Speak of the Devil

by Richard Hawke

  After my father’s disappearance-once it became clear that the disappearance was, in all likelihood, permanent-and after the two subsequent police commissioners had shown the chinks in their armor, Tommy Carroll ascended to the throne and proved himself completely up to the task. I suppose you could say he was a happy man at that point. Or maybe “satisfied” would be the better word. King Tommy. The most important man in New York City, at least by his own calculus.

  But now there was disease-rot-that couldn’t care less how important he was. As far as cancer is concerned, we’re wood and it’s termites. Cancer doesn’t give a damn. It’s equal-opportunity, it’ll hollow out anyone and everyone if given half the chance. I thought of Tommy Carroll standing at his desk the night before, raging impotently. He was an idiot, of course. As long as I’d known him, he’d been a heavy smoker. So this particular time bomb was of his own making. It was the consequence of his own choice. I suppose that’s partly why his feelings about the mayor were so venomous. Leavitt was outside of Carroll’s control. If Martin Leavitt concluded that he needed to knock his police commissioner off the top of Everest in order to keep his own ass clean, that was what he’d do. Carroll had no control over the matter. No wonder he was furious. He was being destroyed from the inside and the outside and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it.

  My cell phone went off as I was coming out of my building. That was when I remembered that I’d left Donna Bia’s phone back at Margo’s. It was garbage day, and the green monster was at the curb, roaring as its uniformed handlers tossed black bags of gruel into its maw.

  “Hold on!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t hear you!” I stepped quickly to the corner, where I took the call in front of Rossetti’s bakery.

  The caller was Sister Mary Ryan.

  “I’m sorry to call you so early, but I have something here I think you should see,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know exactly what it means.”

  “Does it have to do with Angel Ramos? Did one of the sisters recognize his picture?”

  “Not exactly that. But I think it’s important. No, it is important.”

  The garbage truck was lumbering my way, black smoke belching from its vertical exhausts, the tin lid flapping. The roar grew.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can!” I yelled into the phone, probably louder than I needed to. But then, my heart seemed to be running faster than necessary, too. I flipped the phone closed as the truck shuddered to a halt.

  IT WAS SISTER MARGARET’S SUICIDE NOTE.

  God should not test His weakest lambs. I am in too much pain. I’m sorry. I am not purity. I’m filth. I’m dirt. I can’t endanger my sisters any longer. I won’t endanger them. If God won’t slaughter this filthy lamb for the sake of purity then this will be my final gift. Maybe there can be some speck of grace from this. I’ve failed. I hurt. God will spit on me for this. He will shed no tears. I lost Happiness and I’ll never know Her. Who is She? She must hate me as much as I do. I forgive everyone who has hurt me and I ask forgiveness from everyone I hurt. I hurt so much. I have failed. I am so so so sick. Oh Lord, what a useless filthy waste. Forgive me.

  I looked up from the paper. I was seated once again in the Great Room. Sister Mary Ryan stood in front of me, picking nervously at her lower lip.

  “You see?” she said.

  I picked up the second piece of paper, the copy of the note that the nuns had received on Saturday.

  Sisters-

  In love, respect and reverence, a Gift awaits you. It is yours. This is my wish and decree. You must not allow anyone to talk you out of accepting it. Do not let them. You are pure lambs. They are filthy. I want this for you. You are deserving. You are purity. You are endangered. I love you so much. Your Gift awaits you at the Cloisters. You will claim it with the enclosed claim check. Today. After three o’clock. Please be trusting. Please be swift. I am your lamb. From slaughter comes Grace. I am in tears with happiness over your Gift.

  A Friend.

  “You see?” the nun said again. “There’s no question in my mind. The lamb? The gift?” She stepped to my side. “You see? ‘I can’t endanger my sisters any longer.’ And then in the other one. ‘You are endangered.’ This note we received is obviously related somehow to Sister Margaret. That’s not coincidence.”

  I studied the two notes again. She was right. If this was coincidence, then my skin was green and feathery and so were my eighteen toes. I indicated Sister Margaret’s suicide note. “Is this the original?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not. As far as I know, the police still have the original. It was Sister Natividad who requested at the time that we procure a copy. I told you how close she and Margaret were. Natividad wanted to have a copy of Margaret’s final words. The note was read to us over the telephone, and we copied it down and then typed it up. Sister Anne has some ambivalence about Natividad’s… I don’t want to call it obsession… with her desire to keep Margaret’s memory vivid. Natividad refers to ‘Margaret’s final words’ quite often. That’s why when she had a look this morning at the note we received on Saturday, she burst into tears. She brought out Sister Margaret’s note and… well, as you can see.”

  “I can.”

  “What do you think it means, Mr. Malone?”

  I lowered the two notes and gazed up at the crucified figure on the far wall. Then I stood and turned to Sister Mary.

  “It means I want to talk to your youngest nun.”

  WHILE I WAITED FOR SISTER NATIVIDAD TO BE SUMMONED, I PHONED Tommy Carroll’s office. The commissioner wasn’t in. I was put through to his faithful assistant.

  “Commissioner Carroll is with the mayor,” Stacy said.

  “How does he look today?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How does the commissioner look today? He went home sick yesterday. I was just curious how he looked to you this morning.”

  “He. Looked. Fine.” It took nearly six seconds for her to say the sentence.

  “Choosing your words carefully there, Stacy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I. Think. You. Should. Relax.”

  She asked sharply, “Do you enjoy giving everyone a hard time or just me?” No problem spitting that sentence out.

  “Only the lucky few,” I said.

  “I will tell the commissioner that you called,” she said officiously.

  “Atta girl.”

  I heard what might have been a large sigh. “What is it? Is it something particular that I’ve said? I don’t understand you.”

  “You do your job well,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m just looking for the entry point to the rest of you.”

  “Well, I wish you would stop. It’s rude. I’ll have Commissioner Carroll call you.”

  “Tell him to have the Cloisters note handy, as well as the other notes from Nightmare.”

  “Cloisters note. Nightmare. I’ll tell him.”

  “Listen. Now that we’ve had this brief moment of air-clearing frankness, could you tell me now how he looked this morning? How does the old man seem to you?”

  “I don’t believe that is in the purview of my job.”

  “ ‘Purview’? Aw, Stace, do we have to go back there?”

  “Make all the fun you want, Mr. Malone. Go right ahead. It’s fucking kick-Stacy week anyway.” She hung up.

  Very interesting. Layer upon layer.

  Sister Natividad was brought before me. That was how it felt. The young nun’s head was bowed, and she moved almost as if her ankles were chained together. Sister Mary was slightly behind her, seeming to push her forward by the elbow.

  “I would like to speak with the sister alone,” I said. “If that’s all right.”

  “Of course.”

  I addressed the young nun. “Is there, um, someplace less great we could talk? Where would you be more comfortable?”

  She answe
red immediately. “The fountain.” I cocked an eyebrow at Sister Mary.

  “Natividad can show you,” she said. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

  She left the room. Sister Natividad led me through the large dining room, then took a left before reaching the kitchen. We followed a clammy corridor down to a large oak door that led out onto a small garden arbor. A gravel pathway defined the square space, as did a framework of weathered trellises bearing the empty gray limbs of what I figured were grapevines. Precisely defined strips of turned earth indicated dormant flower beds. In the center of the square was a small fountain, not much more than a glorified birdbath in which a silver burble of water rolled over itself. A pair of finches perched on the rim of the fountain.

  Beneath one of the trellises was a wooden bench. The nun moved directly to the bench and sat down, and I took a seat at the other end. It felt absurdly like a courting dance. The nun spoke first.

  “Margaret had a rule. She was not allowed to be sad here.”

  “Here. You mean out here in the garden?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes it was only for a minute. Sometimes she could be here for almost an hour. Not often, though.”

  “What happened to Sister Margaret?”

  She looked over at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Why was she so miserable? Why did she kill herself?”

  The nun answered without hesitation. “God was angry with her.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why was God angry with her?”

  “Because she drank, and because she could not keep herself from drinking. Even here. In God’s holy house, she could not keep her sins away. Sometimes she was found on the floor. Passed out. Sometimes when she was drinking, she would say horrible things.”

  “Did she seek help? Did she try to go it alone, or did she look for help? Counseling? A.A.?”

  “Yes. Sometimes. The meetings. She went to them. There were times when she was better, but they didn’t last.”

  “When she killed herself. I’m assuming she was drinking at that point.”

  The nun looked down at the ground. “She was in a lot of pain this time. This time was different. She had… She was difficult to talk to. She felt hopeless.”

  “Did you have any idea exactly how desperate she was? Had she ever mentioned suicide before?” The young nun raised her head and looked for a long time out at the small fountain. I watched as her dark eyes began to glisten. She said nothing. “Natividad?”

  “I should have known.” Her voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper.

  “Why should you have known?”

  “I just should have. She did not have to die like that. I should have been a better friend. I should have saved her. I knew she was in pain.”

  “But you didn’t know she was going to kill herself. Isn’t that right?”

  The whisper again. “I don’t know. Maybe I did.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Sister Margaret was found out in Prospect Park. All the way out in Brooklyn. That’s an awfully long way from here.”

  “That is where she used to live. Before she joined the order.”

  “Is that why she went all the way out there to kill herself?”

  She looked over at me. Her face seemed preposterously small inside the white wimple. Her cheeks pressed against the hard fabric. “I cannot answer your questions.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “Margaret was my only friend here. I’m very lonely without her.”

  “Natividad. Did Sister Margaret have addiction problems that went beyond alcohol? Did Margaret have a drug problem?”

  “No.”

  “You say that with certainty.” Or, I thought, too quickly.

  “Because it’s true.”

  “And you would have known? If she had a problem like that, you would have known?”

  “Yes.”

  I pulled out the picture of Angel Ramos. I’d asked Sister Mary to get it for me. I set it down on the bench between us. “Did you ever see Sister Margaret with this man?”

  “No.”

  “Did Sister Margaret ever say anything about someone named Angel? Or Ramos?”

  “No.”

  “Except for when she went there the last time, did Sister Margaret go out to Brooklyn often? Did she visit with her family?”

  “Her parents are both dead.”

  “Any other family?”

  “She did not see them.”

  “So… trips to Brooklyn? That you were aware of? For any reason?”

  “No.”

  “Sister Natividad, are you keeping something from me?” She didn’t answer. I tapped a finger against the photograph on the bench. “This man is responsible for the deaths of many people. In fact, he murdered a woman just last night. In Brooklyn, as a matter of fact.” The nun started but remained silent. “Somehow this man knew Margaret. His note to the convent and Margaret’s suicide note have too much in common to be coincidence. I don’t understand the connection or why he’s making it, but it’s there. This man is evil. He’s a bad man. He’s a drug dealer, among plenty of other things. Do you think it’s possible that Margaret… that your friend was somehow involved with this man?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But if anyone here knows, it would be you. Isn’t that right? You were her best friend here. You two talked. You shared your thoughts.”

  “She talked to people at her meetings, too. When she went. She said she felt good talking with strangers. She said sometimes it was easier than talking with God. Or with the other sisters.”

  “You’re talking about A.A. meetings?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know where she went to her meetings? Did she go to the same place or did she move around?” I knew that some alcoholics prefer going to different meetings. “Grazing” was how it was put to me once.

  “There is one she liked in Columbia.”

  “Columbia. You mean Columbia University?”

  “Yes. It’s not only with regular people but also with students. Margaret liked that. She used to tease me that I should come with her and meet a nice college boy.”

  “I didn’t know nuns had time for nice college boys.”

  “It was a joke. She was teasing me.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone in particular who she enjoyed seeing when she went to the meetings?”

  “Yes, she did. There is a man named Bill. She said Bill was a nice person. She enjoyed talking with him.”

  “Bill. Any last name?”

  “I think no one says their last name.”

  “What was Margaret’s last name, by the way?” I asked.

  “It was King. She was Margaret King.”

  “You miss her,” I said.

  She smiled. “I talk to her every day. Out here, where she was happy.”

  I looked around the tiny arbor. It was pleasant but not a lot of space. A fifteen-by-fifteen square within which to be happy. I stood up.

  “Well, when you talk with her again…” I stopped. I had no closer. I looked down dumbly at the young nun. I heard a splashing sound, and the finches darted from the fountain and over the roof of the convent.

  A small smile flickered on the nun’s face. “Maybe she was listening to us the whole time already.”

  I looked at my watch. Closing on ten. If that’s the case, I thought, I wish to hell she’d start speaking up.

  31

  THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY MEETING OF ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS was held in the basement of St. Paul’s Chapel, a barrel-shaped brick building on the east side of the campus. It was a windowless, bunkerlike room with mud-colored walls, the only illumination coming from a dozen banged-metal wall sconces that gave off little pie slices of dirty light. I had been told by the helpful woman in the administration office that every Friday and Saturday night, the place ser
ved as a college coffeehouse.

  I came down into the room via a spiral stone staircase. The tables had been shoved against the wall, and several dozen folding chairs were lined up in a pair of semicircles, the open ends of which faced a cheap pine podium. The smell of caffeine permeated the room. Hell, the feel of caffeine permeated the room.

  There was no one there. I’d called the number Information gave me, and the person who’d answered let me know there was a meeting at ten. I’d hoped to catch the tail end of it. Or, barring that, a straggler or two. But no luck. I went over to the industrial-sized coffeemaker on the chipped card table and put my hand on it. Still a little warm. I ran an inch into a Styrofoam cup and sampled it. Quaker State could have been their supplier. I emptied the cup into a potted ficus tree, realizing too late that it was a plastic potted ficus tree.

  I pounded back up the spiral stairs into the sun. I had half a mind to pop down the few blocks to Cannon’s and have my mother’s ex-husband slide me a short glass. The next meeting in the basement was scheduled for twelve-thirty, and I wasn’t going to hang around for that.

  Halfway across campus, I got an idea. I retraced my steps to the bunker. I scribbled out a note on the back of one of my cards and propped it on the coffeemaker, tucked into the red plastic handle.

  BILL. PLEASE CALL. URGENT.

  Back outside, my cell phone went off just as I reached Broadway. It wasn’t Bill. How nuts would that have been? It was Tommy Carroll returning my call. I ducked back inside the university gates to keep down the traffic noise.

  Carroll got straight to the point. “Stacy says you’ve got something about Nightmare’s notes. What is it?”

  “Do you have his notes with you?”