The Condemned: Part Three

A Serialized Novella

A Catholic church in Questa, N.M., January 1943. (John Collier Jr./Library of Congress)

XI

Reorienting San Juan Diego’s trajectory — from plunging into oblivion — could not be done alone, the Priest believed as he arranged chairs in the rectory. He prepared for an evening meeting, inviting the few remaining residents to discuss strategies in combatting the cartel and economic woes. He longed to give parishioners a tangible involvement with the church’s mission. He could lead the way if he must, but a demoralized people, who have already condemned themselves to despair, are hard to save.

He asked Maria to assist him in telling others following Mass. Hopefully, people come even if it’s only a few, he thought.

As he finished the arrangement, the Priest caught a glimpse of the old photograph, now prominently featured on the bookshelf. He intently studied his brother, Lucas’, face. There was an innocence, yet foreboding soul imprisoned in the picture.

A phone call interrupted his contemplation. He answered it.

“Hola.”

“Hola padre. This is Señora Lopez, from Mass earlier. You spoke to my grandson Francisco. Can I speak to you for a moment?”

The call, especially from Francisco’s grandmother, surprised the Priest. He feared the young man was in trouble.

“Of course. What’s the issue?”

“Well, I saw the way you spoke with Francisco and ever since his father passed away, he hasn’t had a strong male presence in his life.”

“Okay.”

“If it’s not too much to ask, can you talk to him? I fear he and his brother José are getting into a dangerous business.”

“You mean the cartel?”

The line went silent for a moment as the grandmother gathered herself. The Priest could hear her sniffing on the other end. He knew she was holding back worried tears.

“I don’t trust his cousin Roberto. There always was something off with him. But Francisco and José are boys. They need guidance.”

The Priest glanced at the boys in the photograph. He knew completely the need for guidance; and knew Francisco and José were on the precipice of losing their souls. It was a path he knew too well.

“I understand.”

“If you could find the time, I know it must be limited, but could you please — even visit today? He and José haven’t been back to the house since Francisco dropped me off after Mass. I fear they’re with Roberto and will be out all night again.”

The possibility of the cartel ravaging the town alarmed the Priest. He began strategizing safe places for people to hide in the rectory.

“How long has this been going on for?”

“Only recently. It hasn’t always been that way.”

Perhaps the young men could be convinced off the self-destructive path, he wondered.

“Okay.”

“Come over for dinner. I’ll make you a nice meal. I bet you haven’t had one since you’ve been here.”

The Priest’s peeked toward the kitchenette, which had no oven. The previous one was most likely stolen and he hadn’t ordered a new one. His stomach grumbled.

“I’d greatly appreciate that.”

“Thank you Father. I’ll plan for six. My house is just outside of town near Tranquilo Farms.”

“I will be there.”

As he hung up the phone, he remembered seeing the Tranquilo Farms sign while riding into San Juan Diego on the bus. It was a few miles away from the village’s main road. It would be a far walk in the mid-afternoon sun. This would be the time to pray with your feet, as he took out a rosary from his pocket. The wooden beads were worn, yet smooth. The Priest rubbed individual segments between his thumb and index finger. It was the only heirloom he had from his father. He stepped out of the rectory, made the sign of the cross, and began his trek to Señora Lopez’s home.

“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty…”

The wind picked up, so much so the bartender rushed outside the cantina to reinforce the tarp over the front window. He was perplexed by how the dust whipped around the Priest — who appeared in a trance. Lost, as if the space around him didn’t exist. The Priest’s eyes looked both present and distant. The tarp tore from the window, which called for the bartender’s immediate attention.

The Priest was in deep prayer. However, with every step and Hail Mary, memories pecked at his mind, as if they were deployed by a force to break his focus. He saw Lucas — a ghost from the past. The pair were inseparable as children, playing sports together or losing themselves in imaginary adventures. One day, the Priest and Lucas skipped school early and, instead, hung out at a candy store. The Priest recalled daring his younger brother to steal some tarts — he couldn’t remember which ones. As they ran off with the bounty, giggling at the thrill of their success, they came across their father. He was a police officer patrolling his regular route. The Priest’s giggling evaporated instantly and his feet froze. They felt heavy as stones. The disappointment and shock from his father petrified him; and the ensuing penance he and Lucas endured solidified the barrier already forming between father and son. His father’s words, from the shadowy past, ravaged his memory: “How could you lead your brother to do that? You’re suppose to look out for him.”

Focus. His feet felt heavy.

He was transported to the interior of a church. His father and brother lit a candle in front of a St. Joseph statue. Then the three kneeled in a pew. A priest raised the Eucharist, yet the Priest was distracted, his head aimlessly tilting. His shirt was tugged by his father, who, with only a look, sternly reprimanded the Priest. Snippets from his lesson — mostly respecting the presence of the Risen Lord in the Eucharist — lingered, but without form. The Priest didn’t allow the words to sink in then. He wished they had.

Focus. Focus. He rubbed another bead.

The Priest became a prodigal son, and influenced his brother to do the same. They left home in search of insatiable glory. Eventually, the two ran with a small gang, committing petty crimes, and their lives were consumed by soulless appetites. One night, the Priest woke up on the foot of a mountain road covered in puke and his own blood. It was the lowest state he ever found himself. Every muscle was ablaze in pain. He couldn’t remember what dragged him there and struggled to stand. Was he even alive? Through red, swollen eyes, he saw no one, only a few footprints being whisked away by the wind. In the despair, he gazed up the mountain, which revealed the blinding by the early morning sun. For the first time in his life, he felt compelled to pray to God for help. He believed God would miraculously heal his hangover and wounds — but that did not come. However, with every ounce of newfound strength, the Priest trudged the miles upon miles to the gang’s hideout. His feet blistered because the soles of his shoes disintegrated. Once he arrived at the hangout, he was coldly greeted by his brother, who spewed vile against their father and how the police were cracking down on their operations. Lucas’ eyes were empty. No rage. No sadness. No pleasure. Empty.

He rubbed another bead. The dirt whipped his unfazed face.

There was his father sprawled in an outdoor patio chair. His eyes were also empty. His mouth agape — in terror or prayer. Like Antonio. He remembered the blood. He remembered his brother fleeing. He remembered the anguish.

He stopped walking. Tears swelled as he looked to heaven. I failed you father. I failed Lucas. I cannot fail these boys. I have to find him.

The wind silenced, and in that silence, the Priest heard the roar of a engine from behind. As he turned, he expected it to be a cartel member. He prepared to leap off the main road. To his surprise, it was the bartender in a 1970s Chevrolet pick-up truck. Only a few patches showed its original blue color. The truck rattled as it approached the Priest.

“Where are you walking to padre? Need a lift?”

“How much further is it to Tranquilo Farms?”

The bartender leaned his head out the window, looking both forward and backward as if to get an accurate estimate.

“Another few miles.”

The Priest surveyed his cassock which, instead of black, was covered in dirt. He shook off the excess, smacking it with his hands. The bottoms of his feet were blistering. He gazed up at the sun and toward a lone tree by the side of the road, trying to tell the time.

“You think I can make it to the Lopez house by supper?”

“Please Father, I insist.”

The Priest noticed the timidity in the bartender’s voice dissipated since they first met. Without a word, he kissed his rosary, placed the heirloom in his pocket, and got into the passenger seat. The pair drove off on the desert road, not exchanging words for the first few minutes. The Priest watched the mountains, which looked motionless regardless of the distance traveled, as well as the dried farmlands endlessly spanning to the horizon. He reflected on the bartender’s kindness. His stream of consciousness led to Father Jorge.

“Was Father Jorge a good man? Besides not paying a tab.”

Every wrinkle on the bartender’s tanned, sunken face twitched.

“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. It’s bad luck.”

“I thought he was only run out of San Juan Diego.”

“Partly. But soon after, a rumor went around that he was murdered by this cartel character Lobo, who apparently hates priests. Hates the Church. He’s a devil. But Father Jorge was no saint either.”

“So this Lobo killed Father Jorge even after he left?”

“Father Jorge had been threatened before. I think it drove him to the bottle. He was scared. I don’t blame him, but when he left, people felt abandoned. A man of God too — aren’t they endowed by strength from a higher power.”

“Did you ever help him? You seem to be the only one who had steady business in San Juan Diego.”

The remark took the bartender aback. He hung his head shamefully. The pair drove a few more seconds before he broke the silence.

“I was scared. I am an unconfrontational man, Father. How could I have helped him anyway?”

“You’re helping me right now. You’re more than you think you know.”

The Priest returned to watching the motionless mountains. The sun, meanwhile, inched closer toward the earth. The shadows across the desert expanded.

“I’ve come here to serve men like Lobo, muchacho. I’ll need a friend like you.”

A wave of fear rushed over the bartender. His hands nearly lost grip of the steering wheel because of the sweat.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea padre. Best to stay low. And he has an army behind him. He’s done enough damage to the community. Plus, you just got here. You want to rush into death?”

“You mean hide in fear? We’re commanded to love our enemies, more so than our friends. If Lobo is the man I believe —”

“Wait, you know Lobo?”

“I can’t say for certain. But I have my suspicions.”

How could this priest know Lobo if he isn’t a criminal, the bartender frantically wondered. Silence swallowed the pair. The bartender debated whether he should stop the car or not, but continued onward, driven by fear.

“Are you a real priest? Or am I driving a criminal?

“Yes, I am a priest,” the Priest reassured.

“But are you a criminal?”

The Priest was stumped. The blood. The empty eyes. The voiceless prayer. His father. It all engulfed him.

“I’m here to serve God’s people without fear. That includes ruthless men like Lobo. We’re called to lead the lost to sainthood.”

An aged, rusted road sign appeared through the haze. Even with faded letters, and indents — most likely made with blunt objects for sport — the Priest managed to read “Tranquilo Farms.” There was nothing peaceful or vegetation, only the remnants of broken tools in the mounds of arid dirt.

“I think we take the right here.”

XII

The unpaved driveway jostled the Priest and bartender as they approached the Lopez home. The Priest didn’t notice Francisco’s car on the lot — or at least not the same vehicle he saw at Mass. There was no wind or smell the Priest could detect. The only sign of life was a light from the living room. He got out of the truck, making his way to the door. Leaning his head out the driver window, the bartender surveyed the area seeing nothing. What if the young men become violent, he anxiously wondered. He felt compelled to stay.

“Do you want me to wait for you Father?”

What did I need then? The Priest knew his presence would shock the young men, which could be dangerous. However, his steps were purposeful as he walked away. Their souls took precedent.

“I’ll be alright. Listen, I’m going to have a meeting tonight at eight. It’ll be at the rectory. I hope you can come.”

The bartender reflected on Father Jorge and the Priest’s words during the drive. He couldn’t abandon this man — even with his mysterious past. This newfound call of duty swelled in him.

“You’ll see me there. But will I see you? Whatever you think you might know, you don’t know these boys. They’re trouble Father and are going to be. It’s in their nature.”

“I was them once.”

Realizing he couldn’t divert the Priest’s mission, the bartender nodded his head and turned back down the driveway. He kept looking back anxiously, while gripping the wheel tight. In the rearview mirror, he saw the Priest — in the distance — on the doorstep. Every second, he debated whether to go back, maybe hide in the truck in the farmland. However, he had no cover. His truck might scare off the young men before the Priest could speak with them. He had no choice but to leave without spoiling the mission, yet the worry curled his innards and tightened his chest.

He turned around one last time and noticed the grandmother welcoming the Priest into the home. God help him, the bartender prayed.

XIII

Francisco was out longer than he anticipated. He knew his grandmother would rebuke him. He saw no other drivers on the road home except for the bartender’s rusted truck. What’s he doing out here, he wondered. Meanwhile, José fidgeted in the passenger seat, practicing his gun draw.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready.”

“Well stop it.”

In defiance, José drew a handgun, hidden in his pants’ waist, aiming it into the desert. The sun caught the metal of the gun, which reflected into Francisco’s eyes, blinding him. Their car swerved momentarily, as Francisco quickly course-corrected.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

José kept practicing his draw, pointing it at debris scattered on the side of the road. He paid no attention to his brother. He was fascinated by the weight.

“Hey! I asked you a question. Where did you get that?” Francisco said, his patience boiling over.

“Roberto,” José said as he inspected the gun.

“Well, could you put that thing down? It’s freaking me out.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it.” José put the gun back into the waistband.

“Course you didn’t mean it. Just like you didn’t mean to tell Roberto about me talking to that priest.”

“It just came up.”

“I don’t want to give Roberto anymore ammo than he probably already has against me in his head.”

“Roberto? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be dumb. He knows about Antonio. He’s hiding something. And he’s become more tense lately.”

“Well so have you.”

The remark hit Francisco — and he debated whether smacking José’s head in retaliation, but he withheld. He buried the urge.

“I just don’t like where this is headed. When Roberto asked me to join him, I just didn’t know what type of jobs he was asking me to do.”

“Grow a backbone, will you? We don’t want to blow our chance tonight. We could really make the big money! Enough for abuela to live comfortably, right?”

Francisco hated that reality. He hated the life he was barreling into. He hated San Juan Diego.

“Plus, it’ll be good to knock out the Caballeros.”

José’s coldness toward their rivals pierced his older brother’s soul. The emptiness was haunting. The Caballeros meant nothing to him like they weren’t people. Francisco saw a person detached from humanity — even the eyes started to appear hollow.

“You believe that?”

“Gotta have faith, right?” José said with a devilish grin.

As the car approached the Tranquilo Farms sign, José whipped out the gun from his waistband again. In a flash, he accidentally shot the gun. The blast ripped the air, causing Francisco to swerve once more. He heard a metal-on-metal sound that ricocheted in every direction. José cackled, howling at the thrilling mayhem. Panicked, Francisco rubbed his torso searching for a bullet wound. He found none.

“Jesus Christ, José!”

José continued laughing. He smacked his legs and bounced in the passenger seat from the excitement like a wild animal. Francisco furiously pulled the car over to the side of the road. He dammed every instinct to smack his brother.

“You were pointing that in my face!”

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was loaded. I won’t do it again.”

“No, you won’t, you moron! Not while I’m driving.”

The emptiness in his brother’s eyes deepened. The darkness reminded him of the well in front of their abuela’s house. Was anything he said resonating with the brother he once knew? Francisco shook his head in frustration and hit the steering wheel instead. He stepped on the gas pedal with force — as though his foot would pierce through the car’s underbelly — and flew down the road toward home.

XIV

The car screeched to a halt in front of the house. Before the engine quit purring, Francisco leapt out, uncomfortable sitting next to José for another second. He furiously wiped off some dust from his T-shirt.

“Leave the gun in the car or toss it. Don’t bring it inside for abuela to find. I don’t want to be here longer than we have to.”

Mechanically, José followed his brother’s advice and dropped the gun on the passenger seat. Meanwhile, Francisco stormed into the house, throwing the door open. He nearly flew to his bedroom to grab supplies for the night’s run, but stopped in his tracks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Priest and his abuela chatting on the couch, drinking coffee together. José followed close behind his brother but, like a machine, paid no mind to the guest — he went to his bedroom, stuffing bullets into a bag he hid underneath the bed.

Beads of sweat began forming on Francisco’s forehead. Not him. Not now. Not in front of José. His grandmother’s stern cataract eyes darted toward her grandson. He knew she was irritated at his rude entrance — or that’s what he perceived. He noticed the Priest wearing the cassock. Somehow Francisco felt the Priest was nervous, yet he couldn’t pinpoint to anything specific. But there was something in the air.

“Hello Francisco. You’re home later than I thought,” Francisco’s grandmother said breaking the silence.

“We’re not staying long.”

“And where are you going this time?”

Francisco quickly glanced into his bedroom. He could see José crouched underneath the bed, stuffing a bag at a frenetic pace. The eyes from his grandmother and the Priest drilled into him, as though he were caught pickpocketing.

“Back to Roberto’s garage. There are a couple of cars he needs help fixing. He says he’ll pay.”

Lying was never his strongest quality. He teetered on his feet and bit the cuticle off his right thumb, while he watched the disappointment rise in his grandmother’s eyes. The sight crushed him, but he was doing this for her, he rationalized. To save her grandson from embarrassment, she turned her attention to the Priest, who sat there sipping his coffee. The Priest’s prior nervousness evaporated from his being, Francisco noticed. Perhaps he knows I lied too, he wondered.

“Well won’t you say hello to our guest,” the grandmother said.

The Priest placed the cup on the table, rising to his full height. The man appeared taller than before to Francisco.

“Hola, Francisco. I hope all is well since we last spoke.”

Francisco glanced back into the bedroom to see José’s progress. His brother zipped up the bag. Don’t look like you’re talking to him, Francisco repeated to himself.

“Aren’t you going to ask him how he’s doing Francisco? Be polite.”

“I’m sorry abuela, but we have to get going. José and I are just coming back for some clothes we can get dirty. I just didn’t want to ruin this shirt.”

“Looks dirty already,” the Priest said with a knowing grin, observing Francisco’s dusty T-shirt. A silence fell on the room between the young man and the Priest.

“Although not as dirty as my cassock, I walked part of the way here.” The Priest motioned to his clothes, chuckling to Francisco’s grandmother. Whatever the abuela wanted for him to discuss with her grandsons, he couldn’t do so here. Not in front of her. Although dangerous, the Priest strategized — if they were leaving in the next few minutes, he would hitch a ride back to town and talk to them then.

“In fact Señora, I must be going as well. I have a meeting at the church soon.”

“Oh, I see —”

José walked in front of his brother and handed the bag to him, as though no one else was present in the home. The bag was heavier than Francisco anticipated. Now is the time to go, Francisco thought, turning to the door to exit. He reached the threshold with his hand on the door knob before his grandmother called to him.

“Francisco. Why don’t you drive Father back to the church? You need a ride, don’t you? You were dropped off here.”

This is the last thing I need, Francisco internalized. Every muscle twitched. Why me?

“It’s too far of a walk. Francisco, you and Jose will give Father a ride. I wish you returned earlier.”

“Abuela, I’m not sure —”

“You’ve already embarrassed me. You will drive Father back.”

The Priest noticed the frustration boiling within the young man who was still standing in the threshold — like he did at Sunday Mass. Those innocent eyes couldn’t hide the combination of displeasure and fear. The fear kept him distant. But the young man had to relent. He couldn’t deny his grandmother.

“Alright, alright. Padre, let’s go.”

“I greatly appreciate it.”

As he followed Francisco to the car with uncertain, but purposeful steps, the grandmother pushed herself up from the couch, using the coffee table as a crutch. The Priest rushed over to give her a hand. She accepted. Francisco heard the sudden commotion and, once again, saw the easiness his abuela accepted this stranger. The sight pained him.

“I’m not as spry as I once was,” she said to the Priest.

“Neither am I,” the Priest said with a sympathetic smile as he guided the abuela to her bedroom. Her feet shuffled against the floor. “Thank you for the hospitality. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Of course.”

As she sat on the edge of the bed, the cataracts turned stormy — a fear rose within them the Priest hadn’t seen before. She leaned to the Priest’s ear, shaking.

“Please Father. My boys.” She choked up. The Priest patted her shriveled hands, feeling the bulging veins, while attempting to reassure the weakened heart of the elderly woman. He couldn’t fail her. He couldn’t fail them.

“I’ll speak to them.”

He kissed her hands and departed. As he looked back, he observed the old woman bury her head in her hands, trying to hide the tears. The Priest wiped a single tear from his eye before walking outside with a begrudged Francisco to the car. José had been honking the horn, yet Francisco again teetered on the threshold.

“Francisco! C’mon!” José cried.

“Yes, we don’t want to keep Roberto waiting,” the Priest said as he approached the car.

Francisco turned his head, listening for his grandmother. He heard the faintest cries from her bedroom, as though they were last, desperate gasps wiped of all strength. It was pitiful. The sound reverberated to the deepest corners of his heart. Would this be the final time he heard her, he wondered. The thought was too painful. He tried to drown out her sobbing by thinking of the task ahead, but with limited success. He wished he didn’t turn down this path. But what else could he do?

As he walked to the car, lugging the bag, he saw the gun in the passenger seat reflecting the sunset’s light. José! He rushed over, throwing the bag on top. He hoped the Priest was blind; but he caught eyes with the him — another knowing stare. Yet, the Priest remained silent, instead turning his gaze to the bedroom window. Francisco refused to follow his eyesight and thrusted himself into the car.  

“C’mon padre, get in.”

XV

The trio blazed down the road. Pebbles rocketed off the side of the car. The mountain range was only a blur to the Priest, who sat in the backseat. Although he couldn’t see their faces, the car’s air felt pressurized — everyone was bound to their current position. No one spoke. No one coughed. Even José was still, cautiously slouched in the passenger seat.

The Priest knew this was his opportunity to talk to the young men. They could still turn back. He decided to break the silence.

“Your grandmother is a nice woman.”

“Why? Because she believes in that bullshit you’re preaching,” José hotly responded.

Impulsively, Francisco extended his right arm as a warning shot, not to press further. The Priest took notice.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in the area,” the Priest said trying to change the subject. However, the conversation dropped — no one responded. The deafening silence only brought back the sound of Francisco’s grandmother sobbing. He couldn’t stand it. He had to distract his mind.

“You lived in San Juan Diego?”

“No, just nearby. My father, brother and I lived on the other side of the mountains.”

“Where are they now?”

The Priest hesitated, unsure of how to answer. Holy Spirit, please give me the right words to say, he prayed.

“My father was murdered. My brother, I’m not completely sure. We haven’t spoken since his death.”

The blood. The mouth. The eyes. His brother fleeing. Focus.

“You see, my father was a good man. Too good perhaps. He was an officer trying to fight local gangs who wreaked havoc on the community. To his dismay, when he discovered my brother and I had joined one of these groups, it broke him. We were young, foolish, and poor. And he was a strict, religious man. The holiest man I’ve known. I only knew that too late, that and his deep love for my brother and me. My brother never understood. And it’s my fault. I distorted his view of my father.”  

The Priest stroked his eyebrows. He caught the last glimmers of the sun setting behind the mountains. Something in the Priest’s voice resonated with Francisco — he felt a connection with somebody for the first time, who understood his situation. Or was this another apocryphal story a voice whispered to him.

“We went our separate ways. I’m not sure if my brother would appreciate that I’m a priest now,” the Priest continued.

“Have you been a priest for long?”

“Only a few years. It was up on those mountains I honestly prayed to God for the first time. It’s funny, mountains play significant roles throughout the Bible. From Moses all the way to Christ. I’m simply a man. And yet we never know what God calls us to do until we listen for Him.”

“Older or younger?”

“I’m the older one. If I could just get five minutes to talk with him. I hope that would be enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To ask for forgiveness.”

The sorrow and guilt the Priest conveyed is convincing, Francisco thought. He had no response for the passenger, instead he glanced at his younger brother, who aimed his finger at debris on the side of the road. A wave of guilt crushed Francisco. What have I done? he wondered.

“You two must watch out for each other.”

The car turned onto San Juan Diego’s main road with all the passengers locked in silence. Francisco noticed the dog from Roberto’s garage scurry off the road into an alley. He pitied the creature. As he pulled in front of the church, Francisco imagined he would be relieved — yet he felt the opposite. His soul curdled even more after listening to the Priest’s story. There has to be another way out of this place, he believed.

The Priest caught a glimpse into Francisco’s innocent eyes in the rearview mirror. A massive weight plunged them into the darkness — as if they were crying for an escape. They looked like Antonio’s eyes.

“Thank you gentlemen for the ride. You’re welcome to stop by this meeting I’m holding. Young men such as yourselves, I could use the help around the church. We can bring San Juan Diego back with God’s help.”

Francisco was frozen. His mind was a swarming beehive, unable to concentrate or detect any rational thought. He felt a tugging again, but not on his pant leg — it was the Priest’s hand on his shirt.

“Don’t,” the Priest authoritatively pleaded. Francisco could not look at him. He forced his attention on the steering wheel, but he could feel the Priest’s intensity.

But his words chilled Francisco. The swarm howled louder. His abuela’s cries intensified. The gun’s blast rattled. He felt José’s impatience erupting. Then he remembered Antonio — why was he killed? Once you’re in the life, was there only death? His path felt locked, and though he were imprisoned. If he fled, Roberto would surely kill him. Or would José? Would they go after his grandmother?

“Sorry Father, we have to go.”

“Francisco, move it!” José commanded.

The Priest let go of Francisco. He backed away from the car with sorrowful steps. Stay Francisco, stay, he prayed. In that moment, Francisco could read the Priest’s thoughts — yet he couldn’t stay. Would he ever see him again?

“Adios padre.”

The car peeled away from the church, kicking up dust. The Priest forlornly stood in the middle of the road, watching Francisco and José disappear from sight into the sunset. At last, the tears he dammed throughout the ride broke. They dried instantly on dirt road. He rubbed the worn wooden beads in his pocket vigorously, feeling as desperate as he had on the mountainside years before.

“God, protect them.”

Continued in Part Four