“So we should get John Bruno?” “I would, if I were you. It makes sense-under the circumstances,” Tom said.
“Then make yourself at home, ‘cause it’ll be a while.”
John Bruno came a half hour later, much sooner than Sister had expected. He had a practice in Albuquerque and was generally booked solid for weeks. But, as it turned out, today he’d taken the day off and had stayed in town.
John Bruno spoke to Celia alone for several moments in the inner parlor. Finally they invited Sheriff Green, who had dispensation to enter the enclosure.
“May I stay when you speak to Celia this time?” Sister Agatha asked Tom.
“Yes, if she doesn’t mind. But you can’t interfere.”
“I’d like her to stay,” Celia said simply.
Sheriff Green looked at Celia. “I want you to know that I’m giving you special consideration. I can escort you to the station for questioning. You are a suspect in a murder case.”
“But I’m not guilty.”
He didn’t comment, just switched on a small tape recorder. “I need you to tell me again exactly what you did on the day Father died. And don’t leave anything out.”
Celia complied, looking at Sister Agatha every few minutes as if for confirmation.
“Stop looking at Sister Agatha,” Sheriff Green snapped. “She can’t help you. Now, when did you tell me you spoke to your mother?”
“To Mother?”
“No, to your mother.”
“Reverend Mother is my mother.”
“I mean your maternal mother,” he said, biting off the words. “Ruth Moore. She called you that day.”
Celia stared at him. “She did?”
He gave her an incredulous look.
“Sheriff, I honestly don’t remember. Things were very confusing that day.”
“Let me rephrase the question. Did you speak to Ruth, your mother, sometime after Father dropped off the canned goods and before Mass?”
“No. I don’t have access to a telephone.”
“Did you talk to her later that night? Keep in mind that I can subpoena all the phone records, so I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“I didn’t call her. I’m sure of that, but I honestly can’t remember if she called me that day or not. The only thing I know is that I haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”
“Exactly when was the last time you spoke to your mother?”
“I don’t know, but our portress can check for you and give you more information.”
“Have you ever left this monastery after hours?”
She stared at him. “Left?”
“Yeah. Have you ever sneaked out for any reason.”
Celia stared at him in confusion. “Why would I?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Bruno cautioned.
“But I have nothing to hide,” Celia said. “The sheriff’s question is just crazy.” She looked directly at Tom. “If you only knew how badly I wanted to come to this monastery, and how many years I’ve spent dreaming of becoming a nun, you’d never ask such a silly question. This is my home. Why on earth would I ever leave?”
“Just how far were you willing to go to protect your life here? If someone tried to force you to leave, wouldn’t you have done whatever it took to stop them?”
“Like resorting to violence? No, I wouldn’t have. Physical confrontations don’t come naturally to me or, I imagine, to anyone who becomes a nun. It goes against the grain. What I can do—probably better than you realize—is endure.”
Sister Agatha watched Tom carefully. He couldn’t break Celia. But he knew that there was something more going on behind Celia’s stoic face—something she wasn’t telling him. The next thing he would do was dig even more deeply into Celia’s background. He’d learn everything there was to know about her, then he’d close in for the kill. The prospect filled her with such intense dread she shuddered involuntarily.
“What else are you keeping from me, Celia?” he asked menacingly, leaning over the table. “You’re holding something back. Don’t bother to deny it.”
“You’re harassing my client,” Bruno said abruptly. “If you’re charging her with something, then go right ahead. Otherwise, that’s it for today.”
“No charges, Counselor,” Tom said. Then he looked at Celia and held her gaze. “For now.”
John Bruno stood up. “Then have a good afternoon, Sheriff.”
As the sheriff stalked out, John Bruno remained thoughtful. “From now on, Sister Agatha, don’t let him talk to Celia or anyone else here unless I’m present. Is that clear?”
“Very. I’ll tell Reverend Mother.”
“What’s going to happen?” Celia asked quietly.
“I’ve known Tom Green for a while,” Bruno said. “He’s sniffed out a trail and it has led him here. That could mean major trouble for this monastery.”
“But I’m the one he wants, right?” Celia asked.
He nodded. “My guess is that he’s convinced himself you’re guilty. That means he’ll tear this monastery apart, one adobe brick at a time, until he has enough evidence to convict you.”
“Then let him arrest me,” Celia said quickly. “I can’t allow any harm to come to the sisters or the monastery—not because of me.”
“Celia, no, that’s not the answer. The sheriff is wrong. He’ll see that soon enough. Your sentiments are noble, but the monastery doesn’t need a martyr. Now go to the chapel and pray … for all of us,” Sister Agatha said.
“Yes, Mother.”
An instant before the postulant glanced down at the floor, Sister Agatha saw a flash of an emotion she couldn’t readily identify in Celia’s eyes. It worried her, but there was no time to dwell on it. Sister Agatha let John Bruno out, then walked him to his car.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” she said.
“Sister, this case has taken a very serious turn. I’m going to try and find out what’s really going on in Tom Green’s head. I know you and Tom were childhood friends, but make no mistake about it, he’s on the trail of a killer—and he’ll use whatever tricks he’s got in his bag to accomplish what he has to. You can’t trust him—not if you want to protect the monastery.”
“Understood. In the meantime, with God’s help, maybe I’ll find some answers on my own before this investigation ends up destroying an innocent.”
“If you uncover anything I can use, tell me right away, Sister Agatha. Remember, I’m on your side.”
As the attorney drove away, Sister Agatha walked back inside. Remembering the flash in Celia’s eyes, she suddenly realized what the emotion had been—defiance.
There was no denying the zeal of a postulant, and in this case, it could spell major trouble. Worried, she went to look for Celia and found her exactly where she should have been— in the chapel praying. All was well. Still, uneasiness stirred inside her.
She stayed with Celia in the chapel, praying in silence for a few minutes, then returned to the parlor. Her job as portress had never been more demanding, because of all the confusion that surrounded the monastery these days.
Sister Agatha checked the turn, wondering if the kids had left a note. Finding nothing, she returned to her desk and opened the book on the Rule of Life, the order’s monastic guidelines, and tried to concentrate on that. Maybe the structure and discipline it contained would help focus her thinking.
Sister Bernarda appeared at the inner door of the parlor shortly before Vespers escorting Frank Walters, who was finished for the day. After he left, she glanced over at Sister Agatha. “We’re going to have to supervise Celia’s scriptorium work more closely from now on, Your Charity.”
“She made a mistake? She’s usually so precise.”
“She was distracted today and I suppose I should have expected that but…”
“Was it something major?”
“She was working on the recipe archive for New MexicoCooking Magazine. But instead of listing one four-ounce can of hot green
chile, she typed it in as a fourteen-ounce can of hot green chile. Those chicken enchiladas would have had flames shooting out of people’s mouths.”
Sister Agatha laughed, surprised by how refreshing it felt. It had been a long time since she’d had occasion to laugh.
“Did the sheriff give her a very hard time today?” Sister Bernarda asked.
“Yes, he did,” she admitted, growing somber again. “That’s why I sent her to chapel rather than straight back to the scriptorium,” Sister Agatha said.
“Do you think Celia’s ready, mentally, to put in extra hours tonight? Sister Gertrude offered, but I don’t think we should accept. I’m afraid she’ll get overly tired. And with her weak heart…”
“I agree. On the other hand, work will be good for Celia right now—even if we have to proofread her entries. I may be able to help, too. Let me see how things go. My hands don’t feel too bad right now, and proofreading won’t tax them the way data entry would.”
“I’ll leave that up to you, Your Charity. You know where to find us after Compline.”
When the bells announcing Vespers rang, Sister Agatha locked the parlor doors early and hurried to chapel. She liked the Evening Prayer and, tonight, she needed the serenity that came with the Magnificat, the prayer commemorating the Virgin Mary’s response to the angel of the Annunciation, taken from the Gospel of Luke.
During collation, Sister Agatha watched the postulant as she ate her helping of bean-filled tortillas. The reading tonight from the martyrology was particularly graphic, detailing the death of St. Maria Goretti. Some of the passages describing the brutal attack on her were particularly difficult to take on a full stomach, yet a new calm appeared to have settled over Celia.
Sister Agatha tried to figure the young woman out. Postulants were undeniably devout, but often totally unpredictable. She made a mental note to talk to Celia later and make sure she didn’t do anything spectacularly crazy in hopes of protecting the monastery.
When it came time for recreation, Sister Agatha kept a furtive eye on Mary Lazarus, but tonight she seemed content to sit on one of the benches, playing with Pax, who always saw this special time of the day as his opportunity to teach the nuns to play. Sister Mary Lazarus first threw a stick for him, then played tug-of-war, using a piece of rope that had seen better days as a portion of clothesline.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on her as you asked,” Sister Bernarda said, coming up to join Sister Agatha, “but she hasn’t been acting any different from any other novice getting ready to take her vows.”
“Except for the sleepwalking. I wish I could be as sure….”
“There’s one thing that bothers me.” Sister Bernarda hesitated, “It’s just a feeling I get when she’s around Frank. I used to think that they couldn’t stand each other, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
“What makes you say that?” More than anything, Sister Agatha wished she hadn’t had to ask the question. But there was no room for hesitancy now. Her duty was to God and their monastery.
“It’s not that she’s acted inappropriately,” Sister Bernarda said. “It’s the way she looks at him when she thinks he’s not looking.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds flimsy, and it’s extraordinarily subjective, but there it is.”
Sister Agatha knew that Sister Bernarda preferred hard facts—there she was on solid ground, and her confidence was unshakable. The ex-marine hated the intangibility of speculation. To have shared this bit of information with Sister Agatha was something she would have found distasteful, and that proved how important Sister Bernarda felt the observation was.
“Continue watching them whenever he comes around— but don’t make it obvious.”
Despite Sister Agatha’s hope that Mary Lazarus would take her usual long evening walk, the novice spent all her time with Pax. By the time the bells for Compline sounded, Sister Agatha felt completely frustrated.
Tonight she had no desire to pray. She was angry—with herself and with God. All nuns, sooner or later, faced a time when they felt abandoned or lost—a crisis of faith. That time was now upon her, and it was as dark as any moonless night.
After Compline, the Great Silence began. The only sound in the scriptorium was the clickety cadence of the keyboards and the internal hums of the computers.
While Celia was completing the recipe archives and Sister Mary Lazarus concentrated on the library’s collection, Sister Bernarda and Sister Agatha took the jobs that demanded the most attention and responsibility.
The pages of the original manuscripts they were scanning for the Special Collections Library had become brittle in the dry desert heat. They had to be handled with extreme care. The original, handwritten manuscripts by J. Robert Oppen-heimer and Willa Cather were quite valuable and the nuns were now required to wear cloth gloves so that the acid and perspiration on their skin wouldn’t taint the pages.
Sister Agatha worked methodically, scanning each page, then verifying that it had transferred properly. It was monotonous work, but the importance of it kept her alert. Once she got tired, she’d take a break by proofreading Celia’s work.
It was close to midnight when Sister Bernarda flicked the light switch, signaling everyone to stop. Silence would not be broken in the monastery now, but an almost audible sigh went around the room.
After they turned off the equipment and put away their work, they all went to their cells. As they parted, something about Celia’s guarded expression piqued Sister Agatha’s curiosity. Celia should have been exhausted like the rest of them but, instead, there was purpose in her steps, and a new, almost nervous energy. The observation made a chill run up Sister Agatha’s spine.
Trouble was brewing. She felt it as clearly as the beat of her own heart.
Once inside her cell, Sister Agatha loosened her cincture, the rope belt that was part of her habit, then removed her veil. When she’d first come to the monastery, sleeping clothed seemed like a daily penance, but once she’d learned about rising at four-thirty in the morning, or having to get up in the middle of the night during Lent, she’d come to really appreciate that part of their monastic customs. The nuns seldom needed more than a few minutes to get ready for chapel. Proverbial Brides of Christ, they were ready at a moment’s notice to meet their groom.
Repeating the same prayer they’d all said during Compline, asking that God’s angels dwell in their house and bring them peace, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Normally, on a pain-free night, she would have slept soundly until morning, but something stirred her awake. Wondering if Mary Lazarus was sleepwalking again, she reached for her veil and the rope belt, and stepped out into the hall. It was as quiet as a graveyard in the hall. Peering inside Sister Mary Lazarus’s cell, she found the novice asleep.
Sister Agatha stood in the middle of the hall and listened. Something had awakened her. As she stood there, Pax came up beside her, whining softly. She looked at the dog, wondering if he was hurt, but when she crouched down to check him, the dog backed away from her. She stared at him, puzzled.
Pax walked to Celia’s cell and sat in the doorway staring at Sister Agatha.
Curious, she went to where he stood and glanced inside. The bed was made and a cross lay on her pillow as was their custom before leaving their rooms each day. But the postulant was gone, and it was the middle of the night.
Celia was her responsibility—a grave one. Each new postulant represented the future of their monastic order. But now …
Sister Agatha hurried down the corridor and let herself out the door, Pax at her side. Dreading what she’d find, she went directly to the front gates, but they were shut and still locked.
Perplexed, she stood there for a moment. That’s when she noticed a torn piece of cloth caught on the rough wrought iron at the top of the gate. Unless she missed her guess, it was from the brown dress the postulant wore. There was no question in her mind now about how Celia had gotten out. She’d climbed the fence.
Sister Agatha unlocked the gates, then hurried to get the motorcycle. Unwilling to wake Reverend Mother and the other nuns with the roar of the engine, she rolled the Harley past the gates, though it was a struggle because of the sidecar. The second she straddled the motorcycle, Pax jumped into the sidecar.
As Sister Agatha drove away from the monastery, she scanned the sides of the road in the darkness, hoping for a glimpse of the missing postulant. Disturbing thoughts crowded her mind. It was clear that Celia had left to protect the others. Her devotion to the sisters and to God was unquestionable. But a desperate girl alone at night on a desolate road…
A chill touched her spine. There was no time to lose.
20
A mile or so down the road, a slow, drizzling rain began to fall, but to Sister Agatha, those gentle drops felt like spikes against her tired face and swollen hands. Pax, on me other hand, seemed to be enjoying the water.
Sister Agatha focused on Celia, trying to think like the postulant. Not knowing exactly how long Celia had been gone made it difficult to gauge how far she’d gotten. Sister Agatha guessed that the postulant would head into town, but the rain would slow her down. Even upset and depressed, as she undoubtedly was, Celia would have looked for shelter. Remembering the biker bar she always passed on her way to town— The Hog—she headed for the establishment.
She glanced regularly in the rearview mirror, always careful to watch these days to see if she was being followed, but no one was there. Remembering the note she’d found in her pocket after the fair, she wondered if it had been written by someone upset with her involvement in the investigation, or merely someone distressed by other recent changes in her life, like riding the Harley.
As she approached The Hog, a touch of fear crept up her spine. The regular clientele was rumored to be a pretty rough group, and at this time of night those still out and about were likely to be the dregs. Still, instances of trouble there were supposedly few. Praying that didn’t change now, she pulled into the parking lot.
Bad Faith Page 26
