John Gilstrap - Damage Control

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 do 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.