As the phone continued to ring, he picked up his watch and glanced at the glowing dial. Twelve-forty. Not good. Lord, have mercy. . . .

"Hello!"

"I have a collect call from Harley Welch," said an operator. "Will you pay for the call?"

"Yes!"

"Rev'rend?"

"Harley?" His heart hammered.

"Rev'rend, I hate t' tell you this . . ."

CHAPTER NINE.

Home Far Away "They got Dooley in jail."

" What?"

"But he's all right, he ain't hurt or nothin. . . ."

Cynthia sat up. "What is it, Timothy?"

He switched on the lamp. "Dooley."

"Dear God!" she said.

"Tell me, Harley." He once prayed he'd never live to hear what he was hearing now.

"Well, he was comin' home on time, goin' to be here right on th' nickel...."

"And?" His mouth was dry, his stomach churning. Christ, have mercy. . . .

"An' he picked up Buster Austin standin' out on th' road. You remember Buster."

Indeed, he did. Buster had called yours truly a "nerd," for which Dooley had mopped the floor of the school cafeteria with him. The last run-in was when Buster stole a pack of cigarettes and talked Dooley into smoking on school grounds. School principal Myra Hayes had nearly eaten one hapless priest alive for "allowing" such a thing to happen, and suspended Dooley for ten days.

"Buster said he needed a ride to git 'is clothes at somebody's house, would Dooley take 'im, an' Dooley said he would but make it snappy. Dooley set in th' truck while Buster took in a empty duffel bag and come out a good bit later. Seems like th' boys was goin' down th' road when two officers drove up behind 'em in a squad car. Pulled 'em over, hauled 'em off to th' station for breakin,' enterin,' an' larceny."

"Larceny?" This was a bad dream.

"You know that empty duffel bag Buster carried in? Hit was full when Buster come out of th' house. Had jewelry, a CD player, money, liquor, I don't know what all in there."

"No!"

"Police said th' house had a silent alarm on it, an' they was on th' boys before they got out of th' driveway good. But Dooley didn't do nothin'."

"I believe that."

"Nossir, he didn't, he was doin' th' drivin' is all, but the police says 'til they know better, he's locked up."

"What can I do?" His legs were turned to water; he sank into the chair by the lamp.

"If I was you, Rev'rend, I'd do what preachers do."

"Pray."

"That's right. I'm down at th' station, an' soon as I hear somethin', I'll call you. I know Dooley don't want you worried an' all. He would of called, but he's upset about worryin' you."

"How is he, Harley? Tell me straight."

"Well, he's scared. He's innocent, but hit's scary bein' th'owed in a cell like that an' locked up."

"Is Rodney there?"

"Last I heard, th' chief was puttin' on 'is britches an' bustin' over here."

"Thank God for you, Harley."

"Now, don't you worry, Rev'rend."

He hung up, trembling, feeling the immutable reality of six hundred miles between Mitford and his racing heart.

At one-thirty, he could bear it no longer and called the Mitford police station.

Rodney Underwood was questioning Dooley and Buster. No, they didn't know when the chief would be through, but he would call when he was.

Jonathan trotted in and clambered onto their bed.

"I think I read somewhere that children aren't supposed to sleep with their parents," he said.

"We're not his parents," explained his wife.

Jonathan bounced down beside Cynthia, looking hopeful. "Watch a movie!"

Cynthia was not amused. "Jonathan, if you so much as utter the M word again, I will jump in the ocean!"

He nodded his head vigorously. "I can swim!"

"Good! Go to sleep."

He poked his chubby finger into Cynthia's arm. "You go to sleep, too."

Father Tim paced the floor, checking his watch.

"I'm hungry," said Jonathan.

"People don't eat during the night."

Jonathan held out both hands. "Give me candy, then?"

Cynthia leaned toward him, shaking her head. "If you weren't so utterly adorable . . ."

"You got bad breath," said Jonathan, wrinkling his nose.

"When I go to the library tomorrow," she told her husband, "I'll see if they have a book on what to do with children."

The phone rang at two o'clock.

"Buster Austin's been askin' for trouble for years," said Rodney. "Now he's gone and stepped in it."

"What about Dooley?"

"Dooley says he rode Buster over to the house and sat in the truck, said he didn't have nothin' to do with it, but Buster says he did. Soon as th' paperwork's done, I'll drive th' boys over to Wesley and take 'em before th' magistrate."

"Good Lord, Rodney. What does that mean?"

"Th' magistrate's th' one signs th' arrest warrant, then I'll serve it.

I'm goin' to tell 'im I think Dooley's innocent, he's never been in any trouble, and we'll see where we go from there. He'll set bond, and you'll have to talk to a bondsman if you want Dooley out of jail."

"Right. I know the bondsman in Wesley. Call me the minute you know something. What kind of bond do you think we're talking about?"

"Breakin' and enterin' and larceny is serious business. You might get off for twenty thousand, maybe ten. Th' Austins will probably post a property bond, Buster don't come from fancy circumstances."

He couldn't believe this was happening. It was a nightmare. It was also the ruination of his boy's summer, his last precious days at home. . . . He felt sick in his very gut.

"Where do we go from there?" he asked.

"Th' magistrate will set a court date, two weeks to thirty days away."

"Let me talk with Dooley, if I may." He felt like a Mack truck was sitting on his chest.

"Hey," said Dooley.

"Hey, yourself," he replied, drawing thin comfort from their old greeting.

"I didn't do it."

"I believe you."

"Buster Austin's still th' same lyin', cheatin' geek he always was. I should've known better. I picked 'im up 'cause I thought he was in trouble, I thought maybe his ol' car was broke down an' I was tryin' to help. I could kill 'im, maybe I will."

"I think you did the right thing."

"You do?"

"I do. It was someone you knew, you thought he needed help, and you stopped."

"So how come it turned out like this?" He could hear the barely controlled rage in the boy's voice.

"Sometimes we do good and it turns out badly. I don't know why. But it definitely doesn't mean we're to stop doing the right thing."

"Yeah, well, wait'll Lace an' ever'body hears about it."

"I thought you weren't seeing much of Lace."

"I don't care what she thinks, anyway, but what about ever'body else, like Avis? And what if it gets back to school? I mean, some of th' guys will think it's cool, but th' headmaster, he'll . . . he'll freak."

"If it comes up, tell the truth."

"I want to go home," said Dooley. He sounded exhausted. "I got to work tomorrow."

"Rodney will take you home as soon as the bail issue is settled."

"Did you know I'll have to go to court for this stupid mess?"

"Yes."

"I'll have to come home from school, but I ain't tellin' this to Mr. Fleming, no way. You can say I've got to have an operation or somethin'. Maybe on my kidneys or tonsils or . . . on my brain or spine."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I'm sorry this happened, I wish we were there. God bless you, everything's going to be fine. I'll call the bondsman as soon I hear back from Rodney, don't be afraid, we love you." He tried to cover all the bases, but his heart felt empty as a gourd.

Rodney called at three a.m.

He'd done everything he could to convince the magistrate that Dooley was a good kid with no previous offenses, emphasizing that his daddy was a clergyman. The magistrate said he was a preacher's kid himself, and based on that alone had a notion to set bail at forty thousand. Bottom line, the magistrate was releasing Dooley on a secured five-thousand-dollar bond, and Rodney was driving him home as soon as the bondsman could get over to the Wesley jail. Buster Austin's parents had refused to post bond, and Buster would not be going home.

He found Ray Porter's number in his black book, and woke him up.

"Ray, Tim Kavanagh. My boy's in the Wesley jail and he's innocent. He's under a five-thousand-dollar secured bond. How fast can you get him out of there?"

"Let me jump in my clothes," said Ray. "I'll have him out in twenty, thirty minutes. Y'all still down at th' coast?"

"Afraid so. How shall I send the fee?"

"Put a check in the mail. You got my address?"

"I have it somewhere."

"Post office box six twenty-one."

"God bless you."