10
Some people are
meant to serve others. After three hours of watching her, I knew
Sister Maggie was one of these. The woman was the Energizer Bunny
with sacred vows, plus she didn’t have an uncharitable bone in
her body. No matter how dirty or nasty or grubby they looked, she
chatted with the soup kitchen visitors like they were old friends.
She helped the ones who couldn’t carry their own food trays, and
got coffee for them if they’d already sat down and forgotten to
get their own. When we ran out of bread and there was still a line
for lunch, she headed over to the local corner store for more and
came back with a whole box. She wasn’t shy about announcing that
she’d used her powers of persuasion (and who knows what heavenly
connections) to get it donated.
I, on the other
hand, was not made of the same stuff. Believe me, I’m not saying
this because I felt inadequate, or because I had second thoughts or
any regrets about how I’d spent my life up until that very day
without ever setting foot in a soup kitchen. I point it out only
because it is relevant to the understanding of my suffering. See,
helping people, Sister Maggie was in her glory.
Me?
Not so
much.
By the time the last
of the lunch eaters disappeared into the cold and gloomy afternoon
and the other volunteers sat down to finish what was left of the
stew (do I need to point out that I declined the invitation to join
them?), my apron was dotted with gravy and so were the cuffs of my
black turtleneck. It should come as no surprise that I wasn’t
used to swabbing floors; thanks to the Stella’s-spilled-coffee
cleanup effort, my jeans were soggy. I had a first-degree burn on
my right hand from trying (and failing) to change the Sterno under
a chafing dish of potatoes, and I was so tired of giving unto
others and so grossed out by much of what I’d seen, I couldn’t
wait to get out of there and back to my hotel where I could take a
nice hot shower, in which I planned to use up all of the Bliss
lemon and sage bath gel I’d brought to Chicago with me. On my way
back to the hotel, maybe I’d stop at Bloomingdale’s for an
extra bottle. Just in case.
Cleanliness aside,
though, I hadn’t forgotten why I was there.
That would explain
why even after the homeless had disappeared and the kitchen was
cleaned up, the tables were set for the next day’s lunch and the
last of the volunteers was gone, I was out in the hallway waiting
for Sister Maggie.
She locked the door
to the cafeteria and pocketed the key. “I hate having to do
this,†she said. “I wish they could all just stay here and stay
warm. Rules and regulations, you know. And we’re not approved for
live-ins. I’ve tried to skirt the authorities. One time, I
forgot to lock the door, Lord forgive
me.†She made the sign of the cross. “I learned my lesson. As
soon as word went out that we weren’t locked up tight, the locals
came in and stripped our copper pipes.†She led the way to the
stairs that would take us up and back out to the street. “You
coming back? We sure could use the help.â€
It didn’t seem
like the right place to say no way in
hell, so I skirted the issue. “You said we’d talk after
lunch. You know, about Oscar and Becka.â€
We were at the
bottom of the stairway. On the landing above us, a bare lightbulb
illuminated the nooks and crannies of the church entrance. There
was nothing up there but a door and a pamphlet rack that contained
everything from transit maps to information on free HIV testing.
There was nothing down on the level where we stood, either, except
the long, dark hallway that led back to the kitchen and a doorway
over on our right with a sign above it that showed it was the way
to the rest-rooms.
We were the only
ones left in the building. Still, Sister Maggie looked around
before she spoke. “Oscar, Becka, and the Gerard
Clinic?â€
Dealing with the
dead has a way of heightening a person’s awareness when it comes
to things like fear. Oh yeah, I could tell Sister Maggie was
scared, all right. Since she didn’t seem the type, I was anxious
to find out why. I searched for something neutral to
say.
“You don’t
approve of the clinic.â€
She slipped into the
black coat she’d carried out of the kitchen. “The clinic serves
an important mission in our neighborhood. There are plenty of
people who wouldn’t get the mental health care they need or the
counseling or their medication without Doctor
Gerard.â€
“But you’re not
a fan.â€
“Did I say
that?†With a look, Sister Maggie dared me to contradict her. I
had a funny feeling she was also trying to do a Vulcan mind-meld
move on me so she’d know what I was thinking. For all I knew, she
could do that, too.
“Why do you care
so much?†she asked. “I practically had to twist your arm to
get you to stay to help. That tells me you don’t have a political
agenda. You’re not one of those bleeding-heart liberal do-gooders
who come by once in a while. You know, just so they can brag to
their friends in the burbs about their good deeds.
“You don’t have
a personal stake, either. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.
After all the years I’ve been doing this, I can tell just from
looking. It happens once in a while. Families come searching for
relatives they know are out on the streets. They hardly ever find
them.†Superwoman or not, this bothered her. I could tell because
she looked away. But if years of long practice had taught her
nothing else, it was how to grin and bear it. Even in the face of
grinding poverty. The next second, she had her act together and was
all business again.
“You’re asking
about Oscar and Becka, and you were talking to Stella. No way
you’re related to any of them. Your world and theirs, they
don’t overlap. They never have. So it’s not social conscience
and it’s not guilt and it’s not to fulfill some promise you
made to a dying relative about how you’d find so-and-so and put
things right. Still . . .†She spent a few moments thinking.
“You care about this enough to trade your time for my
information. And you would rather be shopping or at a spa than here
in the hood. You would have rather spent your afternoon anywhere
else. Maybe even at that cemetery conference?†She glanced
briefly at my giveaway portfolio. “Why are you so anxious to find
these people?â€
Sure, we were in the
basement, but it still qualified as being in church. In a rare
moment, I opted for the truth. “I hear that both Oscar and Becka
haven’t been seen in a while, and I’d like to find out if
that’s fact or rumor. It would be easier for me to check if I
could get some actual information. Like last names.â€
“You’re a
cop.â€
“Do we need the
cops?â€
She didn’t answer,
and I knew why. She was waiting for me to fess up.
I wasn’t a
Catholic. I didn’t have to be to know that nuns had the whole
tell-the-truth-or-else mojo going for them. I gave up with a sigh.
“I’m not a cop,†I said. “I’m a sort of . . . well, sort
of a private investigator.â€
“And you want to
know if it’s true, about the folks who are accepted into that
special study Doctor Gerard is conducting.â€
This time when I
sighed, it was with relief. Finally, I had corroboration. From
somebody who was a somebody whose body wasn’t six feet under.
“It’s true then? They really are missing?â€
Sister Maggie bought
some time, slowly buttoning her coat. “I’ve never found any
proof.â€
“You’ve
looked.â€
“I’ve heard
stories.â€
I really didn’t
need to ask. I’d seen the way she operated, and I couldn’t
imagine her not going to the mat if she thought something wasn’t
on the up-and-up. I asked anyway. “You’ve gone to the
authorities with these stories?â€
She tucked her hands
in her pockets. “I tried. Once. About eighteen months ago. But
without any proof . . .†Another shrug. This one pretty much told
me all I needed to know. “They told me to come back if I ever had
any more information, and unfortunately, I haven’t been able to
dig up a thing. If there’s anything happening at that clinic,
they’ve been able to keep it pretty quiet.â€
“Until
now.â€
This seemed like a
no-brainer to me, but I didn’t like the way Sister Maggie looked
in response. Like she’d just bitten into a lemon.
“What?†I
shifted my portfolio from one hand to the other. “I’m only
stating facts. Nobody’s looked into the matter. Not seriously,
anyway. I mean, not that I don’t think you were serious about it,
but hey, you’ve got plenty of other things to worry about. Now,
I’m on the case.â€
There was that look
again. The one that practically threatened eternal damnation if I
wasn’t truthful. “Are you that good?â€
There was no use
being modest, so I didn’t even try. “I’ve solved a few cases
that had the cops stumped.â€
I thought she would
have been more impressed. I mean, even if she didn’t mean it, she
owed me that much for the soggy jeans and the stained sweater and
the fact that I was standing in a stone-cold church on a gloomy
afternoon when I could have been anywhere else. Even that cemetery
conference, where it was sure to be boring, but a heck of a lot
warmer.
Sister Maggie’s
brows dropped low over her eyes. “You know you’d better be
careful, right?â€
I would have laughed
if she didn’t sound so doggone serious. “Those cases that I
solved, some of them were pretty dangerous. Nobody’s gotten to me
yet.â€
“It’s not you
I’m worried about.â€
Since she said this
just as she started up the steps, I scrambled up after
her.
“What do you
mean?†I asked when we got to the top.
She stopped, her
hand on the door that led outside. “I can see that you can take
care of yourself. Even if you don’t know how to change the Sterno
in a chafing dish!†Her smile came and went. “The people over
at the clinic, though, most of them aren’t so
lucky.â€
I shouldn’t have
felt guilty, but I must have. That would explain why I scrambled to
explain myself. “I didn’t do anything to Stella. Anything
but—â€
“You talked to
her. And let me guess, you left the clinic with her, right? That
means somebody probably saw you two together.â€
“Sure,
but—â€
Briefly, she put a
hand on my sleeve. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad.
Please, don’t think I am. I’m just pointing out that if there
is something shady going on at the clinic, and if whoever is behind
it thinks you’re snooping around, and if that someone saw you
talking to Stella—â€
“No. No way.†My
denial sounded a little too quick, even to me. That didn’t keep
me from trying to talk myself out of thinking I might have put
Stella in jeopardy.
Too bad it didn’t
work. My shoulders slumped. “Shit.â€
Sister Maggie
laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.†She kept her smile
in place, and I would have been encouraged if I didn’t suspect
she was just trying to make me feel better. “You can’t change
what’s already happened,†she said, and I would have bet
anything it was a line she’d used a couple million times before
on the people who came through the soup kitchen and got a side dish
of counseling with their meals. “And chances are, nobody even
paid any attention to you and Stella. You just might want to be a
little more careful in the future.â€
I nodded my
understanding. “You know, I can do something to make sure none of
the people over at the clinic ever have to worry again about who
they talk to. Or what they say.â€
“Because you’re
going to keep investigating until you find out what’s really
going on.â€
We were finally on
the same page. I knew this for a fact because, call me
narcissistic, but I could see the way Sister Maggie’s eyes shone
with admiration. And maybe a little bit of envy, too. Something
told me that given half the chance and time away from the
responsibilities of feeding the homeless of Chicago, she’d be all
over this case herself.
Shopping
opportunities aside (not to mention religion and the whole celibacy
thing), it looked like me and Sister Maggie, we had a lot more in
common than I ever would have imagined.
“I’m going to
make sure no one else goes missing,†I told her.
“If they’re
missing.†It was her turn to sigh. “It’s not the same world
you live in,†she said, and if we’d known each other long
enough, I might have pointed out that nobody lived in the same
world I lived in.
She took a black
wool scarf out of her pocket and wound it on. “The homeless here
in Chicago are like the homeless everywhere. They come and they go.
Some of them get lucky and find their way to warmer places. Some of
them die out on the streets. A precious few turn their lives
around, find jobs, get places to live. Just because we don’t see
them again doesn’t mean anything sinister has happened to
them.â€
“Except you think
that maybe it has. Otherwise you never would have gone to the
cops.â€
Thinking, she tipped
her head, and honestly, I wasn’t sure what she was going to say
next. When she blurted out, “Zmeskis, Oscar’s last name is
Zmeskis,†I was so surprised that I fumbled to flip open the
portfolio, asked her to spell the name, and wrote it down
carefully.
“Becka isn’t a
Rebecca, just a Becka. Becka Chance.†She looked over my shoulder
to where I was writing. “You might as well add Alan Grankowski,
Leon Harris, Lony Billberger, and Athalea Misborough.†She waited
while I wrote down these names, too. “I haven’t seen them in a
while, and I’ve been told they were seen at the clinic, that they
talked about that study.â€
My thank-you came
out along with a smile of gratitude.
Except I don’t
think Sister Maggie wanted any thanks. She didn’t expect any,
that’s for sure. She pushed open the door and held it so I could
step out into the church parking lot ahead of her. “Just promise
me you’ll be careful, OK?â€
I was going to say
something witty, like “Careful is my middle name†or
“Nothing’s going to happen if I’m too careful,†only when I
looked back, her expression was so thoughtful, I didn’t have the
heart.
“I promise,†I
told her. “No more talking to clinic patients where anybody can
see us.â€
“And you won’t
take any foolish chances with your own safety, either,
right?â€
This, I didn’t
want to get into. Not with a nun, anyway. To date, my life had been
filled with foolish chances. Some of them had panned out. Others,
not so much. It wasn’t fair to burden her with the story of Joel,
and I didn’t think telling her about Quinn was exactly
appropriate, so I gave her a cocky smile instead. “I’ve dodged
a few bullets in my day.â€
“I hope that’s
just a figure of speech.â€
It wasn’t. Behind
my back, I crossed the fingers of one hand and told her it was. I
guess that made her happy. She closed the door to the church,
locked it, and walked away. Last I saw her, she was handing a
dollar to a guy hanging around at the corner.
I went in the
opposite direction, feeling pretty proud of myself.
Sure it had cost me
the price of dry cleaning for a sweater and a pair of jeans (not to
mention the burn that would need some aloe lotion, stat), but I knew more than I had when I left the
hotel that morning. I had last names to go with first names, and
more first names and last names on the list. Armed with that
information, I could do some digging. I could also provide Dan with
some concrete evidence that he could use to check against the
clinic files. Once he did, maybe then he’d believe that I (and my
claim to fame as the Dr. Phil of the undead) was on the
up-and-up.
I basked in the glow
of my success all the way back to the L station. True to my word to
Sister Maggie, in addition to being pretty darned satisfied with
the way the day had panned out, I was also careful. I took a quick
look around every chance I got, and I knew nobody was following me.
Or even watching me. As far as I could remember, nobody had since
I’d been in Chicago.
Except maybe for the
homeless guy with the weird spiky hair who I’d seen at Piece and
at the clinic.
And that spooky
black shadow.
The thought sent a
skitter of cold up my spine, and as I stood waiting to cross the
street, then turn a corner to head to the L station, I
shivered.
Or maybe that’s
because when I did turn that corner, I saw two police cars parked
in front of the station. Their flashing lights clashed with the
swirling red light on top of the ambulance parked nearby. As I got
to the back of the crowd gathered around to watch, the paramedics
were just carrying a stretcher down the steps. Whoever was on it,
the prognosis wasn’t good; the body was completely covered by a
sheet.
“What happened?â€
I asked a woman standing and watching at my side.
“Can’t say for
sure. Just got here myself.â€
A man over on our
right put in his two cents. “I heard the woman ended up under a
train. That’s her there.†He looked over to where the
paramedics wheeled the gurney toward the ambulance. “I’ll bet
there’s not a whole lot left once that train’s done with
you.â€
Just thinking about
it made my stomach jump. I gulped. “Accident?†I asked. “Or
suicide?â€
The woman at my side
shrugged. “You never know around here.â€
There was a young
guy standing in front of us, his hands pushed into the pockets of
his winter jacket. He turned. “The way I heard it,†he said,
“somebody pushed her. Only I ain’t telling nobody that. I was
up there and I didn’t see nothing myself and besides, I don’t
want to be the next one that gets pushed.â€
It was too awful to
consider, and I’d just decided not to do it when a curious thing
happened. The gurney that carried the body hit a bump, and that
bump jarred the victim on the stretcher. Her arm slipped out from
under the sheet and swung limply over the side of the
stretcher.
Creepy
enough.
Creepier still when
I realized that the dead woman was wearing a pink
parka.
And when something
fell out of her hand and hit the pavement.
It was a tube of
Trish McEvoy lip gloss.