Bad Faith (27 page)

“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 Mexico
Cooking 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.

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.

Sister Agatha left Pax to guard the motorcycle, then, saying a quick prayer, went inside. As she’d expected, her entrance drew attention from the moment she stepped through the doors. A small crowd of men and women of nearly all ages, dressed in strange-looking caps, leather jackets, and jeans, most carrying wallets with chains attached, nudged each other, then stared openly at her as she made her way across the room, searching for Celia. A rumble of curiosity went around the room, interrupted by occasional bouts of laughter and the hoisting of a few bottles of beer in her direction.

She’d only gone halfway when she spotted Celia at a table in the corner, having an animated conversation with an apparently angry waitress. Celia was dressed in the simple brown dress all postulants wore, but she’d taken off her short veil. As she approached, Sister Agatha tried to focus on what they were saying.

“What do you mean you haven’t got any money?” the waitress demanded.

Celia stared at her and shrugged. “I can wash dishes or clean up to pay it off.”

“That’s not the way it works. This ain’t a charitable institution. Pay up or get arrested.”

A rough-looking biker sauntered up to them. “I’ll pay your tab, sweetheart,” he told Celia, “providing you come to my place afterwards and do a little straightening up in my bedroom. How about it?”

“Back off.” Sister Agatha’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Time to go, Celia.”

Celia stared at her wide-eyed. “I—”

“Let’s go,” Sister Agatha repeated more firmly.

“Wait a minute, Sister. She hasn’t paid her bill. Are you going to cover her tab?” the waitress asked.

“I don’t have any money with me,” Sister Agatha said, then looked directly at the lean-looking biker, who had long black hair fastened in a ponytail that trailed down his back. “But you do. Will you pay her bill in exchange for the prayers of all the nuns?”

He laughed. “Prayers? I don’t think so. I had some other kind of offering in mind, Sister.”

“Is this how you show respect for two nuns away from their home on a cold night?” she snapped, and looked around. The people in The Hog were more interested in how she was going to handle things than in helping her and Celia. They were on their own.

Spotting a pool table next to the wall, she gestured toward it. “Let’s play a game of eight ball. If I win, you pay for her meal.”

“And if I win?” the man asked, a broad smile on his face.

“I’ve got a 1986 Heritage Classic Harley outside with a matching sidecar. The bike roars like a cougar. You could take it out for a spin—just as long as you bring it back here within the hour so we can still get home before dawn.”

He met her gaze and laughed. “How do you know I’ll bring it back?”

“It would make no sense for you to steal it and leave your own bike behind for me to use to identify you. And even if you walked here, or hitched a ride with someone, you wouldn’t get off. Everyone in this room would know you’re the thief, and the sheriff would be after you almost immediately.”

He met her gaze, then produced a crooked grin before grabbing a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it with a silver lighter. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal, Sister. I’m always up for a game, and I’ve been looking for some real competition tonight.”

When the man walked over to rack up the balls, the waitress leaned close to Sister Agatha’s ear and whispered, “Back out of this now, Sister. He’s a hustler. I’ve never seen him lose unless he’s setting someone up for an even bigger-stakes game.”

“I don’t have a choice. No one else has offered to pay for her meal.”

“Don’t look at me. I barely make enough to feed myself and pay my rent.”

“Then my course is set.” Sister Agatha looked at the man who’d accepted the challenge as he handed her a cue stick. She placed it down on the table and saw that it had a slight curve about halfway down.

“I’ll pick my own cue, thanks.” She walked over to the wall rack, looked at two, then picked a third that looked straight and had good balance. Now if she could just remember her days playing with her grad students and the other professors in the student union building.

“Lag for break?” he asked.

“No. Just go ahead. Even if you put a few balls in, I’ll catch up soon enough.” She smiled, trying to appear confident. No way she was going to let him know that she couldn’t even remember the rules of eight ball at the moment. But, with him going first, she could watch and maybe pick up enough to fake it without giving herself away.

The biker walked back and opened a slender hard-sided case, picking out a two-piece cue that he screwed together casually. It looked expensive, and that was a bad sign.

As he took his position, she glanced over at Celia. The postulant waved just as the biker hit the cue ball. He didn’t even notice, which meant his concentration on the game was total, another bad indication.

That’s when Sister Agatha started praying. There was no saint who specialized in games of pool as far as she knew, so it would have to be St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible.

As one of the solid balls, a four, dropped into the side pocket, the biker looked up and smiled. “Shooting solids.”

He looked at the table, walked around to her side, and eyed a blue ball close to the end pocket. ‘Two at the end,” he called, and proceeded to knock it in. The cue ball followed, but bounced off a side cushion, setting up his next shot.

Sister Agatha glanced over at Celia, who looked pale all of a sudden. Obviously, Celia already believed she’d lose the game. Desperation and determination made Sister Agatha pray harder.

The biker proceeded to mix a combination of shots, putting away the ball he called every time. It was going to be her shortest game ever, at this rate.

Then, as he lined up his next shot, there was a resounding crash from the bar. Several glasses and an empty bottle had toppled to the floor off a serving tray. “Hey, Bubba, sorry about that,” the bartender yelled.

But the damage had been done. The ball had bounced off the side pocket instead of going in. The biker shot the bartender a look that made the temperature in the room drop by thirty degrees. “Your turn, Sister,” the biker growled.

Sister Agatha lined up her first shot, which looked pretty easy. With luck it would be like riding a motorcycle—a skill that was never lost. As she bent over, she realized that in the excitement of the moment, her joints didn’t even hurt, despite the high humidity at the moment. Confidence surged through her. “Nine ball in the corner pocket.”

She lined it up, took a deep breath, and struck the cue ball a little below center. It struck the nine squarely, which shot right into the pocket. The cue ball had enough back spin to stop short, but just barely.

“Luck.” The biker chuckled.

“Talent.” Sister Agatha turned and smiled at the man, then looked for her next shot. This would be harder, all the way across the table to sink the three ball, just outside the opposite corner pocket.

“Take your time,” the biker heckled, crossing in front of her as she was lining up the shot.

“Put a sock in it, dude,” Celia yelled from across the room. Several onlookers laughed, and Sister Agatha stopped and waited for the noise to subside.

“Three ball in the corner.” Sister Agatha barely tapped the cue ball, then her stomach sank as it suddenly occurred to her that she’d hit it
too
gently. The white ball rolled across the table almost leisurely, and all she could do was watch and pray. With a click, it struck the three, which slowly eased to the corner and dropped with a thunk.

“Nice going, Sister,” the bartender said. Celia applauded, but when she noticed she was the only one clapping, she stopped. Everyone else laughed except Sister Agatha.

Sister Agatha concentrated and hung on, barely making the next shots, each time silently praising God for His backup. By now, everyone in the room was watching, and she was feeling the pressure. Finally all she had to do was put the eight ball away.

“You’ve gotten lucky with a couple of slop shots, Sister, but now you’re going to need some skill. Do you really think you can put the game away?” the man asked with a laugh. “Even
I
would have trouble at that angle without scratching. Of course, once you move it just a little, I’ll sink it easily.”

“Did you ever hear the story about David and Goliath? The giant with the leather armor, custom-made sword, and loud boasting was very impressive—but the little guy won.”

The man just sneered.

“Go for it, Sister,” the bartender urged.

Sister Agatha lined up the shot. “Opposite end off the far cushion.” She hit the ball squarely and it flew down the table, bounced off the end cushion, then traveled back nearly the entire length of the table, barely missing the cue ball on the way. The eight ball rolled slowly over to the pocket, then teetered on the edge, coming to a stop.

At that instant, the door was thrown open and several bikers strode in, laughing and shoving each other as they entered. The gust of wind that caught the door wound around the bar, rattling the blinds and sweeping past the pool table. The eight ball suddenly dropped neatly into the pocket. As the onlookers cheered, Sister Agatha’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

The biker shook his head, muttered a curse, then laughed. “First time I’ve ever seen that happen. Guess I should be glad it was divine wind, and not lightning. Your victory, Sister.” He went to settle Celia’s tab.

Sister Agatha decided that she’d better leave now while the going was good, so she grabbed the postulant by the hand and hurried outside.

“Thank you, Mother Mistress, but I’m not going back,” Celia said firmly, refusing to get on the bike.

Sister Agatha wanted to throttle Celia, but somehow kept from losing her temper. “Let’s go for a short ride, then. There’s a secularized adobe church—one the Church sold a long time ago—not far from here. We can take shelter there and talk.”

Celia hesitated, but then got on the bike and petted Pax, who, having hunkered down in the sidecar to keep out of the rain, seemed happy to see her.

They rode in silence, the headlight cutting through the darkness. When they arrived, Sister tried the heavy wooden doors and found they weren’t locked. The building had become a community project and it was slowly being restored through volunteer labor. Eventually, it would be a community art gallery and meeting hall.

Sister pulled the motorcycle inside with her, a feat which was possible thanks to double doors and low front steps. “No sense in calling attention to the fact we’re here. This place is dark, and it’s very late now.”

They took a seat on a low windowsill and Pax came over and rested his head on Sister Agatha’s lap. She stroked his massive head absently, glad he’d come with her. It was good to have a guardian on a stormy night this far from home.

“You shouldn’t have come after me, Mother Mistress. I can’t go back,” Celia said quietly.

“You have no money. What were you planning to do, go back to your mother’s house?”

“No. I’d never be able to bring myself to go back there,” Celia said firmly.

Sister Agatha nodded slowly. “So what are your plans?”

“I’ll think of something. All I know now is that I’m bringing chaos to the monastery, and I can’t let that continue. During recreation I overheard Sister Ignatius and Reverend Mother talking. Reverend Mother was saying that the spirit of the monastery would live on in the nuns, no matter where they went. But I could tell that she was really worried about the possibility that our monastery would be closed down. It seems we’ve had too many bills at the same time support from our benefactors is waning. And don’t you see? I’m the reason donations aren’t coming in. I’m single-handedly destroying the monastery.”

“I hope you didn’t repeat Reverend Mother’s conversation to any of the other nuns.”

“I kept it to myself—that is, until now. But I knew then what I had to do. I love the Life, Mother Mistress, and I’ve given it my heart and soul. But what kind of nun could I ever hope to be if I disregarded the Rule? It’s very specific about never judging what’s better for oneself over what’s good for the monastery.”

Sister Agatha fell into a long silence. Celia would make an excellent nun someday, but if that was ever to happen, the next few moments and hours would have to be handled very carefully. “What you’ve said is true. Our monastery is founded on Christian charity and that’s something we all practice and value. But charity doesn’t flow just one way— the nuns extend that to you as well. The monastery needs you, Celia, just as you need us. What the sheriff has done is beyond your control, and God never holds us accountable for the actions of others. You have to trust in God now—not partly but all the way. Don’t tell God how you think things should be handled. Trust Him to handle it for you in the right way.”