Chapter Twenty-Seven
S ister Anne’s final journey took her an hour north of Seattle, then east into the breathtaking countryside of Snohomish County.
The hearse and two other vehicles of her small funeral procession moved beyond the farmland and fruit orchards to a cemetery at the base of a steep hillside. It was sheltered by forests of fir and cedar, bordered by thick vines and berry bushes.
She would love it here, Sister Denise thought, as the procession slowed and turned from the old highway onto the soft earthen pathway cutting into the graveyard that was first used by missionaries in the late 1800s.
Father Mercer and Sister Vivian rode in the lead car, followed by the hearse and the Order’s big van. Sister Ruth drove the van.
None of the sisters in the van talked much. During the drive, most retreated into their thoughts. Sister Florence and Sister Paula whispered hymns while Denise confronted her problem: Sister Anne’s secret journal.
Part of her yearned to tell the others about it so they could remember Anne as a totally human and flawed woman.
Denise also wanted their support to press Vivian to share her discovery with the detectives. The police might find useful information in Anne’s poetic self-deprecation. Admittedly, there weren’t many details, but maybe the detectives would find value in the dates, or some other aspect that would lead them to her killer. Anything can be the break that solves a case, her father the police officer used to tell her.
Anything.
Should she disobey Vivian and tell Detective Garner?
Tell someone?
Lord, what should I do?
The procession eased to a gentle stop near the open grave, next to the mound of rich, dark Washington earth. A lonely lark flitted by and sparrows sang from the trees. The funeral director and his assistants guided and helped the nuns carry and position Anne’s casket.
In all, about a dozen people were gathered for the burial. It was private. No news cameras were permitted. Afterward, the nuns would oversee a reception at the shelter.
Sister Vivian took Father Mercer’s arm and helped him from the car. He was well over six feet, but bent by age, with wispy white hair and a phlegmatic face creased by time. The nuns did not know him. He was an old friend of Sister Vivian’s, a retired Jesuit who’d flown in from New England to take care of the funeral mass.
Vivian walked him to the casket, where he produced a worn leather-bound Bible, containing cards with rituals written in his hand.
He began by inviting the mourners to reconcile their souls by reflecting in silence. Then he spoke of God’s love, the sacrifice of His only son, the mystery of death, and the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
For Scripture, he read from Isaiah 61:1-3.
“The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, the opening of the prison to them that are bound; To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord; and a day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn.”
Denise didn’t really understand that choice. She wondered about it after Mercer ended with the Lord’s Prayer. Then each of the nuns kissed the casket and placed a rose on it.
Like the others, Denise also faced the fact that Anne had no husband to mourn her, no children or grandchildren to carry on. This was the reality of a religious life. It was a meaningful life. A good life. But at times it could be overwhelming. All of the sisters accepted it. Self-sacrifice was the burden of a life devoted to God and others.
Still, each sister had a relative, some piece of a family to miss them. But beyond the Order, Anne had no one. And none of them really knew her life before she entered the Order.
Would God ever give Denise the strength to accept Anne’s death?
Dear Lord, will the journal help us find her killer?
As Anne’s casket was lowered into the ground, Denise wept.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A t the moment Sister Anne Braxton’s coffin was being lowered into the earth of Snohomish County, Henry Wade was miles away in Seattle.
Driving toward his demons.
A mournful Johnny Cash ballad kept him company, soothing his unease as his pickup truck headed west on 50th.
He had to do this.
He turned off the street and entered one of the city’s largest cemeteries. It was peaceful but the serenity did not allay his fear. Henry dreaded returning to this place. He hadn’t set foot in it since the day they buried his partner.
Vernon Pearce
After Vern’s death he’d slipped deeper into the abyss. In the time after it happened, the shrinks told Henry he had to confront the issue.
You must look your worst fear square in the eye.
Henry ignored their advice.
And he’d paid a price
The day Sally walked out, he gave up, let go, and wrapped himself in the lie of being alive. On the worst nights, he knew the truth. He wasn’t working at the brewery. He was entombed there. That was the word for it, Henry thought, easing his pickup by a mausoleum and traveling deeper into the cemetery.
Hell, it got so bad and so lonely back then that he nearly pulled Jason into the darkness with him. But Jason was strong enough to pull Henry back into the light. Jason had never given up on him. Jason stood by him. Forced him to get sober. Forced him to reconnect with the living, which led to his PI job with Don Krofton’s agency.
Henry owed his life to his son.
But Krofton’s new gun policy had ripped open old wounds and Henry knew he had to do something about it, or this time it would be the end.
He was getting close now.
He knew the way. Even after all these years. Even though the taller trees cast larger shadows, Henry never forgot. He wheeled by the plum trees, the mountain white pines, and a pair of buttonwoods that now reached some seventy-five feet, his tires rolling on the earthen path that was cushioned like casket lining.
He came to a stop.
When Johnny Cash’s ballad ended, Henry switched off his engine and looked out at the headstones.
Why don’t you admit it? Go on, admit it.
He craved a drink right now. Craved it as a whirlwind of emotions and images swirled around him. The gun, Vern, the blood of wasted lives.
No.
No, he shouldn’t be here.
Henry was startled by the sudden ringing of his cell phone. It was Michelle from the agency. He didn’t answer, letting her call go to his voice mail, like the others. Relieved by the distraction, he let a minute pass, then decided to check his messages.
The first was from Michelle at the agency. It had come earlier this morning.
“Hello, Henry, are you coming in today? Will Murphy called asking on the status of his workers’ comp case. He’s got new data. Give me a ring.”
The next message was from Don.
“Krofton. Good work on qualifying. Just heard from Webb at the range. Listen, Henry, got an insurance agent who was looking for you. Wants your help with a claim. Employee theft or something. Kid’s name is Ethan, or some shit like that. I never heard of him. I gave him your number. Expect a call.”
The next one was from Jason.
“Hey, Dad, I need your help on this nun murder. Give me a call.”
And finally, Michelle again.
“Henry, Susan Gorman called from over at Seagriff’s, wants to chat about that infidelity case. Where are you, by the way?”
That was it. All right. Stop this right now.
He was procrastinating. Ignoring the issue. He switched off his phone, put both hands on the wheel, and squeezed until his knuckles turned as white as the sheet covering a victim in the morgue.
As white as the fear on the face of…
Get out and do this. It’s time for battle. Henry glanced at the ocean of grave markers, swallowed hard, then stepped from his truck and started walking.