Father Manucci replaced the telephone handset on its cradle and gazed somberly at it for several moments. Passing along news of this manner was always the most depressing part of his profession, but his close association with the Luca family made this a particularly distressing event.
Transfers from one parish to another were a common part of the life of every priest, but because of his Italian roots, the Luca family had continued to attend mass at his parish, even if they were required to drive across town to do so. Mrs. Luca in particular had always been a faithful member of his parish, and he was well acquainted with her and her large family. Like teachers, priests were not supposed to have favorites, but there was something about the Luca family that had touched him in a very personal way. Their love and devotion to one another was absolute. Even though the Luca children had grown up and many had moved away to various locations throughout the country, they had always remained close. Family get-togethers were lively and entertaining for all involved, and as the family priest, he was frequently invited to these functions, and was made welcome to the point where he felt he was almost a part of their family.
It was now with a heavy heart that he opened his personal telephone book and located the number of Mrs. Luca's daughter in Passaic, New Jersey. Lifting the handset again, he dialed the number and listened as the phone rang on the other end.
Finally, he heard the click on the other end as the receiver was lifted, and a woman's voice said, pleasantly, "Hello?"
"Am I speaking with Mrs. Isabella Bonetti?"
Immediately, the friendly tone of her voice became suspicious, indicating that she was tired of being pestered by solicitors. "Yes, it is. Who is this?"
"This is Father Manucci from San Angelo's Church. I'm trying to get in touch with Mrs. Mariana Luca. You are her daughter, I believe?"
Her voice relaxed again with recognition. "Yes, I remember you, Father. You were at the Christmas party at Mama's house last year. She's here, if you want to talk to her. I'll get her ---"
"No! Wait! I have some news for her, and I think perhaps it would be better if she heard it from you."
Icy cold fingers of dread gripped Isabella's heart in response to his ominous words, sensing that the news would be bad. "What's wrong, Father? What's happened?"
"There is no easy way to say this, Mrs. Bonetti. I just received a phone call from one of the SWAT officers who works with your brother Dominic informing me that he has been shot."
For several moments, Isabella felt as though she was suffocating. It was if she was caught in a vacuum; she simply could not draw a breath. Her throat constricted painfully, and she felt her heart starting to pound with apprehension as the image of her youngest brother flashed into her mind. No, not Dominic! "How bad?" she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
"I'm afraid it's bad. They told me it's an abdominal wound, which is almost always very serious."
Confusion filled her voice. "I - I don't understand. He wears a bulletproof vest. How could � how could something like this �"
"I don't know the particulars, but I was told that due to circumstances on the scene, he wasn�t wearing the vest. They've requested my presence at the hospital in case it becomes necessary to administer Last Rites."
A sob tore from her throat, and she pressed her hand against her mouth stifling the rest. "Oh, God, no!" she groaned.
"The officer who called said that Dominic is in surgery right now to remove the bullet and repair the damage caused by it," Father Manucci continued. "As long as there is life, there is hope. I want you and your mother to hold on to that. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything."
"Yes, please do that.� Frustrated anxiety made it difficult to think straight, and there was much to be done. �I'm going to call the airlines as soon as I get off the phone and see about getting a flight out there, so if we're not here when you call, we'll be on our way."
She paused to glance at her watch. It was just after five o'clock in the afternoon, Eastern Time. Her husband would be returning home from work soon. He must be told what was going on, and she would have to find someone to look after the children after school for a few days. She would have to see to supper for her family before she left. It was a long flight from New Jersey to California, the Flight from Hell, her husband called it. The flight would be particularly unbearable this time, because they would be completely out of touch regarding news of her brother's condition. He could die, and they would be unaware of it until they landed.
"Father, unless we're lucky enough to catch a direct flight, we'll probably have to make connections, so I have no way of knowing how long it will take us to get there. If we do have to make connections, I want to be able to call you. Where can we get in touch with you?"
"You can call here at San Angelos, or if I'm not here, call Valley General Hospital. I'll be either one place or the other. If you will let me know when you're flight arrives, I can arrange to pick you up at the airport," he suggested.
"No, that's all right. I'll see if someone from the police department can pick us up. They can get us to the hospital faster."
"All right. I'm leaving for the hospital now. I'll be praying for him," the priest promised.
"Thank you, Father. So will we. If you get to talk to Dominic, tell him we'll be there as soon as we can."
"I will."
Isabella hung up the telephone and covered her face with her hands as she gave in to her emotion. She must be in control when she passed the news to her mother, but she needed to take a few minutes to recover from the shock herself. She would not get the chance.
"Isabella? Who was that on the phone?"
Isabella turned toward her mother's voice and quickly brushed her hand across her cheeks to wipe away the tears as her mother entered the living room from the kitchen, where she had been cooking supper, but Mariana instantly realized that something was terribly wrong.
Concern flashed across her face as she approached her daughter. "Isabella? What happened? Is it Rick? One of the children?"
She shook her head, trying to force back the tears that refused to stop. "No, Mama, not Rick or the children." She took her mother's arm and guided her to the nearest chair. "Please sit down. I have something to tell you, and I want you to be sitting down."
Feeling weakened by her apprehension, Mariana allowed her daughter to coax her into a chair, understanding that this would be dreadful news. With wide frightened eyes, she asked, "What is it? Isabella, you're scaring me!"
"Mama, that was Father Manucci on the phone."
She was briefly surprised, until she remembered having informed him of her trip to Passaic and had left her daughter's phone number in case of an emergency. Obviously, an emergency of some kind had occurred. "Father Manucci? Why would he call me here, unless . . . ?" Realization struck like a lightning bolt, leaving her numb with grief. "Dominic?� She grasped Isabella�s arm as if for support. �Has something happened to Dominic?"
Isabella nodded. "He's been shot. It's very bad. Mama, they don't know if he's going to make it.� Her throat constricted with emotion again, and she drew a breath to calm herself. �Father Manucci is going to the hospital in case he needs to give Last Rites."
Seized by overwhelming anguish at the possible loss of her youngest child, Mariana began to sob, "Oh, my son! My boy! Mio bambino!"
Confronted with her mother's agonizing grief, Isabella was unable to hold back her tears any longer. Throwing her arms around her mother, they wept together. They were still weeping when Isabella's husband, Ricardo Bonetti arrived home from work. It was instantly apparent that something was dreadfully wrong.
"Honey, what is it?" he asked, alarmed.
She explained to him the devastating news she had been given. "Mama and I have to fly to California as soon as we can get a plane out."
"Yes, yes, of course,� he agreed without hesitation. �The kids and I can manage while you're gone. I just wish I could get off work to go with you."
"So do I, but there is nothing you could do anyway. We'll probably be spending most of our time at the hospital. I need to call the airport for reservations. And I'll see if your mother can watch the kids when they get home from school." She pressed her hand to her forehead, remembering the rest of the family. "I need to call the rest of my brothers and sisters. They have to be told."
"I'll take care of all that," he assured her. "You two start packing. I'll call the airport and see when I can get you a flight out."
She embraced him, gratefully. Then, she and her mother went upstairs to begin packing while he telephoned the airport.
�What's taking so long?� T. J. asked, turning over his wrist to look at his watch. It had been more than two hours since he had watched as Luca was wheeled into the emergency room. They had heard nothing at all since then except for the nurse who had come out to inform them that he was being taken into surgery, and they should move to the waiting room on the surgical floor. �I hate this waiting! Why don�t they tell us something?"
"It really hasn't been that long, T. J.," Deacon said patiently, looking at his own watch to verify the time. �These operations can go on for hours.�
T. J. fell silent. The others were looking at him without disapproval, for they were as tired and bored and frustrated and worried as he was, but his close personal relationship with Luca made the waiting harder for him. As he met their gazes, they offered slight smiles of encouragement, then directed their attention elsewhere. For a long time, there was no sound in the room except the occasional rustling of clothing as someone shifted positions, or turned the page of a magazine, or heaved an occasional soft sigh.
Finally, someone entered the room, and T. J. and the others looked up expectantly. A tall slender man wearing a black suit and the collar of the clergy stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp features indicated that he was obviously of Italian decent.
Assuming he would be the Luca family priest, T. J. stood up and extended his hand. "Father Manucci? I'm T. J. McCabe. I'm the officer who called you."
The priest accepted the handshake. "A pleasure to meet you, Officer McCabe. I just wish it was under better circumstances." His eyes swept the room, observing each of them in turn. "Has there been any word yet?"
"Not yet." T. J. indicated the rows of chairs and sofas. "Have a seat, Father."
The priest sat down. "I notified his family. Dominic�s mother is visiting one of his sisters in New Jersey, so I'm afraid it will take some time before she can get back home. What happened?" he asked, curiously. "I heard on television that there was a hostage situation at one of the schools, but I was under the impression that you gentlemen always wore vests to protect yourselves."
Hondo sighed with regret. "It was a unique set of circumstances, Father. The only way we could get into position near the place where the hostages were being kept was to send a man through the air ducts. Luca was the only one slender enough to fit through, but even he couldn't get through with his vest on. He was supposed to push it along in front of him and then put it on when he reached the other end, but with everything going on, we got distracted and he left it behind. We're not sure exactly what happened on his end, since he and the shooter are the only ones who know precisely what led to the shooting. I'll interrogate the gang member when I get back to H Q."
"The news man said that Dominic saved a boy's life," Manucci stated.
Hondo nodded. 'That is true. One of the students was about to be executed by one of his captors, and would almost certainly be dead right now if Dom hadn't intervened. By doing so, he revealed his location to the gang members. He had a choice to make, and he made it."
Manucci nodded. "I'm sure it will be of comfort to his family to know that he saved someone's life."
The conversation dwindled and died. The priest removed his Rosary from his pocket and began to pray quietly while T. J. watched in silence. Like Luca, he did not regularly attend church services. Always, it seemed there was never enough time. He squirmed inwardly, realizing that it was not quite the truth. He might as well admit that there were other things he enjoyed more. Perhaps he would attend services with his mother next Sunday.
The door opened again an hour later, and this time it was Dr. Windom. As one, all four police officers, the driver Sam, and the priest stood up, anxiously.
"Well?" T. J. asked, nervously before the doctor could speak. "How is he?"
The doctor beckoned them all to sit down again, and when they were seated, he said, "He survived the surgery, but I'm afraid he's not out of danger yet. We've taken him to Recovery, and then later when he�s stabilized from the surgery, we'll move him into Intensive Care. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be crucial." He had removed his surgical attire, and replaced them with his white smock, and he reached into the pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag, which held a small piece of lead. "Here is the bullet. I'm sure you'll need it for forensics."
Harrelson reached out to take it. "Yes. This will help prosecute the shooter."
The doctor shifted his gaze to the priest. "You're the family priest?"
�Yes. Father Manucci," the priest replied. �Would it be all right if I prayed over him?�
�Not in the recovery room, but once we move him into his Intensive Care unit I will summon you to go in.�
�Thank you."
Dr. Windom stood up again. "I'll keep you informed of any changes."
After the doctor had gone, Father Manucci stood up. "I'd better update the family on his condition."
�The phone is here, by me,� T. J. said. He stood up and moved to another chair, allowing the priest to take his.
Picking up the phone, Manucci charged the call to his personal number, and dialed the Bonetti residence again. When Rick Bonetti answer, the priest relayed word that Luca had come through the surgery, but he was unable to give them the reassurance they sought that he would recover.
In turn, he was informed that Isabella was unable to secure a flight out of Passaic that evening, and would board a plane with her mother at eight-thirty the next morning, and with only one stopover in Chicago, expected to arrive in California sometime late that afternoon. Hondo assured her that a police unit would be there to pick them up and take them directly to the hospital.
After hanging up the call, they settled in to wait again.
A television set was turned on in the waiting room, and, even though it was difficult to get interested in any of the programs, most of them watched television while they awaited additional news of Luca.
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