“OK, FATHER,” NATE SAYS as we turn off the main road. “Just let me do the talking.”
“I didn’t think about the guard,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry,” he says as we pull to a stop at the entrance to the exclusive gated community where Dr. Markel lives. Rolling down his window, Nate shows the very serious looking guard his driver’s license.
“Nate Rodriguez dropping off Father Thomas Greer for the Whitney baptism,” he says as calmly as someone ordering a number 3 meal large-sized, hold the onions.
The guard goes back inside the guard house. Every nerve in my body is on edge, and I’m tapping the armrest with my fist. Nate, displaying a coolness I have never seen in him before now, is whistling a tune that’s vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t quite place. Looking at me, he says, “Isn’t there a s
