I CHECKED IN with Paul Martelli on my cell as I pulled out from the hospital.

“Still nothing,” he told me. “Take your time. The hijackers are sitting tight. I’ve got your cell number.”

“Ned Mason still there?” I asked.

“He’s around here somewhere. We have you covered, Mike.”

I followed Martelli’s advice. I made a U-turn and then a left onto 66th Street, heading west to give a quick check on my kids.

It had started snowing lightly when I was in the hospital with Maeve, and the dusting on the brownstone walls and tunnels of the Central Park traverse I passed through looked like soft shakes of confectioners’ sugar on gingerbread.

This damn city, I thought, shaking my head, was determined to break my heart into a million pieces with its incessant Currier amp; Ives holiday season quaintness.

Where was a good mugging-in-progress when you needed one?

When I flicked on the FM radio under the police one, the song “Silver Bells” was playing. I was dangerously close to emptying my Glock into the dashboard when the soft, dulcet “Ring-a-ling, hear them ring” stanza began.

“Highway to Hell” by AC/DC was just starting when I violently flicked to the nearest rock station. That was more like it. My new theme song! I cranked the volume as high as it would go for the rest of the ride home.

I could hear my kids through my closed apartment door when I stepped off the elevator into the vestibule. Never a good sign, I thought as I turned the knob.

In the foyer, Juliana was sitting on the floor with her back to me, giggling into the phone. I patted her on the head lovingly before I disconnected the cord from the hall jack.

“Bed,” I said.

My second stop was the girls’ room, where a Mercedes Freer song was blasting. With her back to me, Jane was leading Chrissy and Shawna in an inspired dance routine. Though I could have scooped up the lot of them in a bear hug they were so cute, I vaguely remembered Maeve’s dictum on the inappropriateness of Mercedes Freer.

Three crystal-shattering shrieks sounded when I flicked off the radio, followed by an explosion of giggles and blushing when the girls realized I had been watching them dance.

“Well, well. I didn’t know Mercedes Freer was having a concert here at our house. I’m sure the Underhills next door are quite pleased. I take it you all forgot to get your chores done as well?”

Jane looked cross for a moment, as if she was about to counter with some excuse, but then dropped her head.

“Sorry, Dad,” she said.

“Now that was the right answer, Jane,” I said. “No wonder you get such good grades. Come along. Looks like I have a few more arrests to make.”

Next stop was the living room, where Ricky, Eddie, and Trent were beached out in front of the blaring TV. They were watching the nonstop news coverage of the church takeover on CNN. The network already had its slogan in place-“Cathedral Countdown.” Again, I distinctly remembered that the channels allowed were restricted to ESPN, Food Network, occasionally TLC and Cartoon Network, and public television.

The three of them almost hit the ceiling when I hopped over the sectional and landed in their midst.

“Gathering research for a current events project, are we?” I said.

“We saw you!” Trent screamed after taking his hands away from his face. “On the TV! It’s on every station.”

“You’re still busted,” I yelled back at him.

Brian, my eldest son, was so into his MLB game on his computer in his room, he didn’t hear me enter. The ninja holds nothing on the father scorned. I flicked off the tower of his Dell as Barry Bonds was in mid-grand slam swing.

“Hey!” he said angrily as he looked up. “Dad? Dad!” he said.

“Brian?” I said back. “Brian!”

“I was… uh,” he tried.

“About to throw yourself on the mercy of the court?” I said.

“Sorry, Dad. I’ll start my chores,” Brian said, “forthwith.”

I almost knocked down Mary Catherine when I stepped back into the hall.

“Mr. Bennett. Mike, I mean. I’m so sorry,” she said frantically. “I was trying to get them into bed when Bridget needed my help. She told me…”

“Let me guess,” I said. “She had an arts-and-crafts project due for school.”

“How’d you know?”

“Okay, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “Bridget is clinically addicted to arts and crafts. We’ve been trying to wean her off glue, sparkles, and beads for years now, but nothing seems to work. If you let her, she will destroy the earth in her unquenchable desire to make key chains and ankle bracelets and wall hangings. I’ve gone to work with sparkles on my face and clothes from her confounded glitter paint so many times, the guys in my squad thought I was in a glam band. She knows you’re new, so she took advantage. Arts and crafts are severely restricted to weekends.”

“I didn’t know,” Mary Catherine said sadly. “I should have done a better job.”

“Good God,” I said. “You’re still alive and still here? You should try out for the Navy SEALs.”

AFTER I RELIEVED Mary Catherine of command and ordered her upstairs to bed, I found a priest in my kitchen.

The squat white-haired man in black was holding a steaming iron ready as my seven-year-old Bridget put the finishing touches on a pink-and-white plastic-bead pony that covered the entire top of our kitchen island.

“Well, if it isn’t Father Shame-less, I mean, Seamus,” I said.

Nope, it wasn’t Halloween. My grandfather Seamus was a priest. After Seamus’s wife died, he decided to sell the Hell’s Kitchen gin mill he’d owned for thirty years and become a man of the cloth. Lucky for him, vocations to the priesthood were at an all-time low, so he was accepted. “Gone straight from hell to heaven,” as he liked to say.

He now lived in the Holy Name rectory around the block, and if he wasn’t attending to parish business-which he was very good at-he was sticking his nose into mine. Because Seamus wasn’t content to merely spoil my children. If he wasn’t actually devilishly encouraging mischief, priest or not, he felt he was slacking off.

Even Bridget’s freckles seemed to drain of their color when she saw me standing there.

“Goodnightdadgoingtobediloveyou,” she somehow managed to get out before sliding off the stool she was kneeling on and disappearing. Fiona, holding Socky under her arms, shot out from the other side of the island and managed to exit a step behind her twin.

“Having a senior moment, Monsignor? Forget how to read a clock? Or did you forget it’s a school night?”

“Did you not take a look at this fine steed here?” Seamus said, passing the iron back and forth over the plastic to melt the collection of beads together. It was nearly the size of a real horse. Too bad there wasn’t a barn in the apartment to keep it in.

“That girl is pure artist,” Seamus said. “And like they say, it takes more than books to inspire creativity.”

“Thanks for that little nugget of wisdom there, Seamus, but if these kids don’t get their sleep and stick to their schedules, we’re all doomed.”

Seamus unplugged the iron, propped it up on the butcher block loudly, and squinted at me. “If that’s the case, why bring someone new into the house now?” he said. “That Mary Catherine tells me she’s from Tipperary. There’s a queer breed come from Tipperary. All the wind off the North Atlantic isn’t good for the mind. If you ask me, I don’t like the looks of her or the situation. Young, single woman in a house with a married man.”

That was it. I snapped. I snatched up the plastic pony. Seamus ducked as I Frisbeed it across the kitchen and knocked the chore chart off the fridge.

“Where do you want me to file your concern, Gramps?” I yelled. “To my wife on her deathbed, or maybe to the thirty-three celebrities in St. Paddy’s with guns to their heads?”