“Think they’ll charge you under this Patriot bill, whatever it is?” the priest asked.

I grimaced. “I hope not-the last few years I’ve already had more jail time than I can really use. Anyway, if the FBI gets involved, and if they really want Benjamin, they can put enough people on me that I may not be able to shake them. So once I show up at home, I won’t be able to get back in touch with you. Or vice versa. If you can’t keep Benjamin, let me know now so I can try to come up with some other safe house.”

“Don’t seem to be able to keep track of their own weapons these days, the Feds. Shouldn’t think they’d have the manpower to follow one gal like you around town. Still, better safe than sorry. Baker Street Irregulars-I can send some of my toughs over to you on bikes-your office still over there near Milwaukee, right? Easy ride for these kids. If you want me-” He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “Say a prayer, God’ll let me know” Meaning, I could come to church.

“As far as young Ben goes, I’ll sort him out,” Father Lou went on. “Think you’re right, think he’s a scared kid on the run. In which case, I’ll keep him until we figure out where else to send him. If he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, give him to Uncle Sam. Let you know, either way.”

“There’s one other thing about him,” I said. “I think he saw some part

of what happened to Marcus Whitby Sunday night. He would stand at the attic window watching for Catherine, and you get a view from there of most of the pond. If he saw the person who put Whitby into the waterI want to know.”

Father Lou thought it over, decided it wasn’t an unreasonable request, and nodded agreement. “See what I can get him to say. What’s happening with Morrell?”

My stomach tightened. “He’s off on some hot lead that he didn’t want to reveal on-line.”

“And you’re angry.”

“I’m angry. I’m supposed to weave tapestries while he does God knows what, in God knows whose company.”

The priest gave his wheezy laugh again. “You weave tapestries, my girl? You ain’t the passive waiting type, so don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Get off your tail and get to work. I have to finish my sermon.”

I blushed in embarrassment and stood up. Father Lou saw the flash of pain across my face from my shoulder. I tried to make light of it, but he led me through the church to the school on the far side. Even on a Saturday afternoon, the gym was filled with kids, some shooting baskets, but most working out on boxing dummies. St. Remigio’s routinely won state boxing titles, and every boy in school dreamed of making the team.

Father Lou stopped to correct one boy’s arm position, set another closer to the bag, and warned two others not to bring personal fights into his gym. They all nodded solemnly. Father Lou had the magic touch of believable authority in this world. He might chew out his kids, but he never let them down.