Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  Sister Mary Teresa giggled. “That must have been when I was at the children’s hospital. Wish I’d seen those two squaring off. They’re always at cross-purposes. You’d think, since we’re all in the same calling, so to speak, that they’d get along a little better.”

  Sister Frances shrugged as she tore her roll apart. “Just because they both love the Lord does not necessarily mean they love each other,” she said, and then quickly added, “symbolically speaking, of course.” She pointed. “Would you please pass the salt?”

  Thirty-six hours had come and gone without a word from Sullivan or Ginny, and Sister Mary Teresa was starting to get concerned. She’d tried again to call Ginny at the St. Louis Daily, only to be told that her friend was out on assignment. She could only guess at why Sully hadn’t called, but knowing the line of work he was in, he could be anywhere in the U.S. at this moment, completely unaware of what was happening.

  She thought twice about contacting the local authorities and then dismissed the idea. All the deaths had been witnessed and ruled accidents or suicides. She had no proof that anything was wrong except a gut instinct that she and Ginny would be next.

  Two days ago, she’d asked to be relieved from her duties in the office for fear of having to answer the phones. When Mother Superior had asked her if she was ill, she’d lied and said yes. Now her conscience was bothering her. With a heavy heart, she exited the main building and headed toward the chapel on the far side of the grounds, thankful that the rains they’d been experiencing for the past week had finally subsided. Her eyes were on the path before her, her thoughts focused on a long-overdue confession. Although there were a number of vehicles parked in the visitors’ lot, she bypassed them with little notice. Visitors were common to Sacred Heart. She walked with her head down, taking hasty steps, the hem of her habit swishing busily against her ankles; unaware of the person sitting on the bench beneath the trees to her left. From a distance, she could hear footsteps on the path behind her, but the sound was unremarkable and gave her no reason to turn.

  As Sister Mary Teresa entered the chapel, her anxiety began to dissipate. She drew strength from this place, and from the peace that dwelled within.

  Several people were scattered throughout the pews, some with their eyes upon the magnificent stained glass window directly over the altar, others sitting quietly with heads bent in supplication to the Lord. She paid them no mind as she genuflected, made the sign of the cross, then kissed the figure of the Blessed Jesus hanging from the end of her rosary before heading toward the confessionals in the back of the room.

  Although Father Joseph heard confessions at this time every day, he was nowhere to be seen. Sister Mary didn’t care. He would eventually show up, he always did, and she was happy just to be in the House of the Lord. Taking a seat within one of the confessionals, she shut the door and then clasped her hands in her lap and bowed her head. When Father Joseph saw that the door was closed, he would know someone waited within. For now, she would exercise patience. It was something she’d learned during her time as a novice. Everything comes in its own time, including priests.

  A minute passed, and then another. The panic within her heart was all but gone. God was around her and within her, and she had no sense of fear. When she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then the door opening in the cubicle next to her, she knew Father Joseph had come. With tear-filled eyes, she took a deep breath.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was three days ago.”

  Instead of the familiar rhythm of Father Joseph O’Grady’s voice, she heard a faint but heavy rumble, like the sound of distant thunder. Then, between one breath and the next, a part of Sister Mary Teresa’s past, belonging to the child that she had been, wrapped around her mind and pulled her under. There was no time to panic, because she was already gone. In a matter of moments, Sister Mary Teresa was lost to a master who’d claimed her long before the One she now served.

  The thunder was gone now. Slowly she opened her eyes and opened the door. As she stepped outside the confessional, someone took her by the arm.

  “Forgive me, Sister, I was unavoidably detained. Please take a seat and I will hear your confession,” Father Joseph said.

  But the little nun gave no sign that she’d heard a word he said.

  “Sister Mary Teresa!”

  She kept on walking, leaving the aging priest to make what he would of her behavior.

  Father Joseph watched in disbelief. Just as she reached the exit, something—maybe the voice of God Himself—told him to follow her. By the time he reached the doorway she was nowhere in sight. More than a bit concerned, he went down the steps, taking them two at a time as he scanned the grounds. Pausing to look again, he turned, taking in the lay of land that ran in a gentle slope from behind the old cathedral to the river below.

  Shrugging, he started to leave when a flash of black appeared and then disappeared within a copse of trees above the river. It was her, of that there was no doubt. But why would she be walking down there? Again an inner voice pushed at him to follow, although it made no sense. There was nothing down there but the river, and it was in flood.

  Suddenly, within his mind came a word, so forceful and frightening that he knew in his heart it had come straight from God.

  Go!

  Without thought for his old joints, he started to run. The closer he got to the river, the faster he moved. By the time he exited the trees on the bank above the fast-running water, he was moving at an all-out lope. Breathing heavily, he stopped, bracing an arm against a tree as he searched the area with a worried gaze.

  Then he saw her about a hundred yards downstream, standing on the edge of a precipice that jutted out over the river, poised like a small blackbird about to take flight. In the riverbed below, the water roiled, sweeping past huge boulders at a deadly pace.

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted her name, but it disappeared within the roar of the rushing water. His heart sank. She would never be able to hear him. When she suddenly swayed, his concern turned to panic.

  “No! Dear Lord, no!”

  He began to run, oblivious to everything but the woman on the rocks. Moments later, she slowly lifted her arms to the heavens, turned her face to the sky and then leaned forward.

  He froze in midstride, watching in disbelief as she fell into space. Although it took only seconds for her body to hit the water, he would remember it later in a series of perfectly framed stills.

  The smile on her face, her eyes closed as if in slumber.

  Her arms horizontal to her shoulders and unmoving, like the image of a crucified Christ.

  The flutter of her clothing, dark and molded to her body like a shroud.

  The way the water parted to accept her presence.

  A flash of white, a momentary shadow beneath the thick, muddy flow, and then…nothing.

  The little nun was gone.

  “No!” he screamed, as he fell to his knees. “Dear merciful God, no!”

  Twenty-four hours later, Washington, D.C.

  Sullivan Dean shoved his key into the lock, taking satisfaction in the distinct click of the tumblers. Shouldering the strap of his duffel bag, he pushed his way inside his apartment, slamming the door behind him as he went.

  An old, musty scent pervaded as he moved from room to room. An ivy plant hanging in a nearby window was drooping like Santa’s mustache as he set his bag on the floor and tossed the armful of mail that had collected while he was gone onto a nearby table. Rolling his eyes at the condition of the plant, he realized he’d forgotten to take the darn thing to his neighbor’s before he left. This was the fifth, or maybe sixth, one he’d killed since he’d moved to this place. He shrugged. Maybe he should quit replacing the damned things; then he wouldn’t have this worry.

  Lifting the ivy down from the hook on which it was hanging, he carried it into the kitchen and set it in the sink, giving it a liberal dousing of water, although he suspected it was going to be
a case of too little too late.

  Eyeing the limp leaves, he gave one a tug. It came away in his hand. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not cut out for roots of any kind…not even yours.”

  A short while later, he strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge, quickly wrinkling his nose in disgust. Whatever it was that he’d wrapped in that plastic had turned to a green, soupy liquid. He dropped it in the trash and slammed the door before turning to survey his surroundings.

  Well, the best that could be said for the apartment was that the rooms were dusty and empty. He sighed. This was one of those times when the thought crossed his mind that it would have been nice to come home to something besides echoes, which reminded him of the last relationship he’d tried to have. At that point, he decided that dead plants and dusty furniture weren’t so bad after all. And there was the fact that he didn’t have to go in to the office until Monday. By then all would be back in order.

  Satisfied that he’d solved all his problems, he reached for the phone. He would order in a pizza tonight, call a cleaning service tomorrow, and shop for groceries, then take his clothes to the cleaners on Monday. Maybe tonight he would call his brother. They hadn’t talked in months. He also reminded himself that he needed to call the nursing home tomorrow and check on his mother’s condition. She wouldn’t miss him, but he missed the person she’d been. Alzheimer’s had robbed him of his last living parent, and what he needed right now in his life was less chaos, not a lover to mess up his life.

  A couple of hours later, after a shower and a meal, Sully settled down to go through his mail. The inevitable bills would need to be dealt with, and there was no time like the present. He sat on his sofa with the mail in his lap, sorting through the stack. Bills to his left, newspapers at his feet, personal mail to his right, catalogues in the trash.

  About halfway through sorting, he came to a letter-size pack from FedEx. Curious, he glanced at the return address and started to smile. It was from Georgia. Almost immediately he amended the thought to Sister Mary Teresa, although in his heart, she would always be Tommy Dudley’s little sister Georgia.

  Setting aside the rest of the mail to be sorted out later, he tore into the packet and pulled out a handful of papers with a brief, handwritten letter from Georgia on top. Scanning the papers, he quickly saw that they were Xeroxed copies of newspaper clippings. Curious, he picked up her letter and started to read.

  Almost instantly, the smile he was wearing went south. He sat up with a jerk and reread her note before scanning the clippings, taking note of the areas she had highlighted.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered, and looked back at the letter. The last line on the page stopped his heart.

  Sully, please help. Ginny or I might be next.

  He bolted to his feet and raced to the bedroom. His address book was still on the dresser where he’d tossed it last week. Shuffling through the pages, he found her address, as well as the phone number to Sacred Heart Convent. A sick feeling was building deep in his belly as he punched in the numbers. Surely to God he was making too much of this. Georgia would answer and then laugh when he called, telling him she’d jumped to too many conclusions. That was it. As soon as he heard her voice, they would be laughing together. Yet when his call was answered, he found himself stumbling for words.

  “Sacred Heart Convent. How may I help you?”

  “I need to speak to Georgia…I mean, Sister Mary Teresa.”

  He heard a soft gasp and then, “One moment please.”

  In the background he thought he could hear hasty whispers, and his stomach knotted. When a different person suddenly came on the line, he knew something was wrong.

  “Mother Superior speaking. Who’s calling, please?”

  The woman’s voice was stern, and he had instant flashbacks of a ruler popping on his head and being sent to stand in a corner. It took all he had to get out of that juvenile frame of mind and back to the problem at hand.

  “This is Sullivan Dean. I’m a family friend of Sister Mary Teresa. I need to speak with her.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s…”

  “Please,” Sully said. “It’s important.”

  The woman sighed, and Sully was surprised to hear tears in her voice.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not that I won’t allow it. It’s just that—” She stopped suddenly, changing her focus. “If you’re a family friend, you should already know.”

  Sully dropped to the edge of the bed, his legs too weak to hold him.

  “I’ve been out of the country. What should I know?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but we lost Sister Mary.”

  Sully’s ears were roaring as he pinched the bridge of his nose to stop a sudden need to cry.

  “What do you mean, lost her?”

  “She’s dead, sir.”

  Sully’s lungs deflated. A long moment of silence passed as he struggled to find breath with which to speak. Finally the word came out in a harsh, ugly groan.

  “How?”

  “It’s not for us to judge. All we can do is pray for her soul.”

  Rage shifted the pain. “To hell with prayers. I want answers!” he shouted.

  “Father Joseph witnessed her death,” she said, still hedging.

  “Mother Superior, I am an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and for the last time, I’m asking you how Georgia died.”

  There was another long moment of silence, followed by a word that rocked Sully’s world.

  “Suicide.”

  “No. Not only no, but hell no. The woman I knew would never kill herself. Not in a million years.”

  “She jumped into a flood-swollen river.”

  “She couldn’t swim,” Sully said.

  “Yes, we know.”

  Sully’s thoughts were spinning. He needed to concentrate. But on what? Georgia had asked him for help, and he’d been too late.

  “Her things. What happened to her things?” he asked.

  “Her family is coming next week to pick them up.”

  “I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Don’t move a thing until I get a chance to look at them.”

  “Oh, but I…”

  “She was murdered,” Sully said. “I don’t know how, but if it’s the last thing I do, I will find out. Are you going to help me or not?”

  3

  Ginny was late for work. The thunderstorm that had rolled through St. Louis last night had knocked out power in her area just long enough to mess up her digital alarm clock. It was still blinking madly as she rinsed the toothpaste out of her mouth and then ran a brush hastily through her hair. When it caught on a tangle, she winced, then cursed.

  “Crap,” she muttered, yanking the brush back through the spot without care for the pain.

  It served her right for succumbing to the storm. For as long as she could remember, the sound of thunder had always given her a lethargic feeling, which often escalated into long, dreamless sleep.

  Grabbing her raincoat and umbrella, she dashed from the bedroom. If the traffic went her way, she would make it to work on time, but barely. She was reaching for the knob when a knock sounded on the door. Startled, she jerked, then stood on tiptoe to look through the security peephole.

  “Crap again,” she muttered, recognizing the superintendent of her apartment building. He’d been hitting on her for months and didn’t seem to recognize the fact that she wasn’t interested. She opened the door abruptly, hoping her impatience showed.

  “Yes?”

  He stripped her naked with a healthy leer before returning his gaze to her face.

  “Good morning, Virginia.”

  “Stanley…as you can see, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Yes, well, aren’t we all?” Then he whipped a large express envelope out from behind his back. “About this delivery…I found it on the floor behind the wastebasket this morning. I don’t know how it became so misplaced, but since it was marked Urgent, I felt it my duty to get it to you
at once.”

  “Thanks,” Ginny said, as she took the envelope, glancing at the return address as she closed the door in his face.

  Almost immediately, her mood shifted. Sacred Heart Convent. It must be from Georgia! Then she amended that to Sister Mary. It still seemed impossible that Georgia Dudley, the girl who had stripped off her sweater at a New Year’s Eve party and danced on her boss’s table had become a nun. Then she grinned to herself. Maybe that was exactly why she’d done it. Knowing she would never work at the Dudson, Dudson and Gregory law firm again and having to explain to her next employer why she’d been fired, would have made job hunting quite difficult.

  Then Ginny sighed. That just wasn’t true. She knew why Georgia had chosen her life’s work. She’d seen it on her face the day she’d told everyone about her dream and the ensuing vision. The change in her had been internal, but it had radiated throughout. With a halfhearted glance at her watch, Ginny dropped her stuff on the sofa. She was already late. A few more minutes couldn’t matter.

  Sitting down, she tore into the packet with a smile on her face and pulled out the handful of papers, paying little attention to anything except the letter on top.

  Dear Ginny,

  I don’t know how to start except to say that I think we’re in danger.

  Ginny frowned. Her gaze slid to the next sentence, then the next and the next, and by the time she’d come to the end of the letter, her stomach was in knots. Hastily, she glanced through the accompanying pages, counting off the names of the deceased. They seemed familiar, but who…?

  Memory surfaced as she reread the note from Georgia. The gifted class! They were all in that gifted class together!

  “No,” she muttered. “It can’t be.”