Sacred Trust

by Meg O'Brien

  The Ryans know this as well as I. Too much time has passed, and even if the FBI had been looking for Justin—which they have not—it would almost certainly be too late to find him now.

  We have Jeffrey to thank for this. Jeffrey, who pretended to launch a search, while doing…what?

  It’s a question none of us can answer. A question that has filled the Ryans with bewilderment, grief and rage. I am not far behind them. What kind of devil did I marry? How did he come to this?

  And what was Marti thinking throughout all this?

  From what Mary Ryan said, Marti did not fully trust Jeffrey. What would she have done, then? If she went to the president and he asked Jeffrey to handle it, and Jeffrey only pretended to—how soon did Marti realize this? Did she uncover whatever Jeffrey was up to? Did she confront him with it? And if so, when?

  The day of her murder?

  Even I can’t believe Jeffrey could be that evil. He couldn’t have killed Marti. He wouldn’t. Jeffrey has shown me a violent side, more than once—but it’s been a long time. I’ve truly believed that with maturity, he’d changed.

  Now I can’t be sure.

  When I leave the Ryans they’re packing and booking a flight home. I don’t know what they’ll do there, but certainly their return will shake Jeffrey when he learns of it.

  Will that bring him out of hiding? Or send him deeper underground?

  There are several hours left before my plane leaves at midnight, and I am on tenterhooks, anxious to get home. Aside from Jeffrey, I have one more person to look for now—Sister Helen.

  Before the Ryans and I parted, I asked them how they felt about Sister Helen’s visits over the years; if it seemed she was keeping too close an eye on them. They said no, that Justin had always liked Helen and accepted her as simply an old friend of his parents. They said they understood that Marti would want to know for certain her child was safe and healthy.

  All this time I’d been thinking I was the only one, when in reality, Marti’s son had two guardian angels. Part of me is envious, the other part glad.

  He had a good life, Marti. He was genuinely loved. Know that, at least.

  Sister Helen’s closeness to the Ryan family, however, makes me wonder even more about her hostility toward me at Marti’s grave. Did they tell her of Justin’s kidnapping, and did she suspect Jeffrey of not playing it straight when he said he was trying to find the boy?

  Did she share her fears with Ned, Marti’s brother? If so, that could explain a lot.

  I should have asked the Ryans these questions. The shock of finding them, however, and their shock at Marti’s death, wiped all but the most important matters out of my mind. I decide to find Sister Helen when I get back to Carmel and ask her myself.

  As for Justin, in my heart I have begun to let go. I don’t honestly see how he could still be alive. There are only two things I can do with that: I can grieve. And, I can do everything in my power to find his kidnapper. With any luck at all, I might be able to bring the monster to justice.

  Meanwhile, I need food. The cab I’ve called picks me up and takes me to a terrace restaurant by the beach in Ipanema, where I can relax and have a meal before my flight. While I wait for my order I sip an ice-cold coconut water and lean back in my chair, thinking. A dark, handsome and very young man at another table gives me the eye, but I pretend I don’t see him through my sunglasses. I’m sure he’s just doing what men must do in Ipanema, flirting with the lady tourist.

  Closing my eyes, I let my bones warm and my nerves loosen in the hot sun. When there’s movement by my table, I assume it’s my food coming, but don’t open my eyes. I don’t, in fact, feel like budging, even to lift a fork.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” a man’s voice says.

  I figure it’s the guy from the other table, so I ignore him.

  “Hey, aren’t you speaking to me today?” the voice says again.

  My eyes fly open and my mouth follows suit as I see it’s not the carioca at all, but Tommy Lawrence. “What the hell? Tommy? I…what are you doing here?”

  I am stunned at seeing him in these unfamiliar surroundings. And why am I feeling not pleasure, but something more like fear at his appearance? What is he doing all the way down here? What does he want with me? Really want with me?

  He slides into the chair across from mine, not waiting for an invitation. “I heard you’d flown down here. Thought you might like some company.”

  I lick my lips. My voice is low, my throat dry. “You heard? That’s impossible. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to Brazil.” How much does he know about my visit to the Ryans? Did he follow me there? And how did he find me at this restaurant?

  “Let’s just say I’ve got my sources,” he answers, grinning.

  Sources. Obviously, he’s not going to tell me. But this time he’s gone too far.

  “You should have saved your money,” I say when I find my voice again. “I’m having dinner then going straight to the airport.”

  “You’re flying back tonight?” He makes a small frown of disappointment.

  “I am.” I remove my sunglasses and look him in the eye. “So—you have business down here?”

  “No. Abby, it’s Rio, the city that doesn’t sleep at night. I thought you could use some company. How long’s it been since you had some fun?”

  “I haven’t had a whole hell of a lot of time for fun lately,” I say pointedly. “You might remember? A little matter of a good friend of mine being murdered?”

  He sobers instantly. “I can’t very well forget that. I know you can’t, either. That’s why I’m here. I sort of thought Marti would want me to boost your spirits a bit. Maybe take you dancing on lighted rooftops with a view of city and sea.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like less,” I say tersely. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I am so tired right now, I can’t even fathom what that would be like.”

  I jam my sunglasses on and lean back in my chair again. Maybe he’ll go away.

  “Then let me show you,” he insists with that ready grin. “I know Rio like the back of my hand.”

  With that, I lift my glasses and peer at him through narrowed eyes. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Sure, I spent time here right after college.”

  “An unpublished writer,” I say thoughtfully, “who can afford an extended stay at the La Playa in Carmel, round-trip air tickets to Rio and a night on the town? Hmm, let me think. What doesn’t seem right about that?”

  The grin widens. “Your suspicious mind, for one thing. I had an uncle who left me a small inheritance.”

  “Small?”

  “Well, sizable.” He shrugs. “You remember my uncle Ron?”

  “No, I never knew your uncle Ron. Tommy, it occurs to me that I never really knew you, either.”

  “Hey, there’s no time like the present. Dance with me…” He sings a few bars from the old tune that Fred Astaire danced to, Cheek to Cheek. “Let me show you heaven,” he says.

  His singing voice is so bad, I can’t help smiling. But my food has arrived and I start on it, deliberately chewing slowly, which gives me a few moments to think. Around us, people are leaving, as it’s late for lunch and early for dinner. The white umbrellas over the tables flap in a small breeze, and out on the sea sailboats are returning to dock. The sun is lowering over the western hills, the sky turning pink and gold.

  “So, what do you say?” Tommy persists.

  “I can’t go dancing with you tonight,” I answer between mouthfuls. “I’ve got to get home.”

  “What’s at home?”

  “My dog, for one thing. And I have to see some people.”

  “Can’t they wait? What’s so important it can’t wait another day?”

  I lay down my fork. “Tommy…what is it you want? Really want, I mean. I’m not in the mood to play games.”

  He spreads his hands in an “I give up” gesture. “I have some time on my hands and a few bucks burning a hole in my pocket. I just th
ought I could help somehow. Besides…” He sighs. “I miss Marti. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Tommy, how can you miss someone you hadn’t seen since high school?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he does, there are tears in his eyes. “It’s sort of like, when they’re alive you think anything could happen, that one day things could change. Then when they’re gone, it’s so damned permanent. You know nothing’s ever gonna go right, no matter what you do. You can’t bring people back.”

  I push my plate away and fold my hands under my chin, leaning my elbows on the table. I may be a fool, but Tommy’s tears have softened me. “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I say. “I don’t know why Marti drifted off from me the way she did the past few months. I just wish she was back here so I could do things differently somehow. The only thing is, I don’t know what things. And now maybe I never will.”

  “See, I knew you’d understand,” Tommy says, leaning forward earnestly. “There’s nothing we can do now, Abby. We can live with that every minute for the rest of our lives, or we can try to put it in the past. Not all the way in the past, just in some little drawer where we know we haven’t misplaced it, just put it aside for a while.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Sure you can! Come with me tonight. Let me show you Rio.”

  It’s tempting. Not Tommy showing me Rio—I’ve done all that before. But my plane doesn’t leave until midnight, despite what I told the enigmatic T. Lawrence about having to go straight to the airport.

  So how best can I use that time?

  By finding out what he’s really up to. I am not a total fool; there is more to his showing up in Rio than a desire to lift my spirits.

  “Okay,” I say, deciding suddenly. “Show me heaven, Fred. And make it good.”

  I pick up a dress at a boutique in Ipanema and change into it there. That leaves less than four hours before my flight, which is fine. It is, I’m hoping, all I’ll need.

  Rio, as I remember from previous trips, is everything Tommy promised—provided one doesn’t look beyond the bright lights to the poverty and children on the streets. They are everywhere along our route, from the first nightclub to the tallest hotel in the city, where we have a nightcap and slow-dance to exotic rhythms.

  The street kids keep getting to me. I begin to cling to straws, wondering if Justin is one of them in some city back home. What if he truly did run away, as his parents and Marti had first thought? What if the “kidnapper’s” note was only a ploy of Jeffrey’s, and Justin was never kidnapped at all? He could be wandering out there somewhere.

  The thought drives me wild, though I know it is probably only wishful thinking.

  As to Rio, we are going along just fine until the last stop, when, during a dance to “As Time Goes By,” Tommy plants a kiss on me that takes me completely by surprise.

  When I pull back, astonished, he says, “Was that a mistake? Shouldn’t I have done that?”

  “No, you should not have done that! Tommy, you know I’m involved with someone.”

  “With the cop, you mean? Ben Schaeffer? Is that serious?”

  “Yes, it’s serious.” I frown. This is the second time he’s mentioned Ben. “How do you know about Ben Schaeffer?”

  He shrugs. “I have my—”

  “Sources,” I finish angrily. “Never mind.”

  We don’t talk about it further, nor does he pump me for information about what I’m doing in Rio, as I’ve expected him to.

  On the other hand, he doesn’t give much up, either. I’d played along, hoping to find out just how long he’d been following me, if he knew I went to the house in Sao Conrado, and who I found there.

  But if my oh-too-charming dance partner knows anything about the Ryans and why I came to Sao Conrado, I’m still at a loss to discover it when our cab deposits us both at the International Airport, just in time for the midnight flight.

  At three in the morning I sit bleary-eyed and exhausted next to my travel mate, longing for sleep but unwilling to pass up one more chance to pump him for information.

  The fact that he’s paid for his own first-class ticket does seem to confirm that he has a trust fund. Beyond that, I’m still pretty much in the dark.

  Then it begins.

  “So, what were you doing in Rio, anyway?” he asks.

  “I flew down there looking for Jeffrey,” I tell him, adding the half truth, “I thought he was keeping a woman there.”

  “Ah. Evidence of infidelity? Are you getting a divorce?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Did you find this woman?” he asks.

  “No. I suppose I do let my suspicious mind run away with me sometimes.”

  “Well, if you ask me, your husband gives you good reason.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” I say, annoyed. I’m still thinking about that kiss. Is Tommy Lawrence transferring his obsession with Marti to me?

  He changes the subject. “You asked me how I knew your cop. As a matter of fact, I had a visit from him yesterday, before I left for Rio.”

  “Oh? What did he want?”

  “Wanted to know where I was from, what I was doing in Carmel and how long I planned to stay. Asked me some questions about Marti, said he saw me at the funeral. Wanted to know how long I’d known you, too.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Just that I had nothing to hide. Said I was down from Santa Rosa, didn’t know how long I’d be staying, and that I knew you and Marti from high-school days.”

  “Is that all he wanted?” It sounds like a routine interview.

  “That’s about it.” Tommy grins. “See, I don’t mind answering your questions at all. You know something, though? Don’t be offended, but there’s something about Ben Schaeffer I don’t much like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he seems pretty uptight about his work. If I did know anything, I don’t think I’d tell him. If it was something I thought might hurt someone, that is.”

  “Hurt someone?”

  “I’m not thinking anything specific. Just that he’s not the type to keep a secret, is he? Not if he thinks it might hurt his career?”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. Ben takes his work very seriously.”

  “To the point where he’d haul you off to jail if he thought you’d done something against the law, right? Even though you and he are close?”

  “I guess so.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. A guy like that, he only goes so far for a woman.”

  Tommy leans his head back in his seat and closes his eyes, leaving me to think about that.

  Five minutes later he pops back up and puts the light on for the flight attendant. When she comes he asks for coffee.

  “Would you like coffee, too?” the flight attendant asks me.

  “No, white wine,” I say. “Wait. On second thought, make that vodka, rocks. A double.”

  Suddenly, I feel in need of a good stiff drink.

  By the time we’re on the commuter flight from San Francisco to Monterey, I would like to rid myself of Tommy Lawrence. It’s impossible, though. He sticks like glue—even sharing my cab from the Monterey airport to Carmel. During the fifteen-minute ride he says, “I’ve been curious about Sister Helen—the nun who taught Marti in high school? She was at the funeral.”

  “Yes, I know Sister Helen.”

  “That’s right, of course, you’d know her, too. Anyway, I saw her at the funeral and got curious about her. She seemed odd. More angry than grieving.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And she wasn’t with any other nuns from Mary Star of the Sea, your old high school. I thought at first that, if she came here because she used to be Marti’s teacher, some of the other sisters from the high school would have come with her.”

  “Except for one thing,” I say. “Sister Helen doesn’t live in Santa Rosa anymore. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “You’re right, I found th
at out. She’s been living out at this weird place called The Prayer House, so far out in Carmel Valley it’s practically to hell and gone.”

  “An interesting allegory,” I say.

  “Well, wait till you hear what I found out about it, and how Sister Helen ended up there. It’s not a pretty story.”

  I must admit this grabs me. “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

  “Well, you remember when Vatican II was held in the sixties? The conference that modernized so many things in the Church? Did away with the Latin, turned the Mass into your everyday boring lecture in English?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, the Church gave the noncloistered sisters the freedom to go out in the world, dress like civilians, get jobs and rent their own apartments. Sometime after that, some of the motherhouses were closed because they’d become too costly to run. While that made sense financially, it was apparently tough on some of the older, retired sisters. A place they had thought of as home all their lives was suddenly gone.”

  “I remember that, too,” I say, though I haven’t really followed the Church and its machinations in years. “The motherhouses were huge, and as I remember, the Church—or maybe it was just the individual religious orders, I’m not sure—decided it could no longer afford to keep them running.”

  “The equivalent to once-wealthy families,” Tommy agrees, “who had to sell their mansions and downgrade to condos.”

  I am recalling more details now, from news reports in the seventies or eighties. Traditionally, the motherhouses were the home base where young girls went to become nuns and then retired to when their life’s work was over or when they were seriously ill. In between—in the active orders, at least—the nuns were assigned to smaller convents in towns and cities, next to the church schools they taught at or the hospitals where they were nurses. Sometime after Vatican II, however, many of the motherhouses closed, just as Tommy said. Whether the closures were due primarily to the changes in the Church after Vatican II, or whether they had more to do with financial conditions in the world at that time, I’ve never really known.