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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 0:49:49 GMT -5
"Ketsele!" The shouted greeting from the third-story apartment was accompanied by a whistle and a waved broom. "Good to see you!"
Regina Dawson looked up and waved casually in response to Mrs. Abramoff -- a plump, middle-aged woman whose motherly appearance was somewhat marred by her naturally multicolored hair. Mrs. Abramoff, like most of the people in this neighborhood, was a mutant -- and this was one of the few neighborhoods in New York where that actually put her in the majority.
Daws couldn't help grinning as she approached Our Lady of Refuge. She didn't make it to Mass every week -- a fact Father Steele never quite let her forget -- but whenever she did return to Our Lady, it was like coming home.
Daws hadn't bothered to stop by her office or her apartment after leaving Casselton Mortuary; she knew Father Steele would definitely be around -- it was one of the afternoons when he heard confessions.
She rapped sharply on the low white wooden fence that surrounded the churchyard and waved at Mike Whitebird, who was apparently repairing a section of that same fence.
"Hey, Mike!" She grinned. "What've you been up to?"
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 1:03:35 GMT -5
Hearing his name called, Mike looked up--and upon seeing Daws, his mouth curled into a huge smile around the row of nails between his teeth. He unceremoniously spat them out, dropped the hammer in his hand, and shambled forward with his slightly limping gait.
"Hi, Daws!" the big Native American exclaimed, in his usual enthusiastic and rather fatuous tone. "I'm just fixin' the fence. Yesterday I fixed the door. It don't squeak no more."
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 1:07:09 GMT -5
Daws felt her own grin widen in response -- it was hard to keep that from happening around Mike. "Mike, I dunno what we ever did around here before you came around. That door's been squeaking for ages." Then she winked and added "I guess that means it'll be easier for me to sneak into Mass late, huh?"
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 1:13:45 GMT -5
"Nobody sneaks around Padre," Mike replied, in a humorously sage manner. "He sees all the way around." He drew a circle around his head with one forefinger to illustrate the point.
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 1:17:31 GMT -5
"And don't I know it." Daws pushed her fedora back on her head. "Matter of fact, I'm here to see him." She gestured at the church building. "Seen anybody else come in today?"
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 1:30:28 GMT -5
Mike shook his head. "Nope. We just been fixin' an' cleanin' all day."
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 1:34:52 GMT -5
Daws nodded. "Well, keep up the good work." She slapped Mike jovially on the shoulder and added, "The parish better be keepin' you supplied with chocolate bars, all the work you put in around here. If they don't, you let me know."
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 1:46:50 GMT -5
Mike grinned, nodded, and lumbered back over to the stretch of fence he had been repairing. With a mildly perplexed expression, he bent down to pick up the nails he had dropped.
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 3:09:28 GMT -5
Daws pushed open the (now-silent) door of the church and glanced around. The place smelled faintly of pine-scented cleanser, and the surfaces were conspicuously dust-free. They’ve been cleaning, all right. Daws slipped her fedora off, shrugged out of her coat, and placed both on the donated dry-cleaner’s rack near the entrance. Then she padded through the narrow foyer into the sanctuary proper and called out quietly “Anyone home?”
“There’s always Someone home.” A gruff voice responded from above. Daws glanced up and met a pair of sharp brown eyes peering down at her from the church’s small balcony.
“ ‘lo, Padre.” Daws nodded up at Father Richard Steele, known to almost everyone in the neighborhood as ‘Padre’. “Long time, no see.”
“Three weeks, in fact.” The bald priest remarked quickly, his mouth quirking in a half-smile. Then his head disappeared from the balcony’s edge, although his voice still echoed in the quiet sanctuary. “Would it be overly optimistic of me to assume,” He appeared in the narrow doorway that led to the balcony stairs, brushing dust off of his shirt, “That you’re here to make confession?”
“Well . . .” Daws scratched sheepishly behind her ear. “Yes and no.”
“Never a straight answer. A woman whose life’s work is finding answers, and still never a straight answer.” The priest shook his head in mock sorrow. Then he frowned, taking in the sight of Daw’s uncharacteristically somber clothing. “Someone’s dead.”
Daws raised an eyebrow and raked her fingers through her messy black hair. “It could be I just wanted to dress nicely.” She made a small gesture towards the altar.
The Padre snorted. “You wear the skirt for Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and funerals. And it’s definitely not Lent or Holy Week.”
Daws nodded. “Fair enough.”
The broad-shouldered priest touched her shoulder in concern. “So who? A client?”
Daws sighed and shook her head. “A . . . a friend of a client. A woman I didn’t know.” She nodded at the confessional booth. “I’ve got a lot to say, Padre, and most of it can’t leave here. So, maybe we better . . . .”
Father Rick shook his bald head. “My study’s a better place. You look like you need to talk more than you need to confess; besides,” He ushered her into the small, cluttered side room that he used as a study, “You know nothing that’s laid down here ever leaves here.”
Daws sighed and nodded. Then she half-smiled and asked jokingly “Suppose it’d make you feel better if I still started it off like a confession?”
The priest laughed and settled into his desk chair, motioning her into one of the two battered armchairs that crowded the small room. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone.” He turned his back to her briefly to take the telephone off the hook – but his second pair of eyes still regarded her keenly from the back of his bald head. “Whenever you’re ready, Daws.” He said gently.
Daws took a deep breath and crossed herself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been . . . four weeks since my last confession.”
The priest cleared his throat sternly and narrowed his eyes – an expression that didn’t change when he once again turned to face her.
Daws grinned and threw up her hands. “All right, five weeks. I skipped Mass three times; I took the Lord’s name in vain; I screwed up on a case and a woman got killed.”
Father Rick winced. “Tell me about it.”
Daws did so – outlining her involvement with Nicholas Tiernan from the time Dr. Van Linden had first entered her office through the death of Caroline Rosenstein. Father Rick merely listened in grave and attentive silence; when Daws reached what seemed like a stopping point he said quietly “I suppose it’s useless to tell you it’s not your fault.”
“I’d say about useless, yeah.” Daws shrugged and added, “My head knows that, Padre. But still, I can’t help feeling . . . .”
“The same thing you felt and still feel about the death of Wilhelm Schultz.” The priest shook his head. “God commands us to forgive ourselves as well at others, Daws.”
“I know that, Padre. And I’m . . . workin’ on it.” Daws straightened and said briskly “But more to the point I’m workin’ on making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yes.” The Father leaned forward across the desk and narrowed his eyes. “You’re certain Tiernan did these things?”
“Oh, yeah.” Daws continued the narrative of the past few weeks – including her most recent meeting with Nicholas Tiernan. The priest’s narrowed eyes had turned to an outright scowl by the time she’d finished.
“I’ve always known Tiernan was more trouble than just the garden-variety sort.” He growled. “Setting himself up like a saint on the one hand and pushing poor kids like Mike around on the other. But this,” Father Rick planted his wide hands on the desk and scowled at them as though they were the financier in question. “Murder and talk of genocide’s more than I’m going to put up with.”
“That’s our feeling, too, Padre.” Daws nodded. “There’s only the five of us – me, Doc Van Linden, Alex Malone, Sid Rosenstein and Henry Casselton. It doesn’t seem like anything near enough – but we’ve got to do what we can to stop him.”
The priest nodded gravely at his hands. Then he looked up at Daws, brown eyes sparkling with sudden amusement. “ ‘Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’ "
Daws raised an eyebrow at the priest. “If I remember it right those guys were Protestants, Padre.”
The Padre shook his head and chuckled. “I picked that up from Fahrenheit 451, to be honest. But it’s a good sentiment no matter where it’s from.” He pushed back from the desk and stood, slapping his broad hands together and nodding. “You’re right, Daws. Tiernan needs standing up to. Count me in.”
Daws chuckled. “Well, I’ve heard you say that twelve men with a cause moved all civilization. Six people with a cause ought to be able to do some damage to one homicidal rich guy.”
“It won’t be six people for long.” The priest was pacing animatedly back and forth now, obviously thinking. “There’s Ana and her brother . . . Mike, of course . . . the Davison family . . .” His rear eyes glanced sideways at her. “They’re people I’ve spoken with; people Tiernan’s leaned on, or trampled over. And they’re just the ones I can name off-hand.”
Daws nodded and grinned. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say, Padre. We need more help, all we can get. The thing is,” Her face darkened, “How willing are a bunch of mutants going to be to turn against a mutant welfare activist – for the sake of a bunch of humans?”
“My mother’s human.” Father Rick replied, turning to face her. “As your mother and your sister are.” The significant glance that came with that phrase was the Padre’s way of adding and there’s something else we’re going to talk about one of these days. “Everyone in this parish has a human parent, or brother, or child. And if their own difficulties have driven them to forget that,” A broad grin crossed the priest’s face, “A well-placed homily would help remind them. In fact a well-placed homily might remind everyone in the parish about the dangers of looking for handouts from those who don’t walk the straight and narrow.”
Daws laughed. “I knew I’d come to the right priest for this job. Can you find out who’d back us up?”
“Of course.” Father Rick nodded. “And I’d like the chance to meet the rest of this little resistance cell – when the time’s right.”
“Sure thing.” Daws scratched behind her ear and added, “That’s another thing I forgot to confess – I have helped a criminal evade the law.” She grinned and added, “And I’m not particularly sorry for that one.”
“Nor should you be.” Father Rick shook his head and chuckled. “Confessions are never normal with you, are they, Daws?”
“Nothing’s ever normal with me, Padre.” Daws half-grinned, crossed herself, and murmured the words of the Act of Contrition.
Father Rick nodded gravely. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, I absolve thee of thy sins. Go now and sin no more.” Then he paused, chuckled, and added “Unless of course it’ll keep you out of Tiernan’s hands.”
“That’s an instruction I know I can keep.” Daws stood and followed the priest back out into the sanctuary and towards the front door. “You do the same, Padre. Don’t go getting this place burned down because Tiernan doesn’t like your rhetoric.”
Father Rick spread his muscled arms in a poor imitation of an innocent shrug. “The Bishop’s disagreed with my rhetoric for ages now. The place hasn’t burned down yet.”
“The Bishop’s not crazy.” Daws pointed out, as Father Rick helped her into her trenchcoat.
“You,” the Padre replied gravely, “Have obviously never met the Bishop.”
They exited the building and Father Rick accompanied her to the fence gate. On the third-floor balcony of the building across the street, Mrs. Abramoff had turned her broom into an impromptu dance partner for a rendition of what looked and sounded like a number from West Side Story. Father Rick and Daws exchanged bemused glances and a handshake; then Daws called a brief goodbye to Mike and headed off in the direction of her apartment building.
Father Rick watched her go, shaking his head and waiting until she was out of sight before he turned his attention to the rest of the scene surrounding him. The day was moving towards early evening; people were starting to filter home from work, calling greetings between fire-escapes and open windows. Kids clustered here and there, comparing homework and plotting the evening’s entertainment. Behind him, the Padre could see Mike still busily at work on the loose section of fencing.
This was his world, his work, his people; he wasn’t about to let Tiernan have them.
Father Rick turned and ambled over to where the broad-shouldered former boxer was bending over his hammer and nails.
“Mike? Could I have a work with you, son?”
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 22:26:44 GMT -5
By this time, Mike was just finishing, smoothing the area around his repair with a piece of sandpaper. Some of the neighborhood children were in the habit of climbing over the low fence (in spite of Padre's frequent admonitions to them against it), and Mike didn't want them to get splinters.
Now he straightened and tucked the sandpaper into his back pocket, regarding the priest attentively. "Yeah, Padre?"
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 22:57:21 GMT -5
Father Rick cleared his throat and sighed. He did his best to shelter Mike from a world that had already put the younger man through a lot of grief; but at the same time, Mike wasn't a child (despite his slow demeanor) and if the trouble that Daws had wandered into was going to spread to the Parish, Mike deserved to know about it.
"Do you remember Nicholas Tiernan, Mike?"
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 23:17:41 GMT -5
Mike blinked, his brow furrowing. "You mean the scary man, who got money when I boxed."
In fact, he had only met Tiernan once, when his successes in the ring brought him the pleased personal attention of the mutant crime lord. Tiernan carefully avoided any direct involvement with the racket, and although Mike recalled him as "the scary man" and knew he had somehow profited from the boxing matches, he was never able to give evidence of any criminal link.
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 23:30:16 GMT -5
"Yes, the scary man." Father Rick nodded. "You know that Daws makes her living investigating people." He paused, giving Mike time to process the statement, and continued. "Daws has gone to work for . . . for the scary man. She's asking questions about him; she's going to try and get him caught for the bad things he's done."
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 5, 2006 23:38:15 GMT -5
"Oh." A vaguely worried look crossed Mike's face. "He won't hurt he, will he?"
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Post by skybright on Mar 5, 2006 23:55:01 GMT -5
"I hope and pray not." Father Rick looked gravely at Mike. "The thing is, Mike, I've promised Daws I'm going to help her fight him; because I don't want her to get hurt, or to try and do this alone."
"But," The priest frowned, "That means that Tiernan might find out that you're here. How do you feel about that?"
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 6, 2006 0:01:06 GMT -5
Mike shrugged. The connection between Tiernan and the attempt on his own life was at best hazy in his mind; all he understood was that Daws was going up against someone dangerous.
"If Daws needs help fighting the scary man, I'll help her," he said resolutely.
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Post by skybright on Mar 6, 2006 0:17:21 GMT -5
The Padre nodded. "That's about what I figured you'd say, son."
Father Rick hadn't really expected Mike to comprehend the magnitude of the whole situation; but he figured the young man at least deserved to know about the situation.
He clapped the taller man on the back and grinned. "I think the two of us've done enough around here for one day, Mike. Let's go get us a milkshake."
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Post by Jordanna on Mar 6, 2006 0:25:03 GMT -5
A broad grin split Mike's face, and he nodded vigorously. "Sure, Padre!" he exclaimed eagerly, and shambled after the priest.
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