she looked at the tissue clenched in her fist. “Is this surgery expensive?”
Dr. Hillier inhaled thoughtfully and returned to his desk.
“Yes.”
“You know my insurance is basic. How expensive are we talking?”
“Yes, I understand. I don’t know the precise figures.”
“Can you give me an estimate?”
“I really couldn’t, there are many factors.”
“Please, Dr. Hillier, I may be just a supermarket clerk, but I’m not stupid. I know you know.”
“Maybe sixty to seventy thousand.”
Rhonda turned.
“Seventy thousand dollars? That’s more than double what I earn in a year.”
“I know.”
“I’m already facing several thousand in medical bills I can’t pay.”
“I know.”
“My husband left us in debt.”
“I know this is overwhelming, but these things can be negotiated between your insurance company and the hospital and there are financial arrangements.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just don’t know.”
“You’re going to go home and help Brady. He needs you to get through this.”
Rhonda nodded and pulled herself together. She went to the waiting room where Brady was looking at the Seattle Mirror and the picture of the murdered nun. Rhonda didn’t want him reading that. They’d had enough bad news for today. Tenderly, she tugged him from the newspaper.
“Let’s go, hon.”
“Mom, I remember her,” Brady pointed at Sister Anne. “She was with the nuns who come to my school for our charity fair every year.”
“I know, honey, they do good work.”
“They made food, set up games, sang, and juggled; they weren’t like real nuns. They were cool, mom. The teachers took lots of pictures of us doing stuff with them. Why would somebody want to kill her?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
Why would God give a twelve-year-old boy a death sentence?
“Mom!”
Rhonda had pulled Brady to her, holding him tight, to keep them both from falling off the earth.
Chapter Sixteen
S ister Anne’s blood churned and bubbled like liquid rust in the cleaning bucket. There was so much, Sister Denise thought, wringing her sponge.
It was as if the floor had been painted with it.
This room would never be the same. It no longer held the fragrance of fresh linen and soap. It smelled of the ammonia she’d mixed in the cold water, haunting her as she scrubbed over the mosaic of smeared, bloodied shoe prints.
Some of them belonged to the killer, the detectives had told her.
After the forensic analysts had finished processing Sister Anne’s apartment, they’d released it to the nuns, urging the sisters to let a private company that specialized in cleaning crime scenes “restore” the apartment for them.
“It would be less traumatic,” one concerned officer, a former altar boy, said as they were leaving.
“Thank you, officer,” Sister Vivian turned to Sister Denise and said, “but Sister Denise will take care of it for us.”
Surprise stung Denise’s face and the young officer pretended not to notice.
How could Sister Vivian do something like that without first discussing it with me? Denise thought later. Because Vivian had a reputation for being an arrogant tyrant, that’s why.
As she scrubbed, Denise grappled with anger and anguish. She abhorred the way Vivian was dominating people, especially given this horrible time. But Anne had been Denise’s friend, and, in some way, by washing the blood from her room, she was honoring her memory.
Like Anne and the others, Denise lived in the town house. She was a nurse at the shelter and was regarded by the sisters to be the toughest in the group because she was raised in New York. Her mother had been an emergency nurse; her father had been a New York City cop.
Growing up in a rough Brooklyn neighborhood, Denise had seen some unforgettable things, but washing her friend’s blood from the floor where she had been murdered was one of the hardest moments she’d ever faced in her life. She struggled with her tears each time she poured a bucket of reddish water down the sink.
She was alone with her grim work, contemplating life, death, and God’s plan, when a shadow rose on the wall. Denise turned to see that Sister Paula, the most timid of the women who lived here, had ventured into the apartment.
Paula didn’t speak as she cast a glance round, absorbing the eerie aura of death, gazing at the pasty, reddish streaks for a long moment. Then gently, she touched the walls, the counter, the light switch, the things Anne had touched, as if caressing a memory, or feeling the last of her presence.
This was a brave step for her, Denise thought. Paula was born in a small town near Omaha, Nebraska, the daughter of an insurance salesman. She was soft-spoken and meek.
“I’m sorry for interrupting, Den,” she said. “But I had to see that it really happened.” She twisted a tissue in her hands. “I mean, Vivian tells us to be strong. To go beyond being the humble bride-of-Christ thing, be progressive urban warriors of light. But how do we do that knowing that Anne was murdered right here in our home? And her killer’s still out there. I really don’t think I can handle this.”
Denise washed her hands quickly, then put her arms around Paula to comfort her.
“I’m so sorry,” Paula said, “I’ll try to be strong like you and the others.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay. It’s perfectly fine to feel the way you feel. Be angry. Be afraid. Be confused. Be human. That’s how God made us.”
“Please forgive me.”
“For what? You’re like Thomas, you have to see and touch the wounds before you believe. So you can carry on in faith.”
“I suppose I am. I just don’t understand how she can be gone.”
“She’s not, Paula, her good work will live on.”
“But her killer is still out there.”
“The lock on the front door’s been reinforced. The windows, too.”
“I know, but he’s still out there.”
Downstairs, the doorbell of the town house was sounded by another visitor, part of the continuing stream of neighbors, local politicians, and Sister Anne’s guests from the street. They arrived to offer their condolences, flowers, home-baked cakes, cash donations, casseroles, or colorful cards in crayon scrawl made by the children from the day care. People also phoned or e-mailed with heart-warming messages of sympathy and support.
After taking a call on the town house phone, Sister Ruth approached Sister Vivian, who was on her cell phone instructing the order’s lawyer to help her volunteer the order’s staff and client lists to Detectives Garner and Perelli.
“Excuse me, Vivian, the Archdiocese is calling. They’re offering Saint James Cathedral for the funeral.”
“The Cathedral? Thank them. Tell them we’ll consider it and get back to them.”
Nearby, in the cramped office of the townhouse, Sister Monique’s eyes widened at the computer monitor when she saw an e-mail with the “. va” extension. The Vatican, she whispered to herself before reading the short message. It was from the cardinal who was secretary of state, who reported directly to the Holy Father on all actions of the Church outside of Rome.
