He stopped in mid-sentence and ogled his left hand, tangled in a nest of beige fabric. Couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Frantically, he tore off the bandage and hurled it onto the floor. Petit brought his hand close to his face. Wiggled his fingers. His five fingers. “How?” he breathed, moving each restored digit one at a time.
“A miracle, son.” said the mother superior.
“No way.” With his right hand, he touched each new finger. New and improved! Gone was the split that had run down the middle of the thumbnail since he was a kid. The dent in the index finger was repaired, too. If the nuns weren’t there, he would have tried out that middle finger. Felt weird to have it back. Good weird. All of it was good weird. Afraid the restored fingers could vanish, he hugged his left hand to his chest.
Petit had no idea why he’d been chosen – he hadn’t gone to mass in years and only entered the convent chapel to clean - but he accepted it. Baptized and brought up Catholic, he’d attended parochial school all the way through high school. He’d seen all the old saint movies. He knew a miracle when he saw it. God had finally given him a break.
The abbess addressed her crew. “We’ve got bread to bake and loaves to pack. Remember what we discussed: Tell absolutely no one.”
The nuns stood, each of them making the Sign of the Cross. Slowly, they funneled out of the room. Many of them were hesitant to leave, and hung back in the hallway to crane their necks and view Petit. Some whispered to each other.
“Uh, Mother...” Petit said out of the side of his mouth.
“Yes, son,” she said.
“Why’s this a big secret? Why don’t you want them to say anything? Shouldn’t we go back to the hospital? Show the doctors?”
“Why would we do that?”
He peeled his left hand from his body and held it up in front of her face, as if he were showing her a trophy. “Maybe we can help somebody else with this. Maybe I can help them. What if my blood is blessed or something?”
“I appreciate your altruism, but I’m afraid this is more complicated than you realize.” She frowned at the stragglers packed in the hallway and milling around his room. “Are you deaf, sisters?”
The black sea parted as a small figure in pink pushed through the habits. Baab came up next to the bed, glanced at Petit’s left hand and shot a wounded look at the abbess. “You didn’t believe me.”
The mother superior raised her hand to the crucifix dangling down the front of her habit. “Forgive me, child.”
“That’s okay.”
The exchange between Baab and the nun freaked Petit out almost as much as his new hand. Forgive me, child?
The girl turned away from the abbess and smiled up at Petit. “You believed me, didn’t you Mister P?” she asked sweetly.
He had no idea what he was supposed to believe, but nodded his head anyway and mumbled, “Yeah, Missy. Sure.”
“I never doubted you, either,” the abbess said huffily.
“You wanted to throw away my picture,” said Babette.
Petit stared at the drawing on his wall and shivered. She did it with her crayons?
“I want more colors.” After a heartbeat, the girl added, “Please.”
“Certainly,” the abbess said meekly.
“The big box, please. Ada and C.C., too. New crayons and paper.”
Sister Rose came up to the bedside, shaking a finger at the girl. “Young lady, you don’t need a thing. You’re a spoiled brat.”
The abbess gasped. “That’s enough, Sister.”
The large nun bent over the small child. “You don’t fool me for a minute, young lady. The others might be impressed, but I’m not.”
“Sister,” said the abbess. “Please.”
The elder nun pointed to the drawing. “That monstrosity has nothing to do with Mister Petit’s recovery. It was God and God alone.”
The abbess put her hand on the nun’s arm. “Sister, I think you should...”
Sister Rose shook her off and grabbed the abbess by her narrow shoulders. “You’ve lost your faith and your mind. That’s the only explanation for this madness.”
Mother Magdalen pushed down the large hands and addressed the child. “We’ll send Sister Jane out immediately for the supplies.”
“I’ll go,” volunteered Petit. “I want to try out my new...”
“No,” said the mother superior. “You should stay indoors.”
“Let Mister P go,” Babette said cheerfully. She spun on her heel and waded back through the throng of black skirts.
“Listen to me, Trey,” the mother superior said in a low voice. “Do not tell anyone what has happened. Hide your hand while in town. Keep it in your jacket pocket.”
He thought about his armless farmer friend. “What if someone else needs some healing?”
“We have to investigate this further,” said Mother Magdalen.
“I’ll say,” chimed in Sister Rose.
“In the meantime, we aren’t set up to handle visitors. So please...”
“But...”
She held up a palm to silence him. “You’ve got it nice here, Trey. Free food and a place to sleep. A fair wage. A miraculously healed hand.” Her face hardened and her voice dropped. “Ruin it for us, and you’ll have to go.”
“So?”
“Do you really think Babette would let you leave with the gift she’s given you?”
His eyes widened. “She’s a good kid. She wouldn’t take it back.”
“Wouldn’t she? As you said yourself, she’s a child – and children are so suggestible.”
His shoulders sagged. “Won’t say nothing to no one.”
“Good.” The abbess left the room, pushing the remaining sisters out with her.
Sister Rose stayed by his bedside for a moment. “Mother is not herself,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s that brat,” she spat, and followed the abbess out the door.
Petit didn’t know whom he could trust anymore. He wanted to exit that house, and fast.
Petit kicked off his urine-drenched boxers and pulled on clean clothes. He didn’t care about washing his sheets or himself. He grabbed a set of car keys and left the convent before anyone could ask him anything. Driving with both hands locked over the steering wheel, he looked to his left and admired his new fingers. As easily as he accepted that they were a miracle, he also bought into the idea that Baab had performed it. In the movies, God worked lots of miracles through kids. That Bernadette girl was a prime example.
He parked the nuns’ beater at one end of Main Street and got out to walk the length of downtown, all of three blocks. As he kept them hidden in his jacket, he couldn’t help but wiggle the three miracle fingers. The sun was shining in his face, and everything seemed fresh and wonderful to him. He noticed things in storefronts that he’d never spotted before. The sporting goods dealer had a spring display of fishing rods. Since losing his fingers, he’d had trouble using his old angling equipment. Casting wasn’t hard, but holding on while reeling in the catch was a bitch. Now he was admiring a bass reel and visualizing himself pulling in a record large-mouth, both hands fully engaged and operational.
As he was staring through the window, a store clerk on the other side noticed him and raised a hand. The guy came outside to talk on the sidewalk. He and Petit had been fishing pals before the accident. “How you doing, bud?” asked the clerk.
True to his word, Petit kept his left hand buried in his pocket while shaking hands with his right. “Good. I’m doing good.”
“Didn’t see much of you over the winter. Get any ice-fishing in?”
“Too busy.” Petit couldn’t contain his happiness, and grinned. “Plan to get out plenty this spring, though.”
“Give me a call and we’ll go out on the boat.” He slapped Petit on the back and went back inside the shop.
Johnson’s Pharmacy was at the far end of downtown. Petit went inside the store and to the back,
to a particular aisle. He knew he was getting ahead of himself – he needed a girlfriend before he needed condoms – but no harm in dreaming. The nuns charged stuff all over town, and for a second he contemplated sneaking a packet onto their account. He wiggled those miracle fingers again. Better not, he thought. God wouldn’t see the humor. In fact, he vowed to start going to chapel at the convent and even attend church in town.
Meandering over to the school supplies aisle, he knew exactly what Baab and her sisters wanted. When it came to crayons, it was what every kid wanted: The dream box. Nearly a hundred colors, with a built in sharpener. Had to get some drawing pads, too. He wondered why all three needed the stuff. Could they all perform miracles? If so, the nuns couldn’t keep a lid on this forever.
The big boxes of crayons were on the top shelf. He took down two boxes with his right hand. Without thinking, he pulled his miracle fingers out of his pocket so he could hold the crayons in the crock of his left arm.
Behind him, someone shrieked. Shit, he thought, and quickly dropped the crayons. Stuffed both hands in his pockets and spun around.
Marta Schultz, a chunky middle-aged brunette in a blue drugstore smock, was standing wide-eyed in the middle of the aisle. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
“Hi, Mart,” he said cheerily, and took a step back from her.
“Lets see it,” she demanded, and reached for his left arm.
He took another step back, and bumped into the shelves behind him. “See what?”
“Did you get the whole hand done? I read about those surgeries. How’d you get picked? How’d you pay for it?”
“Pay for what?” he asked weakly.
“Your hand transplant. Where’d they do it? University of Chicago?”
“Uh...”
“How long is the recovery time?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Trey Petit. I used to babysit your boney ass. Let me see that hand. For Jimbo’s sake.”
The previous spring, her husband lost a leg when the tractor he was riding tipped in the muddy fields of his farm and he’d had trouble working ever since. Word around town was that Mart’s family – big dairy farmers – wanted to help out. Neighbors had offered to pitch in. But Jim was too proud and stubborn to accept any of it. Instead, his wife was stocking shelves in the drugstore. With four kids to feed, the Schultz family would have a definite interest in what had happened to Petit’s hand. At the same time, Trey remembered Mother Magdalen’s threat. Fear overrode his desire to do good. Laughing nervously, he said, “Come on, Mart. Don’t make me show you the nasty sucker. It’s...fake. Like Jimbo’s leg.”
“Jimbo’s prosthetic looks shitty and works even worse, but your hand seems perfect.”
“It’s nothing special,” he said.
Eyes welling, she said, “I heard leg transplants couldn’t be far behind these hand surgeries. If we could call the docs who did your surgery, maybe Jim could...”
“He can,” Petit said, and slowly withdrew his left hand. “And you don’t have to call no stupid doctors.”
As she examined the restored fingers with awe, he told her the whole story.
One aisle over, two other customers stopped pushing their carts and listened.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Back to the situation room/library/dungeon.
Nardini hadn’t yet delivered the files on the fringe group. In the meantime, Rossi and Khoury immersed themselves in the miracles themselves, studying photographs and reading witness statements in hopes of finding a pattern that would point them to the next event. Every so often, they scouted the bank of televisions. If they couldn’t pinpoint the location of the next occurrence, maybe the news would do it for them. In the latest news: Terrorists had bombed a nightclub in Madrid. North Korea was threatening another nuclear test. German tourists in Mexico had been kidnapped. The United State’s Secretary of Agriculture had died of a heart attack, and the deputy secretary was named acting secretary. Scientists were worried about the new flu that could be transmitted from cattle to people. An American movie actress had been found dead of an overdose in her London hotel room.
Plenty of tragedies, but no miracles.
In between watching TV and reading, they talked about MacLeod. Worried over his condition. Speculated about the digits he’d rattled off from his sickbed. The priest’s best guess: 666. The mark of the devil.
“Think that was it?” Rossi didn’t sound convinced.
“Patrick might have used those numbers if he really believed he was being attacked by Satan.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t buy the devil mask. Not for a second.”
Khoury frowned. “Samantha, do you believe there is a devil? Do you believe Satan exists?”
“What do you mean?”
He folded his hands atop the table and studied her face. She was genuinely confused by his question. He decided to take it one step at a time, as he did with his beginning theology students. “Does evil exist? Is there evil in this world?”
“I’ve seen it up close and personal, in my work. I’ve seen evil people. Not bad. Evil. A pedophile that raped hundreds of kids. A serial killer who...”
“Do you believe there is a single entity behind all the pain and misery? Or were all these crimes simply the work of troubled people, men and women who were themselves abused or hurt in some way?”
Even as she answered, he could see her working it out in her own mind. The entire time she spoke, she fidgeted nervously with a paper clip, unbending it until it was a line of straight wire.
“I think...sometimes...there is no explanation. An average, nice person snaps and does something awful for no good reason. A guy shoots a bunch of people at work. A woman drowns her own babies. When you ask why, they can’t tell you. So there could be someone else at the controls. Someone - or something – pulling the strings. I don’t see it like in the movies. This monster with horns and hooves and a forked tail. But...yeah...I guess I do believe there is...a force out there.”
“Even more importantly: Do you believe in good?”
“You’re working your way up to the big question.”
“Do you? Do you believe in God?”
“I don’t go to church.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Why is this relevant?”
“Patrick complained that he keeps hearing how we don’t know each other. That would help me know you. Do you believe in God?”
She picked up another paperclip and started working on it. “Here’s the deal: Don’t you ever wonder if He’s paying attention? Why does He let really bad things happen? What’s He doing sitting on the sidelines?”
Khoury opened his mouth to answer and she held up her hand.
“You know what? I don’t want to get into a big philosophical discussion about the nature of God and man and whatnot. Let’s say I believe in Him, but he pisses me off.”
“I’ll accept that.”
“It’s all I’ve got.” She grabbed one of the files and went to the wall phone.
“Who’re you calling?”
“One of the L.A. surgeons who supposedly saw the stigmata.”
Khoury listened in while Rossi tried to get the man to talk. Her FBI credentials didn’t do her any good.
“All I want to know is this: Did it happen? Did you treat a girl by that name for a C1 spinal cord injury and did she walk out of there?...I realize that, but this is a federal investigation. Put me on hold and call the FBI in Washington. I gave you my supervisor’s name. Logan Camp. He’ll tell you...I’m not asking you to violate anything...Fine. What about the bleeding on her hands and feet?...What?...But I’m not even asking for a name. Can you confirm that you saw a girl – or anyone – with those wounds?”
Rossi finally hung up. “Shit.”
“He won’t even verify that he treated a girl by that name?”
“Nope.”
“Did he sound shaken? Was it obvious something out of the ordinary had
happened?”
“He was rattled, but it could have been because there was a fed on the phone. We frighten most humans.” She paused. “Too bad I wasn’t back in L.A. interviewing him in person. I would have beat it out of him.”
Khoury’s eyes widened.
“Kidding,” she said, and took the handset off the wall again.
Over the next two hours, she tried to pull information from a dozen different people. Doctors, nurses, police officers and an unfortunate orderly Khoury was certain she’d reduced to tears.
“Someone got to them,” she said, slamming down the handset. “The cops should have talked. LAPD doesn’t love us, but we just got done working a racketeering case with them.”
“I heard you dropping names.”
“For all the good it did me.” She picked up the handset. “Was saving the girl’s family for last.”
“Let me try,” he said, getting up from the table.
From the noises on the other end of the line, Khoury guessed he’d called during a meal. “Sorry to disturb your dinner.”
A woman had answered. “Who is this, please?”
To make her more comfortable, he used the English version of his first name. “I’m Father Ryan...Ryan Khoury.”
“Yes, Father.”
To impress her – he’d noticed they were practicing Catholics - he utilized the name of his agency. “I’m with...the Vatican.”
The only response on her end was the clattering dishes in the background.
This had to be the girl’s mother. “How is your daughter doing?”
“Fine, Father. She’s...good. She’s running around in the backyard.”
“I’m sure you’re aware the Holy See has great interest in...”
“My daughter was interviewed by a man from the Vatican. He came to our house.”
“This is a follow-up to that investigation. If I could hear in your own words what...”
“Can’t you people leave us alone? We told the story a hundred times. We’re sick of telling it.”
“Repeat it one more time.”
It tumbled out of the woman’s mouth in one sentence. “She broke her neck and was on a vent and we were praying in her room and all the doctors were there and she started gushing blood from...”
The Devil's Own Crayons Page 12