“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Emma reminded her.
The young novice raised her chin. Her skin was ashen, her blue eyes standing out against the gray surroundings. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t know yet. Right now I need to find Sister Joan. Stay with me.”
They headed back through the rosebushes and across the lawn to the tower, Sister Cecilia keeping up and not saying a word. The wind picked up, bringing with it more cold drizzle.
When they reached the steps, Emma turned to the novice, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. “Stay close to me.”
Sister Cecilia nodded, and they mounted the steps. Emma pushed open the heavy door. It barely missed Sister Joan’s sturdy black shoe. She was sprawled on her side, her head twisted in such a position that there was no hope she was still alive.
Her black headband was half off, her graying hair covering most of her face.
Sister Cecilia screamed. “Sister Joan!”
In a smooth motion, Emma drew her .38 and held it firmly in her right hand. She glanced at the young novice. “Do exactly as I say.”
“I will,” she said, her voice just a breath. “Could she have fallen—”
“No.”
Emma didn’t point out the obvious blow Sister Joan had taken to the back of her head and instead bent down and quickly checked for a pulse. There was none, and as she stood up again, she pushed back her emotions.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Sister Cecilia asked.
“I’m afraid so. There’ll be time for mourning later,” Emma said, not harshly. “You’re doing fine, Sister. Just remember to stay close to me.”
With Sister Cecilia at her side, Emma did a quick but thorough sweep of the single, open room on the main floor. Mother Linden had converted the tower into a work space early in the order’s existence. Conservation was a central source of their income. For the past thirty years, Sister Joan had dedicated herself to the art and science of restoration and conservation, establishing the Sisters of the Joyful Heart as experts in cleaning, repairing, preserving and protecting works of art—in particular, religious art—brought to them by various individuals and institutions. She would enlist other sisters to help her as needed and would train the occasional apprentice, but the tower was her domain.
The first-floor furnishings consisted of desks, filing cabinets, bookshelves and a seating area, none of them yielding an intruder or another terrified nun. Emma motioned toward the metal spiral stairs, and Sister Cecilia nodded, very pale now, eyes wide with horror and fear. She maintained her composure as they headed up to the second-floor conservation lab.
The temperature and humidity controls were off, and the large worktables and easels were empty, not because a thief had cleared out valuable art, Emma thought, but because there currently was no work being done in the lab. Metal shelves that held materials—backing for paintings, chemicals, brushes, microscopes, work lamps—and the photographic and UV equipment all seemed to be intact, undisturbed. Some of the equipment and materials in the lab were expensive but nothing Emma could imagine attracting a thief, especially given the tower’s isolated location.
“Sister Joan worked here alone most of the time,” Sister Cecilia said, clutching the back of a task chair.
“We have to go, Sister.”
They descended the stairs, and Emma led Sister Cecilia to Sister Joan’s scarred oak desk under an oversize window. A white birch swayed in the wind. The fog could conceal—or hamper—an intruder’s escape.
Had the bleak weather played a role in the timing of the attack on Sister Joan?
Sister Cecilia slumped against the desk, her eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners as she prayed silently.
The landline telephone was right where it had always been, next to a jar of boar-bristle brushes used to clean artwork. Emma lifted the old-fashioned receiver, her hand steady as she dialed the extension for the motherhouse.
“Sister Joan?”
Emma recognized the voice of Mother Superior Natalie Aquinas Williams. “It’s Emma Sharpe, Mother.”
“Emma? What are you doing here?”
“Listen carefully. I need you to gather the sisters together in the game room. Lock the doors. Then call the police. Don’t let anyone in except them and me.”
“What’s happened?”
“Count heads. Make sure—”
“Everyone’s here except Sister Joan and Sister Cecilia.”
“Sister Cecilia’s with me. She’s safe.” Emma knew she had to give Mother Natalie more facts. “Sister Joan was attacked in the tower. She’s dead, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“Dear heaven. Emma…” With the safety of twenty women at stake, the woman in charge of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart quickly pulled herself together. “All right. I’ll gather everyone in the game room, lock the doors and call the police. What will you do?”
“I’m on my way with Sister Cecilia.”
Emma hung up, confident that the Mother Superior would kick into immediate action. Keenly intelligent, a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart for more than forty years, Natalie Aquinas Williams was decisive and committed body and soul to the welfare of the women in her charge.
Sister Cecilia had gone very still, her eyes fixed on Sister Joan’s body. She turned to Emma. “I can show you to the motherhouse—”
“It’s all right,” Emma said. “I know the way.”
CHAPTER 4
COLIN DONOVAN SAT ON A FLAT EXPANSE OF COLD granite and stretched out his legs as he debated dragging his sleeping bag out of his kayak and taking an afternoon nap before the mosquitoes found him. He figured he’d camp here overnight. He was on a tiny coastal Maine island. No houses, no cars, no people. He had food, water, dry clothes and shelter. Most of the bad guys after him believed he was dead. So did a fair number of the good guys.
Did life get any better?
It was his fourth island in as many days. He’d ignored the fog and intermittent rain and explored the knob of rocks,
