Devious - Lisa Jackson [164]
“He’s a busy man. The Lord’s work is never done.”
“I’m well aware of that,” she said, and decided she had to tell Georgia what was happening. “I’m hoping he’ll consider rescheduling the auction,” she said, knowing she was asking the impossible. “We have a . . . situation here at St. Marguerite’s. Another one of my novitiates has gone missing . . . well, maybe even two, and as it is, I think it would be disrespectful to go on with any kind of festivities.”
There was a long pause and then a sigh on the other end of the line. “I understand,” Georgia said, surprisingly accommodating, “but you know, it’s too late. The invitations have been sent, the tickets sold, the hotel ballroom booked, the caterers and women of the church who have gone to all the trouble to get the refreshments and dinner ready. Oh, Charity, you and I both know what Father Thomas’s response will have to be. I’m sorry,” she said.
“Me, too, Georgia.” There was no reason to press the issue. Even before her request had been presented to Father Thomas, wherever in the world he was, Georgia had squelched it.
Of course.
“I’m not certain that the choir will be able to perform.”
“Surely they will. For their lost sisters. For the Holy Father. I know this is a time of great trouble for you, Charity, but this auction is for the good of the very place we called home for so many years. Even Sister Ignatia, bless her heart, is going to attend. Father Thomas is going to wheel her in, though she’ll have an attendant, of course.”
Just how old was Ignatia, the woman who had helped raise her and yet terrorized her? Ninety-five? A hundred? Even older. Sixty years ago, she’d been a miserable woman in her forties, and the years surely hadn’t improved her sour, almost cruel disposition.
In Charity’s opinion, Sister Ignatia had scarred more children than she’d helped.
“It’s going to be grand,” Georgia said on a sigh, as if she were a debutante going to her first ball.
“If you say so,” Charity whispered, but didn’t believe it for a moment, not with two of the novitiates confirmed dead—murdered, here on the hallowed grounds of St. Marguerite’s Cathedral—and two more missing.
“I do. You’ll see.”
Charity took in a long, deep breath as she hung up. She rubbed her fingers across the smooth, worn surface of her desk, her heart heavy.
Why was she being tested?
She glanced at the crucifix hung on the wall over her door. Jesus’s gaunt frame was etched in dark wood, but even so, the scars of his wounds, the crown of thorns, the nails pounded through his hands and feet, were visible.
How could she possibly think her own pain was anything when she thought of his agony? She crossed herself, closed her eyes, and whispered several prayers.
Then, squaring her shoulders, she picked up the receiver again.
This time to call the police.
CHAPTER 47
Montoya stormed into the station. He took the steps two at a time and strode directly to Bentz’s office without bothering to drop his sidearm at his desk or grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen.
He’d forgone his run this morning and was itching for a fight.
Bentz was just reading his e-mail while the rest of the department came to life. Cops chatting, keys rattling, phones jangling, air conditioner wheezing, the weekend staff already arriving. The smells were there, too, fresh coffee mingled with floor polish, a burning smell from the overworked copy machine, and the stale odor of human sweat, left over from a recent booking.
All part of the ambience.
“We need to find my brother’s Harley!” Montoya announced, irritated beyond belief. “Right now it’s probably heading northwest on the ten, heading toward Houston or Texas or Arkansas or goddamned Oklahoma! And it’s being ridden by our star witness.”
“Slow down,” Bentz suggested, waving him into a side chair near the corner of his desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Montoya preferred to stand and took a spot near the window. “My son of a bitch of a brother,” Montoya said, fury singing through his blood. “What a fuckin’ idiot!” He glanced at Bentz and said, “Don