The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  She noticed he was wearing thin rubber gloves—the kind a surgeon would use. This close to him, she noticed something else: his shaggy hair looked like a wig; the glasses and mustache seemed to be part of a disguise.

  He slipped her phone into the pocket of his corduroy jacket.

  “Wait a minute,” Diana started to say. “What—”

  She fell silent as he furtively took out a revolver and jabbed it in her side. Diana froze.

  He slid his other arm around her while the gun barrel dug into the fold of flesh just above her waist. “Come with me, keep your head down, and do what I say,” he whispered.

  He started leading her back past the library—toward the stately former mansion that housed the administration offices. Beyond Logan Hall, Diana could see all the windows were dark in the older buildings that housed classrooms. This part of the campus became deserted after night classes got out at nine o’clock.

  Diana stole one last look at the Grub Hub. Through the window, inside, she could see a foursome of students laughing and clowning around as they headed toward the checkout counter with their drinks and snacks. They were too far away. If she tried to trip this guy or run, he could shoot her and flee before anyone in the store even noticed.

  Her legs felt weak, and she was shaking. But Diana kept walking—with her head down, just as he’d instructed. “Where are you taking me?” she whispered, her voice quavering. “Did you mean that about Ellie? Did someone really shoot her?”

  “They will if you don’t cooperate with me, Diana.”

  They passed the rose garden with a tall statue of St. Mary on a pedestal in the center. Diana looked up at it for a moment. She felt the gun barrel poking into her rib cage. She was so scared she couldn’t quite get a breath. They headed toward the church at the edge of the campus. She spotted two nuns, walking toward them on the other side of the street.

  “So far, you’ve been a real good girl,” he said in a hushed voice. His hand on her shoulder took on a viselike grip. It almost hurt. “You don’t want to spoil it now. Things have gone very smoothly. In fact, it’s perfect that you went to the library. I couldn’t have asked for it to be more ideal. Fifty years ago tonight, the library was the last place Greta Mae Louden was seen alive. Do you know about her? Have you ever seen her picture, Diana? She was found the next morning in the ravine, her schoolbooks scattered near her corpse. You know about the Immaculate Conception murders, don’t you? Greta was the first one he killed, the first holy slut . . .”

  Diana wanted to scream, push him away, and make a run for it. But she was too terrified. She never thought she’d be so passive in this kind of situation. But Diana kept thinking, Do what he says, and you’ll be okay. Yet, all the while, she knew it was a lie.

  They kept moving—past the old church, toward a small, fenced-off arboretum area. He led her up to the tall, wrought iron gate. He finally released her shoulder and then reached into his pocket. He handed her a key. “Unlock it for me, Greta.”

  Why did he call me by the dead girl’s name? Diana thought. Had he done it on purpose?

  Her hand shook so much that she could hardly fit the key in the lock. She’d been in this garden a few times, but only during the daytime, never at night. It was pretty—with trees, plants, shrubs, and a winding path that led to a stairway that went down to the beach. There was also a grotto, a cave-like shrine that housed a nine-foot statue of Christ. The last time Diana had been there, she’d noticed the paint on the statue of Jesus was faded and peeling. His red robe had turned pale pink. In front of the sacred effigy were racks of votive candles and a long kneeler. She remembered there were a couple of pews as well. Diana wondered if he was taking her there—or to the beach. This area was closed after dark. Only certain members of the college’s administration or the custodial staff had the keys to it.

  She finally got the key in the lock and gave it a turn.

  The heavy gate squeaked as he pushed it open. Diana handed the key to him. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked. She tried to hold back her tears. “Is Ellie here?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. He nodded for her to lead the way.

  Diana reluctantly headed into the garden. He kept nudging her in the back with his gun. The treetops blocked out the moonlight, and in the darkness, Diana could barely make out the gravel trail in front of her. She heard the waves lapping on the shore below. From a distance, and in the shadows, the grotto looked like a large, dark recess between two huge trees. But as Diana came closer, she recognized the man-made stone cave with its rounded roof. A slightly battered-looking crucifix hung over the arched entrance.

  Diana felt the gun prodding her toward the entryway. “You might feel like praying,” he said. “Go on in . . .”

  She passed under the archway but then hesitated. The cave was dank and pitch-black inside. It felt cold—like death. His hand pressed against her back, gently pushing her to the left. Then a light went on. Diana glanced over her shoulder to see he had one hand on a light switch on the wall. His other hand still held the revolver.

  Turning forward again, she realized they were standing in front of the shrine. Ornately covered lights hung from beams that ran across the ceiling of the cave. They weren’t very bright. Without the votives illuminating Jesus’ face, the statue looked almost menacing.

  Diana spotted a tall ladder behind the statue. At first, she thought some renovation work was being done on the shrine. But then, just above the top of the ladder, she saw a rope tied to one of the ceiling beams. At the bottom of the rope was a noose.

  “I want you to climb up on that ladder,” he said.

  She turned to him, searching for a human being behind that clumsy disguise. “Why are you doing this to me?” she whimpered.

  “Because you look like the first one,” he said in a quiet, cold voice. “Get up on the ladder, Greta. Jesus can’t help you now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, 10:34 P.M.

  In terrible trouble. Am at d grotto by d church. Please come meet me. Need 2 C U now. Counting on U. Please hurry.

  Ellie was grading papers at the kitchen table when she got the text. She had on her “comfy clothes”—a long-sleeve T-shirt and drawstring pants. Joni Mitchell serenaded her from the sound system in the living room. She’d been thinking about going to bed early when her phone had buzzed.

  The cryptic text didn’t seem like something Diana would send. She wasn’t the overly dramatic type. And if it was a true emergency, she would have telephoned.

  Ellie phoned her and got Diana’s voice mail. She impatiently waited for the beep. “Hey, Di, what’s going on? I just got this weird text. What are you doing at the grotto? Isn’t it closed this time of night? Anyway, call me when you get this. I was just about to go to bed, but I—I’ll head over there. Call me if you can, let me know what this is about, okay?”

  She clicked off. “Shit.”

  Ellie threw on a sweater and a pair of jeans and was out the door within five minutes. She’d hoped Diana would call back in time to spare her this trip, but no such luck. She had the phone in her lap while driving toward the campus. She kept thinking that Diana must have run into J.T. and he’d taken her to the wooded park, where things got out of hand. Maybe he’d tried to rape her. Maybe he’d succeeded.

  It usually took Ellie about twenty minutes to get to work, but she made it to the campus in less than fifteen. As she drove up Maple Hill Road, which ran parallel to the lake, Ellie saw the church ahead—and beyond that, the swirling lights.

  An ambulance, three patrol vehicles, another one marked CAMPUS SECURITY, and a few other cars were parked by the entrance to the small arboretum.

  “Oh God, no,” Ellie murmured. She’d already felt anxious. But now a wave of dread rushed over her. Had Diana called the police after sending her that text?

  Ellie pulled over and parked on the other side of the street. Jumping out of the car, she ran to the garden gate. Several bystanders—one of them a priest—we
re milling around, craning their necks to look into the wooded area. Two cops blocked the entrance.

  Ellie approached them. “My name’s Ellie Goodwin,” she said to the tall, lanky policewoman. “I teach here at the school. I got a text twenty minutes ago from Diana Mackie, asking me to meet her here.”

  The policewoman glanced over at her colleague, a ruddy-faced, thirty-something man with dark hair. He took a step back and muttered something into his shoulder mic. “What’s your name again, ma’am?” he asked, looking at Ellie.

  “Ellie Goodwin,” she said, trying to get her breath. On her tiptoes, she glanced past the policewoman’s shoulder. The lights were on in the little park, and she could see the winding gravel trail. “What’s happened? Is Diana in there?”

  Although Ellie hadn’t so much as taken one step forward, the policewoman put a hand up as if to stop her. “Hold on just a minute, ma’am.”

  Ellie shrugged at her. “What?”

  The other cop finished murmuring into his shoulder mic. “Castino says to let her through,” he told the policewoman. “One of us better take her. I can handle things here if you want.”

  The policewoman nodded at Ellie and opened the gate. “All right, let’s go.”

  Her stomach clenched, Ellie followed the woman down the gravel path bordered by trees, plants, and shrubs. “Is Diana hurt?” she asked. “Can’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Detective Castino’s in charge of the investigation,” the cop said with her back to Ellie. “Detective Anton Castino—”

  “Investigation?” Ellie repeated.

  “Yes, I’m sure Detective Castino would like a few words with you,” she said.

  As they approached the grotto, Ellie passed another uniformed cop and two paramedics with a collapsible gurney—still folded up. One of the EMS guys was talking into his phone. Ellie hesitated before stepping under the grotto’s archway. She’d been to the shrine a few times. It always struck her as a serene place. Not tonight. Though no one was yelling, there was a buzz of activity and several people talking at once.

  Following the policewoman through a tiny foyer, Ellie turned to her left. She entered the shrine—only to be blinded by a flash. It took her a moment to see again. A police photographer was at the edge of the altar, taking pictures. The flash kept going off. Behind him, another cop talked into his shoulder mic. And behind the cop, standing between two pews that faced the altar, stood a short, stout man in a cheap-looking suit. He looked like a plainclothes detective and reminded her of Danny DeVito. He was dictating into a little recorder.

  On the altar, beside the bigger-than-life statue of Jesus, a ladder had fallen and smashed into a rack of votives. Among the mess and the shards of glass on the floor, Ellie recognized Diana’s tote bag—the one from the Art Institute. The aftereffects of the flash were still playing tricks with her eyes. She made herself focus on the books that had fallen out of Diana’s bag. Look Homeward, Angel was among them—open and face-down at the edge of the step to the altar. There was a school library sticker on the back cover.

  Ellie still didn’t see Diana. She took another step toward the shrine and noticed a priest on the altar, standing behind the statue. Looking up, he murmured a prayer. Ellie couldn’t hear his words amid all the other talking. And from where she stood, she couldn’t see what he was looking at.

  She took one more step and glimpsed her young friend, Diana, hanging from the end of a rope. The other end was tied around one of the ceiling beams.

  Horrified, Ellie let out a cry. Covering her mouth, she backed away and bumped into the wall.

  “Who is this?” the little plainclothes man hissed. His voice echoed inside the cave.

  “It’s Ellie Goodwin,” the policewoman whispered. “You said to bring her in here.”

  “I said to bring her here, not in here,” he growled. “Take her outside, damn it. I’ll be out to talk with her in a couple of minutes. And for God’s sake, get that priest out of here, too. He’s trampling all over my crime scene. He can pray over her after we take her down from there. She won’t be any less dead than she is now.”

  In shock, Ellie was barely aware of the policewoman taking her by the arm. She was still gazing up at her friend. She couldn’t comprehend how this could have happened. It didn’t seem real.

  The policewoman started to lead her toward the exit. With tears in her eyes, Ellie glanced over her shoulder. But she couldn’t see Diana anymore. The statue was in the way. The washed-out face of Jesus looked calm—almost indifferent to what was going on around him.

  Ellie let the policewoman guide her outside. Once she felt the cool night air, she broke down and wept.

  Tuesday, 1:34 A.M.

  Ellie turned the key in her front door and realized it was unlocked.

  She was tired and emotional—and now she was scared.

  She always locked the door whenever she left her townhouse. It was an automatic thing. Ellie stood on the front stoop for a few moments. She’d left the light on in the living room, and she could see from the doorway that nothing looked different. The place hadn’t been ransacked. Nothing appeared to be missing.

  Biting her lip, she finally stepped inside. She left the door open behind her for a quick escape. Then she peeked into the kitchen and the powder room. She glanced up the stairs. The hallway light was on. She was pretty sure she’d left it that way.

  She closed the front door and double-locked it. Then she headed into the kitchen and opened the utensils drawer. The rattle of the utensils broke the silence in the townhouse. Ellie took out a steak knife. She returned to the foot of the stairs and then stopped to listen for a minute. Not a sound. Ellie forced herself to go up the steps. She checked the guest room and the closet, the bathroom, and then her bedroom. The bedroom closet was open and the light was on. That was a trademark of break-ins. Bedroom closets were where people often hid guns or stashed valuables. It was one of the spots in a house where a burglar would really dig in and look for things. But from what Ellie could see, nothing was out of place. She’d been in such a hurry to change her clothes that she’d probably just left the light on and the door open.

  Taking the knife back downstairs to the kitchen, she poured a glass of red wine for herself. Then, in a daze, she wandered into her living room and sank down on the sofa. Grabbing the remote, she switched on the TV. A Frasier rerun was on. She turned down the volume. She didn’t really want to watch anything. But it was nice to look at familiar faces—and hear them talking in the background. She took a big gulp of wine.

  She’d just spent the last hour and a half at the Delmar Police Station, talking at a café table in the break room with the Danny DeVito lookalike, Detective Castino. He was actually very nice. He’d gotten her a 7UP from one of the vending machines—and a Dr Pepper and a Little Debbie for himself.

  They’d already spoken outside of the grotto, but he wanted to go over everything again. Ellie showed him her cell phone and the text from Diana. She told him how the text didn’t seem like something Diana would send. She couldn’t accept the idea that her friend might have taken her own life. Diana hadn’t been depressed. None of it made any sense.

  Castino said the timing of Diana’s text made perfect sense. It had been sent at 10:34 P.M. Then, at approximately 10:45, one of the college’s philosophy teachers, Father Gillespie, on his nightly constitutional, had heard a loud crash—coming from somewhere in the arboretum park. He’d hurried back to the rectory and called campus security.

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself. She gave you only ten minutes to get there before she gave up. It’s obvious the crash Father Gillespie heard was when Diana kicked the ladder out from under herself. She must have been alone, because Father Gillespie said he didn’t see anyone in the woods after he heard the racket. And she still had the key the custodian—what’s-his-name—Lance—reported stolen. It was in her purse.”

  “Someone could have planted that key in her purse and run away in the other direction—down to the beac
h,” Ellie pointed out.

  Castino seemed to dismiss the idea. He asked if Diana had a boyfriend or anyone special in her life.

  Ellie told him about Diana’s unspectacular date with J.T. “I really don’t think she would have killed herself over him,” she said. “It was just a mild crush. She was really ambivalent about him.” She told Castino that J.T. had a reputation for having had sex with about half the girls on campus. She figured that every detail might be helpful, so she also mentioned how J.T. had surreptitiously taken a photo of her and Hannah at the pool on Friday.

  This little tidbit seemed to interest the detective. But apparently, it didn’t change his mind that Diana’s death was a suicide.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Ellie argued. “Why would she kill herself there? She had to go to all that trouble stealing the keys, dragging the ladder from wherever, and getting the rope. O’Donnell Hall is eight stories high. She could have easily jumped out of one of the top-floor windows of her dorm and killed herself that way. It’s no secret that, over the decades, other girls have done it. Diana never even mentioned the grotto to me until the text tonight. I keep thinking it was set up to look like a suicide. The whole thing is crazy.”

  “I’ve seen a lot crazier,” Castino said. “I’m sure, as a reporter, you have, too.”

  Those had been his closing words. He’d given her his card and thanked her for her cooperation.

  Ellie had wept most of the way home from the police station.

  Her wineglass was now empty. On TV, Frasier had been succeeded by The Golden Girls.

  Ellie kept thinking about something else that didn’t make sense. It was a small matter, but one that gnawed at her. She hadn’t shared it with Detective Castino because it seemed so trivial. But why were Diana’s books scattered on the floor like that? Had she taken her tote bag up on the ladder with her? Why would she do that? And the way the books were strewn looked sort of arranged. She kept thinking about Look Homeward, Angel. Diana and she used to discuss the books they were reading. Diana had been in the middle of reading Rebecca. She hadn’t mentioned Thomas Wolfe or Look Homeward, Angel. The book had been left open on the altar floor—with the cover and spine facing up. Ellie couldn’t help wondering if Diana—or maybe her killer—had positioned the book that way on purpose. Was there a crucial quote on that particular page, one that might hint at why Diana was dead?