Chapter 100

           BishopManuelAringarosa’sbodyhadenduredmanykindsofpain,andyetthesearingheatofthebulletwoundinhischestfeltprofoundlyforeigntohim.Deepandgrave.Notawoundoftheflesh…butclosertothesoul.

           Heopenedhiseyes,tryingtosee,buttherainonhisfaceblurredhisvision.WhereamI?Hecouldfeelpowerfularmsholdinghim,carryinghislimpbodylikearagdoll,hisblackcassockflapping.

           Liftingawearyarm,hemoppedhiseyesandsawthemanholdinghimwasSilas.Thegreatalbinowasstrugglingdownamistysidewalk,shoutingforahospital,hisvoiceaheartrendingwailofagony.Hisredeyeswerefocuseddeadahead,tearsstreamingdownhispale,blood-spatteredface.«Myson,»Aringarosawhispered,»you’rehurt.»Silasglanceddown,hisvisagecontortedinanguish.«Iamsoverysorry,Father.»Heseemedalmosttoopainedtospeak.

           «No,Silas,»Aringarosareplied.«ItisIwhoamsorry.Thisismyfault.»TheTeacherpromisedmetherewouldbenokilling,andItoldyoutoobeyhimfully.«Iwastooeager.Toofearful.YouandIweredeceived.»TheTeacherwasnevergoingtodeliverustheHolyGrail.

           Cradledinthearmsofthemanhehadtakeninallthoseyearsago,BishopAringarosafelthimselfreelbackintime.ToSpain.Tohismodestbeginnings,buildingasmallCatholicchurchinOviedowithSilas.Andlater,toNewYorkCity,wherehehadproclaimedthegloryofGodwiththetoweringOpusDeiCenteronLexingtonAvenue.

           Fivemonthsago,Aringarosahadreceiveddevastatingnews.Hislife’sworkwasinjeopardy.