doesn’t have to end.” She draped her arms around my neck.
“Think of what we’ll have to look forward to.”
She kissed me again. Fireworks again. The whole box at once. I was overwhelmed by colors and the oohing and ahhing of the
crowd. Last time anything close to this happened, it was with a reporter too soon after Jacqueline’s death. And it didn’t
end well for either of us.
I came up for air and made my mouth say, “Good night, Kimberly.”
“Let’s do this again soon,” she said.
I managed to get to the elevator without passing out. As I got on, I thought about falling, as in somebody cutting the cable
and down I’d go. And then I’d look up from the smashed wreckage, unable to move, and I’d see Kimberly Pincus way up on the
top floor, holding a pair of heavy-duty cable cutters.
And all the time, lying there, I’d think, Let’s take that ride again.
44
F ATHER B OB WAS sitting outside his trailer, smoking a cigar, when I got back to St. Monica’s.
“Out late?” he said.
“Yes, Mother,” I said.
“Cigar?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He snipped an Arturo Fuente for me, then offered a light. I sat on the other canvas chair. We smoked in silence for a moment.
“Ty, there’s been another e-mail,” Father Bob said.
I paused with the Fuente halfway to my mouth.
“It came in an hour ago. She had me look at it. We’re the only ones who know. I’d rather not have Sister Hildegarde, shall
we say, upset.”
“What’d this one say?”
“It’s not so much what it said, but what it showed.” He tilted his head back and looked at the sky. “Why do people still not
see the depravity of man?”
“What was it?” I said, no longer interested in cigars or theology.
“There was an attached drawing, showing a vile act on a nun. Along with some doggerel. ‘A young nun from Nantucket’ and so
on. Foul.”
“Same e-mail address?”
“Yes. Oh, and the nun in the drawing, it looks like her. Like Sister Mary. Almost as if someone worked off her picture.”
My thumb indented the cigar against my first two fingers. I threw it on the ground. “Where is she?”
“She’s praying. For him.”
“For the
guy
?”
“That’s what we do,” he said.
“That’s not what I do.” I took out my phone.
Jonathan Blake Blumberg did not give his private number to just anyone. B-2, as he is known in the entrepreneurial business
world, is a friend of mine. It happened when I helped him with a divorce problem. He took a liking to me, which is a good
thing, because he’s very handy to have around. He produces prototypes and gadgets in a never-ending stream, some of which
I get to play with.
You can have your Steve Jobs or your Bill Gates. B-2 is like them, only cooler.
“How you doing, Ty?” Even his voice sounded like it worked out.
I told him what was going on with the e-mails. B-2 has a team of R&D geeks who were writing computer code in their playpens.
He told me to forward the messages to him and he’d get somebody on it.
After the call I left Father Bob and went to the chapel. Where I found Sister Mary kneeling behind a pew.
I slipped into it.
She looked up, crossed herself, and said, “Do you know?”
“Father Bob told me. How you holding up?”
“I can’t imagine why this is happening. It’s awful. It’s…”
I wanted to pull her to me and hold her. But the veil was between us and I’d promised to act appropriately. I let my hate
for the stalker take over. What I wanted to do to him should not be mentioned anywhere near a church.
“Maybe down at the homeless shelter,” I said. “Somebody who took a liking to you.”
“That could be any number of people.”
“I’m getting B-2 on it, I want you to know. He can do more than the police. If this guy can be found, he’ll find him.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Keep your voice down, please,” she said. “He is someone who needs help,
“Think of what we’ll have to look forward to.”
She kissed me again. Fireworks again. The whole box at once. I was overwhelmed by colors and the oohing and ahhing of the
crowd. Last time anything close to this happened, it was with a reporter too soon after Jacqueline’s death. And it didn’t
end well for either of us.
I came up for air and made my mouth say, “Good night, Kimberly.”
“Let’s do this again soon,” she said.
I managed to get to the elevator without passing out. As I got on, I thought about falling, as in somebody cutting the cable
and down I’d go. And then I’d look up from the smashed wreckage, unable to move, and I’d see Kimberly Pincus way up on the
top floor, holding a pair of heavy-duty cable cutters.
And all the time, lying there, I’d think, Let’s take that ride again.
44
F ATHER B OB WAS sitting outside his trailer, smoking a cigar, when I got back to St. Monica’s.
“Out late?” he said.
“Yes, Mother,” I said.
“Cigar?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He snipped an Arturo Fuente for me, then offered a light. I sat on the other canvas chair. We smoked in silence for a moment.
“Ty, there’s been another e-mail,” Father Bob said.
I paused with the Fuente halfway to my mouth.
“It came in an hour ago. She had me look at it. We’re the only ones who know. I’d rather not have Sister Hildegarde, shall
we say, upset.”
“What’d this one say?”
“It’s not so much what it said, but what it showed.” He tilted his head back and looked at the sky. “Why do people still not
see the depravity of man?”
“What was it?” I said, no longer interested in cigars or theology.
“There was an attached drawing, showing a vile act on a nun. Along with some doggerel. ‘A young nun from Nantucket’ and so
on. Foul.”
“Same e-mail address?”
“Yes. Oh, and the nun in the drawing, it looks like her. Like Sister Mary. Almost as if someone worked off her picture.”
My thumb indented the cigar against my first two fingers. I threw it on the ground. “Where is she?”
“She’s praying. For him.”
“For the
guy
?”
“That’s what we do,” he said.
“That’s not what I do.” I took out my phone.
Jonathan Blake Blumberg did not give his private number to just anyone. B-2, as he is known in the entrepreneurial business
world, is a friend of mine. It happened when I helped him with a divorce problem. He took a liking to me, which is a good
thing, because he’s very handy to have around. He produces prototypes and gadgets in a never-ending stream, some of which
I get to play with.
You can have your Steve Jobs or your Bill Gates. B-2 is like them, only cooler.
“How you doing, Ty?” Even his voice sounded like it worked out.
I told him what was going on with the e-mails. B-2 has a team of R&D geeks who were writing computer code in their playpens.
He told me to forward the messages to him and he’d get somebody on it.
After the call I left Father Bob and went to the chapel. Where I found Sister Mary kneeling behind a pew.
I slipped into it.
She looked up, crossed herself, and said, “Do you know?”
“Father Bob told me. How you holding up?”
“I can’t imagine why this is happening. It’s awful. It’s…”
I wanted to pull her to me and hold her. But the veil was between us and I’d promised to act appropriately. I let my hate
for the stalker take over. What I wanted to do to him should not be mentioned anywhere near a church.
“Maybe down at the homeless shelter,” I said. “Somebody who took a liking to you.”
“That could be any number of people.”
“I’m getting B-2 on it, I want you to know. He can do more than the police. If this guy can be found, he’ll find him.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Keep your voice down, please,” she said. “He is someone who needs help,
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