In a peace offering, MacLeod handed a kerchief to the apron nun. Sister Ruth.
“My dear mum’s name,” he said, lying.
While she wiped her eyes, he extracted a bit of information from her. He learned that shortly after he and his partners were banished from the convent, the blind girl’s mother had retrieved her. Sister Ruth had heard them in the hallway and given them a loaf for the road.
“Was the lass still blind?”
“Miracles take time, son.”
“Of course they do,” he said.
At some point after the hail started but before the fire was noticed, Mother Magdalen had left hurriedly with the triplets and the convent handyman. On her way to the hallway restroom, Sister Ruth had caught a glimpse of them exiting through the front door, suitcases in hand. They were in such a rush, Sister Ruth didn’t have a chance to ask them where they were going.
“She must have taken the blue bomber,” said the nun. “It’s gone.”
“Who drove the green car then?”
“What green car?”
MacLeod sidled up to Rossi and gave her the bad news: “Mother Superior’s flown the coop with the girls and the handyman. Took the blue car.”
“Where?”
“Sister Ruth didn’t know.”
“The blind girl...”
“Still blind, sadly. Someone picked her up right after we were shown the door. Came and went. So we missed them entirely.”
“That means the green sedan we saw behind the nuns’ junker...”
“Remains the mystery vehicle.”
“Huh,” she said shortly.
MacLeod figured he and Rossi were both trying to digest what Khoury had called the green car: The last horseman. The opposition group was staging this nefarious drama with impressive precision. Were all these details ever revealed to the public, all hell would break loose. Even atheists would see Armageddon on the horizon, with three innocent children playing the role of the Antichrist.
“Sister Ruth also provided me with a partial license plate for the nun mobile,” volunteered MacLeod, trying to offer some practical assistance amid the biblical gloom and doom.
“Time to pull in the bureau.” She took out her cell and punched in a number while shaking her head. “When I tell him about the hail and the barn, Camp is going to think I’m nuts.”
“Don’t forget who put you here,” MacLeod said. “If you’re bonkers, so are they.”
She smiled weakly and spoke into the phone. “Need some help here...I’ve got two adults on the run with three kids...I’ve got a vehicle description and...Yeah...That’s what I’m thinking. That’d work great, and nobody would be the wiser...What?...Well, here’s the story on that...”
While she told it, she walked in a tight circle with a finger pressed against her free ear. MacLeod would never tell her, but she did sound absolutely bonkers. Looked the part, as well. Her red hair was a bird’s nest and her clothes could have been pulled from the bin. Soot and sweat from head to toe. Nicole Kidman acting the part of a crazed war refugee.
He wondered if he had the slightest chance with her.
Rossi was closing her phone when a stocky gentleman with a sunburned neck and red face came up to her and MacLeod. “I need to ask you two some questions.”
MacLeod remembered the constable from the scene of Sister Rose’s accident. He was an investigator with the sheriff’s department. The vacation story wasn’t going to wash this time. While Rossi put away her cell and took out her FBI identification, MacLeod stayed mute and immobile. He knew little about the American legal system and wanted to keep it that way.
The man handed the wallet back. “Nice to see you again, and so soon.”
“Jasperson, right?”
“What’re you doing on the property, Agent Rossi? Get lost again?”
“You got me,” she said. “I’m here on a case.”
“What’d the nuns do? Rob a bank?” He asked without a hint of humor.
“I’m not authorized to release that information. It’s a highly sensitive, ongoing investigation. That’s why I failed to make a full disclosure.”
“You mean lied.”
Rossi didn’t respond.
“The nun who cracked up her car, what’s her involvement?” Jasperson asked.
“Can’t say. Sorry.”
“How’d the barn fire start?”
“Haven’t a clue. Ran inside to stop it, but it was too late.”
“And the house? How’d that happen?”
“They had a bread baking operation. Maybe...I don’t know. Explosion’s a possibility. A gas leak or whatever. Could be the barn fire ignited it.”
Taking out a pen and a pad, Jasperson eyed MacLeod. “And your name again? What’s your business here?”
“He’s with the bureau,” Rossi said shortly. “So is the priest.”
“An FBI priest. That’s a new one.” Jasperson scrutinized Khoury. “How’d Father Fed get so banged up?”
“Trying to get us out of the barn.”
He clicked his pen. “So when the fire started, the three of you were together in the...”
She held up her hands. “I’m really sorry, but we can’t say anything else.”
“Don’t give me that song and dance. This morning we see you people at the scene of one mess and this afternoon we find you in the middle of another. On top of that, we had a riot - right here in this yard. What the hell is going on?”
“I can have my boss call your boss.”
“I don’t care if your boss is the goddamn pope....”
MacLeod’s eyes widened ever so slightly with that comment.
“...there’s no way in hell I’m letting you folks stroll on out of here. Just because you flashed some ID doesn’t make me trust or believe you. You lied once. What’s to say you’re telling the truth now?”
“One call to D.C. I’ll give you my superior’s name. That’s all it’ll take to verify.”
“Nuns said you three had a shouting match with the head sister and that they tossed you out. What was that about?”
Rossi folded her arms in front of her.
“I’m not cutting you loose until you tell me,” he said.
MacLeod could practically hear the gears turning in her head. In fact, he was certain her evasiveness was part of the act. She couldn’t make it too easy for the constable. Brilliant.
“Guess now’s as a good a time as any to tell you,” she said. “We’re gonna need your help in putting out the alert anyway. But the bureau’s got to approve any and all releases to the media. Agreed?”
Jasperson hesitated. “Uh...I’ll have to run it by the sheriff, but...”
“We’ve been investigating Magdalen Xavier for trafficking in children - for purposes of sexual exploitation and servitude.”
MacLeod struggled to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. His own mother couldn’t have told such a sizeable untruth, and so convincingly. Pure dead brilliant.
“Bullshit,” Jasperson said. “The Little Sisters of the Orphans helped a lot of...”
“I’m not implicating the other nuns or the operation they ran before Xavier arrived,” Rossi said quickly. “In fact, Sister Rose was one of our informants. We believe she was killed to shut her up. She had some new intelligence for us and was on her way to a safe phone.”
“She died in a car wreck,” Jasperson sputtered.
“The janitor was in on it, and we think he did something to the car.”
“Trey Petit? He’s a lowlife, but this...I don’t know.” He pointed his pen at Rossi and asked excitedly: “What about the fire at the hospital?”
“Someone there may also be involved,” said Rossi.
MacLeod had to get in on this. “Do you see Xavier or this Petit bloke about? Where are they in the midst of this disaster?”
“Nuns said she left with him and the girls,” said Jasperson. “Probably to run errands.”
“How convenient,” said MacLeod. “Right bef
ore the house blows to kingdom come, she leaves with the man and the girls. To run errands. Did the other sisters mention why the errands required suitcases?”
“You saying she and Petit are responsible for this whole scene? The barn fire and the explosion? The riot?”
“Aye,” said MacLeod. “The rioters could be blamed for the fire and explosion, when the mayhem was really designed to get rid of evidence.”
Jasperson rubbed the back of his big neck. “Explain what an Irishman and a priest are doing on the case.”
MacLeod had his own elaborate lie ready. “We believe she spirited away children from Catholic orphanages around the globe. The priest and I, we represent some of those facilities.”
“This is an international trafficking ring,” Rossi said.
“I’ll be damned,” said Jasperson.
“We’re worried about the three girls she took with her,” said Rossi. “I’ve got names and a description.”
“Photos?”
“We can come up with a set. I’ve got some stuff on my cell.”
“How old are they?”
“Six,” said MacLeod.
Jasperson’s face darkened. “Makes me sick to my stomach.”
“We’re wasting time. Do whatever you need to do to check me out, but at the same time we need...”
“An AMBER Alert,” Jasperson said.
“Exactly,” said MacLeod. “An AMBER Alert.”
As soon as Jasperson left their side, MacLeod whispered: “What’s this AMBER Alert?”
“The AMBER stands for America’s Missing: Broadcast Emergency Response,” Rossi explained. “It’s a way to get the word out quick about missing and abducted kids.”
While Rossi educated MacLeod and mapped out their next move, the first body was pulled from the wreckage. Khoury went up to a man who seemed to be in charge, a reedy gentleman with silver hair and a bushy, gray moustache. When Khoury got closer, he saw a badge that said Sheriff. “I wish to lead the sisters in prayer.”
The sheriff hesitated while he took in Khoury’s dishevelment. He spotted the priest’s collar, stiff and white and stubbornly in place around his throat. “Go ahead, Father. Don’t touch anything.”
Knitting his way through the emergency workers, Khoury felt too familiar with the post-disaster role he’d assigned himself. As easy as sliding his feet into a pair of old slippers. He could be back home, making his way toward a family bombed out of their home. A university colleague caught in the crossfire of war. His wife and their unborn child.
He sank to the grass, kneeling beside the dead nun. Beneath her gray brows, her faded blue eyes were wide open in what could have been an expression of surprise or horror. Her veil had been knocked from her head, unmasking gray hair pulled back with a collection of bobby pins and barrettes. The top of her skull was wet and matted with blood. Covered in a combination of flour and dust, her kitchen apron and the skirt of her habit were both hiked up to her knees, showing sagging knee highs. She wouldn’t have wanted that. Despite the sheriff’s instructions, he reached over and pulled the hem down over the tops of the socks.
As he made the Sign of the Cross, a pair of medics draped a tarp over the remains. The sisters gathered behind him, some kneeling and some standing. Most weeping. In a loud, clear voice, Khoury began a Roman Catholic prayer:
“Saints of God, come to her aid,” said Khoury. “Come to meet her, angels of the Lord.”
Behind him, the women murmured: “Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”
“May Christ, who called you, take you to himself,” said Khoury. “May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.”
In a louder voice, the women responded: “Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”
“Give her eternal rest, Oh Lord,” said Khoury. “And may your light shine on her forever.”
“Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High,” said the women.
“Let us pray,” said Khoury, bowing his head. “All-powerful and merciful God, we commend to you...”
“...Sister Mary Margaret,” one of the sisters offered.
“We commend to you, Sister Mary Margaret, your servant. In your mercy and love, blot out all the sins she has committed through human weakness. In this world she has died. Let her live with you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord...”
While Khoury prayed, an arc of water sailed onto the smoldering remains of the barn. A television news van pulled down the driveway, but deputies quickly waved it back to the road and stretched yellow crime scene tape across the drive entrance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Heading east on the Indiana Toll Road, slicing a straight line across the very top of the state, the Michigan border within throwing distance to the north.
The triplets had been silent since the drive started. From the back seat, the crinkle of paper. The abbess lowered the front passenger’s visor and watched the girls in the cosmetic mirror. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” said Babette, buckled into the middle.
“What is it, Cecelia?” Mother Magdalen asked the mirror.
“Wasn’t my idea. I told them not to. I told them!”
Petit looked in the rearview mirror in time to see Babette punch her sister’s thigh. Cecelia wailed, and clutched her leg.
The abbess unbuckled, got on her knees and reached over the top of the front seat. “Give it to me.”
Babette bellowed over her sister’s crying. “No!”
Adeline yelled, “She’s going to find out!”
“So?” asked Babette.
“So give it to her! Who cares?”
“I told you she’d be mad!” wailed Cecelia.
“Shut up I said!” Babette pounded her sister’s thigh a second time.
“Fatty!” Cecelia howled. “I hate you!”
“I hate you more!” Babette shouted.
“Should I take an exit?” asked Petit.
“Keep driving,” said the abbess. To the middle child: “Give it to me.”
“Fine,” said Babette.
The nun turned back around and sat down with a ball of paper in each hand. For a full minute, she didn’t do anything except hold them. She set them both down in her lap and opened the tighter ball first.
Petit looked over. A crayon drawing of a red building. The middle of it was gone, a hole the size of a fist burned into the paper. That’s how the barn had burned down.
The mother superior seemed unfazed – until she unfolded the second wad. A picture of a large, white house. Black stick figures stood in the windows. “Noooo,” she exhaled. Air leaving a tire.
Petit tightened his hands over the steering wheel.
The abbess growled a question to the triplets, the volume rising with each word until the last one filled the inside of the car like a sonic boom. “What...did...you...DO?!”
Babette leaned forward: “Turn on the radio and find out.”
“Tell me.”
In a sing-song voice: “Turn it on...Turn it on...Turn it on.”
Snapping on the radio, the abbess frantically worked the dial in search of talk instead of music.
“There,” said Petit. “You missed it. Go back.”
“That was national news,” she said.
“I know,” he said grimly. “I caught...something.”
She tuned it to a male voice, in the middle of a report.
“...names and ages haven’t been released by the sheriff’s department, but a spokesman for the coroner’s office confirmed that the dead were nuns living at the convent. Investigators won’t comment on whether the barn fire and explosion were the result of arsonists. Anti-Catholic demonstrators had gathered at the convent earlier, and had to be dispersed by police. Red Cross officials said the surviving sisters are being housed at a Chicago area convent until...”
“Holy crap,” Petit breathed.
As the radio report continued, the mother superior bent in half. “God, no,” she groaned to t
he floor. “No, no, no.”
Out of pity, Petit reached to turn off the radio.
“Leave it!” the nun barked, and straightened up.
“In another Illinois story, a dairy farmer there has been mentioned as a possible nominee for U.S. Agriculture Secretary, succeeding the late...”
Petit put his fingers on the tuner. “The story on the convent is over.”
“Leave it,” the abbess repeated.
“...is under pressure to name someone quickly. The new secretary would be taking over the USDA at a time when world fears are running rampant over the appearance of bovine flu, a new influenza that can spread from cattle to people. Panic over the disease threatens to devastate both the dairy and beef...”
The abbess reached over and shut it off herself.
Petit wished he’d blown up with the convent rather than let himself get roped into this...whatever this was. He was afraid of the girls. Afraid of the abbess. Even before he heard about the explosion, he was afraid that the cops would be coming after them. The way Mother Magdalen had rushed them out of the house in the middle of the hailstorm felt wrong. Then he’d seen the barn on fire. When he’d tried to go back in the house to call it in, she’d screamed at him and ordered him in the car. The abbess knew they’d set the barn on fire. She hadn’t counted on them taking a step further and doing something to the convent.
He felt ill. Like the big, bad wolf, the girls had blow down the house – and he was their wheelman!
At least he had an out. Before the mother superior dragged him from the house, he’d run down to the basement to grab one thing from under his bed and tucked it into his waistband. Worse come to worse, he’d use it on someone – or himself.
He took his left hand off the steering wheel and shook it. Closed and opened it. Damn thing was still acting up. Going numb, off and on.
“What’s the matter with your hand, Mister P?” Babette asked.
“Nothing,” he said, wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel. “It’s good, Missy. Everything is real good.”
The abbess kept her face turned away from him.
He talked to the back of her head. “We gotta get off the highway. Take county roads. We’re too damn obvious.”
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