The Devil's Own Crayons

by Theresa Monsour

  She told him that the AMBER Alerts were up and running, and that they’d stopped at a Chicago hotel to collect themselves.

  “Did you all get patched up at the hospital?”

  “About a dozen stitches between us,” she said. “We’ll survive.”

  He talked strategy for when the fugitives were found. While every law enforcement agency on the planet would be harnessed to corral the two adults and three children into a confined area, it would be up to Rossi’s team to go in and finish the job, he said.

  “By that, you mean...”

  “Finish the job.”

  She paused. “You don’t want a trial.”

  “Xavier is obviously tied to this fringe group. They know too much. She knows too much. Think about the worldwide panic, the hysteria, were the nun to reveal details about the ceiling. About the disasters and the miracles. She could use her prosecution as a platform to promote the idea that the girls are the devil, and that Armageddon is on the way.”

  “The girls. What about them and the janitor?”

  “Saving the girls for study is a priority, and the man should be easy to contain.”

  Study. Contain. A chill rippled through Rossi’s body.

  “Have I made myself clear, agent?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Afterwards, we’ll come up with a reasonable scenario for the media. I’m thinking suicide, unless you’ve got something better we can put out there.”

  The southern charm was gone from his voice.

  Rossi changed subjects. Asked if the Minneapolis office had gotten anything useful from the nun’s brother. Camp said the man – a banker – wasn’t close to her. In fact, none of the other siblings had anything to do with her because she’d been shipped off to a boarding school as a child. From there, she graduated to a cloistered convent. “They basically grew up without her.”

  “Why would you send your oldest kid away to school? Especially farmers? I thought they welcomed extra hands.”

  “The brother said she had some behavior problems. He couldn’t remember much because he was five or so when she was sent packing. She didn’t listen to her parents. Picked on the younger babies. Did something to a kitten.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “He said his parents didn’t talk about what happened exactly. All he remembered was that there was some commotion in the barn, the parish priest came and interviewed the little girl, and off she went with her suitcase.”

  She thought back to Khoury’s criticism of her tactics. “Out of curiosity, how did he take the news that his sister was involved in child trafficking?”

  “Our folks said he was shocked, but he didn’t defend her. Her own brother.”

  “So far, no one is defending her. I’m surprised, I guess. The charges are so outrageous, you’d think someone would go to bat for her. Then again, maybe that’s the issue. Who wants to stand up for an alleged child trafficker?”

  “I do have to hand it to you, Samantha. Choice piece of fiction.”

  Rossi suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. She blamed the priest.

  After finishing up with Camp, Rossi went down the hall to the boys’ room, taking her computer with her. During the short walk, she thought about her superior’s three-word order.

  “Finish the job.”

  The priest claimed he had the nerve to take out some nuns to save the girls, but he wasn’t talking about an execution. MacLeod wouldn’t go for it, either. She’d keep Camp’s instructions to herself and carry them out on her own.

  She knocked once and Khoury let her into the room.

  “Excuse my state of undress.” He was wearing his signature black trousers, but his torso was covered only in bandages. “I’m having a little trouble.”

  She set her laptop and cell down on the desk. “Can I help?”

  Wincing, he started to pull a fresh shirt on over his dressings. “I can manage.”

  “Tough guy.” She helped him get his arm through the sleeve. The man was built. Too bad the six-pack was wasted on a priest. On the other hand, he’d been married once. Why not again? He could at least have sex, couldn’t he? She banished the question from her head, and stepped back to let him finish dressing himself.

  “Thank you,” he said, fumbling with his buttons and looking totally embarrassed.

  “Not a problem.” She wondered if she was the first female to see him even half naked since his wife’s death, and struggled to chase a salacious image from her mind. Bastard had caused her enough guilt for one day.

  As she dropped down onto the couch, MacLeod emerged from the bathroom wearing a fresh shirt and vest, but with a towel wrapped around his waist. He dragged a comb through his long, blond hair, still dripping wet from showering. “I’m a man reborn.”

  He plopped down on a chair opposite Rossi and sat with his hairy knees spread wide. She averted her eyes. “Patrick...”

  “Put some pants on,” finished Khoury.

  “Prudes.” He got up, went back into the bathroom and came out wearing loud plaid boxers - yellow flannel crossed with bands of black.

  “Patrick...”

  “Forget it,” said Rossi. “At least they match his vest.”

  “Exactly why I purchased them,” he said, pulling down on his vest. “The MacLeod Tartan. I wear it proudly.”

  Pacing back and forth in front of the window, Khoury said, “We should be doing something.”

  Rossi sat at the desk and opened her laptop. “Everyone and his uncle is on the lookout for them.”

  “Shouldn’t we be searching, too?” Khoury asked.

  “We’re working smarter,” Rossi said, and started pecking at the keyboard. She’d transferred the girls’ files from her phone to her computer. “I’m hoping something buried in the kids’ records will give us a clue as to where they’re headed. We get to them before everybody else does.”

  Khoury stood behind her. “I don’t remember reading anything that would help us out.”

  “It’s got to be here,” she said, frowning at her computer.

  MacLeod turned on the television – a massive appliance set into an antique cabinet - and started surfing. Stopped at a shopping channel demonstration. A woman in exercise shorts and a sports bra was on her back on an exercise mat, squeezing a thigh gadget between her legs. “Marvelous invention, this.”

  Rossi shot a look at the TV and went back to her computer screen. “Those things don’t work.”

  MacLeod grinned lasciviously. “You had one, did you? I’m trying to imagine...”

  “Patrick, the news.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He flipped through channels until he landed on CNN.

  A female reporter in Washington, D.C., was at the tail end of a report about candidates for U.S. Agriculture Secretary.

  “...but a source close to the White House said that she is not on the president’s short list and that the northern Illinois dairy farmer remains the top pick. Though he lacks political experience, he’s been very active in local...”

  Rossi glanced up from her laptop. “Huh.”

  “Problem?” asked Khoury.

  “What are the chances? On the same day, two major stories out of the same northern Illinois county.”

  MacLeod sat down on the end of his bed. “What’re you saying, Sam-I-Am?”

  Putting her head back down, she went to the CNN website. Got the name of the Illinois dairy farmer. First name: Cabot. Last name: Jackson. Rossi Googled the man’s name and pulled up a bunch of background. “The girls and this guy must intersect.”

  Standing behind her, Khoury read along with her. “How? Why?”

  MacLeod turned up the volume on the television.

  “...will be a key player in fighting the worldwide panic over the outbreak of bovine flu.”

  “That’s her!” Khoury said excitedly, pointing at the computer. On the screen was a photo of the dairy farmer posing in front of a barn with his family. Khoury put his finger over a teenager wedged betwe
en the farmer and his wife. “That’s the blind girl.”

  MacLeod: “The ankle biters healed this man’s daughter?”

  “And now he’s going to be in charge of the world’s battle against this scary disease,” said Rossi.

  MacLeod dragged his hand down his face. “But what does it mean?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Late night in Pennsylvania, heading east while trying to stay off of the major highways.

  The abbess was slumped in the seat with her face turned away from him, and Petit couldn’t tell if she was awake. Tipping the rearview mirror down, he saw all three girls were snoozing in the back, Cecelia snuggled against Babette’s shoulder and Adeline slouched against the door. So sweet and innocent when they were asleep. Like normal kids. If not that, what were they? Whenever he dwelled on it too long his stomach tightened, so he dismissed the question and concentrated on the road.

  They were on a state highway in an industrial area outside of Pittsburgh. Petit had his window rolled down. They’d driven through a spring shower and the damp night air smelled oily. Of wet tar. He didn’t mind it one bit.

  Mother Magdalen wrinkled her nose, sat up straight and flipped the visor down to scrutinize the triplets in the mirror. “How long have they been out?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Beats me. How long we been driving?”

  She tucked some errant strands behind her ears and put the visor back up. Checked her watch. “Not long enough.”

  “I’m getting hungry.”

  She reached into a cloth tote bag she had on the floor between her feet and pulled out a loaf of pumpernickel. Ripped off one end of the black football and handed it to him. “Here.”

  He gnawed on the hard knob of bread. “Gonna have to stop eventually.”

  “We will – when we get there.” She tore off a hunk of bread and nibbled.

  He couldn’t stand the suspense any longer and reached for the radio. “I wonder if...”

  “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll wake them.”

  “I’ll keep it low.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to know who’s looking for us?”

  “You’re being paranoid, Trey. There’s no reason anyone would come after us. We had nothing to do with the explosion. You and I were gone when it happened.”

  “We’ve got the girls.”

  “I have legal custody.”

  “What about the other nuns? Maybe there’s some more news on them. Don’t you want to know if the rest are alright?”

  “No.” She took a bite of bread and stared out the passenger side. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She didn’t give a shit about anyone but those girls. What would happen to him when his neck was on the line? She’d toss him aside quicker than those women she’d left behind. “Why should I keep driving, huh? What’s the incentive?”

  “I’ll pay you,” she said flatly.

  “In whole wheat or rye?”

  She reached inside the tote and withdrew a plastic bread bag. Reached inside the bag and produced the thickest wad he’d ever seen.

  His eyes shot to the money and went back to the road. “Where’d that come from?”

  She put the money away. “None of your business.”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Drive.”

  Petit had to get out of this chauffer job before he ended up as dead as Sister Rose and the other nuns. As fried as that poor cop in Indiana. “Keep the cash. I don’t care about it. All I want is out of this. You know how to drive. Dump me anywhere and keep going. Won’t tell anyone where you’re headed or nothing. How about it?”

  From the back seat came a small, wounded voice. “You can’t ditch us, Mr. P.”

  “Missy...”

  “Don’t you love us anymore?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “We did something nice for you, Mister P.” The other girls stirred in their sleep, and Babette whispered. “You have to stay. Please stay.”

  “They need you,” said the abbess.

  Great. A shot of guilt added to his fear, making the perfect Catholic cocktail. Every nun knew the recipe. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the windshield. His left hand was tingling again, but he didn’t want to let on. On top of everything else, he had to take a leak. “Let’s at least stop for a couple of hours.”

  “No,” said the nun.

  He squirmed in his seat. “I gotta pee.”

  “Me, too,” said Babette.

  Cecelia woke, yawned and groggily added her own needs to the list. “I want a real bed.”

  The abbess released an exasperated sigh. “The next motel.”

  Twenty minutes later, a red VACANCY sign punched through the industrial landscape.

  “How’s this?” asked Petit.

  “It’s so late,” said the abbess.

  “They’ll take our money.” He turned into the parking lot. A typical motel, the place was a one-story strip. Each of the eight rooms had one window and one plastic lawn chair parked in front of it. He pulled the Buick up to the office, distinguished by a larger window and a beverage machine out front.

  Mother Magdalen threw open the front passenger door. “I’ll get the room.”

  “Nun in the middle of the night is gonna attract attention.”

  “I took off the veil.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  She smoothed the skirt of her long, black habit. “They’ll think...”

  “They’ll think you’re a nun on the run.”

  She closed the door, reached into her bag and took out the wad. Peeled off some bills and handed them to Petit. “Is that enough?”

  “For one room.”

  “That’s all we’re getting.”

  “I’m not sharing a room with you. Ain’t right.”

  “You can sleep on the floor.”

  “Let me get my own....”

  “No. I don’t trust you.”

  “Thanks,” he grumbled, and shoved the money in his pocket.

  “Remember what Babette said. They need you, and you owe them. Don’t try to leave.”

  “Don’t ditch us,” said the little girl.

  Petit popped open the driver’s side and got out. Slammed the door hard and headed for the office.

  The tiny lobby smelled of cigarettes and motor oil. A set of chairs sat at one end of the narrow room, their upholstered seats stained and patched with duct tape. Hanging on the wall behind the chairs was a framed map of the state. Petit studied it for a moment to see if it would help them out in the morning, but soon realized it was too damn old to be useful.

  The front desk was unmanned, but a sign directed visitors to ring for the night clerk. Petit held his hand over the bell and froze. On the other side of the counter was an open door leading to the clerk’s apartment. The guy had his television on, and its flat screen was filled with a disturbing image: Petit’s photo alongside that of the mother superior’s.

  Heart pounding, Petit pulled his hand away and started to back away from the counter.

  A bearded man in jeans, a white t-shirt and thick bifocals stepped through the door. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” answered Petit, freezing in the middle of his retreat.

  The guy looked straight at Petit, but didn’t show a hint of alarm. “You’re a latecomer.”

  “Yeah,” Petit said numbly. “Uh...hit the wall. Couldn’t drive anymore. Gotta sleep.”

  “Wish I could sleep.” The clerk yawned. “Haven’t slept for ten years.”

  Petit didn’t say anything.

  “How many?” the guy asked tiredly.

  “Two. Two adults,” Petit said numbly.

  The guy turned around and surveyed the keys remaining on the hooks. Yawned again and scratched his head. “Got one at the end and two in the middle, all of them with two double beds.”

  Petit’s eyes darted to the television. Photos of the
girls were on the screen. Below their pictures, he could clearly see AMBER ALERT. Though the volume was cranked, he couldn’t make out what the television announcer was saying.

  “Middle or end?” the clerk asked with irritation.

  “End,” Petit said. “End would be good.”

  The guy took down a key and turned the registration book around so it was right side up for the visitor. “Need your John Hancock.”

  Petit stepped up to the counter and tried not to shake as he signed.

  “Checkout time is at eleven, Mister...” The guy spun the book back around and smiled crookedly. “Smith.”

  Petit slapped the cash on the counter and headed for the exit.

  “You got some change coming...Mister Smith.”

  “Keep it.”

  Petit got behind the wheel and handed Mother Magdalen the room key. “We got the Jacuzzi suite,” he said dryly. Instead of pulling in front of their room, he steered the Buick around to the rear. It was nothing more than a weedy lot, illuminated by a lone floodlight attached to the back of the motel.

  “Why did you go around this way?” she whispered.

  Shooting a glance toward the back seat, he saw all three kids were passed out. He turned off the engine and said hoarsely, “The guy in the office had the TV on. They showed our pictures. They got an AMBER Alert going.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Did the innkeeper seem to recognize you?”

  “Damn weird. Looked right at me but didn’t recognize me.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t an act?”

  Petit shook his head. “My face was on the TV larger than life, and he didn’t have a clue.”

  She nodded, as if she knew what was going on.

  He peered into the darkness, beyond the light cast by the motel. “How’s that possible?”

  “Someone is...watching out for us.”

  “Old guy was half blind.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s skip the motel and keep going. I get too tired, I can pull over and sleep in the car.”

  “Ridiculous.”