FREE A.D.

Colson regretted letting the board talk him into allowing kids to visit the homeless shelter. They were too busy texting on their cell phones or taking selfies rather than trying to understand the homeless problem or even grasp the reality of someone living on the street. But they insisted it would be good publicity and go a long way when it came time for donor drives. He felt drained as he concluded his presentation, abruptly removing his wire rimmed glasses and rubbing his face. He could see his reflection in the front window, his face gray and tired, his dirty blond hair streaked white on the sides of his head making him look like an aging swan.

He tried to hide his annoyance with the students as they spewed the usual mixture of inane comments and dumb questions. Aren’t all homeless people on drugs? Aren’t they all insane? My father says their criminals. They sure look like criminals. He smiled politely, but considered letting the pent-up gas pulsating in his mid-section go as a result of the colonoscopy he underwent yesterday. Slowly, not all at once. Like a flight attendant friend told him he usually does when he walks down the aisle of a plane after putting up with a particularly annoying group of passengers. “Crop dusting” is what he called it. But he passed on pulling the trigger when he noticed Sebastian waving to him from the other side of the room.

“How did that go?” Sebastian Nettle waited for the last student to walk past Colson before approaching him. He wore a black, Grateful Dead tee shirt that contrasted with his milky white skin, and a pair of cutoff jeans with a sneaker in each pocket.

“About as comfortable as the device they used yesterday to probe my behind.” Colson pointed to the sneakers. “I told you didn’t have to worry about that here.” Sebastian smiled as Colson once again reminded him that he didn’t have to hide his shoes like he did on the streets for fear of someone stealing them.

“Guess old habits die hard,” said Sebastian.

“I guess. No worries. You’ll be out of here in a couple of months. In the meantime, put on your shoes.”

Sebastian blushed as he withdrew the sneakers from his pockets and slipped his feet into them. “Oh, forgot to mention. Harry Stansky called.”

“I’ll buzz him back, thanks.” Colson watched as the young man bent down to tie his sneakers. “And comb your hair. You look like you just woke up.”

“I did.” Sebastian sheepishly rubbed his hands over his faded tee shirt, then through his shock of black hair. “There,” he said smiling. “It’s combed.”

Colson took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. As he hustled down the hallway to his office, he recalled his run-ins with Captain Harry Stansky when he was on the streets being shooed from one place to another. Harry hung back and when the sweep ended, he would talk to him. Not rough or demeaning like the others. But in a tone that showed interest, an attitude that soon developed into caring the more Colson got to know Harry.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he’d say. He’d ask Colson how he got there, what he needed to change his situation. He’d even nag him to make sure he followed up on tips he had given him.

“Peace, Friend Shelter, Colson Day speaking.” Colson always liked to throw that bit of formality into conversations even with people he knew as well as Harry. He chalked up his mechanical greeting as habit, but deep down inside Colson knew it helped reassure him of his progress from the streets and of his iron-willed intention never to return again.

“Hey, Colson. Harry here. How are you and your little band of misfits doing?”

“We’re doing good here, Harry,” said Colson. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve got this case, Colson. Real strange.” Colson had heard that before. He had often helped his old friend Harry with difficult individuals, ones who didn’t fit the clear mold of criminal. Harry had a knack for finding goodness in people. Instead of a jail cell he’d sometimes ask Colson if he would take an individual into his group home. Good behavior at Peace, Friend often influenced a judge to give second chances.

“The name is…ready for this? Agnusto Deistano. I’ll spell that…A-g-n-u-s-t-o D-e-i-s-t-a-n-o.”

“Sounds Italian,” said Colson.

“Or middle-eastern. Anyway, he’s a male, 30-35 years old. You know Saint Augustine’s church on Central?”

“Yeah. The Catholic Church. Father Benetto the pastor there, died recently, right?”

“Right. It seems shortly after he died, this letter surfaced explaining who this Agnusto guy is. Apparently, he’s the janitor, a maintenance man, but get this. He’s lived there all his life. In fact, we can’t find any record of him. No birth certificate, social security number. No priors, no previous family or address. Even his finger prints are a dead end.”

“Did you ask this Agnusto about it?”

“Sure, but the guy says as far back as he can remember, he’s always been at the church. We talked to some of the parishioners. They all say the same thing. He was Father’s go-to guy, always around, doing odd jobs, taking care of the grounds. One strange thing we did hear. One lady said she doubted Agnusto ever left the church property.”

“That’s hard to believe. So, what exactly did this guy do? Is he accused of any crime?”

“Not exactly. They found him in Father Benetto’s bedroom the night he died. Agnusto claims he was praying for him. Anyway, I don’t think there was foul play, Father did have a serious heart condition. But until we get autopsy results, we kind of have to hold him. He’s got nowhere to go, and I hate to stick him in a cell.”

“No, don’t do that. I’ve got an open space, you can send him here.”

“Thanks, Colson. Just for a couple of weeks. I’m sure he’ll work for you. Maybe you can get him to open up a little more about his past. Anyway, I’ll have him over to you by next week.”

“That’s fine,” said Colson.

“Oh, and I want to send you Father Benetto’s letter. It’s a little strange. I’d like your take on it.”

“How do you mean, strange?”

“Not sure. The way it ends for one thing. I’ll send it to you so you can see for yourself. Thanks again for the help, Colson.”

“No problem, Harry. Happy to help.”

Colson cleared the clutter from his desk and placed the letter he had printed out a few moments ago in front of him. A breeze blew across the desk from an open window, causing a corner of the letter to flutter in response. The moisture from the humidity coated his neck and bare arms as he read Father Benetto’s letter.

The letter praised Agnusto as a “caring soul” and a “humble, wise man.” Other phrases struck him as he continued scanning the letter “…has been a diligent worker…considerate of others and always willing to help…deserves to be as free as the eagles in the native painting he keeps in his quarters.” Father Benetto didn’t reveal any clues as to where Agnusto came from or how he came to live at the church. His comments about the eagle painting troubled Colson. To him it sounded as though Agnusto had been held in some kind of servitude.

Also, Harry’s reference to the end of the letter piqued Colson’s interest. After his signature, Father Benetto left a cryptic postscript. It read “P.S. Agnusto Deistano.” The equation “5 + 3” appeared under the name in parentheses. It didn’t make sense. It seemed to be a code of some kind, but Colson couldn’t imagine why the priest would resort to such a tactic.

#

The following Monday, Harry arranged for Agnusto Deistano to be dropped off at Peace, Friend shelter at 9am sharp. Colson had the young man wait downstairs so that he could have time to review his file. Colson smirked at the usual attempt to condense a person’s experience, shortcomings, hopes and dreams into a dog-eared, wrinkled folder. He had seen this many times when he came in from the streets seeking help from an agency or counselor too quick to judge based on the meager contents of a file. The idea that a person could be reduced to one-page memos and reports burned him. In Colson’s view to understand a person one had to speak to that person, face to face, and, most importantly, one had to listen.

Colson greeted Agnusto, a tall man slightly built with dark hair and eyes and a stubble of growth not so much a beard but an indication he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He held Colson’s hand longer than a usual handshake required, smiling gently as though trying to discern something about him.

“Welcome, Agnusto,” said Colson.

“Please, call me ‘A.D.’ I know my name can be a real mouthful.”

“Fine…A.D. Let me give you a quick tour before I show you where you’ll be staying.” Colson started with the main floor. Volunteers and staff busied themselves in the kitchen, preparing food for meals and setting the tables in the main dining room.

“In the early days we set up tables during the day and served two meals. At night, we’d stack up the tables and set up cots in their place.” He led A.D. upstairs and down a narrow hallway.

He explained how he eventually got enough grant money and private donations to finish the upstairs, providing 12 individual apartments for homeless people to live in while transitioning to more permanent quarters. “It’s not a free ride. They have jobs to do around here…in the kitchen, the laundry, maintenance…But it gives them pride, something they need as much as food and a roof over their heads.”

“I want to do my share,” said A.D.

Colson nodded and led him to a room at the end of the hallway. “This is yours. Why don’t you unpack your things, then join me in my office.” Colson pointed to his left. “It’s the door at the end of the hallway.”

A.D. sat perfectly still opposite Colson’s desk, hands in his lap, posture erect. Colson closed the folder in front of him and looked at A.D. He seemed in a trance, but not disconnected. More at peace, observed Colson. He leaned forward as he spoke.

“So, tell me, A.D., exactly what you did for Father Benetto.”

“I fixed things around the church, kept the old furnace running.” A.D. leaned forward his enthusiasm increasing with every word he spoke. “And the grounds, I would take care of bare spots on the lawn, the flower bed that Father Benetto loved so much.” A.D. looked past Colson as though replaying a memory only he could see. “Father Benetto loved to pick those flowers. Usually around this time, for the May Crowning. I’d go with him and he’d say, ‘Cut these, aren’t they beautiful, won’t they look wonderful on the altar?’ He loved those flowers.” A.D. paused as the memory faded and he turned his attention back to Colson.

“We certainly have plenty of chores you can help us with around here,” said Colson, as he rubbed his hands together. “Of course, you know why you’re here. Captain Stansky…Harry…told me you don’t remember how you wound up at Saint Augustine.”

A.D. shook his head. “No. As far back as I can remember, I was always in the church.”

“I want to assure you that your time here is temporary. But as I’m sure you can appreciate, the police just want to have a clearer picture as to your identity, where you came from.” Colson paused as his eyes met A.D’s. They held him for a moment. Colson thought he sensed a longing of sorts, almost a plea. He interrupted the silence. “Anyway, any help you could give them, any memory of anyone else in your life?”

“Just Father Benetto and the other priests.”

“Other priests?” Colson didn’t recall Harry mentioning anyone else.

A.D. sat forward. “Yes, there was Father Charusko. Oh, he was a character. Couldn’t start his day without reading ‘The Daily Telegraph’ newspaper. He loved the comics especially, liked to read them to us at the breakfast table.

“Oh, and there was Father Damiano.” A.D. raised his hands and shook them. “He loved big band music. Always had that record player going, listening to Glen Miller, Jimmy Dorsey, all the greats.” He leaned forward and chuckled. “Liked to dance with Celia, the maid. They could sure move together.”

#

Colson watched A.D. for the next week. He seemed to be everywhere, helping out in the kitchen and volunteering for everything from hauling out the trash to unclogging a toilet. He even assisted Colson with his weekly meetings, helping individuals navigate web sites and fill out countless forms needed to request assistance.

He repaired the broken front door jamb and replaced a section of rotted floor. Colson came down one morning and found A.D. fixing a leaky copper pipe in the rest room. One of the regulars, Johnny Toothpick, crouched under the restroom sink, his signature toothpick wiggling in his mouth as he watched.

“Johnny, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Colson. Giving A.D. a hand. Or, watching his hands is more like it.”

A.D. pointed to a copper pipe under the cold-water faucet. “See, Johnny? The leak was here. I cut the pipe just above it and now we’re gonna replace it with a new piece of pipe.” A.D. handed Johnny the pipe. “So, you try it. Measure out a three-inch length and use this tool to cut it.” Colson watched as A.D. showed Johnny how to clean the ends of the pipes, use two couplings to attach the new piece to the old one and solder it with a torch and a length of solder.

“Not bad, Johnny. You got some skill at this.” Colson could see Johnny tilt his head slightly as though he had heard something no one ever said to him.

The next evening Colson invited A.D. to join him at a table with Johnny and two of his friends. They watched as Willie Dunk cut the cinnamon bun on his plate in half. He ate one half, and shoved the other half in his pocket.

“Resourceful,” observed A.D.

The man sitting next to Willie rolled his eyes as he sat erect and sucked in his bottom lip. “Grossly unsanitary,” said Norton Kirby. He lifted his nose slightly in the air as though detecting a disagreeable odor. He brushed the sleeves of his worn sport jacket and straightened out a paisley tie that hung loosely around a white shirt with a yellowing collar.

“Don’t listen to Nerd-ton over there,” said Willie.

“That’s Norton, Norton to you, you dimwit.”

Colson raised his hand. “Now, Norton, that’s enough. Willie didn’t mean anything by that, right, Willie?”

Willie took another bite of his bun, chewing it as he looked in Norton’s direction and letting the crumbs fall over his shaggy gray beard. “I wouldn’t if he didn’t think he was so much better than the rest of us.”

“Willie’s right, Norton here thinks we ain’t got no couth.” Johnny grabbed his toothpick and grinned like a horse, exposing his teeth as he scraped food from between them.

“Indignity after indignity, that’s what I am doomed to suffer.” Norton folded his hands as he looked at A.D. “You tell me, what do you see when you look at those two?”

A.D. shrugged as he winked at Johnny and gave him a slight wave. “I see a man who likes toothpicks and sure knows how to use them. But also, a man who has hope.” A.D. turned to Willie.” And this man, I see a man who is generous.”

“And me?” Norton raised his eyebrows.

A.D. looked down at his folded hands. “Hurt,” he said. “I see hurt.”

#

By the beginning of his second week, A.D. had become a fixture at the shelter. He enlisted Johnny as his assistant, teaching him how to repair things as they tackled project after project. He teased Willie for the food he hoarded, but praised him for sharing every morsel with others in need.

Norton cornered A.D. outside the shelter one evening after supper. He looked down at the ground as he spoke. “How did you know? About the hurt?” He looked away again. “No matter. I was tenure track at the university, but they refused to give me tenure. I worked hard for that, I deserved it.”

“Sometimes we slip and fall, Norton, but that’s when you have to keep going.”

“Nobody’s going to get the chance to do that to me again. I’ll stay on the streets for the rest of my life. At least I have my pride.”

“Seems to me you’ve let your pride cloud your judgment.” A.D. put his hand on Norton’s shoulder and gave him a playful wink. “What you and the others need is an interim step. Let’s see what we can do.”

The next evening, A.D. approached the group as he mopped up a food stain in the middle of the floor. “Hey, guys. You know that new box store that opened on Main? They need people and quick. Why don’t the three of you go down there and apply for a job…together?”

“They ain’t gonna want no street guys workin’ for them,” said Willie, as he slipped a couple of rolls in his pocket.

“Don’t be so sure. Tell you what.” A.D. grabbed his mop and plunged it repeatedly in a nearby bucket. “I’ll go with you guys. Tomorrow. I’ll help you fill in your applications and talk to the manager.”

Colson overheard A.D.’s promise to the men and waited for them to leave the kitchen. He waved A.D. over to him. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here with those guys.” He said, “but you got to be careful about giving false hope. Broken promises are riddled with a lot of good intentions.”

A.D. placed his mop in the bucket and began pushing it toward the utility closet in the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at Colson. “It will be fine, Colson. I’m sure of it.”

#

Donor meetings and supply purchases crowded Colson’s calendar for the next two days. He stood in the middle of the evening meal, listening to snippets of conversation when he noticed Willie entering the shelter.

“Willie, you’re late. Not like you to miss a meal.” Colson looked over Willie’s shoulder. “Where’s Johnny and Norton?”

Willie hooked his thumbs in his pant pockets and grinned at Colson. “They’ll be by, some time. But, truth is, we don’t need meals anymore.” He playfully poked Colson in the chest with his finger. “I got a job. Should say, all three of us got jobs. A.D. came down to the store with us and talked to the manager. Next thing I know, we’re hired. All three of us, working together in the warehouse.”

Colson raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Good for you. But what about food and all. You haven’t earned a paycheck yet.”

“That’s the best part,” said Willie. “He advanced us a week’s pay and found us a small apartment we could live in, the three of us. It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but we don’t have to start paying the rent until we get our first paychecks. Of course, that Norton started complaining that the place was a pig’s pen until we reminded him his sorry ass was on the street only a day ago.” Willie laughed. “Anyway, he got the message.” He scratched his beard and extended his hand. “Thanks for everything, Colson. And thank A.D. for us. The man’s a miracle worker.”

“Yes,” said Colson nodding as he shook Willie’s hand. “Seems so.”

Colson looked for A.D. after supper. He found him outside in the back of the shelter speaking to a group of men. He motioned for Colson to join him. “Colson, you’ve got a perfect spot for a garden here,” said A.D. as he motioned with his hands over a patch of ground behind the main building. “Good southern exposure. We can plant tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers. You’ll be eating fresh salads by August. The boys have offered to give me a hand. Okay with you if we start tomorrow afternoon after lunch?” Colson nodded his approval. The men filed back to the building.

Colson pulled A.D. to the side. “Willie was just here. Sends his regards.” Colson took a deep breath. “What exactly did you say to that man to get those three guys hired?”

A.D. shrugged. “I appealed to his goodness.”

“You didn’t make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” They both laughed. “Seriously, it had to be more than that.”

“No, Colson. That was it. You’d be surprised how all it takes is for someone to appeal to that side of a person.”

#

Sebastian got up from the desk as Colson entered the room.

“Any messages?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Harry Stansky called. Asked for you to give him a call back.” He lowered his voice. “Checkin’ up on A.D., I think.”

“Thanks for holding down the fort.” Sebastian waved as he left, seemingly unaware he had on only one sneaker; the other stuck out of his pocket and looked like the head of a dead fish. Colson laughed as he picked up the phone to return Harry’s call. A knock on the door interrupted him. A.D. entered carrying something under his arm.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been meaning to give this to you.” He removed a white cloth from a painting and placed it on the desk in front of Colson.

“What is it?”

“It’s a painting by a native American, Dimi Coti. Not his real name, I don’t think.” A.D. held up the painting to give Colson a better look. “It shows the eagle dance.”

“Yeah, Father Benetto mentioned that in his letter. Very colorful.”

“I like it.” A.D. pointed to the painting. “The two women are dressed in eagle costumes. The native people believed eagles soar high and communicate with the great spirits. The dance asks the eagle to intercede with the almighty to grant the people a plentiful hunting season.”

As A.D. spoke, Colson tapped the keys of his computer. “Seems Dimi Coti was a well-known artist from one of the New Mexico pueblos. Says here he painted in the early 20th century.” Colson narrowed his eyes as he looked closer at the computer screen. “Died in 1955. I’m looking at his most known artwork, but I don’t see the eagle one listed here.”

“It wouldn’t be.” A.D. stood up and placed the painting back on Colson’s desk. “Dimi painted it for me, gave it to me as a gift.” He smiled at Colson. “I want you to have it. Hang it here in the shelter, my gift to you for all the good work you do.” Colson tried to say something but couldn’t find the words. “Have to go now. I promised the crew I’d help with dinner.”

Colson eyed the painting running his fingertips over the colors…reds, yellows, grays…as if trying to communicate with the artist. He lifted the receiver and called Harry.

“You have time to stop by, Harry? It’s about A.D.”

#

Harry kicked at a clump of dirt as he and Colson watched the men planting seedlings in the garden.

“This was A.D.’s idea,” said Colson. “I gave him money for the plants. He’s out buying more now. These gentlemen were gracious enough to donate their time.” The men acknowledged Colson as they continued working. “Walk with me, Harry.” Colson led his friend to a bench under an oak tree in the back of the shelter where the two sat down. The branches offered some relief from the afternoon heat.

“So, we’re coming up to two weeks. What’s the word on A.D.?”

Colson sniffed at the air. “Not sure, Harry. I mean, he’s a good worker and all and as you can see,” Colson waved his arm in the direction of where the men were working on the garden, “the folks around here would do just about anything for him. It’s just that, he’s said some things that don’t make sense.”

“Like what?”

“He claims he worked with two other priests at St. Augustine besides Father Benetto. A Father Charusko and a Father Damiano.”

Harry shrugged. “As far as I know, Father Benetto was the only priest assigned to St. Augustine. Maybe they were visiting priests, who knows?”

“Anyway, I was hoping you’d look into that for me. I’ll text their full names to you.” Colson leaned back on the bench in time to catch a cool breeze blowing on his face. “Then there’s this business with three regulars here from the shelter. Seems he got them all a job, plus a place to stay. Just like that.” Colson snapped his fingers. “Not sure what he said to the manager.”

“You think he strong armed him or threatened him?”

“Not sure,” said Colson. “But I was hoping you could look into that as well.”

“We’ll have a talk with him. Text me the details.”

The two got up and walked to Harry’s car. Colson held up his hand. “Just a second, Harry. One more thing.” Colson went to his car and retrieved the painting A.D. had given him. He showed it to Harry. “A.D. gave me this. Claims it was a gift from the artist, a Dimi Coti. Gave it to him personally.”

“Maybe he did.”

Colson shook his head. “Not possible, Harry. The man died in 1955.”

“You think he stole it.”

“Or maybe it’s a copy and A.D. is just plain lying about it. Here, take it. Maybe one of your art contacts can provide us with some more information.”

Colson waved to Harry as he drove away. He entered the shelter and stopped short in the doorway. He saw A.D. sitting with Monica Selnick, a homeless woman who frequented the shelter. The slight woman with short blonde hair and mousey features seemed riveted to him, hanging on his every word. He wanted to get closer to hear their conversation. But before he could do so, they both rose and smiled, holding each other’s hand as they said goodbye.

Monica raised her eyebrows when she saw Colson. “Hi, Colson.” she said as she walked past him.

“Monica.” Colson reached out to her and gently grabbed her arm. He stepped closer to her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Where are you staying? Willie, Johnny and Norton have an apartment, now, they—”

“I know, Colson, it’s okay. I’m staying with them.” Colson frowned. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s safe. I keep the door locked when they go to work.”

After she left, Colson joined A.D. at the table he and Monica had occupied. “I see you’ve met Monica. Tough luck, that one,” said Colson. “Husband beat her nearly to death a couple of months ago. Keeps threatening to do more of the same when he finds her. She’s been on the streets ever since.”

“She says you’re trying to help her.”

“In the process. Working with a shelter for battered women. They don’t have the room right now. Soon, I hope. For now, she’s safer on the streets. She was living under the bridge down on Seventh with Willie, Johnny and Norton. But I was relieved to hear just now she’s living in their apartment. I know they’ll protect her.”

A.D. smiled and raised his eyebrows. “I’ve seen those guys swing a pick when we were breaking ground for the garden. Wouldn’t want to tangle with them.” A.D. fiddled with a salt and pepper shaker in front of him. “Colson, I hope you don’t mind if I talk to her. Monica that is.”

Colson looked down at his hands as he twisted a gold ring he wore on his right hand. “No, not all, just be careful, A.D. She must have told you she’s got two kids in foster care she’s dying to see. But I’m sure her nut job husband knows where they are and keeps an eye out for her. Don’t encourage her to leave. Her life could depend on it.”

#

“So, Harry, what did you find out?” Colson added some papers to a pile he had on the side of his desk. He couldn’t help but notice Father Benetto’s letter. It seemed to be staring at him like there’s was more it had to say than the letters typed on it could convey.

“Those two priests. Father Charusko was the pastor at Saint Augustine until, get this, 1945. The other one, Father Damiano, took over but left in 1960. No way A.D. could have known them.”

“Figured as much.” Colson picked up Father Benetto’s letter and placed it in front of him. “What about the store manager?”

“Yeah, a Michael Talon. Mr. Talon says there was no pressure whatsoever from A.D. Seems he was happy to help. But, the painting…”

“Is it real?”

“Not only real, but valuable. My experts tell me it’s an original Dimi Coti. Worth a fortune.”

“Then he stole it.” Colson ran his fingers over Father Benetto’s letter waiting for the letters and words to deliver a shock or some other impulse.

“Not really. You see, there’s no record of this painting, no report of it ever being stolen. In short, no crime.”

“Yeah, Harry, but you got to admit, it’s suspicious. At best, he exaggerates, at worst, he’s a brazen liar. So where do we go from here?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Father Benetto’s autopsy didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. But given his strange behavior, I’m gonna suggest we turn A.D. over to Margate Hospital for a complete psychiatric evaluation.”

“I agree. When do you want to pick him up?”

“Have him ready tomorrow morning,” said Harry. “I’ll be by about 10am.”

As Colson hung up the phone, Sabastian burst into the room. “Better come quick, Colson. Willie’s down stairs. It’s about Monica.”

Colson held the note Willie placed in his hands as soon as he saw him. “When did she leave?” he asked without looking up.

“Sometime this morning. Came home from lunch and found this.” Willie pointed to the letter. “She said she’s going to see her kids. A.D. said it would be okay.”

Colson slapped the letter against the open palm of his other hand. He spoke to Sebastian through gritted teeth. “Find A.D. Tell him I want to see him in my office…now.”

Colson called Harry Stansky and told him what happened. He asked if he could follow up with the local police where Monica’s children were staying.

A.D. entered as he hung up the phone. “Sebastian said you—”

“Monica’s gone, did you know that? Left to see her kids. She said you suggested it, is that true?”

“Yes, I—”

Colson slammed his fist on the desk. “I told you she’d be in danger if she left here, especially if she went to see her kids. What the hell were you thinking?”

“She’s not in any danger, she—”

“And how do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“Like you knew Father Charusko, or Father Damiano or Dimi Coti? All who died long before you were born? You’ve been lying to me all along.”

“I have not.”

“Lying is one thing, putting a person’s life in danger…” A.D. got up and began walking to the door. “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” Colson jumped up from his chair and hurried around his desk.

A.D. raised his hand. “I’m not talking to you till you calm down.” He lowered his voice. “Monica promised to call you when she’s settled. Wait till you hear from her, then we’ll talk.”

As A.D. left the room, Colson called after him. “I’m not finished with you yet, get back—” The sound of the phone ringing stopped Colson in his tracks. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of which direction to go. He threw up his hands and reached for the phone. “Hello…Monica?Monica, where are you?”

A.D. had nearly reached his room when the sound of Colson’s voice calling his name stopped him. He turned to face him.

“You heard from Monica, she’s safe, right?” A.D. followed Colson into his office.

“If you mean she’s safe because her ex-husband was killed in a car accident a few days ago, then, yes. She’s safe.”

“I told you, she—”

Colson waved his arm at A.D. “What you did was irresponsible and dangerous. The fact she’s safe now was due to a little divine luck, nothing you did.”

“No matter. So long as she’s safe. She saw her kids?”

Colson folded his hands on his desk and looked straight ahead. “She’s staying with relatives. Yes, she’s starting the process of getting her kids back.”

“Good. Good for her,” said A.D. He leaned forward in his chair. “So, my two weeks are up, Colson. I suppose I’ll be getting out of here?”

“Not exactly.” Colson picked up A.D.’s folder that had been sitting on his desk and opened it. He fingered a few papers then slammed it shut. “Captain Stansky will be coming for you tomorrow at 10am. We’ve decided to admit you to Margate Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation.”

A.D. threw up his arms. “What? No, no Colson. I’m supposed to be set free. From here. You’re supposed to set me free.”

“Captain Stansky and I think it would be best for you to get some…help.” The silence filled the space between them.

A.D. clenched his fists and rubbed them on his knees. “I have to go, Colson. As soon as possible.” He leaned forward again, his hands jabbing the air as he spoke. “Look what I did for Willie, Johnny, Norton and Monica? Imagine what I can do if I were on the outside.”

“No, A.D. I can’t.”

“But you believe me. Colson, you know me.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know you. No one does.” Colson looked down at A.D.’s folder. “Now you better go and pack. Be in my office tomorrow at 9:30am ready to go.”

A.D. sat still, head lowered before getting up. He stood over Colson’s desk and pointed to the top of it. “Father Benetto knew me. That’s why he sent you that letter.”

After A.D. left the room, Colson gazed down at Father Benetto’s letter. He had covered most of it with A.D.’s folder. Only the postscript and Father Benetto’s cryptic “5 + 3” formula were visible. Colson ran his finger over the formula, then quickly pulled it away as though he had touched something hot. He placed his finger to his lips and felt them trembling.

#

Colson saw his reflection in the computer screen the next morning. His eyes sagged, dark circles attesting to a lack of sleep. His face looked like stone, yet unable to hide the shock that registered the moment he deciphered Father Benetto’s message. A knock at the door caused him to look up. “Come in,” he said.

A.D. entered carrying his bag and wearing a “Peace, Friend” tee shirt. He placed his hand on his chest as he sat in front of the desk. “I hope you don’t mind. Sebastian said it would be okay if I take one.”

Colson waved his approval. He sat back staring at Father Benetto’s letter. “I…I know who you are. Or, at least, who Father Benetto thinks you are.” He pointed to the letter’s postscript. “P.S. Agnusto Deistano. The 5 + 3 formula below, it refers to your name. Five…the first five letters of your first name…’A-g-n-u-s’…and three…the first three letters of your second name…’D-e-i.’ ” Colson sat back and folded his hands on his lap. “Agnus Dei. I remember enough of my high school Latin to know that translates into ‘Lamb of God.’ ” A.D. sat erect, expressionless. Neither man moved nor took his eyes off the other. Colson could hear laughter in the hall, make out the metallic clanging of pots and pans being shuffled around in the kitchen downstairs. “Am I seriously supposed to believe—”

A.D. raised his hand. “It’s not important what you believe, Colson. Only that you let me go. Now. Before Captain Stansky gets here.”

“I already told you where you’re going. It’s out of my hands.”

A.D. stood up and leaned on Colson’s desk. His words came faster and louder than usual. “You’re the one Father Benetto told me about. He said the person who deciphers the code would be the one to set me free. That person is you.” A.D. leaned closer to Colson. “You have to let me go.”

Colson stood up to face him. “Let’s say for the sake of argument you are who you say you are, and I’m not saying you are. But if it were so, why do you need anyone’s permission? Why didn’t you just leave when you were with Father Benetto?”

A.D. sat back in his chair. “Because man has free will. And it was man who decided to keep me in the church.”

“What man? Who…” Colson’s thought stuck in his brain as though the power switch needed to transform it into words had been tripped by a bolt of lightning. He felt light headed, dizzy. He looked at A.D. as though seeing him for the first time.

“You…you weren’t just in St. Augustine with Father Benetto and the others.” Colson’s words shattered like glass as he spoke them. “You’ve been in many churches…many places…many different places…for many years.”

“Homeless shelters, you might say, like here.”

“How many?”

“More than you’d care to know.” A.D. looked down at his hands. “But none of that matters now. You’re in charge of me. Like Father Benetto and all those before him. Only now you can set me free.” He folded his hands and pointed them at Colson. “I beg you, please. Let me go.”

Colson got up and paced the room. “It’s not that simple, A.D. I see now why they held you.”

“There’s no to need to—”

“Why they couldn’t let you back into the world…”

“…No need to hold me here any longer. Please. Let me go.”

Colson shook his head. “I…I…can’t, I…”

“Why? Look, you don’t have to protect me.”

Colson’s voice rose as he tried to control it. “It’s not you who needs protecting.” He turned to the window and looked outside. “It’s them. They’re not ready. We’re not ready.” He looked back at A.D.

“But I am. I can see how I can help.”

Colson shook his head slowly. “They’re not looking for a lamb. They want a warrior, a soldier. Is that you?”

“I’m not sure. I only know I have to be out there, among them.”

“They wouldn’t be able to cope if you were set free.” Colson started pacing in front of the window. “I see why, I see why.” He began running his fingers through his hair, over and over again, then holding his face in his hands. “It’s easier to justify their actions when you’re not there, easier to account to you on only one day…”

“Colson…”

“…and the other days, your absence from their lives helps them to cope…”

“You only have to say the words.”

“Colson began to shake. “Forgive me, but, they…they…wouldn’t be able to make things work if you…if you…”

A.D. embraced Colson, soothing him as he spoke. “Colson. If what you say is true, then it’s time I help show them a different way.”

“No,” Colson said. “You can’t—”

A.D. brought his lips close to Colson’s ear and spoke soothingly to him. “You are a good man, Colson. I see your love in everything you do here. I can help the rest of the world find that love.” He kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked purposefully to the door. He placed his hand on the door knob and extended his other hand to Colson. “Now, please, Colson,” he said.

“Tell me I’m free.”