Seventeen
WHEN WE CROSS BACK into Myerton, I place another call.
“Jenkins,” says a firm feminine voice on the other end.
“Ms. Jenkins? This is Father Tom Greer.”
“Oh, good morning, Father,” she says, pleasantly. “How are you today? I don’t think we’ve spoken since Father Leonard’s—well, you know. You’ve been quite busy recently, if the news reports are even partly right. Have things settled down for you now that you’re home?”
“Actually,” I say, “not as much as you’d think.”
“Oh?” she says, more serious now.
“Yes. I was wondering if you’d have time to speak with me.”
She pauses. “Certainly, Father. When can you be here?”
I’m a little taken aback, but say, “Ah, I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Ten,” Helen whispers, pressing the accelerator more.
“Make that ten minutes,” I say.
