Perfect Grave jw-3 Page 18

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  Nothing. No breathing. No background noise. Just absolute silence.

  But Rhonda sensed someone was on the other end.

  “Who are you calling, please?”

  Nothing.

  She hung up.

  This was the third time someone had called to give her the silent treatment. She waved it off as kids playing on the phone, or some crank.

  What else could it be?

  Rhonda brushed it off and went to her bedroom to change.

  As she undressed, a tiny wave of unease rippled through her just below the surface of her consciousness.

  Something’s not right.

  She stopped breathing and studied herself in the dresser mirror.

  What was it?

  She couldn’t put her finger on it. But damn it, something felt wrong. Rhonda went to her closet, searched through her clothes. Nothing. She went to the bathroom, checked behind the shower curtain. Nothing.

  What is it?

  Her scalp prickled and an ice coil rushed down her spine.

  Had someone been in her home?

  Rhonda went to the window at the end of the small hall at the back of the house. What was that? She detected the faint hint of a foreign smell. A trace of a fading scent that she just couldn’t identify.

  Did it even exist?

  Maybe she was smelling the Twisted Palms bar on herself?

  Maybe it was nothing.

  Like the garage. Like the calls. Was she losing her mind? This is stupid. She couldn’t handle this right now. Rhonda went back to her bedroom and resumed changing.

  You must be losing your grip, she told her reflection, because this is just stupid.

  In the kitchen Rhonda began taking inventory to get supper ready. That’s when she stopped and put her hands on her hips.

  At the far end of the counter, near the refrigerator, all of her files for Brady were ever so slightly askew. As if someone had picked through them.

  Did Brady do that? But he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.

  Did she do that? Did she forget that she’d done that?

  She inspected them. Brady’s school file was out of order and she had not touched this one for at least a week.

  Had she?

  Rhonda bit her bottom lip and took a few deep breaths. It had to be her imagination. Right? What else could it be?

  What the hell else could it be?

  Chapter Forty

  “ H eard what happened at recess?” Ryan bounced his basketball to Brady.

  “Nope.”

  Justin clapped his hands, took Brady’s pass, and made a successful backboard shot.

  “ Yes! Dex pulled a knife on Billy Hay in the yard behind the addition.”

  “Whoa, that’s serious,” Brady said. “What happened?”

  Ryan eyed the ball coming back to him.

  “Billy steps into Dex’s face, does like a quick kung fu move, grabs Dex’s arm, nearly breaks it until Dex drops the knife, then Billy leans it against the pavement and building and stomps the knife, breaks the blade!”

  “No way!”

  Ryan shoots and misses. The ball swishes under the net.

  “Way!” Justin said. “It happened. Billy turned into Superman.”

  The ball rolled across the basketball court, by the swings, then by the mommies and babies at the kiddie seesaws, and then it bounced along the grass toward a park bench, where a man reading a newspaper tossed it back.

  “Thanks,” Ryan said.

  “Dex is such an asshole,” Justin said. “Billy’s my hero. He should form a gang and be the leader. Call it the Justice Squad, or something cool like that.”

  “Hey,” Brady said, “You think Spider-Man can beat up Superman?”

  “Not in a million years,” Ryan said. “Superman’s not human and Spider-Man is.”

  “Well, he could,” Justin said bouncing the ball, “if he could web him with green kryptonite.”

  “What if Superman had, like a tumor?” Brady said.

  “A what?” Ryan said.

  “Like a brain tumor that was going to kill him unless he had this operation?”

  Justin stopped bouncing the ball. He exchanged a look with Ryan, then looked hard at Brady. The three boys had been best friends ever since they could talk.

  “That’s what you’ve got, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Ryan said.

  “Clue in, doofus,” Justin looked at Brady. “This is why you’ve had all those doctors’ appointments and went in that MR deep-sleep-chamber thing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, are you going to die?” Ryan asked.

  “I’m supposed to have this operation soon to take it out. And if everything goes okay, then I should be fine.”

  “If it doesn’t?” Ryan asked.

  “Then, I guess I’ll die.”

  “Does the tumor hurt right now?” Ryan asked.

  “No. And I take medicine.”

  Justin resumed bouncing the ball, giving it hard slam bounces.

  “You’re not going to die, dude,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re not, okay?”

  “But how do you know, Justin?”

  Justin turned his back, slam-bouncing the ball, pretending to position himself for a crucial shot.

  “Justin, tell me, how do you know?”

  “Because you’re twelve years old and you’re our friend and people close to us are not supposed to die. Not until they’re old and shit.”

  “Brady’s dad died, right in front of him,” Ryan said.

  “Shut up,” Justin said. “You just shut up.”

  “Guys, stop. No one knows what’s going to happen to me.”

  “I do,” Justin turned. Still bouncing the ball, his sights locked on the basket. “I’m going to take this shot, and if it’s good, Brady will have his operation and live.”

  “And if you miss?” Ryan said.

  “I won’t miss. I’m going to make this shot and then we’re going to start building that tree house we’ve always talked about. In the forest behind the warehouse.”

  Justin softened his bounces, preparing to make the shot.

  “Hey”-Brady held his hands out for the ball-“give me the ball. This is kinda dumb. Don’t do this, Jus, cause if you miss, everything will get weird.”

  “I’m not going to miss.”

  “Justin, listen to Brady.”

  “I’m doing it!”

  Justin raised the ball, moved it slowly behind his head, concentrated on the target, and sent the ball spinning from his fingertips in a high arc. During the time it traveled, the boys held their breath, hearing nothing and seeing nothing but the ball, as if collectively willing it to complete its mission.

  Which it did.

  In a clean swish.

  The boys shot their fists into the air and jumped.

  “Yes!” Justin said, “I told you I wouldn’t miss.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brady noticed the ball rolling away. Their glorious victory ball. Still wearing a smile, he started chasing it as it followed the same course as before. The ball rolled from the court, passed the swings, and then the mommies and babies at the kiddie seesaws. Then it bounced along the grass toward a park bench until a man’s shoe stopped it.

  Dead.

  The man on the bench set aside his take-out coffee and his copy of the Seattle Mirror. He’d been reading the articles under the headlines, HOMELESS MAN HELD IN NUN’S MURDER: ARRESTED AT FUNERAL and SISTER ANNE BRAXTON REMEMBERED AS THE SAINT OF SEATTLE.

  The man picked up the ball and spun it playfully in his hands until he raised his head to look directly at Brady, who saw himself reflected in the man’s dark glasses. The stranger studied Brady’s face for an intense moment, as if it held the key to a mystery.

  “This belongs to you?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

&n
bsp; “And I bet you expect me to give it back?”

  Brady’s eyes cast around. He just wanted the ball back.

  “I guess, yes.”

  “When someone has something that belongs to you, it’s only right for you to expect them to give it back, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s a rule to live by.” The man bounced the ball back. “Be sure you remember that.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  E arly the next morning, Sister Denise stood before the Mirror building and begged God to forgive her for what she was about to do.

  Tightening her grip on her bag, she entered the newspaper offices through the gray limestone archway and walked across the marble floor of the lobby to the woman at the reception desk.

  “I’d like to speak with Jason Wade, one of your reporters, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

  “No, but he was looking for information regarding Sister Anne.”

  Denise passed Jason Wade’s card to her. The receptionist looked at it, then back at Denise, noticing the small silver cross hanging from the black cord around her neck.

  “This is about the murdered nun?”

  “Yes. Sister Anne.”

  “Your name?”

  “I’m sorry. I’d like to keep this confidential. Please tell him I’m here to see him privately.”

  The receptionist knew that “walk-ins” could be critical to a huge story. Her polished fingernail ran down the list of reporters’ names and she punched an extension on her console.

  “Have a seat, Sister, please. I’ll get someone right away.”

  Ah cripes, Jason winced.

  Stepping from the elevator with his first cup of horrid cafeteria coffee, he realized he was not even going to make it to his desk. Eldon Reep had spotted him and was waving him into his glass-walled office.

  A great start to the day.

  Like a dictator plotting strategy, Reep was hunched over the table in his room studying editions of the Mirror, the Seattle Times, and the Post-Intelligencer.

  “The story’s going to go flat if we don’t find an angle to advance it, Wade.”

  “There’s nothing new. Cooper’s no longer a suspect, he’s a key witness.”

  “What are your sources telling you? Has he given them a new prime suspect?”

  “Just that mystery guy he claims to have met at the shelter.”

  “The knife came from the shelter, so it’s pretty clear the killer came from there.”

  “Probably.”

  “We’ll go back to setting up the story like this: She was murdered by someone she tried to help, but the question is why? By all accounts, everyone at the shelter loved her.”

  “Except for the guy who killed her.”

  “Okay, somebody flipped out.”

  “I don’t know. There’s something different here. He did it in her apartment. There’s an indication he confronted her at the shelter, that he knew her, had upset her about something. That he followed her or was waiting for her. Maybe she had a history with the guy. We don’t know much about her life.”

  “All right, you and Cassie go back to the shelter, go back to the nuns, keep pushing, because somebody’s going to bust this thing wide open and we’re not going to let our guard down. Understand?”

  “Excuse me, Jason,” a news assistant stood at the door. “Reception says there’s a woman here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “The person won’t give her name, but reception’s pretty sure it’s a nun.”

  Sister Denise twisted her bag’s strap as she waited in the reception area.

  The more time that passed, the more she doubted herself.

  Was this the right thing to do?

  Yes, it was. She had to do this. They had to find the truth, she thought, as a reporter approached. He had an earring, a few days’ stubble, and a nice smile.

  “I’m Jason Wade,” he held out his right hand. “I recognize you from the shelter and the town house, but I didn’t get your name.”

  She kept her voice low, “Denise.”

  Jason sensed her unease.

  “Would you like to go somewhere private?”

  “That would be preferable, yes.”

  They went to the seventh-floor news editors’ boardroom. It had high-backed leather executive chairs around a massive table. Mounted on the walls were the stories and news photos that had earned the Mirror its Pulitzer Prizes over the years. Dramatic photos of forest fires, war zones, a child rescued from a burning building. They were alone and Jason shut the door.

  “Would you like a coffee, tea, or anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Jason set his notebook down, flipped to a clear page.

  “Okay, Sister, what can I do for you?”

  “Please, this must be strictly confidential. You protect sources?”

  “I do. You’re one of the nuns from the Order?”

  “My name is Sister Denise Taylor but you must not print it.”

  “I understand, Sister. Please, try to relax. Let’s start by talking about why you’re here.”

  She twisted the strap of her bag, then her cross.

  “I’m a friend of Sister Anne’s. Sorry. This is difficult.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I don’t know where to start. The last few days have been so awful for us.”

  “Well, start at the beginning. What brought you here? It must be something that you felt was important.”

  She nodded.

  “After Anne was killed, I was cleaning her room.”

  “Hold on.” Jason produced a small recorder. “I just want to get things down right, okay?”

  “But you can’t use my name. Please give me your word. I need to know that I can trust you.”

  Jason’s pulse kicked up when he glimpsed the envelope peeking from her bag. His instincts told him to play this right.

  “I’ll give you my word. I won’t print your name, or indicate that we’ve talked, unless you agree to be named, or we negotiate something that puts you at ease.”

  Denise absorbed what he said before nodding and glancing at the tiny red light on his machine, indicating that he was recording. Jason twisted his pen.

  “After Anne was killed I was cleaning her room and found that she’d hidden a private journal. None of us knew of its existence. It was hidden under the floorboards of her closet.”

  “Really?” Jason noted that.

  “I know it’s a private thing but I believe it might hold clues to her past that might point to her killer.”

  Jason sat up and took careful notes.

  “Excuse me, have you gone to any other news organizations with this?”

  “My Lord, no. I could barely walk into your building this morning.”

  “Do the police know about this?”

  “No. Let me explain. The contents are cryptic and don’t have many facts, but they’re clearly self-recriminatory for the way she’d lived her life before she became a nun.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a bit tricky to explain. As lay women, we all had previous lives before we’re accepted into the order. We all came from somewhere, we all had families, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. We all have shared that divine moment when we realized we wanted to dedicate ourselves to God by living a religious life.”

  “So where’s Sister Anne from? Where’s her family?”

  “That’s just it, no one knows. She was traveling through Europe as a young woman when she realized she wanted to dedicate herself to serving God.”

  “And before that? Was she from Seattle?”

  “We don’t know, but her journal offers some indications that she was tormented by her previous life almost until her death.”

  “And you think this is a factor in her murder?”

  “I think that it could be, yes.”

  “So why not go to the police?”

  “This is complicated
for me. I passed the journal to my superior and I know that the Order is deciding on whether to go to the detectives with it, but there’s another aspect.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Before being accepted as a candidate for the Order, you must be screened. The objective of the process is to study your personal history, your health, your psychology, moral standing, family background, everything to assess your acceptability.”

  “So everything should be in some file somewhere?”

  “Not quite. What I understand is that the person who oversaw the process for Sister Anne is a retired hermit nun living in the Canadian Rockies.”

  “A hermit nun?”

  “Old school. Pre-Vatican II, adhering to the monastic code that brings one closer to God.”

  “So what has the Order found out from its hermit nun?”

  “Nothing yet, they’ve only connected her to Anne and located her a day or so ago. They thought she’d passed away.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Ninety, or ninety-two. Something like that.”

  “Wow, so you’re telling me this old hermit nun holds the key to Sister Anne’s past, which might shed some light on who killed her, is that right?”

  “Yes, that is my belief.”

  “So why come to the Mirror?”

  “I think the Order first wants to privately determine what her past might entail and how it might reflect on the organization before informing the police or anyone.”

  “Really, in light of abuses and scandals, they’d still play it that way?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware that institutions always protect themselves first, Jason.”

  “Right. Even news organizations.”

  “And there’s more. It’s just a feeling I have. Shortly before she was killed, she confided to me that she’d done a horrible thing in her youth. Something about destroying lives.”

  “What did she mean?”

  “She never elaborated. I brushed it off, thinking that she’d meant she’d broken a young man’s heart. When women leave their secular lives for the church, they often break a young man’s heart.”

  “So why is this a factor now, after all these years?”

  “After I found her journal, her comment took on a different meaning for me. It’s complicated. I’m sorry this is so confusing and I could be wrong-but I got the sense that she felt something from her past was catching up to her.”