Chapter 6 #3
“No. I knew better than to let on and it was making me nervous because I couldn’t imagine keeping the baby there without Marian knowing.
I got up to close the door, holding the baby, and that’s when I saw him.
The man who shot at me.” She inhaled deeply.
“I think now maybe if I hadn’t gone near the door, he wouldn’t have found us and—”
“It’s not your fault, Sister Anne. He would have found you. No question. Besides, you didn’t let him get the baby, did you?”
“No. He rushed toward us and I tried slamming the door shut and locking it but he got to us fast. I backed away and frantically tried to think where to hide the baby. I knew—somehow I knew it was about the baby and that they were after her. In the end I held her, shielding her from him with my body and my shawl.”
“So he barged in the room...”
“No, he was quiet, but quick. He came in—at first I didn’t see any gun. I was focused on his eyes and the ugly tattoo on his neck. When he stepped closer—maybe three feet away—I could smell vodka on his breath.”
“Vodka? You’re sure?”
She nodded. Shana waited for the explanation of how she knew this. It wasn’t something Shana would be able to distinguish—maybe she could learn something.
“I’m very familiar with the distinctive smell—almost an absence of smell—astringent with a hint of rotten potato. I know because I grew up smelling it on my mother every morning. Except on those mornings occasionally when it was stale beer or whiskey.”
Shana nodded and kept herself neutral.
“Okay. Any other identifying marks? Describe the tattoo.”
“It was some kind of symbol—like a letter from a foreign alphabet with an upward spike. The spike was wrapped in barbed wire and there was a skull sitting on top of it. It made me shiver to look at.”
“Good memory.”
She nodded. “They say memory is heightened when you’re experiencing emotional trauma or anxiety. I think they’re right.”
Shana didn’t say anything or give any indication that the tattoo had any significance, but she knew it to be a favorite between Russian mob and criminal mob wannabes. She said, “Tell me what happened next.”
“The man grabbed me by the arm and reached for the baby. I kicked out at him and swung away.”
“Did you yell?”
“No. It’s funny—I should have. I should have screamed right then and there, but I didn’t.
At least not until he pulled the gun out.
Which was stupid in hindsight—that’s when I should have kept quiet.
He said he didn’t want to shoot a nun but he would if I didn’t shut up.
I backed away and my bed was between us.
He said to give him the baby—that it clearly wasn’t mine and it was his.
I said no and picked up the Bible from my night stand—quick like—and threw it at him. Then I dashed toward a connecting door—
“Don’t tell me—to another anteroom?”
She smiled—no laugh this time. “No. To a bathroom. But the bathroom had another door to the hallway too.”
“And that’s when he shot you?” This was unprofessional. Shana shouldn’t be leading her this way, but the nun looked so troubled. Sister Anne nodded.
“I got him good—with the surprise—but he scrambled after me and before I got through the door he shot the gun.” She paused and frowned, as if remembering something else.
“What?”
“He wasn’t very good with the gun. He seemed awkward with it.”
“How so?”
“He fumbled. He didn’t seem to be holding it like he knew how. He changed his grip as though it was made for someone else and didn’t fit him. Maybe that’s all it was. But he wasn’t thinking. If my scream didn’t alert others his gunshot surely did.”
“Give me the timeline—how long was he in your room?”
“Less than a minute.” She paused and thought. “Maybe less than thirty seconds. It all happened pretty fast.”
“At what point did others become alerted into action?”
“I’m not sure. I think I remember hearing someone call out asking if everything was okay but I don’t remember when—before the gunshot—maybe before my scream and maybe that’s when he took out his gun—his eyes turned wild and desperate.”
“Tell me what happened after you got shot?”
“It hit me in the thigh. I guess it was a graze but it hurt like a—I saw stars. I stumbled into the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind me and managed to hang onto Paulette. I dropped to the floor. I felt blood, sticky and wet and warm, pooling around me. I kept the baby under me, praying that I’d have the strength to keep her safe in case he wanted to shoot his way into the bathroom. But he didn’t.”
“So you didn’t see him escape?”
“No. I heard commotion and yelling and glass breaking—the window. I later learned that he jumped out the window before anyone saw him. Next thing I knew, the others—everyone from the house—had barged into the bathroom to find me there. They were panicked when they saw blood. Marian took charge. She didn’t blink an eye about the baby.
No one did. You’d think they would have.
I figured at the time that Father D must have told them.
But I don’t know. All I know is I haven’t said a word to anyone about it. ”
“Did Father D ask you not to talk about it?”
“No. He didn’t have to ask. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“It’s not about him.”
“What is it about?”
“It’s about my own standards. It’s what I would want me to do if I were him. It’s about doing unto others.” She ducked her head and turned away, attempting to hide a flush of embarrassment.
“I understand.” Shana did understand, but it was still a shock—a pleasant one—to find someone like Sister Anne in real life.
Shana knew from the police report that the man had come in through the backdoor where he’d broken a lock, but how the hell did he know where to go to find Sister Anne once he’d gotten inside?
“How do you suppose he knew the layout of the place?” she asked.
“I... don’t know.”
“Could he have visited earlier? Do you have visitors on a regular basis?”
“Yes. We entertain them in the front parlor mostly. Occasionally in Father D’s study.” She sent her eyes in the direction of the anteroom door that lead back to the study—where Shana hoped Dane was making progress with Father D.
“If he came earlier for a visit—to familiarize himself with the place, where would he have entered and who would he have spoken with?”
“Most likely Marian. She has a reception desk near the front door. We have some day help who would have answered the door, but Marian would have screened the visit.”
Shana would need to speak with Marian forthwith. “Would he have to sign in or register or something?”
“Yes—I believe Marian keeps a log—you’d have to ask her.”
“Let’s do that.” Shana rose. Standing tall, she would have loved to stretch, but kept herself in professional mode.
She figured she’d gotten everything she could from Sister Anne.
They needed a break, in any case. Shana was about to give her card to the nun and tell her to call if she remembered any more details when Sister Anne spoke, beating her to the punch.
“By the way, I forgot to mention—he had an accent.”
Shana waited, sensing something important. She stilled everything but the increasingly rapid beat of her heart.
“It was a Russian accent—or maybe eastern European.”