A Perfect Grave (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

S
ister Anne’s final journey took her an hour north of Seattle, then east into the breathtaking countryside of Snohomish County.

The hearse and two other vehicles of her small funeral procession moved beyond the farmland and fruit orchards to a cemetery at the base of a steep hillside. It was sheltered by forests of fir and cedar, bordered by thick vines and berry bushes.

She would love it here, Sister Denise thought, as the procession slowed and turned from the old highway onto the soft earthen pathway cutting into the graveyard that was first used by missionaries in the late 1800s.

Father Mercer and Sister Vivian rode in the lead car, followed by the hearse and the Order’s big van. Sister Ruth drove the van.

None of the sisters in the van talked much. During the drive, most retreated into their thoughts. Sister Florence and Sister Paula whispered hymns while Denise confronted her problem: Sister Anne’s secret journal.

Part of her yearned to tell the others about it so they could remember Anne as a totally human and flawed woman.

Denise also wanted their support to press Vivian to share her discovery with the detectives. The police might find useful information in Anne’s poetic self-deprecation. Admittedly, there weren’t many details, but maybe the detectives would find value in the dates, or some other aspect that would lead them to her killer. Anything can be the break that solves a case, her father the police officer used to tell her.

Anything.

Should she disobey Vivian and tell Detective Garner?

Tell someone?

Lord, what should I do?

The procession eased to a gentle stop near the open grave, next to the mound of rich, dark Washington earth. A lonely lark flitted by and sparrows sang from the trees. The funeral director and his assistants guided and helped the nuns carry and position Anne’s casket.

In all, about a dozen people were gathered for the burial. It was private. No news cameras were permitted. Afterward, the nuns would oversee a reception at the shelter.

Sister Vivian took Father Mercer’s arm and helped him from the car. He was well over six feet, but bent by age, with wispy white hair and a phlegmatic face creased by time. The nuns did not know him. He was an old friend of Sister Vivian’s, a retired Jesuit who’d flown in from New England to take care of the funeral mass.

Vivian walked him to the casket, where he produced a worn leather-bound Bible, containing cards with rituals written in his hand.

He began by inviting the mourners to reconcile their souls by reflecting in silence. Then he spoke of God’s love, the sacrifice of His only son, the mystery of death, and the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

For Scripture, he read from Isaiah 61:1–3.

“The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, the opening of the prison to them that are bound; To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord; and a day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn.”

Denise didn’t really understand that choice. She wondered about it after Mercer ended with the Lord’s Prayer. Then each of the nuns kissed the casket and placed a rose on it.

Like the others, Denise also faced the fact that Anne had no husband to mourn her, no children or grandchildren to carry on. This was the reality of a religious life. It was a meaningful life. A good life. But at times it could be overwhelming. All of the sisters accepted it. Self-sacrifice was the burden of a life devoted to God and others.

Still, each sister had a relative, some piece of a family to miss them. But beyond the Order, Anne had no one. And none of them really knew her life before she entered the Order.

Would God ever give Denise the strength to accept Anne’s death?

Dear Lord, will the journal help us find her killer?

As Anne’s casket was lowered into the ground, Denise wept.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A
t the moment Sister Anne Braxton’s coffin was being lowered into the earth of Snohomish County, Henry Wade was miles away in Seattle.

Driving toward his demons.

A mournful Johnny Cash ballad kept him company, soothing his unease as his pickup truck headed west on 50th.

He had to do this.

He turned off the street and entered one of the city’s largest cemeteries. It was peaceful but the serenity did not allay his fear. Henry dreaded returning to this place. He hadn’t set foot in it since the day they buried his partner.

Vernon Pearce

After Vern’s death he’d slipped deeper into the abyss. In the time after it happened, the shrinks told Henry he had to confront the issue.

You must look your worst fear square in the eye.

Henry ignored their advice.

And he’d paid a price

The day Sally walked out, he gave up, let go, and wrapped himself in the lie of being alive. On the worst nights, he knew the truth. He wasn’t working at the brewery. He was entombed there. That was the word for it, Henry thought, easing his pickup by a mausoleum and traveling deeper into the cemetery.

Hell, it got so bad and so lonely back then that he nearly pulled Jason into the darkness with him. But Jason was strong enough to pull Henry back into the light. Jason had never given up on him. Jason stood by him. Forced him to get sober. Forced him to reconnect with the living, which led to his PI job with Don Krofton’s agency.

Henry owed his life to his son.

But Krofton’s new gun policy had ripped open old wounds and Henry knew he had to do something about it, or this time it would be the end.

He was getting close now.

He knew the way. Even after all these years. Even though the taller trees cast larger shadows, Henry never forgot. He wheeled by the plum trees, the mountain white pines, and a pair of buttonwoods that now reached some seventy-five feet, his tires rolling on the earthen path that was cushioned like casket lining.

He came to a stop.

When Johnny Cash’s ballad ended, Henry switched off his engine and looked out at the headstones.

Why don’t you admit it? Go on, admit it.

He craved a drink right now. Craved it as a whirlwind of emotions and images swirled around him. The gun, Vern, the blood of wasted lives.

No.

No, he shouldn’t be here.

Henry was startled by the sudden ringing of his cell phone. It was Michelle from the agency. He didn’t answer, letting her call go to his voice mail, like the others. Relieved by the distraction, he let a minute pass, then decided to check his messages.

The first was from Michelle at the agency. It had come earlier this morning.

“Hello, Henry, are you coming in today? Will Murphy called asking on the status of his workers’ comp case. He’s got new data. Give me a ring.”

The next message was from Don.

“Krofton. Good work on qualifying. Just heard from Webb at the range. Listen, Henry, got an insurance agent who was looking for you. Wants your help with a claim. Employee theft or something. Kid’s name is Ethan, or some shit like that. I never heard of him. I gave him your number. Expect a call.”

The next one was from Jason.

“Hey, Dad, I need your help on this nun murder. Give me a call.”

And finally, Michelle again.

“Henry, Susan Gorman called from over at Seagriff’s, wants to chat about that infidelity case. Where are you, by the way?”

That was it. All right. Stop this right now.

He was procrastinating. Ignoring the issue. He switched off his phone, put both hands on the wheel, and squeezed until his knuckles turned as white as the sheet covering a victim in the morgue.

As white as the fear on the face of…

Get out and do this. It’s time for battle. Henry glanced at the ocean of grave markers, swallowed hard, then stepped from his truck and started walking.

With each step he remembered Vern’s face. The sound of the record scratching, the smell of his house, the look in his eyes, the blur of the gun, the explosion.

The blood.

Oh, God, the blood.

Henry kept walking until he came to the headstone of Seattle Police Officer Vernon Pearce. He stood over it for a long time, feeling numb as he searched the graveyard for inspiration.

“Vern, I’m sorry, it’s taken me this long. It’s been hard, buddy. So damn hard. We both died that day, but my son brought me back to life. You know that I always wanted to make detective. I just never expected that it would be like this. That it would cost so much. And now here I am, licensed to carry a gun. Again.”

Henry’s attention went from Vern Pearce’s headstone to a distant corner of the burial ground. This battle was far from over.

In fact, it was just beginning.

Other ghosts were still out there pulling him back to that day.

The day they got the call.

They’d come upon the suspect fleeing with a weapon in his hand. They had him dead to rights right there on the street. It’s happening so fast.

Too damn fast.

Henry’s heart is pounding a blood rush in his ears. He can’t think. They draw on him, screaming.

Drop your weapon! Drop your goddamn weapon!

Henry blinks and now the guy’s got a hostage.

Oh Jesus, Vern, he’s got a goddamn hostage.

Eyes wide with fear are locked on his.

Are pleading with him.

Don’t let me die!

This is everything in a heartbeat.

This is all you are and all you will be.

This is your life.

Right here. Right now.

Henry’s finger is on the trigger.

Shoot. Don’t shoot.

Don’t let me die!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

S
ister Denise’s anguish intensified after they’d returned to Seattle and were immersed in the large reception at the shelter.

It was noisy and chaotic. So many people had donated food, had volunteered to help, and so many offered their condolences. Strangers, like this woman and boy who’d approached her.

“I’m Rhonda Boland,” the woman took Denise’s hand. “This is my son Brady.”

“I met Sister Anne at my school,” Brady said.

“Hello, dear. Sister Anne just loved going to the schools.” Denise smiled.

“We wanted to come to pay our respects. She was so kind to Brady. He’d lost his dad a while ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. We will pray for you.”

“Thank you,” Rhonda said, “but since then, Brady has—”

Rhonda was uncertain how, or if, she should tell this nun standing before her, this complete stranger, that she was terrified for her son and thought that maybe it was selfish at a time like this to even raise his situation. While Rhonda grappled with her emotions, Brady just came out and said it.

“I’m real sick and I need a major operation and we’re kind of scared about it.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Sister Denise said. “We’ll say many prayers for you and include you in the masses in the Archdiocese.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Rhonda said.

“Thanks,” Brady said.

“Well, it’s exactly what Sister Anne would’ve done. Thank you both for coming.”

Those warm condolences from strangers were like balm for Denise.

Still, she remained conflicted until she found a moment and the courage to pull Sister Vivian aside.

“Sister, I think we should tell the police about Anne’s journal.”

“This is not the time, Denise.”

“The other sisters have a right to know who she was. That she also made mistakes in her youth, whatever they were.”

“Sister, I remind you to keep this information confidential. It is private and the journal is property of the Order.”

“We should share it with the police. They’ve asked for our help about her past.”

“You don’t understand. We must do all we can to take care of her memory.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I had my hands in her blood, Vivian! I understand!”

“Lower your voice.” Vivian saw Sister Ruth coming. “This discussion is over. I’ll consider your concerns.”

After Denise left, Sister Ruth touched Vivian’s arm, then pointed to two uniformed cops who were talking to people taking notes.

“The officers want to talk to you.”

Vivian nodded. “First, I need to talk to Father Mercer in the office. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

On her way back to her post at the serving table, Denise was approached by a small group of kindly parishioners who placed envelopes in her hand containing cash donations.

“Thank you. God bless you.”

Denise headed for the office, to put the donations in a safe place. She saw the door was open a crack and overheard Vivian talking to Father Mercer.

“Jeb, any luck on finding out who screened her? She wrote here…” Denise couldn’t believe her eyes. Vivian was showing Mercer the journal. “…she wrote Sister M.”

“May I see that and the date?” After consulting it, Mercer said, “That would be Marie when she was in Paris.”

“Is she still living?”

“I believe so. In Montana, or Canada, the western part, Calgary, I think. I’ll keep going through my personal files and make some calls.”

“I want to know more about Anne’s past and if it has anything to do with these cryptic writings in her journal, her agonizing over sins she’d committed. Was there something that was missed when she was screened?”

“Oh Viv, when young women want to enter the Order, they often overdramatize their lives, you know that.”

“In Anne’s case we don’t know what she confided to her screener.”

“Do you think it’s a factor in her death?”

“Only God knows.”

“And the person who killed her,” Father Mercer said. “Such a cold-blooded, vile act. May I take Anne’s journal with me to read tonight? I’ll return it to you before I fly back to Maine tomorrow morning.”

“Absolutely.”

Mercer flipped the pages.

“I vaguely recall Marie telling me that there was something a little disconcerting about Anne Braxton’s history prior to her taking her vows.”

“Jeb, it’s my duty to find out as much information as we can, so I can determine what we should do.”

Denise jumped when a hand grabbed her shoulder. She turned to see Paula and caught her breath. Paula passed her a copy of the
Mirror.
The nuns had been so busy, none of them had seen the papers this morning.

“Look at this,” Paula said.

“Goodness.” Denise devoured the article and said, “My Lord.”

“There’s a rumor going around that police arrested Cooper just as the service was ending,” Paula said.

“To talk to him, probably. He likely saw something.”

“No. People who saw him get arrested are saying the police were acting like Coop was a suspect.”

Denise began shaking her head.

“No, no way. Cooper adored her, he would never touch a hair on her head.”

“Our people say police are calling him a prime suspect.”

“No, not Cooper. Oh no!”