Chapter Three


Juan Lopez was a Santa Priscan immigrant, a burly quiet man who supported his family by working at a nearby warehouse. He was catholic, but that didn't keep him from coming regularly to the little mission church. He was quiet, but kindly, and well-liked among those who knew him, as were his wife, Angela, and their two young children, Enrique and Rosa.

When he returned home from working double-shifts at the warehouse one night to find his house looted, his wife raped to death, and his children's throats slashed, it nearly drove him mad with pain.

John Freeman, humble servant the Most High, minister of the Gospel, stood at the graveside, hand on the broken man's shoulder as Father Torres spoke his words over the three new-dug graves. Tears were in all their eyes.

"Why, Mr. Freeman?" Juan asked later. "Why do such things happen? I come to America to protect my family, to live in peace. Now, they are gone, and I am alone."

"You aren't alone, my friend. I am here, and so is God."

"Yes, you and He are here. Where were the two of you the night my family died? Where was God then?"

John had no answer.

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That night he paced frenetically, muttering prayers through numb lips, tears running over his dark face, shaking occasionally from the sobs that wracked his body at times. Where was God when Juan Lopez lost all he had? Why did this happen? Why, unless God was nothing but a capricious trickster, who toyed with his pawns before crushing them. Hope. McCoy preached hope. Why seek out such self-delusion. This was Gotham City, hell on earth, and no hope was to found here, not for anyone.

No, that's not true. There is some hope. Batman, and his vigilantes. The knights of Gotham, sweeping out of the darkness to save women and children and foolish young preachers from men and boys with murder in their hands. Batman, the dark angel.

Where was Batman when Angela Lopez was raped before the eyes of her bound children? Where was Robin, Batgirl, Nightwing, when unknown hands cut her children's throats before her eyes, as she watched with dying breath?

No, not even Batman could save everyone. And God, having created man, watched him stumble, and had Himself nailed to a chunk of wood like a butterfly on a card, had perhaps decided to let his creatures deal with their own problems as best they could now. Job cries out in anguish, and God replies in sarcasm. Where you on hand when I made this world, Job? Then who are you to criticize? No one. Of God's love, there could be no doubt, but the fact was, he gave men minds and souls so that they could make their own choices, and He would not interfere with men's folly much of the time. That was what other men were for, to do as God would have them do. To protect the innocent.

John Freeman made a decision that night, almost without realizing it. He was God's servant, and these people were his responsibility. Maybe it was time to take that a little more seriously.