Letters Home
"Face, think of it. This is Route 66, the Mother Road of the Country! Right here. Running right through the middle of Albuquerque! An entire generation defined by this strip of asphalt and concrete threading its way across the landscape, drawing travelers, adventurers, poets, and seekers of mystical connections with the soul of America through the heartland and the southwest, until they finally find the fulfillment of their quest on the shores of the mighty Pacific Ocean. We are following in the footsteps of generations of those people!" He paused to take a deep breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as if absorbing the atmosphere through the bright morning sun.
"Man, if we still lived in LA, we could follow Rt. 66 all the way home. We could eat at roadside diners, stay at motels shaped like tee-pees and lit up with neon signs, and find who-knows-what in souvenir shops. Do you think that BA needs a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror of his van?"
Face shook his head as he listened to Murdock. He danced along the sidewalk, gawking at the displays in shop windows, pausing to read restaurant menus. The pilot had been wired about spending time in Albuquerque ever since they'd finished their latest assignment. For once, no one had shot at them. None of them had been captured and beaten. There was no last-moment, frantic escape from almost certain injury or death. Well, unless you counted the foot chase on the ancient footpaths of Bandelier National Monument. Largely unknown to the general tourist traffic and undisturbed by archeologists and anthropologists who, for once, respected the wishes of the native peoples, in this case, the San Ildefonso Pueblo, it proved to be an ideal spot for leaving highly sensitive documents and equipment from the Los Alamos and Sandia Labs, with their cutting-edge work in nuclear weapons and research. BA's dummy devices initially tricked their quarry when Face delivered them, but these guys were a bit sharper than their usual opponents.
Face's cover was blown, and he'd hidden in one of the tiny alcoves dug out from the rockface, on the side of a mesa some 1500 feet above the valley floor. Spotted, he'd scrambled to stay ahead of his pursuers in an icy, snow-flecked, drenching rainstorm. He slid down a path barely wider than his body and clambered down the ancient handholds cut into the rock, his hands slipping and his feet sliding out of the too-small gouges, desperate to reach the bottom under his own power and not free-falling to a hard landing if he lost his tenuous grip. The men chasing him made no secret of their plans. They knew they wouldn't be returning to their base with valuable equipment, and they would make certain the man who deceived them would never get home. The wilderness was vast; his body would never be found. He made it without breaking anything for once, which was better than could be said of one of those following him. Face had the briefest glimpse of a body dropping past him with a cry. He noticed the crushed branches of the brush on the valley floor as he splashed along the slick, muddy path and scrambled up another rocky slope to the relative safety of the parking zone where BA was waiting. Jumping inside, he dropped into his seat, dripping wet, shivering from the cold and adrenaline.
"Nice work, Lieutenant," Hannibal said as they cruised away. "The NSA folks are right behind us. They'll take them in. Even diplomatic immunity won't help those guys." He grinned around his cigar.
"You dripping in my van," BA groused. "I don't want no puddles in my van."
Murdock burrowed through the equipment stashed in the back of the van. "Here, Faceman," he said, handing him a beach towel imprinted with the logo of Belly Busters hamburgers. "It was a giveaway," Murdock explained. "You see, you get a card, and each time you buy a burger, fries, and soda combo, they stamp the card, and when you fill the card – that's ten combos – you get a prize. This month, it's the beach towel. Next month, I think it's a personally autographed poster of Mr. Belly Buster himself."
Face shrugged out of his sodden, mud-caked parka and wrapped the towel around him, still shivering. "That was too damned close, Hannibal," he snapped. "Stockwell had to know that these guys had more connections than he told us. I did my research; I knew their web. They knew every place I'd checked out, every name. They tripped me up inside a minute. It felt like a set-up."
"You're getting paranoid, Face," Hannibal said. "You don't like Stockwell, so you're looking for reasons to criticize him."
"Just because he's paranoid doesn't mean Stockwell's not out to get us," Murdock said. "Seriously, Colonel, when was the last time the dear general gave us all the information and background we needed? This is the first time in months that we've finished an assignment without one of us needing at least a band-aid." He leaned close to Face. "You don't need anything like that, do you? No big bruises, twisted limbs, dislocated shoulders, knife wounds, bullet wounds, broken extremities, concussions?" He pulled Face's arm up and examined his wrists. "Nope, no scrapes from struggling against handcuffs or rope burns from being tied up." He dropped the arm and tilted Face's head from side to side, peering at his neck. "No ligature marks from someone throttling his neck. Hell, Hannibal, if none of us needs medical attention, will Stockwell even count this as an assignment?"
"Murdock's got a point, Hannibal," BA said. It was rare for him to speak up, and he only did so when he was deeply troubled. "Stockwell's never given us a number. Never told us how many missions he wanted us to do. I remember him in the cell, grinning like a cat that had a mouse and a bowl of cream in front of him. What was it he said…"
"A specified number," Face mumbled.
"Yeah, a specified number of completed missions, and then we'd get our pardons."
"He never exactly guaranteed those, either," Face continued. "He boasted that he knew someone who could reach the right persons - or person - and was sure he could arrange it." Still cold, he huddled in his seat in a lame attempt to hold in his body heat. "It wasn't as though we had any bargaining position," he said. "It was 'take my offer or die,' and even after we took his offer, he wasn't about to do anything for us. If we survived the firing squad, great. If we didn't, he was no worse off than he was before. No skin off his teeth. We're nothing more than commodities to him, Hannibal."
Hannibal chewed on his cigar, frowning. He'd been as desperate to find a way out of the death sentence and firing squad as the others and thought that signing on with Stockwell was their best chance to gain their freedom. Now, nearly six months later, his confidence was not so strong. Well, at least they were all still alive. No thanks to Stockwell.
"He kept his word to Frankie," he said. "Got him his pardon."
"I think Stockwell realized that no matter how hard Frankie tried, he'd never develop the same level of connection that the four of us have," Murdock said. He could flip from crazy to analytical in a heartbeat; even after all these years, Hannibal was never certain how much of Murdock's behavior was a front and how much was real. He could switch personas faster than Face. "Frankie wasn't a liability, but Stockwell wasn't getting much return on his 'investment,' as he calls us. All Frankie had to do was promise never to tell anyone about us, and he was free. His father's medical care is still covered, and he's back in LA rebuilding his career."
"While we keep chasing rainbows," Face grumbled. "BA, could you turn the heat on back here? I'm numb."
"All right, guys, I hear you," Hannibal said. "When we get back to Langley, I'll lock horns with Stockwell and see how far I can push him. In the meantime, I think we deserve a few days without Stockwell or his Abels in our lives. How about a couple of days in sunny Albuquerque? Face, do you think you can get us a couple of rooms at a nice hotel? I mean, I can always get us rooms on the government's per diem account in case you think you've lost your touch…"
His lieutenant grinned. "I take that as a challenge, Colonel."
"You never fail to deliver, Lieutenant."
Deliver he did. He took advantage of his damp, disheveled appearance to win the sympathy of the night manager of a trendy boutique hotel at the edge of the Old Town historic district. Four individual rooms for the vanload of anthropologists studying the petroglyphs west of Albuquerque. The sudden storm caught them off-guard, and they'd had to leave their packs with their wallets and ID at their campsite when they ran from the dry arroyo they'd been exploring in advance of a flash flood. Their gear was undoubtedly safe since the campsite was on high ground, Face explained, but it would be a day or so before they could retrieve it. All they had was a few dollars in cash between them, probably just enough for dinner someplace modest. She'd listened sympathetically, and when Murdock hesitantly inched into the lobby, bedraggled and wet, wearing his lost puppy expression, the deal was done. She waved off their promise to settle the bill when they could, explaining that it was mid-week and off-season, and the place was not even half-full. She was glad to help. Just leave a healthy tip for the housekeeping staff.
An hour later, dry and changed into clean clothes, the team gathered in the lobby. The storm had passed, and the sunset was glorious, even for the usual beauty of the high desert. The manager suggested a few good, cheap restaurants and reminded them that a full breakfast was included in their stay.
"So, where do you want to go, guys?" Murdock asked. "I know she gave us names of some BBQ and steak places, but here in the Land of Enchantment, we should stick to the regional fare. I vote for enchiladas, burritos, sopapillas, and fried ice cream for dessert."
"That's great, Murdock, but there's someplace we have to visit first." Hannibal motioned them into the van and gave BA directions out of town. "You want Exit 165 off I-40," Hannibal said. They drove east into the gathering twilight.
"Hey, Man," BA said suddenly, "That's the exit for Kirkland Air Force Base. What are you thinking?"
"Uh, Hannibal…" Face said. Kirkland was Air Force, not Army, but still…
"There's someplace we need to visit," Hannibal said. "And this late in the day, there won't be many visitors. I think we're safe." BA took the exit and followed Hannibal's directions. They soon spotted the signs to the New Mexico Veterans Memorial. BA parked in a far corner of the parking lot, and they climbed out. Hannibal produced a map from his jacket pocket and gave each of them a copy.
"This place has memorials for every conflict from the Revolutionary War through Vietnam. And there are monuments to special groups: buffalo soldiers, merchant marines, Navajo Code Talkers. There's a Combat Infantry Badge Monument. And," he paused, "an American Ex-POW monument." He nodded his head in a direction. "The Vietnam Memorial is that way. I'm going to the Korean War kiosk. I'll catch up with you later." He strode away, for once not lighting a cigar.
"Murdock, are you ok with this?" BA asked. He wasn't sure this was one of Hannibal's better ideas. He was ready to stay with Murdock at the security of the van. Face nodded at the Sergeant, ready to do the same.
"This is a sacred place," Murdock said quietly. "I'm OK in sacred places."
Silently, the trio made their way to the Vietnam kiosk. The central focus was a sculpture of The Fallen Friend. It was a bronze rendition of a field cross: a helmet resting atop a standing rifle with a pair of boots at the bottom. A sculpture of a soldier genuflected before it, saying goodbye.
They stood together but alone, each man reliving, remembering, scenes and sounds buried deep inside, the heat and scent of the jungle, the sounds are artillery and rockets, the throbbing of helicopter rotors, the faces of those with whom they'd shared the experience that shaped them forever – those who returned and those who did not. Only the sound of the soft breeze across the desert broke the silence.
They did not hear Hannibal approach. "The POW memorial is this way," he said softly. His eyes were sad and reddened. He'd been a young man in Korea. Sometimes the others forgot that.
"Colonel, I can't go there," Murdock said. "... not yet."
"You don't have to, Murdock. None of us do." He looked at BA and Face. "We pass near it on the way to the parking lot, but we don't have to stop."
While Hannibal and Murdock continued to the parking lot, BA and Face both turned down the path to the monument. Hannibal stopped to watch as BA and Face stood in front of the memorial. It was a granite slab etched with the drawing of a guard tower and gate to a camp with soldiers inside. "Freedom is not Free" and "Served with Honor" were carved into the slab.
Very tentatively, Face reached out and rested his hand on BA's shoulder. The big guy stretched his arm across Face's back and drew him close. They stood side-by-side, shoulders touching. Hannibal could see that both of their shoulders were shaking. Hannibal felt their pain as sharply as if a knife was plunged into his gut. They'd been two kids trying to do the right thing, searching for a better life, thinking that this was a noble endeavor. Face had turned 21 in that camp; BA had learned that his good heart and protective nature could not defend those he cared about. The war hadn't just stolen their youth; it had destroyed their innocence and their dreams, and nothing that had happened to either of them since could repair or renew that. If anything, it destroyed that faith even further. It was a wonder that either of them gave a damn about anything or anyone.
They were quiet on the drive back to the hotel. None of them was hungry; the Mexican feast could wait. When they'd first checked in, they'd joked about having private rooms, laughing that they wouldn't have to listen to each other's snoring or fidgeting to find a comfortable spot in a shared bed. Following standard procedure, each pair of rooms had connecting doors. Murdock's room adjoined Face's; BA was next to Hannibal. Face knew that Murdock would keep the door open. He half-expected Murdock to ask to share Face's bed. Not a problem; it was king-size. Face rarely wanted physical contact except on his time and his terms, but tonight he hated the lonely emptiness.
He'd cracked that afternoon, letting long-repressed memories and fears bubble over. His reaching out for BA was nearly an act of desperation. BA was always as solid as a rock; Face needed that, but BA had crumbled, too.
Face only dozed, waiting for Murdock, but as the night wore on, Face was alone. He got out of bed to look in on Murdock who was apparently sleeping soundly. Go figure.
He slept then, starting awake at a soft knock at the door. It was the coded knock they used for identification. BA. Face slipped from the bed and opened the door.
"I thought you might need some company," the big guy said. He nodded his head towards Murdock's room. "He might have a rough night. You, too."
Face couldn't remember BA having nightmares at the camp or since. The only one he remembered was when they were in prison awaiting their execution. He'd called out to Hannibal, trusting their Colonel to have a plan for their escape and crying out when it failed. Now, he settled himself in the easy chair near the window, instinctively looking out, on watch.
Face crawled back under the covers. He was surprised at how exhausted he was.
"We never had much chance to really think about it all, did we?" BA asked suddenly in the darkness. "We was too busy surviving to spend time on anything else. And when we got back, it all fell apart right away. We never had a chance to…I don't know the words…"
Face thought about it. "Decompress. Reconcile." BA was right. The time others had was denied them. Like so many things, Face thought wearily.
"Closure," BA said. "Ain't that one of the things you're supposed to have? Look at it all and find some kind of peace?"
"Yeah," Face whispered.
"I think I got some of that today. Had a chance to say goodbyes, think about people and things. Sad, but good in a way."
"I'm glad you were there, BA," Face said softly. He was too tired to keep up his wall. "Glad you were in the camp, well, not glad you were a prisoner and all, but glad we were all a little less alone, and glad you were there today. You were… are… always holding us together."
"That's Hannibal's job."
He couldn't see Face shaking his head in the gloom.
"He gives us direction, but you're the one who makes it…I dunno, solid. When you're there, I always know we'll come out of it OK, somehow."
He sensed more than saw BA shifting in the chair as though uncomfortable with Face's comment. Face smiled a little. He wasn't the only one who struggled with walls.
"We all take care of each other," BA said finally.
"Yeah," Face said, finally letting sleep win.
BA stretched in the chair, dozing himself, checking outside periodically. Most nights, the snatches of slumber were just enough to recharge their batteries for another day. Always needing to be alert, watchful, on guard. Tonight, though, he felt more at peace than he had in how many years? He couldn't remember. Maybe the last night before they'd been arrested for the bank robbery. There was still a part of him that was on guard, but this time it was not against military police or bounty hunters. He watched over both of his brothers, keeping the demons from the past away from them. That gave him comfort. And he slept.
Face woke to the aroma of coffee wafting under his nose.
"Wakey, wakey, Faceman." Murdock grinned as Face opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Nearly 9:00. Way later than usual. Hannibal's routine was for them to be up and moving by 6:30. BA was stirring in his chair, also blinking owlishly. "For you, big guy, moo juice." He handed BA a large glass of milk.
"Murdock?" Face asked sleepily. "What's going on?"
"It's a beautiful day in the Land of Enchantment," Murdock gushed. "I woke up at the usual time, but you two were out. So, I decided to get moving and check out the breakfast buffet. And it is glorious! They've got breakfast burritos with green chili sauce, huevos rancheros, pan dulce, chilaquiles, baked eggs…"
"I ain't eatin' no weird food for breakfast."
Murdock rolled his eyes. "Here we are in the heart of a unique cuisine, and he scoffs at it before he even tries it!" he called to the ceiling. "How can such a man exist, I ask you?" He switched tone to the more rational Murdock. "They also have ham and eggs, toast, oatmeal, and milk."
"Where's Hannibal?" Face asked.
"I ran into him down at breakfast. He said for you guys to sleep in. He'll meet us in the lobby."
Murdock was entirely too content and happy. Face studied him, looking for signs that Murdock was in his 'hiding from reality' mode. But he seemed genuinely content.
"How'd you guys sleep?"
"Really well," Face said, a little surprised. He'd expected the night to be troubled. BA nodded in agreement.
"Me, too," Murdock said cheerfully. "Always do after a catharsis."
"A what?" BA asked.
"Catharsis. Big emotional event. Unloading baggage. Releasing feelings that you've been holding onto and holding in. It takes a lot of energy to keep things bottled up and when it finally gets out, it's exhausting. And when you fall asleep, it's like you're totally drained and your whole system just burrows down as deep as it can get and soaks up all the peace that's been unavailable for so long." He smiled at the others. "The occasional catharsis is good for the soul. Like yesterday and last night."
He clapped his hands and headed for his room. "I found a brochure about all the tourist places on the desk in my room. I'll start picking out the best ones while you guys get dressed."
They found Hannibal in the lobby, reading the morning paper, a mug of coffee on the table beside him. He grinned at the trio and waved them to the dining room. Like them, he looked well-rested. But, then again, it was rare for him to look anything but.
"It looks like we're in the center of Albuquerque's cultural district," he said when they emerged. They'd attacked the buffet line with enthusiasm, hungry from not eating since yesterday's breakfast. BA had even condescended to try huevos rancheros and, to everyone's surprise, announced that he liked them. "There're a lot of shops, galleries, local artisans selling their wares around the town plaza. I'm going to check out the Albuquerque Museum. Good history displays. Why don't we check back here at noon? Then we'll find some place for lunch. Usual routine. Keep an eye out for watchers. I wouldn't be surprised if Stockwell shipped a couple of Abels out here."
"Does he know we finished the job…at least as best we could?" Face asked. He was still simmering over the way it went down.
"Probably. I haven't called him yet. Let him wonder what's going on. Be good for his soul."
BA sniffed. "Ain't seen any sign he's got one."
Hannibal smiled around his as-yet unlit cigar. "And when I do, I'm telling him we're taking a leisurely ride back to Langley. Probably four or five days. And taking in the sights. Back roads. No interstates. That ought to drive him up a wall."
They stepped out into the bright sun of the high plains. Face put on a pair of sunglasses. No suit today; instead, a casual shirt and jeans and a jacket to ward off the crisp January air. His parka was hanging in his room, still drying. BA, he noted, was wearing his feathered earrings. Despite the chill, Hannibal wore only his 'uniform' lightweight safari jacket, while under his flight jacket, Murdock's t-shirt du jour boasted the slogan: The trouble with political jokes is that some of them get elected.
The open vista and long, low adobe buildings were a completely new experience from either the metropolitan crush of Los Angeles or the green hills of Fairfax County and the pretentiousness of Washington. A good place for strolling, Hannibal thought. A good place for his men to unwind. They eased their way down San Felipe Avenue, enjoying the quiet and the wide openness of the street. The sky was Blessed Mother blue and the few clouds floated like wishes of the angels. All of the buildings were one-story high, display windows were small, and many had uneven brick courtyards that fronted the street and sidewalk.
"Oh, guys, look!" Murdock pointed. The shop was like the others – an adobe building with the addition of a porch held up by thick wooden supports. It looked like something from a set of The High Chaparral.
"We've got to go in!"
"What is it?" Face asked.
He pointed to the blue sign on the wall. "The Rattlesnake Museum and Gift Shop! Can you believe it?! This is fantastic!" He grabbed Face by the arm. "We've got to go see this, Face! C'mon."
"Not hardly!" Face pulled away from Murdock. "I don't do snakes, especially poisonous ones."
"Besides, Fool, didn't you see enough of them growin' up in Texas?"
"Well, sure, but this will be like a reunion. For all I know, some of these snakes are relatives of the ones on my grandparents' ranch. I might know their names. And snakes are beautiful, BA. Really. The smoothness of their scales, the easy way they glide along the earth…"
"The nasty way they bite and kill you. I ain't givin' no snake a chance to bite me."
"But they're in tanks, behind glass. You can lean down and get close and really see them."
"Them beady eyes and big fangs. No thanks."
Murdock seemed disappointed. "Face? Hannibal?" His enthusiasm was deflating like a popped balloon.
"There's no reason you can't go in there by yourself, Murdock," Hannibal said. "Just remember to be back at the hotel at noon."
Murdock vanished into the building, bubbling over with excitement. The others shook their heads.
"Man's crazy," BA muttered. He paused as they passed the Old Town Plaza. The sidewalk was dotted with tables displaying jewelry, pottery, woven blankets, Kachina dolls, amulets, crystals, and handicrafts. They stopped to look at a display of jewelry. BA touched a silver bracelet that was studded with turquoise stones. "That'd look pretty on my mama," he said. He looked away and tightened his jaw. "No use wishin' for things that'll never happen," he said, pouring himself back into the hard-nosed frame he maintained. "I think I'll see if I can't find something to add to my jewelry." He turned away from Hannibal and Face and walked deeper into the plaza. The others watched him go.
"He worries about her a lot, you know, Hannibal," Face said. It wasn't quite an accusation, but the thought was there. This isn't fair to him or her. You should be doing something.
"I know, kid," Hannibal said, as though he'd read Face's mind. After all the years together, he probably had.
"Do you think Stockwell is watching her?"
Hannibal snorted as he lit his cigar. "Probably has her house bugged and cameras pointing at every door and window. Sorts through her mail, too, most likely."
"And of course, her phone is tapped."
"Of course."
"There's got to be a way to let her know he's alive." He thought of Mama B's warm embrace whenever they'd visited. First was when they'd returned from Vietnam, before their arrest, before their lives fell apart. The welcome home party was for all of them, not just BA. Then when they'd snuck into town to save her and her neighbors from the crooked developer. She treated them like her sons, with an open affection that both frightened and delighted Face. The unfairness of what had happened to BA was bad enough; that his 'Mama B' was hurt by it all went far beyond offending his sense of fairness.
They were passing a church. St. Philip di Neri, the sign read. Parish established in 1706. One of the oldest buildings in Albuquerque. The rose-colored adobe seemed to glow in the sunlight.
"I'm going to look inside," Face said. "It's been a while since I've been to Mass. They might bar the door."
"If the steeple is struck by lightning, I'll know why," Hannibal answered with a grin.
Face nodded with a half-hearted smile and disappeared into the small garden in front of the church. Hannibal watched him go and sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen real smiles or heard honest laughter from his men. It had been a rough, exhausting couple of months for all of them. First the betrayal by Stockwell, then the conviction for Morrison's murder and the nightmare of the firing squad, then their servitude to the General, the never-ending near-suicide missions, and the growing awareness that their promised pardons were as likely to occur as a blizzard in Death Valley. Add to that, the shock and shame for Face in discovering that his father was AJ Bancroft. The bastard hadn't even had the guts to tell Face when they'd met. Fucking coward. He wasn't worthy of his son, but that didn't do much to help sooth Face, although, as usual, the lieutenant appeared to shrug it off as he did most things of a personal nature. And, as usual, Hannibal didn't have a clue how to help him. Every attempt to broach the subject was met with a cool, "I'm fine," sometimes with a smile that never reached his eyes, sometimes delivered with an icy tone that warned against asking again.
He pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket and chewed on it as he continued toward the museum. He ran through a list of jobs they'd done, the times they'd worked for the government or one of its agencies. General Ludlum – getting him and his daughter out of Borneo. Their reward? A one-day head start from the army chasing after them. That was as much as they'd gotten from anyone. They'd worked for the CIA and State Department; prevented assassinations and defused international incidents; brought down more corrupt cops, authorities, and mobsters than he could easily remember; taken on Chinese Tongs, wrecked drug operations, rescued kidnap victims – even bailed out Stockwell's sorry ass. But after all of that, all they had to look forward to was a day or two under house arrest at the compound in Langley before Stockwell's next demand. Not for the first time, he considered contacting those who owed them something. He'd given Stockwell more time than was fair for him to prove his 'honor' and keep his promise. Judge Mordente offered his support after the team rescued his daughter from mobsters; Airline Exec Corp. certainly owed them something for ending a hijacking and saving one of the 747s, not to mention the enormous ransom. He kept a file with all of their cases hidden in a safe deposit box that even the rest of the team knew nothing about, much less Stockwell. He'd sent out enough feelers to know that Stockwell was as hated by most of the intel community as he was by the A-Team. Maybe it was time to start collecting his own intelligence and building a case against the man. Maybe he could use it to leverage their freedom. It would be even sweeter if it also destroyed him.
The interior of St. Philip di Neri Church was quiet in the late morning. The whitewashed walls seemed to reflect peace and restfulness. Face walked up the main aisle almost cautiously, as if waiting for someone to appear and chase him away. He slipped into a pew and stared at the altar. The faint scents of candle wax and incense drifted in the air. Behind the simple table covered with an embroidered white cloth was a tall, marble chancel housing a larger-than-life statue of the saint in his Jesuit robes. He was flanked by two other, smaller Jesuits. He had no idea who they were. Maybe the ecclesiastical equivalent of a road crew. They were guarded by two kneeling cherubim. The Blessed Mother and Jesus were in their own alcoves beyond that. Face noted with a bit of a smile that they were definitely lesser players in the hierarchy of this particular church.
He knelt and rested his elbows on the pew in front of him, his head against his fists. He wanted to pray, wanted to believe, but when he reached inside himself, he found only emptiness. When he was in the POW camp, somehow he never lost faith. He told himself and others that each day was one day closer to being released and that it would turn out all right. He managed to thank God that he'd survived to get that much closer to that longed-for escape, even after beatings and torture and 'sessions' with Chao. He knew if he gave up that hope, he would give up trying to live. And when they did escape and survive, he credited his faith as much as he credited Hannibal's plans and the resilience of the rest of the team.
But since then, since the trial, since going on the run, he'd struggled. He'd spent long nights talking to Fr. McGill about it. He kept a small chest with his personal things in the rectory since he had no other place to store them. He also had a room there, a place where he could hide and declare sanctuary if it came to that. But mostly someplace he could stay when he needed to escape the constant fear. Father McGill never pressured him, never asked questions, never judged. The priest was the one person Face ever opened up to, knowing that he'd treat their conversations as though they were as sacred and private as a confession. How he wanted to be with him now, to let him know that he was alive, to hear him say God would not abandon him; to be reassured that it would all work out. He'd heard that when reporters showed up at the orphanage the day Face was supposedly executed, McGill told them that he hoped God could forgive those who knew they were innocent but protected themselves by ordering their slaughter, because he could not. And that Sr. Marie Charles, the tiny, ancient Sister who guarded the entrance with a fierceness BA would envy, told them to leave because this was a house in mourning, before slamming the door so hard the windows shook.
Raised in a strict Catholic environment, Face was steeped in feeling guilty for his problems. He must have done something to deserve this mess. Catholics don't believe in reincarnation, but he couldn't think of anything he'd done in this life that was so terrible to merit the POW camp, the trial, fifteen years on the run, the firing squad, and now the near certainty of ending up dead through Stockwell's machinations. Not to mention the gut punch of AJ Bancroft. Face decided that he must have been a real piece of work in some past life to end up here.
But still, he tried. He couldn't think of an actual prayer, even though he and Fr. McGill made a game of trying to out-remember passages from psalms. He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and rested his face in his hands. All he could do was wordlessly ask for peace, for some sense of strength, for that certainty he once had that if he could just hang on a while longer, he'd see a reason for not giving in to despair.
Voices sounded from a doorway. He glanced up to see two priests walking toward him. They stopped when they spotted Face; one raised his hand in greeting and apology. He was tall, clean-shaven, and wore the look of one at peace with the world. Not much older than himself, Face thought. Lucky man.
"So sorry," he said. "We didn't realize where we were. We're sorry to have disturbed you."
"That's all right," Face said. "It's very beautiful here. Very peaceful."
They took in his clothing and appearance. Blue-eyed blondes were not common in the southwest.
"You're visiting?" the other asked. He was older with a sun-wrinkled face but the same sense of peace.
Face nodded. "Here on… business," that was close enough to the truth, and there was no way he'd lie in a church. That *would* bring lightning down on him.
"Just in Albuquerque?"
"It'd be nice to see more of the area. I've never been to the southwest before. But probably just here. I have to get back to my office."
"Where is that?" the younger man asked.
Face felt himself go on alert. Stockwell wouldn't have infiltrated the Church, would he? "About a three-day drive," he said, answering but not answering.
"Well," offered the older priest, "if you want to spend a little more time here and experience some of the real landscape and culture, come up to Shiprock. I'm Fr. Kellner, the pastor of Christ the King Parish. It's far more modest than this," he smiled, gesturing at the nave. "It's a few hours north, but it's the heart of the Navajo nation. Are you familiar with the history?"
"A little. Proud, independent people, run down by the Army, so bad that even General Sherman fought to let them go home. And I've read most of Tony Hillerman's mysteries."
"They're a good introduction to the culture. And good stories, too. You should come. It's about 3 hours, maybe a bit more, but some of the most stunning landscapes. I can give you some suggestions of places to visit."
Face smiled at the invitation. Something niggled in the back of his mind. Some spark of rebellion and an idea of making something, just one small something, right.
"Um…" he steepled his fingers. "Are you going back to Shiprock soon?"
"After lunch, yes. Why?"
"Um… if I give you something, could you mail it from Shiprock? I know it sounds crazy," he continued quickly, "But I have some friends who are big Tony Hillerman fans. They'd think it was a great surprise to get something with a postmark from Shiprock." He paused, his full-scale, depreciating and not-asking while asking con routine kicking in. "Nah, look, it's… silly."
"Not at all," Fr. Kellner said. "I'll be here for another hour or so. Bring it to the rectory and I'll take care of it."
"You're sure?"
"My pleasure."
Face hurried out of the church and back to the plaza. He found the table with the jewelry and picked up the bracelet BA had admired. It was hand-made and expensive, but Face didn't care. The artist put it in a gift box and Face slipped it into his jacket pocket. He passed a souvenir shop and found a generic notecard and a small notepad. Returning to the church, he sat on a bench in the garden and pulled out his pen. He scribbled on a page of the notepad and slipped it into the box, then a note on the inside of the notecard. Smiling, he knocked on the door of the rectory.
"I've addressed the notecard, but I don't have a way to wrap the box," he said apologetically. "I wrote down the address, though. Could you take care of that? I know it's a lot to ask." This time, he wasn't working an angle.
"Very happy to do so," Fr. Kellner assured him. Face pulled several twenties from his wallet. It pretty much cleaned him out, but he'd deal with that later.
"That's far more than postage," the priest said.
"I know, but I'm sure your parish has a lot of needs."
"That's very generous, Mr.….?"
"Brenner. Al Brenner."
The team gathered at the hotel at noon, as directed. Murdock was thrilled with his rattlesnake adventure. "Look, they gave me a certificate of bravery." He held up the printed yellow sheet with great pride. "And see, I got a new t-shirt, too." It featured a realistic-looking coiled rattlesnake.
"I don't let no snakes in my truck, even pictures of them," BA groused. Murdock made a face at the back of BA's head and tucked the bag close to him.
They found the restaurant that the night manager suggested and stuffed themselves with all things Mexican. They lounged the rest of the afternoon, sleeping again, reading, savoring the free time. Face found a grocery store and used the team's traveling petty cash fund to stock up on water, snacks, and fresh fruit. BA fussed with the van, making sure it was ready for the morning when they'd head east.
"I really think we should follow Rt. 66," Murdock insisted when they pulled out of the parking lot in the early light. "It's a classic road trip." He began to sing, doing a passable imitation of Nat King Cole.
"If you ever plan to motor west,
Travel my way, take the highway that is best.
Get your kicks on Route sixty-six.
Now you go through Saint Looey
Joplin, Missouri,
And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty.
You see Amarillo,
Gallup, New mexico,
Flagstaff, Arizona.
Don't forget Winona,
Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino.
Get your kicks on Route sixty-six."
"Hannibal, if you don't shut that fool up, I'm gonna Route 66 him right outta this van."
"This is a classic, written by the great Bobby Troup. You remember him from the movie M*A*S*H, right? He's the guy driving the jeep at the end of the movie who says 'God damn army.' Remember?"
"Indeed, I do, Murdock," Hannibal assured him, "and I think that sentiment is shared by all of us."
Face curled up in his seat. He was fighting a cold. The result, no doubt, from his freezing drenching the day before on the mesa. He pulled his now-dry parka around him and dozed off to the familiar sounds of BA and Murdock bickering and Hannibal refereeing them.
Mrs. Baracas frowned at the small package that arrived in the mail. She didn't recognize the handwriting on the address. And the postmark? Where in the world was Shiprock, New Mexico? Still frowning, she unwrapped it. There was a piece of paper taped to the top of the box. From a Father Kellner, pastor of a parish in the town. He said that a Mr. Brenner asked him to mail this to her, since she was a fan of Tony Hillerman's mystery novels. She frowned again. She'd never heard of Tony Hillerman or a Mr. Brenner.
Cautiously, she opened the box. Inside was a silver bracelet inlaid with fine turquoise. It was one of the loveliest things she'd ever seen. There was a note folded inside. She opened it.
"Dear Mama B: Scooter is alive. We are all alive. We are all fine. He misses you. We all do. T"
She held the paper in trembling hands. The tears flowed. Her son, all of her sons, were alive. She slipped the bracelet on her wrist. She wouldn't take it off until she could hold her boys in her arms again.
Father McGill sorted through the mail. It was the usual assortment of bills, correspondence from associates, other parishes, various auxiliaries and committees, advertising flyers, and at least two reminders to update his car's warranty. A small, square envelope caught his eye. He stopped breathing as he recognized the neat handwriting. He hurried to his office and slid the letter opener through the top of the envelope.
The card was a generic "thinking of you" thing, just a picture of mesas in the desert. There was a message in the so familiar, so missed handwriting:
"Dear Father McGill: Reports of our deaths are greatly exaggerated, as Samuel Clemens said. We are *all* alive. Don't clear out my room. Someday, I'm coming back. T"
He touched a button on his desk. "Sister Marie Charles, please come to my office. I have something to show you."