Thomas "Padre" Donovan, 41 three days ago—but who was counting, because an entire squad of Marines was missing, presumed captured, and he could be dead, too, before the next birthday?—double-checks his supplies…stole, Consecrated Hosts, Oil of the Sick, prayer-book…when the platoon commander says "We found them, Padre…but Jones and Reagan are the only survivors. I'm going to need you to say some words to the men."
They'd lost contact with the squad three days ago; he doesn't want to think about what happened to the men during those days.
"Lieutenant, I need to see Reagan and Jonesy, give them their sacraments and be the one to tell them about their brothers."
"All due respect, Padre…"
"Lieutenant, I need to give those boys the Last Rites. Then, I can talk to the guys in the other squads. But my priority is the souls of those two boys."
It's a five-hour, bumpy, hazardous journey, but he finally makes it, just as Jonesy breathes his last. He gives the 21-year-old conditional absolution, anoints Reagan, then sits down on the floor to wait for 30-year-old Danny Reagan to wake up.
The corpsman changes a bandage on Danny's back. "The others were…tortured before they were… beheaded. Right before he passed out again, Lance Corporal Reagan said he saw every one of them die. He has four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder; his back was shredded…they beat him half to death. Looks worse than that image of the Crucifixion you carry in your hat, begging your pardon, Padre."
He scolds the corpsman for his irreverence, then settles in next to the cot where Danny is lying.
He's on the fifth decade of the Rosary when Danny starts to stir. He puts a hand on the younger man's good shoulder. "Danny, it's Padre Donovan. Can you hear me?"
Danny blinks and tries to sit up, but falls back, groaning. "Padre? Where…where's Jonesy? How's Jimmy, and Matt, and…John?"
"I'm sorry, Dan. I'm so sorry."
Danny hit the mattress. "Dammit, Padre, don't tell me that!"
"I can't lie to you, Dan."
Danny sits up. He shouldn't be this aware this soon, but he's never been one to follow rules—if he died, he'd probably be so pissed at being dead, he'd talk the Lord into resurrecting him. "Don't tell me that I'm the only one out of thirteen who survived that hellhole!" he yells, and then starts to gasp in pain.
Even as he fights for oxygen, yelling about having to find the guys who killed his friends and blast them to pieces, it takes three men to hold him down.
Thomas's own heart is pounding by the time Danny finally succumbs to the sedative. He prays that Danny will remember none of this when he's finally home.
Two months later, he gives Danny a blessing before he gets on the helicopter that is the first leg of his journey back to the States, back to civilian life. They've had a lot of conversations in the past seven weeks. Danny had gone right back to patrol and clearing houses as soon as he could move. Somehow, he had convinced the brass to not notify his family about his injuries.
Thomas Donovan stays on for three more years. He's two months away from going home to a parish in the U.S. when the Humvee he's riding on is struck by an IED. He's unconscious for almost a year.
When he wakes up in some military hospital in New Jersey, he doesn't know it's February 2009, or that he's had five surgeries on his left leg. He asks frantically for the only guys whose names he can recall, the twelve men who made the ultimate sacrifice. He asks for them over and over, but no one knows.
Finally, his younger brother, Edward, also a priest, arrives at his bedside and tells him: every member of that squad died in November 2004.
Thomas is pretty sure that's incorrect, but he can't remember the name of the one Marine who survived.
The memories come back slowly, as does the ability to walk—albeit with a cane, and with pain that the doctors say will never leave him.
He picks up the phone every six months or so to make a call and try to find Danny Reagan, but he never quite has the courage.
Then, one cold February in 2014, his phone rings. Groggy from his pain meds, he fumbles with the phone, almost dropping it. Who's calling him at 11:30 p.m.? "Hello?"
"Father Donovan, this is Alex Dawson, Danny Reagan's…therapist. I thought you would want to know that…Danny's in the ER, after what appears to be an intentional car crash. Do you want me to pick you up? I think it would be good for Danny's family to see you."
An intentional car crash? Danny had tried…again…? He'd literally just talked to Danny five days ago. Apparently, he'd failed at that, too. Hadn't brought all the boys back safely from Fallujah, hadn't kept in touch with Danny, hadn't been worthy to give the ultimate sacrifice along with the men on his Humvee, hadn't been able to give Danny a reason to live.
He turns the light on, uses his cane to pull his shoes close. "Yes, please. I'm staying at St. Andrew's." He rattles off the address.
"I'll see you in twenty minutes," Alex says.
While he waits for the man Danny calls "Doc," he hobbles into the empty church and stares at the Tabernacle. "Don't let Danny die," he begs the Lord. "Take me, but not him. He has a family. He doesn't deserve to die because I failed to keep in touch with him. For the love of Yourself, spare his life!" he pleads, and gets everything he needs to anoint Danny.
Doc tells him as much as he can without violating confidentiality—he knows that, he respects that, he has his own confidentiality rules he has to abide by.
It's on the third, or maybe fourth day, Danny's in the psych ward, that he intentionally sits down in the hospital cafeteria face-to-face with Alex Dawson.
"What's going on, Doc? Danny's in group; we have an hour."
"I hope you're not going to try to convert me, Padre," Alex smiles.
"Nope."
"This conversation will be in confidence?"
He nods. "As if this were in the confessional. Whatever you tell me—I will know as a priest, as a representative of God, not as Thomas Donovan. So I cannot discuss it with anyone. And should you come to me in twenty years and want to talk about it, you would have to specifically give me permission to discuss it."
Alex nods, rubs his face. He looks as exhausted as Thomas feels. They've been taking turns with Danny, twelve-hour shifts, Alex during the day, Thomas at night.
"I failed Danny. I've been working with him for six weeks—well, five, 'cause he went on that camping trip. I've given him every tool I know of—and he didn't call me. He chose to drive his phone into that concrete barrier instead of calling me!" Alex half-shouts.
"His phone was broken, Doc, he couldn't have called you."
"He could've borrowed his grandfather's, driven to find Linda, told me earlier in the day hwo he was feeling!"
"But the argument with his grandfather didn't happen until after your session that day, and he was trying to get away from Henry—he wouldn't have asked him for his phone. This wasn't your fault, Doc!"
Alex shakes his head, wipes his eyes. "If Danny dies…"
He sees Danny once a week for spiritual direction and confession for six months, then once a month for another year, then after Christmas 2016, he doesn't see him again until May 2018.
He's "in residence" at his brother's parish—the bishop's way of giving him something to do instead of retiring him—when his phone rings.
He limps over to it—he'd been testing out his ability to walk without the cane—sits down slowly. "Hello?"
"Padre, it's Dr. Alex Dawson. We spoke a few years ago, about Detective Reagan. Danny Reagan."
"Yes, I remember. What…what's wrong?" he asks, dread building in his stomach.
"His wife…Linda…she's gone, Padre, died in a helicopter crash almost two weeks ago. She was buried yesterday. Danny's at her grave, and…he's threatening to kill himself. I've been trying to talk him down, but…I thought you might have a better shot."
"I'm on my way," he says, and hangs up, gathers his things, thinks about his years of knowing Danny Reagan.
Trying to imagine Danny without Linda is like a imagining a drowning man watching his life-jacket sink.
Danny's sitting on the ground next to a fresh grave.
Joining him on the ground is not gonna be an option, and the cold stone bench is too far away. He's glad he'd brought the folding chair.
He limps over to where Danny is, breathes a prayer when he sees the gun next to Danny.
"Danny?" he asks, hoping Danny isn't trapped in a flashback.
The detective looks up at him. "Padre? What…what are you doing here?"
"Dr. Dawson called me. Will you give me your weapon?" he asks gently.
He unfolds the chair, lowers himself into it.
Danny shakes his head and picks the gun up.
"You should leave, Padre. You don't need to see this."
"I'm not going anywhere, Danny. Is this really how you want to leave Jack and Sean? Orphans? Knowing their dad killed himself?"
"They hate me! They blame me—and they should! It's my fault the house burned down, it's my fault Linda died, it's my fault they don't have a house or a mom now!" he yells, voice choked with tears.
"Have Jack and Sean actually told you they blame you?"
"They don't have to! I see it when they look at me! They stop talking when I come in the room! They don't cry in front of me! They hate me because I ** can't cry!"
His voice breaks on the last word, his fingers trembling on the gun, and Thomas forces himself to his feet. It's easier than he expected to take the gun from Danny, unload it, put the ammo in his pocket, and throw the weapon several feet away.
Forgetting his leg, he drops to his knees next to Danny as the detective collapses, hands clawing at the dirt, an ungodly howl coming from him.
He pulls Danny up into a crushing bear-hug, and holds him while he sobs.
It's almost an hour before the choking and gagging and sobbing slows down. Danny wipes his face on the handkerchiefs Thomas gives him (he'd brought three), stuffs them in his pocket. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Dan."
"I wasn't gonna shoot you," Danny mutters.
"Wasn't worried about myself, Dan. Talk to me, son. What happened?"
"Linda's gone. How the hell am I supposed to…?"
Danny shakes his head, clears his throat. "I need water," he rasps.
Thomas gets a bottle from the back of the folding chair, hands it to him. "Nice and slow, Dan, don't want you to choke."
When half the bottle is gone and Danny's breathing is slightly more normal, Thomas asks, "How are you supposed to do what, Dan?"
"Go on. I…don't see why I should…keep living."
"For your boys—they need you more than ever, they need you to step up, be the best parent you can be."
He shakes his head. "I can't."
"You can't what?"
Danny stands up, walks toward the weapon, and kicks it. Then he kicks the tree there, over and over again, until he's cursing in pain. "I can't be a f-g single parent. I can't even remember their birthdays half the time. Let me die, Padre!" he begs, bending down and picking up the gun.
Thomas double-checks the ammo in his pocket—all six bullets are there. "I can't do that, Danny. But you can step up and be a dad to your boys—and put a reminder in your phone for their birthdays. They need you. Please give me your gun."
A car screeches up, and Thomas prays that whoever doesn't push Danny to do anything foolish. Then he sees it's Frank Reagan's detail, and suddenly two teens are running at them.
"Dad, Dad, Dad! Don't! please don't! We need you!" They're yelling, over each other, and then they tackle Danny so hard he falls down.
Thomas picks up the gun, moves his chair to a respectable distance, and looks as Frank Reagan and Alex Dawson come toward him.
"Thanks for calling me, Doc," Frank says.
"Anytime. Padre, do you have his gun?"
He nods. "Ammo in my pocket, gun right here." He sighs deeply. "Are they gonna be okay?"
"I hope so, but I think you and I are going to need to tag-team Danny for a while. He's…"
"That won't be too difficult," Frank says. "I'm putting him on leave indefinitely. He wanted to go back tomorrow, but I don't think…that's a good idea. He needs to be with his boys—they're dreading going back to school for the last week."
Thomas nods, says his goodbyes, and limps off to the car. He saves Danny's and Doc's numbers in his phone again, just to be sure he has them, and drives back to the rectory and hopes his younger brotehr hasn't set the grill on fire again. He'd really like to actually get to eat the steak tonight.