*

At 8:30, Bill Ramos turned the corner at 135th Street. He cut through the crowd, climbing over bodies as he made his way towards me. “Hey, Annie, I’m suppose to take you into Wet Meadows.” The Suburban Daily News office is located at 187th and Har­lem, which is a good ways away. We took his squad.

We had a number of tracks to cross before we could escape Portland’s hold. A train blocked the crossing at 143rd Street. Bill, chomping on a cigar butt, and puffing up a storm, turned around and took another route. When it looked like we’d be blocked crossing the Cal Sag, he turned on his siren and forced his way about a stalled car. He re­ported it to dispatch. “They’ll send someone out to help,” he said as I waved the smoke out of my face.

My story was short. The kids explained what they did and why. If allowed to, the pic­tures would take precedent. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

Bill waited for me, and then drove me back to Portland. “So, tell me something,” he said. “You guys get married, your apartment, or his?”

“Oh, stop already,” I laughed. “If he proposes, I’d be shocked.”

“I wouldn’t.”

By the time we arrived back at the Station, most of the kids were folding their blankets, collecting their instruments and taking off. Joe, Lisa and her stepbrother still remained. When I stepped from the squad, Art stepped from the station. “Lisa, your father called. He thinks that you’re headed this way.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I asked him what you looked like. Get. Before he shows up here.” Art turned away.

I handed her my keys and Joe handed her a twenty. “Order yourselves a pizza,” he in­structed. She smiled and led her stepbrother off in the direction of my place.

Once they left, Art turned about again. “Where are you off to?” he asked Joe.

He patted his stomach. “I’m starving.

“Looking for company?” Art asked.

“Nope. Us, by ourselves. We have some unfinished business.”

“I’ll take the hint,” the Chief said, rolling his eyes. Joe took my hand, lac­ing up my fin­gers between his, and we took off down 135th Street. We turned on Miami, heading north. Most of the Fest goers were done for the night, and headed home, or off to another party. We were headed to Gio­vanni’s.

With the range of emotions we had traversed that day, why not add ro­mance to it? Giovanni’s is small, tight, and we were forced to pick our way carefully as we made our way to the back to a table in a corner. We sat side by side, holding our hands close to the flame of a taper in the center of the table, and rubbed warmth into each other’s fingers. When the waitress arrived, Joe ordered a carafe of wine. We ordered sandwiches, me chicken and him meatball. Then he asked the waitress to bring the wine right away, but take her time with the food. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“We do?” I asked.

He smiled, but didn’t say anything until the waitress returned with a tray, two glasses and a carafe. He poured us each a glass, and tossed his off al­most right away. He took one of my hands. “Stay with me tonight.”

“Only if you promise me something. Make slow love to me. Plenty of foreplay, and touching and kissing. And when it’s all over, promise me you’ll hold me.”

He laughed. “Thank God for tablecloths.” He pushed in a bit. It took me a moment to catch his meaning. I blushed. He cleared his throat and headed into another subject. “Loyola’s Ph.D. program begins in January.”

“Dr. Joseph Spyres, Jr. I can handle that.”

He smiled. “Me, too. A lot of work though. A lot in the evenings. I want to be sure you aren’t going to be bored with me gone at night.”

“Tom’s been on me about taking on more work.”

“I don’t like that.”

“State elections coming up next week. I’m surprised he’s given me time to do this. Municipal elections in April. And Christmas in between. I’ll be busy.”

“Hump. I’d tell you to find something else to do, only you’ll ignore me again.” He thought about that for a moment, but then patted his pocket. He brought out several travel pamphlets. “Christmas break? Will you be busy then?”

“I can make time.”

“Good.” He passed them over. “You have two decisions to make here.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“First, decide where we’re going.” I liked that. I opened each pamphlet. One was a trip to Disney World with a cruise to the Bahamas. Another was a few days in Vegas with a side trip to the Grand Canyon. “I like this,” I said, pushing it towards him, “But I’ll stick to penny ante poker. I don’t like losing large amounts of money.”

He pushed it aside. “Okay, that’s out.” Another was a week in Hawaii. I’d love it. And I lingered over it a moment. I was ready to push it aside be­cause of the cost, but he picked it up. “Hawaii. That’s what I was thinking.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Never mind. Second decision.”

“What’s that?”

“Is this going to be our vacation or our honeymoon?”

I stared at him. I mean I’ve taken a lot of teasing in the past few weeks from Bill and from the others. I truly didn’t expect this. I laughed then, and pushed at his upper arm. “I think I would have liked being told about this before the entire Portland Police Depart­ment.”

“Sorry,” he smiled shyly. “Yes or no?”

I laughed. “Yes, of course.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Just like you. Three years to make up your mind. Two months to do it.”

He nodded, and stood. From deep within his jeans pocket, he pulled out a box. “Digging into my leg all night,” he said as he sat. He opened it and set it before me. It was a beautiful solitaire diamond in a white gold setting. He took it from the box, and threaded it onto my finger. I held up that hand for a better look. That didn’t help much as my hand shook and my eyes teared up. He wrapped his arm about my chair, and leaned down to kiss me.

I could see Bill Ramos in my mind’s eye, and I knew exactly what he’d say between puffs of cigar smoke. “About friggin’ time.”

Two of my pictures made the front page Saturday morning. First was Jose Emanuel Es­trada being carried from his home. The other was Art and Car­men nose to nose. Both stories began on the front but were continued inside. There was an entire layout of photos to go along with either story. One page had photos of the kids, of Carmen, and of cops crawling over kids to find their own places to sit. And there was a picture of my hero, Hammer, sitting next to his buddy, Kite. Both had their ears up and their tongues out.

The kids planned to meet at noon. We brought a blanket to sit on, and I brought my camera. There were a few who hadn’t made it the night before, and there were some ab­sent. Hannah reported that her mother thought she was at therapy. “She finds out I’m back here, she’ll probably cripple me. Told me I had no business being part of anything that protects a child mo­lester. She didn’t want to hear me when I told her she was wrong about him.”

A few parents came, and ordered their children to leave. Most were angry with us. One parent said that Joe had no business influencing her son like this. “Like how?” Joe de­manded.

“That man is dangerous. You get him released, and he does it again.”

“There’s no proof he did it to begin with. Your son knows that. Why can’t you see it?”

But then as several kids were pulled away, several other people joined us. The man who got Tim to help him with his roof showed up with both of his sons. Teachers from St. Mi­chael the Archangel School came, and so did Kevin Mahoney and several teachers from Roosevelt. A number of the pa­rishioners brought their kids. A throng of nurses, technicians and orderlies from Robbinson Memorial, still wearing hospital garb, joined us. Many, many others came, some carrying the Suburban Daily News, and some were carrying blankets.

“Got knocked over and stepped on during the stampede,” one man told us. “Broke my arm and a couple of ribs. He was there every day. Even stopped in after I was released. Took the time to talk to me and pray for me when I needed it. I asked him for a favor, and he helped me out.”

It was getting awfully crowded. People moved out onto the sidewalk, and a lot more blocked the street. Some of them even brought lawn chairs.

I was thrilled to see the firefighters arrive. Mark led the way. He was in uniform and on duty. He climbed into the fray and made his way to where we sat. He picked a spot next to me. He noticed my ring right away. He looked at it, kissed my head and punched Joe in the arm. “Slowpoke.”

And then a couple aldermen joined us. “If this doesn’t get the point across,” Art com­mented, “Nothing will.”

Vendors arrived with hot chocolate, hot dogs, pizza and snacks. Public Works Depart­ment employees brought out garbage cans, loaded them with wood and newspaper, and lit them. We were a little warmer, although the firefighters wouldn’t let us too close.

The last person to arrive was Father Paul. He skirted TV cameras, climbed over bodies, and excused himself as he accidentally kicked someone. Fi­nally, he latched onto my arm. “Walk with me,” he said.

“Can I come?” Joe asked.

“Please,“ he said, waving Joe on.

We climbed over the same bodies on the way out. Father Paul turned down the first residential street we came to, and headed north. It wasn’t until we crossed Trent, a full block later that we weren’t completely surrounded by people. “What is it?” Joe finally asked.

He turned to me. “Have you got a camera?”

“Amazing how many people have asked me that lately,” I commented, holding up my camera case. “Why?”

“Just come with me.” He led us to his old Sunbird and unlocked the pas­senger side. I crawled in back, allowing Joe the front seat. Joe was cramped. We drove along Maple until we came to St. Michael the Archan­gel.

Father Paul parked at the rectory. “I’m trying not to raise any suspicion,” he said. “I’m not sure what I should do. Only that this morning when I saw this, I just happened to have the newspaper in my hand. Your byline was right there where I could see it.”

We fol­lowed him across the lot. He contin­ued to talk, and play with a big ring of keys. “I mean I prayed about this for hours. And I tried to clean her up. I tried. But every time I did, it came right back. I mean, I can’t find a leak in the ceiling or somewhere where there’s a broken pipe...” He was getting more excited by the moment. “I mean, I kept telling myself this wasn’t what I thought it was. Unless you can come up with some ideas, I don’t know. Maybe you can.”

He found his key by the time we made the back door to the vestibule. He fidgeted so badly, I was tempted to take the keys away from him, and do it myself. Joe finally did. “Thank you,” Father Paul said, as Joe opened the door.

The church was dark when we entered. Joe and I waited as Father Paul fidgeted with the lights. After a few attempts, he finally lit the canned lights about the statue of the Blessed Mother. I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water, and made the Sign of the Cross as I hurried forward.

I paused at that magnificent statue and knelt down at altar railing. I smelled roses. I didn’t see any flowers. I crossed my­self again. And set my hand down in a cold, wet puddle on the railing. A drop of water splashed on the back of my hand. I looked up. It took a moment for my brain to catch up with what I saw. I watched as tears formed at the eyes of the Blessed Mother, and ran down her cheeks. At the tip of her chin, they fell, quickly, landing ex­actly where my hand was. I caught one, and spread it across my fingers. I smelled. ‘Roses,’ I thought. And I watched as another drop fell onto the marble and drip onto the floor.

I tried to calm my fluttering heart. And I stared for a very long time. It took so long to form a simple prayer, and it was so hard to stay with it. I gaped. And wondered about the significance of it all. Then it occurred to me why Father Paul came looking for me.

I took my camera from my bag, and I snapped one picture after another, and from one angle after another. Of Father Paul, of Joe and of the puddle on the railing and of another on the floor. It was hard to believe that this could happen here. It was so warm, so peaceful. The world outside, the police station and T.R. suddenly seemed to belong in another world, at another time.

I took dozens of pictures before my cell phone range. It was Ed Sonchek. I told him where I was, and he said he’d be there within a few minutes.

I dreaded leaving these feelings behind and reentering the world outside. I said good­bye, finally. Father Paul asked Joe to stay, and Joe agreed. I re­turned with Ed.

When Chief Weber felt that he had made his point, he released Father Tim. I arrived just in time. When Father Tim opened the door, the protesters cheered. Lisa ran forward and wrapped her arms about her Uncle. She cried into his breast. He held her just as tightly. I took their picture. The kids sur­rounded him, yelling and cheering, and slapping him on the back. Several officers stepped in to make room for him.

Hannah’s voice pierced the jubilation. “Immaculate Mary your praises we sing...” The crowd took up her song. “You reign now in heaven with Jesus our King. Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria. Ave, Ave, Maria...”

I don’t remember how long it took us to walk down Maple, only that Fa­ther Tim and Lisa hung onto each other the entire way. The people who joined us outside the station, walked with us. Some of them played instru­ments they brought with them, and the rest of us sang. When we hit the parking lot at St. Michael the Archangel, Tim tried to excuse himself. “I ha­ven’t slept much in three days.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I laughed. “Still, you have to see something.”

“Now?”

“Now.” We headed to Church. Father Paul greeted his assistant at the back door. Then he escorted Father Tim into the building. I stopped Lisa, hoping that this would be enough to hold up the others. “Give him a minute,” I said loudly, holding my hands over my head. “Hold on, guys. Give him a min­ute.” The crowd was anxious, but they com­plied. After a minute or two, Joe opened the door to the Church for us.

“Quietly,” he ordered. “Everyone, quietly.”

We entered on our tiptoes, filing down the middle aisle. Everyone sniffed, and glanced about. “Roses. Smells like roses,” I heard several people say. Many of us genuflected when we entered the pew. The others watched us, probably wondering why we would kneel down, cross ourselves and rise again so quickly.

It surprised me just how many of us there were. I mean Joe and I had moved into the first pew. Lisa was beside us and several of her friends were with her. I glanced back only to find that as the church filled there were more entering the rear door. A lot more. I called Joe’s attention to the back of the church, and when I did, the others about us noticed as well.

And everyone seemed so familiar. That surprised me. I mean there were a lot of people sitting outside the night before, and a lot more sitting with us today. It just didn’t seem like that many. What seemed even odder at that point was that I could swear I saw the LoBianco brothers. I mean it looked like them. The man behind them looked more familiar. He was exceedingly tall, almost as tall as Joe, he had huge muscles and a shock of blonde hair. I had a very hard time taking my eyes off of him. Joe grabbed one hand and squeezed it. I wondered if he noticed the man. When I glanced at him, he was focused on someone else. She was small and dark, and I knew what I was seeing finally.

“Kelly.“ That was Lisa. She was transfixed by another person.

I turned my attention back to the blonde. He wasn’t by himself. Adam, my late fiancee stood next to my redheaded, Irish father. And both of them were dressed to the nines in their dress uniforms. They were magnificent.

I wanted Joe to see this. Adam was his cousin, and my father was his father’s closest friend. I directed him that way. But as we turned our heads again, Regina, in a beautiful white dress, stepped in next to Joe’s late wife, and my close friend, Sheri. They were so beautiful.

We were settled and facing forward before the next observation was verbal­ized. “Oh my Lord.”

“She’s crying.”

I glanced about, finding Father Tim kneeling before Her. He rested his head in his hands, and his hands were exactly where I knew that puddle was. His shoulders shook.

Two days later the first snow of the season fell, and it came in hard. The streets filled quickly and just as quickly the snow plows attacked. That night Rob Boyle finally showed up at Pinkies’. From what I understand most people refused to speak to him, although no one, including the bartender, turned away his money. He had several beers before wandering out into the snow.

Snow that had been plowed from the streets was pushed into vacant lots and onto property lining the Cal Sag Channel. By the time the snow had stopped and the street had been plowed, the piles of plowed snow towered above us. The temperature rose almost immediately, and with that, the thaw began. In another two days there wasn’t a hint of snow left. Another two days passed before a child playing along the banks of Channel found Rob Boyle’s body. It is thought that he might have fallen in the street and knocked unconscious. Without realizing it, he was plowed up and deposited on the bank of the Cal Sag along with the snow.

At that point Art ordered a DNA test on Rob, figuring that if or when it came back, he could match the semen taken from Bobby. “Don’t hold your breath,” Art told me. “It’ll be months before we get the results on Father Tim’s test. The Illinois State labs are all backed up. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”