Father Grozdik listened to Peter, and then very calmly said, "You might not have to go to prison, Peter."

I have often wondered what truly went through Peter's head and heart when he heard those words. Hope? Elation? Or perhaps, fear? He wouldn't tell me, though he did fill in all the details of the conversation with the three priests later that night. I think he left it for me to figure out for myself, because that was Peter's style. Unless one reached a conclusion on their own, it wasn't a conclusion worth reaching. So, when I asked him, he shook his head, and said, "C-Bird, what do you think?"

Peter had come to the hospital to be evaluated, knowing that the only evaluation that meant anything was the one that he carried within him. Short Blond's killing and the arrival of Lucy Jones had spurred within him a sense that he could balance things out even more. Peter was riding a seesaw of conflicts and emotions, over what he'd heard, and what he'd done, and his whole life had been set into rocklike understandings of how he could even it all out. Smooth over one evil with one good. It was the only way that he could fall asleep at night, and wake up the following day, consumed with the task of making everything right. He was driven forward, constantly trying to find equanimity, always having it elude him. But later, when I thought about it, I believed that neither his waking nor his sleep could ever be free from nightmares.

For me, it was so much simpler. I just wanted to go home. The problem I faced was less defined by the voices I heard, than it was by what I could see. The Angel was no hallucination, the way they were. He was flesh and blood and rage, and I was beginning to see all that. It was a little like a shoreline emerging from the fog, and I was sailing directly toward him. I tried to tell Peter that, but I could not. I don't know why. It seemed as if it would say something about myself that I did not want to say, and so I kept it to myself. At least for the time being.

"I'm not sure I follow, Father," Peter said, reining in a surge of emotions. "The Archdiocese has many concerns about this incident, Peter." Peter did not immediately reply, although sarcastic words leapt to the tip of his tongue. Father Grozdik peered over at Peter, trying to read his response in the way he balanced on the chair, the tilt of his body, the look in his eyes. Peter thought he was suddenly engaged in the harshest poker game he'd ever experienced.

"Concerns, Father?"

"Yes, precisely. We want to do what is right in this situation, Peter."

The priest continued to measure Peter's reactions.

"What is right…" Peter said slowly.

"It is a complicated situation, with many conflicting aspects."

"I'm not sure that I completely agree, Father. A man was committing acts of, well, a certain depravity. He was, in all likelihood, immune from being called to task for what he had done. And so I, hotheaded, and filled with righteous fervor and anger, took it upon myself to do something about it. All by my lonesome. A vigilante mob of one, you might say, Father. Crimes were committed, Father. Prices were paid. And now, I'm willing to take my punishment."

"I think it is far more subtle than that, Peter."

"You can think what you want."

"Let me ask you this: Did anyone ask you to do what you did?"

"No. On my own. Not even my nephew suggested it, and he was the one who will carry the scars."

"Do you think he will somehow be made whole again by what you've done?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Which saddens me."

"Of course," Father Grozdik said, speaking rapidly. "Now, did you tell anyone, afterward, why you had done what you did?"

"Like the police that arrested me?"

"Exactly."

"No."

"And here, in this hospital, have you told anyone the reasons behind your actions?"

Peter thought hard for a moment, then said, "No. But it would seem that more than a few people know the connective why. Maybe not completely why, but know, nonetheless. Crazy people sometimes see things with accuracy, Father. An accuracy that eludes us on the street."

Father Grozdik bent forward slightly in his seat. Peter had the sense that he was watching a predatory bird circling above a bit of roadkill.

"You saw much combat overseas, did you not?"

"I saw some."

"Your military records indicate that you spent almost your entire tour of duty in combat areas. And that on more than one occasion you were decorated for your actions. And a Purple Heart, as well, for wounds received."

"That's true."

"And you saw people die?"

"I was a medic. Of course."

"And they died, how? In your arms more than once, I would wager."

"You would win that bet, Father."

"And so, you returned and you think this had no impact upon you. Emotionally?"

"I didn't say that."

"Are you aware of a disease called post-traumatic stress disorder, Peter?"

"No."

"Doctor Gulptilil could explain it. Once it was simply called battle fatigue, but now it has been given a far more clinical sounding name."

"You're making a point?"

"It can cause people to act, shall we say as we did at the start, out of character. Especially when they come under sudden and significant stress."

"I did what I did. End of story."

"No, Peter," Father Grozdik said, shaking his head. "Start of story."

Both men remained silent for a moment. Peter thought that the priest was probably hoping that he would say something, pitch the conversation forward, but Peter wasn't willing to do that.

"Peter, has anyone informed you of what has happened since your arrest?"

"In what regard, Father?"

"The church you burnt has been razed. The site cleared and prepped. Money has been donated. A great deal of money. Extraordinary generosity. A real coming together of the community. Plans have been drawn up. A bigger, far more beautiful church is planned for the same site, one that will truly express glory and righteousness, Peter. A scholarship fund has been established in Father Connolly's name. There is even talk about a youth center being added to the designs, in his memory, of course."

Peter opened his mouth slightly. He was speechless.

"The outpouring of love and affection has been truly memorable."

"I don't know what to say."

"God works in mysterious ways, does He not, Peter?"

"I'm not altogether sure that God has much to do with this, Father. I'd be a little more comfortable if He wasn't brought into this equation. So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Peter, that a great good is on the verge of being done. Out of the ashes, so to speak. The ashes that you created."

And there it is, Peter realized. That was why the Cardinal was seated over on the couch watching every motion Peter made. The truth about Father Connolly and his predilection for altar boys was a far smaller truth than the response flowing into the Church. Peter twisted in his seat, and looked directly at the Cardinal.

He nodded his head at Peter, and spoke for the first time. "A great good, Peter," he said. "But one that might be in jeopardy."

Peter saw that immediately. No youth centers were intentionally named after child molesters.

And the person that threatened it all, was him.

Peter turned back to Father Grozdik. "You are about to ask something of me, are you not, Father?"

"Not precisely, Peter."

"Then what is it that you want?"

Father Grozdik placed his lips together in a pursed smile, and Peter instantly realized that he had asked the wrong question in the wrong way, because by asking, Peter had implied that he would do what the priest wanted. "Ah, Peter," Father Grozdik said slowly, but with a coldness that surprised even the Fireman. "What we want… what we all want the hospital, your family, the Church is for you to get better."