揟he arsonist stole my laptop with the images,?she said.
揟hey were not backed up??
揑 was told to adhere to strict security, with no copies. But someone is pursuing the laptop, as we speak.?
Someone who was once, and still is to some degree, most special.
揕et抯 hope that effort is successful.?
She agreed.
Chapter 12
Nick kept moving.
No one had followed him. He was north of central downtown, among dense clusters of residences and commercial establishments. Of course, if the maidens did decide to take to the streets in pursuit he抎 be a bit of a standout toting a laptop. So he decided to get as far away as he could.
Fast.
His mind tumbled around a mixture of anger, relief, disbelief, and exhilaration. The young woman who抎 confronted him inside the convent had handled herself with skill. Two more members of the same convent had engaged in arson and theft, one probably dying in the process. None of them were anything like the nuns he remembered from childhood. Most of those had been older women who spread terror through classrooms. He hadn抰 been born Catholic. His parents were a religious mix. One Methodist, the other Presbyterian. Neither was devout. Sundays in their house were off days. Fun times. Church not on the schedule. He抎 attended parochial school, as his parents had insisted that the education there was superior to the local public system. Nuns had been scarce, only accounting for a few of the teaching positions. But they抎 been tough. No nonsense. All business. Caring, though. He still recalled Sister Regina. Soft-spoken. Patient. He抎 struggled with math in the sixth grade, but she抎 helped him through.
Parochial schools in the 1990s were different from a generation before. They抎 needed students and revenue, so rules were adjusted and more non-Catholics were granted entry. Being an outsider he hadn抰 been required to take catechism, attend mass, or be part of the altar boy service. Which was good since, for him, as a Protestant, it was a church service not mass. No one showered him with money after a first Holy Communion. No confession of sins every Saturday afternoon. Then there was the ash on the forehead every spring, near Easter. He and a few others in his class were the only ones not marked. Maybe all that pomp and ceremony had shoved him away from religion. Hard to say. But meeting Kelsey certainly caused a reassessment. Never, though, had she forced him to make choices that he might have found uncomfortable. She had faith. But she always recognized that it was her personal choice and everyone had to decide for themselves what to believe. Religion had never been a divisive element between them.
Until the end.
揑 can抰 ignore what抯 inside me anymore,?she said to him. 揑抦 so sorry, Nick. I love you dearly. But I love God more.?
He抎 told her he understood. And part of him had. But another part had found it all inexplicable.
He kept moving and entered one of the many cobbled squares, this one surrounded by caf閟。 Guests huddled around the outside tables, pawing and nibbling, talking in a variety of languages. Twenty euros to a ma顃re d?bought him a call to a taxi service, which arrived a few minutes later and drove him back to where it had all begun.
Emergency vehicles were parked at the end of the street that led to the workshop, the path too narrow for their girth. People were being kept back by the local police. He approached one of the uniforms and flashed his UN credentials, which gained him access beyond the barriers. He walked down the dimly lit route between the olden buildings, the scent of charred wood heavy in the night air. Smoky wisps continued to seep from the workshop抯 shattered windows. He approached closer and could see that the interior was a black mess. Beyond the building, at the other end of the street an ambulance was parked and he spotted Kelsey, a blanket wrapped around her. He headed that way, relieved she was okay, and she saw him. He held up the laptop, signaling that he抎 been successful.
She stood, shed the blanket, and rushed to him. 揑 can抰 thank you enough, Nick. I was afraid it had been lost.?
He handed over the computer. 揗ind if I ask what was so important about this??
揑t has the images I made on it.?Her voice was low, in a whisper. 揙f what I found.?
Now he was curious. 揥hat did you find??
She shook her head, a piece of her red hair falling across her cheek. 揥e can抰 discuss it here.?
He got the message and nodded. 揑 assume the panel was destroyed??
揑t抯 ash. That抯 why this敆she motioned with the laptop棑is so important.?
But he wondered why images of a 1945 copy of the Just Judges carried any value. He started thinking like a CLIO field asset, his inquisitive mind churning away. But he agreed with her that this was not the time or place to have an in-depth discussion. Still, he wanted to know, 揇o you know anything about the Maidens of Saint-Michael??