Three weeks into Operation: Let Murdock Be a Person, Angie found herself remembering why becoming emotionally involved with your patients was such a horrible idea. Her once solitary and emotionally tranquil life was now… not. Murdock's pain had become hers: his distress, his fear, his loneliness, all of it. She didn't pretend to grasp the depth of it or even understand its true cause. Yet she felt it all the same—every time he met her eyes. The need to drive the emptiness from his stare consumed her almost as much as the need to soothe the raw glimpses she saw of his pain. Like a mother driven to soothe her wounded child.

Jelly Beans, she found, worked mild wonders. Green Jell-O had its moments, and the benefits of the Sunday comics should be patented. But none of his smiles lasted. Nightmares remained constant when he bothered to sleep, while his waking hours were spent lost in a world only he could see.

The Captain had had no visitors, save for a priest named Father Magill. According to his records, Murdock wasn't Catholic, but if the rumors were true, he'd been clutching a piece of paper with the priest's name and address on it when he'd been found. Which did nothing to explain why he'd begun sobbing and muttering no, no, no the moment he'd laid eyes on the clergyman. The negative mantra had been hoarse to the point of barely being audible—the first and so far only words he'd spoken since he'd arrived. As night shift supervisor, Angie hadn't been present when the visit had occurred, but her heart had broken enough just listening to the retelling. Those who had seen it, reported that Father Magill had been almost as distressed as Murdock with how the visit had gone. He'd left with tears in his eyes.

Which is why Angie found her Presbyterian self sitting in the good Father's office at the Sacred Heart Catholic Orphanage two hours before her shift. A nun had shown her in, saying Father Magill was up to his cassock in leaky plumbing, or something to that effect, and would be with her as soon as he could. In the meantime, Angie waited—and engaged in a bit of visual reconnoitering.

The Father's office appeared well-used, but equally well-kept. Two of the room's four walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, all filled to the brim. There were the writings of the Saints, an assortment of classics, and a lengthy section of modern crime novels crammed into a far, high corner. The latter made Angie smile. The third wall held a simple fireplace, two lounge chairs, and a small door she guessed must lead to a closet. But it was the fourth wall that held the proverbial jackpot: two windows and a desk.

The windows offered her a perfect excuse to meander. What visitor wouldn't be curious to see the view? And if that curiosity just happened to take her close enough to the desk for a discreet peak, well that was just a bonus.

Snooping on a priest was probably its own special sin, but she had her reasons. The good Lord would just have to understand. Then again maybe He wouldn't care given that the only things to be seen on the desk were a Bible, a legal pad, and a pen.

With a sigh, Angie turned away, then turned back just as quickly. Scanning the pad, she frowned. It was covered in notes about a passage in Matthew—but the Bible lay open to I Samuel 19. A sticky note with a smiley face on it and the letter "T" was placed midway of verse two. She read what was visible of the passage:

… Jonathan told David, saying, Saul my father seeketh to kill thee: now therefore, I pray thee, take heed to thyself until the morning, and abide in a secret place, and hide thyself.

Her frown deepened, and she caught herself on the verge of touching the note. She was supposed to be acting inconspicuous here. With that in mind, she turned away from the desk and strode to the closest window. It overlooked the playground which was currently being swarmed by dozens of boys of assorted ages. Their laughter penetrated the room's thin walls, filling the place like music.

"There's no sound quite like it, is there?"

The unexpected voice had Angie spinning around. A man in somewhat disassembled priest garments stood smiling at her from the office doorway. He made quite a picture: sleeves rolled up past his elbows, graying hair flying in wisps above his ears, and a combination of grease and water smearing him head to toe. Wiping his hands on a rag, he approached her.

"I'm Father Magill, my dear, how may I help you?" he asked, extending his hand.

His grip was stronger than she would have imagined, but gentle and warm. She found herself smiling. "Angie McCabe, Father. I came to speak with you about Captain H.M. Murdock. I believe he's a friend of yours?"

A hint of sadness passed through the clergyman's eyes as he released her hand. "Ah, yes. Captain Murdock." His gaze fell and for a moment she thought he was going to say more. Instead, he bent over the desk, squinting at the open Bible. He ran a finger over the note, frowned, then rubbed at his chin.

"Father?"

"Hmm? Oh, forgive me. Miss McCabe, is it?" He grinned brightly, gesturing for her to join him as he moved to sit in one of the armchairs by the fire place. "Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps some coffee?"

She accepted the offered chair, but declined the rest. "No thank you, Father. And please, call me Angie."

"Angie." Again, he smiled. "You'll forgive me, but before we go any further I must ask: what is your connection to Captain Murdock?"

"I'm a nurse at the V.A. hospital. Captain Murdock is one of my patients. I want to help him, Father."

"Help him how, my dear?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

With a sigh, the Father leaned forward, arms on his knees. "That, I am afraid, is the one thing I cannot do."

"But you're his friend, aren't you?"

"No. It saddens me to admit it, but I am not the Captain's friend. I only wish I were. The truth is, I had never met the man before seeing him in the hospital after his collapse. And I fear my presence there caused him more harm than good. I am sorry."

"But that doesn't make any sense, Father. If he doesn't know you, why this strong reaction to your presence? And what was he doing with your name and address?"

"Ah, now that much I can tell you. At least, I think I can." The last was said almost in a whisper, his eyes shifting to focus on something behind Angie for a moment.

She glanced over her shoulder, saw only the closed closet door, and glanced back. "Father?"

"Forgive me, my dear. Are you sure you wouldn't care for some refreshment?"

"No, thank you. Please, Father. You were saying?" Much to her chagrin, however, the clergyman did not resume his train of thought. Instead, he settled back in his chair, propped his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. The way his eyes narrowed as he looked at her, belied his otherwise innocent and curious appearance.

"Why are you here, Angie McCabe? I know you said you want to help the Captain, but you have dozens of other patients, surely. Why is helping Murdock so important to you?"

Angie flapped her hand dismissively. She'd come here to find answers, not give them. But the intensity of the priest's stare did not wane. So she told him the truth. "He doesn't belong there, Father. I know what his symptoms are, and I know what the doctors are saying, and on paper I agree with them. But…"

"But what, my dear?"

"Listen, Father. As of right now Murdock is not on any major medications. His sleep cycle and nutritional balance had to be restored before a proper judgment could be made in regards to his mental health. Depression, anxiety, and even some psychotic behaviors can be attributed to or exacerbated by something as simple as sleep deprivation. The hope was that with proper care his condition would stabilize to the point where only minimal, if any, medicinal action would need to be taken to ensure his recovery. But even with the addition of daily therapy sessions with one of our best psychiatrists, he's losing ground. If he doesn't show definite signs of improvement within the next week, his doctor says they will be forced to consider taking more drastic measures in his treatment."

Father Magill straightened, brow drawing into deep furrows. "I take it you don't believe this is a good thing?"

"No, Father. I can't point you to any logical explanation for it, I just— I can't get past this feeling that we're missing something."

Father Magill stared at his hands. Absently, he rubbed the open palm of one over the closed fist of the other. "Not something, my dear," he said finally. "Someone. A few someones actually, unless I miss my guess."

"Who, Father?"

"One of our lads from here at Sacred Heart served with Murdock in Vietnam. From the few letters he wrote me, I gather the two of them were quite close. No, I do them an injustice," he said softly. "They were more than close—they were brothers."

Were. Past tense. Angie's heart sank to the floor.

"They became separated shortly before the end of the war. This place is the only home our lad ever knew, aside from his dorm room at college. Murdock must've known that. Given the circumstances, I believe the Captain must have been searching for me in hopes that I could lead him to his friend."

There was a tinge of regret in the Father's last words—an unspoken assertion that what Murdock had been seeking, the good priest was unable to give. Angie found herself shying away from what that might mean.

"You mentioned a few someones, Father. What about the others?"

"All members of the same Special Forces unit alongside our lad. Pilots were never officially assigned to units like theirs, but Murdock… Murdock was special. And together, the four of them were indomitable."

Were. Again the past tense snatched at her heart. "What happened to them, Father? Did they make it back?"

"Yes. By the grace of God, they all made it back."

The answer let her heart start beating again, even as it filled her with a sense of outrage. "Well then where the… heck are they? Excuse me, Father, but here you tell me that his friends are alive, yet not one of them has tried to visit him or even called. Have they even looked for him?"

"Please, my dear. Do not judge these men on a matter you do not fully understand."

"I understand that Murdock is giving up. I understand that every day a little more of him disappears, no matter how hard we fight to stop it. And these friends of his that you say mean so much to him and who could potentially help save him are nowhere in sight. Are you telling me I shouldn't judge them for that?"

"Yes."

The sincerity in that one word brought her up short. It also knocked a nice sized hole in her hastily formed paradigm of logic. Murdock was hurting, his so-called friends were alive, no longer in Vietnam, and they weren't there. End of story. Except, if the look on the old clergyman's face was anything to go by, it wasn't the end. Not by a long shot.

Exhaling, she shook her head. "Forgive me, Father, but I don't understand."

"I know. I only wish I could explain it to you." With that, he stood and crossed to the desk. The sticky note was once again carefully scrutinized, then peeled from the Bible's page. Rolling the edge of the note between his thumb and index, Father Magill turned to face the window.

The sounds of the children playing in the yard filled the silence between them. A bell eventually shattered the spell and, with a rush of thundering feet, the cries of laughter disappeared.

Gaze fixed on the sticky note, Father Magill said, "You want to help the Captain very much, don't you?"

It was a simple question that sought a life-altering answer. Father Magill was trying to determine her level of commitment. If Angie's answer was found wanting, somehow she knew her interview would be over.

With deliberate steps, she joined the priest at the window. She waited until he met her eyes, then said, "Yes, Father. I want to help the Captain. Very much."

"I see." He tilted his head, appraising. "And in order to help him, would you be willing to, shall we say, creatively adjust a rule or two?"

Angie couldn't stop herself—she smirked. A confident, conspiratorial, and thoroughly committed smirk. "How many rules do you want butchered, Father?"

XxXxXxXxXxX

Face waited until the woman's footsteps had faded before he dared open the door. The closet's hinges needed oiling. Pursing his lips, he tried not to take it personally. No easy task, given that during his years at the orphanage, he'd always made sure each of the important (i.e., strategically located) doors and windows were well oiled. It had been his personal contribution to improving the quality of life for himself and his fellow orphans. After all, a boy never knew when he might need to duck out of sight—discretion being the better part of executing mischief—and a squeaky door or window was a dead give away. Shame the orphanage's current residents hadn't bothered to maintain his high standards.

Closing the door behind him, Face cringed at the recurring squeal. At least this was one time when it didn't matter. Father Magill might not have turned around, but from the smile Face could see pulling at his lips, he knew exactly who had emerged from his closet.

"Father?"

"Templeton."

The fondness in the priest's voice was as clear as ever. Even after everything. It warmed Face's heart and gave him hope he'd never admit to having been without.

Father Magill left his spot at the window, fingers twiddling with the sticky note. " 'I pray thee, take heed to thyself until the morning, and abide in a secret place, and hide thyself,' " he quoted. The smile on his face grew. "Somehow I can't believe the Prophet Samuel had a clergyman's closet in mind when he recorded those words of Jonathan."

Face grinned. "Any port in a storm, Father. The kids were already out in the yard when I heard Sister Scholastica coming with your visitor, so I couldn't very well climb out of the window. Going to ground seemed the next best thing. The fewer people who see me here, the safer it will be for you."

"And for you. That is the important thing. But to the business at hand, Templeton: how much did you hear inside that closet?"

"Oh, everything. Sitting in that closet is almost as good as having a seat in an amphitheater." Face tried for another grin, but was pretty certain it fell short of the mark. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd heard everything. In truth, he'd heard all too much.

Murdock is giving up.

He's losing ground.

Have they even looked for him?

Father Magill laid his hand on Face's shoulder, quietly demanding the conman meet his eyes.

Face swallowed against the tightness in his throat and forced a smile as he complied. But the Father knew him all too well. The hand lifted from Face's shoulder to cup the back of his neck.

"It's not your fault, Templeton."

"I know that, Father."

"Ah, but you do not believe it."

Face averted his eyes. "I did try to find him, Father. I tried so hard. But I— I couldn't." He looked up, silently pleading for his mentor to understand; to grant him absolution for something the Father didn't even believe him guilty of. The insanity of that thought, had Face turning away again.

"And since I first spoke with you on Monday and was able to tell you where Murdock was, what have you been doing, Templeton?"

With a faint smile, Face shook his head. "You know what I've been doing, Father."

"Yes. Reconnaissance I think they call it. Plotting, planning, scrounging. And, if one is to believe your Colonel Smith's opinion, careening straight for a one way ticket back to a maximum security stockade."

Heat flushed along Face's neck. "He's my best friend, Father, I can't just leave him there!"

"I agree with you, lad. I'm on your side, remember?"

"I know, Father, I know. I'm sorry." And Face did know. The absolutely insane opportunity Father Magill had just finagled for him was proof enough of that. Between the Father's gift for Irish blarney and his disarming smile, Nurse McCabe hadn't had a chance.

"At the very least, I know you have to see him, Templeton—and he you, unless I miss my guess. If I did not believe that, I would never have spoken in such a way with Miss McCabe. I only pray I have not jeopardized you, my son."

Face strengthened his smile. "Don't worry, Father. You were right. I have to see Murdock—with or without Miss McCabe. But if she does what she says she will, well…" Face tilted his head, considering the advantages her cooperation could give him. True, there were almost as many potential cons as there were pros if she double-crossed them, but since he was already dealing with a stacked deck, it didn't seem worth mentioning. Plus, Father Magill had clearly believed her—no small victory given that the man had known every single time a young Templeton had tried to lie his way out of trouble. To this day, Face credited the beloved priest for helping him hone his now flawless methods of deceit. When you grew up matching wits with a walking lie-detector you had to get creative.

"I believe she will honor her word, Templeton," Father Magill said. "I would not have taken such a risk if I feared there was a chance she would betray you. But there is still so much that could go wrong."

"The story of my life," Face joked. He flashed another grin before clasping the priest's hand in both of his. "Thank you for everything, Father."

Father Magill laid his other hand on top of Face's. "Go with God, my son."

"I will, Father." An almost foreign sense of peace filled Face as he uttered those words. Peace and a certainty of faith he'd almost lost in Vietnam.

"God bless you, Templeton Peck."

Face gave the clergyman's hand a squeeze. "He already has, Father."

With that, Face left the office, then the orphanage, and hurried down the sidewalk. He had nine hours and thirty-eight minutes to put together the perfect ensemble. He hadn't seen his best friend in far too many months and had never officially met Nurse McCabe, so everything had to be just right. He was thinking grease smudged jeans would be good to start. Add in work boots, a flannel shirt over a cotton tee, and maybe a ball cap. Then borrow a Peterbilt sleeper cab for the pièce de résistance. Face grinned to himself. Perfection.