Tradition of Deceit (12 page)

Fourteen

Chloe had taped a
list of directions to the dashboard. That system worked only until she missed the first turn, but eventually she arrived at the police station … only to learn that Ariel wasn't there. “Miss Grzegorczyk is no longer in custody,” the desk officer informed her.

“She's not? When did you release her? Why was she arrested in the first place?”

“I'm sorry,” the man said with detached courtesy. “I am not able to provide that information.”

Chloe found a payphone and dialed Ariel's home number. No answer. She chewed her lip for a moment, then called the Minnesota Historical Society and asked for her friend.

“This is Ariel Grzegorczyk.”

“Ariel? It's Chloe. I drove up this morning—”

“
Really
?” Ariel's voice quavered. “I can't believe you did that for me. What about that guy you're dating?”

“He's kinda busy. But—what the hell is going on? Why did you get arrested? Can you take the afternoon off?”

“I … um …” Ariel's voice was barely audible. “I can't really talk about it here. And I can't leave, I've got too much work to do.”

“Does Toby know you got released? He sounded frantic.”

“I talked to him this morning. He said he'd call you, but you must have already left.”

Courtesy of my oh-so-early departure, Chloe thought. “Look, why don't I just plan to meet you at your place after work. Sound good?”

“
Very
good. Thanks.”

So, what now? Might as well go to the mill, Chloe thought. After working through Ariel's files, she could look at the building with new insight.

She managed to find the mill with only a nominal amount of driving in circles, and parked near the river. Then she stood by the chain-link fence surrounding the hulking compound. Her gaze flinched to the top floor of the wheat house, where she'd seen Professor Everett Whyte's lifeless body stuffed into that wretched grain distributor thing. Geez Louise, she thought, rubbing her arms with mittened hands. I didn't even know the man, and I'm having a hard time. How can anyone expect Ariel to ever return?

Chloe made a deliberate effort to think new thoughts. Once, hundreds of train cars had rattled in and out, bringing grain and taking flour. She imagined the burly, sweating loaders; the men working the packing machines …

“Want to go inside?”

Chloe jerked away from the fence with a yelp.

“Sorry,” Sister Mary Jude said. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

Chloe put a hand over her suddenly racing heart. “I was daydreaming. I'm rather good at it.”

“My friends in the police force would say that daydreaming in this part of town isn't the best idea.” The other woman smiled wistfully. “Me, I can't think of any better place for it.”

Chloe wasn't sure what to make of this nun with a wedge haircut, blue jeans, sensible shoes, and a huge picnic basket held in each hand. She's got to be a strong woman, Chloe thought, to do good work in such a daunting place, day after day. “I think you're right.”

“So. Want to go inside?”

“Is it safe?”

“I believe it is.”

“I don't have a key.”

Sister Mary Jude gave Chloe an
Oh, you sweet little thing
look. “Come on.”

Chloe followed her around the corner, along the fence, around another corner. If she heads into a sewer, Chloe thought, I am outta here. But Sister Mary Jude abruptly stopped and grasped the bottom corner of the chain link section and pulled, showing how a row of the metal pieces connecting the section to a post had been neatly severed. “Here we go.” Once both women had crawled through the opening, Mary Jude carefully realigned the edge to its intended position.

Chloe squinted at the secret gate. “I would never have known it was there.”

“
The cops will find it soon enough. But by then, there will be a new entrance.”

Chloe eyed the grubby walls, trying to spot another hidden entry. “You must spend a lot of time looking for the access.”

“Not at all. They always let me know.”

“Who does?”

Sister Mary Jude glanced over her shoulder with a quizzical look. “The tenants, of course.”

Of course, Chloe thought. The tenants. The sister came daily, bringing food and trying, in Owen's words, to talk one more crazy into leaving the mill. Chloe said humbly, “I lead a meaningless life.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much. Come on—oh, wait.” The nun looked over Chloe's shoulder. “Hello, John!”

Chloe turned and saw a man with long hair and a matted beard approaching. He wore a ragged coat that might have been army surplus, and gloves that hadn't started as fingerless, but were now. He lifted a hand to Sister Mary Jude, but his intense gaze bore into Chloe like twin lasers. It took everything she had not to take a step back-
ward.

“We'll be setting out lunch in a few minutes,” the nun said. “Want to come inside with us?”

The man walked past without replying.

“One of the tenants?” Chloe asked.

“People call him ‘Camo John' because of the fatigues. I brought him a warmer coat, but he gave it away.” Sister Mary Jude watched Camo John disappear around a corner. “I often find him circling out here. Walking the perimeter, you know?”

A veteran, Chloe thought. What the hell is the matter with our society?

Sister Mary Jude led the way through a partially blocked doorway and down narrow passageways, flashlight in hand. She seemed confident; Chloe felt the walls closing in. Perhaps plunging into the bowels of the abandoned mill wasn't the brightest idea, even with the imperturbable Sister Mary Jude as a guide.

Maybe the nun is aiming for sainthood, Chloe thought. Or martyrdom. She didn't aspire to either, but she didn't want to whine now. Besides, she truly was interested in the mill's occupants, past and present. She fought off her heebie-jeebies and searched for something more banal to say. “Sister Mary Jude—”

“Why don't you just call me Mary, all right?”

“Okay. I was just noticing all the graffiti in here.” The walls were marked with stylized letters, pictures, symbols she didn't recognize.

“Does that surprise you?”

Chloe realized that she'd somehow blundered. “No, that is—I guess the kids who come here to party do it. I mean, homeless people probably don't spend money on spray paint.”

“But homeless people have no voice,” Mary said. “No power. Graffiti might be a way of combating that helpless feeling, don't you think?”

“I guess so.”

“Some of the homeless people here speak of tribes. Groups of people who join forces. Graffiti lets one tribe communicate important information to others.”

Chloe peered at some oversized letters as they passed. “Like what?”

“Like,
Keep out of here
. People who have nothing might mark a wall or a corner to say,
This space is mine
.”

“I'm sure you're right.” Chloe was starting to suspect that Sister Mary Jude had her own reasons for bringing her into the mill. “Um … where, exactly, are we?”

“On the second floor. I don't recommend the lowest level, by the way. The machinery down there transferred the power of St. Anthony Falls to all the floors of milling machinery. You wouldn't want to fall into one of the big turbine pits. Besides, the people who go there generally don't want to be found. Drug dealers and the like—those are the ones I avoid.”

“Okay.” Chloe closed the already short distance between her and her guide.

“Most people here really are harmless. A few people have pets. The teenage girls tend to band together. Moms sometimes take turns with child care.”

Child care, Chloe thought bleakly.

They climbed stairs and emerged into a cavernous room. Dim, dusty light filtering through cracked windows illuminated the remains of rusting machinery. “Watch your step,” Mary cautioned. She trained her flashlight beam ahead to illuminate the danger. “A few rooms still have electricity, amazingly enough. But this isn't one of them.”

Chloe recognized Owen's sack-packing machines. “Oh, I see where we are!”

The other woman checked her wristwatch. “I'm right on time. If you don't mind hanging back a bit …”

“Sure. I don't want to startle anyone.”

“Oh, they already know you're here.” Mary began unpacking her hampers on a deep windowsill. “The detectives tried to interview the residents, so everyone's on edge.”

“Ah.” Chloe crossed her arms against the pervasive, damp cold. Were people watching from unseen corners?
Someone
had watched Professor Whyte during his final visit …

She was distracted by a gray-haired man who shuffled from an aisle between machines. His hands twitched, and his gaze never lit long in one place. “You got sandwiches?”

“Bologna or cheese.”

He accepted a cheese sandwich and a paper cup of coffee. Over the next twenty minutes or so Chloe watched a parade of wary people appear for lunch. Men and women, elderly and teenaged; a few in office attire, but most clothed in filthy tatters. A few lingered, chatting with each other like elders enjoying social hour after church. Most snatched food and melted back into the shadows.

The nun spoke to everyone: “Is your cold any better? … You should have a doctor look at that cut, Joe. I can give you a ride to the ER … I did look for chocolate chip cookies, but the pantry was out. Will Fig Newtons be okay?” Sometimes she paused to lay a palm against someone's cheek. Sometimes she offered a quick blessing.

The last to arrive was a teenaged girl with stringy brown hair, a narrow face, and hunched shoulders. She burrowed deeper into her coat when she noticed Chloe.

“Hi, Star,” Mary said calmly. “That's just a friend of mine.”

Star glared at Chloe. “Are you a social worker?”

“Nope. I just like old buildings.”

Evidently reassured, Star turned her back and accepted a sand-
wich.

“Have you considered that GED program I told you about?” Mary asked.

Star scratched at a streak of electric blue paint on the sleeve of her grubby parka. “I don't want to go into some stupid program!”

“You could just go for classes. Think about it, okay? You need
some
plan to get—”

“You're talking like that stupid guy.” Star snatched the last handful of Fig Newtons and ran.

Mary pensively watched her go. Chloe began gathering empty coffee cups. “What guy was she talking about?”

“She doesn't like Officer Crandall.”

“That makes two of us,” Chloe muttered. Crandall was a jerk. “What was the thing about a social worker?”

Mary screwed the lid back onto her thermos. “When Star ran away from home, she ended up in a temporary shelter. The social worker called Star's parents.
Huge
breach of trust.”

“I get that,” Chloe said slowly. “But still … that girl doesn't look more than fourteen. Fifteen tops. Have you reported her to the police?”

“What do you think will happen if I do?” Mary's eyes narrowed. “If Star gets dragged back home, she'll just run again. And next time she won't be willing to talk to me at all.”

“It's just that …” Chloe blew out a long breath. “It breaks my heart. An industrial site is no place for a child.”

“No, it's not. But at least here she's got a few friends.”

“How do they survive? One cheese sandwich a day—”

“I'm not the only one who comes. Some churches offer meals. Star does some panhandling, too. A couple of the other girls are pros-
titutes.”

“Prostitutes!”

Sister Mary Jude spread her hands, palms up. “Look, I don't pretend for one moment that this is okay. But all men like Officer Crandall want to do is haul them downtown and stick them on a bus home. The kids who end up living here—
wanting
to live here—didn't run away because of some squabble over allowance. Star's got all the hallmarks of a victim of sexual abuse.”

Chloe thought about this woman who came into the ruined mill day after day, hauling baskets of sandwiches through holes in the fence and creeping through dark corridors. “You're doing very good work here,” she said, “but … how can you face this, day after day?”

Mary stared at the floor. “Once upon a time, I was fourteen and needed some help. I was lucky enough to find it. Now, I can't imag
ine anything more important than looking out for girls like
Star—and everyone else who finds themselves here, with nowhere else to go. Somehow it seems especially fitting to serve food in this mill.” She met Chloe's eyes. “Give us this day our daily bread.”

Chloe remembered her grandmother reciting the same words in Norwegian:
Gi oss i dag vårt daglige brød
.
She remembered telling Roel­ke during a difficult trip to Iowa a few months earlier that she craved baked goods when she was stressed. She remembered thinking about flour as she munched
kuchen
in the cozy Schottler kitchen. She remembered Owen's enthusiasm:
This was the first time in world history that the production of a basic food item was industrialized.

And now Sister Mary Jude brought Wonder Bread sandwiches to the mill that had once produced enough flour to make twelve million loaves of bread every day. Technology had changed, but that most fundamental human need—
our daily bread
—had not.

Chloe thought about Camo John and Star and everyone else she'd seen that day, each with his or her own story. And she thought about Everett Whyte. “Mary, is there any news about Professor Whyte's death?”