“What hospital?” he demanded as he backed out of the rear of the truck.
“Any. Whatever’s closest.” I replied hurriedly, watching over his shoulder with worry as the door to the warehouse was thrust wide and a figure stood in the gap. Another overall clad goon. “Go.” I yelled at the hapless driver.
He went, slamming the back door closed and cutting off my view of the warehouse. He scrambled to the front and threw himself in the driver’s seat, the motor roaring as he accelerated. When I ordered him to hurry, he took it upon himself to drive his truck like an ambulance, cutting corners and crossing traffic, his horn wailing.
It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
Chapter Six
I hated hospitals. It took me several frantic minutes to get Alex’s weapon and my own unloaded and secreted away. I kept the ammunition in my pocket and took the guns with me into the lady’s room. I slipped the weapons in the little trash can meant for hygiene products knowing no one would be poking around in it and jammed a wad of toilet paper on top. I hoped I could retrieve them later before the cleaning crew emptied it. With a last check of myself in the mirror, I smoothed my hair and scrubbed my hands and hustled out to find my friend.
It was another hour before Alex was settled into a room after her examination and x-rays, and I could contemplate the many reasons I hated hospitals. The smell was unquestionably a first on the list, the sounds a number two, the sights a close three. The place smelled like an unknown antiseptic mixed with high powered cleaners, the kind required to wash away blood, bodily fluids and super bugs. I could practically taste the taint of it on my tongue. To make matters worse, it seemed people felt they needed to whisper in hospitals, like you did in church or at a funeral home, and the lowered voices made me think someone was keeping a secret. Combined with the soft soled steps on the tiled floors, I cringed inside. The sight of course was the repeated anguish on people’s faces, expressions of pain from physical causes, or from hearing of a loved one’s illness or suffering. I felt relief when we were whisked to the back, so I didn’t have to look at the other people suffering around me.
They separated me from Alex as the nurses and doctors started their examination, forcing me to wait tucked away in a waiting room alone while I paced the floor. They used this specific room for families of trauma victims, and I remained in the closet like space obediently. After a brutal hour, the doctor came out and asked for family, so I lied. I told him Alex and I were sisters, and he didn’t bother to question how a lanky black haired woman might be a sibling to a tiny sprite like Alex. His explanation was concise and factual. Alex regained consciousness but was not orientated to place or time. He considered her confusion transitory, but she would need to stay in the hospital overnight at the very least to assess for further brain injury. While there were no broken bones, she dislocated one shoulder and suffered other soft tissue damage; her contusions were severe. She would be feeling terrible for a week or so, but then she should be able to take up with her normal activities, if her head injury continued to improve.
My next visitor was a cop. I spent some time while waiting to think about how I was going to explain my problem when they eventually showed up and when the police officer reached me, I was ready.
The questions came rapid and succinct. No, I never saw her attacker. Yes, we got lost on our way to a get together with some of Alex’s new friends. No, I didn’t remember their address. Yes, of course, I knew their names. I supplied him with the first names Danny and Sherry. Yes, we would get last names when Alex was up to it. No, I didn’t realize it was a dangerous neighborhood. Why did she go in the warehouse? We needed directions. The GPS wasn’t working right. Alex thought we saw a man walking inside. No, I never saw him. Alex claimed he looked like a business man. She said he was dressed nice. No, I didn’t know if it was her attacker. I followed her into the warehouse a minute later when she didn’t come right out and was digging my phone out of my purse. Yes, the purse and the car were still at the warehouse. No, I had my phone.
I gave him my name. I knew he would need to interview Alex, to get her statement. And what would she tell him? I would have to handle it when the time came.
As soon as he left, I returned to the waiting room to use the telephone. I needed to make a call. My purse may have been locked in my car, but I had my cell phone and my keys were in my pocket. My favorite weapon, the katana, was in the trunk of the car, and I was cursing my own stupidity for not taking it with me. The rest of my throwing knives were with the dobies at Alex’s house. My missing belongings seemed to innumerate how I failed in this attempt to catch up with my kidnappers. I underestimated both the danger we would be getting ourselves into and the vulnerability of my best friend. My ignorance brought us here and I couldn’t leave her alone. No doubt Roberts, the wounded monster, would be eager to contact me again as soon as he healed. If he wanted to get vengeance for the knifing, tracking the two of us to this hospital room would be easy.
I hated to admit it, but I needed help. There were only a few places I could go. Vic came to mind, but I instantly rejected the thought. No doubt as the current Hand of God, he would be busy saving the world somewhere. His duties were far broader than mine. When they chose him to take over the position, the one which would inevitably end in his death, it was with the understanding he was struggling for his soul. He needed redemption, and was given Old Testament justice to dish out, the assignments adding worth to his eternal soul.
My brand of justice was narrower. I demanded to figure out who was behind my kidnapping, and knew deep inside the Church was involved. I needed to take down as many of those nasties as I could. I wasn’t out to save the world, only bring down one very poison branch of it.
And even if he were ready to drop everything and help me, I didn’t think I was ready for our first face to face meeting since the shooting.
With Victor out, I thought of the rest of his motley little band. Brother Joshua would help, after all, he had helped me before. It was under his direction I was assigned to the abbey in France to complete my recuperation and training. But he was a direct connection to Vic, and I figured he had more than enough on his plate keeping the other man busy and out of trouble. If there was one thing Vic could turn up, it was trouble. And there was also the chance he would order the Hand of God to help me.
Kurt was our common friend; though he was not known for his hand to hand combat skills. In fact, Kurt was known to run the other direction when it came to danger. He couldn’t keep Alex safe while I cleaned up our mess, so I wouldn’t be going to him for support. I dialed the only other number I had available to me, the only other trusted source I knew.
In my mind, I envisioned the phone ringing in the chambers of the abbey as there only one phone in the entire complex. It was buried in the office of the Mother Superior, Sister Bernice, a stern woman of sixty-five who saw more, lived through more, than any of us would ever know. The phone was only employed for essentials, to get supplies that couldn’t be produced on the grounds, or to contact other religious organizations. I only heard the phone ring twice. Both times, I was the reason for the calls.
The abbey otherwise was much the same as it had been for hundreds of years. The complex, built of cut stone quarried sometime after 1100 AD, was essentially still in one piece. It weathered the French Revolution with minimal damage, mostly because of its remote location in the Provencal countryside. It was made up of several buildings, linked by stone arches and surrounded a central courtyard; the Abbey Church, the Cloister, and Chapter house. An additional dormitory building was made up of long corridors with a broken cradle vault and multiple arches which led to tiny cells where most of the nuns slept in their cots.
I could practically see Sister Evangeline as she struggled to explain their stand in the war on evil.
“People have idées fausses, misconceptions, about the religious,” Sister Eva said, marching down the long gallery, her veil flapping and rosary rattling musically. “We
are not a set of milk toast weaklings afraid to join the battle.”
“Such as?” I couldn’t believe I was out of breath from a brisk walk. And my hip throbbed again, which I knew meant it would be a long night.
“Our order was exceedingly active during the Croisades, the Crusades,” she began, her eyes still directed straight ahead.
“A Holy War?” my stomach turned over at the thought, “In the Middle Ages?”
“Yes,” she snapped. She slowed and peered at me. “I’m certain you have been told the dreadful butchery that the Church condoned during that time and think, like most, that it was a blight on the Church’s history.”
I made a face and instantly regretted it. I grew up hearing other people my age talk about the discipline of the nuns in Catholic schools, especially in the generation before mine. Knuckles rapped with rulers and public penance seemed to be a universal story. Seeing the expression on Sister Eva’s face, I didn’t doubt these nuns were a force to contend with back in the day.
“I realize the Crusades were commonly considered to be a means for the Catholic Church to faire de l'argent, pad their coffers, so to speak.”
Sister Eva gave a sharp nod. “Look at it this way,” she reasoned, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “The Holy Lands were exclusively Jewish and Christian hundreds of years ago; it was the birth place of Christianity.” She glanced at me. “When the Crusades began, it was a mission to reclaim the territory.”
“It was wrong.”
She stopped and whirled on me. “The Church is composed of people; people are fallible.” She heaved out a sigh. “There were plenty of wrongs that were committed, but our order,” she paused to emphasize the word, “we were there to support the injured, to extricate those who were captured, to promote the advancement of the Word of God.”
“You mean some of the nuns decided to go into enemy territory to bring people out?”
She began her trek down the corridor again, her voice echoing slightly from the arched ceiling. “My order was responsible for saving dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the faithful who fell under the enemy’s reign. It was our obligation to help, whether it be with a bandage or a sword.”
She increased her speed, strolling down the corridor, and I stood there for a moment, eyebrows raised. Militant nuns? Who knew?
The phone was answered after the sixth ring, a young voice chiming in, “Abbaye Sainte Aalis,” with a lovely French accent.
“Sister Charlotte,” I answered. “This is Samantha. Can I talk to Sister Eva?”
“Sister Evangeline isn’t here right now, Samantha.” I could practically see Sister Charlotte’s brow crease in bewilderment. At thirty-two, she showed the smooth skin of a fifteen-year-old, and her sweet eyes were strongly expressive.
“I need help,” I blurted out.
“What happened?” her speech carried the heavy cadence of her country, but her English was impeccable. All the sisters were highly educated and multi-lingual. It was ironic that their primary source of revenue at the abbey was the fertile lavender fields they cultivated and the production of honey from their own bee hives.
Of course, that was the outward workings of the order. Only those who were among the select few knew the other reason for the nuns’ existence.
“My best friend and I,” I dropped my voice, glancing around the little waiting room, “came up against one of the bad ones.” If I admitted we fought a vampire where people might hear me, I would find myself in the middle of a mental inquest. As it was, the doctors were looking at me with some misgiving. They knew Alex was involved in some kind of altercation. To hear me speaking of vampires would put me on the top of the list of the crazy.
“Is she?” Sister Charlotte’s speech was tentative.
“She’s being held over for examination. They are saying there is probably a concussion and some bad contusions. She went down hard.” I knew the other woman could interpret my account. “I need to continue on. I can’t stay here, but I need someone here to take care of her. To protect her.” I felt my throat close with an unexpected emotion. “Sister, can someone help me?”
“Sister Evangeline will be there in two hours,” she responded, her accented voice soothing. “You hold on, and she will contact you. Are you still in Georgia?”
“No, I’m in Chattanooga, Tennessee.” I wasn’t surprised she knew where I was. When I wrote to the sisters over email, I was sure my missive would be disseminated everywhere throughout the abbey. They were nothing if not united.
“Chattanooga,” Sister Charlotte repeated, playing with the word. “It sounds delightful. Perhaps I can come visit sometime.”
I blinked.
“I will contact Sister Evangeline immediately,” Sister Charlotte said, her voice all business again. “What is the name of the hospital?”
I told her, my eyes scanning the hallway. How quickly could Roberts recover and come to visit? Would he immediately come here, or did he need to go and report his activities to his superiors? Which led me to the next, more crucial question. Who was he reporting to?
“And Samantha,” Sister Charlotte’s pleasant voice broke through my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“May the Lord God be with you and your friend in your time of need.”
I took a deep breath, emotion once again clogging my throat. I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Sister Charlotte,” I murmured. I didn’t believe God was standing over me, watching me, but it gave me a little consolation to realize there were these women out there, individuals so pure and so solid that they would endanger their lives to save me, to help my friend.
I heard the gentle click as the phone hung up, and I put the receiver down on the cradle. I remained in the plastic covered chair for a moment, catching my breath. Then I rocked back in my seat. What did Sister Charlotte say? She told me Sister Evangeline would be here in two hours? Simply impossible. The abbey, situated in a rural part of France surrounded by fields and forests, was not convenient to any airport. And even if it was, the flight from France to the United States was over seven hours. It would be another few hours to catch a connecting flight to Tennessee, and a drive to get to the hospital. The only way Sister Eva would be able to be here so rapidly is if she was rather close by.
I rose and shook my head deliberately. I couldn’t even fathom what was going on with the order, with my saviors, my friends. Their activities continued to be a conundrum to me, even after living among them for months. I checked my watch and paced the floor for a moment, and then gave up and left the waiting room, impatiently strolling down the hallway, getting in the nurse’s way as she slipped in and out of Alex’s room. After an uncomfortably long time, she opened the door further and told me I could go in to sit with my sister.
I smiled my thanks but said nothing.
Alex was about 5’1” in flats and weighed somewhere around a hundred pounds. She had changed little since middle school, her growth spurt seeming to give up on her early. Lying still in the bed, she looked like a child version of Sleeping Beauty gone terribly wrong. Her pale hair haloed her face, and although the attendants tried to wash it, there was dried blood among the golden locks. I didn’t even know she was bleeding. Her face was a mottled map of swelling and bruising, the dark red melting into purple which I knew would progress through a rainbow of colors before it healed.
Again, the anger surged through me, my mind flashing to the foolish escapades Alex and I shared while residing at the boarding school. We tried hiding in the janitor’s closet and using soap to make the hallway into a sudsy skating rink, climbing to the roof to drop water balloons on classmates prompting the best water balloon fight the school ever witnessed, and commandeering the school’s intercom to play “Play That Funky Music” after final exams. We were an incredible team, and Alex was the closest thing to family for me since my mother passed away and my father became an unrecognizable monster.
This strike against her would not go unpunished. I added a new name to my growing list, Paul Rob
erts.
The hospital was not a place to rest. Nurses came in periodically, checking Alex’s vitals and asking her to follow directions, trying to wake her. It was alarming for me to hear them begging her to open her eyes, to squeeze their hands, to wiggle her toes. Alex’s brain, so sharp and so full of knowledge, was invaluable. She was a brilliant doctor, and it terrified me I might have put her career in jeopardy. After another hour of attempts, Alex opened her eyes, her left a painful slit in her face, and looked around the room. I drew close on the other side of the bed and listened as she spoke my name in slurred sounds when she saw me. The relief was indefinable.
After she slipped back into unconsciousness, I retreated to my corner chair, facing the door and alert for anyone coming in who shouldn’t be there. I observed and appraised each medical professional as they came in. I wasn’t going to allow anything else to happen to my friend.
When the door glided open and the nurse appeared, her expression gave me pause. She was a little wide eyed, and I stood reflexively.
“Samantha?” she said, her voice quiet. I knew her name was Trish, and she was the most consistent of the staff on this shift.
“Yes,” I answered.
“There’s a lady here who wants to visit. She asked for you, specifically.” Trish took a step back and a new figure took her place in the doorway. I felt a wave of relief and felt my knees go weak. Sister Evangeline stood there, her black veil covering her head, her glasses winking in the light, the skirt of her habit brushing the leather tops of her sensible shoes.
“Sister Eva,” I murmured on a gasp, and hastened to her. I paused in front of her and she drew me in for a strong hug, reminding me of her strength. “How did you get here so quickly?”
Her eyes twinkled. “We have our ways,” she replied and beamed an impish grin. Sister Evangeline’s voice was a pure clear alto, her accent very French, but still easily understandable. Of the thirty-three sisters in the abbey, only about a third were from France. The rest came from all parts of the world, following a calling only they could understand, and then handpicked by the Church for their very significant role.
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