Perfect Grave

by Rick Mofina

  Are you able to live with that the rest of your life?

  In the seat next to him, the pages of his study guide lifted in the breeze.

  His nightmare had been resurrected.

  Bile surged up the back of his throat. He pulled to the shoulder, slammed on his brakes, got out, doubled over, and vomited. He stayed there until the jet passed and the sky was quiet again.

  Back behind the wheel, heading to where he needed to go, Henry dragged his forearm across his mouth. He ached for a drink. He battled the craving. He had to face this head-on and he had to face it sober.

  It was that simple.

  He’d gone more than two years now without touching alcohol, ever since he almost lost Jason and took early retirement from the brewery. That’s when Don Krofton, an old ex-cop pal, had hired him for his private investigative agency to work as an unarmed private detective.

  Unarmed.

  That suited Henry just fine.

  Jason and Krofton had pulled him from the hell where he’d been trapped for some twenty-five years. Since he started working as a PI, Henry and Jason had grown closer. Sometimes Henry helped him on his stories, sometimes Jason helped him on his cases.

  Partners.

  Henry cherished what they had but now he feared he could lose it all.

  Recently, a couple of the agency’s files involved some unexpected violence, so Krofton ordered all of his investigators to become licensed by the state to carry and use firearms. “No exceptions, Henry,” Krofton told him. “Unless you want to pack it in, and I don’t think you want to do that.”

  It was true.

  For as far back as he could remember, Henry had wanted to be a Seattle police officer and work his way up to detective. He’d never imagined that things would turn out the way they did. In the early days, he and Sally were happy. They had Jason and his job as a cop was great.

  Then it all went wrong.

  It had started as a routine day. Then they got the call. That call.

  Twenty-five years ago.

  God, he still couldn’t stomach thinking about it. Or talking about it.

  Ever.

  After it happened, Henry quit the force then tried to become a private detective but failed. Things got bad financially. He and Sally ended up working in the brewery. He shut down, stopped living. For Sally, it was like being condemned to life in a mausoleum. She couldn’t take it, so she left.

  It broke Jason’s heart.

  The kid used to ride his bike all over the neighborhood looking for her while Henry crawled into a bottle and sat in the dark, mourning it all.

  “She’ll be back. I can fix it, Jay. Just wait. She’ll be back. You’ll see.”

  Jason soon learned it was a lie. Sally never came back. Henry didn’t blame her. He became a lost cause who had fallen into an abyss and Jason realized that he had to get away, or be dragged down with him.

  But Jay refused to give up searching for his mother.

  Years later, he’d spend hours at the library, looking for her name and maiden name in old out-of-town phone books. He’d read obituaries and news stories about deaths. He’d keep records of those he checked, thinking the day would come when he would find her.

  The boy just wanted to put his family back together.

  Maybe that’s how his journalistic dream truly started for him. Born out of his mother’s desertion, Henry thought as he drove.

  God, he was so proud of his son.

  Only recently did Henry come to see how strong Jason was, how much he needed him, because it was his son who’d saved him. The night Henry turned up drunk in the newsroom was the rock bottom moment. He had humiliated Jason, had nearly cost him his job. That’s when Jason kicked him into AA.

  That’s what saved him.

  After Henry got sober, Krofton gave him a chance and took him on at the agency.

  But now he had to carry a gun again and it pushed Henry to the brink.

  For it had released his demons. He could feel them starting to circle round him, feel them closing in.

  He needed a drink.

  He needed Jason.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rhonda Boland looked at Sister Anne’s picture on the front page of the Seattle Mirror.

  Sister Anne had beautiful eyes. A kind face. Rhonda would have liked to have known her. She needed a link to God these days.

  Rhonda looked away from the paper and flipped through an old issue of Woman’s World. But she was unable to concentrate. Her concern went down the hall of Dr. Hillier’s office to the room where he was examining her twelve-year-old son, Brady.

  Again.

  Three months ago, Brady had complained of headaches and dizziness. Rhonda took him to their doctor. After a neurological exam, he referred them to Dr. Hillier, a specialist, who asked a lot of questions, ran tests, made notes, then arranged for Brady to go to the hospital for a brain scan.

  It was scary seeing him swallowed by that big tomblike device, but he was brave and it went okay.

  That was last week.

  Then Dr. Hillier’s office called her this morning, asking her to bring Brady in.

  “But his next appointment is not for three days. Did they find something?”

  “Dr. Hillier would like to see Brady,” the receptionist’s voice was professionally and clinically neutral.

  Please don’t let this be bad news. Please.

  Rhonda had to plead with the head cashier at the supermarket to let her leave work, again. Rhonda couldn’t afford to keep missing shifts. And she had to pull Brady out of school, again. He couldn’t afford missing more school. His grades were slipping.

  A month or so back, his teacher had called to say, “For weeks now, Brady’s been distracted in class and he’s had a couple of outbursts, which is out of character for him. He’s usually very quiet and polite. Is there stress at home, Mrs. Boland?”

  Stress at home?

  Only the kind that comes in the year after your husband dies suddenly.

  Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, Rhonda grappled with worry. Maybe Brady’s problem was a diet- or vitamin-related thing because she’d let him eat a little too much junk food. She’d let a few things slide since Jack died because he’d left her alone to face a world of trouble and some days it was so hard.

  Please, let it be nothing.

  “Mrs. Boland,” the receptionist said, “Dr. Hillier will see you now.”

  She led Rhonda to the doctor’s office, across the hall from the examining room from the room where Brady was. Hillier was behind his desk, a file with several colored pages open before him. He was on the phone and motioned for Rhonda to take the chair opposite him.

  He kept clicking his pen.

  She studied his face, his body language, for a clue of what to expect, as he wrapped up the call. The pen clicking did not stop. He studied the file.

  “Mrs. Boland, I know we’ve already asked you, but please try hard to remember. Has Brady ever had a head injury? A mild or severe fall, or blow to the head? Brady doesn’t recall any incident and there’s nothing in his file.”

  “You mean, one where I took him to the doctor, or the hospital?”

  “Any kind of head injury,” the pen clicking stopped, “even unreported.”

  “Unreported?”

  “Did you, or your husband ever discipline Brady? Physically?”

  Hillier watched her face redden at what he was suggesting.

  Was Brady abused?

  “No. Nothing like that, I told you.”

  “I apologize, but as his doctor I have to ask.”

  Rhonda waved it off and Hillier considered other sources.

  “Maybe a little playground mishap? Horseplay with Dad in the living room?”

  “Well, one time, he had this little bump. Here.” She touched her left temple. “But it was nothing.”

  “What happened?”

  “He told me he was in the garage helping his dad clean up and he banged his head against the workbench. Jus
t a tap. It was over a year before his father passed away.”

  Hillier absorbed it for a moment, nodded, noting it in the file.

  “Brady seems to be exhibiting the symptoms of prolonged postconcussion syndrome, arising from some trauma to his head, which he could’ve experienced even a couple of years ago. However, that’s only part of the problem, which may, or may not, be related to what we found.”

  Hillier stopped and thought for a moment. Then he showed Rhonda color computer images of Brady’s brain scan, then elaborated about things with long, Greek-sounding names before reading the fear in her face. He tossed his pen on his desk, rubbed his eyes under his glasses, then softened his voice.

  “The scan shows a growing mass of cells in his brain. A tumor.”

  “Oh God!”

  “If it’s not removed, this tumor will kill him within sixteen to twenty months. I’m very sorry.”

  Rhonda’s hands flew to her mouth in time to stifle her scream.

  Hillier helped her to the small sofa and comforted her.

  “You can’t let him die! Please, is there anything you can do?”

  Hillier looked hard into her eyes.

  “There is something we can attempt. I’ve consulted with my colleagues. It’s extremely complex, but because of its behavior and location, we can’t remove the tumor just yet. At this immediate point the procedure is too risky. Brady would not survive the surgery.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve got to help him.”

  “In two to three months it will advance to a stage where we’ll have a better chance at surgically removing all of it safely.”

  “Then he’ll be okay?”

  “His chances of survival are good. We’d put them at seventy-five percent.”

  “And without the surgery, what are his chances?”

  “Zero.”

  Hillier passed Rhonda a box of tissues. Her hands shook as she grasped at the hope that Brady could be helped.

  “He has to have the operation. You have to cut this thing out of him.”

  Hillier understood.

  “But will he suffer?” Rhonda asked. “Will he be in pain as the tumor grows and he waits for the operation?”

  “No. He’ll be fine. Now that we know what we’re dealing with, we can give him medication for his other symptoms. He’ll be fine.”

  After a long moment passed, Rhonda noticed that Hillier’s door was open a crack. She glimpsed through it. Across the hall, she saw Brady sitting on the examination table, reading his Thrasher magazine. His feet swinging in those new sneakers he’d begged her to buy for him.

  Brady was her world.

  Rhonda watched the nurse help him with his jacket, then take him down the hall to the front to wait for her. Still with Dr. Hillier, Rhonda asked, “Did you tell Brady?”

  “No, but I will, if you prefer.”

  “No, I’ll tell him.”

  “We’ll give you a packet of information and numbers of support groups, people experienced in these things.”

  Rhonda went to the window. She watched the buses, cars, bike couriers, people going about their lives. “So,” she looked at the tissue clenched in her fist. “Is this surgery expensive?”

  Dr. Hillier inhaled thoughtfully and returned to his desk.

  “Yes.”

  “You know my insurance is basic. How expensive are we talking?”

  “Yes, I understand. I don’t know the precise figures.”

  “Can you give me an estimate?”

  “I really couldn’t, there are many factors.”

  “Please, Dr. Hillier, I may be just a supermarket clerk, but I’m not stupid. I know you know.”

  “Maybe sixty to seventy thousand.”

  Rhonda turned.

  “Seventy thousand dollars? That’s more than double what I earn in a year.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m already facing several thousand in medical bills I can’t pay.”

  “I know.”

  “My husband left us in debt.”

  “I know this is overwhelming, but these things can be negotiated between your insurance company and the hospital and there are financial arrangements.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just don’t know.”

  “You’re going to go home and help Brady. He needs you to get through this.”

  Rhonda nodded and pulled herself together. She went to the waiting room where Brady was looking at the Seattle Mirror and the picture of the murdered nun. Rhonda didn’t want him reading that. They’d had enough bad news for today. Tenderly, she tugged him from the newspaper.

  “Let’s go, hon.”

  “Mom, I remember her,” Brady pointed at Sister Anne. “She was with the nuns who come to my school for our charity fair every year.”

  “I know, honey, they do good work.”

  “They made food, set up games, sang, and juggled; they weren’t like real nuns. They were cool, mom. The teachers took lots of pictures of us doing stuff with them. Why would somebody want to kill her?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  Why would God give a twelve-year-old boy a death sentence?

  “Mom!”

  Rhonda had pulled Brady to her, holding him tight, to keep them both from falling off the earth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sister Anne’s blood churned and bubbled like liquid rust in the cleaning bucket. There was so much, Sister Denise thought, wringing her sponge.

  It was as if the floor had been painted with it.

  This room would never be the same. It no longer held the fragrance of fresh linen and soap. It smelled of the ammonia she’d mixed in the cold water, haunting her as she scrubbed over the mosaic of smeared, bloodied shoe prints.

  Some of them belonged to the killer, the detectives had told her.

  After the forensic analysts had finished processing Sister Anne’s apartment, they’d released it to the nuns, urging the sisters to let a private company that specialized in cleaning crime scenes “restore” the apartment for them.

  “It would be less traumatic,” one concerned officer, a former altar boy, said as they were leaving.

  “Thank you, officer,” Sister Vivian turned to Sister Denise and said, “but Sister Denise will take care of it for us.”

  Surprise stung Denise’s face and the young officer pretended not to notice.

  How could Sister Vivian do something like that without first discussing it with me? Denise thought later. Because Vivian had a reputation for being an arrogant tyrant, that’s why.

  As she scrubbed, Denise grappled with anger and anguish. She abhorred the way Vivian was dominating people, especially given this horrible time. But Anne had been Denise’s friend, and, in some way, by washing the blood from her room, she was honoring her memory.

  Like Anne and the others, Denise lived in the town house. She was a nurse at the shelter and was regarded by the sisters to be the toughest in the group because she was raised in New York. Her mother had been an emergency nurse; her father had been a New York City cop.

  Growing up in a rough Brooklyn neighborhood, Denise had seen some unforgettable things, but washing her friend’s blood from the floor where she had been murdered was one of the hardest moments she’d ever faced in her life. She struggled with her tears each time she poured a bucket of reddish water down the sink.

  She was alone with her grim work, contemplating life, death, and God’s plan, when a shadow rose on the wall. Denise turned to see that Sister Paula, the most timid of the women who lived here, had ventured into the apartment.

  Paula didn’t speak as she cast a glance round, absorbing the eerie aura of death, gazing at the pasty, reddish streaks for a long moment. Then gently, she touched the walls, the counter, the light switch, the things Anne had touched, as if caressing a memory, or feeling the last of her presence.

  This was a brave step for her, Denise thought. Paula was born in a small town near Omaha, Nebraska, the daughter of an insurance
salesman. She was soft-spoken and meek.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting, Den,” she said. “But I had to see that it really happened.” She twisted a tissue in her hands. “I mean, Vivian tells us to be strong. To go beyond being the humble bride-of-Christ thing, be progressive urban warriors of light. But how do we do that knowing that Anne was murdered right here in our home? And her killer’s still out there. I really don’t think I can handle this.”

  Denise washed her hands quickly, then put her arms around Paula to comfort her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Paula said, “I’ll try to be strong like you and the others.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay. It’s perfectly fine to feel the way you feel. Be angry. Be afraid. Be confused. Be human. That’s how God made us.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “For what? You’re like Thomas, you have to see and touch the wounds before you believe. So you can carry on in faith.”

  “I suppose I am. I just don’t understand how she can be gone.”

  “She’s not, Paula, her good work will live on.”

  “But her killer is still out there.”

  “The lock on the front door’s been reinforced. The windows, too.”

  “I know, but he’s still out there.”

  Downstairs, the doorbell of the town house was sounded by another visitor, part of the continuing stream of neighbors, local politicians, and Sister Anne’s guests from the street. They arrived to offer their condolences, flowers, home-baked cakes, cash donations, casseroles, or colorful cards in crayon scrawl made by the children from the day care. People also phoned or e-mailed with heart-warming messages of sympathy and support.

  After taking a call on the town house phone, Sister Ruth approached Sister Vivian, who was on her cell phone instructing the order’s lawyer to help her volunteer the order’s staff and client lists to Detectives Garner and Perelli.

  “Excuse me, Vivian, the Archdiocese is calling. They’re offering Saint James Cathedral for the funeral.”

  “The Cathedral? Thank them. Tell them we’ll consider it and get back to them.”

  Nearby, in the cramped office of the townhouse, Sister Monique’s eyes widened at the computer monitor when she saw an e-mail with the “.va” extension. The Vatican, she whispered to herself before reading the short message. It was from the cardinal who was secretary of state, who reported directly to the Holy Father on all actions of the Church outside of Rome.