Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“You missed lunch, Sister,” said Sister Elena, the novice, a little out of breath.

“I didn’t want to be tempted by Sister Gloria’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.” Katherine had wanted to be alone. The lie was a venal sin, easily expiated.

“Mother Superior would like to see you.”

Katherine stayed where she was. Sister Elena might be fooled by the lie, but Bernadette would not be denied Katherine’s presence. The wind whipped her cassock, sent it billowing around her, but she made no attempt to push down her skirts. Angelina had been right about this new head of the Black Robes. Ibn Azziz was more than dangerous. He was toxic. “I had bad dreams last night,” she said as tendrils of black smoke rose over the distant hills. “I awoke to find them true.” She saw Sister Elena tremble, an earnest nun in her early twenties, soft and gentle as a white-breasted thrush. Katherine wondered what the girl would do when the conflagration reached her, wondered what Sarah would do in similar circumstances. They were about the same age. Elena had been left at the convent by her mother, a Muslim teenager who had taken refuge with the nuns during her pregnancy, then afterward slipped away to some city where she could get lost. Sarah…she had been barely five years old when Katherine had abandoned her.

“Is that a forest fire?” Sister Elena squinted at the smoke. “This isn’t the season.”

“It’s Newcastle.”

The convent was a former hunting lodge on the edge of a national forest in Central California. The closest town was Newcastle, a logging community fifty miles and a full-day journey over the winding, rutted roads. A town too busy for politics, with Muslims and Christians living together. The nuns had always been tolerated on their regular shopping excursions, but Katherine monitored the police band, knowing that trouble would come through Newcastle first. Katherine had noted a change last week, the national religious TV channels all rage and paranoia.

“Sister?” Sister Elena put her hand on Katherine. “We shouldn’t keep Mother waiting.”

The whole way back, Sister Elena kept glancing behind her at the wisps of smoke, trying not to look, stumbling once in her conflicting desires. She would probably confess her looking back as a weakness and receive her penance gratefully. After all, had not Lot’s wife been turned into a pillar of salt for looking back at God’s rain of fire and brimstone onto the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah?

A terrible story-Katherine had thought so the first time she’d heard it, to be punished for simple curiosity. She had been a Catholic then, and when she’d voiced her disapproval, the nun at Christ the King Elementary had said the destruction of Lot’s wife was not because of her curiosity, but her disobedience, since God’s angel had expressly forbidden such an action. Katherine responded that the angel was a fool to think someone would not want to see such a sight, and that Lot’s wife was brave and Lot a coward. Katherine said she would have looked, even if she was turned into a stupid pillar of salt. It was the first of many beatings she’d endured at Christ the King. Now when she remembered the incident, she didn’t think about the beatings, but rather the idea of a great city destroyed in an instant by a rain of fire, and she contemplated the possibility that all of human history was a dance in which God and the devil changed places back and forth.

Sister Elena was panting as they climbed the stairs to Mother Superior’s office on the third floor of the nunnery. Too much time on the computer, not enough time outdoors. Katherine wasn’t winded at all. She was fifty now, long-legged and fit. The nunnery was largely self-sufficient, and she put as much time in the fields and animal pens as any of them, and while the nuns prayed for hours every day, Katherine walked the surrounding paths and hills. Her hair was still dark, her slim breasts still high…high enough, and there were nights when she tossed in her hard bed, caught between sleep and waking, nights when she thought of her husband, nights, God forgive her, when she thought of his brother, Redbeard.

Sister Elena’s knock on Mother’s door was hesitant at first, then immediately harder, as though reproaching herself for her fear, and Katherine noticed the girl’s red, raw knuckles. Elena was Mother Superior’s favorite, and as such she was ordered to do twice as much as any of the other novices, scrubbing the stone steps daily, performing the most menial and laborious kitchen duties without complaint.

“Enter,” barked Mother from inside.

“Thank you, dear,” Katherine said to Sister Elena, letting herself in. She closed the door behind her. “You work that girl too damn hard, Bernadette.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Kate.” Mother was a grim, wizened nun with strands of white hair curling free of her headpiece, looking much older than her age.

For the last twenty years, ever since her husband had been assassinated, Katherine had been sheltered at the convent. If, at any time in those twenty years, the authorities had discovered her presence, everyone in the nunnery would have been executed, their bodies mutilated, and the nunnery itself burned to the dirt. Not once in that time, even on the two occasions when Redbeard’s agents had searched the nunnery, had Katherine feared that she would be turned over. The last time-it was at least ten years ago-she had emerged from her hiding spot within the walls of the rectory with a shawl that she had knitted in the dark. Bernadette still wore it some winter evenings when they watched television together in the office, just the two of them. Bernadette, who ate almost nothing, enjoyed cooking shows, while Katherine cared only for news. They took turns.

“I just got word from Beijing,” said Bernadette, coming out from behind her desk and sitting carefully on a swaybacked sofa. Tufts of stuffing oozed out the sides in spite of the constant restitching. The office was small, the only ornamentation a large crucifix and a photograph of Pope John Paul II, the pope in office when Bernadette had entered the order. “The sisters finished their clinical work in the commuter district. Their dosimeters recorded nothing.”

“Well, so much for Beijing, and so much for Shanghai. After all these years, I think we’ll have to put our faith in Sarah now.” Katherine smiled. “And God, of course.”

Bernadette frowned. She had never enjoyed levity when it came to religion. They were cousins, and though Bernadette was twelve years older, they had always been close. When Katherine had converted to Islam and married James Dougan, all contact had ceased. Even so, when it came time to hide, Katherine had had no doubt where she would run. No doubt that she would be taken in.

“It’s a heavy burden to lay on someone so young,” said Bernadette.

“I waited twenty years to contact her,” snapped Katherine. “Do you think I would have put her at risk if I had any other options?”

Bernadette’s gaze hardened. “You should have thought of that before you converted to that barbarous faith. I never liked that husband of yours. Too handsome, if you ask me. Too ambitious.”

“The faith is not the problem, Bernadette. The problem is the faithful.”

Bernadette looked away. It was an old argument.

Twenty years. Why did you leave me? That was the first thing Sarah had tapped out, after she was convinced it really was her mother contacting her.

Sarah had been hospitalized when her father was assassinated, curled up in the ICU with acute pneumonia. Katherine was dozing in a chair beside her daughter’s oxygen tent when Redbeard called, his voice weak, called to tell her James was dead, saying a couple of his best men were on their way to the hospital.