Devious - Lisa Jackson [20]
Lucia explained, “The reverend mother wants us all in the dining hall.”
“Why? It’s the middle of the night!”
“I know.”
“What does she want?”
So many questions . . . “I’m sure the reverend mother wants to tell everyone herself.”
“And why are you up?” Sister Edwina demanded, glancing across the hallway to Lucia’s small room. “Why did Mother come to you?” she asked indignantly, as if she sensed a personal slight.
Lucia had no time for perceived personal affronts. She had her own worries to attend to. First there was poor Sister Camille, and then, of all the bad luck, Cruz Montoya’s brother was involved with the investigation. Her nerves were as tight as bowstrings. “Please, just dress quickly.”
“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” Edwina charged. She was always direct, always felt somehow as if she were being persecuted.
“It’s up to the reverend mother to say.”
“Right.” Irony dripped from her words.
The door to Dorothy’s room finally cracked open just a space. “What is it?” she asked through the slim opening. Dorothy, plump and always worried, didn’t sound the least bit groggy. Her voice held a whisper of suspicion.
Lucia delivered her short message. Other doors were opening as the noise in the hallway woke some of the others. Angela swept out of her room and, ignoring the sour look Maura cast her way, caught up with Lucia.
“I’ll help,” she offered while Edwina’s door slammed shut. “Don’t worry about her.” Angela turned away from Sister Edwina’s closed door. “She’s just mad because the reverend mother chose you to be her messenger.”
Lucia couldn’t respond as Sister Angela fell into step with her. Not now. Lucia was too overwhelmed by the darkness in her heart that went far deeper than keeping the news of Sister Camille’s death from them.
So much deeper.
Lucia, fingering the beads of her rosary, knew why she’d been awoken from her fitful sleep, understood why the breath of evil had whispered in her ear, and why Sister Camille, tortured soul that she was, had been murdered.
She knew, but she wouldn’t say.
Montoya found his way down the dim hallway near the apse of the large cathedral. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer.
Arms folded across his chest, a uniformed officer watched over the broad-chested man in a black cassock who sat in the amber pool of light cast by a single lamp.
Father Frank O’Toole, sequestered inside this small anteroom, seemed lost in prayer, his big hands clasped together in his lap.
As the door opened, he looked up, startled.
“Reuben?” His voice held a rasp of disbelief, his eyes flickering with startled recognition.
“How are ya, Frank?” Montoya leaned over the small, scarred table to shake his old friend’s hand.
Frank O’Toole’s clasp was still strong and athletic. “I’ve been better,” he admitted as he stood with a resigned smile, so different from the broad grins he’d flashed in high school. His eyebrows knitted. “So, what are you doing here?” he asked; then his eyes flickered as he made the connection. “You’re with the police?”
“Detective.”
“Really?” His smile disappeared. “I never would have thought . . .”
“Me neither. I never saw myself as a cop, and I sure as hell didn’t think you’d end up as a priest.”
In high school, when Montoya was flirting with the wrong side of the law, his love for athletics was one of the few reasons he’d avoided serious crime. Through sports, Montoya had the good fortune to hook up with Frank O’Toole. A star on the soccer field and basketball courts, an A student in the classroom, Frank O’Toole had seemed to have it all. He’d run with the popular crowd and hailed from a privileged background, his father a prominent attorney.
Frank had caught Montoya hot-wiring his car—a classic Mustang—when he was only fifteen and had threatened to go to the police. Montoya and he had nearly come to blows but had worked things out; Montoya had spent