1. Logan Airport.

Manuel Devlin considered himself a good priest. His lack of academic brilliance, and a physique best described as obese, seemed no handicap to his ministry.

Father Devlin humbly acknowledged that his cherubic face, permanently etched with smile lines, and a fluency in Spanish, learned at his Castilian mothers knee, made him an effective ambassador of Christ in South America. After a decade in the slums of La Paz, Bolivia, the peasants endearingly referred to him as le petito rotundo, the little round one.

The priest was not smiling. An unmistakable sadness coated a face that looked much older than its fifty-two years. Six travelers still separated him from the American Airlines clerk who would check his tickets and his single piece of luggage. Nervously clutching the envelope containing his passport and plane tickets, the cleric said, as though to an unseen companion, It simply cannot be true. The gray-haired woman behind him asked, Are you alright, Father? Manuel rushed to give her his best smile, and said, Yes, thank you.

The it to which Manuel Devlins spontaneous remark referred, was a discovery, two weeks earlier, startling enough to prevent him from eating and sleeping normally, ever since. Manuel Devlins reaction to the newscanceling plans for a sabbatical in Louvain and Innsbruck, terminating his family visit one month early, and arranging a return to his Missioncame as an utter surprise to his family, and two days later, to his boss, the Jesuit Provincial in Boston.

Thanksgiving Day saw the course of Father Devlins immediate future flipped one-hundred-eighty degrees. The holiday began uneventfully enough. His three younger siblings and their families, who lived in Salem, about fifteen miles from the Devlin homestead, in Newburyport, arrived by noon. The dinner began in customary fashion soon after 2 p.m. As proof that everyone brought their usual ravenous appetites, all evidence of mama Devlins specialtyroast suckling pighad disappeared by the time the pumpkin, mince and apple pies appeared, three hours later.

Now, Manuel could only marvel that his father chose to bring up at dinner the story of Patrick O Higgins, the boy from Massachusetts, who three years earlier unleashed a plague of anthrax in Northern Ireland. About the time O Higgins role in the deadly epidemic was discovered, the perpetrator was killed in a mid-air explosion over the Northern Pacific.

Manuel remembered the tragedy in Ireland, and O Higgins accident, were mentioned in a letter from his father a month or so after the terrorists death. Since his work demanded all his time, Manuel skimmed most of the letter. He intended to reread it later, but never did. The Mission presented problems enough to consume the energy and time of several priests, so that Manuel worked, for the most part, in a state of ignorance of events in the rest of the world. The only outside happening of which he took note during his ten years in Bolivia, was 9/11. The rubble had yielded, months later, the partial remains of two of his childhood friends.

Following that heartrending disaster, the American priest, who had often spoken in his homilies about love as an alternative to violence, now talked about nothing else.

The life of Hugh and Maria Devlins firstborn would not have altered course, if Manuel had not remembered that his father kept scrapbooks, since his marriage over five decades before, which served as a chronicle of noteworthy local, national and international events. After the rest of the family had left for their homes, Manuel asked his dad, Would you happen to have an article on this Patrick O Higgins character around?

We do, Manny.



The caption, Confessed Killer Raised in Holyoke, appeared over the full-page article in the Newburyport Daily News, which Maria Devlin handed Manuel. The account included a photo of O Higgins obtained from the security department at the Langer-Beacher-Advant facility near Brockton Massachusetts, where O Higgins had created his terror weapon.



Seconds later, Mrs. Devlin noted that a wan sadness and vacant stare had replaced her priest-sons vibrant face and sparkling eyes. Before she could ask if he was feeling okay, Manuels five-foot, two hundred pound frame crumbled to the floor.

Oh God, no!.... Lord. Hugh help me! Mrs. Devlin was screaming.

His wifes cry caught Hugh Devlin, on his way out of the room, off guard. Confused, he turned to see his son lying face down on the kitchen floor, and his wife, now whispering so low the words were incoherent to him, trying to turn her son onto his back.

What happened? Hugh Devlin was a self-proclaimed sissy in medical matters. He looked, with panic, to his wife for instructions.

Sensing her sons fate was entirely in her hands, Maria shrugged, then took a long, deep breath. She checked first for a pulse, then for airflow from the nose.

Thank you, Jesus.

Manny was alive and breathing. Hes just fainted, Hugh. Mrs. Devlins reassuring tone calmed her spouse. Hes the only one of our children who did that as a child. Remember?

Mr. Devlin did not remember, but it must have been so, if his Maria said it was.

Reverting to habit whenever facing an unexpected crisis, Manuel Devlins parents started a rosary.

As Hugh Devlin announced the fourth Joyful Mystery, the Presentation of the Child Jesus in the Temple, his sons eyes opened. He said, Hi. I guess I gave you both a fright? Ill finish the last two decades with you.

After the rosary, a rosy-cheeked Manuel rushed to reassure his parents he was okay.

Im not used to so much food, Mama. Squeezing his mother with affection, and to prove his strength had returned, Manuel said, looking straight at his 44-portly father, Even though I eat little, I gain weight. Guess its the genes.



As Father Manuel Devlin became the next in line at the American Airlines counter, he recalled his sudden shock at seeing the newspaper photo. O Higgins never provided food for the fish, since he had become, in the previous two years, Manuels cherished and valued partner in ministering to some of the worlds most wretched and impoverished.

What was Manuel to do, now, about Dr. Dom Santoro, aka Patrick O Higgins?