Perfect Grave

Chapter Forty-Three

J ason didn’t have a second to waste.

On the ground in Calgary, he rented a compact car and got directions to Deerfoot Trail, a multilane expressway that sliced through the city.

Heading south, he glided by Calgary’s skyline with its gleaming skyscrapers jutting before the Rockies to the west. On his left, perched on a hilltop, he saw the glass- and-brick rectangle that was the Calgary Herald, the city’s dominant paper. Nice-looking building.

Jason checked his precision-folded map and the blue-inked line the rental clerk had made to guide him south along Deerfoot Trail and out of the city to Highway 2, which was the main provincial road. It ran north-south like an incision through much of Alberta to the Montana border.

About an hour from Calgary, as he passed High River he heard the intro to Led Zepplin’s “Rock and Roll” and he cranked the radio’s volume and marveled at how the prairie plains met the Rocky Mountains.

Glorious.

Some time later, as he continued south, he was intrigued by the signs for Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo Jump, the ancient site where natives would drive the great herds over the cliff to their deaths for food and clothing. Farther south, after he turned west toward the Crowsnest Pass, he saw the massive wind turbines, giant white windmills harnessing energy.

Cool.

Some four thousand people lived in Pincher Creek, a town nestled amid the ranch country and foothills of the Rockies. Jason got a second-floor room at the Big Wagon Inn Motel, a stucco building with a small, clean restaurant with tables covered with red-checkered tablecloths.

He got a clubhouse sandwich and while paying for it at the cash register, he got directions to Painted Horse Road from the cook, a large, kind, woman whose eyes vanished amid her rosy cheeks when she smiled.

“Sister Marie lives in the Jensen cabin on Whisper Creek Ranch. You go for maybe twenty minutes, turn toward the mountains. Look for the two huge white rocks near the road at the crest of a hill. Got WCR on the gate. You can’t miss it.”

It was late afternoon and black clouds churned in the sky as Jason’s rental ripped along the twists, turns, and dips of Painted Horse Road. Pebbles pinged against the undercarriage and dust plumes rose in the car’s wake, disrupting the tranquillity.

No other buildings or signs of civilization were evident.

The dash clock told Jason he’d been traveling some twenty minutes when the landmark rocks appeared. He slowed to turn and his car was swallowed by the dust he’d kicked up.

A long stretch of tired, weatherbeaten fencing led to the pine gate bearing WCR. It was open, inviting Jason to take a grassy path into solitude.

His rental car crept along through a stand of spruce until he glimpsed the red tin roof of a log cabin, sitting perfectly amid a clearing, overlooking a rugged creek and the mountains beyond.

He killed the engine. As it ticked down, the gurgle of creek, the chirp of darting birds, and the cheerful flit of monarch butterflies underscored the serenity. The glazed logs of the cabin gave it a sturdy, clean look; its window frames and edging had been painted a fresh buttery yellow. He came to the door.

His knock was received in silence.

“Hello, Sister Marie!”

Nothing.

He called again only louder and in all directions. The echo of his voice was still in his ears when he heard a faint response, stepped around the cabin, and saw a woman in the distance, farther along the small terraced hills. She was in a chair, working at an easel, beside a patch of garden, overlooking the creek.

She waved to Jason and he waved back.

As he neared her he saw that she’d used a cane to stand. She was dressed in jeans, a gingham shirt, and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. She lifted her head, revealing thick glasses and a kind, ascetic face that met him with a healing smile. Her painting of flowers and trees was nearly completed. It looked good.

“Sister Marie Clermont?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jason Wade, a reporter with the Seattle Mirror. ”

“Seattle. Oh my, you’re a long way from home, dear.”

He noticed she had an accent and guessed it was French.

“Yes,” Jason fished for his identification, to reassure her.

She nodded at it, then passed it back.

“Sister, I’m researching the biography of a nun who was with the Order, the Compassionate Heart of Mercy. I understand that before retiring, you were the senior council member who oversaw the screenings of many sisters.”

The old nun nodded. Behind her glasses, her eyes were alert.

“Sister, my trip here concerns, Sister Anne Braxton. I’m sorry to tell you that she was murdered in Seattle.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes. An old friend in Olympia saw it on the news and sent a fax to the church in Cardston. We held a Mass for her.”

“Well, I have something with me that belongs to her.”

The nun leaned on her cane, shifting her weight, listening.

“Her journal.”

“Her journal?”

“Yes, and if you’d allow me, I’d like to show it to you. Sister, I’ve come to ask you to help me understand Sister Anne’s life before she became a nun. I’d like to write about it for the Seattle Mirror. And I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”

Sister Marie considered Jason’s request for a long moment.

Her eyes took stock of the darkening sky.

“We’d better talk inside. Looks like a nasty storm is coming.”