Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

added.
    “Yeah, Father. We’ll take a look.”
    They rushed back into their cruiser and peeled out of the driveway, lights flashing and siren wailing. They took off toward the center of town, away from the stadium. Understandably, once again, there was no time to drive around, no time to take a look.
    The day the killers came for Maria, I was driving back home from the hospital when I spotted Manuel huddled with two older teens along the far side of the stadium. The teens were more than a foot taller than Manuel. They wore inscrutable expressions, knapsacks, and black bandannas wrapped around their foreheads like headbands. I had to swerve away from a telephone pole at the last second to avoid a head-on collision when I remembered I was driving a car.
    When Manuel got home, I went to his room and asked him if he felt like a game of catch. He didn’t answer exactly. Instead, he shrugged, grabbed his glove, and shuffled out the door with his head hanging.
    Since losing my right arm, I have become more proficient at throwing with my left, though my pitching wouldn’t remind pro scouts of Goose Gossage’s anymore. My prosthesis is a trans-humeral one, commonly known as an AE because it replaces the arm above the elbow. Both the hand and the arm are myoelectric, meaning a battery-powered device converts the electric signals of my muscles above the arm into movements of the prosthesis. It offers the strongest grip of any type of prosthetic; that’s the upside. The downside is the time lag between my muscles signaling a movement and my replacement parts reacting. Consequently, some of Manuel’s throws sailed past me even though they were within my reach. Although I saw the ball coming, I was a second slow when I tried to catch it.
    After half an hour, we were both drenched and went back inside. There is no air-conditioning in the rectory and it doesn’t cool down until midnight, at which point the attic fan finally begins to help. The kitchen seemed hotter than the yard. I poured each of us a tall glass of lemonade from the pitcher that Maria had fixed that morning and asked Manuel to sit down for a moment.
    A Catholic priest must be a teacher. He helps his parishioners understand the Church and deal with conflicts and adversity. I am less comfortable with my role as Manuel’s teacher because a great teacher should fully comprehend his student’s life. Maria’s mother told me that Manuel had been hiding in a closet and witnessed his father’s murder. Since I can’t truly comprehend what the boy has been through, I’m uncertain if I can establish an authentic bond with him.
    He guzzled half the glass and gasped for air when he was done. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. His lungs heaved gently. I took a big swig of lemonade myself to celebrate seeing him diverted from his recent realities.
    “When I was driving home, I saw you walking from school with those two boys,” I said.
    He choked on air.
    “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “I just want you to understand two things. Those bandannas they were wearing around their heads? That’s the fashion accessory of choice for members of the Aztec Rulers. You know who the Aztec Rulers are?”
    Manuel shook his head, but his eyes flickered in a way that told me he was lying.
    “They’re an international gang that specializes in drugs and illegal-weapons distribution. You hear what I’m saying, right? Drugs and illegal weapons.”
    He acknowledged me with a slight nod.
    “Good. I’m telling you this just to make sure you understand that they may or may not be who they appear to be. But whether or not they’re Aztecs, they are welcome here. Everyone is welcome here. Especially friends of yours. Okay?”
    He finished his lemonade. As he stood there with the glass tipped to his mouth, I thought there was something different about him, but I couldn’t tell if it was his physical appearance, his carriage, or just my imagination.
    That evening I listened to confessions after Mass, as was customary on Friday nights during the summer. I heard seven in a row, and then I waited fifteen minutes to make sure there weren’t any stragglers, engrossing myself in a series of obscure prayers for wayward souls written by Saint Ignatius of Constantinople. I was drifting on a parallel plane of consciousness, meditating on missing and lost parishioners, when the kneeling bench creaked on the other side of the confessional screen.
    At first, the person didn’t say anything.