Dies Irae

by Ruby Spinell

  He didn’t know yet. Pouring himself another cup of coffee, he reached reflectively for the red lacquer piece hanging on the side wall. Standing woman, in life force color of blood, gazed contemplatively off into the distance. She gave only her shadow side, repelling yang influences. He held her with long slender fingers for some minutes, then decisively turned the talisman. Jade lady looked directly at him across the breakfast table.

  They had directed him to a side door for deliveries and repairmen. ‘Peace’ it said, in black letters. He wondered if that calmed the carpenter, the plumber, the furnace man encountering the faceless, black-veiled moving figures ringing the warning bells. A man afoot within the cloister.

  When the door opened, the young workman, looking dubious, followed his older, casual, evidently more seasoned compatriot across the threshold into the cloister. He glanced back at Eli. His plumber’s basket hit the door jamb. His eyes went skyward.

  When Sister Damian of Mary opened the tiny, shuttered window to the side of the door, she looked as if she’d been running. At least she looked warm.

  Eli was cold.

  “Detective Janah, I’m sorry to have to bring you back here. There’s no heat in this wing.” She didn’t have to tell him that. “We never got around to insulating that outside wall.

  “We have a visiting scriptural scholar with us,” she said proudly. “He’s using the speak this morning. A sister’s brother. How are you? How are things going?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. “The investigation has been pressing on my mind.”

  Eli was quiet. Sister Damian launched into a fast-paced monologue salted with little fact and peppered heavily with female intuition. The intuitive, the female, looked at him with troubled grey eyes. Looked directly, as the Jade Lady had earlier that morning.

  “I am refusing to see something, Detective, I just know it. This usually means I don’t want to see it.” She was extremely antsy. “You know, Detective Janah, the sisters don’t usually go overseas. Although we’ve been embroiled in that part of the world now for some years, we haven’t needed to go because we’ve been blessed with some very fine clergy totally involved in our work. Almost all the arrangements and most of the traveling necessary to bring these good people out from under some horrendous situations, has been done by them.

  “I’ve been in Pusan, that’s South Korea, and Bangkok. A couple of the sisters had to go to Chau Doc in Cambodia. They made it out safely just an hour before the Khmer forces brought an offensive against the harbor. An hour,” she repeated it softly. “They and the children would have perished.” She looked at him through the tiny window with the makeshift grill to see if he appreciated the providence of this. Then, as if seeing something for the first time on his face, she looked hurriedly away down to some point on the floor on her side of the wall.

  “Sister, is there anything I should know?”

  Worriedly, she looked up again. “I’m sure he knew me.” She hesitated, “He was sorry he had to leave his grisly package on our doorstep so to speak. It was a warning that it’s over.”

  “What’s over?”

  Sister Damian could not say it. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know.” He saw the set jaw.

  “Who made the delivery?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She didn’t know why, he thought. Until she knows why she is not going to say. “Sister, sometimes the most seemingly inconsequential things help in an investigation like this.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, Detective. The light dawns slowly though,” she shrugged. “That’s the way I am. I’ll be sure to call you if the wattage goes up.” It was more of a grimace than a smile.

  Laconically, Eli said to himself, She’ll call when she’s got it solved. Why must everyone play secret sleuth???

  Back in the open by the car, he smiled. He had found out what he needed. When he called asking to see her for a few moments, he meant exactly that. If she hadn’t opened her mouth, he would have been content. It was all over her face. He could read.

  She was beginning to see something too big to swallow. Yes. People think evil opens doors but it seldom does, it doesn’t need to, there are too many ‘good’ out there doing the acting.

  March winds … Standing fronting them upon the grit of sand and salt, he held unsteady footing. He watched the wind buckle around the brick of the old, brown monastery buildings. The chapel door opened. There was a gust of song, and Father Elias stepped out.

  A look of displeasure flitted across his face. He erased it. “Looking for me, Detective?”

  Go with it, Eli … “As a matter of fact, yes Father, I was. But I heard about the visiting scriptural scholar and wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

  Elias didn’t comment but searched Eli’s face. “What did you want to see me about?”

  Eli’s hand closed around the car keys. “When did your brother die, Father? What year? And where exactly?

  Emotions chased each other across the priest’s features. “He died in 1965. His Phantom 4 crashed on a run south of Da Nang among the mountains along the coast.”

  “You said he died slowly?” Elias looked at him questioningly.

  “I did? Probably meant we died slowly, waiting. No, he was killed instantly. You see, we received conflicting news. He crashed. He died. He lived and walked away. It wasn’t until 1967 that we heard—this time they were sure, they said—that he’d been killed in the crash.” He gave a bitter half laugh.” Life teaches you not to believe all you hear.”

  You’re not going to make it easy for me are you, Eli thought, but instead he said, “I’ll go with that. Where were you, Father, the Tuesday afternoon the hands and feet were delivered to the turn room?”

  “At my desk in the rectory doing up the books, trying to stretch the money ten ways.” The answer came back very fast, it was almost curt.

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  “If you mean did anyone watch me while I sat there, no. Mrs. Berens left to visit her sister around one, and it was quiet in the rectory until Bill returned from sick calls around four. No one dropped by. There were no phone calls.”

  “You caught up on the books?”

  “Yes.”

  Mirari was hunched reflectively in front of the Valery article. In the distance she could hear the fire crackling in the living room. This room was cold. It was off limits to Clam and Chowder. The article, spread out on the long table under the spotlights, was cold and white. Was it real? The mark of the real is total insignificance. She shook her head and lectured Paul Valery mentally for that enigmatic saying, 1944 … Old man, you were becoming a mystic.

  Her preoccupation was interrupted by a curious buzzing. It sounded like the copy machine had run out of paper … but she didn’t have a copy machine! Phone! She now had a phone. But who on earth knew?

  “Ms. Buttrick? This is Reverend Mother Michaels. I hope this isn’t a bad time to call. I always seem to have more time after Compline to make my calls.”

  The soft voice continued, “Ms. Buttrick, I must tell you I was not at all enthralled to have someone writing about us.” There was a long hesitant silence. “But … after speaking with His Reverence Bishop Danley, I am somewhat reassured. He is probably right when he says it is only a matter of time, and that there will be others. He feels confident of the quality of your work. He tells me sensationalism is just not your line, that there is an intelligence and thoughtfulness … moreover a sensitivity … that I shall be relieved to find.” Mir heard the nun take a deep breath.

  “He also assures me that you will be the one writer allowed to handle the matter, that we can justifiably turn any others away. This you can be sure is a relief to me. Is there anything you want to ask me at this time?”

  Mir, who had been silent, was cursing Danley. Gad, what a build-up, who did he think she was, Saint Teresa? How could anyone write what they had to and still keep within the perameters he had just set down? Stick him! she thought. She realized the nun was
waiting, so she hauled her temper off the ceiling and in a very modulated soft voice, said, “No, Reverend Mother, I can’t think of anything at this time. Now that you’ve given me the go-ahead, I’m very grateful by the way, I’ll start work on the outline and begin researching the history of the Congregation, the background material you understand.”

  “I’m putting one of our sisters at your disposal, Ms. Buttrick. She can get you the archives. We keep them here at the Annunciation. Her name is Sister Damian of Mary. I have told her you will be calling.”

  When Mir hung up the phone, she sat watching the play of the flames in the fireplace. So. She had her next assignment. It came to her from the faceless sisters, the fates, without the usual freelancer’s hustle. Way to go! Which one of her sons used that all the time?

  The phone startled her. “Arthur Danley, Mirari,” the jovial voice boomed. “Thought I’d catch you at Pius, but they said you’d checked out already. I want you to come to this opening tomorrow night. So, what?” His manner was cheerfully indifferent. “So you went back up to Westchester, so, you come back down.” His manner softened. “Come on Mir, I’ve gotta go out of town Friday, be gone for at least a week. The artist’s name is Zhang Wei. You’ll like him. Visually abstract, he’s Western and yet, his brushwork is very Zen.” His voice became teasing. “Lots of that nothingness you talk about. Come on. I’ll take you out to dinner. You’re not getting fat. OK, I’ll take you to El Faro, Spanish, not Italian. Great place, been there in the Village sixty years.”

  “You haven’t let me say anything.”

  “What’s to say?”

  “How did you get my number? It’s not cold yet; the guy just hooked it up.”

  “Ahh … connections.”

  “Arthur, I can’t afford to come in as much any more …”

  “I’ll put you up.” She didn’t answer. “No strings.”

  “I can’t stay at the bishop’s mansion.”

  “Who said anything about the manse. I’ll put you up at my place, got an extra room.” “I’d like to have you there … yes, I’d like that very much. I’ll meet the train. If I’m late, hit the information.”

  As Eli came even with the lieutenant’s door, he caught the rapid arm wave that meant he was being summoned. “Janah … humn, the lieutenant coughed. “Humn … did you know the captain’s Catholic?” The lieutenant frowned.

  Eli leaned forward, nonplussed, “Catholic?”

  The lieutenant wagged his head, “Catholic.”

  They were silent. The lieutenant doodled on his pad as Eli watched the pursed lips and wondered how long the head was going to go on emphasizing, nod, nod, nod.

  “I don’t know if I knew that.” The wagging said he should know it. He waited

  “Eli, (first names now) the captian read your report on the Annunciation business.” A long pause followed. The lieutenant took a deep breath. “He seems to feel you’re spending an unnecessarily large amount of time looking into the lives of the clergy.” Warily, he looked at Eli. “You feel this is so?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t huh, humn.” The lieutenant paused. “There is quite a bit there, Eli.” He said, gesturing to the report lying open on his blotter, “on our Archdiocesan finest.” Eli’s face remained infuriatingly calm. Abruptly, the lieutenant sat up straight and said authoritively, “You have a theory then that calls for investigation along these lines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eli, listen, if the captain’s beloved clergy are implicated, it better be good, it better be damn good; otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Eli gave him a level look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that. That’s all.”

  Walt Bath and John Fay had watched the little scene. When he reached their nest of desks, their eyes were on him questioningly.

  “Captain feels we should stick to investigating the laity.”

  “Oh?” It was unanimous. “Well … I bet they don’t move around as much.” Bath was fiddling with a small mountain of papers. “Visas … travel permits … passports, the morning was a revelation. Good thing some guys owe me.”

  “I kinda think we’re doing very well, myself …” Eli said, staring inscrutably at the In box. “In fact, I feel better and better. We may have to keep some of our findings under our hats … we’ll see …” Fay and Bath looked at each other.

  “What have we got so far?” Fay spoke. “We have half a dozen firm contacts, guys with good eyes and good ears who want to remain unidentified. One each in Thailand, Laos, South Korea, North Vietnam … two in Cambodia.”

  “We need some homegrown information,” said Eli. “What did people over there think about this re-location business the Congregation of Prompt Succor has been engaged in. We need to find those who are missing hands and feet.”

  “We’re dealing with a very well traveled group,” Bath said. “Father Elias went overseas for the first time in ’67. Laos. He accompanied a guy by name of Maysenrod, Bob Maysenrod. I’ll check him out. He didn’t go again until ’74, when he went with Monsignor O’Reilly. After that, O’Reilly went every year and he went with him.”

  Bath checked his notes, “He went alone in ’82. And again in ’85, ’86, ’87. Late October ’87.”

  “I’d like to know exactly what he did on those trips,” Eli said.

  Bath raised an eyebrow.

  O’Reilly was very well traveled! Makes you wonder how he got a parish. Between 1950 and 1981 he was in some part of Korea, Indochina, or Asia at least once a year.

  “Father Strisbel, on the other hand, made two trips to Cambodia fifteen years ago, came home, started his blood-pouring, and hasn’t been overseas since.

  “Jeff Allen has been to Ireland and Turkey, not Asia.

  “Father Polaski has been to China, Cambodia, and Laos … one, two, three. Once to China, twice to Cambodia, three times to Laos. Two years ago he went to Nicaragua. Last year he returned.”

  Eli, juggling little clerical hats around on his pad, looked like he was playing tic tac toe. He looked up, “How about Danley?”

  Bath took a deep breath. “Danley … well … His Reverence tops the Monsignor. Ten years after he quit the Marines, he was back in Asia as some sort of liaison between Bishop’s Relief and the Eastern churches. He’s been there ever since. He’s worn out more passports than a prom queen’s slippers. His name is always mentioned with some good: he’s flying foodstuffs in, ferrying medical supplies, bargaining with a rebel chieftain for the lives of a group of peasant peoples, relocating homeless.” Bath hesitated, scowling at the toe of his shoe. “One of our contacts says that in three instances, tribal states folded, government kaput, immediately after Danley left the area with his orphans.” He looked up then, eyebrows raised.

  First thing Thursday morning, Mir called the Monastery of the Annunciation and asked for Sister Damian of Mary. They made an appointment for one p.m. At ten to one, Mir parked her car in front of the chapel and got out. She felt the silence. So this is where the other half went, she thought. Raising the kids those crazy years, was this what she had longed for?

  Gazing at the huge bar and grill structure in the speak, Mir thought, how psychologically potent! Separation. Austerity. Here they were staring you in the face. No wonder the new graphic computers play so much with symbol. Efficient, neat, the concept in the gut.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps on the other side and the sound of wooden panels banging together. A deep, soft voice spoke, “Ms. Buttrick, is that you?” She felt silly answering yes; who else would it be? The disembodied voice almost instantly became a beam of light, a hand, breaking through the blackness. It pulled the curtain aside. A hand rolling a curtain, looped black material through a piece of grillwork.

  The hand belonged to the tallest nun she had ever seen. Mir was not used to being looked down upon by other women. There was a smile in the clear grey eyes as Sister Damian, introducing herself, looked down.

  She did not open a
ll the shutters, but left the panels to her right closed. In the smaller space, she looked bigger than life. She invited Mir to pull a chair up to the opened side of the grillwork.

  Watching her sweep the scapular on the long, grey habit out from under her, sit down and fold the frontispiece on her knees, Mir thought, Regal. She moved like a queen.

  “I thought we might talk for a while, Ms. Buttrick. You could tell me a little of what you have in mind.” She sighed, “I’ll put in my two cents worth, so to speak, and,” she threw her long, slender fingers in the air, “we’ll see what kind of stew we concoct.” Sister Damian sat there grinning.

  Mir had a feeling her eyes were wide. This nun hadn’t been sitting twiddling her thumbs when she spoke to Reverend Mother last evening. Yet here she was, plucked from her work, sent to face a stranger at a ticklish time, cheerful as can be. So this is what obedience is.

  “Before you leave, I’ll dig the Constitution out of the basement. And there are half a dozen accounts of the early days of the order. For now, why don’t I just shut my mouth and let you talk.”

  There was a strangeness in talking to someone through all this somber grillwork, but quicker than she would have thought, Mir forgot it was there.

  At one point, Sister Damian referred to the investigation. She mentioned Eli by name and instinctively, Mirari refrained from letting on she knew him. At three-thirty, when a bell caused her to glance at the clock, she was startled. There was barely time to make the four o’clock into New York. Saying a quick good-bye, ‘Some other day for the archives!’—she was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eliaphus Daniel Janah was driving slowly and reflectively along the lower portion of Briar Creek Road when an old Buick careened out of a side street, cut him off, and spewed oily smoke in his face. Until the windshield cleared, he cursed the driver. When he realized it was Mirari, he suddenly wanted very much to see her.

  She was bearing rapidly toward the house. Give her a few minutes, he thought, slowing the Nissan. The blue Buick disappeared.

  He no sooner got within sight of the old driveway than she hurtled out of it, turned and went racing off in the direction of the train station South of town.