Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Thomas leaned forward, the cat with the mouse again. “What tempts you, Joseph?”

  His voice was demanding, even a bit threatening, Boom Boom thought. He stared at the kneeling figure, somewhat shocked by his sudden supplication. He could see fear creep into Joseph’s eyes and felt an instinctive urge to say something that would sweep that fear away. He looked at the other young man whom Thomas had brought into the room and decided to hold back. His name was Howard and he was no more than twenty or twenty-one, and his eyes flitted from Thomas to Joseph, clearly pleased that it was not he who was being challenged. Boom Boom decided to back off. Joseph was on his own.

  “I asked you a question,” Thomas said. “I’m waiting for your answer.”

  Joseph’s lips moved silently. Then he forced the words out. “I just … I just get tempted to do things I shouldn’t.”

  Thomas leaned forward, eyes glaring. “You haven’t been masturbating, have you, Joseph?” His body seemed coiled, all the muscles tight and ready.

  “Oh, no. God, no!” Joseph seemed horrified by the thought.

  “But you’ve been tempted, haven’t you?” Thomas demanded.

  Joseph shook his head rapidly. He was about the same age as the other young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty, but the fear in his eyes made him seem much younger. “I’ve been having thoughts I know I shouldn’t,” he said. “I try to force them away, but …”

  “Thoughts about women? Thoughts about performing impure acts with them?” Thomas’s eyes were glittering now. He watched Joseph nod, and a small, satisfied smile came to his lips. “You know what that leads to, don’t you, Joseph?”

  Again Joseph nodded but said nothing.

  Boom Boom cringed inwardly but also kept silent. He glanced at Peter and found him staring at the floor.

  Thomas turned to the other young man. “Howard, what do you do when you’re faced with temptation?” he asked.

  Howard’s face beamed. He was painfully thin, with lank brown hair plastered to one side, and the white dress shirt he wore ballooned around his skinny arms and chest. Now he seemed to swell within it like a grammar-school kid who knows the answer to the teacher’s question.

  “I increase my self-mortification,” he said. “I wear the repentance belt for three hours instead of two. I use the scourge with more intensity.”

  Thomas nodded. “And this drives away your impure thoughts, doesn’t it, Howard?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you’re not tempted to masturbate, are you, Howard?”

  Howard confirmed that he was not so tempted, but Thomas wasn’t listening. His eyes had snapped back to Joseph, who was now staring at the floor, lips trembling. Thomas’s entire body seemed filled with accusation.

  Boom Boom couldn’t stand it any longer. “That’s really bad, huh?” he asked. “I mean impure thoughts and masturbation.” He waved away his words. “Like I know it’s supposed to be a sin, okay? I mean, it’s something you gotta confess and all. But you make it sound like it’s even worse than I thought it was.”

  Thomas turned to him, incredulous. “Supposed to be a sin?” He repeated Boom Boom’s words as though they had been spoken in some incomprehensible language. “Masturbation damns you to hell for eternity. There is no redemption, no forgiveness. And impurities of the mind lead you to that sin.” He turned sharply on Peter, who was still staring at the floor, his face flushed. “Have you taught Ramon none of this, Peter?” he demanded.

  Peter looked up slowly. “Our instruction hasn’t gotten that far,” he said.

  “It hasn’t?” Thomas seemed overwhelmed. “When were you planning to discuss this with him?”

  Peter looked away. “Soon,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Again, Boom Boom felt he had to jump in—this time to save Peter further humiliation. “Hey, it’s my fault, here. I was always taught all sins could be forgiven.” He shrugged as if now concerned that he might have misunderstood. “I mean, I thought a priest could forgive anything in confession, or you could even get it done yourself by saying a perfect Act of Contrition.”

  Thomas glared at him with undisguised contempt, and Boom Boom wondered if throwing the teachings of the Catholic Church back at him was yet another unforgivable act.

  “Well, you are wrong,” Thomas snapped. “And the people who taught you that were wrong. The Father has taught us that masturbation is beyond forgiveness. It condemns one to hell without hope of redemption.”

  The man’s voice was so harsh, so filled with finality, that Boom Boom raised his hands defensively. “Okay, man, I didn’t know.” He paused a beat and then pushed ahead, unable to resist offering Thomas another challenge. “You mean, like, if a fourteen-year-old kid … you know, like, does it … he’s doomed for eternity?”

  The absurdity of the statement almost made Boom Boom break into a grin. Then he saw a look of horror crease the faces of Joseph and Howard.

  “Of course that’s not what I mean,” Thomas said. “But once one is shown the way, once one hears the true teachings of the Father, one must follow those teachings or be damned for eternity.”

  Boom Boom leaned forward, trying to appear earnest. “And the Father teaches that masturbation is, like, unforgivable?”

  “He does,” Thomas snapped.

  “Are there, like, any more unforgivable sins?” Boom Boom asked.

  Again, Thomas glared at him. “Only one, Ramon. Only one more.” He let the sentence die as if Boom Boom were unworthy of that particular bit of information.

  “And what’s that?” Boom Boom finally asked.

  Thomas stared at him for several long seconds. Then he leaned forward, matching Boom Boom’s earnestness. “Lying to your spiritual guide,” he said. “That is the other unforgivable sin.”

  “;So who’s this Father guy who teaches all this unforgivable crap?” Boom Boom asked. “I mean, Thomas isn’t talking about God, right?”

  Boom Boom and Peter had returned to the computer room after their disastrous session with Thomas. Peter lowered his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said. “The Father, as we use the term here, refers to Father José Chavarría deMata. He was the founder of our order. He wrote The Way under divine inspiration. It’s the book of teachings that we follow to make our lives one with Christ. Thomas was trying to explain that to you—that once you know the teachings of The Way, you must follow them or be condemned.”

  Boom Boom gave him a long look. “And you believe that, right?”

  Peter lowered his eyes. “Yes,” he said softly. “I believe the Father’s teachings are the truth. I believe they were divinely inspired, a message from God about how we must live our lives.”

  Boom Boom kept staring at him. “You don’t think, like, maybe these people are telling you these things so they can control you?”

  Peter’s eyes shot up, now tinged with anger. “No, I do not. I believe in the Father’s teachings.”

  Boom Boom waved a hand around in a small circle, as if trying to get a hold on what he wanted to say next. “Then why are you helping us, man? I don’t understand.”

  Peter’s hands tightened into fists. “Because someone is doing something here that is corrupting the order. And it has to be stopped.” He drew a long breath, fighting to control his emotions. “It has to be stopped,” he said again, his voice sounding very tired now, “even if it means I’m no longer welcome here.”

  Boom Boom’s room reminded him of an oversized jail cell. It was eight by ten feet, furnished with a narrow metal-framed bed, a small metal writing desk, and a straight-back chair. There was a washbasin in one corner and a metal armoire in another. Between them a solitary window looked out onto an airshaft. A plain wooden crucifix provided the only decorative touch.

  Boom Boom had checked the room for listening devices and found none. But there was little need. There was no telephone or computer terminal that would give a resident access to the outside world. Once inside the building, every part of a resident’s life was co
ntrolled and directed by the order. The isolation was intended, and it was completely inescapable unless you planned ahead.

  With a slight smirk he removed his trousers and retrieved the Palm Pilot and cellular phone that were taped to his leg. He took them to the small desk and went to work.

  Devlin wanted a complete list of all members of the order and their present locations. He also wanted any information about work assignments, family history, and any personal background the order had collected on its members. Obtaining that information from the main system had proven impossible. His activities were too closely monitored. But the work he had done on that system had given him access to various codes and passwords, which he could now use to hack into the system by using the Palm Pilot and his cellular network.

  By ten o’clock that evening he had what he wanted. He converted it into a file and e-mailed it to the squad’s office. Then he called Devlin at home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Sister Margaret has been stashed at some kind of cloistered convent in Westchester County. You feel up to chasing her down?”

  “Try to stop me,” Sharon said.

  Devlin handed her the list Boom Boom had e-mailed. It carried the name of every Opus Christi member in greater New York and included his or her place of residence and current work assignment—except for the supernumerarier, whose identities were concealed even from the members. Boom Boom had already made the list, along with his cover job as a computer technician for the City of New York. His name, along with half a dozen others, was marked with an asterisk to indicate his probationary status.

  Sharon smiled as she flipped through the names. “Nice that they have all this. I wonder how they’ll explain not giving it to us a week ago when all they had to do was click the mouse on their damned computer? It’s obvious—with Boom Boom on the list—that they keep it pretty current.”

  “You never heard of a computer going down?” Devlin said sarcastically. He took the list back, laid it on his desk, and gave it a gentle pat. “I think we’ll find out they update this little baby every day.” He grinned across the desk. “Ironic, isn’t it? How their need to know where everyone is every minute of the day put this in our hands.”

  “Could piss them off when they realize it,” Sharon said.

  Devlin nodded. “A sense of humor, it’s a terrible thing to waste. Who knows? Maybe this will help them catch on to an idea like that.” He turned serious and gave Sharon a long look. “You sure you’re really up to this? The effects of a bullet wound can stay with you quite a while. I know from personal experience.”

  They were seated across from each other in Devlin’s office, and throughout their conversation Sharon had struggled to conceal the dull, throbbing pain in her shoulder. “I’m fine,” she said. “Your bullet wound was a lot worse than the little nick I got.” She gave him an all-knowing smile. “And if I’m not mistaken, sir, you climbed out of a hospital bed and went after the person who set you up.”

  Devlin nodded. “Yeah, I seem to remember that. I also seem to remember how useless I was, and how a certain lady sergeant had to come along and save my sorry ass.”

  Sharon gave him a small shrug. “That’s what lady sergeants are for.”

  Devlin leveled a finger at her. “You’re sure you’re up to this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You may hit the same stone wall again. This is a cloistered convent, and it’s run by the same people.”

  Sharon’s eyes hardened. “I’ll get in,” she said, “and I’ll see that nun.”

  A small smile played at the corners of Devlin’s mouth. He had no doubt she would. “I’m sending someone with you,” he said.

  Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Not Ollie, for chrissake.”

  Devlin laughed, then shook his head. “He’s busy playing watchdog for Father Janis. I’ll send Red. He looks like an overweight Boy Scout. Maybe it’ll help get you inside the convent.”

  Our Lady of Perpetual Light convent sat on fifty acres of meticulously groomed woodland and lawn located just north of Bedford in Westchester County. Originally owned by another Catholic order, the convent had occupied the site since 1925 and had provided a steady stream of teaching nuns for Catholic schools along much of the East Coast. Then modernity had struck, bringing with it the rise of feminism and a steady decline in the number of young women seeking the veil. The convent struggled on for three decades but ultimately became obsolete; as the end of the century approached, the property was reluctantly put up for sale.

  It was prime real estate, enough to make any developer drool, and offers poured in proposing everything from an office complex to a shopping mall to an upscale residential community. None of those offers, however, matched the one made by Opus Christi, which was rumored to have been twice the appraised value.

  Now, five years later, the convent shared the property with a conference center and religious retreat, all situated behind a high stone wall that kept the site hidden from intruding eyes. Sharon and Red drove up to an imposing iron gate that closed off the main entrance. A call box was fixed to the stone wall, and Sharon got out and pressed the button.

  A high, faint, timid voice answered, asking if she could help.

  “Sergeant Levy and Detective Cunningham,” Sharon snapped. “We were sent up by New York Headquarters. Please open the gate.”

  There was a short pause, and then the timid voice returned. “Please drive up to the main house.”

  With that the gate slowly began to open.

  The main house turned out to be a large three-story stone building with the air of a once-great home. Long small-paned windows looked out over a wide lawn that was dotted with stone benches set under arbors and surrounded by massive old trees. To the right, some distance from the house, stood a shrine to Our Lady of Fatima, depicting three small children kneeling before a beneficent and serene Virgin.

  Sharon and Red parked their car in the circular drive and climbed wide stone steps to a massive oak door. Sharon rang the bell, and the door was opened immediately by a young nun who had obviously been awaiting their arrival.

  The young woman smiled warmly, her slightly chubby face framed by the veil of her black-and-white habit. She was no more than eighteen or nineteen, and her unlined face radiated an inner peace that seemed almost unnatural.

  “Are you the two police officers who called from the gate?” she asked. There was eagerness in her voice, as though their arrival was something exciting.

  “Yes,” Sharon said. “We were sent up to see Sister Margaret. We were told we’d find her here.”

  The young woman blinked several times, as if confused by the information. “I wonder why they didn’t call us,” she said. “They always call us when someone’s coming. They even call us when someone’s coming who’s a member of the order.”

  Sharon was about to make an impromptu excuse but the young nun prattled on.

  “There must be someone new working in the main office. They sent up another custodian this morning, and they didn’t call about him either. It’s very confusing when they do that.” She smiled at them warmly. “I mean, they have such very strict rules and then they don’t follow them.”

  “It’s the same everywhere,” Sharon said. She wanted to end the young woman’s senseless prattle and get to Sister Margaret before someone a little brighter came along. “Is Sister Margaret here?”

  “Oh, yes,” the young nun said. She laughed. “I mean she’s not here here. But she’s on the grounds. She’s over at the conference center. She’s taking part in a pro-life clinic. Just about everyone is there.” A small pout formed on her lips. “Except me. I had to stay behind to answer the phones and the door.” She brightened again, suddenly, unexpectedly. “But work—whatever we’re given—is an expression of our love of God, a path of knowledge toward Him.” She smiled, all happiness now. “They teach us here that all work is worthy and lifts us up toward a higher love of God.”

  Sharon winced inwardly. “I’m sure that
’s true,” she said. “How do we get to the conference center? We really need to see Sister Margaret.”

  “Oh, it’s simple,” the young nun said. She stepped across the threshold and pointed toward a path laid with paving stones. “Follow the path, the one that goes past Our Lady of Fatima, and go on through the trees. The center’s just on the other side. Oh, and if you see a man wandering around like he’s lost, it’s probably the new custodian. Please tell him to follow you. He was going to the center too, but I don’t think he understood my directions. He didn’t seem to understand English too well.” She blinked. “That surprised me, because he spoke it well enough.”

  “If we see him, we’ll tell him,” Sharon said.

  They went along the path and passed the shrine. Up close the plaster figures of the Virgin and the three children were much larger than they had seemed from a distance. They were life-sized, Sharon realized, the children kneeling, eyes raised to the Virgin, who rose above them. The statue had been placed so it appeared to be standing on a live flowering bush that Sharon could not identify. The main figure’s eyes gazed down at the children, its face filled with maternal warmth. Beneath the grouping were numerous offerings of cut flowers, intermingled with pieces of paper held down with small stones, each seeming to hold a written prayer or entreaty. Sharon wondered if one of those written pleas had come from the young nun they had just left, some search for support in joyfully accepting the mundane tasks she was given.

  “Jesus,” she said, more to herself than to Red.

  “What?” Red asked.

  “That young kid back there,” Sharon said. “Babbling away by rote all that stuff they’ve been feeding her.”

  “Spooky,” Red agreed.

  “Worse than spooky,” Sharon said. “I bet they could tell that kid to do anything, and she’d do it.”

  “You thinking about the nun who smuggled the heroin?” Red asked.