How Like an Angel

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.”

“That’s a matter you will have to settle with your own conscience. Your lack of intention changes nothing. A flooding river does not intend to overflow its banks, nor an iceberg to ram a ship, yet the farmlands are ruined by flood and the ship sinks. Yes, the ship sinks... And the people on it, they all die. Yes, yes, I see it quite clearly in my mind.”

“I’d better leave now.”

“They are screaming for me to help them. The ship is broken in two, the sea is boiling with anger... Don’t be afraid, my children. I am coming. I will open the gates of heaven for you.”

“Good-bye, Master.”

Quinn walked away, his heart pounding against his rib cage as if it were trying to escape. His throat felt swollen and there was a taste of old vomit in his mouth, shreds and pieces of the past too fibrous to be swallowed.

He saw Karma running toward him between the trees awkwardly, as if she had not yet become accustomed to her new body.

She shouted at him, “Where’s Master?”

“I left him at the Tower.”

“Sister Blessing’s sick. Oh, she’s terrible sick. And Brother Tongue is crying and I can’t find my mother and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

“Take it easy. Where’s the Sister?”

“In the kitchen. She fell on the floor. Oh, she looks bad, she looks dying. Please don’t let her die. She promised to help me get away, she promised just this morning. Please, please don’t let her die.”

Quinn found Sister Blessing on the floor, doubled up with pain. Her mouth was drawn back from her teeth, and a thick colorless fluid flowed from both corners, too much of it to be ordinary saliva. Brother Tongue was trying to hold a wet cloth against her forehead but she kept twitching her head away and moaning.

Quinn said, “How long has she been like this, Karma?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it before lunch, after lunch?”

“After. Maybe half an hour after.”

“What did she complain of?”

“Cramps. Very bad cramps, and a burning in her throat. She went outside and vomited and then she came back and fell on the floor, and I screamed for help and Brother Tongue was in the washroom and he heard me.”

“We’d better get her to a hospital.”

Brother Tongue shook his head, and Karma cried out, “No, no. We can’t. The Master won’t let us. He doesn’t believe in—”

“Be quiet.” Quinn knelt beside Sister Blessing and felt the pulse in her wrist. It was feeble, and her hands and forehead were hot and dry as if she had lost a great deal of body fluid. “Can you hear me, Sister? I am going to drive you to the hospital in San Felice. Don’t be frightened. They’ll take good care of you. Remember that hot bath you told me you wanted? And the fuzzy pink slippers? Well, you’ll be able to have all the hot baths you like, and I’ll buy you the fuzziest pink slippers in the country. Sister?”

She opened her eyes slightly but there was no recognition in them, and a moment later the lids dropped shut again.

Quinn got to his feet. “I’ll bring the car as close to the door as I can.”

“I’m coming with you,” Karma said.

“You’d better stay here. See if you can get her to swallow a little water.”

“I tried to and so did Brother Tongue, only it didn’t work.” She followed Quinn outside and down the path, talking nervously and glancing over her shoulder as if afraid someone was watching. “She was so happy this morning. She kept singing about how there was a good day coming. She couldn’t have felt sick or she wouldn’t have been singing like that. Why, she even said she—she felt full of life and hope. Only then she got mad at me because I told her you were coming back to bring the lotion for my acne... Did you?”

“Yes, it’s in the car. She didn’t like the idea of me coming back?”

“Oh no. She acted scared, sort of, and she said you were our enemy.”

“But I’m not your enemy, or hers. In fact, Sister Blessing and I got along very well together.”

“She didn’t think so. She said you were back at the gambling tables in Reno where you belonged and I wasn’t to take your promise seriously.”

“Why was she scared, Karma?”

“Maybe because of O’Gorman. When I mentioned his name she looked ready to throw a fit. It seemed like she didn’t want to be reminded of you or O’Gorman—you know, like she thought things had been settled and didn’t want to hear about them anymore.”

“Like things had been settled,” Quinn repeated, frowning. Only one thing had been settled, the fact that O’Gorman had been murdered. “Is mail delivered to the Tower, Karma?”

“Three miles down the main road, where you turn off to the neighboring ranch, there are two mailboxes. One of them is ours, but the Master only goes to it about once a week since nothing important ever comes.”

“If mail is delivered, it must also be picked up.”

“We’re not allowed to write a letter unless it’s real important, such as to right a wrong we committed.”

To right a wrong, Quinn thought. To confess a murder and make peace with God and conscience. He said, “Did Sister Blessing ever talk about her son?”

“Not to me. I know she has one, though.”

“What’s his name?”

“I guess the same as hers used to be, Featherstone. Maybe Charley Featherstone.”

“Why maybe?”

“Well, when Brother Tongue came in after she’d fallen on the floor she looked at him and said ‘Charley,’ like she meant him to tell Charley she was sick. That’s how it sounded to me.”

“Could she have been addressing Brother Tongue as Charley?”

“That wouldn’t make sense. She knows as well as I do that his name’s Michael. Michael Robertson.”

“You have a good memory, Karma.”

She blushed and made an awkward attempt to hide the blush with her hands. “I don’t have much to remember. The only reading I do is the Master’s record book when I’m looking after Mother Pureza. I read it aloud to her sometimes like I would a story. It keeps her quiet except when she interrupts to ask if the people lived happily ever after. I always tell her yes.”

It was to Quinn a strange and touching picture, the girl earnestly reading a list of names and the deranged old woman listening, hearing a fairy tale: “Once upon a time there was a woman called Mary Alice Featherstone and a man called Michael Robertson—” “And did they live happily ever after?” “Oh yes, happily ever after.”

He said, “Is Charles the real name of any of the Brothers who are here now?”

“No. I’m sure of that.”

They had almost reached the car. The girl ran ahead of Quinn and opened the door. With a cry of triumph she picked up the bottle of lotion that was lying on the front seat and held it against her face as if it could work its magic even through glass.

She whispered, half to herself, half to Quinn, “Now I will look like other girls. And I’ll go to Los Angeles and live with my aunt, Mrs. Harley Baxter Wood. Isn’t that a beautiful name? And I’ll go back to school, and I’ll—”

“Live happily ever after?”

“Yes, I will. I will.”

Although Quinn was able to maneuver the car between the trees right up to the kitchen door, it took all three of them, Karma and Brother Tongue and himself, to get Sister Blessing into the back seat. Brother Tongue put a folded blanket under her head and a moist cloth across her forehead. This time she didn’t twitch away or moan in protest. She had lost consciousness.

Both men realized it was a bad sign but Karma didn’t. “She’s gone to sleep. That means the pain must be better and she’s going to be all right, doesn’t it? She’ll live happily ever after, won’t she?”

Quinn was too busy to answer, and Brother Tongue said, “Shut up,” in a voice that had a squawk in it, like a door hinge long unused, unoiled.

The unexpected sound, and the fury behind it, shocked Karma into silence.

Quinn said to Brother Tongue, who was wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe, “Do you think there’s any danger of her falling off the seat?”

“Not if you drive slowly.”

“I can’t afford to drive slowly.”

“The gates of heaven are opening for her? Is that what you’re saying?”

“She’s very ill.”

“Oh God. Please God, grant an easy end to her suffering.”

Quinn got into the car and started down the slope to the dirt lane. In the rear-view mirror he could see Brother Tongue down on his knees praying, his hands lifted toward the sky in supplication. A moment later the Brother was swallowed up by trees, and nothing of the Tower or its outbuildings was visible to Quinn.

He came to the end of the irrigated land, and the trees became gradually more stunted and misshapen. The bleak brown countryside, that could support so little life, seemed a fitting place to die.

“Sister? Can you hear me, Sister? If someone did this to you, it’s my fault. I disobeyed your orders. You told me not to try and contact O’Gorman, that it might do a lot of harm. Just find out where he is, you said, and report to you. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry. Please hear me, Sister. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. The word echoed from the sheer walls of rock that lined parts of the road, I’m sorry, and the gray inert mass on the back seat stirred slightly. Quinn’s eye caught the movement in the mirror.

“Why did you hire me to find a dead man, Sister?”

There was no response.

“When you ordered me not to contact him, you couldn’t have known he was dead. Yet you must have guessed there was something peculiar going on that involved O’Gorman. Who could have told you except the murderer? And why after all these years did he decide to confess the crime in a letter? Was it because I asked you last week to give Martha O’Gorman a break, put an end to her uncertainty?... Was the letter of confession forced on the murderer by you? And why have you been trying to protect him?”

She let out a sudden cry of pain or protest.

“Did you believe he was penitent, Sister, and would never kill again?”

Another cry, more vehement than the first, like a child’s wail of rage at an injustice. The rage was unmistakable, but Quinn wasn’t sure whether it was directed at him for his questions, or at the killer for his betrayal, or at still a third person.

“Who killed O’Gorman, Sister?”