"Where is he?" Timmie asked, hand over her forehead to keep the sleet out of her eyes as they hurried up Elm Street. Alex had offered to ferry them all in his car, but the quickest route had been to weave through driveways up the hill to where her father had last been seen.

In his underwear. Out in the freezing weather. Timmie was going to kill somebody.

"They're trying to get him inside the church, ma'am," the cop was saying as he ran with one hand holding his holster in place. "We thought it was safer. He seems to be tryin' to incite people against the IRS."

"No," Timmie said, wishing one of the old-timers had filled the kid in. "He was trying to enlist you for the IRA. There's a difference."

"I wouldn't know, ma'am. All I know is that when Miss Charlton demanded he go home and put clothes on, he yelled somethin' at her about women needing to be struck regularly."

"Like gongs, yes," Timmie answered. "It's Noel Coward."

"Who is, ma'am?"

Timmie sighed. "Never mind."

They topped the rise at Elm Street and turned right up the sidewalk toward the church. It was just after two, too early even for hospital-induced rush hour. A few cars scattered water over the streets, and the lights were already on in the dingy gray Timmie saw a few pedestrians catch sight of the phalanx from the bar and stop dead. No surprise. Several carried to-go cups. One or two had forgotten to get rid of pool cues. And Timmie was taking them to her father as if they were the villagers after Frankenstein's monster.

"Then he started singing bawdy songs," Officer Braxton informed her. "He really has a good voice." The boy sounded surprised.

Timmie almost laughed at that one. The kid was so stern faced as they tramped up the glistening, darkening streets of town like a pack of lemmings in search of a cliff.

"He spent some time singing intro for the Clancy Brothers in the sixties," she explained. "Got a lot of his music from Greenwich Village."

"Uh-huh." Which meant that he'd never heard of the Clancy Brothers or Greenwich Village. Hell, he'd probably never heard of the sixties.

Well, if there was one thing she could depend on from her father, it was diversion. Far be it for Joe Leary to simply age gracefully. Or, for that matter, quietly.

Considering that she could hear him from two blocks away, she doubted she could even hope for manageably.

"'Too-rah-loo-rah-loo-rah-loo, they're lookin' f'r monkeys out in the zoo...'"

Uh-oh. Timmie ran a little faster and hoped that nobody'd bothered to get the local priest involved. Her father was in full and glorious voice, and the song was one of his favorites, "Sergeant McGrath." Not the best choice for church.

They were heading uphill, of course. St. Mary's of the River commanded the highest point of the small town that had been built straight up the hills on the banks of the Missouri. San Francisco to scale. The steeple could be seen for miles, stabbing its well-ordered way through the ragged sky, the crown of a pretty little redbrick church that looked for all the world untroubled and serene. Except for the music issuing from inside, which was not in any way ecclesiastical.

"...and if it was me, I had a face like you I'd join the British arm-y-y-y-y...!'"

Timmie was panting like a dog and freezing from the beer that hadn't dried yet on her hair before the sleet had hit it.

Damn that old man. Seventy-five years old, and he'd probably run all the way up. He had a heart like a fifteen-year-old. Timmie had chest pains, but she wasn't sure whether it was from the run or the fact that she was trying so hard not to laugh.

"'Too-rah-loo-rah-loo-rah-loo...'"

"Oh, Daddy, don't..." Timmie gasped, reaching the steps of the tall brick Gothic church and sliding right into the wrought-iron rail. She broke a heel and limped the rest of the way, trying to get inside the door before her father got to his favorite line.

"'They're lookin' f'r monkeys down in the zoo..."'

"We tried to hold him down," the police officer protested.

"Wrong thing," Timmie assured him, getting to the door.

"'But if it was me, I had a face like you-u-u... I-I-I-I-I'd..."

"Daddy, no!"

"'FUCK the British army!!' "

She was wrong. The priest was here; standing right behind her father. The look on his face would have been damn near comical if he hadn't had a semi-naked septuagenarian singing obscene songs in his vestibule. That did it. Timmie burst out laughing and her father, delighted, laughed back. The priest was not noticeably amused.

"You want us to get hold of him?" the cop asked.

She shook her head. "No. I'll handle it."

Not one person in the church could have lasted three minutes against her father if they really got him riled. There were several more raincoated police standing by the priest, along with an outraged-looking dowager and, of all people, that damn reporter.

"What are you doing here?" Timmie demanded as the rest of the SSS and Alex pounded through the door behind her until the tiny vestibule was thick with humidity and the black-and-white-marbled floor puddled from too many dripping bodies.

Dripping from his own battered London Fog, Mr. Murphy shot Timmie an enigmatic smile and showed her his notebook. "You were the one who said your father was a character."

"'River-r-r-u-n-n..."' began the sonorous voice in near-Gielgudian tones.

"Oh, God, that's it." Timmie groaned. "He gets started on Finnegan V Wake, we'll be here till Easter. Daddy?"

He didn't even notice her as he recited on, effectively mesmerizing everyone in the vestibule. He was dripping wet, his white hair wild, his great arms thrown so wide he almost shut out the light, his voice majestic enough to fill a cathedral. This would be what Brian Bora would have looked like had he lived so long, Timmie thought. Cuchulain, Niall of the Nine Hostages. Maybe, she thought, it was why they had all died young, those huge Irish heroes, so they wouldn't have to betray in their eyes the longing for their once-legendary magic.

"Da, it's Timmie. Come on, sweetie, it's time to go home."

"'...to bend of day brings us commodious vicus of recirculation..."'

She reached way up to him, laid her hand against his thin white stubble. Smiled her best smile. "Yo, Finnegan. Wake's over."

He saw her finally, and his features crumpled straight into distress. "Kathleen," he whispered, his own great hands up to her face. "Oh, Kathleen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Timmie stopped smiling. "Da, it's me. Timmie."

"It was just me and some of the boys, ya know. Celebrating the series. Wasn't it a hell of a series? We won, girl. Surely that deserves a celebration."

Timmie pulled her hands back. Jammed them in her pockets. Fought like hell to maintain her poise. "It does, Joe. It does. Now, come on home."

He was crying now, big, sloppy tears and shaking shoulders. "Say you forgive me, Kathleen."

Timmie smelled the old incense, the beeswax the altar society still used on the wood, the damp of wool, and fought uncommon claustrophobia.

"I forgive you, Joe. Now let them close down for the night."

There was utter silence in the church. Timmie couldn't look. She couldn't take her attention from her father or she'd lose him. She couldn't stand to see the pity in all those eyes.

"Do you want a ride home?" the young cop asked behind her.