St. Patrick's Day, Page 3

  “Father Patrick, I see you, obviously, as does my son. And there are others here. But a boy, no matter how hurt, may not—”

  “With help from this young lad, he might. Lass, I’d not see a boy—little more than a child—shot down in the pain of his loss. He saw violence, and he believes he must be violent in return. He has a gun here, and . . . and I think his pain is so great he would aim it so he might be shot in turn. There is no big protest or event on the horizon—just a boy in pain. And if you let me help . . .”

  He didn’t finish speaking. A teenager, perhaps as old seventeen, slipped into the chapel.

  He evidently wasn’t expecting to find anyone there and he didn’t see them at first—he slipped behind the inner wall and looked out.

  The tour group was over at a Revolutionary War grave. He seemed please to have lost them. But there was a police officer in uniform and the young man took his hand and fingers and mimicked a gun, pulling the pretend trigger of his gun and let out a clicking sound.

  Angela’s hand rested on her weapon.

  “Please!” the dead priest, Patrick, whispered.

  She paused.

  “That’s not the way, Sean,” Father Patrick said clearly.

  The young man swirled around and stared at the three of them.

  He had a headful of wild brown hair. His face and body were lean, and his height suggested he’d be well above six feet when he finished growing.

  “What? You know my name? I . . . what . . .”

  He made a dive, trying to get to something under one of the few wooden pews in the small chapel.

  “No,” Angela said firmly, and this time she moved with the speed of a bullet, diving after him and catching his ankles and pulling him back.

  “Shooting a cop will not bring your Da back. And he was a good and faithful Irishman, Sean. He’d not see you like this.”

  “How do you know my name? How do you . . . who are you? What are you?” he demanded.

  Angela wasn’t sure if he was talking to her—or the ghost.

  He was certainly surprised a woman had been strong enough to pull him back. “And who is talking? Are you a ventriloquist?” he demanded, staring at her.

  He could hear Patrick; he just couldn’t see him.

  “We’re people who don’t want to see you die or ruin your life,” Angela said. She winced, ready to attempt to explain.

  But she didn’t have to. She and the boy, Sean, were still on the floor. Corby slid next to her. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but he’s here! St. Patrick is here. He didn’t just want to save the Irish, he wanted to save all he could. But you are apparently Irish, so that’s cool.”

  Sean stared at Corby incredulously and then he started to laugh.

  “St. Patrick is here? His ghost? He was buried in what’s now Northern Ireland!”

  “Ah, for the love of a leprechaun!” Father Patrick said. “I’ve seen the world, I have! Come on, lad! There have been ships crossing the great oceans for hundreds of years now, and I’ve managed to get meself on a good flight now and then as well! Ah, indeed, most don’t be knowin’ they need beware of hitch-hiking ghosts!”

  Father Patrick—or the ghost of Father Patrick—knelt by them as well. “I come where I’m needed. Ah, lad! You and your art class came and talked about re-etching old stones. And you came back alone, and you found a saying you thought was a call to you. Aye, the etching is fresh, for you wrote over what was, and thought it was calling to you. And that it would draw the police. They don’t know as yet what gun killed your Da. You thought you would draw police here with your etching, and you did that, lad. But you’re not meant to die. There is still goodness in the world. There are people who care for you, and more to love you in the future.”

  “People don’t care. I don’t think my grandparents want me . . . not even for the year left I’ll have of high school!” Sean said. There were tears in his eyes. “My dad! He was a good man. He . . . “

  “He was a good man. And you must do him proud. You must grow to adulthood and be a good man as well,” Patrick said.

  The boy reached out, not seeing, but trying to touch Patrick.

  “Have I gone crazy?” he whispered. “I feel . . .”

  “Indeed, aye, and I’m sorry about the cold, I am,” Patrick said. “But y’hear me! Bless it all! Lad, ye be special! Don’t throw it all away.”

  “All you’ve done is re-etch an old stone,” Angela said gently. “We’ll tell everyone, and we’ll apologize, and explain you had no idea it might cause such concern.”

  Sean was openly crying then.

  But before he could answer, the door burst open.

  Against the shadow and myriad hazy and multi-colored light in the chapel, all Angela saw at first was a man with a gun in both hands—that gun aimed at Sean.

  She threw herself over the boy.

  “Special Agent Angela Hawkins!” she cried. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Angela, Corby? Ah . . . Father?” Jackson said.

  He holstered his weapon, stepped in and closed the door.

  “This is Sean, Jackson. And Father—Patrick. Sean etched the stone, or re-etched it, I should say. Father Patrick . . . saw him do it, and had us all in here to . . . explain,” she said.

  There was more to it than that, of course, and she knew Jackson realized it.

  But he also knew how to assess a situation.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed Connell, who answered just about instantly.

  “We can call off the surveillance,” he said. “There’s a young man here who started talking with Angela and Corby. He did the stone—he didn’t realize he needed to get permission. The words were there from hundreds of years ago. He and his friends want to do more of the old stones—preserve history. He had no idea people might think he wanted to cause some kind of an insurrection.”

  Angela could hear Connell swearing.

  “Yeah. Always better safe than sorry,” Jackson told him.

  Connell went on again.

  “My Krewe members are always happier working when nothing happens, Detective. Not to worry. We don’t mind at all.”

  They ended the call. Jackson stared at Angela and Corby, and then at Father Patrick.

  “Father Patrick—really?”

  “Now, come, have a heart, sir! There’s many a Patrick out there, and many a Patrick who is an ordained priest! Ah, but then again . . . peace and faith are my calling. And lad! I need you to have faith.”

  Sean wasn’t even trying to see who was speaking then. He was staring at Angela.

  “You threw yourself over me. Someone might have fired at me—and you threw yourself over me.”

  “I—um, yes,” Angela murmured. “But Jackson is trained and—”

  “You didn’t know it was going to be . . . this man,” Sean said.

  “All officers are trained,” she said, offering him a smile. “So, now—”

  “We have to bring Sean to Detective Connell and have them talk. We’ll get this all cleared up.” Jackson stared at Sean. “You’d better get me whatever you had here, too, so that I can get rid of it. That is . . .”

  “I . . . I’ll never want to hurt anyone again!” Sean whispered. He looked at Angela. “You would have died for me. I guess . . .”

  “There’s hurt in the world and goodness, too. Goodness worth living for—and goodness worth sharing,” Patrick said. “Goodness in everyone from everywhere, no matter what their color, their background, or anything else. Goodness is in the character of a man—or woman—and you have the potential for great character, Sean. I know you do.”

  “There’s a ghost in here—I can hear it. Speaking plain as if . . . as if he was real,” Sean said, still somewhat shell-shocked and scared.

  “He is a real ghost,” Corby said. “But don’t tell anybody, huh? Trust me, they’ll just think you’re crazy. I’ve been the route. “

  Sean looked at Corby and smiled. “Uh . . . no, but these people . . .”

 
“My mom and dad,” Corby said.

  “Oh.” Sean didn’t argue, though Jackson was obviously Native American, and Angela was blonde, and Corby was bi-racial.

  “I’m adopted,” Corby said grinning. “And trust me, they’re the coolest. In fact . . .”

  He looked pleadingly from Angela to Jackson.

  Jackson answered with a quick smile. “I think we have a bit of straightening out to do. And then, of course, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. We’ll see Sean is cleared with child services, and he can come spend the day with us. We’ll find some Irish fare and bring it home and celebrate. For the saint who first bore your name, Father!” Jackson added.

  “Now there’s a plan!” Angela said.

  She turned to look at Father Patrick.

  But perhaps his work there was done. He was gone.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but business first! When you speak with Detective Connell, let him know you thought you were preserving the cemetery. And whatever is stashed in here, I need it. Now,” Jackson said.

  Sean stood up, dusting his hands on his jeans and turning quickly to Angela, offering her his hand to help her up. She’d smiled and accepted it.

  Sean got the gun he’d hidden in the church and gave it to Jackson. Jackson looked at her and said, “Let me deal with all this then we’ll all go. Sean, you’re with me. What is your last name?” he asked.

  “O’Brien, sir.”

  The two went out. Corby looked at Angela, smiled, and then threw his arms around her.

  “Life can really suck,” he whispered.

  “Corby,” she murmured.

  “But I’ve been the luckiest kid in the world,” he told her. “And Sean . . . I know he’s going to be a good kid and grow into a good man. I mean, how many people get to meet St. Patrick himself?”

  “Oh, Corby. Lots of people are named Patrick. And I’m willing to bet a ton of priests are named Patrick. It’s a popular name. Yes, he was Father Patrick. A Father Patrick. He’s probably buried here in the cemetery somewhere.”

  But Corby shook his head. “No. We just met the real deal! That was St. Patrick.”

  “Ah, now, Corby. The real St. Patrick would have been speaking Latin or possibly Gaelic, I’m not sure, honestly, we’d have to look that up. But—”

  “Mom! He’s been haunting people and bringing them faith for hundreds and hundreds of years! Plenty of time to learn to speak English!”

  “Well, we’ll look into it,” she promised.

  There were still many things to be done, but eventually, they could all leave.

  And Sean would be coming with them for the afternoon and evening.

  His grandparents were due the next day. They would be taking him home. They were his mother’s parents and had been all the way across the country when his dad had been killed.

  Jackson told Angela she wasn’t supposed to put herself in the way of a bullet.

  She had expected that.

  But the strange day wound up being a wonderful one. They found an Irish restaurant serving at outdoor tables. They had Mary with them, since Axel was out of town, and the baby. They had something of a wonderful family grouping—socially distant from others, of course.

  Sean told them all about himself and his art, and about how he did want to be an artist and create art that mattered. Corby told him all about himself.

  And ghosts.

  And that they had met St. Patrick.

  “Corby, we don’t know—”

  “Oh, but we do!” Corby said.

  And Sean smiled, too. “I will always believe I was truly saved by Saint Patrick!” He turned to Angela.

  “And you, too,” he said softly. “And, of course, you, too, sir!” he told Jackson.

  Jackson laughed and looked at Angela.

  He lifted his glass.

  “To Saint Patrick! Real? Not real? A different Patrick?”

  “Saint Patrick lives in the heart!” Corby said.

  “And we’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!” Angela said, and lifted her glass, too.

  “Slainte!” she said.