“A little,” I said. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she said. “If you weren’t, you’d be scaring me.”
Presently, St. Ann’s Abbey was a cross between a spiritual retreat center, a psychiatric treatment facility, and an artists’ community, but it had once been a very exclusive theological seminary and prior to that a Spanish mission.
Dedicated to art, religion, and psychology, St. Ann’s was operated by Sister Abigail, a wise and witty middle-aged nun who supervised the counseling center, Father Thomas Scott, an earnest, devout middle-aged priest in charge of religious studies and spiritual growth, and the acclaimed young novelist Kathryn Kennedy, who was responsible for artistic studies and conferences.
Surrounding the small but ornate chapel at its center, St. Ann’s consisted of two dormitories—one on either side—a handful of cabins down by the lake, a cafeteria, a gym, and a conference center with offices.
The natural beauty of St. Ann’s was nurturing, and I found myself breathing more deeply as my eyes tried to take it all in. The small lake was rimmed with cypress trees, Spanish moss draped from their jagged branches. Enormous spreading oaks and tall, thick pines grew on the gently rising slope coming up from the lake, on the abbey grounds, and for miles and miles in every direction.
“Lucky for you, this is a slow time for us,” she said. “Why don’t we move our little visits to twice a day?”
Our “little visits” were actually counseling sessions to help me deal with my divorce, the death of my potential family, and the overall miserable mess I had made of my life.
It was a slow time at St. Ann’s because it was early December and most everyone was already away for the holidays. Now through March was also off-season, the time when the least amount of visitors came to St. Ann’s, which was what had appealed to me most.
“You sure seeing me twice a day won’t be too much for you?” I asked.
“I think I can handle it, but if I have to, I can always call in backup.”
Continuing past the chapel, we turned toward my dorm. As we did, I caught a glimpse of Kathryn Kennedy down near her cabin. She had her laptop out on the porch and was clicking away between sips of coffee.
She was a gifted novelist and one of the reasons I had chosen St. Ann’s. Her work had entertained, enlightened, and inspired me, and I kept telling myself it was her writing and not the mysterious figure in the author photo that was the main attraction. I had yet to meet her, but hoped to soon––and to tell her what her books had meant to me.
“Why doesn’t she wear a habit?” I asked.
“Kathryn?” she asked, her head still down, and it bothered me that she knew who I was referring to without looking up. “She’s not a nun. She was a novice for a while, but she’s never taken any vows.”
I nodded and looked away, trying to seem only mildly interested.
Between our shoes and the sandy soil, fallen pine needles and the exposed roots of the giant trees made the ground slippery and treacherous for someone of Sister’s age and weight, and we walked slowly, my hand lingering near her arm in case she slid or stumbled.
“She might as well have taken them, though. She lives as cloistered as I do. Such a lovely girl. Shame she’s so lonely.” Stopping suddenly and turning to me, she added, “You’re not the type of man who would take advantage of a lonely young woman like that, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad,” she said.
I looked at her. “What?”
“Tell me,” she said, as she started to walk again, “do you think young Tommy drowned accidentally or killed himself?”
Why had she waited so long to ask about him?
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll be happy to look into it for you. With drownings it’s difficult to determine, but I can at least narrow it down to a likely scenario.”
“Aren’t you here because of how badly you’ve been affected by the homicide investigations you’ve conducted?”
“In part, yeah, but—”
“What do you think getting involved in one now would do to the therapeutic process? Why do you think I was hesitant to even ask you about it?”
The cry of a loon across the lake drew my attention in time to see Tammy Taylor and Brad Harrison emerging from the tree-covered trail at the water’s edge. The narrow path cutting through the thick woods twisted around the lake and was used for meditative strolls or less lofty pursuits, as in the case of Tammy and Brad.
One of a handful of troubled teens undergoing both spiritual and psychological counseling, Tammy looked sixteen, though I was told she was at least three years older. Harrison was thirty-something and the abbey’s handyman—and not the only person at St. Ann’s that Tammy wandered into the woods with on a regular basis.
“What’s the abbey’s policy on sexual relations?” I asked.
“It’s generally frowned upon,” she said.
Though the libidinous couple was walking several paces apart, they were still straightening their clothes and arranging their hair—something that brought a disapproving glare from Sister Christine King, a small, boyish young nun near the chapel, and Keith Richie, the much-tattooed cook enjoying a smoke beside the dumpster at the back of the kitchen.
“I think I can handle it,” I said as we started walking again.
“Sexual relations?”
“Looking into Tommy Boy’s death. This isn’t exactly prison. It’s not someone I knew. It’d give me something to—”
“Take your mind off what you really need to be dealing with?” she asked.
“But don’t you want to know what happened to him?”
“Are you the only one who can tell us?”
“No. Of course not.”
Streaming down through the trees, the midday sun dappled the uneven ground, but couldn’t completely remove the chill from the air.
“But you think the chances of finding the truth are better if you’re involved?”
“I do. Is that arrogance or confidence?”
“Something to think about,” she said.
“So much to think about.”
“Father Thomas worked with Tommy for a long time,” she said. “He’s going to be devastated. I don’t think you should work the investigation, but you could help me tell him what’s happened.”
4
“Do you believe in the devil?” Father Thomas asked.
While waiting for him, I had begun perusing the vast library in his study, and was flipping through one of the many texts on demon possession, exorcism, and Satan when he walked in.
The question caught me off guard and I hesitated before responding, trying to come up with something to say. “Looks like you’re the expert on that.”
“Evasive, but not untrue,” he said.
Father Thomas Scott was a thin man with receding gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and kind brown eyes that shone with intelligence. His body, like his voice, was soft without being effeminate, and his black suit and Roman collar hung loosely on his narrow frame.
Turning to see Sister Abigail in the corner when she cleared her throat, he said, “Why Sister, what’re you doing skulking about back there?”
“We need to talk to you, Tom,” she said, “and not about the devil.”
Suddenly, there was a chill in the overcrowded, musty room.
“Sister would have us believe that there’s no such thing as spirits,” he said to me. “That everything’s in our minds. All we have to do is get some counseling and we’ll all be fine.”
“And Father thinks the devil made us do it,” she said.
“What do you think?” Father Thomas asked me.
“That I don’t want to get in the middle of an argument between the two of you.”
“Evasive, but not unwise,” he said.
Though there was no visible sign of it, I knew Father Thomas was a pipe smoker. Beneath the musty smell of the dusty books and the mildew odor caused by Florida humidity, the sweet ripe-
raisin aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the still air.
“But she’s a nun.”
“But not a sixteenth-century one,” she said.
“So Christ performed exorcisms because he wasn’t as enlightened as you?”
“Can we not do this right now?” she said.
“I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news,” I said, stepping between them.
“What is it?”
“I’m very sorry, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just give it to me,” he said. “No need to soften the blow for me.”
“Tommy Boy is dead,” Sister said.
“What?” he asked in shock. “No.”
He looked over at me and I nodded.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I just saw him.”
“We’re sure, Tom,” Sister said.
“When? Where did it happen? How?”
“We’re not sure yet,” I said. “His body was found in the bay this morning. I’m very sorry.”
We were all silent for a moment, and I watched as the realization seeped into his face.
“Do you have any idea what he was doing near the marina?” I asked.
“We didn’t come to ask questions,” Sister said.
“No,” Father Thomas said, ignoring her. “None.”
“Did he strike you as suicidal?”
He shook his head. “She’s the expert, but I don’t think so.”
“John,” Sister said, and I felt as if at any minute my knuckles were going to be rapped with a ruler.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this,” Sister said.
“I’ve got to...” Father Thomas began, as he made his way over behind his desk and dropped into the chair.
Sister Abigail walked over to a credenza in the corner, opened a cabinet, and withdrew a bottle of Irish whiskey and a tumbler. Walking over to his desk, she placed the glass before him and poured a couple of fingers of Jameson.
“Here,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“There’s no ice,” she said.
“Don’t need any,” he said, then turned up the tumbler and took a big gulp.
I was close enough to smell the whiskey, and I could almost taste it as it went down his throat. Seized with a sudden urge to grab the bottle and take a long pull on it, I took a step back.
As if reading my mind, Sister screwed the cap back on and said, “Sorry.”
Of course she didn’t have to read my mind to know what was on it. I had sat for hours letting her probe its dark corners with the bright penetrative light of her insight and intellect.
“That’s right, you Protestants don’t like alcohol, do you?” Father Thomas said.
I wasn’t sure I was any more a Protestant than anything else. In fact, I wasn’t sure they had a word for what I was, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning.
“Actually, this one likes it too much,” I said.
He nodded and gave a small appreciative smile.
“I realize this is difficult, but do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Tommy?”
He shook his head.
“John, I must insist you stop right now,” Sister said.
“Me too,” Steve Taylor said from the doorway.
We all turned to see him. He was shaking his head at me.
“Wasn’t it just a few minutes ago you almost got locked up for interfering in an official investigation?”
“You’d think one day I’d learn,” I said.
“Why should you be any different?” Sister asked.
“Don’t tell me people don’t learn from their mistakes, Sister,” Steve said. “That they don’t change. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Come on, John,” Sister said. “Let’s leave these two to their own devices.”
“I probably should stay for the questioning,” I said.
Steve and Sister objected simultaneously.
As Sister and I started to leave, I turned back to Father Thomas. “I’m very sorry for what’s happened.”
“But not enough not to come in here and start interrogating him first thing,” Steve said.
5
When I got back to my room, Tammy Taylor was waiting for me.
The dorm rooms at St. Ann’s didn’t have locks. They were constructed for young seminarians who supposedly had no need for privacy. Of course, I would think few people needed as much privacy as young, isolated, testosterone-teeming seminarians.
She was sitting on the edge of my bed, her feet spread apart on the floor, a too-thin cotton dress stretched across her lithe body. Since young seminarians were entering a life of suffering, there was no heating in the dorms, and the cold room revealed that the cotton-clad Miss Taylor wasn’t wearing a bra.
She gave me a sheepish smile.
The small room was just barely bigger than a six by nine prison cell, and there was no way for both of us to be in the room without being close to one another. Leaving the door open, I stepped across the bare cement floor and over to the dresser in the corner—the only other piece of furniture besides the twin bed—and began to gather some clean clothes.
When I was finished and she still hadn’t said anything, I said, “Are you lost?”
Running her fire-engine-red fingernails through her bottle-blond hair, she said, “Aren’t we all?” in a soft, airy voice. I was surprised to see the quality of her manicure and dye-job and wondered how and when someone like her went to the salon. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Arguably,” I said—because she was probably right and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Being lost can be fun, though, don’t you think?”
I didn’t say anything.
She wriggled her ass on the bed slightly. “Is it unsafe to be lost in your room?”
I shook my head. “Not for you.”
For a moment, she looked as if she wasn’t quite sure if what I had said was a compliment or a putdown, and her forehead furrowed as she tried to figure it out.
“Didn’t Jesus say you’ve got to get lost to get found?” she asked.
“Something like that, yeah.”
As if she were an actress reciting lines, her soft, airy voice, blank, wide-eyed stare, and slow, unsure movements didn’t match what she was saying.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“You wanna get lost?”
I shook my head. “But you feel free to.”
“I meant with me, silly.”
It was as if I were dealing with two different people. One showed signs of intelligence, saying things that bordered on the sublime, the other so deficient, I wasn’t sure how she dressed herself.
She stood and closed the distance between us like a cat stalking its prey. Her skin was smooth and pale, and she wore colored contacts that made her eyes an unnatural too blue shade.
“You sure?” she asked, grabbing my arm with her hands.
I nodded.
“I’m a wild ride,” she said, a flash of what appeared to be intelligence momentarily replacing the shallow, unfocussed glaze of her pale blue eyes.
“Well, it was nice talking to you,” I said with no attempt to hide the insincerity or sarcasm, “but I really need to get back to fasting and praying.”
“Some only come out by fasting and prayer,” she said in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to her.
I recognized the quote from the Gospels. It was something Jesus said about certain demons possessing people. They wouldn’t come out except by prayer and fasting.
“What?” I asked.
“But I won’t come out even then,” she said in that same altered voice.
Suddenly, goose bumps were covering my body and a shiver ran the length of my spine.
“Down girl,” Kathryn Kennedy said from the doorway.
Without acknowledging Kathryn, Tammy said, “If you change your mind... I’m not hard to find.”
>
She then turned and strolled out of the room, forcing Kathryn to stand aside to let her through the doorway.
When she was gone, Kathryn stepped in and said, “Hey, Joe, thinking about giving it a go?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Negative.”
“Too easy?” she asked.
“Too a lot of things,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Kathryn—”
“Kennedy, I know,” I said. “I read your books. I’m John Jordan.”
Unlike Tammy, Kathryn’s nails were unadorned, her long light blond hair didn’t come from a bottle, and if she wore any makeup at all I couldn’t detect it. In contrast to the boy-body-with-breasts so popular in our current culture, Kathryn was soft and curvaceous, a throwback to a generation or so ago when women looked and felt like women.
“Didn’t Sister Abigail tell me you’re a prison chaplain?”
I nodded.
“That must be exciting.”
“Sometimes,” I said. “And sometimes it’s like Tammy.”
She smiled. “Too exciting?”
“Too a lot of things,” I said.
“Speaking of which, sorry to have interrupted. I think you were almost in there.”
“You really think I had a shot?”
“I am sorry for just dropping in like this, but I heard about poor Tommy. Is he really dead?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“So many of the at-risk kids who come here have less than happy endings, but I really thought Tommy might defy the odds. He was so talented.”
“You knew him pretty well?”
“In addition to undergoing counseling with Father and Sister, the kids are offered lessons in the artistic discipline of their choice. Most don’t do anything. A few take a lesson or two and stop when it’s not fun anymore. But Tommy wanted to be a writer and he had real talent. I was working with him on a short story.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
She looked up and seemed to be thinking about it, which gave me a chance to study her face in more detail. She had smooth, pale skin, delicate features, and big brown eyes that brimmed with kindness. The overall effect was gentleness and purity, which, coupled with the softly rounding curves of her body, made her well-suited for nurturing a man or his children with equal ease.
Six John Jordan Mysteries Page 91