A state of disobedience

you and your kids to any more political rallies.'

'Political? What political?' the priest demanded. 'Murder is murder and there's nothing political about it.'

'Come on, Jorge, be serious. There is nothing so political in this entire country as abortion. And with the new rules from Washington, any state that permits any interference is going to get hurt, let alone one that uses an arm of its government . . . which I am.'

'Bah. Tell Juanita I am disappointed in her.'

'She's doing the best she can, Jorge. Times are tough and getting tougher.'

'Not as tough as being twisted around inside your mother and having your brains sucked out through a tube.'

* * *

Dallas, Texas

Nearly four hundred and fifty people burned candles through the night as Father Montoya led them through prayer and song. Mothers held their babies. Husbands held their wives. All joined in asking for divine intervention to stop what they considered a horrible series of crimes.

Montoya looked with mild disapproval upon a large banner fronting one group of protesters: 'We, personally, would object to shooting abortion doctors . . . but we would never want to interfere with somebody else's choice of values. Catholics for Children.'

And so Father Flores is heard from again. Montoya walked over to see his fellow priest.

'Don't you think that sign is, maybe, a little—oh—inflammatory, Father?'

Flores' fanatic eyes flashed fire. 'Not so inflammatory as what awaits the people who work in that clinic.'

'That is God's choice for them, Father, not ours.'

A murmur arose among the protesters. Montoya turned about to see a line of armored, shielded and baton wielding riot police forming up the street from the clinic. These were not Dallas police, but the United States Surgeon General's new special troops, specially flown in for their first real test. They were four hundred of Rottemeyer's planned one million new police, raised at the same time and under the same bill that gave her a major expansion of manpower, arms and equipment for the Secret Service's new Presidential Guard, in all but name a personal mechanized brigade.

A loudspeaker blared, 'Attention. Attention. In accordance with the Act of Congress for the Prevention and Suppression of 'Emotional Terrorism' you have five minutes to clear away from this clinic. This will be your only warning.'

Montoya glanced at his watch, then looked around for Miguel. 'Get our people out of here now, Miguel. Hurry.'

Miguel just nodded and ran, first to Elpidia where she sat playing with her baby, then to the others. 'Father says we have to go now. Hurry.'

Before the protesters had a chance to so much as move, long before the mandated five minutes were up, the riot police began their charge. Peaceful dispersal was replaced by panicked, screaming flight.

Undaunted, his flock in danger, Montoya steeled his heart and moved to interpose his own body between them and 'police' running amok.

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

If anyone among the boys of the Mission held a position of leadership, under the father, it was Miguel Sanchez. Need to rebuild a shed? 'Miguel, see to it.' 'Si, padre.' Need to put up a fence? 'Miguel, see to it.' 'Si, Padre. Julio, come on and help me.'

Did a field need plowing, a tree need pruning, a boy need 'counseling'? 'I'll take care of it, Padre.'

With the father now lying broken and battered, head bandaged where a policeman's baton had cracked it, much of the day-to-day running of the mission fell to young Miguel, under the guidance of Sister Sofia, the mission's sole nun.

But if anyone, besides the father, held leadership over Miguel, it was not Sister Sofia, but little, thin Elpidia. She had so held since about three days after she and the baby arrived at the Mission.

For her part, Elpidia liked Miguel well enough, as well as she could be expected to like any normal male after the life she had led. But her heart belonged to the priest.

* * *

'How old are you girl?' 

'Old enough to work,' she answered. 

Shaking his head slightly, the priest provided his own answer. 'Fifteen? Fourteen? Fourteen, I think. This is no life for you, child.' 

'It is the only one I have, Padre.' 

'Parents? Family?' he asked. 

'None, Padre. Just me and my baby, Pedro, and the man I live with, Marco.' 

'He sends you out to do this and you still call him a man? We shall see. Get in the car. Where do you live?' asked the priest.