I took the gun and wiped it down with the end of my cassock to make sure Manuel’s fingerprints weren’t on it. Then I fired two shots with my left hand into the wall behind the place where the killers had stood.
Maria screamed at me, “What are you doing?”
“Gunpowder and cordite leave burn marks,” I said. “Especially when fired at close range. If the burn marks are on my fingers, no one will bother checking Manuel’s hands. Why would they? It was my gun. I bought it from persons unknown.”
A siren sounded in the distance. Its blare grew gradually louder.
A Catholic priest must be a father. He is a spiritual provider and protector in the image of God, in the person of Christ: in persona Christi. The role of father is my favorite part of being a priest, the one that comes most naturally to me and gives me the most joy.
I stepped closer and put my arm around Maria and Manuel. “Don’t worry,” I said, as though they were both my children. “There’s nothing to fear. I’ll take care of you.”