Sacred Trust

by Meg O'Brien

  Ben is silent.

  “Look,” the chief says, “put the surveillance on Abby Northrup. She’s the best lead we’ve got.”

  “Chief…” Ben rubs a hand over his face. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  Chief Bridges narrows his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’ve been working on this on my own. In my spare time.”

  “Alone?”

  “Well, I’ve had a little help.”

  “Lehman?”

  Ben shrugs. “He’s my right hand. You know that.”

  The chief studies him with narrowed eyes. “What have you found out?”

  “That’s just it. Nothing. I don’t know why the name Abby was written in the ground out there on the hill. Maybe the killer wrote it. Maybe it’s somebody who knows Abby and wanted to throw suspicion on her. But I’m willing to bet that, if Marti Bright wrote it, she was sending a cry for help to Abby, not fingering her as the killer.”

  Chief Bridges lights a cigar, ignoring the No Smoking sign on his own wall. “You’re willing to bet that, are you?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  The chief puffs. He fixes his eyes on Ben, assessing. “You willing to bet your future?”

  A small silence. “I hope it won’t come to that,” Ben says at last.

  The chief stares at the stack of letters. “What are you planning?” he asks.

  “Right now I want to talk to that nun, the one who knew Marti Bright and Abby years ago. I saw her at the church, then the cemetery, and there’s something about her I don’t like.”

  “A nun? You want to finger a nun as the killer? Christ, Ben, that’s all we need. ‘Carmel Arrests Nun in Crucifixion Murder.’”

  Ben smiles. “As I understand it, she’s not really a nun anymore. And she’s bitter.”

  “Bitter, huh? She live here? She a resident?”

  “That’s the funny thing. I couldn’t find her at first. I tried the motherhouse in Santa Rosa, where nuns from that order used to go to retire. It’s been turned into a private school, and there are only a handful of nuns there, the ones that are teaching. One of them told me Sister Helen left the order years ago, back when the motherhouses were closing. I take it she had some problems with that.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Chief Bridges says. “I’ve got an aunt…” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say the Church would like everybody to forget that some of those old nuns had a rough time of it. What about this Sister Helen?”

  “I don’t have a complete picture yet, but I talked to Lydia Greyson, the woman who owns the estate where Marti Bright was buried. She and Sister Helen—Helen Asback, now—were at the funeral together, along with Marti Bright’s brother. She told me Helen Asback lives out in the Carmel Valley now, at that place called The Prayer House.”

  “So how’s Lydia Greyson involved?”

  “Well, she owns and runs The Prayer House. Other than that, I’m not sure. She is on the board of one of the shelters Marti Bright did some volunteer work at, in Seaside.”

  The chief squints through his cigar smoke. “The Prayer House, huh? Odd name. You ever hear of it?”

  “A few times lately. There’s been some trouble about the food they prepare out there and sell to the public. Apparently some tourist got sick and claimed it was from something made out at The Prayer House. Now there’s a lawsuit been filed to make them bring their kitchen up to code, put in all kinds of changes. Sounds to me like a nuisance suit, pure and simple. You know how it is around here. Some people can’t even sell soup in coffee shops.”

  “So what’s this place do besides sell food? I can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

  “Not many people have. It’s a retreat of sorts for nuns and ex-nuns. Selling breads, soup, and stuff to support themselves. That, and private funding. They keep a low profile.”

  The chief falls silent, thinking. “What do you expect to get out of this woman?” he says at last. “The nun? Ex-nun, whatever.”

  “I don’t really know, Chief. I just think there could be some connection between the people out there and the way Marti Bright died. I mean, a crucifixion…that’s not your usual kind of murder. Not only that, but since it happened down there on the hill next to the Carmelite monastery, it could be some religious nut, somebody who’s got something against the Catholic Church. Who knows?”

  “So, you want to go poking around this Prayer House, stirring up trouble with these nuns, or whoever, and you want me to approve that.”

  “I’m hoping you will, sir. We haven’t got much else.” Ben clears his throat. “Leaving Abby out of it, that is.”

  Chief Bridges leans back in his chair, staring into space. Finally he grinds his cigar out on a clay-molded ashtray.

  “You see this?” he says, pointing to the ashtray. “A kid made this for me. He was missing, and I found him myself when I was out on patrol. He was hiding up at the old Flanders mansion.”

  “I remember, sir.”

  “Not a chief’s job, you know, going out on patrol. I did it because I had a nose for it. Finding missing kids, that is.”

  “I remember,” Ben says again.

  “I still got a nose, Ben. And my nose tells me Abby Northrup is up to her neck in trouble. I know, I know—you don’t agree. And I’ve learned to trust those damned instincts of yours, maybe better than my own.” He stands. “On the other hand, there’s the fucking Secret Service. So what do we do? I’ll tell you what we do. I’m giving you forty-eight hours. After that, I can’t promise anything.”

  Ben stands. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. It may not matter, Ben.”

  “Sir?”

  “Not if the Secret Service moves on her first. Word is, Abby Northrup’s living on borrowed time.”

  8

  ABBY

  My first thought after escaping Mauro and Hillars is to talk to Ben, but when I reach Arnie at the station, he says Ben is out. Just “out.” He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate on that, and at any other time this wouldn’t worry me. There is, however, an odd note of caution in Arnie’s voice when talking to me, and that does concern me.

  Arnie says he’ll have Ben call. While I wait, I check the messages on my machine, hoping he might have phoned while I was gone. There are twenty-two messages from this morning alone, all but two from newspaper reporters and television stations wanting to talk to me about Marti. One is from Dan Green at KSBW-TV, one of my favorite local anchors, along with Kate Callaghan. I make a mental note to call him back, and to touch base with Kate, too—but not until I have something I feel free to share.

  One of the two exceptions is from my boss at the Pinecone, reminding me that this week’s column is due in the morning. At least they haven’t fired me yet.

  The other non-media call is from Tommy Lawrence, whom I’d completely forgotten.

  “Abby? I came by this morning around eleven, but you weren’t home. I guess you forgot, huh? That’s okay, I just wanted to check and see when you want to get together again.” The number he leaves is one I recognize as the La Playa Hotel.

  I sigh, not sure I can deal with Tommy Lawrence today. I delete all the messages, deciding to call him later.

  Meanwhile, I make my way upstairs to take a shower in the big bathroom at the end of the hall, which has a heater. My limbs are sore from holding them stiff with fear, and I’m hoping some warmth will help.

  While in the shower I hear a noise. “Jeffrey?” I call out.

  No answer.

  “Jeffrey?”

  Still no answer.

  For the past six months Jeffrey’s been sleeping on a fold-out couch in his downstairs office. Often, he’ll slip out the back door and be gone before I know it.

  I debate whether to go down there after him. What decides me is that if Mauro and Hillars don’t find Jeffrey soon, they’ll be after me for “aiding and abetting.”

  Quickly, I rinse the shampoo from my hair and am wrapping a towel around it whe
n I hear another noise. This time it’s much closer, as if coming from the hallway just outside the bathroom door.

  “Jeffrey, is that you? I’m in here.”

  When there’s still no response, I wish I hadn’t said that. There’s been more than one break-in around here lately. Grabbing a large towel, I wrap it around myself and stand quietly, listening.

  Moisture drips down the shower door, clearing the fog away. Suddenly I know why they started making see-through shower doors—so you can know when Norman Bates is out there with his knife.

  Unfortunately, the downside is that he can also see you.

  There are footsteps in the hallway, closer now. Get to the door, Abby. Lock it. Call 911 on the wall phone.

  The latch on the shower door clicks as I ease it open. To my ears, the small metallic sound is deafening. I step out onto the tile floor. My bathroom is large, a good nine steps to the door. Do I run to it? Will whoever it is hear and fling the door open before I get there?

  There is no time to work it out. My antennae are up, and every instinct is yelling, Lock the door, Abby! I make a dash for it, pressing against the wooden panel with all my weight and twisting the lock at the same time. Then I turn to the phone by the sink.

  Frantically, I dial 911. But when I lift the receiver to my ear, there is no sound of ringing. Have I hit the wrong buttons? My hand shaking, I dial again. Still nothing. I rattle the receiver, punch buttons and shake the cord.

  It is then I remember the short in the wire. I’ve been meaning to replace this phone, but have put it off. It’s dead.

  I wonder about Murphy. Where is he? Why hasn’t he barked, or at least growled? Even if it were only Jeffrey out there, he’d growl.

  Murph. Oh, God, no, Murph. Visions of the night he was brought home with the letter A etched into his skin flood my mind.

  It is this that brings me out of the bathroom without another thought. Arming myself with the only weapon at hand, a can of hair spray, I unlock the door and throw it open, standing off to one side. No body hurtles inward, no bullets fly, and after a moment I risk a look into the hall.

  Murphy sits quietly at the top of the stairs, where he’s been ever since I got home and came up here to shower. This, in itself, is so odd it’s alarming. While he wouldn’t normally go after anyone unless they tried to hurt me, he will always bark to alert me when a stranger comes to the house.

  Is it Jeffrey after all, then? And if so, why didn’t he answer when I called?

  There is a noise in my room, like the sliding of drawers. Tiptoeing down the long hallway, I stop a few feet from my bedroom door and pause. I look at Murph and he looks at me. Slowly he rises and comes over to me, pushing his body against my legs as if to stop me.

  “What is it, boy?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

  He only pushes harder.

  I have two choices. I can try to make it past the bedroom door, without being seen, and run down the stairs to the living room or kitchen phone.

  Or I can see who the hell is in my house.

  Anger outweighs fear and I flatten myself against the wall. “Hello, who’s there?” I say loudly.

  A small silence, then the sound of footsteps coming toward the door. Murph growls.

  Rounding the door in a flash, I jam my finger down on the nozzle of the spray can.

  “Ow! Ow, dammit! My eyes!”

  My sister, Karen, comes barreling toward me, screaming curses like a banshee. She takes a swing and knocks me aside with one hand while rubbing her eyes with the other. “Dammit, Abby, I can’t see!”

  I drop the spray can, regain my balance, and grab her by the shoulders, shaking her. “What the hell are you doing here? Dammit, Karen, why didn’t you answer me?”

  I half drag her across the bedroom to the small master bath. Shoving her head over the sink, I cup my hands with cold water and flush the hair spray out of her eyes.

  “What the hell did you do that for? Spray me like that,” she says, shaking her short blond hair free of water and dabbing her face with a towel. “Jesus, Abby!”

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. “And how did you get in?”

  “I still have my key,” she says, rubbing at her eyes with the towel. “You could have blinded me, Abby. Jesus, you’re mean lately.”

  “Well, if I am, you’ve given me good reason. What were you doing in there?”

  I go back into the bedroom and survey the mess she’s made. It’s clear she’s been rifling through Jeffrey’s bureau drawers.

  Behind me, I hear her many gold bracelets jangling. “I didn’t even know you were home,” she says. “You scared me to death sneaking up on me like that.”

  “Me sneaking up on you? Karen, may I point out that this is my house?”

  She gazes at me defiantly. Her hair, mussed from the toweling, sticks out in all directions. The dark roots are showing, and she seems older than the last time I saw her, five months ago. There are deep circles beneath her brown eyes, eyes that look so much like mine, yet so incomprehensibly different.

  “I asked you a question, Karen. What are you doing here? Why are you going through Jeffrey’s things?”

  “He—he asked me to pick up some clothes. Some shirts, and one of his good suits.”

  “He did, huh? And when did he ask you to do this?”

  “Last night.” She gives me a mutinous look. “And, yes, he was with me last night. So what? Why do you give a damn?”

  “Believe me, I don’t—except that you’re lying. I know you told the police, or whoever talked to you this morning, that Jeffrey never showed last night. No one knows where he is.”

  “Well, don’t look at me.” She sniffs. “I don’t know, either.”

  Tossing the wet towel on my bed, she crosses to my dressing table, where she sits and calmly brushes her hair. She even has the audacity to start repairing her face with my makeup.

  I stand behind her with my arms folded. “I think you do know,” I say. “And dammit, don’t give me that look. Where is he, Karen? This is important.”

  My sister shrugs and continues to outline her lips, making them a quarter size bigger than they really are. As she moves her head, diamond earrings flash. A makeup gift from Jeffrey for his being away so much? He was always good at that.

  “I have absolutely no idea where Jeffrey is,” she says, pursing her lips. “I haven’t seen him for a couple days.”

  “Then how did you know he wanted his clothes?”

  She lifts a too-dark penciled eyebrow. “He called me, little sister. Ever hear of the phone?”

  “Okay, he called you. And he told you to pick up some of his clothes. You must know, then, where to take them.”

  “Actually, Jeffrey didn’t say. Well, you know him. He’ll show up eventually. Or he’ll call and let me know where he is.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I am silent, thinking.

  “What?” Karen says again. “What?”

  “I’m just thinking it’s odd Murphy didn’t let me know there was a stranger in the house.”

  My sister’s mouth curves into a smile, like a satisfied cartoon cat’s. “Well, maybe I’m not all that much of a stranger.”

  “It’s been years since you lived here, Karen.”

  She gets up from the dressing table and turns to me. Fingering my towel, she flips an end of it and flounces away. “True. But I’ve been around. Maybe more than you think.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She laughs, the sound so brittle it hurts my ears. “You didn’t think that night you caught us together was the first time, did you?”

  I can’t answer.

  She laughs. “Jeffrey and I were sleeping together when I lived here, Abby. We’ve been together for years—starting with right here in your bed.”

  It is all I can do to keep from slapping her. “What a little slut you are.”

  She grabs my arm. “Watch who you’re calling a slut, Abby. Wo
n’t the good citizens of Carmel—all your socially acceptable friends, that is, not to mention your very devoted readers—be surprised when Jeffrey tells them about you and your little boyfriend.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he tells anybody!”

  Dropping my arm, she grabs her purse from my bed and takes out a cigarette, lighting it slowly and deliberately.

  “Put that thing out,” I say.

  Karen grins and blows smoke into the air. “Oh, that’s right. No one’s allowed to smoke in your home. Really, Abby, you should learn to loosen up a bit.”

  I am allergic to smoke, and Karen knows it. Too much and my throat closes up. In fact, more than once I’ve landed in the hospital from second-hand smoke.

  “Please, Karen, give that to me.” I hold my hand out.

  Her eyes are so filled with hate, it startles me. In the next moment, she grabs my hand and jams the cigarette into my palm, lighted end first.

  I scream as she grinds it in before I can pull back. Grabbing her hand with my free one, I twist away while my palm sears. By this time Murphy is in the room, growling and snapping at Karen’s heels.

  I run to the bathroom, spin the water faucet frantically and dash cold water over my burnt palm. The pain is almost unbearable, and I am shocked, hardly able to believe this has happened. Tears fill my eyes. How did it come to this? Dear God, what has happened to my sister?

  When we were ten, twelve, Karen looked after me, made sure no one ever hurt me. She stood up for me against bullies in the schoolyard.

  How did she get to be this monster?

  When the pain in my hand diminishes a bit I dry it with clean tissue and look at my strained, pale face in the mirror.

  Karen did not follow me into the bathroom, nor has there been any sound from her in my bedroom. Cautiously, I go back in there. She is sitting on the bed with Murphy holding her in place, his front paws planted firmly in her lap. Tears flow down Karen’s cheeks. With the frowsy hair, the jewelry and the tears, she looks like an overdressed rag doll someone has tossed aside and forgotten to play with.