[[Shocker, folks, I'm not dead and I'm not finished with this story yet. I've got a little over one month of the fifth year of Angel left, and since this was always intended to be a shorter piece, I figured I'd see if I could make it work anyhow. The revised edition of Da Pacem Domine will probably begin dropping on the 6th anniversary as well, just for consistency. Thank you for sticking by me at all these times my writing habits become so obnoxious.]]
The next morning, within moments of the church's opening, the phone in the largest of Saint Michael's administrative offices rang. The cathedral's priest, George Ryan, a portly, balding monsignor, took three different calls before he managed to write up a response for Judine, the office operator. The church wasn't going to comment on the damages until they'd had a chance to resolve impressions with their insurance agency. The same answer applied to anyone who sought to make a charitable donation for the repair. They did not currently know who had committed the act or why. When more comments were available, they would be released publicly. Thank you for calling, have a blessed day.
When this seemed to mollify his incoming calls, even temporarily, the old priest breathed a sigh of relief. Alongside his desktop computer, paperwork, and a few trinkets from his nieces and nephews, sat a white toy poodle. And upon seeing its master's early exhaustion, it plodded across the desk and held an endearing stare.
Father Ryan reached out and scratched the tiny dog behind one ear. "Fine mess we've come home to, huh Snowball?"
His dog leaned into the scratches and its curly tail beat against a few documents on the table. The priest didn't mind. There was plenty enough work to be done before the insurance agency and parish treasury got involved. There were weddings and baptisms to prepare, weekly confirmation and RCIA classes to rewrite lessons for, and many, many other matters. But all of them, he told himself, would wait just a little while as he gathered his wits with his furry friend.
A few minutes into his calm, the phone rang again. He'd hoped his secretary would divert all of his calls, but had instructed her to forward on anyone from the treasury or alert him if his niece Cassandra stopped in. Father Ryan sighed, wished his relaxation safe travels, and answered. "Yes, Judine?"
"Father Ryan? There's someone in to see you." There was a little giggle to her voice. "He insists it's very important and would be good for the church."
The monsignor rubbed at one of his eyes. "Are they on my approved list?"
"No, sir, but—"
"Media? Some new insurance broker?"
"It's Bruce Wayne." She broke out into another bout of chuckles. "You know, the millionaire."
In the background, he heard a resonant but amused voice advise her, "Billionaire, actually."
It took Father Ryan a moment to shake off the initial stun. Bruce Wayne? What was he doing there? Had he come to make a contribution to the church? Was he Catholic? The priest had never heard he was so. Was he just acting as a concerned citizen for the good of his city? And why had he arrived personally instead of sending someone in his stead? As he pondered each point, the priest tried to do the math in his head for what reaction would draw his church the most public attention. If he accepted Wayne's donation, the media would be all over it. If he sent Wayne away without speaking to him, that too could cause a fuss if the wealthy philanthropist complained he wasn't being appreciated. So, the father reluctantly accepted, it was best to meet with him before he declined the offer.
"I only have a few minutes, but go ahead, send him in."
Father Ryan pushed around a few documents on his desk and sat up straight as he could in a vain effort to look less disheveled. Snowball perked up when the door cracked open. The monsignor had never seen the billionaire in person, of course. And the priest was struck by his height and the build visible even under the brown suit he wore.
"Good morning, sir." He stuck out his hand. "Thank you for seeing me. I'm Bruce Wayne."
"Yes, of course." Father Ryan accepted the handshake. "Mr. Ryan, George, monsignor, you can call me whatever you'd like."
Bruce smiled at him before he cast a curious look at his desk. "Do you usually have a dog handling your paperwork?"
Father Ryan chuckled. "Little Snowball's more so here for office morale, I suppose. Please, have a seat. I haven't got long, expecting a call from the insurance company, but you're my guest for the moment."
"Yes, as you probably guessed that's why I'm here." Bruce pulled out the chair across from the priest's desk, laid his hands on top of it, and steepled his fingers. "Something about vandals and damage to a pew? Was anyone hurt?"
"I still don't have all of the details myself." It wasn't entirely true, but Father Ryan was still searching for a way to cut their conversation short. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Wayne, is there a particular reason my church has your attention? I may not always remember every face I encounter, but I think I can say confidently you aren't a member of my congregation."
"No, I'm just a concerned citizen who values his city's fine history," Bruce said. "This cathedral is over one hundred and fifty years old, and I just hate the thought of petty criminals making it fall into disrepair."
"Mmm, don't we all." In the middle of a nod, the priest's phone rang. "Excuse me a moment." He answered it. "Yes? Ah, good. I'll be done in just a few minutes and then you can send her in, thank you." After he'd hung up the phone, Father Ryan set his hands on the desk with his fingers crossed together. "My niece just arrived and we had a prior arrangement. I really do appreciate what I think you've come here to do Mr. Wayne, but the Catholic Church and Saint Michael's aren't exactly wanting for funds right now. It simply seems to me your charity work would be better spent elsewhere. My sister, for instance, runs this group home for struggling children."
Bruce tried to conceal his reaction, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "That's not something I hear very often, sir." As a philanthropist for as long as he'd had access to his inheritance, Bruce knew of only a few occasions any social program had ever turned down an offer, no matter how well it was fairing. And when they did, it usually inevitably turned out they had something to hide.
"At the very least it's a conversation that should really wait until after the damages have been assessed." Father Ryan gave his little dog another scratch behind the ear and stood up. "You can leave a business card with my secretary, if you have one. My desk it a bit cluttered at the moment, as you can see. I'm sorry to cut this conversation short, but as I said, my niece is waiting for me."
"There was just one other thing I was hoping I could ask about."
The priest did his best to contain a sigh. "Yes?"
"There was a rumor that someone else was spotted here last night. Someone who attacked the intruders, maybe even some kind of protector?"
Tiredness pulled the priest's face downward. "I can't speak to that, Mr. Wayne. This is a church, churches are entrusted to the protection of forces on high. Or, by all anyone can say, that may have been the Batman. Or just a public with too much free time on its hands." He stepped over to the door and opened it for Bruce. "I'd advise you not put too much stock into hearsay."
Bruce didn't have an exact reason to put to the behavior, but he mentally filed Father Ryan's reactions to him as both defensive and suspicious. Still, as requested, he rose from his seat and made for the door. Judine the secretary moved the phone away from her head long enough to wish him a good rest of his day. On one of the seats across from her an Asian teenager sat with her head leaned back against the wall and her eyes shut as if she was taking a nap. Bruce heard, "Cassandra, you can go in now," just before he stepped out of earshot.
That evening, in the underground beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce unpacked all his suspicions with Alfred, his ever-loyal butler and confidant.
"With respect, Master Wayne, are you quite sure denial of your generosity is grounds for suspicion? As he pointed out, it's not as if the church couldn't afford to pay for it themselves."
"In my experience, charity is only rejected when people have something to hide," Bruce spoke from the other side of a changing screen. "The priest was nervous, he was trying everything in his power to hold control over our conversation. He probably wouldn't have seen me in the first place, but that might have brought him even more unwanted publicity."
"The church has had its share of scandals well apart from your enemies ripping pews out of the floor," Alfred said. "This may not be a good time to have any extra attention brought on, with or without your reputation."
"No, I think he has something to hide." Bruce stepped out from beyond the screen, dressed in his nightly uniform save for his cape and cowl. "And whoever was protecting the church was strong enough to face a real force of nature without finding himself knocked out on the floor. That's one more mystery I intend to solve tonight."
The butler sighed and shook his head. "Watch out for yourself out there, Master Wayne. Even if it is the one who chased off the attackers waiting for you last night waiting for you, you may well be considered another intruder in their eyes."
"I think Saint Michael's guardian angel and I want the same thing. And if we don't, well I'll be ready to deal with him."
