by Chris Bauer
There it was, sitting tall on the kitchen counter, sheathed in plastic food wrap and lubed with olive oil and what looked like creamy Italian salad dressing on its dented top.
“Un-condomize that thing, or it’s not going in the van,” Judge told him.
“Fuckers. They’re just jealous. They love me.”
At the South Dallas apartment building Owen exited the van and Maeby followed him, loose. Judge leashed her outside the van. They left his Shepherd sacked out in his crate. This would be a one-deputy search. The frogs around the modestly landscaped pond in front of the building quit their bellowing with their approach, Maeby’s curious sniffing shutting them up. A lizard crossed the sidewalk in front of them and hustled into the greenery. Maeby perked up but stayed on task.
Judge had to grease the building manager’s palm with a twenty before he would admit he got a call from the police chief on their behalf. He let them into Ms. Jordan’s garden apartment a few steps below street level, to where it shared space with another apartment and the basement. Hers was a furnished one bedroom that let the sunlight in with four oblong casement windows at eye level, two in the living room, two in the bedroom.
A mouse bolted from under an end table, scrambled into the kitchen. Maeby was part terrier, and mice were like hors d’oeuvres to her. Judge tightened his hold on her leash. “Maeby, stay.”
She strained, growled then relaxed, her attention settling on Owen. He smelled like a garden salad, from vinegar that had dripped onto the brim of his hat. No other damage to the Stetson, but the odor lingered.
Here was a sparse, utilitarian habitat, except for the expensive mountain bike leaning against a wall near the front door. The window treatments were cream-colored cotton with brown amoeba-shaped water stains on them. A pair of wooden shelves rested on two levels of milk crates, with a small flat screen TV in the middle of the top shelf along with a Blue-Ray disc player. No videos. If she’d had any, the cops had them now. One couch, one wing chair, one coffee table, one end table, all worn. On the end table, a Bible. Judge picked it up.
“Furnished don’t mean with Bibles,” the super said, answering a question before Judge could ask it. “She had a bunch of them delivered from Amazon.”
Three thin, silk ribbon markers in different shades were sewn into the Bible’s binding. The book was new. “Any idea why the cops didn’t take this one?” Judge asked.
“Too many of them maybe? They did take a few. How many, I dunno. Like I said, she had a bunch delivered.”
Judge paged through it. The pages the ribbons marked were all in the Old Testament. Maybe worth a closer look after they got through the rest of the place.
In the narrow kitchen, two metal chairs with vinyl-padded seats were tucked under a metal café table. In better condition it would have been a great nostalgic find at a flea market. Judge wandered in, started poking around. On the kitchen table, another new Bible. In the oak cabinets and drawers were plain white dishware, hotel silverware, Grape Nuts, Paul Newman spaghetti sauces, and some wheat pasta. In the fridge, probiotic yogurt and a capped container full of a green liquid from a juicer. On the counter was the juicer, unwashed, the inside smelling like a compost pile.
In the bedroom was an unmade double bed, a closet with a few tops and skirts, a pair of jeans, and a pair of athletic shoes. Also a long bureau containing spandex and underwear that included two bras, both 32B. On the bureau, another Bible. Packages of gauze and adhesive bandages sat open on the bathroom counter. Some blood in the sink; the cops would have taken samples. On the toilet tank, Bible number four.
The clothing and shoes and jeans inseam validated the physical traits listed with her mug shot. Tall and lean. Size ten shoes said she had big feet, her small bra size said she had sport tits. The gauze and blood indicated she recently had an open wound.
Little of this place had any feel of permanence. To Judge she seemed less a tenant, more a transient.
“How long has she lived here?” he asked.
“Six months give or take,” said the super.
Judge grabbed a colored tee shirt from a laundry pile and let Maeby have a sniff. “Let’s finish the tour,” the super said and left the bedroom, Owen following. Judge lifted Owen’s ten-gallon off his head, stuffed the tee underneath it, shushed him with a finger to his lips. Owen snugged the hat back up.
Back in the living room, Judge asked their host if there were any storage units in the building.
“Yeah, but hers is empty.”
“Let me see it anyway.”
They left the apartment, reached the end of the hall and pushed through a fire door. Inside, ten small floor-to-ceiling chain link cages were bolted into cinder block walls, all mixed in with the building’s heating and hot water equipment and washers and dryers. A sniffing Maeby guided Judge to the cage with the bounty’s apartment number on it. The other nine cages had stuff in them, some a lot, some a little. As the super advised, her cage was empty. They left the storage area and reentered her apartment.
Judge checked more closets, cabinets, drawers, under cushions and rugs, even inside the toilet tank. He found nothing incriminating. No undiscovered laptop or desktop computer either. Anything of interest she left behind was no doubt now in the possession of the Glenn Heights police. The only real oddity was her collection of Bibles.
He retraced his steps back to the Bibles in each room, flipped through them, each with the crispness of a new book, to check out the silk bookmarks, where they were, to see if there was a commonality. The pages marked were different from book to book. The only connection he noticed was the ribbon markers were all in the Old Testament.
“Look at this one, Judge,” Owen said.
The Gideons’ King James Version, and the only Gideon Bible in here. Something one might run across in a motel room, complete with a “Property of” notation, the space next to the notation blank.
Beatles lyrics drifted into Judge’s head, fractured by the Tourette’s, all of it staying dormant, a short burst about Gideon’s Bible, and:
…Rocky Raccoon, bu-bu-bubba baboon…
A festive book, with colorful depictions of Biblical events, its pages with edges gilded in a reddish gold. In it was a tiny prayer card pressed flat, its edges frayed, with a pious picture of a nun and a printed notation, “In memory of Saint Teresa of Jesus.” This saint was a Carmelite, the card said. Correction, per Judge’s phone search: she was a sixteenth century “discalced” Carmelite.
‘Discalced.’ As in barefoot or wearing sandals, per Wikipedia’s entry on Carmelite nuns. Plus this saint wasn’t just any ‘discalced’ Carmelite nun. Saint Teresa of Jesus was apparently the discalced Carmelite nun. She founded the order.
“Any issue with me taking this Bible?” Judge asked the super.
“Any issue with you giving me twenty bucks?” he said.
Back in the van, Owen repeated the word of the day: “Discalced.”
“Yes. It means…”
“I already know. Means barefoot monk-like hardship, some shit like that,” Owen said. “Your smartphone search also tell you discalced nuns are cloistered, like in monasteries? ’Cause they are.”
“And you know this how?”
“There are some discalced Carmelite monasteries not far from here. In Dallas, and in Fort Worth.”
Interesting. Something else, something religious, hit Judge. “She waited.”
“Who? Waited for what?”
“Our bounty. The boy at the trailer park, his words while he was burning up, the kid said he and his mom saw her at the morning service. The pastor’s time of death was late afternoon. She didn’t go into the church after him, instead waited for him to come out. She’s a murderer, but she’s respectful. Give me some cross streets for one of the monasteries, Owen. We need to talk to some nuns.”
“And you plan to convince them to let us inside their monastery how? You got a phony badge or something? It’s not like they’re gonna want us snooping around their nun hangout.”
“My fugitive recovery license. Plus the dogs. They’re charmers when it comes to women in uniform.”
Owen gave him cross street info that Judge keyed into the van’s GPS. ETA twelve minutes to the nearest monastery.
So. T. Larinda Jordan, the pill-popping bounty, was an eccentric who apparently took Bibles from motels. She also croaked, assassinated, a church pastor, her motive unknown. She quit teaching to become a nun, a monastic nun, and she kept her habit.
And she read the Old Testament, which was heavy on fire and brimstone. A vengeful, disaster-movie God, last time Judge checked.
“Give your police chief buddy a call to let him know what’s up, then we’ll head over there.”
Owen sneered, stroked Maeby behind her ears. She loved it.
“Call Frannie? The hell with that. We’ll call him later.”
TWELVE
Larinda stopped at a rest area on Interstate 81 just inside Virginia’s southwest corner. The rain pelting the car, front, back, sideways, sounded as heavy as hailstones in an Oklahoma tornado. The noise was chaotic, intimidating, but she was oblivious to it. The reason: a brainstorm.
She keyed one more item into her disposable phone, was then able to scroll through all the info she ever wanted to know about Planned Parenthood in Virginia. Locations in Blacksburg, Roanoke, Charlottesville, Richmond, Falls Church, Hampton. Places where babies were killed on a daily basis. Three locations were on her route to D.C. Forget making the Capitol tonight, she needed to make time for this. Two hours to the first address, in Blacksburg. She would arrive by nightfall.
A suitcase, two gym bags and a hanging garment bag occupied the back seat. A carpenter’s canvas drop cloth covered the cargo that sat between the back seat and the SUV’s tailgate, tucked taut and level with the bottom of the windows. Under the tarp, things she took from her offsite storage locker. What she’d need to eliminate the threat. Deadly-force things, some very good at leaving a large, deadly footprint. One could never be over-prepared or underpowered.
About IEDs: they were easy to build, and materials like Tannerite and Tovex explosives were legal and easy to acquire. Fully functioning flamethrowers, she knew from experience, were even easier.
Naomi and Deputy U.S. Marshal Edward Trenton exited the plane and entered Dulles International’s bright, skylighted Concourse C, Edward a step in the lead. Naomi’s laptop bag looped one shoulder, her purse the other. Her large rolling carry-on trailed her. Edward’s carry-on gym bag looked no bigger than a doll-sized backpack on his expansive back. His body language said he felt sheepish about the difference in their respective loads. She’d scolded him once for attempting to wrest her load from her. He’d get his chance at baggage claim.
At the arrival gate, a bronze-skinned man in a dark suit and a flattop haircut held a placard that read TRENTON in a bold black font. Edward reached him first and gave the man’s hand a hearty shake. “Deputy Marshal Abelson, good to see you again.”
Deputy Abelson’s smile widened. “My, my, my, you are still a monster, Toes. Looking good, sir.”
“Appreciate that, Hugh. Your Honor, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Hugh Abelson.”
“An honor, Madam Justice,” the marshal said, shaking her hand. “Baggage Claim is this way, ma’am.” He tucked the placard under his arm and reached in the direction of her wheeled luggage. “Can I help you with your…?”
“Not required, Marshal, but thank you. Excuse me,” Naomi said, cutting him off to reach for her ringing phone.
She retrieved it from her purse. Checking the name of the caller, she pulled up short.
POTUS COS.
She veered right, headed into an airport gate empty of customers, and walked as far away as she could from the concourse corridor. Her two bodyguards followed her step for step. They kept their distance when she raised her hand. Tucking herself into a corner, she put the phone to her ear.
“Hello, this is Justice Coolsummer. Yes, I’ll hold for the president’s chief of staff.”
To Naomi, if the color black had a smell, that smell would have been diesel exhaust, probably from this specific truck. Out front of the airport terminal a black Ford F250 Super Duty four-door pickup sat idling curbside as they approached. The throbbing engine made it uncontestable as the baddest-sounding vehicle in line for passenger arrivals. Marshal Abelson shook hands and clapped shoulders with the driver. The driver quick-stepped to another waiting vehicle that soon reentered traffic.
“This truck is Deputy Marshal Abelson’s personal ride, Your Honor,” Edward explained.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Marshal Abelson,” she said. “A bit large, isn’t it?”
“We need the room, ma’am.” Edward eyed her baggage. “And the heavy duty shocks.”
Some sarcasm from Edward. Her trunk was filled with a hefty chunk of her home library, most of which were law books. When stacked, the baggage squared off two large luggage carts that had required help from her bodyguards and a porter to get it this far.
To Naomi, the pickup truck looked indestructible. Macho overkill, but she figured they meant well.
Marshals Trenton and Abelson hefted the luggage into the enclosed truck bed. Edward helped Naomi into the cab extension then settled himself into the front passenger seat. The truck entered traffic.
“Arrival time Georgetown, fifty-five minutes, ma’am,” Marshal Abelson said.
“Thank you, Marshal. Edward?”
“Yes, Your Honor?” The traffic absorbed them, Edward remaining attentive to it.
“Are you available tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be assisting you in getting you settled into your home.”
“Yes, of course, but that’s not what we’ll be doing. The call I took was from President Lindsay. She summoned me to the White House for Sunday breakfast. It seems I’ll meet her before I meet with the other justices later in the day. I’m making you my plus-one.”
THIRTEEN
It was prime afternoon rush hour outbound, east from Fort Worth on interstate I-30, but luckily they were on the other side of the highway, allowing them to cruise at the speed limit.
The hunch was their bounty had at one time been a monastic nun. ‘Their,’ Judge allowed, meant his canine deputies and him, not necessarily inclusive of one Owen Chigger Wingert. The jury was still out on Owen, asset versus liability. At that moment, asset was a hard sell. He had curled his lumpy little cowboy ass up in the seat and was asleep, not looking much different than Maeby did on the floor between them, close to the dash. Judge’s Shepherd stayed in his crate in back and sat solemn as a sphinx, eyes shark-like, black, intense.
Their destination: monastery number three on a short list of cloisters filled with discalced nuns. At the first few stops, two monasteries in Dallas, they hadn’t gotten past the gate.
Fort Worth – 16 miles.
The nun’s habit she’d left behind looked similar to the traditional habits worn by Carmelites in images Judge retrieved online. White wimple plus a white bib as big as an artist’s palette, and brown robes. Except for the color, from the neck down the outfit was close enough to the floor-length habit of every nun in active ministry who had ever gotten into Judge’s face as a kid, especially after his affliction had revealed itself. Which made Judge nervous because nuns, in general, had that effect on him. Owen, on the other hand, was more than relaxed. With his nose crammed against the door panel, he was snoring.
“Owen.”
The snoring sputtered. “What?” came out annoyed. Owen’s eyes didn’t open.
“What about your Mustang?”
“Stadium’s too far out of the way.”
“Won’t they tow it?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He crossed his hands on his stomach, smacked his lips. In ten seconds he was snoring again.
Fuck this. Judge was awake, so Owen needed to be awake. He reached into Owen’s cowboy vest pocket and helped himself to his phone. He held it up, found the button for his air horn ring ton
e and pressed.
HAHHNNK! The dogs jumped and Owen bolted upright.
“…the hell?” His hat tilted then fell to the floor. Judge tossed the phone into his lap.
“Cattle crossing,” Judge said, straight-faced. “Sorry.”
Owen retrieved the hat, snugged it up on his head and straightened himself. “Not funny.”
Judge patted a startled Maeby on the head until she lay back down. His Shepherd’s whining from the horn blare stopped. “I might as well tell you, seeing as you’re awake and all now. The nuns pretty much cut off my balls when I was a kid.”
Owen rubbed his sleep-encrusted eyes. “I don’t really give a shit.”
And Judge didn’t really give a shit that Owen didn’t give a shit, he was going to hear about it anyway. Judge’s nun phobia had made for some nasty memories when dealing with them as authority figures.
“When the Tourette’s hit, my language got so bad they treated me like I was a leper. It put a target on my back in the schoolyard. Then it became too many fistfights, too much acting out. Plus I knocked out a priest. That got me expelled. I had to earn a GED.”
“Ahhh. The third sex,” Owen said, resettling into the seat. “You’ve got yer males, you’ve got yer females, you’ve got yer nuns and priests. The genitalia under those habits, pussy, prick, both, neither, is anybody’s guess. And if they’re obeying their vows, they’re not getting any action. That makes them ornery as hell.”
Listening to this guy was like listening to a raunchy comedian, one hundred percent vulgar, nothing sacred. People would laugh at him then scold themselves for it. How Owen kept himself together long enough to write decent news copy escaped Judge.
“That’s just sick, Owen. Insightful, but sick.”
“Yeah, well, the nuns gave me the creeps same as they did you. First six years of school were my worst, inside and outside the Catholic diocese. Kids are cruel, but adults, especially people of the cloth, they’re supposed to refute those behaviors, push back on it, man, not validate it.”
