year with another wee one?”
“I doubt it,” Judith said, finally enlightened and
smiling gently. “Ten’s quite a few, Father.”
The priest looked skeptical. “Twelve, and the archbishop himself will baptize the babe.”
“Will he raise the kid, too?” Renie asked.
Father McConnaught put his hand behind his ear.
“Eh?”
“Never mind,” Judith said kindly. “Thank you for
coming, Father. We’ll keep you in our prayers.”
“And so shall I with you and all the wee ones.” He
made a small, painful bow and departed.
“Deaf
younger priests around here?”
“We should pray more for vocations,” Judith said.
“Nuns as well as priests. I’ll bet very few members of
the nursing staff are from the Sisters of Good Cheer.”
SUTURE SELF
47
“It’s like the teaching orders,” Renie said, then
stared at Judith. “Say—when you were talking to
Nurse Heather about who operated on Joan Fremont
and Joaquin Somosa, were you sleuthing?”
“What?” Judith feigned disbelief.
“You heard me,” Renie said. “Are you suspicious
about the cause of their deaths?”
“Well . . . you have to wonder.”
“
bed. “I don’t. In fact, I’m going to try to get some
sleep.”
“That’s a good idea,” Judith agreed. “Frankly, I’m
exhausted.” She, too, clicked off her light. “I guess I
was just curious.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right?”
“Right.”
“If they hadn’t been well known, we’d probably
never have heard about their deaths.”
“Shut up.”
Judith obeyed, but couldn’t get comfortable. “I still
hurt like hell. This bed’s too narrow. I’ll never be able
to sleep.”
“Count sheep. Count Chinese food cartons. Count
all those imaginary kids you told Father McConnaught
you had.”
“I’ll try.”
Judith slept, but her dreams were disquieting in the
extreme. Joaquin Somosa appeared on the pitcher’s
mound, where an army of fried wontons marched onto
the field and savagely attacked him with chopsticks.
