Try Fear (29 page)

“Listen, Padre, we’ve had lots of talks about this. But you know what I think? I think your God’s hands are like a little
kid’s at the beach. Holding sand, and it keeps seeping through. And then when it’s all over, he just dusts his hands off and
forgets about it.”

“If I believed that, I wouldn’t be a priest.”

“I’m not trying to get in a fight with you. I don’t know what I’m doing up there on your hill.”

“I think you should go right back up there and get some rest. I’ll stay here and let you know what’s happening.”

“No way,” I said. “There’s no way I’m leaving.”

W
E TALKED TO
a detective before we talked to a doctor. His name was Stein, from Southwest Division. He was about forty and was built like
a mannequin at Men’s Warehouse. His clothes fit perfectly.

“Can you tell me what happened, please, sir?” he said as Father Bob and I sat with him in the hospital cafeteria. We all had
cardboard-tasting coffees in front of us. Not many sips were taken.

I said, “We were standing outside the house, talking to the next-door neighbor, and the next thing I know Sister Mary has
a bullet in her. It came from across the street—the rest you probably know.”

“What were you doing there in the first place?”

“Looking for a witness. Somebody who was supposed to testify for me. He wasn’t home.”

“So do you think this had anything to do with that witness? I mean, like somebody didn’t want him to testify?”

“He would’ve taken a pop at the witness, not me. Had to be a rifle.”

“Maybe.”

“Which would probably rule out gang activity. That’s not exactly the weapon of choice.”

“Why would somebody want to shoot you, Mr. Buchanan?”

“Other than the fact that I’m a lawyer?”

“Other than that.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A few days ago somebody slashed my tires, and scratched
Back off
in my car. Sister Mary’s also been getting threatening e-mails.”

“You know who sent them?”

“Somebody from Devonshire’s working on that now. And that’s all I’ve got. What about the guy they found in the house across
the street?”

“He was hurt pretty bad.”

“Dead?”

Stein shook his head.

“Did they bring him here?” I said.

“No doubt.” He said it like he knew it was true.

“Let’s go talk to him,” I said.

“I don’t know that I want to do that.”

“Detective, I’m going to find out who did this. I will talk to this guy myself if I have to. Why don’t we work together?”

“You just let me handle the investigation, Mr. Buchanan. I’ll keep you informed. Here’s my card. The number will forward to
my cell if you need to reach me.”

He handed it to me, got up, and walked away.

W
E FINALLY GOT
to talk to a doc. His name was Yang, and he was walking rapidly down the hall. We had to talk as we walked, and these ER
guys walk fast.

“She got a clean wound through the left side,” he said. “Missed the heart, but not by much.”

“So she’s going to be okay?” I said.

“I can’t tell you that. There’s a whole spectrum, from nerve damage to no damage.”

“When will you know?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“How long will she—”

“Can’t tell.” He turned to us. “Check back tomorrow.” And then he was off again.

I looked at Father Bob. “A fount of information,” I said.

“You try doing this job,” he said. “It’s Union Station with blood and guts and no schedule.”

S
ISTER
M
ARY WAS
in room 103, bed C. Father Bob and I passed two other beds. The first had an old woman, unconscious. The second had a thin
younger woman who was staring blankly at a TV monitor.

At the last bed, back to us, was a jumbo-sized nurse. She was so large she obscured most of Sister Mary. She turned around,
looked at us, and said. “And just who are you?”

“I’m her lawyer,” I said. “And this is her priest.”

She gave us a scan, nodded, and walked out. And there was Sister Mary.

She was all hooked up. She looked more vulnerable than I had ever seen her. She seemed about seventeen, as if she’d been in
a car accident driving home from a high school dance. Her face was bruised from the fall.

But she managed a weak smile when she saw us.

“Hi,” she said, almost too soft to hear.

Father Bob moved to the bed and took her right hand. I came up and stood next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said to me. “Is this going to hurt our case?”

“Don’t talk,” Father Bob said.

“I want to,” she said. “I’ve got nothing else to—” Her words ended in a wince. I felt it myself. I wished I could have shifted
all her pain to me.

“Any idea who shot me?” Sister Mary said.

“We don’t know,” I said. “But it was probably meant for me. Sorry I was standing in the wrong place.”

“I play ball with you,” she said. “You’re always in the wrong place.”

She smiled again, the way she does when she hits the final shot in Around the World. But it faded quickly and she turned her
head away.

For a long moment we were silent. I had no idea what to do. Then I saw a small pull from Sister Mary’s hand, and Father Bob
bent over. She whispered something to him.

He came back up and said, “Would you mind if I had a few minutes with Sister Mary alone?”

I wondered what that was all about. Last rites or something? It couldn’t be that bad. I wouldn’t let it be that bad. I wouldn’t
let…

There I was again, sticking myself in the middle of Catholic business. “I’ll be back,” I said.

I
WENT TO
the nurses’ station on the emergency wing, and showed my Bar card. I said, “I’m working with Detective Stein.”

Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t. This time it did. “The detective is in 210,” she said.

When I got there I saw a cop was sitting on the chair outside the room. Only one reason for that. Protect a witness. I hung
back before he saw me. I backed up into the hallway and thought about my options. I could forget the whole thing. But that
wasn’t likely.

Instead, I looked around, then went into a bathroom across the corridor. There was one fellow at the sink, washing his hands.
I stepped over to the urinal and pretended to do my thing.

As soon as he left I grabbed a handful of paper towels, made a wad, and stuck them in a toilet. Then flushed. It stopped up
nicely, so I flushed again and got the first trickles of water on the floor.

I hit it one more time and walked back to where the cop was sitting. I waited for a nurse to come by, and said, “Something’s
wrong in the bathroom. Somebody may be hurt.”

The cop heard me and got up and followed the nurse.

I went into room 210. I found the kid in the first bed. He was not looking good. His face was like yesterday’s meatloaf.

“How you doing?” I said.

He groaned.

“My name’s Buchanan. I was the one who got shot at today. You have any idea who did this to you?”

He shook his head. I studied his face, the way I would a witness. But his injuries made it a much harder read. Still, I was
looking for a tell. I wanted to know if he was in on the shooting in any way.

“Did you get a look at him?” I said.

He closed his eyes, but didn’t indicate no.

“If you can try to help me out,” I said, “maybe we can get this guy.”

He looked at me through the slits that were his eyes. Like he was trying to decide if he could say anything.

“Who you?” he said.

“A lawyer. I was talking to the lady across the street from the house you were in. You live there?”

He didn’t respond.

“We were trying to find a guy, and somebody took a shot at us. Didn’t hit me, he hit an innocent bystander, a nun, and the
shot came from your house. What about it?”

“Got hit,” he said. He seemed truthful, from the gut. “Happened fast.”

“Anything you can give—”

“Hey!” The cop was in the room. “Nobody talks to him. Get out.”

“I may be his lawyer,” I said.

The cop looked confused. I looked at the kid, and shrugged.

The cop said, “This your lawyer?”

The kid paused, then shook his head slowly.

“You have to leave,” the cop said.

“You think about it,” I said to the kid, and left my card on his stand.

I
CHECKED IN
on Sister Mary again. She was sleeping. Father Bob was praying by her bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up and
motioned for me to sit.

I pulled up the one other chair in the room.

“She had a message for you,” Father Bob said. “She wants you to go get some sleep so you can go to court tomorrow. She said
she wants the blow-by-blow afterward. She said it’s Showtime and you’re the Lakers in 1985.”

I smiled. “Boston Garden. Game six. I wish. She’s lying in bed with a bullet wound and I have no idea what’s going on.”

“My grandmother always said, Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.”

I paused. “That some sort of down-home wisdom?”

“It means don’t worry about what doesn’t exist. Just look at the task in front of you.”

I tried to look. What I saw was a long black tunnel. Inside were people with guns and money. I thought of that Warren Zevon
song. Lawyers, guns and money. Dad, get me out of this.

Father Bob put his hand on my arm. “And remember, we’re your people now.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.”

I shook my head doubtfully. “You’re my friends. Good friends. I don’t know about my people.”

“Explain.”

I sat back in the chair. “Your religion mystifies me. It’s the heart of everything you do. But it’s beyond me. And here I
am tearing down Sister Mary’s standing with the Almighty. I have no right to do that. She’s lying there with a bullet wound
because of me.”

“Ty, servants of God have suffered much worse.”

“Martyrs, you mean? But that was for the faith. She took a hit because of a lawyer. Scrounging around looking for a witness.
Isn’t she supposed to be praying and looking out for the poor and all that?”

Father Bob was silent for a long moment. Then, “I consider you a friend, too, Ty. More than that. What you’ve done for me,
for our community. It’s forged bonds.”

“But I’m not part of you. There’s something between us that doesn’t mix.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Jesus ate with tax collectors and even a lawyer or two.”

“What
was
he thinking?”

“He was thinking of you,” Father Bob said.

“I didn’t get the memo,” I said.

“It’s written on your heart.”

“Lawyers don’t have hearts, haven’t you heard?”

He smiled. “Augustine said God made us for Himself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Him.”

“Well, I have a feeling I’m going to stay restless, unless I find my witness.” I stood. “Tell Sister Mary I’ll see her tomorrow.”

As I was driving away from the hospital, I got a call from Sid.

“Update time,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“Earlier today the guy sent an e-mail from a computer terminal at a branch of the L.A. Public Library. Over in Sylmar. I was
able to do a little hacking—just promise you won’t tell anybody, okay?”

“Lips. Sealed.”

“Okay, so here’s what happened. You reserve a computer with a library card. Every library card has a number, and this one
is fourteen digits. I was able to get to a name. The name associated with the card. Somebody named Douglas Aycock. That mean
anything to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t think so, because he’s from Oklahoma.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

Sid went on. “Last time we talked you mentioned this Oklahoma theory that Sister Mary had. Pretty good theory, turns out.
I checked. And I did find a guy with that name out of Oklahoma City. I found it in a newspaper account.”

“And?”

“Here is the seriously strange part. This guy, Douglas Aycock, went to the same high school as your nun friend and moved to
L.A. sometime after graduating. Also—”

“What?”

“That’s just the strange part. I said there was a seriously strange part, and here it is. This guy has been missing for five
years. They think he was kidnapped, and they presume him to be dead.”

Too many thoughts were buzzing around in my mind now. I wanted to swat them. “So a dead guy comes back to cyberstalk? Then
why is he using the L.A. library system with his name attached? And he’d have to have an established residency.”

“You kidding? That can be faked easier than those Social Security cards they sell down at MacArthur Park. Plus, this could
be somebody else using this guy’s name.”

“But why do that? Why take on some dead kid’s name, then risk being caught by using it to get a library card and all that?”

“Like I said, he’s a gamer. I think he thinks this is fun.”

I
GOT BACK
to St. Monica’s as it was getting dark. As I walked toward my trailer, I saw the glow of the little alcove, or whatever they
call it, that has lighted candles. I went to it and did something I’ve never done before in my life. I took a long match,
lit it by the flame of a candle, and then lit one that wasn’t already going. Out loud I said, “This is for Sister Mary Veritas,
who deserves to be completely okay, okay? So there you have it.”

I blew out the match, wondering if
there you have it
had the same punch as
Amen.

I walked across the grounds, over the basketball court, back to my trailer. I went inside and lay down on the bed and tried
to think about the next day.

But I kept thinking about Sister Mary.

N
EXT MORNING
I went to court alone. I didn’t like it. It felt like there was a big hole underneath my feet, covered by thin wood, and
I could fall in at any time. I had come to depend on Sister Mary not only for her insight, but for her very presence.