Eighth Grave After Dark
Page 43I called Sister Mary Elizabeth on the way to the shower, hoping it wasn’t too late. I’d promised to call earlier and give her an update on Quentin. He had been staying with them, but now split his time between the sisters and Reyes and me. We’d semi-adopted him.
“How’s Quentin?” she asked before I could even say hello.
“He’s good. He’s still watching movies with Amber. Or doing crack. Not sure which. So, have you heard anything?”
“I couldn’t find anything out about your nun, but we don’t have access to those records. Much of that kind of stuff is archived in the Vatican.”
“Wonderful.”
“But I did find one very odd occurrence that happened at that convent.”
“Hit me,” I said, pulling back the shower curtain and turning on the water. It took forever to heat.
“A priest went missing there in the ’40s.”
“Really?”
“Yep. He was visiting and just vanished.”
“Like, into thin air?”
“Not literally, but yeah, no one ever saw him again. There was a huge search. It was in all the papers.”
“Okay, well, thanks for looking into it. Anything else on the other front?”
“Yep.”
“And did I mention how exhausting their chatter is?”
“Yep.”
“And how I’m slowly losing my mind with all the chatter?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you can hear angels talking. Hellhounds.”
“No, I haven’t heard anything.”
“Well, can you ask?”
“I don’t ask and you know it. I just listen. It’s not a two-way conversation. I can hear them. I can’t communicate with them.”
“Of course you can. You’re a nun. You’re pure and good and wholesome. Like Wheaties. They’ll listen to you. All you have to do is ask.”
“Do you ever listen to anything I say?”
“I’m sorry, were you speaking?”
“You’re funny.”
“Okay. Is it about abstinence again? I can’t keep explaining—”
“No, it’s about the night you found out I was pregnant with Beep. And now heaven is in an uproar. Why? I mean, are they mad at me?”
“Oh no. ‘Mad’ isn’t the right word. More like … frantic.”
“Why? Don’t they know about the prophecies?”
“Absolutely, but prophecies are thwarted all the time. I think they were just surprised it was really happening. I mean, you’re bringing something onto this plane that, well, maybe doesn’t belong? No, that’s not the right way to put it.”
“So, Beep won’t belong here?”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s more like … a birth like hers doesn’t happen every day. I’m not sure how to say this without going to confession right after, but from what I can tell, they are saying the daughter of a god will be born here. But that’s wrong. There is only one God, so I’m sure I’m misunderstanding them.”
“Right. I’m sure.”
“I did hear that she will change something that they hadn’t expected to be changed. It’s kind of freaking them out. It’s like when you expect your car to run out of gas before you make it to the station, but you’re still surprised when it does.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to grasp every nuance of her meaning. I gave up. “Bottom line, she isn’t in any danger from them, right?”
“From heaven? Absolutely not.”
“Oh, good. That’s good. Hey, how do you have a cell phone, anyway? I thought cloistered nuns had to give up worldly crap.”
“I’ll need to see those documents.”
“No.”
“Have you ever considered the fact that the term ‘cloistered nuns’ sounds like an appetizer? Or a punk band?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, well, let me know if you hear anything. I’d like to lead a normal life someday.”
“Ten four.”
* * *
Showers were God’s reward for working hard enough to get dirty. I dried off, wrapped myself up in the plush robe Reyes had bought me, and stepped to a foggy mirror.
Before I could wipe it off, a letter appeared in the steam. I glanced around. No one was in there, but another letter appeared as though someone were tracing letters in the condensation with a finger. I stood back and waited for the full message to appear, then read it aloud.
“Spies.”
What did that mean? There were spies here? Did we have a mole in the convent? And if so, who? No, the bigger questions would be, whom was the mole spying for? Whom would he report to?
I reached up and hurriedly wiped off the mirror. Two things came to mind immediately. First of all, that was my dad’s handwriting. It was exactly the same, which was odd and a little disheartening that I’d have the same handwriting when I died. I had thought there was hope for me. I thought good handwriting skills were a perk of heaven. That maybe we’d magically know angelic script and have this fluid, flowing handwriting, but no. I was doomed. The second thing was that there were apparently spies among us.