I tried to think of the last time I’d spoken to him, I mean, properly spoken to him. He’d officiated at Sierra’s funeral, of course, I think Mom had insisted, but prior to that it must have been a few years, and I hadn’t spoken to him since. I picked up my phone and then placed it back down on the sofa beside me. Maybe I’d wait until I knew who Sister Anna was.
I woke the following morning with a stiff neck from falling asleep on the sofa. I stretched out my limbs and tried to rub some life back into them. I noticed a missed call and then cursed. It had been from my mom. In all my investigating; I hadn’t called Taylor to wish her a good night.
“Hey, Mom. I’m sorry I crashed out early. Is everything okay?” I had asked, once she answered my call.
“Of course, Taylor is outside with your dad. A mare gave birth during the night, so she’s out there with the foal.”
“Cool. I’ll be over later, I have some things to do today,” I said.
“No rush, just come whenever you can. Let me know if you want dinner, I’ll make extra.”
“Mom, you always have enough food for the whole town, just in case someone visits.”
She chuckled as she disconnected the call. It was nice to hear her snicker, none of us had laughed in a long time, especially her.
There was no other missed call, nor a missed text, and a little bit of disappointment washed over me. I deliberated on sending another message but didn't want to scare off Sister Anna, whoever she was. I decided to continue my search just in case there was something else hidden.
After I’d turned over the kitchen and living room, I took a break. I’d found nothing more that gave me any clues. I decided it was time to visit Taylor. I headed out and locked up the front door behind me. It was as I was about to climb into my truck that I saw her. A brown-haired, older woman stood on the opposite sidewalk staring at me. I hesitated, not sure at first what to do. I closed the car door and faced her. She looked nervous, checking up and down the road before she strode across. It didn’t appear to me that she was checking for traffic.
“Gabriel?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” I deliberately kept my voice soft.
“I have something for you, but I can’t stay here long. Can we arrange to meet?”
“Who are you?”
“I knew Sierra. She asked me to give you something.”
“How did you know who I was?”
“She said to look out for a hulk of a man, who lived at this address, I take it you’re the only man who lives here?”
“How do you know my wife?” I kept Sierra in the present tense, unsure what to expect from this stranger.
“I can’t explain that here. Can we meet?” Her voice had risen a little. She was clearly uncomfortable. She continually looked up and down the street.
“Sure, where and when?”
“You know the gas station, out on Route 50? Meet me there in an hour.”
She started to walk away. “Hold on, what gas station and who are you?”
“You’ll find it. Desolate, a perfect place to meet.”
I wanted to reach out and stop her from leaving, but she pulled a cardigan around her shoulders and hurried off. Was she Sister Anna? Was she the woman who had visited my house and upset my wife? I watched her walk along the sidewalk until she reached the corner; she looked back, just the once, before scanning around and then disappearing.
I walked back into the house and pulled the phone from my pocket. I sent another text.
Was that you? Are you Sister Anna?
Within a minute I received a reply. Gas station, one hour.
I paced the living room, unsure of what to do. Of course, I would be there in an hour, but should I call Thomas? She said she had something for me and I kicked myself for not pressing for further information. It could be a set up; I could be walking into a trap of some kind. I headed upstairs and to my bedroom. Beside the closet was my gun cabinet. I unlocked it and took out a revolver. I loaded the chamber with bullets before locking it up and heading out to my truck.
It wouldn’t take an hour to reach the gas station; I guessed by her description of ‘desolate’ she meant Mr. Townsend’s. He was the only gas station owner I knew. For the poor souls who found themselves on the worst road possible, his gas station was a welcome sight and the first, or last, stop outside of town.
I wanted to get there ahead of her, I wanted the advantage of seeing her, or whoever, coming. I reversed out of the drive and started the half hour journey. I wedged my gun in the side pocket of the door; I had easy access to it there. I could handle myself if whoever came were unarmed, but I wasn’t taking any chances. On the floor was a tire iron. As I pulled onto the parking lot, I reached for it, pulled it closer so it was on hand should I need it. And I waited.
A half hour passed with no sign of another car. I rolled down my window and rested my arm on the door. The gas station was closed up that day and my truck stood out, I was an easy target. The police often cruised past and I didn’t want to have to explain why I was sitting there. I checked my watch repeatedly. Another half hour passed, that made her a half hour late.
I was about to send her a text when a beat up old Ford pulled in at the opposite end of the gas station to me. I waited for a couple of moments to see if the occupant would exit the car. The sun was blinding me, making it difficult to see who was behind the wheel.
After a couple of minutes, I saw the driver’s door open and the brown-haired woman climbed out. She stood by it, looking around. I opened mine slowly and stepped down from the truck. She made no attempt to walk to me, and I could have kicked myself for not putting my gun in the waistband of my jeans. I’d never be able to retrieve it without being seen, and I didn’t want to spook her.
I started to walk toward her. She kept the door between us as a shield, I guessed.
“Sister Anna?” I said as I approached.
“I have something for you. She asked me to give this to you if something should ever happen to her.”
“Who killed my wife?”
“It’s all in here.”
She held in her hand an envelope, the padded type.
“Who killed my wife?” I asked again, perhaps a little too aggressively. My heart was hammering in my chest.
I watched her swallow hard. “More people could get killed for this,” she said, waving the envelope in the air.
I reached for it but she pulled back slightly.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked.
“Dying, Gabriel.”
“Are you in danger?”
“We’re all in danger. You want to know who killed your wife?”
I nodded my head as she reached out with her arm.
“Religion killed your wife. Good luck, Gabriel.”
She dropped the envelope on the ground and quickly got back into her car. By the time I’d reached down for it, she was backing away. Her tires kicked up dust as she expertly spun the car around and roared off.
My hand shook as I held the envelope. I was paralyzed to the spot. What the fuck did she mean by Religion killed my wife? Sierra wasn’t remotely religious, as far as I was aware. Taylor had only been christened to give her godparents, not because we wanted her brought up within any religion.
“Fuck,” I said.
“Fuck, fuck.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Thomas.
“Tom, I need to see you, right now,” I said when he answered.
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
“I have information on Sierra.”
“What the fuck do you mean, information?”
I strode back to my truck as I spoke.
“I’m on my way, meet me at the house.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
I disconnected the call and with the wheels spinning, kicking up more dust and stones, I pulled a U-turn and headed for home.
I’d wedged the envelope between my knees, too frightened to even l
eave it on the passenger seat for fear of losing it. It was an irrational thought, I was sure, but I clamped my knees together, thankful that the truck was automatic and not a stick shift.
Thomas’ patrol car was sitting in my driveway when I returned. I pulled in behind him, blocking part of the sidewalk. As I exited from the truck, he did the same from his car.
“Gabe, what’s the problem?” he asked. I gestured toward the house.
Maybe I’d picked up on Sister Anna’s paranoia, but I looked both up and down the street before I inserted the key in the lock.
“I knew that it wasn’t just a burglary. They were looking for something, Tom. I tore the house apart last night and found a doll at the bottom of Taylor’s toy box, an old doll I didn’t recognize. You know, one of those you stuff your pajamas in? Anyway, inside was a name and a number. I called it.”
“Wait. You did what?”
“I called it.”
We had made our way to the kitchen, and I placed the envelope in the center of the table. I opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. My hands shook as I snapped off the caps and handed one to Thomas. Despite being in uniform, and on duty, he took it from me as he sat. His radio crackled and he fiddled with it to silence it.
“I called the number, left a message asking if they knew Sierra. I didn’t get a reply. Taylor said she saw a brown-haired woman a couple of weeks ago; the same woman she believes came to the house one time. Sierra had been upset at the visit.”
“Back up, I need to write all this down.”
Thomas took a small notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket.
“Start at the beginning,” he said.
I repeated, slowly, what I’d already said.
“So this Sister Anna replied to your text?”
“No, earlier I was in the yard and I saw a brown-haired woman across the street. She stared at me for a while then walked over.” I then told him what had happened from that point.
When I finished, and he’d written up his notes, we both stared at the envelope. It was dirty, old, and not quite sealed.
“I need to take this in, Gabe.”
“No way, I have to see what’s inside. You have to understand that.”
“There could be fingerprints all over that. I have to call this in.”
“Wait here.” I jumped from my seat and ran back to the truck.
I returned seconds later with two pairs of latex gloves. I threw a pair at Thomas as I snapped on the other.
He stared at me while holding the gloves. “We use them at the garage, obviously,” I said.
Once he had donned his gloves, Thomas picked up the envelope. He studied it first, took some pictures using his phone before placing his thumb under the flap and prying it open. He shook out the contents on the table.
There were several pieces of paper and an old photograph. Using just the tip of one finger, he separated them out until the photograph was isolated. We looked at it. It was a group of children, miserable looking children. Behind them were a couple of nuns and a priest. I couldn’t determine if any of them were Sierra, and I didn't recognize the grey stone building they were standing in front of. There was no sign, nothing to identify what the building was.
I unfolded a piece of paper; it looked like it had been torn from a diary. Written in a childish scrawl was an entry.
“Fucking hell,” I said as I read.
My stomach lurched as I slid the page over to Thomas. I swallowed the bile that had risen to my throat.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Do you think…?” I struggled to say the words.
“Don’t go there, not yet. We don’t know what any of this means.”
The diary entry was a child detailing sexual abuse. It was very explicit, but what had turned my stomach was the accusation that her, or his, abuser had been the priest.
I placed my elbows on the table and let my head fall into my hands. I needed to quell the nausea. I’d closed my eyes and took in deep breaths.
“Gabe, we don’t know that this has anything to do with Sierra just yet.”
“Think about it. Taylor said a man in black pants and a black shirt came to the house. That’s a fucking priest, Tom.” My voice rose in anger.
“We don’t know that. We can’t go rushing to assumptions. I need to get this back to the station so I can investigate.”
“I want copies of these, I want to know exactly what you're doing, when, and how. You’re not blowing me off on this one.”
“I wasn’t blowing you off the last time.” Thomas had become defensive.
“I know, I’m sorry, but this a breakthrough, right?”
“Possibly, yes. But we need to know this woman isn’t stringing you along, that she really did know Sierra. We also need to determine that these documents belonged to your wife and what they mean. And I need the doll.”
“You can fingerprint them, can’t you?”
“I can, I need to copy them all first and then send them off. If this is what we think it is, Gabe, this is some serious shit.”
“Serious enough to kill over?”
We fell silent as we stared once more at the pieces of paper on the table.
I followed Thomas back to the station, I wasn’t about to let him take those papers away and not know what was happening with them. He’d reluctantly agreed that I could watch as he copied each one, using what looked like tweezers to tease the pages open. Each one looked like a diary entry. Although the writing changed, became more mature I guessed, it seemed to me to have been written by the same individual. Was that Sierra’s handwriting?
Thomas was on the phone as I read the copies. He was requesting a trace on the cell number for Sister Anna. He was organizing for the documents to be sent out of state for fingerprinting, he didn’t have the resources for that.
“So what do we actually have here?” I asked, when he’d gotten off the phone.
“Diary entries, mainly. Some details of abuse. And then we have the photograph, of course. I don’t suppose you recognize Sierra?”
“I can read what they say. And no, although how old do you think these kids are? I’d say they look about the same age as Taylor. The pieces of paper are identical,” I said.
“Maybe they were torn from one of those multi-year diaries. We don’t have years but some of them are the same day.”
Three of the pieces of paper had January thirty-first printed in the top right corner.
“This is sick, listen to this…”
He pulled down my panties. I didn’t want him to. He said I’d been bad and God wanted me spanked. I had to lie down on the altar and he spanked me. I cried when he rubbed the soreness away, when he pushed his thing inside me. I hate him. I hate it here. Someone, help me.
The style of writing for that piece was slightly different to the others, a little more legible, suggesting a slightly older child wrote it.
“Who was doing this to them?” I said to no one in particular.
“This one says, Father, and I don’t suspect that refers to their dad,” Thomas replied.
“Fucking sick bastard. We need to find out what this all means, who this child was, and how it relates to Sierra.”
“I want you to contact Sister Anna again. Arrange a meet if you can.”
“She’s pretty skittish. But I’ll try.”
I picked up the note that had her number on and called. Like before, it went to voice mail.
“This is Gabriel, we need to meet, urgently. Please call me back.”
“Somehow you need to encourage her to come in and be interviewed,” Thomas said. “It may have nothing to do with Sierra, but this is a case to be investigated.”
“Sierra came from New York. I Googled Sister Anna, I didn’t get any direct hits, but there are just over two hundred convents in New York City. Is there a way we can find out if the sister is at one of those?”
“I don’t know my nun history, but I don’t think Anna will be her real name. I think they’re g
iven a name. I’m going to try but it’s a long shot for sure. I suspect there are a shit ton of Sister Annas.”
“Yeah, but not a shit ton of Sister Annas that have gone missing.”
“Fair point. We’re a long way from New York; she didn’t come here on a day visit. Right, give me as much detail as you can about her.”
I sat down at his desk and described as much as I could. The trouble was, there was nothing remarkable about her. No scars or any other identifiable marks.
“She was way shorter than I was, maybe a foot shorter, so I pegged her at five foot. She had average brown hair, shoulder length and a little wavy, sort of unkempt, if you know what I mean. As if she’d cut it herself. And brown eyes.”
“How did she speak, any accent?”
“You know, she wasn’t from here, but I didn’t detect a New York accent either.”
I sighed with exasperation. Sister Anna was just a normal-looking woman with an accent I couldn’t place.
“Age?” Thomas asked.
“Older than us, for sure. Maybe in her fifties.”
“Go back to the hair. What do you mean, as if she’d cut it herself?”
“It just didn’t look, I don’t know, neat maybe?”
“That could tell us one of two things, I guess. Either she’s frugal, can’t afford a hair salon, or she cut her hair to disguise herself. Think about her hairline, did you see any coloring?”
“Huh?”
“Her hairline, was there any dye? Haven’t you noticed? When Trina dyes her hair, she gets that shit all over herself.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Wait, her hand. When she held out the envelope, her hand was stained. Not brown like her hair but a sort of reddish tint.”
Thomas picked up his phone and made a call.
“Trina, when you dye your hair, what color is it?” he said.
“No, not the frigging hair, the product. What color are your hands when you’re done.”
He listened for a while.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Well?”
“The font of all that is beauty says, if she gets that shit on her skin, and bearing in mind she tries to covers her grey with brown hair dye, it’s a reddish color.”
Gabriel: A thriller (Standalone within the Divinus Pueri series) Page 3
