Brother Odd (22 page)

She spoke about the horror with more dispassion than I could have done, and in fact I felt that I would not maintain my composure if she said another word about it.

“One day, you’ll have all the dogs you want. You can live in a sea of happy fur.”

Although she couldn’t go directly from Farley to a giggle, she smiled. “A sea of happy fur,” she said, savoring the sound of it, and her smile sustained.

I held out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Solemnly, she thought about it, and then she nodded and took my hand. “Deal.”

“You’re a very tough negotiator, Christmas.”

“I am?”

“I’m exhausted. You have worn me down. I am bleary and dopey and pooped. My feet are tired, my hands are tired, even my hair is tired. I need to go and have a long nap, and I really, really need to eat some pudding.”

She giggled. “Pudding?”

“You’ve been such a tough negotiator, you’ve so exhausted me that I can’t even chew. My teeth are tired. In fact my teeth are already asleep. I can only eat pudding.”

Grinning, she said, “You’re silly.”

“It’s been said of me before,” I assured her.

Because we needed to talk in a place where bodachs were unlikely to enter, Sister Angela led Romanovich and me to the pharmacy, where Sister Corrine was dispensing evening medicines into small paper cups on which she had written the names of her patients. She agreed to give us privacy.

When the door closed behind Sister Corrine, the mother superior said, “All right. Who is Jacob’s father, and why is he so important?”

Romanovich and I looked at each other, and we spoke as one: “John Heineman.”

“Brother John?” she asked dubiously. “Our patron? Who gave up all his wealth?”

I said, “You haven’t seen the uberskeleton, ma’am. Once you’ve seen the uberskeleton, you pretty much know it couldn’t be anyone else but Brother John. He wants his son dead, and maybe all of them, all the children here.”

CHAPTER 46

R
ODION ROMANOVICH HAD SOME CREDIBILITY with me because of his National Security Agency ID and because he was droll. Maybe it was the effect of rogue molecules of tranquilizers in the medicinally scented air of the pharmacy, but minute by minute, I grew more willing to trust him.

According to the Hoosier, twenty-five years before we had come under siege in this blizzard, John Heineman’s fiancée, Jennifer Calvino, had given birth to their child, Jacob. No one knows if she had availed herself of a sonogram or other testing, but in any case, she had carried the child to term.

Twenty-six, already a physicist of significant accomplishments, Heineman had not reacted well to her pregnancy, had felt trapped by it. Upon his first sight of Jacob, he denied fatherhood, withdrew his proposal of marriage, cut Jennifer Calvino out of his life, and gave her no more thought than he would have given a basal-cell carcinoma once it had been surgically removed from his skin.

Although even at that time, Heineman had been a man of some means, Jennifer asked him for nothing. His hostility to his deformed son had been so intense that Jennifer decided Jacob would be both happier and safer if he had no contact with his father.

Mother and son did not have an easy life, but she was devoted to him, and in her care, he thrived. When Jacob was thirteen, his mother died, after arranging for his lifelong institutional care through a church charity.

Over the years, Heineman became famous and wealthy. When his research, as widely reported, drove him to the conclusion that the subatomic structure of the universe suggested indisputable design, he had reexamined his life and, in something like penitence, had given away his fortune and retreated to a monastery.

“A changed man,” said Sister Angela. “In contrition for how he treated Jennifer and Jacob, he gave up everything. Surely he couldn’t want his son dead. He funded this facility for the care of children like Jacob. And for Jacob himself.”

Leaving the mother superior’s argument unaddressed, Romanovich said, “Twenty-seven months ago, Heineman came out of seclusion and began to discuss his current research with former colleagues, by phone and in E-mails. He had always been fascinated by the strange order that underlies every apparent chaos in nature, and during his years of seclusion, using computer models of his design, processed on twenty linked Cray supercomputers, he had made breakthroughs that would enable him, as he put it, ‘to prove the existence of God.’ ”

Sister Angela didn’t need to mull that over to find the flaw in it. “We can approach belief from an intellectual path, but in the end, God must be taken on faith. Proofs are for things of this world, things in time and of time, not beyond time.”

Romanovich continued: “Because some of the scientists with whom Heineman spoke were on the national-security payroll, and because they recognized risks related to his research and certain defense applications as well, they reported him to us. Since then, we have had one of ours in the abbey guesthouse. I am only the latest.”

“For some reason,” I said, “you were alarmed enough to introduce another agent as a postulant, now a novice, Brother Leopold.”

Sister Angela’s wimple seemed to stiffen with her disapproval. “You had a man falsely profess vows to God?”

“We did not intend for him to go beyond simple postulancy, Sister. We wanted him to spend a few weeks deeper in the community than a guest might ever get. As it turned out, he was a man searching for a new life, and he found it. We lost him to you—though we feel he still owes us some assistance, as his vows allow.”

Her scowl was more imposing than any of his had been. “More than ever, Mr. Romanovich, I think you are a dubious piece of work.”

“You are undoubtedly correct. Anyway, we became alarmed when Brother Constantine committed suicide—because thereafter, Heineman at once stopped calling and E-mailing his old colleagues, and has not since communicated with anyone outside St. Bartholomew’s.”

“Perhaps,” said Sister Angela, “the suicide moved him to trade his research for prayer and reflection.”

“We think not,” Romanovich said drily.

“And Brother Timothy has been murdered, ma’am. There is no doubt of it now. I found the body.”

Although she had already accepted the fact of his murder, this hard confirmation left her stricken.

“If it helps you come to terms with the situation,” Romanovich said to her, “we believe that Heineman may not be fully aware of the violence he has unleashed.”

“But, Mr. Romanovich, if two are dead and others threatened, how could he not be aware?”

“As I recall, poor Dr. Jekyll did not at first realize that his quest to rid himself of all evil impulses had in the process created Mr. Hyde, whose nature was pure evil unleavened by the goodness of the doctor.”

Seeing in my mind’s eye the uberskeleton assaulting the SUV, I said, “That thing in the snow wasn’t merely the dark side of a human personality. There was nothing human about it.”

“Not his dark side,” Romanovich agreed. “But perhaps
created by
his dark side.”

“What does that mean, sir?”

“We aren’t sure, Mr. Thomas. But I think now it is incumbent upon us to find out—quickly. You have been given a universal key.”

“Yes.”

“Why, Mr. Thomas?”

“Brother Constantine is one of the lingering dead. I was given a key so I could let myself into anyplace on the property where he went poltergeist. I’ve been trying to…counsel him to move on.”

“You lead an interesting life, Mr. Thomas.”

“You’re no slouch yourself, sir.”

“You are even allowed access to John’s Mew.”

“We connected, sir. He makes good cookies.”

“You have a culinary bond.”

“Seems like we all do, sir.”

Sister Angela shook her head. “I can’t cook water.”

Romanovich threw the switch that beetled his hydraulic brow over his eyes. “Does he know of your gift?”

“No, sir.”

“I think you are his Mary Reilly.”

“I hope you aren’t becoming enigmatic again, sir.”

“Mary Reilly was Dr. Jekyll’s housekeeper. For all that he concealed from her, he subconsciously hoped that she would find him out and stop him.”

“Did this Mary Reilly end up killed, sir?”

“I do not recall. But if you have not actually done any dusting for Heineman, you may be safe.”

“What now?” asked Sister Angela.

“Mr. Thomas and I must make it alive into John’s Mew.”

“And out again alive,” I said.

Romanovich nodded. “We can certainly try.”

CHAPTER 47

T
HE STORM-SUITED MONKS NUMBERED TEN more than seven. Only two or three whistled while they worked. None was unusually short. As they secured the southeast and the northwest stairwells, however, I half expected Snow White to stop by with bottled water and words of encouragement.

In the interest of safety, the stairwell doors could not be locked. At each floor, the landing was a generous space, so the door opened into the stairwell instead of outward.

At the basement level, ground floor, and third floor, the monks drilled four holes in each door frame—two on the left, two right—and fitted them with steel sleeves. Into each sleeve, they inserted a half-inch-diameter bolt.

The bolts protruded an inch from the sleeves, preventing the door from opening. This scheme engaged not merely the strength of the frame but also of the entire wall in support of the door.

Because the sleeves were not threaded and were wider than the shafts inserted into them, the bolts could be plucked out in seconds to facilitate a hasty exit from the stairwell.

At the second floor, the children’s dormitory, the trick was to devise a way to prevent the doors from being pulled open in the unlikely event that something broke into the stairwell, through a bolt-reinforced door, at another level. Already the brothers were debating the merits of three security options.

From the southeast stairs, Romanovich and I enlisted Brother Knuckles, and from the northwest stairs, Brother Maxwell, for the defense of Jacob Calvino. Each of them brought two baseball bats in case the first was cracked in battle.

If the Mr. Hyde part of Brother John Heineman’s personality had an animus against
all
mentally and physically disabled people, then no child in the school was safe. Every one of them might be slated for destruction.

Common sense suggested, nonetheless, that Jacob—
Let him die
—remained the primary target. He would most likely either be the only victim or the first of many.

When we returned to Jacob’s room, he was for once not drawing. He sat in a straight-backed chair, and a pillow on his lap served as a hand rest when he needed it. Head bowed, intently focused, he was embroidering flowers with peach-colored thread on white fabric, perhaps a handkerchief.

At first, embroidery seemed to be an unlikely pursuit for him, but his workmanship proved to be exquisite. As I watched him finesse intricate patterns from needle and thread, I realized that this was no more remarkable—and no less—than his ability to summon detailed drawings from pencil lead with these same short broad hands and stubby fingers.

Leaving Jacob to his embroidery, I gathered with Romanovich, Knuckles, and Brother Maxwell at the only window.

Brother Maxwell had graduated from the University of Missouri School of Journalism. For seven years, he worked as a crime reporter in Los Angeles.

The number of serious crimes was greater than the number of reporters available to cover them. Every week, scores of industrious thugs and motivated maniacs committed outrageous acts of mayhem, and discovered, to their disgruntlement, that they had been denied even so much as two inches of column space in the press.

One morning, Maxwell found himself having to choose between covering a kinky-sex murder, an extremely violent murder committed with an ax and a pick and a shovel, a murder involving cannibalism, and the assault upon and ritual disfigurement of four elderly Jewish women in a group home.

To his surprise as well as to the surprise of his colleagues, he barricaded himself in the coffee room and would not come out. He had vending machines stocked with candy bars and peanut-butter-filled cheese crackers, and he figured he could go at least a month before he might develop scurvy due to severe vitamin C deficiency.

When his editor arrived to negotiate through the barricaded door, Maxwell demanded either to have fresh orange juice delivered weekly by ladder through the third-story coffee-room window—or to be fired. After considering those options for exactly the length of time that the newspaper’s vice president of employee relations deemed necessary to avoid a wrongful-termination lawsuit, the editor fired Maxwell.

Triumphant, Maxwell vacated the coffee room, and only later, at home, with a sudden gale of laughter, realized that he simply could have quit. Journalism had come to seem not like a career but like an incarceration.

By the time he finished laughing, he decided that his petit madness had been a divine gift, a call to leave Los Angeles and to go where he could find a greater sense of community and less gang graffiti. He had become a postulant fifteen years ago, then a novice, and for a decade he had been a monk under full vows.

Now he examined the window in Jacob’s room and said, “When this building was converted from the old abbey, some of the windows on the ground floor were enlarged and replaced. They have wood muntins. But on this level, the old windows remain. They’re smaller, and they’re solid bronze—rails, muntins, everything bronze.”

“Nothin’s gonna chop or chew through those too easy,” Brother Knuckles declared.

“And the panes,” said Romanovich, “are ten-inch squares. That brute we encountered in the storm would not fit through one. Indeed, if it managed to tear out the entire window, it would still be too large to get into the room.”

I said, “The one in the cooling tower was smaller than the one that smacked down the SUV. It couldn’t get through a ten-inch pane, but it’ll fit through an open window this size.”

“Casement window, opens outward,” Brother Maxwell noted, tapping the crank handle. “Even if it smashed a pane and reached through, it would be blocking the window it was trying to open.”

“While clinging to the side of the building,” said Romanovich.

“In high wind,” Brother Maxwell said.

“Which it might be able to do,” I said, “while also keeping seven plates spinning atop seven bamboo poles.”

“Nah,” Brother Knuckles said. “Maybe three plates but not seven. We’re good here. This is good.”

Squatting beside Jacob, I said, “That’s beautiful embroidery.”

“Keeping busy,” he said, his head remaining bowed, his eyes on his work.

“Busy is good,” I said.

He said, “Busy is happy,” and I suspected that his mother had counseled him about the satisfaction and the peace that come from giving to the world whatever you are capable of contributing.

Besides, his work gave him a reason to avoid eye contact. In his twenty-five years, he had probably seen shock, disgust, contempt, and sick curiosity in too many eyes. Better not to meet any eyes except those of the nuns, and those you drew with a pencil and into which you could shade the love, the tenderness, for which you yearned.

“You’re going to be all right,” I said.

“He wants me dead.”

“What he wants and what he gets are not the same thing. Your mom called him the Neverwas because he was never there for the two of you when you needed him.”

“He’s the Neverwas, and we don’t care.”

“That’s right. He’s the Neverwas, but he’s also the Neverwill. He never will hurt you, never will get at you, not as long as I’m here, not as long as one sister or one brother is here. And they’re
all
here, Jacob, because you’re special, you’re precious to them, and to me.”

Raising his misshapen head, he met my eyes. He did not at once look shyly away, as always he had done previously.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m all right. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m all right. You…you’re in danger?”

Because he would know a lie, I said, “Maybe a little.”

His eyes, one higher in his tragic face than the other, were pellucid, full of timidities and courage, beautiful even in their different elevations.

His gaze sharpened as I had never seen it, as his soft voice grew softer still: “Did you accuse yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Absolution?”

“I received it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“So you’re ready.”

“I hope I am, Jacob.”

He not only continued to meet my eyes but also seemed to search them. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what, Jacob?”

“Sorry about your girl.”

“Thank you, Jake.”

“I know what you don’t know,” he said.

“What is that?”

“I know what she saw in you,” he said, and he leaned his head on my shoulder.

He had done what few other people have ever achieved, though many may have tried: He had rendered me speechless.

I put an arm around him, and we stayed like that for a minute, neither of us needing to say anything more, because we were both all right, we were ready.