Saint's Gate (2 page)

3

SISTER JOAN’S FEW MINUTES TO RETURN WITH the key were dragging on. Emma yanked impatiently on the gate, but the lock held firm.

Never mind the key, and never mind the meditation garden.

She wasn’t willing to wait any longer.

The fastest route to the tower was up and over the fence. The gate itself looked too rickety and would land her on the stone walk. She stepped into the garden, grabbed a cold, wet vertical iron bar in each hand and climbed onto the lower rail. The old fence creaked and groaned but held firm as she hoisted herself up to a middle rail and then launched over the top rail, grateful she didn’t have to dodge ornamental spikes.

She jumped down onto the grass, landing in a crouch, and sprang upright next to a simple, graceful copper angel that stood sentry in the fog.

Still no Sister Joan returning with the gate key.

Emma cut back onto the stone walk and followed it to the tower. A sharp breeze tasted of salt water as she stopped at the bottom of the steps. The door was shut tight. If Sister Joan hadn’t found the key, she could be returning through the meditation garden, and that was why she was taking so long. Emma peered into the near-impenetrable fog, noticing a movement across the lawn, past wild-growing rugosa roses at the edge of the rocks that led straight down to the ocean.

“Sister Joan,” she called. “It’s Emma.”

There was no answer, no further movement.

Emma was aware of her .38 snug in its strap just above her ankle. She had no reason to draw a weapon. During her three years with the FBI, she’d never fired a gun outside a training facility, but she knew what to do.

The wind whipped more salt water and drizzle in her face as she crossed the wet grass. A narrow path, no more than ten inches wide, led through the roses to the tumble of boulders that marked the boundary between ocean and land.

She heard someone panting and made out a woman crouched on a boulder in the swirling fog, at least a three-foot-wide, five-foot-deep gap between her and the roses. She wore only a dove-gray tunic and skirt, without a jacket, sweater or rain gear, and a white headband held back her light brown, chin-length hair. Her face was pale, her lips blue as she shivered, undoubtedly from fear as well as the wet, windy conditions.

Emma squeezed onto the path, thorns, dripping leaves and rose hips brushing against her jeans.

“Don’t come closer.” The woman—a young novice of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart—sounded frightened more than confrontational. “Please. Stay where you are.”

“My name’s Emma Sharpe. I’m a federal agent.” Emma reached into her jacket for her credentials and held them up. “I need to see your hands.”

“I can’t…I can’t move.”

Emma returned her credentials to her jacket. “Just put your hands out in front of you where I can see them.”

The woman complied, gingerly holding her palms in front of her. She was shaking visibly. “I don’t even know how I got out here.”

“What’s your name, Sister?”

“I’m Sister Cecilia. Cecilia Catherine Rousseau. I was in the meditation garden. I saw Sister Joan. I don’t think she saw me. I hadn’t expected to be there. I’d been working on the biography I’m writing of Mother Linden, our foundress. I decided to see if Sister Joan needed any help. Then I—I saw someone else….”

“Where?” Emma asked.

“On the rocks, headed toward the cove. I panicked,” Sister Cecilia added, sheepish. “Next thing, I was here.”

“This person you saw. Man, woman?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t Sister Joan, or any of the other sisters.”

“You’re sure?”

Sister Cecilia nodded. “I knew I didn’t want whoever it was to see me. It could have been someone from one of the boats taking shelter in the cove.” She sniffled, still shivering but steadier, her emotions more under control.

Emma felt another strong, cool gust of wind off the water. “Do you know where Sister Joan is now?”

“No.” Sister Cecilia’s eyes lifted to Emma. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”

“I hope not. First things first, okay? I want you to jump over to me.”

Sister Cecilia tightened her hands into fists and sobbed. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You just have a touch of vertigo. You jumped over there. You can jump back.”

“If I fall—”

“You won’t fall. I won’t let you.”

“The boulder I’m on is wet. It’s slippery. I almost fell.”

“You didn’t know it was slippery. Now you do. You’ll make allowances.” Emma kept her tone level, patient. “Sister Cecilia, if there’s an intruder, the other members of your community could be in danger. I need to help them.”

The young sister gasped. “In danger?”

“Your instincts drove you to run. Trust them. I’m not leaving you here, but I want to make sure the other sisters are safe.”

“They’re at the motherhouse. Only Sister Joan…” Sister Cecilia trailed off, her panic spiking again. “You have to find her. I’ll wait here.”

“I can’t leave you alone.” Emma softened her voice. “‘Fill us at daybreak with your love, that all our days we may sing for joy.’”

“Psalm 90:14. That’s our motto.”

“I know. It’ll be okay, Sister. Half a second, and you’ll be off that rock.”

Her teeth chattering now, Sister Cecilia nonetheless managed to stand straight and lift the hem of her skirt above her knees. “Ready?”

Emma gave her an encouraging smile. “Ready.”

With a quick breath, Sister Cecilia leaped from her boulder, grabbing hold of a rosebush, thorns scratching her hand and drawing blood as she steadied herself. She yelped in pain and let go, sucking blood from a finger.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Emma reminded her.

The young novice raised her chin. Her skin was ashen, her blue eyes standing out against the gray surroundings. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know yet. Right now I need to find Sister Joan. Stay with me.”

They headed back through the rosebushes and across the lawn to the tower, Sister Cecilia keeping up and not saying a word. The wind picked up, bringing with it more cold drizzle.

When they reached the steps, Emma turned to the novice, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. “Stay close to me.”

Sister Cecilia nodded, and they mounted the steps. Emma pushed open the heavy door. It barely missed Sister Joan’s sturdy black shoe. She was sprawled on her side, her head twisted in such a position that there was no hope she was still alive.

Her black headband was half off, her graying hair covering most of her face.

Sister Cecilia screamed. “Sister Joan!”

In a smooth motion, Emma drew her .38 and held it firmly in her right hand. She glanced at the young novice. “Do exactly as I say.”

“I will,” she said, her voice just a breath. “Could she have fallen—”

“No.”

Emma didn’t point out the obvious blow Sister Joan had taken to the back of her head and instead bent down and quickly checked for a pulse. There was none, and as she stood up again, she pushed back her emotions.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“I’m afraid so. There’ll be time for mourning later,” Emma said, not harshly. “You’re doing fine, Sister. Just remember to stay close to me.”

With Sister Cecilia at her side, Emma did a quick but thorough sweep of the single, open room on the main floor. Mother Linden had converted the tower into a work space early in the order’s existence. Conservation was a central source of their income. For the past thirty years, Sister Joan had dedicated herself to the art and science of restoration and conservation, establishing the Sisters of the Joyful Heart as experts in cleaning, repairing, preserving and protecting works of art—in particular, religious art—brought to them by various individuals and institutions. She would enlist other sisters to help her as needed and would train the occasional apprentice, but the tower was her domain.

The first-floor furnishings consisted of desks, filing cabinets, bookshelves and a seating area, none of them yielding an intruder or another terrified nun. Emma motioned toward the metal spiral stairs, and Sister Cecilia nodded, very pale now, eyes wide with horror and fear. She maintained her composure as they headed up to the second-floor conservation lab.

The temperature and humidity controls were off, and the large worktables and easels were empty, not because a thief had cleared out valuable art, Emma thought, but because there currently was no work being done in the lab. Metal shelves that held materials—backing for paintings, chemicals, brushes, microscopes, work lamps—and the photographic and UV equipment all seemed to be intact, undisturbed. Some of the equipment and materials in the lab were expensive but nothing Emma could imagine attracting a thief, especially given the tower’s isolated location.

“Sister Joan worked here alone most of the time,” Sister Cecilia said, clutching the back of a task chair.

“We have to go, Sister.”

They descended the stairs, and Emma led Sister Cecilia to Sister Joan’s scarred oak desk under an oversize window. A white birch swayed in the wind. The fog could conceal—or hamper—an intruder’s escape.

Had the bleak weather played a role in the timing of the attack on Sister Joan?

Sister Cecilia slumped against the desk, her eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners as she prayed silently.

The landline telephone was right where it had always been, next to a jar of boar-bristle brushes used to clean artwork. Emma lifted the old-fashioned receiver, her hand steady as she dialed the extension for the motherhouse.

“Sister Joan?”

Emma recognized the voice of Mother Superior Natalie Aquinas Williams. “It’s Emma Sharpe, Mother.”

“Emma? What are you doing here?”

“Listen carefully. I need you to gather the sisters together in the game room. Lock the doors. Then call the police. Don’t let anyone in except them and me.”

“What’s happened?”

“Count heads. Make sure—”

“Everyone’s here except Sister Joan and Sister Cecilia.”

“Sister Cecilia’s with me. She’s safe.” Emma knew she had to give Mother Natalie more facts. “Sister Joan was attacked in the tower. She’s dead, Mother. I’m sorry.”

“Dear heaven. Emma…” With the safety of twenty women at stake, the woman in charge of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart quickly pulled herself together. “All right. I’ll gather everyone in the game room, lock the doors and call the police. What will you do?”

“I’m on my way with Sister Cecilia.”

Emma hung up, confident that the Mother Superior would kick into immediate action. Keenly intelligent, a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart for more than forty years, Natalie Aquinas Williams was decisive and committed body and soul to the welfare of the women in her charge.

Sister Cecilia had gone very still, her eyes fixed on Sister Joan’s body. She turned to Emma. “I can show you to the motherhouse—”

“It’s all right,” Emma said. “I know the way.”

4

COLIN DONOVAN SAT ON A FLAT EXPANSE OF COLD granite and stretched out his legs as he debated dragging his sleeping bag out of his kayak and taking an afternoon nap before the mosquitoes found him. He figured he’d camp here overnight. He was on a tiny coastal Maine island. No houses, no cars, no people. He had food, water, dry clothes and shelter. Most of the bad guys after him believed he was dead. So did a fair number of the good guys.

Did life get any better?

It was his fourth island in as many days. He’d ignored the fog and intermittent rain and explored the knob of rocks, stunted evergreens and wild blueberry bushes. Now he was contemplating logistics for his nap. When he woke up, he could contemplate dinner. Then where to pitch his tent.

Or go ahead and pitch his tent now, as well as unfurl his sleeping bag?

He smiled at the depth and complexity of his decisions. The fog was lifting, if not soon enough to leave him time to paddle to another island. What was the point, anyway? It wouldn’t be that different from the one he was on. More rocks, more trees, more blueberry bushes.

He heard a boat, out of sight just beyond the headland where he’d pulled up in his kayak. The underwater rocks there were tricky. Only a skilled pilot or an idiot would navigate a boat this close to the island, particularly in the tough conditions, with the tide going out.

Or a determined enemy, Colin thought, sitting up. He had on dark-colored waterproofs, not the neon-orange or yellow his lobstermen friends and family wore. If he needed to, he could disappear into the fir trees. He also had a weapon—a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer—tucked in his backpack.

He edged toward his kayak as a lobster boat materialized, bobbing in the chop about twenty yards offshore. No colorful buoys marked lobster traps in the immediate vicinity of the island, but Colin recognized the trio of buoys on a pole in the stern of the boat, bearing the distinctive blue, magenta and yellow stripes that identified Donovan traps.

His eldest brother, Mike, stepped out of the pilothouse. He was an outfitter and a guide, not a lobsterman, and he was in the
Julianne,
their lobsterman brother Andy’s backup boat, a hulking heap that would keep running until someone blew it up or hacked it to pieces. Mike would have a fair idea of where Colin would be since he’d helped plan his route among Maine’s southern coastal islands. Not that Colin, with three years with the Maine state marine patrol under his belt, had needed help, but he and Mike got along well. Mike understood his younger brother’s desire for solitude.

“Hey, Colin,” Mike said, barely raising his voice he was so close. Like all four Donovan brothers, he was a big man. “I tried your cell phone in case you were in a hot spot. No luck.”

Colin hadn’t even turned on his phone. “What’s up?”

“Father Bracken wants to see you. I said I’d find you.”

This was unexpected. “Bracken? What’s he want?”

“A nun was killed a few hours ago.”

“In Ireland?”

“Heron’s Cove.” Unmoved by the heavy swells, Mike pointed vaguely toward the mainland. “Sisters of the Joyful Heart.”

Colin got to his feet. He’d paddled past the isolated convent on his first day on the water. He’d looked up at the stone buildings with their leaded-glass windows and thought it wasn’t a bad place to sit out life.

“I’m not getting mixed up in a nun’s death.”

Mike shrugged. “That’s what I told Bracken.”

“The FBI doesn’t have jurisdiction over a homicide in Heron’s Cove. The Maine State Police will handle the investigation. Tell Bracken—”

“I did. Now you tell him. He’s your friend.”

Colin noticed a patch of blue burning through the fog and clouds on the horizon. It’d be a chilly night out on his little island, but with the clearing weather, there’d be a starlit sky. Stars, quiet, the wash of the tide on the rocks. It was a lot to give up.

“Let’s go,” Mike said.

There’d never been any point arguing with the eldest Donovan. Mike had a place way down east, out on the rugged and remote Bold Coast. He lived off the grid as much as possible. He didn’t own a cell phone or a computer, but he knew how to use them—when he had to, and only for his work as an outfitter and guide.

Mike hadn’t needed an explanation when Colin had turned up in Rock Point and said he wanted to go off on his own for a few days. Mike wouldn’t worry whether his brother was hiding from demons or running from enemies. In Mike Donovan’s world, wanting solitude was normal. It wasn’t a reason for concern.

Not that Mike believed Colin rode a desk at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. None of his three brothers did, but they’d never flat-out asked him if he was an undercover agent.

“All right.” Colin reached for his backpack, set next to his kayak. The mosquitoes were starting to congregate around him, anyway. “Let me collect my gear.”

Mike abandoned Colin at the docks in Rock Point, the small, struggling fishing village where they’d grown up, just north of high-end Heron’s Cove. With little comment, Mike climbed into his truck and headed back north. A week hiking and canoeing in the northern Maine woods was next up for Colin, on the heels of his kayaking trip.

He just had to clear up the matter of the dead nun with Father Bracken.

Colin threw his kayak and gear into the back of his truck and walked across the potholed parking lot to Hurley’s, a local watering hole in a weather-beaten shack built on pilings.

Finian Bracken’s black BMW was parked out front.

Hurley’s was a favorite with hardy tourists who ventured beyond southern Maine’s more popular beach hangouts. It served good food and drinks at a reasonable price, and it was also the only restaurant and bar in Rock Point. The only inn had opened up two years ago and was owned by Colin’s parents. His father, an ex-cop and sometimes lobsterman, had taken to cooking massive breakfasts and polishing silver. His mother couldn’t have been happier.

Colin headed inside. The tide rolled in and out under Hurley’s worn wood floorboards. The bar was constructed of more worn wood. Each table was covered with a marine-blue tablecloth, decorated with a small clear vase of local flowers and a white votive candle. The early crowd had left, and the evening crowd hadn’t yet arrived.

No Donovans were about. Colin considered that a plus under the circumstances.

He spotted Finian Bracken at a sturdy table in back, by a window that overlooked the harbor and docks. Bracken wore a black suit and white Roman collar but with his short-cropped hair, penetrating eyes and the sharp angles in his face, he looked more like Bono than Bing Crosby.

He frowned as Colin pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “You didn’t stay anywhere with a shower, I see,” Bracken said in his heavy Kerry accent.

“Sponge baths. I didn’t shave, though.”

“Self-evident.”

“I could have stayed on my island and had Mike tell you to dust pews and mind your own business.”

“He didn’t mention dusting but the sentiment was the same.”

“Leave this poor woman’s death to the police, Finian.”

Bracken ignored him and pushed a glass across the table. “I took the liberty of pouring you a
taoscán
of fine Irish whiskey.”

Colin had already learned that a
taoscán,
an Irish term, was an imprecise measure that could mean a lot of whiskey or a little whiskey in his glass. Right now, it appeared to be a moderate amount.

Bracken pointed at an elegant bottle next to him bearing the distinctive gold Bracken Distillers label. “I opened a bottle of Bracken 15 year old, a small-batch single malt aged for, as it says, fifteen years. I oversaw the process myself from distillation to laying down in the cask.”

Colin knew better than to try to divert Finian Bracken from a whiskey lecture. He nodded to the clear, caramel-colored liquid in the glass. “Smoky?”

“No. No smoke. The barley was malted over dry heat, the Irish way. It has depth and character that hold up to the best Scotch whisky produced in the same way. Auchentoshan comes to mind. One of my favorites.”

“Finian.”

“You haven’t tried Bracken 15 year old yet, Colin. It’s rare, dear and damn near perfect. Truly, it’s magnificent.” The priest waved a hand. “In moderation, of course.”

He wasn’t bragging, Colin realized as he tasted the whiskey, but simply stating a fact. Hurley’s had agreed to stock Bracken whiskey especially for the new local priest and his occasional guest. Finian and his twin brother had launched their thriving Irish distillery as brazen young men, but Finian had left it behind to become a priest. Then three months ago he’d left his homeland to serve as a replacement for an American priest on sabbatical. He’d never set foot in Maine before arriving in Rock Point in June for a year-long stay.

He poured a little Bracken 15 year old into his own glass. “The word
whiskey
comes from
uisce beatha,
Gaelic for
aqua vitae
—‘the water of life.’” Bracken tapped a finger to
whiskey
on the Bracken Distillers label. “Of course, the Scots drop the
e
in
whiskey.
”

“I should have had a bottle of this stuff in my kayak,” Colin said.

Bracken held up his glass.
“Sláinte.”

“Sláinte.”

The priest sampled the expensive single malt. “One can see why the early monks shifted from ale to whiskey,” he said with satisfaction as he set his glass back on the table. “Go easy, my friend. You’ll be driving tonight.”

“I can walk back to my place from here.”

“You can’t walk to Heron’s Cove. Well, I suppose you could, but it’s much easier and faster to drive.”

“Why would I go to Heron’s Cove?”

Colin took another swallow of the whiskey. Not a big one. He had to keep his wits about him when dealing with Father Bracken. They’d run into each other on the docks in June, when Colin, still tangled up in a difficult undercover mission, had slipped into Rock Point for a few days. Bracken had sensed that Colin stood apart from his family and his hometown. A kindred soul, perhaps. They’d become friends over a drink at Hurley’s.

“Have a sip,” Bracken said, nodding to the glass of water he’d supplied.

Colin complied, welcoming the cool water after the fiery whiskey. Water for sipping alongside whiskey was Father Bracken–sanctioned. Not ice. Just wasn’t done. In his view, whiskey was meant to warm the body and improve one’s sense of well-being, and ice plunked into a glass of Bracken 15 year old—or any whiskey—was contrary to that purpose.

“What’s going on, Finian?” Colin asked finally.

Bracken looked pained as he drank some of his own water. “Sister Joan Mary Fabriani was killed just before noon today, apparently when she interrupted an intruder at her convent. She was a longtime member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Their convent isn’t far from here.”

“I know where it is. Have you said mass there?”

“Not yet, no. As yet I’ve never met any of the good sisters. They’re known for their work with both sacred and secular art. Sister Joan was an expert in conservation and restoration.”

“Witnesses?”

“None.”

“Anything missing?”

“I have no idea.” Bracken glanced out at the docks. With the clearing weather and the waning daylight, more boats were drifting into the harbor. “Word of Sister Joan’s death has spread fast. People here are in shock, Colin.”

“Understandably. An attack inside a convent and the murder of a nun are awful things, Fin, but they’re not an FBI matter. The Criminal Investigative Division of the Maine State Police handles homicide investigations in small towns like Heron’s Cove.”

Bracken shifted back from the view of the harbor and looked at his friend. The hair, the eyes, the shape of his jaw. Bono, Colin thought. Definitely.

“CID’s good,” Colin added. “They’ll get to the bottom of what happened.”

Bracken touched the rim of his whiskey glass again. “An FBI agent was there.”

“At the convent?”

“She was waiting for Sister Joan to get a key to unlock a gate.”

Colin sat forward. Now Bracken had his full attention. “She?”

Bracken lifted his glass and took another sip of his whiskey. “Her name’s Emma Sharpe. Her grandfather founded a world-renowned art theft and recovery company. He’s based in Dublin, but his grandson—Emma’s brother—runs the business out of its main offices in the family’s original home in Heron’s Cove.”

“Lucas Sharpe,” Colin said.

“Do you know him?”

“The name. We’ve never met. I’ve never met Emma, either.”

He’d heard of her, Colin thought as he tossed back more whiskey than he’d intended. He managed not to choke as he set his glass down. “What was Agent Sharpe doing at the convent?” he asked.

“I’m hoping you’ll find out.”

“I don’t need to find out. That would have been one of the first questions the Maine detectives asked her. She wasn’t hurt?”

“Not that I’ve heard, no. When Sister Joan didn’t come to unlock the gate, Agent Sharpe climbed over the fence to investigate. She got to Sister Joan too late. The poor woman was already dead, may God rest her soul.”

Colin wanted more whiskey, if only to keep him from trying to figure out what had happened at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart a few hours ago, but no more Bracken 15 year old for him. He was done now that Emma Sharpe’s name had come up. “Agent Sharpe was the first on the scene?”

“I don’t have all the details. The murder of any innocent is unacceptable, but of a nun…” Bracken paused, staring into his drink as if it could provide answers, then said quietly, “She’s gone to God.”

Colin could feel the priest sinking into melancholy and sat back, tapping the table with his fingers as he thought. “What do you think, Fin? Was Sister Joan in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was she targeted?”

“If I could answer all your questions, I’d have left you on your island.”

The late-afternoon sun was out now, if only for a short time before dusk. It sparkled on the water, creating the kind of scene that kept Colin going on his darkest days working undercover. He knew the Sharpe name growing up in Rock Point, and then as a Maine marine patrol officer, but Emma Sharpe’s name had cropped up just a few weeks ago. She’d provided a critical piece of information that had helped locate one seriously bad operator, a Russian arms trafficker with a trail of dead bodies behind him.