On the Third Day by David Niall Wilson

camera. 
                “Gladys,” he asked softly, “how long have I been lying here?”
                Gladys stepped closer to the bed.  She gazed down at him with maternal concern in her eyes, and he had the fleeting impression that she intended to reach out and smooth his hair back from his forehead.  She did not.  Instead, Gladys laid one huge, meaty hand on his arm, pressing the quilt to his suddenly clammy skin.
                “You’ve been lyin’ there as quiet as a lamb these past two days, Father,” she said.  “You’ve been here ever since you fell – during the Mass, I mean.  I had them carry you here, Kathy O’Pezio and me saw to it.  They wanted to take you away to the hospital, but there was nothing those doctors could do.  They checked your signs and all, and they knew it as well as I did.  What you needed was rest – and plenty of it.”
                Thomas considered her words.  He had a hard time wrapping his thoughts around it, but he replied uncertainly.
                “It’s Wednesday, then?” he asked.
                Gladys nodded.  She watched him with concern and shuffled her great feet along the edge of the bed, as though she was not sure what, exactly, to say.  Finally, she came to a decision.
                “I was afraid the Good Lord had taken you away from us, Father.   After the miracle, I mean.”
                Father Thomas shook his head again, foolishly shooting new sparks of pain through his skull, and frowned.  He tried desperately to remember what had happened.  He had no idea how he’d gotten into his bed, or who he might have offended, or hurt.
                “I’m not sure that it was a miracle, Gladys,” he said softly.  “Not sure at all what it was.”
                He fell silent for a moment, avoiding her eyes.  There was something itching at the back of his mind, something important, but it wouldn’t come to the surface.  Then it hit him, and he turned, eyes wide, and clutched her dress.
                “The Bishop,” he gasped.  “Bishop Michaels.  What happened with him?  He was there – he had a camera and . . .”
                Gladys pulled herself free gently and turned away, shuffling slowly toward Thomas’ dresser, where she began to re-arrange things, tidying and dusting aimlessly.
                Finally, snorting derisively, she answered.
                “Oh, he was there, that one,” she said.  “He was there with his driver, and his cameras and his hoo-haw.  He was there to the very end, Father, but I’ll tell you something.”
                She turned back then, fixing him with a stern, no-nonsense glare, “he was out of that cathedral before you’d even finished hitting the floor.  He put that camera over his shoulder, dangling cords and such, and he lit out like a scared rabbit.
                “I tried to catch him, to get him to bring help in that big, fancy car of his.”
                She glanced down, then lifted the hem of her dress and showed him a notched bruise on her left calf.
                “He lit out so fast he spit gravel at me.  I’m lucky I didn’t lose an eye, and no mistake.”
                Thomas heard her, but his mind was fixated on that last image, the camera, and the Bishop, far above him, the unwavering lens.  He knew that part or most of what had happened had to have been captured on film.
                “He left no messages for me?” Thomas asked softly.  “He said nothing at all, has not come to speak with me about the . . . incident?”
                “Incident?” Gladys snorted again.  “It was a miracle, Father, make no mistake.  And no.  That one hasn’t come within a country mile of here since Easter Sunday.”
                She hesitated, and