The air in Clinton Church was cool, compared to the sultry New York summer’s night outside, even as the night crept towards dawn. A poor sleeper, and often up at this hour, Father Lantom returned the last prayer book alongside its fellows on the low shelves at the rear of the pews and sat back on his heels to survey the array in the low light afforded by the few side lamps he had lit.
Satisfied, the old priest gripped the top of the shelving unit to lever himself back to standing, his arthritic knees flaring in protest. Ironic, he half-smiled half-grimaced to himself, to find kneeling so difficult these days. Shaking his head wryly at the impassive Christ watching over him, he froze mid-turn at the unexpected noise form the vestry.
“Anthony?” He queried, his voice old yes, but still used to addressing congregations. He wasn’t really expecting his curate to be here so early though, and his body was tense, frozen in momentary indecision. There was no further sound from the vestry.
“Matthew?” He asked more quietly. Was that the faintest noise? Frowning he moved towards the vestry door, the thick old wood giving nothing away. He paused again with his hand on the heavy iron latch, cool metal even under layers of black paint.
“Matthew?” He tried again, his straining ears rewarded with the faintest scuffle.
Steeling himself, the priest pushed open the door decisively. The vestry was dark, just the outside streetlight casting an orange glow over the figures in front of him.
Sprawled on the floor, unmoving, was recognizably Matthew, in that familiar mask and suit, and hunched over him – a malevolent hooded figure, no doubt a pursuer who had followed him here.
Lantom surged forward unthinking,
“What have you done?” As he moved into the room, he could make out the dark stain that was creeping out across the floor from Matthew’s still form, and he skidded to a halt.
The hooded figure shifted, and dark eyes found his. The stranger licked his lips, “Father, I…”
As Lantom’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark he saw that the stranger’s hands were pressed to Matthew’s abdomen, did he have some kind of weapon?
“I need to keep pressure on here, is there…is there someone you can call..?” and at the priest’s blank look, “..for help?”
The priest shook himself, a Samaritan then, rather than an assailant.
“I…yes, I think...Ma…” he caught himself, “he…he gave me a number, I’ll just…” The dark eyes tracked the old man as he fumbled with his phone.
On his phone, a ringing tone sounded as the number connected. Abruptly, Matthew started from the floor, shoulders lurching upward and hands grasping weakly at the wrists at his stomach. A poorly stifled cry of pain broke the quiet at the suddenness of the movement.
“Hey, hey….easy … " the hooded man moved one bloodied hand to Matt’s shoulder, “Hey…Red..it’s..” he cleared his throat, “it’s me.”
The old priest stared, observing the stranger’s quiet tone and easy familiarity with confusion, and failed at first to notice the woman’s answering voice at the end of the line.
“Hello? Hello? Who is this?”
“I…oh…I..sorry…sorry .. is this..” Father Lantom angled his phone away from his ear and peered at the dimly illuminated screen, “Is this Claire?”
“Who is this?”
“We have..a …mutual friend.” Lantom watched the stranger settle Matthew back to the floor, both hands once again pressed to the stomach wound.
“He… we…need medical assistance.”
“Ask if she can bring plasma”. The man on the floor was looking back at him following the conversation, his hood had fallen back revealing militarily short hair, stubbled cheeks streaked with sweat and grime, a split lip.
Recognition clawed at the back of the priest’s mind.
“Oh …er…can you bring plasma?” He asked the woman called Claire, while his subconscious nagged at him about this man.
On the phone there was the muffled sound of someone moving about, the clatter of objects, a heavy exasperated sigh and then,
“I’ll try my best. Where is he?”
“He..we’re…Clinton Church…it’s just…”
“I know it, I’ll be half an hour or so,” the call cut, and the priest blinked perplexedly at his phone screen.
“She’ll be half an hour,” said the priest.
The kneeling man looked up and nodded, face serious, mission accepted.
“I know you.” Said the priest.
The man gave the tiniest shake of his head with a huffed snort, looked away and down, “You really don’t Father.”
“I..” began the priest but the man cut him short,
“Look, I’m sorry I came here Father – I didn’t mean to put you in any danger it was just the nearest..”
“Francis -isn't it?”
The man looked up startled, mouth dropped open in shock.
“You were at the seminary in San..”
“That wasn’t me,” the man said (too?) hurriedly looking back down towards his bloody hands.
“We were all someone else once Francis,” the priest looked at the kneeling man, the bulk of his bullet proof vest, Frank Castle’s vest, the white sigil imperfectly covered by the poorly zippered hoody, “don’t think that you can’t change again.”
Frank Castle’s head bowed further, eyes closing as if overcome with fatigue.
“There’s nothing left to redeem here Father,” he said quietly, before looking back up to the priest with a near-silent, mirthless laugh.
But the priest looked pointedly towards the hands pressed so fervently to Matthew’s stomach and said,
“I don’t think that’s true”.