The force of the explosion caused Father Corrigan and Father Perez to pause in their lovemaking.
   Closer to the blast, winds exploded in a circular wave, spreading concentrically outward across the suburban plain. The earth seemed to shake, but mostly it was the sound –– and the wind. Puffy bits of insulation floated to the earth like dirty snow. Cars and buses stopped haphazardly, their occupants rushing wide-eyed into the streets. Many looked skyward, searching for the apocalyptic mushroom cloud.
   Somewhere a woman was crying.
   At the Fairfax County Center every phone was ringing, seemingly in angry unison. Police dispatchers tried in vain to calm each caller and each other while waiting for reliable information on the source of the explosion. Sergeant Leo Kozinsky, already in a foul mood for drawing station duty on a Sunday, hollered into his radio mike: “This is Fax Central –– what the hell –– what in the howlin’ hammers of hell is goin’ on out there? Somebody better talk to me –– aye, friggin, sap!”
   The frightened priests held each other beneath the covers, cowering, as if hiding from an omnipotent, searching eye. Slowly, Father Perez inched his face clear of the blanket and looked sheepishly around the room. There was no obvious damage. Wait. A crack in the window –– the only tangible evidence of damage behind the roar they each first presumed was God’s throaty outrage –– their summons to judgment. The old priest slid a foot to the floor, then another. Slowly he collapsed on the thin, gray carpet and crawled, childlike, toward the only window in the room. As he reached the wall, he paused. His heart was racing and suddenly he felt the urge to urinate. First one hand, then another –– now he pulls his face upward toward the windowsill.
   The smoke rose in a lofty plume –– wide at its summit –– narrowing and growing darker as he followed it downward, his face inching over the sill. Even at a great distance he could clearly see the pile of smoking rubble that had once been a magnificent symbol of its owner’s stature and environmental sensitivity. It had been called an architectural triumph –– twelve imposing stories above the loveliest hill in this opulent suburb.
   And now it was gone.

He stared for half a minute –– eyes wide –– heart racing. Turning about slowly, he leaned back against the wall and spoke to his colleague:
  “It’s all right, David. Today, it seems, His wrath is meant for others more deserving than you or me.”