arc6

An Arc Through Fog
Part VI

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?

Psalm 13

Roy moved the chair closer to the window and sat down. It was not raining anymore. For the moment, the sky had locked in its droplets, restrained them behind the black faces of the fast-moving clouds.
It looked like Autumn outside. In the late days of summer, it looked like Autumn.
Roy propped his elbow up on the window sill and ran his fingers through his hair as he looked over the wet parking lot below.
There was really nothing to see outside.
Oh, but that nothingness was not unwelcome.
For inside, there was much to see, much to contemplate, much to excite him to anger and frustration. But more than anything else, there was confusion. Events had taken place. Decisions had been made. Men-his friends-had been injured, and not only physically. And the men responsible . . . he didn't know what had become of them, what would become of them. Everything was still chaos.
Chaos and silence. Things were being kept quiet, and for this, Roy was grateful. This was a blemish that would never fade if it became public. And more people would suffer from such an exposure than just 68's crew.
Roy's gaze turned into the room.
Johnny was lying in one of two patient beds. The other bed was empty, and would likely remain so - for a day or two, at least. The investigating officials did not want Gage talking to Mike Stoker - not until both men had rendered their statements.
And so Roy found himself sitting fitfully in one of Rampart's patient rooms, waiting for Johnny, who had only recently been moved in from recovery, to regain consciousness and give him some sign, some indication that things were going to move back to normal. Or if not back to normal, then back to the way things had been before the fire.   Before the fire? No, Roy had to go further back. Back past Mike's reassignment, clear back to before the accident. There had been some cosmic juncture that marked the end of the joyful time and the beginning of sorrow. Might there not be now another such juncture that turned everything again?
Roy heard a deep, slow inhalation. He stood up and moved over to the bed. He did not try to rush along Johnny's awakening, despite his own impatience. He simply stood there and waited until, at last, Johnny's eyes fluttered open, his gaze falling directly on his partner.
After a few seconds, Johnny spoke in a drowsy voice. "You look funny."
Roy had forgotten about the bandage on his nose.   He reached up and gently tapped the stiff tape. "Yeah, I guess I do."
Johnny continued to stare at Roy, and Roy stared back. There were things that needed saying, questions that needed answers, but how willing was either man to broach such matters?
At last, Johnny decided to make the first move. "Looks like we all took a beating in this one," he said with a surprising softness in his voice.
"In different ways," Roy replied.
"Where's Mike?"
"In another room."
"Why didn't they put him in here?"
"Because of the investigation. They don't want you two talking to each other until you've given your statements."
Johnny scowled. "What are they afraid of?"
"It's just a precaution, Johnny. They don't want anyone to be able to say that you and Mike coordinated your stories," Roy replied.
"I guess that makes sense." A pause. "How is he?"
Roy hesitated. "He's-he's pretty messed up."
Johnny pressed his head back into the pillow and looked at the ceiling.
Roy continued. "He hasn't said much since they brought him in. And I guess he didn't say anything at the scene, either. I went to see him earlier. He's-he's coherent and all, but it's like . . . he's still in shock."
Johnny swallowed and shook his head. He felt something creeping up his throat, and it was not the after-effects of the anesthesia. "I never felt so useless in my life," he said, his voice trembling from the efforts of self-control. "I couldn't do anything to stop them." He closed his eyes. "They didn't-they weren't interested in me. Nothing I could have said would have made a difference."
Roy frowned. "Who are you trying to convince, Johnny?"
"I don't know," Johnny replied. "It doesn't matter, though. Does it?"
"It matters to you. And it matters to Mike." Roy leaned close. "Maybe there was nothing you could do then; but there might be something you can do now."
Johnny regarded Roy doubtfully. "What?"
"Be there."
Johnny thought about these two words. They were too simple, too straightforward. Too uncomplicated for such a complicated situation. He shook his head imperceptibly. "I don't think he wants me there, Roy."
"Why?   You were there with him when it happened. You're the only one who knows first-hand what he went through-"
"Yeah, and that's precisely why I can't be there for him now. I'd just be a reminder of everything that happened. Whenever he sees me, he's going to know that I was there, that I saw what they did. How's he ever going to face me through that?"
Roy was not moved. "He's not facing anything right now. I'd rather see the hurt or the anger-I'd rather see anything other than that . . . that dead look he's wearing."
Johnny did not venture a reply, but instead took a moment before changing the subject.
"What about the guys from 68's?"
"They're all in custody. I guess their engineer spilled everything. I'm not sure what's going to happen to them while the investigation is going on," Roy replied. "How much did Mike tell you about them?"
"More than I ever wanted to know."
"They're murderers," Roy stated bluntly.
"Yeah." Johnny felt that strange sensation creeping up his throat again. It tasted a lot like bitterness. "And the department let Mike sit right in the middle of them for over a year." He looked up at Roy, and all the drowsiness had disappeared. In its place was something hot and jagged. "I've got a lot of hate in me right now, Roy. I thought I had learned how to overcome all of that."
"You had," Roy replied. "You've only forgotten."
"Huh, why is it we forget some things without even trying . . . and then the things we want to forget, we can't?"

****

Captain Stanley opened the door to Mike's room and stopped on the threshold.
Mike's parents.
There they were - Brian and Jeanine Stoker. And Hank Stanley almost turned around to leave, except that the man lying in the bed was one of the most important people in the world to him. Instead, he hung there in the doorway, undecided and wavering.
Brian Stoker eased the awkwardness. "Captain Stanley, come in-please."
Captain Stanley took a few slow steps into the room.
"I know Mike would want you here. Please, come in," Brian insisted.
Captain Stanley came and stood on the opposite side of the bed from the Stokers. Between them, Mike lay with closed eyes, apparently asleep. There was a gauze bandage covering his chin and a reddish bruise above his left eye; but this was certainly something Captain Stanley could bear seeing, for he had seen Mike in much worse condition. Yes, this was manageable. This could be handled.
"We, uh, we were hoping you would come," Brian said. "We weren't sure if you were still out at the fire."
"We were released a couple hours ago. I came straight here," Captain Stanley replied.
Brian nodded, and there was a brief moment of silence, before Captain Stanley looked up hesitantly. "The doctors told you what happened?"
"As much as they knew," Brian replied. "I guess they're still waiting to question Mike and the other fellow."
Jeanine interrupted. "Brian, darling, I'm going to go to the cafeteria and get some coffee. Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"A coffee would be good," Brian replied. "Thank you, dear."
"Captain Stanley?"
"Actually, I could use a cup of coffee, too. Yes, thank you."
Once Jeanine left, it became clear to both men that her departure had not been merely for a beverage run. The silence that hovered between Brian Stoker and Hank Stanley was such that it had to be broken. And it had to be broken with meaningful conversation. There was much more at stake now than their own egos and pride.
"Has he been awake?" Captain Stanley asked.
"He was conscious when we arrived," Brian replied. "He closed his eyes about an hour ago. I-I'm not sure if he's asleep or . . . I don't know."
"Did he say anything?"
Brian shook his head. "Very little. He had this look on his face . . . I'd seen that look before-" Brian's voice cracked and a brief, uncontrolled sob broke from his lips before he gathered himself again. "I'd seen it on some of my soldiers' faces. It was-they were shell-shocked-that's what we called it back then." He paused. "But I never-I never thought I'd see it on my own son's face." He broke down again, turning away to hide his upset.
Captain Stanley stood by silently, unsure of how to react. This was not the Brian Stoker of previous encounters. This man was altogether something different.
At length, Brian collected himself. "How can things like this happen? Mike is a good man . . . how could something like this happen to him?"
"He made a hard decision," Captain Stanley replied. "He did what he thought was right." He paused to swallow down the tremor that had crept into his voice. "I didn't want him to do it, but . . . I couldn't stop him."
Brian nodded once. "Michael is stubborn, and I can't wonder where he got it from."
"But his stubbornness was for a good reason," Captain Stanley replied. "If he had given in to what the rest of us wanted and backed out, then those guys at 68's would still be murdering people. He put what was right ahead of his own safety."
"Yes . . . but the cost . . . I'm not ready to pay that price." He paused. "Do you have children, Captain Stanley?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then you must understand how I feel. Things haven't been easy between me and Mike, yet he never stopped being my son," Brian explained. "But I stopped being the father that he had once adored."
"I doubt that very much," Captain Stanley replied thoughtfully. "Whatever happened between you two in the past, it doesn't have to stay that way. And I don't think either of you want it to stay that way." He waited a few seconds before speaking again. "I met Captain Herbst when we were out fighting the fire," he ventured carefully.
Brian glanced up at him. "Yeah, he told me his crew was being brought in."
"He told me what you did." Captain Stanley's voice was deep and sincere. "That was a great thing."
"But Michael turned it down. He had the chance, and he turned it down," Brian groaned. "I can't help but wonder if he did that because it was my idea . . ."
"I don't think that was it at all," Captain Stanley replied.
"I haven't been good to him-"
"Mr Stoker-"
"Captain Stanley, please . . . there's something I've wanted to say to you for a while now," Brian persisted.
Captain Stanley fell silent.
"I owe you an apology," Brian began. "I behaved badly towards you in the past. You know how I felt about your relationship with Michael; I just couldn't bear the idea of him looking up to someone else more than he looked up to me. I resented your place in his life."
"I know," Captain Stanley replied. "But please believe me, Mr Stoker, that I never wanted to take your place."
"I realize that now . . . and I'm sorry."
"I'm not the one you need to apologize to."
Brian drew in a deep breath and looked down at Mike. "You're right. But would he want to hear it?"
"He'd want to hear it. He needs to hear it - probably now more than ever."

****

"We stopped using this room after the night when we caught Mike watching us." Terrence McCullough walked slowly from one end of the cellar room to the other. All signs of the room's previous use were gone, except for a few splotches of wax on the floor. "After that, it was too dangerous to continue the rituals here at the station. In fact, we didn't even hold a ritual for over four months."
McCullough hunkered down and ran a finger over the wax. "We'd pray for the parameters of the Ruling."
"The Ruling. That was what you called it when you killed someone, right?"
McCullough glanced up at the investigator who had just spoken. The man was a blank page in McCullough's eyes. There was no emotion, no sentiment, no desire, no ill will to be discerned from the man's countenance or his stance. If he had feelings regarding the matter - and surely, he must - then he was doing a creditable job of keeping those feelings hidden.
"We preferred to define it as a sacrificial offering," McCullough replied, his stomach twisting into knots as he spoke. He felt an overwhelming urge to retch, but that was not going to happen. He would not let that happen. His guilt was his own and not for public exhibition. "But it was murder, yes. Murder in the most despicable sense."
"What did you mean by 'parameters'?" the investigator asked.
"We'd pray. We'd determine whether or not the victim was to be male or female. We'd establish an age range. Sometimes it was as broad as five to seventy years old. Other times, it was narrow. Then we'd use the words 'night' and 'clear' to determine whether the victim was to be black or white." McCullough got unsteadily to his feet. "And then the first victim to come along who met those parameters became the sacrifice. Sometimes we'd have to wait months. One time we waited nearly an entire year before someone came along who met the parameters." He paused. "Because of our profession, it was easy to make the sacrifices look like the natural outcome of the situation. Crash victims, burn victims, heart attacks . . . it wasn't hard for our paramedics to . . . move too slowly or . . . even actively help the sacrifice along. I don't know all the details, because I usually was up with the engine, but . . . I knew enough."
McCullough moved over to lean against the wall. "It was one of my responsibilities to keep a written record of the sacrifices. You can find it in my house in a box in the basement. I've got every Ruling listed in that book."
"How many victims were there?"
"Gage would have made thirty-six."
A hint of emotion crept into the investigator's features. "Thirty-six?"
"Thirty-six," McCullough affirmed.
"Are the names also recorded in your book?"
"No. Just the parameters, the date the Ruling was determined, the date and time it was carried out, and the location and circumstances of it."
"What was the purpose of keeping such a record?" the investigator inquired. "You must have known that something like that would be damaging if your activities ever came to light."
McCullough drew in a heavy breath. "I don't know the reason . . . it was just something Captain Moore asked me to keep up. It was already in place by the time I got there. Maybe-maybe its purpose was to cause damage, to put a tight lid on the case. I don't know. I don't even want to think about it anymore." He was shaking. "Can't we-can't we do this faster? I want to get it over with. I don't think I can take much more of this-talking and thinking about it, over and over."
"We don't want to go so fast that we miss anything," the investigator replied. "Besides, it might do your conscience some good."
McCullough hugged his arms about his body. "My conscience is telling me I shouldn't be in this room. This place is still . . . it's still his place. I don't want to be here. I'd like to get out of here. Can we go back outside?"
"Sure," came the cool reply, and the two men left the room.
Coming out into the shadowy light of the late afternoon, McCullough felt as if he were emerging from a tomb. It was something unconscious that raised his eyes skyward and brought a silent word of gratitude from his lips.
"Better?" The investigator's voice reclaimed Terrence's attention.
"Yes, much better." Terrence was not ashamed of his weakness in the cellar. He knew where he stood. He was still susceptible, but he could never go back. A greater Lord had intervened, and Terrence was firmly in His grasp.
McCullough looked towards the rear doors of the station. "Headquarters thinks they sent Mike here to bust open the case on my crewmates. But they're wrong. He was sent here for me. He was put into my path so that I would finally see . . . I would finally see the truth about my crewmates. And I'll tell you this: headquarters didn't send him."
The investigator made an indulgent gesture that could not hide his skepticism.
But Terrence McCullough didn't care.
Terrence McCullough knew he had been given another chance.
And he was not going to fly in the face of grace.

****

"I don't know what I'm searching for.
I never have opened the door.
Tomorrow might find me at last,
Turning my back on the past.
Ah, time will tell of stars that fell
A million years ago.
Memories can never take you back home,
Sweet home.
You can never go home anymore."

You Can Never Go Home
Justin Hayward

" . . . this sort of thing."
"I'm not sure I'm any better equipped than you are."
"But you must have more experience with it than I do."
That last sentence . . . Mike recognized his father's voice.
"Not with this. How could I ever get used to dealing with something like this?"
Captain Stanley.
No, this couldn't be possible. This couldn't be happening to him. Not his father and his captain-former captain-in the same room. As if the humiliations and suffering of the recent past weren't sufficient to reduce him to a state of wretchedness, now he was going to have to contend with this situation. He couldn't. Not now. This was too much.
"You were with him after the kidnapping. You were one of the men who found him. You've seen him scared before. You know what to expect."
"And every time he gets hurt-every time any of my men gets hurt-I swear to myself that I won't let it happen again. And then, it does."
"You tried to stop him."
"I didn't try hard enough."
"If you had gone behind Mike's back to get him pulled out of 68's, he would never have forgiven you, Captain Stanley. You know that."
"I was willing to risk his anger. But then I backed down. When it really counted, I bailed out on him."
"Stop talking," Mike announced suddenly in a quiet voice. He opened his eyes, first to behold his father - it was striking how much Mike felt like he were facing his reflection; then his gaze shifted to Captain Stanley.
Both men stopped talking.
"I can't listen to either of you," Mike went on.
"Michael-" his father began, but Mike cut him off.
"I can't listen to any fighting." His voice was barely audible. "I can't listen to it."
"There's not going to be any fighting," Brian replied in such a soothing tone that Hank Stanley saw, for the first time, the compassion that still had the chance to make a good father of Brian Stoker. "I promise you, Michael. No fighting."
"I don't want to see anyone." Mike averted his gaze as he said these words.
"It's just us, Mike," Captain Stanley offered.
"I don't want to talk to you-either of you. I don't want to see you."
Captain Stanley looked up and exchanged glances with Brian.
Brian reached down and squeezed his son's forearm. "I'm going to get your mother."
Mike didn't even bother with an acknowledgment.
The silence that followed upon Brian's departure was heavy and thick.
At last, Captain Stanley spoke. "So, what do you want to talk about, Mike?"
Mike looked up with dull surprise. "What?"
"What do you want to talk about? Do you want to know if John's going to be okay? Do you want to know what's happening to Moore and his crew? What about Janlan and Junkers? What do you want to know?" Captain Stanley asked.
"I don't-I-" Mike stuttered, complete confusion creeping into his features. He had not expected this sort of talk from Captain Stanley.
"Or do you just want to lie there with that look on your face and forget about the rest of us?" Captain Stanley leaned closer. "Do you want us to just forget about you?"
Mike stared up at him but said nothing.
Captain Stanley was relentless. "So, what's it going to be?"
At last, with Captain Stanley still bearing down upon him, Mike replied, "I'm not ready yet."
"Ready for what?"
Mike's answer was a long time coming. "I don't want anyone to see me."
"These people care about you, Mike. Why can't you face them?"
"You know why."
"Tell me."
"You know why," Mike repeated.
"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't want to see the people who are worried about you," Captain Stanley replied.
"Cap . . . leave me alone," came Mike's feeble protest.
"And I don't understand how you can lie there, so self-absorbed that you're not even thinking about John-"
"Is he thinking about me?!" Mike spat out. "After-after what he went through, is he thinking about me?!"
Captain Stanley replied quietly, "You're all he's thinking about."
Mike's breath burst out of him in a defeated sigh. "Oh, that's even worse. He's remembering what they did . . . that's what he's always going to remember whenever he sees me." He paused. "No, I can't. I can't. I can't do that."
"Mike-"
"I'm not going back."
Something cold and hard clamped down on Captain Stanley's gut. "You're not going back . . . where?"
Mike did not answer.
"Mike?" The word was nearly a punctuation.
"I'm leaving the department."
This pronouncement descended like a shroud, yet it raised Captain Stanley's ire, his impatience to the limit.
By God, I'm going to force some sense into you if I have to pull out every stop and every trick in the book!
"What are you going to do? Where do you plan to go?"
"I don't know."
"Is this just some spur of the moment decision? Have you given this idea any serious thought? I mean, between yesterday when they brought you in and today, right now, how much serious consideration have you given this decision?"
When Mike did not answer, Captain Stanley forged full ahead. "You know what people did to try and get you out of that place. You know what your father did. You know what I did. You know what Roy and John and Chet and Marco did."
In the silence of his own thoughts, Mike added Terrence McCullough to the list.
"No one wanted you to stay there! Does that sound like a bunch of people who don't care about you?! For crying out loud, Mike, these are people who would risk their lives for you, and now you're ashamed to face them because a group of sick men were going to rape you?!"
These words were direct and unexpected. They hit Mike with the full force of their meaning. He recoiled from the blow. "Don't say that!" he demanded.
"It's the truth, isn't it?"
"I don't want to hear it."
"You'd rather sink deeper and deeper, then? What about John, Mike? How do you think he's handling this? How do you think he felt watching them do that to you? And all the time, remembering that the same thing had happened to him? Only it really did happen to him! No one came along to rescue him at the last minute!"
"I'm not John Gage!" It was almost an accusation. "And I've always done what the department asked of me! I-I've been loyal to my superiors! I never backed down from anything they wanted me to do!   I took a demotion, a reassignment! I stayed at 68's to help headquarters nail those guys and-and-I didn't just abandon John out there! I did everything right! I did everything right, Cap! But then they-they tried to-to do that to me, and-"
Captain Stanley saw the struggle for self-control. If there was one thing he knew was all-important to Mike Stoker, it was the appearance of collectedness, the presence of a certain degree of composure - all of which was slipping away from him with alarming rapidity.
"-and I couldn't stop them. All the-everything that I had done right-it couldn't stop them-"
"It did stop them, Mike," Captain Stanley replied.   He waited a few seconds. "Do you know how you were rescued? McCullough radioed in that he needed immediate help. He tried to hold them off until help got there."
There was something about this that rang vaguely true in Mike's mind. The whole ghastly incident was one expansive blur: the sounds of voices and struggle and pain and fear; the colors of brown and green and tan and gray, all running together into a streaky tableau. Only the terror had been vivid and precise. Everything else had blended together into a melange of fragmented images and sensations.
Mike had never even considered the source of his and Johnny's deliverance.
"Somehow, you got through to McCullough." Captain Stanley was still speaking. "And in the end, the whole place came tumbling down. You did stop them. You stopped them on that hillside. And you stopped them for good."
"That's not what I mean-"
"I know what you mean, Mike," Captain Stanley assured him. "Listen, Mike . . . I can't undo what's happened. And I can't even begin to guess what's going to happen from here on. But I do know one thing - leaving the department isn't going to help you find what you're looking for."
"I don't know what I'm looking for." The words were spoken with profound misery. It was the first time Captain Stanley realized just how black the world had turned for Mike Stoker. "I just-I don't think I can do it this time, Cap."
"Do what?"
Mike thought carefully. "Find the way back."
"Then maybe it's time to stop relying solely on yourself," Captain Stanley replied.
"I can't always be falling back on you guys whenever I have a problem."
"Mike?"
Mike looked up at his former captain for the first time in many minutes.
"I'm not talking about relying on us," Captain Stanley stated bluntly.
A horrified look crossed Mike's face.   "I'm not going to see a psychiatrist."
Captain Stanley's expression was one of extreme compassion. "Stop looking in the wrong places, Mike."
The door opened, and Brian and Jeannine Stoker came into the room.
Mike glanced at them as they entered, then he looked back to Captain Stanley.
"I'll be back to see you tomorrow," Hank said, reaching down and squeezing Mike's shoulder.
Mike nodded. He watched as Captain Stanley shook hands with his father and mother. He noticed the genuine warmth that passed between them. He felt faint and closed his eyes.
Warm fingers closed around his left hand, and he opened his eyes to see his mother smiling at him with the care and adoration that Mike had not seen in her face since his childhood. She had pulled up a chair and was sitting directly beside the bed.
Brian stood beside her.
"Are you tired, Michael?" he asked.
"No," Mike lied.
"Are you comfortable, dear?" This was from Jeannine.
Mike nodded. "Yeah."
Silence.
"He's a good man," Brian announced, nodding towards the door through Captain Stanley had just exited. "And he thinks the world of you."
"He's been like a father to me-" Mike stopped abruptly. The words had just come out of him, and he had not even realized the pain he might be causing until it was too late.
But whatever hurt Brian might have felt, it was nothing compared to look of mortification which now colored his son's face.
"Yes, he has," Brian replied, not even a hint of offense in his manner. "He's taken good care of you, Michael. And he's made room for me - if you want that."
This was more than Mike could respond to at the moment. He needed a distraction, something to keep him from contemplating these odd occurrences that were threatening his composure.
He saw that his father had a small black book resting in one of his shirt pockets. He reached out to gesture towards the book; and Brian, mistaking the movement, clasped his son's hand.
"You won't regret it, Michael," Brian said softly.
Mike did not think he had ever loved anyone so much in his life as he loved his father at that moment.
The faintness returned, but somewhere in the hazy, indistinct world between sleep and consciousness, Mike was aware that one hand was in the grasp of his mother, and the other was in the grasp of his father. This had to be a childhood memory. A walk through a spring rain. Holding hands between mom and dad. At every puddle, they would lift in unison, and Michael would sail right over, untouched, unsullied, laughing and smiling. It was a dream that went on and on, peaceful and comforting. And in his father's pocket, he could see a small black book - his father's Little Roman Missal.

****

The church was empty.
Except for Mike Stoker and an elderly nun kneeling in the front pew.
Mike wasn't kneeling, though. He was sitting. He had chosen a spot closer to the back of the church than to the front - in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Somehow, he felt like he should not be in the church at all, that his presence was fraudulent. What was he trying to prove?
What was he doing here?
From time to time he would glance up at the symbols of the faith that surrounded him, but more often he found himself simply staring at his hands or the floor or the back of the pew in front of him.
He wanted to think about God, Christ, the Holy Spirit, the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Saints. He wanted to think the sort of holy and humbling thoughts that being in a church normally inspired.
But all that came to mind was Terrence McCullough.
McCullough had saved Mike's life. McCullough had saved Johnny's life
McCullough was the reason Mike was sitting in this church right now.
But what of McCullough, himself? What sort of future was Terrence McCullough facing?
Please God . . . if you're really there . . . if you're really there and you're listening . . . take care of Terrence McCullough.
Mike grimaced. I don't even know how to pray anymore.
He leaned forward, crossing his arms on top of the pew and resting his head between them. He was so tired. He had come here looking for strength and power. He had come here looking for the restoration of his will and desire.
Yet, he felt more exhausted now than he had when he had entered through the church doors an hour earlier. Sitting had exhausted him. Not knowing what to do had exhausted him. And now he felt like a phony. He had no right to come here looking for something that he had neglected for years. He couldn't remember the last time he had stepped inside a church. Not that his belief had waned; only his interest and concern. After all, he had gotten on pretty well with only himself and his friends to rely on over the years.
But he wasn't going to make it this time, relying on his own resolve or the support of his friends. This time it was going to take something more. Only Mike felt utterly unworthy, and sitting in this church was making him increasingly uncomfortable.
So again, he asked himself, what was he doing here?
He heard and felt the arrival of another person beside him. When he raised his head, it was to see that the nun from the front row had come to him, scooting into the pew beside him. She smiled through wrinkles that, though they showed her age, had no effect on her beauty - or perhaps it wasn't beauty so much as it was contentment. She reached out and took Mike's arm with a hand made unsteady by the years, yet Mike felt the surety in her grip.
"Come . . . kneel," she urged.
Mike felt only a slight twinge of self-consciousness as he knelt beside her.
"Pray for God's grace," she said softly, closing her eyes and bowing her head.
Mike hesitated, then followed her example.
Grace. The word hung in his mind. Grace. God's grace.
And then he realized his mistake. He had come here looking to be restored, looking to be strengthened and shored up, ready to go right back out and face life again as a battle. He had come here to be recharged . . .
. . . when what he really had needed and wanted was comfort - something he would never ask for and tended to shy away from even when it was offered. But there was now, in him, a pressing need to be held and in something more than a physical embrace.
He was able, at last, to admit this truth to himself. And he felt no shame in his need. For the first time, no shame, no weakness, no self-recrimination - only a need deep inside his battered soul.
And he knew it wasn't too late.

****

"Chief, you ten o'clock is here."
"Is that Stoker? Send him in."
Chief Bradley stood up from his desk as Mike entered the room. He could see right away that Stoker was uncomfortable; but then, so were most firemen who had been summoned to the Office of the State Commissioner.
Bradley came around the desk and held out his hand. "Good to see you, good to see you. Please, sit down. Coffee? Soda?"
Mike declined as he sat down. He waited in anxious patience while Bradley poured himself a cup of coffee then took a seat in the chair opposite.
"I'm going to go straight to the point," Bradley began. "The actions of Chief Janlan and Captain Junkers were completely unknown to this headquarters. The official investigation into 68's had been dropped months before the accident. And while I can not argue with the general good that has come from this private investigation, I want you to know that no one in this headquarters, including the Fire Chief, condones the means by which it was carried out."
Mike said nothing.
"While I can't say with any degree of certainty that the outcome of the investigation of your accident last X was predetermined, I can't deny the appearance of it. Quite frankly, I remember being shocked when I heard the verdict. Steve Detz is a close friend of mine. I know he was furious at Janlan's decision. We fully expected you to appeal the decision, Mike. But you didn't." He paused. "Did you know they were using you?"
"Not until later."
"And you still decided to stay, knowing what you were facing?"
"I didn't think I had any choice."
Chief Bradley regarded him in puzzled admiration for a long moment. "I've read your deposition, along with everyone else's. I know what they put you through - not only Moore and his crew, but also Janlan and Junkers. I know what you faced. And the idea that you hung around in the face of that kind of abuse . . ." His voice trailed off. "Well, you have the right to know that both Janlan and Junkers have been reprimanded. And it looks like the crewmen from 68's will most likely be convicted of multiple accounts of murder. Between your testimony and Gage's and McCullough's, the seems to be a fair amount of credible evidence. Anyway, the LAPD has it now."
"What about Terrence?"
"Terrence?"
"McCullough."
"Considering his informant status and the way he's been cooperating with the investigation, his sentence probably won't be as severe. I also understand that he didn't actually take part in any of the murders, although he had a prominent role in the cult," Bradley replied.
Mike nodded.
"And what about you?" Bradley asked.
"Me?"
"Are you going to stay in the department?"
"Yes," came the response.
"You're still over there in 68's?"
"Yes, Chief. They've brought in an entirely new crew, although they're all fill-ins for right now. A permanent crew hasn't been assigned yet," Mike replied.
Chief Bradley rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. "How would you feel about being an engineer again?"
Mike's external calm was deceptive. "I'd like that."
"I thought you might," Bradley replied. "I've already discussed it with Commissioner Rhodes, and he agreed that Janlan's ulterior motives invalidated the verdict delivered in the investigation. The Fire Chief has decided to go with the findings of Captain Detz and repeal the verdict, as well as the punishment."
Mike could not speak.
"And since there's going to be an opening at 51's, Captain Stanley has asked that you be allowed to return to that station."
"An opening?"
"68's C-shift is going to need a permanent engineer. John Glover volunteered for the job."
Again, Mike was stunned speechless
"Can I tell Captain Stanley that you're going to take the position?"
Mike was not able to bring a grin to his lips - not yet. There were too many other things weighing on his heart and his mind; but perhaps this return to being 51's A-shift engineer might represent a promise.
"If you don't mind, Chief," Mike said quietly. "I'd like to tell him myself."

He settles where only the spirited see,
Beyond sorrowful vision and the ravages of evil.
For as the Son of Man alights upon all the Father has created,
so then shall the arc be closed, the fog shall lift,
And the falcon return to his maker.

John Miles
"A Falcon in Flight"

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