Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  Dom laughed. “Tell you the truth, Jon, I knew that you were rich, but until I saw this place, I don’t think I understood the, uh, scope of your wealth.”

  “Nine figures and counting,” Jonathan said. His words were liquid and slippery, thanks to the scotch, and they bore an air of bitterness. “Couldn’t spend it in five lifetimes.”

  Dom knew from just the delivery that something was coming. He waited for the rest, hoping that if the moment came for him to be profound, his own intoxication wouldn’t get in the way.

  “You know Ellen left me, right?” Jonathan said.

  “I kind of sensed that, yes.”

  “Couldn’t handle the pressure of having a warrior husband. Said I make her worry too much.”

  “So says everyone who’s known you for more than a few hours,” Dom replied. “Are you divorced or just separated?”

  “Separated.” Jonathan got a faraway look. “I think I can get her back, though.”

  “Is this where you lived? When you were together, I mean?”

  Jonathan brought his front chair legs back to the floor. “God, no. We had a place down at Bragg. I still have it. She’s got a place in McLean now. A five-thousand-square-foot townhouse that I’m paying for.”

  “How on earth can you make ends meet?”

  The question seemed to startle Jonathan, and then he got the joke. “Yeah, right. Well, Dom, it’s never been about the money. You know I don’t give a shit about money.”

  Dom smirked. “Bold talk for someone who’s never needed any.”

  Jonathan turned very serious. “Do you really believe that I wouldn’t give all of it back if I could bring back one life that my father took to earn it?”

  This was new territory for Dom. He just waited for the rest.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Jonathan asked.

  Dom threw an engineered shrug. “You just tossed out a barely veiled admission that your father is a murderer. Having never heard that before, an empty stare seemed appropriate.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, and then he laughed. “Okay, I’m not being entirely fair. A lot of the family fortune came from the legitimate side of the business—the scrap business. But my father never had much to do with that. He leaned on honest people for that. In his heart of hearts, my father is a thug and a murderer.”

  He delivered that last line in a way that made Dom think that he was supposed to draw some larger conclusion from it. “I know there’s a reason why you’re telling me this,” he said, “but it’s eluding me.”

  “I don’t want it,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want any of it. It’s all blood money, and I’d rather be a pauper than accept it.”

  “Be careful there,” Dom said. “I’ve known paupers. I’ve come very close to being one myself. It’s nothing to aspire to.”

  Jonathan waved the notion off. “I couldn’t get rid of it all. Most of the money is so tied up in trusts and paperwork that I’m stuck with it forever.”

  He said that as if it were a bad thing. Something big was on the way, but Dom had no idea what it was, and he didn’t like watching his friend navigate this dark place in his mind.

  Jonathan stood. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way from the dining room back out into the mansion’s central hall. The Oriental carpet runner out here was slightly threadbare, but the padding beneath it felt like walking on water vapor. Every angle out here was delicately carved and ornately adorned. Dom had never seen anything like it.

  Jonathan stopped next to the massive stairway and turned, “Fourteen thousand three hundred and eighty-seven square feet,” he said. “You could fit seven rectories in here, with room to spare. When I was a kid, we had servants on every level bringing us stuff and sucking up to my father’s every whim. With that kind of money came real control. That kind of money bought politicians, policemen, and judges by the bushel.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Makes a boy proud, don’t you think?”

  Again, Dom remained silent, assuming that Jonathan would get to the point sooner or later.

  Jonathan reached into his pocket and withdrew a key, which he dangled from his forefinger. He held it in front of Dom’s nose. “Take it,” he said. “In thirty-three days, this will be yours.”

  Dom’s jaw dropped. “What will be mine?”

  Jonathan grinned. “All of this. The house, the land, everything.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t need this. I don’t even want this.”

  “Keep following,” Jonathan said, and he led the way down the hall to another room on the right. He opened the doors to reveal a twenty-by-twenty-foot library that had been decorated in Early Gentlemen’s Club. Thousands of volumes decorated the walls from floor to ceiling, except for the near wall on the left, which was dominated by a massive fireplace surrounded by what looked like a mahogany mantel. Jonathan gestured for Dom to sit in one of the luxurious leather chairs while he opened up a panel in the bookcase to reveal his stash of single malts. He poured generously without asking, and handed a snifter to his friend.

  Dom took the glass. “Jon, I have to tell you that all of this is making me uncomfortable.”

  Jonathan took the chair opposite Dom’s. “I confess I exaggerated,” he said. “It’s not really yours as much as it is the church’s.” He took a sip and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I sold the whole kit and caboodle to the diocese for one dollar on a couple of conditions.”

  Dom recoiled in his seat, his jaw agape.

  “The first condition is that the space be used to create a school for children of incarcerated parents. I want to call it Resurrection House. There are a number of other contractual issues that we’re still hammering out, but the second major condition is that you serve in the role of counselor to the kids who come here.”

  Dom’s scowl deepened as he tried to assemble the conversation in a way that would make the words sound as reasonable as Jonathan apparently thought they were.

  “Tell me what you mean by counselor,” he said. Mostly, the question was a dodge for more time.

  “You know, counselor. Lead psychologist, main confessor. The kids I want to build the school for are going to be damaged goods. They’re going to need help working through all the baggage. I think you’re the perfect guy.”

  “We haven’t seen each other in years,” Dom reminded him.

  “Doesn’t change anything. I’m an excellent judge of character. Anybody who could tame me during my college years can perform miracles.”

  Dom recognized Jonathan’s Mr. Charming gambit, but effective as it was, he still wasn’t buying. “I’m honored,” he said, “that you would make such a marvelous donation in the first place, and that you have such faith in me to help the children. But I’m a priest, Jon. I’m not an entrepreneur. I don’t get to accept random job offers.”

  Jonathan took a pull on the scotch. “I’m not suggesting that you’ll be working for me, Dom. You’ll still be working for God. For the Church. You’ll still be pastor of St. Kate’s.”

  Just like that—with a thunk that only Dom could hear—a piece fell into place. “You arranged to have me brought to St. Katherine’s.”

  Jonathan made a noncommittal rocking motion with his hand. “I had a conversation with the bishop, yes. Very reasonable guy. I pitched an idea and he accepted it.”

  Another piece of the puzzle slid home, and as it did, Dom didn’t know whether to feel angry or complimented. “Is my participation one of the ‘contractual details’ in your donation of the property?”

  Jonathan’s smile morphed into a look of concern. “You’re angry,” he said, shocked. “I thought this had you written all over it.”

  “My God, Jon. I’m not an indentured servant. I don’t appreciate being traded for property. Did it occur to you to ask me?”

  “I am asking you. Well, sort of. You have the right to refuse. I only pushed for you to be first choice, and frankly, the bishop agreed without argument. If you don’t want to d
o it, then that’s fine.”

  Dom ended up accepting, of course, and it was the best thing he’d ever done. Since that day so many years ago, Dom had helped countless dozens of boys and girls deal with the trauma of separation from their families, and, in more than a few cases, with the horrors of reunion with their families. What continued to amaze Dom about that day, even through the filter of time, was how honestly clueless Jonathan had been about the difficulty he’d created. He’d seen a problem and a solution, and he’d married the two, fully confident that he was doing the right thing.

  For those who understood the purity of Digger’s motives, it was hard to be angry with him. For the rest of the world, it was often hard not to be angry with him.

  Today, as Dom rode the Metro’s Blue Line from Franconia-Springfield to the Smithsonian Station on the National Mall, he catalogued the various adventures that Jonathan Grave had gotten him into over the years. Looking back, he wouldn’t change a thing.

  His mission this afternoon was to meet with Wolverine—Jonathan’s code name for FBI Director Irene Rivers—to get a handle on the Bureau’s version of this situation in Mexico. Historically, Irene had been as staunch an ally to Jonathan and Security Solutions as anyone could hope for. The fact that the FBI was one of the agencies calling for his arrest was beyond concerning. It was downright scary.

  Irene had run interference for Jonathan’s adventures for years, helping to manufacture plausible deniability, and in at least one case intervening personally with the law enforcement process to keep the heat off Jonathan’s extra-legal activities. While her intentions weren’t always pure—often as not, she and her Bureau got credit for Jonathan’s successes—she’d always been a straight shooter. That she’d ordered his arrest without so much as an inquiring phone call had left them all baffled.

  Dom traveled empty-handed as he always did for meetings like this. With nothing committed to paper, there were no records to steal or subpoena. As far as the world would be concerned—and in this case, the world consisted of curious passersby and nosy investigators—this would be a meeting between a woman and her priest. That the woman was the chief law enforcer in the United States wouldn’t matter. Official Washington might reject the utterance of God’s name, but they still respected individuals’ rights to commune with Him through his human emissaries.

  He felt himself sweating through his black shirt as he climbed the subway station’s broken escalator into sunlight, and finally out into the stifling city air. Back in the day, Washington had been considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats, and it didn’t take more than three minutes in the August sunshine to understand why. Ninety-eight humidity-soaked degrees hung on his skin like a wet wool coat.

  Like any summer afternoon in the District, the Mall teemed with tourists, moving in swarms toward the various museums that defined that part of the city.

  He hadn’t walked twenty steps when he saw Irene on the far side of Jefferson Drive, SW, rising from a bench outside the Ripley Center, which sat adjacent to the Smithsonian Castle. Dom thought it an appropriate meeting place, given the nature of their conversation. The Ripley Center was itself a structure out of a spy novel, with an entrance that looked like a large information kiosk. The average tourist would have no idea that the kiosk led to cavernous gallery and teaching spaces underground.

  Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.

  As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.

  Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.

  He raised his arm to call after her.

  He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.

  “Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore black-rimmed glasses, a Denver Broncos T-shirt, and cargo shorts.

  “I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up.” He extended a hand.

  Dom waved him off as he rolled to a sitting position on the ground. “No, I’m fine. No harm done.” Good news: his trousers were still intact.

  “Let me help you up, Father D’Angelo,” the man said in a barely audible voice.

  Dom’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. Something changed behind the tourist’s eyes. It wasn’t frightening, exactly, but there was a look of urgency.

  “Okay.” Dom grasped the man’s hand in a power grip that involved their thumbs, and as he did, he felt something pressed into his palm.

  “I’m so sorry, Father,” the tourist said aloud. As Dom found his balance, the tourist dusted him off. When he was very close, he said, “Don’t look at the note till I’m gone. Wait fifteen minutes and follow the directions exactly.”

  Dom just stared.

  “You’re sure you’re okay, right, Father?” the tourist asked, loudly enough to be heard by others. “I really am sorry. Hope it doesn’t keep me out of Heaven.” With that, the man turned away and headed toward the Freer Gallery.

  He never looked back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jonathan climbed out of the Toyota and waited for Tristan to join him. “Stick with me like a shadow,” Jonathan said. “Remember ... do exactly what I say exactly when I say to do it.”

  Jonathan and Boxers spread out as they exited the vehicle, allowing a distance of fifty feet between them. The separation increased the effectiveness of their surveillance while at the same time making it harder for any hidden bad guys to take them out. At this distance, a bad guy would have to be a great shot twice, and even if he hit the first target, he’d likely die while preparing to shoot the second. This game was as much about intimidation as it was about marksmanship, and the more the bad guys second-guessed themselves, the better it was for the good guys.

  The residents of the village were slow to catch on to them. It started with the kids in the game. The goalie on the far end pointed and said something Jonathan couldn’t hear, and a kid from the other team booted the ball past him while he was distracted, bisecting the wheelbarrow and the tricycle that served as goal posts. The scoring team started to celebrate, but then they followed his eyes, and they, too, started to point.

  The stoppage of the game drew the attention of the adults, who stood and watched.

  Jonathan keyed his mike. “Watch their hands,” he said. “If they don’t go for weapons, we keep our weapons down.”

  Boxers tapped his transmitter.

  The villagers seemed more curious than frightened, though Jonathan noted that two of the adults held their hands out to their sides and splayed their fingers to show that they posed no danger. For their part, the children just stayed put.

  “Oye,” one of the older kids yelled to his friends. “Jugamos!” Hey, let’s play.

  Like the flip of a switch, the children returned to their game.

  “Keep an eye on the adults,” Jonathan said into his radio. “I’ll watch the church.”

  Boxers tapped again. Ultimately, the adults would be behind them, which meant that Boxers would have to walk backwards, but there really was no other way.

  In thirty seconds, Jonathan was at the church door. He turned to T
ristan. “Stay out here with the Big Guy,” he said. “Stick close to him.”

  Jonathan considered knocking, but decided that that was unnecessary. The door swung open to a rush of cool, musty air. The sun shining through the glass on the far wall nearly blinded him. Instinctively, he looked to the left and to the right, just in case there might be a lurker in the shadows.

  More a chapel than a church, with neatly aligned folding chairs taking the place of pews, the sanctuary had the look of a work in progress. Framed pictures along the outer walls depicted the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus, together defining the Stations of the Cross. Up ahead at the altar, the cross upon which a wrought-iron sculpture of the suffering Christ had been precariously mounted appeared to be hand-hewn of six-by-six lumber. It sat in what appeared to be a temporary support that had been nailed to the floor.

  “How dare you bring guns into the house of God?” a voice boomed in Spanish from somewhere behind the blinding sunlight.

  Also in Spanish, Jonathan answered, “I mean no harm. Please step out where I can see you.”

  “You know the agreement,” the voice said. “No guns inside the sanctuary.”

  There’s an agreement? Jonathan thought. He wondered who it might be with. “Are you Father Perón?”

  A few seconds passed before Jonathan heard footsteps approaching. “I do not recognize you,” the voice said.

  “That’s because I’ve never been here before.” Finally, the voice became a silhouette as its owner emerged from the backlight. He carried something long in his hands, and for an instant, Jonathan’s hand flinched toward his weapon. He stopped when he saw that the object was a candle lighter/snuffer that was nearly identical to the ones he’d used as an altar boy.

  The silhouette’s features emerged as a young man of perhaps thirty. His narrow face looked narrower still under the thick mane of black hair that hung nearly to his shoulders. He wore a red T-shirt and blue shorts with flip-flops.

  “No guns in my church,” he repeated.

  Jonathan extended his hand. “My name is Leon Harris,” he said. A lie in church.