How Like an Angel (22 page)

“I don't know what that means, a crush.”

“It means you're indulging in a silly dream about his com­ing back here to rescue you, to make you beautiful with a magic lotion. That's all it is, Karma, a dream.”

The Sister returned to the tub of dishes. The water was cold by this time, grease floated on top of it and the harsh soap would not lather. As she forced her hands into the dirty water she tried to resume her song but she couldn't remember the music, the words no longer seemed prophetic, only wistful:
Isn't there, surely, a good day coming, Lord?

At noon the official announcement was made in the shrine in the inner court. A tall, thin, bespectacled man, already shaved and robed, was introduced briefly by the Master: “It is with humble rejoicing that I acquaint you with Brother Faith of Angels who has come to share our lives in this world and our salvation in the next. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Brother Faith, and the others echoed, “Amen.”

There was an undercurrent of excitement among the breth­ren but they dispersed quickly and quietly and returned to their jobs. Brother Light trudged back to the barn, thinking, with satisfaction, of the new convert's soft white hands and how soon they would be changed; and Sister Contrition ran toward the kitchen, her face contorted by anxiety and lack of breath:
He is not old but he is certainly not young, either, and perhaps his eyesight is failing and he will not notice Karma. How cruelly fast she has developed into a woman.

Brother Crown headed for the tractor, whistling jubilantly through the gap between his two front teeth. He had seen the new convert's car, and oh, what a beauty it was, and how the engine's purr grew into a deep, powerful roar. He pictured himself behind the wheel, foot hard on the accelerator, taking the curves of the mountain road with a shrieking of tires.
Zoom, zoom, here I come. Zoom, zoom, zoom.

Brother Steady Heart and Brother Tongue resumed hoeing weeds in the vegetable garden.

“Does he have a strong back, that's the important thing,” Brother Heart said. “Arms, legs, hands, these you can strengthen by work and exercise, but a strong back is a gift of God. Isn't that so?”

Brother Tongue nodded agreeably, wishing that Brother Heart would shut up, he was becoming a terrible old bore.

“Yes sir, a strong back in a man, and fine, delicate limbs in a woman, these are the gifts of God, eh, Brother Tongue? Oh, the ladies, I miss them. Shall I tell you a secret? I was never much to look at, but I used to be a great hit with the ladies, would you believe it?”

Brother Tongue nodded again.
Somebody shut this bastard up before I kill him.

“You appear a mite peaked today, Brother Tongue. Are you feeling all right? Your pleurisy may be acting up again, maybe you'd better take a rest. Sister Blessing says you must not overdo. Go on now and have yourself a nice little nap.”

The Master climbed the stairs to the top of the Tower and looked down at the blue lake in the green valley, and up at the green mountains in the blue sky. Ordinarily, the view in­spired him, but now he felt old and tired. It had been a diffi­cult period, testing Brother Faith of Angels and being tested in return, and at the same time trying to handle Mother Pureza, to keep her quiet and contented. Her flights into the past were becoming wilder as her body grew feebler. She gave orders to her servant, Capirote, who had been dead for thirty years, and became violent when her orders were not obeyed. She called out to her parents and her sisters and wept bitterly when they did not answer. Sometimes she fingered the rosary no one had ever been able to take from her, and in spite of the Master's efforts to stop her she said the Hail Marys she had learned as a child. She had disliked the new Brother on sight, cursed him in Spanish, accused him of trying to rob her and threatened him with a flogging. The Master knew the time was approaching when he would have to send her away. He hoped she would die before it became necessary.

He had left her resting in her room when he went down to make the announcement. Now he knocked softly on her door, and, pressing his lips against the crack, whispered, “Dear love, are you asleep?”

There was no answer.

“Pureza?”

When there was still no answer, he thought,
She is asleep, God be merciful and grant she dies before she wakes.

He bolted her door so she couldn't get out, and went back to his own room to pray.

Mother Pureza, hiding behind the stone shrine in the inner court below, watched the futile bolting of her door and giggled until she was out of breath and her eyes watered.

She stayed there a long time. It was cool and quiet. Her chin tipped forward on her scrawny breast and her eyelids drooped, and with a great rush of air Capirote flew down at her from the sky.

SEVENTEEN

Quinn found her
wandering up the dirt lane. She was walk­ing stiffly, holding her hands straight out from her sides, like a little girl who had disobeyed orders and got herself dirty. Even from a distance Quinn could see that the dirt was blood. Her robe was covered with it.

He stopped the car and got out and ran over to her. “Mother Pureza, what are you doing?”

Although she didn't recognize him, she seemed neither frightened nor curious. “I am looking for the washroom. My hands are soiled. They feel sticky, it's quite unpleasant.”

“Where did they get sticky?”

“Oh, back there. Away back there.”

“The washroom's in the opposite direction.”

“Fancy that. I'm turned around again.” She peered up at him, her head on one side like an inquisitive bird. “How do you know where the washroom is?”

“I've been here before. You and I talked, you promised you'd send me an engraved invitation through Capirote.”

“I shall have to cancel that. Capirote is no longer in my employ. He's carried his play-acting too far this time. I have ordered him off the premises by nightfall. ... I sup­pose
you
think this is real blood?”

“Yes,” Quinn said gravely. “Yes, I think it is.”

“Nonsense. It's juice. It's some kind of juice Capirote thickened with cornstarch to play a trick on me. I wasn't fooled for a minute, of course. But it was a cruel joke, wasn't it?”

“Where is he now?”

“Oh, back there.”

“Where?”

“If you shout at me, young man, I shall have you flogged.”

“This is very important, Mother Pureza,” Quinn said, try­ing to keep his voice under control. “It's not a joke. The blood's real.”

“I'm onto him and his tricks—real?” She looked down at the stains on her robe, already darkening and stiffening. “Real blood? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, dear me, I didn't think he'd go so far as to collect real blood and pour it all over himself. One must really ad­mire such thoroughness. Where do you suppose he got it, from a goat or a chicken? Ah, now I have it, he's pretending that he sacrificed himself in front of the shrine—young man, where are you going? Don't run away. You promised to show me where the washroom is.”

She stood and watched him until he disappeared among the trees. The sun beat down on her withered face. She closed her eyes and thought of the vast old house of her youth, with its thick adobe walls and heavy tiled roof to keep out the sun and the noises of the street. How orderly everything had been, how quiet and clean, there had been no need to think of dirt or blood. She had never even seen blood until Capirote
—”You must prepare yourself for a shock, Isabella. Capirote has been thrown from his horse and he is dead.”

She opened her eyes and cried out in despair, “Capirote? Capirote, you are dead?”

She saw the Master coming toward her, and the fat, cranky little woman who brought her meals, and Brother Crown with his cruel eyes. They were calling out to her, “Pureza!” which wasn't her name. She had many names, Pureza was not one of them.

“I am Dona Isabella Constancia Querida Felicia de la Guerra. I wish to be correctly addressed.”

“Isabella,” the Master said, “you must come with me.”

“
You
are giving
me
orders, Harry? Aren't you forgetting you were nothing but a grocery clerk? Where did you get all your fine visions, Harry, from hauling around cans of soup and baked beans?”

“Please be quiet, Pur—Isabella.”

“I have nothing further to say.” She drew herself up, glanced haughtily around. “Now if you will kindly direct me to the washroom? I have somebody's blood on my hands. I wish to be rid of it.”

“Did you see it happen, Isabella?”

“See what happen?”

“Brother Faith of Angels has killed himself.”

“Of course he killed himself. Did the silly idiot think he could fly by flapping his arms?”

The body lay where Mother Pureza had indicated, in front of the shrine like a sacrifice. The man's face had struck one of the protruding stones of the shrine, and it was crushed and bloodied beyond recognition. But Quinn had seen the car parked beside the barn, a green Pontiac station wagon, and he knew he was looking at the body of George Haywood. His throat thickened with grief, both for Haywood and for the two women who had fought over him and lost, and would never forgive each other either the fight or the loss.

Although the blood had stopped flowing, the body was still warm and Quinn guessed that death hail occurred no more than half an hour before. The shaved head, the bare feet and the robe made it clear that Haywood had come to the Tower as a convert. But how long had he been here? Had he come directly after saying good-bye to Willie King in Chicote? If that was the case, who had engineered Alberta Haywood's es­cape? Was it possible that the two of them had planned to meet at the Tower and hide out there?

Quinn shook his head, as if responding to a question spoken aloud by someone else.
No, George would never have chosen the Tower as a hiding-place. He must have heard, from Willie, from John Ronda or from Martha O'Gorman, that this was the place where the investigation into O'Gorman's death started all over again. He wouldn't pick a hide-out I knew about and visited. In fact, why hide out at all?

The death, the strangeness of its setting, and the sight and smell of the fresh blood were making him sick. He went outside, gulping in air like a swimmer exhausted from fighting a heavy surf.

Mother Pureza was coming up the path supported by Sister Contrition and Brother Crown, and chattering in Spanish. Be­hind the trio the Master walked, his head down, his face gray and gaunt.

He said, “Take her up to her room and see that she is cleansed. Be gentle. Her bones are brittle. Where is Sister Blessing? You'd better fetch her.”

“She is ill,” Sister Contrition said. “A touch of indigestion.”

“All right, do the best you can by yourselves.” When they had gone, he turned to Quinn. “You have arrived at an inop­portune time, Mr. Quinn. Our new Brother is dead.”

“How did it happen?”

“I was in my quarters meditating, I was not a witness to the event. But surely it's obvious?—Brother Faith was a trou­bled man with many problems. He chose a way to solve them that I cannot condone, though I must accept it with pity and understanding.”

“He jumped from the top of the Tower?”

“Yes. Perhaps it is my fault for underestimating the degree of his spiritual despair.” His deep sigh was almost a groan. “If this be true, God forgive me and grant our Brother eternal salvation.”

“If you didn't see him jump, what brought you to the scene so fast?”

“I heard Mother Pureza scream. I came rushing out and saw her bending over the body, shouting at it to get up and stop play-acting. When I called to her, she ran away. I stopped long enough to see if there was anything I could do to help our Brother, then I went after her. I met Sister Contrition and Brother Crown on the way and asked them for their assist­ance.”

“Then the others don't know yet about Haywood?”

“No.” He paused to wipe the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his robe. “You—you called him Haywood?”

“It's his name.”

“He was a—friend of yours?”

“I know his family.”

“He told me he no longer had a family, that he was alone in the world. Are you saying he bed to me?”

“I'm saying he has a mother, two sisters and a fiancée.”

The Master looked shocked, not by the existence of Hay­wood's family but by the fact that he'd been deceived. It was a blow to his pride. After a minute's thought he said, “I am sure it was not a deliberate lie. He
felt
alone in this world, and so he claimed to be. That is the explanation.”

“You believe he came here as a true convert?”

“Of course. Of course he did. What other reason would he have that he should want to share our humble life? It is not easy, to live as we do.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Do?”

“About his death.”

“We look after our own dead,” the Master said, “as we look after our own living. We shall give him a decent burial.”

“Without notifying the authorities?”

“I am the authority here.”

“Sheriff, coroner, judge, jury, doctor, mortician, dog-catcher, soul saver?”

“All of those, yes. And please spare me your petty irony, Mr. Quinn.”

“You have a big job, Master.”

“God has granted me the strength to do it,” he said quietly, “and the ability to see how it must be done.”

“The sheriff might be a little hard to convince of that.”

“The sheriff can take care of his own, I will take care of mine.”

“There are laws, and you're living within their jurisdiction. Haywood's death must be reported. If you don't do it, I'll have to.”

“Why?” the Master said. “We are a peace-loving com­munity. We harm no one, we ask no favors from the outside world beyond the favor of being allowed to live as we see fit.”

“All right, let's put it this way: a member of the outside world wandered in here and got himself killed. That's the sheriff's business.”

“Brother Faith of Angels was one of
us,
Mr. Quinn.”

“He was George Haywood,” Quinn said. “A real estate man from Chicote. And whatever his reasons for coming here, I know saving his soul wasn't one of them.”

“God forgive you for your blasphemy, and your lies. Brother Faith was a True Believer.”

“You were the believer, not Haywood.”

“His name was not Haywood. It was Martin. He was a banker in San Diego, a widower alone in the world, a troubled man.”

For a moment Quinn was almost convinced he'd made a mistake, and that the green Pontiac station wagon was merely a coincidence. Then he saw the uncertainty growing in the Master's eyes and heard the doubt in his voice even while he was denying it.

“Hubert Martin. His wife died two months ago—”

“Ten years ago.”

“He was desolate and lonely without her.”

“He had a red-headed girlfriend named Willie King.”

The Master leaned heavily against the archway as if the sudden burden of the truth was too great for him. “He was— he was not seeking salvation?”

“No.”

“Why, then, did he come here? To rob us, to cheat us? We have nothing to be robbed or cheated of, only the car that he himself gave to our common fund. We possess no money.”

“Maybe he thought you did.”

“How could he? I explained in detail how the colony oper­ates on a self-sufficient basis. I even showed him our account books to prove how little use we have for money here, when there is nothing we must buy except gasoline and a few spare parts for the tractor and the odd pair of spectacles for one of our Brothers whose sight is failing.”

“Did Haywood seem interested?”

“Oh yes, very. You see, being a banker, I suppose he—”

“A real estate agent.”

“Yes. I keep forgetting. I—it's been a very confusing day. You must excuse me now, Mr. Quinn. I have to inform the others of the sad news and arrange with Sister Blessing to take care of the body,”

Quinn said, “You'd better leave everything as it is until the sheriff gets here.”

“The sheriff, yes. You're going to tell him, I suppose.”

“I have no choice.”

“Please do me a favor and refrain from mentioning Mother Pureza. It would frighten her to be questioned. She is like a child.”

“Children can be violent, too.”

“There is violence in her, but only in her talk. She is too frail to have pushed him over the handrail. God forgive me the very thought of it.”

He reached inside the folds of his robe and brought out a set of keys. Quinn recognized them, with a shock, as the keys to the ignition of his car. He said, “You intended to keep me here?”

“No. I merely wished to be able to control the time of your departure. I didn't realize then that Haywood had a family and friends, and that his death would have to be investigated by someone from the outside. You're free to leave now, Mr. Quinn. But before you do, I want you to realize that you are doing us an incalculable amount of damage, and we, on our part, have offered you nothing but kindness, food and drink when you were hungry and thirsty, shelter when you were homeless, and prayers though you were an infidel.”

“I'm not entirely responsible for the course of events. I didn't intend to make trouble for anyone.”