have to find his own way out of this hellish inner city, trusting to fortune and his instinct for survival. Weak and injured, he would have little defense against another attack, but he couldn't believe he had endured so much in the last year just to die in this wretched city.

He turned onto the street where he had lost Margo earlier. It took great effort and concentration to keep moving his feet forward. Every few yards, he would have to stop and lean against a building to muster the strength to move a little further. The block seemed to stretch interminably before him. The few passersby kept their distance. With the blood streaming from the cut on his forehead and his staggering gait, they probably thought they saw a drunk injured in a fight or fall.

He crossed at another intersection and the street began to look ominously familiar. McCarty Street. He'd almost died in the boarded-up warehouse at the end of the street and seen another man brutally beaten to death trying to escape the Mac Boys nearby. The man had been his enemy and a murderer, but Tom still recoiled from the savage bestiality of the act, the lack of human feeling in the faces of the mob as they battered the man into the ground.

Why had Margo come back? He'd given her a bus ticket and persuaded her to go home. He'd looked on saving her from a grim and perhaps short life on the streets as the only positive outcome of his visit to this city months before. He'd failed in getting the list of names from his contact at the icehouse and nearly lost his life getting his negatives back. This trip looked to be another dead end. Charles Harriman was at worst, dead in the explosion; at best, connected to that address in some other way he couldn't identify. And instead of staying away from the neighborhood that held such dread memories for him, he had wandered straight into the heart of it.

Above the noises of the city--scattered far-off voices, poorly muffled engines throttling through the narrow streets--soft, clear chimes sounded the hour, their pure melody incongruous in the violent, litter-strewn streets abandoned by all but the most desperate or savage. They sounded like they were to Tom's left. He remembered a church and the young black priest who had stood up to Mackie and his gang. Perhaps if the doors were still open, he could sleep there until morning.

An old woman was slipping out the front door when he approached, tightening a scarf over her whitened curls. Tom smiled gently as he held the door for her, but she looked terrified at the sight of him and scurried away, darting frightened looks over her shoulder. Tom sighed and went inside. There were only a few chandeliers left on along the length of the nave and above the main alter. Clusters of votive candles flickered before the side alters. Tom gently shrugged off his jacket, being careful of his battered ribs. He rolled it up to use as a pillow and despite the rigid discomfort of the hard wooden pew and his throbbing head, drifted off to sleep.
 

***

He woke when a hand gently but firmly shook his shoulder.
 

"If it isn't the man who hides under pews," a rich, deep voice intoned. "What brings you back to my church?"
 

Tom struggled to sit up, the lights blinding him when he tried to open his eyes and focus on the face in front of him.
 

The priest grasped his shoulders and helped him to a sitting position. "Hey, take it easy. You look like you've gone a few rounds with George Foreman."
 

"I got rolled a few blocks away," Tom told him. "He didn't get much, but he had a good time bashing at my ribs and head before he took off."
 

"This is a dangerous neighborhood to walk in. You should have known that--you were here once before. I hope whatever brought you back was worth that kind of trouble."
 

Tom shifted position and was unable to stifle a cry of pain.
 

"That's enough talking tonight," the priest said. "You need a doctor, but you're in no shape to walk six blocks through these streets to the clinic tonight. I could call an ambulance"
 

"No ambulance," Tom said firmly. "If I could just rest here tonight, I'll be on my way in the morning."
 

"We'll see about that in the morning," the priest replied. "For now, I've got a more comfortable place to sleep than this pew." Easing Tom's arm over his shoulder, he helped him stand up. "There used to be three priests assigned to this parish. Now I'm the only one. There are a couple empty beds in the rectory."
 

***

Father Ray moved quietly when he opened Tom's door to check on him, but the soft noise broke through Tom's unconsciousness and he stirred reluctantly awake. The gray light seeping around the edges of the window shade illuminated the plainly furnished but clean room and the young priest standing near the bed offering him a cup of coffee. Tom propped himself up against the headboard and gratefully sipped the bitter brew.
 

"Feel like you can handle some breakfast?" the priest asked. "I'm no great shakes in the kitchen, but I make a pretty mean omelet."
 

Tom grimaced at the thought of food. "Coffee's fine. Thanks."

"Rough night, huh? Sorry I had to keep waking you, but with that head injury, I couldn't let you fall too far asleep."
 

"I'm sorry I don't remember," Tom said. "The last thing I remember is your helping me up the stairs. I didn't mean to keep you up all night."
 

"Every couple hours I'd come in and shake you awake," Father Ray explained cheerfully. "I slept enough in between. Don't worry about me."
 

"Well, thank you," Tom said, smiling wanly. "Just give me an hour or so to work the stiffness out and I'll be on my way."
 

"Now hold on," the priest countered firmly. "You're not going anywhere until I think you're strong enough to make it out of this neighborhood on your own. Right now you look too weak to tie your own shoelaces. And the way you've been favoring those ribs, I wouldn't be surprised if a couple were cracked or broken. So just settle back in that bed because you're not going anywhere today."
 

"I look worse than I feel," Tom protested quietly. "Believe me, I've been through worse than this."
 

Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he steadied himself against the chills wracking his body. Trying to make his grip on the bedpost look casual, he gingerly pulled himself to his feet and took a step towards the chair by the window where he could see his jacket. He staggered widely on his next step as the floor tilted away from him and would have fallen if not for the strong arms of the priest who guided him back to the bed. Furious at his own helplessness, Tom fell back on the pillow, gritting his teeth against the nausea as he tried to convince his mind that the bed wasn't rocking erratically in the spinning room.
 

Father Ray laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "I have an early mass. I don't want to be late for the faithful few brave enough to come out at this hour. We'll talk later. Now like it or not, you need rest."
 

Tom dozed fitfully, each position he assumed trying to ease his battered muscles and ribs providing only a brief respite from the pain stabbing through his unconsciousness. Finally, he stopped tossing and settled into a more restful sleep, waking when a sliver of sunlight from the edge of the window slanted across the bed. He looked around at the room, taking a moment to remember where he was. Finally he threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. Pulling on his shoes was too much trouble; he gratefully slid his feet into the leather slippers at the side of the bed.
 

***

Father Ray mopped the vestibule, the gray strings swinging in concentrated circles bringing a glow to the aged tiles. He looked up and frowned when he heard the soft pat of Tom's slippers on the marbled floor of the short passage from the rectory. He leaned on the map, waiting for Tom to open the connecting door.
 

"I'm nearly done," he said. "The Church doesn't give us much of a maintenance budget. Some of the folks who come here help out as they can in keeping this place up, but the congregation's getting older. Some of them have worshipped here fifty years or better; now they're terrified by what the neighborhood has turned into but they're too poor to get out. And the younger blood that comes in, looking for something better than they find out there--well, they've got enough of their own problems just surviving on these streets."
 

Trying to conceal his shakiness, Tom dropped onto a bench beside the door.
 

"You're a stubborn man, Tom," the priest reproached him in his rich, deep voice. "You shouldn't have come down those stairs on your own." He set the mop aside and sat down in a chair facing Tom.
 

"How do you know my name?" Tom asked suspiciously.
 

"Margo told me about you. About what happened when you were here before. I remember the night the Mac Boys came looking for you in my church."
 

"Why didn't she leave?" Tom asked. "I gave her a bus ticket and thought I'd talked her into going home. But I'm pretty sure I saw her yesterday. The last thing I remember before everything goes black is seeing her turn the corner a block ahead of me."
 

"She left," the priest explained heavily, "but it didn't work out. Two months later she was back."

Seeing the frustration on Tom's face, he added, "She tried to make it work. It seems her mother had remarried and Margo's new stepfather couldn't keep his hands off her. Her mom saw what was going on and kept sniping at Margo about leading him on. His groping was bad enough, but when she woke up one night to find him on top of her, she kneed him in the crotch and took off for good."

Tom shook his head morosely. "She said they didn't want her at home, but I told her any place had to be better than this. Maybe I was wrong to hold out hope. What's going to happen to her now? She might scrape out a survival, but I wanted her to have a future, a chance of a better life down the road."
 

"You did give her that, Tom. She's back, but she's not a scared little girl turning tricks out of desperation this time. You made her believe in herself, that there's a better life outside these streets. You had a great deal of influence on her even in the short time you were here. She speaks of you as brave and kind, offering to sacrifice your life to save hers, compassionate enough to try to save a man who had hurt you. She came back here because she didn't know where else to go, but now she knows she deserves a better life. And she thinks she'll get it one day."
 

"But how?" Tom asked roughly. "Her life can't be much better than it was. The only hope I see on the streets outside this church is to get through another day without getting killed."
 

"People can find hope even in the worst circumstances. You look out there and see only bleakness and despair, but there are people living here who still believe that if they work hard and live an honest life, one day they'll find a way out of this squalid neighborhood. Margo's been on her own since she was fourteen. It hasn't been an easy life, but she hasn't yet lost the ability to dream and hope. She's trying to stay straight, taking whatever honest work she can find. There are plenty of temptations for quicker money--prostitution, topless bars, strip joints--but when she's gotten desperate she's come to me for help finding work."
 

"But what about the Mac Boys?" Tom asked concernedly. "Have they left her alone? They know now that I didn't kill Tiny, but they were ready to kill both of us. They might still go after her for helping me."
 

"The Mac Boys lost this territory months ago. Mackie and Caps were killed in a shoot-out with another gang. Five men killed over a block of boarded-up warehouses and drughouses." He shook his head at the stupidity. "The Mac Boys that were left weren't strong enough to hold on to this turf. The Alpha Kings have taken over, but they're being pressed hard by the Bloods. The names keep changing, but the story's always the same: an endless cycle of violence and killings until another gang takes over. Sometimes I pray to God to forgive me for not feeling sorry when they die by their own violence. I've seen too many innocent people hurt and killed instead. Last week, I buried a three-year-old child who was shot in the head in a drive-by shooting. I felt such rage and anger that I could have could have killed the shooter with my own hands."
 

"No one could blame you for feeling that way," Tom said. "How can you not hate someone who did something like that?"
 

"But I'm a priest," Father Ray exclaimed. "It's not for me to judge men or to condemn them. I'm supposed to feel compassion, to try to lead them to a better path, not give way to the violence these people live with every day."
 

"But I've seen the Mac Boys and other people like them. They're animals--no feeling, no compassion--violence and killing is all they understand. They're not looking for you to save them. They'd spit on you for even trying."
 

"But they don't all begin that way, Tom. Not all of them are as hardened as you might think. Sometimes I find one that hasn't lost every shred of human feeling and I've been able to reach out to them. Oh, I don't often get them on their knees praying for forgiveness but I can get them to think about what they're doing and slowly draw them back from the violent road they're following."
 

"I remember how you stood up to Mackie that night," Tom recalled. "I was impressed by how unafraid you were of the Mac Boys. They outnumbered you, but Mackie was the one to back down."
 

"Men like Mackie prey on the weak--that's what makes them feel strong. He knew I wasn't afraid of him because I've found a peace that he'll never know."
 

"How'd you get stuck with a church like this?" Tom asked. "Step on a few toes in the seminary?"
 

"I grew up in this neighborhood," Father Ray said. "It was already in decline, but it wasn't anywhere near as savage as it is now. There was nothing I wanted more than to get out of here and never look back. But I came back here a couple times to visit my grandmother while I was at the seminary and I saw that these were the people who needed my help. When I was ordained, I asked to come here. They were on the verge of closing down this church because even the best-intentioned priests refused to stay more than a few months; they were only too willing to grant my request."
 

"Then you knew some of these men from before?"
 

"Mackie and I go way back. He was never any good, the classic grade school bully moving from juvenile delinquent to violent criminal. Caps was my best friend in junior high, a pretty decent kid before he started following Mackie around. I kept thinking maybe I could find that decent human being he'd been before he joined the gang, but he stuck with Mackie until he died."
 

"I'm sorry," Tom said. "It's hard to lose a friend, even when you know they might not deserve your sorrow." He thought about Alyson and the pain he still felt despite her duplicity.
 

Father Ray shook off his sympathy. "The Caps I grieve for was lost years ago. I regret I couldn't redeem him, but he chose his own path. God gives us forgiveness, but he also gives us the freedom to make our own choices. Caps never turned back from his."
 

"Have you ever regretted the choice you made to come back to this neighborhood?"
 

"I'd be lying if I said I never have. There have been times when I've felt overwhelmed by the task of trying to overcome the violence and despair that surrounds these people. I've felt bitter when I've tried to change things and failed. But these people need hope--the Church can give them that. God put me here for a reason. When I see the good I can do, any doubts and regrets fall away."
 

Tom shifted position on the bench, reaching for his side with a sharp intake of breath. The priest looked concerned at the pain he saw in his face. "I think it's time we got you to a doctor."
 

The young resident finished taping up Tom's ribs. There were dark circles under the eyes in his gaunt face and he seemed oblivious of the cacophony of noise in the ER--crying infants, a woman weeping as she held a compress against her bloody cheek, a loud argument between a pregnant teenager and her boyfriend. Pressing the last piece of tape into place, he stepped back and waited for Tom to look up from buttoning his shirt.
 

"Those ribs should heal without giving you too much trouble, Mr., er, Veil," he glanced at the admitting form for the name. "I'm more concerned with the head injury. How long were you unconscious?"
 

Tom shrugged. "I don't know-- maybe only a few minutes. I really don't remember what happened or who hit me. I came to in the alley, but I don't remember going in there."
 

"Look straight ahead, please." He shone a penlight into each of Tom's eyes.
 

"Any dizziness? Blurring of vision?" he queried calmly.
 

"I was dizzy this morning when I first woke up, but I feel OK now."
 

"And your vision?'
 

"It's seemed blurry off and on, but it's hard to tell with this headache. It feels like someone's been going at my head with a buzzsaw.."
 

The resident wrote a few notes on his form, then set the clipboard aside. "Tom, you took at least two blows to the head, one to the base of the skull that probably knocked you out and another to the forehead. It's impossible to tell what kind of damage your brain may have incurred without a CAT scan. I'll set that up and then have someone take you down to admitting. I'd like to keep you overnight for observation."
 

"Now wait," Tom protested. "The CAT scan's fine, but there's no reason for me to stay in the hospital. Other than feeling like someone's used me for a punching bag, I'm fine."
 

"Mr. Veil, a concussion isn't to be taken lightly. Sometimes it takes days for the extent of the damage to become apparent--a CAT scan doesn't tell us everything that's going on at this point. Let's keep you overnight and if your condition remains stable, we'll release you in the morning."
 

"Dr. Michelin, may I speak with you a moment?" a white-haired doctor demanded imperiously as he stepped into the curtained-off cubicle.
 

The resident's face looked pinched and wary as he excused himself and stepped outside the curtain with the older doctor. He tried to keep his voice low, but it increased in volume to match the older doctor's loud and strident tones.
 

"Did I hear you correctly--You were about to admit this patient for observation?"
 

"Yes, that's right. Here's his chart if you'd like to review it. I've ordered a CAT scan."
 

Dr. Ryman thrust aside the curtain, barely flicking Tom a glance as he angrily read through the younger doctor's notes. Taking a penlight from his pocket, he checked Tom's pupils, grunting without comment at the result. Distaste curled at the corners of his mouth as he held out his hands and instructed Tom to squeeze each one in turn. Steaming with anger, Tom fought the impulse to jerk his own hands away. Ryman stepped out of the cubicle without bothering to pull the curtain back into place. He stepped a few paces away with Michelin, but Tom could hear their conversation.
 

"I see no reason to admit this patient. He's lucid, shows no current signs of vertigo, and there are no clear indications of cerebral hemorrhage. Give him something for pain and send him home. Or wherever it is he has to go."
 

"He hasn't had that CAT scan yet."
 

"That's a precaution we can't afford. This isn't Mercy General, where they have the luxury of ordering a battery of expensive tests just to be on the safe side. You've patched up his ribs, that will hold him together until the next fight he gets into."
 

"I don't think he was in a fight. I think he was attacked."
 

"And you're basing this on? It says here that he doesn't remember what happened."
 

"His hands and arms. There are no abrasions on his hands, no defensive bruises on his arms. He probably never saw who hit him."
 

"You must have had a hard time deciding on a career," Ryman sneered. 'Sherlock Holmes crossed with Marcus Welby. I believe I've made myself clear. Get him out of here."
 

Seeing a line of light at the bottom of Tom's door, Father Ray rapped softly and waited for an invitation t o enter. Still dressed, Tom sat against the headboard, propped up by a pillow. He slid the small black notebook he had been writing in beneath his leg as the other man came into the room.
 

"Couldn't sleep?" the priest asked as he pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down.
 

"Too much on my mind," Tom said. "Sometimes I think I'm on the verge of remembering what happened yesterday; then it's gone."
 

"Does it matter so much that you remember? You know, Tom, muggings are a dime a dozen in this neighborhood. Most of them never even get reported. Even if you found the man who robbed you, you wouldn't get back what he took from you."
 

"If it was a mugging..." Tom's voice broke off.
 

Father Ray raised his eyebrows. "What else could it be?"
 

When Tom didn't answer, the priest continued, "Tom, you never did tell me why you came back here. I haven't pressed you--after all, it is your business--but does this attack on you have something to do with why you came back to this city?"
 

"I wish I knew!" Tom said explosively. "It's hard to explain, but there are some people who have been after me for a long time. I'm not sure exactly why--I thought I knew once, but I don't know what to believe anymore. I came back here to find a man I thought might be able to tell me something about them and what they want with me."
 

"And did he?"
 

"I never saw him. I had an address over on Marston, but the building's gone. He could be dead--the building blew up last year, supposedly from a natural gas explosion, and there was one body that was never identified."
 

"These people that you say are after you--you think they caused that explosion?"
 

Tom nodded. "They've killed before. I've seen a whole town disappear, an entire FBI operation liquidated. They get rid of anyone who could cause them trouble."
 

"And what this man knew would have caused trouble for them?"
 

"I don't know what he knew or even how he comes into this! There could be a connection in that the building housed a ham radio shop, and radio communications and surveillance could have had a bearing on how this all started. All I had to go on was a name and address I'd found in a file put together by a former FBI agent."
 

"You must have a lot of confidence in this FBI agent to come a thousand miles on the strength of that."
 

"I haven't had many leads to follow. I couldn't afford to pass up a chance to find some answers."
 

"But couldn't this FBI agent tell you why this man's name was in his file? What happened to him?"
 

"He could be me," Tom said quietly. Then more hurriedly, "I know that doesn't make any sense. I don't expect you to understand why I don't know if I'm him or of if I'm someone else. But that's what they've done to me. They've messed with my mind and now I don't know who I am or even who I was before this started. For months, I thought the whole thing was about a photograph I took of an execution in Central America, but that might be just a false memory they planted in my mind."
 

Father Ray cleared his throat. "I don't want to anger you, Tom, but have you thought about getting some professional help in clearing up all this confusion you seem to have?"
 

Tom flushed. "I know how all this sounds, but I'm not crazy! They've tried to make me think I am, but the one thing I have been able to hold on to is my sanity. They've screwed with my memory--JC called it rewiring my neural architecture--so that I don't anymore what's real and what they've implanted. I can't quit until I find out if the identity I thought they took from me was ever mine."
 

"You keep talking about them. Who are they?"
 

"It's an ultra-secret organization that reaches into every level of our society--governmental, military, industrial, scientific. It may even be international in scope. They have access to technology so advanced that most people wouldn't even believe that it exists. They have the power to replace senators with no one being aware of it just to push through the legislation they want. The scariest thing about it is that no one knows that this Organization exists."
 

"Tom, that's an awful lot to absorb, but I believe that you believe what you're telling me and you don't sound crazy to me. Let's say that this organization exists and they've done all the things you've said they have. What's your next move?"
 

"I still have a name. I'll keep checking to see if I can find any trace of Charles Harriman. City directories, DMV records, maybe a PI if I can scrape together the money. It could be a dead end, but if there's any chance he's still alive, I need to find out.
 

"How are you fixed for money? I know you lost your wallet. I don't have much, but I could give you a few dollars to tide you over 'til you find a job."
 

"Thanks, but I'll be OK. After what happened on my last visit, I left my bag in a locker at the bus station. There's some cash in the lining. I could use some help finding my way to the bus station. I got a little turned around when I started running away from them."
 

The priest frowned. "They were here? Chasing you?"
 

Tom gestured with his hands, palms up. "Over on Marston, I saw a car pull up to the curb that didn't look like it belonged in that neighborhood. The kind of dark sedan that they like to use. Then a man came out of an alley and followed me. Or at least I thought he was. That's part of the problem--There are so many of them that I can't be sure sometimes that I'm not running away from phantoms."
 

"You told me this morning that the last thing you remember before you woke up in the alley was seeing Margo ahead of you on the street. Were these men following you then?"
 

"I thought I'd lost them. I'd turned suddenly down an alley to get away from the man following on foot but I ended up zigzagging so much trying to find a way back across the river that I lost my bearings and ended up in this neighborhood."
 

"So this very well might have been a mugging. You did lose your wallet and watch."
 

"It could have," Tom said. "I just wish I could be sure. I don't want to lead them to you. You have enough violence around this church."
 

"If they did attack you, why let you go and then come after you again? Why not just kill you?
 

"They don't want me dead--once in a while, an underling has tried to do it, but the men at the top want me alive. I can't think of a reason why they would stage a mugging, but they've played so many games with me, I can't rule it out."
 

"After what the Mac Boys did to their friends before, they may think twice about coming back into this neighborhood. I wouldn't worry about it, Tom. Your memory may come back in time, but until it does, don't keep worrying about all the things that could be true. It probably was just a mugging."
 

"You're probably right," Tom agreed reluctantly.
 

The priest stood up and stretched. "I think it's time we both got some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
 

***

The small flock of worshippers straggled past the back pew where Tom sat leaning his arms on the back of the bench in front of him. It was a motley group--elderly women with tired, pinched faces, a few clutching the arms of their frail husbands; an old man leaning heavily on a cane; a handful of bluejeaned youths not much different from the ones Tom had seen on the street, yet with an indefinable difference. In place of the blank, hunted look so prevalent in this neighborhood, there was an aura of confidence about these young people. Tom studied the face of a longhaired teen whose gaunt frame and trembling hands suggested a need for a fix. What had he found in the mass to give his face that peaceful, contented look?
 

Father Ray finished extinguishing the candles and walked back to greet Tom. "You're looking much better this morning. I was surprised to see you sitting here, but I'm glad you could join us."
 

"It's been a while," Tom admitted, "but I do know my way around a mass."
 

"Catholic?" Father Ray asked delightedly.
 

"If my mother had her way. It's a typical story--mass every Sunday, First Communion, altar boy."
 

"I'll bet you were an angelic-looking alter boy, melting the old ladies' hearts with your blond curls and blue eyes."
 

"More like my mother's despair. I remember getting a hiding once for getting sidetracked by a baseball game on the way to mass. She just about never got the grass stains out of that cassock."
 

The priest chuckled, "Sounds like my brother and me. Oh, I was never an altar boy. They let us worship here, but integration only went so far. They preferred us black folk keep to the background. But my momma would get us all scrubbed up for mass and we'd head straight into the nearest mischief. It got to where she'd give us a quarter if we stayed clean until we got home."
 

"Wish my mom had thought of that," Tom said. "Instead she yelled a lot and occasionally tanned my backside."
 

"Why did you stop going to mass?"
 

Tom thought before he answered. "I got older. Busier. The church didn't seem to have much to do with my life anymore. Then later when I was a photojournalist and saw so much killing and waste, God seemed so far away."
 

"Is that why you came down here this morning? To look for God?"
 

"I came down here to see you," Tom said. "You sounded so sure in your belief that the church can bring hope to these people. I wanted to see if your faith is enough to give them that."
 

"And what did you see?"
 

"They're obviously finding something here, but how long does it last? That one guy looked like he was ready to head straight out the door to score."
 

"It's a start, Tom. Sometimes I lose one, no matter how hard they try to go straight, but I can't give up trying. I didn't come here thinking that I could solve all their problems overnight. But some of them are decent kids who just need a little guidance to let them know that they're not alone and that there's a better life in store for them."
 

"The 'Believe in God and everything will be made new' routine? That's always sounded just a little too easy."
 

"It's never easy, Tom," Father Ray said severely. "The easy thing would be to believe in nothing, to say that the world is just there because ages ago the right atoms collided. What takes courage and strength is to hold onto your faith in God and live an honest life when you're constantly faced with trials and temptations."
 

"That should be easy enough for a priest," Tom commented.
 

"I wasn't born a priest. I'm a man, same as you, with doubts and failures. But the doubts are of myself and of this world. The peace I've found comes from knowing that there's a God who loves all men and gives those who believe eternal life. I don't fear people like Mackie because the only thing they can take from me is my life on this Earth. He knew that and that's when he lost his power over me."
 

"Were you always going to be a priest?" Tom asked.
 

"No, I was a lot like you. I drifted away from the church as I got older. My momma worked two jobs so she wasn't around much to make sure my brother and I went to mass."
 

"I adored my brother," he continued reflectively. "He was three years older and I thought there was nothing he couldn't do. But he started running wild. Fell in with the wrong bunch, dropped out of school, got arrested a couple times for breaking and entering. 'Bout broke my momma's heart. She was a proud, honest woman and couldn't bear to see her son go bad."
 

"What happened? Did he straighten out?"
 

Father Ray's voice broke slightly as he said, "He tried to hold up a liquor store. He didn't need the money; we were poor but never desperate. It was some damned gang initiation. The owner pulled a gun out from behind the counter and shot him in the head. I was so angry--at the world, at the man who shot him, and at my brother, which hurt the most because he was dead. For months, I just about went crazy. I dropped out of school, starting hanging out on the streets half the night, stumbling home half-drunk when I could afford the booze. Probably the only reason I didn't hook up with a gang was because I was too angry to talk to anyone."
 

"My momma was beside herself," he continued. "She'd already lost Jimmy--I was all she had left. She kept begging me to go talk to her priest and I finally gave in. I hadn't been to mass in a couple years and with the continual changeover of priests, I'd never met Father Dominic. He came out to talk to me and before I could explain why I'd come, I realized he was afraid of me. I wasn't a big kid--my growth spurt didn't come until later. What he saw was the color of my skin. I was a black teenager so he figured I had to be trouble."
 

"So now I was angry at God. It took a while before I calmed down enough to realize that it wasn't God who had turned away from me--it was this one man who saw me through his own prejudice. I gave up my hate and the peace I felt was wonderful, but I wanted to give something back. I decided that one day I would have a church open equally to everyone regardless of race or background."

"You're an extraordinary person," Tom said. "I could see it that night with the Mac Boys. But not everyone can do that."
 

"You don't have to devote your life to spreading his word. All he asks is that you believe. Have you lost that, Tom? Do you believe that God exists?"
 

"There are times when I've wanted to," Tom replied, "but it's one more area of my life where I don't know what to believe. I've always found it easier to believe what I can see with my own eyes. Now I can't even trust that. Everything I've told you--about my childhood, about being a photojournalist--I remember it all so clearly. It seems like it has to be true, but it may never have happened. How can I even begin to think I know what I believe about God, when I can't even be sure who I am?"
 

"Maybe it's time to start believing with your heart instead of your eyes. Whatever life you've had in the past, whether it was as a photojournalist or an FBI agent or something else altogether--that doesn't change the person you are now. You're a good man, Tom. That tells me that whoever Thomas Veil once was, he was a man worth knowing. They might have taken away your name and altered your memories, but they don't have the power to change your moral character."
 

"But what if when I finally find my answer, I don't like what I learn?" Tom asked.
 

"Have faith in yourself, Tom," Father Ray replied. "If you should learn that the man you were before this started had flaws you find hard to live with, don't let it destroy you. You're accountable for the life you're living now. Don't give up the hunt for your past--I can see you'll never rest until you find it--but don't wait until then to start living your life. And don't wait until then to start thinking about where that life is leading you. There's a life beyond this one that far surpasses anything here on Earth."
 

Tom raised one hand slightly, then rested it back on his knee. "I know you believe that. It's just hard for me to feel sure. I don't feel it the way you do."
 

"Aren't you tired of being alone, Tom? Always on the run, never knowing who you can trust or what to believe? You don't have to do this alone. Trust in God and let him help you."
 

Tom stayed silent, unable to find words to explain how difficult that would be. Father Ray sighed and said, "Will you at least think about it? Let me give you a Bible to take with you?"
 

Tom smiled grimly, "I have one, actually. A New Testament that belonged to a man named Eddie Powers, who was one of their other experiments. He wrote across the text: "The answers in this book will set you free.' Eddie probably had a different kind of answer in mind, but it wasn't true for him."
 

"Dead?"
 

"Worse. They left him alive, but took his mind."
 

Father Ray leaned forward and took his hand. "Tom, I can't even begin to fathom the nightmare you've been living through. I'm sure you've seen many terrible things. But don't let it keep you from having faith in God. You've learned that you can't always believe what you see with your own eyes, so why must you have proof you can see in order to believe that He exists?"
 

He smiled and leaned back. "Sermon over. You're looking tired again, Tom. Why don't you go up and get a little more sleep?"
 

"I'd like to see Margo. Do you know where I could find her at this time of day?"
 

"She'll be coming here in a few hours. She helps in the soup kitchen every Wednesday. You can lend us a hand if you like, but we won't be serving for several hours, so you might as well take my advice and lie down for a while."
 

"I'm fine," Tom protested. "There's no reason for me to keep lounging around here, living off your hospitality." He stood up too quickly and grabbed his head as a sharp pain shot through it."
 

"I can see that," Father Ray commented dryly. "We'll talk in a couple days about when you'll leave here. Now you need to take some time to heal and rest."
 

***

"Tom!" Margo squealed as she let the ladle drop into the pot of chili and gave him a delighted hug. She pulled back, alarmed by the grunt of pain as she jarred his cracked ribs.
 

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I should have seen that you're hurt. I mean, that bruise and cut on your face look awful. I was just so surprised to see you that I didn't think."
 

"Don't worry about it," Tom said soothingly. "It probably looks worse than it feels. It's good to see you, Margo. Father Ray told me you were back."
 

"He didn't tell me about you," she said. "But oh, Tom, who beat up on you this time? This city is bad for you--you can't seem to come here without getting hurt."
 

A bleary-eyed man in a threadbare jacket shifted his feet impatiently as he stood holding out his tray. Margo apologized hastily and filled a bowl with steaming chili and set it on the tray. The man mumbled a barely audible thank you and shuffled along the line to the next server. Tom looked to see where he could be useful and spent the next half hour filling Styrofoam cups with coffee that he passed across to a procession of men and woman. They were all ages and races, some embarrassed, a few defiant, many warming to the smile and greeting he gave to each one who passed by.
 

He had no chance to talk with Margo during the meal and was sternly banished from the kitchen by Father Ray when he started scrubbing pots and pans. His arguments fell on deaf ears and he had no choice but to wait at one of the long tables in the now-deserted basement while the others finished cleaning up. Margo accepted without comment when he offered to walk her home, but a glad light lit her face.
 

They passed the first few blocks in silence, Tom still a little ill-humored from being treated like an invalid. Margo darted shy glances at him, seeming unsure of how to begin. Finally, she said in a subdued voice, "Guess you must have felt pretty mad at me when Father Ray told you I came back."
 

"I was disappointed," Tom admitted, "because I hoped things would work out for you at home. But I wasn't angry. Father Ray told me what happened."
 

She made a face. "It was pretty awful. The worst part was my mom blaming me instead of telling him to keep his hands off. I'm never going back there again," she stated fiercely.
 

"Father Ray's pleased with what you've done since you came back. He thinks you have a good future ahead of you."
 

"He wants me to go back to school," Margo said. "He says there's a group home I could move into with other teenagers so I wouldn't have to spend so much of my time working. Otherwise I'd probably only be able to go to school part-time."
 

"That's great," Tom said enthusiastically. "You should finish high school and maybe go on to college."
 

"I don't know," she said reluctantly. "I dropped out so long ago. I don't know if I can make up for what I missed. I could just get my GED eventually. I don't have time to study for it now, but it's just as good as a diploma when you're looking for a job."
 

"But you have so much more potential than that. School has more to give you than just basic skills you need to pass the GED. You've spent the last two years taking care of yourself and eking out a living on the streets. Now it's time to give up some of that responsibility and learn to be young and have fun."
 

"I don't know if I can do it."
 

"You can, Margo. You just need to believe in yourself."
 

"I'd rather go with you," she said shyly. "Please, Tom, I wouldn't be in the way."
 

"Margo" he objected, dismayed. "That wouldn't be any life for you. I'm always on the run, never knowing where I'm going next or who might come after me."
 

Her voice quavered as she said, "I used to dream that you'd come back for me. That was silly, huh? I mean, you didn't even know I was here."
 

"Margo," he said gently, "I care a great deal about you, but not in the way you want me to. You don't even know me; you just kept thinking about me because so few people in your life had been nice to you. You'll make friends your own age and when the time's right, fall in love with someone who will make you forget about me."
 

"I'll never forget you, Tom," she vowed.
 

"I won't forget you either, Margo," he said. "I can't promise I'll come back, because I don't know what the future holds for me, but I'll always be your friend."
 

He gently tilted up her chin so he could see her eyes. "Now can I see a smile so I can remember you happy instead of sad?"
 

She dashed away a tear at the corner of her eye and gave him a wavering smile. She took the hand he offered and they started walking again, the conversation at first stilted then growing more comfortable as she told him about her life since they'd last seen each other. They had to pause at an intersection for the light to change. Tom looked across the street and drew in his breath as he recognized the man who had followed him two days earlier. He was turned half away, watching the people approaching along the sidewalk. Tom grabbed Margo's arm and quickly pulled her back around the corner.
 

"Hey, what's going on?" she cried.
 

Tom looked carefully around the corner. The man continued to scan the faces of passersby while seeming to lounge casually against the wall.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you like that. I saw this shop back here and decided to look for a new watch."

She followed him dubiously to a pawnshop across the street. They made their way through the narrow center aisle hemmed in by shelves and cases cluttered with sundry gadgets and appliances, musical instruments, and odds and ends that Tom couldn't begin to identify. The watches were in one of the flat cases set into a U-shaped counter at the back of the store. Tom moved around to a position where he could keep an eye on the intersection.

The shifty-eyed proprietor dropped his sandwich onto his desk and wiped his greasy hands on the front of his shirt as he hurried over to where Tom and Margo were looking at watches.

"We have some very fine watches here," he said ingratiatingly. "And of course, some not so fine if finances are a little tight. Are you looking for something for the young lady?

A second man approached the man on the corner. They started talking and the first man gestured away from the pawnshop's street. Tom turned his attention to the pawnbroker while continuing to keep an eye on the two men. "No, I lost mine. Could I have a closer look at that one?"

The proprietor lifted it from the case with reverential care. "An excellent choice. This would run you $300 if it was new. But it's been a slow day." He sized Tom up. "I can let you have it for $50."

The two men moved out of Tom's sight, walking in the direction the first man had pointed. "I'm a little short right now," he said apologetically.

"How much do you have?" the man asked, less friendly now.

Tom shrugged. "Right now, I was just looking to see if I could find something I liked."

"Hey pal," the man said abrasively. "If you're not here to buy something and you don't have nothing to pawn, get the hell out of my shop. I don't have time for you deadbeats who are always just looking around. You wanna window shop, head over to Macy's."

He folded his arms and glared at them, waiting for them to leave. Margo saw the anger in Tom's face and plucked at his sleeve as she nervously said, "Come on, Tom. Let's go. Please."

He loosened the muscle along his jaw and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. His voice deliberately calm, he addressed the proprietor, "Do you have any other watches? One with an inscription to Tom from Alyson?"

"Naw," he replied piously. "I wouldn't buy nothing like that unless I was sure it wasn't stolen."

"I'm sure," Tom agreed ironically. "Might be bad for your Better Business rating."
 

***
 

Tom pushed away his plate and waited for Father Ray to finish his pie. "It's time for me to leave," he said.
 

Father Ray frowned. "What's the hurry? I think you could use another day or two of rest."
 

"I saw one of them today when I walked Margo home. The same man I thought was following me the day I came here. I don't think he saw us, but they're getting close to this part of the city. It's better that I leave--I don't want to endanger you or Margo."
 

"But Tom, if they are looking for you, you may be safer right here. I've lived with enough danger that there's nothing they can do to frighten me."
 

"Don't think because you're a priest, they won't touch you!" Tom exclaimed. "They may have killed one priest already and put another in his place. Yes, that's right, they've even infiltrated the clergy. The best thing for me to do is go. Even if they do trace me to here, I don't think they'll bother you if they see I'm gone."
 

"Where will you go?"
 

"I'll disappear into another part of the city for a few days. See if I can find out anything about Charles Harriman. Then I'll thumb a ride to the next city and catch a bus to wherever the trail leads me, or if it leads me nowhere, maybe back to Illinois where this all started."
 

"Let me hear your confession before you leave? I'd like to grant you absolution."
 

Tom smiled wryly. "Another time, maybe. I think you've heard enough of my confessions."
 

"Thank you for everything," he said. "I didn't know where to turn to that first night when I was hurt. Then I heard the bells and remembered your church."
 

"Will I see you in the morning?" the priest asked.
 

Tom shook his head. "No, I'll go as soon as I wake up. The earlier I leave, the better. I might be able to slip into the bus station for my bag without them seeing me."
 

Father Ray shook his hand. "Goodbye Tom and good luck. Remember, if you should ever need help, my door will always be open to you. So will God's. Don't keep traveling alone."
 

***
 

Tom woke the next morning before the night's shadows had finished fading to gray.

Resisting the temptation to settle back to sleep within the warm cocoon of the bed, he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed in one decisive movement. Sitting with his elbows on his knees, he ran his hands through his hair as he tried to clear the sleep from his mind. When he looked up, his eyes fell on his clothes lying neatly folded on the chair.

It was puzzling because he couldn't remember leaving them there. Instead, he recalled dropping them on the end of the bed before sliding beneath the covers. He walked over to take a closer look and was touched to find that Father Ray had washed his clothes during the night and slipped in to leave them for him. He pulled on his jeans, then reached for the shirt. An object dropped soundlessly onto the hooked rug as he unfolded it. He stooped to pick it up and held in his hand a small wooden cross looped through with a thin leather cord.
 

Tom's first instinct was to drop it into his pocket and decide later what to do with the gift, but as he studied the cross in the thin light from the window, a vision flashed through his mind of a little boy dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy tie for his First Communion and that same boy a little younger kneeling by his bed as his mother listened to his childish recitation of "Now I lay me down to sleep..." He tried to shake it from his mind, distressed again because what seemed so real may not be his memories to remember. But though it was only for a moment, he felt comforted by the sense of a link to his past. He unclenched the fingers folded tightly around the cross and slipped it over his head.

After putting on his shoes, he made the bed. He pulled on his jacket and looked around the room, but he'd brought so little with him that there was nothing to leave behind. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as he turned to leave and pulled out the folded paper that crackled inside the left pocket. A note was clipped to a twenty-dollar bill: "I knew you'd be too proud to take this if I offered it to you, but you can mail it back when you get your things. God bless you, Tom." Tom slid it back into his pocket with a faint, resigned smile.
 

At the foot of the stairs, he turned into the short passageway connecting the rectory and the church. Through the wooden door, he could hear Father Ray celebrating morning mass. The words were indistinct, but the confidence and inspiration in the rich tones resonated throughout the building. Tom stepped out into the street and let the door close behind him.
 
 
 

c1997 by Marge Brashier (brashier@tcccom.net)