Face Off (23 page)

*   *   *

Sister Mary Elizabeth motioned for her young nurse to come close. The doctor had given her a shot to dissolve the clot which had caused her trouble. Since it had been given within minutes of her stroke, she knew her chances for recovery were greatly enhanced. The nurse leaned down to her. “Don't try to talk, Sister Mary,” she instructed. “Your left side is partially paralyzed. You have had a mild stroke.”

Does she think me daft?
Mary Elizabeth thought.
Of course I have had a stroke.
To her God she gave specific instructions:
You
will
give me the strength to finish this job, my Lord!
The silent prayer would brook no room for disagreement.

With her right hand, the old nun grabbed on to the arm of the nurse who had been watching over her for many months, pulling her down within earshot. “I need to make a phone call,” she said, her voice weak but clear. “You have the number. I heard the man leave it with you before the doctor came.”

“Sister Mary, you are not at the home any longer,” her nurse said. “I came to be with you while you're here in the hospital, but I know they are not going to let you make any phone calls.” She looked down fondly at the old nun who had rapidly become her favorite patient when she began her rotation at the Holy Cross Retirement Home.

The nun kept a strong hold on the arm of her nurse as she looked at her with sightless eyes. “Please. Help me. I have to make this phone call. I cannot die with this sin on my soul. Please.”

For just a moment, the young nurse thought perhaps the old woman was merely rambling incoherently because of the stroke and medication. But the clarity of her words belied this.

“Sharon! You must do me this last favor! Please! Hand me the telephone!” The urgency in Sister Mary Elizabeth's voice caused her nurse to obey. She picked up the telephone on the stand by the bedside and placed it next to her patient.

Tears of gratitude welled up in the nun's blank eyes. “Thank you, dear. Now place a call to Detective McDermott at the number he left with you. You'll probably have to call collect. I don't think the operator will put through a long-distance call from the room.”

*   *   *

Harry picked up the telephone in Caswell's office. “McDermott here.”

“Detective McDermott? This is the operator. I have a collect call for you from a Sister Mary Elizabeth in Sterling Heights, Michigan. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes, operator! Put her through.”

“Detective, this is Nurse Sharon Willis. Sister Mary wants to finish her conversation with you. In fact, she's quite adamant about it.”

“How is she? Didn't you tell me she was having a stroke? Can she even speak?” A dozen questions leaped to Harry's mind.

“Yes, sir. She had a stroke and we've got her in the hospital. But Sister Mary is able to speak. I'm not positive just
how,
since by all rights she shouldn't be able to talk at all, but I've learned never to question what Sister Mary can and cannot do.” She squeezed the old nun's hand, then handed the telephone to her.

“Detective,” Sister Mary started in immediately, “I'm not going to waste time on small talk, because I may not have that much time left. But I wanted to tell you what I did. It may mean something to Suzanne someday.”

“Certainly, go ahead,” Harry said, wondering what could be so important.

“My sister Emily adopted Suzanne when she was eight years old. I had to falsify a few documents in order for her to do so. I lied about Emily's age and marital status, in order for the adoption to go through.”

“As I told you on the phone, I'm not really concerned about that, Sister,” Harry said.

“Wait. I'm not finished. There is much, much more.” She could feel her throat tightening, and instructed her Lord to give her more time. “Her father came for her a couple of years later. Her real father. He showed me the birth certificate. He said a man named Carl Webb had kidnapped Suzanne, and he had spent all those months trying to track her down.”

“What?” Harry said. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes. Quite certain. When Emily adopted Suzanne I placed her footprint on the adoption certificate. It was on file at the convent. I took his paper into another room and compared the two. They were identical.”

“So what did you do then? After you knew this was her real father?”

The nun's voice was barely audible. “I sinned. Greatly. I told him that the little girl named Suzanne had run away right after she was brought to the convent. I told him we had no knowledge of her.”

Harry let out a long breath. “Oh, my, Sister. That really
was
wrong.”

The nun's voice broke. “I know. I know. And the man, he even went over my head to the bishop, and I still stuck to my story. Such a sin! I lied to my bishop!”

“And you've never told the girl? Suzanne?”

“No. I have never told anyone. Not even Emily.”

“Do you remember the man's name? The one claiming to be Suzanne's father?”

“Yes. It is burned forever into my memory. His name was Cole. Roy Cole. The mother's name was Jean, and Suzanne was born in Bartlesville, Oklahoma.”

“Did this Roy say what had happened to Suzanne's mother?”

“Yes. That was one of the reasons I lied. He said her mother had died in a car wreck, which was what Suzanne had always claimed, so I knew she would be going back to only this man. He seemed like such a dirty, uncouth, sinful man, that I decided Suzanne was better off with my Emily. But of course I had no right to make that decision. No right at all.”

“Sister Mary, I can't thank you enough for getting this information to me. I don't know what it all means just yet, but as soon as I know, I'll get back to you. You hang in there now!”

“Yes. Yes, maybe for just a little while yet. Maybe until I see Suzanne, and make it right with her. Even her name is wrong, you know. It is really. Susie. Susie Cole. The other man, that Carl Webb, he is the one who started calling her Suzanne, I suppose to make the child forget who she really was. I should have told her. I should have told her father. I had no right! God forgive me, I had no right!”

Chapter Twenty-three

Suzanne walked around the apartment double-checking locks at the windows and doors, her apprehension growing. She was certain now that her uneasiness was not just over something she had failed to tell the detectives. It was more than that. She was frightened. She was unreasonably, ridiculously, frightened. After all they had gone through in the last two days, why was she now, in the safety of her own home, so terrified?

Jessie looked at her watch. “The pizza should be here. What's taking it so long?”

“This is Kansas City, sweetie. It takes a little longer. Relax. It will be here shortly.”

“
You
should talk! You're as nervous as a cat! I think you've checked those windows about a hundred times!”

“I know. I know.” Suzanne rubbed her hands over her arms as though trying to get warm. “I can't imagine what's wrong with me.”

Jessie looked at Suzanne and once again saw her growing dim in her mind's eye—her
psychic
eye. She couldn't shake the feeling that she should be doing something. She remembered Jo-Jo, their dog. She had seen the same darkness descend around Jo-Jo, though, and the dog had not died.
Only because you interceded, Jessie! If you hadn't gone to find him, he would be dead.

Jessie made her mind up quickly. She would not sit by until it was too late, as it had been for her aunt Vera. She would call Harry and Jim. They would know what to do.

*   *   *

Floyd sat watching the building, trying to form a plan where there would be no risk to himself. Unlike Clark, he was perfectly content to play it safe. With two involved, it doubled the chances that something could go wrong. As he watched, he saw a figure in a dark raincoat stop beside the side entrance to light a cigarette. That's odd, he thought. Why would anyone stay outside to smoke a cigarette on a night like this? As Floyd watched, he saw the man look toward him and give a little salute. Clark! He had made it! Good. A little backup never hurt. He raised his hand to his forehead in acknowledgment.

*   *   *

Timothy Simons drove through the parking area looking for a slot to park in long enough to deliver his last pizza. He was wet, and cold, and tired of people griping about the pizza being soggy. What did they expect, for crying out loud? It was raining cats and dogs!

The only parking spot he could find was in the farthest corner of the lot. He would be drenched by the time he got to the door. He decided to double park and hope some irate tenant didn't decide to leave, and report him for blocking their car. Plato's Pizza and the phone number were emblazoned right on the side of the van, making it a little hard to deny it was him.

*   *   *

Floyd entered the apartment house through the front door and walked down the long hallway, looking for 12 A. At exactly that moment Timothy Simons entered by the side door, carrying a large pizza. The two met at precisely the spot where the two hallways joined. Floyd could see ahead that there were only two doors that could possibly be the one the boy was looking for. On a hunch he said, “That for Suzanne Richards in twelve A?”

“Yeah. Is that where you're going?”

“Sure am. Here, I'll take it.” He thrust a fifty into Timothy's hand. “Don't bother. You can keep the change for having to get out on such a night!”

“Thanks, mister!” Timothy smiled. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a bad night after all.

*   *   *

Jessie ran to the door when she heard the knock.

“Don't open it, Jessie,” Suzanne warned. “Find out who it is first.”

“Who's there?” Jessie called.

“Delivery. Plato's Pizza,” Floyd answered.

Jessie unbolted the locks, then swung the door wide. “What took you so long? I'm starving!”

Floyd stepped in to the apartment, handing Jessie the pizza and closing the door all in one smooth motion. Suzanne stood a few feet away, staring at him. He recognized her from the photos he had seen in the newspaper. Other than the brown hair and eyes, she bore no resemblance at all to the little girl he had left in Omaha.

“That will be fourteen dollars and fifty cents, ma'am,” Floyd said to Suzanne.

Suzanne still stood, unmoving. When she heard his voice, she knew. Fear gripped her, making it hard to breathe. “Uh … my purse. Jessie, would you get me my purse from the kitchen?”

Jessie started to remind Suzanne that they had already laid the money out, but at the last second she realized something was wrong as she picked up a tumbling whirlwind of thoughts. “Sure. I'll get it, Suzanne,” she spoke as she started walking away.

Floyd's hand went into the pocket of his raincoat just as Suzanne screamed, “Run, Jessie! Out the back door!”

Jessie dropped the pizza and raced across the tiny kitchen to the back door. Her fingers felt like they were leaden as she fumbled with the lock, expecting the man to be after her any minute.

Floyd paid no attention to the young girl. Instead, he held the gun on Suzanne, smiling slowly. “Well, aren't you going to give your old daddy a kiss?”

*   *   *

Harry looked down at the information the police department in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, had faxed him. Roy Cole and his five-year-old daughter, Susie Cole, had both perished in an explosion at Roy Cole's farm twenty-two years ago. They had no record of a Jean Cole being killed in a car wreck. Jean Cole, Roy Cole's widow, was alive and well, still living in Bartlesville.

What the hell?
Harry thought. Could this be a different family? He didn't think so. Sister Mary Elizabeth seemed pretty sure of her facts, and the names were all the same except for the child. Suzanne—Susie—could be. If so, who was Carl Webb, the man who had supposedly kidnapped Suzanne? And who had shown up at the convent claiming to be Suzanne's father? And if it wasn't Suzanne and her father who had died in that fire, who did? He, obviously, had a hell of lot more digging to do!

*   *   *

Suzanne started backing up slowly. She was not even aware that she was moving, as she stared at the specter in front of her. “No. You're dead. It can't be.”

Roy Cole threw back his head and laughed, Suzanne's fright making him bold. “Well, now see? You ain't so much of a psychic, after all! Didn't even know that wasn't your old pa with his face blasted away by that shotgun!”

Suzanne remembered that horrible day. Coming home from school. Going in the bathroom. Blood and flesh covering everything—the floor, the walls, the mirror. It had been the most dreadful time of her life. Slowly what he was saying began to penetrate her brain. “It … it wasn't you? Then who? I don't understand. Where did you go?”

“I got out of town—split—hit the road, little Susie! You had started asking questions about the fire, and I couldn't let you open up that whole can of worms, now could I?”

Suzanne stared hard at her father, not understanding a word he was saying. What fire? What questions? She could hardly remember speaking to her father, let alone discussing a fire. “I don't have any idea what you are talking about. I remember nothing about a fire.”

Roy's lips curled in derision. “Oh, Susie, Susie. We could have conquered the world if you would have just used your little
voodoo
in the way I wanted! Just think of it. Every hotshot politician, every head of the world's biggest companies—all of the kingmakers. You could have brought them all to their knees with only a touch! We would have made a fortune!”

Suzanne's eyes glinted. “What are you talking about? Blackmail? You wanted me to learn all of their dirty secrets so you could blackmail them?”