by Susan Hunter
Coop, who had come to stand by the other side of my bed, nodded in Miguel’s direction. “You can thank your partner in crime.”
I looked back at Miguel, who was smiling broadly. “I told you—there’s no Frodo without Sam, no Lilo without Stitch –”
“OK, OK. Seriously. How did you know I was out there?”
“Your email. The eagle sketch. I called to ask que demonios? You know, what the heck is this? But you didn’t answer. I knew you were awake, because you just emailed me. I called your mamá’s landline and no one answered. So, I tracked your iPhone.”
“You have a tracker on my phone?”
“No! Well, yes, a little. I activated the Find My iPhone app for you. After you got yours back.”
“You can follow me with that? What are you, the NSA?”
He was unrepentant. “Are you going somewhere you shouldn’t be, chica?”
“I think we know the answer to that is a big fat yes,” my mother said.
“All right. We’re losing the thread here,” Coop said. “The point is, Miguel got worried when he saw your phone was at the Catherines’ at 10:30, then on River Road. He called me, and I called central dispatch and asked them to send a car over to that end of the county.
“A deputy got there just in time for Sister Julianna to pass him like a bat out of hell. He radioed in and kept going in the direction she’d just come from to see what was chasing her. He found the busted guardrail, and then saw your mom’s car in the river, sinking fast.”
“Yeah, about that, Mom – ”
She shook her head. “We’ll talk about that later. What I want to know is what were you thinking? Why did you go out there? How did you wind up in the river?”
I explained that I wanted to get the sketch as a tangible piece of evidence that linked Reid Palmer to the dark website, and how I’d stumbled onto Palmer’s staged suicide.
“Hegl was supposed to drive me to the overlook—he thought he was going to push me over, but Sister Julianna double-crossed him and tried to take us both out. Did you get them both, Hegl and Julianna?”
“The deputy caught up with Sister Julianna as she was pulling into the Catherines’ property. She’s a cool one. She asked him to come with her, said she was worried about Reid Palmer. She was afraid that he might be planning to harm himself. She led him to Palmer’s office. He was dead, complete with a suicide note admitting that he’d killed Lacey, was abusing boys from DeMoss, even that he’d been embezzling money.”
“Go big or go home, I guess. She let it all ride on Palmer’s number.”
“She might have gotten away with it. If Hegl had died like he was supposed to, she could have made a case for him being in with Palmer, and say that he’d abducted you at gunpoint. But her luck ran out. Hegl has the survival instincts of a ship rat. And you—” He stopped and shook his head.
“You know what they say. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. How did you get Hegl?”
“He was stumbling around about a mile from where your car went in. Tried to get a ride from a car full of teenage girls. They called 911. When the deputies picked him up, he was pretty talkative.”
“Did he confess? Did he tell you what they did to Lacey? Did he admit to killing Palmer? Who pushed me and Sister Mattea, him or Sister Julianna?”
“Hegl waived his right to an attorney. He admitted what happened the night Lacey died, but he wouldn’t cop to pushing you or Sister Mattea over the bluff. Sister Julianna lawyered up right away, and so far, she’s not talking. But I think her luck has pretty much run out. A player from one of the big casinos in Vegas saw her on the news. He had some interesting things to say about her gambling losses.”
“I think she’s the one that pushed me off the cliff. Then she tried it again at the overlook with her SUV. You know, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. She probably pushed Sister Mattea, too. That asshat Hegl left me to drown. I couldn’t get the stupid seatbelt off. I hate to admit it Mom, but your lanyard saved my life. And the Grantland County EMTs.”
“It wasn’t an EMT who pulled you out of the water, Leah, it was Coop.”
I didn’t know what to say. To any of them.
“You know. I just. All of you. Well, thanks.” I stumbled over the words. Why was it so easy for me to be a smartass and so hard to be real?
“Forget it,” Coop said.
“No, chica, I want you to remember it. And don’t go running off without me next time.”
There was a light tap on the door. Ellie, Max, and Alex walked in.
“Hey you guys!” I felt a bubble of happiness rising at the sight of them. Max looked embarrassed, and Ellie was uncomfortable as she thrust a bouquet of flowers at me, but Alex ran right up and put a small packet on the bed.
“Leah! You’re on TV! I saw you on Channel 9! Oh, wow!” He paused and examined me closely. “You look like a cage fighter. You’ve got a black eye! And what happened to your hand?”
I looked down in surprise. I’d forgotten about the bandage, and with the pain killers I was on and the high of not being dead, my hand really didn’t hurt. But I flashed on the water over my head, the frantic search for the knife. I shivered, but before I could answer, Ellie stepped up.
“Leah, I’m glad you’re all right. And I’m sorry about Lacey, and that I was so hard on you. I know you were just doing what you had to for your family.”
I felt awkward and ill at ease. Apologies usually affect me that way. “Never mind, Ellie. It’s OK. It wasn’t anything.”
“Yeah, it was,” Max interrupted, his voice gruff. “I’m sorry, too, Leah. I was just so uptight about the business and the bank. I didn’t act much like a newsman. Or a friend.”
This was getting excruciating. “No, it’s OK. Forget it. We’re good.” I had to make it stop. “So, Alex, what’s this you brought me?”
“It’s a book I made. I thought you’d like to read it. It has stories about my family. Ancestors and stuff in it. We did them for school. The cover’s awesome, isn’t it?”
The hand-drawn cover featured a red-haired man with a superhero physique brandishing a sword, inscribed with the name McAllister, over his head. Next to him was an equally buff warrior woman wearing a crown emblazoned with the name Cameron.
“See, they’re Scottish because my mom and my birth dad’s families come from Scotland. That’s their names. But look on the back.” He flipped it over, and there was a picture of a sturdy looking man in short sleeves sitting at a computer.
“And that’s my dad Max. He’s a writer and that’s what Schreiber means in German. Awesome, huh? So, there’s some German stuff in there, too. It’s pretty great.”
“Alex! Don’t brag.”
“But, Mom, it is pretty great.”
“That’s right, hombrecito. Own your excellence!” said Miguel.
Alex started giggling and chanting, “Own your excellence.” As Ellie tried to settle him down, I remembered something.
“Coop have you talked to Scott Riordan yet? He’s been doing some accounting voodoo on the DeMoss books, and I think he’s got proof that money was being embezzled. I asked him not to tip off Reid Palmer. He’s not going to believe it when I call and tell him why.”
“It’s not my case, Leah. All that stuff is going to Ross. For the moment, anyway.”
I latched on to the bone of hope he threw me.
“For the moment?”
“A joint investigation is in the works. And the Internet Crimes Against Children task force is in the picture now. The higher-ups have been fielding calls from the bishop—the local, not your guy in Florida. The media are going crazy. No way the sheriff’s department is going to ride herd on this one. So be nice. Let Ross get his statement. He won’t be the only one you’ll be talking to, I’m sure. I’m kinda surprised he hasn’t been here already.”
As if on cue the door opened, and we all looked up expectantly. But it wasn’t Ross who walked into the room. Instead a slight young woman wearing blue hospital scrubs hesitated in
the doorway, holding a tray which immediately held my attention.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m just delivering some lunch?”
“I’m starving! Come in, please.”
“We should get out of here and let you eat,” Ellie said.
“Yeah, we should go, let you get some rest. I’ll call you later, kid,” Max said, patting me on the leg.
“Don’t forget to read my book. You’ll love it!” said Alex.
Coop and Miguel pulled up stakes as well, and I sent my mother down to the cafeteria. As the aide set up my tray, she introduced herself as Angela and got me fresh water.
“Your nurse will be in soon to change your dressing and check your vitals. Do you need anything else? Are you in pain?”
“Nope, I’m good, thanks, just hungry.” I found it a little awkward to eat with my left hand, particularly since my meal consisted mainly of spoon-reliant foods—tomato soup and jello. She hung around waiting to make sure I could manage. Then, as she was leaving, Ross walked in.
“Nash.”
“Ross.”
“Hey, Angela!” I called to her retreating back. “Tell the nurse I need some pain medication, please.”
Forty-Two
They released me from the hospital the next morning with strong admonitions to stay home and take it easy for a few days. I wasn’t inclined to argue. I was physically and mentally beat, my hand ached, and I was sporting some pretty spectacular bruising, not just the shiner that had impressed Alex.
I tried to reach Scott Riordan the first day I was home, but he was out of town, and I had no more luck with Miss Adams than I had the first time I called. I kicked myself for not getting his cell phone number the last time we talked. But not too hard, in light of all my bruising.
What hurt worse than my injuries was having to sit back and see the story I’d uncovered reported on by other journalists. It irritated me that the 24/7 cable “news” channels spent more time on speculation and hype than on the facts. Though maybe I didn’t have much room to complain. Reporters had called begging for interviews, but I didn’t answer, and I didn’t call them back, even though I itched to set the record straight. I knew it wasn’t wise to start feeding the sharks.
On Friday, I assured my mother I would be fine, and after much protesting, she agreed to go with Paul to a Brewers game in Milwaukee. As they pulled out of the driveway, I got a call from Clinton Barnes.
Clinton was the one agent out of about a million I’d sent my book proposal to who had agreed to represent me. I hadn’t heard anything from him for a while. But his last email had made me think he was just about to cut me loose, after a very tepid response from publishers to my proposal. But the DeMoss story reawakened his interest.
“You have the inside track, Leah—the journalist out to avenge her sister’s death. You’ve got some really great stuff to work with—depraved millionaire, gambling nun, homicidal priest! Great stuff. And that dark web thing is a really on fleek angle. It puts a new spin on the whole Catholic altar boy thing, which is getting a little tired, right? Anyway, I know I could sell your story. Do you think you could work up an outline, maybe a few chapters? There could be some serious money involved.”
“What about my book on the Mandy Cleveland murder?”
“Oh, well, that’s still out there, sweetheart. But this is the one that could really be epic. It’s your story, your sister. You should be the one to tell it. What do you say?”
“I don’t know, Clinton. I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long. Somebody is going to write this book. It should be you!”
“I’ll get back to you.”
When I started out, I had no intention of writing a story, getting a scoop. I just wanted to find out what happened to Lacey. If I turned around and did it now, was I as much an exploitative jerk as the hungry reporters that were driving me crazy? Or was I even worse, because she was my sister?
On the other hand, if I wrote the book, I could tell Lacey’s real story. How smart she was, how brave. How because of her no more kids from DeMoss would be exploited by Palmer and his friends. Besides, if I didn’t try to write it, what was my alternative? Callie Preston, the reporter I was filling in for, would be back from maternity leave in another few weeks, and then where would I be? It wasn’t like I’d been fielding job offers.
I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich. On my way back to the living room, my eye fell on Alex’s history of his family sitting on an end table. I knew I’d better read it while I was thinking about it, because there was no way he wasn’t going to ask me for a reaction the next time I saw him.
It was typical Alex—research and writing skill beyond his years coupled with young kid imagination and enthusiasm. His stories wove his ancestors into historical events in Scotland. Mixed in among actual family photos were Photoshopped pictures of Alex next to a fierce spear-wielding Scotsman in a kilt, and swimming with the Loch Ness monster.
A standard family tree showed no aunts, uncles or cousins. I hadn’t realized both his parents were only children. I paused at a photo of his “real” dad, Ian McAllister. He had fiery red hair and bright blue eyes the same as Ellie. His cocky grin reminded me of Alex.
My eyes began to droop. My need for sleep seemed to go up in inverse proportion to the amount of work I did. But what else did I have to do? I lay down on the couch and surrendered. I woke up when my phone rang. Finally, a return call from Scott Riordan.
“I just got back from Singapore. I’ve been reading some of the stories online. Is it true?”
“Most of it. Pedophilia, pornography, priests, gambling nuns—it’s the stuff cable news dreams are made of.”
“No wonder you didn’t want me to contact Reid Palmer about the accounts.”
“Scott, I asked before, but now that everything’s come out, can you think of anything Sister Mattea—that is, your sister Teresa—said that might have been a hint about embezzling at DeMoss?”
“I’ve gone over it and over it since we talked, but honestly, Leah, I can’t think of anything. All Teresa said was she wanted to bring the order into the 21st century. If she suspected anything, she didn’t tell me. But then maybe she wouldn’t have.”
“Why’s that?”
“Her membership in the Catherines was the one big thing in life we didn’t agree on. If she was worried something wasn’t on the up and up, maybe she thought I’d give her an I-told-you-so.”
“You don’t like the Catherines?”
“It’s not the order in particular. I just don’t have much use for organized religion in general. An order of nuns dressed up like something out of the Middle Ages just seems, well, ridiculous to me.”
“Obviously, your sister didn’t feel that way.”
“She used to. Neither of us grew up religious, but then 10 years or so ago she changed.”
“Why was that?”
“I always thought it had something to do with a friend of hers. Elise.”
“She was a nun?”
“No, no. It was, well, I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you the story now.”
I waited for him to go on.
“Teresa had an abortion when she was 18. Our mother insisted. It was tough on her, but I thought she was OK with it. She never talked about it until years later when this nurse at the hospital where she worked had a baby that died.
“Then it was all Teresa could talk about—how unfair it was. How Elise had lost her husband in Iraq, and then her baby died, too. I mean, I was sympathetic. It was a sad story. But Teresa went off the deep end. All this guilt I didn’t even know she had, shame, regret about her abortion—she just couldn’t shake it. Even when Elise moved to Ohio, Teresa couldn’t let it go.”
“So, what happened?”
“She hooked up with the Catherines somehow, I don’t remember exactly. Went to a retreat, and the next thing I knew she was signing up. She gave up her whole life—a great job at Regent Hospital in LA, friends, a nice guy she was dating.
She just threw it all away to join some outdated cult.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“I know. You’re right. She needed answers I didn’t have. I guess she found them at the Catherines. As time went by, we sort of agreed to disagree. We just didn’t talk about it when she came out to visit. Numbers make sense to me. Religion doesn’t. But I had to accept that was her choice. That’s why I agreed to donate the software, really. I wanted to show her that I respected her right to decide, even if I didn’t agree.”
“If it’s any consolation, she seemed happy to me.”
“Yeah, I think she was. And that’s good.” He was quiet for a second, then said, “There was just the two of us you know. Now there’s just me. You’ll let me know if you find out anything else?”
“Yes, sure, of course I will, but I’m pretty much out of it now. There’s a big deal task force investigating everything to do with the Catherines, DeMoss, Reid Palmer. I’m sure someone will be talking to you soon.”
Then he asked me the question I didn’t have an answer for.
“Leah, if Teresa did know about the fraud and she mentioned it to someone there, is it possible that her death wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t know, Scott. Any more than I know why she left me a note and an old newspaper clipping about my sister’s death. And maybe we have to accept we’ll never know.”
I didn’t feel near as Zen about things as I’d pretended to Scott. In truth, I couldn’t stop thinking about the why. Everything else had fallen into place except that. Why, why, why had Sister Mattea left that note and that clipping for me? I hadn’t turned up anything that linked her to Lacey or even to Palmer or Hegl.
I got up and vacuumed. I dusted. I loaded the dishwasher, and still I couldn’t sit still. Something was nagging at me like an itch you can’t reach, or a TV actor you can’t place, or the words of a song you can’t quite remember. I just couldn’t settle down.
I went to my room and started clearing up my files. My desk was a mess. I tend to favor a horizontal filing system—everything I’m working on spread across the top of my desk in little piles. But after a while, when the piles start to slide and the whole thing is in danger of landing on the floor, I have to do some re-ordering.
