Night of the Loving Dead

by Casey Daniels

  PPW made a face. The left sleeve of her parka was torn at the elbow, and she added one more coat of gloss, then tucked the tube up between the pink outer layer of her jacket and the lining that peeked out from the hole.

  “They never come back,” she said. “How can they? It would be such a long way and how would they do it?”

  “They? Are other people missing?”

  PPW scraped back her chair. “Plenty. But they can’t come back. It’s millions and millions of miles.”

  “To—”

  “The mother ship, of course.” I was apparently stupid enough to rate a click of her tongue. “They can’t come back unless they have ships of their own. You know, UFOs.”

  It isn’t often that I find myself at a loss for words. This, however, was one of those times. I stared at PPW in wonder, trying to come up with a way to keep her talking that didn’t include telling her that I knew for certain now that she was a nutcase.

  While I stared, PPW shook her head, sadly disappointed.

  “They need new classes in lawyer school,” she said. She didn’t take her coffee cup with her when she walked away. “Don’t they teach you anything about alien abductions?”

  I guess I was so busy watching her with my mouth open, I didn’t even notice I had company until I heard a quiet “Excuse me” from over on my left.

  I turned to find a slim, fifty-something woman in jeans and a navy blue pullover sweater. Her dark hair was shot with gray. It was cut short and stylish, and though she wasn’t wearing any makeup, her skin was flawless. Her face was sprinkled with freckles that were just starting to get lost in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and on her cheeks.

  “Are you here to help?” the woman asked.

  I would have laughed, but let’s face it, even I knew that probably wasn’t the best response. Instead, I pushed back my chair and stood, distancing myself from her and the question that sounded a little too hopeful to me. “I’m not exactly the helpful type.”

  She looked at the spilled coffee before she gave me a quick once-over. Instead of turning up her nose the way the receptionist over at the clinic had done, this woman grinned. “Well,” she said, “you sure don’t look like you’re here for lunch.”

  “No. I was just talking to . . .” I motioned toward where PPW had disappeared through a doorway on the other side of the room. “I was just looking for information, that’s all.”

  The woman’s expression grew thoughtful. She, too, looked toward where PPW had gone. “Information? From Stella? That’s certainly an interesting choice of sources. I hope you weren’t counting on her help too much, because I can pretty much guarantee, whatever she told you, it isn’t true. Not that it’s her fault or anything,” she added quickly. “It’s just that she’s a little—”

  “Yeah, so I noticed.”

  The woman smiled, but not in a mean way. More like she actually understood what was going on in Stella’s head. “What’s today’s delusion? Monsters in Lake Michigan? Leprechauns?”

  “Aliens.” I tried to smile, too, but I couldn’t. The whole thing creeped me out. “I guess I should have known since she was hanging around the clinic—”

  “The Gerard Clinic?” I don’t think I imagined it; the woman actually looked over her shoulder after she said this. She lowered her voice. “You’re looking for information about someone at the Gerard Clinic? I can’t say for sure, but I might be able to help you.”

  Did I look skeptical? I must have, because the next second, she held out a hand. “I’m Sister Maggie,” she said. “For better or worse, I’m in charge of this place. And you’re . . .”

  “Just trying to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Sister Maggie’s eyebrows rose. “Reporter?”

  I shook my head. “Just . . . interested, I guess. I heard from a friend that some of the people who used to hang around at the clinic . . .” I shrugged, because I wasn’t exactly in a position to explain about Madeline. “I’m looking for a couple of them. A man named Oscar and a woman named Becka. Unfortunately, I don’t have last names and that makes it pretty difficult.”

  Sister Maggie nodded her understanding. “The folks who go to that clinic—most days, they stop here when they’re done. We serve lunch every day and dinner on Mondays and Wednesdays. A lot of them are regulars.”

  “So you know them? Oscar and Becka?”

  Sister Maggie looked toward where a volunteer in a white apron was carrying a huge pot of stew to the table. “We’re shorthanded,” she said. “It’s going to take forever to feed them all today. As for cleanup . . .” Again, her gaze traveled to the coffee that Stella had spilled.

  She didn’t say another word. She didn’t have to.

  And me? I stifled a groan. I might not believe in divine intervention, but I knew an opportunity when I saw one, just like I knew when I was being offered a deal.

  My jaw was clenched when I spoke. That was because my gut was telling me that I was going to regret this.

  I told it to shut up, right before I asked Sister Maggie for an apron and a mop.

  10

  Some people are meant to serve others. After three hours of watching her, I knew Sister Maggie was one of these. The woman was the Energizer Bunny with sacred vows, plus she didn’t have an uncharitable bone in her body. No matter how dirty or nasty or grubby they looked, she chatted with the soup kitchen visitors like they were old friends. She helped the ones who couldn’t carry their own food trays, and got coffee for them if they’d already sat down and forgotten to get their own. When we ran out of bread and there was still a line for lunch, she headed over to the local corner store for more and came back with a whole box. She wasn’t shy about announcing that she’d used her powers of persuasion (and who knows what heavenly connections) to get it donated.

  I, on the other hand, was not made of the same stuff. Believe me, I’m not saying this because I felt inadequate, or because I had second thoughts or any regrets about how I’d spent my life up until that very day without ever setting foot in a soup kitchen. I point it out only because it is relevant to the understanding of my suffering. See, helping people, Sister Maggie was in her glory.

  Me?

  Not so much.

  By the time the last of the lunch eaters disappeared into the cold and gloomy afternoon and the other volunteers sat down to finish what was left of the stew (do I need to point out that I declined the invitation to join them?), my apron was dotted with gravy and so were the cuffs of my black turtleneck. It should come as no surprise that I wasn’t used to swabbing floors; thanks to the Stella’s-spilled-coffee cleanup effort, my jeans were soggy. I had a first-degree burn on my right hand from trying (and failing) to change the Sterno under a chafing dish of potatoes, and I was so tired of giving unto others and so grossed out by much of what I’d seen, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and back to my hotel where I could take a nice hot shower, in which I planned to use up all of the Bliss lemon and sage bath gel I’d brought to Chicago with me. On my way back to the hotel, maybe I’d stop at Bloomingdale’s for an extra bottle. Just in case.

  Cleanliness aside, though, I hadn’t forgotten why I was there.

  That would explain why even after the homeless had disappeared and the kitchen was cleaned up, the tables were set for the next day’s lunch and the last of the volunteers was gone, I was out in the hallway waiting for Sister Maggie.

  She locked the door to the cafeteria and pocketed the key. “I hate having to do this,” she said. “I wish they could all just stay here and stay warm. Rules and regulations, you know. And we’re not approved for live-ins. I’ve tried to skirt the authorities. One time, I forgot to lock the door, Lord forgive me.” She made the sign of the cross. “I learned my lesson. As soon as word went out that we weren’t locked up tight, the locals came in and stripped our copper pipes.” She led the way to the stairs that would take us up and back out to the street. “You coming back? We sure could use the help.”

  It didn’t seem like the r
ight place to say no way in hell, so I skirted the issue. “You said we’d talk after lunch. You know, about Oscar and Becka.”

  We were at the bottom of the stairway. On the landing above us, a bare lightbulb illuminated the nooks and crannies of the church entrance. There was nothing up there but a door and a pamphlet rack that contained everything from transit maps to information on free HIV testing. There was nothing down on the level where we stood, either, except the long, dark hallway that led back to the kitchen and a doorway over on our right with a sign above it that showed it was the way to the rest-rooms.

  We were the only ones left in the building. Still, Sister Maggie looked around before she spoke. “Oscar, Becka, and the Gerard Clinic?”

  Dealing with the dead has a way of heightening a person’s awareness when it comes to things like fear. Oh yeah, I could tell Sister Maggie was scared, all right. Since she didn’t seem the type, I was anxious to find out why. I searched for something neutral to say.

  “You don’t approve of the clinic.”

  She slipped into the black coat she’d carried out of the kitchen. “The clinic serves an important mission in our neighborhood. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t get the mental health care they need or the counseling or their medication without Doctor Gerard.”

  “But you’re not a fan.”

  “Did I say that?” With a look, Sister Maggie dared me to contradict her. I had a funny feeling she was also trying to do a Vulcan mind-meld move on me so she’d know what I was thinking. For all I knew, she could do that, too.

  “Why do you care so much?” she asked. “I practically had to twist your arm to get you to stay to help. That tells me you don’t have a political agenda. You’re not one of those bleeding-heart liberal do-gooders who come by once in a while. You know, just so they can brag to their friends in the burbs about their good deeds.

  “You don’t have a personal stake, either. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. After all the years I’ve been doing this, I can tell just from looking. It happens once in a while. Families come searching for relatives they know are out on the streets. They hardly ever find them.” Superwoman or not, this bothered her. I could tell because she looked away. But if years of long practice had taught her nothing else, it was how to grin and bear it. Even in the face of grinding poverty. The next second, she had her act together and was all business again.

  “You’re asking about Oscar and Becka, and you were talking to Stella. No way you’re related to any of them. Your world and theirs, they don’t overlap. They never have. So it’s not social conscience and it’s not guilt and it’s not to fulfill some promise you made to a dying relative about how you’d find so-and-so and put things right. Still . . .” She spent a few moments thinking. “You care about this enough to trade your time for my information. And you would rather be shopping or at a spa than here in the hood. You would have rather spent your afternoon anywhere else. Maybe even at that cemetery conference?” She glanced briefly at my giveaway portfolio. “Why are you so anxious to find these people?”

  Sure, we were in the basement, but it still qualified as being in church. In a rare moment, I opted for the truth. “I hear that both Oscar and Becka haven’t been seen in a while, and I’d like to find out if that’s fact or rumor. It would be easier for me to check if I could get some actual information. Like last names.”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “Do we need the cops?”

  She didn’t answer, and I knew why. She was waiting for me to fess up.

  I wasn’t a Catholic. I didn’t have to be to know that nuns had the whole tell-the-truth-or-else mojo going for them. I gave up with a sigh. “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a sort of . . . well, sort of a private investigator.”

  “And you want to know if it’s true, about the folks who are accepted into that special study Doctor Gerard is conducting.”

  This time when I sighed, it was with relief. Finally, I had corroboration. From somebody who was a somebody whose body wasn’t six feet under. “It’s true then? They really are missing?”

  Sister Maggie bought some time, slowly buttoning her coat. “I’ve never found any proof.”

  “You’ve looked.”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  I really didn’t need to ask. I’d seen the way she operated, and I couldn’t imagine her not going to the mat if she thought something wasn’t on the up-and-up. I asked anyway. “You’ve gone to the authorities with these stories?”

  She tucked her hands in her pockets. “I tried. Once. About eighteen months ago. But without any proof . . .” Another shrug. This one pretty much told me all I needed to know. “They told me to come back if I ever had any more information, and unfortunately, I haven’t been able to dig up a thing. If there’s anything happening at that clinic, they’ve been able to keep it pretty quiet.”

  “Until now.”

  This seemed like a no-brainer to me, but I didn’t like the way Sister Maggie looked in response. Like she’d just bitten into a lemon.

  “What?” I shifted my portfolio from one hand to the other. “I’m only stating facts. Nobody’s looked into the matter. Not seriously, anyway. I mean, not that I don’t think you were serious about it, but hey, you’ve got plenty of other things to worry about. Now, I’m on the case.”

  There was that look again. The one that practically threatened eternal damnation if I wasn’t truthful. “Are you that good?”

  There was no use being modest, so I didn’t even try. “I’ve solved a few cases that had the cops stumped.”

  I thought she would have been more impressed. I mean, even if she didn’t mean it, she owed me that much for the soggy jeans and the stained sweater and the fact that I was standing in a stone-cold church on a gloomy afternoon when I could have been anywhere else. Even that cemetery conference, where it was sure to be boring, but a heck of a lot warmer.

  Sister Maggie’s brows dropped low over her eyes. “You know you’d better be careful, right?”

  I would have laughed if she didn’t sound so doggone serious. “Those cases that I solved, some of them were pretty dangerous. Nobody’s gotten to me yet.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  Since she said this just as she started up the steps, I scrambled up after her.

  “What do you mean?” I asked when we got to the top.

  She stopped, her hand on the door that led outside. “I can see that you can take care of yourself. Even if you don’t know how to change the Sterno in a chafing dish!” Her smile came and went. “The people over at the clinic, though, most of them aren’t so lucky.”

  I shouldn’t have felt guilty, but I must have. That would explain why I scrambled to explain myself. “I didn’t do anything to Stella. Anything but—”

  “You talked to her. And let me guess, you left the clinic with her, right? That means somebody probably saw you two together.”

  “Sure, but—”

  Briefly, she put a hand on my sleeve. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. Please, don’t think I am. I’m just pointing out that if there is something shady going on at the clinic, and if whoever is behind it thinks you’re snooping around, and if that someone saw you talking to Stella—”

  “No. No way.” My denial sounded a little too quick, even to me. That didn’t keep me from trying to talk myself out of thinking I might have put Stella in jeopardy.

  Too bad it didn’t work. My shoulders slumped. “Shit.”

  Sister Maggie laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.” She kept her smile in place, and I would have been encouraged if I didn’t suspect she was just trying to make me feel better. “You can’t change what’s already happened,” she said, and I would have bet anything it was a line she’d used a couple million times before on the people who came through the soup kitchen and got a side dish of counseling with their meals. “And chances are, nobody even paid any attention to you and Stella. You just might want to be a little more careful in t
he future.”

  I nodded my understanding. “You know, I can do something to make sure none of the people over at the clinic ever have to worry again about who they talk to. Or what they say.”

  “Because you’re going to keep investigating until you find out what’s really going on.”

  We were finally on the same page. I knew this for a fact because, call me narcissistic, but I could see the way Sister Maggie’s eyes shone with admiration. And maybe a little bit of envy, too. Something told me that given half the chance and time away from the responsibilities of feeding the homeless of Chicago, she’d be all over this case herself.

  Shopping opportunities aside (not to mention religion and the whole celibacy thing), it looked like me and Sister Maggie, we had a lot more in common than I ever would have imagined.