Strangers

two minutes, sometimes a lot less, and he was so little. I knew it was useless, but I put my hands on Hector's neck, like somehow I could hold the blood in him, hold the life in him. I was sick, angry, scared, and it just wasn't right that a boy so little should die that way, that hard, not right he should die at all, not right, and then… then…"
        "And then he healed," Father Wycazik said softly.
        Winton Tolk finally looked away from the gray light at the window and met Stefan's eyes. "Yes, Father. He healed. He was soaked in his own blood, seconds away from death, but he healed. I didn't even know what was happening, didn't feel it happening, nothing special in my hands. Wouldn't you think I'd feel something special in my hands? But the first I realized that something incredible was happening was when the blood stopped spurting against my fingers, and the boy shut his eyes at the same time, which was when I thought he was dead for sure, and I just… I shouted, 'No! God, no!' And I started to take my hands away from Hector's throat, to look at it, and that's when I saw the wound was… the wound was closed up. It still had a raw, ugly look to it, an awful line where the knife cut deep, but the flesh was knit together into a bright red scar, a healing scar."
        The big man stopped speaking because shimmery lenses of tears had formed over his eyes. He was overcome once more. If he'd been racked by grief, he probably would have suppressed it, but this was something even more powerful: joy. Pure wild disbelieving joy. He could not contain several explosive, wrenching sobs.
        With hot tears in his own eyes, Father Wycazik held out both hands.
        Winton took them, squeezed them tight, and did not let go as he continued: "Paul, my partner, saw it happen. So did the Mendozas. And two other uniforms arrived just as we shot Ernest: They saw it, too. And when I looked at that red line across his throat, somehow I knew what I had to do. I put my hands on the boy again, covered up the wound again, and I thought about him being alive, sort of wished him alive. My mind was in high gear, and I made the connection with Brendan and me, the sandwich shop. I thought about how the scars on my chest had been disappearing the last few days, and I knew somehow it's connected. So I kept my hands on his throat, and in a minute or so he opened his eyes, he smiled at me, you should've seen that smile, Father, so I took my hands away again, and the scar was there but lighter. The boy sat up and asked for his mother, and that's… that's when I went to pieces." Winton paused and gulped some air. "Mrs. Mendoza took Hector into the bathroom, stripped him out of his bloody clothes, bathed him, and all the time more people from the department kept showing up. Word was getting around. Thank God, the reporters haven't cottoned to it yet."
        For a while the two men sat facing each other in silence, gripping hands. Then Stefan said, "Did you try to bring Ernesto back?"
        "Yes. In spite of what he'd done, I put my hands on his wounds. But it didn't work with him, Father. Maybe because he was already dead. Hector was only dying, not yet gone, but Ernesto was dead."
        "Did you notice odd marks in your hands, on your palms? Red rings of swollen flesh?"
        "Nothing like that. What would it've meant if there'd been rings?"
        "I don't know," Father Wycazik said. "But they appear in Brendan's hands when… when these things happen."
        They were silent again, and then Winton said, "Is Brendan… is Father Cronin some kind of saint?"
        Father Wycazik smiled. "He's a good man. But he's no saint."
        "Then how did he heal me?"
        "I don't know precisely. But surely it's a manifestation of the power of God. Somehow. For some reason."
        "But how did Brendan pass along this power to heal?"
        "I don't know, Winton. If he did pass it along. Maybe the power isn't yours. Maybe it's just God acting through you, first through Brendan and then through you."
        At last Winton let go of Father Wycazik's hands. He turned his palms up and stared at them. "No, the power's still here, still in me. I know that. Somehow. I feel it. And not just… not just the power to heal. There's more."
        Father Wycazik raised his eyebrows. "More? What else?"
        Winton frowned. "I don't know yet. It's all so new. So strange. But I feel… more. It'll take time for it to