Dear God, please…

I know I don't deserve to even be talking to you right now, let alone asking you for a favour as big as this, but I am literally at my wits end here. I just had to make a decision that I wouldn't even wish on that maniac that's been committing unspeakable crimes in your name recently, and that my team is trying to trace right now, and all I want is for it to not become a reality.

Just please do this one thing for me—no, for him…and her, for that matter, and I promise that I'll start going to church again every single Sunday for the rest of my life. I-I-I'll sponsor a kid in Africa, volunteer at a soup kitchen, give up both alcohol and sex for the next Lent…Hell, I'll even go back to that seminary that I so carelessly and stupidly insulted in the open, and personally donate my next paycheque to them, just please…

Don't take my son away from me, too. Not like this. I honestly don't think I'll last, otherwise.

Please, God…I'm so sorry for losing faith in you.

Just please don't take it out on him.

Give me a chance to make things right.

Please…

Sacred Apostle Seminary.

To the average New Yorker, it was just another ordinary theological college. Or at least, as ordinary as a theological college could be, with its ornately meticulous architecture, perfectly manicured lawns decorated with various flowers, trees and bushes, and just overall massive presence both height- and property-wise, given that the campus it sat on was almost big enough to be its own neighbourhood altogether.

But to the man currently walking up towards its just-as-imposing main entrance, it was so much more than that.

It was where one sick, twisted individual got some of the tools he needed in order to pull off what had to be the most disturbing string of crimes he had ever seen in his entire career.

It was where he and his partner discovered their first real clues to tracking down this monster in disguise, and ending his reign of dogmatic horror once and for all.

And right now, it was where he needed to be in order to properly commence the process of recompensing an entity who may or may not have had something to do with his son being born as healthy as a preemie can be. And so, armed with an unmarked envelope tucked safely into the back pocket of his pants, and hidden underneath his light black jacket, he pushed open one of the solid oak double doors, and entered the ecclesiastical edifice.

Only to end up running into the one person that he had been hoping beyond hope since he first woke up on that partly cloudy Saturday morning, that he would not run into.

"Uhh…hello," he eventually said after what felt like an eternity of staring into the pair of hazel green eyes before him. "I-I'm—"

"Special Agent Scola," the cassock-clad cleric smiled sincerely as he held out an open hand. "How nice to see you again."

"Father Burns. N-Nice to see you, too," the Wall Street stockbroker-turned-FBI field operative lied through exposed pearly white teeth, as he accepted the invitation to shake hands. "Um, how've you been?"

"I've been alright." Only after he spoke those three little words did the full weight of that deceivingly simple question hit him, as all the memories of talking to, working with, and trying to provide support for the future serial murderer and rapist known as Frank Silver, immediately inundated his mind in a single second, causing him to have to elaborate after a beat of awkward silence passed between them. "Or, at least, as alright as someone who brushed shoulders with an unforgivably evil human being…multiple times can be."

The moment he saw all of the joy abruptly leave the pastor's face upon mindlessly posing that inquiry, Scola wanted nothing more than to hit his head against the door behind him until either it or his skull caved in. Thankfully, that self-destructive urge vanished as quickly as it appeared, giving him just enough time and mental room to come up with a better response. "Hey," he began as he put a comforting hand on the shorter man's left shoulder, and did not continue until they were looking each other directly in the eye once again. "Your help and cooperation were a big part of the reason why we were able to find him, and stop his killing spree as soon as we did. Who knows how many lives you ended up saving as a result? You might've even saved all your students and fellow priests in the process."

By the time he was done, Father Burns' affable grin had returned to both his eyes and mouth. He then changed the subject, but not before a very light blush appeared on his cheeks, turning them a tinge pinker. "So what brings you back here, Special Agent?"

"Okay, first of all, I'm not working right now, so please just call me Stuart. Second of all…" That was when he retrieved the envelope from his jeans. "This is what brings me here." He watched on with bated breath as the clergyman took it, opened it, and pulled out a handwritten cheque made out to the Sacred Apostle Catholic Academy. But it was the dollar amount that stunned him into temporary silence.

"Oh, my…" he whispered just loud enough for Scola to hear before bringing his voice back up to a more normal volume. "Special A—I-I mean, Stuart…I have to say, this is one of the most generous donations we've received in a while. What did we do to deserve this from you?"

He shrugged, hoping beyond hope that it was a solid enough cover.. "Just…wanted to do something nice, is all. Think of it as a 'thank you' for helping to give New York City one less criminal to worry about."

It was then that something else on the cheque grabbed Father Burns' attention so abruptly, he almost had to do a double take. But instead of asking the off-duty FBI agent about it outright, he decided to take the indirect approach, just to see what his first reaction would be. "Forgive me for coming off as nosy, but may I ask why you chose to give it in person, instead of simply going onto our website to do it?"

For the next three whole seconds, Scola froze both physically and mentally as he tried to process that curveball of a question that this sacerdotal silver fox had just thrown right in his face, and concoct a halfway decent answer for it that would not make him look like a total fool. At the same time. "Oh, yeah, sure, of course, no problem, uhhh…I-I just have some quick errands to run, so I thought that I might as well drop off the donation, since I actually live nearby, y-you know?"

"Ah, I see," Father Burns replied, now knowing exactly what was going on here. "Well, it seems like you and I have two very different definitions of what the word 'nearby' means. For me, for instance, something nearby can be reached within a half-hour walking distance, but hey, if a ten-mile trip across two boroughs works best for you…" He paused to flip the cheque around so that its drawer could see it. "…then who am I to judge for that?"

Upon seeing where on the small pecuniary document the would-be payee was pointing to, Scola instantly felt a pang of pure shame not completely unlike the one that he brought upon himself the last time he was here, surge right through him. How could he have been so asinine as to forget that his home address was printed in the top left-hand corner of all his cheques? How had he managed to humiliate himself in front of the same priest twice within a fourteen-day timespan? How, in the name of all things holy, did he screw up such a mind-numbingly easy act of goodwill, even if it was of the guilty variety?

But before he could retreat back to his car and drive all the way home with his tail between his legs, he felt the last thing he ever expected to feel in that moment.

A comforting hand on his sinistral shoulder.

Next, he saw the last thing he ever expected to see in that moment.

A look of clemently calm curiosity on the hieratic professor's countenance.

And finally, he heard the last thing he ever expected to hear in that moment, delivered to him in a soft, serene, and genuinely nonjudgemental tone of voice.

"Stuart, I've been an ordained minister for over twenty-five years. So you can only imagine how many people from how many different walks of life I've interacted with in that time. That means that even when you first came here to conduct an investigation with your partner, I could see the pain in your eyes, in your face, and in your body, and I don't mean the type of pain that comes from your line of work. I'm talking about something deeper, like the pain of longing for something that you can no longer have, or the pain of feeling like you broke some kind of unspoken rule that may or may not even exist. The pain of loss; the pain of sorrow; the pain of penitence. So let me ask you again: what's your real reason for driving all the way out to a seminary that you didn't even know existed less than two weeks ago, just to drop off a cheque for an amount of money that I can't help but find to be a little —dare I say it— too generous?"

Were it not for all his years of working for one of, if not, the biggest and most comprehensive federal law enforcement agencies in all of North America, Scola was ninety-nine percent certain that he would have broken down sobbing right where he stood in the lobby of Sacred Apostle. But not even that could stop a single tear from escaping each of his eyes, and flowing down his cheeks. After briefly breaking eye contact to wipe them away, he took a deep breath and turned back to at least attempt to give the only other person on the planet besides his own mother who was ever able to read him that accurately, the answer he deserved.

"It's a long story," he eventually said after failing once again to come up with literally anything better. "One that I'm sure you don't wanna hear, even if you had the time to spare."

And with that, the experienced ecclesiastic's benevolent beam came out of hiding to join those of the sun, as they pierced the herd of cumuli currently making its way across the troposphere. "Actually, I was just about to go on my lunch break before I ran into you. If you have the time to spare, I wouldn't at all mind the company."

"My older brother Douglas died on 9/11, but it wasn't until six days later that his body was found and identified. That means that for almost a whole week, me and my family were basically stuck in limbo, just waiting for any new information on his whereabouts. My mom, being a devout Catholic, spent almost every minute of her free time praying that her oldest son would still be alive, and strongly encouraged the rest of us to do the same. Five days later on Sunday, September 16, we all went to Mass together for the first time since I was a kid.

"Now, as much as I hate to be admitting this, part of the reason why I stopped going at all, besides my job at Goldman Sachs at the time being pretty demanding and draining, was because I just…found it boring. I mean, spending an entire hour reading from the bible, singing a few hymns, and alternating between sitting, standing, and kneeling? Not exactly how a rowdy, energetic kid wants to spend his Sunday morning. But by that point, I was running on fumes; I'd barely eaten or slept since that damn Tuesday. None of us had, which might explain why we were at church that day for hours. Not necessarily because we thought it would make any kind of real difference, —besides Mom, of course— but because there was simply nothing else for us to do. Or, should I say…there was nothing else we wanted to do. All we wanted was for Douglas to be alive, and if we couldn't know that yet, praying that he would be was the next best thing. So that's what we did.

"The following morning, an NYPD officer showed up at my then sister-in-law's house to inform her that her husband had been located. Or, should I say…his remains had been located. It was the worst-case scenario for us; not only was Douglas, my big brother…my best friend, really dead and gone, but there was so little of him left…he could fit in a shoebox.

"That was the day I stopped believing in God. Or, should I say…I lost all of my remaining faith in God. I just couldn't wrap my head around the fact that any god could let someone as kind and funny…and loving as Douglas, be killed so suddenly and prematurely, especially after his family had prayed so hard for him to be alive, and in a way…I still can't. For me, it was easier to be angry at a deity for dismissing all of the prayers and worship that we'd dedicated so much time and effort to sending Him, than to accept the fact that my brother had died simply because one man halfway around the world with a lot of money and power to burn, and who's name doesn't even deserve to be spoken out loud, wanted to prove a point. In other words…I've spent the past twenty-two years holding a grudge against God, as well as the entire concept of Christianity.

"That was, until, about twelve days ago, when my son was born. About thirty-three weeks into the pregnancy, my girlfriend contracted a listeria infection. One thing led to another, and she ended up having to get a C-section, but due to the infection having since spread to her womb…there was a real risk that our baby might not make it. That was when I found myself praying for the first time in over twenty years. Along with the usual recitation of 'Hail Marys' and 'Our Fathers,' I also begged God to forgive me for giving up on Him all those years ago…as well as made a bunch of promises in exchange for not letting my son die before he even got the chance to start living; one of which was that I'd donate my next paycheque to Sacred Apostle in person. So, yeah, that's the real reason why I travelled so far just to see you this morning. Well, not you specifically, but…you know."

For the first time since the two men initially claimed it, silence of the heavy variety befell the little corner table inside the quaint local café just across the street from the Catholic academy campus that some of its clerical faculty liked to patronize from time to time, as Scola concluded his long story that actually was not that long at all. But what it lacked in prolixity, it more than made up for in subject matter; startlingly heart-wrenching subject matter that even a seasoned Father like Roger Burns needed a good minute to properly process. During which time, the FBI Special Agent ate the rest of his sandwich and quaffed the last of his coffee, before proceeding to bring all the empty plates and mugs back to the barista station. By the time he returned to their table, the dominie was ready to give his take on the abject anecdote that he had just heard.

"Okay, Stuart, first off…I'm truly sorry for what happened to your brother. It's bad enough to lose a loved one in such a tragically untimely way, but for it to happen so publicly, as well…I can't even begin to imagine how agonizing that must have been…and still is, for you and your family."

Scola acknowledged his condolences with a single nod.

"Secondly, I want to congratulate you on the birth of your son, no matter how risky it might have been. To me, at least, the fact that he survived is a testament to just how strong he already is…just like his parents."

A soft scoff and nonchalant roll of the eyes was his answer to that personal opinion, specifically the adjunct that the reverend clearly tacked on last-second.

"And thirdly…" He paused to reach inside his sable soutane, and pull out the cheque from what Scola assumed to be an inside pocket, so that he could look at it again as he resumed. "I think I can safely say that I now understand why you weren't afraid to express such candid skepticism the first time you came to Sacred Apostle. Which means that I also now understand why you'd go so far out of your way to do something like this, especially after coming so close to losing your child."

And then, before Scola could properly react to that final revelation, Father Burns held up the slip of legal paper over the center of the table, and promptly ripped it in half. Then quarters, then eighths, then sixteenths; all the while, the smile on his face grew bigger and bigger with each subsequent division. Once the pieces were too small for him to bisect any further, he let them fall out of his hands and flutter onto the tabletop like confetti. He allowed the former stockbroker to stare at the pile of scraps that used to be his donation with wide eyes and a dropped jaw for exactly one second before explaining himself.

"Which is why I won't accept it. Because you have nothing to repent for. Because the moment you started praying to God again, regardless of the circumstances it was under, was the moment that you accepted His endless and unconditional love back into your heart, and in turn, expelled all of the anger that you'd been holding onto for so many years.

"That's why I tore up your cheque. Sure, we could always use some extra funds and donations, but if I'd accepted yours, then all I'd be doing is enabling you to go on believing that you somehow owe God more than what you already are. Which, from what I can tell, is an empathetic, loyal, and hardworking person who always appreciates what he has, never does anything halfway, and would move mountains for those he loves." He then placed a reassuring hand over the dextral one before him. "As long as you continue to be that person, then you can trust me when I say that you have absolutely nothing to worry about."

For the second time that day, Scola could feel his eyes burning and his throat clenching as every word the priest spoke seemed to take an extra hundred pounds off of him. And yet, one question still pestered his mind like a gnat drawn to a streetlight.

"But what if I want to be more than what I already am? Not for anyone else…but for me?"

Father Burns thought about that for a bit before getting an idea. "Do you know how to pray the rosary?"

Scola scoffed again. Amusingly, this time. "I could never forget how to do that, even if I wanted to."

That was when the just-as-amused cleric reached back inside his cassock, and pulled out what had to be the most beautiful rosary the Special Agent had ever seen in his life. It was about a foot and a half long with oviform glossy black decade beads, round pearly white Mystery beads, and a catoptric chrome crucifix, all held together with a fine, silvery chain that just sparkled in the light.

"Then how about this? You take this rosary that I've had for over fifteen years, and pray it whenever you happen to have some free time, be it five minutes or an hour. Don't set a schedule for it, don't change your normal routine to accommodate it, don't even pressure yourself to finish it every single time; just live your happy, messy, and perfectly imperfect life, and whenever you feel like speaking to God, just pick it up and do a decade or two. And once you feel like you've done enough, just put it back and carry on with your day. Can you do that?"

All Scola could do upon being offered that unbelievably trustful deal was stare at his reflection in the cross dangling before him. "That…that's very kind of you, Father," he finally replied once his tongue had thawed. "But I can't just take your personal rosary like that. You know I can afford to buy my own, right?"

To which the clergyman simply shrugged. "Maybe so, but I still want you to have it, anyway. So that every time you look at it, you'll be reminded that God loves and forgives you, because He never stopped in the first place. And that even though this isn't a formal Confession, by the power vested in me on His behalf, I officially absolve you of all your sins." He then lifted the miniature, rood-shaped mirror up to the FBI operative's face to make the Sign of the Cross. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

And with that, Scola wordlessly and gingerly took the rosary like it was made of sugar glass, and just held it in his hands as he admired its intricate craftsmanship, and let the fact that both God and at least one of His many consecrated votaries had forgiven him without an iota of hesitation, fully settle into his psyche.

That was, until, said votary eventually spoke up, breaking the comfortable quietude. "Well, I don't know about you, but I have to head back to the campus now."

The younger of the two men instinctively took that as his cue to put the rosary in his jacket pocket, and get up from the table along with the devout elder. When the latter offered him an invitation for another handshake, the former bypassed it in favour of a hug instead. Due to him having a good thirteen inches on the older man, it was a little bit awkward, but nonetheless heartfelt and brimming with gratitude.

"Thank you, Father Burns," he whispered into his ear.

After initially being taken aback by such an intimate gesture, the pastor ultimately reciprocated it just as genuinely, along with the first-name informality that the field agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations had been so kind as to give him first.

"Call me Roger."

"Forgive me again for coming off as nosy, but where does your girlfriend think you are right now?" the padre queried the ex-stockbroker as they both exited the café, and stepped back outside where all of the clouds were now gone, leaving behind an endless expanse of azure, and permitting the sun to spread its life-granting luminosity without any more aerial obstacles blocking its path.

Before promptly halting dead in their tracks at exactly the same time, as Scola was forced to remember the lie that he told Nina in order for her not to question why he was heading out so early on a Saturday morning. "Uhhh…I might have told her that my boss needed me to come into the office to confirm some things on my last report."

"Ah, that explains the half-dozen scones," Father Burns said matter-of-factly as he nodded to the box containing six warm, fresh blueberry scones that the FBI agent was currently holding.

To which all Scola could respond to that with was a helpless clearing of his throat, as he felt his cheeks become as warm as the baked goods in his hands. "For what it's worth, I really am planning to pass by the grocery store before I go home to make up for it."

"Don't worry about it," the man of the cloth waved off with a chuckle as they crossed the street back to the seminary grounds. "I've heard men confess to worse lies that they've told their partners." They then paused at its perimeter. "And besides, I have a feeling that she'll be more than understanding once she hears the truth."

It was then that Scola smiled for the first time all day. "Thanks, Father—I-I mean, Roger. For everything."

"You have nothing to thank me for, Stuart," he smiled back as he shook his head. "I was just doing what any of my fellow clergymen would do in my position."

"Exactly! Which is why I want to give you this. Or, give to Sacred Apostle, so to speak." He then reached into the front left pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a crisp, one hundred dollar bill that was folded in half. "And don't worry, I'm not giving this out of fear; I'm giving this because I actually want to."

The astonished dominie looked at the banknote for a couple of seconds, then at the Special Agent's face —specifically, his burnt umber eyes— for a couple seconds more, before determining that he really was telling the truth this time, and accepting the more practical donation happily and wholeheartedly.

"Thank you, Stuart. I wish you and your new family all the best," he said appreciatively before turning around to start making his way towards the Catholic academy.

The off-duty FBI agent watched him go for a moment before those parting words suddenly caused him to remember that there was one more thing that he had been meaning to ask the enlightened ecclesiastic about.

"Roger, wait!"

As soon as he heard Scola call his name, Father Burns expeditiously stopped walking and turned back around just in time to see him close the gap between them with his light, brisk gait. "I almost forgot to ask you…do you do baptisms?"