Bad Samaritan Page 4

  “Exactly. Like maybe the killer?”

  “Would Scout return here so soon, though? Particularly with the police and media so interested in the place?” she asked as an afterthought.

  “The police were here, but they’ve been gone for hours now. I was hoping he’d come back to look around some more.”

  “Let’s take a walk, look around, and see what we can find,” Sister Agatha said.

  Chuck fell into step beside her. “The sheriff and you have been good friends for years. This has got to be hard on you—particularly in view of the recent bad news at the monastery,” he added, deliberately not looking at her.

  His words and the implication took her by surprise. The townspeople hadn’t yet been told that Our Lady of Hope Monastery would probably be shut down.

  “What are you referring to?” she asked, careful not to give anything away.

  “I’ve heard that your cook, one of the really old nuns, passed on.”

  She stared at him and blinked. “Huh?”

  “Sister Bernarda told Smitty that your meals were a lot more basic now because the nun that used to cook is no longer with you.”

  “She’s not at the monastery, but she’s not dead,” Sister Agatha said, laughing, then realized that her statement would require more of an explanation than she’d been prepared to give. Well, it was too late now. She had to say something. “Sister Clothilde is very elderly. She needed to go to another monastery that has more resources and is better able to cater to her special needs. She moved away, that’s all.”

  “You have retirement homes for nuns?” Chuck asked, his gaze continuing to take in the area around them as he searched for Scout.

  “We have retirement homes, yes,” she answered, grateful that he hadn’t specifically asked if Sister Clothilde was now living in one of them. She wouldn’t have wanted to lie.

  They’d been circling around the perimeter of the park and were getting close to the community center, a large one-story block structure, when Chuck stopped and turned to face her.

  “What’s up?” Sister Agatha asked him quickly.

  “Somebody’s standing behind that cottonwood tree next to the community center’s trash bins. I think it’s Scout, but don’t look over there now,” he warned. “If we spook him, he’ll just disappear.”

  Sister Agatha leaned down to pet Pax, then glanced sideways. There was a flicker of movement as a shape backed farther into the shadows.

  “Scout’s jumpy and usually won’t let anyone get close. I think we need to box him in real subtle-like. If we try to approach him directly, he’ll bolt and we’ll never catch him. He knows the ditch banks and the bosque like the back of his hand.”

  “What’s your plan?” she asked.

  “Stay here for a minute or two, Sister, then walk off. Pretend you’re training Pax. I’ll head for the community center, but instead of going inside, I’ll circle around and wait at the corner. Give me a few minutes to get in place, then stroll toward the back of the building. Work with Pax and keep your attention on him, and don’t even glance in Scout’s direction. Once you’re within five or ten yards of the trash bins, I’ll come out of hiding, and he’ll be between us.”

  “Okay. We’re ready anytime you are,” she said, her hand on Pax’s head.

  “Well, good-bye, Sister Agatha. You, too, Pax,” Chuck said loudly, waving his hand, then walking away.

  Sister Agatha pretended to examine Pax’s paw for stickers, then stood. Walking at a leisurely pace with Pax at heel, she made her way slowly to the rear of the building, near the area where two staff cars were parked. Beyond, Scout stood near the cottonwoods, searching the trash.

  She’d come within twenty feet of the trash when Chuck stepped around the corner. He was actually looking the other way, pretending to be talking to someone else, but Scout, seeing him, suddenly panicked. Realizing that she and Chuck were approaching him from separate directions, he yelped and, breaking from his hiding place, took off, racing past Sister Agatha.

  Pax lunged at the running man, yanking hard at his leash. Sister Agatha could have stopped Pax from chasing Scout, but that would have defeated any chance she might have had of catching up to him. Allowing Pax to tug her along, she hiked up her skirt and ran across the grass.

  “Wait!” she called out to Scout.

  The frightened man jumped a hedge and raced down the wide ditch bank, which also served as a flood levee for the river, a quarter of a mile away.

  Chuck hadn’t exaggerated. Scout could sprint faster than anyone else she’d ever seen on two legs. Despite Pax’s enthusiasm, she could barely keep up. Scout was already fifty yards down the bank. He never looked back, intent on his escape. Then he swerved and headed straight toward the ditch.

  At the opposite bank of the five-foot-deep muddy stream was a dirt road that gave access to the conservancy district vehicles. The gap was at least ten feet wide.

  “Don’t! You won’t make it!” she yelled. Wearing a dusty backpack bulging with perhaps all his worldly possessions, he had no chance.

  Scout jumped. His arms and legs flailing wildly, he landed on the steep opposite bank about a yard above water level. He then flopped forward up onto the road, landing on his belly and the palms of his hands. Completing a comical-looking somersault, he rolled up onto his feet, crossed the road in two bounds, then crashed through the stand of willows along the edge of the woods. Within seconds he’d disappeared into the bosque.

  Sister Agatha caught a glimpse of something on the opposite bank where the man had landed and walked toward it for a closer look. Seeing it made her chest tighten.

  “What did you find?” Chuck asked, panting as he jogged up and looked over Sister Agatha’s shoulder.

  She pointed. “Two hot dogs in a plastic bag. Probably his lunch, and maybe dinner. That poor man!”

  Chuck stood at the edge of the ditch bank, appraising Scout’s amazing leap. “He’s in pretty good shape. I’ll say that much for him.”

  “The man has the wings of an angel,” Sister Agatha agreed. “Even as a kid I couldn’t have made a jump like that.”

  “The nearest bridge across must be half a mile from here,” Chuck said, turning to look both ways down the ditch. “We’ve lost him.”

  “I’ve got to figure out a way to get Scout to talk to me,” Sister Agatha said, fingering her rosary thoughtfully.

  “That’s a tall order, Sister, especially after today. From what I’ve heard, he rarely allows anyone to get too close, even those who offer him a meal. That’s probably why he never shows up at any of our homeless shelters, even during the winter.” He paused, then continued. “We may have a lead on a crime that no one, short of an Olympic sprinter, can pursue.”

  “I’ll ask Our Lord to help me, and He’ll find a way,” Sister Agatha said.

  “I sure wish I had that kind of faith, Sister,” Chuck said.

  “So do I,” she said without thinking. Seeing the confusion on his face, she managed a wry smile. “I’m far from perfect, Chuck.”

  4

  ALTHOUGH THE ODDS OF FINDING SCOUT WERE SLIM TO none, they decided to walk to the bridge anyway and cross over. Together, they searched for footprints or anything else that might give them an indication of which direction Scout had gone.

  After a half hour, they were forced to give up the search. The ground was too dry and hard to track man or animal here at the edge of the bosque. Hoping that Scout would come back later and retrieve it, they left the bag with the hot dogs resting in the crook of a tree branch.

  “Do you happen to know Scout’s real name?” Sister Agatha asked Chuck as they headed back into the park.

  “Sister, I don’t think that the guy himself remembers anymore. A lot of our homeless people have some serious psychological problems. Whenever I see Scout, he’s usually searching garbage cans. The closest I’ve ever gotten to him is maybe fifty feet.”

  As they walked back across the grass, not much was said between them. Finally, as they rea
ched the parking lot and the monastery’s motorcycle, Chuck broke the silence.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” he asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” she said with an impish smile. “I’m still not getting a clear enough picture of what happened here yesterday. I haven’t been to an Independence Day celebration outside the monastery in over twenty years. If you covered the event, I’d sure like to see the photos you took.”

  “I was here most of the day and night. My boss even paid for my three hot dogs and two cans of soda. How American is that? Follow me back to the office,” he said, walking off to where his beat-up old sedan was parked.

  As Sister Agatha headed back into town, Pax in the sidecar, she tried to come up with a strategy for finding Scout. He probably hadn’t gone far—the bosque was undoubtedly his home—yet locating him was going to be anything but easy. He now knew they wanted to speak to him, and that would make it even harder. He’d make it a point to avoid them. Yet in her gut she knew that finding him and getting him to talk would be well worth the trouble.

  Sadness crept over her. She’d met many of God’s wounded children over the years, and although the world had broken them into pieces, they remained surprisingly resilient. Scout, for example, had shown remarkable resourcefulness surviving by his own rules.

  Sister Agatha felt a twinge of guilt for having worried so much about the future of her own home. At least she knew she was going to be welcomed with open arms when the move took place, as, barring a true miracle, it most certainly would.

  Sister Agatha parked in front of the small newspaper’s office as Chuck got out of his car, attached Pax’s leash, then walked inside. The adobe building had been completely rewired and modernized. It felt good to walk into a place cooled by refrigerated air instead of swamp coolers. Those all too often barely made a dent in the heat, and everything felt muggy from the moisture in the air.

  “I’ve decided that I’m a winter person,” Sister Agatha said, leaning back and making the most of that heavenly cold blast of air. Pax sat beside her, panting.

  “Considering that habit you wear, I don’t blame you,” Chuck said, “but I like summer. Clothes don’t have to be as heavy or bulky. My clothes, that is,” he added with a grin as he reached for a small laptop computer. “All the photos I took that day have been uploaded into this laptop. I can preview and edit the shots at home, then send the results back here electronically.”

  As he retrieved the image file, Sister Agatha sat on the chair beside him and began to study the thumbnails of more than two hundred photos. Whenever she saw one she wanted to examine more closely, she’d give him a nod and he’d enlarge the image.

  “This is my initial file, so you’re looking at everything, including the rejects. I thought you’d want to see the entire day’s shoot.”

  “I do, thanks,” she said. “I can see many people I recognize, like Smitty, and of course almost every member of the Garcia family. There’s Millie in the background of that shot. Her husband, too. Who’s this gentleman by the podium?”

  “That’s Monty Allen, Robert’s business partner. I’ve heard that he was the one who finally convinced Robert to run for sheriff. I don’t think it was a tough sell, though. Whenever I’ve been around Robert, he’s always come across as an arrogant know-it-all who insists on being in charge.”

  “What else do you know about Robert?”

  “He and Sheriff Green had a truckload of problems back in the days when they were both in the department. My sources are pretty good, so you can trust that.”

  Sister Agatha knew that Chuck took pride in the accuracy of his information. He was an excellent reporter with a good handle on the facts. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he found out that their monastery might soon be shutting its doors for good.

  “Who’s this woman standing behind Robert?” Sister Agatha asked him, focusing. “The one with the pasted-on smile.”

  “His wife, Victoria. She comes to all the community functions. The boy pulling on her hand is their son, R.J. He’s obviously hard to control.”

  “Probably one of the reasons she doesn’t look like she’s having any fun,” Sister Agatha muttered under her breath. “I guess it’s just something that the spouse of a candidate has to do. . . .”

  “Or else? From your tone, I guess you’ve heard the gossip,” Chuck said. “Whether she enjoys it or not, Victoria always accompanies her husband when he’s campaigning—but only she knows how bossy he really is at home.”

  Sister Agatha looked at a second photo, obviously taken before Victoria knew someone was taking snapshots. In that unguarded moment, the way Victoria was looking at Robert revealed much about their relationship.

  Love and hate . . . opposite sides of the same coin. Maybe that explained Victoria’s feelings for her husband. Love for what was right—a son, a fine home, social status and prestige. Hate, too—for broken dreams and a loveless marriage? Like everything else in life, emotions were seldom clear-cut.

  Studying Victoria’s crisp pantsuit and her expensive gold necklace, Sister Agatha wondered just how much worldly goods and financial security mattered to the woman.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Money seemed at the center of everyone’s troubles these days—whether from too much or too little, though she imagined that too much would make the troubles easier to face. Her thoughts drifted to the situation facing Our Lady of Hope. Although she was deeply ashamed of herself, the truth was she was angry with God for abandoning them. Suddenly realizing the turn her thoughts had taken, Sister Agatha brought them to a screeching halt. They were His servants and would go wherever He asked.

  “You’re a million miles away,” Chuck observed.

  “Just trying to put things into perspective.” At that moment Chuck’s cell phone rang, sparing her any further explanation.

  Chuck answered the call, then listened to the caller for fifteen seconds. “Who else is there now?” he snapped, his tone all business. “What about Victoria? Have you seen her?” There was another pause before he said, “I’m on my way.”

  “What’s happening?” Sister Agatha asked. “Anything I’d be interested in?”

  “Half the town’s shown up at Mayor Garcia’s home. Victoria’s apparently staying there with him and his wife, Alyssa, and word got around. Neighbors, relatives, and friends of the family are paying their respects—bringing food, flowers, and condolences—the pésame, as they say around here.”

  “Those things go on for hours. I should drop by, too,” Sister Agatha said, then, after a beat, added, “But not without Sister Bernarda.”

  Chuck smiled. “Makes sense. Mayor Garcia is a marine, and so’s Sister B.”

  “There’s that, and also the fact that the mayor is going to know soon enough that I’m looking into this case on the sheriff’s behalf,” she answered and stood. “Let’s go, boy.” Sister Agatha attached Pax’s leash, then walked out with the dog just ahead of Chuck.

  “JD wants the sheriff to be guilty. That’s going to make things real interesting for both you and Sheriff Green.”

  Chuck had spoken softly, almost under his breath, but the warning was clear. Worst of all, she knew it was the truth. Tom and she were both in for a major battle.

  Once Sister Agatha arrived at the monastery, she joined the sisters at the refectory for their main meal of the day, served promptly at 1:00 P.M. Sister Maria Victoria was reading from the Martyrology that detailed the ultimate sacrifices made by the saints for the love of God. Hearing about their travails could curtail even a healthy person’s appetite, but that wasn’t a problem for Sister Agatha today. She was famished.

  As she ate the broccoli and corn casserole that Sister Clothilde had lovingly prepared and left frozen, ready to reheat, she remembered the older nun with fondness. Until her departure, Sister Clothilde had been an integral part of daily life at Our Lady of Hope Monastery.

  Now, the monastery was in a state of suspension. Their peace
was an uneasy one—the quiet before the storm of upheaval struck.

  As Sister Agatha glanced around the room, she saw that Sister Eugenia’s worried gaze was focused exclusively on Reverend Mother. Their prioress looked worn-out and frail, a result of the constant pressure she’d battled this past year. Too many bills, not enough donations. Although their lifestyle was simple, costs had soared, and their funds were barely sufficient to cover basic needs.

  As Sister Agatha tried to push back the darkness that burdened her soul, her gaze fastened on Sister Ignatius, whose face mirrored only peace. Even now her faith hadn’t wavered. In trying times, she was a lesson to all of them. Though her prayers never went unanswered, she hadn’t asked the Lord to keep their monastery open. She’d only prayed that they’d be given the strength to accept His holy will, and asked that His angels camp around them and keep them safe.

  After their meal, Sister Bernarda met Sister Agatha in the corridor. “I spoke to Reverend Mother, and she has given me permission to go with you to pay our condolences to Mrs. Garcia.”

  “Good,” Sister Agatha said. “I doubt that the mayor will be pleased to see me, but if both of us are there, it’ll defuse the situation and give me a chance to talk to a few people.”

  They were on their way in the Antichrysler moments later, Sister Bernarda at the wheel. This time Pax had to remain behind. Unhappy about that decision, he raced after the car. True to his training, however, he came to a sudden stop at the gate and stared mournfully at them as they continued down the dusty road.

  “Sister Gertrude e-mailed us this morning. She can’t wait to see Pax again,” Sister Bernarda said.

  Sister Agatha shifted the box of cookies she held on her lap as she turned toward her companion. “How are our other sisters doing up at Agnus Dei? Have you heard?”

  “They’re settling in. Agnus Dei’s horarium is identical to ours, so not having to adjust to a new daily schedule is helping them feel more at home. Everything’s working out.” Sister Bernarda paused, then added, “I think we’ve been worrying over nothing. It’s not as if we’re losing our home.”