This monologue, which would only have distressed the real Sister Katherine, was very welcome to Andrea. It told her what her conduct should be in the coming days. She remained quietly in her room, reading and rereading the diary, catching the names and memorizing the duties—and, after the first time, skipping over the ruminations of Sister Katherine’s heart. She spoke as little as possible and tried to give the appearance of being constantly distressed and preoccupied. Since this was Andrea’s true state, it was not a difficult demeanor to feign.
She knew from Katherine herself, and from the diary, that she was soon to be transferred to the Mother House, and from there to a mission school. If this moving about had not been immediately in store, Andrea thought she might well have given the entire deception over—she could not imagine maintaining it beyond the week’s grace that would be allowed her for trauma. But if she was being sent to places where the true Sister Katherine was not known, then there would be only the difficulty of keeping up the pretense that she was a postulant in the missionary order. The possibility that the real Sister Katherine would return and unmask her was one that Andrea dismissed out of hand. She had come to know Jack’s cruelty.
In the last entries of the journal Andrea found that Sister Katherine was to take her final vows once she reached the Mother House, but she had not included the instructions for that ceremony. This omission sent Andrea into a panic. She searched through the few books Katherine had on the shelf of her closet and went twice through the papers stacked neatly within the desk drawers, but found nothing. And it was, of course, impossible for her to question any of the nuns about it: her ignorance would betray her. In desperation one night, hours after the house was slumbering, Andrea went to the library and searched every shelf until she found a slim volume outlining the ceremony of the final vows. She took the volume back to her chamber and pored over it until she was almost as familiar with it as her sister had been.
Andrea knew she would not remain a nun forever, of course. She hoped it would not even be necessary to take the final vows—perhaps she could get away before that. Her twin sister had had a rough time of it, Andrea learned: her father murdered, her mother tried and convicted. Her mother had committed suicide one week, and—the other nuns thought—next week she had seen a young woman beaten nearly to death before her eyes. All these things could easily cause a mental imbalance that would prevent her from becoming a nun. She might ask for a leave of absence, without the intention of ever returning. Once out of the convent, she would have a new identity. It was a shame, of course, that she would not be able to have any of her parents’ wealth or their insurance money—Andrea LoPonti was dead; but with some boldness, Andrea resolutely looked on the prospect of beginning a life from scratch.
She began to wonder if she should apply to graduate schools when she got out of all this business with the convent and the Slaves, but then brought herself up short: She wasn’t out of the woods yet. The police were coming back to have her testimony on what she saw; there was at least one more week to be spent among nuns who had been Sister Katherine’s daily companions; there were a thousand mysterious details of convent life that she would have to pick up immediately by close observation.
When she was alone, the diary was Andrea’s study. And when she was elsewhere in the convent, or in the Church of St. Luke, she participated in the life with a certain hesitancy, it was true, but also with a courage born of her determination to bring off the deception.
Late one night, when the lights of the convent had been extinguished, Andrea sat at the window of her room and, by the light of a candle and her reflection in the panes of glass, cut off her hair, imitating the shorn style of the Slaves. The two ruby earrings, together for the first time since Mary Lodesco had removed them from her own ears and divided them between her twin girls, were placed on the windowsill. They sparkled in the candlelight.
40
A few days after Katherine’s abduction, Andrea waited in the convent library for the police detective who would take her testimony. Mother Superior Celestine had said it would be well to put this off at least another day, but Andrea gave her to understand that the sooner the interrogation was over, the better. Andrea sat stiffly in a high-backed chair with her long black sleeves draped neatly over the arms. The heavy maroon curtains had been drawn back, and bright afternoon sunlight poured in behind her. She kept her eyes on the double mahogany doors of the library, and when Mother Celestine opened them to admit the police detective, Andrea made no movement to greet him.
The detective was a man in his late forties, wearing a tan overcoat atop a closely fitted but inexpensive suit. He crossed toward Andrea, pulling a notebook from his suit jacket; he flipped it expertly open as he stood in the sunlight that spilled over her head and onto the Oriental carpet at her feet. Andrea watched with weary, calm green eyes. The police detective pulled over a straight, narrow chair and seated himself on a little corner of it.
“Good morning, Sister Katherine,” he said, and nodded as he scanned the page of notes he had taken on his last visit with her.
Andrea said nothing, but waited for him to begin. She had insisted to Mother Celestine that it would be best for her to give evidence alone. With the policeman she would be all right, but it was vital that none of the nuns overhear Andrea speaking at length; she had not spent long enough with Katherine to know or to recreate her speech. She could not have reproduced Sister Katherine’s gestures.
“This isn’t easy for me,” said Andrea with a weak smile. “But I’ve gone over everything in my mind, and I’ll tell you everything I know about the young woman who was . . . the young woman who came to see me.”
The detective was startled by the calmness of Sister Katherine’s voice, but he nodded his agreement. From his overcoat pocket he took a cassette recorder and placed it on the edge of the desk. When he asked if she minded his recording her evidence, she hesitantly shook her head no. Andrea was uneasy to have her voice recorded: if anyone who had known Sister Katherine heard it, he would know that it was not the nun who had made the tape. But to refuse would have excited suspicion immediately. She must take her chances.
“On Wednesday I went into Boston. I was returning some books to the library.” This Andrea knew from Sister Henrica. “I had an hour to kill before the next bus, and so I walked around a little. It began to snow, and I decided to go into the church on Harrison Avenue to pray for a few minutes, and just outside on the street, this young woman stopped me. Of course I didn’t recognize her at first, but it was obvious she was in some kind of trouble—she acted very nervously, and thought someone was after her. It was then I remembered about the poor woman whose parents had been killed in Weston on New Year’s Eve. I asked her if that were she, and she said yes. She said there were people out to get her and kill her because she knew who did it. I told her she ought to go to the police because the police would protect her, but she wouldn’t—and she wouldn’t say why, either. She wanted to talk to me, so we had a cup of coffee—”
“Excuse me, Sister,” said the detective politely, “but why did Miss LoPonti approach you on the street?”
“I was wearing my robes. Andrea LoPonti was a Catholic. She knew that she could turn to a nun for help. She would have stopped a priest too, probably, it’s just that she came across me first, that’s all. She said we looked a lot alike—”
“You do, you look very much like her.”
“That could be,” said Andrea with a small smile, “but we don’t think much of appearances here. But it could be that’s why she came up to me. She felt safe with me, I suppose.”
“And she told you she was in trouble.”
“But she wouldn’t say what kind. She said she wanted to talk to me again, and I told her where my convent was. I had hoped she would come, because I thought then I’d be able to talk her into giving herself up. And if she got out of Boston, where those people were h
unting her, she’d feel safer. I told her I’d be around in the school in the morning, and she could look for me there. I’d introduce her to Mother Celestine, and I was hoping that Mother Celestine could talk her into going to the police.”
“But you didn’t tell any of this to Mother Celestine when you got back here that evening?”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t think she’d show up, she was so jittery when she talked to me. We were having coffee, and at one point, she just got up and walked out.”
“Why didn’t you go the police, Sister Katherine? You knew that Miss LoPonti was wanted by the police. Why didn’t you tell them that you had seen her?”
Andrea paused, perplexed. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I suppose it was because I was taking everything she told me in confidence, as if it were confessional or something. It never occurred to me to go to the police. I should have, of course, I see that, I should have gone right to the police, and if I had, she wouldn’t be dead now. She is dead, isn’t she?” she asked softly, her eyes averted.
“We don’t know,” said the detective soberly. “We think the people who came after her may be the same ones who murdered her parents. In that case . . .”
Andrea nodded sadly.
“Go on,” urged the detective. “Please, Sister Katherine . . .”
“She showed up the next day. I was surprised. She was even more nervous than the day before. I tried to get her to come inside, but she wouldn’t at first, and when she saw those two men getting out of their jeep she got hysterical. Then she pushed me inside the gym—she had a gun that she took out of her pocket—”
“Yes,” said the detective, “some of the children saw that.”
“I tried to get her to go through into the main building, but she was afraid they would cut her off. She wasn’t thinking straight. She made me go in the gym. If she had let me, I could have gotten her out of there.”
“How long were you inside?”
“About five minutes. It may have been longer, I’m not sure.” Andrea closed her eyes and touched her temples. She had carefully rehearsed her story, but for a few moments the real memory of that time took the place of her fabricated tale.
Katherine’s robes hampered her movement, and Andrea easily retrieved the gun from the floor. Shifting it from one hand to the other, Andrea clumsily removed all her own clothing until she stood before her sister wearing only her underpants. Katherine trembled in her coarse cotton pants and brassiere; the nun’s habit was a mound of black on the concrete.
Andrea pushed her bundled clothes toward Katherine: “Put them on!”
While Katherine fumbled, Andrea quickly dropped the nun’s underslip over her head, yanked on the flowing black skirts, and secured the leather girdle and white scapular. She pulled on the hose and slipped into the heavy-heeled black shoes. Everything fit her perfectly.
After she had buttoned the blouse and fastened the unbelted jeans, Katherine, without being told, pulled on the knit hat and carefully concealed her hair beneath it. She had to sit down to pull on the tight-fitting boots, and when that was accomplished, she slipped into the pea jacket. Shaken, slack-mouthed, and with glazed eyes, she stood as if for Andrea’s approval.
“You do look just like me,” Andrea whispered. “I think you really are my sister.” She tied the wool cape about her shoulders and concealed the gun beneath the black material. She thrust out her hand, palm up. “Give me your earring.”
Katherine hesitated a moment, but Andrea waved the gun menacingly. Katherine pulled the earring sharply from her ear, leaving behind a spot of blood.
“It won’t work,” she said as she handed the ring to Andrea. She spoke as if struggling out of a deep and troubled sleep. “Whatever it is you’re planning, it won’t work.”
Andrea dropped the earring into the pocket of her skirt. By the clock in the boys’ dressing room, six minutes had passed while the two sisters exchanged clothes and identities. The unfamiliarity of the habit was emphasized with every step that Andrea took. She pulled open the door and waved Katherine into the hall. When Katherine did not move, Andrea took the gun from beneath her scapular. “You may be my sister,” she said, “but I’d kill you just the same.”
“You killed your parents,” Katherine whispered.
“No,” said Andrea calmly. “I loved them very much. Those two men out there—they’re the ones who killed them. They’re the murderers, not me.”
“But you’d kill me.”
“Yes, I think I would,” said Andrea. She released the safety catch on the revolver.
Katherine, on whom Andrea’s clothes fit strangely well but who felt uncomfortable in them all the same, passed out into the hallway: Andrea poked the gun into Katherine’s back and propelled her toward the metal door at the end of the corridor.
Katherine turned her head slightly and asked, “Are we going outside? Those men are still out there—”
“I’m not going out,” said Andrea, as she reached round her sister and lifted the bar across the door. She turned the knob. “But you are,” she whispered. She pushed the door open and then, in a single, sure motion, shoved Katherine out into the snow.
She instantly pulled the door shut again and locked it. The revolver she tossed onto the top of a large ceiling fan that was set into the wall directly above the outside door. Then she ran breathlessly back down the corridor.
“Sister Katherine?” The detective’s voice was softly prodding.
Andrea opened her eyes and dropped her hands back onto the arms of the chair. “Where was I? Oh, yes—she was talking crazy. I don’t even remember what she said. She pointed the gun at me, and then she pointed it away, and I was so frightened, I didn’t pay any attention to what she was talking about. I still can’t remember that part, and I probably won’t ever remember it.”
“But what made her run back outside where she knew the men were waiting for her?”
“I don’t know,” said Andrea. “She was acting very strange. I thought maybe she was on some kind of drugs or something, but maybe she was just very upset. Anyway, she ran back outside, even though I tried to tell her not to.”
“What happened to her gun? When she went back out on the playground she didn’t try to defend herself with it.”
“I don’t know,” replied Andrea, shaking her head. “Those two men must have taken it away from her. We were in the boys’ locker room—she made me go in there—and I know when she left there, she had it in her hand.”
“You saw what happened outside, didn’t you, Sister Katherine?”
“Yes,” whispered Andrea. “After a couple of minutes, I followed her out into the corridor. The door onto the playground was open a little, and I went up to that. From there I could see what they did to her. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. I had to watch it all, even though I didn’t want to. After that, I went in the girls’ locker room, and I got sick. I haven’t begun to recover from it yet,” she said apologetically.
“Did you get a clear look at the two men?”
“Yes,” said Andrea. “I was looking right at them. But nothing registered. I can’t remember anything about them, except that one of them had a dark complexion and the other one was light. That’s all I can remember.”
“Well,” said the detective, “you’ve been a lot of help to me. I’m sorry to have to put you through all this. You’ll have to make an official statement, but what I’ll do is have someone type out what’s on this tape, and you can read it over and sign it, that’s all well need.”
Andrea nodded.
“Sister Katherine,” said the detective, “I thank you for talking to me like this today, I know it’s been hard for you. You—”
“It had to be done,” said Andrea. “I’m just so sorry it all had to happen. That poor girl, I can’t help feeling partially responsi
ble—”
“You shouldn’t say that, Sister Katherine. Andrea LoPonti was in a great deal of trouble, we’re not exactly sure what yet, but there was probably nothing you could do.”
“You haven’t caught them, have you?”
“No, not yet. But one of the children gave us a good description of the jeep, and we’re looking for that. Well find them soon enough.”
Mother Celestine, though she was fond of Sister Katherine, could not be sorry to see her leave the Convent of St. Luke. The girl seemed to have been born under a black cloud. Trouble followed her. In the past year she had suffered more misfortune than most persons know in a lifetime. For a nun, she was of altogether too dramatic a nature. And it was this last piece of terror that seemed to have done her the most damage: she was as withdrawn as she had been when she first came to St. Luke’s; her silences were morose and unbroken. Three days after the interview with the police detective, from which meeting she had gone directly back to her bed in exhaustion, Sister Katherine was driven to the Mother House in Worcester by Sister Henrica. When she returned, Sister Henrica sadly told Mother Celestine of the terrible change in Sister Katherine: “We were close, Reverend Mother, we were very close because of our classes at BC, but on the drive up to Worcester, she hardly spoke a word to me. She’s like another person.”
Blood Rubies Page 29