Strangers

expected to deliver unto them a single sentence that would shed light upon all the mysteries of existence and succinctly convey the meaning of life.
        What in the world is going on here? Stefan wondered uneasily.
        "This way, Father," said a uniformed officer.
        Pulling off his gloves, Stefan followed the officer across the room. The hush prevailed, and everyone made way for the priest and his guide. They went into a bedroom, where Winton Tolk and another officer were sitting on the edge of the bed. "Father Wycazik's here," Stefan's guide said, then retreated to the living room.
        Tolk was sitting bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. He did not look up.
        The other officer rose from the edge of the bed and introduced himself as Paul Armes, Winton's partner. "I… I think you'd better get it directly from Win," Armes said. "I'll give you some privacy." He left, closing the door behind him.
        The bedroom was small, with space for only the bed, one nightstand, a half-size dresser, one chair. Father Wycazik pulled the chair around to face the foot of the bed and sat down, so he could look directly at Winton Tolk. Their knees were almost touching.
        Removing his scarf, Father Wycazik said, "Winton, what's happened?"
        Tolk looked up, and Stefan was startled by the man's expression. He had thought Tolk was upset by whatever had happened in the living room. But his face revealed that he was exhilarated, filled with an excitement he could barely contain. Simultaneously, he seemed fearful - not terrified, not quaking with fear, but troubled by something that prevented him from giving in completely, happily, to his excitement.
        "Father, who is Brendan Cronin?" The tremor in the big man's voice was of an odd character that might have betrayed either incipient joy or terror. "What is Brendan Cronin?"
        Stefan hesitated, decided on the full truth. "He's a priest."
        Winton shook his head. "But that's not what we were told."
        Stefan sighed, nodded. He explained about Brendan's loss of faith and about the unconventional therapy that had included a week in a police patrol car. "You and Officer Armes weren't told he was a priest because you might've treated him differently… and because I wished to spare him embarrassment."
        "A fallen priest," Winton said, looking baffled.
        "Not fallen," Father Wycazik said confidently. "Merely faltering. He'll regain his faith in time."
        The room's inadequate light came from a dim lamp on the nightstand and from a single narrow window, leaving the dark policeman in velvet gloom. The whites of his eyes were twin lamps, very bright by contrast with the darknesses of shadows and genetic heritage. "How did Brendan heal me when I was shot? How did he perform that… miracle? How?"
        "Why have you decided it was a miracle?"
        "I was shot twice in the chest, point-blank. Three days later I left the hospital. Three days! In ten days, I was ready to go back to work, but they made me stay home two weeks. Doctors kept talking about my hardy physical condition, the extraordinary healing that's possible if a body's in tip-top shape. I started thinking they were trying to explain my recovery not to me but to themselves. But I still figured I was just really lucky. I came back to work a week ago, and then… something else happened." Winton unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it open, and lifted his undershirt to reveal his bare chest. "The scars."
        Father Wycazik shivered. Though he was close to Winton, he leaned closer, staring in amazement. The man's chest was unmarked. Well, not entirely unmarked, but the entry wounds had already healed until they were just discolored spots as big as dimes. The surgeon's incisions had almost vanished thin lines visible now only on close inspection. This soon after major trauma, some swelling and inflammation should have been evident, but there was none. The minimal scar tissue was pale pink-brown against dark-brown skin, neither lumpy nor puckered.
        "I've seen other guys with old bullet wounds," Winton said, his excitement still restrained by a rope of fear. "Lots of them. Gnarly, thick. Ugly. You don't take two.38s in the chest, undergo major surgery, and look like this three weeks later or ever."
        "When's the last time you visited your doctor? Has he seen this?"
        Winton rebuttoned his shirt with