Chapter 2

There was a strange dislocation, a strange feeling as the darkness receded.

"Father? Father Charles?"

Father Charles opened his eyes and looked around...but things were blurry and his head ached more than a little. He blinked a few times and then let his eyes close. It was easier.

"Father Charles, can you hear me?"

Father Charles struggled to wake up.

"Father? Say something. Please?"

"Happy...Halloween?" Father Charles said uncertainly.

There was some relieved laughter.

"I'll take that. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better." He got his eyes open and realized that his arms were both above his head. "And I'm thinking it's worse than I thought before."

"Well, it's pretty bad," Tim said. "But it could have been a lot worse."

Father Charles looked over. Tim was tied to the railing by the votive candles. He himself was tied to the same railing but not close enough to touch.

"What happened?"

"After Bozo hit you with the gun, Skeletor and the Scream guy took off. Michael and Bozo tied me to the railing and then, you, too. Then, they ran. We're stuck here until someone comes in here. Expecting anyone tonight?"

"Not particularly. I was...assuming that...I'd be in the church alone most of the night. I'm not sure I know all the names you gave," Father Charles admitted.

Tim smiled. "Bozo the clown. Generic. Skeletor from the old He-Man cartoons. I was a fan. Scream...a movie. And Michael from the Halloween movies."

Father Charles laughed a little and winced at the throbbing in his head.

"And here I was just thinking of them...as a ghost, clown, skull and hockey mask."

Tim laughed in return.

"It's Tony's fault. He likes movies and forces me to watch them with him sometimes." Then, he sighed and looked at the altar. "I tried to get loose, but I'm so close to those candles. I'm afraid I'd knock it over and the last thing I want to do is burn down your church."

"Thank you," Father Charles said. He struggled to sit up, but he couldn't. He didn't know if it was because of how he was tied to the railing or if the knock on his head had discombobulated him too much. He gave up and got his head so that it could at least lean relatively comfortably against the railing.

"Man, I have the worst luck," Tim said. "I almost had them both times, but... How did you get hit? I didn't see."

"He was about to hit you," Father Charles said. "After what you told me, I wasn't going to risk another head injury."

Tim sighed.

"Father..."

He could hear it. It must be hard-wired into Tim's head to feel guilty about things.

"Now, Tim, I won't hear of you taking the blame for this."

"But..."

"No! You had no control over what they chose or what I chose. And if you have bad luck, I think I must have the best luck in the world."

"Why do you say that?"

He looked at Tim.

"Because you were there when I needed help. I had started to pray to God for mercy. I was thinking I was about to die and there would have been no one to give me absolution. But instead of granting me mercy in death, God sent me an angel of mercy to save my life."

Tim flushed.

"Anyone would have done what I did," he mumbled.

"Not necessarily, and regardless, what you did was save me. At a moment when I expected nothing more than death, I had life granted to me again. That is a miracle."

Tim shrugged.

"Accept it, Tim. You were a tool in God's hands. Now, you have to convert."

Tim laughed and relaxed a little. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Ha! Success!" Father Charles said.

"What do you mean? I didn't say I would."

"Yes, but you weakened enough to entertain the idea. If I keep this up, you'll be one of the elect in no time."

"Oh, great. Leave it to me to encourage you."

"It doesn't take much."

"I can see that. Are you feeling all right?"

"Not particularly," Father Charles said honestly. "My head aches like there's no tomorrow. The floor is pretty hard. I'm not as young as I used to be and I'm not used to being tied to a railing. I've been in better situations."

"Me, too. They took my phone, even. I tried calling out, but there didn't seem to be anyone around."

"Why were you still here?" Father Charles asked. "I thought you'd gone."

"Oh...simple enough. I went out to go home and remembered that I'd taken a taxi. I was just about to call for one when I saw those guys come inside. I was a little worried." Tim shook his head and stared at the ceiling. "If only I had thought enough to call someone first. Why did I just rush in here?"

"Because my life was on the line," Father Charles said.

"You're telling me to drop it?"

"More or less."

Tim sighed one more time.

"So...if we're stuck here all night long... what do we do?"

"Well, this isn't my normal posture for prayer and meditation, but I can hold a vigil lying on the floor as well as I can anywhere else. ...and then, if someone comes in, they might hear us and come and get us free."

"You have a concussion, too. You probably shouldn't go to sleep. My doctor said that's mostly not true, but better safe than sorry."

"All right." Father Charles winced a little as he shifted position. He thought he might have bruised something when he fell...something besides his head.

"So...you were saying something about... Saints Day, or something?" Tim asked.

Father Charles shifted again so that he could look at Tim more or less comfortably.

"All Saints Day. It's November first."

"Well, I think it might be after midnight now, but I don't know. They took my watch, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. It was an expensive watch, but it's better than being dead."

"True. Well, if it's the first, then, I'll give you an education. You know anything about hagiography?"

"No. I don't even know what that is," Tim said.

"It's the writings of or about the saints."

"Okay. Like... St. Michael or St. Christopher?"

"Yes, although there are other kinds of saints."

"Other kinds? Really?"

Well, all who are in heaven with God are considered saints, everyone who has been purified. All Saints Day is about celebrating the saints you're familiar with, but it's also about celebrating the entire community, the communion of saints. It's a celebration of all these links to these people and to God."

"I didn't know about that."

Father Charles smiled. "I'm not surprised. But the saints you know...well, I love reading about them. Some are less certain than others, but in some ways, it lets you see them as real people, not just saints."

"So...while we're both stuck here," Tim said, looking around the empty church, "you have a captive audience."

Father Charles smiled.

"I do. You're right! And since I know that Deacon James should be here very early tomorrow...or this morning, I think we both can wait."

"You're taking this very calmly."

"Did they get the money?"

"No. They just ran out."

"Then, in spite of my concussion, we're doing quite well. Obviously, I'm assuming there's no serious internal injury on my part. I'm not really thinking as clearly as I'd like to, but we're both alive, the money is safe..."

"What's it for?"

"The church desperately needs a new roof. It's started leaking. So we decided to do a fundraiser. It's like the parish suddenly realized that it was necessary and we've done very well. Soon, we'll have enough to get the bids and get the work going, hopefully before the next heavy storm."

"Good luck," Tim said.

"I hope so."

Father Charles tried to shift to a more comfortable position. No good. The floor was still hard. His head still really hurt, and the rest of him still ached.

"I suppose this is how some of the early martyrs felt...only they knew their end would be death," he said softly.

"Like who?" Tim asked.

"Actually, there are six saints named Timothy."

"Well, none of them are me," Tim said. "I'm definitely no saint."

"Obviously, but one of them, St. Timothy of Antinoe, he and his wife were martyred."

"Why?"

"During the persecutions of Diocletian. St. Timothy refused to tell them where he had hidden the scriptures. They tortured him and then killed him and his wife."

"That's awful. I guess copies of the scriptures would have been more valuable back then."

"Much more. When you have to make each copy by hand...and they're considered worth destroying, they're worth protecting, too. The St. Timothy from the Bible was also martyred. He was stoned to death. He had objected to the celebration of a pagan festival. The early history of Christianity is one of persecution. Many were killed simply for being Christian. Some hid their beliefs. Others broadcast them. Some died, some lived."

"I can understand...dying for a cause, but..."

"You can't identify with this cause."

"I guess I can't. I just have never been that...devoted to a religious belief."

Father Charles smiled. "I can understand that. I wasn't always a priest, you know. I wasn't born in a cloister."

"What led to it?" Tim asked.

"Like many others, I felt a call. It's hard to explain if you've never felt it. I finished school and felt like...there was something I was meant to do, something I needed to do with my life that was more than punching a time clock. I'd been raised Catholic and attended most weeks, but I went to church that Sunday and I realized that I never wanted to leave. It was exactly where I wanted to be."

"Can you feel that about other things?"

"Of course. I would assume that most people have a place they feel like they need to be."

"That's how I always felt about NCIS," Tim said. "Part of it was selfish on my part, but even when there was hazing, even when people looked down on me for being atypical...I never wanted to go anywhere else."

"Sounds like a calling to me, not religious, per se, but a calling."

Tim was quiet for a few minutes. It was easier for him to stare at the ceiling with the way his hands were tied. Father Charles liked to give people cause to think and the time to do so. He let the silence linger for a little longer...which let his headache reassert itself. To distract himself from the ache, he thought about the next saint story he would tell Tim. Almost without thought, St. Teresa of Avila arose in his mind.

"There's a saint from Spain in the sixteenth century. Her name is Teresa of Avila. She is credited, along with St. John of the Cross, with founding the Discalced Carmelites, nuns who took a vow of poverty and were recommitted to a simple, penitent life. She had a hard time. Her mother died when she was young. She suffered from illnesses, including the one that eventually ended her life. She was from a wealthy family and yet gave that up to be a nun. It wasn't easy for her. She felt that she was a sinner because of the times in her life when her religious devotion wasn't quite so strong."

"Doesn't everyone have the option, though?" Tim asked, almost sounding affronted. "I mean...can't they choose what to do? Does it have to be from birth? It doesn't make sense to assume that they'd be perfect."

"Of all the saints, you should understand her feeling of not thinking you're good enough, Tim," Father Charles said. "It's a natural reaction. Once you've done better, you look back and think about how much more you could have done. Don't you know that feeling?"

Tim flushed but didn't say anything.

"She had times when she doubted some of her own experiences because of what others said to her. It's said that once, in the midst of some discouragement, she brought her troubles to God and He told her, 'That's how I always treat my friends.' She said, 'That must be why you have so few friends.'"

Tim laughed. "I can go along with that."

"I thought you might. However, she rededicated her life to God. In her desire to serve God better, she traveled through Spain, establishing convents. It was a hard life and easily could have contributed to her final illness. But in spite of the difficulties she faced in life, she greeted death with calm and love for God."

Again, silence. Father Charles let that silence stay for a few minutes. Then, he again, broke it.

"Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing;
God never changes.
Patience gains all things.
One who has God wants nothing.
God alone suffices."

"That's beautiful," Tim said softly.

"It's a prayer St. Teresa wrote."

Another long silence.

"It's not always about how easy life is. In fact, it's usually not about that. It's about seeing that there's more."

"And right now?" Tim asked.

Father Charles chuckled.

"Right now... as I said in the Mass, I fear no evil."

"I'm kind of envious of your outlook."

"It's taken me years to get to this point. If you're not there yet, it's no weakness. I'm not consistently. Maybe I can credit this to my concussion."

"That's not my experience with concussions. They made my attitude worse, not better. But you're definitely a better person than I am."

"No. It's not about comparing each other. You'll always find something you're not good at, something you could improve. Look at yourself and what you want from yourself, what you can achieve."

"Are you sure you really got hit on the head?" Tim asked. "You sure are speaking clearly."

"That's because I'm telling you things I know. Maybe God is using me as a messenger for you."

"So...is there anyone you can call on to get us out of this before morning?"

"Well, not if that's not meant to be, but I can try." Father Charles leaned back and closed his eyes. "'St. Jude, hope of the hopeless, pray for us.'"

"Maybe that's a little too far for our situation. I don't think we're hopeless," Tim said.

There was a lightness in his voice, but he wasn't being dismissive. In spite of the knowledge that someone would come and find them there eventually, there was still a feeling of fear and anxiety about being tied up and kept from escaping. While it might also be a bit of an exaggeration, there was someone else who came to his mind.

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,
and do thou, o Prince of the Heavenly Host,
thrust into Hell all the evil spirits that prowl about the world,
seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

Tim was quiet again, but then, there was a shame-faced smile.

"What?"

"Is it wrong of me to be thinking about the guys who came in here and hoping that I could interpret the prayer literally?"

"Maybe a little bit. God is the only judge, but I don't expect perfection of you...even if you do of yourself."

Tim shifted position and hit against the table holding the candles. They shook ominously. He stilled and they calmed.

"Okay. I'm not moving anymore. Any more stories?"

"There are always more."

Through the succeeding hours, Father Charles shared stories of the saints. It had been his plan to spend time reflecting on the saints anyway. This would suffice. After a while, the conversation fell away and they were sitting on the floor in silence.

Finally, when they were both tired and ready to droop and sleep, there was a sound outside.

Voices. People talking. Father Charles managed to rouse himself a bit. He saw Tim try to sit up.

"You know them?" Father Charles asked.

"I think so," Tim said.

Three people came into the church, flipping on the lights.

"Boss!" Tim called.

The three people turned.

"McGee!"

They ran over and Father Charles realized that he was seeing Tim's team. These were the people whose injuries had driven Tim to this church the first time.

"What happened?" one of them asked.

Tim smiled. "This is Father Charles," he said. "Father Charles, this is Tony, Ziva and Gibbs. What are you doing here?"

Ziva pulled out a knife much larger than Father Charles had expected to see and she sliced through the ties. Then, she helped Tim disentangle himself from the candle altar. Tony helped Father Charles sit up.

"Looks like a hard knock, Father."

"It was. I didn't enjoy it," he said.

Tony smiled.

"We were worried about you, McGee," Ziva said. "We called and you did not answer. All night long."

"We went to your place after work and you weren't there. We've been looking for you," Tony said. "Gibbs is the one who suggested you might be here."

Tim looked at Father Charles.

"Are you okay, Father?"

"I'll be fine...later. Not now. I'd like to get a few hours of sleep before the celebration of All Saints Day."

"Are you sure someone can't do it for you?" Tim asked.

"Maybe they could, but unless I have to, I'll be leading it."

"What happened?" Gibbs asked.

"Some guys came in and tried to rob the church," Tim said. "I happened to be here and tried to stop them."

"And did stop them," Father Charles corrected. "He saved my life."

"You took a hit for me," Tim said.

"So we're even. Don't act like you did nothing."

Tim smiled and nodded reluctantly. They got the police there and an ambulance to check Father Charles. He agreed to be examined more thoroughly at the hospital, but he really wanted to be back for Mass. Yes, someone else could do it for him, but he hadn't missed Mass since he'd been the priest here and he didn't want to start now.

It took some doing, but in the end, after getting a couple of stitches, he convinced the doctors that he would be fine and that he would spend time resting after the Mass. So he returned to his church. The police had investigated and got statements. Deacon James was surprised at what had happened in the night and insisted on doing most of the running around.

Then, the moment came and Father Charles began the Mass. As he looked out over his flock, he saw not only Tim but also his team all sitting together at the back of the church. He smiled and began the service.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

After Mass and saying good-bye to everyone, Father Charles could admit that he was tired. So he was secretly looking forward to taking the rest of the afternoon off. But first, he wanted to speak to one of his flock.

The rest of his team had left already, perhaps waiting outside, but Tim was back at the candles.

"Tim?"

Tim turned. "I thought you were going to take the rest of the day off."

"I am. I just wanted to thank you for being there today."

"You already did that," Tim said.

"I know, but this time, I want to thank you and have you accept it."

"I'm working on it."

"Good. Now, while you're finishing your recovery, I have something for you. You can bring it back when you're done."

He handed Tim the autobiography of Teresa of Avila.

"Take some time to get to know a saint. I think the two of you might have some things in common."

"And then?" Tim asked with a grin.

"Then...we'll see how much closer you are to being what you're supposed to be."

"A Catholic, you mean?"

"We're getting you there," Father Charles said. "I have the time and we could only be better with your membership."

"I'll keep that in mind, Father."

Tim lit a candle, put some money in the donation box and then left.

Before he headed for his bed to rest, Father Charles looked back at the altar and then up toward heaven.

"That's a good man, there. Whatever else he is. Thank you for leading him here."

FINIS!