“I hope so,” Bear stood up. “I can’t see that now, but I really hope you’re right.” Restlessly, he walked to the window to see who had just pulled up. There was no sign of the big man who had been following him, and Bear wondered where he fit into the puzzle.
To his surprise, Jean got out of the car and walked up the house steps. Tension was on her face, and Bear hurried to open the inside door for her. “Anything wrong?”
“I got my car back from the shop, at last, with a big bill,” Jean said. “And on my way home, I stopped at the nursing home where Blanche visited to talk to the director. We once worked together, many years ago. I had a feeling yesterday when I spoke with her that she wasn’t telling me everything. So, today I went back.”
“Did she tell you anything more?”
Jean nodded.
Fish had hung up his cell phone, sensing that something was up, as Jean sat down on the couch next to Rose, who leaned against her mother protectively.
“The director was called by the DEA last week,” Jean said quietly. “They told her that they had been given information about drug pickups that were occurring at the nursing home. She was told that the courier—the person transferring the drugs from one dealer to another—was reportedly leaving drugs somewhere in the nursing home. She had her staff do a search, and they found several packages of different drugs concealed in residents’ rooms. The residents were all ones that Blanche had been visiting regularly.”
“Where were the drugs? Did she say?” Fish asked.
“Behind dressers and under chairs. Sometimes the packages were inside women’s purses that didn’t belong to any of the residents. Apparently this is a regular trick used by girl couriers, who pretend to have lost a purse and come to ‘find’ it when they need to make a transfer. That’s what the DEA told the director when she turned over the drugs to them.” Jean’s face was set. “What I want to know is—who hates my daughter so much that they’ve gone to such lengths to do this to her?”
There was silence. Mrs. Foster stood in the door of the kitchen, frowning. Bear looked at his hands.
Jean pushed back strands of gray hair that had fallen out of her braid. “I can see why Blanche was so paranoid. Someone’s been tracking all her activities and changing all of her good, innocent deeds into criminal behavior.”
“And somehow she knew it was going on,” Rose said somberly. “She sensed it before she could have known. No wonder. No wonder.”
Fish knelt down quickly and picked up a pencil. On a page of an open notebook, he drew a circle. “Blanche was watering our plants. Drugs left in our apartment.” He drew another. “Blanche was alone in the house. Drugs left here.” And another. “Blanche works at Reflections. Drugs left there.” And another. “Blanche visits the sick and elderly. Drugs left there.” He drew one last circle, then, pursing his lips, he connected the five. “Someone’s trying to pull a net around her. In one of these circles Blanche is doing something that is making someone very, very angry.”
“What’s that last circle for?” Rose wanted to know.
“Is that for the attempts that we haven’t found out about?” Bear asked.
“Could be. Or it could stand for the attempt that’s yet to come.” Fish tapped the pencil, frowning. “We have to find out who’s behind this.”
“Do you think it’s an actual drug ring?” Jean asked. “Maybe Blanche knows something about them…?”
“I’d expect them to be a lot more violent,” Bear said, and Mrs. Foster nodded.
“If it was a drug ring, she wouldn’t be out at an airport chasing a dog. She’d be dead,” Mrs. Foster predicted.
“Besides, if it was something like that, Blanche would go to the police,” Bear said. “It has to be something that seems more ambiguous to her. So she’s just gone into hiding.”
Fish sat back with a sigh. “Plus, often drug gangs use violence because they don’t have other weapons. I have a feeling we’re dealing with someone who’s certain that they don’t have to bloody their hands to get rid of Blanche.”
“I’d give a lot to know the identity of the anonymous source who called the manager of our apartment building,” Bear said.
“Probably the same person is talking to the DEA and giving them all these tips,” Fish said. “Anonymously, no doubt.”
Bear pressed his hands together. “If only we could find her,” he said. “She probably has the missing pieces. But we don’t know what they are because we don’t have her here with us.”
“Well, if we can hold out, my guess is that if Blanche is still okay, she’ll surface next week, when she’s expecting you two to come home,” Fish nodded to Rose and Jean. “As long as nothing happens until then…”
Chapter Fourteen
Sit!” Brother Charley shouted.
The girl sat, and Leon chuckled. “Not you, Nora.”
“I know,” she grinned. “I just felt the need to obey.”
The big novice was standing in the courtyard between the church, school, and friary, and the two Rottweilers were standing in front of him, eyeing him suspiciously. Matt and Leon were sitting on leftover cinderblocks, watching. The girl had heard the noise from the friary where she had been helping to finish the dinner dishes, and had come out to watch.
“Sit!” Brother Charley roared again, and the dogs looked at each other dubiously.
“They don’t buy this dog psychology stuff,” Leon called. “I told you this wasn’t going to work. The Fathers are right: we should just send them to the pound.”
“They can learn!” Brother Charley shook his head and planted his feet. “We just have to teach them their place. Back when I was a biker, I used to own a Doberman,” he explained to the girl. “The key to working with these big high-energy dogs is to remember that they’re pack animals. If you want them to obey you, you have to convince them that you are the Big Dog on the block.” He pointed at the dogs. “You hear that? I am the Big Dog!” he snarled.
One dog perked up its ears, and wagged its tail slightly.
“Me!” bellowed Charley, pounding his chest. “I am the Big Dog!” He advanced on them and circled them, growling in a menacing manner. The dogs watched him, backing up as he stalked around them.
One of the dogs flattened his ears and started to wrinkle his nose to show his teeth, but Charley snarled back at him, and the dog backed up, wagging his tail.
When he felt that the dogs were significantly intimidated, Brother Charley put out his hands and said in a deep voice, “Come.”
The dogs gingerly came forward, and licked his hands. He rubbed their heads, and they wagged their tails.
“Yeah, they’ll obey you, but what about the rest of us?” Leon asked skeptically.
“We’ll just have to stay on top of them until they figure out where their place is on the totem pole,” Charley said.
“Yeah, at the way bottom, just above mice and rats,” Leon said. “Good luck convincing Father Francis to keep them.” He said to Nora, “I’m a cat person myself.”
“I like dogs myself,” Brother Matt said. “—the less energetic kind.”
“I really don’t care much for animals, believe it or not,” the girl said.
“Ah, the Disney anti-heroine,” Matt said. “They’ll never cast you in one of their movies.”
“Fine with me,” the girl said.
“Sit!” Brother Charley ordered, and the dogs sat. One of them got up after a minute, and Brother Charley whirled on him. “I am the Big Dog!” he growled. Hastily the dog sat back down, wagging its tail.
“Maybe it’s not a total waste of time. We could make this a public service announcement for the friary on the vow of obedience,” Brother Leon said.
“Maybe New York City would be a better place if God would just come down here like Brother Charley and shout ‘I am the Big Dog!’” Brother Matt said.
“At least me and all the other dyslexics would get it,” Leon said, and the girl couldn’t help laughing.
The p
roblem is, she reflected as she got ready for bed that evening, God doesn’t come down like a giant to crush His enemies. He comes in human disguise. He comes in weakness. She sighed, seeing the connection. “Just like men,” she murmured. “Weakness.”
“I get it now,” she said aloud, and she shook her head wryly. “Not that this seems to solve any problems, but I get it now.”
* * *
The last time she had talked to him was about ten days ago. She had called him, because her mother and sister were gone, and she was starting to feel lonely. But she hadn’t wanted to call to tell him that, because she felt it would look as though she were trying to make him come home to protect her. She didn’t want to do that. She wanted him to come home when he wanted to.
He had gotten her message and called her back at some unusual hour that was normal time for Italians but an odd time for Americans. He had seemed preoccupied and out of sorts. They had talked about this and that, and silence had overtaken them. For a moment, she wondered if they were really drifting apart.
“When are you coming back?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know,” he had said. “Maybe in September.”
“Aren’t you going to start college?”
“I don’t know, Blanche. I just don’t know.”
She didn’t want to sound like a mother, so she stopped asking questions. But Bear kept on talking.
“I just keep on feeling as though—I don’t want to be pushed into anything. What keeps on striking me is the futility of it all. Frankly, it makes me angry. I just don’t see why I should bother.” There was a touch of fierceness in his voice.
“So what are you going to do if you don’t go to school?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? I mean, now? I have enough money to last for quite some time. I could go off and be a shepherd. How about that?”
He was trying to be humorous. Her heart sank. It was difficult to see him being so—directionless.
“Bear. You said you were angry.”
“Yes. I did.” His voice was guarded.
“Why is that?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you know why you’re angry?”
“I have some idea, yes.”
“Something you haven’t told me about.”
“Blanche, I just said I don’t want to talk about it.”
She took a deep breath. “You don’t have to.”
“Good, because I don’t want to.”
“That’s fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” she said softly, feeling her eyes well up with tears.
* * *
Now, in the darkness, she clasped her hands together on the bed. I’m not giving up on him, she thought. Just because he’s disillusioned and frustrated me doesn’t mean I can give up on him altogether. Giving up on him would mean somehow—giving up on myself. At last she attempted a prayer. “God,” she whispered. “Please bring Bear home safely. And please help him see what he needs to see. And help me trust again.”
II
The dogs set up a terrific howling during the beginning of morning prayer on Saturday, as the friars began their hymn. They kept up the sporadic accompaniment from their basement storage room all throughout the next two hours of prayer, making the times of silent meditation far from silent. Over breakfast, the Fathers discussed dropping them off at the humane society that afternoon, but no one could be spared.
“I suppose they can stay one more day,” Father Francis concluded. “Well, Charley, it’s good that you’re training them. I suppose it might help them to have some sort of order in their lives.”
Given this kind of beginning, Leon would have predicted that the dogs would be the main issue of the day. But the morning brought difficulties of a different kind. When the novices were cleaning up from breakfast, Brother Herman bustled into the kitchen with a worried, conspiratorial look on his face.
“What’s up?” Leon asked.
“Jim Hornberg is here,” Brother Herman said in a quiet voice.
There was an answering grimace from the novices.
“Brother Jim? Of all the people…What’s he want?” Leon narrowed his eyes. Brother Jim had been his old novice master when Leon had first joined the Franciscans, before the new order had started. They had not gotten along, to put it mildly.
“Delivering a stipend from the diocese, on the surface. But his real motives are probably deeper, knowing Jim.”
“He’s come to pry and to spy and to sneer at the crazy drop-outs from the order,” Leon said, a bit angrily, and Matt winced.
“You shouldn’t say everything you think,” Matt said, a minor reprimand.
Leon muttered an apology, and Brother Herman said, “We’ve got to make the best of the situation. Just be alert. The Fathers are going to be showing him around. They’ll keep everything under control.”
“What about Nora?” Brother George spoke up suddenly.
“What about her?” Leon asked, a bit sharply.
“She’s just a volunteer,” Matt said.
“Of course she is, but you think Jim’s going to put that kind of spin on it when he goes back to the bishop’s office?” Brother George returned. “She’s been here far too long. It’s going to look suspicious.”
“How’s he going to know how long she’s been here if no one tells him?” Leon asked, staring hard at Brother George.
Matt said, feebly, “I can see George’s point. Maybe we should have her lay low—send her out to the store or something.”
Brother Herman looked undecided. “There’s nothing wrong with having volunteers here. And our constitutions specifically talk about having good relationships with the laity.”
“But you know what he might say—” Brother George warned.
“Phooey!” Charley spoke up for the first time. “Who are we trying to impress anyhow? Let him think what he wants to think.”
“Well,” Brother Herman heaved a sigh and continued in a hush tone. “We’ll just have to put it in God’s hands, as usual. He knows what He’s doing.”
Leon continued washing dishes with an internal growl, trying to squelch his strong impulse to punch Jim in the nose if he asked any stupid questions and wondering if it would be best for all concerned if he hid in the basement with the dogs until it was all over.
But just then, Father Bernard came in. “Leon, could you come with me?” he said authoritatively.
“Sure. What’s up?” Leon said.
“I want you to come and greet Brother Jim,” Father Bernard looked at him closely. “This will give you a chance to work on those bad feelings you and I discussed before.”
Knowing exactly what his novice master meant, Leon internally mortified himself and, without a word, followed the priest to the chapel.
As Brother Herman had said, Fathers Francis and Bernard were doing their best to handle their unexpected visitor with as much charity as they could muster. Being older, they had gotten used to the inevitable politics of religious life.
Brother Jim was younger than they were, but a good fifteen years older than any of the novices. He was thick-lipped, paunchy, had fading blond hair, with a sharp nose and heavy eyelids over blue eyes. He smiled and smiled in his polo shirt and casual clothes as his former brothers gave him a tour of their new establishment. He expressed surprise that they had managed to get as much done as they had.
“No offense, Frank,” he said, using Father Francis’ nickname, which Leon knew the older friar detested. “But the opinion in most Church circles was that your new order wouldn’t last a month.” Brother Jim’s perpetual smile broadened. “But you really seem to be almost thriving.” He glanced at Leon, who was standing behind his novice master, but didn’t acknowledge him.
“Much to everyone’s delight, I’m sure,” Father Francis muttered.
Father Bernard, the diplomat, smoothed between them. “Yes, we’re actually surprised ourselves at how well the gamble has been going.” He l
ed the way up the stairs into the vestibule of St. Lawrence Church.
“Gamble? Oh, it was a gamble, all right. Most experienced religious wouldn’t think of setting up a new order with no home, no permission from their superiors, particularly with no funding...” Brother Jim glanced up at the Mary altar, grimaced at the sketches of Brother Herman’s master painting plan, and looked back at the others. “Well, you must enjoy proving everyone wrong.”
Father Bernard seemed poised between two different answers, but Father Francis made no bones about his opinion. “Absolutely!”
Leon hid a smile. He caught a glimpse of Nora in the sacristy, gathering some cleaning materials.
“Humph. What an old-fashioned monstrosity the diocese has saddled you with,” Brother Jim shook his head as they walked down the aisle of the church. He cast a sidelong glance at Father Bernard. “I suppose you’ll be ripping out the altar rail and the fancy doodads on the ceiling, hmm?” He allowed himself a loud, long laugh.
Father Bernard attempted a smile. “Actually, we’ve been given some old statues and candlesticks—we plan to add to the existing interior substantially.” He indicated Brother Herman’s disassembled scaffold. “Herman is planning to redo the areas over the altars with original artwork.”
“I should have guessed,” Jim sighed regretfully. “I suppose he’s still obsessed with Byzantine icons, eh? Poor old Herman. He should have switched rites long ago.”
Father Francis’s smile came across as baring teeth. “I like icons.”
For an answer, Jim gave another long laugh as he paced up the aisle to the sanctuary. The other three followed him, a bit anxiously, genuflecting as they came to the tabernacle. Jim apparently did not notice, and made no respectful gesture himself. Instead he wiped his forehead. “Hot in here.”
He examined the tiered marble altar with the air of a connoisseur. “Early twentieth century, very bad. Kind of reminds you of a wedding cake, doesn’t it? Good thing there’s not a lot of gold work on it. Or else you’d have to get this place burglar alarmed, with the neighborhood you live in.”
“We keep the doors locked,” Father Bernard acknowledged. “This church is kept pretty much for private use.”
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