Chapter 1
The Pawn on Nuns Island
He listened, and decided she was no longer crying. In the semi-darkness of the car, he could just about make out the motionless shape in the back seat. The girl – asleep or more likely only pretending to be -- was completely hidden in the blanket he had stolen from the motel room an hour before.
Nervous, because he did not know what awaited him, he forced himself to open the car door. His voice, as usual when he addressed the girl, affected an air of easy confidence: "This is the last stop, I promise. Just wait here, I won’t be long."
A rivulet of moonlight swathed a path from a deeply rutted lawn to a sprawling wood structure. It did not have a front door. It had all shapes and sizes of windows and a wraparound porch and God knows how many added-on wings. There was a fire escape that started on the second floor and didn't seem to end anywhere.
But he could not find an entrance. This was not a good sign. Bedraggled and heavy-eyed, he was in no mood after eight hours of madcap driving to discover he had ended up in the wrong place.
"The sisters wanna keep hidden away..." Mama had told him.
And Mama, he hoped, had not led him astray.
The only entrance he could find was a screened door off to the south side. This door was locked. There was a buzzer under a thick patch of ivy close by the door. A bell, like for a bicycle, was nailed to a post. He made a nuisance of himself, pressing down hard on the buzzer, shouting up at the gray windows, rattling the screen, ringing the bicycle bell.
A quarter of an hour passed, maybe more. A very small, fiery scrawl was beginning to appear over the mountains to the east. Whoever was inside the building was not to be roused. It seemed to him that more and more leaves were falling around him, piling around his loafers. Shadows shivered between the huge, spanning trees.
He had to keep resisting the impulse to go back to the car and check on the girl.
From a long way off he could see a string of lights from the bridge he had driven over and a cluster of lights on the opposite shore. Beyond the mountains were towns he'd never heard of, a peppering of tiny dots with names he had read for the first time on the map tonight. At last a few isolated lights from inside the building went on, the screened door blew open and a woman in pants and a sweater stood blinking at him. "Well?" she asked with a sleepy drawl.
Well, he was at a loss what to say. He cursed himself for not being better prepared. He cursed Mama for not warning him. For shit sake, Mama, why didn't you tell me, "You'll find a house deep in the woods and a dwarf at the door"?
She was little more than a child to look at, with an unlined face and a blankness in her features that had not yet settled into any definite expression.
She was still waiting for him to explain himself. He felt the disadvantage of his height, but being a well-brought-up young man he was careful not to stoop in order to meet her round eyes that glowed overlarge under the porch light and looked glazed with sleepiness.
"I'm --" he stuttered to introduce himself -- his name was Malcolm Marshall -- but the woman interrupted him.
"Oh, welcome." The tone in her voice sounded more neutral than welcoming, but holding open the door with her foot, she reached up to Malcolm, folding both her thick hands into his in a warm grip. "I'm the Mother Superior. I've been expecting you ever since your mother called. Please come in."
She was smiling, and her smile had the intended effect on poor Malcolm. The Reverend Mother seemed prepared to overlook his soiled raincoat, his late arrival, his face with the prison pallor.
Without saying more, she was leading him down a long hall where a row of dimmed chandeliers made spidery shadows across the linoleum tiles. There was an unmistakable atmosphere of deep slumber behind the closed doors they passed. "I'm sorry if I woke you up," he said.
She answered him with a little joke. "No, no, God never sleeps."
"We share a mutual friend, don't we?" she continued pleasantly, motioning him into an office at the end of the long hall. He took a seat next to her own midget chair, which she slid into with a quick wriggle. "Your mother told me you're engaged to Isabelle," she said. "I've known Isabelle since she was a child, so you come highly recommended."
Malcolm cleared his throat slightly at the mention of Isabelle.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. His stomach churned nervously as he felt the woman examining him. Just as he was examining her for any telltale signs of doubt or suspicion.
But she seemed to like what she saw, because her voice -- surprisingly resonant, considering her size - was creamily enthused. "How fine. I'm delighted. And you've brought us a visitor. A friend of Isabelle's, I understand. What is her name?"
"Her name's --" he began to say, but broke off. The nun had turned on a lamp next to a casement window above her desk, where an astonishingly grotesque portrait of a weeping Christ was propped up in a silver frame.
Glancing away from it guiltily, Malcolm leaned forward at the edge of his chair, gripping his knees. "Her name's Becky Hall." It was a lie, God help him. The rest wasn't a lie. "Age eighteen. I'm afraid she's not, um, Catholic. I'm not sure..."
"And she's with you?" the nun asked him.
"Yes. She's asleep in the car. Should I go get her?"
"No, no, let her sleep."
"We've had a long drive," he put in, hoping the nun didn't see his relief that he wouldn't have to bring the girl in for inspection. "We've come from the city."
"And you're exhausted."
"Becky, very. She's had some trouble, and she needs seclusion and a lot of rest."
The nun crinkled her face up for one of her electric smiles. "Well then this is the place for her." With a sweeping gesture to the window, she explained there were twelve nuns, in addition to herself, who lived in what she called "our blessed island on the bluff." There were two separate cottages a quarter of a mile through the woods. These were hermitages set aside for guests who spent up to six months in silent meditation. One of the hermitages was free for Becky, but unfortunately there was no guarantee for how long.
"If a sister comes in need of tranquility..." the Mother Superior smiled knowingly. "But of course, we never turn anyone away. Not if there's a genuine need."
“Thank you," Malcolm said, and then he did something he regretted instantly. "My I.D.," he said.
The nun leaned forward, squinting at the laminated card. Malcolm Marshall, junior adjunct of a division mystifyingly named Educational Coordinates of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Well," she said.
It was too late for him to withdraw it. He had sprung it on her as a prelude to explaining himself and his relation to the girl, but if his mind had been working less sluggishly, he'd have known that it was an unnecessary complication. That stupid urge he had, to show off. The nun's plump face was stitched taut with bewilderment and a struggle to comprehend. Now he saw what a devastating commotion he had caused. She was thinking of police, disturbance, who knows what kind of unwanted interference. What had his supervisor said? "You use the I.D. very sparely, Malcolm."
"I'm afraid my mother didn't tell you...?" Malcolm pocketed his I.D. hastily. "I hope it's not a problem," he said. "Isabelle would like to be here, but she has the store to run, so that's why I've come, you see."
The nun shot him an incredulous glance. "You do know this is a silent retreat?"
"Yes, ma'am. That's why we thought of bringing Becky here." Stiffening his back in authority, he readied himself to tell the story he had rehearsed with infinite care in the car. But there was an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice that he couldn't suppress.
He fumbled for the words that wouldn't reveal more than was necessary. "Becky needs someone to... to be with her. She's in deep shock, her husband died a few days ago, in tragic circumstances. And I've... I've had some experience with situations like hers, and I think I can be of some help to her. I wouldn't feel comfortable dropping her off here, I mean. In light of her circumstances, total solitude wouldn't be wise."
He gave a pause. The nun's face was grimly set, in disagreement or confusion -- he couldn't be sure which it was. Her head was still, and slightly bowed. He searched frantically in his mind for something to say that would persuade her that the girl needed him, she could not be left alone. We have reason to believe Becky is in danger. -- No. He'd already revealed too much. Any more, and he would be running the risk of the girl being traced to the convent if a search was put out for her. Finding no other alternative, and wondering if he'd regret it in an instant, he reached for his wallet.
"If I may, I'd like to make a contribution..."
"No, no that's not necessary." The nun dismissed his offer with a rush of breath. And confused, he dropped the twenty-dollar bill on her desk. The woman glanced at it. "Mr. Marshall, may I ask how old you are?"
"I'm thirty-one," he said. He was twenty-six. Looking into her eyes, his heart contracted a little, realizing what a muddled impression he must be making on her. A clumsy intruder, talking a pack of lies, arriving at an ungodly hour and flashing a FBI I.D., acting the savior of a girl who had every reason to loathe him through and through. But he would make amends, he would.
Coming here was the first of many amends.
The nun was casting her eyes over the portrait of the weeping Christ, as if to receive some help there. Her mannish, practical hands played nervously on her broad lap. It was a slow second before she asked what she was obviously very uncomfortable asking: "To make this clear... As our guests here... you and Miss Hall understand, don't you, you have taken the vow of chastity?"
"Yes, ma'am. Yes, of course. There's no question of that." He was furious to feel himself blushing.
"Yes, of course, it goes without saying," the nun nodded kindly. She was visibly relieved to get the awkward question over with. "And it's only proper we try and accommodate the person who could most help her. After all, Isabelle's mother has been very generous to us, she comes here so often, I wouldn't want to disappoint her, the one time she asks a favor from us."
And now it's over for me, he thought. In his racing imagination, he saw the scene unfold: He'll leave the office. Morning will come; and by and by the Reverend Mother will pick up the phone and cheerfully inform Isabelle's mother of Becky Hall's safe arrival.
With rising anxiety, he watched the nun scrunch her face into a thoughtful frown, and for a moment he thought she was going to go back on her decision, but then she reached for a jar on the windowsill and shook out a bunch of keys.
She squared her shoulders and extended the key to him. "The hermitage is marked number two." Cocking her head to the side, she gave Malcolm an appraising look. "There's only one bed."
"That's no problem, not at all, I'll arrange something," he said -- too quickly. "If I could ask you, to keep this confidential?"
Another blunder. The nun was again put out. Her gray eyes flashed warningly.
He put in, "Would you like to meet Becky?"
Yes, she would, and the Mother Superior was already at the door. "If you don't mind,” she said, “I'd like to have a look at her. I’ll be careful not to wake her."
Malcolm sprang to his feet. "Of course, yes."
As they neared the car, he saw with a shock that the girl was awake, she sat with her face pressed against the window, watching their approach. He felt the nun's impatience as he fumbled to unlock the car doors, and then suddenly she swung open the girl's door and held out her hand.
"My dear, we are very happy to have you with us. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."
In the bald glare of the car light, the girl's face looked bled-white. Her spiked orange hair gave her the appearance of being electrified with fright. She made a flapping action with her hand, and stared at Malcolm. "Where am I?"
Malcolm exchanged a nervous look with the nun.
"How do we get to the hermitage?" he asked.
"You can't miss it," the nun said, "take the road past the Madonna.” She turned her gaze to the girl. If there had been any suspicions in her mind about Malcolm's rather dubious story about a dead husband, they seemed to have vanished at the sight of the girl's obvious distress. "The Madonna was donated by Isabelle’s mother." She lisped this to the girl, her gray eyes clouded with concern: "You'll see in the morning that the views are breathtaking."
Two small pillars adjoined the dirt road, both lit with floodlights. One pillar had the statue of the Madonna in front of it, another had a sign. Malcolm braked the car and read the sign out loud, as much for his own sake as for the girl's, as if that would help put his apprehensions to rest. "Nuclear-Free Zone," he read aloud. "Pray for Peace."
A short drive down the road and he found the hermitage. It was a squat, shingled cottage enveloped with blue mist under the moonlight, with a blush of sunrise over its steeped roof and clinging ivy. Beyond that, so far as he could see, were meadows holding the distance like sand-colored clouds, and a dense patch of forest where he could hear a waterfall.
He stepped out into the chilly air and looked around.
"Well... here we are," was all he could think of saying. The events of the night had proceeded at an insane clip, and now this. The girl was slumped to one side with her cheek resting lethargically against the window.
Wedging her out of the car, he gave himself a high mark for stupidity for gushing, "It's pretty, isn't it? Didn't I say it'd be?"
She held back on the steps, gripping his elbow. "Another motel?"
"No, this is a hermitage. For nuns, Veronica. You'll love it here."
"Where are the nuns?"
"Somewhere on the property." Keeping up a happy patter, he nudged her up the steps, one excruciatingly slow step at a time.
Inside, it was as spartan as he'd expected. With a bare wood floor, a metal cot by the wall, a closet, and a large picture window which, when he tried opening it, he discovered was nailed shut. He pretended to be mildly annoyed. "Stuffy," he griped, "not much fresh air." The girl stood staring blankly at a bare wall while he made a quick inspection of the bathroom. No windows there, no easy escape for the girl. That is, if she was even capable of looking for an escape, which he doubted.
Returning, he found her still standing in the same spot in the middle of the room. She was showing all the symptoms of shock: the trippy glaze over her eyes, the monotone voice. "We’ll be here long?" she asked.
"Well... as long as we can." He pulled down the covers on the cot and patted them. "Nice and soft." He made a move to remove her coat and she drew away. She crawled into the bed, wearing her coat.
"I’ll be back for Boris's funeral?" she asked.
"I'll try to arrange it," he replied, without looking at her. He had found some extra blankets on the shelf in the closet and proceeded to spread out a bed for himself on the floor. "But it wouldn't be very responsible of me if I succeeded, would it?" he said. "I'd be going against orders. I'm supposed to keep you away from the inquiries of the police, you understand. The police are looking for you. One of the first places they'll look is at the funeral."
They had gone through this before, for hours and hours during the long drive north, and then in the motel and again in the car, but he went patiently through it for her again.
"So long as the investigation goes on, it’s best that you stay here. And I'll make it as pleasant as I can for you, I promise, okay?"
"Who will bury him?"
He shot her a glance. She was lying on her side on the bed, watching him with unblinking blandness.
He repeated stupidly, "Who will...? Well..." He hadn't thought about it, truthfully, who will bury Boris Weber.
Who. Who. He could not think. He was so goddamn tired of the lies. But he’d gone too far to stop lying now. And the fact was, she had asked a simple question. And yet it had stunned him. Who will bury Boris Weber. A “funeral” was easy enough to arrange, or pretend to arrange, because Veronica would not be present anyway. But a burial…
A burial required an assigned place, a spot in the earth, a headstone. Once he had “arranged” it, she would want to know all the particulars, which would expose him to spirals and spirals of more questions from her, and more fabrications from him…
He was still waiting for his mind to come down, trying to unwind from the nightmarish thrust of all the hours and hours on the road. Finally, he ventured, "Well... who would you like?"
"There's no one but me."
Yes, he nodded, it was true, there was no one but her. Weber had no family, and few friends. He trusted no one, and the once-gregarious Veronica had certainly not influenced him for the better. Just the opposite: Weber had cleverly managed to draw her into his own isolation. A free-spirited girl who had been turned into Weber’s puppet.
"We'll think of someone tomorrow, I'm sure." Malcolm kept his voice pitched to sound casual. "Let's just get some sleep. May I turn off the light?"
He gave her a last glance. After all the hours of bedlam and screaming, she was now strangely becalmed. He willed himself to relax into it, to believe peace had come at last. "Sweet dreams then," he said evenly. He turned off the light, and then he carefully slipped the pistol out of his pocket when her voice broke into the darkness.
"Janice?"
"Janice?" he asked with a start.
"You know. She takes care of my house."
Janice, he remembered. It was another monstrous detail he had failed to account for.
"She can do Boris's funeral."
His funeral. Back to that.
"Yes, all right, that's a good idea," he said quietly.
"Alone. I don't want anyone from the FBI there."
"Yes, I know, " he answered evenly.
"Promise. No FBI."
"Of course. Yes, I promise."
No FBI. No police. Just a simple, private funeral, with a designated mourner: Janice.
He lay on his back, staring into darkness. A wide, haunted lull filled the room.
Janice was a catastrophe.
Veronica's voice broke into his thoughts: "I don't know where he should be buried. Anywhere... I don't think he'd care. Tell her to decide."
"Right," he said, and he dared an outrageous lie: "I'll call Janice tomorrow."
"Please do," Veronica responded. "She has to take in Mooshi. I don't know how. She doesn't have a key to Boris's apartment."
And he went on: "I'll see that she gets one."
"I forgot to feed Mooshi before I left."
He went on: "She'll be all right till tomorrow. Cats can take care of themselves."
"Tell Janice to call the stables to look after Sapphire."
The damn horse, he thought. What's to be done with the damn horse.
"I'll call the stables myself," he lied. He kept on lying, but almost believing himself.
He heard Veronica's faint moan.
And at last she was silent. He listened to the wind outside. Something knocked. Something hooted. Something whistled. He lay tense on the floor, clutching his pistol by his ear, ready to spring at a moment's notice. His ears tuned to the lightest sound. Every sound unnerved him. He wasn't used to noises from the country. He watched as a crimson veil of daybreak began to spread over the window. He listened to Veronica shift in her bed. He felt for his gun again. And at last he drifted off to sleep to the sound of her weeping.
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