An Unholy Mission (24 page)

“Some of my cookie?”

He shook his head again. Now that he was closer and in better light, Olympia could see that he was not a well man. He had lost weight since last she’d seen him, and his color was dreadful. She’d seen that color before, and it wasn’t good.

“Um, how are you feeling?”

He looked off to the side before answering.

“I decided to start chemo after the first of the year.”

By the look of him, Olympia wasn’t sure it was wise to wait that long, but she was pleased to hear that he’d given in and decided to do it. Last time they had talked, he wasn’t going to, so that much was good. There was always a glimmer of hope somewhere.

“What time will you be finished tonight? Maybe we could have a coffee or something before you go home?”  His eyes were bright, almost feverish. She remembered that look, too, from when her boys were sick.

Olympia leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. To her dismay, she discovered that underneath the bulk of the dark tweed jacket he was even thinner and more emaciated than she’d first thought. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The poor man looked miserable, but she didn’t want to encourage him either.  She remembered the several occasions when there had seemed no way she could make him understand what she was trying to tell him. Was this going to be another one of those times? On the other hand, what possible harm could come of having a cup of coffee with the poor sick man in a public place—a  hospital, for God’s sake.

“Okay, but just a quick one. I don’t want to miss the last bus home and be stuck here.”

“What time will you be through over at Women and Infants?”

Olympia pulled back her sleeve and looked at her watch. “Let’s see, it’s five-thirty now, so how about a quarter to seven? There’s an eight-thirty bus out of South Station, and if I leave here right at seven, I’ll be sure to make it, even with the snow.”

“I just came in from outside, and I think it’s easing up. How long does it take you to get from here to maternity?”

Olympia ignored the unintentional pun. She suspected that Luther had never made a joke in his life, and she wasn’t going to bring this one to his attention now, so instead, she made a thinking face. “Hmmm, let’s see. Certainly not more than ten to twelve minutes. I won’t be in any kind of a rush, so more like twelve. Why?”

Luther licked his lips. Olympia could see they were dry and cracked. “I just want to be sure I’m on time. I wouldn’t want you to miss your bus. So you’re still going over there a couple of days a week?”

“Same as before, Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings until noon.”

“Then you come back here through the tunnel and have your lunch.”

“Most days. It’s warm and dry down here, and besides, I know the way now. I’m not likely to get lost.” Olympia stood and gathered her things. “Do you want me to tell the other chaplains you said hi?”

He stiffened. “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t mention it. I didn’t leave on the best of terms with Sister Patrick, and I don’t think there’s any point in stirring things up again.”

If that didn’t make sense to Olympia, she didn’t let it show; but no matter what he said about why he was there dressed in his chaplain clothes and wearing his cross and ID, she damn sure was going to let Sister Patrick know about it.

She balled up the sandwich wrapper and the napkin and scored a direct shot into the nearby trash bin. Then she stood, draped her coat and scarf over her arm and tossed her handbag over her shoulder before starting toward the door and the underground passageway leading to Women and Infants.

 “See you in a little bit, then,” she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

After she left, Luther remained sitting at the table. When she was well out of sight, he reached inside his jacket, pulled out a pen and a small notebook, and tore out a blank page. He wrote a quick note saying he was sorry, but he’d started feeling poorly and decided to go home. He’d call her, and maybe they could meet for tea some other evening. After that he took out his Bible and opened it to the book of Revelations. He wasn’t expected up on the floor for at least another thirty minutes, and it was important to be consistent. Professionals needed to be consistent and punctual.

When twenty-five minutes had passed, Luther Stuart folded the note in half and wrote “Olympia Brown” on the outside. He stopped and asked the cashier at the counter if she would give it to the woman who would be back in less than an hour looking for him.

In Brookfield Jim and Frederick were seated at the kitchen table with an almost empty bottle of an absolutely gorgeous and perfectly chilled bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé between them. They were finishing up a supper of fresh salmon, baked potatoes, green peas and a salad that Jim shook out of a bag and tossed with his own Dijon mustard vinaigrette. They knew Olympia wouldn’t be home until fairly late and took advantage of her absence to relish a thoroughly non-vegetarian meal. Both were well aware that the ordinarily liberal minded Olympia could get a bit sniffy when a person considered fish acceptable in a vegetarian regimen. “An animal is an animal,” she would huff when given the chance, “whether it lives in water, sea or air, and I don’t want any dead animals on my plate, thank you.”

Frederick pushed a final bit of pink salmon onto the back of his fork with his knife and then added a couple of peas and a dab of potato before lifting the layered arrangement to his mouth.

Jim observed the meticulous operation over his almost empty glass. “If you don’t mind my asking, I’ve always wondered why so many Europeans lift the fork in their left hand and Americans scoop and lift with the right.”

“Well, I remember my father saying it simply made sense not to switch hands. After all, if one is right handed, one spears the meat with his or her left hand and saws away with the knife held in the right, then lifts said bit to be consumed with the same hand. Habit, I guess.”

Jim chuckled and lifted the dark green bottle, eyeballed the level of the remaining wine, and with a hand and an eye born of years of appreciative practice, divided it perfectly between their two glasses.

“Well done, old chap. I say, what’s she’s going on about in there?”

“She?” asked Jim.

“The venerable Miss Winslow, our resident busybody house ghost.”

They stopped talking and looked in the direction of the sitting room. They both heard the antique mantel clock chiming in the next room—the clock that didn’t actually work mechanically but had no trouble getting the attention of the people living in the house when it’s alter ego, Miss Leanna Faith Winslow, had something to say.

“Well, it’s either good or bad, but it must be important, because she’s still at it.”

“I suggest we finish our wine, pour ourselves a toothful of brandy, and allow the dishes to mature a bit while we see if we can decipher her meaning.”

“As long as we get the kitchen cleaned up before the Reverend Ms. gets home,” said Jim.

“Bloody hell, “said Frederick, again turning his head in the direction of the sitting room. “There she goes again.”

When Olympia returned to the hospital cafeteria, she was surprised to find that Luther was not there waiting for her. She looked around and was trying to decide whether to wait a few minutes when the woman at the cash register called her name and held out a folded piece of paper.

“I think he mighta took sick or something. He didn’t look too good, m’am.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Olympia.

“Well, at least he left you a note and didn’t stand you up or nothin’.”

Olympia mumbled her thanks, wished the friendly woman a good night and started the long, cold journey home to Brookfield.

Twenty-Three

When Luther completed his time on the hospice unit he slipped out through one of the lesser used exit doors and walked down the metal stairway all the way to the lower level. There, he opened another little used door and let himself into the underground labyrinth that connected all of the hospitals in the surrounding several city blocks. It was eerily quiet at night, and the echo of his rubber soled shoes on the cement floor made it sound as if someone was following him. Even in the daytime he remembered people speaking more softly down here. Maybe it was because of the proximity of the hospital morgue and the idea of not wanting to disturb the dead. As he walked along the clearly marked route from one hospital to the other, he was pleased to be safe and dry underneath the rushing traffic and the stormy weather on the streets above his head.

Over the weeks that he had been coming in at night he’d memorized the way to Women and Infants. He had timed and paced it out several times to be sure of the exact distance between the entrances to the two hospitals and the cutoff to the walkway leading to the morgue. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but now he had no choice. Olympia Brown would be sure to tell the others that she’d seen him. He had learned early on that he couldn’t trust her.

Then what? Sister Patrick might buy the story that he was just there visiting his landlady and the bit about the ID tag, but probably not. The woman was sharp. He knew she would start checking, which meant he had to act within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. Tomorrow was a Wednesday. Sometime after noon Olympia would be walking through the underground passage from Women and Infants to Mercy, and he would be waiting. And if for some reason she didn’t show up, he would be waiting there on Friday.

It was almost eleven when Olympia finally made it home. She was tired and out of sorts, and it didn’t help that she’d encountered, and then been stood up by, Luther Stuart.  But when she found Jim and Frederick sitting in the living room, she realized how very nice it was to come home to find a softly lighted house, a fragrant wood fire and two men she loved waiting for her. Olympia stood in the doorway and shook the glittery drizzle out of her hair. Frederick helped her off with her coat and handed her a cup of hot tea in one semi-coordinated movement, spilling only a little of the tea on her left foot.

“So how did it go? All of your mothers and babies tucked up for the night?

Olympia wrapped both hands gratefully around the steaming mug. “Oh, thank you, I needed that. My hands are colder than I thought. Yes, all is good on the maternity ward with proud mothers and hyperventilating new dads and a little Christmas music playing around the edges. Very sweet, really. There’s a poem in the back of the hymnbook that begins with the words, ‘Every night a child is born is a holy night.’ That’s how I should be feeling,  soft and dewy and Christmas-y, or I would be if I hadn’t run into Luther Stuart in the hospital cafeteria.”

Jim sat up straight. “What are you talking about? I thought you said he dropped out. What was he doing there?”

“He said was visiting his landlady. Who knows? He’s lost a lot of weight, but there he was, all dressed up in his chaplain clothes with that big silver cross, hospital ID tag and all. I don’t know what to believe.”

“You’re going to tell Patrick,” said Jim.

Olympia pulled a face. “He said he didn’t want me to say anything to anybody about seeing him. He told me he’d put all that behind him and wanted to leave it there, but I damn sure am going to tell her. It’s too late to call her now, but I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon. I’ll pull her aside and tell her then.”

She was lifting the mug to her lips when the clock on the mantle made an odd grinding sound.

“She’s been at it all night,” said Frederick.

Olympia frowned over her tea. “What are you talking about?”

“That clock, or should I say our dear Miss Winslow wearing her clock face, has been carrying on like something possessed.”

“She is possessed, or rather the clock is. I repeat, what are you talking about?”

Jim held up his hand. “The clock has been pretty active tonight, Olympia. It, or she, started up about two hours after you left. First it was a chime or two, then a series, and now this. It almost sounds like she’s growling.”

Olympia chewed on her lower lip and thought for a minute. “You know, if I’ve got it right, that’s just about when I bumped into Luther, and I’ve lived with Miss Winslow long enough to know that the timing of the two is not a coincidence. I think she’s telling me to be careful of Luther.”

Olympia’s words were punctuated by two short chimes from the mantel.

“Bingo,” said Jim.

“Maybe you should call your savvy sister tonight, Olympia.”

“No. It’s almost midnight. I’m dead tired. I’ll call in on her first thing in the morning, I promise.”

The next day, when she got to the hospital, Olympia went directly to Sister Patrick’s office only to find a note on the door which read, “Back at 1:00 p.m., leave me a note or put a message on my voice mail.” Underneath the notice there were several three-by-five cards tacked to a cork message board and a pencil on a string. Olympia couldn’t help but chuckle at the practical nature of the director of the program; but rather than leave a note that could get lost, or worse, fall into the wrong hands, she decided to leave a phone message. She then turned away from the locked door and reached into the murky depths of her bottomless purse for her cell phone.

In his basement apartment in the North End, Luther Stuart was assembling and laying out his tools. He’d been researching and stockpiling drugs and hypodermic needles over the past year in preparation for this. All those years of medical experience would serve him well. He was careful to use the computers at the library to order his supplies and have them delivered to a private mailbox. He had been diligent and thorough. He learned there was a website for just about anything. Much of what he needed was available in third world countries from dealers who didn’t ask questions or offer guarantees on their products. From one site he could link to another and then to another and so on. Now, Luther had everything he needed on the table before him.

He was troubled and little hesitant when he realized that in order to begin what might possibly be his final mission he would have to silence Olympia. He had been called to help people whose lives were already over and who would have died much sooner, had not those God-playing doctors intervened, but she had seen him and would no doubt tell the others. The minute Patrick heard of it, she would go and check with the hospice staff and then start looking for him. He had no choice.