Bad Samaritan (14 page)

“Do you know if Robert had enemies in the department?” Sister Agatha asked.

Judy stared down at her plate, lost in thought. “Only one name comes to mind—Deputy Tony Gannon. When some items supposed to be in the evidence room turned up missing, Robert blamed Tony. Tony insisted that it wasn't his fault, that he'd done the initial paperwork. He blamed Robert for failing to enter the data into the system and not properly shelving the items. Robert argued that he'd never received anything from Gannon, nor had he handled the evidence container. They went back and forth like that for a long time.”

“What was missing?”

“A couple of handguns taken during a drug bust.”

“What do you think happened to the pistols?” Sister Agatha asked, noting the sudden rattle of heavy raindrops on the metal roof.

“They probably got misplaced,” she said with a shrug. “My gut instinct is that Robert dropped the ball on that. Whenever Robert argued with his wife—an almost weekly event—he'd be stomping around and fuming for the rest of the shift. If Gannon turned in the handguns on one of those days, it's possible that Robert never even processed the paperwork.”

“What happened to Deputy Gannon?” Sister Agatha asked quickly, excited to have found a possible suspect in addition to having had a terrific lunch.

“Nothing was ever proven, so both officers had a letter placed in their files. Eventually, both Robert and Tony left the department for greener pastures. You already know about Robert. Tony was poached by the Austin Police Department for half again the pay as well as a housing allowance.”

Sister Agatha's spirits plummeted. For a moment she'd thought she'd found a viable lead, but now it appeared she'd reached another dead end. “What about Robert's security firm? Do you know anything about his business?”

“No, not really. I've never been much interested in rent-a-cops. For that, you'll have to talk to his partner, Monty Allen.”

Finished with lunch, Judy went to open the window, which pivoted in the middle, an interesting design feature. The rain had stopped now, leaving a cool, fresh breeze in its wake. “I love the scents that always follow a good storm,” she said, inhaling deeply.

“It's a rare enough treat here in New Mexico,” Sister Agatha said. “Now that the rain's let up, I better be on my way. Thanks very much for that wonderful lunch.”

“You're welcome, Sister Agatha. Come by anytime.”

Soon Sister Agatha was on her way north, toward home, with Pax in the sidecar. To avoid the deep puddles that now filled the low spots, she kept the Harley closer to the centerline. The absence of a curb and storm drains made New Mexico roads like this one a mixed bag of hazards during seasonal thunderstorms.

Twenty feet beyond the graveled shoulder was a concrete-lined flood control canal, essential across the metro area during summer downpours. This twenty-foot-wide portion of the system was currently filled to the brim with muddy water and plant debris carried down from the higher ground to the east.

Looking ahead through her water-splattered helmet visor, she saw a hunched, soaked figure walking north along the roadside adjacent to the canal. Something about him looked familiar. As she drew closer she realized that it was Scout.

He must have heard the roar of the Harley above the rush of water, because he turned to look. The second he saw her, Scout took off at a jog.

“Wait,” Sister Agatha yelled, then realized that with the helmet muffling her voice, the roar of the cycle's engine, and the sound of water in the ditch, there was virtually no chance of him hearing her.

Before she could decide what to do next, she heard the blare of a car horn behind her. In a heartbeat, a pickup whipped around her, spraying water everywhere. Blinded for a few seconds by the sudden deluge, she backed off the throttle and tapped the brakes, worried she'd drift out of her lane or lose control altogether. The mud-splattered white truck cut in front of her and swerved to the right, onto the shoulder.

Fifty yards ahead, Scout was running for his life. Glancing back over his shoulder, he veered out onto the concrete slope of the raging canal, desperate to avoid the oncoming vehicle.

“Lord, help!” Sister Agatha prayed, helpless to intervene.

As the pickup brushed by him, Scout slipped and fell into the churning stream of water. Swept downstream, he groped in vain for anything to hang on to, but the rushing water carried him relentlessly along, his head barely visible.

For a second the pickup skidded, and she thought it would go into the water as well. Then the driver regained full control and swerved back onto the highway.

As the white truck accelerated away, Sister Agatha tried to read the license plate, but between the mud and the distance it was a futile effort. All she could tell from the color was that it was a New Mexico plate.

Focused solely on saving Scout now, she pressed the motorcycle for more speed. About a mile ahead, the canal intersected the main channel leading west to the river. If Scout got carried that far, he'd be swept against one of the big metal grates and drown. She had to get ahead of him somehow, then grab him as he went by.

People drowned in these ditches every year during flash floods. There was even a special fire department rescue unit that practiced ditch rescues, but they wouldn't be able to get here in time to do any good. Knowing that, she gunned the engine and
raced down the road, looking ahead as well as in the rearview mirror for any other vehicle that might be able to stop and help.

Speeding past Scout, she found a spot that would serve her purposes and pulled over to the shoulder of the road. Pax sat up immediately, but without even looking over at him, she gave him the command to stay. He couldn't help her here.

Sister Agatha yanked off her helmet and dropped it on the ground as she hurried over to the concrete apron of the ditch. On her knees in six inches of water, she gazed upstream, trying to spot Scout's bobbing head. That was when she saw a tree branch riding the waves along the edge. Without hesitation, Sister Agatha reached out as it passed by and grabbed the branch.

The stout tree limb was much bigger than it had looked and yanked her forward almost into the stream. She braced herself with her left arm, dug in with her feet, and somehow managed to keep hold of the branch without getting pulled into the raging waters. Using all the strength she had left in her arms, she lifted and pulled the cottonwood branch onto the concrete. Now she had something for Scout to grab—if he was still alert and conscious when he passed by.

Sister Agatha stood, trying to spot him among the debris, and saw that he was much closer than she'd expected, still trying desperately to swim to the edge of the canal. Waving to get his attention, she called out to him.

“Grab hold!” she yelled.

She got down on her knees, anchoring herself the best she could against the outer edge of the concrete, and swung the branch out over the water, trying to avoid touching the surface. Though it was heavy, she had to keep it clear of the water or it would be carried away, out of his reach and useless.

As Scout swept past, he reached up at the last moment and managed to grasp the branch. The sudden impact nearly yanked
her off her feet. The swirling waters became a powerful adversary as she fought to pull him to safety.

Her joints ached from the stress, and as her skin was scraped raw, her grip on the branch started to slip. Groaning from the pain, she tightened her fingers and held on, praying for strength as the laws of physics took over. With her as the anchor, the man was swung out of the main stream of water and to the edge of the canal.

Scout reached the upper slope of the concrete seconds later, grabbed the same edge that anchored her feet, and pulled himself up out of the water, choking and gasping from the effort.

As he reached safety, Sister Agatha let go of the branch, at long last allowing it to be swept downstream.

“Are you all right?” she managed, trying to catch her breath.

He didn't answer, but his pale gray eyes met her gaze and held it for a heartbeat.

Sister Agatha saw human recognition there, and for a second Scout almost smiled. Yet that brief, gentle emotion vanished almost as quickly as it had formed.

Scout reached behind his shoulders with bony, bleeding hands, searching in vain for his backpack, which had been lost in the current. When he realized it was gone, fear and confusion took control of him again. He scrambled to his knees, looking around in desperation.

“It's okay. You're safe now,” she said softly.

Like a trapped wild animal, he stared vacantly at her, then raced off, heading for the highway. Thankfully, no cars were coming, because Scout didn't think to look. Seconds later, he leaped into the underbrush and disappeared into the bosque.

By the time she managed to stand, he'd disappeared from view. She returned to the Harley, where Pax was waiting for her, and called in the report to the police.

“It's time for us to go home, boy,” she said, putting the cell phone away and giving Pax a hug. Sometimes, there was nothing more comforting than having your arms around a big dog like him.

As they headed back, she remembered the gratitude and relief she'd seen in Scout's gaze for a few precious seconds and whispered a prayer of thanks. Instinct, and perhaps more—a stirring of certainty—assured her they'd meet again.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING SISTER AGATHA, SISTER BER
narda and Maria Victoria worked to pack up most of Sister Clothilde's remaining kitchen appliances.

“So we're moving for sure?” Sister Agatha asked.

Sister Bernarda nodded. “It's definite now. The Archbishop informed Reverend Mother that no additional funding can be found to counter our budget deficiencies. The sale of our monastery is going through, and we'll be leaving by the middle of this month.”

“That's only seven days away,” Sister Agatha said, trying to swallow back the sudden panic that swept over her.

“We'll take care of the packing while you finish what you need to do in town,” Sister Maria Victoria said. “Sister Ignatius started a novena for you, too, so that you'll be able to find the answers you need to clear the sheriff.”

Sister Agatha smiled. “Good. I'll need all the help I can get.”
She glanced at the packing crates, then added, “Let me finish printing labels for those boxes. Then I'll go.”

Before anyone could answer her, Reverend Mother came to the door. “The others will handle that work, child,” she told Sister Agatha. “You're needed elsewhere. The sheriff and his family have supported our monastery for many years. Let's do all we can for him while there's still time.”

The message was clear. Sheriff Tom Green would be her priority now, second only to her duty to God. “I'll get started, Mother,” she said, bowing her head and hurrying down the hall.

As she stepped outside, she glanced back at the old building with tear-filled eyes. She'd say a final good-bye to Bernalillo and Our Lady of Hope by making sure justice was served. She couldn't think of a more fitting way to end her days here.

Seeing Pax stretched out on the porch, sunning himself, she motioned to the motorcycle. “Come on, boy. We'll be working overtime till we find answers.”

Five minutes later, she was speeding south in the Harley, Pax in the sidecar. Today she'd pay Monty Allen, Robert Garcia's partner, a visit. She didn't expect things to go smoothly. Like the Garcias, he was probably opposed to any effort on her part to clear Tom Green. The challenge would be finding a way to get him to answer at least some of her questions.

The business was located on Bernalillo's southern margins, and it took her twenty minutes to reach the low metal warehouse that housed Garcia and Allen Security Systems Corp. So far, all she really knew about Monty was that he was a friend of the Garcias and might be running for county sheriff as a write-in candidate.

As she stepped inside the reception area, a pretty, dark-haired woman in her early twenties greeted her with a friendly
smile and hello. On her glass-surfaced desk was a red baseball cap, one of the promotional gimmicks used by Robert Garcia's campaign.

Sister Agatha introduced herself and Pax, but before she could even state her business, Monty Allen came into the room. He was dressed in casual pants and a knit shirt with the company logo embroidered on its pocket.

“I hope you're here to tell me that Tom Green is ready to withdraw from the race,” he said, his smile as phony as it was fleeting.

The brash words took her aback. “If you have questions about the election, I suggest you speak directly to Sheriff Green,” she said, employing her best Catholic-school nun voice. “I'm not anyone's political spokesperson, Mr. Allen.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he said acerbically.

She refused to take the bait, suspecting he was trying to get her angry enough to give him something he could use against Tom. “I came here this morning to talk to you. Since my presence wasn't a total surprise, and you're still here,” she said, gesturing to the surveillance camera mounted on the wall, “I'm going to assume that you're willing to give me some of your time.”

He gestured to the door he'd come through. “After you—and feel free to bring your dog,” he added, his phony smile plastered back in place.

After a short walk down a wide hall, they entered a spacious office. He invited her to take a seat, then made himself comfortable behind a huge, horseshoe-shaped mahogany desk.

“So what brings you here, Sister Agatha? I don't suppose the monastery requires the services of the best security firm in the Southwest?” He laughed loudly as if he'd found the outrageous question hysterically funny.

“We're far more worried about other people's security, Mr. Allen, and that's why I'm here,” she said as Pax lay by her feet.

“I know precisely what brought you to my door, Sister Agatha,” he snapped, this time without any trace of humor. “You're trying to get Sheriff Green off the hook.”