“You bet your ass I am,” Sharon said.
They followed the path through a dense patch of trees and came out onto another sprawling lawn. Ahead, a long singlestory building stood at the end of the path. It was on a raised circular pedestal, the upper portion built in a misshapen U with unsupported wings extending out and tilted at sweeping angles so the entire building looked like a bird in flight. Here again, the exterior grounds held numerous stone benches, each one situated so it faced a central point: a large wooden cross, bearing a plaster representation of the crucified body of Christ. Places to sit and meditate, Sharon guessed. And to have your thoughts directed only where intended.
They entered the main door and found another young nun seated at a long table that was filled with pro-life literature. A poster hung on the wall behind her, depicting the mutilated remains of an aborted fetus. Beneath the photo were the words THE WORST KIND OF CHILD ABUSE. Sharon ground her teeth. She wished she could drag the person who had dreamed up that poster to some of the crime scenes she’d been forced to visit. Make that sucker look at the real bodies of some unwanted and unloved children, she told herself. Then send him back to the drawing board.
The young nun at the table fixed them with a broad smile, not unlike the one they’d been favored with at the convent.
“Are you here for the training session?” she asked. Then, not waiting for an answer added, “You’re late, you know. The session started at eight.”
“We’re here to see Sister Margaret,” Sharon said.
“Oh!” the young nun said, obviously surprised. “Well, she’s in the training session, and I can’t disturb her.”
“If you could just point her out,” Sharon said. “Then we’ll just wait until she’s finished.”
“Oh, yes, I can do that,” the young nun said.
They followed her to a set of double doors. She opened one barely a foot, and pointed to a long table set before an audience of about two hundred.
“There, at the end of the table on the left,” she said. “That’s Sister Margaret.”
“Thanks,” Sharon said. “We’ll just sit inside and wait until she’s finished.”
They took seats at the rear. The audience was made up of young men and women, all early to mid-twenties, each sex seated separately, divided by the aisle.
Red leaned in close and whispered. “You think we’re sinning by sitting next to each other?”
“Only in our hearts, sweetie,” Sharon whispered back, “so don’t get any false hopes up.”
A middle-aged man stood before the group in a sharply pressed summer-weight suit. He was tall and slender, with neatly bartered hair, and he spoke with the easy intensity of the professional instructor.
“Now,” he intoned, pausing for effect, “the important thing to remember is that we are doing God’s work. We are saving the lives of the unborn. We are there to help these young women—to help them decide against the murder of their unborn infants. God’s children. Children our Lord has placed in their wombs because he has decided to give them life.” The instructor raised a solitary finger as if pointing toward the heavens. “And that, my friends, is an act no one has the right to alter. Under no circumstances, at any time. To do so is to go against the will of the Almighty.”
The instructor smiled easily as he took a few steps, nodding to himself about the truth of what he had just said. Then he stopped and wheeled abruptly, to point at various individuals as he continued.
“And you, each and every one of you, will be doing the work of our Lord when you force these young women to abandon the heinous plan they have been coerced into. One day, when their children are grown, they will thank you for your actions. They will see what you did as the work of God, as the will of God, and they will bless you every day of their lives.”
He paused, walked again, and then stopped, his hands out at his sides. “So how shall we do the work of the Lord?” Again, he raised a solitary finger. “We shall do it by any means at our disposal.” He offered them a face filled with regret. “Unfortunately, one of the most effective means is through intimidation. Now this may sound cruel. We know that many of these young women are under enormous pressure. Some of them are unwed. Some are living in disadvantageous economic circumstances. A few may even have been the victims of unwanted sexual advances. But we are talking about murder here. We are talking about a greater crime—the taking of life that God has willed into the world.
“Some of you will be given cameras. We have found this a very effective means of driving these women away from these abhorrent clinics. As they approach, you step in front of them in teams of two or three people. One of you will take their photograph.” He raised a cautionary finger. “And always use the flash, even if it’s bright and sunny. The flash enhances the intimidation factor.
“You take their photograph, and you tell them it will be published in advertisements we plan to run. Tell them it will be published in our monthly newsletter and sent to thousands of people.
“Tell them they don’t want to be publicly identified as a killer of the unborn. Tell them there are other choices—charities that will help them raise their child, adoption agencies that will place that child in a loving home. Show them photographs of the mutilated bodies of the unborn and ask them if that is what they want for the life they carry inside their bodies. Ask them if that is their idea of motherhood.”
The instructor stopped and shook his head. “It may sound hard-hearted. But I tell you that every woman you drive away from these places of death will further brighten the crown you will one day wear in heaven, and when you stand before our Lord on judgment day, He will look upon you and say, “You have done well, my child. In you I am well pleased.”
The instructor stopped, arms outstretched, and called for questions. A hand went up. Sharon could not see who it was, but the would-be questioner was on the women’s side of the audience.
At that same moment Sharon noticed a bearded man in a custodian’s uniform standing at a partially opened door behind the speaker. Something struck her as odd, but she couldn’t quite place what it was. Her attention was drawn away by a question directed at the instructor.
“What about women whose health makes it dangerous to have children, or the ones who have been the victims of rape or incest? Should we make exceptions for them?”
The instructor looked at the questioner with what seemed to be great sadness. He shook his head. “This is the type of propaganda hurled at us by the abortionists.” He raised his voice to a near shout. “But don’t be fooled by it. Don’t be fooled by talk about children raised in abject poverty. Don’t be fooled by talk about children forced to live their lives with hideous physical and mental defects. Don’t be fooled by concern for a mother’s health. God makes the choice of who will live and who will die, only God. Never man.” He lowered his voice again. It was almost a whisper now, sadness creeping into his words. “And do not be fooled by talk of rape or incest. God has chosen how these children—his children—will come into this world. God has chosen the moment and the means of their conception. All of it is God’s will. There are no victims here except the unborn who are about to have life stolen from them.”
Sharon was still seething when the instructor called a twenty-minute break. She fantasized about grabbing him by his pencil neck and strangling him until he realized that some women did have control over their bodies and their ability to use them. Instead, she and Red moved out into the hall and waited for Sister Margaret. She just wanted to finish the interview and get out of there. The next item on the printed agenda dealt with birth control and the steps that could be taken to keep women from accepting contraceptive devices offered by parenthood clinics. If she were forced to listen to that she would strangle every simpering sonofabitch in the room.
The crowd pushed out of the auditorium en masse, creating a barrier that cut Sharon and Red off from Sister Margaret. They followed her outside and caught up with her just before she reached a stone bench
near a small copse of trees.
Sharon introduced herself and Red and explained why they were there.
Sister Margaret seemed surprised at first; then a look of relief came to her face. She was about twenty-five, small-boned and slender, with a long nose and doelike brown eyes. Her voice was soft, almost like that of a supplicant.
“I was warned that someone might come, and I was told not to speak to anyone unless one of the numerarier was with me,” she said. She looked around, as if searching to see if one was nearby. “I told my superiors that I wanted to talk to the police, but they said that might not be wise. They said to wait until everyone was certain the time was right.”
“When will that be?” Sharon asked. She struggled to keep sarcasm out of her voice.
Sister Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know. But I still want to talk to you. I just … I just …”
“Let’s sit down,” Sharon suggested. “We can talk off the record if you want. Then later, if a formal statement is needed, we can do it when one of your numerarier can be there.”
That seemed to satisfy the nun, and she smiled with obvious relief. They sat on the stone bench; Sister Margaret perched delicately on its edge, Sharon and Red on either side. To their right, the custodian Sharon had noticed inside was now kneeling beside a garden about twenty yards from the bench.
“Tell us about the last time you saw Sister Manuela,” Sharon began, still watching the bearded custodian as he worked in the garden. Again, something that she couldn’t quite identify seemed wrong about the man.
Tears suddenly filled the nun’s eyes and she sniffed them back, the sound of her distress drawing Sharon’s attention. “It was at the airport,” she said. “We had just returned from Colombia. Sister had become ill on the plane, and she seemed to get worse after we passed through customs. We sat down to rest. Then a man came up to her and spoke to her in Spanish.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand the language very well, only a word or two, but he seemed to be asking what was wrong. I wasn’t concerned, because I had seen him before we left, at the airport in Bogota. Sister had introduced him as a relative who was also traveling to the United States. So it made sense that he would come up to us, especially if he thought Sister wasn’t well.”
“And Sister Manuela left with him?” Red asked.
The nun nodded. “That was strange, and it did concern me. Sister said he was going to take her to a doctor, and that I should take our things back to our headquarters in Manhattan, and she would meet me there later.” She shook her head. “But that isn’t how things are supposed to be with us. We’re not supposed to go places alone. We’re always supposed to go in pairs. I tried to tell Sister that, but the man just took her and started off, and I had all our bags there, so I couldn’t just leave them and follow.” Tears filled her eyes again. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did this man look like?” Sharon asked.
Sister Margaret began to describe the man.
“Hey, that sounds like the guy at your apartment,” Red said.
Sharon’s head snapped back to the garden. That was it. That was what was wrong. The beard on the custodian was fake; without it—
Sharon rose quickly, her hand going to the automatic at her hip. “Get the nun under cover,” she snapped at Red, as she pulled the pistol from her holster.
Emilio had already taken his own automatic from inside his shirt, and Sharon could see the bulbous suppressor attached to the barrel.
Behind her Red had seen it too, and he pushed Sister Margaret roughly off the bench and dropped in front of her, shielding her body with his own.
Emilio fired first, three rapid rounds. Sharon assumed a shooter’s two-handed stance and returned fire. She was short of her target, the bullets kicking up turf and dirt a foot in front of the Colombian.
The surrounding lawn was crowded with people from the pro-life training session, and the sound of gunfire set them screaming and racing for cover.
Emilio fired again and Sharon felt a gust of air by her cheek as the bullet passed within inches of her head. Then the Colombian was up and running. He headed directly into the scattering crowd of people, forcing Sharon to withhold fire.
“I’m going after him.” She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Red clutching his thigh. Blood seeped through his fingers.
“You’re hit,” she said, finding the words unbelievable even as she spoke them.
“I’m okay,” he snapped. “So’s the sister. Get the sonofabitch. I’ll call for help on my cell phone.”
Sharon took off at a fast trot, ready to dive for cover if the shooter turned to fire again. He was thirty or more yards ahead now, but his progress was slowed by his decision to weave in and out of the scattering crowd to use people for cover. Sharon chose a straight course and began to close on him quickly as he cut away from the others and plunged into a wooded grove.
They left the trees with Sharon only fifteen yards behind. Emilio turned suddenly and fired three wild shots in her direction and then spun around and was off again.
Sharon dropped to one knee and raised her Berretta, steadied it in both hands, and emptied the remainder of the sixteen-shot clip. Emilio screamed in pain and crumpled to the ground.
Sharon replaced the empty clip and got to her feet, her weapon still leveled at her target. Emilio’s automatic had fallen to his side, and he reached out for it. Sharon fired two shots into the ground in front of him and continued to advance as his hand froze.
“Reach for it again, you slimy little prick, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Emilio stared up at her as she approached. The false beard hung loosely to one side, and his lips curled with unadulterated hatred. “Puta,” he muttered.
Sharon stepped forward and kicked him in the groin and then stepped back and watched him hunch into a ball of pain. “I prefer to be called a ballbreaker, not a whore,” she said. “And by the way, you owe me for a new fucking suit.”
Chapter Seventeen
Devlin met Sharon at Westchester County Hospital, where both Emilio and Red had been taken. Red’s wound was superficial, and he was already hobbling around with the aid of a cane. Emilio’s was more serious. Sharon’s bullet had broken his left femur and chewed up much of the muscle in his thigh. Westchester police had been called in to guard his room until Devlin could arrange transport back to a city hospital. They had also provided units to seal off the convent and guard Sister Margaret from further attack. Devlin had tried to place the nun in protective custody but had been told he could not enter the convent without a court order. Howie Silver had called and ordered him to back off. He was out of his jurisdiction, Silver had warned, and Westchester police had refused to act after Opus Christi had claimed religious sanctuary for the nun. Nothing was to be done, Silver had said, until something could be negotiated with Opus Christi and the archdiocese.
“At least we got to interview her before they brought down the fucking curtain,” Sharon said, as they sat in a small office the hospital had provided.
“Tell me what else you got from her,” Devlin said.
Sharon was pacing the floor, the adrenaline from the gun-fight still pumping through her system. “The nun identified the little prick as the man who took Sister Manuela from the airport, the same man she saw her with earlier in Bogotá, whom Sister Manuela had identified as a relative.”
“And he’s the same shooter you found in your apartment, right? You’re sure of it?”
“No question. It’s the same fucking weasel. I didn’t make him at first because of the phony beard, but as soon as Sister Margaret started describing the man she saw at the airport it all clicked. I tried to question him, but he’s not talking. The guy’s obviously a pro. He knows better than to open his yap.”
“That’s okay. We know who he is. You were able to ID him when the Colombians gave us his mug shot. The prints we just took will confirm that ID. We’ve got enough to indict him for Sister Manuela, the attempt on your
life last week, and attempted murder on Red today.” Devlin paused a moment. “And you think he was going to kill the nun, too.”
Sharon nodded vigorously. “Had to be. He had no way of knowing I was coming here. Shit, I didn’t know until yesterday, and nobody else in the squad knew except you, Red, and me. I think he would have offed her if we hadn’t shown up. And I think he tried to nail me earlier because I was dogging her, and somebody thought I was getting too close. You know where that points.”
Devlin steepled his fingers. “Yeah, the only people who knew you were chasing her down were those hard-asses at Opus Christi.” He shook his head. The prospect of what lay ahead promised to be a political quagmire. “What else did she tell you?”
Sharon took out her notebook. “I didn’t have a lot of time with her after the shit went down. As soon as everything got sorted out, they took her away from me as quickly as they could. I did have time to get her to tell me everything she knew about Sister Manuela.” She paused, flipping the pages of her notebook. “According to Sister Margaret, Sister Manuela joined up two and half years ago and started training as a nun about a year and a half later. Until that time she worked at a bank in Manhattan in its foreign investment department. Sister Margaret said Manuela told her she worked for one of the big honchos there, a VP named Meyerson. Sister Margaret said she got the impression that he had some connection to Opus Christi and may have been the person who recruited her into the order, but she wasn’t sure. It’s not surprising she doesn’t know for sure,” Sharon added, “since they run that outfit like the fucking CIA.”
Devlin took out his own notebook and jotted down Meyerson’s name. “You know the name of the bank?” he asked, and wrote it down when Sharon gave it to him.
“It’s a place to start,” Devlin said, as he put the notebook away. “Somebody was behind this Valdez guy. Maybe Meyerson can give us a lead on who that might be. I’ll get to him as soon as I finish up with the mayor. I’ve got a meeting with him later today. Seems like the honchos at Opus Christi are unhappy with us. Claim we used subterfuge to get into their training center and then turned it into a real-life Hogan’s Alley.”
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