IT’S A LITTLE BEFORE 2 a.m. when the sound of Ave Maria from my phone jars me awake.
I don’t recognize the number at first, and I’m groggy when I say, “Hello?”
“Father Tom. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Steve?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You need to come here. Right now.”
Suddenly, I’m wide awake. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up the phone, throw on the first non-black clothes I can find and rush out to the Hoot-n-Holler, praying for help to Saint Michael the entire way.
When I get there, I look around but don’t see Dan.
“Tom,” Steve calls me over to the bar.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s cooling his heels in the back.“
“What happened?”
“Same thing as last time, but worse. He got here about 8 p.m., which concerned me, because it was a lot earlier than he usually does. Finally, about
