by Meg O'Brien
“How do you know so much about this, Tommy?”
“Well, like I told you, I’ve done some freelance writing for magazines. Also, I grew up in Catholic schools, and I’ve made it my business to know what’s been happening in the Church over the years.”
“So, what happened to the retired nuns whose motherhouses closed down? I know a lot of the younger ones welcomed the freedom to go out into the world, but what about the ones who were too old to work at jobs and take care of themselves?”
“I think it kind of depends on who you talk to,” he says. “Some in the Church say they were taken care of just fine. Others say it wasn’t always like that. Unfortunately, neither faction seems to like talking much about it. Reminds me of the rule of silence doctors and lawyers keep, when they refuse to talk about something bad going on in the profession.”
“Well, that shouldn’t surprise you. Churches are, after all, political organizations. And there’s none more political than the Catholic Church. Unless, of course it’s the Mormons. So anyway, what did you learn about Sister Helen?”
“I talked to somebody up at Joseph and Mary,” he says, “who told me some of the retired sisters were sent to convents in California and neighboring states to live. Some tried to make it in the world with low-paying jobs, like the retired people who work at the fast-food places now. There’s a fund these days to help the retired sisters, but when the changeover first began, things were a bit shaky. I take it Sister Helen got caught up in that transition period.”
“And?”
“And somehow—I’m not sure how—she ended up in San Francisco, on the streets. Somebody found her and brought her to this place in the Carmel Valley called The Prayer House. At that time, she’d already been on the streets a few months. She was in pretty bad shape.”
“But that’s terrible!” Regardless of her attitude toward me lately, I still have a few fond memories of my former teacher and sponsor. Knowing she went through something like this disturbs me greatly. And what kind of long-lasting effect has it had on her? I wonder.
“How did you find all this out?” I ask Tommy.
“I drove up to Santa Rosa and talked to some people at your old Joseph and Mary Motherhouse. It’s a private school now, and one of the nuns who knew Sister Helen still works there, as a teacher.”
Our cab is pulling up to the La Playa, and I am silent a moment. Finally I say, “So, Tommy, you managed Santa Rosa and Rio, all in the twenty-four hours since you called me yesterday?”
He grins. “There you go again.”
“Go?”
“Into that suspicious mode. Woman, you are one hard case.”
“Remember that,” I say.
Part 2
The Prayer House
Matthew 25:40: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
10
ABBY
It’s midmorning when I get home from Rio. I call Frannie to tell her I’ll pick Murphy up later in the day, if that’s okay.
“No problem.”
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Billy’s complaining he doesn’t know any tricks,” she says, chuckling.
“Well, that’s Murph. He’s pretty much a lay-around dog.”
After that I call Karen to ask if Jeffrey’s returned. The phone is answered immediately, as if she’s sitting anxiously next to it.
“I haven’t heard from him,” she says in a bitter tone. “When I get my hands on that sonuvabitch…”
I don’t tell her she doesn’t have to worry about the “mistress in Brazil.” To do so would require too many explanations.
I do wonder, however, if Karen’s problems with Jeffrey go deeper than simply another woman. Jeffrey hit me that time in Rio when he was jealous because I’d talked to another man. I threatened him with arrest if he ever touched me again, and he never did—though there were times when he was under stress and I thought he might. It’s one of the reasons I’d stopped loving him, and why—though my sister’s betrayal tore me apart when I found her sleeping with my husband—I didn’t grieve for my marriage as much as I otherwise might.
I make a mental note to talk to Karen about this. Her violence toward me, in burning my hand, could stem from her being abused herself. Stress has always escalated Jeffrey’s mean streak, and if he’s hurting her because of the trouble he’s in now, she has to be convinced to leave him.
Checking my messages for word from Ben, I find only one. “I’ll be pretty busy for a couple of days, Abby. I’ll call you.” Click.
Well, that’s that, then. Nothing more to do but erase the several messages from the media that have all but jammed the machine, then shower, change clothes and head out to this so-called “prayer house” to see Sister Helen.
Dressing in jeans, boots and a T-shirt with a leather jacket over it, I’m on my way in an hour. I take the Green Hornet, not knowing what kinds of back roads I might run into. Both the Ryans and Tommy described the area surrounding The Prayer House as isolated, and I remember that Jeffrey and I became lost in the valley once, several years ago. He was looking for property to buy, and I went along for the ride, which became strained. We wound up on a road full of potholes that damaged Jeffrey’s brand-new Mercedes, which did not add to the fun.
Between Carmel and the village of Carmel Valley there is more life than one might suspect. Off to the sides of Carmel Valley Road a number of inns, restaurants, shops, homes, apartments and at least one country and golf club nestle in the arms of the Santa Lucia mountains. After one passes the village, however, signs of civilization begin to thin out. The road winds east and south—the key word being “winds”—through ranch and farming country. Depending on how well one navigates curves, it can take an hour or two to get from the village to Highway 101 and Soledad. It is a route rarely traveled by tourists, as there are faster ways to head south to L.A. or north to San Francisco.
Rather than waste time searching for The Prayer House, I stop at a real-estate office in the village—End-of-the-Trail Realty—to ask directions. There is only one agent there, a man with white hair, sitting at a desk with the nameplate RICK STONE in front of him. He is huge, broad-shouldered, his face weathered, and he wears a cowboy hat. I feel I’ve stepped into a Marlboro ad, the only difference being that in this ad the Marlboro Man sports a significant belly over his belt.
“Well, hello there,” he says, looking me up and down and smiling. “What can I do for you, little lady?”
“I’m looking for a place called The Prayer House. Can you tell me how to get there?”
His expression seems a blend of quizzical and cautious.
“I can tell you,” he says, “but I don’t know why a pretty little thing like you would want to go there. An awful lot of hills, valleys and curves.”
The “pretty little thing” and “little lady” bother me, but not as much as the way his eyes survey my own hills, valleys and curves.
“I’m visiting someone,” I say.
“Oh.” He lets out a loud, “Whew! For a minute there, I thought you were one of them nuns.”
His gaze slides up and down again. “Not that you look like one,” he adds with a smarmy smile. “No, indeedy, not at all.”
“Do you know where this place is?” I ask, restraining myself. “Do you have a map or something?”
He sighs. Groaning, he leans forward in his chair, opening a side desk drawer. The ample belly falls forward, and the chair squeaks under his weight.
Pulling out a map he opens it on the desk. “I’d like a nickel for everybody who stops in here wanting a map,” he complains, smoothing it out with his hands. “All righty, look here now. You take this road till you get to this one.”
He waits for me to lean over the desk and look at what he’s pointing to on the map. When I do, he ogles my breasts, which push against the tight fabric of the T-shirt I’m wearing. A lock of my hair falls over my shoulder, and he reaches with a finger to touch it. “
That’s real pretty hair you’ve got there.”
I’d forgotten about some of the characters who live out here. Pulling back safely out of reach, I fold my arms.
“What road, where?” I say briskly.
He points it out. “There’s no road sign, so you have to watch your odometer. Call it maybe thirty-five-point-five miles or thereabouts. It’s the only unmarked road off to the left. It goes into this canyon, here, then up over the hill. There’s a lot of twists and turns, and no markers. You just have to find your way the first time, till you know where you’re going.”
He taps the map with his forefinger. “The place you’re looking for is on this hill, here, and there’s just one road into it, this one. You can’t get to it any other way.”
“Sounds pretty complicated,” I say, wondering paranoically if he’s sending me on a wild-goose chase, and if there’ll be a gaggle of gangsters waiting for me at the pass.
“Well, see,” he says, “most of the land around The Prayer House is ranches or it’s owned by somebody and fenced off. In fact, this Prayer House, it’s completely surrounded right now by other property. That’ll change, of course, when the developers—”
He bites off his words and looks up at me, intently studying my face. “Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” I answer, taking the map, folding it and shoving it into my jacket pocket.
“Sure I do,” he says as recognition dawns. “You’re Jeffrey Northrup’s wife. I remember you from when you came out here with him years ago, looking for property.”
I do not remember Rick Stone, not at all. In fact, I barely remember stopping at this particular realestate office before.
“That’s pretty amazing,” I say. “It’s been at least six years. You must have a good memory for faces.”
For a moment he doesn’t answer. Then, “You’re absolutely right, Ms. Northrup. I guess that’s it. I’ve got a good memory for faces.”
He stands and comes around the desk, putting a hand behind my back and ushering me firmly to the door. “You have a good visit with your friend now, hear? And thanks for stopping by.”
The next minute, I find myself out in the small parking lot beside my car, wondering why I was given what my mom might have called “the bum’s rush.”
The chill began when he remembered that Jeffrey was my husband. But why? Bad business dealings?
This might well be one of the real-estate agencies that Jeffrey ended up buying through. I have no idea what he owns in the valley, only that Jeffrey was buying land here long before I met him. I’ve always assumed he’s continued to either buy or sell, though that’s a side of his finances he’s never shared with me.
I shrug it off as unimportant and slide into the Jeep. Pulling my hair straight back, I fix it in a ponytail with a Scrunchee and head out into the valley. Tossing a CD into the player, I lose myself in some lively jazz and conflicting thoughts of the upcoming meeting with Sister Helen.
11
MAURO AND HILLARS
Half a block from the End-of-the-Trail real-estate office, a black Volvo sits well hidden by an overhang of live oaks. Mauro sneezes and reaches for a handkerchief. “Damn, I hate this place. Even this time of year, there’s more pollen here than there are tourists in D.C.”
Hillars folds his arms and sighs.
“I’d sure like to know what she’s doing there,” Mauro says, strumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“My guess is she’s carrying a message to Stone from her husband,” Hillars answers.
“You’re probably right.” Mauro shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and slams a hand down on the wheel. “Damn, I knew we should have bugged this place.”
“There wasn’t enough time,” Hillars reminds him mildly.
“She’s not going back into town,” Mauro notes as Abby comes out, starts the Jeep and turns east on Carmel Valley Road. “We should follow her.” He reaches to turn on the engine.
Hillars lays a restraining hand on his arm. “No. Right now this Rick Stone is more important. If we crack him it could blow the whole thing wide open.”
“I disagree. I’d bet the wife is right in the middle of it. She and that girlfriend of Northrup’s, the sister-in-law.”
“Karen Dean? Maybe. Regardless, I say we wait here and follow Stone when he leaves.”
Mauro’s expression conveys his disapproval. He doesn’t say anything because Special Agent Hillars is his superior. Shit, he’s one of the highest-ranking agents in the Secret Service, Mauro thinks. Which is why the president put him on this case to begin with.
There are times, however, when Mauro wonders.
Reaching into the back seat he grabs a book from a foot-high pile.
“The Rise and Fall of Western Civilization?” Hillars glances over and reads the title aloud. “That’s a rather versatile collection you’ve got there. World history and Ten New Ways to Make It Rich in Real Estate?”
“It passes the time,” Mauro says. “Not to mention, I believe in keeping up with what our suspects are doing.” He reaches into the back again, and Hillars makes a face. “Trepanning,” he says, reading the title. “That’s what killed the Bright woman.”
“It’s a fascinating subject,” Mauro says. “Been around for thousands of years, they say.”
Hillars shakes his head. “You like reading this stuff?”
“Like I said, it helps to study up on these people. Gives some insight into how they think. You should try it sometime,” he says.
“I’ll pass.”
Sure you will, Mauro thinks. That’s why you’ll never be as smart as me.
12
ABBY
Journeying to The Prayer House I feel the way pilgrims of old must have felt when, after trekking miles and miles through vast forestland on foot, they came upon their destination, finally: a dwelling, a haven with light, heat, food and water.
At least, I hope that’s what The Prayer House ends up being for me. It’s well after lunchtime, I’m tired and ravenous, and I haven’t thought to bring water. I wonder if the good nuns might share a hunk of bread and a jug of H2O with me.
Neither Rick Stone nor the map have lied. I find the left turnoff in almost precisely thirty-five-point-five miles. From there, the convoluted dirt roads leading from Carmel Valley Road to The Prayer House are narrow, so overgrown in places there is room for only one car. This hardly poses a problem as there are no other cars for the entire half hour of my journey in from Carmel Valley Road.
Rounding a final curve I find what I’m looking for: a magnificent old building of Spanish architecture that sits high on a hill overlooking the mountains and canyons of Carmel Valley. A carved wooden sign on a stone fence announces The Prayer House in small, discreet letters.
Inside the fence are flower and vegetable gardens, and there are a half-dozen women working in them, some in jeans and some in nun’s long habits that are pulled up and tucked into belts, their white petticoats showing. At the top of the adobe structure of The Prayer House, in its precise middle, is an arched bell tower. Stained-glass windows tell me this tops a chapel, while low wings jutting out from either side infer living spaces.
Surprisingly, there is no gate. I follow a dirt driveway that takes me past the gardens to the left side of The Prayer House. In a backyard, visible from this angle, I see sheets and pillowcases on a clothesline, flapping in a light, sunny breeze. The pillowcases look heavy and thick, a vision that sweeps me back in time to my convent days, when we were taught to hang our undies inside pillowcases to dry, out of modesty.
It is a bittersweet memory that makes me want to sit in the Jeep for long moments after turning off the engine and think about how far, for good or bad, I’ve come.
There’s little time for this, however. A sister approaches me from inside the nearest wing, coming across the lawn with swift strides, her black habit and white veil blowing, like the laundry, in the breeze. As she nears, I can hear the clatter of ros
ary beads dangling from her waist.
“Good afternoon,” she says, leaning into my window. “I’m Sister Pauline. May I help you?”
She is a bit older than I’d first thought, though probably not more than forty. Her face has a placid smoothness, like the faces of the more senior nuns I remember from the motherhouse.
“I’m looking for Sister Helen,” I say.
“Helen Asback?”
“Yes. Could you tell her I’m here and would like to speak with her? If it’s allowed, that is. I’m Abby Northrup.”
The woman smiles. “Come with me, I’ll take you inside.”
I’m surprised at being accepted so readily, and it must show. As I slide from the Jeep, Sister Pauline says, “We’re not cloistered here, you know. Just a bunch of women living out our lives.”
We begin walking and I gesture to the gardens and the view of valley and hills. “Seems like a pretty good life. It’s wonderful out here.”
“Oh, we love it. All the sisters—and the others, of course—have worked hard to make it this way.”
“Others?”
“The ones who aren’t sisters anymore,” she says softly.
“Oh. You mean like Sister Helen?”
She smiles. “Was Helen your teacher? It must be hard to break the habit of calling her ‘Sister,’ if so.”
“Well, I haven’t really seen her for years. But you’re right, she taught me in high school.”
We have reached the low adobe wing on the left, and I can’t help but admire the riot of red bougainvillea that climbs most of a side wall and spills over the roof.
“It’s incredibly old,” Sister Pauline says. “It was here when The Prayer House was founded twenty-five years ago.”
“Twenty-five years? I’d have guessed this building was here a lot longer than that.”
“Oh, much longer. It was the original home of the Carmelite sisters, a hundred or more years ago. Now they have the newer monastery in Carmel. Though new is a relative term.” She chuckles. “Even that has been around a while.”
