E pur si muovo (And still it moves.) -- Galileo

1.

Father Meredith R. McKay, SJ, checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. The curb outside the Anchorage airport bustled with the inevitable traffic of the end of the high summer tourism season: families in matching hiking boots wearing heavy backpacks, blue-haired women clutching shopping bags emblazoned with glossy Native-influenced logos.

He couldn't help feeling like they were all surreptitiously staring at him. Was it the shirt? He flushed irritably and turned back to the magazine he wasn't actually reading.

The denim shirt with clerical collar had been a gift from Jeannie when the news of his exile came. "I couldn't find one in flannel," she'd said, smiling gamely, "but this should help you fit in, don't you think?" He hadn't been quick enough to wipe the horror from his face, and the way her face had fallen at that still made him feel like a heel.

None of this seemed quite real.

"Haven't you heard?" Father Marco had asked, a scant week ago. "You're being reposted. They're sending you to Siberia."

He'd burst into his superior's study, feeling sick and hot from running across the campus at top speed (and from the news, which sat in his stomach like a stone.) One look at Father Scott's face and Rodney had sunk to the floor in abject misery. "You're sending me to Siberia," he'd said, dully.

"What? Not at all, my dear boy," Father Scott had replied, and though the kind words were belied by the acid in his tone for an instant Rodney had believed him and gratitude had rushed through him like grace.

"We're sending you to Alaska. You're leaving on Sunday, after mass."

He would be able to do the Lord's work in Kodiak, the good Father assured him. There was much to be done. The Church ran a school for promising Island children -- not a Jesuit institution, though Jesuits had taught there in the past -- and the pupils' knowledge of catechism was apparently sorely lacking.

Naturally, Father Scott had said, this work will keep you sufficiently busy that you will have no time to continue your work on astrophysics, nor, indeed, to do any higher mathematics at all.

That it was framed as a strong suggestion was only a formality; the message was clear. He had been disgraced and his superiors were not pleased. The Church ordered him to relinquish his work, and he had no choice but to obey.

He had spent the remainder of the week in a flurry of activity: packing his books to store in his sister's basement (he wasn't supposed to own them anymore, but he couldn't bear to think of them in some stranger's hands), packing his few permitted personal items, shopping for winter clothes thick and strong enough to withstand cold he couldn't currently imagine. Not today: Anchorage was blazing hot. He ignored the drop of sweat rolling down his neck, the way the denim shirt stuck to his back, without difficulty. Mortification of the body had never been his style, but ignoring the body altogether was the first and easiest practice he knew.

Again he checked the piece of paper he'd been carrying in his pocket. Steve Wright was supposed to pick Rodney up on the curb outside of baggage claim. Wright had an agreement with the school to ferry teachers and pupils to Kodiak for half the cost of a regular commercial flight, but that didn't mean much if he didn't actually show up to fetch his passenger.

Rodney felt his jaw tightening as he stared, unseeing, at the pages of Company. He didn't notice the rumpled man in black approaching until he was standing right in front of him.

"Hey," the man said. "Are you Father Meredith?"

"I am," Rodney said, unable to tamp down the mild irritation that manifested in his tone. "And you must be Steve. Are you aware that you're almost an hour late?"

The man -- Rodney couldn't help noticing that he was lean and fit, his black t-shirt snug against his chest -- grinned easily. "I'm Jack, actually," he said. "Jack Sheppard; Steve's partner. He had a little bit of an emergency this morning, so I stepped in. Sorry to keep you waiting, Father."

"That's all right," Rodney said, not exactly graciously but as close as he could manage.

"Plane's parked thataway," Jack said, gesturing with his head toward the tarmac. "Can I carry something for you?"

He lifted Rodney's duffle bag easily; Rodney followed with his two carry-ons.

"Trip to Kodiak takes about an hour-ten," Sheppard said, amiably. "Some of the prettiest scenery you'll ever see, I can promise you that."

"Hm," Rodney said, shortly. He really wasn't interested in chit-chat. Maybe if he were lucky, Sheppard would figure that out.

Sheppard's plane was distressingly tiny.

"Good God," Rodney said, taken aback. It was white and blue and looked more like a toy than like an actual aircraft.

"You would know," Sheppard said, with a sly smile.

"Mm, yes, I've never heard that one before," Rodney muttered.

"She's a Cessna 152," Sheppard said proudly. "Runs like a dream." He was mercifully quiet while he stowed the bags, got Rodney lashed in to his seat, and did his pre-flight check.

"Control tower, this is ATL-984, ready for takeoff," he said.

"ATL-984, please stand by," said the voice in Rodney's headset.

"We'll be idling here for a little bit until we get the green light," Sheppard explained.

"Mmm," Rodney said. There was very little in the world that sounded less appealing to him than making conversation with some ridiculous-haired, excessively easygoing bush pilot; dared he hope that Sheppard would get the hint?

"ATL-984, you're clear to go," the voice said.

"Roger that."

Rodney closed his eyes. Take-off was likely to be wobbly and he didn't especially need to endure it with his eyes open.

"C'mon, you're missing the best part," Sheppard said as the plane taxied down the runway, picking up speed, and then lifted with a slightly sickening wrench into the air.

"Thanks for the tip," Rodney said, through clenched teeth, and didn't open his eyes.

A minute or so later the plane had stabilized, as had Rodney's innards, and so help him, he was curious; he let himself look.

"Pretty, isn't it?" They were flying over water and trees and rumpled hills. "That's the Turnagain Arm."

Rodney didn't much care, so he didn't reply.

"Nice to be flying in a new teacher," Sheppard said after a while. "The kids can be a little tough at first, but they'll really appreciate having somebody talented working with them again."

"How do you know I'm talented?" Rodney snapped. He didn't mean to, but he'd been awake for what felt like days, this had been one of the worst weeks of his life, and he was having trouble accessing the reserves of steadfast calm which were usually at his fingertips.

Sheppard shrugged. "Jesuits are all about the teaching, right?"

"Only when the subject matter is approved from on high," Rodney said bitterly.

Sheppard threw him a quick glance, then returned his eyes to the controls in front of him. "I figure you've got to be pretty committed, or you wouldn't be taking the posting in Kodiak."

"You figured wrong," Rodney said. "I'm a terrible teacher. I hate kids. I don't know what I'm doing up here. This is a nightmare."

He clapped a hand over his mouth, immediately appalled with himself. "I'm so sorry," he said, hastily. "I can't believe I just said that. Please forgive me." All his years of training, and yet he was saying these kinds of things aloud to a perfect stranger?

"Whoa there," Sheppard said. "No apology necessary; it sounds like you're having a tough time. What happened?" Against all odds, he sounded like he actually cared. Maybe that was what moved Rodney to actually answer him.

"I'm an astrophysicist," he said, the word tasting like ashes in his mouth. "Or I used to be. Yes, the Jesuits value higher learning; that's part of why I knew I was called to the Order in the first place."

"With you so far," Sheppard said.

"I've been working on --" He cut himself off. "You wouldn't understand, it doesn't matter." Besides, just remembering the work, the heady exhilaration of it -- now lost to him forever -- filled him with despair, which was a grave sin indeed. "One of my colleagues became jealous of my progress. He charged me with faking my results."

"Damn," Sheppard said, then seemed to reconsider. "Uh -- sorry."

"Hardly the first profanity I've ever heard," Rodney said.

"Yeah, but I want to make a good impression." Sheppard smiled. "So what happened?"

"My superiors believed him. Honestly, I suspect at least one of them had been itching to get rid of me anyway; if nothing else, this offered a convenient excuse."

"A black mark on your record," Sheppard said, his mouth twisting a little.

"Exactly. That's how I got exiled."

"You didn't try to defend yourself? Or get some of your buddies to stand up for you?"

Rodney knew his smile was mirthless, but couldn't stop it from showing. "You haven't known me very long, Sheppard, so this may come as a surprise to you, but I'm not an easy man to get along with."

"Oh?" Sheppard's face was studiously blank but Rodney had the feeling there was amusement behind his sunglasses.

"It's been argued that I can be difficult and abrasive, and that I would do well to strengthen my practice of humility."

"I seem to remember learning something once about keeping your light under a bushel," Sheppard said mildly.

"Yes, well--" That was a surprise; Rodney hadn't expected even watered-down theology from the mouth of a bush pilot who lived God-only-knew what sort of a life. Steve's "partner," he'd said. Instinctively Rodney tamped down that line of thinking, ignoring it with the ease of long practice. "It hasn't made me any friends, even in the Order. Now I have to do penance in this Godforsaken place." Misery washed over him again. From the depths I call to You. . .

"You might be surprised. A lot of us really like it here," Sheppard said. "The other priest in town calls it God's country."

"How delightful for him," Rodney bit out, and stared out his window, glumness overtaking him again.

Sheppard had the good sense not to try to talk with him again during the remainder of the flight.

2.

Another exile in Kodiak.  Maybe they should start a club.

John glanced at the still figure slumped beside him.  Father Meredith's denim shirt was stained with sweat, his face pale with exhaustion.  The stunned grief in his eyes was familiar.  John had seen that very look in his own eyes three years ago.

At least John's exile here was his own decision, like the decision to change his name, become Jack Sheppard, bush pilot.  This poor guy didn't even have that choice.

And John could keep flying. Not fighter jets or helicopters, but his Cessna was a sweet ride.  Father Meredith was left with nothing.  There wouldn't be any astrophysics at St. Elizabeth's school.  Astrophysics, for God's sake.

John almost laughed.

He brought them in smooth as silk, ignoring Father Meredith's white-knuckled grip on his rosary beads and small, breathy exclamations.  The good Father would have to get used to flying in puddlejumpers if he was going to minister to outlying villages.

Taxiing into his parking space, John turned.

"Here we are.  All safe and sound."

"Yes.  Right."  Father Meredith sighed deeply and raised his chin.

Steeling himself?  Yeah.  That made sense.

John helped him down and unloaded his bags.  Hefting his duffle, John jerked his head toward the parking lot.

"This way.  I'll give you a lift into town."

Staggering slightly with his two carry-ons, Father Meredith shook his head. "No, that's not necessary.  I can get a taxi. . ."

John chuckled.  "No taxis here."  He headed toward his truck and called over his shoulder.  "Don't worry.  It's all part of the service."

Father Meredith hesitated.  John heaved his duffle into the back of the truck before Father Meredith made up his mind and dragged his carry-ons over.

"Thank you."  Tight lipped and about as ungracious as you could get. "I suppose I should go to the school. . ."

"Thought I'd give you a quick tour of the town."  John had been in Father Meredith's shoes once; he'd cut him some slack.  For a while. Plus, he'd seen the guy's hands shaking.  Nerves? Exhaustion?  When was the last time he'd eaten?  "Just to get you oriented."

"I. . ."  He closed his eyes briefly.  "Thanks."

John was a good tour guide.  Knew what would appeal to most tourists. He kept it short, sweet, and general: harbor, cannery, museums, an historic church or two.  Father's eyes lit up when they passed the coffee shop, and John made an executive decision.  No one should meet Francis Stuart on an empty stomach.  Especially someone who'd have to deal with the stubborn bastard every day.  He made a quick u-bie on the street, ignoring a squawk from the passenger seat.  "Don't know about you, Father, but I had to skip lunch. I could really use a sandwich and cup of coffee."

It wasn't exactly a moan, but it came damned close.  "Coffee."

John grinned and ushered Father Meredith into the shop.

Twenty minutes later, John leaned back in his seat, sandwich at hand and coffee at his elbow, and stared at the pile of food in front of the other man.  A pile quickly disappearing.  It was pretty amazing, really.  By the time his plate was empty except for a smear of mustard and a few crumbs, and his cup had been refilled three times, Father's color had improved and he'd sunk back in his chair, looking relaxed for the first time.  He still had that bruised look around his eyes, but at least his hands weren't shaking.

"God, I needed that."

John raised his eyebrows, but Father just stared at him for a second before turning and calling for the check.

"My treat."  John stood.  "Put it on my tab, Cindy." He waved to Cindy, smiling at them from behind the counter.

"Sure, Jack."

Father frowned.  "But--"

"She won't take your money.  Not this time."  John shrugged. "Don't even try."

Father's chin jutted out and John wondered if he'd argue.  He looked like he could be pretty stubborn.  Maybe he'd be able to stand up to Principal Stuart.  John would pay money to see that.

"Thank you. Again."  The mulish set of his chin softened and he looked. . . lost.

John had always been a sucker for stray puppies and for the last kid to be picked for the team.  Somehow, Father Meredith managed to combine the two.

"Right."  John clapped him on the shoulder, then led the way back to the truck.  "Let's get you up to the school."

Father stiffened up, like a new recruit coming to attention.  "Yes. I've imposed on you for far too long."

"Nah."  John caught his gaze and smiled.  "It's been fun."

3.

Francis Stuart was officious, sanctimonious, and full of himself. He was nevertheless one of God's children, created in the divine image and imbued with a spark of divinity, but some part of Rodney mistrusted him from the moment he first walked into the man's office, suitcases in hand.

"Shirley, you'll never believe who just walked in," Stuart said into the receiver, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "What? Yes, it's -- how did you -- oh," and he sounded distinctly annoyed now. "The Roastery. I see."

He'd let Sheppard talk him into coffee and a meal, and now he was on Stuart's bad side. Already. That wasn't exactly an auspicious start.

"Well, I should -- yes, yes. Of course. Talk to you soon," he said dismissively, and hung up.

"Mr. Stuart," Rodney said, half rising out of his chair to offer the man a handshake.

"Father," Stuart said, distantly, and let his hand go quickly.

"My apologies for being late," Rodney said, trying not to grit his teeth. "The bush pilot--"

"Not at all; you're entitled to feed the body, if you're going to be in charge of feeding these young minds." He was positively smarmy.

This builds character, Rodney thought, desperately. "I'm looking forward to being here." Surely lying was a lesser sin than admitting to Stuart just how doomed this place made him feel?

"I'd meant to introduce you straightaway to Father Liam," Stuart said, "the other priest in town -- collegiality, and all that -- but he's away doing a few baptisms up in Inupiat."

"I see," Rodney said. Other priest, of course; Sheppard had mentioned him. Father Liam who felt this place was God's country. Rodney felt, shamefully, inclined to dislike him just for that.

"Come," Stuart said. "I'll give you the tour."

St. Elizabeth's was as unimpressive on the inside as it had looked from the outside. Cement-block construction, painted over in a dingy shade of lemon yellow. The classrooms gave Rodney a sinking feeling -- just the memory of being in one of those little desks made him feel constricted -- which he did his best to hide.

"Built in the early 1900s," Stuart said, and "not exactly state-of-the-art, but we make do," and "of course, the Alutiiq children used to need instruction in English, though these days almost no one speaks Alutiiq anymore." He was all too easy to ignore until Rodney heard the words "where you'll be staying."

"Excuse me?" Rodney said.

"Your quarters are just down this way, at the boys' end of the hall," Stuart said, leading the way. "They're the principal's quarters, historically, but I already have a house, and -- well, there's no way I could convince my wife to move in to a place like this," he said, "but for a bachelor like yourself it should be just fine!" The jocularity set Rodney's teeth on edge.

"Well, I'll leave you to settle in," Stuart said, outside the door that divided the principal's quarters from the long hallway. "The summer students are on a field trip at the moment, but don't be surprised when you hear the pitter-patter of little feet down the hall; they'll be back in an hour or so."

"Summer students?" Rodney said weakly.

Stuart scowled. "Children from the most remote villages board here; haven't you been listening to a word I've said?"

"Er," Rodney said.

"We'd been hoping you could take over tomorrow; Mrs. Lever costs us an arm and a leg, whereas for you, Father, this is a natural part of your responsibility."

Penance, Rodney thought; I am doing penance. Focus on God.

"Yes, well, it will take me a few days to learn the children's' names, not to mention getting a sense for where they're at academically," he said. The words came out haughtier than he intended. "Perhaps I could join Mrs. Lever for a day or two, to get a sense for the pedagogical underpinnings of what she's been doing, and then I can take over."

"Pedagogical underpinnings!" Stuart's laugh grated on Rodney's nerves. "Well, if you say so, Father. I'm just a lowly administrator."

Lowly administrator, my black cassock, Rodney thought; you just want to make sure I understand you're in charge around here. Message received, loud and clear. "I'll go settle in, then," he said. "Thanks for your help." He shook the man's hand again, and opened the door.

"Spartan" would have been an understatement. The door opened onto a small sitting area furnished with a loveseat, mismatched chair, and a cube refrigerator with a hot pot balanced on top. Through a doorway that had no door, there was a bedroom barely large enough to hold a bed and a bedside table. No closet, though there was a tall wooden box where a few metal hangers waited unused on a hanging bar. A small bathroom, shower and sink and toilet, which was a blessing -- he'd already been dreading sharing bathroom facilities with however many children were resident there.

It was no small wonder Stuart's wife hadn't wanted to move in. These were quarters designed for a single religious, not a married couple; Rodney could hardly imagine how two people could share the space without tripping over each other. He wondered whether Stuart was the first layman to hold the principal's chair, and how on earth he had gotten the job. He certainly didn't seem to have any love of children or education.

Rodney pushed that thought out of his mind; it wasn't charitable. Of course, on the whole he wasn't feeling particularly charitable at this moment, but surely that was because he was in dire straits. This was the sort of week that tried men's souls, and he knew he was failing to live up to the standards of spiritual generosity that his calling required.

Major transitions had never been his strong suit, even transitions he'd entered into by choice. But once he settled in to this new circumstance, he would be able to regain his equilibrium. To respond to this new life with grace.

For the time being, God would have to help him. "Please," he said aloud, wearily, wishing he could find it in himself to offer a more eloquent prayer, and began to unpack his bag.

---

The student body during the summer session was small, only fourteen children, all between the ages of eight and eleven. Mrs. Lever turned out to be the town's kindergarten teacher, sweet and blue-haired; despite her no-nonsense attitude, the children obviously loved her. By the end of his first hour with them, Rodney could tell they were not going to love him.

Not that he minded. He wasn't looking for love. Though obedience would have been nice -- was, in fact, critical, if he were going to survive a life with these terrifying creatures -- and he wasn't at all sure how he was going to get that. It was the three oldest boys who were going to be the problem, he could tell, but he had no idea how to keep that from happening. Appealing to their manners or their sense of good sportsmanship was unlikely to make a difference.

They all had bland, uninteresting names, Sam and Patrick and Susan. "Don't you have Alutiiq names?" Rodney protested, but they just shrugged and kept coloring and reading and throwing spitballs at one another.

"They tend to be a little short on tribal history," Mrs. Lever murmured, right in his ear. "I've been wanting to take them to the Alutiiq museum in town, though; you could go on a field trip."

"You know the rest of the student body," Rodney said. "Would they benefit from that?"

"Oh, I'm sure they would," she said. "What year will you be teaching, once school starts up?"

"Fifth grade," he said, trying not to sound glum.

"That's a wonderful age," she said. "You could take the whole fifth grade class!"

"I'll do that," Rodney said, trying to sound like the prospect filled him with anything other than horror.

Summer school, it turned out, was mostly a way for the children who lived far away to stay in Kodiak for the summer. Rodney wondered what was so imperfect at home that they -- or their parents -- preferred to leave them here, benignly neglected. He was, however, wise enough not to ask.

School was in session five hours a day, and the rest of the time the children were on their own, playing basketball behind the school or fighting over the Game Boy someone's parents had sent. There were two dorm parents, a quiet young Russian man named Sascha and a nun named Sister Grace; they took care of the children outside of classtime, which left Rodney at loose ends. He spent several evenings staring at his notebooks and at the pile of worn textbooks he'd been bequeathed, trying to draw up fifth grade lesson plans.

Meals were included in his salary, as long as he took them in the dining hall. He fell into the habit of sitting at a table alone with a book wedged beneath the cafeteria tray. The rectory library was stocked with the classics -- Aquinas, Augustine -- so he started there. Though it was hard to focus on sin and salvation with fourteen voices raucously clamoring over the smash of tin silverware on battered tin trays, and Sascha and Sister Grace seemed to have given up on maintaining any kind of order at all.

Up early for morning prayer alone in his cell, praying the rosary and reciting psalms in a whisper; a day wrangling schoolchildren; meals in the jailhouse atmosphere of the refectory; evenings spent alone with his books. It wasn't good, exactly, but he could endure.

---

Rodney's first Sunday in Kodiak, he woke for early mass. The children were obligated to attend, but Sascha said he and Sister Grace took them to the late service, which had clinched Rodney's decision. His nerves had been jangling; he wasn't proud of needing time away from his charges, but he knew he needed to pray in community, and beyond that he needed some space.

The sanctuary echoed, almost empty, though a handful of dedicated worshippers were present when he arrived. For the first time since he'd arrived in town, no one stared at him. No one paid him any mind at all, and as he took his seat, Rodney felt himself sagging with relief. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the experience of being silent in company without fearing that his silence would give offense. No one would ask him to chat here, but neither was he alone.

Father Liam was white-haired and weathered, and his voice bore a trace of Irish accent. He was straight out of central casting, in fact, and so were the two Alutiiq boys serving at the altar. Rodney relished the chance to relax into the familiar language, though reciting the Act of Penitence caught at his heart like a thorn. How could he be truly penitent when he'd been wrongly accused? It took effort to tamp the anger and shame back down, which left Rodney with a bitter taste in his mouth that even the sip of Communion wine couldn't wash away.

After "Dominis vobiscum," Rodney followed the paltry crowd toward the door. Everyone who passed was shaking Father Liam's hand warmly, and as the man smiled at them he was the perfect picture of the kindly old priest.

"Father," Rodney said, offering his hand. "I'm--"

"The new priest in town," Father Liam said, with mild disapproval in his voice. "Collar gives you away."

"Right," Rodney said, feeling off-balance.

"We've a moment before I need to prepare for the 11am; join me in my office?"

So Rodney did, following the Father through the warren of little hallways. When they sat down -- the Father in his grand old desk chair; Rodney on something wooden and stiff-backed -- Rodney felt like a disobedient child called in to see the principal.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to introduce myself after you returned," he said. "It's been kind of a crazy week, between getting to know the children and learning my way around town, and--"

"I used to teach those children," Father Liam said, which shut him up.  "It's been years, of course -- the boys I taught are all grown men now -- but I spent many long hours at that school."

"I'm sure they appreciated the instruction," Rodney said inanely.

The Father narrowed his eyes. "Jesuit, aren't you?"

"I am, yes."

"I've known some treacherous Jesuits," Father Liam said, sounding almost meditative.

So have I, Rodney thought, and had to hold back the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst forth.

"When I heard a new young priest was coming to town, I wondered," the Father said. "What brings a man like yourself to these parts?"

"My superiors decided this was the best place for me to serve," Rodney said stiffly.

"Working with children is a delicate business," Father Liam said, and there was steel behind his voice now which hadn't been there before. "I'd better not find out that you chose this posting because you imagined you'd be free of pastoral supervision."

"What?" Rodney felt his blood pressure rising. "I don't know what you--"

"We've had teachers here who took far too keen an interest in their charges."

It hit Rodney like a blow to the head: this man thought he was a pedophile. Before he knew it he was standing, practically vibrating with fury. This added insult to injury and he couldn't bear it. "I don't know what the hell your problem is, Father, but don't you dare accuse me," he spat. "We all struggle with the desires of the flesh, but children -- of either gender -- do not tempt me in the slightest."

"Settle down," the Father said, his hands raised in a placating manner, and -- still breathing hard; fury was hard work -- Rodney did. "Surely you'll understand this isn't personal."

"Father," Rodney said, finally. "I am a man of many flaws. Pride and disobedience are among the crosses I bear. But I assure you--"

"I'm satisfied," Father Liam said, leaning back in his chair.

Rodney's shirt felt clammy, stuck to his skin. Nothing like a rush of adrenaline; he'd have to do laundry again this afternoon.

"You need to understand," Father Liam said, "I was taken in by Father Jacobson. His sons came to me, seeking support, and I turned them away; I couldn't believe what they said he had done."

In a flash Rodney understood. Of course: the priest who had fathered two sons in Alaska during the 1960s. Their mothers had been teenaged prostitutes, and had been shamed into keeping silent for more than thirty years. Who would take the word of a young Native sex worker over the word of a Jesuit priest? Once the story broke, it had raged through the Jesuit world like wildfire.

"I'm sorry," Rodney said.

"We all are." Father Liam's voice was sharp, but Rodney had the clear sense the castigation was inwardly-aimed.

"I won't betray your trust," Rodney promised. There was a momentary silence, and on impulse Rodney went out on a limb. "Father Liam, are you. . . involved with spiritual direction at all?"

Father Liam tilted his head slightly. "'Involved with' would be a stretch, but I'm familiar with the concept."

"My previous spiritual director and I parted ways when I moved here." Rodney hoped that would be enough of an explanation; he really didn't want to get in to the question of why he'd come, or why he and Father Eric had severed their relationship. (The image of Father Eric's face when he'd told Rodney he believed Rodney's accusers still burned in Rodney's memory; Rodney pushed it aside.)

"Didn't the Order assign you a new one?"

"They did, but he's in California," Rodney said. "I just -- spiritual direction over the phone doesn't feel right to me."

Father Liam looked pensive for a moment. "I could meet with you weekly," he said.

Rodney exhaled. "Thank you." He hadn't realized he'd been so nervous about working with a new spiritual director until just now. He'd have to work on figuring out what that was about -- maybe with Father Liam, once some trust had been established.

"We don't observe the night Office here, but I say Matins at five without fail." Father Liam rose and offered Rodney his hand. "Perhaps you'll join us."

"Thank you," Rodney heard himself say, and on autopilot he rose, shook Father Liam's hand, and headed for the door.

4.

God damn Steve Wright.  John checked his passenger and banked steeply for the approach.  God, when would he ever learn?  He had actually believed Steve when he said he'd only be gone a couple of days, four or five at the most.

"It's Shelley.  She has a business trip to Paris and she wants me to come along."

"Sure," John had said.  He'd met Shelley, Steve's girlfriend-du-jour. She seemed nice enough.  "I'll cover for you."

Instead, it had been almost two weeks before Steve had called with the news of their engagement.  And, oh, yeah, he'd be back on Saturday. Late.

In the meantime, John had been responsible not only for his own bookings, but for Steve's as well.  He'd barely had time to eat and sleep, but he'd managed to cover every trip.

Now he just had to deliver Brad Ellanak to St. E's and he'd be free for the rest of the afternoon.  And when Steve got in later that day, he'd make it very clear that Steve owed him.  Big time.

A smooth landing -- yeah, he still had it -- and then he made Brad haul his own stuff to the truck.  Good kid, but like most boys his age, he needed a little discipline.  Not much, nothing like boot camp; John wasn't one of those ex-military guys who ironed their shorts and took adolescent mouthiness as a personal affront.  Kids needed a goal that they could only achieve through hard work, one that would give them a sense of pride in what they'd accomplished. Teach them self-respect. That's what the Air Force had done for him.  Helped him clean up his act and get his wings, change his life in a lot of good ways.  It had changed his life in some pretty shitty ways, too, but he had, well, not exactly come to terms with that, but didn't let it gnaw on his guts the way it had at first.

Still, he was doing all right for himself.  He'd made a home here, had a job that let him fly, kept busy.  A little lonely, maybe, but he wasn't a romantic, never believed in the whole soul-mate shtick. A hard body and a willing attitude were all he asked, and, if push came to shove, he was willing to negotiate on the hard body.

Brad talked about some new video game the entire drive into town. John had the windows open -- who knew how many more mild, sunny days they had left -- and let Brad's words wash over him with the breeze.  Tang of salt in the air, the faint fishy whiff of the cannery.  He'd lived in far worse places.

John pulled into the parking lot, his truck immediately surrounded by kids yelling greetings to Brad.  After unloading his charge, he waved to Sascha and started to drive away, but braked immediately. A familiar figure sat on a bench by the playground.

Father. . . Meredith.  That was it.

He wasn't quite sure why he felt compelled to park the truck again and amble over to the man sitting so still, gazing down at a book open on his lap.

"Father Meredith."

He jerked, as if John had woken him, and looked up.  Tension collected in the corners of his eyes, dragged at his wide mouth. He looked. . . defeated.  Resigned to his fate.

"Um?"  Recognition slowly dawned.  "You're the pilot.  We had lunch. . ."

"Yeah."  John smiled and stuck out his hand.  "Jack Sheppard.  Nice to see you again."

After a pause that started verging on uncomfortable, Father Meredith clasped his hand.  "Yes.  Sheppard."  A dry, brisk shake, then he dropped John's hand like an unpleasant duty.

"Settling in okay?"

"Yes, yes, just fine."

Father Meredith was spectacularly bad at lying.

"Kids a bit much?  Or is Stuart being an as. . . idiot."

Father's stifled laugh sounded suspiciously like a sob.  John raised an eyebrow and met his gaze.

"Or both?"

Father looked down at the book in his lap and sighed.  "I'm afraid teaching -- on any level, honestly, but especially the elementary grades -- is not my forte.  And Principal Stuart has made it abundantly clear that I was forced on him against his will."

John nodded.  "That sucks."

Father's muttered "Like a giant sucking thing," surprised a laugh out of him, and his own next words, "Hey, are you busy?" surprised him even more. What the hell was he thinking?

"I should prepare. . ."  Father lifted his face to the sun, expression miserable, and shrugged.

"Listen."  He'd felt his stomach drop like this -- a combination of "cool" coupled with "I'm going to die" -- when he flew his first F-16. "I have the afternoon off for the first time in two weeks and it's a nice day.  Let's do something."

A suspicious glance, but at least it tempered the misery.  "What did you have in mind?"

"Dunno."  What would he find appealing? John remembered one thing. "We could get some coffee, take it over to Fort Abercrombie.  Great views from there."

Father's eyes lit up at the mention of coffee, and John suspected he didn't even hear the rest.

"Yes.  Thank you.  That would be. . ."  He stood, hefted the book in his hand.  "Let me put this away."

Civics and You, third edition.  "Leave it.  No one's going to steal it."  John jerked his head toward the truck.  "C'mon. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Father's laugh lasted all the way to the coffee shop.

---

"Fine. You're right.  It's beautiful.  Magnificent. Awe-inspiring."

"Told you so."  John cupped his hands around his coffee and ducked his head to hide his grin.

Father sat beside him on the picnic bench, holding his cup under his nose and inhaling deeply, far more interested in his coffee than the view.

What a difference an hour made.

It was like watching a flower bloom in a stop-action film.  By the time they got to Cindy's, Father's eyes were losing their haunted shadows. They sparkled after the first cup, and after the second, words began to bubble from his mouth, almost as if they were beyond his control.  He bought a travel mug for his third cup, and barely stopped talking long enough to drink, all the way to the Fort. Religion, politics, families, the state of education, the lack of respect toward one other, all was grist to Father's mill.  John sat back and enjoyed.

It was like watching a dead man come to life.

They hiked, well, sauntered, along the trails to the pillboxes and bunkers. John assessed the fortifications with a military eye, but didn't comment. Father just looked at them with a frown and turned away.  They lingered at the overlooks until, despite the sun still high in the sky, dinner time neared.

Father glanced at his watch and sighed.  "I suppose--"

"How about getting some dinner?"

For the moment, Father's bright smile banished the sadness in his eyes.

---

Full of pizza and the single beer he allowed himself when driving, John headed back to the school.  An odd ache beneath his breastbone, he watched the light in Father's eyes dim as they pulled up in front of the building.

"Maybe."  Why the hell was he so nervous?  "Maybe we could do this again. Sometime.  If you want."

Father blinked once, then smiled almost shyly.  "I'd like that.  My schedule is still fairly open, so. . ."

"Good.  Oh."  John reached into his jacket pocket, fished around. "Here's my card, in case you need to reach me.  For uh, a ride or something."

Father took the card, stared at it for a second, then tucked it away. He slid out of the truck and shut the door, but didn't walk back inside.

John pulled away, trying hard not to stare at the solitary figure in his rear view mirror.

5.

"There might be extra copies of Faith and Life in the basement somewhere," Stuart had said. "You won't mind looking for them, will you?"

How on earth was Rodney supposed to answer that? He'd bitten back the sharp response that came first to his mind ("Aren't there better uses for my time?") and had agreed that digging through a musty old storage closet was absolutely the best idea ever, his favorite way to spend an evening, nothing in the world could be finer. Okay, he hadn't actually said that either. He'd just nodded, bowing his head in a way he hoped signified acquiescence.

This job offered him endless opportunities for practicing humility -- a reality he suspected hadn't been lost on Father Scott when he'd made the assignment in the first place. But every time he thought of that, a furious powerlessness curled in his belly, so he tried not to go there. Anger was a perennial temptation he knew he needed to resist.

The basement was cluttered with old furniture and boxes of magazines, remnants from some long-ago church tag sale. At one end a persistent leak had drenched half a dozen boxes of books and papers, rendering them a pungent mold farm; Rodney backed away, coughing, and made a beeline for the far end of the room. At least, the best beeline he could, clambering over half of a sectional sofa and a set of rusting box springs.

He hadn't seen anything like boxes of textbooks yet, but there was a door in the corner, and he managed to shove several boxes to the side just far enough to pull the door open. It led to a small windowless room (to call it a closet would have been uncharitable, but it wasn't that much bigger than what that name would suggest) lit by a single bulb on a string, where boxes of books teetered in a pile as high as his head. Two of them were labeled "F&L," which was promising.

But he forgot them as soon as he saw them, because just beyond them there was a battered old upright piano, wedged crossways into the room. It barely fit, and -- like everything else around it -- was covered with a thick layer of dust.

His heart pounding, Rodney cleared a path to the piano and opened the lid. The keys were yellowed but intact. He couldn't help holding his breath as he played a single D: tinny, but clear. He rolled an arpeggiated chord, and mirabile dictu, it was more-or-less in tune.

Oh, God, there was a piano here. A part of him that had been clenched without his realizing it released, leaving him feeling almost expansive with gratitude. He sat down and started Bach's invention number 13 in A minor, slow and steady at first. His internal metronome was still ticking away inside of him, comforting and strong.

From there, to Bach's prelude and fugue in E major. The music washed over him like rain, and as he played something in him seemed to break free. O God, he thought, I am poured out like water, my bones are out of joint. I forget Your presence -- I get so lost in this exile -- but You are here to comfort me. I can sing Your song even in this strange land. Holy Mary, help me remember that I am not alone.

By the time he stopped playing, his face was wet with tears. He rested his fingers on the keys for long minutes before rising, closing the lid, and turning to carry a box of textbooks slowly up the stairs.

6.

"Okay, Sam, now bring it down the center and. . ."  John grabbed Sam around the middle and held him high.  "Throw it!"

The ball -- miraculously -- made it through the hoop, and a shrill cheer went up around them.  Sam grinned like a loon, and when John set him down on the blacktop, did a victory dance that would've made M.C. Hammer proud.

"Jack?"

"Hey, Father."  He waded through the kids to the sideline.

"What are you doing here?"  Father Meredith stared at him.

"P.E." John used his forearm to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes, suddenly conscious of his ratty sweatpants and faded tee-shirt. "Sascha can't play basketball to save his soul. . . " Ooops. "At all, so he dragooned me into doing it over the summer."

"But I haven't seen you instructing the children before."

"I had to cancel for the past couple of weeks, couldn't get away from work. But now," John whirled and caught the ball speeding toward them, "I'm back."  He glared at the small group of eleven-year-olds.  One of them had thrown it. His money was on Brad.  "And I'm going to wipe the ground with a bunch of these smart alecks if they don't straighten up and fly right."

Father Meredith raised John's glare to a scowl.  "Miserable little hooligans."

John wasn't surprised they were giving Father trouble.  Kids that age traveled in packs, could scent weakness at fifty yards; they'd be on Father Meredith like wolves on a wounded caribou.  Maybe he'd have a word or two with Brad and Patrick.  They were usually the ringleaders.

"I'm about done here," John said.  "Want to grab some dinner?"

Father raised an eyebrow and gave John's damp sweats a once-over. "Not unless we eat outside, where I can't smell you."

John laughed.  "I was going to run home to shower and change first."

"In that case, fine."

---

Somehow, John was never quite certain exactly how, their dinners became a standing. . . date?  No.  Just something they did together three (or four) times a week.  He had words with Brad and Patrick, and when he casually asked Father how the kids were behaving, was pleased to hear that they were -- and here Father's face took on a thoughtful expression -- becoming more tolerable.

John enjoyed listening to Father Meredith talk.  The guy had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of, well, pretty much everything, and loved to lecture.  The only subjects he wouldn't mention were physics and math, but that was all right.  There was still plenty for him to babble on about.

A couple of times -- not too often, because then the element of surprise was gone -- John would drop a little nugget into the conversation.  Nothing too esoteric, but a fact or figure that wasn't in USA Today, an opinion carefully thought out.  Just enough to startle Father, to make him snap his mouth shut and stare at John through narrowed eyes for a few seconds before resuming where he'd left off.

John loved doing that.

One Saturday John took Father Meredith to the Alutiiq Museum. Father had mentioned a possible field trip for the kids, and John had suggested taking a first-hand look at the facility to see what it offered.

"Have you ever even been inside?" Father snapped as they walked to the front doors.

John just shrugged.

Father Meredith rolled his eyes.  "I suppose there's some sort of docent who can help me."

The look on Father's face when John had pulled out his membership card was priceless, only topped by Father's expression when the Museum director offered to take "one of our major private supporters, Jack Sheppard, and his friend" on a private tour.

John wasn't rich, but between his retirement, his earnings as a pilot, and a small legacy left to him by a favorite great aunt, he was damned comfortable, especially for Kodiak.  He liked supporting the Museum and would have done it anonymously, except that Bernie, his accountant, threatened to have a heart attack if he did.

He'd have to remember to send a thank you card to Bernie.

7.

Rodney stared into the small tin mirror mounted over his sink, trying to see whether the sweater still fit him properly. The burgundy one he usually wore was beginning to grow thin at the elbows, and he couldn't help feeling he needed something slightly fancier for a gala. Though it didn't seem likely that a museum fundraiser in Kodiak would require anything like black tie. . .

None of the three museums in town had a large enough constituency to throw its own fundraiser. This would be their third year of joint fundraising for the Baranov, the Alutiiq, and the Military History museum, and when the invitation had arrived at the school Rodney had volunteered before anyone else could even read the fine print. "You couldn't pay me to show up at a thing like that," Stuart said, rolling his eyes, and it had been all Rodney could do to hold his tongue.

The truth of the matter was, volunteering to meet-and-greet at a local arts fundraiser wasn't generally Rodney's style. But it would be a good opportunity for him to meet more people in town; a chance to support worthwhile arts and educational institutions; and. . . oh, who was he kidding? He was hoping to see Sheppard again.

He scowled one last time at his reflection -- blue sweater, corduroy blazer, clerical collar -- and headed out the door.

---

"Father," Sheppard said, dipping his head in what was almost a little bow. "Fancy running into you here." He'd dressed up for the occasion: dark trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his arms and collar open just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse that Rodney steadfastly refused to take.

"What, you didn't think I'd turn out to support the arts?"

"Well, I was kind of hoping you would," John began, and Rodney felt the grin spreading across his face.

"Jack!" A heavyset man wearing a crisp striped shirt and tweed sportcoat bustled over, grabbing Sheppard by the hand and the elbow.

"Mr. Landry," Sheppard said, smiling graciously. "Have you met Father McKay--"

"Father," Landry said, nodding, then turned back to Sheppard. "Hey, you got a second? I want to introduce you to someone I think you might enjoy," Landry said, and stage-whispered "another potential donor," winking at Rodney in an elaborate grimace. Rodney wished fervently, for an instant, that the man's face might stick that way. Something else to atone for.

"Well," Rodney said to no one in particular, looking down. So much for that.

"Say," a voice floated by him. "Did I just hear that you're Father McKay?"

The voice belonged to a blond man who looked about thirty-five, slightly taller than Rodney, well-dressed and impeccably groomed.

"The one and only," Rodney said, aiming for hearty. He wasn't sure he'd succeeded, but the man didn't seem to mind.

"Stan Gates," the blond man said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "I'm a big admirer of your work."

Rodney couldn't help the laugh. "What, have my elementary education skills become legendary already?"

"No, no," Stan said. "Your-- " he gave a little cough. "Previous work. I'm from Northern Lights."

---

Northern Lights Aerospace, it turned out, was a private sector firm with a launch complex just outside of Kodiak.

As soon as Stan said the word "aerospace," Rodney had blanched, looking around the room nervously. His superiors' orders had been quite clear on the imperative to stop talking about his work; what if someone in this room were a mole, prepared to report back to the Church hierarchy? But Stan had just smiled, placing a gentle hand on the small of his back, and led him through the crowded room. They went through three galleries and up a flight of stairs, and suddenly they were on a little balcony overlooking the party, near enough to see everyone but not so near that their voices could be heard.

"It's honestly not as exciting as it sounds," Stan said, smiling. "Sure, the rocket launches are fun, but mostly we do research. Which is where your name comes in -- I'd been following your work in all the journals until you suddenly fell off the map."

"Yes, well," Rodney said. "Career change, you know how it is." But his face was burning. Just hearing the terminology made him feel flushed and excited, and fearful, and anxious. His palms were sweating and his heart was beating fast.

"Imagine my excitement when I heard you were in town! I'd really love to learn more about -- wormholes, was that the term you were using?"

Oh, God, Rodney wanted to answer that question, and he couldn't.

As if to rescue him from that tension, Sheppard burst upon them. "Father McKay, I've been -- oh," he said, "didn't mean to interrupt," as though just noticing Stan's presence.

"Stan Gates, Jack Sheppard," Rodney said, and the two men shook hands.

"I was just talking with Father McKay about his work," Stan said.

"He'll tell you he's terrible with the kids, but don't believe him." Sheppard grinned.

"Yes, well, that's not exactly what we," Rodney began.

"Say, look, I don't want to keep you," Stan said, taking a step back and raising his hands. Rodney felt his face fall; he wanted to beg the guy not to go. The mere prospect of talking about physics again had woken him up. They could talk shop a little, Rodney could do that without spilling anything about his forbidden research--

"So what do you say?" Stan wound up, and Rodney realized he hadn't been listening.

"I'm sorry, I got--" He waved a hand, indicating distraction.

"Private tour. Tomorrow. Say -- 2pm? Does that give you plenty of time for mass? Forgive me, I'm not a religious man."

"Yes, yes, that should be fine," Rodney said absently, already thinking about what kinds of questions he could ask without getting himself into trouble. "I look forward to it."

"Goodnight, then," Stan said, and touched him once more on the shoulder, and was gone.

"Nice fellow." Rodney bounced on the balls of his feet a little.

"You think so?" Sheppard's voice was noncommittal, but his posture was tense.

"And a private tour of the facilities; very generous," Rodney said, deciding to ignore Sheppard's weird behavior. If the man couldn't handle him making another friend in town -- well, Rodney would just have to nip that in the bud.

"Tell you what," Sheppard said, suddenly looking loose and slouchy again. "How about I pick you up after mass, we have a picnic lunch out by the coast, and then I'll give you a lift to NLA?"

"And what do you get out of it?"

"The pleasure of your company," Sheppard said innocently, and when Rodney gave him a look, he grinned. "And maybe Stan'll let me tag along. I always like looking at rockets."

"Count on it," Rodney said, feeling magnanimous. His Sunday was looking good -- great, even -- and he wanted Sheppard to share his elation.

He was in such a good mind he didn't even flinch when the parade of little blue-haired ladies found them and started oohing and ahhing. "Good-looking new priest, isn't he?" Sheppard said solemnly to one of the ladies, who grabbed Rodney's arm and cackled.

"Why don't you go flirt with the dashing bush pilot over there," Rodney muttered, but he was smiling. Maybe life in this town wasn't going to be so bad, after all.

8.

The church doors opened as John pulled into the parking lot.  A handful of people walked out before he spotted Father Meredith in the doorway, talking with Father Liam.  Father Meredith was gesturing -- stiff-fingered stabs, broad sweeps and arcs -- and Father Liam was missing his usual smile.

What was going on?

John climbed out of his truck and started for the church.

". . .intend to honor the spirit of my orders, as well as the fact." Father Meredith said, almost pleading, as John approached. "But it's a wonderful opportunity.  NLA sponsors an educational program that might benefit the older children. . ."

Father Liam's frown deepened, and Father Meredith's expression grew increasingly desperate.

Shit.  Why did Father Meredith look like that?  John hated that look; all he wanted was to banish the fear from those blue eyes. "Hey, Fathers."

They both looked startled at his interruption.  Father Liam nodded at him, and Father Meredith took a deep breath and clasped his hands tightly.

John looked at Father Meredith and raised an eyebrow.  "Ready to go?"

Silence.  Father Meredith's gaze rested on his hands for a long moment.

"Yes."  Soft, almost tentative.  "I need to get my jacket."  He disappeared into the church.

John waited for Father Liam to speak, but he just studied John briefly, nodded, and followed Father Meredith inside.

Well.  That was interesting.

John started back to the truck, Father Meredith joining him before he reached it.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Father said once they were settled inside. "Father Liam is. . ."

"Concerned?" John offered as the silence stretched between them.

"That pretty much covers it."  Father sighed.  "After my. . . disgrace, my superiors forbade me to continue my work, to discuss, or even to think of it.  Father Liam is worried that touring NLA will provide a greater temptation than I'm able to resist."

John had seen death before.  Swift death.  Lingering, painful death. This wasn't on the same level, but to prohibit a man from continuing his life's work. . .  John was appalled by the cruelty. He wanted to ask more, find out details -- names, dates, charges -- but he couldn't ask Father Meredith, at least, not right now.

John gestured toward a travel mug in the cupholder.  "Thought you might need some coffee."

"Thanks."  Father took a sip, smiled.  "Coffee makes everything look a little brighter."

They rode in silence until they passed the airport.  John started pointing out the sights as they drove along the bay:  the Coast Guard Station, the fairgrounds and stock car track, various good fishing areas, the submarine docks from WWII, a large bald eagle nest high in the trees, a creek where salmon spawned.  Father Meredith admired the scenery and asked questions; if John hadn't spent so much time with him recently, he would have accepted Father's interest at face value.  Now, however, he could tell there was something else on Father's mind, and was pretty sure what it was.

Not that John could blame him.

They turned onto Pasagshak Bay Road. John continued to play tour guide, ignoring the fact that Father grew quieter and quieter as they progressed. They finally pulled into the empty parking lot at Pasagshak State Recreation Site.  John turned and looked at Father Meredith, hunched in his seat.

"You okay?"

"Yes, yes, of--"  Father raised his eyes, watery with unshed tears. "No."  He wiped his eyes and took a shuddering breath.  "Not even remotely."

John's heart stuttered.  He clasped Father's shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze, then opened his door.  "How about some lunch?"

By the time John had hauled the food over to a picnic table and started in on his sandwich -- Cindy's were always great -- Father had managed to collect himself and joined John.

"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat.  "I don't generally embarrass myself, and my friends, with unnecessary displays of emotion.  It's just that--"  He shrugged, and stared at his sandwich.

John chewed, swallowed.  "You've had a rough time."  He handed Father a Thermos.  "Don't worry about it."

Father's mood improved with more coffee and several sandwiches. John asked him what he'd like to see on the tour, and sat back, smiling, as the tap of Father's enthusiasm turned on full.

"The launch control center, absolutely."  Father gestured expansively. "And the telemetry systems, auto-tracking antennae, launch pads-"

"All that in an hour?"  John felt like kicking himself as Father's face fell.

"An. . .  Oh.  No.  No, that wouldn't be possible.  I suppose I'll have to narrow it down."

John checked his watch.  "Time to go.  Let's see what your friend Stan can do."

---

Stan was waiting in the parking lot, visibly taken aback when John stepped from his truck.  He covered his dismay quickly, but not quickly enough.

"Father!"  He grabbed Father's hand, shook it heartily as his gaze slid to John.  "And your. . . driver?"

Father smiled.  "Stan Gates, Jack Sheppard.  You met at the arts council fundraiser.  Jack's a pilot, and offered to give me a lift in exchange for accompanying our tour." He looked from Stan to John, his smile fading.  "Is there a problem?"

John maintained his casual slouch, kept the grin plastered on his face. Just another good ol' boy, wanting to see the rocket ships.

He had that act down pat.

"I'm not sure. . ." Stan began.

"After his kindness in driving me all the way here," Father said, the barest hint of anger in his voice, "I can't just ask him to stay in the parking lot."

Stan glanced at John, waiting for John to offer just that.  John smiled and slouched and would be damned if he'd let Father go with Stan by himself.

"It's a security issue." Stan shrugged and spread his hands.  Oh, yeah, there was nothing he could do, it was all the fault of the guys in Security. "I'm sure you understand."

Father's cheeks flushed.  "If that's the way--"

"Security, eh?"  John pitched his voice loud enough to interrupt Father. "Have your guys call this number," he fished a card out of his wallet. "They'll vouch for me."

Stan glanced at the card.  He hid his surprise well, but couldn't quite mask his sudden wariness, the nervous flick of his eyes toward John.  "I'll see what I can do."

Which name made Stan uncomfortable: Sam Carter or the USAF?  Or both?

"I apologize, Jack."  Father's voice was as tight as the arms crossed over his chest.  "If I had any idea you would be treated this way, I wouldn't have suggested. . ."

"It's okay."  John was glad he had suggested.  Something about Stan bothered him, and John had long ago learned to trust his instincts.

Stan appeared in the door of the guard shed.  "Mr. Sheppard?  Yes, everything's taken care of.  If you could sign. . ."

John made sure Father was beside him as he signed the visitor's form, and retrieved the card from Stan.  The security guys returned John's nod with perhaps more respect than they would have otherwise, and Father shot him a glance full of questions. Questions John hoped he'd never have to answer.

---

Stan proved to be a surprisingly knowledgeable and competent tour guide.  In two hours they had visited the launch control center, the instrumentation field, and one of the launch pads.  John had asked a question or two, but mainly followed behind Father and Stan, listening to Father's rapid-fire questions and Stan's equally enthusiastic replies.

About half-way through, John had been investigating a mobile operations center, and Stan had drawn Father aside.  When John realized that they weren't right behind him, he'd run from the center in a panic -- not that he expected Father was in danger -- only to find them huddled together around the corner.  Head bowed, shoulders hunched, Father had been frowning at his feet as Stan spoke intently, one hand wrapped around Father's biceps.

John wanted to grab Stan's hand and. . .  Well. He took a deep breath, willing himself calm. Nothing like over-reacting, was there.

Father's face lit up when he saw John, and he pulled free of Stan's grasp. God, it was hard not to make more of that than was meant.

John returned Father's smile, and never left his side for the remainder of the tour, not even when Stan suggested that he and Father wait while John retrieved his truck.  No, John had just thanked Stan, placed a proprietary hand on Father's shoulder, and escorted him to the truck.

Pulling onto the road, John glanced over at Father.  "Seemed like you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh, I did!"  Father grinned and launched into a description of everything they had seen.  John didn't mind; he'd rarely seen Father so happy.  Plus it meant Father didn't ask about how John had gotten past security.  Looked like Father had avoided the temptation to talk about the forbidden, as well.

John kept his eyes on the road.  Father wasn't the only one who had temptations.  Although, if John was seriously trying to avoid his, he probably shouldn't have accepted Father's invitation to dinner when they got back to town.

What could John do?  He liked to live dangerously.

9.

Rodney hadn't expected teaching to come easily to him, but he hadn't thought it would be so miserably, grindingly hard, either. The formal school year began, the rest of the children arrived, he gritted his teeth and survived the inevitable jockeying for pack position. . . but he was disheartened by how difficult everything was. The material was stultifying and his natural lack of patience wasn't helping.

He tried a few times to deviate from the book, to teach something that actually held some interest for him, but it was clear the children were as bored by his digressions as they were by the lesson plan.

"I've been thinking," Rodney said to Principal Stuart one day during lunch, "Do you think Mrs. Lever could cover a few days of my class?"

"Let's discuss this in my office," Stuart said, somewhat pompously, and Rodney followed him there, a vague excitement beginning to burn. As the door closed behind them Rodney was off and running.

"I've been talking with Father Liam about his pastoral care ministry," Rodney said. "He's beginning to find the pace of the travel grueling -- all that traveling to officiate at Mass, do weddings and funerals, christenings and so forth."  He could feel himself lighting up as he spun the mental image into words. "I'm young, I'm energetic, I'd be happy to take some of that work off his hands. . ."

Getting out of the classroom would feel like such a reprieve; and surely he deserved a break from time to time. It wasn't like he was suggesting a vacation, after all! Just work of a different kind.

That Jack Sheppard would presumably be the pilot who would fly him out to wherever he was going was, of course, not the point. Though there was nothing wrong with feeling a frisson of excitement at that prospect; it was nice to have a friend, was all.

But Stuart was shaking his head, and Rodney's heart sank. "Frankly, Father Meredith, I don't think it's advisable for you to leave the children at this point in the year. You're just settling in."

And I'm miserable, Rodney thought, can't you see that? But he pressed his lips together tightly and did not speak.

"Actually, I'm glad you came in here, because I've been meaning to speak to you," Stuart said. "I'm hearing that you've been teaching some things that aren't in the textbook, is that right?"

"I've deviated somewhat from the lesson plan, yes," Rodney began.

"That has to stop."

Rodney felt as though he'd been slapped.

"State education guidelines are clear," Stuart said, and as he prattled on Rodney realized the man was enjoying this. Having a priest under his thumb obviously fulfilled some sick fantasy; this man was never going to grant him leave to go anywhere.

Rodney left Stuart's office with his face burning and his shoulders so clenched that they sparked a string of muscle spasms which plagued him through afternoon classes and well into the night.

Being reprimanded by an authority figure was too familiar, and painful, a sensation. He resolutely tried not to think about his last reprimand -- the one that had resulted in him being sent here -- but he was exhausted and haggard by the time he rose for Matins the next day.

Worship calmed him. The words had power, and their familiarity was soothing. Hail Mary, full of grace. . . How Rodney needed grace.

It was too easy to get enmeshed in frustration. To sink into the small mind of his misery. But the implacable and unquestionable infinite presence of God set him at ease, reminded him of the vast universe surrounding him. God was in control; God had a plan; Rodney needed only to surrender himself to that plan and allow it to unfold.

Easier said than done, but the idea of it was a kind of comfort.

There were half a dozen regulars who attended Matins at St. Elizabeth's: three old guys who often spent the service whispering loudly to each other in the back pew, a young woman who never spoke to anyone, and Rodney. The first time he'd come he'd felt dismay at the size of the assembly, but he'd come to like it that way. They rattled around in the echoing church like marbles, like specks of dust in the eye of God. . .

"Father Meredith." The voice of Father Liam distracted him from his meditations. The service had ended. Rodney stood hastily.

"Won't you join me in my office? I'll put the kettle on."

Rodney followed him down the twisting hallway to his office and sat on the by-now-familiar stiff-backed chair. (He suspected Father Liam had chosen it precisely because it was uncomfortable. The man had a misanthropic streak that made Rodney feel increasingly at-ease.) "No, thank you," he said, to the proffered cup of tea; it smelled herbal, too distant from coffee to be bearable.

"So," Father Liam said, and sipped his tea. "I've done a bit of inquiring about how exactly you came to Kodiak. I spoke with a Father Scott. . ."

Rodney felt his stomach drop. So much for feeling increasingly at-ease with his new spiritual director. "I see."

"You come to confession without fail. And you seem truly present at our sessions." Father Liam's voice was sharp as ever but his eyes held a kindness that Rodney couldn't bear to see; he looked away. "But you've never mentioned--"

"I thought what was said in the confessional was between me and my God," Rodney bit out. He could feel his heartrate skyrocketing.

"I'm not talking about what you've said, but what you haven't." Father Liam set down his teacup with a clatter. "Look at me, son."

Rodney couldn't help but obey.

"This is too heavy a burden to bear. Give it to our Lord. It's a paltry cross compared with the one he carried."

"I can't confess to something I didn't do!" The words burst out of him without conscious intent, and hung in the silence until he spoke again. "My work was for the glorification of God. You have to understand that. Asserting that there are universes beyond our own only expands the infinite wonder of God's creation--"

"It's not the nature of your work that's troubling." Father Liam's voice was tart. "It's the dishonesty."

"I did not falsify my results." Rodney stood, his whole body vibrating; his voice cracking just added insult to injury. "I didn't fabricate anything. No one believes me, but it's true."

"Father Scott is well-respected not only among the Jesuits but within the broader Church, as well," Father Liam noted. It was as good as a condemnation, as far as Rodney was concerned.

Rodney fumbled blindly for his jacket. "My previous spiritual director didn't believe me either," he said, hating the tears that were beginning to form in his eyes.

"Don't put words in my mouth," Father Liam said. "But I'm asking you to consider: where is God in what you're feeling right now?"

"I have to go," Rodney said, and fled.

---

With a show of reluctance, Stuart granted Rodney permission to offer piano lessons in the basement room. Rodney spent a happy few hours shoving boxes of books around and creating a reasonable path through the basement's detritus, and three students put their names down on the sign-up sheet he passed around during study hall. His first lesson would be on Thursday. Though listening to Hanon finger exercises had always struck him as a form of purgatory, he was looking strangely forward to teaching music again.

But there was only so much time he could spend preparing the music room for occupancy, and in general Rodney was spending too much time in his quarters. They felt like a microcosm of the school: uncomfortable, confining, a place he would never have chosen to be. He didn't want to keep calling Sheppard; the man seemed to genuinely enjoy his company (and when had that ever really been true before?) but he didn't want to push his luck.

So he set out on foot after school that afternoon, walking past the part of town he knew. The weather was beginning to cool; already the days were noticeably shorter, and the wind bit at his exposed neck and ears.

When one particularly sharp gust rose he stepped into the next shop he passed. The place was warm, thank God; lit by dim incandescent bulbs, a little dusty, filled with knickknacks and curios. Toward the back of the room there was a shelf of Matryoshka dolls which drew his attention: the traditional style, of course, but also dolls painted to look like American football players, actors, martial arts movie stars (one read "Bruse Lee" in inept block print), politicians. (Gorbachev was the outermost doll; inside he suspected he would find Reagan.)

"Priest's here," said a voice through a beaded curtain, and an old fellow in a heavy flannel shirt stepped through.

"So he is," the old fellow called back, and then grinned at Rodney. He was one of the Matins regulars, though Rodney had no idea of his name. "Father."

"It's good to see you," Rodney said, lamely. "I was just walking--"

"On a day like this?" The man clucked his tongue.

"I wanted to clear my head."

"That wind'll blow your mind right out your ears," the man said, sounding satisfied. "Cup of coffee?"

Oh. That sounded good. "I don't want to put you to any trouble," Rodney said.

"No trouble, pot's already on. Come on back."

Through the beaded curtain was a small room with two little square tables, a chess board on each; and a woodstove with a kettle simmering merrily on top.

"Not that one," the man said, as Rodney began to reach for it. "That's just for humidity. Here," and he gestured to the shadowed kitchenette, where sure enough, a full coffee pot awaited. The stuff was strong enough to stand a spoon in.

"Bless you," Rodney said, fervently, and the three men laughed.

"Coming from you, that might mean something," the first guy said. "I'm Ernest, and this is Manny," he gestured, "and Ben." The other two nodded in greeting.

"Pleased to meet you," Rodney said.

"We're waiting for our fourth, but he doesn't seem to be showing up. You play chess?"

"I do, though I don't want to infringe on your --"

"Nonsense. Siddown."

So Rodney did.

---

To his surprise, his first opponent -- Ben, a retired fisherman with about three teeth to his name -- beat him handily in no time. ("Not a lot to do around here in the winter," Ben pointed out.)

Rodney was on the verge of losing his second match, too, when the front door opened, bell jingling. A familiar voice called, "Sorry I'm late, boys."

The curtain parted and in walked Jack Sheppard.

"Father Meredith!" His surprise was evident, and Rodney felt embarrassed. What if Sheppard didn't want him here?

"I didn't mean to horn in on your chess game," he said, standing up hastily.

But Sheppard was grinning, like he was honestly happy to see Rodney, and with two strides he was giving Rodney a tight hug.

His body was solid and his aftershave was spicy and Rodney resolved to say an extra prayer for chastity come nightfall. When Sheppard stepped away Rodney felt his whole body tingling.

"I see you've met my chess buddies."

"Wind blew him in our door," Ernest said, sounding satisfied. "And you weren't here, so."

"Yeah, I apologize; I had to stop in Dillingham to drop off some medical supplies, and Susie was having some trouble with her Rochester gauge, so I stuck around for a while to lend a hand."

"The good Father's been an adequate replacement," Ben said.

"You're just saying that because you beat him!" Ernest chortled.

"I didn't know you played," Sheppard said, and there was a gleam in his eye.

"Not half so well as I thought I did," Rodney admitted, but he couldn't help smiling back.

"It's suppertime for me," Ben said, "You're welcome to our chess table if you want to set a spell."

Rodney hesitated.

"How 'bout it, Father?" Sheppard looked eager. "You up for a game?"

"I'll miss dinner at the refectory," Rodney said dubiously. Though he didn't really want to eat at the school, and Sheppard knew it.

"C'mon," Sheppard said. "Play me one game. Winner buys burgers for both of us."

A night out with Sheppard sounded like paradise. "You're on," Rodney said, and reset the board.

10.

Good thing Father played chess and not poker.  With a face that showed every emotion -- practically every thought -- he'd go down in flames at the poker table.  As it was, John could see him consider an option, reject it and mull over another.  By the time Father actually moved his piece, John already had his next move planned, so it was the work of a moment to execute it and then he could sit back and bask in Father's glare.

When he'd walked in, he'd been stunned to see Father sitting there, playing Ben.  Surprised and pleased and just reckless enough to cover the distance between them in a couple steps and wrap his arms around him.  Father felt good, warm against him, firm under his hands. Smelled like coffee and something woodsy and astringent. John let himself hold on for a long moment, then forced his arms apart, took a reluctant step back, wishing. . . Well, that was neither here nor there, as his grandmother used to say.

One advantage of them playing was that he had an excuse to study Father's face closely.  For strategic purposes, sure.  And because he could catch flashes of Father's intelligence sparkling in those blue eyes.  Laugh at the desert-dry humor quirking his crooked mouth.  Even his grumbles were amusing.

"I've been set up," Father muttered by his fourth move -- already desperately on the defensive.

"Nah."  John grinned.  He could see an opening that would let him win in three more moves.  "The boys are ruthless.  I got tired of losing, had to sharpen my skills."

"That's 'cause he insisted on betting."  Manny cackled.  "He got tired of skinny-dipping in the harbor in the middle of winter and freezing his ass. . . ets off."

"Manny!"  Damn him.  John ignored the sudden heat crawling up his neck and jaw at the thought of Father standing on the dock, watching him strip. "Father Meredith doesn't need to hear about that."

Father's hand stilled, holding his bishop in mid-air.  He stared at John, wide-eyed.  "I suppose it's a good thing you suggested dinner, and not. . ." He swallowed, sketched a grin.  "Although it might be worth doing, just to see Principal Stuart's face when he finds out."

Surprised, choking on his laugh, John's eyes watered.

Ernest leaned over and thumped him on the back, laughing.  "That stuck up fool would probably piss hisself at the thought."

Father cleared his throat and placed his bishop.  "Now you're tempting me, Ernest."  He raised his gaze and met John's, blue eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.

Light glinted off John's damp lashes, fracturing and refracting, wreathing Father's face in prismatic colors.  John wiped his eyes, forced his attention back to the board.  Why did he always fall for the most inappropriate guys?  It was getting worse, he had to admit to himself: a priest was even more disastrous than the last object of his affections. Some shrink could probably tell him the whys and wherefores; John just knew it was damned awkward at best, and at worst. . .  No.  He wasn't going there.  Not now.

Five minutes later, Father grimaced, his fingers lingering on his threatened king.  He sighed when John moved his queen.

"Check, and mate.  Dinner's on you, Father."

"How did you. . ."  Father scanned the board, then lifted his gaze and shrugged.  "I walked right into that, didn't I?"

"Yep."  John grinned and stood.  "Ben used that strategy on me half-a-dozen times before I figured out the counter."

"It took you that long?"  Father's eyebrows lifted as he helped John reset the board.  "I promise you I won't fall for that again."

Manny looked up from the other board.  "Enjoy your win, Jack.  I don't think it'll be long before you're the one buying dinner."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."  John crossed his arms and studied their board, then shook his head.  "You're going down, Ernest."

"Yeah."  Ernest shrugged.  "Can't win 'em all.  We're playing again tomorrow, Father.  Join us?"

Father glanced from Ernest to John.  "Are you sure?  I don't want to impose."

"Sure he's sure." John handed Father his coat, grabbed his own. "Besides, I could get used to having someone buy me dinner.  Next time I'll ask for steak."

Father scowled.  "I certainly don't intend to keep losing to you, if that's what you're implying."

"Not me."  John held aside the curtain and ushered Father through. "I gave up implying for Lent.  Bye, boys."

---

Father's hand hovered over the board, dipped toward a pawn.

Leaning against the far wall, John coughed.  "Notthatone."

Ben swiveled around, gave him the evil eye.  "You cheating, boy?"

John gave him his best 'who, me?' look, complete with 'aw, shucks' shrug. Ben rolled his eyes, turned back to the board.

Only now Father was glaring at him.

"What?"

"How can I play with you standing there," he waved a hand, "leaning and staring at every move I make?"

John hummed a bar of "Every Breath You Take," much to Father's obvious disgust.

"It's not possible to think with you looming in judgment."  Now he just sounded petulant.

"Okay."  Hiding his grin, John pushed away from the wall, crossed around behind Father, and took position six inches from his chair. "This better?"

"Oh, for. . ."  Father tilted his head back, shot John a withering upside-down glance, and faced forward.  "Fine.  Just don't bore a hole in my skull with your laser vision."

John's gaze fell to the back of Father's head.  Soft brown hair, thinning a little on top.  Damp wisps curled at the nape, where the stiff collar covered tender skin, like a carapace.  He took a shuddering breath, looked up, straight into Ben's eyes.

Ben's far too perceptive eyes.

A beat.  Two.  Heat flared in John's face, sweat trickled down his back. Then Ben lowered his gaze to the board.

Fuck.

Ben scratched his ear.  "You gonna move anytime soon, Father?"

"Yes, yes.  Right."

Father made his move, and John stifled a groan.  A trap, one of Ben's best, and he didn't seem to see it.

Ben moved, and when Father lifted his hand again, John leaned down, breathing into his ear.  "Watch his knight."

A pause.  Ben kept silent.  Finally, Father swallowed, changed his move.

John straightened, rested his hand on the back of Father's chair, his knuckles occasionally brushing against warm wool.  He was playing with fire, and he didn't care.

They lost, but only just.  At Father's congratulations, Ben held out his cup for more coffee -- John played waiter -- and nodded once.

"'Tween the two of you boys, God gave you some brains.  Make sure you remember to use 'em."

Father was obviously disappointed that there was no game tomorrow -- Thursdays the boys played bingo over at St. Nicholas' -- but everyone agreed to meet on Friday.

Dinner was quiet.  At least in their corner of the Roastery.  John ate his sandwich, tried not to stare at Father, sitting across from him with a far-away expression.  Had he gone too far with his teasing? Made Father uncomfortable?

"Okay."  Father gestured with his pickle.  "When the white pawn forked my knight and bishop, what do I do?  I thought the obvious counter would be to sacrifice. . ."

John grinned in relief.  The only thing that seemed to be on his mind was chess strategy.  John hadn't hazarded their friendship.

---

The alarm buzzed and John pawed at it, eventually finding the right button to turn it off.  He turned over, stretching.  Didn't usually need the alarm, but his new-found social life kept him up later than he was used to.

He grinned.  Ten years ago, hell, five, he'd have busted a gut laughing at the thought of his social life consisting of three old guys and a priest.  Sounded like a joke: three old guys and a priest walk into a bar. . .

And then what?

He'd showered and was downing a second cup of coffee when the phone rang.

"Sheppard."

"Did I disturb your beauty sleep, Major?"

He froze, just for a second, before consciously taking a breath and leaning back in his chair.  "How's my favorite Colonel doing?"

Sam laughed.  "I'm fine.  You?"

"Just peachy."  He waited.  If Sam Carter wanted something from him, she'd have to ask first.

"Heard you've been visiting Northern Lights Aerospace recently." Almost a question.

"Yeah."  Okay, what was this about?  Sam didn't call just to ask about a visit to a local facility.  "Toured it with a friend."

"Did anything look. . . unusual?"

"In what way?"

"Just. . . odd."

For God's sake, spit it out.  "It might help, Colonel, if I knew what kind of odd you're talking about."

She sighed.  "I can't tell you a lot, but we've received intel that our friends in the Trust are interested in Northern Lights."

Sitting up straight, John frowned.  "What for?"

"I'm not sure.  Hence my questions."

"That's. . . not good."  He scrubbed one hand through his hair.

Her chuckle was humorless.  "My thoughts exactly."

"So.  What can I do?"

"Nothing official.  You know that.  But if you could keep your eyes and ears open, let me know if anything shows up on your personal radar, I'd appreciate it."  She paused.  "So would the General."

"Sure."  John ignored the bitterness that painted the back of his throat.  Both Sam and the General had tried to help, even when all hope had fled.  And as for showing up on his radar. . .  "You might want to check out a guy named Stan Gates.  He gave us the tour, and I wouldn't trust him to piss on me if I was on fire."

Sam laughed.  "He set your Spider-sense a-tingling?"

"Something like that."

"Will do.  Thanks for the tip.  And John?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be a stranger, okay?  You have my number.  Give me a call sometime."

"Yeah."

He knew he wouldn't.  Some wounds were still too raw.

---

"You."  Father pointed at John, then to the far corner of the room. "Over there."

"Yes, sir."  John snapped out a salute that raised Father's eyebrows, then moved to the far corner.  He could see just fine from there.

Father sat at the table across from Ben and rubbed his hands together. "Right.  Chop chop.  Let's get this show on the road."

Ten moves in, John was stunned.  Ben actually paused a full minute before moving, his usual complacent expression replaced with a frown of concentration.  Manny and Ernest gave up the pretense of playing, and pulled their chairs around to watch.  Father's face was flushed, his eyes sparkled, and he kept up a muttered commentary throughout.

John moved toward him, like a fish on a line.  Stood at his side, silent, unable to look away.

Forty moves.  Ben was on the defensive.

Sixty moves.  Ben had regrouped, but Father didn't let a piece go without a struggle.

Eighty moves.  Father made a mistake and Ben pounced.

"Checkmate!"

Father leaned back in his chair and groaned, covering his eyes with his hand.  "I can't believe I did that!  Of all the stupid--"

John just stared.

"Way to go, Father!"  Manny and Ernest applauded, and Ben grinned like there was no tomorrow.

"Good job, boy."  Ben narrowed his eyes.  "Now you gonna tell me how you got so good so fast?"

Father took a deep breath and sat up, grinning.  "I picked Jack's brains on Wednesday, found an old copy of Lasker's book in the school library that night and read it. Last night, Sascha and I sat down and played. . . six hours?  Something like that."

"If I'd known. . ." John began, shaking his head.  What the hell had he done?  He'd created a monster.

"I was just a little rusty."  Father smirked.  "A few hours' practice and a little studying to refresh my memory was all I needed."

Father's grin was infectious.  John couldn't help himself -- a smile spread over his face.  He'd only seen Father this happy once before, when he was touring the NLA.  This confident, pleased man was a far cry from the Father Meredith he usually saw.  John's smile faded as he realized: Father wasn't just having trouble fitting in, he was miserable -- bone-deep, achingly unhappy.  And John hated that.  Would have to do something--

"Jack?"  Father's voice roused him.  The light was dimming in Father's eyes as he searched John's face.  "You aren't angry, are you?  About this?"

"No way."  John's smile returned.  "You know, you're pretty sneaky for a priest."

Father's mouth twitched.  "I prefer to think of it as utilizing my natural cunning."

"You're scheming."

"Crafty."

"Underhanded."

"All right, you two."  Ernest handed them their coats.  "Your natural cunning's made Ben late for his dinner, Father.  It's time for you boys to go find your own."

After a brief discussion -- Father insisting that he got to pick their destination this time -- they drove over to the diner.  John enjoyed dinner; teasing Father never got old.  And Father's good mood continued through the meal.

Amazing what a shot of self-confidence could do for a man.

They ordered a last cup of coffee, and John excused himself. Returning from the head after a minute or two, he stared at their table.

Stan Gates sat across from Father, nodding and smiling, while Father grinned and talked and gestured wildly.  He looked even happier than he had at Ernest's.

Damn it.

John was at Father's side in a flash.  His mouth stretched wide, teeth bared, but he knew it looked nothing like a smile.

Father turned, beamed at him. "Jack, you remember Stan."

John nodded, crossed his arms over his chest.

"Good to see you again."  Stan's smile turned as false as John's. He slid out of the booth seat.  "I won't keep you two.  Just wanted to say hello, Father.  Maybe we can get together soon and talk shop."

John wasn't surprised that he wasn't included in the invitation.

Father's expression turned wistful.  "I'd like that."

He really wanted to do this, and John couldn't blame him.  Of course an astrophysicist -- even a disgraced astrophysicist -- would enjoy talking about his subject with colleagues.  He'd enjoy it a lot more than hanging out with a two-bit, chess-playing pilot with an inappropriate crush and impossible dreams.

Ten minutes later, John pulled up in front of the school and Father opened the truck door.  He hesitated, turned back.  "Jack, I didn't mean to take advantage of your knowledge of Ben's strategy."  He paused.  "Actually, I did, but I was just so excited to have something to think about, something I could dig my teeth into, I didn't realize that you'd feel used.  I don't want this to affect our friendship."

John rubbed the back of his neck.  Yeah, he did feel a little used, but it was worth it to see Father so damned happy.  It was just. . .

"Don't worry.  We're good."  Maybe he should say something about Stan, but how?  All he had was instinct warning him to be careful around Stan. Anything he said would sound feeble at best.  His only hope was if Sam discovered something bad about Stan, but even then, how could he tell Father he'd sicced the US Air Force on Stan just because he was jealous?  His fingers itched with the need to reach out, to grab Father's shirtfront and pull him close. . .

"Okay.  Would you. . ."  Father cleared his throat.  "Would you like to have dinner tomorrow?"

"Sure."  The tightness in his chest eased.

"Excellent."  Father stepped back.  Closed the door.  "Goodbye, Jack."

"See you tomorrow."  John threw the truck into gear and pulled out.

11.

There was nothing quite like waking up on a Saturday to the realization that no schoolday lay ahead. No classroom bell ringing every fifty minutes, and then again on the hour in a futile attempt to call chattering students to order. No need to attempt to interest ten-year-olds in the intricacies of social studies, nor the fine nuances of catechism. Instead Rodney anticipated a long undifferentiated day that he could fill with books, perhaps with a walk by the wharf, and ultimately with Jack's company for dinner.

And maybe they'd wind up back at Jack's place afterwards. The thought gave Rodney a happy little frisson.

Last time they'd had dinner out, they'd gotten into a conversation about formative novels that led directly to Rodney demanding to see Jack's bookshelves. Sheppard had shrugged, pointing out that he'd long since lost most of his childhood possessions (it was possible, he acknowledged, that there was a storage unit filled with stuff somewhere in the Lower 48) but after the meal he'd taken Rodney to his house, a small bungalow not far from the harbor.

It wasn't that much bigger than Rodney's monastic cell, but it felt like a home. Each of the few possessions felt significant. A woven blanket folded neatly on the small couch. A guitar in the corner. A small stereo with CDs piled beside it. A Johnny Cash poster visible through the doorway to Sheppard's bedroom, where Rodney could see a thick paperback novel on his bedside table.

Rodney had felt oddly shy, at first, as though he were crossing some invisible boundary. But Sheppard had toed off his boots and padded in to the kitchen to make coffee, which he'd fortified with a sizeable splash of Irish whiskey, and they'd stayed up past midnight talking. The anticipation of another night like that one washed through Rodney as he lay abed.

Though remembering the warm full-body pleasure of that kind of closeness while lying in bed felt dangerously close to a kind of fantasy Rodney did not permit himself, so he rose and showered.

He walked to Matins beneath a pitch-black sky -- though no stars were visible at this hour, already washed-out by the impending day; dawn would come while they were inside the church. The nights were growing perceptibly longer already. How long would it be before school days both began and ended in darkness?

Manny and Ben waved to him as he entered the sanctuary, and Rodney smiled in greeting. It was amazing how much of a difference regular chess games with Jack and "the boys" had made. Rodney felt strangely at-home with Ernest and Manny and Ben. They groused and sniped at each other with the comfortable force of long habit, and Rodney had found himself beginning to join in, enjoying their obvious amusement at playing chess with a trash-talking priest.

And, of course, Jack was a worthy opponent. And if sometimes Jack braced his face in his palms, studying the board with such intensity that Rodney was able to sneak glances at Jack's strong forearms and fine hands, well. . . okay, he had experienced the stray nanosecond of attraction, but he suppressed the feeling as quickly as it arose.

---

"You're looking almost contented this morning," Father Liam noted as Rodney followed him back to his office. Neither of them made reference to their last meeting, or the painful memories it had stirred in Rodney's heart.

"I think I'm beginning to find a niche here," Rodney said. It felt strange to admit it, as though he were tempting fate, but he said the words anyway.

"Hm. Does that mean you're not interested in a weekend assignment, then?"

"Eh? No, not at all -- I mean, yes, I'm interested," Rodney said hastily. Even Stuart couldn't object to him taking an assignment from the parish priest! Exultation flowed through him.

"Tragic situation," Father Liam said, and as he turned around to sit down at his desk Rodney saw that his eyes looked tired. "There's a need for a set of funerals up in Port O'Brien."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Rodney said. Instantly he clicked in to funeral preparation mindset, his excitement at the prospect of a trip out of town shunted to the side, trumped by the needs of the moment.

"Steve Wright will be by in an hour to pick me up, but I have obligations here. You should stay to offer mass tomorrow; you can return Monday morning before dawn."

"Let me go pack my things," Rodney said quickly. "I'll be back within the hour. Thank you, Father."

"Go with God," Father Liam said, and turned to his desk.

Rodney hurried back to the school, his mind racing. His little black book containing the liturgy he would need was by his bedside; he had a clean set of clericals hanging in the wardrobe. He should bring a black sweater in case it was cold; winter seemed these days just around the corner. . .

As he stepped into his room again, he had a flash of memory of getting dressed before his mirror a bare hour before, thinking of his dinner with Jack. Regret washed through him. But surely Jack would understand. He could write a quick note, leave it with Steve to be delivered later that day. He was needed -- and even if this paled in comparison with the way he had once been needed, back when his research was valued and his intellect routinely praised, this mattered. Seeing Jack could wait.

12.

John pushed through the office door, clutching a sheaf of papers threatened by the wind.

Wan in the cold fluorescent lighting, Steve looked up from his desk. "Hey, Jack.  Good run?"

John dumped the papers into the tray for filing and rubbed his hands together.  The weather was turning.  "Yeah.  No problem. What're you still doing here on a Saturday night?  Thought you'd be home with Shelley by now." He winked, leering a little.

"Had a last minute run up to Port O'Brien."  Steve raised his arms and leaned back, stretching with a grunt.  "Took the priest up for a couple funerals -- whole family died in a fire -- needed someone right away."

God.  John grimaced.  "Sad business."

"Yeah."  Steve picked up an envelope, held it out to John.  "He asked me to give this to you."

"Who?"  John took the envelope.  To: Jack Sheppard was scribbled across the front.

"The priest.  McKay."

That was weird.  "Why didn't Father Liam go?  He usually does funerals and weddings."

Steve shrugged.  "Dunno.  McKay didn't say."  A smile, more than a little malicious.  "Just white-knuckled his way during takeoff and landing and said about two words in between."

"Sounds like him."  John kept his voice level as he tore open the envelope. "When's he coming back?  I could pick him up."

"Early Monday morning."

"Damn.  I've got that run to Katmai that'll take me most of the day." He pretended to consider.  "You wouldn't want to switch, would you?"

"No can do."  Steve looked regretful.  "Got an appointment at the lawyer's that afternoon, and Shelley'll kill me if we miss it."

"No problem."  John sat, hiding his disappointment behind Father's letter.

Saturday, 9:30am

Dear Jack,

I'm very sorry to have to break our engagement for dinner tonight, but tragic circumstances require me to assume my role as minister to our far-flung flock. Father Liam requires me to officiate at several funerals in Port O'Brien, and I am leaving within the hour. I will return before classes on Monday, and hope to avoid Mr. Stuart's ire.  (A vain hope, I'm afraid.)

I look forward to trouncing you soundly next week -- on the chessboard.  I expect you to buy me an expensive dinner when you recover from your crushing defeat. I'm afraid the weather is too inclement for your alternate wager.

Very truly yours,

M. R. McKay

John carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.  He wasn't going to be a girl and wrap it in red ribbon, or hide it in his underwear drawer, but he wouldn't toss it.  Not yet.

He waved to Steve and walked out to his truck, at loose ends.  He'd been looking forward to dinner, and now. . .  Now all he could think about was skinny-dipping with Father, sliding up against him, smooth and warm, wrapping his arms around him, letting his hands roam. . . and if he wasn't going to Hell for all his other sins, that one would certainly tip the scales.

Nothing like exercise when battling those familiar demons.  John headed over to the high school gymnasium. He was in luck; a bunch of kids and a sprinkling of older guys desperate to get out of the house had started a pickup basketball game.  John pulled off his sweater and jogged a dozen laps around the gym to warm up, then spent a couple hours getting sweaty and tired -- not in the way he preferred, but at least he could live with himself afterward.

A quick shower at home -- way too quiet and lonely -- and then he headed back out to the Roastery.  It was near closing time, but Cindy would let him stay for a bit.

Sure enough, she greeted him with a smile and brushed aside his apology. "You want to make it up to me?  Give me a lift home after I've closed."

He watched her clean up as he ate his sandwich, then he took out the trash as she locked up.  They were in his truck when she turned to him. "Oh, I just remembered.  Someone came by earlier, asking about you and the priest."

"Oh, yeah?  Who?"

"Don't know him.  Tall guy.  Blond.  Trying to be charming."

Stan Gates.  Son of a bitch.

"What did he want?"

"He said he was a friend, and wanted to know if you and Father -- Meredith, is it? -- had stopped by for dinner, or if we were expecting you."

"He's no friend of mine, Cindy, and I don't think he's one to Father, either."

"Thought so."  She nodded.  "He didn't look like the kind of guy who has friends.  Just people he uses."

"Yeah."  He pulled up to Cindy's house.  "Let me know if he comes back, okay?"

"Sure.  Thank for the ride."

A restless night filled with dreams he wouldn't look at closely followed by a day filled with demanding clients and balky machinery left John too exhausted and jittery to relax.  He sat down to read, found himself pulling Father's letter from his coat pocket.  With a grimace, he dropped the letter into the trash and picked up his phone.

He needed to take his mind off a certain priest, and he knew just the guy to do it.

An hour later, showered and shaved, he knocked on the dark green door. "C'mon in!" drifted from inside.  The door was unlocked. Damn it.  John had warned Eli about taking chances -- there'd been trouble in this neighborhood before -- so he carefully locked the door behind him, and made his way down the short hall.  He dropped his coat on the floor, sweater and shirt following.  The bedroom was dim, lit only by a single lamp, and Eli stretched out on the bed, pale skin scattered with freckles, short curls glinting gold.

"Haven't seen you for a while."  Eli clasped his hands behind his head, lifted his chest.  His cock was hard, and the sight of it made John's mouth water.

"Been busy."  John shucked his boots and trousers, socks and boxers, left them in a pile beside the door.

Eli raked him with an appreciative gaze.  "If you weren't so damned pretty, I'd tell you to stick with your own right hand."  He bent his knees, ran his hands up the inside of his thighs, spread his legs. "But I'm a sucker for a pretty face."

John snorted.  "You're a sucker for this."  He grabbed his cock, gave it a quick stroke.  Yeah.  This was what he needed.  He climbed onto the bed, straddled Eli's chest.  Grabbing the top edge of the headboard, he pushed his hips forward, trailing the head of his cock over Eli's jaw and cheek.

"Damned right."

John watched his cock slide between Eli's lips, shuddered from the heat and pressure.  Good, so fucking good.  He let his head fall back, closed his eyes as he rocked his hips.  Thought about Eli's mouth, full and red, sucking him in, shivered deep in his belly as his mental image of Eli shifted: lips thinning, freckles disappearing, his curls straightening and darkening and. . .

With a gasp he opened his eyes, pulled away from that welcoming heat. Eli. He was with Eli, not. . .

"What's the matter?"  Eli frowned, smoothed his hands up John's thighs, cupped them around his hips.

"Nothing."  Heart thudding in his chest, John sank back, felt Eli's cock brush his ass.

Eli's lips quirked, and he shifted his hips, his cock sliding between John's cheeks.  "That didn't look like nothing to me."

A shiver, a flush of heat blossoming on his chest and face.  "I didn't come here to talk."

Before Eli could answer, John swung himself to one side and scrambled between Eli's thighs.  He grabbed Eli's ankles and lifted his legs.

"Oh, God, I love it when you go all caveman on me," Eli breathed, hand scrabbling under the pillow.  He threw a packet and small bottle at John, who released Eli's ankles.  After rolling on the condom and slicking his cock, John lifted Eli's legs again.

Eli gasped as John nudged his ass, then grabbed the inside of his knees and pulled his legs back.  "Go for it."

John positioned himself and pushed forward, slowly, so very slowly, sliding into Eli.  He hissed and closed his eyes.  Tight.  Hot. Squeezing his cock, squeezing his heart in his chest.  God, there was nothing like this.  He forced his eyes open, stared unblinking at Eli until his eyeballs burned. Saw Eli's muscles tremble, the sweat bead on his chest, his upper lip, at his hairline.  Listened to Eli's muttered encouragement, to his bitten-off groans and breathy whines as John kept up his slow pace, in, out, squeeze, release.

"God damn it, Jack!"  Eli squirmed, trying to pick up the pace.  He grabbed his cock and stroked it roughly.  "C'mon, you fucker.  Nail me!"

His arms and legs trembled, sweat trickled down his ribs.  John wanted to hold on, but Eli was making that impossible.  With a shout, Eli threw back his head and came over his stomach and hand. John couldn't help it.  His hips jerked forward, then back, close, so close. . .

A moment later he closed his eyes and shuddered through his climax. Yeah, he knew he was fucking Eli, but he wished. . . for the impossible.

But if he couldn't have who he wanted, Eli was a damned good substitute.

They rested for a while before John fucked Eli again, pushing him from his hands and knees to his back.  He needed to see Eli's face to keep reminding himself who he was with.

It almost worked.

They showered together in comfortable silence, hot need banked into the warmth of well-used muscles.  John left Eli crashed out on the bed and dressed quietly in the hall.  He checked his watch -- it was late, and he had a long day ahead, but he felt better.  Could cope with seeing Father Meredith again the next evening.

The cold outside air hit him like a blow, and he huddled deeper in his coat as he pulled the door shut behind him.  Heard the lock click. Took a step toward his truck.

Something -- a sound?  A shifting shadow? -- warned him of danger a second before the hands closed on his arms and he twisted, breaking their hold.  A grunt, loud in the late-night stillness, as he stumbled back, stepping on a booted foot.

Two, at least.

Hands snatched at him, and he fought for freedom, a mad dance fueled by the familiar buzz of an adrenaline surge.  He got in three good blows before a fist connected with his jaw and he landed on the ground with a gasp.  The hard toe of a boot smashed into his side.  He curled up, protecting his belly and chest, as they kicked and punched.

Only two.  No weapons, or none that they were using.  Probably local guys who knew that the cops wouldn't respond if there weren't any weapons.

He uncurled and caught the next kick, heaving the guy off balance. Kicking out his right leg, he hit the second guy's kneecap, heard a satisfying crunch.

Didn't feel the pain -- yet -- but he knew he would soon.  The one he'd kneecapped rolled on the ground, holding his leg.  The other. . .  An uppercut snapped the guy's lower jaw against his upper, stunned him long enough for John to bring him down with a quick smash to his temple.

John ran.  Made it to his truck.  A few short blocks home, but his muscles were tightening up in the cold by the time he got inside. He ran a hot bath and stripped, swallowed four ibuprofen dry.  He prodded his soon-to-be-bruises; no broken bones.  He'd look like a rainbow flag in a few days, but he didn't have a concussion, wasn't pissing blood.  No worse than any of the other times this had happened, and no sense calling the police.  Muggings in that part of town weren't unusual, and any investigation would involve Eli. He didn't want that.

He managed a few hours sleep before he staggered into a hot shower, standing there long enough to warm up his stiff muscles and wrinkle his fingers and toes.  A quick breakfast and more ibuprofen, and he was off to Katmai, shuttling a hunting party.

As they lifted off, he hoped Father Meredith made it back to the school in time for class.

---

He was wiped.  Aching, bruised, exhausted.  John glanced at his watch. Way late for chess.  He should just go home, lick his wounds and crash.

Who was he kidding?  He'd just stop by Ernest's first, see who was winning.

The door bell rang as he walked in, but there was no welcome.  The light was on in the back -- someone was home.

John tiptoed to the doorway, peered through the strands of beads.

Ben and Father Meredith were bent over their chessboard in identical poses of focused absorption.  Manny and Ernest sat, crowding the far side of the table, eyes glued to the pieces in front of them.

Half the pieces were off the board -- a hard-fought battle -- and Ben's hand hovered over one piece, then another.

John had never seen him indecisive.

He didn't want to break their concentration.  Besides, Ben would skin him alive if he burst into the room at this point.  John stayed on the far side of the curtain, watching.

Finally, Ben drew his hand back without moving a piece and looked across the table at Father.  "You win."

The words fell into the silence like a bomb.  Manny and Ernest stood and crowed their congratulations, while Father leaned back and laughed.

"I told you I would do it!"

For the first time since Saturday, John felt the accumulated tension in his shoulders relax.  Father was back.

Grinning, he stepped through the curtain.  "Sorry I'm late.  Did I miss anything?"

"Dear Lord, what happened to you?"  Father was around the table in a blink, fingers gentle on John's jaw.  He frowned as he studied John's face.

John shrugged, trying not to lean into Father's touch.  "I'm fine. But I hear you wiped the floor with Ben."

Father dropped his hand and his frown disappeared for a moment, eclipsed by a brilliant smile.  "You should've been here, Jack.  I beat him, fair and square."  He narrowed his eyes, his smile fading.  "Looks like someone beat you, unfair and unsquare."

The concern on Father's face was mirrored on the faces of Manny, Ernest and Ben.  John mumbled something about falling down on the basketball court, could see the disbelief in their eyes.  They wouldn't call him on it, though.  If he didn't want to tell them what happened, they'd accept it. They wouldn't like it, but they'd let him get away with it, like the times when it had happened before.

John glanced at Father, caught the resolute look in his eyes. Convincing him to let it go would be another matter.

"Looks like it's my turn to pay for dinner."  John nodded to the guys, stepped through the curtain, followed by Father.  "Your choice."

Father had the courtesy to wait until they were in the truck before rounding on him.  "Falling down on the basketball court, my ass!"

He sounded pissed, and a little frightened.

"It looks worse than it is."  John headed toward the steak house. Father's concern warmed him in places he shouldn't be thinking about, but if he was using words like 'ass' in private, it would probably be a good idea to eat in a place where good manners were the norm.  At least, John hoped so.

"I don't believe that for a second.  Have you even been to a doctor?"

"I'm really okay.  Bruised, yeah, but nothing serious."

They were seated at their table, menus in hand, before Father conceded defeat.  He scowled down at the tablecloth.  "So you won't go to the doctor. All right.  Just promise me one thing."  His voice was husky.

John was leery of open-ended promises, he'd been burned before. "If I can."

"If you start to feel dizzy, or have any other symptoms: blood in your urine, nausea, edema, anything, you'll go to the clinic."

"Yeah.  I can do that.  But it's not necessary.  I'm--"

"Fine."  Father rolled his eyes.  "Yes, I know."  He glanced over John's shoulder, his grimace quickly smoothing out.  "The perfect end to a trying day," he murmured, nodding to someone over John's shoulder.

"What?"  John didn't look.  He couldn't turn that far without wincing in pain, and he was damned if he wanted to set Father off again.

"Our beloved Principal and his wife are dining here tonight." Father's smile was as false as a porn star's boobs.  "Just our luck."

"Did he give you grief for being gone over the weekend?"  John kept his voice low.

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

John chuckled as their waitress arrived.  "Remember, I'm buying. Order the most expensive thing on the menu, if you want.  I'm having steak."

This time Father followed his lead, and once their orders were in, John asked about his trip.  They spent their meal discussing the horrors of propane fires, the beauty and poverty in remote villages, and a host of related topics.  Father did most of the talking, of course, but he listened to John's comments and considered them carefully.

They had just ordered coffee when Father looked up, a grin spreading over his face.  He stood, extending his hand, as John glanced up.

Into Stan fucking Gates' mocking eyes.

Father was pumping Stan's hand, offering him a seat, asking if he'd eaten. John clamped his jaw shut.  He would not play pleased to see Stan, but he'd rather eat ground glass than leave Father and Stan alone together.

Stan sat, turned to John with raised brows.  "What happened to you, Jack? Meet up with someone who wasn't very friendly?"

John's instinct screamed a warning.  He took a deep breath. Relaxed. Like he did before a battle.

"Or maybe," Stan continued, leaning closer and dropping his voice, "maybe it was someone a little too friendly?"

His fingers itched -- he wanted nothing more than to punch Stan's smug smile.  But he had to wait, find out Stan's game.

Father's smile froze on his face, as brittle as cold iron.  "Do you know something about Jack's injuries?"  His gaze darted between John and Stan.

"About his injuries?"  Stan sat back, spread his hands.  "Not a thing."

Father lifted his chin.  "Then what--"

"I do know a few things about a certain Major John Sheppard, late of the United States Air Force."

John stared at him, his gut twisting.  No.  He couldn't--

"Who?"  Father looked bewildered.  "Jack?"

"You see, this Major Sheppard had to leave the Air Force under a black cloud.  He had been conducting an inappropriate relationship with his commanding officer -- his very male commanding officer.  Because of his connections, he was allowed to retire, rather than be prosecuted."

John's heart stuttered in his chest.  He tore his gaze from Stan's face, hazarded a glance at Father's. . .

The world around him was torn to pieces, as if he'd hit the dirt at top speed.

Father stared at him.  "Jack? Is this true?"

He couldn't bear to see the disappointment, the disgust that he knew would soon appear in Father's eyes. Gutted and flayed, he felt his belly hollowed out, his skin stripped off, piece by bloody piece.  Knees watery, John stood, kept his gaze on his hands -- not shaking, not yet -- and nodded. "Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me--"

Father's voice followed him out of the dining room, his words impossible to understand over the roaring in John's ears.  He paused for a moment, handing the hostess enough money to cover their tab, and left.

He reached the truck, climbed inside, lowered his head to the steering wheel.  He couldn't leave the parking lot -- had to make sure Father got home safely -- who could he call?  God, he couldn't think.  The only thing running through his mind was the revulsion Father must be feeling.

John managed to get the door open before he puked.

Ten minutes later, he'd rinsed his mouth with a bottle of water he kept in the truck, and parked in a dark corner, where he could see everyone who came or went.  A few minutes after that, the restaurant door opened and Principal Stuart and his wife emerged, followed closely by Father. They all piled into Stuart's SUV.

John followed them, keeping well back.  He waited until Father was safely in the building before returning home.

Stripping off his clothes, John fell into bed.  Stared at the ceiling, watching the lights from occasional passing cars skitter across the plaster in kaleidoscopic patterns.  Despair weighted his chest, pressed him into the mattress.

He was so fucked.

13.

Two days had passed and Rodney hadn't been able to stop thinking about Jack. John. His bruises, angry and livid, marring his face. And, worse, the expression he'd worn when Stan had outed him, and the way he'd fled. As though he couldn't bear for Rodney to know.

As though he thought Rodney would --

Did he think Rodney would hate him? The thought twisted Rodney's heart. For God's sake, John was his friend. What did he care what John did with his personal life?

Though come to think of it, he'd never heard John mention a partner, other than Steve Wright, who was engaged. He'd never seen John date. John was ostentatiously charming to the women they encountered -- Cindy, at the coffee shop; the little old ladies at the museum fundraiser -- but he'd never seen a spark of sexual tension between John and anyone. He knew that, because (shame swept him, again) he'd been looking.

Rodney had never been tempted to break his vow of celibacy. Giving up sex when he'd joined the priesthood hadn't been a particular hardship; his fumbling encounters with women had never been particularly satisfying anyway.

No. It wasn't true that he'd never been tempted. God help him, he was tempted by John. He could admit that to himself; he could admit it to God.

But just because he was tempted -- just because John was gay -- that gave him no grounds to hate him for his sexual orientation, and he felt wounded that John had obviously presumed that would be his response. Even if Church teaching forbade the act (and Rodney flushed to think, even in a guarded and distant way, of what exactly that act entailed -- John's body, revealed --) was he not instructed to love the sinner?

And if that injunction pushed him again too close to forbidden fantasy, he could always lose himself in prayer.

Though since Stan's revelation, Rodney had found even prayer a distant comfort at best. He couldn't stop thinking about the way John had fled the restaurant. The way John had fled from him.

Truth be told, these last few days Rodney had spent more time at the battered old upright than kneeling in prayer. Playing the stormiest music he knew -- Debussy and Rachmaninoff, for God's sake. Which was a little bit embarrassing, but it helped. If he couldn't pour his heart out to God in words, he could do so without language, and if his fingers fumbled on the keys, well, he was a flawed servant all around.

"God help me," he murmured, fingering the beads of his rosary without cognition.

And then a pounding came at the door. "Father Meredith!"

He knew the voice; it belonged to one of the children. Isaac, a tall and ungainly seventh-grader who hoarded the basketball on the court. He'd seen John teaching him how to shoot from the perimeter, a study in motion and grace.

"What is it?" Rodney called.

"Telephone." Footsteps pounded as Isaac ran back down the hall.

Maybe it would be John. Rodney's heart leapt in his chest as he made his way to the payphone.

But the voice was Stan's. "Father!"

Rodney had to bite back the impulse to blister Stan's ear with an excoriation like he hadn't offered in years. After dropping his bombshell, Stan had looked at Rodney expectantly, as if he honestly thought Rodney would welcome John's public outing. Rodney had snarled at him to please, for the love of God, step away and never speak to him again. Then he'd had to fumble an explanation to Principal Stuart despite his confusion and his aching heart.

Stan had called Rodney's cellphone a few times, but Rodney had seen his number on the caller ID and refused to pick up, deleting his voicemail messages unheard. But Rodney hadn't thought to screen incoming calls on the dormitory payphone.

"I thought I told you to go to hell."

"But we really ought to talk, don't you think?"

"Not especially, no." Rodney felt visceral disgust spreading through him again. He had no interest in making polite conversation with the man who had outed his best friend. His only friend. Who was now avoiding him like the plague.

Stan ignored his words. "I'm sending a car for you; it'll be there shortly."

"This isn't a good time. I'm preparing tomorrow's classes," Rodney lied.

"They'll bring you directly to my office," Stan continued, as though Rodney had not spoken.

"I'm not interested," Rodney said bluntly.

"I think you'll find what we have to say extremely persuasive." The note of amusement in Stan's voice made Rodney's blood run cold. There was something sinister in it; why had he never noticed that before? "See you soon, Father."

Rodney stood there for a second, holding the dead phone, before hanging it up with a clatter and running back to his room. He fumbled for his cellphone. He had to call John.

---

John answered on the fourth ring.

"Thank God," Rodney blurted. "Are you okay?"

"I -- what?"

"This is -- Father McKay," Rodney said, hastily, realizing he'd been about to use his first name, an informality John surely wouldn't have welcomed.

"I got that," John said drily. "You sound out of breath; what's going on?"

"It's Stan Gates," Rodney said. "He just called. He's sending a car for me. I don't know what's going on, but I really don't have a good feeling about this, and --"

"You're in danger." John's voice was preternaturally calm. "You need to get out of there. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"You're hurt," Rodney objected. "I don't want to put you in --"

"I can handle it." Clipped, efficient, in control. "Get behind the school -- isn't there a fenced enclosure?"

"Trash cans, yes, right, I'll --"

"See you in ten," John said, and disconnected.

Rodney grabbed his pocket Bible and his rosary, and stood for a moment in the middle of the room. Nothing else there held any meaning for him.

Would the children be safe? He had to trust that they would be; Gates wasn't interested in them. He ran down the hall to Sascha's room, but no one answered; heart pounding, he staggered to the far end of the corridor, the girls' quarters, and knocked on Sister Grace's door.

"Yes?" She looked faintly surprised, though whether by his air of panic or by his mere presence he wasn't sure.

"Lock the doors," he gasped. "Don't let anyone in. Call the police, I think there are men after me."

To her credit, she didn't seem fazed by this revelation in the least. "You're leaving?"

"I'm trying to draw them away. I have to--" Rodney gestured over his shoulder, frantic.

"Go with God," she said gently, and watched him turn and run for the back door.

Rodney made his way to the fenced-in trashcans and crouched behind one, peering through the slats in the fence. The night was cold and the air felt heavy.  A few fat snowflakes fell, caught in a gust of wind.

"Hey."

The whisper startled Rodney, who flinched -- but as he turned, fearful, he saw that it was John, kneeling beside him.

"How the hell did you do that?" He didn't like the sound of his own voice, scared and irritable.

John quirked a half-smile. "Military training has to be good for something, I guess."

But a shadow crossed John's face as he murmured the words. He didn't want to be talking with Rodney about his Air Force days. Rodney averted his eyes, feeling that he had somehow transgressed.

The sound of an approaching car silenced them both. Rodney's breathing felt too loud as they wat