Lawyer, Lawyer Pt. 02

A shot rang out as I ran, and then another. Evidently I had missed a cell phone. The shots followed me as I got into my car, blowing neat holes in the rear windshield. I fishtailed out of the lot, knowing that it was only a matter of time before a team of brothers would be in pursuit. My hope was that they would be expecting me to go east, through Illinois toward Washington. Andy's was the only name that they knew, and he still lived in Washington, D.C.

I dumped my monk's robe in a bathroom in a truck stop outside Cedar Rapids. If there's one thing good about driving Iowa, it's being able to tell whether or not you're being tailed. When I was satisfied that I had lost them, I got a room for the night in Waterloo, and began to plan my trip home. Over the next three days, I slowly made my way to Hardwood, through Wisconsin, Michigan, and Ohio.

My parents were a little mystified to see me, and I was more than a little mystified to see them, at least by themselves. The kids, they explained, had gone home with Shelly and Steve after a late-night call from Karen. Karen hadn't been here at all. Perhaps, they suggested, she was already back in Delaware. To be honest, I was a little puzzled that my sweetie had apparently lied to me about where she was heading, to the extent that I forgot to take Carrie out of the pocket of my parka and leave her in the closet as I'd intended.

I returned home the next morning no wiser than I was when I'd left Hardwood. And much, much angrier. Karen obviously hadn't been here, either. And as soon as I got inside the door, I was met with the sight of dead fish and dying plants. Fucking Bentons. I'd left a message on their phone on Christmas Eve, asking one of their daughters -- Barbie, Bobbie, Betsy, whichever was the oldest one in high school -- to look after the house until I got home. I was really pissed off.

I stormed down my driveway and stormed up the Benton's. Our driveway was about a quarter-mile long, and theirs was easily a half-mile (they lived on the posh side of the street), so by the time I actually got to their house the storm had pretty much abated. I was a little out of breath as I knocked on the door.

"Jason." Bob looked surprised to see me there. He stuck his head out and looked from side to side.

I was surprised to see him there, for that matter. I'd been expecting to find his wife, Melissa. What was Bob doing home on a Monday?

"What exactly has your daughter been doing for the last three weeks?" I demanded.

"I'm sorry?"

"My fish? My plants?"

"Okay," Bob held up a hand. "Can this wait, Jason? I'm a little busy right at the . . ."

His voice trailed off as my glare deepened. I pushed past him into the house, paying little attention to the man sitting in Bob's La-Z-Boy in the corner of the living room.

"Look," I rounded on Bob as he shut the door. "I spent the last week with a bunch of left-wing Catholic terrorist pornographers. And then I come home to find my fish all dead."

He was staring at me like I'd grown a third head.

"Opus Christe?" the man behind me said in a deep voice. I gave him a quick glance, noticing only that he looked familiar, and then turned back to Bob.

"What do you know about Opus Christe?" I asked him.

"I'm the President of Opus Christe."

"The what?" I asked breathlessly.

"The President," he affirmed. "Didn't you know that's where I worked?"

"Ya know, I knew you were Catholic," I began. "Well, actually, I just knew you had a lot of kids. But I had no idea --"

By then, my anger had returned in spades. I held up my hand and began to tick off the list on my fingers.

"Well, allright, Mr. Opus Christe, then maybe you can explain the kidnapping, and the murder, and the pornography, and the terrorism."

My thumb was hanging there uselessly.

"Oh, yeah, and those steak dinners at the monastery," I finished in triumph. "That's gotta be some sort of sin."

"I assume you recognize the Pope, Jason," Bob gestured to the man behind me. I looked and finally took in the white embroidered robes and the red beanie.

"Pope," I acknowledged him with a wave. "How ya' doin'?"

"You need to kiss his ring," Bob whispered. Well, yes, that would explain why he was holding his hand out to me like that, like a dog who'd just been taught how to shake hands. "And address him as Your Holiness."

The ring, sure. I dropped to one knee and gave the John Paul George Ring-o a smooch, humming "Yesterday" while I did it. My Holiness? I didn't think so. The only holiness I recognized was my editor at Harper Brown Publishing, the one who made sure my check got cut. And even he wasn't above a good cursing if I was in the mood. Maybe we could just talk around the Holiness business.

"His Holiness is visiting me today in so that we can talk over our differences," Bob said. "I sent my family away, which is why my daughter is unavailable to explain about your, uh, fish."

"That's okay." I smiled, making myself comfortable on the couch. "Fish, smish. This is much more interesting."

"His Holiness was telling me of rumors similar to what you just alluded to, Jason," Bob explained. "I confess that I'm stunned by the whole thing. Can I get you something to drink?"

I looked over to see at the tall glass on the table beside the Pope, some sort of soda with lime.

"Whatever the Pope's having." Bob left to get it and the Pope and I stared at each other for a while.

"So," I finally said, "how are things in, um, Popeland?"

Fortunately, Bob returned with a similar glass for me and asked me to start my story at the beginning. I took a healthy gulp -- and started coughing.

"What the hell is this?" I gasped.

"Double gin and tonic," Bob said. "Just like His Holiness has. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

"I thought it was a Sprite," I said as I gradually recovered.

The Pope chuckled; I gave him a dirty look. Finally, though, I recovered enough to begin. We immediately ran into trouble with the whole doll thing, so I finally asked them whether they wanted to hear the story or not. I reminded the Pope that I'd always taken the Virgin Birth thing on faith, and I was allowed to continue. I'd gotten up to the good part -- the monastery -- when we all three looked up at the sound of tires squealing up Bob's driveway.

"You know," Bob said, "it's getting just a little too crowded here. I'm going to take his Holiness down to the den. Can you see if you can get rid of whoever that is, and meet me down there?"

"I'll try," I said. "But if it's those frickin' Jehovah's Witnesses, I could be here a while. Karen -- my wife -- is the only one I know who can get rid of them."

Both he and the Pope got a good laugh out of that one.

It wasn't Jehovah's Witnesses. I opened the door of the house and watched Julie Pinsky and Andy Richardson get out of the car in mid-argument.

"This is not his house," Julie protested. "His house is across the street."

"Mapquest said turn right, so I turned right," Andy answered her.

"But I've been there hundreds of times," Julie pointed out. "I think I'd know where he lives better than your stupid little palmtop."

"Well, if he doesn't live here, why is he standing there in the doorway?" Andy pointed up at me.

I waved. Julie stopped, seeing me for the first time.

"I don't care," she revved up again as they walked up the sidewalk to the front door. "You can't tell me that Mapquest knows where individual people are."

"It said to turn right," Andy said, as if the argument was over. "And there's Jason in the doorway."

"You two argue like you were married," I kidded them.

Both of them blushed. Julie looked at Andy, while Andy looked down and kicked at a pebble.

"You're kidding?"

I was stunned. Actually, I really wasn't. Andy had been in love with Julie his whole life, and Julie had obviously been in love with Andy at one point in hers. Sometimes love and hate are just flip sides of the same coin. Besides, once you go from a fucking asshole shithead to an asshole shithead to a plain old shithead, it's really only a matter of time before you start picking out china patterns.

"He only proposed yesterday," Julie murmured. "Can we come in?"

"Sure," I said. "You want a drink? No? Well then, let's join the Pope."

"The who?" Andy said over his shoulder they started down the stairs I'd led them to.

"Your Holiness!" Julie gushed as she reached the bottom step.

"Your Holiness," Andy echoed as Julie kissed the ring. Andy quickly followed, and they finally stood there, basking in His Holiness's holiness.

"So," I finally broke the silence, "would you like to hear the rest of the story, or shall I go out and round up a couple more sycophants?"

"Jason," came the horrified cry from three sets of Catholic lips.

The Pope just chuckled again. He was a real chuckler.

"Go ahead, Mr. Thompson," he smiled. "You had just finished your exchange of kidnap victims."

"Right," I said. "Oh, this is the kidnappee, Julie Pinsky, and her rescuer, Andy Richardson."

They beamed. I rolled my eyes. After another ten minutes, I was done. I turned back to Andy and Julie.

"So what happened to you two?" I asked.

"We went to Atlantic City," Andy explained. "It's a lot closer than Vegas and the FBI's got just as many transmitters in Jersey. And then on Sunday, um . . ."

"Um?" I turned to Julie.

"We went to mass," she mumbled.

"I'm sorry?" I said. "You what?"

"We went to Mass," Andy said with a little more authority.

"You went to Mass?" I exploded. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Every communicant is obligated to attend Mass once a week," the Pope said.

I quickly rounded on him.

"See, that's why you never hear the word 'pontificate' used in a complimentary way. Every communicant is not obligated to be an idiot. They're being chased by a bunch of Catholic monks, and they walk into a Catholic church? That's like making a deposit at a bank you just robbed.

"Sort of," I assured Andy and Julie.

"I know it was stupid," Julie said. "And we think we may have been seen."

"But the transmitter should have stopped, right?" I asked.

"It should have," Andy agreed. "And we took a pretty circuitous route here. So I'm hoping that we're all fine."

"Daddy, Daddy!"

Little Molly Benton came rolling into the room and clamped her arms around her father's legs.

"Molly!" Bob was as surprised to see her as the rest of us. "You're supposed to be with Mommy."

"I hid," Molly proclaimed proudly. "I wanted to meet him."

She pointed her chubby little finger at the Pope.

"Okay," Bob sighed. "You go kiss his ring, and I'll call Mommy and tell her where you are."

He gave the three of us a grimace.

"That's what happens with six kids," he said. "It's easy to miss one."

We all watched Molly kiss the Pope's ring and then climb into his lap. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see Bob looking at his telephone.

"Problem?" I asked.

"The line's dead," he shrugged, hanging it up.

"Shit!" I yelped, tearing off upstairs with Andy close behind me.

"What's wrong?" Julie and Bob followed quickly. Sure enough, through the windows, I could see men out among the trees, wearing robes and carrying guns.

"Lock the doors, pull the shades," Andy ordered. "Get the Pope and your daughter up here."

"What's wrong?" Bob asked. He and Julie had been right behind us, although they'd taken the stairs at a more moderate one at a time.

"Opus Christe," I murmured. "I'll get the Pope."

I ran downstairs and persuaded His Holiness to come upstairs with me; the sliding doors in the walkout basement were just too inviting a target. By the time I was back, Andy and Julie had pulled down all the shades, and Bob and I pulled a desk in front of the door to the basement after we were all upstairs in case somebody tried to break in that way. When we returned to the living room, both Andy and the Pope were finishing up cell-phone conversations. I couldn't believe that anyone thought cutting the landlines would be of any use in severing communications these days. Monks; what a bunch of buffoons.

"I've got an FCC strike team on the way," Andy said. "It'll take 'em thirty minutes to get here, though."

"Opus Dei will be here in twenty minutes," the Pope smirked.

"I'm not sure that that's entirely helpful, Your Holiness," Andy said. "That's just going to give us two groups of yahoos with guns."

"Oh, God, where's the bathroom?" Julie interrupted him.

"Through there," Bob pointed. "Are you all right?"

Apparently not. Her hand to her mouth, Julie ran into the bathroom, and we heard her lose her breakfast. Meanwhile, Andy was a step ahead of us.

"We need to stall," he said. "How can we keep them away for twenty minutes?"

"Hostages?" I offered.

"Excellent," he said. "Who wants to be a hostage?"

"Pick him," I pointed at the Pope.

"Jason," Andy sighed. "They hate the Pope."

"Him then." I pointed at Bob.

"Why him?" Andy asked.

"He's the President of Opus Christe," I explained triumphantly.

Andy raised an eyebrow.

"You think these guys know that?" he said.

"If I had a phone line, I could pull up the website," Bob said. He was a very cooperative hostage at this point, particularly with his daughter Molly in the house.

"I got it," Andy whipped out his ubiquitous palmtop. "Printer?"

"In the study," Bob pointed. They both hustled out as Julie came back in, looking a little less green than she did when she'd left.

"You okay?" I asked.

She gave me a withering look, but then Andy bustled back into the room and handed me a paper, a copy of the website with Bob's name prominently displayed.

"What do you want me to do with this?" I asked.

"Go out and tell them who our hostage is," he said.

"You go," I said.

"They're looking for me," he said. "And Julie. And they hate the Pope. And if Bob goes we don't have a hostage."

They were all valid points. But still.

"I'm not so sure they're gonna be that fond of me, either," I pointed out. "I stole their doll."

"That's the Iowa bunch," he said. "This is the Jersey bunch. They work together but they don't really talk because of some doctrinal differences."

Bob had followed Andy back in, and apparently believed those differences were important.

"Our New Jersey affiliate believes that --"

Sorry, Bob," I said, "but shut up. I was a monastic porno star all last week, and that's as much as I want to know about what anyone of you believes for a long, long time."

I emptied the pockets of my parka. I was surprised to see that it still contained everything I'd brought with me from the monastery, namely, the blonde doll, Andy's gun, and the cell phone. I turned to Bob.

"You got a white flag?" I asked.

"What, like a handkerchief on a stick?"

"No," I sneered, "like a pair of boxer shorts on a broom."

He was back in a few minutes.

"You didn't have a handkerchief?" I asked.

"You said you wanted a pair of boxer shorts on a broom," he protested.

"Do absolutely none of you people understand sarcasm?" I asked, taking in the entire Catholic crowd. I sighed and, with the broom hoisted in front of me, opened the door to face the monks.

"Can I come out?" I yelled, waving the broom.

"Over here," one of the men yelled. I advanced under my ersatz truce flag, and soon found myself face to face with yet another Latin American monk. Very fortunately for me, a different Latin American monk.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A neighbor," I said. "See, I live over there. You can see it through the woods a little, now that the leaves have fallen. The colonial? With the red trim? See?"

He wasn't interested in looking where I was pointing, so I soon dropped my hand.

"And what are you doing here, Mister Neighbor?" he asked.

"I came to complain to Bob -- that's my neighbor -- about my fish dying," I said. "His daughter was supposed to be taking care of them, see, when my wife and I were . . ."

He wasn't interested in that either, so I let it die.

"So anyway, this man and this woman drive up and burst into the house, and tie Bob up," I said breathlessly. "They have guns, too. Did I mention guns? And now they sent me out to tell you that he's their hostage."

"Why should I care about your neighbor?" Brother Latin's eyes narrowed.

I pulled out the paper.

"See, the guy told me that Bob's the president of something called Opus Christe," I said, "and that you guys were Opus Christe guys, too."

"Madre de Dios," he looked at the paper.

"Yeah," I said. "See, I'm a Methodist, although I really haven't been to church in an awfully long --"

"What are his demands?" he interrupted me.

"His demands?" I asked.

"For the hostage?" the monk explained curtly.

"Oh," I said, racking my brain for some demands. "Food. They want food."

"They have a whole kitchen in the house!" he pointed toward it.

"They want a pizza," I said. "Takeout. From Lombardy's, on Route 3. And the phone lines are dead."

"Yes," the monk said. "What else?"

"They wanted to start with the pizza," I said. "As a sign of good faith."

He motioned another monk over.

"Sausage and olives," I said.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"They want sausage and olives on the pizza," I said. "And half pepperoni. Anything you want me to tell them while we wait?"

His face turned cold.

"Tell them that once they have their pizza," he said, "they had better think seriously about letting their hostage go so that no innocent lives are injured. Tell them all we want is the return of our changeling."

So they knew about Carrie. No surprise, really. Doctrinal differences or not, they had the same interests.

"Got it," I said. "Pizza, lives, changing."

"Changeling," he corrected me.

"Changeling," I pronounced it slowly. "Got it."

"Well?" Andy asked when I was back in the house.

"I ordered a pizza," I said.

"You what?" He grabbed me by the arm.

"A pizza," I said. "From Lombardy's."

I looked at Julie. She threw her arms around me neck.

"That'll easily take half an hour," she said to Andy when she let me go. "See, I told you he was smart."

She patted her stomach and gave me a contented smile.

"What?" I asked. "You can't be hungry. You just threw up."

"A little dense, though, huh?" Andy said.

Julie gave him a loving smile, her hand still resting on her stomach.

"Oh my God," I said, pointing at her stomach. "You're -- you're --"

"Just like Karen," she said. "Same day, too."

I looked over at Andy as I sat down on the couch.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "Don't worry. He'll always be able to visit his dad."

Bob and His Holiness looked a little puzzled, but none of us wanted to present them with the opportunity for a lecture on non-marital sex. Instead, we settled in to wait for the pizza.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I heard my new favorite monk yell out, "Hey, neighbor!"

"Pizza here already?" I yelled through the open door.

He beckoned me out to him, and when I arrived, he pointed out the new group of armed men who were taking positions in the woods around them.

"Who are they, neighbor?" he asked.

"Ya got me there," I shook my head. "You want me to find out?"

He thought that over for a minute and nodded. I went back to the house, fetched my truce shorts, and sauntered down to the new perimeter.

"Opus Dei?" I asked the fellow who stepped forward.

He nodded.

"They have the Holy Father?"

"Yeah," I said slowly. "A hostage, that's what he is. So what do you guys think?"

We talked about that for a while, and a few minutes later, the FCC guys started arriving. Their perimeter was about at the road, and with the blessing of Opus Dei, I went down to talk to them as well.

"Thompson." Colonel Monroe was clearly stunned to see me. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Okay," I said. "In the house you got Andy -- sorry, Drew to you -- and his fiancée Julie, and the Pope, and my neighbor Bob. The first bunch of guys here, closest to the house, are left-wing Catholic nut jobs. The next group of guys are right-wing Catholic nut jobs. And then there's you guys, federal government, uh, . . ."