Bless the Child (47 page)

D
evlin sat back and stared at the piece of paper in his hand—Mrs. Fellowe’s address in New Jersey. Peapack. Now that was surprise. Hunt country. Jackie O. country. Hardly the place you’d expect to find a reporter’s widow. Of course, she could have come from money . . .

He glanced at his watch. With a little luck he could be there by 6:30. He pushed the never-ending pile of papers to a new corner of the desk and headed for the garage.

The house was large and rambling, newly built to simulate age and substance. Two cars sat low and overindulged in the driveway; he jotted down both plate numbers before ringing the bell.

“Mrs. Fellowes?” he inquired of the tall zoftig brunette who answered the door in a silk dressing gown.

“Yes?”

He held up his shield. “Lieutenant Devlin NYPD,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, if you don’t mind.”

She frowned. “Actually, Lieutenant, I do mind. As you can see, I’m dressing for a dinner party.”

“Just ten minutes, Mrs. Fellowes,” he cajoled with his best Irish smile. “Not a minute more, I give you my word. It would really be a big help to me if you’d reconsider. I’m up against a deadline here.” A little charm tended to move recalcitrant mountains.

“Not a minute more,” she said warily, opening the door enough to allow him entry.

The interior was as impressive as the façade. Good art, good furniture, good rugs. Plenty of money, and none of it old. These were not the tenderly worn heirlooms of the always rich.

“Sit down, Detective,” she said, in an ice-water voice. “Tell me what it is I can do for you.”

“Your husband’s accident, Mrs. Fellowes. I hate to reopen old wounds, but if you could tell me a little about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell, really. A crash on the Jersey Turnpike—the police said he might have had a heart attack or a stroke. He drove off the road, into a rockface, at eighty-five miles an hour. The car exploded and he was killed. End of story.”

Try to contain your grief, Mrs. Fellowes,
he thought wryly. No tears, or even pretense of tears.

“I see. And was there any suspicion of foul play at the time? Did your husband have any enemies who might have wanted him out of the way?”

“Foul play?” she responded incredulously. “Where’d you get that idea? Jim had no enemies. It was an accident. Pure and simple.”

“No enemies, Mrs. Fellowes? In his line of work, wouldn’t that be a little unusual?” It was Devlin’s turn to be incredulous. “Good investigative reporting tends to ruffle feathers . . . he was looking into some kind of occult group wasn’t he? Maa Kheru, I think it was called.”

Mrs. Fellowes laughed; it was not a genuine sound. “That horseshit? Forgive me, Detective, but my husband had a loose screw where that particular garbage was concerned. He wasted a lot of valuable time on a total fantasy.” She rose and tied her robe tighter.

“I’m sorry, Detective. I really am out of time, here.” Devlin got to his feet instantly, with an ingratiating smile.

“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Fellowes. And I do apologize for the inopportune arrival. There’s only one other question I have for you, then I’ll leave you to your party going. It’s a little impertinent, I suppose, but my job doesn’t allow me time for some of the more delicate social graces . . .”

“What is it, Detective?” she asked, the alert blue eyes looking vaguely amused.

“This house . . . the furnishings . . . I’m no expert, but they look expensive. Did your husband have a lot of insurance or something? Reporters usually don’t.”

Mrs. Fellowes smiled; she seemed to have more teeth than were strictly necessary.

“He had insurance, Detective, and I’m a whiz with the stock market. An absolute whiz.”

Devlin nodded. She wasn’t a good liar, just a cocky one.

“By the way, just to save me some time checking . . . did your husband have any other relatives?” he asked, as she let him out the door.

“No,” she replied pleasantly. “Nary a one.”

“Did he by any chance leave any papers that had to do with his research on Maa Kheru?”

“Out of luck, there, too, Detective,” she said amiably. “They all burned up with him, I’m afraid.”

Devlin threw the car into gear and called in the license plate numbers of the cars in the driveway. Then he asked for Garibaldi.

“I need you to find me a relative, Gino,” he said, when the detective answered.

“You can have one of mine,” Garibaldi replied with a short laugh.

Devlin chuckled; Garibaldi usually had that effect on him. He was a good man to have around on a bad day. “Reporter named James Fellowes, died January 9, 1987, Jersey Turnpike accident. Worked for the
Times, Newsweek,
good publications . . . I need to find a living relative—not the grieving widow. Okay?”

“Gotcha. You coming back in?”

“Yeah. Maybe another two hours. And Gino . . . keep it under your ski mask, hmm?”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant. Mum’s the word. See ya.”

Mrs. Fellowes was an interesting addition to the growing menagerie, Devlin thought as he drove. What exactly did she have to hide? She wasn’t grief-stricken and she didn’t seem scared. Maybe she was a bad guy, too. It was beginning to look like there were quite a few of them in the bushes.

The phone beeped.

“Devlin,” he said, picking it up.

“Would you believe a nun?” Garibaldi’s voice was amused by life, as usual.

“I’d believe the Pope, at this point.”

“Fellowes had a sister, Janice. Now Sister Cecilia Concepta of the Blue Chapel, in Parsippany. Some kind of contemplative Carmelite thing . . . you know the kind that take vows of silence, which I always thought was a good thing in a woman.”

Devlin grinned. “Got an address? I’m already in Jersey.”

“Yeah, sure. Eighteen-oh-three Troy Hills Avenue, Parsippany, 201-555-6023. Mother Superior’s name is Immaculata Stevens.”

“How the hell did you get this so fast?”

“Superior police work, and my sister’s husband has a niece in the next parish.”

Devlin grinned. “Should have known it was dumb luck.”

“Immaculata Stevens would probably prefer to think of it as an act of God,” Garibaldi said archly. “Hey, Lieutenant, how’s this, for interesting? Old Janice, who by the way is thirty-two, joined up only two weeks after her brother’s fiery demise.”

“Thanks, Gino. That’s a big help.” Devlin smiled as he put down the receiver. An act of God would be a welcome addition.

The Blue Chapel sat on a quiet knoll, in the small New Jersey township, far from the bustle of Manhattan. It even
looked
cloistered, Devlin thought, as he pulled up in front. Iron gates barred the door, and the austere architecture wasn’t meant for garden parties. He dredged his memory banks for whatever fragments they contained about the cloistered Carmelites. He knew they took vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and silence. He’d always wondered what could ever possess a young girl to join such a forbidding world. It occurred to him, that he’d never thought to ask what it was they were praying for, so devotedly. Maybe he’d ask Immaculata Stevens.

Devlin rang the bell and waited. A small peephole was opened and two eyes peered out curiously. He flashed his shield and asked for Sister Cecilia Concepta. The eyes looked shocked, then the peephole closed with a forbidding click, like a cell door in solitary.

New eyes appeared at the peephole—older, wiser eyes. “I am the Mother Superior of this convent,” said the kind of nun voice he remembered from boyhood—the kind that could put the fear of God in an altar boy, if he picked up a cruet late for the Offertory. “We are a cloistered order and the hour is late.”

Devlin was nine years old again. “You speak?” he said surprised.

“Very astute, Detective,” the voice replied dryly. “I can see you’re in the right line of work. Now kindly state your business, very briefly.” Some things never change, he thought. This was a smart one.

“I’m investigating a possible murder, Mother, and a child abuse case that may involve Satanism. There’s a sister here named Janice Fellowes, who may be able to help us. I apologize for the intrusion, and the hour, but the case is urgent. I give you my word, Mother, I’m on God’s side in this one.”

“So was Lucifer, for a while, Detective,” she said without skipping a beat. But he heard the bolt slide back, and the door opened slightly.

“Mother Immaculata,” he said, assessing the aristocratic presence before him. Tall, confident, impenetrable. You either win her over, or you won’t get through her with the Notre Dame offensive line. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Malachy Devlin. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t urgent.”

She nodded acknowledgment wordlessly, and led him down a dark corridor, into the convent’s silence. “You may state for me your business with Sister Cecilia, Lieutenant,” she said, when he was seated in what appeared to be her study. “Then I will decide if it is urgent enough to disturb Sister’s peace of mind, or her vow of silence.”

He did so and she listened.

“A most distressing story,” she said judiciously, when he’d finished. “I will pray for the grandmother and for the child. More than that, I cannot guarantee. Sister Cecilia’s welfare is in my hands, and I’m afraid, based on what you’ve just said, I can conceive of no way on this earth you could possibly convince me it’s in her best interest to become involved in this ugliness.”

Devlin looked directly into the imperturbable steel of the eyes. “Then don’t do it for anything on this earth, Mother,” he said. “Do it because it’s right.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then laughed outright. “May I assume a Jesuit education, Lieutenant? Ignatius would be proud of you.” She rose; he felt he was in the presence of an empress, and did the same.

“I will dispense Sister from her vow of silence to speak with you . . . but only if it is her wish. I believe she would be a fool to do so.” She turned to go.

“According to Francis of Assisi,” he said quietly to the retreating back, “each of us must be God’s fool, sometime, Mother.” He couldn’t see her face, but he felt her smile.

Devlin stared out the window of the Abbess’s office into the peaceful darkened street below. Hard to believe evil could touch a tranquil sleepy-headed town like this. He sighed. He’d been a cop too long to imagine anywhere was sacrosanct.

A short while later, Mother Immaculata returned, a small delicate young woman in a wimple following her soundlessly. She was soft and startled-looking as a fawn, and it was obvious, she’d been crying.

When she spoke, her voice was unsteady; Devlin wondered if disuse or the emotions she struggled against had constrained it.

“I loved my brother very much, Lieutenant,” she began, her distress underscoring the simple words. “He was a wonderful man. A wonderful reporter. He cared so much . . .” Her voice cracked and she looked down at her lap, where she folded and unfolded her hands, then up at Mother Superior for encouragement.

“We were a very devout family. Jimmy always received the sacraments. He was a very good human being . . . very moral, forthright, honorable. All the good things . . .” Her voice broke and she took another breath . . . “Although his work often put him into strange and dangerous company. I used to worry about him because of that.

“Ten years ago, Jimmy covered a satanic murder for
Newsweek . . .
something about it overwhelmed him, and he just couldn’t get it out of his head. It obsessed him. At first he wouldn’t talk about it to me, but then, little by little, he began to let things slip. He told me he’d unearthed evidence of a group of very powerful men and women who had sold their souls to Satan, in return for unlimited power, wealth, and fame. He couldn’t believe the names he was uncovering . . . their prominence staggered him. I can only remember some of the names now, but they were all terribly important people, Lieutenant. It just didn’t seem possible, but Jimmy said he had real evidence that involved people like Senator James Trant, Iscariot the rock star, General John Pinkham, that TV talk show host, Nicholas Sayles . . .” She looked at Devlin despairingly. “The list was a veritable
Who’s Who
of prominent men and women—if it were true, the implications for society were incalculably deadly. I think my brother began to feel he was on a kind of holy crusade, to unmask this horrible danger—but the media people turned a deaf ear to all his allegations.”