Storm Warning

Chapter 2

2

One week later, Sacred Heart Convent—upstate New York

F ive years ago, Georgia Dudley’s life had come to rest. After four separate jobs in two years and struggling to find her place in the world, the certainty of where she should be had come to her in a dream. Her family had been in shock—her boyfriend of the moment in grief over her sudden decision. But for Georgia, it had been a true moment of grace.

She was going to become a nun.

For a woman who’d partied and tasted a lot of the pleasures of the flesh at an early age, it was an about-face that no one believed. But she’d come through the fire of her salvation, cleansed in heart and soul and truly happy for the first time in her life. Now, as Sister Mary Teresa, residing at Sacred Heart Convent in up-state New York, she was in her element.

Still feisty, but with God always in mind, she tore through life with verve and joy. She was a favorite among the Sisters. Even Mother Superior had a twinkle in her eye when Sister Mary was around. And now, just coming back from her first sabbatical, Sister Mary Teresa was full of herself and of God, and ready to reinvent the world.

Mother Superior looked up from her desk, breaking into a rare smile of welcome as the young nun entered the main office.

“So…you’ve come home,” the Mother Superior said.

Sister Mary laughed and opened her arms out wide.

“Yes…yes…and it’s a blessing to be here, I can assure you. Oh, Mother Superior, it was grand! I saw the Pope. I kissed his ring! And the glory of Rome! It was like something out of a movie. Why, I had no idea that everything was so…so…”

Mother Superior smiled. “It’s the antiquity of it all that gets to you, isn’t that right?”

Sister Mary clapped her hands. “Yes! That’s it! It’s the antiquity. You stand on those streets and think of the centuries that the city has endured and the countless millions of people who’ve stood on the very places where you are walking, and you feel so small and humbled.”

“Exactly how one should feel.”

Sister Mary smiled. “Yes, I know. I’m still too full of myself. It’s a burden I bear. But I do it with a glad heart.”

Mother Superior gave the young nun another rare grin. “And that heart is appreciated by us all,” she said softly. “But on to other matters. You have mail. It’s on Father Joseph’s desk in the other room. Why don’t you retrieve it before he comes back? That way he won’t be interrupted later.”

“Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother,” Sister Mary said, and bolted toward the door to the connecting office.

“Walk, Sister, walk,” the Mother cautioned.

Sister Mary skipped once and giggled, then slowed her run to long strides as she went inside to get her mail.

“I’ve taken my bags to my room,” she called back over her shoulder. “As soon as I unpack, I’ll get to my duties.”

Mother Superior smiled and then shook her head. “It’s almost three. There’s really no need to worry about duties until tomorrow. Go unpack your things. Enjoy your mail and get yourself acclimatized to the time change by going to bed early. We’ll start off fresh in the morning.”

Sister Mary giggled again. “Yes, Mother, and thank you, thank you. Oh…it’s just so good to be back.”

She flew out of the room as fast as she’d come in, her veil and her habit flying out behind her like a sail at full mast.

Mother Superior shook her head and then went back to her work. The child was spirited, that was all, and there was nothing wrong with good spirit. They could use more women like her in God’s service.

Sister Mary plopped onto her bed, oblivious to the spartan atmosphere of her room as she dug through her mail.

“Oh, marvelous! A letter from Mother as well as one from Tommy.”

Tommy was the brother closest to herself in age. She’d followed his every footstep as a child, forcing herself on him and his friends until they’d had to accept her as the royal pain that she was, and yet part of the lot. Excited about news from home, she ripped into his letter first, expecting to read stories of her newest nephew’s escapades. Her hopes were soon dashed as she started to read.

Sis…I seem to remember you were in school for a short time with Josephine Henley, right? The reason I know is I hung out with her older brother Sammy until they moved. Anyway, I got some bad news from him the other day. It seems Jo-Jo, who had been living in Amarillo, committed suicide. Just walked out into the path of an oncoming truck. It’s all so sad. The family can’t believe it. Says she was happy and doing well, but who knows, right? Anyway, I’ve enclosed a clipping of the newspaper article that Sammy sent me. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you’d want to know .

She scanned the clipping in disbelief, then dropped the letter onto her lap. Her heart was aching for the family and for the little girl she remembered so well. Making a mental note to say prayers for both Jo-Jo and her family, she picked up her mother’s letter, confident it would contain better news.

She was wrong.

Georgia, darling…oh, sorry, I suppose you don’t go by that name anymore. I’m happy for your life, but I can’t bring myself to call you Sister Mary, so forgive me, sweetheart, if I digress .

Anyway, I’ve been busy. Volunteering a couple of days a week at the hospital. You should see those “pink lady” outfits they expect us to wear. They’re too tight across the hips and too big in the bust for me. Or maybe it’s me that’s out of whack. Who knows? Oh, Aaron Spaulding said the next time I saw you to tell you hello. You know, he’s vice-president of the bank where he works now. He would have made a good husband. It’s too bad you broke up with him while he was still a teller. Oh…did I mention he’s still a bachelor? Although I suppose that’s of no interest to you anymore .

Sister Mary grinned. Her mother, ever the Protestant, was still in shock that her only daughter had not only become Catholic, but had taken on the veil. She went back to the letter with interest.

Another bit of news that I thought you might not know. Remember little Emily Patterson? She married that Jackson boy and they moved to Seattle? Well…her mother still lives down the block, so that’s how I know. Anyway, it was the saddest thing. Emily is dead. I’m so sorry to give you this news, because I remember you used to play together out on the sidewalk in front of our house after school .

Anyway, you wouldn’t believe! Maybe you should say a prayer for her soul, considering what she’s done and all. But they say she committed suicide. Yes! Jumped off some bridge right into the water without a thought for her baby or husband. Frankly, it’s hard to believe, but you never know what children are going to grow up to be. After all, I would never have imagined I’d raise a child…my only daughter…who would turn herself into a nun. Not that it’s bad. But it wasn’t expected. I’m enclosing a clipping from the Seattle paper about the incident. You can read for yourself. Call me sometime if they’ll let you. I always think of you behind those stone walls as if you were in prison, although I’m sure it’s not so. Is it? You do get to call when you want to, don’t you ?

Sister Mary’s hands had started to shake. This was more than she could handle. Without finishing the rest of the letter, she dropped to her knees by the side of her bed and began to pray in earnest, sick at heart for the loss of her friends and the families they’d left behind.

Night had finally come to Sacred Heart. Vespers were over and Sister Mary Teresa had retired to her room with the rest of her mail as yet unopened.

She sat down on her bed and then opened the drawer to the small, bedside table, silently dropping the letters from her mother and brother inside. As she closed the drawer, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d symbolically buried two old friends. Glancing down at the stack of letters yet to be opened, she felt an odd sense of dread. Impulsively, she started to slip her thumb beneath the flap of the top envelope and then changed her mind and set all the mail aside. Her heart was heavy, her spirit exceedingly low. There was no room for anything else inside her tonight. But as her spirits dropped, she knew right where to go for revival. She reached for her Bible and, with a heartfelt sigh, whispered a quick prayer and then opened it, seeking comfort between the lines of the ancient text.

Time passed—time in which an acceptance of the news had settled within her—and then a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” she said softly.

The door swung inward. Mother Superior stood silhouetted against the shadows of the hall beyond.

“I saw your light,” she said. “Are you ill?”

Sister Mary sighed. “At heart,” she said, quietly closing the Bible she’d been reading and laying it next to her bed.

“Can I help?”

“Pray for the lost,” Sister Mary answered, thinking of the souls of two friends who would forever be lost to the Lord.

“Go to bed, child. Tomorrow is another day.”

Sister Mary nodded.

The door closed behind the old nun. Sister Mary stared at the doorknob until her eyes began to burn; then she stood and began to get ready for bed. Mother Superior was right. Tomorrow was another day.

The same night, St. Louis, Missouri

Virginia Shapiro turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching for a bath towel as she turned toward the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Steam from her bath had fogged the surface and was beginning to run in small rivulets down the glass. She thought about cleaning it off but was in too big a hurry. Wrapping her wet hair in the towel, she quickly reached for another with which to dry. A few quick swipes of the towel against her body and she was out of the bathroom and heading toward her closet, ignoring the lingering dampness of her long, lanky limbs. The DNA she’d been allotted in life had not allowed for excess in any form, and while many women would willingly have traded her for her tall, svelte figure, it was a great source of disgust to Ginny that she could easily go without a bra and no one would notice. The only bounce to Ginny Shapiro was in her step. Jiggling was a part of femininity that had passed her by, and she had yet to forgive her mother for marrying a man whose inseam was almost double his waist size.

A small clock in the hallway suddenly chimed. She spun, a dress in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other, as she glanced at the time.

Oh no! Quarter to five. Joe would be there any minute.

With jerky movements, she flung the clothes on her bed and began digging underwear from the dresser. Within the space of five minutes, she was back in the bathroom, peering through the drying streaks she’d made on the mirror as she hastily applied her makeup.

Flinging a lipstick down on the counter, she grabbed a hair dryer, turning it on full blast. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was a mass of still-damp tangles when she heard the doorbell chime. With one last look at herself in the mirror, she finger-combed her hair into a semblance of order, blew herself a kiss in the mirror and made a run for the door.

Just before she turned the doorknob, she took a deep breath, rolled her eyes at the absurdity of making such a fuss over a dinner date with someone who would never be more than a friend, and then flung the door wide.

“I hope you’re hungry. I’m starved, and I would hate to eat more than you,” she said.

Joe Mallory grinned. “You always eat more than me.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow as she shouldered her purse.

“That will cost you dessert,” she claimed, and slammed the door shut behind her.

Moments later they were in the elevator and on their way down to the street where Joe had parked. Sounds of their laughter echoed up the elevator shaft as they emerged arm in arm. They were too far away to hear the sudden strident ringing of Ginny’s phone and then the message on her answering machine as the call was picked up.

This is Virginia Shapiro. Leave a message after the beep .

The beep sounded, but no message was forthcoming. Long moments of silence passed before the connection was broken. It didn’t matter. The call would be made again. There was still time.

The next morning, Sister Mary Teresa’s hands were shaking as she reached for the receiver to make her call. The letters in her lap and the one e-mail she’d received from a distant cousin were a truth she couldn’t ignore. Five women from her first-grade class had committed suicide, all within the space of a couple of months.

And there was an odd twist to the incidents that she hadn’t realized until she’d made her condolence calls to the five women’s families. To the last one, they’d supposedly been fine until receiving a simple telephone call. But what horrible news could they possibly have received that would drive them to such destruction? It didn’t make sense. Added to that was the fact that those names all rang another bell in her memory, and she knew who to call for answers.

She took a deep breath and then punched in the numbers. When she heard her mother’s voice on the other end of the line, she felt an overwhelming urge to be a child again—to lay her head in her mother’s lap and wait for her to make everything right. Then she stifled the weakness and put a lilt in her voice when, in truth, she wanted to cry.

“Mother! It’s me.”

Edna Dudley grinned. “Darling! You’re back! How was Rome?”

“Wonderful, and so spiritually rejuvenating. Say, Mother, I would love to visit longer, but I’m late now. We’re going to Children’s Hospital this morning, and I don’t want the van to leave without me, but I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Edna said.

“Do you remember where my old yearbook is from Montgomery Academy?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s still on a shelf in your room. Do you want me to look?”

Sister Mary hesitated.

“It won’t take a minute,” Edna said. “I’m already upstairs.”

“Then yes, would you please? It’s important.”

Edna laid down the phone.

Sister Mary could hear her mother’s receding footsteps and then, a minute later, the loud, positive clip of shoes against the floor. She could just picture her mother’s stride on the shining hardwood in the old upstairs hall.

“Yes, it’s here,” Edna said.

Sister Mary sighed with relief. “Okay, great! Now open it up and look for our class picture. There will be a smaller picture right below it.”

“Just a minute,” Edna muttered. “I need to lay down the phone.”

Sister Mary glanced at the clock over the office door and then said a quick prayer.

“Yes! Here it is,” Edna said. “Oh…I’d forgotten how tiny you girls were at six. You and that little Shapiro girl were inseparable. I seem to remember she’s working for a newspaper now, is that right?”

Sister Mary took a deep breath, trying to make herself stay calm when all she wanted to do was scream at her mother to stop chatting. People were dying, and she didn’t know why.

“Yes, she’s a reporter for a paper in St. Louis,” she said. “I got a Christmas card from her last year. Now, could you read off the names of the girls who were in that special class with me?”

“Is that the little picture right below the one of the entire class?” Edna asked.

“Yes. Please, Mother, I’m in a hurry.”

“Okay, here goes. Do you have a pen?”

“Mother…please…just read.”

“Let’s see, there’s Emily Patterson, Josephine Henley, Lynn Bernstein, Frances Bahn, Allison Turner, Virginia Shapiro and you. Seven in all.”

Sister Mary had to swallow to keep from screaming. For some, names had changed due to marriages, but her memory hadn’t failed her. Every one of the women who’d died had been a part of that class.

“Is there anything else you need, dear?” Edna asked.

“Yes. If you don’t mind, would you please overnight the yearbook to me?”

“Overnight? Those charges are so high. Why don’t I just—”

“Mother, please. I need it.”

“All right. I’ll go straight down to FedEx as soon as we hang up.”

Sister Mary sighed. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you a thousand times.”

Edna laughed. “You’re welcome, dear. We miss you, you know.”

Sister Mary’s voice began to shake. “I miss you, too, Mother. Oh…Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you, you know. I love you very much.”

Edna smiled. “I know you do, sweetheart. God bless.”

Sister Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes…God bless,” she echoed, and quietly hung up the phone.

She stared first at the letters, then at the list of names her mother had given her. The truth was there, but it didn’t make sense. Unless the laws of coincidence had been violated more harshly than she could believe possible, someone was behind those deaths, and she and Ginny Shapiro were the only two left alive. Within the past two months, five young and vital women with everything to live for had taken their own lives. She couldn’t help thinking that she and Ginny would be next.

Then her rational mind shifted into action, and she began to think back over what she’d just learned. There were two common threads that she was aware of: the special class they’d been in, and the fact that each death had happened after a phone call.

But who could have called? Even more puzzling, what in God’s sweet name could they have said to trigger something as horrendous as this? Something was wrong—horribly wrong—and she didn’t think prayers were enough to stop what was happening. She needed to get help before she and Ginny also succumbed.

After a quick search through her address book, she dialed Ginny’s number at home. When the answering machine came on, she slapped her head in disgust. What was the matter with her? Ginny would be at work. She made the second call, this time to the St. Louis Daily , where Ginny worked, only to find out that Ginny was out of the office for the day. She left a message for Ginny to call her and then hung up. Now she was really scared.

Immediately her thoughts shifted to Sullivan Dean, her brother’s best friend. As a child, Sully had been her white knight. She’d given up her dreams of marrying him on the day she’d given her heart to the Lord. But Sullivan Dean was still a white knight. The only difference now was that his metaphorical sword came in the form of a badge, compliments of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, Sullivan Dean was a Fed. A hard-nosed, implacable cop for Uncle Sam. He would know what to make of all this, but to do so, he would need all the information she had.

She quickly made copies of everything she’d received, along with a brief note telling him of her fears, and then sent a duplicate set of the information to Ginny, as well. Ginny had to be warned immediately. She would drop the packages off at FedEx right now, on the way to the hospital to visit the children.

Later she went to the evening meal with a lighter heart. The burden of what she suspected had been shared, and if she knew Sullivan, he would be calling as soon as he got her package. When Mother Superior gave the blessing, Sister Mary Teresa added a small prayer of her own.

Please, God, help us in our hour of need .

“Sister Mary Teresa, would you please pass the bread?”

Sister Mary raised her head and grinned at the woman on her right. Sister Frances Xavier was very fond of bread, as her round little body attested.

“Certainly,” she said, and passed the bowl of rolls just as the sound of a jackhammer abruptly broke the peace within the room. She jumped, almost dropping the bowl.

“It’s only the workmen,” Sister Frances said.

“What workmen?”

“The ones down in the basement. There’s something wrong with the plumbing, I think. You know how old the pipes must be in this place.” Then she leaned close and dropped her voice to a whisper as she lifted a roll from the bowl Sister Mary was holding. “Mother Superior was all in a fuss about it. Said they’re disturbing the sanctity and peace of Sacred Heart.” Then she giggled and added, “But Father Joseph said that one hundred and twenty-three nuns and no bathrooms or running water would be what constituted a real disturbance, not this little bit of noise.”

Sister Mary Teresa giggled. “That must have been when I was at the children’s hospital. Wish I’d seen those two squaring off. They’re always at cross-purposes. You’d think, since we’re all in the same calling, so to speak, that they’d get along a little better.”

Sister Frances shrugged as she tore her roll apart. “Just because they both love the Lord does not necessarily mean they love each other,” she said, and then quickly added, “symbolically speaking, of course.” She pointed. “Would you please pass the salt?”

Thirty-six hours had come and gone without a word from Sullivan or Ginny, and Sister Mary Teresa was starting to get concerned. She’d tried again to call Ginny at the St. Louis Daily , only to be told that her friend was out on assignment. She could only guess at why Sully hadn’t called, but knowing the line of work he was in, he could be anywhere in the U.S. at this moment, completely unaware of what was happening.

She thought twice about contacting the local authorities and then dismissed the idea. All the deaths had been witnessed and ruled accidents or suicides. She had no proof that anything was wrong except a gut instinct that she and Ginny would be next.

Two days ago, she’d asked to be relieved from her duties in the office for fear of having to answer the phones. When Mother Superior had asked her if she was ill, she’d lied and said yes. Now her conscience was bothering her. With a heavy heart, she exited the main building and headed toward the chapel on the far side of the grounds, thankful that the rains they’d been experiencing for the past week had finally subsided. Her eyes were on the path before her, her thoughts focused on a long-overdue confession. Although there were a number of vehicles parked in the visitors’ lot, she bypassed them with little notice. Visitors were common to Sacred Heart. She walked with her head down, taking hasty steps, the hem of her habit swishing busily against her ankles; unaware of the person sitting on the bench beneath the trees to her left. From a distance, she could hear footsteps on the path behind her, but the sound was unremarkable and gave her no reason to turn.

As Sister Mary Teresa entered the chapel, her anxiety began to dissipate. She drew strength from this place, and from the peace that dwelled within.

Several people were scattered throughout the pews, some with their eyes upon the magnificent stained glass window directly over the altar, others sitting quietly with heads bent in supplication to the Lord. She paid them no mind as she genuflected, made the sign of the cross, then kissed the figure of the Blessed Jesus hanging from the end of her rosary before heading toward the confessionals in the back of the room.

Although Father Joseph heard confessions at this time every day, he was nowhere to be seen. Sister Mary didn’t care. He would eventually show up, he always did, and she was happy just to be in the House of the Lord. Taking a seat within one of the confessionals, she shut the door and then clasped her hands in her lap and bowed her head. When Father Joseph saw that the door was closed, he would know someone waited within. For now, she would exercise patience. It was something she’d learned during her time as a novice. Everything comes in its own time, including priests.

A minute passed, and then another. The panic within her heart was all but gone. God was around her and within her, and she had no sense of fear. When she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then the door opening in the cubicle next to her, she knew Father Joseph had come. With tear-filled eyes, she took a deep breath.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was three days ago.”

Instead of the familiar rhythm of Father Joseph O’Grady’s voice, she heard a faint but heavy rumble, like the sound of distant thunder. Then, between one breath and the next, a part of Sister Mary Teresa’s past, belonging to the child that she had been, wrapped around her mind and pulled her under. There was no time to panic, because she was already gone. In a matter of moments, Sister Mary Teresa was lost to a master who’d claimed her long before the One she now served.

The thunder was gone now. Slowly she opened her eyes and opened the door. As she stepped outside the confessional, someone took her by the arm.

“Forgive me, Sister, I was unavoidably detained. Please take a seat and I will hear your confession,” Father Joseph said.

But the little nun gave no sign that she’d heard a word he said.

“Sister Mary Teresa!”

She kept on walking, leaving the aging priest to make what he would of her behavior.

Father Joseph watched in disbelief. Just as she reached the exit, something—maybe the voice of God Himself—told him to follow her. By the time he reached the doorway she was nowhere in sight. More than a bit concerned, he went down the steps, taking them two at a time as he scanned the grounds. Pausing to look again, he turned, taking in the lay of land that ran in a gentle slope from behind the old cathedral to the river below.

Shrugging, he started to leave when a flash of black appeared and then disappeared within a copse of trees above the river. It was her, of that there was no doubt. But why would she be walking down there? Again an inner voice pushed at him to follow, although it made no sense. There was nothing down there but the river, and it was in flood.

Suddenly, within his mind came a word, so forceful and frightening that he knew in his heart it had come straight from God.

Go!

Without thought for his old joints, he started to run. The closer he got to the river, the faster he moved. By the time he exited the trees on the bank above the fast-running water, he was moving at an all-out lope. Breathing heavily, he stopped, bracing an arm against a tree as he searched the area with a worried gaze.

Then he saw her about a hundred yards downstream, standing on the edge of a precipice that jutted out over the river, poised like a small blackbird about to take flight. In the riverbed below, the water roiled, sweeping past huge boulders at a deadly pace.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted her name, but it disappeared within the roar of the rushing water. His heart sank. She would never be able to hear him. When she suddenly swayed, his concern turned to panic.

“No! Dear Lord, no!”

He began to run, oblivious to everything but the woman on the rocks. Moments later, she slowly lifted her arms to the heavens, turned her face to the sky and then leaned forward.

He froze in midstride, watching in disbelief as she fell into space. Although it took only seconds for her body to hit the water, he would remember it later in a series of perfectly framed stills.

The smile on her face, her eyes closed as if in slumber.

Her arms horizontal to her shoulders and unmoving, like the image of a crucified Christ.

The flutter of her clothing, dark and molded to her body like a shroud.

The way the water parted to accept her presence.

A flash of white, a momentary shadow beneath the thick, muddy flow, and then…nothing.

The little nun was gone.

“No!” he screamed, as he fell to his knees. “Dear merciful God, no!”

Twenty-four hours later, Washington, D.C .

Sullivan Dean shoved his key into the lock, taking satisfaction in the distinct click of the tumblers. Shouldering the strap of his duffel bag, he pushed his way inside his apartment, slamming the door behind him as he went.

An old, musty scent pervaded as he moved from room to room. An ivy plant hanging in a nearby window was drooping like Santa’s mustache as he set his bag on the floor and tossed the armful of mail that had collected while he was gone onto a nearby table. Rolling his eyes at the condition of the plant, he realized he’d forgotten to take the darn thing to his neighbor’s before he left. This was the fifth, or maybe sixth, one he’d killed since he’d moved to this place. He shrugged. Maybe he should quit replacing the damned things; then he wouldn’t have this worry.

Lifting the ivy down from the hook on which it was hanging, he carried it into the kitchen and set it in the sink, giving it a liberal dousing of water, although he suspected it was going to be a case of too little too late.

Eyeing the limp leaves, he gave one a tug. It came away in his hand. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not cut out for roots of any kind…not even yours.”

A short while later, he strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge, quickly wrinkling his nose in disgust. Whatever it was that he’d wrapped in that plastic had turned to a green, soupy liquid. He dropped it in the trash and slammed the door before turning to survey his surroundings.

Well, the best that could be said for the apartment was that the rooms were dusty and empty. He sighed. This was one of those times when the thought crossed his mind that it would have been nice to come home to something besides echoes, which reminded him of the last relationship he’d tried to have. At that point, he decided that dead plants and dusty furniture weren’t so bad after all. And there was the fact that he didn’t have to go in to the office until Monday. By then all would be back in order.

Satisfied that he’d solved all his problems, he reached for the phone. He would order in a pizza tonight, call a cleaning service tomorrow, and shop for groceries, then take his clothes to the cleaners on Monday. Maybe tonight he would call his brother. They hadn’t talked in months. He also reminded himself that he needed to call the nursing home tomorrow and check on his mother’s condition. She wouldn’t miss him, but he missed the person she’d been. Alzheimer’s had robbed him of his last living parent, and what he needed right now in his life was less chaos, not a lover to mess up his life.

A couple of hours later, after a shower and a meal, Sully settled down to go through his mail. The inevitable bills would need to be dealt with, and there was no time like the present. He sat on his sofa with the mail in his lap, sorting through the stack. Bills to his left, newspapers at his feet, personal mail to his right, catalogues in the trash.

About halfway through sorting, he came to a letter-size pack from FedEx. Curious, he glanced at the return address and started to smile. It was from Georgia. Almost immediately he amended the thought to Sister Mary Teresa, although in his heart, she would always be Tommy Dudley’s little sister Georgia.

Setting aside the rest of the mail to be sorted out later, he tore into the packet and pulled out a handful of papers with a brief, handwritten letter from Georgia on top. Scanning the papers, he quickly saw that they were Xeroxed copies of newspaper clippings. Curious, he picked up her letter and started to read.

Almost instantly, the smile he was wearing went south. He sat up with a jerk and reread her note before scanning the clippings, taking note of the areas she had highlighted.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, and looked back at the letter. The last line on the page stopped his heart.

Sully, please help. Ginny or I might be next .

He bolted to his feet and raced to the bedroom. His address book was still on the dresser where he’d tossed it last week. Shuffling through the pages, he found her address, as well as the phone number to Sacred Heart Convent. A sick feeling was building deep in his belly as he punched in the numbers. Surely to God he was making too much of this. Georgia would answer and then laugh when he called, telling him she’d jumped to too many conclusions. That was it. As soon as he heard her voice, they would be laughing together. Yet when his call was answered, he found himself stumbling for words.

“Sacred Heart Convent. How may I help you?”

“I need to speak to Georgia…I mean, Sister Mary Teresa.”

He heard a soft gasp and then, “One moment please.”

In the background he thought he could hear hasty whispers, and his stomach knotted. When a different person suddenly came on the line, he knew something was wrong.

“Mother Superior speaking. Who’s calling, please?”

The woman’s voice was stern, and he had instant flashbacks of a ruler popping on his head and being sent to stand in a corner. It took all he had to get out of that juvenile frame of mind and back to the problem at hand.

“This is Sullivan Dean. I’m a family friend of Sister Mary Teresa. I need to speak with her.”

“I’m sorry, it’s…”

“Please,” Sully said. “It’s important.”

The woman sighed, and Sully was surprised to hear tears in her voice.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not that I won’t allow it. It’s just that—” She stopped suddenly, changing her focus. “If you’re a family friend, you should already know.”

Sully dropped to the edge of the bed, his legs too weak to hold him.

“I’ve been out of the country. What should I know?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but we lost Sister Mary.”

Sully’s ears were roaring as he pinched the bridge of his nose to stop a sudden need to cry.

“What do you mean, lost her?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

Sully’s lungs deflated. A long moment of silence passed as he struggled to find breath with which to speak. Finally the word came out in a harsh, ugly groan.

“How?”

“It’s not for us to judge. All we can do is pray for her soul.”

Rage shifted the pain. “To hell with prayers. I want answers!” he shouted.

“Father Joseph witnessed her death,” she said, still hedging.

“Mother Superior, I am an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and for the last time, I’m asking you how Georgia died.”

There was another long moment of silence, followed by a word that rocked Sully’s world.

“Suicide.”

“No. Not only no, but hell no. The woman I knew would never kill herself. Not in a million years.”

“She jumped into a flood-swollen river.”

“She couldn’t swim,” Sully said.

“Yes, we know.”

Sully’s thoughts were spinning. He needed to concentrate. But on what? Georgia had asked him for help, and he’d been too late.

“Her things. What happened to her things?” he asked.

“Her family is coming next week to pick them up.”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Don’t move a thing until I get a chance to look at them.”

“Oh, but I…”

“She was murdered,” Sully said. “I don’t know how, but if it’s the last thing I do, I will find out. Are you going to help me or not?”