Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“You don’t know that. You got to take things one step at a time.”

“Okay, I messed up. Can we move on?”

He looked into her eyes until all the hostility between them subsided. After a few moments, Grace drank from her glass and said, “You said you may have something.”

“The paper got a tip on Sister Anne that led to Canada. I went there to follow it up and just got back.”

“Canada? What sort of tip did you get?”

“We received some information about her life before she entered the Order.”

“And?”

“Sister Anne may have lied to the nuns about her past before joining their Order and it involves her family and a lot of money.”

“How much money?”

“Enough to put in a Swiss bank.”

“How much?”

“About a million dollars. She gave it to the nuns. I interviewed the nun who screened her into the order. Sister Marie. She lives alone in the Canadian Rockies. The old nun told me that the money came to the Order by way of a Swiss bank account. She said that Anne Braxton had told the nuns that it was part of her inheritance after her parents were killed in a car crash when she was a teen.”

“And?”

“None of the information checks out, so far. We’ve been digging into it. The names of her parents don’t exist. There’s no record of a car accident. The private school she claimed to have attended does not exist, according to Swiss authorities.”

“What do you think?”

“She also kept a diary in which she agonizes over sins she’s committed and begs for forgiveness.”

“What kind of sins?”

“She never says. She supposedly told another nun that she’d ‘destroyed lives.’ Her journal has no details. It’s all vague, with a lot of Scripture.”

“Who has this diary?”

“I’ll share it with you after our story runs in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Why do you think she lied? What did she do? What was she hiding?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Are you interested in this stuff?”

“I’d like to see your information.”

“We’ll work that out. Now, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Make it quick.”

“Is there a new lead in the case?”

“What are you hearing?”

“I’m hearing there’s a new lead, come on.”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Grace. I just gave you my exclusive.”

“We’re looking hard at the possibility that the person who murdered Sister Anne may have murdered another woman.”

“What? Before or after Sister Anne?”

“Before.”

“Based upon…?”

“New information.”

“How are they linked? Have you got a serial killer?”

“Way too soon to speculate on that but I don’t think it’s going that way.”

“Is the earlier case in Seattle?”

“Yes.”

“How far back does it go?”

“We’re not disclosing that at this time.”

“Can you tell me who the victim is? How the two cases are linked?”

“We’re not releasing anything.”

“I want to use this. Does anyone else have this?”

“It’s all yours. Just keep my name out of the paper. I have to go.”

“Me, too. Listen, I was wondering-”

She looked at him.

“Yes?” she said.

“That we keep in touch.”

“Keep in touch?”

“On the case.”

“Sure.”

Driving back to the paper, Jason had just under two hours before the first edition deadline; he called Eldon Reep to alert him to the exclusive news of the second homicide.

“I think we can line this on the front page. This is good,” Reep said. “We’ll use it as a page-one hit to key to your Canadian secret past and diary story.”

After he finished the call Jason’s cell phone rang.

“Wade.”

“Jay, it’s me, son.”

“Dad. Oh, man, I am so sorry. I’ve been out of town on this nun murder and-”

“I really need to see you. I need your help.”

“Dad, I don’t know if I can get away. It’s a bad time right now.”

“Jay, I’ve got to take care of something. If you help me with what I have to do, it’ll put an end to everything.”

“Okay, okay…I’ll try to steal a couple of hours in the morning.”

B itter northwest winds were forking like a serpent’s tongue over the Olympic Mountains and reconverging over Puget Sound to deliver a thunderstorm to Seattle.

Rhonda Boland had finished an overtime shift at the supermarket. Her feet were throbbing and her back was aching as she arrived at Alice Valeeni’s house. Alice was the Italian grandmother who lived three doors down from the Boland home and watched Brady whenever Rhonda needed help.

The early evening sky had turned black and winds were kicking up when Rhonda and Brady arrived home. They ordered Brady’s favorite, a large pizza with the works.

They spent the rest of the evening watching a rerun of Planet of the Apes.

Afterward, Brady got into bed with a Superman comic and Rhonda drew a hot bath. She added a ribbon of fragrant bubble bath she’d picked up from the discount bin because the cap had split. It saved her three bucks. The bubbles smelled like roses.

Like the roses on Sister Anne’s casket.

Easing herself into the water, Rhonda tried not to think of her money problems. Tried not to bother God again about Brady. But it was impossible. Not an hour, not a minute, not a second passed that she did not agonize over the prospect of losing her son.

Please don’t take him. Please. He’s all I have. Please.

She stifled a sob with her hands until the moment passed.

Soaking in the bubbles, the hot water soothing her, Rhonda considered her life so far, her dreams, the choices she’d made, and all that fate had visited upon her. She scolded herself, told herself that no matter how bad she thought she’d had it, someone, somewhere had it worse.

Again, Rhonda asked God to forgive her. She was sorry. She was just so tired. The hot water relaxed her. It felt good. So soothing. The water was so warm, like a Caribbean beach, the warm azure sea caressing her toes, palm fronds hissing in the breeze. Her muscles slackened. She grew drowsy and fell asleep, dreaming of palm trees and a better life when thunder woke her.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping.

Rhonda drained the tub, slipped on her robe. She was exhausted, ready for bed as she padded through the still house, switching off lights. She knew every creak and groan of her home. She heard the hiss of the rain, punctuated with the rumble of thunder. The TV was off. The refrigerator clicked and ran with a rattle as she double-checked the locks on the doors.

Everything was fine. Secure.

Before going to her bedroom, Rhonda started for Brady’s room to check on him. His reading light was on, his door half open.

A few steps away, Rhonda froze.

Brady’s bed squeaked in a way she’d never heard before. Then everything went quiet.

Deathly quiet. Something wasn’t right.

“Brady?”

Nothing but the rain. Rhonda moved closer to the door.

“Brady, honey, are you up?”

A shadow flickered like a passing spirit on her son’s bedroom wall.

“Okay, sweetie, joke’s over, mommy’s ti-”

The bed squeak-creaked again, this time with a faint desperate vocal sound as Rhonda inched closer to the door.

She didn’t believe what she saw.

It couldn’t be real.

Before her jaw opened to shriek, before her brain could issue the cognitive command to react, her knees buckled, and she steadied herself against the door frame.

“Oh, Jesus!”

Brady was sitting up on the edge of his bed, fear pushing his eyes wide open.

A man’s right gloved hand was clamped over Brady’s mouth. In his left, the man held a serrated hunting knife.