The Weight of Living Page 13

  Six blocks on a night with light snow and air frosted with car exhaust, steam from buildings and pinpricks of ice. Six blocks past stores, and even at that hour, a few people heading home, driving, standing around. Drunks leaning on buildings praying for stability.

  No one heard the brief yells, the doors slam and the car spin out on slushy streets. Barefoot in shorts and a flimsy tank top, yet seemingly staged, an apparent conspiracy of moving lips on tape.

  He wanted to walk to clear his head, as he had always done, to let the city noise and rumble shake off the pieces of the day.

  Except he kept seeing the hat. The tweed hat, a Herringbone fedora like the one Alabama football coach Bear Bryant used to wear, or the old Italian guys under the shade on Richards Avenue drinking wine and playing bocce in the side yard, flared collars of half-buttoned shirts, sleeves rolled to their elbows, the old scores never settled.

  The tweed hat that didn’t seem to fit. The color was wrong, a little too red, maybe some blue, not a sturdy brown Irish tweed, and certainly not a cap.

  Bruno Hapworth said the larger, older of his musclemen wore the tweed hat, maybe a man so strong and powerful that no one would dare comment on his choice of head cover, when in fact, Nagler thought it seemed ridiculous.

  Either way, he thought, a hat worn by a man of tradition; a man standing for something, or trying to hang onto something.

  Nagler had been trying to raise Hapworth for several days with no luck; it had not yet reached a level of concern for his safety.

  It had been two days since Alton Garrett took — kidnapped, really — the girl and Calista and Leonard; two days since he was told to expect a message. Two days.

  Notices had been dispatched and Jefferson had sent a patrol out to the remains of the circus elephant sheds.

  Maria Ramirez assigned five officers to search every vacant building in Ironton, and even Rafe and Dominique from the community center had organized search parties. And all he could do was tell them to be careful.

  “Hey, Frank, why not,” Dominique asked. “Leonard’s our man. Ain’t nothing we wouldn’t do for him. Think that freaky Calista chick is in on it?”

  On the empty street, Nagler smiled slightly at the thought. He’s our man, Leonard, the blind man, maybe right now, and maybe for a couple years, the most important man in town; the quiet force who just because he wouldn’t give up started rebuilding a forgotten section of the city.

  Nagler pulled a pirouette around lamppost. No black SUV. And none down the side streets, parked huffing in an alley; none hidden behind a semi.

  Calista, he thought. Is Dom right? She did just appear out of nowhere. Naw, the hospital just assigned her, luck of the draw, he thought. But she was a contractor, one of many. Was it her turn for a new patient/client? Or did she ask?

  He took a couple left turns, crossed through a narrow alley between businesses and found himself along the river. He recalled Calista’s description of her and Garrett resting in the cool water. That was probably up under the highway overpass, he thought. The old homeless hangout in the shadow of the stoveworks. In the spring before the bankside trees leafed out and in the fall after they died and left bare branches, tents made from torn blankets and lean-tos of plywood and plastic caught a driver’s eye at the wide curve from downtown. How’d those kids survive here? Traded favors, I’m sure.

  While his mind ran away from that thought, his phone rang.

  Before he could answer, he heard, “Francis. Your friends are here.”

  “Sister?”

  “Come to the Home, please.” And the phone went dead.

  Driving to the Catholic Sisters’ Home, Nagler wondered how many Hail Marys it would cost if he yelled at a nun.

  He called Ramirez and asked for a patrol car to take Leonard and Calista home. He guessed the girl, if she was there, would stay with the nuns.

  He was greeted by Sister Katherine in the parking lot. She leaned heavily on her cane in obvious pain. She held his arm to stop his entry.

  “Is something wrong, Sister? Are you? Is Leonard...”

  “They are fine, as am I.” Her voice was cracked, dry and soft, hollow as a well. “I was kneeling in the chapel for several hours yesterday, and when I stood I found my leg was numb and cramped. I fell to the floor before I could steady myself on the railing. I have twisted my bad leg.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. Let me help you.”

  She shook her head. “That is the lesser pain. Do you recall what I told you when you were a youngster?”

  “Um, well, honor my parents, be a good friend, and that masturbation would make me go blind.” He stared at the ground and smiled. “Sorry, Sister.”

  Sister Katherine rapped Nagler on his shin with her cane. “Francis.” She shook her head. “I believe that was Father William, and anyway, I see that it did not.”

  Nagler closed his eyes and tipped his head back to quell a laugh.

  “What I told you is that you have the soul of an honest man, a good man. That soul will be tested from this day forward in a way that it has not been tested in the past.”

  This is the great dodge, he thought, the testimony from those hip deep in shit and looking for a way out. And here was Sister Katherine hip deep in something that had spun out of control, the puppet master whose puppets had cut their strings. Does all the praying help?

  “Maybe I’d feel more heroically honest when I’ve heard your part in this, Sister.”

  She took his arm and her face softened, but it failed to fill with a comforting smile. “Yes, I know. First, say hello to your friends.”

  In the lobby, Nagler knelt before Leonard and softly touched his cheek. “I’m here, Leonard.”

  “Frank!” Leonard’s hand fumbled for Nagler’ arm, then finding it, reached up to his face.

  “Are you alright?” Nagler asked.

  Leonard sighed. “I’m fine, Frank. We were somewhere inside; warm, well fed. No one threatened us.”

  “Good,” Nagler said as he stared fiercely at Sister Katherine. They were here. Christ.

  Calista Knox stood behind Leonard, touching his shoulder and brushing back his hair. Leonard reached up and patted her hand. “Calista was a big help, Frank. Kept that young man calm.”

  Nagler reached over and kissed Leonard’s forehead. “Leonard, we’ll talk later. There’s an officer here to take you and Calista home.”

  “Frank,” Calista started to speak.

  “Later,” he barked. Nagler could not decide with whom he was most fed up.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” Calista concluded in a whisper, and then took Leonard’s arm and they walked to the driveway.

  ****

  “Where’s Garrett and the girl?”

  Nagler’s voice lacked the usual generosity that filled it when speaking with the old nun.

  “She’s safe,” Sister Katherine replied calmly. The voice of the mastermind; it just needed a puzzling, knowing smile. She was hunched in her large chair, fingers laced, a queen on her throne; more perfectly, a principal in the seat of authority. That was why, Nagler realized, when he was in school, they always met in her office, surrounded by her symbols of power.

  “Where?” A voice without kindness.

  Her head tipped ever so slightly. “Another home. It is a network we have used before. It was suggested that someone was coming for her.”

  “Network?”

  “For the abused to escape their abusers, Frank. Women, children, men, and boys. Sanctuary. You must agree that, if asked, you have no information about that. Your friends were released as a good-will gesture. Agreed? The network must remain unknown.”

  Sister Katherine’s eyes were hard, dark; she would not be dissuaded.

  Nagler nodded yes.

  “So where is he?”

  She tipped her head and closed her eyes. “In the wind.”

  I hate that answer, he thought. Play it out.

  “So you knew about this from the beginning? The midnight drop-off, th
is fake kidnap —because it was faked — and the return, the whole deal. And you’ve known Calista Knox and Alton Garrett since they were kids, she said. Are you directing all this? And what does Garrett mean when he said that he’s not who I am looking for? Then who is it? Because you do know, don’t you, Sister?” The questions, frustration driven, poured out.

  Her face took on a dark, squinting mask. Nagler had seen it before when she was about to retell a Bible story with details the preachers left out of Sunday sermons. Sometimes she was direct; sometimes she took the long way.

  “What do you know about this house, Frank?”

  Oh, boy, the long way.

  “It was built by a Morristown banker.”

  “Yes, Warren Appleton and the Centennial Morris Bank, in 1910 as a cottage, as they called them at the time, his showplace second home. He was a forward thinker, his bank strong because of investments in new technologies, such as the telephone, electricity and ship building, weapons and gold mining. Do you know why his money didn’t last?”

  Nagler rolled his eyes. The really long way. “Not a clue, Sister.”

  “Lawsuits. Millions spent protecting the one dark secret of his life, money gone in a flash so that his only recourse was to sell this home — for which he had personally selected the materials, tinkered with the architect’s plans, and it was told, walked the woods on these hills seeking the tallest, straightest trees for the floors and cabinets. This home, so personal, a testament to himself and a monument to his ego, in the end, a shell, a frame that collapsed like the hollow soul he possessed.”

  Nagler watched as Sister Katherine stared into the sunlight pouring through the tall west-facing windows; she closed her eyes and felt the heat of that light, its purifying touch, as if she would float. That was the Sister he knew, fierce, the words God whispered in her ears not jokes, tales or missives, but truth.

  But Nagler did not want his soul enlightened at that moment; he wanted information.

  “How does that have anything to do with what had happened recently, and why we are talking?” he asked.

  Sister Katherine leaned to her desk and laced her fingers as if praying. “Because it is happening all over again. A powerful man controlling the lives and fates of others to hide a deep secret.”

  Nagler exhaled several times and scratched his forehead. “Sister, please, the short version.”

  “Of course. Warren Appleton was a pimp and pedophile. He used rooms in this home for prostitution, featuring young girls whom he collected from the floors of his mills in Paterson and Newark. He paid police and judges to protect the secret because they as well participated. He kept several girls for himself.”

  “Sounds more like he had sex slaves. How did it end?”

  “Girls disappeared, Frank,” she said. “Parents began to inquire and an enterprising young cop from Newark began to ask questions. He found several of the girls working the streets in New York. At least two had been murdered. The end for Appleton came when one of his girls crawled out a second story window here and found sanctuary at St. Francis Church in Ironton. Instead of being an uneducated country girl, this woman had attended school, and until she was drugged and raped, she had been an office worker at his factory. She had kept a secret diary, and a ledger. Her family sued, and once the first brick in the wall fell, the entire enterprise collapsed. The church acquired this building in a foreclosure.”

  “What happened to Appleton?”

  “He ran. Not quite sure where, maybe Australia, Europe, Africa maybe. Left his family destitute, most of his holdings and properties sold to pay off the lawsuits.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  Sister Katherine smiled slyly.

  “Because the company that owns this home is doing the same thing.”

  “Wait, the church doesn’t own this building?”

  “Oh, no. After its own recent troubles, the church sold off properties and leased them back. This is one of those.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “The name is uncertain, because it changes often. Our lawyers say it is a shell company, and the name changes could be the exchange of property between financial entities or it could be fraudulent. They are examining all options. Here’s a list.” She reached into a drawer and produced a single sheet of legal-sized paper with two columns of text, single spaced.

  He glanced at it and then folded it into a pocket.

  “Other than this being your home, why the deep interest in its past?” Nagler asked. “And why all the recent hide and seek? I know you know Alton Garrett and Calista Knox from years ago, and I suspect you know who the young girl is. Is she Garrett’s sister? Calista had suggested as much. And why now?”

  “So many questions.” She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I began helping street kids years ago during Ironton’s worst times. Most were just lost, but some like Calista and Alton were escaping abusive homes.” She replaced her glasses and looked over the top rim at Nagler. “It is what sisters of God do, you know.”

  “So who’s the girl?”

  “I don’t honestly know. A victim.”

  “But you arranged for her to be dropped off on the street. And arranged for her to get to family court, and under your care.”

  Sister Katherine smiled. “Delivered to you, Francis.” She paused and leaned in. “Delivered... to you.”

  Nagler collapsed into his chair. What? “Why?”

  “Who better? But more important, it seems the creator of this modern version of Appleton’s syndicate has resurfaced. The danger has increased. That’s why we’ve been watching?”

  “Watching?”

  “That black SUV? Had anyone looked closely, they would have seen a small cross etched into the windshield.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Is there anything else you can’t tell me?”

  “Alton said he learned that there are records of the, shall we say, less public side of my landlord, but he is not certain where they are located. The only address he has found was a post office box number, several in fact, just as our lawyers have discovered. Lots of companies, no physical presence, just post office boxes.”

  “Have your lawyers tried to get the actual names of the post office box holders?”

  “They have, but the names circle back on each other. Very clever.”

  Nagler stood and as he did so, his eyes fell on a black-and-white photo on the wall behind Sister Katherine’s head. It was taken on the grounds at the Sisters’ Home; he recognized the stone archway of the gate.

  “If I might ask, what’s the date of that photo behind your head? It was taken here.”

  Sister Katherine smiled. She knew the photo and didn’t need to turn around. “1930.”

  “May I look closely?”

  “Surely.”

  He leaned in, eyes squinting at the woman with long hair in a full-length white dress, a dark sash and wide hat. Sister Katherine, he thought, but the church...

  “When did the church open the home here?”

  “In the 1950s. It had been vacant for quite some time.”

  “In the thirties it was still owned by Appleton, or his company?”

  “Yes. The scandal broke open in 1931, and soon the company was in receivership because of his actions and the Depression. It unraveled quickly. His compatriots made sure Appleton alone took the blame, and with the national economy collapsing, they pushed for a rapid conclusion. All the better to bury it, their roles in it, and him.”

  Nagler stepped back from the photo. “So who’s in the photo? She looks like you.”

  She removed her glasses again and wiped her eyes. “My sister.” Her voice broke softly. “She...”

  “Was the woman who escaped,” Nagler completed her sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She was the reason I joined the order and have been crusading quietly all these years,” Sister Katherine said, her voice again full and tinged with anger. “I will not stop.” She grasped her cane,
and leaning heavily on it, pushed herself from the chair and reached to touch Nagler’s face. “She hanged herself in the woods by the old circus grounds. She’s buried in Locust Street Cemetery. I visit her and Martha often.”

  Nagler took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You must be careful, Frank. Take this, she said, handing him a slim volume with a dusty brown cover. “It’s a copy of my sister’s diary. Maybe it contains a clue that eludes me. But I read it as a sister, not a police officer.”

  “Do you know what happened to the ledger, or what was in it?”

  “Sadly, no. We searched the home, even looking in places we suspected would have secret hiding places — loose floorboards, wall panels, inside mattresses — but it was never found. My fear is that Appleton found it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sarah Lawton

  “It was the nun?”

  Dawson wiped the coffee from his chin, where it had dripped after Nagler’s announcement. “She orchestrated the whole thing?”

  Lauren covered her mouth to suppress her smile. She closed her eyes as a giggle surfaced. “I’m sorry, Frank. It’s just ...”

  “Absurd,” Nagler said, shaking his head in disbelief, even then, two days later. “I know.”

  They sat in the half-empty Barry’s, the conversation buried beneath the clatter as Tony the cook removed the filters from the stove vents for cleaning. The job seemed to require that each filter had to be banged three times against the aluminum hood above the stove. Even Barry became irritated. “Yeah, Tony. The noise.”

  Tony just yelled back. “I could leave this to you and go count tomatoes.”

  Barry waved him off. “Ahh.”

  He stopped to top off the trio’s coffees.

  “Hey, Barry, you remember if a tall, big guy ever came in here wearing a tweed hat?” Nagler asked.

  “Like I remember hats. This whole place is hats. Nobody ever takes ’em off.”

  “I know. It looks like this.” He fumbled with his phone until he found the diagonal photo of the tweed hat that had been left in city hall. He showed the phone to Barry, who squinted at the picture.