Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

He shook his head.

‘She’s hiding out in a church,’ I told him.

He thought about it. ‘Makes sense. Galway might be cosmopolitan but we still have a lot of churches — nearly as many as pubs.’

I found a sheet of paper and started to list all the churches. ‘She’d have to use one that is familiar to her, where she knows the routine of the priests, when it’s safe to be there, and one she has access to.’

Stewart said, ‘I could ring the Mother Superior, ask what church they used.’

‘But convents have their own churches. She’s hardly using that.’

He grabbed the piece of paper, looked at the list, said he’d make a few calls.

I used the time to have a shower and managed to wash without seeing too much of the markings on my body. The plastic baton mightn’t leave signs but fists and boots sure do. But I was energized, I could feel the hunt in my blood and knew it was coming to the final showdown. I had a flash of intuition: why had Benedictus killed the nun? Of course, they’d thrown her out of the order, she’d been betrayed by her own, and so one of them had to atone for that.

When I got out of the shower, I had a blast of pure instinct and asked Stewart, ‘May I use your laptop?’

‘Sure.’

The adrenalin was shooting through my veins and I knew I was on course. I hit Google and typed in my request.

A moment, then up it came.

I muttered, ‘Jesus. . I was right.’

It was so obvious when you did the math.

Stewart said, ‘The Mother Superior asked me to high tea when I called her.’

‘There’s a low one?’

He smirked, said, ‘Yeah, for the Jack Taylors of this world.’

I let that slide. ‘Sounds like you’re a real hit with the Mother Superior.’

‘I could say I’ve a way with nuns but that sounds off.’

Not these days, if the papers were any indication.

He jabbed his finger on the sheet of paper, said, ‘Two churches, Salthill and the cathedral. The Mother Superior told me that their order was responsible for those two churches.’

I lied, ‘Salthill sounds the most likely.’

‘Why?’

I kept my face in neutral, said, ‘Rich parish, they can afford the heating.’

I knew something Stewart didn’t. The cathedral had a basement. I was tempted to tell him they kept the bodies of the bishops there and where better to hide a child? But instinct told me to keep that to myself.

Stewart hesitated then asked, ‘Jack, I hate to mention it, but how do we know the child is still alive? Wouldn’t she have, you know, done the deed by now? It’s been nearly five days.’

He told me the guards had literally blanketed the town, raiding every conceivable hiding place, rousing touts, leaning on snitches. The whole force was involved in the search.

I said, ‘She’s waiting for me before she kills the child. She needs me as a witness. Don’t ask me why, but that seems to be part of her warped plan.’

‘And Jack, what is your warped plan?’

I said, ‘We check out the two places ourselves first. I don’t want to bring the cops over on a wild goose chase, based purely on a hunch.’

‘So we go over to Salthill tonight? I’m presuming night is the time to go as the church should be closed then and we can operate without prying eyes.’

He was almost right. I said, ‘Night, yes, and Salthill first. Bring Ridge. Give her career a real boost if we’re right.’

He was suspicious. ‘What about you?’

I trod real careful, said, ‘I’ll check out the cathedral and then head out to Salthill. This way we cover all our bases and save time.’

He gave me a long look. ‘There’s something off about this, Jack. Are you telling me everything?’

I had to distract him. I raised my voice, said, ‘What’s off is the crazy bitch has a child and we can’t afford to be wrong.’

He wasn’t fully buying it, but went along with it.

I said, ‘Breakfast, my treat. And hey, you can even have herbal tea.’

As we headed out, he grumbled, ‘I could have had high tea.’

If I didn’t know better, I might have thought Stewart was developing a sense of humour.

For breakfast, I ordered:

Three sausages

Two fried eggs

Black pudding

Fried tomatoes

Toast

A pot of coffee

Stewart asked for a muffin and decaffeinated tea.

The waitress, in her fifties, went, ‘What?’

She was that rarity, Irish, and so still spoke to customers. The café was one of the nigh-on-extinct breed, hidden off a small street near the Jesuit School. You knew it was old style as it was crammed with guys from the building trade, more than usual for that time of day — the building game, like everything else, was in meltdown. Mortgages had gone through the roof, so to speak, and first-time buyers were seriously screwed. The waitress had heard just about everything, but decaffeinated tea?

She looked at me, asked, ‘Is he codding me?’

Her face was vaguely familiar, but then anyone Irish looked familiar these days as there seemed to be so few.

I said, ‘He’s young.’

She looked at him. ‘Well, he’s certainly in the wrong place.’

Stewart was smart and said nothing

I suggested she squeeze the hell out of the tea bag and she enjoyed that. She said, ‘Just what I need on my busiest shift, squeezing the life out of a tea bag.’

I could hear snatches of conversation and for once it wasn’t about the water, it was about Clancy’s boy. Neither the papers or the guards had released any details about the ex-nun: the clergy were in enough strife. But a backlash had already begun. A well-known paedophile, recently released, had had his home burnt out and dark mutterings could be heard about various perverts being run out of town.

Stewart asked, ‘Have you seen your old. . er. . friend Jeff recently?’

I hadn’t.

Stewart toyed with his cutlery, then said, ‘His wife, Cathy. . she’s back in town. I think they may be attempting to get back together.’

‘Lucky them.’ Bitterness leaking all over my tone.

He was quiet for a time, then said, ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

Jesus, I had an overwhelming desire for a cigarette. I contemplated going outside to where a bunch of smokers were huddled and bumming one.

‘About what?’

He sighed. ‘You know what I mean.’

I did.

I said, ‘Let’s get that little boy back first.’

He wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘Jack, the woman was sick. Can’t you factor that into the mix?’

I could feel anger rising. ‘You talking about the fucking nun or the bitch who killed her own child?’

He was about to protest when I added, ‘She let me carry the weight for the death of Ser-’ Still couldn’t say her name. ‘The child. All that guilt, and what came after. . some things are unforgivable.’

He stared into my eyes, then said, ‘Jack, you of all people might want to reconsider that.’

I was spared a reply and just as well, as it would have been ugly.

The waitress brought the food and cautioned, ‘Careful, the plate is hot.’ She looked at Stewart. ‘Not you. We don’t put muffins on heated plates.’

Stewart looked at my pile of cholesterol and simply shook his head.

I said, ‘Call it comfort food.’

The waitress returned with my coffee and the tea and plonked them down. She said, ‘Enjoy’ to me and, to Stewart, ‘Endure.’

We both looked at the tea bag. It seemed to have been put through the wringer — maybe it had.

I said, ‘Guess she got all the caffeine out of there.’

He pushed it aside. ‘And everything else.’

I ate with relish. Stewart made a grimace as I forked some black pudding and dipped it in the runny egg. He said, ‘How can you eat that?’ Meaning the black pudding.