A/N: Wow! So pleasantly surprised at the positive reaction to my first chapter! Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm glad I didn't seem to offend any Catholics (yet). I hope you enjoy this next installment even more. Thanks for reading.
Chapter 2
"Well, he could have at least invited us in for tea or something," said Lisbon grumpily as she drove cautiously away from the church. The freezing rain had slowed considerably, and she turned her windshield wipers to low.
"He looked tired," said Cho helpfully from the passenger's seat.
"Okay, but still…"
But Cho knew what she meant. He was by no means religious, but there was something a little off about this priest. It wasn't something he could put his finger on exactly, but Cho vowed to keep an eye on the guy, if only for Lisbon's sake.
For her part, Lisbon couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed, after her expectations had been so high in meeting the new priest. But Cho was right—he had appeared tired, and had said he'd just arrived after his long drive from California. Maybe her disappointment came because he was much more casual a priest than she was used to, didn't exude the usual air of safety and purity of Father John and the other priests she had known. He certainly looked like a saint, however, with all those beautiful blonde curls and soft green eyes, but there was a hint of mischief that one didn't usually see in a man of God, and it was very disconcerting. She'd felt a totally inappropriate jolt of awareness in his presence, which in turn made her feel confused, embarrassed, and a little guilty. Just part of being Catholic, she supposed, frowning.
And yet, she was still annoyed he didn't invite them into the rectory to warm up.
Just then, the slightly hesitant voice of the Cannon River Police Department dispatcher/receptionist/assistant/sometime jailer crackled over the radio.
"Lieutenant Lisbon, there's a three-car pile-up on the interstate just south of town. Highway patrol is requesting assistance."
"Okay, Henry, we're on it."
She supposed her disappointment in the new priest would have to wait. Besides, she'd see him tomorrow for the weekly community outreach at the church, and maybe then she'd get to see the real priest beneath those mischievous eyes…
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
When the knocking on the door awakened him, for a moment, Jane didn't know where he was. His eyes flew open and he looked at the unfamiliar ceiling. Dim light was coming through the blinds at the window and he realized it was morning. When he focused on the crucifix hanging above the plain chest of drawers, he remembered he wasn't in a cheap motel room anymore.
The knocking persisted-just a polite tap-and Jane stood with a groan and pulled on his sweatshirt and jeans. Someone was at the door that led to the inside of the church, so it was unlikely it was the cute little police officer he'd met last night. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and opened the door.
Sister Grace and her Mother Superior stood patiently, the sour faced older woman frowning at his state of less-than-holiness.
"Sister Grace," said Jane politely.
"Father Patrick," she acknowledged. "This is Reverend Mother Margaret Maria."
The name gave him pause. His mother had been named Margaret—Maggie to most people she knew. He swallowed down the unexpected pang of loss.
"Good morning, Reverend Mother. What brings you to my door this fine, frosty morning?"
Her thin lips formed a disapproving line. "You must not have received the memo before you left, listing Saint Andrew's schedule. Today is Community Outreach day, which we do three times per week. We are serving lunch to the poor and displaced in an hour."
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "So?", but he remained respectful, and nodded. "I'm sorry I slept so late."
And he truly was. Had he awakened earlier, he would have been long gone by now.
"So we will see you in the basement hall very soon?" It really wasn't a question, so to be fair, Jane didn't answer it.
"How are the roads?" he ventured instead.
"They are practically impassable in an out of town because of the ice. The cold weather will likely bring more to today's luncheon," Reverend Mother finished pointedly.
"I'm sure," said Jane. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should probably get dressed."
"Yes," said Reverend Mother, and Jane felt like he had when he'd attended Catholic school briefly as a child—terrified—but he tried his best not to show it.
Jane offered his best smile—one he knew never failed to dazzle the women. Sister Grace predictably blushed and smiled shyly in return. Reverend Mother Margaret Maria was immune.
The door shut between them, Jane swore under his breath. He wasn't going anywhere today. The right thing now would be to admit he was an imposter, and throw himself on the Reverend Mother's mercy to let him stay until the busses were running again. Or…he looked around the tidy little rectory. The tidy little warm rectory, where he'd gotten an excellent night's sleep for a change, without the usual nefarious activities keeping him awake at all hours in the dives that he could afford. Which was another thing. He had little money to pay for a motel room even if there was a room available in such a place, and how would he pay for another bus ticket after that?
He'd found the real Father Patrick's wallet in the pocket of the priest's pants from the hospital bag. There was a couple hundred dollars in cash in there, but when he thought of the kindly priest lying in a coma at the hospital, Jane couldn't bring himself to take it. What would his father think of that, he wondered.
Not a day away from me, Paddy, and you're already goin' soft. No way in hell you're gonna make it without me, kid.
The voice in his head had a point. How would he be able to earn a living as a conman if he couldn't even steal a few measly bills from a sick man's wallet?
He went over to the window and lifted a slat of the mini blind. A light snow was falling, covering the layer of ice already accumulated on the ground and weighing down the tree branches. It would probably take at least an hour to scrape the windshield of Father Patrick's car. He shivered just at the thought of going out there to perform the task. He wished he had asked the lady cop from the night before if he could borrow her can of de-icer. But mostly, he wished she hadn't been a cop.
A vision of large green eyes in a porcelain face came to mind, and he recalled the instant attraction he'd felt for his lovely, uniformed heroine. He wondered what she looked like beneath the bulky jacket she'd worn, wondered if she ever had cause to use those handcuffs he'd seen dangling from her belt. His heart skipped a beat. Under other circumstances, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to date a cop—well, that cop, in particular.
She'd seemed disappointed that he hadn't invited her in out of the cold, but there was too much at stake to risk discovery. Her partner had already looked suspicious. But so far, Jane had done nothing really illegal. He hadn't actually said he was a priest—everyone had just assumed it. He'd been given permission to drive Father Patrick's car, and he was sure, even with their brief acquaintance, that the good priest wouldn't have begrudged him seeking refuge from the storm in the rectory. No, he would just have to play it cool and avoid the police, even though it meant never seeing those beautiful eyes again.
But first, he had to get through lunch and the shrewd eyes of Mother Margaret Maria. Reluctantly, he went to the priest's suitcase he'd retrieved from his car last night. Inside the scuffed brown leather case were several black shirts and black pants, all neatly folded. He sighed. He couldn't exactly appear in the basement wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, but putting on the priest's garb would be a step over the line that he couldn't take back. He would no longer be able to say people were making assumptions about his identity, for clearly he would be intentionally choosing to defraud them.
"Well, Patrick," he said to the empty apartment, "you wanted to be your own man, to run your own game. Now's the time to put your money where your big mouth is."
Resigned now to whatever might come, he pulled his sweatshirt off over his head.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The line into the basement already stretched outside the doors, at least fifty people deep, and Sister Grace and a few other nuns from the small abbey across the street were ushering them inside out of the cold. Several long, folding tables and chairs were set up in readiness for the diners. Along one side of the large room, a cafeteria style serving area contained steaming trays of what appeared to be the choice of hot spaghetti, green beans, or beef stew with slices of crusty homemade bread. Jane's stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma, and he realized he hadn't had the chance to fix himself some eggs from the priest's refrigerator in the rectory.
"You're just in time, Father," said the Reverend Mother, emerging from the kitchen. "Hold out your hands, please."
He did so without thinking, and she slipped on each of his hands a clear plastic glove, then slid a matching apron over his head. She nodded toward the food, and it dawned on him belatedly that he was expected to serve. He grinned with good humor at the mess he'd gotten himself into, but gamely took his place in front of the spaghetti. He'd just settled there, taking up a large spoon, when a familiar, petite form came out of the kitchen carrying a giant chocolate sheet cake.
The young woman's dark hair was cut into a sleek bob that stopped just below a small, rather stubborn chin, her smooth skin devoid of much makeup except a bit of mascara and some pale peach lip gloss. With a barely discernable smattering of tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks, she looked fresh and lovely and about fifteen years old. She wore the same gloves and apron as he, though hers protected her smartly pressed green police lieutenant's uniform, gold star and all. She literally stopped in her tracks at the sight of him.
"Hello, Officer," said Jane amiably, finding to his surprise he was inordinately happy to see her, despite the danger her uniform presented him.
She smiled warily back at him, and he rushed to help her set down the heavy pan at the end of the serving line. "Lieutenant," she corrected him. "Lisbon. Teresa Lisbon." They shook gloved hands, and a warm current passed between them even through the plastic. The strange sensation made him grin.
"Nice of you to volunteer," he said, as she began cutting the cake into neat squares with a scary looking serrated knife.
"It's my parish," she explained.
"Aw, you're Catholic then. What a coincidence; so am I."
She laughed at that, as he'd intended, finally lifting her eyes from her task with the cake to meet his. Her dimples only enhanced her appeal. God, she was lovely.
Her brow knitted as her gaze followed the lines of his face like a caress, before landing and pausing at his neck. "Your collar, Father—I think it's upside down."
He glanced nervously downward, but of course he couldn't see what she meant. There is an up and down with these things?
He held up his gloves helplessly. "I'll have to fix it later. I was in a hurry this morning. I overslept, I'm afraid."
"It must have been a long trip from California."
"Yes," he said simply. "So, you take off work to help here? That's very impressive."
She shrugged modestly. "My partner covers for me at the station, and technically I'm on call. But nothing very exciting ever happens in Cannon River—not that that's a bad thing, necessarily," she rushed to say, lest she sounded like she wanted trouble.
So, the little cop was bored, thought Jane. Interesting.
"I imagine the storm last night was an exception," he suggested.
"It was definitely a busy night. I'm just thankful no one was seriously hurt."
But he was denied the chance to inquire further about the roads when the first of the needy picked up their trays at the beginning of the serving line. Teresa Lisbon took her place beside him, manning the green beans with her big slotted spoon.
"One spoonful of spaghetti per patron, Father," she told him helpfully. "They can have seconds if we have enough after everyone is served."
"Thanks," he said.
A couple more nuns joined them, including Sister Grace, whose job was ladling stew into bowls that she handed carefully to each person. Jane began then to really see whom he was serving. They were mostly men, grizzled and dressed in layers of ragged clothing, some more threadbare than others, some with more appropriate heavy coats. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the odor some of them exuded. There were a few women with their children, and Jane's throat tightened in sudden remembrance. There had been times in the winter months when carnival season was over and money was tight, that his mother had taken him to a local soup kitchen. She had been a proud woman, but she couldn't bear to hear her young son complain of hunger. What was it about this place that seemed to recall so many memories?
Jane smiled at a woman in a black stocking cap who helped her young daughter hold up her tray so Jane could plop a spoon of spaghetti into the largest compartment.
"Thank you, Father," said the woman. The little boy of about four looked up at Jane with enormous blue eyes, beneath a red hat, and Jane suddenly felt lost in time.
"Say thank you, Danny," her mother prompted.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You're very welcome," said Jane, utterly charmed. His eyes followed the pair as they continued down the line and took their trays to a table. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on what he was doing. It was then that he felt someone's eyes on him, and he turned slightly to see Teresa Lisbon watching him intently. They shared a look of mutual compassion, and then went about their work, Jane taking the time now to notice and speak to each person in line. He was rewarded with "Thank you, Father" and "Merry Christmas, Father," or "God bless you, Father," all with various degrees of pride and shyness.
Though he didn't deserve any of their praise, for the first time in years, Jane felt good about something he had done, felt the warm glow that came from a child's smile or the gratitude of an adult in dire need. He felt shaken by the experience, and guilty at the same time at his deception.
But then he forgot all that when a familiar man held out his plate for his portion of spaghetti. Though he now resembled one of the many homeless people he had seen that day, Jane recognized him at once. He had been on the bus with him yesterday, the same guy who had warned him in the bar that their bus was about to leave. He'd sat across from him on the bus, and they'd chatted briefly about where they were from and where they were headed. Small talk; nothing that would lead Jane to believe the man wanted anything from him, or that he was dangerous.
Now where had that thought come from? Jane's instincts heightened, and he felt a wave of trepidation wash over him.
"Hello…Father," the man said with mild irony. Jane's eyes widened. This guy knew damn well he was not a priest, had likely seen him talking with Father Patrick at the bar. He hadn't gotten back on the bus either, for some reason. What the hell was he doing here, impersonating a homeless man? Running some sort of scam of his own? Or, thought Jane, his stomach turning over, was the man following him?
He accepted his spaghetti with a knowing smirk and an offhanded thanks, smiling now at Teresa, who added green beans to his plate. Jane watched as he sat near little Danny and his mother, a wave of protective anger sweeping over him, heightening the color in his cheeks.
"Are you all right, Father?" Teresa asked softly.
"Fine," he said, his voice sharper than he'd intended. Thankfully, she didn't pry further, but he kept one eye on the guy the rest of the time.
Later, when everyone was fed (including, as it would happen, himself and the other volunteers) he stood by Teresa Lisbon again, washing the trays and silverware in the kitchen. He had looked for the man from the bus again, but after he'd eaten and returned his tray, he'd disappeared back out into the cold. Jane had had his hands full serving spaghetti, so he'd been unable to tear himself away and chase the guy outside to confront him, not without drawing too much attention to himself.
Teresa noticed his preoccupied expression.
"You seem upset, Father," she said.
He managed a small smile, though his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. "I apologize. It was just…touching to see so many in need."
She nodded, spraying down a pile of silverware in the sink with hot water. "Yes. Hard to believe there are so many, just in our small town. Though the cold weather brought more than usual today."
"The Reverend Mother predicted as much."
"You didn't have as many needy people in your parish in California?"
His lips clenched at the lie he must tell, so he vowed to frame it with as much of the truth as he could muster. "I didn't do this kind of thing in California."
"I imagine in a bigger parish you would have many more volunteers."
"Yeah."
But his mind was still racing at the possible identity of the "homeless" man. Jane knew with a dire certainty now he'd been followed from Los Angeles, just as his father had warned him might happen. If this were true, he'd see the man again soon enough, and he mentally cursed his father again for taking his pistol.
In the meantime, Jane made himself focus on the present, and on the beautiful woman working beside him.
"How long have you been in Cannon River?" he asked her, with his usual good humor.
She stared at him, surprised by his abrupt change in manner. "Two years," she replied automatically. "How long have you been a priest?"
His lips smirked slightly. "Not as long as you might think."
Her eyebrows raised, but she didn't comment on his answer. "Well, this is a nice little parish. I like it here. I'm looking forward to hearing your Christmas Mass. I thought we wouldn't have one this year, considering…"
He thought of the folder he'd found with Father Patrick's things. It was a typed sermon, labeled "Christmas Mass." If he was still here at Christmas, God help him, at least he'd be able to wing it, though the prospect of standing in a church and pretending like he knew what he was doing, of lying to a hopeful congregation on one of their holiest days, suddenly didn't sit right with him. He had a sudden flashback to the time he'd had to pretend he had a crystal that would cure a disabled girl, back when his father had forced him to play the part of the Boy Wonder on the carnival circuit. That hadn't sat right with him either. It was one thing to target the undeserving, the assholes of the world who could afford to "share" their wealth. It was another thing entirely to take advantage of helpless innocents. His father had never seen the distinction.
"You're not from around here either," said Jane, changing the subject. "I detect…a hint of Chi-town in your speech."
"How'd you know that?" She'd obviously tried to hide her accent, probably to fit in in this small community.
He shrugged. "I'm pretty good with accents. Your partner, for example. Northern California all the way—Bay Area maybe?"
"That's incredible. I think he only said two words to you last night."
"It's a gift," he said without conceit.
"Huh," she said in wonder. "I suppose it would be. You're a very interesting man, Father Patrick. Not like any priest I've ever known."
He looked up from the next dirty tray in the stack, tossed more silverware into the sink for her. Without considering the consequences, he gave her a flirtatious wink. "I imagine I'm not, Lieutenant Lisbon. Just as you're like no cop I've ever met."
She grinned at him, no doubt recognizing the truth in that. Female cops were a rarity, even in this day and age, but he knew she could read a deeper meaning into his words, and he was having a difficult time remaining in character with her.
"I imagine I'm not," she echoed softly.
For a moment, their gazes locked and held, and it took a Herculean effort not to grab her and kiss her sweetly formed lips. She must have seen his unspoken intention, for her eyes fluttered nervously back to her dirty silverware, while Jane, heart pounding heavily, roughly grabbed the last tray from the stack.
The dangerous spell was broken by the arrival of Sister Grace with another armload of plastic trays.
"We helped so many today, Father Patrick," she said brightly, but then her pretty face grew pensive. "Though should we see this as a blessing or a tragedy?"
"There were a lot more people than usual," said Teresa, in the wake of Jane's tongue-tied silence. "But I'm sure it's temporary for many. Some of the crowd I recognized as stranded travelers from the bus depot."
"I suppose it's both, then, Sister," said Jane at last, grateful for the distraction from Lisbon's eyes, misty green and intriguing, like the forest surrounding the little town.
Sister grace nodded. "Then I will pray in gratitude and for mercy."
"I'm sure that will cover everybody," said Jane, cleaning another tray with strange intensity. He missed the startled looks of the two women, whose eyes met in shared confusion at their new priest's odd reply.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To give himself something to work out his frustrations, Jane found a snow shovel, a bag of ice melt, and some work gloves in a utility closet near the front door of the church. Fresh air—even cold air—had always helped him clear his head. Bundling up in Father Patrick's coat, he set about clearing the ice and snow from the church walkways. The snow had finally stopped, and a bit of weak sunlight was seeping through the clouds, but the temperature was still well below freezing. It would be at least another day before things began to thaw, according to the local weather forecast.
As he made his way to the rectory path, he looked wistfully at the priest's ice-covered car. He longed for escape, both from the man stalking him and from his complicated feelings for the enchanting Teresa Lisbon. If he stayed here much longer, had more contact with her, he would forget himself like he almost had in the church kitchen, and his cover would be blown sky high. He decided then to go ahead and attempt to clear the windshields of the car, in case he'd have to make a hasty getaway, bad roads or not.
He was just spreading ice melt near a tall juniper shrub when the man from the bus came out from behind it, sidling up to Jane before he could think to move away or pick up his shovel. He felt the hard metal of a gun pressed into his side, even through his greatcoat.
"Need some help, Father?" It was his bus depot shadow, still in the tattered coat of a homeless man. Jane had the feeling some fortunate homeless person was now wearing designer jeans and a leather jacket somewhere, eating hot food and buying from the top shelf in a liquor store. He probably smelled a lot better too.
"Who the hell are you?" asked Jane, proud his voice wasn't shaking. If anyone should drive by, they would be unable to see them from the street, as was likely the man's intention, and it was unlikely anyone would be peeking out from the rectory window.
"I think you know—or at least have figured out who I work for," he replied tightly. "Roger Corpsman ring any bells?"
Jane nodded. Corpsman was the wealthy but gullible heir to an electronics company whose inner circle Alex and Patrick had infiltrated back in LA. The long con had been to get Corpsman to invest in some bogus business deal, then the Janes would simply take the money and run. But they hadn't even gotten the man on the hook yet when Alex got caught sleeping with Corpsman's hot, ex-Playboy Playmate wife. Alex Jane was like a thieving racoon, who couldn't resist the attraction of shiny thing, even if he got his paw caught in a trap.
"Good, you remember. Where's Daddy, Patrick?"
"I have no idea," said Jane. "When he screwed up, I stopped working with him."
"Well that's unfortunate," said the man, disturbingly close to Jane's ear. "Look, I don't know what kind of scam you're running here-maybe planning to pilfer the offering box on Christmas Day? I honestly don't give a rat's ass, but I'm sure that pretty little cop would be interested, not to mention all the sweet nuns you were feeding the homeless with today. They might want to know how you got close to the real priest in a bar, disposed of him, took his car, and assumed his identity—all of which I witnessed when I missed my bus last night. So, unless you want me to expose your game to this whole town, you'll find your prodigal daddy and get him to come here so I can have a little chat with him about personal boundaries."
"I swear, I don't know where he is. But even if I did, I wouldn't turn him over to the likes of you." In response to Jane's momentary rebellion, the gun was jabbed more meaningfully into his gut.
"Huh, that is a quandary. But what if I were to help you out a little? Say, take out a cop or two, or maybe that nosy old Mother Superior? With no one keeping an eye on you, you could get away with—"
"No!" Jane said vehemently, picturing a horrific massacre in the middle of Christmas Mass. "No one needs to get hurt. I'll see if I can get him here."
"Wise choice. I strongly suggest this happens within forty-eight hours. If not, the pretty cop is first on my list. And if you think of ratting me out or skipping town, the body count will increase tenfold, and you'll be one of them. I'm sure now you can see how serious I am about this, Patrick."
"Yeah," said Jane, his pulse racing with fear.
"Nobody messes with Roger Corpsman's property without repercussions, understand?"
"Completely," Jane assured him.
"I'll be back at your place in two days. Say!" said the henchman brightly. "Just in time for Christmas! You'd better be on your best behavior till then, Patrick, or instead of coal in your stocking, Santa will bring you and your friends a nice lump of hot lead."
"Very clever," said Jane.
The henchman smiled. "I thought so."
Abruptly, the gun was removed from his side, and the smell of unwashed clothing faded away. Jane picked up the snow shovel, leaning heavily on it in shaking aftershock, wishing he'd had the chance to bash the man over the head with it.
"Holy shit," he said, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with the back of his work glove. He felt suddenly frozen, but more in the figurative sense. He had no doubt this guy meant business—Jane was an expert at reading people, after all.
Jane knew the motel where he and Alex were supposed to meet in Portland; the only problem was, Alex had said himself he might be late getting there. Jane supposed he could start calling the women he was aware of that his father might visit along the way, but there were many people and things his father kept from him—another reason why their partnership must end. If only Alex's stupid decisions would stop biting Jane in the ass, he could finally get on with his independent existence.
Another vision of Teresa Lisbon, green eyes staring blankly up at the gray sky, her blood staining the white snow, brought him out of his momentary shock. He threw down the shovel angrily, kicked the half-empty bag of ice-melt, and stomped back into the rectory. There was a phone in the priest's office, and Jane found that in a choice between his father's life and the residents of this small town, Teresa Lisbon and Cannon River won, hand's down. If his father was killed, well, he'd had it coming, if only for screwing up Jane's entire life.
Jane sat heavily in the leather desk chair and picked up the white receiver from its cradle, then pressed the touchtone buttons for Oregon Information. Someone was going to pay for Alex Jane's indiscretions, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him, or the incredible Lieutenant Lisbon.
A/N: The plot thickens. Thanks for reading. More soon. Happy New Year to you all! (RIP Carrie Fisher and George Michael—two big parts of my formative years, gone in a flash. 2016 really sucked for 70 and 80's icons). Here's hoping for a much more prosperous and merciful 2017!
