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  And Seamus loved her like she was part of the family. No matter how hard it might be for me to imagine life without my grandfather, Mary Catherine would have a harder time adjusting.

  But I wasn’t willing to give up yet. I bowed my head and prayed with all my heart. Like any good Catholic, I often said prayers from memory. Simple prayers to ask God to look over my family or help solve some of the world’s major problems. It wasn’t that I didn’t mean those prayers—it was just that, at the moment, nothing seemed more urgent or necessary than God’s intervention on behalf of my grandfather.

  Silently I said, “God, please help us right now. I need that old man. You need that old man here. He definitely makes things easier for all of us. You must know you have no more loyal servant. That is why I ask you to please help us now and let Seamus Bennett live with us on earth a while longer.”

  As I finished the prayer, the room was suddenly quiet again. The tone from the EKG stopped. The doctor appeared less frantic. A nurse inserted something into Seamus’s mouth that ran down his throat. She wouldn’t do that if he were dead.

  God had heard our prayers for our favorite priest.

  Chapter 33

  Almost a month after Seamus’s heart attack—or, as he took to calling it, his “return from the dead”—I found myself standing in the same small break room on Rikers Island where I had visited Brian before his trial.

  Between visiting Seamus in the hospital, attending Brian’s sentencing, and visiting him here, I felt like all I did was sit in small waiting rooms.

  We had been chatting for a few minutes as I filled Brian in on everything that had happened. We were all still recovering from Seamus’s heart attack as well as Brian’s sentencing.

  The judge said that the arrest of Albert Stass could not be tied to Brian because Stass had refused to talk and there was nothing directly relating the two arrests. Then the judge said, “But I recognize the service the defendant’s father has provided to the city of New York. I also recognize that the defendant has a chance to turn his life around.”

  Suddenly I started to feel hope that Brian might be coming home soon.

  Then the judge looked at Brian and said, “Therefore I will not sentence you to the maximum twenty-five years in state prison for a class B felony. Instead you will serve a term of between five and not more than ten years at a state prison chosen by the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision.”

  That was as big a blow as Seamus’s heart attack.

  Brian seemed resigned and was happy to be leaving Rikers Island, no matter where he was headed.

  When I sat down in the chair next to him, Brian said, “I know I’m responsible for Seamus’s heart attack. I know the stress of my arrest and trial is what led to it.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s a man in his eighties. He didn’t always take care of himself. There’s no way it was your fault.” Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. I realized that the stress of the last couple of months had taken its toll on the old man. But Brian didn’t need to know that.

  Brian started to cry. He turned in his chair and gave me a hug. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry I got involved in this. I just didn’t want any of you to get hurt, and that’s what they told me would happen. The guy you arrested, Caracortada, was just one of them. They said if I ever talked, they’d come after you and the family. I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Brian sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Suddenly I found myself crying as well.

  “It’s okay, son. You just made a mistake. We all do it. I admire you for being worried about your family.” Then I really started to cry. I couldn’t speak. I put my head into my hands and just started to sob. I couldn’t help myself. This was my little boy. I taught him how to ride a bike. I helped him with his first math homework. And now I was about to lose him. For a long, long time.

  I felt his arm across my shoulder, trying to comfort me. Then I heard Brian say, “It’s gonna be all right, Dad. Really.”

  I sat up straight and wiped my face. I’d come here to support my son, and now he was the one helping me. I turned to him and said, “I love you, Brian. You’ll never know how much I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Dad.”

  Then the door opened and two uniformed corrections officers took my son away from me. I watched silently as he was led back to the main cell block.

  At the end of the long hallway I saw the steel-bar door slam behind him. The sound echoed in my ears.

  Part Two

  Chapter 34

  I couldn’t help but feel that winter was darker and lasted longer than usual. Now, as summer approached, our lives seemed to be getting back to normal. Despite Seamus’s objections, we’d moved him to our apartment a few blocks from his quarters at the Holy Name rectory.

  He had fussed that he didn’t want to be any trouble. Then the old priest said that he didn’t want his great-grandchildren to look at him like he was an invalid. Finally, Mary Catherine talked to him quietly, as if he were a horse she was calming down. After she reasoned with the old coot for several minutes, he decided to take up residence in the downstairs bedroom.

  Mary Catherine and I discussed getting away from the city for a few weeks. The kids needed a change of pace, and I needed some time. Time to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Maybe it was my philosophy degree working on my attitude, but I was starting to think there was more to life than police work.

  Going through the criminal justice system on the other side had opened my eyes. Maybe I could do just as much good for society in a different position. I didn’t know, but I was keeping my options open.

  Mary Catherine quickly warmed to the idea of a vacation, and a call from an old friend working as a cop in Maine gave me an idea. One evening I was on the phone, and Mary Catherine heard me say, “Really? The house is right on the lake? In moose country?”

  Before I hung up, Mary Catherine said, “Where? Where is there a house like that?”

  “Maine.”

  “I’ve never been to Maine.”

  “You’ve never been to Pennsylvania, either. That’s hardly a recommendation for a place to spend three weeks away from home.”

  Mary Catherine asked, “Who was telling you about the house?”

  “An old NYPD buddy who works in a town not far from Bangor.” I thought about it for a moment and added, “I guess every town in Maine is not too far from Bangor.”

  Mary Catherine said, “Do you think Seamus is able to travel?”

  From the couch in the living room, Seamus called out, “I can travel anywhere you can travel.”

  I smiled and said, “At least we know his hearing is still in pretty good shape.”

  Seamus’s shout from the couch attracted some of the kids the way a dead fish in the water attracts sharks. They circled us, and Eddie said, “Are we going somewhere?”

  I smiled and patted my teenage mathlete on the head. He was a constant stream of motion and didn’t even stop when he asked this question. He just motored on into the living room to keep his great-grandfather company.

  Chrissy shouted, “Can we go to Disney?”

  Fiona said, “Yellowstone.” And was immediately seconded by her twin, Bridget.

  I listened to the input. Even my quiet one, Jane, suggested Philadelphia for all its historical sites. Of course Ricky suggested New Orleans because his newest interest in cooking was Cajun food. It was also the home of his hero, Emeril Lagasse.

  Mary Catherine gave me a quick sly smile and shouted, “Let’s go to Maine.” Then she jumped up and down, and her excitement was contagious. Soon she’d convinced the younger kids that Maine would give them the greatest adventure ever. They even chanted, “Maine, Maine.”

  The Bennett family was going on a vacation.

  Chapter 35

  It wasn’t what you’d call directly on the way to Maine, but we all agreed we wanted to visit Brian now that he�
�d been assigned his permanent home at a prison.

  I had kept visiting Brian at Rikers right up until he was transferred to the Gowanda Correctional Facility, in the extreme western part of New York State, around thirty miles south of Buffalo. As far as prisons go, it was about the best I could hope for. The state had a youthful-offender program, and Brian was able to call home a couple of times a week.

  As we pulled down the long entrance road, the sight of the thick chain-link fence topped by spools and spools of razor wire was jarring to the senses.

  Chrissy said, “Why is all that funny-looking wire on top of the fence?”

  Before I could answer, Jane said, “They don’t want birds sitting on the fence and pooping everywhere.”

  I looked up in the mirror to catch Jane’s attention and gave her a smile and a wink.

  Ricky said, “I wonder how they feed everyone.”

  From the front seat, which I had rigged especially for him, Seamus said, “Poorly. The people who cook here have nothing close to the commitment you bring to the kitchen, Ricky.”

  That made the young man smile.

  As everyone filed out of the van, Shawna said, “Look.” She pointed at a single window on the first floor of the administration building.

  A lone figure stared out through the metal bars.

  Shawna said, “It’s Brian.”

  Everyone turned quickly, and before I could ask how she knew it was her brother, the figure in the window waved.

  We had to visit in shifts of three. I had already called the prison and asked about the policy. They worked with me and asked us to come on a day that was not a scheduled visiting day. That’s how Brian knew we were coming and was able to wait for us at the administration building.

  The final group to visit was just Mary Catherine, Seamus, and me, although I had actually sat in on all the visits. The corrections officers seemed impressed that we had such a large family and that all the kids were committed to seeing their brother. We were the only visitors that day.

  It was a standard visiting room at a large, medium-security correctional facility. There were three separate visiting stations, and we were kept apart by a counter built on top of a low wall, as well as a glass partition. A corrections officer stood directly behind the inmates’ area. The partitions on each side made it feel like a booth.

  Seamus had been almost bursting with excitement at the prospect of seeing his great-grandson. He dominated the conversation as he listened to the activities Brian was involved in, which included finishing high school.

  The old man said, “Just keep your head up and do what’s right.”

  “I’ll try, Gramps.”

  Seamus got a little agitated and said, “You’ve got to do better than try, Brian. You’ve got to be the better man. No matter what happens, rise above it.”

  Brian was very solemn when he said, “Yes, sir.”

  Seamus said, “Make use of the chapel. Tell the chaplain that your great-grandfather is a priest in the city. Tell him to call me at Holy Name. He’ll do it as a matter of professional courtesy. I want him to know what a great kid you are.”

  Brian smiled and said, “Thanks, Gramps.”

  We finished up, and there were tearful good-byes all around. I felt like I needed to help Seamus when he was slow to get up from the chair. Mary Catherine and I led him down the long, unremarkable hallway. I turned back one last time to see Brian standing behind the wide counter, waving to us.

  It felt like I had a hole in my heart.

  Chapter 36

  It was late in the afternoon by the time we all piled into the van. With three large suitcases strapped on the luggage rack on the roof, we had a little bit of a Beverly Hillbillies vibe heading east on I-90.

  I polled the audience, and the overwhelming response was that we drive straight through to Maine and our new home away from home.

  Mary Catherine caught the look of concern on my face as I calculated the twelve or so hours between now and arrival. She leaned over and said, “I’ll help. It’ll be fun.”

  And so we were off on our adventure to the town of Linewiler, Maine.

  The crowd wanted a ghost story, and all I could think of was “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The story of Ichabod Crane was enough to scare some of the younger kids. I tried not to be too dramatic in my retelling, but Mary Catherine put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Maybe we should try another story.”

  Trent said, “But it’s got to be a ghost story. Something scary.”

  Eddie chimed in, “Yeah, Dad. Not a short story we read in second grade.”

  Fiona said, “Hey, we’re reading it now. In eighth grade!”

  Eddie kept his smug smile as he said, “We all move at our own pace, Fiona. I’m sure everything will turn out fine for you.”

  It was hard for me to suppress a smile. I love the interplay between brothers and sisters. God knows I provided enough brothers and sisters for that to happen.

  Then it was Seamus who started a story. I was a little surprised, but I appreciated his Irish accent and serious tone as he shifted in the front seat to look back at the faces of his great-grandchildren.

  He said, “It started a long time ago. Way before any of you were born.” He looked directly at Mary Catherine and said, “Even before you were born.”

  He had the kids’ complete and undivided attention.

  “I was called from the church in New York down to Washington, DC, where strange events were occurring around a little girl.” He searched everyone’s faces to make sure they were paying attention, then snuck a quick glance at mine.

  “The girl’s mother was a famous actress, and no one had been able to tell her why the girl was acting so strangely. Not doctors, not psychiatrists, not neurosurgeons.”

  Finally I had to interrupt him. “Seamus, are you trying to pass off the plot of The Exorcist as something that happened to you?”

  The old man just shrugged, like he’d been caught stealing a cookie. “I doubt they’ve ever heard it before.”

  Once it had turned dark and we had grabbed a quick bite to eat, everyone started dozing off in the van. Seamus was one of the first to fall asleep—and his slumber might have been the most obvious. His head rested on the back of the reclined front seat, and his mouth dropped open. At least his wheezing snore assured me that he was alive during the trip.

  By eleven o’clock, I was the only one still awake in the van. Mary Catherine sat on the first bench seat with Chrissy’s head in her lap and Fiona’s on her shoulder. It was a perfect picture of three pretty girls, even if all three of them had snoring issues of their own.

  The trip felt longer than I anticipated, even though we were on the final leg. I had to stop in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, just to stretch my legs and grab a quick cup of coffee. As I tried to quietly slip out of the van, Mary Catherine popped awake and crawled across my seat to join me.

  She said, “I dozed off for just a moment. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I chuckled, thinking about the four-hour nap that lasted “just a moment.”

  We sat and chatted for a few minutes over coffee and a doughnut. I hadn’t seen her so excited about something in a long time. She really needed to be out of the city.

  She was still awake and taking in the scenery as we passed through the town of Linewiler. The sun was just coming up, and pine trees lined the road on both sides as far as the eye could see. The lush greens and blues of the lakes interspersed through the forests were like an anti–New York City poster. It was beautiful.

  I saw the mailbox on the main road and made the turn to our rented house. It was an old Victorian home, and it sat right on the edge of a lake that had three different streams flowing into it.

  It didn’t take long for the first kid to stir and start to wake the others.

  From the back of the van Ricky said, “It looks like a haunted house.”

  Bridget said, “We should name it.”

  Mary Catherine had the perfect name: Mildew
Manor.

  Chapter 37

  For a change, everyone chipped in on the effort to unload the car and get us settled into the house. I realized that part of it had to do with each kid wanting to claim a particular bedroom. But this was not a Manhattan apartment. This was a real live house that had an incredible six bedrooms plus a foldout couch in the living room.

  I stepped out onto the front porch with Mary Catherine and draped my arm around her shoulder to pull her close. We just stared out across the beautiful lake. The only other houses were almost a mile away on the other side. White pines and candlewood pines lined the lake, making an almost impenetrable wall of forest. It was spectacular.

  Eddie stepped out onto the porch, followed by the other kids. He held a laminated sheet he’d found in the kitchen containing facts about the house.

  My brainiac, who was normally subdued, couldn’t hide his excitement. “The house was built in 1904 and includes a full acre on the lake.”

  Chrissy asked, “What’s the lake’s name?”

  Eddie hesitated with the pronunciation, then gave it his best shot. “Lake Nimicadiota.” He paused for a moment and added, “It means ‘Fish Lake’ in some Native American language. But no one knows exactly who named it.”

  Seamus said, “We’ll call it Lake Nim.”

  Mary Catherine looked at Eddie and said, “Does that paper give us any other facts about the lake?”

  “There are three separate streams that feed the lake, and in the summer it rises from the melting snow in the foothills. All three streams have trout, and the lake itself has an abundance of bass and other freshwater fish.”

  I smiled at the way he so carefully read the information off the page.