He could see it now: The first of his clever plans that worked would bring the media down on St. Vincent’s Hospital like dry sponges that needed news instead of water. As soon as the glare of publicity hit the hospital, the archdiocese would be forced to take action. And that, without doubt, would push Sister Eileen out of her position in the hospital. St. Vincent’s would once again be a Catholic hospital loyal to the Pope and his teaching authority. And, added boon, he would fulfill his pledge to Ethel. Sister Eileen would be removed and Ethel’s job would be unthreatened.
He wondered if it would be difficult to convince her to go somewhere else with him. She would have to leave a secure job. But it would be his success that would have secured that job. Given all this, would she see that he was her security and leave with him?
God, he hoped so.
This was such a pleasant thought he decided to go to sleep dreaming about it. The whole concept gave him strength to confront his colleagues on the morrow.
* * *
Joe Cox lay on his side looking out the window. A light snow was falling. From the high-rise apartment at night, the city resembled a large, self-motivated toy.
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour. One could watch headlights or taillights, depending on the cars’ direction. Here and there in apartments and offices soft lights illuminated late labor or the winding-down after a day’s work.
Most hypnotic were the traffic lights regularly signaling nonexistent traffic to stop or go. Cox, with a quiet wish that nothing exceptional would happen this night and that the Free Press would not summon him to report a fast-breaking story in a slow-moving city, had almost drifted off.
“Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?”
Called back from slumber, Cox looked over his shoulder. “For a change, not a thing. I was letting the city lights put me to sleep.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Cox rolled over on his back. He looked appreciatively at Pat.
She was propped against a couple of pillows, working a crossword puzzle. She looked as if she were ready to attend a concert rather than retire for the night. Her hair was spread alluringly over the pillow as if it had been carefully arranged. It hadn’t.
She was working the puzzle with a pen.
“I swear, someday I’ll see you doing a puzzle on the typewriter.”
“What was a typewriter?”
They both chuckled. Neither was sold on the Word processor. As often as possible they would hammer out their stories on typewriters before transferring them to the compulsory processor.
“How was your day? I haven’t gotten around to asking.” She continued to fill in squares.
“The ordinary. They’re dragging out that Cobo Hall incident. As usual, they’re trying to nail the mayor on this one. Some on the city council are charging that Maynard Cobb should have insisted on more police protection for that rock concert.”
Lennon gratefully recalled that if she hadn’t in effect assigned herself to the hospital story, she would be covering the Cobo Hall incident. “Was it poorly policed?”
“Not really. But who can say? The usual contingents of cops and security guards. The problem is the muggers forgot to tell the cops that it was going to be their night to howl.”
“At least nobody got killed. How many injured?”
“I forget. I think about thirty or forty—two or three rapes—less than ten still hospitalized. All in all, a bad show.”
Lennon reflected that the whole nasty incident had occurred less than a couple of miles from this, their apartment. The sort of affair that contributed mightily to Detroit’s less-than-savory reputation. But that reputation had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Detroit wins the World Series, and the aftermath, due to a few flare-ups, is described by the nation’s media as a riot. San Francisco wins the Super Bowl and the aftermath, despite a great number of flare-ups, is termed a celebration.
“Business as usual,” she said. “Everybody wants all the cops in the city at the trouble spot. Yet when there’s no one to respond to a 911, all hell breaks loose. How much longer you think this story’ll run?”
“A few more days. Cobb will certainly respond to the council’s criticism. Then that should pretty well be that. Unless some of the injured decide to sue this city.” Cox rolled back facing the window. “How’s your hospital story coming?”
Absently, Lennon touched Cox’s shoulder and began lightly massaging it. “Okay. The nice thing about one of these magazine pieces is that nobody’s in much of a hurry to get it. Compared with the average news story they want yesterday, there’s a kind of eternal air to a magazine piece.”
“That nun must’ve been grateful when you told her you weren’t going to get into the contraceptive lead.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Probably the nicest present she’s gotten since Christmas . . . wait a minute: They’ve got a vow of poverty, haven’t they? Kill that and write: nicest present she’s gotten since she was a kid.”
“Uh-huh.”
Lulled by the gentle massage on his shoulder, Cox began to once more drift toward sleep.
“Funny thing, though,” Lennon said, “there’s something going on in that hospital.”
“Huh? Sure, sick people get better or they die.”
“No, something to do with the nun—Sister Eileen.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure. But I’ve got this feeling.”
“Your spider-sense tingling, Spider Woman?”
Lennon chuckled. “No, seriously. Like when she took me to the cafeteria for lunch. She introduced me to some of the staff—by the way, I didn’t tell you: Father Koesler is filling in for the regular hospital chaplain.”
“Koesler . . . Koesler . . . where have I heard that name?”
“Friend of Walt Koznicki. We’ve covered him a few times in some homicide cases. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yeah . . . chaplain to the homicide department.”
“He is not.”
“I know. It’s my mnemonic for him.”
“It doesn’t work very welclass="underline" You forgot him.”
“Then I remembered him again. What about the staff you met?”
“Well . . .” Lennon set aside her puzzle and pen on the nightstand. “. . . it was in the atmosphere when we sat down to eat with them. Very stilted.”
“What do you expect? You were the new guy on the block. Having you sit in killed their normal conversation.”
“No, I expected that. It was something more. And if I’m right, it wasn’t directed at me; it was aimed at the nun.”
“So? Deference to a superior.”
“You’re not getting the drift, Joe. Please hear me out.”
“Okay.” Cox pulled the quilt up. This would have to be a pretty interesting story or he would soon be asleep.
“There was an air of hostility toward the nun. It was palpable. It was coming from several people. I don’t know what they’ve got against her, but I’m going to find out.”
“You’re serious. You really think there’s something going on?”
“Yeah. It’s a physical thing. Like someone is out to get her.”
“Get her? You mean harm her?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. But if something like that should happen, it’s open season on this story.”
“I know.”
“You know Nelson Kane—you should, you worked for him long enough. You know how he salivates when somebody comes up with a crying statue or the figure of Christ in a burning chicken coop. He is just not the type of city editor to overlook a hospital nun under attack.”
“Nelson Ka—you didn’t tell Nellie about the contraceptive angle of this story!”
“Of course I didn’t. He’d have my ass in a sling if he knew about our nonaggression pact. Matter of fact, I think he kind of suspects. But if he knew for sure . . . wow!”