Deaths of Jocasta (53 page)

Elly and Millie joined us.

I didn’t follow their conversation. I was wondering what had gone wrong. I couldn’t believe this minor hiccup was the blast Sarry had intended. The bomb this morning had been real enough. So had the one left outside my door. Revenge on Sister Ann was his raison d’être. It didn’t make sense that he would blow it (so to speak) so carelessly. The two Bills? Had they tampered with the bombs? After his brutal murder of five women (and perhaps others not found, I shuddered), I had no faith in Frankenstein’s reverence for any life other than the unborn. That left Choirboy. Hard to believe that innocent face could do anything other than sing “Nearer My God to Thee.” But he had no problem leaving a bomb on my doorstep. That left me with a lot of unanswered questions and a vague sense of uneasiness.

It’s just that after everything, particularly this morning, this burp of a bomb was anticlimactic, I told myself. Be glad your sense of drama wasn’t appeased.

“Okay, ladies,” O’Connor said, rejoining us after leaving us sitting in the sun long enough to get close to heatstroke. “It looks like his intent is disruption, not destruction. There’s nothing else in the basement. We’ve checked it thoroughly.”

“What about the rest of the building?” I asked.

“We checked that earlier,” he answered.

“Can we go back in?” Millie asked.

“Sure. I think we’ve had all the excitement we’re going to have today,” O’Connor answered, with a pointed look at me.

“Okay, back to the salt mines,” Cordelia said, waving Bernie to join us.

They started across the street back to the building. I stood where I was, mistrustful of our good fortune.

“Something the matter?” Elly asked, hanging back.

I shook my head. “Half an hour ago, nothing could have convinced me that this building wasn’t destined to be a pile of dust right now.”

“Let’s not look too askance at our good luck,” she answered. “You coming in?”

“No, I’m going to stew out here for a while longer,” I said.

“Call us when you sense heatstroke approaching.” She followed the others across the street and into the building.

I noticed Sister Ann leading Sister Fatima back into the building, cars stopping reverently for the two nuns, as I plopped myself down on a curb.

I looked across the street at the building, sturdy and sound in the glaring afternoon sunshine. I felt a bit foolish, happy to be wrong in every way, except for my ego. Go into the air-conditioning and chill out. Maybe work up my nerve and ask Cordelia to dinner. Probably Dutch treat, I thought, pulling out my wallet to confirm my suspicions. Only two dollars. Scratch dinner, I decided, staring forlornly at my two lone bills.

Something nagged at me. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to two.

Go inside. Maybe a cool brain can think better. I got up, crossed the street and entered the building. I ran into Sister Ann leaving her office carrying a large basket of flowers.

“Am I getting older, or are flowers getting heavier?” she asked, smiling at me.

“Nice bunch of posies,” I commented. I decided not to mention Sarry just yet. Sister Ann looked busy and happy.

“Yes, they add such a pleasant touch. I’m taking them upstairs for my evening group.”

I noticed another bunch of flowers on her desk.

“Who sent them?” I asked.

“Emma Auerbach. I believe you know her. It was very kind of her to mend fences this way.”

“Mend fences?”

“Between us and the clinic. Though I must say I wish she had sent a donation instead of half a dozen flower baskets,” she answered as she continued toward the stairs.

“Sister, can I use your phone?” I called after her.

“Certainly,” she replied from the stairs.

I dialed Emma’s number. No answer. Then I dialed Rachel’s separate number, hoping to catch her.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Hi, Rach, it’s Micky. Would you know if Emma sent flowers to anyone today?”

“The only flowers I don’t know about are the ones she sends me,” Rachel answered. “Why? Did you get some mysterious flowers?”

“Not me. The Catholic side of Cordelia’s building.”

“Nope. She’d send them to Cordelia first. And she hasn’t done that.”

“Thanks, Rach. I have to go. I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, quickly hanging up.

It doesn’t prove anything. Emma might have sent the flowers and forgot to mention it to Rachel.
I glanced at my watch, as if expecting it to tell me something. All it said was five minutes to two.

To two. Two bombs. At two.

Horror slammed into me. I looked at the innocuous basket of flowers on Sister Ann’s desk and remembered Sarry’s ravings about misdirection and twos.

“My present to you for all you’ve done,” the card said.

I pushed aside the flowers. They were stuck in Styrofoam. I carefully probed under it with my hand. Water. Then plastic wrapped around a hard object. I didn’t risk pulling apart the basket for fear it would set off the bomb. Half a dozen, she had said.

“Clear the building,” I ran into the hall yelling. “Everybody out! Now! There’s a real bomb this time!”

I raced into the clinic, literally grabbing Bernie by the shoulders and pulling her out of her seat.

“Get out! Everybody out of the building,” I yelled into the waiting room. “Hurry!” I screamed at the bewildered looks I was getting. I shoved Bernie toward the door. “Follow Bernie. She’ll lead the way,” I instructed. “Go,” I said as she glanced back at me. “Now!”

Bernie exited, followed by the people in the waiting room.

“Micky?” Millie asked, coming out of an examining room.

“Get everyone out of here,” I said. “There’s another bomb.”

“What?” she said. “But the police…”

“Hidden in flowers. Get people out now. We only have a few minutes, at best.”

Cordelia came out of her office.

“What’s going on?”

“Another bomb,” Millie said, then told the people in her examining room to get dressed and out.

“Are you sure?” Cordelia asked, a look of bewilderment, then anxiety on her face.

“Yes. Too damn sure.”

“But how do you…?”

“I’ll explain later,” I cut her off. “Just get out. You have a minute or two.”

“Of course,” she replied, the uncertainty gone. “Everybody out now!”

I left the clinic. Cordelia and Millie would take care of it. I hurriedly stuck my head in the doors on the other side of the hallway, making sure they were clear.

Sister Ann, I thought, as I told the daycare workers to leave. There weren’t many kids, fortunately.

I ran back up the hall, heading for the stairs I had watched Sister Ann climb.

“Micky?” Cordelia called as I shot past her. She was the last one out of the clinic.

“Go,” I told her. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Halfway up the stairs, I glanced back, catching sight of her going through the door. The hallway was empty.

“Sister. Sister Ann,” I called as I reached the top of the stairs.

“Yes?” her voice answered from one of the classrooms.

I ran into it. She was arranging the flowers.

“What’s the commotion downstairs?” she asked.

“We’ve got to get out. There’s another bomb,” I hastily explained. “In the flowers.”

She looked at the iris in her hand as if it had turned into a spider.

“No, that can’t…” she said, like the others, denial her first reaction. Then she pulled the flowers out.

“Careful, you might…” I started.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she said.

I looked into the basket at what she had uncovered. It sat there, an obscenity wrapped in plastic to keep it dry, a small timer ticking softly through its wrapping. A quick glance at the dial confirmed my fears. It was almost two o’clock. And that bomb was about to go off.

“The back door’s chained,” Sister Ann said, realizing, like I had, that we could never run downstairs and to the front door in the few remaining seconds.

“Out!” I shouted, shoving open a window wide enough for us to get through. I pushed Sister Ann over the sill, guiding her hands to the drainpipe next to the window. I was right behind her, my arms around her to grasp the pipe. We slid a few feet in tandem before the rusty tin pipe gave way under our combined weight, peeling off the building.

“It’s faster,” I said as the collapsing pipe hurled us toward the ground.

I heard Sister Ann’s groan as we landed. I jumped up, pulling her with me. My shoulder was throbbing, but there was no time for that.

“My ankle…” Sister Ann said as she started to fall.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, dragging her with me as I raced across the lawn for the stone part of the fence. Without its protection we didn’t have a chance. Even with it…I wouldn’t think about that.

“Leave me,” Sister Ann told me.

“No!” I cried, carrying her along. We were almost to the end of the ragged row of cast iron spears. I grabbed the shaft of one and flung us around it to the far side of the fence and on the sidewalk.

“Get down,” I ordered as I pushed her roughly against the stone section of the wall. If we survived, I would apologize later.

Sister Ann was on the sidewalk, huddled against the wall. I was on top of her, no time to find separate places. I covered my head with my hands, feeling the hot sidewalk against my cheek. Sister Ann’s head was under my stomach. I hoped it did some good.

“Sister, we’ve got to stop meeting like…”

There was an explosion. A series of explosions thundering through the hot summer air, like a huge cloudburst opening up with a vengeance. But this rain was a deadly shower of bricks and boards, debris from a dying building.

The cacophony of destruction seemed interminable. Something hit me in the back, guaranteeing matching bruises on both my shoulders. I grunted at its impact, flattening my head further against the sidewalk.

Then there was a sickening groan as some huge timber slammed into the wrought iron spears, bending them to the breaking point. They collapsed over us, forming a tent where we were. But a few scant yards away, the weight had bent and mangled the shafts, forcing the raw edges into the sidewalk, scraping, like fingernails against a blackboard, into our protective wall, gouging wounds into the stone.

The initial explosions were followed by the hollow boom of walls and floors collapsing, bricks and timbers sliding and shifting as one fell into another.

The day slipped into shadow, the sun hidden from us by the dust and dirt of the blast.

“Are you all right?” I asked, when it appeared the explosions were over. I had counted four, but they had overlapped.

“Yes, I think so,” Sister Ann replied from somewhere underneath me. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I hope so,” I answered, spitting out dirt.

There was another loud rumble as some part of the building collapsed, but it was the sound of brick on brick, not the roar of dynamite.

“What kind of evil would do this?” Sister Ann asked.

“Does the name Sarry mean anything to you?”

She didn’t reply.

“Sister?” I prompted, suddenly worried.

“Randall Sarafin,” she answered softly. “Oh, dear God, could he hate me so much?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, he could.”

“Have mercy on him, Lord. He cannot know what he has done,” she said very quietly, not to me at all.

“I’m going to try to get out of here,” I told her.

I had to crawl slowly backwards, gingerly pushing past Sister Ann. She had to have a painful array of bruises by now. I didn’t want to add to them. I was afraid of dislodging our fragile spear lean-to. Its weight would be deadly. The open end was blocked by timber and debris. I had to kick it away, finally opening a hole large enough for me to slip out of.

“Okay, I’m out. Your turn,” I told Sister Ann.

She didn’t say anything, but started crawling back to me, groaning when she was forced to use her hurt ankle.

“Almost out,” I encouraged as her feet stuck out of the opening, then slowly her calves and thighs. I reached in and put my arms around her waist, lifting and pulling her as gently as I could out from under the listing wrought iron. I was still worried it might cave in.

We rolled a few feet away and collapsed against a heavy timber angling across the sidewalk.

“Well, Sister,” I finally said, after we spent a few moments catching our breath, “you’re the first woman I’ve ever really felt the earth move with.”

“And hopefully the last,” she replied. “At least this way.”

She sat up very slowly and carefully, as if everything hurt. It probably did, I realized as I shifted.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, noticing a cut on her forehead.

She wiped at the place where I pointed. “Yes, well, I’ve always been told I have a thick skull.” Then she looked toward the building, through the slowly settling dust. “It’s not there. It’s just not there,” she whispered.