I'm hoping I can keep posting once a week and that I'll have this story wrapped up by the end of the year. That is my goal.
Please leave fdk. I'd love to know what you think of the direction in which the story is going, plus it does give me incentive to continue.
It's a bit soul destroying to think very few people are reading, though I know I have tried your patience with my lack of regularity in my posting schedule.
Yours Jenni
Previously on My Wife The Boss:
“But you won't know until you look. Would you like me to open it for you?” Liz asked gently.
Again there was another silence, broken only by Ina's rasping breath as she stared at the brown-wrapped package.
“I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look,” she replied eventually. “And if he did want to come see me ... I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give him permission. The good Lord teaches us to forgive.”
“Of course he does, Miss Bowen-Timmons, and especially at Christmas.” Liz lifted the package and looked for the edge of the wrapping, her hands working nimbly. “Christmas is a time for good will. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could spend this Christmas with your nephew ...”
*****
continued ...
Chapter Eleven
In the Bleak Midwinter
Clark was shown into a small room off the chancel, which appeared to do double duty as a storage room and office. He moved past some shelves filled with boxes into the main part of the room to find Father Ninian pouring a drink into a glass. Clark grinned -- more sacramental wine, he surmised, while hoping that his contact was still fairly sober.
“And that's the last I'm giving you until you've talked to my friend, Mr Kent. I want you somewhat coherent when he gets here,” Father Ninian said, echoing Clark's concerns.
“Good morning, Father,” Clark said, walking eagerly into the center of the room.
The old priest's hand jerked as he swung toward the voice, completely oblivious of the havoc he had caused, until he heard an outraged squawk from his companion.
The man in the armchair moved quickly to steady the bottle in the priest's hand. “Would you look at what you're doin', Father. That's too precious stuff to be throwin' away.”
The father glanced back to the table where a red stain was spreading across the wood. His friend, however, was busily wiping up the spilled wine -- only Patrick was using his fingers, then greedily licking off every last drop.
The priest's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Patrick, Patrick, what are you doing?” He nudged the man's hands aside, using his handkerchief to mop up the mess in a more appropriate manner.
Patrick threw him a disappointed look, but he ducked his weather-beaten face as he dried his hands on the front of his coat. “Well, it is communion wine,” he mumbled. “Hasn't it been blessed ... or something?”
“You mean, you'd rather it went down your throat?” Father Ninian sounded resigned, but the quirk of his lips showed he was more amused than reproachful. “And no, not yet ... or you'd be going without.”
“But I've only had three ... and you couldn't have found a smaller glass if you'd tried, Father,” the homeless man lifted the glass and stared at it with mournful eyes. “You're a hard man, Father,” he added, before downing the last of the contents.
Father Ninian shook his head in despair and turned back to Clark, beckoning him forward. “Clark, my boy, come in and sit yourself down. I'd like you to meet Patrick.”
Clark offered his hand to the man in the chair, but Patrick simply stared at him as if he were some alien being ... which he actually was, but Patrick didn't know that. This wasn't exactly the best of starts, but Clark had interviewed hostile witnesses before, so he hid his apprehension and pulled up a wooden chair, leaving the remaining armchair for Father Ninian.
The priest seemed grateful for Clark's thoughtfulness and sat down, the worn leather cushions sighing as they took the old man's weight. “Patrick has something to tell you, Clark. Don't you, Patrick? That's if you haven't forgotten already.”
A sly gleam lit up Patrick's bleary eyes as he glanced first at Clark then the father. “Do I?” He thought for a moment, looking puzzled. “My memory isn't so good these days, Father Ninian. It tends to come and go. I'm getting old, like you, Father. Though it's a funny thing, but a little libation seems to oil the wheels ...”
The priest grunted. “It's too much libation that's got you here in the first place ...”
“Father Ninian, please don't,” Clark cut in quickly, holding up his hand. He was beginning to doubt that this Patrick could tell him anything relevant, and certainly nothing which could be considered solid evidence by the police, but he had to try. “Patrick, if you have something to tell me, I'd be very grateful. The man you thought you recognized is very dangerous. He's killed before, and I think he's going to kill again, unless you can help me stop him.”
Patrick shifted his indistinct stare to Clark, his adam's apple bobbing up and down nervously. “Hey, I'm an old man. I can't do nothin' like that!”
Clark leaned forward, resting his arms lightly on his thighs in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. “I don't expect you to do anything physical, Patrick. Just tell me what you told Father Ninian.” He stayed silent for a second or two, giving the man time to calm down, before he asked in a sympathetic voice. “Bob was a friend of yours, wasn't he?”
“Kinda! We was both loners, ya know ... didn't like company much, but Bob had been around almost as long as me,” Patrick sighed, staring at his dirty fingernails. “I'm gonna' miss him.”
Father Ninian leaned over and patted Patrick's sleeve. “Me too, Patrick. Me too.”
Clark saw a faint chink in Patrick's armor, and though he hated manipulating people, it was for the greater good. “The police and the media are blaming Bob for the bombings. They believe Tanner is the killer ...”
“That ain't true!”
For the first time Patrick looked animated, and Clark pressed home his advantage. “I agree. I don't believe he did it either, Patrick.”
Again Patrick stared at Clark, weighing up the truth of the newspaper man's statement. “Them people who think Bob could kill anyone don't know nothin' about him,” he finally said with a touch of bitterness.
“But you did. You'd been on the streets together for a long time. I'd say you probably knew him better than anyone.” Clark let Patrick think for a moment before continuing gently, “Wouldn't you like to help me get justice for poor Bob? I'm sorry I can't bring him back, but I can make sure he won't be remembered as a murderer.”
Patrick glanced over at the priest as if seeking reassurance.
“Come on, Patrick.” The priest nodded his head, smiling encouragingly, “Clark is a good man, but he needs your help.” And as Patrick's eyes fell on the bottle on the table, he added, “I'll even give you another drink, after you've told Clark everything.” Father Ninian glanced heavenwards, seeking forgiveness for his unethical coercion.
The guarded expression finally left Patrick's face to be replaced with one of fear as he asked Clark, “You think the guy I saw with Bob was the bomber?”
“It's possible.”
Patrick shrank into the chair. “Then I ain't tellin' you nothing! He could come after me next.”
“No!” Clark stated, immediately sitting up straight. “That will not happen. I always protect my sources. I promise you -- your name will never show up in print.”
But at those words, Patrick had a slight change of heart. “I never said nothin' about never.” He too squared his shoulders. “And if I helped you put this bad guy away ... I'd be a hero.”
A tiny grin turned up the corner of Clark's lips, which he quickly hid. “Yes, you would. I think the people of Metropolis would be very grateful to you for putting the villain away.” Clark's face became serious once more. “And you'd have cleared Bob's name.”
“I'd like that,” Patrick said, smiling at last, though his faded eyes filled with tears at the memory of his fellow outcast. After a moment he went on, his voice sounding stronger. “What do you want to know?”
Clark tried not to look too eager, but he slid his chair nearer to Patrick, taking out his notebook and pen; the man would probably bolt at the sight of an audio-recorder. “If you could just tell me who the guy in the drawing is ...”
“Oh, I don't know him.” Patrick shook his head back and forth.
Clark gripped the pen, the pressure threatening to break it in two. Was this going to be another dead end?
“I know his name though ...”
“Bob told you?” Clark interrupted, eager for information.
“Nah! I told you. Bob was a loner. He kept himself to himself ... like me.” Patrick tried to make himself more comfortable in his chair, but he couldn't help from throwing a longing look at Father Ninian and the bottle of wine.
“Patrick, I said after you talk,” the priest repeated. “And if you could speed up a little, I'm sure we'd all be very happy ... you included.” Father Ninian stared pointedly at the bottle and the empty glass.
“OK, Father, I get the message. You're gonna make me work for my reward,” Patrick snorted and, turning back to the reporter again, he went on resignedly. “I heard Bob call this guy Tom ...”
Clark's instincts went on high alert. “You overheard a conversation between Bob and this man?”
“Sorta ... not the whole thing, you understand ... oh, and it ain't Tom ...”
“Do you know anything I can use?” Clark asked, letting his irritation show. This old drunk could be playing Father Ninian and him on a string in the hope of caging a free drink or two. Wanting to strangle a witness wasn't exactly good interviewing techniques, but now he understood exactly where Lois had been coming from all those years ago.
But Patrick seemed oblivious to Clark's frustration. “It was Thomas. I remember, 'cause the dude got really upset when Bob called him Tom ...”
Clark exchanged another glance with the priest. Perhaps Patrick was telling the truth. He kept his voice even as he asked, “And can you remember when this conversation happened?”
“'Course I do!” Patrick answered indignantly. “My memory might not be so good when I'm drunk ... but there ain't much chance of that now, is there?” He shot the priest another wounded look, before continuing, “It was the day I found my new coat.” His fingers stroked the thick material reverently. “It's a little big, but it's good wool and it'll keep me warm this winter.”
Clark surveyed Patrick's coat with its worn collar and cuffs. The garment had certainly seen better days and was a few sizes too big. Patrick had cinched it around his waist with a length of rope, yet it had been made of good quality wool and was very likely an improvement on the man's usual attire. Clark made a mental note to talk to the Superman Foundation about providing some warm clothing for the homeless people under Father Ninian's care.
But he quickly returned to the reason for his visit. “That's a really nice coat, Patrick, but can you remember when you got it?”
“The day before the bomb went off,” Patrick announced, and folding his arms across his chest, he sat back in his chair, satisfied that he'd gotten both men's undivided attention.
Father Ninian broke the pointed silence. “Are you sure, Patrick? This could be really important ... so you have to be sure.”
“Father, I'm a drunk not an idiot!” Patrick groused, though his words didn't seem to reassure his listeners.
“Maybe you should tell us what happened in your own words, Patrick,” Clark suggested, trying very hard to stay objective. This was the closest he'd got to a solid lead, even though his first witness might not be too reliable.
Patrick narrowed his eyes at Clark. “And you won't butt in no more? 'Cause it just confuses me. I'm an old man,” he repeated in a whining voice.
“No, I promise. I won't interrupt.” Clark turned his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of surrender. “Just take your time and try to tell me everything you can remember.”
“Right! Remember, no interruptin'. ” The old man nodded and gripped hold of the arms of his chair. His hands were beginning to shake and he would have dearly liked another shot of Father Ninian's wine, but he knew better than to ask. He swallowed hard and began. “I'd gone over to Chapel Hill that day. It's a long walk, but my old coat had burst at the seams and was lettin' the rain in. I'd heard the recycle center there had some good stuff, so I figured it'd be worth the effort. It must have been my lucky day, 'cause I met old Josie Kidd on the way over, and some snobby bird had given her a five dollar bill. Turned out it was Josie's birthday, so we shared a beer and a dog!” he said, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as he remembered the taste of his meal with Josie.
Patrick was totally unaware of the reporter's shoulders tightening impatiently. It saddened Clark to think that a celebration meal for this old couple was a beer and a dog, but he'd come here on the trail of a bomber and so far he'd discovered nothing. He had promised the old man a hearing, and he had every intention of listening to the story, even realizing it was likely to be a rambling one. He just didn't remember getting this frustrated in the past. Somehow he had to find his balance again, otherwise he'd never be able to do his job. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax as he offered Patrick some encouragement.
“Was that when you saw Bob, Patrick?”
But, clearly, the homeless man had other things on his mind. “Father, I ain't talked this much since ... well, I don't remember when, but it's thirsty work, ya know. I don't suppose ...” His voice tailed away, but his eyes slid hopefully to the wine bottle.
Without speaking, Father Ninian poured a little wine into the glass. Patrick snatched it up and drank, smacking his lips as he savored the taste, though Clark doubted the wine ever touched the man's taste-buds.
“Thank you, Father. You're a good man.” Patrick closed his eyes for a few moments, and Clark was just about to prompt him again when his eyes blinked open and he continued, “Now, where was I?”
“With Josie enjoying a hot dog,” Father Ninian said with a benign smile.
“Ah, yes.” Patrick grinned too. “OK, by the time I got to the recycle center it was crawlin' with folk and I was sure all the good stuff would be gone, but I figured, if I walked this far, I'd search anyway, and I was right, 'cause I found my coat!”
Patrick fell silent again, and Clark was wondering anew if the man had anything significant to tell him, but, he'd come this far ...
“Just shows ya, Father,” Patrick mused, staring at the crucifix on the far wall. “God helps them that helps themselves.”
Once more Father Ninian was tempted to laugh. His flock tended to find God when it most suited them. However, the priest could see that Clark was getting edgy, so he decided to try to get Patrick back on track.
“Patrick, did you see Bob that day?”
Patrick threw a disapproving look at the priest then pointed at the reporter. “He said to tell my story my way. I'm just getting to that! By the time I got my new coat on and found a piece of rope to tie around my waist, it was getting dark, so I started hurryin' back. Ya have to get to St Andrews before six, 'cause they start linin' up before then and ya won't get in. Did ya know that?” He directed his question to Clark, who shook his head.
“No, I didn't know that. I guess it's a good shelter?” Clark asked, trying to make small talk and ignore his impatience.
“The best! Even though Father Ninian here is a bit stingy with his ... hospitality.” The old man chuckled at his own joke. “But ya want me to get to the bit about Bob ... so, I was just a few blocks from here when I saw Bob on the other side of the road, just in front of Casey's Bar. He was with another guy. At first I thought he was another homeless guy on his way to the center, but he was dressed better ... not much, mind ya, but he was wearing one of these rain-jacket things. Anyways, I crossed the road to ask them if they was headin' to St Andrews, but just when I gets close, I sees this guy pullin' Bob down the alley. Poor Bob looked scared, so I tiptoed closer so I could listen, see if Bob needed my help ...”
“Hah!” Father Ninian gasped, but added quickly, “Sorry!”
“Ya think I ain't gonna help a friend, Father? We homeless bums gotta stick together,” Patrick said proudly, a defiant grimace on his face.
“No, of course not. I apologize for doubting you, Patrick,” the priest said contritely.
Clark felt a tingle of excitement begin in his gut, this was the closest he'd ever gotten to the bomber. “What happened next, Patrick?”
“I couldn't peek around the corner, in case the guy saw me. I mean, he sounded angry that he'd caught Bob goin' into Casey's. He told him he didn't want him takin' no drink, seein' how he had an important job to do in the mornin'. I'd never heard Bob say he was workin' for this dude, but we keeps ourselves to ourselves, so I wouldn't ... would I?”
“No, I'm sure you wouldn't,” Clark replied, since Patrick seemed to think this was important.
“I heard Bob promise Tom he wouldn't take no drink, and that's when this guy gets right uptight and says 'It's Thomas' ... all stuck-up like. Then he says, just to make sure Bob should spend the night at his place, and then they comes out of the alley all pally-like and walk off down the street. I never seen Bob again ... but I wouldn't, 'cause next day he died, so they say ...” Patrick crossed himself as his gaze strayed back to the crucifix.
“He did, Patrick. They've matched up the DNA with Bob's records,” Clark said gently. These people might not have much left in life, but it was clear they shared a certain loyalty. “Patrick, did they see you?” he asked, anxiously, as he realized that the old hobo might be in danger.
“Nah! I heard them coming and ducked into Casey's doorway.” Patrick grinned at his cleverness.
His words, however, gave Clark cause for doubt. He moved closer to the edge of his chair, his hand beginning to pull at the stump of his finger. “And you still got a good view from the doorway?”
“Oh yes! Casey's Bar has a neon sign right above the door, and they walked right past me. No one never takes no notice of old drunks lying in the doorway of Casey's.” Patrick cackled. “Mind ya, ya think Bob would have, but he was too busy to notice, his buddy having his arm wrapped around him real tight.” The old man heaved a sigh as he thought back to that night. “I seen the guy in your drawing real good, though. He made me shiver. That long thin face of his ... and those eyes. They were scary eyes ... Could have been the light from Casey's sign, but they looked like madman's eyes to me.”
The old man shuddered and shrank into his chair at the end of his story, too upset for the present to request his promised reward.
Clark used the silence to finish off his notes, but finally he had to ask. “Patrick, there's no doubt in your mind that this was the same man I drew, or that his name was Thomas?”
Patrick stared at Clark with an aggrieved expression. “I told you! You don't believe me 'cause I'm a hobo. No one ever trusts us. But if you weren't gonna believe me, why did you bother comin' all this way?”
Clark had the grace to blush. “I'm sorry, Patrick. That was unkind of me. I do believe you.” Strangely, Clark didn't doubt the old man at all. “I just wanted to make sure I got your information down right. You've helped me a lot and I'd like to do something for you ...” Clark started to pull out his wallet, but Patrick interrupted him.
“You keep your money. I helped for Bob's sake ... and to show that homeless people aren't totally useless,” he snapped, and for a few seconds, the man who Patrick used to be seemed to inhibit his frail body. Then, just as quickly, he deflated again, his gaze returning to the bottle on the table. “Father, do I get that drink now?”
“Patrick, after all your work, you can have the whole bottle. God forgive me.” The father crossed himself before pouring out another glass of wine. He left the bottle by Patrick's hand and stood up stiffly, gesturing Clark to proceed him to the door. “I know I shouldn't encourage him,” he whispered, leaning close to Clark's ear, “But I don't believe you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Clark took some dollars from his wallet, stuffing them into Father Ninian's hand as he too replied in a whisper. “Can you make sure that Patrick gets a new coat. One that fits and will really keep him warm ...”
“I will.” The priest took the money, smiling sadly. “And I'll pray he doesn't pawn it to buy some more booze.”
Again Clark's brows rose in question. He'd never thought of that, and he really should have. When he was wandering around in China, he might not have sold a new coat for alcohol, but certainly for food. “Father, please do what you think would be best for Patrick with that money. I'd really like to thank him in someway. This is the first real information I've managed to find about our bomber. I'm very grateful.”
But Patrick hadn't finished. “Hey, newspaper man,” he called, almost choking on his wine.
Clark leaned back into the room, believing Patrick might have overheard his conversation with the priest. “Yes, Patrick. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
“Nah, but maybe I can help you some more. That guy -- I might have seen him before. He was servin' in some greasy all-night cafe over in Bakerline, I think, but I can't remember for sure. It was a whiles ago ...”
Patrick's attention began to wander as he sipped his wine, and Clark realized he'd gotten all the facts the old man had to give ... but now he was certain he was on the right track. Patrick had just confirmed that the guy with Bob could be the same one who'd sent the tape that smelled of greasy food.
He backed out, talking quietly to Father Ninian again. “Look after, Patrick. I'm going to talk to the Superman Foundation about donating some funds to your shelter. I think I still have some influence with them.” Clark crossed his fingers behind his back as he dissimulated to the priest. “From someone who knows what it's like to he homeless, you're doing a brilliant job, Father, but I think the Foundation could help make things easier.”
Father Ninian took Clark's hand. “Thank you for your belief in me and my shelter. I know, as a priest, I'm supposed to be above worldly goods, but I'm not such an old fool as to look a gift horse in the mouth. Believe me, any donations for St Andrews are much appreciated,” he said, shaking the younger man's hand. “Goodbye and may God be with you. You're a very compassionate man, Clark Kent, as was your friend Superman, and I count all our blessings that you made it back home.”
Suddenly, tears sparkled, trapped in the wrinkled skin beneath the priest's eyes, and he dislodged his glasses as he wiped them away. Straightening his spectacles he said gruffly, “Ignore me! I'm a sentimental old softie. Off you go and bring that man to justice before he has a chance to hurt anymore people.”
Clark walked quickly through the large dining room where just a few stragglers were finishing off their breakfasts and the staff were already setting the tables for lunch. He left St Andrews with a spring in his step, feeling elated that the trail for the bomber was finally starting to shape up. There was still a lot of investigating to do, but he'd brought down other villains from such obscure beginnings and was confident that this time would be no different.
He was also still wondering if Father Ninian had winked and squeezed his hand at the Superman reference. Could the priest possibly suspect? There didn't seem to be much that got past Father Ninian, and he had known Lois, Clark and Superman for a long time.
It seemed the family secret might not be quite such a big secret after all.
*****
to be continued ...
