Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“I’m sure you do, dear.”

Jason left her for an hour, passing the time by walking along the creek bed, mindful that a storm was brewing. He was amazed by the fact that he’d started the day in the metropolis of Seattle wondering where the story would take him, and now here he was, in some hidden corner of Canada, staring at the Rockies, trying to uncover the truth about the murder of a nun who’d buried her deepest secret.

He glanced back to the little cabin.

Sister Marie knew something. He felt it in his gut.

The afternoon sky had darkened with threatening clouds and lightning flashes when he returned. Sister Marie had finished, but was flipping through the journal.

“I will help you,” she said and made him a fresh mug of coffee.

“I don’t know how much this help will matter.” She leaned hard on her cane and went to her bookshelf and searched along a long section containing several identical notebooks, a collection as expansive as a set of encyclopedias.

“May I record the information and take notes, for accuracy?”

“You may.”

After checking the battery, Jason set up his recorder and opened his notebook.

“You know, I helped establish the Order in Paris,” Sister Marie began. “We came into existence after World War Two. We broke away from a larger, more established group with the aim of being more progressive, more relevant to everyday lives of Christians. We were ahead of Vatican II. After a fire destroyed our early records, our Mother House was moved to Washington, D.C., then Chicago. We have about seven hundred sisters worldwide.”

“Yes, I’d read some of the background.”

“I am writing a history of the Order, to leave behind when I’m gone.” She plucked a notebook from the shelf and returned to the table just as the rain started coming down hard and the afternoon turned as dark as night.

Sister Marie lit several lanterns, which bathed the cabin in dark golden light, then began flipping though the yellowed handwritten pages of a notebook. From what Jason could see it was all in French.

“Your information is correct. I did oversee assessments and screenings of candidates for the period during which Sister Anne came to us as a candidate.”

As lightning flashed, Sister Marie paged through her book and Jason took notes.

“As I’d mentioned, many completed files were lost years ago in a fire. I took some notes, a summary if you will, on many of those that came through me. Sister Anne was approximately twenty-three years old when she came to us in Paris. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri, given up for adoption by her fifteen-year-old mother. She was adopted by a Kansas City bank manager and his wife, who were a childless couple. At age seventeen she was sent to private boarding school in Switzerland. Four years later her parents died in a car accident while en route to see her in Geneva. She was kept on at the school where she studied art and helped younger students. That’s what we were told.”

Sister Marie stopped, then resumed talking as she returned to the bookshelf for more notes.

“Our screening process was similar to that of many orders. The young candidates submit to psychological and medical tests, background checks, letters of reference.”

“Where is that file for Sister Anne?”

“Lost, I believe.” The old nun pressed a finger to her lips. “No. Maybe not. Now, as I recall, she didn’t go through all that. Just a moment.” Sister Marie found another notebook; its pages crackled as she leafed through it.

In the lamplight, beautiful French handwriting reflected in her glasses.

“Yes, it’s coming back now. The late Sister Beatrice Dumont made the discovery. Yes. It’s here.”

“What is it?”

“Sister Anne was first encountered in the back of a small church. A young woman, praying and crying, begging to be allowed to join the Order. At first, there were concerns about her psychological capacity. She was invited to volunteer at one of our missions. Over time, as she became known to Sister Dumont, it was understood that she was grieving the loss of her parents. The young woman was alone in the world and desperate for guidance. It seems that she bore the guilt of her parents’ deaths, as she had desired to attend the school. Later she wanted to leave it and had summoned her parents to come and arrange it.”

Jason weighed the revelation.

“Do you think this would account for the agonizing guilt she expressed in her diary?”

Sister Marie thought that it would.

“We gave it time and saw that she truly had felt a divine call to devote her life to helping others.”

Jason ruminated over the information.

“She was accepted eventually as a postulant for something like a year, as I recall. Then she became a novice and dedicated herself to her studies and went on to take her temporary vows. I think, in her case, it was close to five years before she took her final vows. And then she went off to various missions around the world.”

So that was it, Jason thought, a mundane explanation. Nothing at all that would point to her killer. No deep, dark secret. The part about “destroying lives” must’ve been her anguish and guilt at the loss of her parents.

“Is that everything, Sister?”

The old nun raised her head from her notebooks as the storm’s intensity decreased with the whisper of soft rain.

“No.” She turned to her bookshelf. “How could I ever forget? Please forgive my brittle mind.” She went to another book but failed to find what she was looking for, as Sassy threaded his way through her legs. She checked another, then another. “Oh, I’m sure it’s in one of these blessed books. I’ve got letters and notes scattered all over. I can never find anything.” She tapped her cane to the floor in frustration, sending her cat to the corner.

“What is it, Sister?”

“In the process of becoming a nun you take your vows, which include the big ones, like chastity and poverty. In practical terms, candidates divest themselves of all their worldly goods and come to God, poor in material wealth. It’s common for candidates to donate whatever they have to the Church or Order.”

“And this was the case with Anne Braxton?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. In fact her donation was critical to the Order’s initial success. It seems her father had made several wise investments, the proceeds of which she inherited from her trust at the age of twenty-five. It was held for her in a bank in Zurich, and she arranged to turn it over to the Order.”

“She turned her inheritance over to the Order?”

“Yes.”

“How much was it?”

“As I recall it was over two million Swiss francs.”

“Was that a lot, at the time?”

“At the time, that worked out to over one million U.S. dollars.”

Jason stared at the old nun.

L eon Dean Sperbeck.

Henry Wade’s nightmare.

Sperbeck scowled at him from his DOC photographs, which Henry had propped against the salt and pepper shakers on his kitchen table in his house near Boeing Field.

There was Sperbeck glaring at him, just as he did so long ago during the horrific standoff at the heist.

The terrified eyes of the hostage.

Later, Sperbeck eyed Henry in court as he shuffled off in chains to pay with twenty-five years of his life.

Was it enough for what he did?

Sperbeck’s image had tormented Henry the day Vern Pearce put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It had invaded Henry’s sleep, enveloping him like a burial cloth for his years of descent into an alcoholic abyss. And it had mocked Henry the day Sally walked out because she couldn’t take it anymore.

Henry didn’t blame her.