Strangers

develop."
        He looked up from the pale palms of his callused black hands, awe-stricken and fearful. "What is Father Cronin, and what has he made of me?"
        "Winton, get rid of the notion there's anything evil or dangerous about this. It's entirely a wondrous thing. Think of Hector, the child you saved. Remember what it was like to feel life regaining its hold in his small body. We're players in a divine mystery, Winton. We can't understand the meaning of it until God allows us to understand."
        Father Wycazik said he wanted to have a look at the boy, Hector Mendoza, and Winton said, "I'm not ready to go out there and face that crowd, even though they're mostly my people. I'll stay here a while. You'll come back?"
        "I've got other rather urgent business this morning, Winton. I have to get on with it soon. But I'll be in touch with you. Oh, you can be sure of that! And if you need me, just call St. Bette's."
        When Stefan left the bedroom, the waiting crowd of policemen and lab technicians fell silent as before. They parted in his path as he crossed to the dinette table, where little Hector was now perched on his mother's lap, nibbling happily at a Hershey bar with almonds.
        The boy was small, even for a six-year-old, with delicate facial bones. His eyes were bright and full of intelligence, proof that he'd suffered no brain damage in spite of losing most of his blood. But even more astonishing was the fact that his lost blood had evidently been replaced, without need of transfusions, which made the boy's recovery even more miraculous than Tolk's. The power in Winton's hands seemed greater than it had been in Brendan's.
        When Father Wycazik stooped down to be at eye-level with Hector, the child grinned at him. "How are you feeling, Hector?"
        "Okay," the boy said shyly.
        "Do you remember what happened to you, Hector?"
        The child licked chocolate from his lips and shook his head: no.
        "Is that a good candy bar?"
        The boy nodded and offered Father Wycazik a bite.
        The priest smiled. "Thank you, Hector, but that's all yours."
        "Mama might give you one," Hector said. "But don't drop any on the carpet. That's big trouble."
        Stefan looked up at Mrs. Mendoza. "He really doesn't remember…?"
        "No," she said. "God lifted the memory from him, Father."
        "You're Catholic, Mrs. Mendoza?"
        "Yes, Father," she said, crossing herself with her free hand.
        "Do you attend Our Lady of Sorrow? Yes, well, that's Father Nilo's parish. Have you called him?"
        "No, Father. I didn't know if…"
        Father Wycazik looked up at Mr. Mendoza, who stood on the other side of his wife's chair. "Call Father Nilo. Tell him what's happened, ask him to come. Explain that I'll be gone when he gets here but that I'll talk to him later. Explain that I've much to tell him, that what he sees here isn't the whole story."
        Mr. Mendoza hurried to the telephone.
        Looking up at one of the detectives who had come close, Stefan said, "Have you taken pictures of the boy's throat wound?"
        The detective nodded. "Yeah. Standard procedure." He laughed nervously. "What am I saying? There's nothing standard about this."
        "Just so you have photographs to prove this happened," Father Wycazik said. "Because I think soon there will be little or no scar."
        He turned to the boy again. "Now, Hector, if it's okay, I'd like to touch your throat. I'd like to feel that mark."
        The boy lowered the candy bar.
        Father Wycazik's fingers were trembling when they touched the fiery scar tissue and moved slowly around the boy's neck from one end of the wound to the other. A strong pulse beat in the carotid arteries on each side of the slender young throat, and Stefan's heart leapt when he felt the miracle of life. Death had been defeated here, and Stefan believed he had been privileged to witness a fulfillment of the promise which was at the root of the Church's existence: "Death shall not last; unto you shall be given life everlasting." Tears rose in the priest's eyes.
        When at last Stefan reluctantly took his hand away from the boy and stood, one of the policemen said, "What's it mean, Father? I heard you tell Mr. Mendoza this wasn't the whole story. What's happening?"
        Stefan turned to look upon the assembly, which now numbered twenty. In their faces, he saw a